Jacaranda Blue (26 page)

She had taken two bricks from the edge of a garden bed, now she used them to place against the wheels, aware that if the trailer ran forward, fell into the pit, she may as well climb in with it and die.

Slowly now she lifted.

The clown clung there.

She lifted higher.

It took only the slightest shift of weight for the clown to tilt, slide sideways, topple. The trailer, as if eager to be rid of its unholy burden, deposited it across the pit, where it balanced a moment, half in, and half out.

‘No. No. No.' The coupling frame slammed to the earth and she ran to the pit in time to watch the clown bend, slowly fall in. But not in the position she had visualised. It was awkwardly seated in the centre of the hole, the soles of its feet level with the top.

‘God.' It was a wail, a prayer, a plea as she ran to the shed doors, closed them, bolted them. ‘God. What do I do now?'

‘
Eat something
,' a voice replied. ‘
And take an Aspro
.'

It was eight-ten, the sun high in the sky, she was in the kitchen drinking tea when the phone rang again.

‘Stella Templeton,' she said, no longer afraid of the telephone. No need to fear it any more. Fear collapse. Fear footsteps in the drive. Fear some fist hammering at the front door, but not the telephone.

‘Stell, it's me, Marilyn. I'm worried out of my mind. Tommy hasn't come home for two nights.'

Perhaps there is a place where we go to when there is no peace to be found in our own little hells. Perhaps there is a special place beyond reason, a compartment of self, a primitive centre of the brain where desperation takes control of actions and responses. We survive, Stella thought.

‘Not come home?' she said.

I am there. I am in the primitive place, in that safe compartment of self. I am functioning on my will to survive. They are coming at me from all directions now, forcing me to know, to accept responsibility for my actions. They are attempting to drag me from this safe place of no thought, no guilt, and back into their petty little world. I must respond. I will neither think of minutes past or those to come, only this one. I must respond. I must move a small part of me into this here and now, but allow the rest to stay away in that safe place.

How?

Somehow.

I will be the ear for a supposed friend, who poisoned my reputation in the presence of her son. She, who was given a small precious life to hold and to mould; she, who wasted it, as Angel had tried to waste the life of her Stella child – she did not succeed. I did not allow her to succeed. And I will survive this thing. I will complete this task I have set for myself. ‘He didn't come home on Monday night, but he's done that before, so I didn't worry too much, but this morning, when he wasn't at breakfast – Stell. Stella. Are you there?'

‘I'm listening, Marilyn.'

‘I rang around all his mates. None of them have seen hide nor hair of him since Monday, after school. He had dinner at home on Monday night. Ron bought fish and chips. Then he went off somewhere on his bike. I've just rang Sergeant Johnson, and he said not to worry yet. He said kids take off all the time. I know he'll be all right. He's probably ridden to Dorby, and he's too scared to ring us up to come and get him. He did that once before, you know.'

There was a silence. Stella tried to fill it. She coughed instead.

‘I thought he'd come home last night. I was sure he'd be here this morning, but his bed hasn't been slept in. Stell? Stell? Are you there, Stell?'

‘Yes.' Stella responded to her friend's urging. Ears must hear. Tongues must wag a reply, any reply.

‘What if something has happened to him? What if he was picked up by some deviant? Murdered – '

Stella flinched as her mind returned to the pit, and what was in the pit, and how she might be required to get into the pit with it, and –

‘I know . . . I know I'm being stupid. He's just ridden off somewhere. I suppose I'd better get off this phone. Johnson or someone might be trying to call me.'

‘Keep your chin up,' Stella said.

‘Ron says he's probably just done it to get our attention. He's been nagging about more pocket money lately. We should have given him more, I suppose, but we bought him anything he wanted. He only had to ask for it and we bought it. There's also talk about him and young Kelly Murphy. She's pregnant again and she's blaming Tommy – the little moll.'

Stella clicked her tongue. ‘Tut-tut.'

‘I know that sounds awful, but I mean – if she is pregnant, then it wouldn't have been Tommy. He's only a kid, and he would have had more sense than to – I mean, she's as rough as bags, Stell.'

‘Boys will be boys, Marilyn.'

‘It wouldn't have been Tommy. I know my own son. He's a sensible, responsible kid and he wouldn't have touched her with a ten-foot pole. I'd better go.'

A friend's ear is only of value for as long as the friend's mouth mouths the words a friend wants to hear. Speak a truth, and the phone can be placed down, leaving only the beep, beep, beep of friendship.

Stella placed her phone down then walked slowly across the vegetable garden to the shed. She kneeled beside the pit, took hold of a long bare foot and tugged. It was too hard on her back. She rubbing at her back, knowing time was running out. Sergeant Johnson would be following a still-warm trail. He'd be wandering around town, asking questions. He'd go to the school, speak to Tommy's friends, his teachers. He'd go to Spud Murphy's house, speak to Kelly. But there was no reason for him to come here. None at all. Again she pulled at the foot. Bare. Her mind attempted to follow the thought. Too much else to think about.

Someone would come. No hedge, no gate to stop them, nor to warn her of their approach with its complaining squeal. Just the sound of shoes on the gravel drive, and she would turn around and see the long morning shadow, and –

It could happen. She'd wasted too much precious time over breakfast. People always came knocking on her door, wanting something.

‘Have you got a few pots, Stella? I want to pot out those camellias.'

‘I just popped in for that apricot cheesecake recipe, Stell. The one you took to the meeting last week.'

‘Got time for a cuppa, Stell?'

It was going to be a beautiful day. People would be out and about. The sun was moving away for winter and not so hot now. A fine day for walking, not a cloud in the sky. The magpies were warbling on the lawn. Two crows were in the drive, arguing some point. There was traffic moving on the road. Murphy's dogs were barking – just a normal slow old Maidenville day.

But what day was it? What was she supposed to be doing today? There was something she had to do today and she knew it, but because she didn't want to know it, she didn't try to follow the thought.

Sitting on her heels, she leaned over the pit, looking down at the shape, the head, still wrapped in its plastic bag. No longer person, youth, missing son of Ronald and Marilyn, grandson of Cutter-Nash. It was just a naked immovable mass.

What did Miss Moreland say? Don't leave me languishing in the freezer like a side of aged mutton.

Stella looked down at a shifting pit – or was it she who moved? Shouldn't have taken the Aspros, she thought. They had relaxed her, and were making her drowsy and slow. It was not good to stop, to sit like this, because stopping meant she had to find the will to force her hands and muscles to begin again. But her head was too light to begin again. There was a strange noise in her ears. A muffled drumming. And strange shafts of sunlight were cutting like swords through the gloom of the shed. She turned her head. Sunlight had found a gap between the doors, it had found cracks, and knot holes, weaving interesting patterns on the walls.

‘I can't do any more,' she said. ‘I can't get it in, and I can't get it out. I can't.'

You are bringing no mind to the task, girl. Control is slipping away. Today is Wednesday. You know today is Wednesday. Mind is all that remains to you, and too little time. Get it done, girl.

She tried to stand, and her bones that had found a nominal peace, while crouched before the hole, now ached anew. The spot below her left shoulderblade felt raw. Had he cut her with his knife? She hadn't taken the sweatshirt off, hadn't bothered to look. She sighed, tried again to force will into her arms, her legs, to get it done, but she remained in her crouch over the pit. Her spade was close at hand. She reached for it now, and attempted to lever a leg to the side.

It moved. She drew breath, then repositioned herself, bracing her feet on the opposite side of the pit before levering again.

‘All I need is Mrs Morris creeping down the drive in her moccasins and stretch slacks.'

I've just popped in to check on your knickers, dear.

Oh, good morning, Mrs Morris. Sorry the washing isn't out yet. I am not wearing my frilly knickers today. I am wearing no knickers at all. I am wearing the clown's jeans and his sweatshirt, and I stink of clown sweat and semen and this shed is beginning to smell of death.

What are you doing there, dear? Not that it's any of my business, mind you . . .

Stella began to laugh at the vision that had become too clear. She could see the old gossip, perched on the opposite side of the pit, swinging her tightly clad, baby fat legs. She laughed until a stitch in her stomach forced her to stop laughing, but she couldn't stop. Imagination – or madness – was controlling her. She began creating more dialogue.

Climb down please, Mrs Morris. I believe I need some help here, and I dare not get in there, or I will never get out. He will crush me in death as he tried to in life.

How do I get down, dear?

Just stand on him. He's quite safe now.

The grave was too shallow. She had visualised the clown resting flat. Perhaps she had visualised arms folded, a flower in the hands. There was plenty of room at the top end of the pit. Plenty.

Unpick its seams. Reverse an imperfect creation.

Remake it. Give it a second chance at life.

The voices were coming at her from the walls, the roof, the window. She looked around her, seeking the speakers, but she was alone.

‘Mad,' she whispered. ‘Stop it. You are imagining it. Stop it. Grasp control and hold onto it. You are not your mother's daughter. You are not your mother's daughter,' she whispered, her hands pressed to her ears, trying to crush the voices as she looked across the swords of light, looked from doors to window.

The tree root was also immovable – until the axe.

Hopeless. A hopeless situation. She had made the hole too small, too narrow. The clown's head and shoulders were resting against the side. Dig out more. Dig behind it.

‘Can't.'

Hopeless.

Ice crawled in her scalp and blood roared in her ears, swam red before her eyes. Strange throbbing silence. The hush before a storm.

Hopeless.

She stared at the sunlight sword, hitting, twisting off the side window where two branches from the apricot tree crossed. Clusters of red and yellowing leaves began to form a shape as she stared at it, stared until her eyes slipped out of focus and the shape writhed, as another shape had once writhed.

She lifted a hand to the sword of sunlight and she looked at her blisters and she saw the blood seeping from the centre of her hand, seeping from old scars.

‘Poor Jesus,' she said. ‘I know exactly how it feels. I sympathise with your pain, but I need the magic word. Give me today's magic word.'

‘Packard. Rope. Tie a rope around its shoulders and tow it straight,'
he said.
‘And find his shoes. Where are his shoes?'

The motor was still now, and the sheds doors bolted fast. She was singing as she tossed her father's tow rope into the pit to lay beside the size ten sneakers with their ringed and striped soles. She had found them outside the glass doors, a sock tucked into each shoe. And she had found the broken glass on the lounge room floor.

She took up her spade, and with it positioned a limb, prodded a shoe into a gap, and she sang on, sang with relief. Sang sweet.

‘Stell. Stella. What are you doing in there?'

Startled, Stella silenced.

‘Stell.' This voice was real. It was at the front of the shed. A fist was hammering at the old door. Stella dropped her spade like a guilty child might toss down stolen fruit. She looked over her shoulder, ready to run.

‘Stella.'

She recognised this voice.

‘Bonny?'

‘Have you forgotten what day it is? It's Wednesday. It's your turn for Meals on Wheels.'

‘Meals on Wheels?'

Today. The lost Wednesday. The fictional dun-coloured Stella character was in charge of the dinners today. She was supposed to be in her kitchen cooking a lamb roast, and she hadn't taken the twin legs from the freezer. The poor fictional character had taken on too many roles. She'd forgotten Wednesday's lines.

She laughed then. She looked at the pit and what was in the pit, and she laughed, drunk on Aspros and fatigue and pain.

The Stella character wasn't supposed to be in the shed. She should have been out there serving, because this was her Wednesday. She'd drawn up the roster. She was supposed to be –

But she'd got him in the hole. She had got him in and he was flat enough. The Packard had worked for her, dragging him flat. She had levelled him with the spade, placed his arms across his chest, now all he needed was the flower.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach, held her ribs with her elbows, trying to still hysteria.

‘Stella Templeton. What's got into you?'

Bonny had remembered. She would have cooked apple cobbler with custard. Outside of here, the world had been turning. Just the same. Always the same. So funny, really. Mrs Grey would have cooked the vegetables. She was coming today to help with the serving and delivery. But there was nothing to deliver, because Stella was in the shed and not the kitchen. It seemed so funny.

‘It's no laughing matter, Stell. It's half-past eleven.'

‘Is it? I'm sorry.'

‘What are you doing in there? Why have you got the doors shut?'

‘Some . . . something I put off too long, Bonny.' She stepped back from the pit, and her clay-covered shoe slipped on more clay and she fell heavily to the heap of clay on the tarpaulin, and it jolted every aching bone in her body, and if she didn't laugh then she'd cry, so she laughed again.

‘Yeah. Well I believe you, but there's thousands who wouldn't, Stella Templeton. You sound like you're having too much fun to be working.' Stella climbed to her hands and knees, but slowly, and Bonny continued to bang on the door. ‘Let me in. I won't dob.'

‘Not today,' Stella replied.

‘Okay, then keep it to yourself, you party pooper. I've got the sweets, and I picked up Mrs Grey's vegies. Her car has broken down again. She said she tried to phone you to tell you she can't help with the dishing up and delivering today, but she couldn't raise you. Obviously you were doing something better.' Stella made no reply. She was attempting to gain her feet, but her shoes had evolved into skates. ‘Have you done the roasts, Stell?'

‘No.'

‘Then what are you going to feed them?'

‘Let them eat cake,' Stella said, and it was Bonny's turn to laugh.

‘Who is in there with you?'

‘What's the time, Bonny?'

‘I told you. It's gone half-past eleven. I can stay for fifteen minutes and give you a hand. I don't have to be at the school canteen until twelve.' The door rattled on old hinges, but the bolt was strong.

‘No. No, thank you.' Stella was standing now. She stripped the sweatshirt from her and flung it into the pit. She kicked off her shoes, stepped out of the jeans, they followed the shirt down the hole. She wiped her hands with a rag she'd picked up from the bench. Wiping at her arms she walked around to the cleaner side of the pit, and stood naked there, looking down. The clown was no longer naked, but covered by his sweatshirt and jeans, her shoes on his chest in place of flowers.

‘Will I go and buy half a dozen chickens from the chicken place? Give them roast chicken instead of lamb.'

Stella scratched dried clay from her arm. ‘Perhaps you should. Yes.'

‘Will you be right to do the serving and delivery by yourself?'

‘I . . . I'll manage.'

‘Okay. I'll be back in fifteen minutes. If they haven't got any ready, I'll order six and tell them you'll pick them up.'

‘Just place the order. I'll pick them up . . . in half an hour. You go, Bonny.'

‘Oh, did you hear that young Tommy Spencer has nicked off?'

Stella looked down at what remained of Tommy Spencer. ‘Yes,' she said, walking naked to the bag of rags the minister used for car washing and for wiping greasy hands.

‘Marilyn is at work. Standing behind her checkout, as if it's a normal day. I mean, God. If it was one of mine, I'd be out there looking for his body. I'd be out of my mind with worry. I reckon she's spaced out on pills, you know. Nothing ever seems to worry her.'

‘True.'

‘He's turned into a real little shit of a kid, that one. My boys won't have a bar of him, thank God. And Marilyn was saying Kelly Murphy is pregnant again, and blaming him. My boys reckon that Spud has probably had a go at Tommy, and the little shit has nicked off until it blows over.' There was a brief silence. ‘Who are you hiding in there, Stella Templeton?'

Stella picked up a pair of her father's worn underpants, she stood looking at them. ‘Marilyn rang earlier,' she said, tossing the underpants down and dragging an ancient blue shirt from the bag as she listened to her friend's footsteps walking across gravel to the back door. Twice she heard the door open, slam shut, then the footsteps approached the shed's side door and Stella moved away from the window as she slid her arms into a shirt that reached her calves.

‘I put the veg in your oven and left the sweets on the table.'

‘Thank you, Bonny.'

‘Okay, I'm off then. Have fun,' Bonny called from close by. ‘See you at the meeting tomorrow. That's if you're not too busy.'

‘Tomorrow,' Stella replied.

Tomorrow. So time had come back to get her.

Statue still, she listened for the small motor's purr, listened for the movement of wheels on gravel then, like a fugitive, she unlocked the side door, opening it an inch at a time, peering out into a world too bright, creeping out from her cell, and stepping into sunlight. It hit her eyes and she swayed back from it.

There could be no more denial now. She locked the door, locked
that
away, then backed away from it, the old key in her hand.
That
must be for later. She backed to the trunk of the largest jacaranda, leaning there a moment, gaining strength from it while looking down.

Bare knees. Bare feet.

She had to move away from
that
. Move her mind away. She pushed off from the tree and on legs uncoordinated, made her slow way to the back door. Once inside, her legs defied her plea to climb stairs. She leaned on the table, breathing deeply while staring at a patch of white clay on her new floor.

But this she had to do. This thing she had to do. The apple cobbler was here. She could smell it. The vegetables were here, her new oven humming.

She had done so much and this she would do also, otherwise all of her work would had been for nothing.

No-one knew. No-one would ever know – unless she told them.

And how would she tell them?

By her conduct.

She could never tell them, therefore she must behave responsibly.

‘Now.'

So I will behave. I will be responsible. I will gain some self-control.

In a moment.

How?

How do I face this town?

How have I ever faced it?

Mind control. I will control my mind. But in a moment.

She looked at her hands, blistered, bloodstained. How can I show these hands to the town?

They could be worse. I have been working hard in the garden. Very hard. What a silly woman, I forgot my gloves.

‘They could be worse.' She sucked in a deep breath as she moved from the table to the hall. One hand on the banister, her head lifted. So many stairs to climb. Too many.

‘I have been working very hard in the garden. I took a tumble down the stairs in the dark.' She sighed, took one step. ‘I will choose a face to fit the situation as I have always done. I will. I can. But first I must get up there, wash this old face away.'

She took a step higher, painfully. Then one step more. Slowly, she made her way up to the top of the stairs then down to the bathroom.

It was close to twelve when she stepped from the shower and walked naked to her bedroom. She did not want to be there. She chose clean underwear, then flung her wardrobe wide, reaching for a beige linen skirt.

‘No,' she said, and she slammed the wardrobe door, then slammed her bedroom door. Still naked, she walked downstairs to the utility room where she had stored the cases brought from Miss Moreland's flat.

 

‘It's chicken, followed by apple cobbler, Mr Bryant. I became involved in a lengthy task and ran out of time,' she apologised as she handed the old man his meal at the door. He was near blind, and an excellent choice for her first delivery.

‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth, my dear,' he said.

The peanut-pillow queen took Meals on Wheels, and Mr Macy, Mrs Morris and her husband, Mrs Murphy and Dave. They all took Meals on Wheels. In Maidenville, age had its fringe benefits.

Stella handed Mrs Morris two meals at her front door.

‘You're late, and what's wrong with you?'

‘I . . . had a fall. Hit my head, then slept too long. I . . . I had the very strangest dream. You were in it, Mrs Morris,' Stella said as she turned away.

‘Yes, well you're lucky you can sleep in. Some of us can't get to sleep at all. And you were supposed to be here at twelve-thirty. We have to go to bowls this afternoon and we're going to be late.'

‘We require more assistants with the Meals on Wheels. Perhaps you have some free time.'

‘No I haven't. Did you hear about the Spencer boy?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's nicked off. Rode to Dorby on his bike, they say. Ruined him, they did. You know they paid six hundred dollars for that bike. One from the local bike shop wasn't good enough for him – '

‘His bike? Yes, of course. I must go.' She was halfway down the drive. Mrs Morris's voice rose to compensate.

‘He left on Monday night after Spud had a go at him. And young Kelly Murphy. Did you hear about young Kelly Murphy –?'

But Stella was away. She took two meals from the polystyrene container and walked up the drive next door to Mrs Murphy's door.

‘You're very late today, aren't you?'

‘Yes. I had a . . . a long call from Father – '

‘Did he have anything interesting to say?'

‘He's missing Maidenville.' Stella was backing away, thinking bike. Bike. Dorby. Spud. Kelly. Time. Can't run. Always a word or two at the front door. Bike. Have to . . . have to . . . drive it to Dorby. Yes.

Mrs Murphy lifted the lid of her hot meal as she pursued Stella down the drive. ‘It's supposed to be roast lamb today, with mint sauce. I was looking forward to a nice bit of lamb, dear. What happened to the lamb?'

‘Blown fuse.' Then Stella was walking away. She was in her car. She was driving away and back to . . .
that
.

The neighbours met at the fence when she was gone. ‘What's got into her? She's got some bee up her bum today. Hair all over her head like a wet teenager . . . trying to do a Garbo in her big sunglasses. Wait till Martin Templeton gets back. Won't he be in for the surprise of his life.'

‘They say Steve Smith's ute was in her drive till all hours on Sunday night, and Mary Owen's girl saw them in Dorby on the night of the funeral. Dancing! I mean to say, Mrs Morris – '

‘I heard, my dear. They say she was drinking like a fish, and dancing cheek to cheek with him too. A dark horse, that one.'

‘While the cat is away, the mice will play, Mrs Morris.'

‘They say she's spending money like water too. I was in the electrical shop when she ordered a brand new stove.'

‘It blew a fuse. That's why we didn't get our lamb with mint sauce.'

‘What was wrong with their old stove, that's what I'd like to know? If they've got that sort of money to waste, then I don't see why the church had to buy them a new airconditioned car.'

‘And did you notice her neck? She had a love bite. I'll swear to it. And her clothes, Mrs Morris?'