Stillwater Creek

by Alison Booth

  ‘Get engaged instead,’ Jack said lightly. ‘It’s just as effective but half the cost.’

  Peter had nothing more to say. One by one the Woodlands lights were switched off. Jack stubbed out his cigarette and the two men returned to the house.

  In the guestroom he’d been allocated, Peter folded down the counterpane and washed his face at the basin. Unused to late nights, he felt wide awake now. That critical hour when his body would switch from wakefulness into slumber had long since passed, probably over the dessert. After opening the window wide, he leant on the sill and breathed deeply the fresh night air. A jasmine vine must be growing somewhere below the window. Its rich scent filled his nostrils and reminded him of that first summer in England all those years ago, a fresh young pilot from the antipodes. That summer when he’d been both innocent and idealistic; that last summer before he grew up.

  It was hard to believe that the war had ended so many years ago, when the ripples from its aftermath were still being felt in people’s lives. He’d begun his war with idealism and the insouciance of youth. Flying was great fun, the pilots claimed at first, after a drink or three in the mess. Teamwork and initiative were what mattered, they’d all said, and the excitement, the adrenalin. They’d thrived on that, at least to begin with.

  Just after he’d been transferred to Leuchars in Scotland, just after they’d given him a new Bristol Beaufighter to fly, something had happened to him. Some fear, planted like a tiny seed in his head, began to germinate. A little fear that was not of death itself but rather that he might choose death. That he might choose to fly his plane as he’d seen that pilot performing near Braidwood. Up, far far up into the sky, and afterwards a quick somersault and into a nose dive. Straight down to earth – spinning, diving, spinning, diving – until at last he would lose control.

  It had seemed like such a simple way to go, at a time of his own choosing. That fantasy became a temptation each time he flew out, each time he flew back, palms sweating, hands shaking as he fought this impulse. It was only the responsibility for his crew, who trusted absolutely in his steadiness, that allowed him to carry on. Yet he’d understood that soon something would have to be said. That soon he’d have to tell someone and fly no more.

  The day after reaching this decision, he’d flown a mission along the Dutch coast, and a Messerschmitt shot down the Beaufighter. Bailing out over Holland, he and the navigator had parachuted into Nazi-occupied territory, and so no one had ever learnt of that secret fear.

  After that he’d never flown again and never would fly again. The panic that was vertigo would never leave him. It was with him in his dreams. Especially in his dreams. This was what was keeping him from climbing into bed here at Woodlands: the dreams that lay waiting for him once he dropped off to sleep.

  But he was being stupid and overly introspective. Rarely did he wake up screaming so loudly that others in the house might hear. He wondered why he was thinking of these things again. It couldn’t just be the scent of jasmine outside the window. He should think of something else.

  A few books were piled up on the bedside table: James Thurber, CS Forester, a couple of battered-looking Readers’ Digests, and a book on the history of merino sheep breeding by one JB Langham. He wondered if Judy altered the selection depending on who was using this room. Probably not: music was her thing, as she so often proclaimed. Sprawled in bed, he opened the Thurber and several hours later was relaxed enough to fall asleep.

  Jim stood in front of Miss Neville. After school was over she’d called him into the office and now she was staring at him intently. This made him nervous; not that he’d done anything amiss, or at least not that she could know about. Unless she’d heard about that incident with the billycart and old Mrs Beattie.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here.’

  Nodding, he looked down at his shoes. In spite of the polishing he’d given them that morning – a polishing forced upon him by his mother – they were scuffed. They felt tight too; he’d need new shoes before the year was out.

  ‘I received an interesting letter today.’

  Jim glanced quickly at her. Just then the telephone rang. While she dealt with it – something dull about the new curriculum – he returned to contemplating his shoes.

  After some time she put down the phone. ‘Sit down.’ She gestured towards the chair next to her desk.

  Taking a deep breath, he sat. His bare knees bumped against the desk and he edged the chair back a few inches. The chair legs scraped across the floor but she didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘The letter had some wonderful news.’ Miss Neville’s tone was nicer than he’d ever heard before. ‘I’m so very proud of you. You’ve got in. You’ve got the scholarship.’

  How could this be? There must be some mistake. He’d already decided he wasn’t going to get in.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  So it was true and, for an instant, he wanted to jump for joy. He’d beaten those other boys; hundreds of other boys. Boys from the Stambroke Preparatory School, boys from all over the state who’d sat the exam. He must be brighter than he’d thought and he glowed with satisfaction, but this lasted only for a moment, and then doubts began to nibble around the edges of his elation.

  Maybe all those other boys were just not as bright as he’d thought they were, and the fact that he’d beaten them therefore meant very little. He wasn’t really all that clever anyway, there were lots of things he couldn’t understand and he began to feel quite daunted by the path lying ahead. He’d have so much to live up to and that would mean he’d have to work harder than he did now. In fact, he barely worked at all. The schoolwork had all been far too easy, but things would be different at Stambroke, there’d be much more competition. What if this exam success was just because he’d had one lucky day? When you tossed a dice sometimes it fell the way you wanted it to and sometimes it didn’t. If the only reason he’d got in was good luck, he’d have to allow for bad luck in the future. It was all so risky and he’d have to prove himself by continuing to do well. The thought of failure made his knees weaken. Not only was there that fear, but he’d have to leave Jingera and his family too. That would be hard; he loved it here, at least for most of the time. Sometimes, though, Jingera seemed so awfully small. Increasingly, ever since his trip to Sydney, he’d felt that. It had made him unsettled, although only for some of the time. Most of the time he avoided thinking about it.

  He would have to say something to Miss Neville; she was staring at him with a big grin on her face. ‘G-g-good,’ he stammered at last.

  Now a cold feeling began to creep up his bare legs and spread through his whole body, so that he shivered slightly in spite of the warmth of the afternoon.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased? Perhaps it’s just too big a shock for you. It’ll take time to absorb. It’s a tremendous achievement, you know. This is the first time ever that a child from this area has won such a distinction.’

  ‘Very pleased,’ he muttered, reminding himself again of Miss Neville’s kindness in organising the entire thing, even though she’d got it wrong in referring to him as a child. He was a boy, and one who would soon be in secondary school. A tremendous achievement, she’d said, when all he’d done was something he happened to be good at, or that the others were bad at. ‘Dad will be pleased as well.’ That was an understatement. His father would be overjoyed. At that prospect his glow of pleasure returned.

  ‘And your mother too.’

  This was unlikely. He couldn’t bear the thought of the rows that would follow once she heard the news. It would mean extra expense, she’d said so often enough. She’d begin snarling at Dad again, and Dad would be patient back, and she hated that.

  Maybe he’d wait until teatime before breaking the news. His father would persuade his mother it was a good thing and then he’d go off to Sydney next February, to become a different person. One with a straw boater and a smart blazer, like those boarders h
e’d seen strolling about the perfect lawns on the day of the scholarship exam.

  It didn’t bear thinking about any more. Later he’d return to it.

  Afterwards, strolling down the hill below the school, he began to feel jubilation at his success and found himself skipping. Remembering that he was too old for this, he stopped and quickly glanced about. There was no one to see. Looking back, he caught sight of Miss Neville standing at the gate watching. Ten minutes ago, being seen skipping by her might have been embarrassing, but now it didn’t matter. She smiled and waved, and he waved back. Then he continued down the hill to meet Andy and some of the other boys at the lagoon. They were there already; he could see them clowning on the bridge while they waited.

  A light wind was blowing in from the south and a few seagulls wheeled along the river, taking advantage of the direction of the breeze to speed their flight. Just before the bridge they turned north and their cries became barely audible above the thudding of the breakers. That would be him next February, heading north to Sydney and a brand new life. He didn’t want to think about this yet. Later, when he was in bed, he would think about it and get used to the idea.

  Standing on the grass in front of the Cadwalladers’ boathouse, Zidra waited for Lorna’s response. ‘We shouldn’t take it, Dizzy,’ Lorna said, although her glowing eyes sent a different message.

  ‘Are you going to come wiz me or simply stand there grumbling and drawing attention to yourself?’ That’s what Mama had said to Zidra in the shop yesterday when she’d wanted to buy some licorice sticks. Hands on hips and eyes narrowed, Zidra found it satisfying to pass on those words to Lorna in Mama’s accent. Taking out the boat would be a way of paying her back for her stinginess, and it would spice up the afternoon too. Lorna gave a gratifying giggle.

  Zidra and Lorna often sat on top of the boat, beached upside down in the old boathouse, and imagined themselves into adventures. Marauding pirates on the high seas, or shipwrecked sailors hitching a ride home on the back of a migrating whale. Sometimes the girls crawled underneath the boat and pretended they were inside a hut, hiding from enemies, or surrounded by bandits carrying sharp knives, who were waiting to disembowel them, or worse. Zidra wasn’t so keen on that game. Being under the boat made her feel shut in and the salty stink of damp wood made her feel sick, but today they’d have a proper adventure, a real one rather than make-believe. They’d take the boat out onto the lagoon and row away from the town so no one would see them. Only for half an hour or so because she didn’t want to be home really late; she didn’t want to be home so late that Mama noticed. You could get your own back on someone without them needing to know. That way everyone felt good.

  It was hard work overturning the boat but eventually they succeeded, and with only a few scratches. The boat itself was almost beyond damage, a bleached carcass that might once have been painted grey. Zidra took off her shoes and put them on the bench seat in the bow of the dinghy, next to Lorna’s scruffy sandshoes. Picking up a rusty old can that was lying on the sand, Lorna threw it into the bottom of the dinghy. ‘The boat leaks,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen Mr Cadwallader out in it. At night. He has to stop rowing and bail it out.’

  ‘What are you doing roaming about at night?’ But Zidra didn’t wait for an answer because something more urgent had just occurred to her. ‘You can be in charge of bailing,’ she said. The alternative was rowing and, though that might be hard work, it was her adventure today and she wanted to be in charge.

  ‘Bet you’ve never rowed.’

  ‘Have so. Often, but I’ll only row to begin with. We can take it in turns after a bit.’

  ‘When did you last row?’

  ‘Sydney.’ In fact, that was the first and the last time, with Mama and Papa on the Parramatta River, and then only for a few minutes before her father had seized the oars and said they’d end up being washed out to sea. But now she was so much bigger and stronger, she felt sure it would be easier. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Lots of times.’ Lorna looked shifty-eyed though, as if she might be lying.

  Together they pushed the boat further into the shallow water. Zidra climbed into the dinghy and put the oars into the rusty rowlocks. Lorna pushed the boat further out. ‘Get in!’ Zidra shouted, anxious that Lorna might be left behind. The boat was floating towards the deeper channel only a few yards away. Here the water swirled around the bend in the river and once in that, she would have to pull hard against the current to move upriver and away from the town. Laughing, Lorna clambered on board, and sat in the stern with the bailing can clenched between her knees. Zidra pulled hard at both oars. One skimmed the water while the other dug in too deep and the dinghy started to change direction.

  ‘Pull equally,’ shouted Lorna.

  Zidra heaved again at the oars, this time symmetrically. Now they were into the channel and the rapid flow of water pushed the boat around so they were facing downstream instead of upstream.

  ‘The left oar, Dizzy! You gotter right the boat!’

  Zidra dragged hard several times with her left oar and the dinghy changed direction again.

  ‘Now both oars. Harder, Dizzy!’

  Zidra would have liked to tell her to shut up but had no spare breath. She pulled with both oars and the boat moved slowly forward. Again and again she heaved, and at last they started to move upstream against the current. It was harder work than she’d imagined. She might have asked Lorna to take over if they’d had the time to change position.

  ‘We’ve gotter get across a bit, away from the main channel,’ Lorna said, bossy as usual. ‘Head her across so we can row up through the shallows. It’ll be easier going there.’

  Zidra tried to do this but again dug too deeply with the right oar while the left skimmed the surface. This threw her off balance and the left oar slipped out of the loose rowlock. Lorna lunged forward to catch the oar before it dropped into the water but Zidra was still tenaciously clutching its end. Over-balancing, Lorna fell into the bottom of the boat, which was by now several inches deep in water; her shorts became saturated. Although still clutching both oars, Zidra had stopped rowing. Lorna, now kneeling on the seat next to Zidra, struggled to fit the oar back into the rowlock. With both hands Zidra began to pull the other oar. The boat spun around to face downstream again. Taken by surprise, Lorna and the oar toppled over the edge of the dinghy. While the oar floated for a moment across the current, she vanished under the surface.

  Zidra scanned the water for Lorna. No sign of her. Now the paddle end of the oar was slowly pushed around by the flow of the river but, just as the oar started to move downstream, a black hand emerged from the water and grasped the shaft. Next, Lorna’s head bobbed up. With both elbows hooked over the oar, she shook the water out of her eyes. Zidra’s panic subsided slightly. Although controlling the boat with just one oar was beyond her, she was at least in the boat rather than the water, and she knew Lorna could swim.

  ‘Head her to shore!’ Lorna bellowed.

  The bow of the dinghy was now pointing downstream. Zidra could see Lorna bobbing about in the water while clutching the oar, which she seemed to be trying to head towards the beach side of the lagoon. Further and further she receded as the current swept the dinghy forward. The shore seemed to be flashing by and soon Zidra would end up at the bridge. She pulled at the remaining oar with both hands, struggling hard against the pressure of the water. At last the boat started to swing around and after several seconds shuddered to a stop. Leaning over the gunwale, she discovered the dinghy was beached in a few inches of water.

  And this was the wrong side of the river. Behind was the dense bush forming a barrier between the town and the lagoon. She glanced upriver. The boathouse was several hundred yards away but there was no sign of Lorna. With only one oar she’d never be able to get the dinghy across the channel again.

  Carefully she took the oar out of the rowlock and shipped it. After clambering into the water, she tried to push the dinghy further in but it was far too heavy and would
not budge. If only they’d thought to bring the rope that was lying coiled up in a corner of the boathouse, she could have tied the rope to the metal loop in the bow and then perhaps pulled the boat back while walking over the pedestrian bridge. Although that would have been in full view of the town, it would be better to be seen than to lose the boat altogether. Harder and harder she pushed but still the boat wouldn’t move. She looked upriver again. Still no sign of Lorna. Despite being a strong swimmer, she could have become caught up in the weeds and sucked under, even drowned. Maybe her body would come floating by soon. Zidra would have lost her best friend and she’d have to explain it was all her fault. Tears started to pour down her face.

  ‘Looks like you’re in a spot of bother.’

  Zidra jumped. Looming above her on the sandy bank was Mr Bates. Now she’d really be in trouble unless she could persuade Mr Bates to help her and to keep quiet about it.

  ‘I’ve lost Lorna,’ she said.

  ‘Lost an oar too by the look of things. If Lorna’s the black girl you hang around with, you don’t need to worry about her. She swims like a fish.’

  ‘But she fell into the water with the other oar.’

  ‘So I saw, but right now she’s standing on the other side of the river waving to you.’ He pointed to a spot several hundred yards upriver on the other side. Sure enough, there was Lorna, waving and apparently shouting, although the words couldn’t be heard over the distant thudding of the surf. Zidra wiped away her tears with her hands, which were starting to feel blistered.

  Mr Bates extended towards her a freckled hand generously sprinkled with ginger hairs. Surely he didn’t expect her to climb up onto the bank with him and risk losing the boat once more. Anyway the offer could be ignored now she knew Lorna had survived, though Mr Bates would come in handy for the return of the boat. Somehow it had to be got across to the other side of the lagoon, and returned to the boathouse.