Stillwater Creek (27 page)

‘There may be a right policy for the wrong reason but there's no such thing as a wrong policy for the right reasons,' she said firmly. ‘In Europe I may as well still be.'

‘In Europe I'm glad you're not.'

She already knew how it felt to lose your family, she didn't have to imagine that. And a dance was not the place for these thoughts; her hands started to shake and her heart to pound.

Only now did she realise how wrong she'd been about Peter. He was kind and considerate and not the arrogant person she'd thought. He'd gone out of his way to help an Aboriginal family and to try to intervene on behalf of Lorna with Welfare. She'd misinterpreted what he'd said about Lorna that afternoon of the tea. He wasn't dismissing her at all. Just as Cherry had hinted, she'd been far too quick to judge him. Let's face it, she'd felt grumpy that day, annoyed that the car had broken down and that Zidra had talked nonstop ever since seeing that Lorna's camp had gone. And even though Ilona had been dropping with fatigue and there were no cakes or biscuits in the house, she'd felt obliged to go along with Zidra's ill-timed tea invitation. That had felt like the last straw but it was such a small thing. His comment about Lorna, that suggestion she would always return, had been an excuse to hate him. Converting all her frustration into anger, she'd made him the target for her indignation with the world. He hadn't deserved it, this much was now clear. He wasn't callous at all. Suddenly she wanted to unburden herself and to her surprise found she was willing, indeed she wanted, to tell him not only how she had mistaken his comments about Lorna that day when he came to tea but also how she had been taken away herself.

Perhaps he had been thinking along the same lines, for he said, ‘Where in Latvia are you from?'

She did not resent this question as she might have a few weeks ago. ‘Riga originally,' she said. ‘When the Nazis came, my parents and sister and I were taken to a labour camp. Is that what the Gudgiegalah Girls' Home is like, a labour camp?'

‘It's a boarding school, Ilona. However much one might hate this policy, it's not a labour camp or a death camp.'

‘It's an internment camp.'

‘Yes, I'm afraid that's exactly what it is.'

Now she glanced at him. He was watching her. His eyelashes were short and straight, and the dark blue of his irises was flecked with a paler blue. At some stage while they were talking he'd ruffled his hair. Funny how a tousled bad haircut could impart such an endearing boyishness.

‘You were telling me about Latvia,' he said gently.

It was impossible to look at him and simultaneously relate her history, which she now felt compelled to do. Instead she focused on his shoes. Brown riding boots, the countryman's footwear, even for a dance. How strange that her brain could register that, while at the same time her heart was beating rapidly and the palms of her hands sweating at what she felt obliged to relate.

‘We were taken to a concentration camp in 1942. They sorted us. For some reason I was chosen for life and the others for death. None of my family survived except for me.' Now she was finding it hard to draw air into her lungs. That old panic was starting. She was guilty of surviving when all those she had ever loved had died. It was almost as if, by choosing to love someone, she was condemning them to death.

But no, there was Zidra, lovely Zidra.

Again she tried to take a deep breath but the air got lost somehow, as if her trachea was lined with sponge. Although she could hardly breathe, she started to speak very fast. There was a yawning chasm in front of her but it was imperative to have this conversation and she would leap right over the chasm, and leap over the detail of those war years too; she could not
describe those, even to a man as sympathetic as she now felt Peter to be. ‘After the war was over, I was selected from the DP Camp to go to England. I ended up in Bradford. I didn't want to go back to Riga because of the Communists.'

From the jug on the table, Peter poured a glass of water and passed it to her. Her hands were shaking. His touch as he gave her the glass was as reassuring as if he were reaching out his arms for her to catch hold of. She might have grasped his wrists if she had not now been clutching the glass.

‘I met my husband-to-be, Oleksii, in Bradford. He too was Latvian, although we had never met before.' At this moment Daphne Dalrymple started to play the piano, loudly and fast. For once Ilona cursed music. It became hard for her to speak above the sound of people's voices competing with the melody. Although she raised her voice, Peter bent his head towards her so that his right ear was just inches from her mouth. It was a large ear, resting flat against the side of the head.

‘Oleksii was a Catholic and after a while I too became a Christian. Notionally at least, for I am not anything in fact. I am only myself, or what is left of myself.' Sometimes she doubted she was even Ilona Talivaldis, rather than a shell left behind by some once-living creature. Yet tonight she knew who she was, and perhaps even where she was going. She added, ‘Though I do observe the rituals from time to time. When it is convenient.'

‘The marking of life's passages,' Peter said.

Averting her eyes from the delicate whorl of his ear, she stared at the tongued and grooved floorboards. ‘Oleksii was very musical,' she continued. ‘Much more so than I. He composed as well as played. He was destroyed by his talent because he could not develop it, and in due course he died.'

‘It can't have been easy for him in Bradford.'

‘Or in Sydney,' she said, and then wished she could bite the words back. She did not want to cause offence to this man who was hearing her confession.

‘It can't have been easy in Sydney either,' Peter said gently. ‘You can be an outsider anywhere. Even in your own country.'

The noise level around them dropped as people began to move onto the dance floor. At the same moment that he shifted his head to look straight at her, she glanced at him. ‘Is that you? Are you an outsider?'

‘Sometimes. Especially since the war. I was lucky to survive the prisoner-of-war camp. A lot of the others didn't. Now I feel I belong only at Ferndale. There I'm a part of the land.'

‘Ferndale is your farm?'

‘My property, yes. It's where I belong.'

Daphne Dalrymple started to play another piece on the piano. Peter held out his arms to Ilona and she moved into his embrace. He held her lightly while she lifted her head high. This was the first time she had danced for many years. Cherry was right, he was a
beaut
dancer. At first she thought she was imagining the violin. But no, there was a man with a fiddle standing next to the piano. Billy the Fish was now accompanying Daphne.

Kids were running around everywhere but wherever Zidra went she was in the way. The whole evening all she'd heard was
watch it
, or
scram
, or
where's Lorna
. She might as well go home, no one would even notice. Then someone turned on the fairy lights that were strung along the eaves of the hall and over the lower branches of the pine tree and everything changed. The hall was the vast cabin of a ship sailing across the ocean and the yard became the decks crowded with people. Beneath the tall mast of the pine tree was a dark space where she would take shelter. She could lie on this thick carpet of needles and never be seen.

But she was wrong.

‘Great spot you've got here,' said Jim. ‘Mind if I join you?'

He sat cross-legged next to her and immediately she began to feel more cheerful. Just as he'd opened his mouth to say something, Roger O'Rourke came barging up. Right away she knew Roger wanted to get even with her for laughing when his parents roused on him. Bracing herself, she waited.

‘Wotcher doing here, eh? Got any smokes, Jim?'

‘No. We're just talking, that's all.'

‘Jim loves Zidra. Zidra loves Jim.' Roger danced around them, chanting.

If she ignored him, maybe he'd go away. She sneaked a quick look at Jim to see how he was taking it. You could see he didn't care. ‘Bugger off, you little twerp,' he said.

In spite of this, Roger didn't seem to want to leave. He leant against the rough tree trunk and idly kicked at the pine needles while simultaneously picking at a scab on his elbow. ‘I heard your Ma talking to Mrs Bates,' he said to Zidra.

‘What about?' Her voice came out even sharper than she'd intended.

‘Menzies and stuff. She's a Commo, your Ma.'

‘No she's not,' Jim said. ‘She had a letter published in the
Burford Advertiser
about Hungary. How can that make her a Commo? She's against the Reds not for them.'

‘My dad said she's a Red.'

‘You're a Red,' said Zidra. ‘Red hair; red freckles. Red, red, red Roger.'

‘Reds under the bed,' said Roger giggling. ‘Better watch out for yours.'

‘Yours more like.'

‘I'm in the top bunk and Johnno's in the bottom.'

‘Reds under
your
bed then,' said Jim. ‘Johnno's hair's even redder than yours.'

Grinning, Roger pulled off the scab and flicked it into the long grass next to the fence. ‘Sure you haven't got any smokes, Jim?'

‘Mum would skin me alive if I did, and put me through Dad's sausage machine.'

Zidra smiled although it wasn't much of a joke. Especially as she wouldn't have put it past Jim's mum to lose her temper and carve him up if she caught him with a cigarette.

‘Betcha don't know where Lorna is,' Roger said.

‘Bet you don't either,' Jim said. She could tell without looking he was checking on her reaction.

‘Do so. Just heard she's gone to an orphanage.'

Stupid Roger, thought Zidra, and decided to leave the questioning to Jim. He didn't let her down. ‘How can she go to an orphanage when she's not an orphan?' he asked.

‘'Cause she's an Abo,' Roger said defiantly.

‘That's no reason.'

‘Ask Dad then. That's what he said, and she'll never be able to go home.'

‘Where is this orphanage?'

‘Gudgiegalah Home.'

‘That's not an orphanage.'

‘What is it then?'

‘A home for girls.'

‘What for, if they're not orphans?'

‘It's for Aboriginal girls whose families can't look after them.'

‘Lorna's family look after her,' Zidra said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

‘Half-caste girls.'

Zidra now felt completely confused. Lorna had gone to the Sutherlands', that's what Mr Jones had said. Then Mrs Bates had said she was at Wallaga Lake. And now stupid Roger had made up another story, just to upset her; he knew what good friends she and Lorna were. Then to say Lorna was half-cast instead of being fully and perfectly cast was too much. ‘There's nothing wrong with Lorna,' she said. ‘She's beautifully cast. She can run faster than anyone.'

‘Not cast,
caste
,' Jim said quickly. ‘It means race.'

‘What's half-caste then?'

‘One parent black, one white.'

‘But her father's black, I've met him.'

‘He's not her father,' Roger said, smirking.

‘How do you know?'

‘Just do.'

He was wrong about everything, the idiot. She glared at him but already he'd lost interest, his eyes fixed on a game of tag that someone had started up. Once he'd gone, she said to Jim, ‘Have you heard anything about Lorna?'

‘I heard Mrs Dalrymple tell someone just now that the Welfare had taken her.'

‘Not to the Sutherlands'?'

‘No. To Gudgiegalah Girls' Home, like Roger said.'

‘Everyone says something different.' Mrs Dalrymple and Roger must have got it wrong.

‘That's probably 'cause they don't know. It's all rumours.'

She waited to see if he had any more to say. Above their heads, the fairy lights twinkled from the pine branches. She watched him start to gnaw at one of his fingernails. In spite of the warmth of the night air, she shivered. Funny how you could feel so alone even when you were surrounded by people. Maybe she'd wake up and discover Lorna hadn't gone at all.

‘It's not as bad as you think.'

‘But she'd be away from her family.' She didn't add that school would be intolerable without her. The loneliness. The teasing. The taunts.

‘Think of it as if she's going away to school. If she has gone. Like me next year. Off to a new school.'

‘But she can never come home, that's what Roger said.'

‘She'd be able to come home when she's grown.'

‘That's years away.' Years and years, an eternity. She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and her eyes began to water. Surreptitiously she wiped them with the back of her hand. Only
when she felt that her voice wouldn't quaver did she add, ‘All my friends are going away. When are you coming home?'

‘Every holiday.'

But there'd be that everlasting term in between holidays. Blinking away more tears, she looked over the yard. Some of the younger kids were beginning to get tired. Quarrels were breaking out and little ones starting to throw tantrums. That's what she'd like to do: stamp and bellow and hurl herself on the ground, and then to shout
don't
and
no
and
why Lorna?

Yet she'd felt a bad thing was coming. She'd felt it ever since that night before the boat trip, when she'd woken up thinking Lorna was telling her something. The telepathy was real but Mama had been wrong about its meaning. A variety of emotions now battled within her. Anger with her mother for misinterpreting that dream. Rage with the world that she was losing Lorna. Anxiety for what Lorna must be feeling, and worst of all, this terrible feeling of sadness. Struggling to retain control of herself, she was but dimly aware of Jim's awkward pat on her forearm.

Ilona's head was spinning, not with alcohol for she had not touched a drop all evening, but with music, with dancing, and – she was at last willing to admit it – with the intoxication of Peter's presence. Standing next to her at the piano, he was turning the pages of the music at exactly the right time. Not that she needed this assistance, she was perfectly capable of turning the pages herself, and indeed she felt so confident tonight that she could have played these pieces blindfolded. Plus Billy the Fish was making the violin sing like a human being accompanying her playing; an unexpected talent that added to her pleasure in the music.

On finishing her last piece, she glanced up at Peter. He smiled and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. Before he had a chance to withdraw it, she gently put her hand over his and watched his face light up. Then she remembered Zidra.

‘I am such a bad mother,' she said, jumping to her feet. ‘I must find Zidra. I had almost forgotten about her.'

She weaved her way through the packed hall, and into the kitchen that was empty now apart from piles of dirty plates and a ragged-looking dog chewing at a bone under the table. She clattered down the back steps of the hall and stumbled a little on the rough grass at the bottom. Bill Bates, part of the knot of men wrapped around the beer keg, caught her and Mr O'Rourke seized her other arm.

‘Steady on,' O'Rourke said, as if she might be intoxicated when it was he, she suspected, who was shickered.

‘My heels,' she explained, laughing and extricating herself from the men's steadying grip. ‘Have you seen Zidra anywhere?'

‘Sitting under the pine tree,' O'Rourke said. ‘I'll show you.' He led the way across the grass, as if she might have trouble distinguishing it from the other trees, all eucalyptus, encircling the yard.

‘Zidra!' she called.

‘We're here, Mrs Talivaldis!' Zidra and Jim were sitting side-by-side on the pine needles.

‘I wondered how you were getting on,' Ilona said. ‘I have finished playing the piano and wondered if perhaps you might be feeling neglected.'

‘I want to go home now, Mama.' Zidra's voice sounded strained. The excitement had been too much for her.

Ilona crouched down next to her. ‘Don't you want to hear Billy the Fish doing his solo?' she said gently.

‘Billy the Fish is terrible,' said O'Rourke. ‘You oughta go home before then.'

‘But he is a wonderful musician,' said Ilona. ‘He plays the fiddle with so much passion.'

‘You haven't heard him on the accordion, but,' said O'Rourke. ‘Terrible songs, those, and rude too. That's why he's on at the very end. So the kiddies won't hear.'

It was the singers rather than the musician who were so terrible, Ilona suspected. ‘I'll take you home now, darling,' she whispered to Zidra, putting an arm around her shoulders. Even in this dim lighting, her face looked washed out. ‘Are you staying, Jim?'

‘I've got to wait until Mum tells me to go home,' he said.

‘That'll be as soon as the singing starts,' said O'Rourke, laughing. ‘My missus'll be heading off with our lot then too.'

‘We shall make our farewells inside the hall,' said Ilona.

‘Say goodbye, you mean,' said Zidra, quite crossly.

‘We shall say goodbye,' Ilona continued, ‘to our friends in the hall.'

But Ilona's attention was distracted, so she did not hear Zidra's whispered words to Jim. She had caught sight of Peter, who was just emerging from the kitchen. He was standing on the top step and peering down the yard.

He was looking for her. He was looking out for her.