by Alison Booth
George gave up all pretence at reading the paper and began to smile at his vision of the man Jim would become. Tall and handsome, the boy was good-looking already. Perhaps he would be a doctor or an architect. Or even a barrister – he had a logical mind – and eventually a judge. Or maybe he’d study science instead, and specialise in astronomy; there’d surely be lots of jobs at that new radio telescope they were planning to build at Parkes.
‘I don’t know what you’re grinning about,’ Eileen said.
‘I’m not grinning.’ Wiping the smile off his face, he put down the newspaper and waited.
‘It’s too much, George. It’s not just the expense of getting Jim to Sydney and back for the exam, you know. It’s the uniforms and all those other things he’d need if he got in.’
‘We can cover those, Eileen. Think of the savings in food when he’s not here.’ His heart fluttered a little at this though. He loved both boys but there was something special about Jim that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘And there’s Andy too. It’s just not fair.’
‘We can’t deny Jim his opportunity, Eileen. Andy has other qualities.’
‘He paints beautifully. Ever so lifelike. He could do a much better picture of a cow than that horrible thing you’ve got on your shopfront.’
Just then the two boys burst into the room, to George’s great relief.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Jim.
‘When’s tea?’ Andy asked.
‘Now,’ said Eileen. ‘You’d better both go and wash your hands.’ She got up out of her armchair. After the two boys had clattered off to the bathroom, she added, ‘You haven’t heard the end of this, George, and we’re not going to mention this to the boys just yet. And now it’s time for you to carve the meat.’
‘But I am going to mention it,’ George thought to himself as he followed her out into the kitchen.
Early the next morning, Jim Cadwallader watched his father lift the axe above his head and bring it down in a wide arc to splinter the block of wood into four smaller pieces. And then again with the next piece, and the next. In a year’s time, when you turn twelve, you’ll be allowed to chop the wood. That’s what Dad had told him, as if it were a treat to look forward to, whereas Jim preferred watching the light sparkle off the lagoon and the swing of the axe as his father thwacked it into the wood. And listening to the sounds of the early morning, the chooks clucking in their yard at the bottom of the garden, the seagulls crying in the distance, and Mum fussing over Andy in the kitchen, just as she’d be fussing over him soon, when this business with the wood was over.
But it seemed this morning would be different. Dad wanted him to hump around a sack of kindling to the reffoes in the next street, their supply would be running out. The Latvians, he called them, although Jim knew that Latvia didn’t exist. It was no good telling Dad that though; he just wouldn’t accept that it was a part of the USSR.
‘Mind you come back here quickly, Jim,’ his mother called from inside the house. ‘Your breakfast’s nearly ready.’ How she managed to keep track of him when she was inside and he was outside he didn’t know. But if you kept quiet and never answered back, you could get away with all sorts of things that Andy, her favourite, couldn’t. He was glad of that, for there was nothing he liked more than to roam about – alone or with a few friends – through the bush and the hills and the sand dunes along the beach.
‘I want to have a word with you before school,’ Dad said, handing him the sack of kindling. ‘Maybe we can walk up the hill together after breakfast.’ This was a rare event. Must have something on his mind, some misdeed that Jim couldn’t even begin to guess at, since his mother was usually the one to make accusations and his father to defend him.
Hoisting the sack of kindling onto one shoulder, he marched along the back lane that was just a set of track marks really, with lush grass growing in the middle and at the edges. On the way he passed Old Charlie walking in the opposite direction. Old Charlie was also carrying a sack over his shoulder, a sack of bulges. Babies, Jim used to think when he was a little kid and believed all those stories the older boys dreamt up to give the younger ones nightmares. Dead babies. Old Charlie nodded and mumbled as he shambled by, but Jim knew better than to think he was talking to him. Barmy Old Charlie nodded and mumbled even when he was on his own. Shell shocked in the Great War, Jim’s father had told him, and he’d felt sorry for Old Charlie ever since. Sorry, too, for the sack of dead rabbits Old Charlie collected from one or two of the local farms each week and boiled up into stews in his little shack by the creek that was stained brown with the ti-trees. Jim never could eat rabbit; it always made him think of dead babies. Not that he liked meat much anyway. As the son of a butcher, he knew too much about how the carcasses were produced. Perhaps he’d inherited some of his mother’s sensibilities, although she didn’t take kindly to the difficulty he had chewing and swallowing red meat. That’s why he was so thin, she’d said, and he had only himself to blame.
After knocking on the front door of the McIntyres’ cottage, he rocked up and down on one of the loose boards of the verandah floor for the pleasure of hearing it squeak. A moment later the door opened and a woman peered out. He’d seen her before only not close up. About the same age as his mum, she was quite a bit thinner, and wearing some strange-looking dressing-gown made of shiny black stuff with two golden dragons on the front. Jeez, he’d be really embarrassed to have his mum open the door in this get-up.
‘Good morning,’ the woman said in a funny accent. ‘You must be Master Cadwallader, the son of George.’
Jim sniggered, and then blushed when he heard himself. ‘Jim Cadwallader,’ he mumbled. ‘Dad said to give you this sack of stuff. Wood for your stove. Said you’d probably have run out by now and this’d make it a bit easier to light.’
The woman seemed really touched, as if he’d brought her chocolates rather than a load of old sticks. She made him come inside and would’ve given him a cup of milk if he’d let her. After emptying the contents of the sack into the flimsy wooden crate next to the stove, he glanced around. Only then did he see a girl about the same age as Andy, sitting at the table, regarding him as seriously as if she’d never seen a perfectly normal boy before.
‘Jim Cadwallader, this is my daughter, Zidra.’
He grinned at Zidra and the formality.
‘And I am Mrs Talivaldis. I would ask you to call me Ilona if I thought that your parents might approve, for Mrs Talivaldis is quite a large mouthful and so foreign-sounding. But perhaps in the circumstances it might be more appropriate for you to call me Mrs Talivaldis.’
‘Mrs Talivaldis,’ Jim repeated, wondering for a moment if he might try saying Ilona next; it had such a lovely ring to it. Lovely, lonely Ilona. He glanced at Zidra; brown-haired, olive-skinned Zidra, who had colouring just like his own except for her eyes, which were a golden brown.
Then Zidra said, ‘I saw you coming down the road with your sack, and I saw an old man going up the road just before, also with a sack. Are you related?’
Jim couldn’t restrain his laughter at this leap of logic. Zidra looked quite put out until he explained that hessian bags were what everyone carried stuff about in, stock feed and all sorts of other stuff, and blimey, if everyone who carried a sack was related, the whole place would be one big happy family. At this the girl looked mollified and even smiled a bit, after glancing first at her mother, who seemed to think it was a joke too; she was laughing and exposing the pink gums above her slightly yellow front teeth. This reminded Jim of his mother, and then his breakfast, which would probably now be quite cold and he hated cold porridge. Not knowing how to take his leave, he simply nodded and said, more abruptly than he’d intended, ‘Goodbye Mrs Talivitus, Zidra,’ and marched out of the kitchen, collecting the empty sack on the way.
‘Talivaldis,’ the woman called after him. ‘It is most important that you pronounce firmly the ‘dee’ in the last syllable!’
‘Mrs
Talivaldis,’ he shouted, shutting the front gate behind him. Already he’d thought of a better name: The Talivaldis. It had a nice ring to it. Only yesterday he’d been looking at a bird book in the library. The Spotted or Herbaceous Talivaldis might have been the name of one of those exotic birds he’d been reading about. He began composing in his head, The Talivaldis is a rare and wonderful creature who rears its single young, the Zidra, in a … but here he was surprised by a voice from right behind.
‘Good morning, Jim.’
It was Cherry Bates, wearing a blue beach coat and carrying a sodden-looking towel. He wished he had time for a swim before breakfast. ‘Morning, Mrs Bates. Got to get home for breakfast.’ He broke into a trot, in case she wanted to know what he was doing visiting the reffoes’ house so early in the morning.
After Jim had finished breakfast, he watched Andy run off with some friends to take the long way to school. ‘Better get going now, Dad,’ he said. You had to leave that much earlier if you were walking with a man who limped. Not that Jim minded. He minded more when Mum said, ‘Forgetting your lunch, Jim? You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’
This morning, once they’d got out the front gate and finished discussing the weather – going to be ninety degrees today, that’s a bit of a scorcher for this time of the year – he couldn’t think of anything to say. Dad seemed distracted too, or maybe he’d forgotten what had been on his mind.
They strolled along the road. There was still dew on the blades of grass at the road’s edge, and a freshness to the air in spite of the weather forecast. A honeyeater darted around the shrubs growing in the front garden of one of their neighbours. They stopped for a moment to watch it hover above one of the spidery red flowers. It had a pale yellowish face and its beak was covered in pollen.
‘What is it, Dad?’
‘A honeyeater.’
‘No, what did you want to tell me?’
‘Something pretty important, son.’
Jim shuffled his feet. Surely Dad wasn’t going to tell him now about the birds and the bees, right in the middle of the street! He already knew all of that reproduction stuff from the times he’d watched bulls service cows, not to mention the pamphlet that one of his friends had shown him, which he’d got from his big sister when she’d started her monthlies. But still in silence they strolled into the square. Jim picked a flower from the dandelion plant flourishing in a crack between two kerbing stones in front of the bakery, and rubbed it between his fingers. Kids were now ahead of them on the road up to the school. Dad appeared unwilling to end the ordeal-by-silence and kept his lips firmly together. Then Jim glanced at his face, creased in concentration, and suddenly felt for him. ‘I know all about that stuff,’ he said gently.
‘What stuff?’
‘How babies are made, and all of that.’ Jim looked away and blushed. ‘Birds and bees.’
‘I didn’t mean that, son.’ You could tell from his voice he was as embarrassed as Jim felt. ‘No, I meant the scholarship exam for Stambroke College.’
‘Stambroke College?’ So this was what the walk to school was about! Jim had already heard a bit about the exam from Miss Neville. He hadn’t bothered to mention it at home because he knew Mum wouldn’t allow him to take it. Just think of the expense and bother! Just think of all that, Jim! He mustn’t tell Dad that though. He might be offended.
‘It’s in Vaucluse in Sydney.’ Dad was bursting with pride, Jim could tell from the great beam on his face, as if he’d won something in a raffle. ‘Miss Neville’s brother teaches there. The scholarship exam’s next month. I said she could enter you for it, Jim.’
‘You did?’ Jim couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
‘It would mean a trip to Sydney but Miss Neville said you could stay with her brother and his wife. It would be a real adventure for you.’
‘On the bus and train?’
‘Yes. Mr Neville would collect you from Central Station and drive you to where they live in Rushcutters Bay.’
Mum and Dad allowing him to go to Sydney – Jim could scarcely believe it. He’d been to Sydney only twice before, the four of them squeezed into the tiny Renault they used to own before it conked out and Dad had bought his van. It had been a lengthy trip along the winding Princes Highway up the coastline and Andy had been carsick for a lot of the way. Every few miles they’d stopped so Andy could puke out the window.
‘Terrific!’ Jim said but then he thought of Mr Neville and his glow of excitement began to fade slightly. ‘Has Mr Neville got any kids?’
‘Don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘Someone to talk to, that’s all.’
‘You can always talk to Mr and Mrs Neville. I expect they’ll speak fluent English.’ Dad laughed. Talking to the Nevilles was what Jim dreaded most, though not enough to dampen his spirits for long. He couldn’t wait to tell the other kids he was going to Sydney on his own.
They came to a halt outside the school gate just as the bell rang.
‘It’s quite an opportunity, son.’
‘Sure is. Thanks, Dad.’ He looked at his feet. His father deserved a great big hug but he couldn’t do it here, right in front of the school. Instead, he simply said, ‘See you later.’ Then he strolled into the schoolyard close behind brother Andy and three other boys.
You can’t be too careful, Cherry Bates thought that afternoon as she pushed the net curtains to one side and peered into the square. After the darkness of Miss Neville’s house, the only two-storeyed building in Jingera apart from the hotel, the harsh sunlight of the late afternoon hurt her eyes. The square outside was empty. It was time to make a quick getaway, as if she was some criminal rather than the wife of jovial Bill Bates the publican.
Absorbed in watching the square, she didn’t see the woman and child walking up the hill until they were almost at the war memorial. The woman was slight and pale. A purple hat partially concealed her cloud of curly fair hair. She seemed to have a firm hold of the little girl’s hand, as if the child might run away unless restrained. A rather brown little girl, in a brown frock, with brown skin and curly dark hair, but with such a pretty face.
‘That must be the McIntyres’ new tenants,’ she said, ‘out for a stroll.’
‘Who?’
‘The McIntyres’ new tenants.’
‘Ah, you mean Mrs Talivaldis and Zidra. I met them last week. The girl’s starting school soon.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’ Cherry moved closer to the window. ‘The woman’s wearing a purple hat, Miss Neville.’ Although she’d known since the day she met Miss Neville three years ago that her Christian name was Pat, she never called her that. At first she’d felt it sounded too familiar. Later it had become a joke. ‘Cloche hat. You must have a look, and she’s the sweetest little girl.’
Miss Neville laughed but didn’t move. ‘Purple hat be buggered,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be seeing more of the “sweetest little girl” in my bloody classroom before long.’ Miss Neville liked to swear a bit out of school. Never in the classroom though; she’d soon lose her job if she did that.
Cherry giggled. She liked the hardbitten way Miss Neville talked when there was just the two of them. She watched the sweetest little girl and the purple hat wistfully. Her own clothes always seemed so dowdy and drab, and she’d give anything to have a daughter to look after. Bill would make a lousy father though and she couldn’t afford to leave him. Never a shilling to call her own and Bill would have to die before she had any money. ‘Over my dead body,’ he’d said when she’d asked to be paid for the work she did in the bar.
Turning from the window as the purple hat and the little girl entered the post office, she looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror attached to Miss Neville’s wardrobe door. Face not too bad for someone who was closer to thirty than twenty, but her hair was looking a bit over-bleached and it had been a mistake to have that perm. Her eyes skimmed over her naked body – small-waisted, small-breasted – before glancing at Miss Neville�
�s reflection. Sprawled on the unmade bed that was rumpled from their love-making, she was blinking short-sightedly in Cherry’s direction. On the bedside table lay her glasses and her short dark hair, usually smoothly combed, was dishevelled.
Cherry felt a catch in her throat. There was something deeply moving about Miss Neville and her clothes, or lack of them. Naked, she was like a different person, as if she threw off her outside personality with her garments. These now lay higgledy-piggledy on the floor where they’d fallen half an hour before, whereas Cherry’s were in a neat pile on the chair next to the bed, waiting to be put on. Cherry walked over to the bed and smoothed down Miss Neville’s hair, which felt soft and silky. So dark were her eyes that it was hard to distinguish iris from pupil. Cherry ran her forefinger over Miss Neville’s finely cut nose, and traced out the line of her brow. Although now she looked far younger than her thirty-four years, in the smart clothes she wore for teaching she always seemed older.
Taking hold of Cherry’s wrist, Miss Neville pulled her down onto the bed, and kissed her on the mouth. Feeling her limbs grow heavy and the resolve to leave fading, Cherry gently pushed Miss Neville away and stood up. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ she said. ‘But Bill will kill me if I’m late. You know what he’s like.’
‘A right proper bastard. I don’t know why you don’t leave him.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Nowhere else to go.’ She laughed, to show she wasn’t serious. After all, she could always go back to Burford to live with her mother in that shabby little fibro cottage on the river flat. She certainly couldn’t move in with Miss Neville, not that she’d ever asked her to. It was all very well saying she should leave Bill but they never talked about what would happen then. There was no place for the likes of them, apart from in Sydney or Melbourne, but the suggestion for them to leave Jingera together would have to come from Miss Neville.
From the chair she took her knickers, part of a matching set of cream silk underwear that Miss Neville had given her last birthday. Miss Neville remained lying in bed but she put on her spectacles for the next stage of the performance. Without needing to look, Cherry knew she was watching her dress. She always did; that was one of the many things Cherry loved about the school mistress.
