Jacaranda Blue (20 page)

The Templeton house was not a good place to be come Monday morning April Fools' Day, and Stella was feeling in a young and foolish mood. The workmen had arrived in force at eight-thirty. She left them to it. For an hour she typed, then she dressed for town and walked to the bank, walked into the bank.

It was rather frightening, filling in that first withdrawal form, and she felt like a bank robber as she passed it to the teller, but when the green notes were handed to her, it seemed so little. It was soon gone anyway. She paid cash for the stove, then stayed on at the electrical store listening to the pros and cons of radios and headsets while fearfully eyeing a computer.

Would it be possible for a person of her years to learn the intricacies of those things?

At the same time, Mrs Morris and Mrs Murphy were seated in the doctor's surgery. They had delivered Young Mick Murphy there. Now they waited to taxi him home. Young Mick was sixty if he was a day, but until Old Mick, his father, died, he would remain, in name, forever young.

This morning, he looked older than his father, and the two friends discussed the possibility that he might not live long enough to ever become plain Mick. They had the two best seats, right next to Sister's glass window, where armed with camouflage magazines they had settled in to do a little overdue research. From these seats they could glimpse Doctor Parsons when he walked his patients back to the waiting room after the consultation. They watched five patients walk in and walk out, and they made their own diagnoses.

Mrs Morris and Mrs Murphy could glean a lot of information from the expression on both doctor and patient's face – if they caught a glimpse of them in the hall before features were composed for the outside world. From these seats, they could eavesdrop too on the latecomers who presented themselves at the window, and they always got a close look at any emergency before the injured party was whisked out of sight behind the passage door.

Phone conversations could be, and were, frequently interpreted from Sister's one-sided monosyllables and verbal shorthand, and if the friends were sometimes a little off dead centre, then they sometimes hit the bull right in the eye.

They agreed that Sergeant Johnson looked like stroke material when he entered the surgery around eleven that Monday. He was sweating profusely and his face was red. In his rush to get to the office window, he pushed past old Jim Bryant, almost knocking his white walkingstick from his hand.

‘Sorry, Jim,' he said, steadying the older man. ‘Sorry about that. I have to see the Doc in a hurry. 'Scuse me, everyone. Can you get him out here now?' he said to Sister.

‘Take a seat. He's with a patient.'

‘It can't wait. It's Miss – ' He saw the town gossips leaning towards him and he turned his back, dropping his voice to a whisper.

‘Oh, no,' Sister said.

The old gossips moved closer, their ears straining now as Sister dialled through to the doctor's room, speaking quietly into the mouthpiece, her hand guarding her words.

‘It's Johnson. Yes. It's Miss – you know. Yes. I'd say so, by the look of him. Yes.'

Johnson pushed in front of Mrs Morris and took charge of the telephone. His head through the glass window of the office, he said, ‘G'day, Doc. Yeah. It's me. Hate disturbing you like this but – yeah. Yeah. As bad as it gets, Doc. Worse. I need you. Need a clear head before I go bringing in the young bloke. He's city – yeah. Yeah. Yeah. You know. That's right. You know. Yeah. That's right. That's what I'm trying to say. Yeah. Much appreciated.'

Mrs Morris, grasped her neighbour's hand, their eyes on their respective magazines, widening with disbelief. Near rigid on their chairs they waited for more. But there was no more. They'd have to fill in the gaps, which they would do admirably.

Johnson put the phone down and Doctor Parsons came out, ushering Mrs Cooper before him.

‘But what about me blood pressure, Doctor?' she said. ‘You didn't take me blood pressure today.'

‘If I had your blood pressure, Mrs Cooper, I'd be doing two laps around the block each morning, instead of wasting a busy doctor's time.' He turned to the watching faces, aware that if they didn't know what the emergency was by now, then Mrs Morris and Mrs Murphy would soon nose it out.

‘Buzz off, the lot of you,' he said. ‘Clear out . . . except you, Jim Bryant. Sister'll call you a taxi, and I want you in it and up at the hospital today and no bloody argument about it. Got me?' Still scanning, his gaze settled on an anorexic expectant mother, and his finger pointed to her. ‘You, Betty Miller. We'll start you on the drip this afternoon and get that elephant out of you before it eats you alive.' He looked around the crowded room, scanning it for illness he could recognise at fifty paces. His waiting room was full of those dying of boredom and lack of love, but he couldn't do much for them. Drama and love could not be doled out in a pill bottle. He picked up his straw hat, and with it pushed the hair from his eyes as they came to rest on Young Mick Murphy. He frowned.

‘Young Mick. What are you doing in here? What's wrong with you that a couple of beers won't put right?'

‘I think I've broke a bone in my bum. Come off the back a Spud's truck on the way home last night. Can't bloody walk two bloody metres, and I'm supposed to be going pigging tonight.'

‘You shouldn't a been on the back a Spud's bloody truck. How did you get here?'

‘Got a lift with Dave's new missus.'

‘Then get a lift home with Dave's new missus and go to bed, and stay in bed, and give your poor bloody pig dogs a break. I'll call in sometime this afternoon. Now the rest of you clear out. You're fitter than I am.'

There were several who wished to argue, but he walked out on their arguments, nodded to Sergeant Johnson, then hurried with him to the police car. Sister was left alone to take the flack, but she was more than capable of clearing her waiting room.

‘Did he say Miss Moreland, Sister?'

‘Got wax in your ears, have you Mrs Morris? I'll clean them for you if you like.'

‘You'll do nothing of the sort.'

Mrs Morris was on her feet as Mrs Murphy whispered. ‘He definitely said Miss . . . someone. Who else could it be? One of the teachers?'

‘No. He would have said it.' They were out the door, young Mick bringing up a slow and painful rear.

‘I don't know about you, but it sounds very fishy to me, Mrs Murphy.'

‘Old Mrs Thomson lives in the flat next door to Miss Moreland. It's about time we paid her a visit isn't it?'

‘Oh, my word, yes. We'll get Mick home and pop in on her. Poor old soul, she could probably do with a bit of cheering up.'

‘She certainly could, Mrs Morris. Come along Mick. We haven't got all day.'

There was someone in the house. The workmen had left for the tip while she was upstairs, typing. There had been such a racket going on in the kitchen, she hadn't noticed the noise until they left, but someone was now in her room.

There was a grating sound, a slow tap, tap, tap, of heels on concrete. Stella ran for the stairs, thinking to lock her back door, but that would lock her in with him.

She glanced at the chaos of her kitchen, then walked back to the stairs, peering up.

‘Who is it?' she called. There was no reply. ‘I know you are up there and I'm calling the police now.' She took two steps up, then listened. Again she heard the slow, dragging sound, then the tap, tap, tap.

The front door was locked. All the windows were snibbed, but the back door had been open since eight-thirty. He . . . someone could have crept in while she was out this morning, crept by the workmen.

‘He wouldn't dare. It is nothing. It is just the normal movement of an old house,' she said aloud, but remained unconvinced. It sounded like a body being dragged across the ceiling by someone in high-heel shoes.

It was the tenth day since her father had left. A formal letter had arrived in the mail only this morning. He was well, it said. Africa was proving more interesting than he had anticipated, but he'd be pleased to move on. He was looking forward to France. He had many fond memories of Paris. He hoped his letter found her well.

She began counting. The tour was for twenty-one days, plus two days more for the bus trips to and from Sydney. Thirteen days and he would be home.

She had not missed him, other than as a second presence in the house, and if the truth be told, she was wallowing in her freedom to do, to live, to eat, to buy what she pleased . . . and to write again. Last night she had written until twelve, and she'd been at it again today. She hadn't intended sitting so long, but it was an addictive occupation. Now close to three and she'd had no lunch!

The story was still evolving. Consciously, she had no idea of where it was heading, or even from where the ideas were being drawn, but each time she sat at the old typewriter and wound in a new page, it somehow filled. What a grand, what a fascinating occupation, she thought, and her mind returned to the computer.

She'd actually had a play with it in the electrical shop, but the price was out of this world. She had bought a new typewriter ribbon for her father's old relic, and a full ream of paper. Five hundred sheets of blank white paper, she did not doubt her ability to fill.

Before leaving the main street, she had called into the furniture store, gleefully ordering a new vinyl floor-covering for the kitchen and laundry. The account would go to her father, but the vinyl was quite inexpensive. Chris Scott was coming in tomorrow to measure the floor – and to measure up for two security doors, which were not quite so inexpensive. But necessary. It was past time, well past time for the old flywire doors, both front and back, to be replaced. They were warped, and virtually useless against mosquitoes.

What a busy morning. What a wonderful morning. Money was exhilarating. The lack of the tall hedge was exhilarating. Her shorter hair was exhilarating. Life, back with her writing, was exhilarating. How had she put it away for so long?

Poor Father, she thought. What on earth will he think of me? I must stop this spending. I really must. I will. But the money is there. Pots of it, and as Miss Moreland says, money is only as good as what it will buy.

I wonder if I'm too old and set in my ways to learn how to use a computer? How much easier it would be, and how much re-writing it would save. Lyn Parker could show me how to use it. I might go around and have a talk to her later.

Again she heard the noise from upstairs. The unaccustomed silence was allowing her to hear previously unnoticed noises. That was all. She knew it, but as she climbed three more steps, a kitchen knife held before her like a sword, her own footsteps sounded hollow, the stairs creaking with each step. Had they always creaked so? Mentally, she began writing the next scene.

 

The stairs creaked as she climbed higher, the sharp kitchen knife grasped in her hand. Her greying hair hung loose to her shoulders, her eyes were sly, the eyes of a feral thing seeking prey. How she hungered for prey. Sink the knife deep into the child flesh – cut her. Cut out the bad and finish it. Get it done. Tonight.

 

Halfway up the stairs, and near lost in fiction, she froze. There was a demanding knock at the front door. She turned and hurried down, her smile pleased. For an hour this afternoon she had been attempting to capture an image of the female villain. Now she had her. The eyes. The grey hair that felt like wire to the touch, the rounded shoulders.

‘Who is it?' she called, her hand on the doorknob.

‘Parsons.'

She swung the door wide, smiling her greeting, as always, pleased to see him at her door. He made her laugh.

‘When is Martin due back, Mousy Two?' His face looked serious as he stepped into the hall.

‘Thirteen days, Doctor Parsons, and I believe I have now reached the age where you are beginning to give me a mouse complex.'

‘It's a compliment, Mousy Two. And what's the silly old coot think he's doing, traipsing around the North Pole in the depths of winter?'

‘He's probably enjoying France at the moment. He was looking forward to spring in France. Then he's off to do a short tour around Germany and Switzerland, back to Paris, then by ferry to England.'

‘He was supposed to come in for a flu shot. He never turned up. What's the matter with you, anyway? What have you done to your hair?'

She turned, walked into the hall and he followed her.

‘Miss Moreland cut it on Saturday. I still feel a little light headed, but very well,' she said, running her hands through her cropped curls. ‘I'm actually beginning to enjoy my holiday.'

‘You've lost weight.'

‘A little yes – but I can afford it.'

‘You're not dieting, are you?'

‘No, I'm not, but I'm no longer cooking heavy meals for Father, either.'

‘Sleeping well?'

‘Not as well as usual. The empty house, and the loss of the hedge. I am hearing noises that I never heard before. Please, will you come into the lounge room. We actually have light in there. Since Mr Wilson turned his forest into firewood, the old house has taken on a whole new personality.'

‘Nothing I'd like to do more, but no time today. We've got a problem, lass – and a big one. I was hoping your father might be due back, but if he's not, then he's not.'

She looked at him, her head to the side. He was rarely serious.

‘Much and all as I'd like to, I can't make it go away, Mousy Two. I'm the bearer of bad news today.' He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘It's our grand old lady.'

‘No.' Stella stepped backwards away from him. Her hand to her lips, she stared at the doctor, her head denying his next words before they were spoken. ‘No. No. No.'

‘It's true. Sad, but true.'

‘No. I don't believe it. I don't want to hear this. Please.'

‘Nobody wants to hear it, lass. She's dead.'

‘But she can't be. I saw her on Saturday. We went out to lunch together, and she was so alive. She cut my hair, and I took her to the cafe . . . we tried their savoury . . . '

The foolish things people say. Stupid words of denial – as if haircuts and savoury pancakes on Saturday could bring an old friend back today. Stupid words, but they were all she had to fill the too raw place beginning to gape in her heart.

‘Her next-door neighbour said he didn't notice her about on Sunday.'

‘We didn't go to church. We decided not to go. Mr Macy . . . Willy Macy was in charge. She didn't want to go, so we – Oh God. Please tell me this isn't happening, Doctor Parsons. I saw her on Saturday. She was well, so well.'

‘Sit down, lass.'

‘No. No. I didn't . . . We never miss church. We always picked her up for church on Sundays. We – ' Her hand rose to cover her babbling mouth as she cowered against the wall. He walked to her, took her hand.

‘One of her neighbours picked up her newspaper this morning, and he knocked on her door around ten and got no answer. He tried her half a dozen times and when he couldn't raise her, he called Johnson. Johnson found her dead in bed. She was – ' He watched Stella's face pale to marble white, and he steadied her with an arm as she swayed on her feet. It was not necessary to tell her the finer details. Maybe it wasn't necessary to tell anyone the finer details. He'd hoped Martin might be home. Three heads were better than two.

He looked at his watch. ‘Maybe I ought to sit down for a bit, Mousy Two. I don't suppose I could beg a cup of tea and a bite. I'm near dead on my feet today. I've got old Jim Bryant dying by refusing to lie down, and young Betty Miller not wanting to pop her infant. Young Mick Murphy has probably gone pigging with a broken back, and I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast. Feeling a bit weak on me old pins to be quite truthful,' he lied.

He knew her well. Stella never shirked responsibility. Her life had been governed by responsibility, by doing as she was bid, seeing to the needs of others. He watched her draw a deep breath. He watched her chin lift. There were no tears. He had expected tears, knowing how close she and the grand old dame had been, but the girl wasn't breaking. She was like a rock. On the outside, she was a rock. Christ only knew who, or what was cowering within that rock. Christ only knew.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry. I should have offered. Please. Please do forgive me, Doctor Parsons. Come through. The kitchen is a mess, but I'll fix you something. No stove, I'm afraid. I . . . as you can see, I'm . . . '

He sat at her kitchen table watching her hands. The smallest finger on her left hand had never straightened. Poor little hands, he thought. Poor little tyke. She'd done it the hard way and that was a fact.

She spread bread, sliced tomatoes, then she fried his sandwich in an electric frypan, just as he liked them, as she knew he liked them from the suppers she had served when he came around to play chess with her father. She boiled the jug, made tea, added milk and two sugars. She knew him well.

He spoke no more of Miss Moreland, but asked about her father while he dispatched his sandwich, and a second cup of tea. He had much to do, but he stood on, not wanting to leave her alone. She was paper white, her jaw tensed. She had barely touched her tea. Then he heard the noise and from upstairs, and she jumped like a scolded cat, spilling her tea.

‘So, while the old cat's away Mousy Two gets to play. Who have you got hidden upstairs?'

‘It's nothing. I was just . . . when you knocked. I was going up to look when you arrived. It's nothing. Nothing at all. Please. That dear, dear lady is dead – '

Nothing or not, here was one ill Arnold Parsons could cure today. He was on his feet and halfway up the stairs, sprightly as a man half his age, his old pins looking perfectly steady. Stella followed slowly on his heels.

One by one he went through the rooms. He checked the wardrobes, looked beneath the beds. As he was leaving the spare bedroom beside her own, they heard the noise again, the scraping of wood on metal and the tap, tap, tapping.

‘Sounds like a dame in stilettos dragging a body across the roof, Mousy Two.'

They stilled, listening again. Moments later they heard it. Parsons walked to the window, looking out at the jacaranda bough, grown too close to the house.

‘That's your dame, lass. Have you got a saw, or maybe a pair of secateurs might do it? I'll do the old Cut-n-Slash trick. Remove a limb or two. Keep the old hand in.'

‘In the shed. It's not important now, Doctor Parsons.'

‘Run down and grab them for me. Only take me a tick.'

She was slow to move. He watched her take a collection of keys from her pocket then slowly she walked away. He unsnibbed the flyscreen from the window and leaned out watching her open the side door with a key, watching her peer in before entering the shed.

Martin Templeton didn't believe in burglars, or he considered himself a protected species, due to his dog-collar. He had never locked that shed in all of the years Parsons had been in town. The little man doubted that side door had ever been closed before.

When she exited, she locked the door behind her, and as the back door slammed, he again heard the turning of a key. Something has frightened that girl badly, he thought. Something more than being alone in a big house, more than the death of the old lady.

‘These are quite new,' she said, offering the secateurs. With an apologetic shrug, she passed him a handsaw that had been old when Parsons was a boy.

He shook his head at it, but took the secateurs then leaned far out the window to snip at a few small branches. ‘Looks like it's that big one. Up there. I reckon it might be a job for young Whitey and his chainsaw. Have you got his number?'

She stood beside him, her head out of the window. She could see what he meant. The limb overhanging the roof had been split. Its foliage, slowly starved of sap, had fallen. Bare wood now leaned on the metal spouting, moving with the breeze.

No more freak blooms out there. All of the leaves were yellowing, falling, readying the jacaranda trees for their short winter deaths.

‘I've got a tall ladder. I'll . . . I'll look at it. It is not important now. Please.' She took the secateurs from his hand and walked back to the passage. ‘What was it? She was so well on Saturday. What happened to my dear friend?'

‘It looks like her heart might have decided to give up, lass. Try to look on the bright side. She had a good innings and hardly a day of illness in her life. A heart attack in your own bed can be a good way to go when you get to her age.'

‘She wasn't ready to die. She was so much younger than her years. We were planning a trip to China. We were going to walk along the Great Wall. She said what did it matter if she died in a paddy field with her hiking boots on, better than dying alone in bed. Was she . . . did she have a heart condition?'