Stillwater Creek (8 page)

‘It is lovely,' Ilona said.

Just then Philip entered, looking more relaxed than he had in the drawing room. ‘Y-y-you can keep that if you l-l-like,' he said to Zidra.

Zidra's face glowed. ‘Are you sure? It might spoil your set.'

‘I've got h-h-hund-d-d- … lots,' he said.

‘Oh, thank you, Philip!' Zidra exclaimed.

‘That is very sweet of you.' Ilona felt touched by the boy's act of generosity. There was something heroic about him giving away such a lovely thing to someone he had only just met, and conquering a stutter to do so.

Looking at Zidra's radiant face, she felt a small pang. If only she could give her daughter more nice things! But no, that did not matter. They had each other, and now Ilona had some pupils as well. It was starting in a new place that was so difficult. Once the first few obstacles were surmounted, life could only get easier.

The chauffeur now appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Time to go,' he said.

Ilona and Zidra followed him out into the little yard behind the kitchen, with Mrs Jones close behind them. As they passed through the gate, a long grey car swished around the bend of the drive. Ilona recognised it as an Armstrong Siddeley; she had not seen one of those since she left England. The driver parked next to the Woodlands car and got out. Tall, with an
angular face that was so expressionless it might have been hewn from granite, he wore rather shabby trousers and a faded blue shirt. Once he caught sight of them, he looked as if he might have climbed back in again, had not the chauffeur called out, ‘G'day, Mr Vincent! Mr Chapman's expecting you down at the stables.'

The man waved and his face relaxed into an engaging grin. Glancing at Ilona, he took off his hat, a spontaneous and graceful gesture. His dark straight hair was worn too long. She would have liked to remove her own purple hat, which all afternoon she'd known was inappropriate with the dress. He strode off in the direction of a collection of outbuildings further down the hill.

He is shy and does not like people, Ilona thought, and did not quite know how she had reached this judgement. A retiring
rouseabout
with an Armstrong Siddeley. Although she was not quite sure what rouseabout meant, she liked the sound of it. The chauffeur had described himself thus to Zidra earlier that afternoon. She would look it up when they got home.

‘Who is he?'

‘Peter Vincent from Ferndale. That's a property a few miles north of Jingera,' Mrs Jones said.

On the journey home, Zidra was overexcited and could not stop talking. Only Ilona responded; the chauffeur sat impassive in the front seat. He had put on a black peaked cap for the drive. His neck was wrinkled like that of a tortoise, and above that his grey hair was cut so short that the rolls of flesh at the base of his skull were clearly visible.

Ilona held Zidra's hand tightly, in part to restrain her but also because it was a way of showing her gratitude that her daughter had two fine matching brown eyes and no stutter. She felt grateful too for the sun slanting over the paddocks and
casting long shadows, and grateful that she had the opportunity to make a living doing something she enjoyed. Perhaps she should also consider giving singing lessons. Forgetting that Zidra was talking, she burst into song.

‘You're butting in, Mama. I was talking.' Zidra squeezed her mother's hand hard and looked at her reproachfully.

‘How can I not sing when the day is so beautiful?'

‘But I was telling you something.' Zidra removed her hand and turned away to stare out of the side window. The yellow ribbon restraining her hair had become untied and the ends were frayed and wet.

Ilona reached across, undid the ribbon and refastened it, pulling the bow neatly into shape and restoring an illusion of girlish innocence. Zidra remained poker-faced, her eyes on the passing scenery. The car rumbled over the cattle grid and Woodlands was left behind. The driver accelerated along the bitumen road leading towards Jingera. Ilona could see the grey strip over which they were to travel winding ahead of them, like a stream trying to find the path of least resistance through the low hills and down to the coast. After a time the road crossed a rickety wooden bridge and then ran parallel to the river. Ilona took Zidra's hand again and the girl launched herself once more into a narrative.

‘Mrs Jones is such a nice lady. She gave me a glass of milk, and she'd just baked a whole tray of Anzac biscuits. She said I could help myself, so I had four.'

‘Mrs Jones is my wife,' the chauffeur volunteered, the first sentence he had initiated on this leg of the journey. ‘A very good cook, my missus.'

‘She said she'd let me help her cook ginger snaps next time, and clean up the bowl afterwards. Oh look, Mama! There's Lorna from school!'

Ilona looked where Zidra was pointing, to a collection of shanties next to the river, rough constructions made of wooden crates and corrugated iron. Surely this could not be where Lorna lived. Half a dozen Aboriginal women crouched around a fire cooking in blackened cans and a few men sat smoking under a weeping willow. Some children were playing cricket in the narrow paddock between the river and the road.

‘Oh, please slow down, Mr Jones, I want to say hello.' Zidra wound down the window and waved.

Mr Jones slowed the car and even honked the horn. One of the children, a slender pretty girl with long thin legs, detached herself from the game of cricket when she saw the car and ran through the grass towards them, waving.

Zidra shouted, ‘Hello, Lorna!' The girl called back but Ilona could not quite make out her words. When Lorna was almost at the car Mr Jones drove a little faster. The girl ran faster too but she could not keep up. ‘Goodbye, Lorna,' Zidra shrieked. ‘See you at school tomorrow!'

‘Is that where Lorna lives?' Ilona said.

Zidra did not answer, so engrossed was she in waving.

‘The Abos have been camped there for some time,' Mr Jones said. ‘Reckon the police will be coming by soon to move them on. Though maybe they'll wait till the farmers have got their peas picked and potatoes dug.'

‘Move on where?' Ilona pulled at her daughter, who was leaning out of the window waving.

‘Up the coast. Picking further north. Or there's work in the sawmills. But where they don't want to go is back to the reserve at Wallaga Lake. Can't say I blame them either. Though it's a disgrace the way they're living here.'

Mr Jones ran a finger between his collar and his neck as if it were chafing him, or perhaps it was the irritation of seeing
the Aborigines' camp. He did not say any more, nor did she wish to probe further, especially in front of Zidra. Anyway, all his concentration should be directed at negotiating the sharp bends in the road as it descended into Jingera.

However she could not rid herself of the image of the camp. At least the people in this one were free to leave, or so she supposed. She would ask Zidra to invite Lorna home for afternoon tea. She wanted to meet this girl whom her daughter had befriended.

Zidra watched Lorna. Lying face down on the ground, Lorna wriggled like a snake through the gap under the grey paling fence. One sock had slipped down so that her right heel was exposed, and her sandshoes were worn and dirty. Behind her she left a small tunnel through the long green grass.

‘This way, Dizzy!' Lorna's voice was a little muffled. ‘Come on, you slowcoach!' Now her head peered over the top of the fence. So wide was her grin that it seemed to split her face in two. A few blades of grass were caught up in her wavy black hair.

Zidra lay down on the grass. Feeling it prickling through her blouse, she inched along the tunnel Lorna had made, and squirmed out the other side. Lorna held out a calloused hand and pulled her up.

‘We'll get to the lagoon this way.' Lorna pointed along the lane, which ran behind the houses opposite where Zidra lived, and right down to the water. ‘Then we'll double back to the jetty. When yer ready to go home it's straight up the hill.'

‘How will you get home?'

‘Around the lagoon and across the paddocks.' Lorna shrugged. ‘Won't take me long. I got all afternoon.' She started skipping along the lane.

Zidra tried skipping but that was no good; she had to long jump to match Lorna's stride. Lorna imitated her and they laughed so much that Zidra got stitches and doubled over. When something hard hit her leg she thought it was Lorna but her friend was staring up the lane. ‘Watch out,' she whispered. ‘Get ready to run.' Looking around, Zidra saw Roger and Barry and two other boys from school running down the lane towards them, hands full of pebbles and faces creased with concentration.

‘Go home, wogs! Don't wancha here, ya bloody reffoes.'

‘Get outta 'ere, ya bloody Abo!'

More pebbles rained about them. One hit Zidra on her face. It hurt and she started to feel frightened. Lorna picked up a pebble and hurled it back. It struck Barry on the leg. He howled and lobbed a stone at Lorna. Though laughing defiantly, she put a hand on Zidra's arm and said, ‘Run, Dizzy, we gotta get out of here.'

Zidra reeled as another stone hit her. This time it landed on her chest and almost knocked her to the ground.

‘Pick on someone yer own size,' Lorna yelled.

‘He is my size,' Zidra said, momentarily confused.

‘There're four of them and two of us. Twice two is four.' Lorna's eyes were sparking almost as if she was enjoying the fight. Or maybe it was anger, Zidra decided, as she hunted around for something to throw. Bending to pick up a stone, she remembered her school-case on the grass several yards up the lane. Her mother would be furious if it got lost; she must get it back.

‘Leave it,' Lorna shouted.

‘Wogs! Dagoes!' shouted the four boys advancing towards them.

‘Jeez, you want your silly heads clapped together,' said a loud, calm voice. Zidra turned to see Jim Cadwallader. Unnoticed, he'd somehow got himself into the lane next to them. ‘Talk about dumb. Haven't you got anything better to do with your time?' Leaning against the fence with his hands in his pockets, he looked as relaxed as if he'd been there the whole afternoon. ‘Why don't you carry on, you two,' he said to Zidra and Lorna. ‘I just want to have a few words with my friends here.'

Deep gratitude made Zidra's knees wobbly, or maybe it was the shock. The morning that Jim had brought around the kindling and laughed at her, she'd thought he was just another smartypants boy. One of those who thought they were better than you for any old reason, but she'd been wrong about that; he wasn't a smartypants boy after all.

A quick glance at Roger and Barry and the others now made her feel almost cheerful. They looked as if they'd been caught out by Miss Neville. Cowish, no, sheepish, was the word she was looking for. She picked up her case and ran down the lane after Lorna. They could've dealt with the boys even without Jim, Lorna said. But Zidra wasn't so sure. They ran all the way to the jetty. Although it was deserted – and Zidra would, for once, have preferred to be where there were adults – she followed Lorna onto the planking. Lorna bounced along as happily as if the stoning had never happened while Zidra followed more slowly. There were big gaps between the boards and through these gaps she could see clear water and, below that, sand and bits of weed.

The girls sat side-by-side on the bottom step at the end of the jetty. It was a bit damp, but it was out of sight of anyone on the shore. Zidra stared out over the lagoon and took deep breaths to steady herself. Two black swans were cruising along
on the far side of the water and a pelican followed them at a slight distance, as if it was in charge. The water in the lagoon was flowing towards the sea, towards the narrow mouth of the estuary that was just below the headland.

‘Once the tide comes in the water starts flowing the other way,' Lorna said.

‘I know,' said Zidra, although she didn't. To make up for this lie, she asked Lorna when the tide would turn. Lorna knew everything about tides and the weather, but she was even worse than Zidra at multiplication. It was because she'd moved around so much and hadn't had a decent schooling. That's what Mrs Bates had told Mama yesterday after the piano lesson.

‘Got something for you.' Lorna pulled out of her pocket a small flat shell, wider than it was high, and almost as pink as fairy floss. It nestled in her paler pink palm. Zidra reached out and stroked the seashell; it looked smooth but it had fine ridges that only touching could reveal.

‘It's lovely.'

‘You can have it.'

A present; how Zidra loved to be given presents. She scooped up the pretty pink shell and stroked its surface again. She smiled at her friend. She'd like to give her something in return. Then she remembered it, the little wooden elephant – about the same size as the shell – that she'd been carrying around for days.

Putting a hand into her pocket, she pulled it out. Without a moment's thought she held out both her hands, palm side up. On one palm lay the bright pink shell and on the other lay the green elephant. ‘Take it,' she said. ‘I'd like you to have it.'

‘You sure?'

‘Of course I'm sure.' Although now Zidra thought about it, she was starting to have her doubts. This was no sort of a swap.
A pink shell that could be picked up from any old beach for an exotic green elephant that could only be found at Woodlands. But Lorna's hand moved so fast that all Zidra saw was a blur, and the elephant had gone straight into her friend's pocket.

It's better to give than to receive, Zidra reminded herself; one of Mama's sayings that Zidra had never thought much of. She'd rather receive than give any day.

She looked at the pink shell and held it up to the light. It cast a rosy light. She'd never seen anything quite like it before. It wasn't just any old shell but a special shell, and probably the only nice thing Lorna had to give.

‘No one at school's ever given me anything before,' Lorna said, caressing the elephant. ‘This is the best present ever.'

Zidra smiled. Now she was glad she'd given it to Lorna. Maybe Mama was right. Giving was better than getting. ‘That's Jingeroids for you,' she said. ‘A mingy lot. No one at school's ever given me anything either. Not even Miss Neville.'

‘She's not allowed to whack the girls,' said Lorna, laughing. ‘Glad you've come, Dizzy.'

‘Me too,' Zidra said automatically. Afterwards she realised she meant it.

They sat in silence for a while. The light shimmered off the water like little light bulbs going on and off. Soon the water began to advance up the lagoon again, in small ripples that slapped against the piles of the jetty. The tide was turning, just as Lorna had said it would.

‘Time to go,' she said. ‘Mum'll worry if I take too long to get home.' The word Mum still sounded strange but Mama was acquiring many names. There was the indoor name of Mama and the outdoor name of Mum, and then there was what she called herself, Ilona, and what the others like Mr Bates had started to call her, Elinor. Four words for the one person:
Mama, Mum, Ilona and Elinor. ‘Mum's still not used to me coming home on my own.'

‘She'll learn.'

Zidra wasn't so sure. It would be good to have a sister like Lorna, or maybe even a brother like Jim, to share some of Mama's attention. Though at least she had some friends now. And a present too – Lorna's beautiful pink shell.

Lorna headed off around the edge of the lagoon and into the bush, while Zidra trudged up the hill. When she was almost home she heard shouts from the top. Boys with billycarts were milling about in front of the war memorial. Her hands started to tremble and she wished Lorna were with her. Hoping the boys wouldn't see her, she walked more slowly, close to the ragged hedge bordering the gravel verge. Then she realised that one of the boys was Jim. He waved at her and she waved back. The others didn't notice, they were so intent on lining up their carts. Once through the front gate she felt safer. Now she could hear the sounds of Mama giving a piano lesson, a five-finger exercise that was being endlessly repeated.

‘I'm home, Mama!' Zidra stuck her head around the door of the lounge room. Elizabeth, a girl of about eleven from school, was sitting at the piano next to Mama.

Mama looked around briefly and said, ‘You're a little late, darling.'

‘Had stuff to do,' Zidra said vaguely, but she needn't have worried. Mama was focusing on the piano keys again; you'd have thought daughters would matter more than an old piano. Maybe she could have stayed out later with Lorna after all, though Mama was probably saving up her complaints ready to tell her off once the lesson was over.

Zidra went into the kitchen. She took the milk jug out of the ice chest and poured a glass. After gulping this down, she
selected the largest apple from the fruit bowl on the dresser, and wiped her milky upper lip on the tea towel. Anxiety about Roger did not prevent her from going outside again. Down the back steps, along the side passage and under the hedge without being seen by anyone. Munching her apple, she watched the billycarts race down the hill. Maybe the Cadwallader boys would let her have a go one day but she wouldn't be asking any favours while that Roger was hanging around.