The Cloud Forest

by JH Fletcher

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Warren said kindly, no doubt hoping to embarrass his visitor and succeeding. ‘Someone will mop it up.’

  He wasn’t in the business of offering towels, either. ‘Come along …’ He led the way to his office, a large, well-proportioned room lined with filing cabinets. On a side table stood photographs of Warren with various celebrities: Paul Keating on his whistle-stop tour of Queensland in the 1993 election; three years later with Bob Katter, complete with trademark Akubra hat. Warren, six foot tall, sly-eyed and a belly on him like a woman eight months gone with child, had never allowed opinion to stand between him and any chance of political influence.

  The house stood on the crest of a rise and the windows of the room looked across the terraced garden, swimming pool and tennis court towards the lower slopes of Mount Gang Gang, just visible through the driving rain.

  Warren closed the study door behind them and sat at a polished mahogany desk half the size of the tennis court. He waited until Harley had found himself a seat, then stared at him across the mahogany expanse with what was probably intended to be an encouraging smile.

  ‘Now, then … Tell me this idea you’ve got for developing the Cloud Forest.’

  6

  Frances had been upset by Harley’s letter, as he had intended. She had told Betty about it but no one else.

  ‘Just his way,’ she hoped.

  ‘Nasty way it is, too. You should speak to your brother about it.’

  ‘What’s the point? The house is his. He has the right.’

  ‘Don’t care about right. This is your home. What he’s saying, it’s not justice, I know that much.’

  They both knew that justice had nothing to do with it.

  Yet for the time being Frances heard no more. Slowly her feeling of alarm faded. Life continued as normal, chuntering on from wet to dry. One hot, sunny day followed another. After the crush came the out-of-crush, the cold nights and brilliant days from June to October, the saturated heat of summer.

  In January Judy Shaughnessy, a teacher from Brisbane, arrived in Goorapilly to take up a post at the high school and in no time life, static for so long, had become very different indeed.

  Judith Shaughnessy was a distant relative of the local clan but, thankfully, was a person altogether different from Warren, Luke and Brett. Physically she was small but had a king-sized impact on everyone she met. She had a face like a bright flag: dark chestnut hair with reddish lights in it and the liveliest brown eyes Goorapilly had ever seen. She was restless and energetic; if she’d been in business, she’d have wanted to own the town. As it was, she wanted her pupils to achieve the best results and, more importantly, be the best-fulfilled students in Queensland, if not the world.

  ‘Realise their potential,’ she said. ‘Be valuable to themselves and the community. No one can ask more than that.’

  Had she been there when her cousin Warren had tried to shove his foot in Arthur’s door over the question of the service station, she’d have cut it off with an axe.

  One tough lady.

  She always wore lively colours — reds, yellows and greens — not gaudy or vulgar but bright and exciting, as she was. She had a personality like a flame.

  Anyone less like Arthur it would have been impossible to imagine yet, when first she came to Arthur’s house, Jacqui barely noticed her. People were always popping in and out and at first there was no reason to think she was any different from the rest. Jacqui and Arthur had a good arrangement: she lived her life and he lived his. Each respected the other’s space; nobody pried.

  To begin with, Judy fell into the area of Arthur’s space but when it reached the stage when she was sitting on Arthur’s verandah two or three times a week, more particularly when Arthur started walking around with a soppy grin on his face, Jacqui realised that something extraordinary was on the go.

  She mentioned it to Kyle but he was no help at all.

  ‘Reckon they’ll marry each other,’ he said.

  It was the last thing she wanted to hear. She told herself that Arthur was too smart to tie himself up to a woman so energetic that just to look at her gave people indigestion.

  ‘That’s junk!’ She was very fierce about it.

  ‘You’re just scared you’ll end up related to Brett,’ Kyle told her.

  She wasn’t prepared to put up with nonsense like that but there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. At one time she’d have roughed him up but she was ten, now: too old to be fighting with boys. The truth was that Kyle would probably have licked her anyway. Jacqui stuck her nose in the air and stalked off, which didn’t help.

  This change in her relationship with the male sex was ominous. It presaged an alteration in the structure of her life, profound and inexorable. With Judy Shaughnessy also bearing down on her, it was the last thing Jacqui needed.

  She took her problem to Frances.

  ‘I thought Arthur might like some heavyweight socks for Christmas.’

  She had read about them in an advertisement; it did not occur to her that North Queensland in midsummer might not be the place for heavyweight socks.

  Frances thought they might be just the thing.

  Jacqui said, ‘Maybe I could put up some extra shelves for the books Arthur keeps buying. D’you think he would like that?’

  ‘One thing you have to learn about a bookish man,’ Frances said. ‘You never interfere with his books.’

  ‘But this place is a mess.’

  True, although it had never bothered her before.

  Frances allowed she might be right, but her basic honesty prevented her encouraging any plans Jacqui might have to re-organise Arthur’s library.

  ‘Do you think Arthur’s happy with us?’ Jacqui asked.

  A smile warmed Frances’s blue eyes and she put out her arms. Jacqui was not much for hugging but came to Frances as easily as a bird settling on a nest. Frances had a warm, comforting smell; Jacqui buried her face in the front of her dress.

  ‘Of course Arthur’s happy. There’s no need to change things.’

  Jacqui laughed scornfully: us girls together. ‘Kyle says Arthur’s going to marry Judy Shaughnessy.’

  Frances lifted Jacqui’s face so that she could look down at her. ‘Would that be so terrible?’

  So for the first time Jacqui understood that the life she had known since she had come to Goorapilly might soon be lost forever. Again she buried her face in Frances’s bosom while her generous tears soaked the front of her dress.

  ‘I hate her,’ she wept.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Frances said. ‘You don’t do anything of the sort.’

  ‘She’s a Shaughnessy.’

  ‘Half the town’s Shaughnessys. You may end up marrying one yourself.’

  Jacqui thought of the horrible Brett with his jeering grin and piggy eyes and wept all the more earnestly because of it.

  Frances shook her gently. ‘Listen to me, Jacqueline.’

  Calling her Jacqueline always meant that Frances had something important to say. Jacqui sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘Don’t you want Arthur to be happy?’

  ‘I suppose …’ She hadn’t given Arthur a thought. Now she spoke cautiously, not wanting to be trapped into admitting something that might be held against her later. ‘I just want things to go on like they were before.’

  ‘Most of us want that,’ Frances said. ‘It can’t be done. You’re changing, all the time. So am I. It’s the way life is.’

  ‘He’s too old!’

  Too old for Judy; too old for life. Arthur was ancient: in his mid-forties, at least; Judy was old, as well, but not that old: somewhere about twenty-five.

  Frances gathered Jacqui onto her lap. ‘I’d say that’s for them to decide, wouldn’t you?’

  Privately, Jacqui thought that sitting on someone’s lap was a bit like hugging: she was too big for it, too mature, but there were times, like now, when it felt good.

  ‘But what’s going to ha
ppen to you?’

  For as long as Jacqui could remember, Frances had been coming to the house every day. Even at ten Jacqui was woman enough to know that couldn’t go on, if Arthur got married. Once Judy came into their lives, Frances would be out the door. It seemed terribly ungrateful. And why stop at Frances? What about herself? She thought of those stories about stepmothers who turned out to be witches. She pictured Frances and herself, unloved and dispossessed, trudging through the rainforest with their pitifully few possessions on their backs, like an Antipodean Hansel and Gretel. The image pleased her.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Frances assured her.

  Jacqui was not so sure about that. She thought of going to Arthur and saying he couldn’t do it, that they were his responsibility, far more than Judy Shaughnessy would ever be. She thought of warning him to be careful or she’d take off, with or without Frances. The example of Mary-Ann Donoghue came to her. Perhaps she, too, could head for the Gold Coast and Spread It Around.

  In the end, she said nothing. Instead she watched and waited. She was on her best behaviour. Whenever Judy pitched up, as she continued to do with increasing frequency, Jacqui always asked, very politely, if there was anything she could get her.

  A cup of tea? A biscuit? Poison?

  Judy invariably said no but Jacqui continued to hang around until Arthur lost patience and told her to go away and stop pestering them.

  She’d read in one of Arthur’s books about wax dolls and pins. Would it work? She’d never been one for dolls and there was none in the house. She went down to the creek and tried to make one out of mud. The rains had not started and the mud was as hard as concrete. She tried to chip some out with a knife she’d pinched from the kitchen. She ended up with a teaspoonful of powder and a broken knife.

  Frances gave her a slap and told her not to use kitchen equipment to play games with. Jacqui reminded her that the United Nations had said that smacking children was a crime and Frances said any more out of you and I’ll give you a smack you won’t forget in a hurry.

  Jacqui went and mooched around the yard, convinced the world had ganged up against her and knowing — absolutely knowing — that she hated Judy Shaughnessy more than anybody else on earth.

  The next day Judy asked her if she’d like to come to town with her, have an ice cream at the BettaBet Cafe.

  Well. She had lived with this moment for weeks. Judy would come, pleading and weeping — Jacqui was a little vague as to why — and she would spurn her. She would walk away, chin high, leaving Judy grovelling in the dust. The picture made her feel good whenever she thought about it.

  Now the moment had come and things were different. Hating Judy Shaughnessy was one thing but ice cream was something else. All the same, she wasn’t going to make it too easy for her.

  ‘Who’s paying?’

  If Arthur had heard he’d have slapped her for sure, but Judy just smiled.

  ‘My treat.’

  The BettaBet Cafe was the classiest rendezvous in town. It was airconditioned and had lace cloths on the tables. Lace tablecloths were not part of the Goorapilly ethos and there were those who thought that being seen in the BettaBet meant you were too snooty for your own good, but there was no denying that it served the best ice cream in the district.

  Jacqui had a SQCDMKG. It stood for Super Queensland Canelands Double Malted Knickerbocker Glory and was the most expensive concoction they sold. It was also famous; they had jingles about it on local radio:

  SQCD … MKG! SQCD … MKG!

  Jacqui had never had one, chiefly because she had never found anyone willing to pay the four dollars fifty it cost. She sat and gloated and the cream on top of the glass came up almost to her nose.

  Judy had a cappuccino, which Jacqui considered very dull.

  She slurped and delved and got cream on her face and Judy said:

  ‘Arthur wants to marry me.’

  Jacqui nearly swallowed the spoon. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘He hasn’t asked me yet.’

  ‘Then how —?’

  ‘I just know.’

  Jacqui took another swallow while she thought about things.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘More than anything in the world.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  Judy looked at her. ‘You are.’

  Jacqui didn’t see what it had to do with her. Arthur hadn’t even had the guts to tell her himself. Instead he’d left Judy to break the news. She considered she’d been treated very shabbily, but why she should be the problem she didn’t know.

  ‘Why didn’t Arthur tell me himself?’

  ‘Nothing to tell yet.’

  Jacqui felt she was being given the run-around. ‘If both of you want it —’

  ‘He won’t ask me. He thinks you’re his first responsibility and he won’t do anything that might make you unhappy. That’s why I asked you out today.’ She grinned: a real grin, even if it was a little skiddy around the edges. ‘Us girls gotta stick together. Right?’

  Now Jacqui was really confused; it was horrible to be hit with your own argument and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. She ate some more ice cream in the hope that it would make things clearer, but it didn’t.

  ‘What can I do?’

  Judy ordered another cappuccino. When it arrived, she stirred it thoughtfully. ‘I’d like you to tell him you want us to get married.’

  Jacqui’s mouth was wide open. Luckily she’d swallowed the ice cream first.

  ‘I can’t do that! I’m just a kid!’

  ‘He won’t listen to me. If another grown-up said anything, even Frances, he’d tell them to mind their own business. You’re the only one he might listen to. If you’re willing to do it, of course.’

  Jacqui thought about it. ‘What if you get married, then decide you hate me?’

  Judy reached out and took her hand across the table. ‘I’d never do that. I might even come to love you, if you gave me the chance.’

  ‘What about Frances? Would you kick her out?’

  ‘Frances has looked after the pair of you for the last six years. Don’t you think she deserves a life of her own?’

  That, too, had never entered Jacqui’s head. She had always thought that she and Arthur were Frances’s life. For the first time she realised that Frances, too, might want something for herself. No wonder she’d said she’d be fine.

  The only one who didn’t want change was herself. She was selfish, that was the trouble, but that didn’t mean she wanted to talk to Arthur about him marrying Judy Shaughnessy.

  ‘Why do you want to marry him, anyway?’

  Judy’s brown eyes laughed at her. ‘You think he’s such a bad bet?’

  That wasn’t what she’d meant. But Arthur was quiet, set in his ways. He was old. While Judy was … well, Judy. It wasn’t something you could say to anyone.

  Fortunately Judy answered for her.

  ‘Because I love him.’

  Which seemed to say it all. The funny thing was that Jacqui knew she was telling the truth. Judy loved Arthur, which was good. She might be good for more SQCDMKGs, which would be even better. There seemed only one thing left for Jacqui to say.

  ‘I’ll give it a go for you,’ she said grandly, dispensing favours. ‘So long as you tell me what you want me to say to him.’

  7

  Jacqui waylaid Arthur as soon as he got home that evening. He had grease on his arms and smelt sweaty, but if she left him to get washed up she knew she’d miss her chance, because Judy had said she’d be coming round later.

  ‘Do you think I could have a word with you?’ Formal stuff.

  Arthur looked at her gravely. If he guessed what it was about, he gave no sign. ‘I reckon you might, at that.’

  He did something he had never done before. He opened the screen door to the verandah and stood back to allow Jacqui to go out before him. He gestured at the rocker where his visitors always sat.

  ‘Sit yourself down and tell me what’
s on your mind.’

  It was what he always told people when they came to see him but it was the first time he had ever said it to her.

  ‘Would you like …’ She would have sworn he had been about to offer her a beer, but at the last moment he collected himself, ‘…a glass of water, or something?’

  She told him she didn’t want anything.

  ‘It’s a warm evening,’ Arthur said. ‘I think a beer might go down well.’

  He fetched a stubby from the bar fridge at the far end of the verandah, unscrewed the cap and settled down in his own chair. He took a good pull from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Okay, sweetheart. Shoot.’

  Jacqui took a deep breath. The only way to handle things was to come straight to the point. ‘I think you and Judy should get married.’

  Arthur didn’t drop the bottle but it was close. He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘What makes you think it’s your business?’

  ‘Because it is.’ Desperately she tried to remember what Judy had told her. ‘I live here too. What happens to you, happens to me. And I think it’s time I had a mother.’

  ‘You don’t think Frances has done that job pretty well?’

  ‘Frances should have a life of her own. Before she gets too old.’

  The last bit was Jacqui’s own contribution. She was pleased with it but Arthur stared at her, his eyes wide.

  ‘Frances is only three years older than I am. In any case, what makes you think Judy and I plan to do anything of the sort?’

  ‘I’ve seen the way you both are around each other.’

  ‘Is that so?’ That was all he said but Arthur looked like a desert traveller praying that the mirage he sees might be the oasis at last. Again the beer. Jacqui watched his Adam’s apple move as he tilted the bottle and swallowed. ‘You like the idea, do you?’

  ‘I think you should do what you want to do. I wouldn’t want you to think you shouldn’t, just because of me, I mean. If you thought I wouldn’t like it.’

  She was getting tangled up; she stopped, afraid she’d blown it.

  He eyed her narrowly. ‘No one’s put you up to any of this?’