Stillwater Creek

by Alison Booth

  In the end Ilona had decided to burn Oleksii’s clothes by herself. Late one evening she’d put them into a cardboard box with some newspapers and crept out to the incinerator, a square brick construction a few feet high. A large red globe of a moon had bobbed up over the roofs of the houses behind the flats. Its jauntiness contrasted with the neglected look of the yard. After crumpling up sheets of newspaper, she’d fed them into the incinerator and piled the clothes on top. One garment she kept out though, a faded blue-and-white-striped shirt, frayed around the neck and cuffs. Raising it to her face, she sniffed: not even the faintest scent of Oleksii remained.

  This was the end and her eyes started to fill with tears. Angrily she’d brushed them away and retrieved the matches from the cardboard box. Her hands trembled so much that striking the match proved difficult and it was only at the fourth attempt that the newspaper ignited. Small blue and orange flames licked and crackled around the edges of the paper, and were soon united in a golden plume of fire of such intensity that Oleksii’s clothes also began to burn. Onto the top of the pyre she’d flung the blue-and-white-striped shirt; there was no point in being sentimental over an old rag. The flames leapt up several feet into the air. In ten minutes it was all over and only the smouldering embers remained. Soon even these were reduced to a pile of ashes.

  But that was all in the past and here she was in the kitchen of the McIntyres’ cottage in Jingera, with Zidra hungry and tired, just as she was herself. Picking up the poker, she prodded the burning wood. Surely the stove would soon be warm enough to cook on. She watched the flames flare up and then shut the stove door. After removing a dead fly from the frying pan, she rinsed it at the sink before starting to fry four sausages and then some tomatoes. The stove top was greasy. The place would require a thorough clean-out in the morning and tonight she should make a list of what to buy at the little general store.

  After they had eaten, Zidra said, ‘Can’t I go outside now?’

  ‘Tomorrow, darling. It is already dark. And the garden could be full of spiders and even snakes and whatever else might be found in a neglected Australian garden.’

  ‘It’s not fair. We’ve got a garden here and you said I could play in it. You never used to let me play outside in Homebush.’

  ‘You can go outside tomorrow morning.’ But first Ilona would check the garden carefully, something she couldn’t face this evening, not when there were all those other things that needed doing. ‘Anyway, it’s late and you’re tired and you need a wash.’ Suppressing a sigh, she started to scrub at the inside of the bath. The brown marks appeared to be stains and would not come off. Harder and harder she rubbed while Zidra continued her litany. At last the bath was sufficiently clean, or at least none of the marks would come off with further rubbing, and she began to fill it with water.

  In the little bedroom that was to be Zidra’s, she made up the bed. Straightening up, she caught sight of her reflection in the flawed glass of the mirror: a slender woman of medium height with a drawn face and usually exuberant fair hair now badly in need of a wash. It was undeniably the case, she decided, that she looked far older than thirty-seven years. She gave the mirror a quick wipe with her handkerchief but unfortunately this did nothing for her appearance.

  ‘There’s a spider behind the toilet!’ Zidra called from the bathroom. ‘Quick!’

  But she wasn’t quick enough and the spider had gone. ‘It was there,’ Zidra pointed behind the pan. ‘You were too slow.’

  Ignoring the scowl, Ilona looked instead at the dark smudges under her daughter’s eyes that were from fatigue rather than the dust that lay everywhere. Tears could not now be far off. After the long day it was no wonder that she was becoming a little excitable and in a way Ilona was glad of it after her calmness in recent months. ‘There is nothing here,’ she said gently. ‘Only a few old spider webs.’ She contemplated the high toilet cistern that was connected to the wall by metal brackets and skeins of dusty webs. ‘In the morning I’ll brush all those down, but not now. I’m too tired and so are you.’ She pulled the chain and water gushed into the pan and swirled away. ‘That will frighten away any insects,’ she said more confidently than she felt. ‘And now you must have your bath.’

  When Zidra had at last fallen asleep in her narrow bed, Ilona put on a warm jacket and took a cup of tea out on to the rickety verandah. The dark shapes of overgrown shrubs defined the lower boundary of the backyard and, below this, the smooth water of the lagoon palely reflected the new moon. Although she couldn’t see the breakers, she could hear their regular pounding. Perhaps one day that sound might become an irritation, or maybe it would always be as soothing as it was now, when she was able at last to leave behind the anxiety of yet another journey that had ended. It was a far easier ending to the journey this time. Everything had seemed less difficult once she had seen the inside of the cottage and its outlook, and observed Zidra’s joy at the prospect of the garden.

  She would wait a few days before advertising piano lessons. After retrieving her notebook, she stared at the figures written in it: one hundred and sixty pounds, three shillings and ninepence was all that was left. Provided she was frugal, this was probably sufficient to live on for a while. It had come from her piano teaching. There had been none of Oleksii’s money left after the funeral expenses had been paid.

  She remembered how affronted Oleksii had initially been by her decision to give piano lessons after they’d settled in Homebush. Before the war she’d done nothing but practise the piano and take exams, for her father hadn’t wanted her to earn a living either, but those days were long gone. Oleksii had clearly forgotten that she’d worked in Bradford when they’d first met. Eventually she’d persuaded him that she would be unhappy if she didn’t teach but it hadn’t been easy. On no account was the money she earned to be used to supplement his meagre earnings at the biscuit factory, he’d said, insisting she open a bank account in her own name.

  Until she’d started teaching the piano in that dreary western Sydney suburb in which there was hardly a tree to be seen, she’d felt lonely and alienated. It was because her English was so poor and she had so little to do. In Bradford she’d mainly spoken Latvian, surrounded as she was by other refugees, and she seemed always to be working or caring for Zidra or sleeping, with no time left for music or for improving her English. It was their hope, when she and Oleksii left England five years ago, that they would have more spare time in Sydney. And for her there had been more time. Too much time, until Oleksii had bought the second-hand upright piano.

  After beginning to play again, she’d been surprised to discover that little had been forgotten, although her fingers were clumsy and stiff, and a part of her that she’d thought was dead began to send forth tender new shoots. That was when she’d hit upon the idea of teaching the piano. Once Oleksii was persuaded, she’d begun to teach and her English began to improve too. Oleksii’s death had changed this fragile equilibrium. Soon afterwards she’d decided that Zidra should grow up somewhere else, somewhere sheltered, a small town rather than a big city. When the McIntyres had mentioned their vacant cottage, she’d jumped at the opportunity.

  Welcome to Wilba Wilba Shire. That sign outside Jingera was surely a portent. But before she could start teaching the piano again, there was a lot to organise, not least enrolling Zidra in the local school and taking delivery of the piano and arranging for the piano tuner to come.

  She began to make a list of things to do the following day. She always made lists, had done so ever since being released from that last camp. They helped her impose order on her days, helped maintain a fiction of sorts that she had some control over the future.

  A few days later, Zidra, hiding under the hedge in the front garden, watched the small boy as he lobbed another stone at the skinny black girl with the torn dress. Her legs were scratched and she was wearing grubby sandshoes with no socks. ‘Cowardy cowardy custard,’ the boy chanted.

  The stone hit the girl hard on the thigh. Zidra winced i
n sympathy. After picking up the stone, the girl hurled it back at the boy. It hit him in the stomach and he doubled over, moaning. The girl, not content with the success of her attack, strode towards him and shouted, ‘Shut up yer bloody bum!’ She shook her fist at the boy. Zidra watched in admiration from her hiding place and muttered these new words quietly to herself.

  Just then her mother came out of the cottage. Zidra crouched lower in the shrubbery. She couldn’t bear to be spotted. Her mother would call out something in the thick foreign accent that had embarrassed Zidra so much from the moment she realised Mama spoke differently from most other people. Zidra herself could pick up accents wherever she went. Mostly she chose to speak Australian English but sometimes she would put on a Bradford accent. Now, hidden in the bushes, she remained silent as her mother stomped down the side of the house, calling, ‘Zidra, Zidra!’

  ‘Zidra, Zidra!’ the small boy mimicked once her mother was out of earshot, and then for good measure he added, ‘Bloody wogs, why doncha go back home? Boongs not wanted ’ere neither.’

  What a boong or a wog was Zidra had no idea, although she realised they couldn’t be words of endearment. The skinny girl grabbed the boy by one of his jug-handle ears and dragged him, whimpering, up the street. After twenty yards or so they were joined by some white children. Abandoning her ear-hold, the skinny girl raced up the hill, leaving the others far behind.

  ‘Cowardy cowardy custard!’ the small boy called again, and was joined in his chanting by his friends as they marched up the road towards the schoolhouse, high on the headland.

  The school bell rang and Zidra felt her stomach lurch. These children would be her classmates when she started school on Monday week. Until then she could stay at home to get used to the place, Mama had announced, but after this it was back to lessons. Zidra didn’t want to go to school though. She’d rather spend all her time in this paradise of a garden.

  ‘Zidra?’ Her mother was now running up the side of the house.

  Emerging from her hiding place, Zidra couldn’t resist trying out the expression she’d just learnt. ‘Shut up yer bloody bum,’ she said softly. Afterwards she was glad that her mother didn’t seem to hear.

  That afternoon, Zidra hid under the hedge again to watch the children going home but she couldn’t hear any voices. No sounds at all apart from a faint rustling as a breeze lifted the leaves of the hedge and the distant thump of the surf.

  ‘Wotcher doing under here?’

  Zidra gave a little squeak. The voice was coming from right next to her, and there was the skinny black girl, crouched under the hedge not more than a yard away.

  ‘Did I scare you? Didn’t mean to.’ The girl smiled, showing all her teeth. They were very white. Zidra liked the way she smiled so you couldn’t help smiling back. The girl’s wavy hair was cut in the same style as Zidra’s but prettier; Zidra hated her own curls.

  ‘I saw you this morning throwing rocks.’ Zidra tried to keep the admiration out of her voice.

  ‘That was just at Barry,’ the girl said. ‘He started it. Gotter stick up for yerself at school. No one else will. Anyway, I knew you were under the hedge. The others didn’t, but I did.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Saw your face. Couldn’t miss that little yellow moon shining out of the bushes.’

  Zidra laughed. She liked this image and the kindliness she felt in the girl. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lorna Hunter. I know yours already. Heard your mum call you this morning.’

  ‘Bet you don’t know my last name though,’ Zidra said, and then wished she hadn’t. Kids sometimes laughed when they heard it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Talivaldis.’

  Lorna didn’t laugh. ‘It’s nice,’ she said. ‘Sounds like a song. I’ve heard music coming from your house. Do you play the pianner?’

  ‘I’m learning but I hate it. She’s a teacher.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mother. She sings too.’

  ‘I love singing.’ Lorna broke into song. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. There were no words to the song, just pure sound. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful, Zidra thought, even Mama singing.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely voice,’ she said.

  Lorna gave her infectious smile again. ‘I can show you some really good places to play,’ she said. ‘Maybe after school one afternoon.’

  ‘What sort of places?’

  ‘Bush places, swimming holes in Stillwater Creek, that sort of thing. Why doncha go to school?’

  ‘I’m starting a week on Monday.’

  ‘They might gang up on you, some of them. ’Specially the boys. I’ll look out for you, though. Miss Neville will too. She’s tough but she’s nice when you get to know her.’

  ‘I met her yesterday and she wasn’t all that nice. Put me right off the tables.’

  ‘She’s got a thing about multiplication tables. Gotter learn them off by heart.’

  Zidra was just about to reply when her mother came out of the front door and down the front path. ‘Zidra!’ she called. ‘Who are you talking to under the hedge?’ She bent down, smiling.

  ‘My friend, Lorna.’ When Zidra looked around she saw that Lorna had gone as noiselessly as she had arrived.

  ‘Is that a pretend friend or a real one?’

  ‘A real one, of course,’ said Zidra, embarrassed in case Lorna was in the street, listening. She wriggled through the hedge and peered out the front but Lorna was already at the bottom of the hill, almost as far as the lagoon.

  ‘You will make lots of friends when you start school,’ Mama said, when Zidra crawled out of the hedge. ‘And now we must remove all those leaves from your hair before you come inside.’

  ‘She was here a minute ago,’ Zidra said, scuffing at a stone with her foot. ‘She’s not pretend. You frightened her away.’

  ‘Of course she was here.’ Mama put her arm around Zidra’s shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. ‘Try not to damage your shoes, darling. I polished them only this morning.’ Together they inspected the shoes; they were dusty and scratched.

  ‘I need sandshoes for playing in,’ said Zidra. ‘Like Lorna’s.’

  Zidra refused to go into the post office with her mother. Mama was going to ask Mrs Blunkett to put her advertisement for piano lessons in the window. There was a queue inside and waiting in that couldn’t possibly be as interesting as hanging about outside.

  A rickety old picket fence surrounded the small square of garden next door to the post office. One of the pickets had fallen sideways. Zidra thought it would be easy to get it to stand up straight again. The picket was only held with one rusty nail at the bottom but there was another poking out of the crossbar at the top. Wiggle, wiggle. If only she could get the hole in the top of the picket to line up with the nail, then it would stand upright. The nail and the hole just wouldn’t align, no matter how hard she struggled. The picket was soft and splintered at the top so maybe she could just ram it onto the nail. She pushed hard with both hands and then let go. The picket fell off the nail at the bottom and landed at her feet.

  ‘Having a spot of bother?’

  Startled, Zidra looked around guiltily. A large fair man a good bit older than her mother was looking down at her. She’d seen him in the street the day before. It was good that he was smiling. It meant that he was one of those forgiving grown-ups rather than the other sort.

  ‘Let me fix it.’ He picked up the picket and managed to reattach it to the crossbar by dint of a bit of wriggling and pushing. ‘There. No one any the wiser now, except you and me.’

  She smiled at him. His moustache was several shades darker than the hair on the top of his head and golden hairs sprouted out of his nostrils. Zidra could see them glinting in the sunlight.

  ‘I’m Mr Bates,’ the man said. ‘Would you like a rainbow ball?’ From a pocket he took a small white paper bag and held it out. She wasn’t supposed to eat anything but apples between m
eals because of her teeth. Her mother said they were as soft as chalk and at great risk of decay, and she’d already had three fillings before they left Homebush. She peered into the bag. Big round sweets; the loveliest looking gobstoppers she’d ever seen. Mouth watering, she still hesitated.

  ‘Go on, be a devil,’ Mr Bates said.

  She wasn’t supposed to accept anything from strangers either, but this man was hardly a stranger, she’d seen him only yesterday. Anyway, Mama was still talking to Mrs Blunkett inside the post office and couldn’t see what she was up to. She reached into the bag and took out one of the rainbow balls.

  ‘Take two and don’t tell your mother,’ Mr Bates said, winking.

  She winked back and took another. One went into her mouth and the other into her pocket for later. Sucking hard, she didn’t feel in the least bit guilty anymore. The illicit nature of this treat was almost as enjoyable as its sweetness.

  ‘I hear your mother teaches the piano,’ Mr Bates said. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

  Answering his question when her mouth was full of rainbow ball was difficult, and anyway there were so many years between now and adulthood. They seemed almost infinite. Infinity bothered her, especially at night when she was trying to go to sleep. It filled her with panic. When she died she was supposed to be going to heaven and life there went on forever. That was even more bothersome because then you had to think of life here ending and how could you realise it had ended if you were dead and in infinite heaven?

  ‘Maybe you’ll be a mummy with lots of children,’ Mr Bates said encouragingly, in the sort of voice grown-ups sometimes used when they were talking to children.