by Alison Booth
It was a funny thing how you could want something and at the same time not want it. That’s what he felt about the scholarship. If you do want something and also don’t want it, the two things should cancel out and mean you don’t care either way. Yet he knew that wasn’t the case because when he tried convincing himself that he wouldn’t get into Stambroke College, he began to feel strangely sad. This was silly when he’d just told himself that he didn’t care either way. Next he tried imagining that he’d won the scholarship and this didn’t make him feel too good either. Leaving Jingera would mean giving up his old friends and those days spent playing in the bush and on the beach after school, and on his billycart. Not to mention his mother’s cooking, and when you came to think of it, even chopping wood and feeding the chooks started to seem quite attractive when you considered the alternative. If only you could gain new things without giving up old things, how much easier life would be. He was jumping ahead of himself though. Mr Neville has said the competition for the scholarships was fierce and he musn’t get his hopes up. So he shouldn’t even think about it any more. Instead he should think about what he’d seen in Sydney. Almost as soon as he started to replay the ferry ride in his mind, the rocking of the carriage lulled him into a deep sleep from which he awoke only when the train reached Bomaderry Station.
Struggling out of the carriage with his suitcase, he realised how much he was looking forward to getting home. It was good to go away, he’d had a terrific time in Sydney and the Nevilles were nicer than he could ever have hoped they’d be. Yet he wanted to be back where everything was certain, everything was familiar, and he began to think with longing of his bedroom at home.
On the last leg of the homeward journey, on the long bus ride south to Burford where his father was to meet him, he thought again of Sydney. The city was beautiful but the sky there seemed smaller and less clear than down south. In Wilba Wilba Shire the light had a clarity to it. It illuminated things. Sydney was quite hazy really. The views from Jingera were far better than you’d ever find anywhere else: the huge space of the ocean and the sky, and the mountain ranges rearing up behind. He couldn’t bear to have to leave that; and he wouldn’t be leaving it. Burford Boys’ High was a pretty good alternative when you thought about it. Great oval; bus ride there and back a laugh, or so the older boys had said, and you’d meet girls on the bus. Not that he cared that much for girls, although Zidra and Lorna weren’t too bad, more like boys than girls.
But Burford High couldn’t possibly measure up to Stambroke and he couldn’t imagine that any of the teachers would be as kind as Mr Neville.
This faint feeling of disappointment was probably fatigue and hunger – he felt starved in spite of the packed lunch Mrs Neville had made – and he thought of his mother’s special shepherd’s pie and wondered if she was making it for tonight’s tea. Although he’d only been away from home for three days, he couldn’t wait to see his family again.
The hot breeze twisted the leaves of the eucalyptus trees. They sparkled as they caught the afternoon sunlight and shimmered with a silvery light. Such a lovely glistening that Zidra forgot to watch where she was putting her feet. Stumbling on the rough ground, she nearly fell. Although she moaned slightly, Lorna took no notice. She was striding ahead, hatless. Her scalp was covered with a velvety new growth of soft black hair. Ten days ago she’d been sent home from school with head lice and that was when she’d had her head shaved. Zidra might have envied Lorna’s brief absence from school if she hadn’t missed her so much. When she returned, Zidra thought how beautiful she looked with that fine head exposed but some of the other children had been cruel. Mama had hidden the tears in her eyes when Zidra brought Lorna home that day for a glass of milk and some biscuits after school.
‘Such a humiliation,’ her mother said after Lorna had gone. ‘Surely there is a kinder treatment.’
‘But why did you cry?’ Zidra persisted. ‘Lorna doesn’t really mind.’
‘She has grown a hard skin for protection, but anyway it reminded me of things that are best forgotten.’
‘What things? Did you have head lice?’
‘Things that are a long time in the past, long before you were born.’ Her mother hadn’t said any more but had started to play the piano, an angry piece with much thumping of the keys.
The sun filtering through the leaves felt hot on Zidra’s head, in spite of her hat. The narrow path was littered with twigs and dead gum leaves. Suddenly Zidra remembered about snakes and how they liked to lie in the sun, or at least so she’d been told, for she hadn’t seen one yet. Although Lorna was ahead and would surely see any snake first, Zidra started to walk noisily, stamping her feet hard on the ground, pounding the surface to make as much noise as possible.
At last Lorna turned. ‘You’re frightening all the world. Pretend you’re a goanna. You go quieter, you go faster.’
‘What’s a goanna?’
‘Sort of lizard. Very shy, like me.’
Zidra laughed and stopped stamping. The word goanna sounded funny. Go Anna. It would make a good name for someone. She began to copy Lorna’s style of walking, a sort of gliding really. She could be a two-legged snake slithering through the bush.
The path became more overgrown as it swung round the contour of the hill and began to drop into a ravine. Now the girls slid and clutched at ferns and low bushes to break their sharp descent. The light, filtering through the dense canopy of trees, was dappled green. Far away a bird called, like a whip cracking. Eventually the path joined a narrow creek that fell steeply, over gold-and-pink-streaked sandstone rocks.
Lorna stopped in a narrow glade where the creek lingered awhile in a sandy-bottomed pool, flanked on the far side by a broad rock tilting down into the water and fringed by ferns.
‘Stillwater Creek,’ Lorna said. ‘I come here sometimes. It’s my special place. Not much water now though. Maybe half-full, maybe quarter. That’s probably why they call it Stillwater.’
She kicked off her sandshoes as if they were slippers; as usual she had no laces to slow her down. After stepping across some stones, she sat on the rock curving down into the pool. Zidra pulled off her sandshoes and socks and joined Lorna. ‘We should’ve brought our swimmers,’ she said. The lagoon was cleaner than this but she felt so hot that any water looked inviting, even water with the greenish tinge of this pool.
‘Let’s go in anyway. There’s no one to see.’ Lorna peeled off her shirt and shorts. Wearing only ragged pink underpants, she stood for a few seconds at the water’s edge. She turned to Zidra, who hugged her knees to her chest, embarrassed by Lorna’s knickers that her mother would certainly have condemned to the ragbag, if not the incinerator.
‘There’s no one around,’ Lorna repeated.
Into the deepest part of the pool she waded and lowered herself into the water. Zidra stripped off quickly. There was just enough water for the two of them to float, and when that palled, to splash and engage in mock fights. After tiring even of this, they clambered out and lay side by side on the worn sandstone rock, with heads cushioned on their bundles of clothes.
Lulled by the running water and the sound of the cicadas, Lorna soon fell asleep. Zidra rolled onto her stomach and watched the dogged progress of a brown ant across the grainy surface of the rock. Soon becoming bored with inaction, she dressed and gathered stones to build up a dam. As she was playing, the shadows lengthened over the glade and abruptly, almost without warning, the whole ravine was cast into shadow.
The bush suddenly seemed noisy. Twigs snapped unexpectedly, the undergrowth rustled for no apparent reason, leaves rasped dryly against one another. Zidra stopped construction of the dam and listened intently. She could hear a louder rustling, which could be footsteps through the dense undergrowth. Perhaps it was just a bird; a lyrebird, or even a kangaroo. The creature seemed to be moving away. Certain now that something or someone had been watching them, she stayed perfectly still and listened until she could no longer make out the crackling noise. What
ever it was had gone. Or perhaps it was frozen as still as she, waiting, watching. She didn’t move for another minute. High in the tallest trees, some birds began a mournful conversation, distinct against the background chorus of cicadas.
Only whatever was in the bush knew where she and Lorna were. No one else did, not even her mother; especially not her mother. At this thought, she started to feel even more frightened. Lorna was still sleeping. If Zidra didn’t wake her up she might sleep all night. More roughly than intended, she shook Lorna’s shoulder. She woke with a start. Gently Zidra stroked Lorna’s hair that felt as soft as moss. ‘I think someone’s watching us,’ she whispered.
Lorna looked confused at first, as if she thought she were somewhere else. ‘Just a roo or a wallaby, probably.’ After struggling to her feet, she dressed quickly. ‘Time to go,’ she said, as if it was Zidra’s doing they were still there. ‘You stick close behind me.’ She stepped over the stones bridging the creek and led the way up the hillside.
Zidra, puffing along behind her up the steep slippery path, still managed to say, ‘Hurry!’ even though Lorna was forging ahead. Lorna turned and waited for her to catch up. Grabbing Zidra’s wrist, she hauled her along, not heeding the whimpering that was all the protest Zidra had breath to make. Twigs snapped under their feet and the low-growing ferns and bushes lunged at their bare legs, slowing their progress as they battled up the gully. No birds called now and even the cicadas were silent. The bush waited, silent, expectant, for the change from day to evening. The light was fading fast, becoming a dark almost palpable green and Zidra found it increasingly difficult to make out the line of the path. At last it flattened out and Lorna let go of Zidra’s wrist.
‘It won’t be dark for another hour,’ Lorna said. ‘It’s just that the gully’s in the shade. You didn’t have to panic.’
‘I wasn’t panicking,’ Zidra said crossly, after recovering her breath. She looked around. There was no sign of anyone and, now they were out of the ravine, there was still plenty of sunlight although it was slanting sharply. The sky was pale but blazed golden towards the west. To the east the land fell gently towards the lagoon that glimmered in the distance.
‘You didn’t look too happy, Dizzy.’
‘I’m very happy now. Except I’m sure we were being watched.’
Lorna shrugged her shoulders. ‘Need to spend more time in the bush to get used to bush noises. Probably only a kangaroo.’
But Zidra knew that when she’d woken her, Lorna had seemed scared too, although hers seemed to be a different sort of fear. ‘She lives on the margins,’ Mama had said of her. Maybe that was it, although Zidra hadn’t known quite what she meant. At the time she’d thought of Lorna within the borders of her exercise books and she’d laughed.
‘Let’s have a quick paddle in the lagoon on the way back,’ Zidra said. Her legs were coated with dirt and covered in tiny scratches from their rapid ascent.
When they were almost at the lagoon, they heard boys’ voices. Although Lorna gestured to Zidra to keep quiet, there was no need; Zidra was already walking on tiptoe and poised to run in case it was horrible Roger, but it was just Jim and his brother Andy, stacking bits of wood on the sand above the shoreline.
‘Hello!’ Zidra called. The boys didn’t seem to hear.
‘You’re all right on your own now,’ Lorna said. ‘See you Monday.’ Without pausing to greet Jim and Andy, she set off at a fast trot along the lagoon edge, heading south away from Jingera.
Jim lit the fire with one match. Though aware of Andy’s envious admiration, he didn’t relax his concentration as the flames flickered around the kindling before flaring into a column of fire. This was the moment when you had to keep your nerve; this was the moment when you had to resist the temptation to beat out the flames, because just as suddenly they might die back.
It was when he was putting the potatoes into the ashes of the fire that he heard Zidra call out and there she was, just ten yards away. In the distance he saw Lorna running down the path away from them, as fast as if she was in the hundred-yard sprint. The funny thing was he’d been thinking of Zidra just a few minutes ago, so her turning up was almost like having a wish come true, although it would have been better if it had happened after they’d eaten the spuds. There were only six of them and he could see Andy doing the mental arithmetic of six divided by three instead of two and being unhappy with the outcome.
‘We’re cooking potatoes and we’ve only got six,’ Andy said.
‘You’re welcome to share them with us,’ Jim said.
Zidra accepted and Jim pretended not to notice Andy glowering at him. When the potatoes were ready, he scraped them out of the ashes and lined them up on the sand to cool. After he’d divided them into three lots of two, Zidra said she only wanted one, so he carefully broke a potato into two to share with Andy. There was nothing more delicious than a mouthful of charred black crust mixed with the soft white pulp inside.
‘Why did Lorna run away?’ Andy’s voice was muffled by the potato.
‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s a bit shy.’
‘It’s Mum. She doesn’t like Lorna.’ At once Jim felt disloyal. He shouldn’t have said that but he’d wanted to make it clear to Zidra that Lorna’s swift departure had nothing to do with him and Andy.
‘She’s not here. Anyway, why doesn’t she like her?’
‘Don’t know.’ But Jim did know. He’d never forget last Sports Day, when Mum had told Dad that Lorna was dirty and it was a disgrace having her at their school. She might be a bit ragged because the family was poor, he’d said, and she’d replied that they were a feckless lot and being poor was only one part of the story. Where she’d come from, the Upper North Shore of Sydney, there weren’t any Abo camps and she was jolly glad of it too. Dad hadn’t said any more. It was always best not to answer back when she was in one of her volatile moods, but Jim was sure Lorna had heard this exchange. She’d been standing only a few yards away. No wonder she wouldn’t stick around.
‘When did you get back from Sydney?’ Zidra said.
‘Yesterday,’ Jim said. ‘It was a really long trip.’
‘I know, I’ve done it. What was Stradbroke College like?’
‘Stambroke not Stradbroke,’ said Andy.
‘Nice. Very imposing though.’
‘Imposing,’ she said, perfectly imitating his accent. ‘You always use such big words, just like my mother.’
Jim felt pleased; this was one of the things he liked about The Talivaldis. When he listened to her speak it felt like he was visiting a foreign country. Strange accent, big words, odd expressions. Zidra had some of it too, that exotic veneer, and he’d several times heard the pair of them speaking in what he supposed was Latvian. He never got much chance to talk to her at school, she was always with Lorna. One day when Lorna was away and he did speak to her, some of the boys started teasing him, so he gave up talking to her in front of the others. It was okay with just Andy though because he liked her imitations, especially of Miss Neville and Mrs Blunkett. He screeched with laughter at these, making them even funnier.
‘How was the exam?’
‘Okay, I suppose. Pretty difficult really.’ He wasn’t going to admit he’d found it easy. ‘I won’t get in though. Mr Neville told me after the exam that there were boys sitting from all over the state, so I wasn’t to get my hopes up.’
‘You told me you don’t want to go to Sydney anyway,’ Andy said.
‘I don’t. I hate the place. Jingera’s much better. Aren’t you going to eat the rest of that potato, Zidra?’
‘It’s a bit burnt on the outside.’
‘It’s supposed to be. That’s the best bit. Here, give it to Andy if you don’t want it. He’s always hungry.’ After finishing the last of his own potato, he wiped his hands on his shorts and picked up a couple of flat pebbles from the shore. He tried flicking one of them across the green water of the lagoon. It rebounded a couple of times before sinking. He had more success with the second:
it ricocheted off the water four times, as if deflected from a more solid medium, before sinking into the water. ‘I never want to leave here, never,’ he said. ‘It’s the most beautiful place in the world.’
‘You can’t know that,’ Zidra said. ‘You’ve only been to Sydney.’
Jim laughed. Picking up another pebble, he flicked it across the water. Five bounces this time. He was getting better.
‘Try to keep still, Ilona.’ Cherry, mouth full of pins, looked appraisingly at Ilona. Wearing only the green swimming costume, Ilona was standing on the coffee table in the living room of her cottage. ‘It doesn’t need taking in much,’ Cherry said. ‘But the length’s a problem.’ She scooped up the material at hip level to raise the leg line to where it should be. ‘We can make a tuck in the material here. Maybe we’ll expose it on the outside so it looks as if it’s part of the grand design, and it’ll draw attention to your nice backside.’
‘And away from my not so nice knees,’ Ilona said.
After Cherry had heard Ilona’s story of the beach rescue, she’d volunteered to alter the swimming costume, picking just before lunchtime when Bill would be busy in the bar. Knowing what she did of both Ilona and Peter, she could easily visualise how embarrassed each would have been at this way of meeting. Peter so reserved and private. Ilona so proud and independent but with that touching vulnerability, although she had turned it into a comic tale that had made Cherry laugh. Desperate for distraction from her worries about Bill, Cherry was especially glad of things to laugh about these days.
Now removing the pins from her mouth, she said, ‘Peter Vincent lives not far north of Jingera, and he hangs about a bit with the Woodlands crowd, Mr Chapman and his wife Lady Muck. Although he’s not stuck up at all, unlike that woman. I’ve served her twice in the Ladies’ Bar when she’s come in with Mr Chapman, but will she acknowledge me if she passes me in the street? No, never.’ Pausing, she made a minor adjustment to the fabric she was pinning. ‘Mind you, you hang out a bit with Lady Muck yourself, don’t you? Teaching her son the piano and all that.’
