Stillwater Creek (26 page)

By the time Peter reached Jingera the temperature had cooled by several degrees. The paddock opposite the church hall was so full he parked the Armstrong in a side street where there'd be little chance of it being knocked later by some inebriate. The noise from the hall ratchetted up even in the short time it took him to walk from car to hall.

Most of the people he knew by sight if not to talk to. Farmers like himself, with their wives in brightly coloured dresses and helmets of curled and shining hair. A few fishermen who lived in Jingera although the port was some miles further south. Some forestry workers, and all the Jingera trades-people out in force. In the near corner he could see Mrs Blunkett holding court. She was talking nonstop. It was a miracle she managed to absorb all the gossip that she did when she never seemed to listen.

Seeing Ilona coming out of the kitchen, he was struck by how lovely she looked: her normally wild hair was restrained by a wide black ribbon and she seemed paler than ever, apart from two circles of colour on her cheeks. Her fragile expression belied what he suspected was a core of steel. A core covered in barbed wire that he might never be able to get close to. Yet
in spite of this he began to push his way through the throng.

Only at this point did he see that his old acquaintance Jeff Heath was also heading in her direction and would get there first. Good-looking Heath,
accomplished polo player
; and womaniser too – although the
Burford Advertiser
never mentioned that bit. Already he had her elbow in a proprietorial grip and was leaning forward to whisper in her ear. Imagining those seductive silver words, Peter felt annoyance stab his breast, and now, as if Ilona were incapable of making her own way, the polo player was steering her through the knots of people towards the tables. Worse even than this sight was that she didn't seem to mind; indeed, she was laughing up at him. Peter's displeasure metamorphosed into a novel emotion that he recognised was jealousy. Clearly he'd have to rescue her and might even offer an apology. How to do this was not obvious but he knew that most of his character traits were unforgivable. Curtness. Bluntness. Directness. Humour. At this point he almost gave up. No, he couldn't possibly leave her to dreadful Heath. She had to be saved from that.

Through the crowd he wended his way. Only occasionally did he stop to talk to people, when it was absolutely necessary to avoid giving offence. Always keeping an eye on his goal. His goal and quarry, for he was determined to separate them. When he had almost reached Ilona and Heath, a whisper arose that it was time to eat. Had he not been so resolved to reach Ilona, he might have stood back. But here she was, holding two empty plates, and good heavens, she was smiling at him and handing him one plate and Heath the other.

Smiling first at her and then at Heath, he imagined for a moment that he'd hidden his true feelings until Heath said, ‘You're looking a bit out of sorts, old man. Parties not really your thing, are they?'

So intent was Peter on Ilona that he overlooked Heath's comment. In some indefinable way, she looked altered. It wasn't just that she was dressed so differently, in a sleeveless dark green dress of some shiny fabric. It was more her open expression and incandescent eyes. Turning to see if there was anyone behind who was the focus of this beacon of light, he could see only Jim Prior's leonine head inclining towards Dalrymple's shiny pate, and behind them the shabby cream wall.

‘I adore parties,' Ilona said.

So that was it. She was wearing a social smile. Never before had he seen her at a public gathering so how could he have known that this radiance was something she put on like a piece of jewellery for a gala occasion.

‘So do I,' said Heath. ‘I love dancing.'

‘I too like to dance but it's the music that I really love,' said Ilona. ‘Tonight I will be playing the piano for some of the time. Daphne Dalrymple and I will take it in turns, and also there will be Billy the Fish.'

‘Perhaps you'll save a dance for me,' Peter said quickly.

‘And one for me,' Heath said.

Damn the man; it was a struggle for Peter to conceal his irritation. But Ilona wasn't looking at either of them. Instead she was staring at Cherry Bates beckoning from the kitchen doorway.

‘Perhaps it's about Zidra,' Ilona said. ‘Or the sausage rolls.'

For an instant Peter thought she rested her hand on his arm as she slipped by. Although she might have, he saw only Heath's hand pushing him aside to allow someone access to the table. The woman seemed a little unsteady on her feet. It might have been that someone had just nudged her although she did seem to reek of sherry. He could do with a good slug of something strong himself.

‘Who's Zidra?' Heath enquired casually.

‘Ilona's daughter.'

‘She's got a child?'

‘Yes. She's widowed.'

‘How old is the child?'

‘She's about nine or ten I'd say. Haven't you heard about her? I thought everyone knew what everyone else was doing around here.' His voice sounded nastier than he'd intended.

‘I've been overseas. Got back last week.'

Heath's immediate dissipation of interest gladdened Peter's soul. If he hadn't felt so happy for himself, he might have been embarrassed for Heath's transparency. The man just melted away and a few seconds later Peter saw him heading for a group of unattached women of the type that attended the Bachelors' and Spinsters' Ball. Beautifully dressed and coiffed and with minds as vacant as a church on Saturday. Any one of them would make a perfect match for Jeff Heath.

He wouldn't take any chances though. By the kitchen door, he waited for Ilona to return. Although a reasonably good dancer, he was probably not good enough for her and she could add that to the list of his failings. This possibility did not, however, affect his appetite. Institutional living had that effect. You ate what you could as soon as it appeared and you ate it fast. To fill in time he had a second helping. When that had gone, he peered through the door into the kitchen and saw her deep in conversation with Cherry Bates in a room full of women. Beating a hasty retreat, he found a clean plate and made a selection for Ilona from the fast-vanishing food on the trestle tables before returning to his post just outside the kitchen door.

Once Ilona and Cherry had agreed on the oven temperature, Cherry said, ‘You be nice to him, won't you, darl.'

‘Who?' Ilona helped herself to another asparagus roll from the plate on the kitchen bench.

‘Peter Vincent. And watch out for that Jeff Heath.'

Ilona smiled. While initially tempted to suggest that Cherry was fussing too much, she now decided that she liked this attention. ‘I will. I know Heath's type, and anyway he's flirting with those smart women in the far corner. They both asked me to dance, by the way.'

‘I thought Peter would. I saw the way he was looking at you.'

‘I hope his dancing is better than his conversation.' Ilona now took two sausage rolls.

‘Don't be too quick to jump to conclusions. He's a good man, just a bit shy.'

‘He's arrogant.'

‘He's the least arrogant man you could meet. Personally I find him very easy to get along with.'

‘You should dance with him then.'

‘Perhaps I will, if he asks. He's a beaut dancer, by the way, I saw him at last year's dance.'

Although Ilona now experienced an unreasonable twinge of jealousy, she certainly wasn't going to ask who Peter had danced with.

‘But tonight he's only got eyes for you, Ilona, and I've got a great topic of conversation for you. It'll probably last several dances at least. Just ask him what he found out yesterday in Burford. He popped into the pub in the late afternoon and told me all about it.'

‘What was he doing in Burford?'

‘You can find out yourself. It'll give you something to talk about.' And with that Ilona felt Cherry's gentle push in the direction of the hall.

Holding a laden plate, Peter waited just beyond the doorway. ‘I got this for you. I thought you might be hungry and the food's going so quickly.'

‘Thank you, how nice.' Only now did she notice his haircut. No longer did his hair fall foppishly forward but it sat neatly on either side of a sharp parting. Far too neatly, it might almost have been painted onto his skull. Although in the kitchen she had already consumed three sausage rolls, four cocktail frankfurters and two asparagus rolls, she accepted his offering. The source of the irritation she was now feeling was surely this overloaded plate rather than disappointment with his dreadful haircut.

As she started to eat, she became aware that he was watching her carefully, as if she were an invalid who hadn't eaten for some time. ‘I can never take very much before I play the piano,' she said. ‘Although Daphne will play first.'

‘Nerves?'

‘Not so much nerves as anticipation that swells up inside me like a dried apricot in water.' She was about to put the plate down but he took it from her.

‘Do you mind if I finish it?'

He ate neatly with his lips together and she was glad of that, although why, she had no idea. This man was nothing to her apart from being a source of irritation. He unsettled her. She'd known that was the trouble with him from the day of the beach rescue and that annoyed her, for she didn't want to feel unsettled.

It really was too bad about his haircut. In the right hands – her hands, for Oleksii had always said that she was very good at cutting hair – Peter's thick straight hair could be shaped to look quite sculptured. Of course cutting his hair was out of the question. She would dance once with him out of politenesss
and afterwards she would play the piano, and at this thought she smiled.

After Peter had finished eating, he said, ‘Are you going to play Shostakovich?'

‘No,' she said at once, wincing slightly. ‘Too modern.'

‘The jazz suites perhaps. Maybe “Tea for Two”?'

She had forgotten those. This, and her suspicion that he might be trying to make amends for that unfortunate afternoon tea, made her feel almost favourably disposed towards him. She said, ‘I don't think that would be appropriate. Though of course it is lovely music. Being associated with Russia isn't good these days. Not that I am, of course, but since the Hungarian revolution everyone from a Soviet Bloc country is vanished by association.'

‘
Tarnished
by the association.'

Correcting her was something he simply couldn't resist and she was tempted to retaliate by changing her mind about the first dance. But no, she must not
cut off her nose to spite her face.
She really wanted to dance, even with this unsettling man. Then unbidden came the thought:
particularly
with this unsettling man. After dabbing at her mouth with a serviette, she repeated, ‘Tarnished by the association. I could, of course, be a Commie bastard.' Right away she realised she'd failed to get the Australian accent right. It wasn't from her that Zidra had inherited a gift for mimicry.

‘I know you're not,' he said, laughing.

‘But probably people make rumours about me because I am foreign.'

‘People start rumours about everyone, foreign or not.'

Start rumours
, not make. She filed away the correction.

‘That's human nature,' he continued. ‘We talk about one another.'

‘Cherry said just now that I should ask you what you were doing yesterday in Burford.' Leaning against the doorjamb, she waited.

‘I went to see the Welfare Board. Tommy Hunter told me last week that Lorna had been taken away by the police. I had to check if he was right, and he was, I'm afraid, and she's going to be sent to the Gudgiegalah Girls' Home.'

‘Surely not. That's a long way away. You said only the other day that she'd be back.'

‘I thought she would be. The Aborigines regularly get moved on and then they come back, but this is the first time they've taken away the kids from this area, the half-caste kids that is.'

She listened carefully while he explained what had happened. You wouldn't think this possible in Australia, she said when he'd finished. In Europe during the war, and before the war. But not now, not in this country that was supposed to be such a safe haven. Only after he'd repeated everything once more could she believe it. Poor little Lorna. Poor Lorna's family. It's the assimilation policy, Peter explained, but it was more that they thought the Aborigines were no good. Aboriginality had to be bred out of them and the taint of blackness removed. It was not so very different to what had motivated the fascists. Get rid of the Jews, get rid of the gypsies. Although here at least the children taken away were being educated, or so Peter had said.

‘Can't anything be done?'

‘I'm afraid not. It's government policy and they're sticking with it. Believe it or not, they think they're doing the right thing.'