Stillwater Creek

by Alison Booth

  In the meantime he wanted to find out what the girls and old Batesy had been up to in the boathouse. That was bothering him still. It wasn’t just the boat; it was something to do with Mr Bates’ expression and he just couldn’t figure out quite what it was.

  Walking up the hill the following morning, Ilona recognised the solid figure of Mrs Cadwallader coming out of the post office and called out a greeting. Mrs Cadwallader waved and waited for her to catch up.

  ‘Congratulations! I heard the good news from Miss Neville yesterday. You have such a clever son.’

  Although Mrs Cadwallader smiled and expressed her thanks, she didn’t look as jubilant as Ilona had expected. After a brief pause, she said, ‘Actually, I was knocked for six when I heard the news.’

  ‘Knocked for six?’

  ‘Surprised. It’s a cricketing term for knocking a ball out beyond the boundary. Our expressions must be hard for you.’

  ‘They are and each day I make lists and listen and learn. Jim’s done brilliantly. You must be so proud. Miss Neville said no one from this area has ever won a scholarship before.’

  Although Mrs Cadwallader looked pleased at this, she said, ‘So it seems, but unfortunately Sydney’s a long way away from Jingera.’

  ‘That’s true, but Miss Neville told me that Stambroke College is a very famous school and that, once a boy gets in, he’s more or less guaranteed a place at university.’

  At this, Ilona was shocked to see fat tears begin to trickle down Mrs Cadwallader’s rosy cheeks. She patted her shoulder and might have put an arm around her too if she’d felt it wouldn’t be resented. Although Mrs Cadwallader was always friendly, it was in a distant way and Ilona suspected that, unlike her husband, she was the person one would have to know for years before moving beyond the formalities.

  ‘Jim’s young to be going away,’ Mrs Cadwallader said, fumbling in her handbag for an elusive handkerchief, which she found eventually. After dabbing her eyes with it, she added, ‘He isn’t twelve yet, and it’s all so unexpected. I’d always thought he wouldn’t leave home before seventeen at the earliest. He’s such a helpful boy too. Feeds the hens and runs errands and so on.’

  ‘You’ll still have Andy for that.’ At once Ilona regretted this. Although she’d had yet another troubled night, exhaustion was no excuse for insensitive remarks implying that Jim was expendable or that the two boys were perfect substitutes. ‘And Jim will come back for the holidays. I understand the private schools have longer holidays than the state schools.’

  ‘He’ll be different though. More critical.’

  ‘He’ll appreciate you more. Home-cooking after all that institutional material they probably have at boarding schools.’

  ‘Institutional material?’

  ‘Food.’

  ‘But the college is very grand. In an expensive part of Sydney with lots of rich kids.’

  ‘I bet they still serve over-boiled food in the dining room, though, and Jingera is pretty grand too. Glorious views. Complete freedom. He’s incredibly lucky to be living here. We all are.’

  ‘Why does he want to leave home then?’ Mrs Cadwallader’s face began to crumple again.

  ‘Education,’ Ilona said hastily. ‘You’re so lucky to have a bright son.’

  ‘Don’t know where he gets it from.’

  ‘Well, he looks like George but he has both of your brains.’

  Mrs Cadwallader smiled at this.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Ilona said, glad to have made her smile. ‘Not that Jim has a double-dose of brains but that bright parents have bright children.’ Although she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of this, she did so want to cheer up Mrs Cadwallader.

  ‘A bright boy will do well anywhere. He doesn’t need to be educated in Sydney.’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard that Burford Boys’ High is quite good but it doesn’t offer the range of subjects that Stambroke does. No music either.’

  ‘He’s never shown much interest in music, and anyway, that’s a girl’s thing.’

  Suppressing her irritation at this remark, Ilona said, ‘Not at all. Just think of all those composers. How about you – do you like music?’

  ‘I’m not at all musical. I like to sew though. When I was young I used to do a lot of embroidery work and I wouldn’t mind taking up tapestry.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll have more time for that as the boys grow up.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Mrs Cadwallader’s face lightened at this prospect and she began to talk of the embroidery prize she’d won at school. Her mother had framed it, and it was sitting in a cupboard in their house somewhere. It was for a tea cloth she’d designed and embroidered, with blue-headed wrens in each corner and with orange flowers decorating the edges.

  They chatted some more about other matters before parting. Several yards away, Mrs Cadwallader called out, ‘Do please call me Eileen. Mrs Cadwallader sounds so formal.’

  ‘Thank you, Eileen. My name is Ilona.’ She’d been wrong about Mrs Cadwallader – Eileen – it had been a matter of weeks rather than years before they’d moved beyond the formalities.

  ‘Goodbye, Elinor.’

  Although Eileen Cadwallader had mispronounced her name, Ilona wasn’t going to correct her, at least not on this occasion. She felt a great deal of sympathy for her. There was no way that she herself would let Zidra go to boarding school in Sydney, even if she did win a scholarship and was as bright as Jim. But Zidra was all she had, whereas Eileen also had Andy and George. It would be hard to deny a boy like Jim such a marvellous start in life. However the decision would be a difficult one and she didn’t know quite what she would do if she were in Eileen’s position.

  George was set on it though. When Ilona had seen him in Cadwallader’s Quality Meats the previous afternoon, he’d discussed Jim’s departure as if his bags were already packed.

  That afternoon, Zidra saw the car from Woodlands parked opposite the war memorial. Mr Jones, the chauffeur, was too early again. Now Mama would scold her for keeping him waiting and yet she’d come straight home from school without stopping to talk to anyone. Except for Mr Bates, who’d popped out of the hotel – as he always did when school finished – and who’d shouted a greeting. Recently he’d been joined by Mrs Bates and Zidra was glad of this. Mr Bates never mentioned their little secret in front of her.

  It was easier to be on time when Lorna was away. She’d missed school for two days in a row now. Two long days. School was dull without her, for Zidra didn’t have many friends. Although Jim was friendly enough, when his mates were around it was usually only in a distant sort of a way, and he’d been acting a bit strange lately, ever since catching them at the boathouse. He’d been hanging around as if he knew what they’d been up to and thought they might do it again.

  A few days before, he’d asked outright what they’d been doing at the boathouse. If Lorna hadn’t been there, she might have told him they’d taken the boat out. Instead Lorna had suggested that he leave them alone. ‘Bugger off,’ she’d said. ‘We weren’t doing any harm and anyway it’s none of your business.’

  ‘I asked Zidra,’ Jim had said. ‘Why don’t you let her answer?’

  His eyes were green. An olive sort of green like gum tree leaves or like the lagoon on a dull day. No smile either, but intense looking, like Miss Neville when she was really determined or angry.

  ‘Let’s go, Dizzy,’ Lorna had said, grabbing her arm and leading her away. Looking back, Zidra had seen Jim watching her. Maybe one day she’d tell him. There was no point in him thinking she was worse than she was. But then she’d remembered that she couldn’t tell Jim about the boat because she’d promised Mr Bates to keep it a secret, and if she did tell, she could end up in jail.

  Now she ran past the war memorial, and the car from Woodlands too. Mr Jones was standing on the front verandah of their house and talking to her mother, who waved.

  ‘I’m not late, Mama. I came straight home.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m early again,’ said Mr Jone
s. ‘I had some errands to do for Mrs Chapman and then your mother gave me a cuppa.’

  Taking Zidra’s school-case, her mother shoved her rudely into the house and pointed to the bathroom. ‘Clean yourself up a bit. There’s no time for you to change though.’

  Mama must be tired again, she didn’t even say please.

  The drive to Woodlands took nearly an hour. Mr Jones let Zidra sit in the front on a squashy cushion that was kept in the car for Philip. The car smelled of leather and Mr Chapman’s tobacco. Mr Jones seemed to enjoy explaining that the roof of the car was lined with pigskin and the dashboard was made of walnut veneer. Every trip he mentioned this, as if she might forget. Before he had a chance to continue, she reminded him that the seats were made from calfskin and he laughed.

  Mama was sitting in style in the back seat. She was usually silent on the trip to and from Woodlands. That didn’t matter because Zidra had lots to tell Mr Jones. He was a good listener and only occasionally interrupted to point out some interesting sight. She loved going up the steep, winding road out of Jingera and then alongside the meandering river and up towards the mountain range.

  ‘We could do with some rain,’ Mr Jones said, interrupting her conversation. That was what the Jingeroid adults always seemed to say to one another whenever they met, but she let Mr Jones talk about the dryness for as long as it took. If she was especially nice to him he might be willing to stop at the Aboriginal camp on the way home. She’d ask Mrs Jones for a couple of extra biscuits for the return journey so she’d have a little treat for Lorna.

  However when they turned off the Burford Road and headed inland she received a terrible shock. The shanties had vanished and even the fireplaces had gone. The rocks that once surrounded them had been scattered. A few piles of ashes were all that was left of the settlement, apart from some sheets of rusty corrugated iron piled up next to the road.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ she said, fighting back the tears. ‘They’ve gone and Lorna never even said goodbye.’

  ‘Moved on,’ said Mr Jones.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To the Sutherlands’ place for the picking, I heard.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘We passed the drive into it a couple of miles back. The Sutherlands have got some pickers’ quarters. They’ll be better off there than here.’

  ‘Closer to Jingera than here?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So Lorna’ll be coming back to school then.’

  ‘I reckon.’

  Zidra didn’t feel reassured though. She looked out of the window so Mr Jones couldn’t see her face. Pulling a handkerchief out of her tunic pocket, she wiped away the tears.

  ‘Far easier to get to the Jingera school from the Sutherlands’ place than it is from here,’ Mr Jones continued. ‘The school bus stops at the bottom of their drive.’

  ‘Has Lorna been away from school again?’ Mama called from the back seat.

  ‘Yes,’ said Zidra rather irritably. ‘I told you yesterday.’

  ‘But not today. We have not spoken since you got home. I expect she’s unpacking. It is certainly not an easy task to move home, however little one has. Although it is important in life not to become too attached to places and things.’

  Zidra wondered if Lorna took the little green elephant with her. The pink shell Lorna gave her was still in her pocket. Whenever she touched the shell she thought of Lorna. Her friend would have the elephant with her and might be thinking of her even now. Tomorrow surely she’d be back at school; unpacking stuff after the move couldn’t take all that long. Zidra ran her fingers over the ridges of the shell before putting it away again. Next to the shell was the tiny fossil her mother had given her. Today she would give that to Philip Chapman and that way the giving would be complete. He had given her an elephant that she had given Lorna. Lorna had given her a shell. She would give Mama’s fossil to Philip so he had something to remember her by too.

  And that was guaranteed to bring Lorna back to school.

  Glad of Mr Jones’ silence, Zidra blew her nose. Soon they reached the wooden bridge over the river. Clank rattle rumble went the loose boards as the car’s tyres rode over them. Mama hummed a little; off in her world of music again. At last the car turned onto the dirt road to Woodlands and bounced over the cattle grid. Zidra loved the bumping of the car over the uneven surface of the dirt road. It was full of what Mr Jones said were potholes. She also loved the faint smell of dust that entered the car, even though they’d now wound up all the windows. But most of all she loved the long shadows that were starting to creep across the paddocks and that made the valley seem more solid somehow. Soon they reached the white fence surrounding the Woodlands home paddock. Mr Jones turned the car off the main driveway and drove around the side of the house, where he parked right outside the kitchen door.

  ‘Mrs Jones promised we’d make chocolate fudge squares today,’ Zidra said, opening the door too early and almost falling out.

  ‘Not so hasty, Zidra. That way you will not an accident cause.’

  Mrs Jones was waiting outside the kitchen door and Philip was standing behind her. Today he was wearing a pair of long trousers. This was the first time Zidra has seen him out of knickerbockers. With his legs hidden from view he looked less vulnerable somehow.

  ‘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 t
he 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.