Jacaranda Blue (16 page)

Bonny had five boys, all redheads like their mother. Her third son, Peter, was the same age as . . . Stella saw Peter riding by as she closed the gate. For a second, her feet almost tripped over each other in their desire to run.

‘Aunty Stell,' he called, and did a wide wheel around.

Could she turn the entire youthful population of Maidenville into non-people because of one bad apple in the barrel?

Of course she couldn't.

She waved a hand to the youth, and waited inside the gate. ‘Good morning, Pete.' She smiled at his snub-nosed face, and wondered why so many red-headed children seemed to wear the same features, as if cloned from some ancient red-headed ancestor. He was a lovely boy, bright, helpful.

He skidded his bike to a halt beside her, sliding the earphones of his radio down to his neck. ‘You haven't seen my pup around anywhere, have you?'

‘No, Pete. I haven't.'

‘Some useless idiot must have opened the gate. Now he's gone. I've been everywhere.' He readjusted his earphones and pushed off.

‘I hope you find him,' she said, but he was away, locked into his music.

She climbed back into the car, drove it down to the shed, parking it beside its much larger relative.

Then she opened the door and stepped out.

And she could smell him. As soon as she opened the door, she could smell the heat of him, the sweat of him, and his sex, a smell previously unknown to her, and one she would never forget.

He had been in here.

No. You're mad. It has affected your mind. He wouldn't come here again. Never. Stop it. What are you doing to yourself?

But it wasn't in her mind. It was in the shed.

No. You stupid woman. You are imagining it. You see Bonny's boy, and you want to run from him too. It's sick. You are sick. Your mind has become twisted by it, and I will not allow it to be so. I will not waste my life in fear. There have been no phone calls from him for two weeks. He has forgotten about it, and so must you. It's over.

But it wasn't over; Thomas Spencer had been in her shed while she was at the bus stop and she knew it. He had been lying low, waiting for her father to leave town. Now he had come back to keep his promise.

‘No.' She stamped her foot. ‘No. Get a grip on yourself, Stella Templeton,' she demanded. ‘You've been good. You've been fine. Father is ten minutes out and already you are panicking, conjuring up imaginary demons in your head. I will not live in fear for three weeks. I will not. It is only the scent of . . . of . . . of a stray . . . pup. Perhaps young Pete's little labrador, or a stray dog, a male dog.'

Who has left his stink behind him–all the better to find his way back to you, my dear.

She shivered. Standing in front of the shed, the sun warm on her back, she looked down at the place where her own foot had stamped. Beside the imprint of her sensible rubber sole was a second. A sneaker sole, clear in the soft red dust. Rings and stripes. Twin rings and stripes.

Stealthily, she stepped back, her eyes straining now as she looked into the interior, dim because of the brightness of the morning sun. Her heart was racing as cold tremors passed through her, from head to feet. She looked at her hands, trembling hands. For two weeks they had been steady.

He has left his scent and calling card, the voice from within whispered. If you dare to search inside the shed you will find more evidence. He has lifted his leg against the wheel of the Packard. You know it is true. Don't deny it. He found good pickings beside the wheel of the Packard, and like a dog he has returned to sniff his old scent and spread a little more. That is the way that it is with dogs.

‘I am not afraid of dogs,' she whispered, but her lips trembled as they spoke the lie. I will not become a victim of my own imagination. I am not like my mother. I am not like my mother. It is an old footprint. Others had been here. Half the town wears sneakers.

She turned her back on the shed and walked to the house, but with her hand on the doorknob, she baulked. What if he is inside the house, waiting for you?

She backed off and returned to the shed. Arming herself with a heavy hammer, she walked purposefully to the storeroom and flung the half door wide. Only her toys, and her bales of polyester wool. She moved back, looked behind the Packard, and beneath the Packard, and in the Packard. She opened its boot and peered into the dark interior. She checked the old trailer, the bench, and beneath the bench and she saw the dampness there, and the hammer in her hand shook.

‘The floor of the shed is always damp–so much lower than the garden. If he was here, then he is no longer here,' she told the hammer, and she walked to the back of the house and reached for the doorknob.

Her hand refused to turn it. ‘Stupid woman. What are you doing to yourself? Control this panic. Get on top of it.'

You should have locked the door. Why didn't you lock it?

For minutes she stood there, her hand on the knob. She could hear Mr Wilson on the other side of the fence. Familiar. Four houses down, Murphy's dog barked. Loud music was coming from the north side.

Open that door. He will be working at the supermarket. He always works at the supermarket on Saturday mornings.

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.