Jacaranda Blue (25 page)

He scratched at his bald scalp, attempting to digest her reply. ‘Yeah. Well, you can say what you like about your mysterious ways. Your bloody old man went on and on about our trees keeping your house in shadow. You ought to see what your bloody house does to our kitchen now that me trees are gone.'

‘Illogical,' she said, concentrating on scraping leaves and mulch over the telltale clods of clay as her neighbour edged one foot onto the fence railing. He clung there, head over the fence, one finger pointing at her empty wheelbarrow.

‘Bloody logical nothing. Don't you go building it up too high over there. You'll block the natural draining of the land.' Then his hands left the paling and he stepped away. Stella trundled her barrow back to the shed.

She counted seven barrow-loads that did not equal one hole, so she gave up counting. The count was growing too high, and her pit was not growing low enough, fast enough. Number seven was being emptied behind the shed when she saw the bike, the red racer, purchased from Sydney before Christmas. It was leaning against her shed, accusing her of something she did not wish to think about. She had set herself a task, and it would be done, and when it was done she'd think about why she was doing it.

The barrow tossed to its side, she wheeled the bike into the shed, pushing it into the storeroom where she covered it with an old tarpaulin.

Hide it away.

Cover it up.

There were several aged tarpaulins folded neatly in the back corner of the storeroom. She chose one and dragged it close to the hole, carefully spreading it flat there. Mr Wilson would be watching now through the cracks in the fence, and he'd have his wife at his side. They mustn't see what she was doing. Easier to keep the clay close at hand, anyway. And faster, much faster to dispense with the barrow.

‘Bucket,' she said. ‘Fill a bucket and empty it into the tarpaulin.'

By 9 a.m. she was in the hole, picking, shovelling, lifting her half-filled buckets, tossing the clay to the side. An automaton. A robot, set in motion to dig a hole. Ache and self had been placed aside. There was the picking, the loosening of the earth, and the scooping up of the earth. There was the mental measuring of a square, and the reducing of that square to clods, the transferring of the clods to bucket, to tarpaulin. There was the noise of the traffic on the highway, and the thunk, thunk, thunk, of her pick on clay.

She came upon the root in the late morning. It was as thick as her calf, and driving down, deep into the clay near the centre of her hole. She did not question its origin, but followed it with interest, as an archaeologist might follow an ancient bone – until the pick handle slid free, leaving the business end of the tool jammed deep in the root.

Her energy exhausted, she squatted over the pick, panting in the earthy air. Her hands could not find the strength to work the pick free. Dug into a narrow hole by her following of the root, she had left herself little room to manoeuvre. Now she kicked at the pick that refused to budge. She turned her back, hammering at it with the heel of her pedi-rest.

‘Wood axe,' she said, clambering out and walking purposely to the corner where the old wood axe had been gathering dust since the minister bought his electric heater. It was still razor-sharp and it sliced cleanly through the wood and the clay at the side of the hole.

White clay. Waxy white. Damp. It came away in sticky lumps.

Perhaps an hour passed before the root tugged free, only then she looked at it. Thought jacaranda. Thought damaged. It was of no consequence. She had retrieved her pick head. That was of consequence, that and the fact that removal of the root had taken her deep in the centre of the pit.

‘Deep enough,' she said, tossing the root to the floor of the shed, and following it up a natural set of steps created by the sticky clay and by the thick end of the root.

Her hands were raw, sore. Pain was drawing her back to reality, to the place where she didn't want to be . . . not yet. ‘Fix the pick. First I must fix the pick. That is next on the list. Fix the pick. Complete this chore, then I will look at the list. Today is . . . today is . . . today doesn't matter.'

Words forced her on, but her movements were slow. Her shoulder was stiff, her back bruised and her hips ached; her hands screamed each time she forced them to close around the pick handle. They could prove to be the weak link. She sat on the edge of her pit, resting while she studied her reddening palms. She should have worn her gloves. Blisters had formed, broken. She must stop, see to her hands, or what must be done could not be done. She must look to her hands' needs, bring some logic to this illogical task.

Using the pick handle as a prop, she stood, her limbs shaking with the effort. She drew in a deep breath, tossed her pick to the floor, then made her slow way to the side door, across the garden, and in through the back of the house to the kitchen.

Kitchen suggested food. A frying pan taken from the pantry, a knob of butter added, she watched it sizzle before sliding in a small piece of steak. As she looked at it, her mind made its own leap to eggs, to refrigerator. Her hands selected two, cracked two into the pan beside the steak. Eggs demanded toast. She placed two pieces of bread in the toaster, and when it popped, she spread it thick with butter and began eating, the clay white beneath her fingernails.

Food refilled her ewer of energy. Food was life. She was alive. She had survived. That was enough for the moment. She could give no thought to what lay upstairs. Not yet. She had walked the night garden until a direction was chosen for her. Nothing had altered since.

‘When the hole is done, then it will be time to think about it.'

A cup of tea. Antiseptic cream. She sat staring at her palms, massaging them for minutes. She found bandaids, applied three, then she stood and climbed the stairs to her father's room where she took a pair of soft cotton gloves from the top drawer of the dressing-table – gloves her mother had once worn to church.

‘Could you conceive of such a day as this, Angel? Maybe
you
could. Would you ever believe the purpose that your Sunday gloves would be put to? Maybe
you
could.' Her smile was a strange thing. It was in her lips, not her eyes. She caught its edge in the dressing-table mirror, and she looked at a stranger's eyes. One was near closed, the other was . . . lost. With a shrug, she turned her back on the mirror and walked out to the shed where she slipped a pair of gardening gloves over the soft white cotton.

Again she began digging.

What was time but the measurement of the clay mountain on a tarpaulin? It grew taller.

She drank from the garden tap when the sun went down, but she did not eat again. It was near 10 p.m. when she knew the hole was done. It was no six-foot deep grave, not so neat either; just a raw gash in the earth – but a wide enough gash, and in places deep enough. She could, would, do no more.

The jacaranda root and her chase of the root, left her a rough set of steps to climb, and on legs as heavy as the root she had tossed to the floor, she dragged herself from the pit, for minutes sitting on the edge, feet swinging, while trying to raise the necessary incentive to move away. Outside.

‘Morning will come,' she said, and her yawn was wide. ‘I will sleep, and morning will come, and by this time tomorrow, I will allow myself to think. She stood, swayed on her feet, until energy enough was raised to walk her wearily across the garden and in through the back door.

Hands washed at the kitchen sink. An overripe pear, taken from the bowl on top of the refrigerator, she gorged it at the sink. She ate a banana, then drank long and straight from the carton of milk. Alien actions, born of need. Movement was effort. Why waste effort on glass, on knife, on plate?

This is not Stella Templeton, she thought. This is the fictional character they created to fill the necessary position. The character having eaten must walk again, walk slowly away, laboriously climb those stairs, and lay her head down.

Her legs resented the part they must play. They trembled now with fatigue, but like seasoned troopers, they climbed, carried her up to her door, where she stood, staring at the shape on her bed, resenting its use of the bed she needed. She recognised the shape, but refused to know the shape, or to give it a name.

‘The character will know her lines as they become necessary.'

She looked at the small clown's head, laughing beside the ear of a much larger clown. Not one of poor Stella's best creations, she thought. Fright, fear was embroidered on the larger face. She turned away, looked at the mirror, saw the figure standing there.

Nightmare figure. Filthy. Covered in white clay from her uncombed hair to the cuffs she had turned up on her borrowed jeans. She swayed on her feet, wanting her bed, looking at her bed, wanting what was in her wardrobe, her chest of drawers beneath the window, but the Stella character had not been allocated her own room. Her ungodly role did not call for cleanliness either. Time enough to wash the dirt away in the next scene.

She turned, walking her clay down the hall to her father's room where she fell across his bed. Exhaustion took her.

Dawn birds twittered. The town clock's resounding Bongs called out across the houses. It sounded like the tolling bell at Miss Moreland's funeral, and when it silenced, Stella waited for more. Five. Was it five? She lay on her side, remembering other days. How often she had listened for the old clock's chimes, sweated on its chimes.

She became aware of the odd clothing she wore, and of the position of the window, and of the quilt. Then yesterday's memories flooded in. She tried to roll from the bed, but her blood had cooled in the night, and her abused muscles did not wish to move. Having fallen asleep across the quilt, she found it had been pulled diagonally across her during the night. Now she pushed it aside with one arm.

Who was she today?

She forced the arm to move again. It reached up to brush the hair from her face. Cogs and gears ground. Metal against metal. Her back screamed as she rolled to the side, and her hand reached down to soothe the scream. Muscles didn't want to reach. Her neck stung. She could reach that. She rubbed her neck slowly and moved into today's role.

Play the robot. A robot is programmed for denial of pain, programmed for work, and there was work for it to do. On her feet now, she noticed they were still shod. White shoes. White clay shoes. They walked her to her room, shedding dry white clay.

The naked shape was still lying on her bed. This nightmare had not left at dawn with the others. The world she had known for forty-four years, the world she had moved uncomfortably within, was no more. Everything in the past six weeks had been leading her towards this day. To today, but what was today?

‘Today is – '

‘What does it matter what today is? I have shed the garb of yesterday with Angel's beige skirts.'

Function. Work was God today, whatever the day might be.

Muscles and joints grinding, she walked downstairs and out to the shed.

A thin film of moisture lay in the bottom of the pit, seepage from the garden, or down some natural pipeline. Or had one of her dear trees bled? It was unimportant. Tonight the hole would be filled. She would continue until it was filled, and then she would think of the consequences.

One shed door dragged open, she glanced at the Packard, dew wet, the morning too new, and cold. She felt no chill.

Inside the house, she cleared a pathway from her room to the front door. The hall table she moved to the lounge room, giving free passage for her wheelbarrow. It had served her well, but its work was not yet done. She propped the front door wide, then stood looking out at the grey light of morning, and at the town still sleeping.

‘Sleep on, Maidenville,' she said, returning to her labour upstairs.

Dead weight, she thought, now knowing why people said, ‘a dead weight'. Dead smell. Dead touch.

‘Kiss her, Daughter. Learn forgiveness. It is a lesson that will stay with you. Say your goodbyes.'

‘My kiss would be a lie, Father.'

‘It was not her fault. One day you may understand.'

‘No. I will never understand. I was her child, born of her body. I refuse to understand. I was an innocent in the cruel game she played in her head,' she said as she took two cold clay feet, and tugged. Not a movement. She attempted to roll the clay that was worse than clay. Kilned clay now. She propped herself against the wardrobe and pushed against it with white clay shoes. It wouldn't budge.

Then she gave up. She tossed her hands in the air and gave up, she walked back to the door, looking at the blisters on her hands. Yesterday's labour had all been in vain.

Run away. Take the car and run away to some place. Just drive, keep driving. Dye your hair black. Change your name. Just run.

Mousy One and Mousy Two, in search of cream once strolled into the farmer's dairy, where Tom the cat patrolled.

‘I won't run,' she said. ‘It is much too late to run.'

But Mousy Two, her chin held high, was circling round and round.

‘Please don't despair, keep swimming, a way out may be found.'

And I will find a way. I will. I will keep swimming around and around in circles, until I find the way out. There will be a way. I'll telephone Sergeant Johnson and tell him of Miss Moreland's rape.

That is not the way. Not after her grand funeral. She will not become tea-party gossip for this town, and nor will I.

Then there is no way.

So drown. So, go down without a bubble and drown, Mousy Two.

She walked to her window, staring unseeing at the jacarandas and the shed. Two early birds were flitting from limb to limb.

They nodded, and winked, then pecked at the limb before flying together to the roof of the shed.

A short distance. The shortest possible distance. They were showing her the way.

She turned to the bed, then back to the window. The flyscreen unsnibbed, she propped it against her wall and pushed the window high. She slid the bed with its load across the room.

‘A lump of lead is harder to lift than a long lead rod,' she told the naked clay. ‘There is an equation to suit this situation. What cannot be easily lifted can be pushed with ease. Pyramids were built without the help of cranes. Man power. Woman power. Slave power. The Stella character will now play the role of Egyptian slave. The pyramid must be done, and today.'

Prop and push. Buttress and roll. Slide and wedge.

One at a time, she lifted the legs of the bed, sliding the great dictionary beneath one, and the bible beneath another. She used Grimms' fairytales, and
Gone With the Wind
, just to gain an inch or two, or three. Then with her garden spade beneath the cold clay on her bed, she levered the head and shoulders onto the sill.

So she worked on while time went away. Each gain became the new celebration. She set herself aims, and achieved those aims, and each centimetre on the sill became her new success until the clown head and clay shoulders were well out over the window ledge and she could lever no more.

I should have dug beneath my window, she thought. I should have thought ahead.

‘What has been done cannot be undone,' she said.

Her bedroom window was screened by the largest of the jacarandas, but she stripped the cover from her quilt and tossed it over the ledge, over the clown, before walking downstairs to her garden.

No movement at her fences. This side of the house was safe from Mr Wilson's eyes, and as yet little traffic moved on the road. Her window and the shed were both well back from the highway, well protected by her trees and the shrubbery that followed the curved drive, but for the first time she found herself wishing for the return of the hedge.

‘If wishes were fishes then Jesus would have been out of a job,' she said.

She looked at her wheelbarrow, and knew it was too small. The trailer at the rear of the shed was old, but a well-balanced wooden construction, and light enough to pull over flat ground. She kicked a tyre. Tight. Her father had a small compressor beside his workbench. Tyres, even infrequently used tyres, were never allowed to go flat in the minister's shed.

‘Dear Father, what exotic pool of genetics did your mother leave behind her? Were her forebears engineers? Were they builders of carriages? Were they too-moral men? Did their women create gardens and pen strange tales? I believe they were a race of survivors, Father. They were the ones who came to this land, tamed this land. Did they kill? Is it in my blood, this willingness to do what must be done to survive?' she asked, as she began tugging at the coupling frame of the trailer until a wheel moved.

Genetics. What bizarre pool had gone into the making of the boy rapist. Was he the grandson of an addict, of a butcher given licence to cut? He was also the son of a man who could alter his allegiance with a stage kiss.

She turned the trailer and ran it to the wall beneath her bedroom window, flattening her garden as she went. It was unimportant. That which had taken on a huge importance yesterday was now irrelevant. An azalea, a beautiful thing that bloomed with two different coloured heads, was flattened by a wheel, a lily broken off at the base. The lavender had been overrun by the trailer. Now it lay crushed and broken beneath the trailer floor, its perfume rising, surrounding her. Too potent in the early morning air.

‘Poor things,' she said, looking around her flattened garden, picking up a sprig of lavender to hold to her nose. ‘Still, you will all grow again, and bloom again.' She tossed the sprig to the earth, and levelled the trailer, its back to the wall. ‘I have built a perfumed bower to receive him,' she said. ‘Better it were a pit of flames.'

Hands on her hips, she looked up at her window. The quilt wasn't covering the head. ‘Thomas the clown, sleeping on my window ledge. You were put together by careless hands. Perhaps it was the fault of your creator, but it is too late now.'

Back in her room she climbed on to the bed where she kneeled between the spread legs, tucking a stiff knee beneath each of her arms – close now, so close to that tool of rape. Weight evenly balanced on the window ledge, when the clown toppled too easily, she was unready. A rigid foot caught beneath the armpit of the sweatshirt she wore, almost dragging her through the window and down to the trailer below.

‘This is the moment when it will all end. Someone will come now. Someone will walk down the drive,' she said, her head out the window.

But the ancient god of the kill was watching over her. No traffic moved on the highway. Only the two birds, perching on the shed roof, watched her strip her bed, toss sheets, pillow, under-blanket and quilt cover to the trailer, where the reject clown now lay crumpled, half on and half off, its head twisted in a unique position.

‘Are you looking over your shoulder, checking for the hounds of hell who snap at your heels? I only hope they are snapping, and I hope their jaws are wide, and their teeth long, and their saliva acid,' she said as she left her room, leaving the window wide.

The birds did not blame. They flew across the trailer as she rocked it, rocked it into movement; it was heavier now with its load and too close to the house for ease of manoeuvring, but two wheels are easier to move than the legs of a bed. She had the trailer turned and was pushing it back to the shed when she heard the telephone. She baulked, and a wheel baulked in the circular depression before the door.

No-one in Maidenville rang before eight. It would be a wrong number. She let it ring, while again she rocked the trailer backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

Her strength ebbing fast, she was functioning on raw nerve, and the phone's demand was gouging at raw nerve, but it silenced after the twelfth ring. Relief gave her strength for one supreme effort; and the wheel rose out of the depression and she was through the door. Then the ringing from the house began again. She dropped the trailer, left it there, the shed door swinging wide as she walked across the garden and inside to silence the telephone.

‘What do you want?' she said, her words – her voice – not Stella's.

‘Daughter.'

‘Father?'

‘I've been ringing for minutes.'

‘Father?' His voice sounded so close. She heard him cough, and she turned quickly to look over her shoulder, expecting to see him behind her.

What you must ask yourself, Daughter, is what would God think of your actions –?

‘I thought you were out. I'm calling from the airport. I will be boarding the plane shortly.'

‘Where are you?'

‘London.'

‘Have I lost all track of time? You . . . you are flying in on Saturday.'

‘I – ' Again he coughed. ‘Patrick was able to get us on an earlier flight,' he said. ‘I . . . I had a dream, Daughter. You were driving your dear mother to church in the Packard. She was young again, and she was to sing the solo. I . . . I had a desire to hear your voice.' He coughed, and his voice was breathless when he spoke again. ‘Is everything as it should be, Daughter?'

‘Yes, Father.'

Thomas Spencer is dead, a plastic bag over his head, but all is well in Maidenville, she thought. There is a deep pit where the Packard generally lives, Father, but all is well in Maidenville. I am filthy and wearing trousers that encourage unladylike conduct, and I stink of a dead youth, and last night I slept in your bed with my shoes on, but all is well in Maidenville. ‘The congregation has missed you, Father,' she said.

‘What time is it over there?'

‘Seven?' She guessed at the time.

‘I got you from your bed, Daughter?'

‘No. Yes. Yes. But perhaps I needed to hear your voice. Perhaps you knew I needed to hear your voice, Father.'

She heard his cough again. ‘I have missed you – ' he said, and the line was cut.

She looked at the phone, wanting her father back, wanting his sanity back. She clung to the phone, waiting, willing him back, needing him to complete his sentence. ‘I have missed your . . . care . . . cooking . . . laundering . . . I have missed you, Stella, child of my loins.'

Poor Father, too afraid to come any closer than my bedroom door, she thought, as she placed the phone down and stood there, her hand on it, waiting for the ring. Poor Daddy, accused of unspeakable evil if he dared to pat my head.

‘Even a dog is allowed a pat on the head,' she said.

The phone remained silent.

‘I have missed you, Father. I have missed your voice in these empty rooms, but perhaps I am not yet ready for you to return. I am not yet ready for such sanity. How long is the flight? Twenty-six hours. I have twenty-six hours. And the bus trip. I have thirty-odd hours left – and I have left the shed door open.' She ran.

Again in the shed, she positioned the trailer carefully. Logic had returned with her father's voice. She planned to tilt the trailer upright, to lift the coupling frame in the air. The clown lay lengthwise across the trailer, and if all went to plan it should drop neatly into the pit.