Jacaranda Blue

by Joy Dettman

  ‘You had a sister?’

  ‘Married a mean wowser then died in self-defence thirty-odd years ago. I’ve got two nieces somewhere, but they took after their father. Haven’t seen their prune faces since Cara’s funeral.’

  ‘I always wished I had brothers and sisters.’

  ‘You should have had a brother. You were one of twins, you know.’

  ‘Me? A twin? No.’

  ‘You were. One of a pigeon pair. The boy died at birth.’

  Stella shook her head. ‘Good Lord. Why didn’t they tell me? They never . . . never once mentioned it. Why wouldn’t Father tell me?’

  ‘Not something he wanted to remember. I shouldn’t have told you either. Me and my big mouth.’

  ‘A brother. How different life may have been.’

  Miss Moreland washed and shredded lettuce then turned again to her visitor. ‘I always say, girl, you can choose your friends, but family and neighbours you get stuck with. I never missed family, not after Cara went. I never regretted not marrying. Oh, I considered it a few times, had a few flings, but I always shook the coots off when they started talking marriage. Maybe I was attracted to the wrong ones, like you.’

  ‘Like me? Who?’

  ‘Look at young Steven Smith. He’s been after you for years, never looked seriously at any other girl in town, but you won’t give him the time of day. You could do a lot worse than Steven.’

  ‘Steve? He’s only a – he’s so much younger than I. And he certainly did have other girlfriends. Many. You old matchmaker!’

  ‘Just time-fill while he waited for you to get over Ronald.’ Miss Moreland laughed and began apportioning shredded lettuce to plates.

  Stella kept her head down. Was her feeling for Ron so obvious?

  ‘My only regret is that I never bore a child. I would have liked to have had one, if only to see what sort of a botch I might have made at child-raising. If a husband hadn’t been a prerequisite in my day, then I might have bailed up some likely lad and sent poor Maidenville into a spin. Still I didn’t learn the pain of childbirth, nor did I spend my life fearing for some tiny life I brought into the world. The more we love, the more we have to lose, girl.’

  ‘Then perhaps I’m lucky I only have Father to worry about. He has been like an obstreperous infant these past two days. This morning he looked quite pale. I believe he is actually petrified of flying. You know, my dear, what never ceases to amaze me, is how those who profess total belief in the hereafter are the ones who seem to fear death the most.’

  ‘Fear grows like a poisonous fungus in this town. It feeds this town. Half of its population are of pensionable age. Maidenville is no longer growing.’

  ‘Yes. I noticed that little art supplies shop in Crane Street has closed down. Half the shops are empty down there.’

  ‘The town is dying, and its people know that it’s dying and they know that they’re dying with it, and one day soon they’re not going to wake up. It will be their own name in the obituary column. Loved mother of Harry, loved granny of Debbie Lee. They know it’s coming, and that there’s not a damn thing they can do about it, bar hope that everyone else goes before them. Maidenville. Ha. They ought to change its name to Senilityville.’ Stella laughed.

  ‘That’s more like you, girl.’

  ‘Perhaps we should hit the old sign with a spray pack one night.’

  ‘I’ll be in it, if you will.’

  Again they laughed, then the older woman said, ‘Why don’t you get out?’

  ‘I did think seriously about it a few . . . a while back. But where would I go? My life is here – the only life I have is here in Maidenville, and I’m afraid I’m far too old to start again.’

  ‘Old. You’re only a pup.’ Miss Moreland carried two plates to her small dining table, then came to stand before her guest, her legs planted well apart, the knife in her hand pointing. ‘I don’t know what it is that you’re fearing, girl, but it’s something big and black and it’s eating you alive. Your skin looks like mud, and I guarantee you’ve dropped half a stone in three weeks.’

  Stella placed her sewing down. She stood shaking the hair back from her face. ‘Well, I’ll make up for it today. I fear I’ll eat you out of house and home, my dear,’ she said. ‘I could eat a horse.’

  ‘Hungry are you, or just not in the mood for a lecture? Okay, I’ll save it for later. Come and eat before it gets hot.’

  They washed the dishes together then sat before the television keeping half an eye on a golf tournament. Miss Moreland had taken up a clown doll. ‘He looks like he’s running from his pursuer, running full-tilt ahead while looking back over his shoulder. Poor little clown. Which demon is on his tail, I wonder?’ Stella reclaimed the doll. She began snipping with her small embroidering scissors. In silence the old woman watched her guest’s hands, capable hands, not trembling now. ‘I can’t keep my mouth shut when I see that something is not right with you, girl. Wish I could sometimes, but I like, I respect you too much to turn a blind eye to your trouble.’

  ‘I hope we can always feel free to say what is on our minds.’

  ‘I’m too fond of saying what is on my mind – or so they tell me. The last of the big-mouthed Morelands my old dad used to call me.

  ‘A definite advantage in your particular profession,’ Stella said.

  ‘Perhaps. We were always teachers, a natural genetic selection occurred over the generations as we tried to pound knowledge into uninterested heads. You know, I’m not a one for gossip, but that boy’s hands, those nails bitten – no, pared nails, pared by a knife down to the quick. I was looking at them again this morning.’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Young Tom Spencer. Up at the supermarket.’

  Stella sprang to her feet. ‘A drink of water, I think. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Not now. You know, I’ve seen hands like those before. How old is Marilyn?’

  ‘She’s older than I. I started school at four and a half. Marilyn was six.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What is your devious head working on now?’

  ‘Just some old gossip better left buried. Speaking of heads, give me one of those twisted dolls. How many have you got there?’

  ‘Only this lot. The others have to be packed in their bags and tagged. I’m posting another two dozen off on Monday. Sydney ordered a dozen, would you believe, and we’ve got orders for four from three other shops. I sent off ten last week. I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep up the supply.’

  ‘Fashion is fickle. They may find something new in six months.’

  ‘Perhaps they will. Did you see our new tickets? Lyn Parker did them on John’s computer.’ She took a sheet of stick-on tickets from her bag and passed it to the older woman. ‘They look quite professional, don’t they?’

  ‘You’re only a bit of a girl still. Why don’t you take the business away from the church guild, set up your own co-op. You and Bonny and Lyn. You’re the workers. You could let in a couple of the other girls; go for it while they’re hot; get yourself some independence, then get out. Go and see the world.’

  ‘I couldn’t take them away from the church. They’ve always been . . . always belonged to the church.’

  ‘The church? The church is rolling in money, made by the likes of you. It doesn’t need it, but you do. Stick it in your pocket and let it buy you a holiday. Fly to China, and walk the Great Wall. See something. There’s a wonderful world out there, girl. And more is the pity that I started looking at it too damned late. I’m too old to go gallivanting on my own any more. That’s where a husband might have come in handy. You’re not too old to find one, you know.’

  Stella laughed. ‘Perhaps I should place an advertisement in the local paper. “Wanted, seasoned traveller, must have strong back, and be able to lift heavy cases. View matrimony.”’

  ‘Preferably rich,’ Miss Moreland added.

  Again they laughed.

  ‘Maybe one day I’ll fly away to some p
lace,’ Stella said. ‘I planned to, but there was always something to keep me here – some reason why I had to put it off for a week, or a month, or a year. Father is almost eighty-six. I could never leave him now.’

  ‘He left you fast enough. How old are you?’

  ‘Forty-four last January.’

  ‘Menopause? Is that what’s troubling you?’

  Stella’s chin lifted. ‘No. No, it certainly is not. Not at all.’

  ‘Haven’t found a lump in your breast, have you, and you’re too modest to go and see old Parsons about it?’ Her eyes refused to leave her visitor’s, seeking a truth in those eyes she could not glean from the smiling mouth.

  Stella shook her head, but kept it low.

  ‘No. You’re no damn fool, and the look I see in your eye when you think I’m not watching isn’t the common garden variety fear. It’s terror, girl. When you’re free to think, you let some personal demon back into your head.’

  ‘There are no demons in this flat, just Mrs Morris’s dear twisted clowns.’

  ‘I didn’t teach fifty years of students without learning something about life, something about people. Oh, you might shake your head at me, Miss, but it’s in your eyes. Even when you laugh they’re like lost marbles in lightless pits.’

  Stella stood. Too close to breaking now, she turned her eyes to the window, clenching her teeth and each muscle in her jaw, as she had as a child, tightening her aching face against tears threatening to spill. It would be so easy to weep in this woman’s arms and gain comfort there. But she had learned long ago that there was little value to be gained from tears.

  ‘Can we please change the subject, Miss Moreland? I promise you that whatever may be troubling me will not be the better for an airing. This little flat, and you, have for years been my escape, my sanctuary. I love to come here. I love to be with you. Don’t drive me back to that . . . that mausoleum today. At the moment I have no answers for you.’

  ‘If you’re afraid of staying by yourself, then come and camp out on my couch, girl. There are worse beds.’

  ‘I mightn’t like the house, but I’m not afraid of it. Nor do I . . . do I fear my own company.’ She turned to face the old woman. ‘I have never run from fear, Miss Moreland, never shown weakness, and I don’t intend to start now. I will be fine. If I am left to work it out for myself, I will get on top of whatever is troubling me and I will be fine again, my dear.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s safer to run, girl.’ Those old knowing eyes watched her guest, saw the tension on her face, and cursed the town anew. What was there in this town – who was there in this town capable of –?

  She had been acting strangely for weeks. There was some gossip about the Spencers. Was that it? Were she and Ron having an overdue affair? That might explain her coldness to him and the boy in public. The guilt of it would eat her alive.

  ‘Are you having a fling with one of our fine upstanding citizens?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss Moreland! You do have a truly wicked mind.’

  ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, girl, or my name isn’t what it is.’

  ‘Thank you for caring. And I do know you care, my dear, and I promise you that when I have an affair you will be the first to know. I also promise you that if I find I’m not sleeping well while Father is away, then I’ll be pleased to use your couch.’ Stella walked back to her clowns, picked one up. ‘Look at this poor mite. I do wish Mrs Morris could content herself with stuffing the toys. She’s spilled her coffee on its collar. I’ll have to give it another one if I can find some lace to match.’

  ‘Toss it over. You get on with your packaging.’

  Miss Moreland sat unpicking the small collar while watching the hands of her younger friend, checking and tidying each doll, then the plastic bag held open with two palms, she slid the clown neatly in, using her thumbs. One twist, and a small sticky label sealed the plastic bag.

  Made for you in Maidenville, Australia, from Australian wool.

  She’d said enough on the subject. ‘Quaint things. Where did you get the pattern?’

  ‘It evolved. I play. I like to create. Always have. I used to write, as you may remember, and lately I have felt the desire to try it again. Finding the time to start is holding me back.’

  ‘No money in it, unless you write a best-seller. More money in these. They’re very professional. Why don’t you start your co-op?’

  ‘You have a money fixation today – and don’t imagine for one moment that I haven’t considered packing up my clowns and running. But, would you believe, I badgered Father into allowing me to apply for a credit card a few weeks before he left. Always believing I had a small balance, from when mother died, I now find I don’t need the money from the clowns, Miss Moreland. I am, by Maidenville standards, a reasonably wealthy woman.’ She slid another clown into a plastic bag, sealed it and tucked it in the carton. ‘It also appears, by the interest payments that are paid into my passbook, that I have considerable investments, even some shares. I asked Father – asked him why he had kept me ignorant of my money. He said – ’ she smiled as she continued. ‘He said it was his fear that I may be pursued by a gold digger. So it looks like we can delete the “preferably rich” from our newspaper advertisement.’

  ‘Your mother inherited the lot when old Randall died. He owned half of Maidenville at one time.’

  ‘I never knew my grandfather.’

  ‘Didn’t miss much. He and Cutter-Nash were thick as thieves. Devils both of them – and you can thank God it wasn’t Cutter-Nash who brought you into the world, or you would have gone the way of your twin.’

  ‘Not much loss,’ she said, then forced a smile. ‘Father always said he would have been a childless widower if not for Doctor Parsons. Was Cutter-Nash as bad as he is painted, or has his reputation been expanded upon – like poor Mrs Macy’s?’

  ‘Dora Macy married Willy on the Saturday, and left him the following Friday.’ Miss Moreland laughed. ‘I never could understand how she stuck it out for a week.’ She stood and walked to a modern wall unit, where she picked up an aged photograph album. She opened it, stood turning pages until she found the one she was after. ‘That’s Cutter-Nash. He was twelve years older than I. There was a time I considered marrying him. Old memories that bless and burn, eh?’

  ‘What a fine looking man, Miss Moreland.’

  ‘He was that – apart from his eyes. Jaguar eyes. Always on the hunt for prey, and those – ’ She cut her sentence short. ‘So?’

  ‘So you can multiply all you have heard about him, by ten, then double it. Someone told him when he was a youth that he had surgeon’s hands – but he had the heart of a butcher, and about as much skill. I’ll tell you something that might shock the frilly knickers off you, and I’ve never told another living soul. He aborted our baby when I was just seventeen.’

  ‘My dear!’

  ‘Shocked your pure little heart now, haven’t I?’

  ‘I believe I have become immune to shock lately. No. No. I didn’t think . . . I mean, in those days. I didn’t know they did abortions back then, and certainly not in Maidenville.’

  ‘He did plenty, and there were plenty more of his own that he missed. I can walk the streets of Maidenville today and pick his grandchildren almost as easily as I can pick Mick Murphy’s.’

  ‘He does look a little familiar.’

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Moreland turned a page quickly. ‘There you go. That’s me at seventeen. Wasn’t I a Miss Modern?’

  ‘What a beautiful girl you were,’ Stella looked at her old friend. ‘And what a terrible waste that your own child, that a part of such a very special person, was lost.’

  ‘And a part of him that the world is better off without.’ Miss Moreland pointed to another photograph. ‘That’s your grandfather. They were an evil pair, old Randy De Vere and Cutter-Nash. I could tell you some stories about your grandfather that would make your hair stand up on end.’

  Head to one side, Stella waited for more, but the album was clo
sed with a snap, put away.

  ‘Suffice to say, you can blame him for what your mother was, but what use raking up the past. Let the dead keep their secrets, I say. Spend old Randy’s money, girl. That’s the only worthwhile legacy he left you.’

  ‘Money gives freedom, offers choices. It’s a strange feeling though. It is there, but not much use to me unless I spend it. Perhaps if I had a companion to travel with, I may catch a plane to some place.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll fly off together, girl. What does it matter if I die here or in some paddy field a few thousand kilometres away? As long as I die with my shoes on, and I get to wear my red dress at my funeral.’

  ‘I believe I may badger you into putting your money where your mouth is – when Father returns. Oh, and speaking of Father. He has arranged for Mr White to lead the congregation tomorrow. We couldn’t get a replacement minister on such short notice. I’ll pick you up at the usual time.’

  ‘Percy psalm-singing White? God help us all. You know his father would roll over in his grave if he knew Percy was standing up in the Anglican pulpit. Old Red White was a dyed-in-the-wool communist. He courted me for a while, you know. I was quite fond of Red, but my father didn’t like his politics. Such is life, girl. Such is life.’

  All Tuckered Out

  ‘I told you to stay away from her!’ Marilyn Spencer stood over her husband’s bed, her fists clenched, her face red, her eyes flashing green fire.

  ‘I hardly said two words to Stella. I was talking to Bonny.’

  ‘You give each other looks, and I can hear her brain, hear her thinking. “Can he still be fond of Marilyn? Dear me, how has she allowed herself to go to fat. How terrible for poor dear Ronald.” The skinny old maid bitch, with her bloody lovesick eyes.’