Stillwater Creek

by Alison Booth

  ‘Who cares about the boat?’ he said gently. ‘Dad wouldn’t, as long as you put it back.’ This was a lie but he’d never before seen Zidra look this vulnerable.

  ‘Mr Bates said I could go to jail.’

  ‘They’d never lock you up for something like that. No way.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’ He watched Zidra scrubbing at her tears with the twisted-up handkerchief. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘There’s more though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Bates pulled out some pictures.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Got to say.’

  ‘You know …’

  ‘Please tell me, Zidra.’

  ‘Rude things.’

  ‘You don’t mean …?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know what they were at first.’ She swallowed and wiped the hanky across her mouth. Then so quickly he could barely make out the words, she said, ‘Then he took out his thing.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘You know, in there.’ She pointed to Jim’s fly.

  ‘No.’ Shocked to the core, Jim felt himself blushing deeply and his hands started to sweat.

  ‘Yes.’

  A wave of nausea swept over him but he managed to say, ‘And he didn’t …?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I ran away as fast as I could. I’m much quicker than he is.’

  At this point she was overcome with sobbing and he patted her on the shoulder. Although he’d known something was wrong, he hadn’t guessed it was this. Couldn’t have guessed it was this, although ever since that awful boat trip he’d wondered why Batesy had fussed over her all the time.

  Now he knew.

  ‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said, surprised that his voice sounded so calm. ‘But you’ve got to keep out of his way for a bit while we work out what to do.’

  ‘I’m doing that, but I’m frightened of him coming out of the pub. He’s always there on the verandah.’

  Of course she was right, Batesy was always there, smiling and nodding at the kids, and fawning over Zidra, the creep. ‘I’ll walk home with you after school. All the way to your house.’

  ‘What about when you’re at cricket practice?’

  ‘I’ll walk you home first.’ But he wouldn’t always be able to walk her home. There’d be some days when she’d be on her own and by the end of the summer he’d be off to his new school. Then anything could happen. He started to chew at his thumbnail.

  ‘I can’t tell anyone else,’ Zidra said. ‘No one else would believe me.’

  ‘I believe you. I’ll think of a way of dealing with this.’ Indeed, an idea was already forming in his mind.

  And the idea would develop, together with his anger, over the next few hours.

  Cherry watched Bill all evening to make sure he wasn’t drinking. That night, when the last customer had left and the doors of the hotel had been locked for the night, they were alone.

  ‘Have a good practice yesterday afternoon?’ Bill said, rather too casually, Cherry thought.

  ‘Not too bad.’ This was the time to confront him. For a day she’d been formulating what to say but now the words vanished from her mind. She began a routine inspection of the ashtrays. The bar stank of stale cigarette smoke and beer, and the room was hot and stuffy. The little speech she’d prepared was forgotten but something had to be said. She opened her mouth to speak but Bill got in before her.

  ‘I saw the Talivaldis woman go up to the school yesterday afternoon after school was out. Elinor or Ilona or whatever she calls herself.’ So hard was he scrubbing at the bar top you might have thought he was sanding it. ‘Zidra’s not ill, is she?’

  ‘No, Bill. She’s not. Or at least not as far as I could see. Ilona went to see Miss Neville.’ She picked up a damp cloth and, with trembling hands, folded it into a small square.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea. I’m not sure Ilona has though.’ She wiped out the inside of an ashtray with the cloth, which turned black. It was disgusting. Putting down the cloth, she braced herself for what had to be said. ‘You haven’t been interfering with the girl, have you, Bill?’

  He stopped scouring the bar counter and stared at her. A slight twitch under the right eye gave him away. She’d got through to him and her heart began to race as fast as if she’d been on a long run.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  They remained staring at one another. She was not going to look away first. His face had become even more scarlet than usual and against this heightened colour, his eyes were the palest blue.

  ‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,’ she said slowly, observing the slight twitch again. ‘I’m talking about little girls, Bill. I’m talking about you wanting to do things with little girls.’ With fists clenched so tightly that the fingernails dug into her palms, she was glad of the pain: it would keep her to her purpose. ‘It’s got to stop or I’m going to tell everyone.’

  ‘There’s a thing or two I could tell people about you, old girl.’

  Her heart jumped. Surely he couldn’t know about Miss Neville: they had been so careful! A hot flush suffused her face and neck, but she was angry rather than ashamed. ‘I really don’t care what you tell anyone.’ Her words were like bullets, cold and hard. She could no longer bear to look at him. Instead she stared at the reflection of the back of his head in the strip of mirror behind the bar. Blond tufts of hair framing a shining red dome and, above this, a frieze along the top of the mirror advertised Tooth’s Beer.

  ‘Well, you should. I saw you kissing Pat Neville. On the mouth, in the classroom. I don’t think that would go down well with the Education Department, do you?’

  In that instant she realised that she no longer cared what people thought about her. After all, she was an adult and could make her own choices, and take the consequences too. She thought again of Mr Ryan losing his job at Burford High School all those years ago but he was a man and people wouldn’t believe that two women would do such a thing, and if they did believe it, so be it. ‘I’m not going to be distracted by that nonsense,’ she said, though her voice was shaking.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

  ‘I don’t fancy little girls like you do. Now I know why you lost interest in me all those years ago. It was because I’d grown up. I’d become a woman and you wanted a girl.’ The pain of this realisation was still with her. She glanced at his face, a fleeting look. His features were swollen with anger and she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Children weren’t in any position to make their own choices and that was why men like Bill had to be stopped. What really mattered was protecting children from people like him.

  ‘You and Miss Neville, you’ll be the laughing stock of town. Once they’ve finished lynching you.’

  ‘No one would believe you,’ she said slowly and distinctly, but she was beginning to feel frightened. ‘All I care about is that you lay off Zidra and any other kids you might have your eye on. Do you understand?’

  Who could tell what he might do next. A big man, he could easily knock her down, just as her dad had knocked down her mother all those times when she was growing up. She gauged the distance to the doorway into the hall. Three yards at least but she was lighter on her feet than he was and she wouldn’t be cowed. Deliberately, unhurriedly, she walked towards the door. There she turned. Bill was standing in the same position, as still as a block of stone. Once she might have felt pity for him – not any longer. Although at this instant he was immobile, as soon as he recovered from the shock anything could happen. He’d never hit her yet but he was cornered now.

  She ran up the stairs two treads at a time. Once she’d locked the bedroom door, she took the key out of the lock and put it in her handbag. Only after pushing the heavy chest of drawers against the door did she begin to feel reasonably secur
e. Her hands were still shaking and her voice box hurt. This lingering tension in her throat made her realise how loudly she must have been shouting at Bill.

  Tomorrow she’d go to the police but he was unlikely to guess that. She’d been docile for years and he’d think she was going to stay that way. Or that’s what she hoped now she’d decided to leave.

  After pulling a small suitcase out of the wardrobe, she began to pack. She wouldn’t take much, it would be easier to travel light and it would be less conspicuous too. Just a few underclothes and dresses, her sponge bag and of course her make-up. Tomorrow before seeing the police she’d have to let Miss Neville know what was going on. First thing in the morning she would drop into her house, going as usual down the back lanes where the dunny cart used to go, and that way she wouldn’t be seen. If she was seen it wouldn’t matter, not any more, not now she’d made up her mind to leave. After that she’d go to Burford. It would have to be the Burford police that she told, not Jingera. That local man Davies was too thick and knew Bill far too well and would never believe her.

  Now she’d made this decision she felt a little better. No less anxious or nervous but at least she knew that she was doing the right thing at last. Miss Neville would help her all she could because she was a friend. After that, what might eventuate was anyone’s guess. It was no good hanging around waiting for things to happen, waiting for the situation to get resolved. She had to act herself to settle it. Now she’d determined what to do she was more comfortable with herself, although still apprehensively listening to the noises of the hotel, the creaking that a wooden building always made at night, and listening for Bill’s tread.

  At this point she remembered the photographs and pictures. They were evidence and hidden away in Bill’s study. But she wasn’t going to try to get in there and retrieve them now. It would be too dangerous with Bill out there still. Anyway if she did take them there wouldn’t be any evidence. She had to leave them where they were so the Burford police would be able to find them after she’d told them everything.

  She stayed alert for a long time. An hour or so after she’d packed, she heard Bill treading heavily up the stairs and was aware of him standing on the floorboard that squeaked just outside her bedroom. Heart thudding, she wondered if the door would hold if he tried to break it open. Then he moved on to his room and she heaved a sigh of relief as his door clicked shut. For hours more she lay awake, fully dressed, all ready for the morning getaway. Not long after the sky began to lighten and the first bird calls could be heard, she fell into a light and troubled sleep.

  Ilona couldn’t settle to anything. It was too hot to read, too hot to do the ironing, too hot even to play the piano. In the hope of getting some cool water to drink, she ran the kitchen tap for several minutes but still the water came out tepid. After filling a jug she put it in the ice chest and went out onto the side verandah. It was even hotter outside and the air was so still. Too still. Even the distant surf seemed sluggish, as if it was an effort to break on the shore.

  She picked up yesterday’s newspaper lying on the wicker table and flicked through it. Nothing much in it that she hadn’t already read. After folding up the paper, she fanned herself with it. The heat produced by this effort seemed greater than the cooling effect of the tiny draft generated and she soon stopped. If only a breeze would come up. This place was supposed to have a temperate climate, not such frightful heat. It was supposed to be a safe haven too, or that’s what she’d hoped. A shiver ran through her and she turned suddenly cold at the thought of poor Lorna’s fate before once more being enveloped by the oppressive heat.

  Although more than a week had passed since the Christmas dance, Peter still hadn’t called in to see her, and she was starting to wonder if she had imagined all that had passed between them. Leaning over the verandah rail, she stared up at the sky. It was a most peculiar colour, quite jaundiced-looking. At this point her eye was caught by the shiny corrugated iron shed in next door’s backyard. It was glowing strangely, reflecting the yellow light. Like a religious painting, she thought. Light did that to things; it gave them meaning, even when they had none.

  And there was a strange smell in the air, almost as if someone had decided to burn off their rubbish in spite of the total fire ban. Yes, she could definitely smell smoke and possibly also the faintest scent of burning eucalyptus leaves. Blowing in from Bournda Forest, probably; she’d heard on the news that lightning had started a number of fires there.

  Jim put the tin of blue paint back on the shelf in the garage where he’d found it. He could hear the sound of the radio coming from his parents’ bedroom. That was good. Mum must be having a rest and the radio would disguise any noise he might make. It was bad enough that he’d skived off from school in the lunchbreak. Even worse would be if she found out what he’d been up to.

  Spattered with blue paint, his hands were trembling. Angry still, he was not angry enough to forget what he’d been taught about cleaning a brush after use. With an old rag he wiped the surplus paint off the brush. He put it into an empty jam jar, tipped in some turps and jiggled the brush around to clean the bristles. It was hard to see in the garage; the dust storm had made the windows that filthy, but turning on the light was too risky. The last thing he wanted was Mum bursting in, thinking he was a burglar.

  MR BATES IS A PERVERT, that’s what he’d painted onto the side of the Masonic hall. But he’d have to go back to the hotel; without some incriminating evidence, no one would believe Zidra. Batesy was too popular. Everyone said good things about him, even Jim’s parents and they weren’t too fond of the pub, especially his mother. Everyone would think Zidra had made it up. He’d have to get some proof.

  When the bristles looked reasonably clean, he removed the brush from the jar. He dried it off by wiping it up and down on the section of garage wall kept clear for that purpose. After cleaning his sticky fingers on a turps-saturated corner of the rag, he stepped out of the garage into the heat and shut the garage door quietly behind him. Things seemed different somehow. Maybe it was the birds, or the lack of them. Not a single bird call. Not a sound apart from the faint thudding of the surf. He glanced up at the sky. That looked funny too. Although there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, the usually deep blue had a distinct yellowish tinge to it, the way it had looked before the dust storm. There was probably another storm coming; that would explain it.

  He headed along the unpaved lane leading to the back of the hotel. Still not a soul around. No one would see him. He’d been lucky before and he’d be lucky again; the heat kept people indoors. Slinking through the gate leading into the brick-paved courtyard of the hotel, he heard voices coming from the bar. The men in there wouldn’t see him though, not if he was quick and quiet. He crept around the boarded-over well in the centre of the courtyard and up the back staircase to the Bates’ private quarters.

  Still no one around.

  The floorboards upstairs creaked under his weight but no one came. The handle of Mr Bates’ office door turned easily. The door was unlocked and the room was empty. After tiptoeing in, he shut the door behind him. It would be silly to lock it though. If anyone was coming he’d hear them and then he’d duck behind the door as it opened and race out. Going straight to the big desk, he pulled out the middle drawer. It shot out so easily that he stumbled backwards and the drawer contents spilled onto the floor. Nothing of interest there though, just a few old pens and pencils, and what looked like old racing scores. Back into the drawer they went, higgledy-piggledly, no time to waste on leaving them in any order. He began to work his way methodically down the bank of drawers on the left-hand side, rummaging through the mess to see what could be found. Still nothing of interest. Then he opened the top right-hand drawer and removed some sheets of writing paper. Eureka, this was it!

  But the picture was disgusting. He put it back as fast as if it was burning his fingers. Glancing quickly around the room, he tried to focus on something else. The old leather armchair, rows of bookshelves, piles of ol
d newspapers on the floor. A quite ordinary room. Yet the picture was there in the desk and it wasn’t ordinary at all.

  Maybe he’d just imagined it. Maybe he was making a mistake; he had to have another look. After lifting the pile of photographs out of the drawer, he shuffled through them. The ones towards the bottom were the worst. He felt like puking and wished he hadn’t looked. Throwing them onto the desktop, he took several deeps breaths.

  Something had to be done with this stuff though. He should take it away. Even as he thought this, his hands were picking up the top photograph and scrunching it up. The picture was too stiff and came undone. Just then he heard footsteps in the hall outside. Heavy footsteps, it could only be Mr Bates. Heart thumping faster now, he thought of hiding behind the door. That was cowardly though, especially with the evidence all over the desk. He had to confront him; that was the only thing to do.

  The door opened and Mr Bates stood there. Jim saw his face turn red and twist with anger. Bang went the door behind him; thump thump the boots as he advanced across the room; thud thud Jim’s heart as he glanced at the open window. It was tempting to escape that way but the drop to the yard was too great, and anyway he’d resolved to stand his ground.

  ‘What are you up to, my lad? Stealing’s a crime, remember. I don’t think your fancy new school in Sydney takes criminals, do you? Defrocking the scholarship boy, now that’s a strange image, isn’t it?’

  ‘Porn’s a crime too, remember.’ Only the week before Jim had heard on the news about a raid in Sydney. ‘Dirty postcards, especially ones showing “Daddy’s Little Girl”. You’ll get years in jail, you pervert.’

  Mr Bates laughed. ‘That’s a big word for a little boy,’ he said, moving closer to the desk.

  Jim spread his hands over the pictures. They were proof and he had to keep hold of them. But Bates leant over the desk, grabbed hold of his wrists and threw him backwards. Losing his balance, he fell to the floor, hitting his forehead on the corner of the bookcase. Head smarting, backside hurting but he had to stop Batesy removing the evidence. By the time he was on his feet, Bates had scooped up the photographs on the desktop and was pulling a box of matches from his pocket.