by Alison Booth
After an hour or so, he’d joined Zidra where she was sitting on the sand. By this time the sun had moved over and she was in the shadow cast by the cliff. He began to ask her what she was reading, but she was one of those rare people who seemed to intuit the direction of his thoughts before he’d managed to spit out the first word.
‘Eyeless in Gaza,’ she said, showing him the cover of the paperback. ‘Jim lent it to me. Mama thinks it’s highly unsuitable, but how else am I to get an education stuck in the wilds of southern New South Wales?’
Since she was smiling, he knew it was safe to laugh.
‘I’m going to become a journalist,’ she said. ‘After I finish university.’
She sketched out her ambitions, to travel overseas and report on major political events, preferably of the more dangerous kind. Entranced, he listened. His stutter and lack of conversation sometimes elicited information that would never be revealed to him if he were able to tell his own stories. Yet she didn’t talk at him but to him, regularly looking into his eyes and waiting for him to nod or mumble something before proceeding.
After a while, she began to talk about what had happened on Jingera Beach the afternoon before. At first that had shocked him, but soon he’d been glad because it seemed that at last she’d seen what Eric was like. A good-looking boy on the make was how she described him. ‘He has lovely freckles though,’ she confided. ‘But he was trying to manipulate me and I don’t like that. I didn’t see it at first, I only realised it later. Imagine if I took off nearly all my clothes and asked someone I’d only just met to rub sunscreen over me. What would they think?’
Philip averted his eyes.
‘It’s because he’s a bloke that he thinks he can get away with it,’ she said firmly, shutting up her book. ‘But he’s not going to get off with me, nor are any of the other boys. Whether they’re from Stambroke College or Burford Boys’ High, they’re all the same.’
Now Philip began to lose the drift of what she was saying and took in only the rise and fall of her voice as she continued with her monologue.
‘Of course, some girls aren’t so wised up,’ she’d concluded. ‘They’re the ones who end up pregnant. There were two girls from Burford Girls’ High who had to leave last year. They got sent off to that home for unmarried mothers on the far side of town. Everyone views them as fallen women now, although it’s the boys who are as much to blame. Jim told me last night what Eric’s really like. Charming but untrustworthy. Obviously I knew that right away.’
Philip guessed this part of the story was untrue but there was no sense in trying to point that out. Instead he began to push the sand about to make a sandcastle. As he’d hoped, Zidra soon stopped going on about Eric, and became diverted by the failure of his castle to stay upright.
‘We need wet sand to do this, Philip,’ she said. ‘Let’s move closer to the water.’ That she was able to continue talking while helping him build an extensive castle with battlements and a moat and a keep was testament to her intelligence, he felt. He could only do one thing at a time and speaking wasn’t one of them. Eventually he managed to say, with only a little hesitation, ‘J-Jim’s k-k-k-kind.’
She stopped talking at once, although she managed to continue further excavating the moat. After a moment, she said, ‘Jim’s the best boy alive, apart from you, that is. He’s like a brother to me.’
Then Philip had heard no more about Eric or Jim as she’d became distracted by the shells littering the shoreline that would be the perfect decoration for their battlements.
At this point a log fell out of the fireplace grate onto the marble hearth and Mr Vincent stood up to restore it to the grate. The best thing about the day, Philip thought, staring at the glowing embers, was after he and Zidra had returned from their walk. Mrs Vincent had taken him to the piano and showed him the music of someone called Oleksii Talivaldis – battered sheets of music with handwritten notes and scribbled messages in the margins, in some language he couldn’t follow.
‘I thought you’d like to read this,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve only just started playing it again. At first it brought back too many memories, but recently I was able to try once more.’
To begin with, he’d been struck solely by the music. Ahead of his time, Mrs Vincent had said of Oleksii, but Philip didn’t really understand that. All he’d been able to take in was the importance of what he was hearing, this non-repetitive ordering of the twelve notes of the chromatic scale, and the brilliant transformations.
Only afterwards did he realise that Oleksii was her first husband, who’d died years ago before she and Zidra moved to Jingera.
Now it was Mrs Vincent’s turn to poke around at the fire, trying to dampen it down a bit as they were all too hot by this point, while Mr Vincent offered helpful advice. Philip acquired a hotel on Park Lane and another one on Regent Street, and the Monopoly game was soon over.
Later, as he lay awake in the spare bedroom in Ferndale, listening to the sound of the distant surf and the wind sighing through the pine needles, he was able to forget what lay in store for him the following week. Soon he drifted into strange and complicated dreams in which twelve-tone scales transformed and transposed themselves in various ways that, even in his sleep, he knew to be impossible.
Waking as the white light of dawn fingered its way through the chink in the curtains, he began to toss and turn. The holidays were nearly over and soon he’d be back at Stambroke College. He began to feel sick at the thought of what lay ahead. Sitting up in bed, he took several sips of water from the glass on the bedside table but this only increased his nausea. How he was to survive the term stretching endlessly ahead he couldn’t imagine, and with his parents twelve thousand miles away there was no hope of an early release.
The trip back to Woodlands the next day was to prove worse than disappointing. For a start, Jones was several hours too early, and so Philip hadn’t been able to play the particular Talivaldis piece that had haunted him since the previous afternoon. Another source of irritation was that he hadn’t even finished breakfast when the Bentley pulled up in front of the house at Ferndale. It wasn’t so much the interrupted meal but that he loved sitting at the table in the kitchen listening to the hissing of the kettle on the Aga and seeing, through the door to the walkway, those lozenges of purple and green light cast onto the floor by the coloured glass windows. So far Zidra had only spoken a few words to him – it seemed she wasn’t at her best first thing in the morning – and that was another disappointment. He loved to listen to her long speeches and her mimicry – she could do a perfect imitation of Mrs Blunkett – but most of all he wanted her to talk about her father. Her real one, not Mr Vincent. A bit earlier Philip had mentioned to her the name Oleksii Talivaldis – he’d even managed to get out that mouthful of a name with only the tiniest stutter – but she didn’t seem much interested in talking about him. Maybe she’d never been all that close to him, just as he wasn’t all that close to his father. She seemed to be annoyed with her mother though.
Mr Vincent had been very interested in the Talivaldis compositions though. While Mrs Vincent was making another pot of tea, he’d said he hadn’t known Talivaldis wrote music and asked what Philip thought of the pieces. All he’d been able to blurt out was. ‘G-g-g-good.’ You might almost have thought Mr Vincent was musical himself until you remembered what he’d said the night before about having a tin ear. Mrs Vincent had explained what that meant and they’d both laughed, though Mr Vincent in a forced kind of a way. Philip got the impression that he didn’t like Oleksii very much. That was often the way with people, he’d noticed. If they didn’t like someone they asked lots of questions about them. Yet sometimes, if they liked someone a lot, they’d refuse to talk about them at all.
Now Mrs Vincent, apparently relaxed about Jones’ early arrival, took him on a tour of the garden while Philip hastily packed. Just before Philip was admitted into the
passenger seat of the Bentley, Mrs Vincent gave him a big hug. ‘Remember that we’re just a telephone call away,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘Feel free to phone at any time. It’s been so lovely having you to stay.’
‘Th-th . . .’ But he had been unable to complete this simple word. Not even that trick of thinking of a replacement had helped him, for what could substitute for thanks?
Only when the car was beyond Jingera did Jones reveal the bad news that Mummy hadn’t returned to Woodlands. She’d decided to stay in Sydney until You and Mr Chapman are ready to join her, Jones said.
When Philip asked why, Jones said he didn’t exactly know but he thought it was something to do with dress fittings. The person in charge of alterations had proved unreliable, so Mrs Chapman had been forced to stay on in Sydney. Conversation ceased and they travelled the rest of the way to Woodlands accompanied only by the swishing of tyres on bitumen, and afterwards on gravel.
He knew his mother had planned this. She must have, otherwise she would’ve had to come back to pack her clothes for Europe. She’d planned it and hadn’t wanted to tell him beforehand, whether from delicacy or self-centredness he was unable to decide. While unwilling to judge her, it was impossible to stem his unhappiness at the prospect of being without her for the last few days of holiday.
The telephone started ringing as soon as he entered the hallway at Woodlands and no one else was around to answer it. Reluctantly picking up the receiver, he tried to mouth a greeting, but there was no need.
‘Is that you, darling?’
He made a noise that might have passed for agreement.
His mother proceeded. ‘I’m so sorry I can’t get back for the last few days of your holiday, but things have been unbelievably hectic here. Mrs Brown, who does the alterations, let me down. Poor dear, her mother’s been unwell but she’s back on board now, so all’s well that ends well. At least I’ll have some glad rags to take away, so I’m not likely to completely disgrace your father. Anyway I expect you’re really pleased to have him all to yourself for a bit, and of course you’ll be able to practise the piano as much as you like.’ Here she gave her musical little laugh before continuing. ‘And naturally I’ll see you when you come up here. We’ll all spend the night at the Hotel Australia before you go back to Stambroke College. I suppose you’re getting quite excited about seeing all your friends again. Oh darling, I almost forgot to tell you that I telephoned Mrs Vincent just after Jones collected you. She said how much they all enjoyed having you to stay. So sweet of them. She said you’re such a talented boy, but I’ve always known that of course. Well, my dearest, I mustn’t keep you and I’ve got a lunch to go to. So do give Daddy a great big hug and a kiss for me and tell him I’ll phone again later. And do take care of yourself, sweetheart.’
He struggled to make a noise, but already the earpiece had clicked and he was left listening to the unrelenting sound of the dial tone.
After returning the receiver to its cradle, he ran upstairs to her dressing room and threw open the wardrobe doors. Yes, the best leather suitcases were gone, and so too were many of her dresses and shoes. She’d known she wouldn’t be coming back to Woodlands before leaving for Europe but hadn’t bothered to tell him.
Hadn’t been brave enough to tell him.
So angry was he now feeling that he wanted to tear at the dresses, to rip into them with a sharp knife or a pair of scissors. But he wouldn’t do that; he was too lacking in nerve, or too frightened of the consequences. Instead he took the scissors from the bathroom next door and ran into his own bedroom, pulling out of the wardrobe those long trousers that his mother had given him at the start of the holidays. For best, for my little man, she’d said, and he’d hated them even as she’d handed them over. Fancy pants. Why didn’t she let him choose his own clothes?
He tore into the trousers with the nail scissors, mutilating them so that they would never again be wearable. After putting away the scissors, he took the damaged trousers and placed them in Mummy’s wardrobe where she would be sure to see them as soon as she opened the door. That this wouldn’t be for some months didn’t spoil his pleasure in this act of revenge.
Luncheon, served as usual in the dining room, was a rather sad affair, with only his father for company. While trying hard to respond to his heartiness, Philip knew he was failing dismally. He was unable to do more than nod or shake his head. The power of speech had completely deserted him. Eventually his father gave up any pretence at conversation and they each ate quickly, in Philip’s case more to get away as soon as possible than to appease his hunger.
After the ordeal by lunch was over, Philip went up to his bedroom and shut the door. It was a large room with a view of the paddocks to the north-west, rising to the escarpment from which trailed wisps of gauzy cloud. Elbows resting on the windowsill, he watched his father, in that uniform of blue shirt, moleskin trousers and riding boots, head towards the stockyards. The sight of his father moved him almost to tears. If he had the power of speech, would what he longed to say come pouring out?
That you could love and hate someone at the same time puzzled him.
Maybe there were some things you could never express. Even in music.
Once his father was out of sight, Philip opened the cupboard and pulled out the box of wooden animals. He hadn’t looked at them for some time, hadn’t even given them a thought until Zidra had mentioned that green elephant he’d presented her with all those years ago. After tipping the animals out onto the pale green carpet, he began to arrange them in groups. When this was done, he took out another box from the cupboard, a set of plastic fence sections that could clip together. These he used to box in all these wild creatures: the zebras, the elephants, the giraffes, the lions and the tigers. Just as he was constrained, so too were these animals.
The confinement complete, he left his zoo on the floor and went downstairs to the drawing room. Seated on the piano stool, he took a number of deep breaths, before beginning to play the Talivaldis arrangements that, he discovered without much surprise, he seemed to have remembered perfectly.
Chapter 22
The day of the meeting about the Aboriginal housing proposal, Ilona collected Eileen just after lunch, and spent much of the drive into Burford briefing her. Though Eileen knew of the proposal, Ilona suspected she hadn’t been closely following the issues, if indeed she’d been following them at all.
‘Wilba Wilba Shire council is responsible for the Aboriginal camp near Burford,’ Ilona said. ‘The local farmers want the Aborigines moved on, for their own good, they say. The papers want them moved on because they’re a moral and political embarrassment. The Canberra Times only last week had an opinion piece asking how such shocking conditions could be tolerated barely a hundred miles from the nation’s capital. Now, as you know, the Anglican Church has stepped in with the offer of land for the construction of ten houses. But there are several problems.’
‘What are those?’
‘The land’s in the centre of Burford.’ Before Eileen had a chance to respond, she added, ‘You might well ask why that’s a problem, and that would be a good question. The answer is that some people think it will create a ghetto. What they’re really concerned about, though, is that it will lower property values. The site’s right in the middle of a residential area. I saw a letter in the Burford Advertiser suggesting that Aborigines need training to live in a house. Training in domestic science, they said.’
She stopped talking for a moment while she overtook a truck going even more slowly than her preferred speed. After this, she said, ‘So that leads us to the second problem.’ She hesitated, hoping that Eileen might hazard a guess as to what this was. When she didn’t, Ilona continued. ‘No one asks the Aborigines where they’d like their housing to be.’
Still there was no response from Eileen. After a few moments Ilona added, ‘Anyway, I do think the Burford Advertiser is trying to
stir up community opposition to having Aborigines living side-by-side with whites. The council’s partly to blame as well. Of course, if they refuse the development application to let the Aborigines live in town and then issue eviction notices to get them off the land they’re camped on, wherever are they expected to go?’
‘To the Reserve, that’s where.’
‘But why should they be treated as if they’re aliens in their own country?’
Whether Eileen had no answer to this question, or was simply unwilling to supply one, Ilona wasn’t to know. For the rest of the journey they travelled in silence.
The meeting was in the church hall, a red-brick building on a grassy plot not far from the centre of Burford. Ilona eventually found a space in the bottom corner of the car park, under a cedar tree. Once inside the building, she hesitated. Graced with a high sloping ceiling supported by splendid triangular trusses, the hall was already rather full. There was a central aisle with uncomfortable looking wooden seats arranged on each side. Had it been a wedding, the bride’s guests would have been on one side and the groom’s on the other, she thought, and perhaps those in the know understood that, if you supported the proposal to build Aboriginal houses you should park yourself on the left, and if you didn’t, on the right. At this moment she noticed the large group of Aborigines towards the back. Quickly she looked for the Hunters; surely they’d come to this meeting.
‘There’re some spare seats towards the front,’ Eileen said, taking her arm and guiding her forward, before she’d had a chance to finish her search. ‘That might be an interesting spot to sit. I’ve heard the new rector is worth hearing.’
