Jacaranda Blue (10 page)

Cold. Stomach. Limbs. Scalp. Cold. Stone cold. Stella made no reply. Let them decide between them. I no longer care. Let someone else argue the matter for me, decide the matter for me, she thought, her eyes focused on the mission-brown door with its message. He would never let it end. He would paint his signs and hound her, drive her from the church, and from the street, and from the town. Or make her a prisoner in her house, locked away . . . locked away from . . . from what?

From a life I have never had. Haven't I always been locked away by decisions made for me by others? By mother . . . and then by him.

She looked at the minister's heavy face, now turned to her. His mouth was moving, creating words that could not penetrate the ice of mind. The motor still running, his foot tap-tapping, the accelerator was growing heavy with his own desire to escape. He needed escape.

But what about me? What about me, she thought? What do I need?

I have no needs. I am a cardboard character, placed in fiction to fill any given function. I remain faceless, only given name so I may be quickly identified, then dismissed.

Stella wears her mother's clothes.

Stella satisfies a youthful greed.

Stella moves to her father's will.

Stella is forty-four, or sixty-four.

It is unimportant. Stella serves.

Nurse needed to care for the invalid. Male lead wishes to escape from the responsibilities of his wife. Give the part to the Stella character. Female lead not cut out for motherhood. Let Stella look after the boy. She'll handle it. Dress her in background beige. Free them to play their more important roles, to continue the plot without complication.

And if the Stella character becomes a complication, then write her out. No-one will miss her. Let her smash the car up on the highway, or just lock her up at home, safe behind the cypress hedge – as precious Angel was locked safe behind the hedge when she became a complication.

Stop this. Stop it now.

Why should you stop? Don't stop. Look at her. Look at precious Angel, recognise his lie.

Ugly Angel. Too sick to sing the solo any more. But never sick enough. Not until the day she died. Until the day Doctor Parsons came with his bag, and his smile, and his baggy shorts, and pronounced her dead.

That wonderful day. Think of that day of rejoicing. That day, when the Stella character wrote her own brief lines. Stella character dancing a crazy dance, barefoot in the garden, wearing a garland of salmon rosebuds in her hair, and when the minister came searching for her, and found her barefoot, bare legged in the garden, she hid her smiling face from him and she handed him the garland, and he had named it a fine wreath.

Martin's voice rose above the hum of the motor. Had a minute passed or an hour? How long? Stella looked at the back of his head, then at Miss Moreland's moving mouth, and she strove to force the faces into focus.

‘Will you be cowered by some vicious child? I think not. On your feet before anyone sees you trembling in there like a mouse in its hole. Move your feet, my girl.'

Stella's hands still gripped the front seat. Her feet refused to respond to the order.

Miss Moreland opened the back door and took Stella's arm. ‘Out of there. I gave you credit for a bit of guts.'

‘One of the young hooligans from your youth group, perhaps, Daughter. Have you given any . . . cause to . . . ?'

The abused fictional character found her voice and it was high in its own defence. ‘Father?' Tears rose with it – tears still too close to the surface; she would break down soon, and then it would all end.

Fictional character screams rape in churchyard, and is carried off to a psychiatric ward.

‘Be off with you and your damn fool questions, Martin Templeton. Take yourself into your church. We won't be far behind you.' Miss Moreland slammed the front passenger door with a vicious swing – enough to make the car and Martin shudder.

Another vehicle pulled into the shade beside them. Martin nodded to the driver, then turned to take one last look at the sign. He flinched, turned off the motor and climbed from the car, closing his own door with a gentle click. His back to the church hall door, he said, ‘Perhaps if we march in together, show a united front, Daughter.'

‘United front? Against some little scoundrel who needs his bum paddled?' The old lady nodded towards the church. ‘Off you go. Stella and I will speak a moment, as we usually do, then we will mingle a while. Buzz off Martin Templeton.'

He locked his door, checked the rear passenger side door. ‘Don't forget to lock up, Daughter,' he said.

‘No, Father.' The character had learned her few lines well.

As the minister walked across the yard towards his church, Stella climbed from the car. Two more cars had pulled in. The Scotts, Steve Smith and his mother. Steve with his still long blond hair tied back with a rubber band. All eyes were on the sign.

‘You've been chosen this week, girl. If you can ignore his game, let the cheeky little beggar see you laughing about it, then he may move on to someone else.'

It was the obvious explanation. No-one knew of the rape. This was just the work of any one of a dozen youths with a spray can. Why was she cowering here from a popular game? Hadn't the supermarket windows been sprayed over on New Year's Eve? Stupid woman.

She stood, her legs barely capable of supporting her. She breathed deeply, making much ado about collecting her handbag. No-one knew. No-one would ever know – unless she told them. And she would never tell them, except by her behaviour. Her life had been one of control. Angel's control. Her father's control. She had learned mind control, she could and did choose a face to fit the situation. Her back to the sign on the church hall door, she sucked in a deep breath.

‘Good morning, Miss Moreland, morning Stella,' familiar voices greeted the duo.

Stella turned to a speaker, and with lifted chin, forced her facial muscles into a smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Scott. It appears that we have a new sign-writer in our midst. We've just been admiring his handiwork,' she said, then at Miss Moreland's side she walked to the church door, nodding to family groups, stopping to chat a while with the elderly, taking the arm of near blind Mr Bryant, and guiding him to his seat. She nodded to Ron Spencer, already seated at the organ, but she didn't meet his eye, then she took her place with the choir, between Mrs Morris and Miss Moreland.

‘Did you see it?' Mrs Morris's beetle eyes were seeking prey.

‘We certainly did, Mildred Morris. As did the entire congregation. Someone with a penchant for clotheslines. It wasn't you, was it? As I recall, your spelling was always creative.
Knickers
with a K, Mildred.'

Mrs Morris peered closely at her neighbour. Her eyes, darting, fleet things, searching for a weak spot, an entrance to the new victim's juices. ‘Do you?' she said.

Stella turned to her in amazement. ‘Do I what, Mrs Morris?'

‘Gord love me. That came out all wrong, didn't it, dear? What I meant to say was, would they have seen . . . you know? I mean, your smalls. Lace?'

‘I don't hang my underwear on the cypress hedge, Mrs Morris, nor do I hide it in my wardrobe. Perhaps you should join our new sign-writer at the clothesline one Monday. Some time after ten-thirty. I usually have the underwear out by then. Shall I expect you for morning tea?'

Miss Moreland let loose one of her frequent belly-laughs. It brought the wrath of Willy Macy down on her.

‘Knickers to you, you old wowser,' Miss Moreland hissed over her shoulder.

Safe laughter was just one small step away from tears, and Stella gave in to it gladly. She became caught up in the blissful relief of safe laughter, and received a near forgotten nod of disapproval from the minister.

‘And knickers to him, too.' Miss Moreland whispered. ‘Frilly ones.'

Separated by fifty years, the friends hid behind hymn books, valiantly attempting to compose their features as the organist began to play the first hymn.

It has been too long since I felt his disapproval, Stella thought. I have been too good at my fictional role, too pliant, bending too easily to the director's will. Why?

Habit, her inner voice replied. But habits can be broken.

She sang her solo. It was not her best rendition of ‘Amazing Grace'. She caught Miss Moreland's eye during the third verse, and it was enough. Anything would have been enough. Though she strived to continue, laughter was infectious, others began smiling, giggling behind hymn books. She had to cut the solo short with a coughing fit, excuse herself, and go in search of a glass of water.

‘Brazen,' Mrs Morris muttered. ‘Her poor mother would roll over in her grave.'

Willy Macy nodded his mute agreement.

Steve Smith and his aging band were still popular with the older generation. They played at the hotel on Friday nights, and they supplied much of the music for weddings and twenty-first parties, but there was little money in it. Steve's living came from the nursery and gardening supplies. He never went to church, but he drove his widowed mother there each Sunday then filled in an hour at his business until it was time to pick her up again.

This morning he was using his hour well. Having sandpapered the vandal's handiwork on the church hall door, he was slopping a rough coat of paint over the faded sign when Stella and Miss Moreland returned to the car.

They stood talking with him, and were joined there by the minister and the entire Spencer family.

‘G'day Aunty Stell,' the rapist smiled his most winning boyish smile.

Stella ignored him and turned towards the car. The laughter had helped, and the Aspro, swallowed with church water, had taken away the ache in her back. ‘Do you have the keys, Father? I need a tissue,' she said, searching her handbag.

‘One moment, if you please, Daughter.' He stood with the youth, smiling benevolently. ‘As I said to your father, nice of you to grace us with your presence this morning, young Thomas – and some time, if I recall correctly, since we last sighted you in church.'

‘Yes. It's been quite a while, sir,' the youth agreed. ‘I was half expecting the roof to cave in on me.'

Marilyn laughed. ‘Quite some time, Mr Templeton. I was as surprised as you when he said he was coming with us this morning.' She reached for her son, brushing his long hair back from his brow, but looking by him at the door, the yellow near hidden now beneath a fast coat of brown.

Thomas was looking at it too, a wide smile on his lips. ‘You've been stirring up emotions in the old town, Aunty Stell.'

‘That's not nice, Tommy. Small things amuse small minds, and smaller minds take notice, I always say, Stell,' Marilyn replied. ‘We were all that proud of the way you just chose to ignore the whole stupid thing, weren't we, Ron?'

Stella looked at Marilyn, at the prematurely grey hair – hair she had dyed at twenty-eight, and gave up dyeing at forty. She was eighteen months older than Stella, had started school late. Stella had commenced at four. Doctor Parsons saw to that.

She turned to the church where the little doctor was trying to get away from Willy Macy. He caught her eye, nodded, and touched his chin, and she heard his unspoken words. ‘Keep that chin up, Mousy Two.'

Good little man, she thought. Her chin lifted.

‘Tommy was saying in church that he's never heard you sing better.' Marilyn was still speaking.

Still she didn't reply. Ron was standing back, his eyes on her. He smiled. She looked away, felt her scalp crawl. Don't blush. Please, God, don't let me blush. Please, please, God. I've got to get away. I can't –

Thomas was speaking again. She turned to him, and his eyes held her own.

‘Except for that day I caught you singing in the old shed. That was really something else, but you were singing a different song that day, weren't you, Aunty Stell? A more modern song. I'm into modern songs.'

Her face began its burning. She looked at her shoes, rubbed at her brow, her cheeks.

‘You look as if you're feeling the heat, Aunty Stell? Does she look well to you, Mum?'

‘And you look exceptionally pleased with yourself this morning, Thomas Spencer. Has anyone checked your fingernails for yellow paint?' Miss Moreland said.

Steve Smith stopped his painting. He turned and stared at the youth.

But to youth go the nerves of steel. Thomas extended steady hands before him. ‘Look, no fingernails,' he said. His hands were long, slim, his fingers tapered, his nails pared down to the quick.

Miss Moreland took his hand in her own, stared at it, looked at the palm, then up to his face, to his eyes.

‘Well. Well, I never did – ' she started, then she dropped the hand as if it burned her and quickly turned to Stella, taking her arm. ‘Help me to that car, girl. Laughter might be the best medicine, but it didn't make it down to my old legs today. Not as spry as they used to be. Maybe I'm getting old.' Again she laughed, allowing the others to laugh at her great age as she and Stella walked away from the group.

Stella clung to the older woman's arm, carefully placing one foot before the other, afraid she may fall before she reached the sanctuary of the car. Youth and its certainty, she thought. He is so sure of himself. So obviously guilty, yet so innocent. ‘Feeling the heat, Aunty Stell.' Just a youth showing concern for an honorary aunt, but his words had been chosen with care.

Clever, handsome Thomas. His jeans were the best money could buy, his casual sweatshirt complimented his dark good looks. He was, if possible, more attractive than his father had been at the same age. Taller too, or has Ron grown shorter, Stella thought. Dear Ron, with his greying beard. Dear Ron, so clever at school, so bright, and able.

Able to transfer his love with his stage kiss to the new leading lady, her inner voice whispered.

She shook the thought away.

Thomas had not inherited his father's gentle smile. His smile was his mother's, as were his teeth. He had Marilyn's green eyes, her smaller, more classic nose, her high cheekbones – and her hair, dark, thick, as Marilyn's had once been.

This is not a youth who turns to rape. This is the boy who has every girl in town following him with her eyes. How did it happen? Why did it happen? Did it happen? Have I gone mad, and cannot tell where reality ends and mania begins? Is madness genetic?

She turned away, glanced at Steve Smith, still working with his paintbrush, his back again to the group, and she turned her back and looked down at her sensible shoes.

‘What a fine young fellow he's turning out to be. A son to be proud of,' the minister said, walking up behind the two women, his car keys jiggling. He opened the car door and allowed Stella to escape inside.

‘Humph. That is a matter of opinion,' Miss Moreland scoffed.

Stella wound the window wide, and Steve Smith turned, waved his paintbrush. She lifted her hand and waved back.

‘Now, there is a son any mother could be proud of,' Miss Moreland said.

‘That long-haired lout?' the minister replied.