by Joy Dettman
It came.
‘Daughter? Daughter?’
She feigned sleep, but from beneath her lashes she saw his heavy shoulder, his shaggy white head almost brushing the top of the doorframe. Her hands rose to cover her face as she rolled to her back.
‘Are you ailing?’ The question held an accusation.
‘Just some virus, Father.’
He took his white handkerchief from his pocket and held it before his nose. He was afraid of illness, yet when the whole town succumbed to colds and flu, Martin Templeton went about his business untouched by disease, thanking God and his strong constitution for his robust health. It was neither God nor constitution protecting Martin. It was his distance from people, the space he kept between himself and the world.
His white handkerchiefs liberally doused with eucalyptus were used to good advantage when he preached in a church filled with a sneezing congregation. He hid behind these handkerchiefs. If someone sneezed, he chose not to breathe for the regulation thirty seconds he had decided it would take for the expelled germs to settle on someone else.
Martin also kept space between himself and his daughter. He stepped back to the passage now. ‘Bed may be the best place for you then, Daughter,’ he said, and he closed the door, locking the virus in.
In her mind, Stella pictured his progress downstairs. She saw him fling wide the back door, suck on the cool morning air. Only after considerable blowing of germs from his nasal passages would he return to the kitchen.
She lay listening to his bumbling movements as he searched unknown terrain for a meal. She heard the rattle of dropped pans below her, the splashing of water into the sink, the tugging at cupboard doors held shut by ancient snib, and his complaint when they refused to open to his will alone.
At eight-fifteen, he knocked three times, coughed, then entered her room, bearing a breakfast tray which he deposited on her bedside table. Quickly he returned to the door, his face pink with a breath held long.
Stella looked at his burned offering. Black toast. Weak black tea, a scum of leaves floating on top. She liked milk in her tea. He didn’t know to add milk; but then he knew so little about her. She stared at the cup, and at the tray. Three times a day he sat with her at the table, ate with her, but he didn’t know she took milk in her tea. Stella, a beige-coloured shadow, was only there to see to his comfort.
From the passage he said, ‘Try to eat something, Daughter. We cannot afford to succumb to illness when we have God’s business to see to.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
She heard the telephone at nine-fifteen, and she heard his commanding ‘Hello. Hello. Hello.’ A wrong number . . . or perhaps a right number.
‘Keep your mouth shut, Stell.’
Again her mind began its questions. Would her silence encourage the youth to repeat his action? It would break Ron’s heart if she were to report it. She couldn’t be responsible for that. And Marilyn. How does a mother, who had lost five babies before giving birth to a living son, survive the shame of that son turned rapist?
In this town she wouldn’t survive it. And how could I survive the shame, survive the staring eyes, the questions, the silent accusations, and those not so silent? The town gossips, who used Doctor Parsons’ waiting room as an airconditioned meeting place, would apportion guilt to her, deserved or not.
Better that I find a way to leave. I’ll go to Sydney. Get work. I can type . . . badly. I can sew . . . a little. Perhaps I could set up my own business with the clowns? But how can I leave Father? I’ll have to report it. If I let him get away with it once, he’ll do it again.
She heard the telephone at ten.
‘Hello. Hello. Who is it? Hello. Is there anyone there?’ She heard her father slam the phone down.
Three knocks, a cough, and the bedroom door slowly swung open. Martin’s head, white handkerchief held before it, peered around the doorjamb.
‘Did you eat your breakfast, Daughter?’
‘I’ve been resting. I’ll eat something later.’
‘Someone on the telephone. They keep ringing, then hang up. Some parishioner with a faulty connection, do you think?’
‘Perhaps a child, Father, who may grow bored with his game.’
But would he?
‘Yes. Yes. No doubt you’re right, Daughter. I’ll ignore it. Let the confounded thing ring out. As you say, they’ll grow bored.’ And the head was gone, and the door closed, but the scent of eucalyptus lingered.
He was past his eighty-fifth birthday, at the age where the father becomes the child of his child. But she’d played the role of parent before. Always a mother, never the wife.
I’ll have to go. He’ll survive without me. He has the church. I must go. Now. Today. I’ll pack a few things and go.
How? On the morning bus.
Too late. It’s gone.
Tomorrow’s bus then.
Money? What do I use for money? Ask Bonny?
She has no money to spare.
Miss Moreland?
No. No. I can never ask her. She’d know. She sees too much. Oh, God. God. God, what am I going to do?
The sun was out again, and its light too bright in her room. Her eyes closed against it and the dream began. She tried to will her eyes to open but she was already inside the dream, and when the black maw beneath her bed opened to take her, she gave up her fight and let it claim her, carry her away from the room, and from the house, and into the deep place. Be it hell or not, she only knew it was a place where there was no more thinking, a place where nothing could reach her.
Stella’s new dress was white. Mummy liked white, and she got Mrs Thomson to sew it for her on her machine, and Mummy gave her some money, and said thank you, and Stella said thank you.
Mrs Thomson put pintucks in the top and around the bottom. And Stella said, when Mrs Thomson went away, ‘But, dearest Mummy, but I truly did want a red dress, like Bonny.’ But Mummy only liked white.
It was Bonny’s party when the clock said two Bongs, and she would be four. Daddy was taking Stella to Bonny’s party, and they would have lots of cakes and some drinks and balloons, but she mustn’t get her new dress dirty.
Mummy got her all dressed up and all ready to go before she had her rest.
She said, ‘Sit there and be a good girl.’
Mummy was sleeping now, and making her snoring. It happened because of all the stitches Mummy had to get in her tummy. That was why she got tired and did the snoring. One day she showed Stella the place where she got sewed up with all the stitches, and it was all white and wrinkly. Mummy said the doctor took out all the bad, and one day Stella would get all the bad took away too, but Stella didn’t want to have a big white line on her tummy, and she didn’t want to sit still till Daddy came home either.
When the clock said Bong, Bong, one, two, then Daddy would come home. He said so. That was a long time yet.
She leaned back on the leather chair and lifted her knees so her bottom felt cool. The leather chair made her underpants and tights get all wet, so when your knees lifted up, then the air could get to your bottom and make the wet cool. A bit. She pulled at the knees of her white tights and wished she could have just sandals like Bonny.
Her shoes were hard and shiny white. They had a strap and a buckle. She mustn’t put the buckle on the chair because it might cut Mummy’s chair. She had to sit up straight like a good girl, then everyone would be happy with her.
Her bottom was getting all sweaty again, so she moved to the other side of the chair, where it was cool, and that made her bottom feel very cool.
She liked cool, but there wasn’t any inside the house because Daddy said now it was summertime. In the refrigerator it made cool. When you opened the refrigerator door, winter came out for a little bit, but Stella mustn’t open the refrigerator because Mummy said.
It had cold water in it, in a big jug, and up the top it made ice-blocks for Mummy’s special tea. Ice made Stella think of thirsty, and her mouth
wanted an ice-block or a drink. She wriggled her feet, and thought of thirsty, and of the tap and lots of water outside in the tap.
She couldn’t reach the tap in the kitchen, except if she got a chair, but Mummy might hear her get the chair, and she might hear the tap too. But she wouldn’t hear the outside tap. Stella could reach that one easily.
Dearest Mummy was still making her snoring. Sometimes she slept for a long time, and sometimes she slept for a short time. Sometimes she slept for all the hot day and then she woke up and it was night-time. She didn’t want to go to sleep any more, and that was the bad time.
Stella looked at the window-doors and at the little glass in them. There was one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight little glasses in the door, and the other door was the same. Daddy said they made sixteen little glass windows. The sun came through when the curtains got opened, when it was early, and the sun made like hopscotch shadows on the floor. But she wasn’t allowed to play hopscotch, only outside. She liked outside.
Her mouth was very thirsty. She licked her mouth and, quiet as a mouse, she slid her shoes to the carpet, and on tippy-toe walked to the couch. Mummy had her mouth open and you could see her bottom teeth when the big snore went in, then her mouth pushed out a giant puff. Stella watched her for twenty-six puffs, and the clock didn’t say Bong, Bong. One finger to her lips, she tippy-toed out the door to the passage then into the kitchen, but she didn’t open the fridge. She looked at the chair, but she didn’t push it to the sink. If she was very careful, and not got dirt on her dress, and not got dust on her shoes, she could go outside. She was a big girl now. She was three now. One, two, three. And she knew how to be very careful.
There were some trees outside, and some lawn, and a long black hose. She turned the tap, just a tiny bit, and she let all the hot water get out of the hose till it would get cold, and she was very careful. She didn’t get any on her shoes, and when it got cold, she had a big drink and she didn’t get any on her dress either.
Water was better than the refrigerator for making people cool. Bonny had a little swimming pool, and Daddy let Stella get wet all over in Bonny’s swimming pool one day. She couldn’t have a swimming pool, but she could make a rainbow with water. She just had to put her finger on the end of the hose, and point it up in the air, and when the sun shined on it, it made a rainbow, and some of the water fell on her, and it was like a tiny little rain on her hair. She only made a little rainbow, because her dress got wet and spotty, so she ran and turned the tap off with two hands, then walked up to the gate because the clock must be ready to say Bong, Bong, and then she could go to the party and get a red balloon – or even a yellow one.
She couldn’t see through the gate, but she could reach the letterbox, and if she lifted the lid, she could see a little bit through. Just light through. She was looking at the light when the clock said its Bongs, but it was a silly old clock, because it wouldn’t stop, and she wanted it to stop. It made six and eight and even sixteen.
Her mouth got sad. She knew that when the clock got to lots and lots of Bongs, then it had to go back and start at the one Bong, then you had to wait a long, long time before it made two.
She stood watching two cheeky birds while her face made its sad look that Mummy said was bad. She tried to make sad go away, but it didn’t want to. She rubbed at her face with her hands, and tried to think of laughing things. Like when Daddy showed her a nest in the oak tree, and it had one, two, three baby birds in it, and they opened their mouths and said Cark, Cark, Cark when they saw her. They made her laugh. But she didn’t laugh now, just made her eyes get wet.
Maybe there were some new baby birds in the tree. Maybe if she could climb up she could find a nest and when Daddy came home, she could show him, and there would be some laughing time with Daddy. And if she climbed up very, very high then she might see over the hedge and she might see Daddy’s car coming.
But she’d get dirty, then Mummy would be sad and she couldn’t go to the party. But if she didn’t get dirty –
She walked to the front porch and very carefully, lifted her white skirt and sat on the top step, thinking big thoughts, and she said, ‘Pressures Lord, make Mummy not wake up till Daddy comes home.’ And she said, ‘Pressures Lord, if Mummy wakes up before Daddy comes home, tell her that she must do some singing.’ That made Mummy very happy when she was singing.
Stella undid her buckles, and she took her shoes off. She pulled her tights down and took them off too – pulled them until they slipped off her toes. Toes felt good when they got bare. She put her shoes on the porch chair, then she undid all the buttons that were in the middle of the pintucks and she took her white dress off, and her petticoat. Very, very carefully, she folded them and placed them on her shoes. Her underpants were white too, so she took them off, and all bare was very, very good. Now she could make a rainbow, and she wouldn’t get wet, and she could be a bird in the tree and –
It was after one when she awoke to Martin’s bellow from halfway up the stairs.
‘Are you awake, Daughter?’
‘I . . . yes,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘I was sleeping.’ Her voice rose to penetrate the closed door and the distance between the speakers.
‘Sleep is a great healer. Do you feel like a little lunch . . . perhaps a boiled egg?’
‘No thank you, Father.’
‘Pardon?’
‘No. No thank you.’
‘I . . . I thought I might manage an egg. How might I . . . how might I go about it?’
‘Bring the water to the boil. Allow the egg to – ’ She sighed. He would stand halfway up the stairs, calling his questions, and she would call down her replies. It was too hard. Easier as always, to rise from the bed and care for her aging child. Wipe away self, extinguish self, bury self. ‘I will cook your egg, Father.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Go downstairs. I’ll be with you shortly.’
‘Thank you, Daughter.’
Her back hurt as she moved from the bed, and there was more blood. She showered, then dressed carefully, painfully. She slid pantihose over her bruised legs, remembering the constant white tights of her childhood. Hot. Too hot for pantihose today too, but legs must be covered.
She was standing before her dressing-table mirror when she saw the dark stain on her forehead. She touched it with a finger tip. It was tender, bruised.
‘Can’t cover that one, dearest Mummy,’ she whispered, and she looked at her bed wanting to crawl back into it and pull the quilt over her head, forget his eggs. ‘Give up,’ she said, but her hand was reaching for her embroidery scissors. She looked again at the bruise, then carelessly she combed her hair forward, drew a careful part, and began cutting a fringe.
For too long she had drawn her fading hair back from her brow; the new fringe refused to lie flat. Curls, given their freedom, curled up, out. She dipped two fingers in the cold tea, dampening the shorter clump of the hair, then combing it, smoothing the fringe flat. Perhaps the sugar helped. Angel had always liked too much sugar in her tea.
A plain cream blouse with its high collar did not hide the still raw scratch beneath her ear. She sought and found a near forgotten scarf, knotting it loosely at her throat. Hot. Too hot for scarves. Too hot for the airless blouse also.
Her window was wide open. Heat blasted through, drying her fringe into spiky clumps, sugar sweet. She combed it again, then, with a well-practised twist, coiled the long hair into a knot. It looked odd in the dressing-table mirror. The heavy clump of fringe, the green scarf. Odd. Un-Stella. She couldn’t go downstairs like that. He’d know.
Give it up.
Her back ached; the bed called to her. She sat on its edge, wanting to lie down, to sleep, to hide, to die.
‘Daughter?’
‘Yes.’ He wouldn’t let her give up.
‘What on earth are you doing up there? It’s almost two.’
‘I will be down shortly.’ Her hair spilling free to her should
ers, she walked from the room and downstairs.
The kitchen was hard, stale with unchange. She had placed no stamp of ownership here. It was as it had been in her childhood, as it had been in her mother’s childhood. Its small windows, now in shade, cast little light into this room that had for too many years soaked up the odours of boiled swedes and sprouts and roasts on Sundays. It couldn’t change, and like the minister, wouldn’t change. He saw no need for change.
The floor, the walls, the cupboards, were a worn brown. Perhaps in a time before, the linoleum had boasted a touch of colour, a dash of shine. Now it was flat, dull, always clean, but never clean. Each week, Stella wiped its surface with a liquid polish poured from a bottle, and for a time the kitchen smelt of the polish, but the floor refused to shine.
She walked to the refrigerator and to the cool blast of air, savouring it, wasting it. Large, new, twin-door, her father had bought it last year when the old Kelvinator finally died. This one jutted out from the wall, aware that it was out of place, out of time in this room; thus it did not associate with the brown canisters on the mantelpiece, nor the walnut antique dresser at its side.
Two eggs in her hand, she let the door swing shut, close off the cool, and she walked to the electric stove. Old too, but not as old as she. It stood on the hearth, directly before its long disused, wood-burning antecedent. She hated that wood stove with an irrational hatred, and chose not to look at it, not to clean it. She wanted it gone, had pleaded with her father for twenty years to have it gone; still it remained, bricked into the chimney, where the black soot of yesterday still fell in showers onto unused hotplates, scattering black beads to today’s floor.
A small stainless-steel saucepan taken from the bottom shelf of a walk-in pantry; she stood immobile, studying its copper base, aware that it was the best money could buy in Maidenville. Martin had purchased the complete set when he learned from the television that aluminium was unsafe. She sighed, and carried the saucepan to the green enamel sink, an aged, chipped beast of a thing.
