by Alison Booth
‘Go home, wogs! Don’t wancha here, ya bloody reffoes.’
‘Get outta ’ere, ya bloody Abo!’
More pebbles rained about them. One hit Zidra on her face. It hurt and she started to feel frightened. Lorna picked up a pebble and hurled it back. It struck Barry on the leg. He howled and lobbed a stone at Lorna. Though laughing defiantly, she put a hand on Zidra’s arm and said, ‘Run, Dizzy, we gotta get out of here.’
Zidra reeled as another stone hit her. This time it landed on her chest and almost knocked her to the ground.
‘Pick on someone yer own size,’ Lorna yelled.
‘He is my size,’ Zidra said, momentarily confused.
‘There’re four of them and two of us. Twice two is four.’ Lorna’s eyes were sparking almost as if she was enjoying the fight. Or maybe it was anger, Zidra decided, as she hunted around for something to throw. Bending to pick up a stone, she remembered her school-case on the grass several yards up the lane. Her mother would be furious if it got lost; she must get it back.
‘Leave it,’ Lorna shouted.
‘Wogs! Dagoes!’ shouted the four boys advancing towards them.
‘Jeez, you want your silly heads clapped together,’ said a loud, calm voice. Zidra turned to see Jim Cadwallader. Unnoticed, he’d somehow got himself into the lane next to them. ‘Talk about dumb. Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time?’ Leaning against the fence with his hands in his pockets, he looked as relaxed as if he’d been there the whole afternoon. ‘Why don’t you carry on, you two,’ he said to Zidra and Lorna. ‘I just want to have a few words with my friends here.’
Deep gratitude made Zidra’s knees wobbly, or maybe it was the shock. The morning that Jim had brought around the kindling and laughed at her, she’d thought he was just another smartypants boy. One of those who thought they were better than you for any old reason, but she’d been wrong about that; he wasn’t a smartypants boy after all.
A quick glance at Roger and Barry and the others now made her feel almost cheerful. They looked as if they’d been caught out by Miss Neville. Cowish, no, sheepish, was the word she was looking for. She picked up her case and ran down the lane after Lorna. They could’ve dealt with the boys even without Jim, Lorna said. But Zidra wasn’t so sure. They ran all the way to the jetty. Although it was deserted – and Zidra would, for once, have preferred to be where there were adults – she followed Lorna onto the planking. Lorna bounced along as happily as if the stoning had never happened while Zidra followed more slowly. There were big gaps between the boards and through these gaps she could see clear water and, below that, sand and bits of weed.
The girls sat side-by-side on the bottom step at the end of the jetty. It was a bit damp, but it was out of sight of anyone on the shore. Zidra stared out over the lagoon and took deep breaths to steady herself. Two black swans were cruising along on the far side of the water and a pelican followed them at a slight distance, as if it was in charge. The water in the lagoon was flowing towards the sea, towards the narrow mouth of the estuary that was just below the headland.
‘Once the tide comes in the water starts flowing the other way,’ Lorna said.
‘I know,’ said Zidra, although she didn’t. To make up for this lie, she asked Lorna when the tide would turn. Lorna knew everything about tides and the weather, but she was even worse than Zidra at multiplication. It was because she’d moved around so much and hadn’t had a decent schooling. That’s what Mrs Bates had told Mama yesterday after the piano lesson.
‘Got something for you.’ Lorna pulled out of her pocket a small flat shell, wider than it was high, and almost as pink as fairy floss. It nestled in her paler pink palm. Zidra reached out and stroked the seashell; it looked smooth but it had fine ridges that only touching could reveal.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘You can have it.’
A present; how Zidra loved to be given presents. She scooped up the pretty pink shell and stroked its surface again. She smiled at her friend. She’d like to give her something in return. Then she remembered it, the little wooden elephant – about the same size as the shell – that she’d been carrying around for days.
Putting a hand into her pocket, she pulled it out. Without a moment’s thought she held out both her hands, palm side up. On one palm lay the bright pink shell and on the other lay the green elephant. ‘Take it,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to have it.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Although now Zidra thought about it, she was starting to have her doubts. This was no sort of a swap. A pink shell that could be picked up from any old beach for an exotic green elephant that could only be found at Woodlands. But Lorna’s hand moved so fast that all Zidra saw was a blur, and the elephant had gone straight into her friend’s pocket.
It’s better to give than to receive, Zidra reminded herself; one of Mama’s sayings that Zidra had never thought much of. She’d rather receive than give any day.
She looked at the pink shell and held it up to the light. It cast a rosy light. She’d never seen anything quite like it before. It wasn’t just any old shell but a special shell, and probably the only nice thing Lorna had to give.
‘No one at school’s ever given me anything before,’ Lorna said, caressing the elephant. ‘This is the best present ever.’
Zidra smiled. Now she was glad she’d given it to Lorna. Maybe Mama was right. Giving was better than getting. ‘That’s Jingeroids for you,’ she said. ‘A mingy lot. No one at school’s ever given me anything either. Not even Miss Neville.’
‘She’s not allowed to whack the girls,’ said Lorna, laughing. ‘Glad you’ve come, Dizzy.’
‘Me too,’ Zidra said automatically. Afterwards she realised she meant it.
They sat in silence for a while. The light shimmered off the water like little light bulbs going on and off. Soon the water began to advance up the lagoon again, in small ripples that slapped against the piles of the jetty. The tide was turning, just as Lorna had said it would.
‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘Mum’ll worry if I take too long to get home.’ The word Mum still sounded strange but Mama was acquiring many names. There was the indoor name of Mama and the outdoor name of Mum, and then there was what she called herself, Ilona, and what the others like Mr Bates had started to call her, Elinor. Four words for the one person: Mama, Mum, Ilona and Elinor. ‘Mum’s still not used to me coming home on my own.’
‘She’ll learn.’
Zidra wasn’t so sure. It would be good to have a sister like Lorna, or maybe even a brother like Jim, to share some of Mama’s attention. Though at least she had some friends now. And a present too – Lorna’s beautiful pink shell.
Lorna headed off around the edge of the lagoon and into the bush, while Zidra trudged up the hill. When she was almost home she heard shouts from the top. Boys with billycarts were milling about in front of the war memorial. Her hands started to tremble and she wished Lorna were with her. Hoping the boys wouldn’t see her, she walked more slowly, close to the ragged hedge bordering the gravel verge. Then she realised that one of the boys was Jim. He waved at her and she waved back. The others didn’t notice, they were so intent on lining up their carts. Once through the front gate she felt safer. Now she could hear the sounds of Mama giving a piano lesson, a five-finger exercise that was being endlessly repeated.
‘I’m home, Mama!’ Zidra stuck her head around the door of the lounge room. Elizabeth, a girl of about eleven from school, was sitting at the piano next to Mama.
Mama looked around briefly and said, ‘You’re a little late, darling.’
‘Had stuff to do,’ Zidra said vaguely, but she needn’t have worried. Mama was focusing on the piano keys again; you’d have thought daughters would matter more than an old piano. Maybe she could have stayed out later with Lorna after all, though Mama was probably saving up her complaints ready to tell her off once the lesson was over.
Zidra went into the kitchen. She took the mi
lk jug out of the ice chest and poured a glass. After gulping this down, she selected the largest apple from the fruit bowl on the dresser, and wiped her milky upper lip on the tea towel. Anxiety about Roger did not prevent her from going outside again. Down the back steps, along the side passage and under the hedge without being seen by anyone. Munching her apple, she watched the billycarts race down the hill. Maybe the Cadwallader boys would let her have a go one day but she wouldn’t be asking any favours while that Roger was hanging around.
Jim took the pail from his mother. She gave him a push in the direction of the back door, as if he wouldn’t have known which direction to take unless she guided him. ‘Feed the chickens, there’s a good boy,’ she said. She never called the chickens chooks; that was common. His dad never did either, except when she was out of hearing.
‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!’ Jim clucked, once he was inside the chicken coop, ducking his head because he could no longer stand up in the run. After distributing the food, he refilled the water trough. ‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!’ he said, and grinned as the fowls clucked back.
His favourite hiding place was under the fig tree behind the back of the run. Well fertilised by chicken manure, the tree formed a dense canopy over an amphitheatre-like depression. He sat down and leant against the trunk of the tree with his legs stretched out in front of him. The ground fell away so steeply that he could see, over the top of the paling fence, the dense bush on the other side of the lane, and beyond that the glimmering of the lagoon. Time to himself was what he wanted. Something was troubling him and he hadn’t yet been able to work out what it was.
It had been a lucky thing that he’d come across Zidra and Lorna that afternoon. He’d been scared when he’d broken up the fight. Not on his own behalf but because of what he’d seen on Roger’s face. That look of hatred. He returned to it as if he were picking at a scab. Two girls against four boys. A wog and an Abo against four proper Australians.
The ground under him was littered with leaves, through which ants and a small spider were making their way. He placed a twig in front of the spider and watched it change its route. Why he wanted to compensate for what he’d seen on Roger’s face that afternoon he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t his fault. He’d rescued the girls after all, but he felt a need to do something more. Then he remembered seeing Zidra creep under the hedge when he was racing his billycart down the hill. Tomorrow he’d ask her if she’d like a ride on it. Lorna too, if he could find her.
‘Jim! Jim!’ His mother crashed out of the back door and the screen door slammed shut after her. ‘Where is that dratted boy? Time for him to set the table.’
‘He’ll turn up.’ Dad’s calm tones could be maddening to Mum when her anger was up. Jim didn’t wait for the reaction. So far Mum hadn’t noticed his cubbyhole under the fig tree and he wanted to keep it that way. Out of the hiding place he crept, and up the side of the yard. Then he pounded down the side passage as if he’d been round the front all the time.
‘Where’s your pail?’
‘I left it in the chook run.’ Jim clattered down the back verandah steps to retrieve it.
‘Chicken run,’ Mum bellowed after him.
‘Jim run,’ Jim muttered to himself as he sprinted back up the steps. ‘What’s for tea?’
‘Steak and kidney pie.’
‘My favourite,’ said Dad, and Mum looked pleased.
The next afternoon Jim took the back route around to Zidra’s house. No one should see him inviting her out to play; the last thing he wanted was unnecessary teasing. They’d see her later, if she came out, and that would be soon enough. And they wouldn’t need to know he’d invited her; they’d just think she invited herself.
He looked for Zidra under the front hedge. No one there. Then he knocked on the front door and The Talivaldis opened it. Quickly she replaced a surprised expression with a broad smile. ‘Master Cadwallader,’ she said, ‘whom I must only call Jim.’
Jim knew she was laughing at him. Embarrassed, he looked at his scuffed leather sandals through which calloused toes peeped. Brother Andy could bite his toenails; that piece of information would shock The Talivaldis. Now he couldn’t think of anything to say. If she were his age and not one of those unpredictable adults who alternated between familiarity and distance, he might make a joke about her name. That wouldn’t go down well though; she’d been most particular about his pronunciation when he’d last called, and anyway he wanted to get away as soon as decently possible.
‘Perhaps you would like to come inside?’
‘Just wanted to invite Zidra out to play.’
‘But how kind! She has so few friends and I’m sure that she would love to play.’
Zidra appeared in the hallway behind her mother. ‘I’ve got lots of friends,’ she muttered, glaring at her mother. Jim saw the red flush rise up her neck. Once it reached her chin he could no longer bear to look. He glanced again at the mother, who was smiling encouragingly at him. ‘Jim would like you to play, Zidra,’ she said, eyes now firmly fixed on him as if she thought he might make a run for it.
‘Yeah. I could let you have a go on my billycart.’ Jim absent-mindedly picked at a piece of loose skin around a fingernail and wished he’d never come. Playing with Andy in the bush or mucking around on the beach seemed like much more appealing activities now.
The Talivaldis clapped her hands. ‘On one of those cart things, how wonderful! My darling Zidra, of course you must go!’
Catching Zidra’s eye, Jim grinned. She was just about to reply when her mother added, ‘But you must not ride down this steep hill, on no account ride on this steep hill. I beg of you that you will take care of her.’
Zidra stayed silent. Probably the best thing to do when her mother was in full flight. Jim surreptitiously licked the bleeding skin around his fingernail. Only when he had promised to take the billycarts somewhere flat did The Talivaldis quieten down. Zidra was forced to wear a floppy blue sunhat below which her hair stuck out like steel wool, and somehow Jim’s torn fingernail managed to acquire a plaster. Then they were set adrift into the hot afternoon.
Before they’d even reached the front gate the piano could be heard, as The Talivaldis thumped out some processional march to accompany their flight up the hill.
Ilona had seen the emerald green swimming costume in the Homebush opportunity shop just before leaving Sydney. She had asked the sales assistant if she could try it on in the small cubicle at the back of the shop.
‘That’s not allowed for reasons of hygiene,’ the woman had explained very slowly, as if Ilona were stupid instead of foreign. Her height made looking down her nose seem natural.
‘I could wear it over my undergarments,’ Ilona had offered. The assistant had refused, as if her undergarments might be unhygienic too. But Ilona had fallen in love with the soft emerald fabric and bought the swimsuit regardless. It was cheap and it looked as if it had hardly been worn, and she could always use her needle and cotton to make adjustments if it turned out to be too big.
This morning, when at last she tried it on, she discovered it was far too large, two sizes at least. It needed drastic needlework before it was presentable. The side seams would have to be taken in and the straps shortened. In the meantime she could wear it as it was, held in with a couple of safety pins, and hope there was no one on the beach when she went swimming, for she was determined to swim today. It was already feeling hot, although it was only mid-morning, and she had put off going into the surf for far too long.
Now she lingered on the narrow bridge over the lagoon. There was no one around, apart from a distant figure sitting on the steps at the end of the jetty; Tommy probably, fishing as he seemed to do every morning about this time. Putting down the string bag holding her towel, she readjusted the straps of the swimming costume she was wearing underneath a loose dress. The whole day lay ahead, with nothing pressing for her to do until school came out. She noticed, on the beach side of the lagoon, a dilapidated fibro boathouse
with a rusting corrugated iron roof. It was barely visible, sheltered from the town by a twist in the river and a dense stand of spiky-leafed trees.
She picked up her bag and walked on. The bridge opened on to a wide track leading onto the beach. Instead of following that as she had originally intended, she took a turning to the right, along a narrow path winding through the bush and which must be the access path to the boathouse. It weaved its way through the trees she’d identified from a library book as melaleucas. Their leaves rustled like sheets of fine paper in the warm breeze. Some unseen bird trilled a single bell-like note. Eventually the path opened into a grassy clearing in front of the boathouse. Through a dirty pane of glass, she could see a rowing boat resting on the sand; at high tide the water would flow right into the boathouse. She walked around the side of the building and saw that the doors of the boathouse were slightly ajar and the tide was starting to come in; the water lapped gently at the sand. A flock of perhaps twenty pelicans stood about in the shallows of the lagoon, as if waiting for some excitement. She walked slowly towards them and one of them sounded a warning, more a growl than a honk. The more timid birds waded away fast, splashing in their haste.
Another narrow path led from the back of the boathouse in the direction of the beach and she decided to take this rather than to return the way she’d come. The path climbed a steep ridge. The melaleucas growing here were thin and rangy. They leant away from the ocean; only their roots, anchored in this inhospitable-looking soil, were constraining them to stay. From the top of the ridge, over a green fringe of bushes, the entire length of Jingera Beach could be seen. Not a soul in sight. She could swim anywhere without fear of being seen in her too-large swimming costume. The track headed straight down into the dunes. She slipped off her sandals, but the beach was even hotter than the air and burned the soles of her feet, so she put them on again to pick her way over the sand.
