The Indigo Sky

by Alison Booth

  ‘Well, Cadwallader, I thought I could trust you,’ said Dr Barker. He’d arrived with the Williamsons, though Jim guessed this was unplanned. Between the Williamsons and Dr Barker there was, if not quite an aura of antipathy, certainly an absence of rapport. Now they were arranged on the uncomfortable seats under harsh fluorescent lighting that drained all colour from everything. Guessing the headmaster needed a focus for his own anxiety, Jim sat up as straight as he could in the rickety chair and braced himself. The Williamsons, facing Dr Barker and Jim, would be an audience for the lecture that Jim knew was to come.

  The headmaster continued. ‘We all thought we could trust you, Cadwallader. That’s why we made you a prefect. But you’ve let us down terribly. Running off from school with young Chapman; leading him into trouble. What on earth did you take him to the Cross for?’

  ‘He was running away.’

  ‘Running away? His parents are overseas and he’s got no family in Kings Cross. If he’d been found heading towards Hunters Hill, where the Williamsons live, I might have believed you. Did he tell you he was running away?’

  ‘No, I just followed. There wasn’t time to go back. I thought it’d be dangerous if he was on his own. I hoped I could stop him. He’s a bit naive.’

  ‘Innocent,’ said Mrs Williamson.

  ‘Vulnerable,’ Mr Williamson contributed.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Dr Barker.

  ‘He got off the bus at the Cross. That was a bit of a surprise. I’d almost caught up with him but then I called out. He must have thought I’d take him back to school, because as soon as he heard me he stepped onto the road. So I’m to blame for what happened.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ said Mrs Williamson. ‘It was an accident. These things happen in a split second. Don’t blame yourself. We’ve got enough to be anxious about without that too.’

  Jim glanced obliquely at Dr Barker, who was looking his most severe. If Mrs Williamson were not present, Jim knew that the headmaster would be quick to apportion blame. As it was, he contented himself with saying, ‘You’ve let us down terribly, Cadwallader.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ said Mrs Williamson. ‘You’ve let him down, or your school has. Don’t make this young man your scapegoat. He was brave enough to show some initiative and follow Philip, and to do the right thing regardless of the consequences. Let’s keep the recriminations for later.’

  Mr Williamson shifted uneasily in his seat and Jim adjusted his feet. His limbs felt leaden and exhaustion began to wash over him.

  ‘You’d be better off asking Jim why Philip ran away,’ Mrs Williamson continued. ‘In fact, I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘Steady on, Susan,’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘Jim, do you know why?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a fair idea.’ Jim told them a little of what had happened the night before, with Macready and his band of bullies. It seemed like half a lifetime ago. As he spoke, he heard Mrs Williamson’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘You didn’t think of telling me?’ Dr Barker said coldly.

  ‘I planned to, after school. Before school I had rowing practice. Then I saw Philip heading out of the school grounds and I followed.’

  ‘If anyone should be blamed,’ Mrs Williamson decided, ‘it’s that bully Macready. Or a school that allows such persecution to occur.’

  ‘Steady on, Susan.’

  ‘I won’t steady on, Fred. I’ve got every right to say what I think. Philip’s my nephew, after all, and my only brother’s son. Jack attended Stambroke when he was a boy, and he thought the world of it. That’s why he was so keen that Philip should go. But no school should allow bullying. You can’t have sensitive boys sacrificed like this on the altar of mediocrity.’

  Dr Barker began to hiss like a simmering kettle and might have boiled over if Mr Williamson hadn’t said, ‘Perhaps we might have a little stroll now, Susan. To pass the time while we wait.’

  After they’d gone, Jim was left sitting with Dr Barker. Without an audience, the headmaster was no longer inclined to talk. ‘Go and get us each a cup of tea, Cadwallader,’ he said after a while, and shoved a few shillings at Jim. ‘White with two sugars please.’

  Glad of this distraction, Jim followed the signs to the cafeteria. On his way back, he caught up with Mr and Mrs Williamson. Walking slowly in front of him, they were absorbed in their conversation.

  ‘Poor Philip’s probably in the operating theatre now,’ Mrs Williamson was saying. ‘I don’t know how Jack’s going to live with this, let alone Judy. It was her silly idea to go overseas and leave the poor boy behind, though she claims it was Jack’s. She’s going to have this on her conscience forever, if she’s got one that is. Which I doubt somehow.’

  Jim coughed loudly and they moved aside to allow him to pass. Once she’d seen who he was, Mrs Williamson stopped talking and attempted a smile.

  ‘We’ll surely hear soon,’ Mr Williamson said. ‘So I guess we’d better all get back in there in case we’re needed.’

  But there was still no news.

  After giving Dr Barker one of the cups of tea, Jim sat down next to him. He took a sip from the polystyrene cup. Finding it hard to swallow the stewed liquid, he put it on the table next to him, pushing to one side the out-of-date newspapers and the tattered children’s books. Glancing around the room, he saw that there were only two other people left in the waiting room: a middle-aged couple sitting at the far end. The woman was huddled in an overcoat while the man wore a shabby jacket and trousers, and brown-checked carpet slippers. His hand was roughly bandaged in a tea towel. Blood was seeping through the material, adding red blooms to the leaf pattern.

  Nervously Jim began to chew at his thumbnail, something he hadn’t done for months. The clock on the wall above the reception desk indicated it was nearly eleven o’clock. It had been hours since the ambulance had brought Philip in. Surely there should have been some news, any news, by now.

  At that moment a nursing sister appeared at the doorway. ‘Mr and Mrs Williamson,’ she called. ‘Can you come with me? The doctor would like to have a word with you.’

  As soon as she’d finished speaking, Philip’s aunt and uncle were out of their seats and following her through the swing doors. Jim and Dr Barker were left behind, sitting side-by-side on their uncomfortable chairs. This is it, thought Jim. Shortly would be the moment of reckoning. Having torn off the top of his thumbnail, he began to rub at the rough edges with his fingertips. The tense silence was broken, after a time, by the squeaking of Dr Barker’s chair, as he began to rock backwards and forwards. The noise was almost more than Jim could stand. The two people at the far end of the room were now ushered through the swing doors by another nurse, leaving Jim alone with the headmaster.

  Anxiously he looked at his watch. A quarter past eleven. It seemed like hours rather than minutes since the Williamsons had gone. He could bear the inaction no longer and stood up. At this point he saw the doors swing open again. Looking dazed, the Williamsons stood there, while a nurse held back the doors for them. Mrs Williamson’s face appeared drawn, and Mr Williamson had an arm around her shoulders. Jim’s stomach turned and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  But when the Williamsons reached them, Mr Williamson smiled. ‘They reckon he’s going to be all right,’ he said, ‘though they’re going to have to keep him under observation for a few days.’

  ‘All right?’ said Dr Barker.

  ‘Yes. Well, no brain damage, and only a mild concussion, they reckon. He’s got a broken nose, though. But there’s nothing much more that can be done about that until the swelling goes down. So he’ll be in hospital for a few more days. Three at least. Susan and I can go into his ward now and wait for him there. They’ll be bringing him back soon.’

  It was over at last. The relief that poured over Jim was palpable. It was like emerging from a dumping wave tha
t threatened to swamp you, and finding that there was a smooth swell on the other side, and that the sun was shining. Now Mrs Williamson gave Jim a hug and a kiss, while Mr Williamson shook Dr Barker’s hand. Surreptitiously Jim wiped his eyes on his sleeve before shaking hands with Philip’s uncle. And afterwards the Williamsons were swallowed up again in that no go area behind the swing doors.

  Dr Barker too must have shared some of Jim’s euphoria, for he said, rather oddly, ‘Glad you turned up safely, Cadwallader, very glad. Now you’d better tell me what else has been going on in Barton House with young Chapman.’

  Swiftly Jim sketched out the broad details of what had been taking place. When he’d finished, Dr Barker said, ‘We can’t expel every boy in the house, Cadwallader, just because of a couple of misfits.’

  This wasn’t headmasterly talk. It must have been the stress. While Philip was a bit of an oddball, Jim himself was the most normal person he knew. Since his future was not to be at Stambroke College, Jim decided to drop the deference and engage in some straight talking. ‘Philip’s not a misfit, headmaster,’ he said firmly, ‘and neither am I.’

  ‘He’s a musical prodigy, Cadwallader. That makes him a misfit in a community like ours.’

  The altar of mediocrity, that’s what Mrs Williamson had called it. But she was wrong. Stambroke didn’t suit everyone but it did provide opportunities and allowed some to rise above mediocrity. He’d be sorry to leave but he knew it was inevitable. He’d be packing his bags by the morning and heading home.

  ‘You’re a bit of a prodigy yourself,’ Dr Barker continued, ‘although in a different way. But you’re also a team player and that’s what we like at Stambroke College, team players.’ He paused and rubbed his hands together while he prepared his judgement. ‘While you didn’t follow the team approach this afternoon, Cadwallader, you certainly showed initiative. That’s what we also like at Stambroke. We like initiative.’

  Jim said, ‘What’s going to happen to us?’

  ‘I’ll speak to Mr Williamson later about Chapman.’ Jim noticed that Mrs Williamson had been excluded from this planned conversation. ‘You’ll appreciate that I’m talking to you now as one of my prefects, man-to-man. You acted with commendable enterprise, so naturally you will return.’ He paused, before adding thoughtfully, ‘And of course there’s the Regatta in two weeks’ time. That’s a very important event for the school, very important. We’ll drive back to the college next, after you’ve phoned your parents, so that you can be out on the water first thing tomorrow morning. First thing. Can’t afford to miss a practice.’

  Until now, Jim hadn’t given the Regatta a thought. ‘Thank you, Dr Barker,’ he said quickly. So he wasn’t going to be expelled after all. Funny what being good at sport can do for you. It’s not what you know but how you row and throw. Now that the uncertainty was over, he could afford to smile at Dr Barker’s idiosyncrasies. Man-to-man, Cadwallader, you’re a prodigious misfit, but we sure as hell want you for the team. Maybe next week he’d talk to Barker about what could be done about bullying in the house. He could use the Regatta advantage to get some action on that.

  Dr Barker now said, ‘Ring your parents first, though. There’s a payphone in the hall. I rang them from Stambroke when you went missing and again after the police told me you’d been found. But they’ll be wanting to hear from you.’ He pulled a few coins out of his pockets and insisted that Jim take them, in spite of his protestations about having a pocket full of change. ‘Talk for as long as you like,’ Dr Barker said. ‘As long as you like provided it’s no more than ten minutes.’ He gave his staccato laugh that was more like a bark, and much imitated by the Stambroke boys.

  In front of the payphone, Jim delayed dialling for a moment. Through the window, he could see the cast-iron railings separating the hospital from the street. He’d been reprieved, and so too had Philip, though in a very different way. The future was bright for them both.

  Yet he was not unchanged by the episode. He was going back to Stambroke because of the Regatta, it was as simple as that. There was a rule that said you’d be expelled if you left the school grounds. It didn’t apply to him yet it was applied to Philip. The pretty boy who was a threat, as well as threatened, in the boarding house environment.

  In the end things had turned out okay, but for the wrong reasons, and that offended Jim’s sense of justice.

  Smothering a sigh, he dialled his parents’ number in Jingera. His father answered the phone at once. Jim explained what had happened, censoring the bits he deemed unsuitable for parental ears, including the anxieties about expulsion. When he’d finished, his father said, as he always did, ‘You’ve done well, son. I’m proud of you.’ Afterwards Jim spoke to his mother. Always reluctant to use the phone, she said little, apart from her relief that he was safe and a desire to get the full story from his father.

  Dad would always be proud of him, whatever he did. Maybe that was because he’d never tell him the other bits, the mistakes and the errors of judgement. But no, that wasn’t right. Dear old Dad would forgive those too. His love was unconditional.

  Jim rested his elbows on the shelf under the phone and covered his eyes with his hands. They stank of the peculiar odour that buses impart, or possibly it was just dirt. Fatigue hit him, together with the realisation that he’d eaten nothing since lunchtime. After straightening up, he found the men’s room, and washed his face and hands with soap that reeked of disinfectant. The person staring back at him from the mirror looked exhausted. He’d get at most five hours’ sleep tonight before he’d have to get up for rowing practice.

  Yet he knew that he was lucky.

  Chapter 38

  Irritating man, Ilona thinks. Peter has dropped half the kindling on the floor that she cleaned only this morning. She sits on the sofa to watch him crouching in front of the lovely cast-iron fireplace with the marble surround that his grandparents put in when they built the house. He has a particular way of arranging the bits of wood and the screwed up balls of the Sydney Morning Chronicle. While he has once or twice watched her set up the fire in her own special way, it was not without gritted teeth.

  Tonight he lights the fire with one match and sits back on his heels, very pleased with himself. The sight of his long back and thick dark hair gives her so much pleasure that she forgets all about the small twigs and the scraps of pine cones littering the floor. Tomorrow she will cut his hair; it has been months since she did it, and that too will give her satisfaction.

  Outside, a wind is chasing around the house trying to find ways of getting in. She gets up to turn on the lamps. Before drawing the curtains, she peers out. Though there is no moon, a trace of light is left in the darkening sky, against which the swaying branches of the pines are silhouetted. Cold air blows around the edges of the panes of glass. Shivering, she pulls the heavy velour curtains across the windows. Across the bottom of the door, she places the draft excluder, a sand-filled fabric tube she sewed herself. Shortly afterwards, Zidra arrives and dislodges it.

  ‘Put the sausage back,’ Ilona says automatically.

  Zidra does so while continuing to reading Sons and Lovers. Ilona thinks this unsuitable for her and says so.

  Zidra laughs. ‘You’re a bit of a wowser, Mama.’

  Although Ilona doesn’t yet know what this means, she smiles. Later she will look it up, and the associated word wowserdom, and will seek opportunities to introduce this into her conversation. There will be many in the campaign for Aboriginal housing in Burford.

  Sometimes, she thinks that Zidra looks like her real father.This is because, every now and then, her expression is exactly his as it was years ago, before he’d become melancholy, before he’d become bitter.

  Thinking of Oleksii reminds her of Philip and the time he came to stay at Ferndale, when he had played the music that Oleksii wrote and which he so perfectly understood. Only now does Ilona notice that she’s le
ft sheet music strewn over the top of the piano and on the floor next to the piano stool. After she’s tidied it away, Peter tells her to sit down and relax. He pours her a glass of wine and himself a beer, and they sit together on the sofa, holding hands and watching the fire, until he is moved to get up again and make some small adjustments to the wood.

  She inspects her family closely: Peter is playing with the fire again and Zidra is still absorbed in her book. Could she ever have predicted, when she and Zidra first came to Jingera, that she might know such happiness as this? No, never could she have guessed.

  She’ll be right, Peter says sometimes, and so far in their life together it has been so. They have their ups and downs, and at times they each face their own demons, but so far she’s been right indeed.

  George Cadwallader, sitting in the lounge room in front of the glowing kerosene heater, is beginning to feel restless. The only sounds are the puttering of the heater and the rustle of thread being drawn through fabric, and of course the distant pounding of the surf. His gammy leg twitches involuntarily, and he shifts position, trying to get comfortable.

  Already there are only two of us, he thinks, even though it’s the start of the May school holidays. Jim and Andy are out somewhere. Playing table tennis at the O’Rourkes’, Eileen says. It won’t be long before both boys leave home, one way or the other. After that there will be the two of them, as there are now; sitting in front of the heater, or the log fire at weekends, and growing old together.

  That’s if he’s lucky.

  Obliquely he glances at his wife. At his most optimistic, he thinks that anything is possible. Even that he and Eileen will be able to knock along together in reasonable harmony once they’ve been cast onto their own resources, once the boys leave home. It’s even possible that they may grow old gracefully together.