by Alison Booth
‘What’s half-caste then?’
‘One parent black, one white.’
‘But her father’s black, I’ve met him.’
‘He’s not her father,’ Roger said, smirking.
‘How do you know?’
‘Just do.’
He was wrong about everything, the idiot. She glared at him but already he’d lost interest, his eyes fixed on a game of tag that someone had started up. Once he’d gone, she said to Jim, ‘Have you heard anything about Lorna?’
‘I heard Mrs Dalrymple tell someone just now that the Welfare had taken her.’
‘Not to the Sutherlands’?’
‘No. To Gudgiegalah Girls’ Home, like Roger said.’
‘Everyone says something different.’ Mrs Dalrymple and Roger must have got it wrong.
‘That’s probably ’cause they don’t know. It’s all rumours.’
She waited to see if he had any more to say. Above their heads, the fairy lights twinkled from the pine branches. She watched him start to gnaw at one of his fingernails. In spite of the warmth of the night air, she shivered. Funny how you could feel so alone even when you were surrounded by people. Maybe she’d wake up and discover Lorna hadn’t gone at all.
‘It’s not as bad as you think.’
‘But she’d be away from her family.’ She didn’t add that school would be intolerable without her. The loneliness. The teasing. The taunts.
‘Think of it as if she’s going away to school. If she has gone. Like me next year. Off to a new school.’
‘But she can never come home, that’s what Roger said.’
‘She’d be able to come home when she’s grown.’
‘That’s years away.’ Years and years, an eternity. She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach and her eyes began to water. Surreptitiously she wiped them with the back of her hand. Only when she felt that her voice wouldn’t quaver did she add, ‘All my friends are going away. When are you coming home?’
‘Every holiday.’
But there’d be that everlasting term in between holidays. Blinking away more tears, she looked over the yard. Some of the younger kids were beginning to get tired. Quarrels were breaking out and little ones starting to throw tantrums. That’s what she’d like to do: stamp and bellow and hurl herself on the ground, and then to shout don’t and no and why Lorna?
Yet she’d felt a bad thing was coming. She’d felt it ever since that night before the boat trip, when she’d woken up thinking Lorna was telling her something. The telepathy was real but Mama had been wrong about its meaning. A variety of emotions now battled within her. Anger with her mother for misinterpreting that dream. Rage with the world that she was losing Lorna. Anxiety for what Lorna must be feeling, and worst of all, this terrible feeling of sadness. Struggling to retain control of herself, she was but dimly aware of Jim’s awkward pat on her forearm.
Ilona’s head was spinning, not with alcohol for she had not touched a drop all evening, but with music, with dancing, and – she was at last willing to admit it – with the intoxication of Peter’s presence. Standing next to her at the piano, he was turning the pages of the music at exactly the right time. Not that she needed this assistance, she was perfectly capable of turning the pages herself, and indeed she felt so confident tonight that she could have played these pieces blindfolded. Plus Billy the Fish was making the violin sing like a human being accompanying her playing; an unexpected talent that added to her pleasure in the music.
On finishing her last piece, she glanced up at Peter. He smiled and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. Before he had a chance to withdraw it, she gently put her hand over his and watched his face light up. Then she remembered Zidra.
‘I am such a bad mother,’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘I must find Zidra. I had almost forgotten about her.’
She weaved her way through the packed hall, and into the kitchen that was empty now apart from piles of dirty plates and a ragged-looking dog chewing at a bone under the table. She clattered down the back steps of the hall and stumbled a little on the rough grass at the bottom. Bill Bates, part of the knot of men wrapped around the beer keg, caught her and Mr O’Rourke seized her other arm.
‘Steady on,’ O’Rourke said, as if she might be intoxicated when it was he, she suspected, who was shickered.
‘My heels,’ she explained, laughing and extricating herself from the men’s steadying grip. ‘Have you seen Zidra anywhere?’
‘Sitting under the pine tree,’ O’Rourke said. ‘I’ll show you.’ He led the way across the grass, as if she might have trouble distinguishing it from the other trees, all eucalyptus, encircling the yard.
‘Zidra!’ she called.
‘We’re here, Mrs Talivaldis!’ Zidra and Jim were sitting side-by-side on the pine needles.
‘I wondered how you were getting on,’ Ilona said. ‘I have finished playing the piano and wondered if perhaps you might be feeling neglected.’
‘I want to go home now, Mama.’ Zidra’s voice sounded strained. The excitement had been too much for her.
Ilona crouched down next to her. ‘Don’t you want to hear Billy the Fish doing his solo?’ she said gently.
‘Billy the Fish is terrible,’ said O’Rourke. ‘You oughta go home before then.’
‘But he is a wonderful musician,’ said Ilona. ‘He plays the fiddle with so much passion.’
‘You haven’t heard him on the accordion, but,’ said O’Rourke. ‘Terrible songs, those, and rude too. That’s why he’s on at the very end. So the kiddies won’t hear.’
It was the singers rather than the musician who were so terrible, Ilona suspected. ‘I’ll take you home now, darling,’ she whispered to Zidra, putting an arm around her shoulders. Even in this dim lighting, her face looked washed out. ‘Are you staying, Jim?’
‘I’ve got to wait until Mum tells me to go home,’ he said.
‘That’ll be as soon as the singing starts,’ said O’Rourke, laughing. ‘My missus’ll be heading off with our lot then too.’
‘We shall make our farewells inside the hall,’ said Ilona.
‘Say goodbye, you mean,’ said Zidra, quite crossly.
‘We shall say goodbye,’ Ilona continued, ‘to our friends in the hall.’
But Ilona’s attention was distracted, so she did not hear Zidra’s whispered words to Jim. She had caught sight of Peter, who was just emerging from the kitchen. He was standing on the top step and peering down the yard.
He was looking for her. He was looking out for her.
Horrible Roger had smeared red jam on Zidra’s seat during the lunch recess. It wasn’t until all the kids started laughing when she got up to go home that she’d realised something was wrong. Even then she mightn’t have known if little Lyn Cross hadn’t told her. The humiliation! How she’d blushed at the discovery and that had made horrid Roger laugh all the more. ‘Started your periods, have you?’ he’d said. While having no idea what he meant, she knew it couldn’t be nice. And there was no way she could wash the jam off either, with the toilet block being out of bounds once school was out. If Lorna were here she would have sorted out Roger. Now there was nothing for it but to take the long way home, creeping along the back lanes so that no one would see her with the red sticky mess on her tunic.
She wasn’t even sure that she wanted to go home today. This afternoon Mama was giving two lessons, one after the other, and wouldn’t have any time to spare, no time even to listen to the story about Roger. Then there’d be all that thumping on the piano, that endless ping-ping-ping-ping-ping up the keys, and ping-ping-ping-ping down again. Five-finger exercises were so good to develop coordination of the hands, Mama said, but she didn’t think of her daughter’s ears. If Zidra didn’t get home until after the piano lessons were over, she wouldn’t even notice.
Zidra hung around for a while in the school playground, until Miss Neville came out to tell her to go home. Soon after, she heard the sound of Mrs Bates banging out scales on the s
chool piano. Pianos everywhere; she’d rather hear the birds any day. That’s what Lorna had taught her, how to listen to the bush. How to hear the music that was all around you, music that you just blocked out unless someone told you about it. If only Lorna were here; she’d make Zidra’s jammy skirt an excuse for an adventure and not a retreat.
She trudged along the back lanes leading down to the lagoon. Once or twice she thought she heard a sound behind her and turned to look, suspecting Roger might be tracking her, but there wasn’t a soul about. No one to see her, no one to taunt her; she’d be able to sponge the stuff off her skirt in peace.
She hid her school-case in the spot near the bridge that she and Lorna had made their own, and took off her shoes and socks. Avoiding the few sickle-shaped jelly fish beached on the edge of the lagoon, she waded into the water. A wet handkerchief would surely do the trick. The sticky mess on the back of her skirt came off easily; maybe there was still a bit of a mark but that was probably just from the lagoon water.
Through the cool clear water, her feet were visible and appeared bleached to a stark white. Blue veins stood up prominently on the top and the edges of her toes were a ruby red. Distorted by the water, her legs appeared shorter than in reality. Wriggling her toes, she dislodged some of the brown slime covering the sandy bottom. This swirled around and sank again, some of the particles settling on her feet. She felt more alone than ever before. If she stood here long enough, her feet would become invisible. She might become invisible too, or turn into a discarded log like that old tree trunk lying at the water’s edge that Lorna claimed had been left there by some long-ago flood.
Eventually she stepped out of the water and dried her feet on her tunic skirt. It was too early to go home; her mother would still be giving lessons. Instead she’d walk along the edge of the lagoon; maybe as far as that spot where Stillwater Creek trickled into the lagoon and Jim and Andy had baked those potatoes in the days before the total fire ban.
After the last customer had left Cadwallader’s Quality Meats, George and The Boy began the evening liturgy. The Boy had performed his ceremonial duties with greater efficiency if not devotion since his pay rise several months ago. Today he was even more zealous than usual and by ten past the hour George was ready to go home. Normally he’d return by the back lanes but today he decided to leave by the front door.
It was then that he saw it. Someone had stuck a label on the flank of the painted cow adorning the top of the shopfront window. Peering up, he could just discern the writing on the label. Batty Beattie. If he didn’t view the painting as a portrait of his wife he might have smiled at this but as it was he felt only annoyance. The cow was much too young for this sobriquet.
He unlocked the shopfront again and went out the back to fetch a stepladder and a pail of water. Standing on the stepladder, he could just reach the label. It peeled away easily, but then he discovered that it had been attached with a couple of pieces of chewing gum that were unwilling to part company with the cow. Although he tried sponging the gum with water, it wouldn’t come off. Something must be able to remove it but he couldn’t think what. Not methylated spirits because that might remove the paint. Brown paper and a hot iron, he was almost certain now he’d heard Eileen recommend this. If she hadn’t disliked the cow so much, he might once have asked her to do it. Perhaps late at night; she didn’t like making an exhibition of herself. But it was impossible to ask such a thing of her now. They were barely speaking to one another, although the exchanges they did have were of exquisite politeness, and he’d tried so hard lately to see things from her perspective. These days she refused to talk about the scholarship at all. If he raised the matter, she stonewalled him, and when he tried to explain that he understood what she was going through she’d simply laughed in his face. How can you understand, George, you are a man, she’d said. As if being a man was something to be ashamed of.
After descending the stepladder, he inspected the painting from pavement level. The two dabs of gum didn’t look so bad from this distance. A couple more spots weren’t all that noticeable on a Friesian cow. It would have been worse if he’d commissioned a painting of a Jersey all those years ago. Maybe he’d leave well alone for the moment. Better than having to discuss the matter with Eileen. It was possible anyway that the paint might come off with the gum. It wouldn’t do for the cow to have holes in its flank.
He felt upset nonetheless. The cow had been without blemish and the comfort of it lay in its perfection. So disgruntled did he feel that he decided to stroll down to the lagoon before going home. The river was always soothing and maybe a quick look at his boat would calm him. Although it hadn’t calmed him a few weeks ago when he’d found the dinghy was lying the wrong way up and the bailing can was missing. He’d put a padlock on the boatshed doors after that.
You never used to have to worry about locking things away. Nothing seemed quite the same as it used to. Nothing was safe any more. Not his boat, not even his cow that was in full view of half the town. After crossing the bridge over the lagoon, he headed along the track to the boathouse. The bush was drier than ever. No longer sparkling in the light, the leaves of the scrubby trees drooped sadly, quite still, and the sparse undergrowth was a uniform drab olive. The path was baked hard, and littered with the detritus of the bush; the twigs, nuts and dead leaves that took so long to decay but that would burst into flames with just one match.
After several hundred yards, out of sight of the settlement, he stopped and stared at the lagoon. A flock of pelicans floated at the water’s edge. Most held their heads high, necks fully extended. Three or four had turned their heads a full one hundred and eighty degrees and buried their beaks into their feathers. That’s what he’d like to do. Bury his head in something soft and cocooning that would obliterate his unhappiness.
Beyond the pelicans, on the western side of the lagoon, folds of land fuzzed with bush dropped down to the path just above the waterline. Further back, the bush had been cleared for farming. Behind this, the tall straight trunks of a forest of eucalyptus trees looked like nascent telegraph poles topped with broccoli heads.
At this moment his eye was caught by a movement near the water’s edge, not far from where Stillwater Creek entered the lagoon. It was a girl sprinting towards the town. After a moment he recognised her. The Latvian girl Zidra was running so fast it wouldn’t surprise him if she turned into a bit of an athlete, like Jim and Andy. Not so long ago she would have had Lorna with her. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to six. Perhaps she was late for tea as he might be too if he didn’t get a move on. The boys were at cricket practice and he’d promised Eileen to be home in time to feed the chooks in Jim’s place. He was going to have to hurry. An angry Eileen on top of everything else would be too much. Tea at six o’clock sharp, that was her rule.
He turned back the way he had come and so he missed seeing Bill Bates walking, ten minutes later, along the same path as Zidra.
Ilona puzzled over her daughter’s behaviour. For some days she’d seemed out of sorts. Tired and irritable, and on three nights in a row had woken up screaming.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she said, holding her daughter close after the most recent nightmare.
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ But Zidra’s body was shaking and Ilona could feel her heart beating wildly inside her rib cage like a bird struggling to find a way out.
‘What did you dream of?’ Ilona pushed Zidra’s hair off her face and gently stroked her flushed cheek.
‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘Was it Lorna again?’
‘No.’
‘Was it something that happened at school?’
‘No.’
‘Not Roger?’
‘No.’
Ilona lay down next to Zidra and held her tightly until at last the sound of steady breathing indicated she was asleep. It must be Lorna, or rather Lorna’s absence, that was causing such a change in her daughter. Extricating herself from Zidra’s embrace, Ilona tucked in th
e sheet around her and sat on the edge of the bed to watch the regular rise and fall of her chest.
Too many nightmares, too many worries. Zidra had lost friends before; Zidra had left behind friends before. Not in Bradford, for she was too young to have had friends there, but in Homebush. There must be more to her unhappiness than simply missing Lorna. Anyway, Lorna was not her only friend. There was Jim. Admittedly a year or two older, though that was a good thing for it surely made him more responsible. If there were something wrong at school Jim would know what to do about it. Yet he was only a boy and had other friends, boys who occupied most of his spare time. It was no good asking him if he knew what was wrong, just as it was no good asking Zidra if she knew what was wrong. There was nothing else to do but to arrange to see Miss Neville, to find out if Zidra was being bullied at school.
Ilona tiptoed out of Zidra’s bedroom and, heaving a great sigh, sat in an armchair in the living room. She did not want to see Miss Neville. The school mistress alternated between cordiality and animosity for reasons that Ilona could not fathom.
However the next day, after all the children had left school, she knocked on the door of Miss Neville’s office. Looking up from some papers as Ilona entered the room, the teacher gestured to a hard wooden chair next to the desk. Her expression was unwelcoming, her demeanor slightly dishevelled.
‘I’m here about Zidra.’ Ilona nervously twisted her fingers together.
‘Of course you are,’ Miss Neville said rather abruptly.
Just then Ilona heard a trill of scales from the adjacent schoolroom. Two octaves perfectly played by two hands. ‘How lovely to hear Cherry practising!’ she exclaimed.
Miss Neville looked at her coldly. ‘Mrs Bates practises every day,’ she said firmly, as if Ilona had made an accusation.
Mrs Bates to you but Cherry to me, Ilona reflected. ‘I suppose that you know I am teaching Cherry. She is making good progress. It was so kind of you to allow her to practise here. I know she does not have much free time at the hotel where there is not even a piano.’
