by Alison Booth
But Cherry did not appear to have noticed any slight. ‘Bill can spare me for an hour each afternoon. I work in the bar in the afternoons and evenings.’ She laughed. ‘How often should I have lessons?’
She laughed too much, Ilona decided. It was a nervous mannerism rather than an indication of amusement. ‘Once a week,’ Ilona said. Perhaps the piano lessons represented an escape from the hotel and that husband of hers, who must be closer to fifty than forty, but that did not matter. Music was an escape for everyone.
After Cherry had gone, Ilona danced around the lounge room to a jazz tune in her head. Cherry would become her friend, and surely news of the value of her piano lessons would spread. And recommendations would follow and then more pupils would come.
The following morning Ilona visited the post office. She had done this every day since her advertisement first appeared in the window. Every morning she had heard the same refrain from Mrs Blunkett: no telephone calls and no enquiries.
However this morning was different. Mrs Blunkett’s voice quavered with excitement and even broke altogether at one point as she transmitted the news. Mrs Chapman had dropped in the previous afternoon to post a parcel, it must have been when Ilona was out walking. Mrs Blunkett couldn’t help but notice what her neighbours were doing, with her shop looking up and down the street. And even if she didn’t have such good eyesight then she’d hear from her customers what people were up to. You only had to blink an eye in Jingera and the whole town would know, though there were some things she’d never tell anyone. But she was wandering right off the point, she’d got a bit overexcited, and she mustn’t forget Mrs Chapman’s message. She was an important lady from one of the bigger properties inland, Woodlands, it was called, and she wanted Ilona to visit there tomorrow.
‘It is short notice,’ Ilona said. ‘What does she want with me?’
‘The piano lessons,’ Mrs Blunkett explained. ‘I thought I said. I would’ve dropped a note in to you but I was that busy yesterday. She wants you to teach her son. He’s only six but Mrs Chapman said he’s musical. Been learning from a woman down Merimbula way but she’s moved on. I told her about your daughter and you being a widder, like, and she said you could bring her along. A car’ll collect you at four o’clock.’
A car will collect you, how exciting that sounded! Ilona beamed at Mrs Blunkett, might even have kissed her if she were not out of reach on the other side of the counter.
‘She wants you to take proof,’ Mrs Blunkett continued, rather officiously now, as if she, like Mrs Chapman, had doubts about a qualification from some place behind the Iron Curtain. ‘A piece of paper, like. Something to show what you know.’
‘I have nothing left.’ But Ilona would not have this opportunity taken away from her. Some way around this obstacle would have to be found. Although she did not want to be reminded of all that was lost, she felt it necessary to explain the situation to Mrs Blunkett. ‘Everything from those days was destroyed. Papers and identities and people too.’ Her voice was rising; she must not get overexcited, she must not behave as she had done when Zidra was being interviewed by Miss Neville. After taking a deep breath, she lowered her voice to say quite calmly, ‘But it will not matter, Mrs Blunkett, for I will play for this Mrs Chapman, and then she will see if I am good enough for her little boy.’
Ilona hadn’t expected Woodlands to be quite so grand, nor had she anticipated there would be a housekeeper and maid as well as the chauffeur. After Zidra had been whisked off to the kitchen by the housekeeper, plump, pleasant-faced Mrs Jones, Ilona followed the maid along the dark hallway and into the drawing room.
‘You must be Mrs Talivaldis.’ At the far end of the room, Mrs Chapman was standing next to a baby grand piano. Dressed entirely in white, she extended her right arm in a theatrical gesture of welcome. She did not move to meet Ilona halfway but remained as motionless as a statue. A beautiful woman who is used to being observed rather than observing, Ilona thought as she marched across the Persian rug in her shabby navy crepe dress with the detachable white collar which, together with her purple hat, might well have slipped awry in the fracas that had occurred when she and Zidra had arrived.
Mrs Chapman’s pallor was accentuated by the gash of red that was her mouth and the improbable red fuzz of her hair, and also by the long red talons that Ilona was now grasping, for it seemed she must shake her hand. Mrs Chapman simply let flesh touch flesh and then extricated herself quickly, leaving Ilona wondering if her hand were so clammy that the other had not wished to hold it for longer than absolutely necessary.
‘So good of you to come, Mrs Talivaldis. Do sit down while we have our little talk. I’m sure you’ll quite understand that I must ask you for your credentials.’ Mrs Chapman arranged herself on a dark green brocade chaise longue and gestured towards the armchair next to her.
‘You wish to know about me before you entrust to me the tuition of your son. That I do understand.’ Ilona sat down and was almost swallowed up by the soft upholstery of the armchair, which was intended for someone much larger than her. She wriggled free of the enveloping cushions and perched towards the front, with her feet planted firmly on the carpet. ‘It is possible that you might wish me to play something for you, so that you can establish if I have any talent. For me that would be preferable. You must appreciate that, unfortunately, I have mislaid all my certificates that indicate that I am who I say I am.’ She faltered; her English was becoming convoluted and she feared she was in danger of losing Mrs Chapman.
However Mrs Chapman was looking intently at her. Her eyes were the same shade of green as the chaise longue; a woman who liked things to match would not be happy with second best. ‘Mislaid is not the word for which I am seeking. Destroyed is better. My certificates were destroyed in the war and replacements I have been unable to obtain, but anyway I suspect that these would not be approved. By your Government, I must clarify. Musical people of discernment will always appreciate what they hear rather than what they see. That is why I wish to play the piano for you. If you will let me.’
As Ilona had hoped, Mrs Chapman was susceptible to flattery. But after playing several bars of a simple prelude by Shostakovich, she realised that something was wrong. Mrs Chapman’s expression was pained. ‘Perhaps it is too modern. Perhaps you do not like Shostakovich?’
‘He is too Russian,’ Mrs Chapman complained. ‘I prefer earlier music. Bach or Beethoven perhaps, or even a little Schubert, in spite of their being German.’
When Ilona had finished playing, Mrs Chapman said, ‘You play quite well. Beautifully in fact.’ She smiled and for the first time Ilona warmed to her. ‘I’ll ring for my son, Philip. He’s six years old and has been learning the piano for a couple of years, but his teacher’s moved to Sydney. He’ll be going to boarding school next year. His father insists on it, though I’d prefer to keep him here. I’d like him to have more lessons before he leaves. He loves music. It will be harder for him at school.’
Shortly a small boy entered the room. His head was bent down shyly. Ilona felt for him, dressed as he was in black velvet knickerbockers, an embroidered white shirt and black patent leather shoes.
‘This is Mrs Talivaldis, who will teach you the piano.’
Philip raised his eyes. One was green and the other was brown, which gave him a slightly cross-eyed appearance. Ilona smiled at him. ‘I am sure that we will get on wonderfully together,’ she said. ‘You have such a lovely name. Do you know what it means?’
The boy shook his head.
‘It means a lover of horses. You will not play like a horseman though; you will play like an angel. It is a most beautiful piano that you have. You are a lucky boy.’
He looked bemused at this. For the first time he spoke. ‘I’m n-n-n-ot l-l-l-luck-ck-ck …’ His stutter was so bad that he couldn’t finish the sentence.
She would have liked to reach out and touch the boy, or at least to suggest that he sang the words instead, but not in front of the mother. Singing what he wished to
say could come later when she was teaching him alone. They could sing when they played. She turned to Mrs Chapman, who seemed to have lost interest in them both. She was inspecting her nails and tapping her foot slightly, whether to some inward tune, or because she was fatigued by the proceedings, Ilona could not ascertain. In case it was the latter, she decided to take her leave. ‘I must travel home now. My daughter Zidra will be growing tired.’
Mrs Chapman looked up from her nails and smiled. ‘I’ll ring for the maid. So lovely of you to come,’ she added, almost as if it were a social visit. ‘You’re welcome to bring Zandra when you come for the first lesson next week.’
‘It is Zidra.’
‘My apologies. Such a difficult name. I’ll send the car to collect you each Thursday at four. Of course I’ll pay you for your travel time.’ Then she named a figure that Ilona never dreamt she’d get for just a couple of hours work. They shook hands again and the interview was at an end.
In the kitchen, Zidra was playing on the floor with some brightly coloured wooden toys. ‘Oh, Mama, I thought you were Philip! We were playing with the toy animals just before he had to go in to see you. They’re the most beautiful things. Just look at this little elephant!’ She held it up. Painted a shiny dark green, it was perhaps just over an inch long and half an inch thick, and its trunk was raised above its head.
‘It is lovely,’ Ilona said.
Just then Philip entered, looking more relaxed than he had in the drawing room. ‘Y-y-you can keep that if you l-l-like,’ he said to Zidra.
Zidra’s face glowed. ‘Are you sure? It might spoil your set.’
‘I’ve got h-h-hund-d-d- … lots,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you, Philip!’ Zidra exclaimed.
‘That is very sweet of you.’ Ilona felt touched by the boy’s act of generosity. There was something heroic about him giving away such a lovely thing to someone he had only just met, and conquering a stutter to do so.
Looking at Zidra’s radiant face, she felt a small pang. If only she could give her daughter more nice things! But no, that did not matter. They had each other, and now Ilona had some pupils as well. It was starting in a new place that was so difficult. Once the first few obstacles were surmounted, life could only get easier.
The chauffeur now appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Time to go,’ he said.
Ilona and Zidra followed him out into the little yard behind the kitchen, with Mrs Jones close behind them. As they passed through the gate, a long grey car swished around the bend of the drive. Ilona recognised it as an Armstrong Siddeley; she had not seen one of those since she left England. The driver parked next to the Woodlands car and got out. Tall, with an angular face that was so expressionless it might have been hewn from granite, he wore rather shabby trousers and a faded blue shirt. Once he caught sight of them, he looked as if he might have climbed back in again, had not the chauffeur called out, ‘G’day, Mr Vincent! Mr Chapman’s expecting you down at the stables.’
The man waved and his face relaxed into an engaging grin. Glancing at Ilona, he took off his hat, a spontaneous and graceful gesture. His dark straight hair was worn too long. She would have liked to remove her own purple hat, which all afternoon she’d known was inappropriate with the dress. He strode off in the direction of a collection of outbuildings further down the hill.
He is shy and does not like people, Ilona thought, and did not quite know how she had reached this judgement. A retiring rouseabout with an Armstrong Siddeley. Although she was not quite sure what rouseabout meant, she liked the sound of it. The chauffeur had described himself thus to Zidra earlier that afternoon. She would look it up when they got home.
‘Who is he?’
‘Peter Vincent from Ferndale. That’s a property a few miles north of Jingera,’ Mrs Jones said.
On the journey home, Zidra was overexcited and could not stop talking. Only Ilona responded; the chauffeur sat impassive in the front seat. He had put on a black peaked cap for the drive. His neck was wrinkled like that of a tortoise, and above that his grey hair was cut so short that the rolls of flesh at the base of his skull were clearly visible.
Ilona held Zidra’s hand tightly, in part to restrain her but also because it was a way of showing her gratitude that her daughter had two fine matching brown eyes and no stutter. She felt grateful too for the sun slanting over the paddocks and casting long shadows, and grateful that she had the opportunity to make a living doing something she enjoyed. Perhaps she should also consider giving singing lessons. Forgetting that Zidra was talking, she burst into song.
‘You’re butting in, Mama. I was talking.’ Zidra squeezed her mother’s hand hard and looked at her reproachfully.
‘How can I not sing when the day is so beautiful?’
‘But I was telling you something.’ Zidra removed her hand and turned away to stare out of the side window. The yellow ribbon restraining her hair had become untied and the ends were frayed and wet.
Ilona reached across, undid the ribbon and refastened it, pulling the bow neatly into shape and restoring an illusion of girlish innocence. Zidra remained poker-faced, her eyes on the passing scenery. The car rumbled over the cattle grid and Woodlands was left behind. The driver accelerated along the bitumen road leading towards Jingera. Ilona could see the grey strip over which they were to travel winding ahead of them, like a stream trying to find the path of least resistance through the low hills and down to the coast. After a time the road crossed a rickety wooden bridge and then ran parallel to the river. Ilona took Zidra’s hand again and the girl launched herself once more into a narrative.
‘Mrs Jones is such a nice lady. She gave me a glass of milk, and she’d just baked a whole tray of Anzac biscuits. She said I could help myself, so I had four.’
‘Mrs Jones is my wife,’ the chauffeur volunteered, the first sentence he had initiated on this leg of the journey. ‘A very good cook, my missus.’
‘She said she’d let me help her cook ginger snaps next time, and clean up the bowl afterwards. Oh look, Mama! There’s Lorna from school!’
Ilona looked where Zidra was pointing, to a collection of shanties next to the river, rough constructions made of wooden crates and corrugated iron. Surely this could not be where Lorna lived. Half a dozen Aboriginal women crouched around a fire cooking in blackened cans and a few men sat smoking under a weeping willow. Some children were playing cricket in the narrow paddock between the river and the road.
‘Oh, please slow down, Mr Jones, I want to say hello.’ Zidra wound down the window and waved.
Mr Jones slowed the car and even honked the horn. One of the children, a slender pretty girl with long thin legs, detached herself from the game of cricket when she saw the car and ran through the grass towards them, waving.
Zidra shouted, ‘Hello, Lorna!’ The girl called back but Ilona could not quite make out her words. When Lorna was almost at the car Mr Jones drove a little faster. The girl ran faster too but she could not keep up. ‘Goodbye, Lorna,’ Zidra shrieked. ‘See you at school tomorrow!’
‘Is that where Lorna lives?’ Ilona said.
Zidra did not answer, so engrossed was she in waving.
‘The Abos have been camped there for some time,’ Mr Jones said. ‘Reckon the police will be coming by soon to move them on. Though maybe they’ll wait till the farmers have got their peas picked and potatoes dug.’
‘Move on where?’ Ilona pulled at her daughter, who was leaning out of the window waving.
‘Up the coast. Picking further north. Or there’s work in the sawmills. But where they don’t want to go is back to the reserve at Wallaga Lake. Can’t say I blame them either. Though it’s a disgrace the way they’re living here.’
Mr Jones ran a finger between his collar and his neck as if it were chafing him, or perhaps it was the irritation of seeing the Aborigines’ camp. He did not say any more, nor did she wish to probe further, especially in front of Zidra. Anyway, all his concentration should be directed at negotiating the s
harp bends in the road as it descended into Jingera.
However she could not rid herself of the image of the camp. At least the people in this one were free to leave, or so she supposed. She would ask Zidra to invite Lorna home for afternoon tea. She wanted to meet this girl whom her daughter had befriended.
Zidra watched Lorna. Lying face down on the ground, Lorna wriggled like a snake through the gap under the grey paling fence. One sock had slipped down so that her right heel was exposed, and her sandshoes were worn and dirty. Behind her she left a small tunnel through the long green grass.
‘This way, Dizzy!’ Lorna’s voice was a little muffled. ‘Come on, you slowcoach!’ Now her head peered over the top of the fence. So wide was her grin that it seemed to split her face in two. A few blades of grass were caught up in her wavy black hair.
Zidra lay down on the grass. Feeling it prickling through her blouse, she inched along the tunnel Lorna had made, and squirmed out the other side. Lorna held out a calloused hand and pulled her up.
‘We’ll get to the lagoon this way.’ Lorna pointed along the lane, which ran behind the houses opposite where Zidra lived, and right down to the water. ‘Then we’ll double back to the jetty. When yer ready to go home it’s straight up the hill.’
‘How will you get home?’
‘Around the lagoon and across the paddocks.’ Lorna shrugged. ‘Won’t take me long. I got all afternoon.’ She started skipping along the lane.
Zidra tried skipping but that was no good; she had to long jump to match Lorna’s stride. Lorna imitated her and they laughed so much that Zidra got stitches and doubled over. When something hard hit her leg she thought it was Lorna but her friend was staring up the lane. ‘Watch out,’ she whispered. ‘Get ready to run.’ Looking around, Zidra saw Roger and Barry and two other boys from school running down the lane towards them, hands full of pebbles and faces creased with concentration.
