Jacaranda Blue (9 page)

The key in the ignition, he pressed the starter and the motor sprang into life. He backed it out of the shed, then like a large child playing motor cars, he drove it backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, up and down the long drive until his stomach suggested it was six o'clock.

Martin normally ate at six, but when he crept to the kitchen window and peered in, he could see no movement in the dark room. He returned to the shed, where, beneath light, he examined the vehicle again. There was some substance on the running board.

‘What is this? Who has been in here?' He looked closely at the spill, his hands held behind his back, then he shuddered. ‘A quick wash perhaps, just to be on the safe side,' he said.

By the time he was done, the sun was low in the sky, and his stomach told him it had definitely missed its dinner. Still no call from the back door, and no light in the kitchen. He entered wearily, flicking light switches as he went, placing his keys on the dresser.

‘No dinner tonight, Martin,' he commented, listening at the foot of the stairs. Silence. No light. No movement. ‘Things are coming to a pretty pass,' he stated to the stair rail and to no-one in particular.

Back in the kitchen, he turned in a complete circle. Dare he approach an egg or two, attempt to boil them? He took one from the refrigerator, and stood studying its fragile shell. A Packard piston fitted his ham hand better. With a shake of his head, he returned the egg to its container. Never interested in acquiring kitchen skills, he had left the preparation of food to his women; still, he could manage bread, and Stella kept a well stocked refrigerator.

He selected cheese and lettuce. He mutilated a tomato, squashing it near flat onto the lettuce. He shook on salt and pepper, sighted a glass container half filled with pineapple slices, adding one to the mound. A dollop of mayonnaise in its central hole, he topped it with another lettuce leaf, then a second slice of bread. Standing at the bench he halved his sandwich in two bites.

‘Not bad. Not too bad at all,' he commented, splashing water into the electric jug, plugging it in, and setting out tea making requisites. After two more such worthy bites had demolished his sandwich, he repeated its construction, twice.

Stomach satisfied, Martin walked, with his over-full cup of tea, away from the chaos of the kitchen table. Spilled tea left a trail up the staircase and down the passage carpet to his study.

Tomorrow was Sunday. His sermon needed honing. This he did on his tape-recorder. He had yet to read his words aloud, to seek out missed commas, and to find the most effective spaces in which to draw breath. This could only be done with a practice reading, or two.

‘But first things first,' Martin said, taking up his cheque book and an envelope. ‘Strike while the iron is hot, Martin. Allow no second thoughts to raise false doubts.'

Minutes later the letter was stamped and waiting on the hall table to be dropped in the postbox on his way to church, and he was back at his desk, reading his sermon into the microphone of a small tape-recorder. After rewinding it, he pressed ‘play', turned up the volume, then sat back. Hands linked across his round stomach, he listened, enthralled by his own words, his own voice.

‘Rousing, Martin. It has a certain exuberance about it that has for some time been missing. Perhaps God has noticed you have grown a little stale. Perhaps it is his hand that is guiding you to Europe. Wonderful. Wonderful. Let us hope that the girl is over her little drama by morning, and well enough to type it up for me.'

Stella was up and about the business of his Sunday morning breakfast of tomatoes on toast when Martin came downstairs at eight. Apart from her new hairstyle and her missing smile, all appeared to be as usual.

‘Feeling better this morning, Daughter?' he said, seating himself, and tucking into a breakfast unlikely to repeat on him during the sermon. He had learned his lesson with sausages, as with eggs and bacon, yet his constitution required a substantial meal with which to break his fast.

‘Yes, thank you, Father.'

‘Tomatoes. One of God's gifts to man. I used two last evening . . . made myself some dinner,' he said proudly, and with only the barest hint of accusation in his tone.

‘The tomatoes have done well this year. I'm sorry, about last evening. I feel much better this morning.'

‘Well enough to type up my sermon?'

She looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Yes, Father.' She would wait until he was at church, then she'd pack her things, and after lunch –

‘And to accompany me to church, no doubt.'

‘Pardon?'

‘You are well enough to accompany me to church?'

‘No, I believe I will stay home today.'

‘I thought you would have shaken off the virus – after your excellent sleep.'

‘I am, as I said quite well. It's just – .'

‘Just?'

What was the use? Sooner or later she would give in. Easier to do it now than later. She could leave tonight. Wait until he was settled in front of the television. His wallet would be on the kitchen bench. Better not to ask, but to take – .

Monday. The funeral. I will have to go to the funeral on Monday. How can I not go to the funeral? So I will leave on Monday night – and ask him for money for a haircut.

‘Your mind is wandering, Daughter.'

‘I . . . I have a slight headache, Father, but if you wish me to go with you to church, then I will take an Aspro, and go with you.'

‘I certainly wish it, and God demands your splendid voice to override our Mrs Morris's baritone.'

God demands your voice? God demands. God is too demanding.

 

Her hands were burning, and she wished that God didn't demand her voice today. Her face wanted to cry, not sing, and she didn't want to go to church and she didn't want to think about her hands and she had to, because she had gloves on, and they made her hands hurt worse.

And when they had driven up, Marilyn and Bonny were already there, and she'd said, ‘Hello, Marilyn. Hello, Bonny,' and she made her face smile.

And Marilyn waited until Mummy and Daddy walked away and then she'd said, ‘What have you got gloves on for in the summer? You only wear gloves in the winter.' And she'd said, ‘Just because you mother is called Angel, you don't have to always try to look like an angel in stupid white all the time.'

Marilyn's father was dead, and he didn't just die from old age. He made his own self die, so everybody had to be kind to Marilyn and her brothers, the teachers said, so Stella thought of that instead of saying what she wanted to say.

‘It's just . . . Mummy said I have to wear them, just because I have to sing a stupid solo.' That wasn't the truth, and Stella's face felt all red like it always did when she didn't say the truth.

Then Marilyn said. ‘You only get to sing the solo because your father is the minister, and my mother said he thinks he's God himself and if I had a minister father, then I would be allowed to sing too. I can sing as good as you can.'

Bonny, who couldn't sing at all and didn't care about being kind, who just said the truth, even if it was kind or not, said, ‘Shut up and leave her alone, Marilyn. You're just jealous and you know you are. Green eyes. Cat's eyes. Green eyes. Cat's eyes.'

Marilyn cried, and Stella didn't want her to cry, or to be jealous. Sometimes she wished she couldn't sing, not even a little bit – but she could, and that was because Mummy was nearly a famous singer who went to London with Grandfather when she was eighteen, and she'd had special singing lessons to turn her into a soprano. Now everyone said Stella would be able to sing like Angel when she grew up, and one day she would be a famous singer. Angel couldn't be a famous singer because she got nerves and got a breakdown, so she just got married instead of being famous, then she blamed everybody because she wasn't famous.

It was a bit funny having a mother who was called Angel. Marilyn always liked to make fun of that too, but it was Mummy's proper name, not just a made-up name. It was on her certificates from the special school in London. Angel Joy De Vere. Grandfather's name was Randall De Vere – but he had been dead a long time.

Stella couldn't sit with her friends. Since she turned eight, she had to sit in the front of the choir, and she had to smile, even if she didn't feel a bit like smiling. And she had to put her hands together while everyone prayed too, and today that made them burn more, but she didn't pray, she just stared at the beautiful stained-glass window over the door. When the sun caught the glass colours, the tortured body of poor Jesus looked like it was moving on the cross, trying to get away. She felt very sorry for him, because she wanted to get away too, but she couldn't. She told him that she knew how he felt – like she had holes in her hands too, but her cross was the hard wooden pew, and the nails that were holding her to the cross were all the people's eyes.

Doctor Parsons was sitting near the front. He winked at her, but he shouldn't wink in church. Then his mouth said without any voice, ‘Keep that chin up, Mousy Two,' and he touched his own chin.

He always said that. She liked him to call her Mousy Two. Sometimes it made her giggle. He was a funny little man. He was sort of like Peter Pan, like he couldn't grow up, but he sort of looked like Grumpy, from the Seven Dwarfs.

He always went to church too, and she always went to church – always and forever and he was always and forever in that same seat. His wink made her feel better – even if he shouldn't have done it – and then it was time to sing the solo, she sang it very well, because it was about Jesus's pain, and she looked at the glass window while she sang and she pretended she was singing it to him. She knew all the words – she knew all the words of all the hymns, because the singing was the best part about going to church, except Doctor Parsons. He was the extra best part.

She had to sit beside precious Angel. She didn't like sitting there, because sometimes, if her smile just got a bit tired, or if it slipped into a yawn, precious Angel squeezed her hand, or pinched her leg, and her father without even stopping his sermon said things like, ‘We give our smiles to God and our yawns to the pillow, Daughter.'

This morning she didn't let her smile slip, because she didn't want Angel to squeeze her hand.

After church was the very extra best time, because sometimes Doctor Parsons came for dinner after church, and he stayed all afternoon and played chess with Daddy, and he talked to Stella, and sometimes he let her show him her garden, and sometimes he sat on the lawn with her and let her tell him all the stories about how she got the flowers, and he let her show him the birds' nests that were in Mr Wilson's forest of trees on the other side of the fence.

One day Stella planned to fly away with the birds . . . to climb the very tallest tree in Mr Wilson's yard, and flap her arms and fly away – to somewhere.

‘The sermon, Daughter. Time is wasting.'

‘I'm sorry. I . . . I was miles away, Father.'

 

She took time with her dress that morning, and though her hair still hung long, she turned it under, subduing it with pins. It looked different but almost modern. She needed colour. Her complexion was naturally fair, but today it looked like marbled clay. She needed a touch of lipstick, or a blusher like Bonny used, but it had been years since she'd bothered with make-up. She searched her dressing-table, found some flesh-tone zinc cream, and applied some to the scratch beneath her ear. It stained her collar, drawing attention to the scratch. She changed her blouse, turned the collar up at the back, then searched her wardrobe until she found a small hat. It was the colour she had called burnt orange at eighteen. Just a scrap of a thing, it looked well enough with her tan and grey check skirt, but ridiculous with the green scarf. She found a pink thing, then a scrap of blue.

‘Daughter. We are going to be late.'

‘Coming.' She snatched up a string of large amber beads. The telephone rang as she walked downstairs, fastening the necklace.

‘Get that damnable thing, while I get the car out,' the minister called. ‘Don't become involved. We are late enough already.'

Stella approached the phone as if it were capable of biting her. She snatched it, held it far from her ear.

‘That you, Stella? I need more stuffing for my peanut pillows. Can you bring some to the church?' It was Mrs Carter, the church guild, peanut-pillow queen. The shed was already storing garbage bags full of these little travellers pillows that hadn't sold at the last fete. And still that woman made more. Stella did not reply.

‘Did you hear me Stella? I need more stuffing. Ronald Spencer said he delivered two bales to you yesterday afternoon.'

‘I . . . '

‘You are on your way to church and so am I, so if you can bring me up a couple of supermarket bags full then you'll save me coming around there this afternoon. I've got my granddaughters up for the weekend. They're going to stuff peanuts for me.'

A long silence followed. Stella was picturing the shed and the contents of the shed. She didn't want to go inside it. Bonny's pots too. She promised Bonny some pots.

‘Well, can you or can't you bring it with you to church?'

‘The shed is locked.' She was unaccustomed to lying – and what a stupid lie. The shed was never locked. Keys hung undisturbed on rusting hooks. This was Maidenville, where country habits had not changed in decades, where violence and robberies were still city problems. But Maidenville was changing. Maidenville had spawned its own rapist, and Stella Templeton had told her first lie.

‘Well, can't you unlock it? I don't have a church-supplied, airconditioned car, like some.'

Stella took a deep breath, she held it, held her words.

‘Are you there? Are you there, Stella? Stella?'

‘I'm sorry. It's a bad line. Call me back.' She placed the phone down and ran.

‘Who was it, Daughter?' her father called as she flung the front gates wide.

‘A bad connection.' Lies are like rabbits, they multiply, Stella thought.

Martin drove as he had at twenty, but in that era, his had been one of the few cars on the road. He diverted, without signalling his intent, and he pulled into a no-standing zone to reach out and post his letter. Then he made a screaming U-turn, barely missing a lad on a cycle as he roared away to Hospital Street.

Miss Moreland was waiting at the kerb, dressed this morning in a skirt of black and white hounds-tooth, a short red jacket, and white silk blouse. Stella vacated her front seat, admiring her old friend's new outfit that made her own more drab.

‘What a beautiful blouse. You look stunning as usual, Miss Moreland,' she said.

‘I'd like to return the compliment, girl, but in truth you don't look much better than you did yesterday. What is ailing you? What's ailing her, Martin?'

‘I'm fine. Perfectly well, Miss Moreland. Perhaps the humid weather has an effect on my complexion.'

‘You can fool some of the people some of the time, girl, but you never could fool me. You look like you've been to hell and only come halfway back.'

Martin left them to it as he drove the near straight line down to where Main Street intersected with Church Street, aptly named. The two main churches had been erected on opposite sides of the street. The Catholic's steeple was two metres taller than the Anglican. Their stained-glass windows were larger too, and more ornate, and the Catholic pews of English oak were polished by more behinds than the Anglicans. But too long banned from breeding, priests were a dying race. Maidenville's Catholics had no priest in residence, tall steeple or no tall steeple. They made do with spiritual leaders, married men, who could perform neither marriages, baptisms nor burials. They imported their priests from Dorby. Not so the Anglicans. For over sixty years, Martin Templeton had been marrying, baptising and burying his congregation.

He parked the car in front of the new church hall, in the shade of a tall gum. He pulled on the handbrake, then noticed his passenger staring at the previously dull mission-brown door. His eyes followed her gaze.

STELLA WEARS FRILLY NICKERS
had been painted there by someone adept with a yellow spray pack.

‘My God,' he said. ‘What young scoundrel is responsible for that?'

Stella leaned forward, peering between the two heads in the front seat. A cold hand grasped her throat as her heart turned to ice in her chest. Would it never end? Would he not let it end?

They turned to her, spoke together.

‘I'll take you home, Daughter. No-one has seen you. I'll explain that you are unwell.'

‘Ignore it,' Miss Moreland commanded. ‘Ignore it I say, girl.' Swinging the car door wide, Miss Moreland placed her shoes purposely on the ground, effectively breaking Martin's escape.

‘Stella is the one we must think of in this instance. We will deliver her home.'

‘Run from some young scallywag? It's probably the same one who's been making those nuisance calls. He's looking for a cheap thrill, and if he sees you scuttling for home, then he'll get his cheap thrill and he'll do it again. Come along, girl.'