Stillwater Creek (21 page)

‘I've got you a present,' she said to Philip, after Mrs Jones and Mama had started on one of their lengthy conversations.

‘W-w-what is it?' He looked slightly jaded as if nothing could surprise him, although he still managed to stutter.

‘Something special.'

‘W-what?'

‘Shut your eyes and put out your hand.'

He did so and she placed the fossil on his palm. Opening his eyes, he looked down. ‘It's b-b-b-beautiful,' he said, a bit doubtfully though. For an instant she regretted handing it over. Surely he could show a bit more enthusiasm about such a gift.

‘It's a fossil. The remains of a creature from thousands of years ago, Mama said. It's been petrified in the rock.' She wasn't too sure what petrification meant and hoped Philip wouldn't ask.

He didn't say anything but ran his fingers over the indentations. ‘A f-f-fish or a sh-shell,' he said slowly. ‘I th-th-think it's a shell.'

‘Whatever.' Zidra wasn't going to argue about it. It looked a bit like a prawn to her but it could have been anything.

He nodded and struggled to spit out the words. At last he managed, ‘Th-th-thanks.' Then, for the first time in all those weeks they'd been visiting, he smiled at her. His face changed. The cut-off look had gone. In its place was a sort of glowing appearance, as if he'd switched on a light behind those strangely coloured eyes.

‘It's a pleasure,' she said and blushed slightly.

‘Now it is time to make music!' Her mother, emerging from the chat with Mrs Jones, appeared not to have noticed the
transfer of the fossil. Sneaking a quick look at Philip, Zidra saw that he looked as embarrassed as she felt. Later Zidra would have to tell Mama what she should have said, that it was time to play the piano.

Ilona's peripheral vision had become well-developed with maternity. While apparently focused on Mrs Jones' conversation, she was also able to witness Mr Jones engaged in flicking a feather duster over the car; a rather futile exercise given that he would be chauffeuring them down the dirt track again in just over an hour's time. After this he beat the duster against the kitchen wall and looked at his reflection in the shiny paint-work. By shifting her head slightly she was also able to observe Zidra in the act of giving to poor Philip the little fossil Ilona had found on the beach the day she might have drowned. Philip's smile was radiant as he slipped it into his pocket. Zidra's pleasure was manifest. Darling Zidra, who had so little to give, had been generous to this boy who had everything and nothing.

That was when Ilona said, ‘Now it is time to make music!' Her fatigue forgotten, she gave Zidra a quick kiss before sailing into the house. She glided through the entrance hall, with Philip in tow, leaving Mrs Jones and Zidra behind. So confident did she feel after Zidra's act of generosity that she might almost have owned the house.

The drawing room was deserted but the piano was open and Philip's music was on the top. Ilona and Philip sat side-by-side on the long piano stool. ‘We shall begin with our five-finger exercises,' she said, and watched Philip place his fingers on the piano keys. Though long-fingered, his hands were small, but that did not matter. What mattered was that he cared enough to perform even these simple exercises with
passion. After finishing, he played the scale of C, which he executed perfectly with both hands. Then Ilona played a simple tune for several minutes. ‘Do you know what that was?'

‘N-n-no.'

‘It was from a symphony that Beethoven wrote a long time ago. It was such a happy piece. Next I shall sing it for you, just tra-la-la. Afterwards we shall sing it together, you and I. Together we shall let our spirits fly up into the heavens, and then we shall sit together for a few moments' quiet before we shall start on a new piece that you will learn. All in the scale of C.'

Again she played the short excerpt from Beethoven and sang while she played. Afterwards she played it once more and Philip sang with her. His voice was clear and thin and, as she had hoped, he didn't stutter when singing. He had a good ear and did not hesitate.

When they stopped, she glanced out the bay window. Green lawn, in spite of the drought, and the deciduous trees were decked out in the dense greenery of summer. They might have been in Europe instead of in an Australian homestead.

‘You have such a lovely voice,' she said, looking at Philip and smiling. ‘Next we shall try a new piece. It is a song.' She pulled out of her bag a rather battered sheet of music and placed it on the music stand. With her right hand she played the first few bars of music, very slowly, pointing to each note on the page with her left hand. Then she played it through again, afterwards instructing the boy to play. She was impressed that he was immediately able to play both hands together.

She had no doubt that Philip practised. Although Mrs Chapman seemed devoted to her son, Ilona guessed that the boy was too intimidated to do anything that might displease her, and neglecting to practise would most certainly do that.
Ilona was glad that Mrs Chapman, whose glamour was so formidable, appeared only rarely on the days for the piano lessons at Woodlands. Each visit Ilona simply slipped in and out of the back entrance like the tradesperson that she was in the Woodlands world.

Later that afternoon and some miles south of Jingera, the Woodlands car began to splutter. Zidra struggled to make out the interesting new words Mr Jones was muttering but it was impossible against the coughing of the engine. Then there was silence until Mr Jones pulled on the handbrake and climbed out, slamming the door.

‘You can get out too but on no account say anything,' Mama advised. ‘It is always best to be quiet when motors exhibit mechanical problems.'

Zidra hopped about a bit at the edge of the road. There was nothing to do and she soon started to feel bored. Crossing to the other side of the bitumen, she sat down with her back against a large rock. Below her stretched paddocks and then the sea but there wasn't a single farmhouse in sight.

Mr Jones carried on fiddling under the bonnet for a few more minutes and then stood up straight, stretching his back. ‘Could be the tappets. I'll have to get the old girl towed into Jingera. Someone's bound to come along soon. We can thumb a lift.'

After what seemed like a very long time Zidra heard the thrum of a motor coming from the Burford direction. A
minute later, when a low grey car appeared, Mr Jones stepped forward and held up his hand. The car stopped and a tall man got out. Recognising him, Zidra glanced at her mother. Face like a mask. Always a bad sign, although you'd think she'd be pleased that the man they'd seen at Woodlands that first visit was going to rescue them.

Mr Jones was happy though. ‘It's Mr Vincent,' he said and immediately began to talk about tappets.

‘If that's what's wrong I'd better give you all a lift into Jingera.' The man grinned at Zidra. His deep blue eyes looked at her as if she was a proper person instead of just someone's kid. ‘What's your name?'

When she told him, he made no comment about it, unlike almost everyone else she'd met. ‘Looks as if you and your mother will be finishing your journey in my old car. Old but reliable.' Fondly he patted it, as if it was a horse rather than a lump of metal. A panting black dog now had its head out of the side window.

‘He wants to get out,' said Zidra.

‘And I'm not letting him,' said Mr Vincent, smiling. ‘He's still only an overgrown puppy and a very obedient one, but I'm not taking any chances.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Spot.'

‘That is a very original name,' said Mama in a not very nice tone of voice. ‘Especially as there's no spot on him.'

‘That's the humour of it.'

Patting the dog's velvety coat, Zidra pretended not to see Mama blushing. She said, ‘I'd love to have a dog.'

‘I will not let her,' said Mama. ‘Dogs tie one down so terribly. It is they who tether their owners to one place, when it is their owners who think they are tethering the dog. It is too much.'

Zidra looked at her in surprise. Anyone would think Mr Vincent was offering them Spot. She wasn't herself today. She must be annoyed about the tappets.

‘You'd better sit in the front seat,' Mr Vincent said to her mother. ‘Spot always sits in the back on that rug and I'm afraid it's covered in dog hairs. I'm sure old Jonesy and Zidra won't mind though.'

‘I too am not frightened of a few hairs of the dog,' said Mama. ‘Or even of the dogs from which the hairs drop.'

Mr Vincent laughed – his laugh seemed to come from deep in his chest – but Mama didn't. Spot welcomed Zidra into the car by licking her hand and then stuck his head out of the window again. Zidra told Mr Vincent about her afternoon at Woodlands. She didn't forget to mention the fossil she'd given Philip.

‘I think I saw your mother pick up that fossil on Jingera Beach.'

‘You did indeed,' said Mama. ‘Zidra loved that fossil but she chose to give that boy something he didn't have.'

Zidra smirked at this. After Mr Vincent dropped Mr Jones at the garage on the outskirts of Jingera, she said, ‘I expect Spot needs watering.'

‘I do not think one waters dogs,' said Mama doubtfully. ‘Horses perhaps, but not dogs.'

‘I'm sure Spot would appreciate some watering,' said Mr Vincent. ‘I wouldn't mind some watering either, I can tell you. I'm looking forward to a cup of tea when I get home.'

‘You can have some tea at our house, can't he, Mama? He's been so kind, rescuing us.'

‘It is indeed teatime,' said Mama, in a not very welcoming sort of way.

‘It's too late for a cup of tea,' said Mr Vincent rather hastily. ‘I don't want to spoil your evening meal.'

‘Not at all,' Mama said, staring straight ahead. ‘You must come in.'

After Mr Vincent agreed, Mama added, ‘We are very simple people.'

Zidra snickered at this but quickly turned it into a hum.

‘I too am a simple man,' said Mr Vincent, also staring straight ahead. ‘Simple in tastes although not, I like to think, in terms of intellect.' He laughed and Zidra did too, although she didn't understand what he meant.

‘It is my poor English that causes you so much amusement,' Mama said.

Mr Vincent drove the car down the hill and stopped outside their house. The orange flowers growing over the front verandah were glowing in the fading light. Mama and Mr Vincent struggled with their doors but Mr Vincent was out first. Zidra watched him race around the car to the passenger door but he was too late. Mama was through the front gate before he was anywhere near. She must be very tired to be behaving like this. Perhaps having Mr Vincent to tea wasn't such a good idea after all.

‘You can open my door if you like,' she said. After he'd done so, she said very quietly, so that Mama would not hear, ‘She sometimes gets like this when she's tired.'

‘I think we all do,' he said seriously, holding the gate open for her. ‘But thank you for letting me know.'

Without allowing Peter time to hesitate, Ilona guided him into the only armchair with decent springs. The chair squeaked when he sat on it. Even as she watched for his reaction, she was
wondering what there was to offer with the tea. His head almost mechanically swivelled from one side to the other, like one of those Aunt Sallys she had seen at the fairground. She followed the direction of his eyes: on the mantelpiece was a jar crammed full of banksia flowers cut from the garden, in the centre of the room lay the faded floor rug, there were the uncurtained windows – the week after moving in she'd taken down the abundantly flowered curtains and folded them away – and there on the far side of the room was the piano.

‘What a lovely piano,' he exclaimed.

Not for a moment did she believe that his interest in the piano was genuine; his exclamation had been that of a man with no conversation seizing any prop to support him. However she said, ‘I inherited it from my husband, Oleksii. It was the only thing I shipped from Sydney, apart from a few books.'

‘And my games too.'

Zidra, now sitting on the rug by Peter's feet, might have been a dog, so doting was her expression. At once she began an inventory of her games. For a moment Ilona stood listening, intent on ensuring that the conversation should remain general. Although it was she who had given away information about Oleksii to this unwanted guest, she did not wish Zidra to offer more. She herself did not want to make any more contact with this man. Any exposure of her past to him could be too disquieting.

Now Zidra was becoming animated about a card game in which Peter had expressed an interest, so it was safe to leave them talking together. Preparing the tea in the kitchen, Ilona listened to their laughter and the murmur of conversation although it was impossible to discern the words over the hissing of the kettle. She searched the pantry cupboard and found that
there were no biscuits to serve with the tea; both tins were empty. Zidra must have eaten the last of them without telling her but that hadn't stopped the girl inviting Peter into the house. Back in the living room she put the tea tray down on the low table between the armchairs. Quickly she caught up some sheet music littering the floor and this week's
Burford Advertiser,
still open at the letters page. While proud of her achievement, she had no intention of exposing to Peter's scrutiny the letter she'd published about the Soviet presence in Hungary.

Zidra must have interpreted her return as an excuse to leave the room; Ilona could hear her tuneless whistling from her bedroom and longed to call her. Come back, darling Zidra, I forgive you for taking the last of the biscuits and I have nothing to say to this man, come back and entertain us. The awkward silence left behind was now broken by the rumbling of Peter's stomach. The poor man must be hungry but he would have to remain that way and she would offer no apology for the lack of biscuits. Tea is what he had been invited for and tea he would certainly have.

‘The view here is magnificent,' Peter said.

She handed him a cup and saucer. Keen to avoid contact with him, she let go too quickly and, although he adroitly juggled the saucer, a small amount of spilt liquid collected in it. ‘So clumsy of me,' he murmured.

‘The view here is indeed wonderful.' She watched him take two spoonfuls of sugar and stir the tea noisily with the tarnished sugar spoon. ‘That's why I decided to come here. Or one of the reasons. I knew the McIntyres in Sydney and they raved about Jingera.' The McIntyres never raved; they were a diffident but kindly Scottish couple and she regretted that she was starting to affect Mrs Chapman's manner. It was because
Peter was part of the Woodlands world but she was not and never would be. Recalling now the many contacts he might have in that world, she continued, ‘But the real reason we came was that I wanted to find a peaceful town in need of a piano teacher. For that is how I earn my living.'

‘Do you have many pupils yet?'

‘Five, but more will come, I am sure, through words from mouths.'

‘Word of mouth.'

So automatic was his correction he might have been a teacher rather than a farmer. The silence that followed this soon expanded and threatened to fill the room. Sidelong she glanced at him and intercepted his steady gaze. After a moment he blushed slightly and looked away. Now that she had disconcerted him, it was her turn to stare. His hair was too long and
foppishly
it fell over his forehead. Restlessly she began to tap her fingers on the saucer she was still holding.

At last he spoke. ‘Perhaps you will play something for me on the piano.'

This was indeed one way of passing the time. She put down her teacup and moved to the piano stool. ‘I shall play you some Shostakovich. I do so love the preludes and fugues.'

She opened the piano and began to play. After a few minutes she forgot all about her tiresome visitor and became caught up in the music, but some time later a brief cough reminded her of his presence. She had no idea if this interruption was deliberate or not. Perhaps he was trying to get her to stop; she did have a terrible propensity for getting lost in music. He was probably desperate to get away to find something to feed that growling stomach of his. This speculation was sufficient to destroy her concentration so completely that she made a mistake – and she never made a mistake with these preludes,
never, for they were so simple and she had practised them for years. Shocked, she abruptly stopped playing.

‘I am so sorry,' she said. ‘I am playing badly this afternoon. I mustn't bore you any longer.' After shutting the piano more loudly than intended, she again sat in the armchair opposite him.

‘You play beautifully.'

A Woodlands comment, she thought even as she thanked him. Facile and meaningless. After a pause – this man had absolutely no conversation – she said, ‘Today we noticed that the Aboriginal camp near Woodlands has been moved.'

‘The police move the Aborigines on periodically.'

‘But that is terrible.' For some reason that she could not understand she was suddenly even more annoyed with Peter. It was almost as if he was condoning what the police did.

‘They come back again after a while,' he said. ‘Then the police leave them for a bit before moving them on again. They're supposed to be at the reserve at Wallaga Lake.'

‘Zidra's best friend Lorna Hunter lived at that camp.'

‘She'll be back.'

‘What makes you so sure?'

‘They always come back.'

This seemed to Ilona such a callous comment when Zidra was missing her friend so badly. She'll be back, they always come back, was all he could come up with. As if Lorna was a cat who could always make her way back and not a young girl who was Zidra's best – her only – friend. Barely suppressing her indignation, she glanced obliquely at the clock and found that this interminable visit had in fact lasted only thirty minutes, but it was more than enough. He was an impossible man and she didn't want him in her house any longer. She stood up and began to collect the tea things.
She would not catch his eye as he handed her his cup and saucer.