If Blood Should Stain the Wattle

by Jackie French

  ‘You think I’m not trying, girl?’

  ‘Not your sight. You can’t cure that. Stop trying. Do what you CAN do. What you know how to do.’

  ‘You don’t understand . . .’ But he kept his hand in hers. ‘I . . . I wasn’t going to kill the boy. Just a drop of blood upon the soil. That’s all that was needed. One drop from a truly healed human being . . .’

  She let the nonsense flow over her. ‘Sit quietly on the ground. Yes, like that. Remember the monkey’s tail? You have one too. Feel its strength as you sit down. Now let the wings hold you upright. Now breathe. Breathe in energy and breathe out the stale, used air . . .’

  It was a meditation lesson Matron Clancy had taught her, for the times when therapy had left her aching. It worked too. ‘Breathe out grey pain,’ she murmured. ‘Breathe in gold light. Ah, that’s it. Now I’m just going to find the phone. I’ll call an ambulance . . .’ She hoped she didn’t have to crawl too far to find it. She didn’t want to break Ra Zacharia’s fragile calm by asking for her wheelchair.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’

  ‘Only for a little while. I promise I’ll come back.’ Please, don’t let the phone be too far away, she thought, imagining the long corridor with nothing but hands and elbows to propel her along it. ‘Where is the phone?’

  ‘Please, don’t leave me. Please.’

  If she kept talking, maybe he would sleep. If the shadows under his eyes were a guide, he needed sleep badly. Then she could find the phone.

  If it had not been cut off. Could she get down the stairs, if there really was no one else in the building? Crawl across the bitumen, heave herself along the gravel track to the Gibber’s Creek road, knees and arms bleeding from rocks and sticks, try to hail a car while lying on her stomach?

  Of course she could. If she had to. She took Ra Zacharia’s other hand in hers too. What was that lullaby that Nancy had sung to her? ‘Sleep then, my darling one, sleep, Soft flows the river and deep . . .’

  His head dropped. His eyes shut, at last. Good. Darkness would be easier to bear with closed eyes. Perhaps he could even pretend that when he opened them all would be right. But despite his closed eyelids, his hands grasped hers even more tightly.

  Across the room, the small boy watched, unmoving but for his eyes.

  ‘Sleep,’ she whispered to the terrified man. ‘Just relax. Feel the warmth of the soil, the light above that calls to you . . .’ Meaningless words now. Calming babble.

  Even when Scarlett heard the engine she kept murmuring. Even when she heard the doors open, heard feet run one way, and then another, heard her name shouted, she didn’t call for help, for that would break the spell.

  And, at last, they were there. Jed, of course there was Jed, and Leafsong, and Sam, and Mark, a cry of shock as he looked at her, Gavin and Ra Zacharia all in helpless heaps upon the earth.

  Earthbound forever, thought Scarlett. She would never walk, nor would Ra Zacharia fly away into the universe.

  But there were far worse fates. At least for her, and Gavin.

  Chapter 90

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, Special Edition, 11 November 1975

  Editorial

  Now is the time for all Australians to choose the future of our nation. Do we stay tied to an ancient regime, where a British queen’s representative can dismiss the government we elected? Or will we stand up and say, ‘This is the duly elected government of Australia’?

  LEAFSONG

  It could have been melodrama. Instead Jed simply sat on the dirt floor under the telescope with Scarlett, one arm about her, another about Ra Zacharia, and Gavin on her lap, while Sam got Mark to show him where the phone was, and Leafsong went to make a pot of tea.

  She found the kitchen, by instinct and experience — a kitchen was always at the heart of any building — made the tea, found mugs, though no milk, and even some poor excuses for biscuits, the sad squished flies whose new international owners so deeply did not understand the function of a biscuit. Squished flies had fallen very far from their former sticky glory.

  By the time Nancy and Matron Clancy arrived, both Scarlett, back in her chair, and Ra Zacharia were sipping sweet reviving tea, and Jed and Sam too, both looking almost as exhausted as Ra Zacharia. Jed cradled Gavin. Leafsong met the boy’s eyes, then stopped in slight shock.

  This tiny boy looked back. All babies looked at her until the world taught them to look away. But Gavin was really seeing her. And . . .

  . . . was that a smile?

  ‘Jed? Gavin!’ The cry was love and anguish.

  Jed turned so Matron Clancy could take him.

  ‘Mumma?’ said Gavin. One hand reached out, to hold her finger.

  Tears, and more tears. Leafsong approved of tears. If you didn’t have the gift of silence, tears allowed you to fill the gaps.

  The women left, Matron Clancy still cradling the boy, in shock, terror, happiness and wonder.

  Scarlett chatted to Jed as the adrenalin-fused apologies spiked and drained, followed by the desire to analyse, to talk Ra Zacharia through — understand him.

  Now and then the radio Sam must have left on in the car park burped out news from Canberra, and Scarlett and Jed discussed that too.

  So much talking, so much analysing. Scarlett and Jed truly are sisters in that, thought Leafsong. Both demanding why. Both were able to watch too, which was why she and Scarlett were friends. But Leafsong could never share Scarlett’s passion for ‘why’.

  Nor could Mark. Leafsong watched his face, his look of growing loss. Not just the loss of his guru, his home, the future he had so desperately tried to believe in. He had lost the Scarlett he had imagined too, the wistful waif who needed his protection. Scarlett needed help — every human needed help — but Scarlett needed as much protection as a tiger.

  Had Mark realised Scarlett’s feelings for him the past year, at least, had been mostly protective? She might be in a wheelchair, but Mark would never be able to keep up with her.

  Which left him lost. Today, and the next day too, for many, many tomorrows, unless someone held out a hand.

  She held out hers — too big, too knobbly, muscled from years of picking vegetables, beating cakes, rolling pastry. Mark took it automatically, still looking at Scarlett, not at her. But he followed when Leafsong led him to the three ambulances as they drew up outside.

  Mark showed the ambulance men where the three remaining members of the community were, scared and pale in three identical beds in three identical rooms, shrunken figures almost identical too in their thinness and white robes and faces just as colourless. Miss Forty was there too, sleeping unnaturally deeply, as if she had taken a heavy dose of painkilling herbs. But her breathing was strong and steady.

  Then they were gone, the patients lying or sitting in the ambulances, including Ra Zacharia, now heavily sedated, the ambulance officers warned of his mental instability. Sam stood with his arms around Jed’s shoulders, while Jed held Scarlett, and Scarlett cried, but just a little. ‘Poor Ra Zacharia,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not a bad man. He hoped for so much.’

  But for himself, thought Leafsong, glad for the millionth time she couldn’t or wouldn’t say the words, because even if they were true, they’d hurt those she loved. Ra Zacharia only wanted to heal so he could meet his aliens as equals, like a lion offering someone its prey.

  ‘Coming home?’ Jed asked Scarlett.

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began again.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. You were right.’

  ‘No, you were.’

  ‘You were both right and both wrong,’ said Sam tiredly. ‘That’s it. Come on. Home.’ He seemed to realise that only three people could fit in the front seat of his ute, especially when one person was as large as Leafsong. ‘Mark, could Leafsong borrow the ute in the parking lot?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mark numbly.

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked Jed. Darkness had gathered outside.

  Mark stared into it. ‘I don’t know. Don’t worry. T
here’s food enough here for months. And some money. I’ll stay for a while.’

  A bad idea. But Leafsong waited till Sam’s ute had driven off, its headlights forging through the darkness, the three in the front seat sitting as close together as three humans ever could, then turned to Mark. She had seen the clothes room on her way to the kitchen. Now she took his hand again and led him to it, left him standing in the doorway while she chose clothes for him, trousers in any colour but white, and shirts too. Socks. Shoes that might be his size. She wrapped them in a bundle, tied at the top — the clothes room had no suitcase she could see.

  She found a paper bag in the kitchen and emptied the pot of money into it. About a hundred dollars, she thought. It would be all Mark would need for a while.

  She led him out of the building and down the stairs. And still he didn’t look at her, but at his feet, not even glancing back at the white building that so recently had meant so much.

  He sat obediently in the ute, waited while she started the engine, looked but did not see the dark tree arms stretched above them as they drove out, leaving the gates gaping, the door as unlocked as she’d found it.

  Mark needed a miracle now, to give him back himself, to give him a future too. Leafsong knew just the one to give him.

  He said nothing on the way to town. She hoped that was because he appreciated silence too. He had chosen a silent community, after all.

  She parked round the back of the café, once more held out her hand to lead him in, and took his bundle in her other hand. He stood limp and helpless in her kitchen as she put his clothes into her second bedroom, out the back.

  Now for the miracle.

  She found a big stainless-steel bowl: egg, salt, half a lemon, a bottle of olive oil, a whisk. She put potatoes on to microwave while she gestured to him to crack the egg, put the white in a glass, the yolk in a bowl. Add salt — her hand up to stop him adding more — the juice of the half-lemon, and then whisk. Now a drop of olive oil. Whisk. Another drop. He whisked again, as she instructed. Another drop of oil. Whisk, and then another . . .

  Twenty minutes of steady beating. She watched Mark’s face as the miracle occurred, the single egg yolk absorbing half the bottle of oil, turning from liquid to white and thick and fragrant. Mayonnaise.

  She cooled the potatoes under the tap. Peeled them, chopped them, chopped chives, red onion, celery as fine as snowflakes. She watched Mark stare at the mayonnaise with growing amazement, saw him smile for the first time as he dipped a finger into the bowl, tasted.

  She gestured for him to add half — no more — to the potatoes and other flavourings. Delight dawned.

  ‘Potato salad!’ They were the first words he had spoken in two hours.

  She grinned, offered him garlic and the garlic crusher, peeled and sliced carrots, blanched asparagus. Crudités to dip into garlic mayonnaise . . .

  Mark carried the crudités and she carried the potato salad to a table. She brought plates. They began to eat, slowly, tasting every flavour because each was so different yet made up the whole. By the time the potato salad was eaten a smile relaxed his face. After he scraped up the last of the sauce he took her hand.

  This time, at last, he watched her face too. And smiled.

  She smiled back. Had he really thought he’d be happy with Scarlett’s chatter, her incessant wonderings and facts? She loved Scarlett, more than Mark did probably, for she truly knew her. But small doses were enough.

  In the morning she would take him to the doctor, where he would need to explain his symptoms. But mostly, she’d give him peace. Even customers were peaceful, if you thought of them as birds, different shapes and colours, all chattering away. You didn’t have to listen, mostly, though sometimes you did.

  The silence stretched into true quietness. Companionable. At last she stood and nodded to the washing-up. There was always washing-up in a café: new miracles to make each day. She had a feeling he’d enjoy them. This would be a refuge while his body adapted to the medicines the doctor would prescribe.

  And her? The café needed help. Reliable. Someone able to carry a sack of potatoes.

  I will show him how to make Swiss roll tomorrow, she thought. And cheese soufflé.

  And the next day, and the next? Maybe offer him the profundity of a drop scone, how a hot pan gave lightness and turned the scone’s top round. Or maybe not. Just now it was enough to smile at him, and see Mark’s smile deepen as — at last — he truly saw her too.

  Chapter 91

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 12 November 1975

  . . . and in the chambers of parliament, where tonight there should have been debate, there is only silence.

  MRS WEAVER

  Such a lovely evening! The aliens had loved her scones. She always did have a light hand with scones. And her strawberry jam, the first she’d made this season, and cream from Daisy.

  The aliens had sat on her veranda and watched Bounce and all the other joeys, who had now grown into kangaroos, loping along from tussock to tussock with no sign of injury or weakness from being orphaned. The aliens had been impressed with that, for some reason, though Mrs Weaver had told them it was just good care and love.

  Sometimes she wondered what had happened to that first alien, the nice one who’d repaired her house so kindly.

  She and Reg had been the aliens once. People called them ‘reffos’, even with Warvinski changed to Weaver, and Reynaldo to Reg. Last night’s aliens didn’t look like that young man. Quite human, he had been, though of course that was probably a disguise. These aliens hadn’t told her what they’d come for, but they’d seemed happy when they left. She’d given them a parcel of scones and a pot of apricot jam.

  It had been a lovely night. And now another election. She’d make scones for the meetings that always came with elections. You couldn’t have a good meeting without supper, and you couldn’t have a good supper without fresh scones.

  Mrs Weaver, née Warvinski, would enjoy that too.

  Chapter 92

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 25 November 1975

  Opinion polls continue to show a massive swing to the Labor Party after their controversial dismissal, and demonstrations continue across the nation . . .

  JED

  Halfway to Eternity was quiet as Jed parked Boadicea in the shade of a well-fed apricot tree, five years old now and heavy with fruit. It seemed decades since she had seen the place first, Sam and Carol with muddy hands and bodies, JohnandAnnie up on the deck with Sunshine, giving her the peace sign.

  The dome had been replaced with two round, rammed-earth cottages and a stone house, all linked by a long breezeway that technically made them only one house for the Gibber’s Creek building inspector. Carol’s cottage was surrounded by grevilleas and had a vast climbing rose over the doorway, a mass of flesh-pink flowers. Sam was selling his cottage to one of the bearded engineers and his new love, also found in Gibber’s Creek.

  The other beard had moved into one of the Drinkwater cottages — farms needed far less labour in these days of tractors and fencing contractors. Mack had purchased a block of land next to the factory. As soon as the council approved the plans, there’d be another roof-raising and floor-pouring, as many hands created the shell of a house in a few days.

  The circus tent had also been retired once more. A giant shed stood where it had been, while an octagonal gazebo guarded the open fireplace and mud-brick oven and a variety of seats, from stone benches topped with smooth concrete to chairs of crooked bush timber.

  Down in the garden Broccoli Bill and Susan moved along the rows of tomatoes, two figures in what would be an artist’s canvas of vegetable bliss, tying the vines to stakes. Jed waved, then walked down to meet them. ‘How are the tomatoes?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Susan, wiping a filthy hand across her forehead. ‘We’ve put in climbing yellow pear tomatoes too, and some of the big Italian meaty ones. We’ve got peas, asparagus, artichokes and basil picked, if you’ve come vegetable hunting, and some lovely ca
ulies.’

  ‘Caulies need eating,’ said Broccoli Bill. ‘They’ll be gone to seed next week.’

  ‘That would be great. All of them, please, about twenty dollars’ worth, with emphasis on the asparagus and peas.’ Sam loved asparagus. Jed and Scarlett adored peas, though Jed suspected part of Scarlett’s delight was having steady-enough hands these days to eat them. ‘But I’ve really come canvassing for votes.’

  ‘For Malcolm Fraser, of course,’ said Susan, deadpan.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Jed.

  Broccoli Bill grinned. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get everyone to the polling booth. Do you need a hand handing out how-to-vote cards?’

  ‘I think this election everyone will know exactly who they are voting for,’ said Jed. ‘But yes, it’s always useful. Do you mind doing the first shift?’

  ‘No worries,’ said Broccoli Bill easily. ‘You got time for smoko?’

  Jed shook her head regretfully. Broccoli Bill didn’t just make bread and pizzas in the wood-fired oven, but a Dutch loaf almost solid with fruit. She had suggested to Leafsong she could add it to the café menu, but Leafsong had gestured to her own new big wood-fired oven behind the café and shaken her head.

  Jed smiled. Leafsong seemed to be deeply happy, and Mark too, slightly drowsy from his new medication, proud of his new prowess with deep-fried baby artichokes, stuffed zucchini flowers and tartare sauce — a bit too new for the tastes of most of the residents of Gibber’s Creek, who had only just accustomed themselves to zucchinis and quiche.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ asked Susan.

  ‘What? Sorry. I’m just happy.’ Happy that Sam and Scarlett were home. Ecstatic that Gavin had said ‘Mumma’ twenty-eight times, according to last report, was able to hold Moira’s finger with both his hands, and even wiggle his toes in the bathtub. Delighted that every single person she had spoken to as she had gone door to door around Gibber’s Creek had expressed outrage at the dismissal.