Jacaranda Blue (31 page)

Immaculate? Perhaps he should work on that rumour. Slot it into one of his sermons. Next Sunday. Just a word. Yes. He would speak of Mary, and of Jesus' birth. After all, Christmas was not far away.

He sighed deeply and pressed the starter. The Packard's motor hummed into life. Carefully Martin drove away, pleased to escape the town and the stares.

He drove around the back roads for half an hour before making a stop at Jennison's to fill the tank and talk motors a while. Then it was back to his neat little unit, with its gas heater, and its microwave that could do anything from boil water for a cup of tea, to rid the quite tasty Meal on Wheels of bacteria and other micro-organisms.

Stella no longer came each morning to prepare lunch, but they always ate their evening meals together.

 

Life had reached out and cut Stella Templeton, cut her deeply, but cuts heal, given time, if the flesh is strong. And some leave the minimum of scars.

The earth over the roots of the old cypress hedge had healed; it was as if it had never been. Replaced now by a neat white picket fence, passers-by came to lean, to admire the riotous garden blooming out of control behind it, and to peep with awe-filled eyes at the gardener's thickening waist.

Stella often sang as she went about her weeding, and some nights a light baritone blended with her own pure voice. Many walkers stopped a while to listen and to wonder just what had become of the small beige sparrow once trapped in the minister's cage.

That colourless little bird had flown the coop.

Stella named her first novel
Screenings
. Steve Smith read the new manuscript. It was he who suggested the name – suggested it as he held her eye.

She flinched, shook her head, then turned her face to the window, and to the jacarandas, and to the shed outside the window. She coughed, stared hard into the dark. ‘I . . . I like it, Steve. It suits the villain – relates to her addiction to midnight movies, but – '

He handed the pages back to her. ‘Up to you, Stell. Just a suggestion.' He reached out and took her hand, shook her hand. ‘I'm proud to know you. Bloody proud to know you,' he said, shaking her hand for a long time.

‘And I you, Steve.'

‘Just to put it on record,' he said. ‘There's something I've got to ask you tonight.'

She thought he was about to question her story-line, or the tying up of the plot. She turned her eyes to his, eager for his question.

‘Well, do you trust me?'

‘Of course I trust you.'

‘Completely? Totally? No reservations?'

She smiled, nodded. ‘You are the only one in town I've allowed to read my manuscript – which must mean I trust you, completely, totally, no reservations, and that I value your opinion above all others, Steve.'

‘So you don't reckon that I'm a complete moron then?'

Stella shook her head. ‘What is it? Where Matthew covers up for Seraphini? I've been concerned about that, but I believe this is what his character – '

‘No. No. It's not about – ' He tapped the manuscript, then dragged the rubber band from his hair. ‘Do you think I should get my hair cut off?'

‘No. Never. It would not be you.'

‘Okay. I won't then,' he said, replacing his rubber band. ‘I want things to be straight down the line with us, Stell. Always.'

‘Such as haircuts,' she nodded seriously, but could not hold back a smile.

‘Yeah. Haircuts, and some other stuff too. Such as . . . well. That little bloke you're growing. I mean, as if I, of all people, don't know you better than to think you'd go jumping into bed with some strange Yank you'd known for a few hours. I've fed you a bit of wine in my time. It never did me much good, as I recall.'

She shook her head and stood, her smile wiped away. She walked to the sink where she made much ado about pouring a glass of water, but he followed her to the sink and he stood beside her, his eyes turned to the shed.

‘I didn't say it to upset you, or embarrass you. That's the last thing I ever want to do, Stell, but – ' Her head was down. Her hands played with the glass. ‘Christ. Where do I go from here?'

The old town clock began its slow count to twelve. An eerie sound, that last long call of the night. They stood listening, their eyes turned to the window.

‘It's very late, Steve. I had no idea.'

‘Yeah. That's sort of the point I've been trying to get to. It's getting pretty late for both of us.' His next words came quickly, but his eyes did not leave the window. ‘Templeton's shed has never been closed in its life, love.'

She flinched, backed away. He took the glass from her hand and he drank the water, because his throat was dry and because it was something to do with his hands. He licked his lips and tried again. ‘I reckon I'll put a cement floor in there for you at the weekend. Young Glen will help me. He's always looking for extra money. With ready-mix we'll have it done in a day.'

Silence. Only the bowed head, shaking, shaking, denying. Only a night-bird calling from the jacaranda.

‘And . . . and I'll say this once, then it's up to you. I won't mention it again.' His hand gestured to her lost waistline and she turned her back, but he caught her hand, held it. ‘I'm a whiz at growing things, Stell, and so are you. I reckon that if we pooled our talent, we could grow things the way they were meant to grow. We'd give them plenty of TLC and plenty of room to grow as straight and true as those jacarandas out there.'

She shook her head.

In silence, he watched tears creep from beneath her closed lids. He watched them trickle down her nose. He watched them shaken away, and when he could stand it no longer, his large hands cupped her face and he kissed her wet cheek.

‘I've loved you since I was six years old, Stell.'

She shook her head.

‘No more shaking that head at me. I reckon I've been letting you get away with that for a bit too long.' He kissed her again, but this time he found the corner of her lips.

‘So. So, the way I see it, Stell. We do the cementing at the weekend, then on Monday we take off to Sydney and give the old town something new to talk about for a while, eh?'

 

Screenings
was in the bookshops the following November,
Stella Templeton-Smith
proudly emblazoned on the cover – in blue.

Joy Dettman

Mallawindy

Ann Burton was born on a river bank the night her father tried to burn their house down.

Six years later her sister Liza disappears while they are staying at their uncle's property. What Ann sees that day robs her of her memory and her speech.

A stroke of unexpected humanity releases Ann from her world of silence, and she escapes her anguished childhood, finding love and a new life away from Mallawindy. But there is no escape from the Burton family and its dark secrets. Ann must return to Mallawindy and confront the past if she is ever to be set free.

‘We ride the crests and troughs of the Burtons' 30-year history with open mouths and saucer eyes . . . Dettman is an adept storyteller'

THE AGE

‘A highly competent and confident debut novel'

SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

‘A compelling story, well told . . . it holds promise of further enthralling fiction from its author'

CANBERRA TIMES

‘A stunning debut; a rich and engrossing read; a tale of page-turning suspense and mystery; a postmortem of family ties; all this and more,
Mallawindy
will grab you hook, line and sinker'

QUEENSLAND TIMES