Jacaranda Blue (18 page)

Stella's chin lifted. ‘No. No, it certainly is not. Not at all.'

‘Haven't found a lump in your breast, have you, and you're too modest to go and see old Parsons about it?' Her eyes refused to leave her visitor's, seeking a truth in those eyes she could not glean from the smiling mouth.

Stella shook her head, but kept it low.

‘No. You're no damn fool, and the look I see in your eye when you think I'm not watching isn't the common garden variety fear. It's terror, girl. When you're free to think, you let some personal demon back into your head.'

‘There are no demons in this flat, just Mrs Morris's dear twisted clowns.'

‘I didn't teach fifty years of students without learning something about life, something about people. Oh, you might shake your head at me, Miss, but it's in your eyes. Even when you laugh they're like lost marbles in lightless pits.'

Stella stood. Too close to breaking now, she turned her eyes to the window, clenching her teeth and each muscle in her jaw, as she had as a child, tightening her aching face against tears threatening to spill. It would be so easy to weep in this woman's arms and gain comfort there. But she had learned long ago that there was little value to be gained from tears.

‘Can we please change the subject, Miss Moreland? I promise you that whatever may be troubling me will not be the better for an airing. This little flat, and you, have for years been my escape, my sanctuary. I love to come here. I love to be with you. Don't drive me back to that . . . that mausoleum today. At the moment I have no answers for you.'

‘If you're afraid of staying by yourself, then come and camp out on my couch, girl. There are worse beds.'

‘I mightn't like the house, but I'm not afraid of it. Nor do I . . . do I fear my own company.' She turned to face the old woman. ‘I have never run from fear, Miss Moreland, never shown weakness, and I don't intend to start now. I will be fine. If I am left to work it out for myself, I will get on top of whatever is troubling me and I will be fine again, my dear.'

‘Sometimes it's safer to run, girl.' Those old knowing eyes watched her guest, saw the tension on her face, and cursed the town anew. What was there in this town – who was there in this town capable of –?

She had been acting strangely for weeks. There was some gossip about the Spencers. Was that it? Were she and Ron having an overdue affair? That might explain her coldness to him and the boy in public. The guilt of it would eat her alive.

‘Are you having a fling with one of our fine upstanding citizens?' she asked.

‘Miss Moreland! You do have a truly wicked mind.'

‘I'll get to the bottom of it, girl, or my name isn't what it is.'

‘Thank you for caring. And I do know you care, my dear, and I promise you that when I have an affair you will be the first to know. I also promise you that if I find I'm not sleeping well while Father is away, then I'll be pleased to use your couch.' Stella walked back to her clowns, picked one up. ‘Look at this poor mite. I do wish Mrs Morris could content herself with stuffing the toys. She's spilled her coffee on its collar. I'll have to give it another one if I can find some lace to match.'

‘Toss it over. You get on with your packaging.'

Miss Moreland sat unpicking the small collar while watching the hands of her younger friend, checking and tidying each doll, then the plastic bag held open with two palms, she slid the clown neatly in, using her thumbs. One twist, and a small sticky label sealed the plastic bag.

Made for you in Maidenville, Australia, from Australian wool
.

She'd said enough on the subject. ‘Quaint things. Where did you get the pattern?'

‘It evolved. I play. I like to create. Always have. I used to write, as you may remember, and lately I have felt the desire to try it again. Finding the time to start is holding me back.'

‘No money in it, unless you write a best-seller. More money in these. They're very professional. Why don't you start your co-op?'

‘You have a money fixation today – and don't imagine for one moment that I haven't considered packing up my clowns and running. But, would you believe, I badgered Father into allowing me to apply for a credit card a few weeks before he left. Always believing I had a small balance, from when mother died, I now find I don't need the money from the clowns, Miss Moreland. I am, by Maidenville standards, a reasonably wealthy woman.' She slid another clown into a plastic bag, sealed it and tucked it in the carton. ‘It also appears, by the interest payments that are paid into my passbook, that I have considerable investments, even some shares. I asked Father – asked him why he had kept me ignorant of my money. He said – ' she smiled as she continued. ‘He said it was his fear that I may be pursued by a gold digger. So it looks like we can delete the “preferably rich” from our newspaper advertisement.'

‘Your mother inherited the lot when old Randall died. He owned half of Maidenville at one time.'

‘I never knew my grandfather.'

‘Didn't miss much. He and Cutter-Nash were thick as thieves. Devils both of them – and you can thank God it wasn't Cutter-Nash who brought you into the world, or you would have gone the way of your twin.'

‘Not much loss,' she said, then forced a smile. ‘Father always said he would have been a childless widower if not for Doctor Parsons. Was Cutter-Nash as bad as he is painted, or has his reputation been expanded upon – like poor Mrs Macy's?'

‘Dora Macy married Willy on the Saturday, and left him the following Friday.' Miss Moreland laughed. ‘I never could understand how she stuck it out for a week.' She stood and walked to a modern wall unit, where she picked up an aged photograph album. She opened it, stood turning pages until she found the one she was after. ‘That's Cutter-Nash. He was twelve years older than I. There was a time I considered marrying him. Old memories that bless and burn, eh?'

‘What a fine looking man, Miss Moreland.'

‘He was that – apart from his eyes. Jaguar eyes. Always on the hunt for prey, and those – ' She cut her sentence short. ‘So?'

‘So you can multiply all you have heard about him, by ten, then double it. Someone told him when he was a youth that he had surgeon's hands – but he had the heart of a butcher, and about as much skill. I'll tell you something that might shock the frilly knickers off you, and I've never told another living soul. He aborted our baby when I was just seventeen.'

‘My dear!'

‘Shocked your pure little heart now, haven't I?'

‘I believe I have become immune to shock lately. No. No. I didn't think . . . I mean, in those days. I didn't know they did abortions back then, and certainly not in Maidenville.'

‘He did plenty, and there were plenty more of his own that he missed. I can walk the streets of Maidenville today and pick his grandchildren almost as easily as I can pick Mick Murphy's.'

‘He does look a little familiar.'

‘Yes.' Miss Moreland turned a page quickly. ‘There you go. That's me at seventeen. Wasn't I a Miss Modern?'

‘What a beautiful girl you were,' Stella looked at her old friend. ‘And what a terrible waste that your own child, that a part of such a very special person, was lost.'

‘And a part of him that the world is better off without.' Miss Moreland pointed to another photograph. ‘That's your grandfather. They were an evil pair, old Randy De Vere and Cutter-Nash. I could tell you some stories about your grandfather that would make your hair stand up on end.'

Head to one side, Stella waited for more, but the album was closed with a snap, put away.

‘Suffice to say, you can blame him for what your mother was, but what use raking up the past. Let the dead keep their secrets, I say. Spend old Randy's money, girl. That's the only worthwhile legacy he left you.'

‘Money gives freedom, offers choices. It's a strange feeling though. It is there, but not much use to me unless I spend it. Perhaps if I had a companion to travel with, I may catch a plane to some place.'

‘Maybe we'll fly off together, girl. What does it matter if I die here or in some paddy field a few thousand kilometres away? As long as I die with my shoes on, and I get to wear my red dress at my funeral.'

‘I believe I may badger you into putting your money where your mouth is – when Father returns. Oh, and speaking of Father. He has arranged for Mr White to lead the congregation tomorrow. We couldn't get a replacement minister on such short notice. I'll pick you up at the usual time.'

‘Percy psalm-singing White? God help us all. You know his father would roll over in his grave if he knew Percy was standing up in the Anglican pulpit. Old Red White was a dyed-in-the-wool communist. He courted me for a while, you know. I was quite fond of Red, but my father didn't like his politics. Such is life, girl. Such is life.'

‘I told you to stay away from her!' Marilyn Spencer stood over her husband's bed, her fists clenched, her face red, her eyes flashing green fire.

‘I hardly said two words to Stella. I was talking to Bonny.'

‘You give each other looks, and I can hear her brain, hear her thinking. “Can he still be fond of Marilyn? Dear me, how has she allowed herself to go to fat. How terrible for poor dear Ronald.” The skinny old maid bitch, with her bloody lovesick eyes.'

‘I carried their shopping out to the car – '

‘And opened the car door for her. And held it. You don't need to speak to her! I see the way you look at her when you think I'm not watching. Bloody hangdog cur of a man – you haven't got the guts of a louse, you haven't. The only reason you still play the organ in church is so you can hide behind it and look at her, smile at her behind my back.'

‘Then join the choir and you can sit up there and watch me.'

‘Oh, no. I can't sing as well as Stella. You'd just make comparisons. You always have. How was she in bed, anyway?' Ron rolled to his side, offering his back to her abuse. “‘Stella was always clever with her hands. Stella was always creative.” I bet she was!'

‘I've had enough of your stupidity. I'm tired. I've been on my feet since seven this morning and I'll be on them again in six hours. Go to bed.'

‘You can't even touch me any more. You won't even share my bloody room.'

He rose up on his elbow. ‘And who decided they wanted me out here, eh? Who told me to get the hell out of my own room?' His voice rose now, matching hers. ‘I'm sick of your jealousy, Marilyn. You get in one of your moods and you try to take it out on her.'

‘Now you're defending her.'

‘I'm not defending her. But what has she ever done to you?'

‘What's she ever done to me? What's she ever done to me? She ruined my bloody life. I never had a chance with you. She was in our bed on our honeymoon. And your mother. “Stella is such a gentle, well raised girl. Stella is this. Stella is that. Stella's father is a minister, you know. Poor Marilyn's hung himself. Not a very stable background.”'

‘Take a pill. You get yourself wound up and you don't know what you're saying, and Mum never ran you down. She did a lot for you.'

‘Bullshit she did. “Poor Ronald, she can't even give him a child.” I heard her. I heard her with my own ears. “Stella would have made him a wonderful wife. She's so good with children.” That bloody old maid bitch! And when I finally had a baby, she tried to take him away from me.'

‘That's a lie, and you know it. You were always asking her to take him, and she never said no.'

‘Never said no. Didn't say no to you either, did she, you liar?'

‘Don't judge everyone by yourself, and she's been a second mother to Tommy, and a good friend to you. You couldn't have coped without her when Tommy was small.'

‘I had to work.'

‘You didn't have to work. I wanted to put a junior on when Dad died – '

‘So you could feel her up in the storeroom.'

‘You're sick, Marilyn. You need help.'

‘And you're not a bloody man's bootlace. I never had a husband. I tied myself to a bloody lovesick worm. She had you. She's had you all our married life – '

‘I've never touched her.'

‘Don't you give me that shit. We all knew you were doing it.'

‘Oh, Christ. I want a divorce.'

‘Divorce? So you can go to her and cry on her shoulder. I'm not divorcing you, you bastard. You're stuck with me until the day you die.'

‘That's your decision. I hope it makes you happy. Now get out of my room – '

 

Thomas's window was only a metre from the sleep-out louvres, and they were open tonight; he'd been getting an earful for hours. It got boring after a while. Anyway, he had his own problems.

Parsons had given Kelly a prescription for the pill, but her old man wouldn't let her take it – or so she said. Now she was in the pudding club again, and blaming him for it because he didn't use a condom. All the others had used a condom, so it had to be his, or so she'd said today after school.

‘It's cool,' he'd said. ‘So get another abortion.'

The trouble was, she didn't want an abortion. She wanted him to nick off to Sydney with her and play mummies and daddies in some hole with a kid that could have belonged to any one of two dozen. Maybe he might have taken up the offer a few months back. Got out of town, gone on the dole, but he had better options now. Bigger fish to fry. Maidenville by night was full of opportunities with old bull-moose Templeton gone.

It was after one when the noise in the sleep-out settled down, but he couldn't sleep. Around two he got out of bed and took a couple of the pills his old lady had left on the kitchen table, and he downed them with a half a glass of whisky. He was used to beer and her pills, but mixing them with his old man's whisky made his head buzz and his muscles feel like they were made of unravelling silk.

He needed space – empty space – so he got on his bike and rode around town, feeling his muscles sort of smooth out, knit up, slip into overdrive.

‘She's cool man. She's cool.' Everything was cool now. Even the town clock doing it's Dong, Dong, Dong, sounded cool. ‘The lonely death knoll on the hill that never was. Dong. Dong. Dong. Maidenville swallowed up by the earth, but still the clock dongs on. It's a great donger.'

He laughed as he pedalled on, swerving from side to side on the empty road. He was on a high now, hyped up, his bones trying to break out of his skin, jumping around like the Davis's pup that he and Kelly had drowned down at the river.

Stupid little mongrel, it had followed them up the street one night, let them pick it up. They tied it into a plastic garbage bag and threw it in the river, and watched it try to run free while the water crept up. It was still running when the bag disappeared around the bend. Tonight he knew how it felt. Like his bones were locked in some place, trying to run, cut loose, but there was a bag stopping their escape.

When he got to Stell's gates, he found them wide open. ‘Maybe she's expecting me,' he said. ‘Been on her own for nearly a week now. Never disappoint the ladies, Thomas.' He laughed, choking on it, trying to hold it in. Keeping close to the shadows, he dismounted and leaned the bike against the open gate before creeping through the tall shrubs to the shed.

The doors were shut. Her doors had never been shut against him. He liked that shed, liked poking around in it, finding stuff that you never saw anywhere else. ‘Old bitch,' he said, trying the side door, wanting to kick it in, but knowing if he did, it would set every dog in the neighbourhood barking.

‘Stupid old maid bitch. You think locked doors can keep me out if I want to get in. You stupid old bitch. You can't keep me out if I want in. No-one can.'

A part of the shadows, he crept around to the back of the house, feeling like a silky black Indian stalking his prey. The wire door wheezed open, and he reached for the doorknob, turned it.

Nothing.

He turned it again, pushed against the door. ‘Locked up like Fort Knox. Who do you think you are?' he snarled.

His pen-light drawing a pale line on the gravel, he followed it up the side path to the twin glass lounge room doors. They were made up of small square panes. One door had a snib and bolt at the top, with the other one locked to it by a key. That key was always in the lock. He knew this house, knew it well. Old Stell used to watch the kids' shows on television with him in this room. The dark room, he'd called it when he was a kid.

‘Can we go in the dark room, Aunty Stell?'

Wilson's trees next door stole all the light, even in the day time; at night it was a black hole. The trees, mainly gums, were creaking and moaning tonight, shedding their leaves in the wind. It was a good night to be out. No-one would expect anyone to be out. There was the smell of fire on the wind too. Some place was burning.

He stood in the space between fence and wall, and he sniffed at the air. Everything was cool tonight. Everything was new, cool – even the moaning of the trees. They sounded like the souls of all the people old Templeton had buried; an army of souls coming back to get him. But he wasn't here, was he? He was in Africa. Thomas gave a ghostly moan that ended in a giggle. He tried the door, knowing it would be locked, but also knowing that this would be the best side of the house for a break-in. With the end of his torch he tapped the glass, gently. Just one good tap would knock out a pane, and he could reach in and turn the key.

She'd be in bed, and she'd have her bra off, and maybe she'd have her knickers off, and he'd just peel back her nightie and –

‘Coming ready or not, Aunty Stell,' he whispered, but he couldn't get up the nerve to tap that glass.

He rubbed at his groin with the pen-light. Rubbed slow. Nothing was happening. Maybe it was scared she might tell this time. But she didn't before, so why should she this time? He unzipped his fly and his hand worked hard on unresponsive flesh. He tried encouraging it with his fantasy of old Stell's silky tongue. It was all tuckered out and he wasn't in the mood anyway.

Maybe it was the pills and the booze, he thought, but he liked the pills and the booze, liked the way it made him see things from a different angle.

‘You'll save, Aunty Stell. I got two more weeks,' he said, gliding back to the cypress hedge where he picked up his bike, wishing he'd nicked a spray pack from the supermarket. Paint her hedge. Paint it yellow. Paint her drive yellow.

‘Just follow the yellow brick road.'

He was giggling, looking at the hedge and planning his artwork when the pedal of his bike caught on the leg of his jeans. His reflexes were slow tonight. He tripped, fell against the hedge, and the bike fell on top of him. The outside growth looked green and soft enough, but behind it, the branches were sharp. They scratched his face, gouged at his shoulder.

And the silky Indian was gone, and Maidenville looked like shit again. He scrambled to his feet. His bike weighed nothing, and he tossed it to the gutter, then he kicked the hedge, angry at that which had dared to reach out to him, hurt him, to rip his new shirt, make his shoulder bleed. He kicked the open gate, then he went after his bike and he kicked it too, threw it at the hedge.

‘Fucking bastard. Fucking bloody hedge.' His arm was bleeding. He sucked on it, spitting blood as he hiked back to the dark side of the Templeton house, where he stood wanting to smash the door. Just get a brick and toss it through. Just get a knife and cut her, make her bleed too. But he didn't have a knife, only his bloody torch.

Angry, breathing fast now, he peered over the paling fence into Wilson's yard.

Wilson didn't used to have a dog, but he whistled softly just in case. Waited. No barking, no scuttling in the long grass. Easing himself up, he scrambled over the fence, prowling through the tangle of grass and overgrown creepers until he stumbled on an open garage.

It was a treasure trove. Thomas found exactly what he needed . . . exactly what he was looking for.