Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  She retrieved the return ticket. He too was lying. Reservations were always kept for emergencies.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve really done all I can.” The shutter fell with a clang.

  The train had already passed on to the nearby terminus and its preparation for the eight p.m. departure back to the seaboard. The platform was emptier than the desert they’d crossed.

  Crippled by her swollen feet, she staggered to the exit. The uniformed attendant had left. There were no taxis; now there’d be none until the evening when preparations for the night train began. Across the driveway, a dehydrated lawn circled tall date palms. In the distance were the sounds of traffic. Dragging the case across the dry lawn, she arrived at a steep rise not apparent from the station. Shedding the high heels, she started to climb in stockinged feet.

  A ragged figure appeared from behind a palm. “Got a quid, Missus?”

  Heart pounding, she halted.

  “Got a quid?”

  Panic took her up the prickly incline. There were still no other signs of people, only the tantalising rumble of traffic ahead. Behind, when she dared to check, the derelict had fallen back to the ground.

  She slowed, but dared not stop.

  A horn tooted.

  She looked up.

  “This way!” A man at the top of the hill was exiting a taxi and descending towards her. Taking her case, he hefted it into the boot. “Lucky I spotted you.”

  She fell gratefully into the back seat.

  He restarted the motor. “Where to?”

  “The Sunview. It’s a Guest House. Thank you for your help.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  The taxi kangaroo-hopped through a right-hand turn.

  “What’s wrong with the car?”

  “It’s the heat. She vaporises,” he grunted. “No problem.”

  Sluggishly recovering, the taxi passed a movie theatre and a row of single-storey shops whose wide awnings provided long strips of shade. The broad treeless street was bare and empty and without life. An approaching car, its driver invisible behind dark glasses and broad-brimmed hat, intensified despair. She ached to be home.

  Leaving the main thoroughfare, they turned north into the outskirts. On either side were weatherboard houses with peeling paint, tin roofs, skimpy brown lawns, grey shrubs and an occasional burst of brilliant flowers. Crammed together, as though space was at a premium, each occupied a small fenced-in square of land. Although the merciless sun had bleached everything except the defiant flowers, it was not unlike the city’s poverty-stricken inner suburban shacks. She must escape.

  The taxi coughed to a halt. “There she is, Miss. That’ll be ten bob.” The driver extracted the case from the boot.

  “Thanks for your help.” She placed the coins in his waiting hand. The fare was exorbitant, but he had rescued her.

  His hand remained outstretched.

  She repeated, “Thanks for the help.”

  Grunting disgust, he slammed back into the cab, screeched a U-turn and left her standing on the gutter’s rim.

  Spirits momentarily buoyed by the trivial victory, she surveyed the Sunview.

  The Guest House was old. Not attractively old, just old. A low weather-board building of peeling paint and corrugated iron, it was simply a slightly larger replica of all the other old and ugly buildings she’d passed since leaving the Railway Station. Between the roadway and the front door was a strip of dry lawn, a glorious red hibiscus, a couple of stunted grey shrubs and a rickety verandah. Crossing the verandah, she located a door knocker behind a wire screen. The scalding metal was too hot to touch. Wrapping her hand in a protective handkerchief, she knocked.

  Two impatient minutes later, the main door opened. From the ominously dark interior oozed the sickening smells of bacon and eggs and burnt toast and unwashed bodies.

  Blotting out the darkness was frizzed grey hair, a baggy blue floral smock, thick legs, scuffed sandals throttling elephantine ankles and diamond-sharp blue eyes.

  “Gail? Gail Mitchell?” Opening the wire door, the frizzled mop ordered. “Come in quick, love. Watch the flies!”

  Clumsily, she obeyed.

  “Elsie Riley.” The wire door slammed shut. “Call me Else. Okay?

  We thought you wasn’t coming. Missed the train or something.”

  “The taxis.”

  “I know, love. Don’t just stand there. Watch your step. It’s dark in here after the sun. Careful, love.” Heaving the case into the gloom, Else led the way down a fetid passageway, through an empty dining room, and out through a back door.

  The searing air of the back yard was almost a relief. Across yet another parched square of thirsty grass was a line of bungalows. Each was separate, unattached to its neighbour. Each had its own set of three steep steps leading up to the front door. Each door wore one of four different colours, grey, pink, green and lavender. The pinks and greens, still glowing from an obviously recent coat of paint, attacked the eye in brutal contrast to their dreary companions, which had possibly once been blue and purple.

  “You remember about the bungalow?” Sweat pouring down face and arms and legs, Else set down the case. “The inside rooms are all filled, only bungalows left. Remember? Your sister wasn’t too sure, but that’s all we got. Doctor’s orders, she said. So it was bungalows or nought. Your sister didn’t say what’s wrong with you.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Undaunted, Else cheerfully grabbed the case and ploughed on. “Doctor’s orders, she said, your sister. We get a lotta them out here. Chest troubles. A lot. Nothing like God’s good clean air.”

  Directly overhead were the purple flowers of a giant jacaranda. In a constantly changing pattern, hot wind was sifting the sun’s rays onto fallen blossoms and chipped brown grass.

  Arriving at a lurid pink door, Else proclaimed, “You’re pink. Just new painted. Green’s done too. Half done. Curly’s on the job winter and summer round the clock. Keeps them fresh as a daisy. Curly’s the better half. You’ll meet him.”

  “Thank you.” She took the key from Else and unlocked the door.

  “You’ll be right, then?” Stepping into the room ahead of her guest, Else set down the case, dabbed at her face with a huge handkerchief, threw a glance to all four corners, and awaited an answer.

  “Thank you,” she repeated. What more did Else want? Surely not a tip?

  “Fine, love …” Else’s pause was brief. Whatever the reason for her hesitance, she was in too much of a hurry to wait any longer. “I’ll catch up.”

  The room was barely ten feet square, its height less than nine feet, the floor stained tongue-and-groove timber. Flaked plaster covered walls and ceiling, each tiny flake edged in red dust. The back of the pink door, coated in dark-stained varnish, bisected the front windowless wall. On one side wall was a dark-stained chest of drawers, near the opposite wall a flimsy straight-backed chair. Against the far wall was a narrow bed, beside it a frayed floral mat. Five feet above the bed was a six-foot wide narrow window.

  Else’s enthusiasm for colour coordination dominated the otherwise dowdy room. A pink homemade cotton spread covered the bed’s thin mattress. Two pink bath towels and a small pink hand towel sat on the chair. At the window, two thin strips of pink curtain fell from the ceiling to just below the sill. Draped across one corner, a skimpy pink ceiling-to-floor curtain created the room’s only hanging space. Perched on the chest of drawers were an old-fashioned hand bowl and a rose-patterned water jug – pink roses. What else?

  Hysteria threatened. The suffocating presence of Else’s pink hand was garishly ludicrous, the stifling heat intolerable. But there was a bed and she was exhausted; sleep was a priority.

  Under the pink spread were crisp sheets, clean, white, fresh and smelling of lavender. Painfully, she pulled off high heels and stockings and slipped on the blue satin slippers. Though the sheets were clean, there were no guarantees about the floor – or the mat, which she kicked under the bed.

  Moving careful
ly, trying not to unduly disturb the chest of drawers that shook with every step, she undressed and lay on the hot sheets. Under the weight of her body, the thin mattress flattened to within an inch of the creaking wire bed-frame. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow. She’d try the Railway Station again tomorrow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You there, Gail?” The shrill cry woke her.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I brought you a tray.”

  “Hang on.” Scrambling back into the crumpled dress and the slippers, she opened the door. “I was asleep.”

  “‘Course you was. It’s natural.” Clambering up the steps, Else set a tray on the rickety chest of drawers. A rose-patterned mug held ink-black tea, a rose-patterned plate thick toast plastered with chunks of marmalade. “This’ll perk you up, love.”

  The combined smells of food and Else’s sweat were overpowering. Her stomach heaved. “I don’t …”

  “Take my word for it, love. I been through it. Fresh off the night train. Feels like the end of the world. It’ll pass. Get this into you. It’ll help.”

  “I’ll have it later.” Acutely conscious that she was friendless in a foreign land, she added, “Thank you.”

  “I’ll wait. The legs, you see.” Else squeezed into the protesting chair.

  “If you don’t mind …” she objected. “I was asleep.”

  “Look,” Else wheezed. “I got more to do than muck around here, love. Take my advice. Drink the tea at least.”

  Obedience would be quicker than further protest, if her stomach co-operated. Collecting the tray, she perched on the edge of the bed, gingerly sipped the sweet black tea, which was unexpectedly refreshing, and tentatively bit into the thick toast.

  “It helps, don’t it?” Else nodded approval.

  “Did you make the marmalade?” Pleasing Else could be important.

  “Me own fair hands,” Else’s raucous guffaw threatened the stability of the chest of drawers. “You’re in the bush, now, love.”

  “What time’s lunch?”

  “Twelve-thirty.” Else slung the empty dishes onto the tray. “In the dining room. You passed through. You go back through it to the bathroom. Why don’t you take a bath? You’ll come out a new woman.”

  “Thank you.” She really was grateful.

  In the doorway, the tray in her beefy arms, Else paused. “The dust’s on its way. It’s that time of year … dust storms. You’ll want to know what the noise is when we let down your blinds.”

  “Thank you. I can secure my own windows.”

  About to descend the steps, Else turned back. “What windows?”

  Turning to the back wall above the bed, she inspected the space between the two strips of pink curtain. Where she’d presumed there was glazed glass was only a mesh of fly-wire. No windows!

  “Poor lamb,” Else clucked. “How would you be expected to know? Like I said, you’re in the bush, love. It’s way too hot for proper windows out here.”

  “What about when it rains!”

  “Rain! Wish to God we had some. It’s the dust, love. You’ll find out.” Descending the steps, Else stomped back across the splintered lawn.

  Standing on the bed, she reached to draw the pink curtains. But each thin strip was firmly fixed to just a foot of wire on either side of four foot of unmasked fly-wire. Anyone could look in! Stripping the pink curtain from the corner wardrobe, she spent a fruitless half-hour struggling without success to stretch it across the window. Until, frustrated and soaked in sweat, she collected fresh clothes, towel and toiletries, and exited the bungalow.

  Reaching an open back door of the main house, protected by a wire screen, she tentatively knocked. From inside there was no sound. She knocked again, more firmly.

  Else’s poster-red face bobbed beyond the screen. “You can’t come in here, love. We’re flat out.”

  “I’m sorry,” she flushed. “I know you’re busy …”

  Else spotted the towel. “Ready for the bathroom? Hang on. I’ll be a sec.”

  “It’s all right. I can find it.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “What do I do about my window? Anyone can look in.”

  “Look again, love. They’re too high. You shoulda checked up back of the bungalows.”

  “I didn’t look.”

  “‘Course you didn’t. Now … the bathroom?”

  “I can find it.” She’d check the window out later.

  “No trouble.” Floured white arms aloft, Else elbowed open the screen door. “Now you’re here, you might as well come on through the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was a furnace.

  “Won’t be a tick, love.” Grabbing a thick cloth, Else opened the black metal door to the oven’s fire box and, making no effort to shield her face, re-stoked the fire.

  Blinded by sweat and tears, she groped towards the far doorway.

  “Hang on!” Else slammed the fire box door shut. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”

  “I can’t see!” She wailed. “I can’t see!”

  “It’s okay, love. It’s okay.”

  “It’s so hot …” She swayed, about to fall.

  “There you go.” Else led her into the adjacent dining room. “Sit a while. Put your head down. That’s it. You’ll be right in a minute.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re busy. I’m sorry …”

  “You shouldn’t a come through the kitchen. Hot as Hades. Not the way to start your holiday.”

  There would be no holiday. Not here.

  “Sit a while, love. Don’t want you passing out on us, do we? When you’re ready, bathroom’s up the passage. Second door on the left. Got that?”

  The dining room, though cooler, was still unbearably hot. Canvas blinds, fitted to the exterior, had been pulled down and secured at an angle that admitted a degree of light. Since her earlier arrival, the tables had been covered in white linen – patched, but clean. On each square table was a lace-covered jug of water, four upturned glasses, four sets of bone-handled cutlery, a set of condiments in lace-covered containers, a heavy glass ashtray and a vase of paper flowers.

  Thin brown linoleum-covered boards, which, as in the bungalow, trembled at every step. Also as in the bungalow, ceiling and walls were clothed in flaking plaster frilled with red dust; and familiar narrow strips of rose-patterned curtain decorated the pane-less windows. The nauseous smells of bacon and eggs and burnt toast lingered, imprisoned by the limited ventilation of the dust-laden wire mesh.

  “The wife says you’re after the bathroom.” Else’s husband, fat, bald and stinking of strong tobacco, was standing behind her.

  “I can manage.” Gagging, she recoiled.

  “Not to worry, dearie. Follow me …” Halfway to the passage leading to the front door, he turned left into a narrower passage and threw open the bathroom door. “Here she is.”

  “Thank you.” She moved to close the door.

  He held it open. “You’ll want a hand with the heater.”

  “I know how to work them,” she lied.

  “It’s no trouble, dearie. I can …” He attempted to ease past her.

  “I’ll do it!”

  “Suit yourself.” He backed off.

  Shaking, she locked the door and listened for his retreating feet. Reassured by the absence of sound from the narrow passageway, she turned on the cold tap. The water was tepid, sluggish and dirty. Quickly stripping, she tentatively lowered herself into it. If she never stopped crying, if she died in here, would it matter?

  Surprisingly, the water was cool and soothing. But the walls were dust-laden plaster, the ceiling mouldy, the bath chipped and the after-smell of unknown bodies sickening. The whole stinking place was primitive. Belleville was the end of the world, and the Sunview Guest House hell.

  Tomorrow.

  The sound of the turning door-knob woke her. She reached for her towel, on the floor at her side. The knob was turning, slowly, secretively.

  She sank deeper.

 
“Gail?” Else’s familiar voice screeched alarm. “Gail! Are you all right in there?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Gail!” Else pounded the door. “Are you all right?”

  Stepping from the bath, she wrapped herself in the towel, and opened the door.

  “Thank God!” Else was distraught. “We thought something was wrong. You been there for hours!”

  “I fell asleep. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

  “So long as you’re all right. Thank God. If you hurry, you’ll be in time for lunch.”

  “I really couldn’t eat anything. If you don’t mind.”

  “No lunch?” Else flickered disbelief. “Are you sure?”

  “If you don’t mind. I ate an awful lot of toast.”

  “I told you it’d do the trick,” Else gloated. “Why don’t you finish your sleep? You’ll be hungry again by tea time.”

  “What about your guests?” It would impossible to return through the dining room. “Are they all in there?”

  “Go out the side door.” Else indicated a side entrance at the end of the narrow passage.

  She dressed, collected her soiled clothes, circled the main building, crossed the dehydrated quadrangle. Veering to the back of her room, she checked the pane-less windows and found that, because a ditch had been dug along the full length of the bungalows, they were all safe from peeping toms. Else hadn’t been lying. Rolled up at the top of all the windows were canvas blinds.

  A few yards away the back of the property, marked by a barbed-wire fence, ran alongside a narrow road. Beyond it was the same flat desert she’d seen from the train, the same low scrub stretching clear to the horizon. Dry, dreary, depressing, it seemed impossibly close to the Sunview. It was no mirage. It was there. So was the arc of white-hot sky, which burned everything underneath it.

  The only things of interest were a single cleared block of land, the frame of a small timber house, and the staccato sounds of hammers. Progress was making further inroads into the desert.

  “Want a hand, love?” Curly’s paunch preceded him around the corner of the bungalows.

  “I can’t sleep with the blind open.”

  “Hang on a sec …” Returning, he set a small ladder against the bungalow wall, climbed a couple of steps and unbuckled the straps that held the blind.