Jacaranda Blue (29 page)

‘You are making far too much of this. I merely said – ' She sighed. ‘I assure you, I will not be leaving you or Maidenville. This trip has been sufficient to convince me of that.'

‘You will no doubt feel more settled once I am home and things are returned to normal. The church now? Everything well with the church?'

‘Yes. The congregation is managing without you. Mr White has been doing an admirable job. Mr Macy, I am sorry to say, usually preaches to thin air, but it doesn't seem to concern him. He'll be taking the service today and I admit I am pleased to be away.'

‘And our Miss Moreland?'

‘That was a bad, bad time. We had a stranger for her funeral, and he may never be the same again.' She smiled at his expression, then added. ‘But, it was what she wanted.'

‘And what was it she wanted?'

‘Oh.' Stella shrugged. ‘A simple enough service. I spoke of her friendship and of her years at the high school. I sang one of her favourite songs. Steve's band played. It was what she wanted. You'd possibly remember that she stipulated there was to be no psalm singing at her funeral, and also that should we allow Mrs Morris to open her mouth, she'd come back and haunt us.'

‘I don't recall off hand.'

‘No. You have had other things on your mind. She wrote many instructions in her will and we did it the way she wanted. It was quite . . . well, quite different. No doubt you will hear all about it from Mr Macy when you return, and you may wish to evict me, disown me, toss me out on the street. Oh, and I promised the congregation that we would have a wild bon voyage party for Miss Moreland as soon as you are well enough.'

‘You have been busy, Daughter.'

‘I have been very busy.' They sat for a long time.

‘I was aware that she had named you sole beneficiary, but does that require you to wear her outfits?' he finally said.

She was wearing a black skirt and a red jacket over a white satin blouse. But her black shoes were her own. Brand new, bought in Sydney, they had seven-centimetre heels.

By June Martin Templeton, though not strong, was out and about again. The steep staircase in the old house would have exhausted him, so rather than move into the downstairs bedroom, and take his bath in a tub, he had remained in Miss Moreland's unit, with her walk-in shower. It separated him from his beloved Packard, but the car wasn't going anywhere without him.

The flat had its fringe benefits, the minister had to admit. It was close to the hospital, where Doctor Parsons spent much of his time. Parsons popped into the unit most days to check on the minister, or to beat him at chess. Several members of the congregation were installed in the retirement units, so Martin was kept busy with visitors, and he never tired of showing off his unit.

Such extravagance. Modern laminated benchtops, tiled and carpeted floors, luxurious conditions. But the other units he visited were as his own, and many occupied by pensioners. They were the new rich in Maidenville.

Martin didn't feel up to driving yet. Stella drove him around town, and occasionally out of town for funerals. She drove him to church, and afterwards, took him back to the house for lunch and a long visit with his Packard. He was up to tinkering with the spark plugs, and on his last visit, he had peered between the wheels at a new depression in the floor. He considered getting down on his knees to take a closer look, but he wasn't quite up to that yet.

‘Something under there,' he said. ‘You've moved it, Daughter?'

‘I said I'd start it up for you. It was going well before I left.'

‘The battery, no doubt.' He cleaned the terminals, and again attempted to start the big motor, but the battery was dead. He thought to lift it out, to get Stella to take it over to Jennison's and have it recharged, but it was a weight he could do without lifting. Perhaps later. Or perhaps the old car was due for a new battery. Maybe he'd get Jennison to bring a new one around. But in June the shed was cold and uninviting, and after fifteen minutes of tinkering there, he began to cough. He would have to put off playing mechanic until spring.

‘No good for a fine old vehicle to stand idle for this length of time. I'll call Jennison around, let him get her going for me.'

‘Let other hands tinker with your beloved Packard, Father? What is the world coming to?' Stella looked younger each day. She had put on a little of the weight lost while he was away, and looked better for it. And her outfits. He rarely saw her in the same shirt twice.

‘Is there no end to her abominable wardrobe, Daughter?' he asked.

‘It appears not,' she laughed.

‘And no end to your spending.' He looked up at the new bathroom window, and he shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should consider selling the Packard. We may need it to pay some of your recent bills.'

‘We certainly will not sell it. Anyway, I've stopped spending for the moment, and when you move back, you will appreciate the upstairs bathroom. The shower recess is positively palatial.'

He had turned back to the car, and she looked where he was looking. From this angle she could see the cracked and sinking soil between the wheels of the car. She stooped, looked sideways and she saw the hump of the bike wheel again. Damn that wheel. There must be a root beneath it, pushing it up. She'd have to dig down, hacksaw it through. End it. Finally write ‘the end', as she had written ‘THE END' on her manuscript.

‘I think I'll get you back to your nice warm flat, and if it will set your mind at rest, I'll order a new battery from Jennison's. Come now. It's too cold out here for me, Father.'

But she didn't order the battery from Jennison. She drove to Dorby and bought one, and she fitted it. The positive terminal was the larger of the two. As long as she put it back the same way as she took the old one out, it must be right.

And it was. The old motor purred, eager to go. She backed it out, but when she saw the sunken earth beneath it, and the protruding hump of bike wheel, she returned it to its place and ran for her telephone, ordering a truck-load of blue-metal screening from Steve Smith's Gardening Supplies.

He arrived with his truck, late on the Saturday morning, dumping the load in her drive, directly in front of the garage. It locked the Packard in and the new car out, and although she shook her head adamantly when he offered to help move the pile, he stayed anyway, barrowing in the screenings, glancing around the shed.

‘Do you reckon we could push the old girl back?'

‘Leave it there, Steve. I'll finish the spreading later.'

He was flinging the screening beneath the Packard's wheels when he saw it. ‘What's that?' he said, on his knees, peering at the curve of the mutilated bike tyre.

The town clock struck its long and aching twelve. ‘Lord,' she said. ‘Is that the time? Will you share a bite of lunch, Steve?'

‘You know me. I never say no to a free meal.'

‘Do you like baked beans? I seem to have a craving for them these days. Baked beans on toast?'

‘Sounds good.'

Doctor Parsons called at the unit in late July. He checked the minister's lungs, took his blood pressure, and told him he was fitter than he ought to be for an old codger, then he sat at the dining room table, attempting to beat him at chess.

Stella found them there, still locked in battle, when she arrived at four to prepare her father's evening meal. She made tea before setting to work in the kitchen.

‘New trousers now,' Martin said. Stella was wearing stretch jeans, and a loose sweater. ‘You will have us in the poorhouse yet, Daughter.' He turned to Parsons. ‘Did you see what she has done to the shed floor?' He didn't approve of the metal screenings, and a month on, he still made his disapproval clear at every meeting.

‘And as I continue to say, the floor was excessively low, and each year it appears to sink lower. It is constantly flooded by the hose – when you are in residence, Father, and as you are determined to come home, the screenings will at least keep you dry underfoot. We do not want you unwell again.'

‘Have you ordered the battery?'

‘Why cut up the drive with the Packard's great wheels and weight? It's bad enough at the moment. I'm thinking of having it done with bitumen.'

‘God save me from your spendthrift ways – '

‘Play the game, you niggly old coot and stop your nagging,' Parsons said. Stella laughed, and Parsons turned to her, a frown creasing his brow. ‘You're looking well, Mousy Two.'

‘I'm very well, Doctor. The question is, is Father well enough to handle those stairs yet?'

‘He's well enough to give me a run for my money, and though the old coot won't admit it, he has no desire to return to his stairs. He loves this place. And so would I.'

‘It has its good points and its bad. Still it is not home,' the minister stressed.

‘I've attempted to talk him into remaining here, but to no avail. I really have no desire to sell the flat, so you can move in if Father ever decides to give up his central heating.'

The doctor's attention on Stella, he absent-mindedly moved his castle and Martin pounced, stealing his queen.

‘Checkmate.'

‘Life happens. You bring your daughter in to dazzle me at a ticklish moment in the game, then take advantage of my wandering attention. You do look quite dazzling, Mousy Two. What have you been doing to yourself lately?'

‘My continued absence from home is encouraging her into many habits,' Martin replied, looking meaningfully at Stella's jeans. Her short hair was near gold again, having been somehow transformed by chemicals she bought from the supermarket.

‘I'd better be off,' Parsons said. ‘Don't you get up. Your daughter will see me safely off the premises. You've got nothing worth stealing here anyway.'

Stella walked out with the doctor, and he ushered her through the front door, then closed it behind him, locking them outside.

‘A word, Mousy Two.'

‘Yes.'

Parsons was never a one to beat around the bush. ‘I'm one of the old school, lass. I can pick a pregnant woman at fifty paces,' he said.

The blush began at her brow, working its slow way down. She turned away to hide it, pushed at the front door. ‘Father. Father. I've locked myself out.'

The doctor caught her hand. ‘What age are you now?'

‘You, of all people, know my age, Doctor Parsons.' She knocked at the front door. ‘Father. Father!'

‘That I do. Nineteen-bloody-fifty-two. The worst day of my life. You don't intend going ahead with it, do you?'

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.' Again she knocked on the door. She hammered on it. ‘Father. Will you open this door please?'

‘I'm talking about a woman of forty-four having a baby, lass – in five months or so.'

‘Father!'

‘Tight jeans, large tops. I've seen girls trying to pull that same stunt for years. They say your mother tried to pull it too.'

She turned on him, angry now. Her head, her face hot, on a day too cold. ‘I am not my mother. I . . . am . . . not . . . my . . . mother.'

‘No, and that's a fact.' He rubbed at his mouth with his free hand. ‘Have you considered abortion?'

‘Please release my hand. I want to go inside.'

‘No use running from me, lass. Who's the culprit? Young Steve?'

‘How dare you.'

‘Oh, I dare a lot. Or have you been making a few withdrawals from some sperm bank – while you were up in Sydney?'

‘I am not in the mood for your humour, Doctor Parsons. Father's dinner is burning. Release my hand.'

‘He doesn't know about it.'

‘There is nothing he needs to know.'

‘This is no place to talk, lass. Come down to the surgery on Monday.'

‘I don't need – '

‘You need all right, Mousy Two. Have you got any idea of the problems associated with a first pregnancy at your age? Come in at eight, before the old biddies get there. I'll leave the door open. I've got some literature you ought to take a look at. At least read it before you go making some crazy decision you might regret for the rest of your life. Who did the deed?'

She ignored him.

‘Denying it won't make it go away, lass.'

‘Leave . . . me . . . alone.' She tugged her hand free and pushed through the shrubs to the lounge room window, where she rapped with her knuckles on glass. ‘Father. Can you hear me?'

Parsons tracked her. ‘Nice place. The grand old dame kept this garden up until the day she died. I always envied her this unit. Wouldn't mind calling it home,' he said.

‘Father.' Again she rapped on the window. ‘Father.'

Heads were peering from other doors now, faces from behind lifted curtains.

‘She was raped the night she died,' Parsons said.

‘And may he rot in hell for all eter – ' She caught her tongue, but too late. Now she covered her mouth. Her eyes widened, her mouth was open, gasping air between her fingers, trying to take back the spoken words. But the little doctor had all he needed. He nodded, smiled, and she turned away, blood again flooding her cheeks, her brow, her head. She swayed on her feet, stumbled, then grasped the brick wall. For months she'd been so careful. How could she? How could she have been such a fool?

The back door opened.

‘Daughter?'

‘The wind. The front door. I locked myself out, Father.' She tried to move away from the window, but the doctor now held her upper arm. For a small man, his grip was strong. Keeping his voice low, he said: ‘Me and Johnson covered it up. I mean, a flighty old girl like her might have had a lover. That's the way she would have wanted it, we reckoned. Johnson swore she'd come back and haunt us if we'd let her become town gossip.'

Stella was listening now, loving Sergeant Johnson – loving this little man, but hating him too. Her tears were starting, and he took advantage of her tears.

‘Johnson hasn't given up though. He knows we've got a rapist in town. Someone the old lady knew well, someone she opened her door to. Someone who left better than his fingerprints in his sperm, lass. He raped you too, didn't he? That's what you're carrying. Who is he?'

She pushed him from her and ran to the door, and she ran inside, pushing past Martin, leaving him at the door with Parsons.

It was over. It was over. There was a fifteen-centimetre layer of blue-metal screenings on the shed floor – levelling the shed floor. She had put it behind her, and she would not allow Parsons to start it up again.