Jacaranda Blue

by Joy Dettman

  But the supermarket doesn’t open until nine, the inner voice replied, and her hand left the doorknob and moved to her mouth.

  Then I’ll go back to town and I’ll walk into the supermarket and I’ll see him for myself. I’ll see him with my own eyes and stop this foolishness.

  And next time you’ll lock the door, Stella, her inner voice said.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I will. I will find the keys and lock all the doors,’ she whispered.

  Thomas was on his knees, stacking the tomato sauce shelf. Relief and revulsion fought behind the cage of Stella’s ribs. She wanted to run home, lock herself in, but she couldn’t run. Marilyn was on the checkout, knitting a clown’s legs by rote. They spoke a while about the shade, and of what colour might best set it off.

  ‘White and gold, probably, and I’ll give him green eyes,’ Stella said.

  ‘I thought we could use that green lace Bonny bought at the Dorby market.’

  ‘Too yellow, I think.’

  ‘You always know best, Stell.’

  Ron came to lean on the dividing wall between supermarket and liquor shop, and Steve Smith, shopping for his weekend slab of stubbies, leaned on the checkout bench. They asked about her father’s trip, and she spoke to them of his new case, and of how he ended up twelve kilograms overweight.

  ‘He had packed five pairs of shoes. I talked him down to three, then at the last minute tossed out his brown brogues. The trouble is, all of his clothing is so large. His shoes make four of mine. One of his sweaters takes up the room of my three-piece suit.’

  ‘We’re not all slim like you, Stell,’ Marilyn said, and Stella turned away to stare at Thomas’s back, and at the soles of his shoes. Rings and stripes. Circles within circles.

  They were the same tread.

  The group laughed. Stella hadn’t heard the joke, but she flashed a smile as fake as the smile she had flashed at the middle-aged Murphy.

  They didn’t notice. The world was too busy about itself. Each friend, only an ear in which to pour their week of words, but she had no more words to pour, except the words she couldn’t speak.

  Your son is a rapist. Your son is a rapist and I should have reported him. Why didn’t I report him?

  Because I know this town too well, as I know Marilyn too well–always a barb to her comments. ‘You always know best, Stell.’ ‘We’re not all slim like you, Stell.’

  Stop this. What am I doing to myself? Marilyn is a good friend. She has been my friend since childhood.

  But she doesn’t look at me as she might look at a friend. She hasn’t in years. Not when Ron is around. Her eyes never leave him. She smiles at me, but she stares by me at Ron, watching him for one false move, one misguided smile.

  Look at him. His arms folded, protecting himself from accusations. Poor Ron, he appears to be shrinking year by year. She is devouring him. Swallowing him up like the praying mantis, eating her mate.

  She has a bitter mouth. It loves to chew on gossip then spit out the pips. It thrives on another’s shame. Listen to her mouth.

  ‘Did you hear about young Leonie Matthews? She’s nicked off to Melbourne with a bloke who’s been working for her father. She’s only sixteen, Tommy’s age. They say she’s a real little moll. Her mother ought to be shot the way she lets her run around.’

  Leonie’s shame today, and her mother’s. It could have been my shame, Stella thought. Marilyn would have passed it on just as easily–with the change from her till–sidetracking her listener with her words while handing back a dollar less, multiplying her profits as she multiplied shame.

  Stop this.

  She would cut me dead in town, and many would walk at her side. This town thrives on drama, and on the shame of others.

  Stop this.

  Why?

  Because the truth is too painful?

  Because I know this town–as I know I made the right decision for me on the night it happened. But I will not fear the pain of truth any more. I will look at it, and I’ll be very careful. Careful of Marilyn, and of her son. I know where the house keys are and I will lock myself away safe from them.

  Her mind far away, Stella’s mouth continued smiling. They were speaking now about Willy Macy, who had lost his wife to a passing carnival man fifty years ago.

  Lucky lady, Stella thought. She got away from Maidenville, but she still adds spice to many meetings.

  ‘Marry in haste, regret at leisure,’ Marilyn said, casting a meaningful glance at Ron. He turned away.

  Praying silently for a run of customers who might free her to run, Stella nodded, and smiled, seeing all, saying nothing, while her eyes sought escape. No-one came in. Eventually she lied. ‘I must run, Marilyn. I’ve got so much to do today. With Father rampaging around the house like a giant two-year-old, I’ve let everything go this past week.’ She had known Marilyn all her life, now she had to invent lies in order to get away, away from her friend and her friend’s son, the rapist with the stripe and circle tread on his sneaker soles.

  The refrigeration section was at the rear of the store. Stella stood before it, scanning the array of cheese. So many to choose from, and with no need of more, she could not justify buying what she might not use. The minister had trained her well.

  Reaching across for a packet of tasty, she didn’t hear the rapist creep up behind her on his ring and stripe-soled shoes, but she smelt the stink of him, and the smell of his hair near her face. A packet of cheese slices snatched, she attempted to squeeze by him.

  ‘Good morning, Aunty Stell. Not playing speaks today? I thought I was your favourite nephew.’

  She would not speak to him. She would not see his face. She would not acknowledge his existence. But Thomas was not one to be ignored. Like a wolf shepherding his fleeing prey into a corner, he cut off her escape.

  She tried to go the other way.

  ‘Maybe I should call you Miss Templeton, now,’ he said, the toe of his shoe lifting the hem of her pleated skirt. ‘Do you think I’m too big to call you Aunty Stell?’

  The aisle was narrow. Protected from his parents’ view by the shelves, Thomas Spencer’s arms were placed on either side of his prey. He pressed against her, forcing her forward against the refrigerated cabinet.

  ‘Can I do anything for you, Aunty Stell? Can’t waste time though. I’m a busy man.’

  His mother’s laughter muffled the sound as the edge of Stella’s palm was used with a cutting action. She hit him between wrist and elbow, and as she hit, she pushed by him, dropping the cheese to the floor. He stooped, picked it up, offered it to her. ‘Don’t tell me I haven’t got what you want, what you came looking for. We Spencers always aim to please, Miss Templeton.’

  Again she heard the laughter, then his father’s words. ‘Since when did you ever aim to please anyone but yourself, Tommy?’

  Stella had snatched up a second packet of cheese. Now she hurried with it back to the checkout.

  ‘You okay, Stell?’ Steve Smith asked.

  She knew her face was red, and her stupid hand shook as she offered the cheese to Marilyn. She busied her hands with her handbag as Thomas, who had followed her to the register, leaned on the bookshelves, watching with interest.

  ‘Just rushed off my feet, Steve,’ Stella replied.

  Steve Smith caught the youth’s eye and stared him down while wondering how close Miss Moreland might have been with her suggestion that his nails might be checked for yellow paint. Young Tom Spencer had turned into a wild little shit these past twelve months. Steve stared at Marilyn, wondering if she was aware of the kid’s growing reputation. Probably not. Marilyn knew how to make money and that was about it.

  She’d been his neighbour through primary school. As he leaned there, he allowed his mind to wander back to those earlier years when he’d spent his life reading by the window, listening to his parents discussing the neighbours’ habits.

  Marilyn’s old man had hung himself when the youngest boy was three, and Steve’s parents thought they knew why. Marilyn had
two brothers. The oldest was a dead ringer for his old man, but everyone knew who had fathered the youngest. He had the Murphys’ big head, no neck and short legs.

  ‘Lucky she was a girl, that’s all I can say. She’s the dead spit of him. Those eyes, and her hands,’ Steve’s mother had once said of the younger Marilyn. Now he tried to see what his mother had seen, tried to pick the one who had fathered Marilyn. She wasn’t a Murphy. Too tall, dark as a gipsy once–exotic, for a few years, with those amazing green eyes.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of what Tommy says, Stell. He thinks he’s someone now. Just like his father, got every lovesick female in town making cow eyes at him,’ Marilyn said, sliding the cheese into a plastic bag, writing cheese plus butter in her account book.

  Steve saw it. Cheese: $2.76. Butter. $1.08. His mouth opened in mute protest as he looked at the plastic bag. Only one item. He looked at the account book. Closed.

  ‘Yeah. He’s getting to be a light-fingered little shit, too. I don’t know who he gets it from,’ Steve commented, picking up his slab and walking out behind Stella. His beer dumped in the back of his ute, he walked to Stella’s driver-side window as her car began to move away.

  ‘Hold it, Stell.’ She braked, but didn’t look at him. ‘Just a hint. You can take it or leave it, but I always pay cash in there. I’d check your account next time it comes.’

  ‘I–I trust them.’ Stella wanted to go, but he leaned on.

  ‘Yeah, I know you do.’ He silenced, and she touched the accelerator. The motor roared. ‘Has that kid been giving you a hard time?’ She shook her head, but her hands, her mouth trembled. ‘I’ve been hearing a few whispers about him, Stell. Mavis Larkin reckons her girls saw his face at their bedroom window a couple of weeks back. Has he been–?’

  Stella shook her head again and her car moved back.

  Steve stepped away.

  She was back in the drive and unsure of what route she’d taken to get there, or of how many cars she’d passed on the way. She didn’t park the car in the shed, but left it in the shade of the oak tree, close to the front door. Let the leaves fall on it, let the birds decorate it at will, she would keep it close, keep the keys close. Habit saw her walk to the gates, swing them shut, but she stopped before sliding the bolt home. Better to leave them wide, ready for a quick getaway. Gates would not keep him out, only lock her in.

  It required work with a shovel to release the right-hand shed door from the earth which the years had heaped against it, but ten minutes of digging saw it freed, and closed. It had a bottom bolt that had once slid into a buried galvanised pipe. Stella knew it was there, somewhere–unless it had rusted away. She’d kicked her toe on it many times as a child. For minutes she chipped at the earth with her spade until she struck metal, and had she unearthed a gold nugget, she would not have been more pleased. Clay had compacted in its central hole. She poked at it with a screwdriver, then searched for a better tool. A rusty wood auger, hanging on the shed wall for a hundred years served her well. It drew the clay out, and eventually the door bolt was forced down, driven deep, then the right-hand door was bolted to the left and a heavy padlock clipped into place.

  The shed grew suddenly dark. She turned on the light, and spent the next half hour hunting for the key to the side door.

  It was hanging on a hook, beneath ancient dog chains and an aged army hat. She had seen the hat and the dog chains there for all of her life but she couldn’t remember the dog, nor had she ever known the man who had worn the hat. She wished she had known the dog, and perhaps the man who wore the hat, but they were from a time before her time. Rusty. Dusty. How could they have waited so long undisturbed? How could her father believe he might return to that time and find it undisturbed?

  She looked up at the high ceiling, and down to the floor. Junk. The worthless accumulation of years had been packed into this shed. Old chairs, their tapestry seats now woven of cobweb. Old picture frames in a corner, bound together by ropes of dusty web. Her own small bicycle tied high from a rafter with cobweb.

  When had she ridden a bicycle? Where had she ridden it, except around and around the garden in small circles? Never on the street. Why had he bought it? Why offer her a freedom she could never have?

  She shook her head and took the old key in her hand. It was heavy, rusted; it refused to turn in the lock. But she found a can of oil on the bench and she squirted a liberal amount into the keyhole. For ten minutes she stood lifting the door, rattling the key amid the rust and cobwebs.

  And it turned, and the lock slid into its slot. Some things sustain.

  The two keys in hand, she walked inside, took a third key from the top of the kitchen dresser and locked herself in the house.

  The time was nine fifty-five. Her father had been gone for an hour and a half. Already it seemed like days.

  The Twisted Clowns

  The keys held tight in her hand, Stella walked each old room, checking windows, locking them. She checked the glass doors in the lounge room, unopened for many years, then she retraced her steps to the bathroom. Its window was small, and always open at the top. Now it refused to close. She greased the old runner with soap, and hurt her hand attempting to hammer the jammed window, to no avail.

  Downstairs again she required a key to get out, a key to unlock the shed where she selected a hammer and her father’s small oil can. Shed door locked behind her, back door. It took an hour, but she persisted until the bathroom window closed, and the rusting old lock finally moved. Fear had exhausted her.

  At eleven she escaped the house. Invited for lunch, she arrived at Miss Moreland’s, armed with a carton and two large plastic bags filled with clowns. They were beside her now on the couch, and hands busy, she unpicked large stitches from the neck of one rather twisted clown while the older woman went about the business of lunch.

  Stella had borrowed a little control from two Aspros. Her heartbeat had steadied. She would be okay. Everything was locked, her three keys, now tied together with red wool, were in her bag. She would be okay.

  ‘A salad day, girl. The weather is still holding.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a glorious day.’

  Stella refused to treat her friend as elderly. It was one of the reasons their relationship sustained. She never offered help in the kitchen, but sat and allowed Miss Moreland to play the hostess. And she was a wonderful hostess. Perhaps it took her a little longer these days to achieve less perfect results, but Stella enjoyed being waited on, as she enjoyed the conversation. Only here in this modern little unit could she let down her guard. But not today. She’d watch her tongue, be careful.

  ‘I thought you were in the business of making those things, not unmaking them?’ the older woman commented, pointing with her too sharp knife at a now headless clown.

  ‘They are Mrs Morris’s batch. She uses her own form of galloping horse stitch, and has no idea that she should attempt to match the sewing thread to the fabric. I end up unpicking every one she does and consider myself lucky that she does so few.’

  ‘Tell her. This is double handling, girl.’ Miss Moreland was not one to mince words. She had attempted to pound some basic concepts into Mildred Morris’s head fifty-odd years ago, and failed.

  ‘I don’t mind really. They look so lopsided and pathetic, I like giving them a second chance at life. To be quite truthful, I wish I had time to assemble them all myself. See this one.’ She held up a doll wearing a strange twisted smile. ‘See its neck. It is quite screwed, but when he is unpicked and restitched, he will have a sweet wry smile. I particularly like this fellow’s face.’ The small head freed, she took up a needle and began making her own small stitches. ‘Since we started accepting orders, we have had to accept all offers of help, and also become more professional with our finish,’ she said.

  Stella’s knack with wool and embroidery had snowballed. The guild received regular orders from craft shops around the state, and from two in Victoria.

  ‘Your hand is shaking like a leaf in the wind, girl.
’

  ‘The silly thing. It was fairly trembling when I told Mrs Carter that we were overstocked with peanut pillows, and could not continue to supply filling.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Miss Moreland murmured, not interested in Mrs Carter or her peanuts. ‘One thing I always noticed about you, girl, was your nerves of steel. No matter what happened, you handled it. You nursed your mother for years and never let it take the smile from your eyes. You baby that bombastic father of yours, who anyone else would have brained forty years ago, but you still managed to go about the town with a smile for everyone. It’s gone, girl, and though you might still flash your teeth regularly, there is no smile in your eyes.’

  ‘Must be old age. I sent Father off with three of Mrs Carter’s peanut pillows. Let us hope that they give him some comfort on the plane.’

  ‘Stop trying to change the subject. What happened to you?’

  ‘Happened?’

  ‘What has happened to your eyes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, girl.’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘You’re far from fine. Anyone bar a fool could see it. Are you worrying about your father?’

  Stella grasped at that straw. She nodded. ‘Yes. Possibly. A little.’

  ‘No. It’s more than that. You’ve discovered fear. It’s written all over your face.’

  Stella flinched. She looked up to the eyes of her inquisitor, then away, back to her sewing. She couldn’t tell her. Not now. ‘I admit I am a little afraid of sleeping alone in the house. It’s so cut off from the neighbours. And that darn hedge, it gives me the spooks when I come home at night. I’ve been asking Father to get the White boys to trim half a metre off it. I’m actually considering getting it done while he is away.’

  Miss Moreland took a tomato from the refrigerator and tossed it from hand to hand, her eyes still studying her visitor. ‘Fear is a demon,’ she said. ‘If you can slay your demon with young Whitey’s chainsaw, then slay it, I say. It wouldn’t cost much.’ She turned her attention and knife to the tomato, slicing with cavalier strokes, missing her fingers by narrow millimetres with each cut. ‘We are all born without fear. You only need to watch a daredevil child to see that. I always believed that one of the reasons we spinster women outlive our married sisters is because we are saved the lesson of fear.’