Stillwater Creek

by Alison Booth

  Alison Booth was born in Victoria and brought up in Sydney. After over two decades living in the UK, she returned to Australia in 2002. She currently holds joint academic appointments at the Australian National University and the University of Essex. She is married with two daughters.

  Stillwater Creek is her first novel. The sequel, The Indigo Sky, is set four years on in 1961. Alison is currently engaged in writing the final instalment of the trilogy.

  One of the great strengths of the novel is the powerful description of the landscape, and the impact that it has on the principal characters. What does the township of Jingera represent to each of the main characters in the novel?

  Each views the town differently. For Ilona, it’s the last refuge, and somewhere to eke out her dwindling savings and earn a living. For Peter, it’s somewhere to surf, drink a few beers at the local hotel and then escape, when he is fed up with people, back to his isolated property. For Zidra, the town is a mixture of freedom and exposure to prejudice, but it allows her to form an important new friendship with the Aboriginal girl Lorna. For Jim, Jingera also offers freedom to run wild in the bush and on the beach, but it is also somewhere from which he must get away if he is to develop. For Cherry, the town has brought her happiness through an illicit love affair that can only flourish if she leaves. For George, the town and its environs are his love and his livelihood. He represents the goodness of small-town life.

  Jingera seems almost like a character in its own right. Did you intend this to happen and is Jingera based on a real place?

  Jingera is a fictitious town, although there are many small townships on the southern coast of New South Wales to which it could be related. The book is about the arrival of a new family into this apparently peaceful coastal town, and how this triggers a series of events that profoundly affect the lives of many of the people living there.

  While originally Jingera was intended simply to be the setting of the novel, it developed a life of its own. Each character responds differently to the distinct beauty of the place, and the story also explores how the relationship to the land and other aspects of the natural world can heal and sustain the spirit of some of the characters. One example is George and his stargazing, another is Peter and his relationship to the land.

  The novel is set in 1957. Does the choice of year matter to the narrative and, if so, why?

  I chose 1957 because I wanted a time period in which child pornography and abuse were not on the social radar, and in which part-Aboriginal children were being taken from their parents by a paternalistic regime. In part this was because I wanted to focus on the moral dilemma arising when a woman discovers her husband has a collection of child pornography, and this raises her suspicions that he might engage in paedophile acts. The additional moral dilemma is about forcibly removing children from their families. Both are closely linked in the novel, not only because each concerns the rights of children but also because the removal of the Aboriginal girl Lorna makes it possible for her close friend Zidra to become threatened by the paedophile.

  An additional reason for choosing 1957 was that some of the adult characters were still bearing the scars of the war and the enormous upheaval it caused in peoples’ lives. This made it easy to compare the lives of immigrants with Aborigines, both of whom were on the fringes of society. While this could of course be done in the present time, because we are still a society in which both Aborigines and asylum-seekers might be thought of as fringe dwellers, I wanted to tell the story historically. I really like the long view that an historical setting affords. In part this is because the broader events are better understood, at least to my mind, when they are in the past than in the present.

  One of the main themes in the novel seems to be the human flaw of prejudice. How does the paedophilia relate to this prejudice?

  That’s a good question. The police officer’s prejudice means that he doesn’t see Aboriginal people as human beings. Prejudice is also there in the reduction of people to names – wogs, dagoes, reffoes, and Abos – and most evil of all, tattooed numbers – that downgrade their humanity. But the way people feel about paedophiles is not a form of prejudice like racism. Judgement of paedophiles is based on the unjust action, and not on the person’s status or skin colour.

  Another great strength of the novel is its profoundly humanistic vision and the tenderness with which the characters are portrayed. Are any of them based on real life?

  No. They bear no resemblance to anyone I’ve met. They’re entirely fictitious and turned up on the page unannounced. Some of them even brought friends, whom I turned away!

  Music is extremely important to Ilona as a means of self expression. Does music serve any other purpose in Stillwater Creek?

  Discuss the importance of the scene of the two girls, Zidra and Lorna, borrowing George Cadwallader’s boat, getting into difficulties and being rescued by Bill Bates. Do you consider this is a pivotal scene in the story?

  Lorna’s point of view is never explicitly given and yet she is a vital character. Why do you think the author chose not to present Lorna’s point of view?

  What role does the little green elephant play in the plot?

  The novel is written from six different viewpoints. Did you want to hear from more of Jingera’s townfolk? Who do you think gave you the most insight into the town, and why?

  What are the obstacles that each of these six characters must overcome?

  In what way does the Christmas Dance develop the narrative?

  Discuss how each of the characters have changed by the end of the novel.

  It is the spring of 1961, and the sleepy little town of Jingera is at its most perfect with its clear blue skies, pounding surf and breathtaking lagoon. But all is not so perfect behind closed doors.

  George Cadwallader – butcher by day and stargazer by night – is loved by everyone, except his wife. He only wants the best for his family – yet it’s all falling apart.

  Philip Chapman is a sensitive young boy, a musical prodigy – and a target for bullies. But with his wealthy parents indifferent to his cries for help, his entire future is at risk …

  Then there’s Ilona Vincent and her daughter Zidra, former refugees, now fully-fledged ‘Jingeroids’. When a voice from the past reaches out to them, they’re soon in a race against time to reunite a family that has been cruelly torn apart …

  Once again weaving together the enchanting stories of Jingera and its townsfolk, Alison Booth offers up a heart-warming sequel to the critically acclaimed Stillwater Creek.

  Read on for an extract …

  No bulb in the light fitting. No water, no food. The room hot and airless, the only furniture a battered iron bedstead with a thin mattress and stained cover. The palms of her hands felt sticky. Moisture trickled down between her shoulderblades and into the band of her knickers. Her shift was damp and clung to her skin. There were no windows, apart from a small roof light. Through this she saw the occasional lonely cloud drifting across the pale blue.

  Although without a watch, she knew by the whitening of the sky that it was almost evening. The others would be at dinner and she wouldn’t be there to look after them. This would be the second meal she’d missed today. After running her tongue over dry, cracked lips, she took a few deep breaths to stem her rising panic. She couldn’t bear the thought of being enclosed in this small space once it was dark. Already the walls seemed to be pressing in on her, as if they had a life of their own; a living breathing organism that would crush her once night fell. She could die in here and no one would know.

  The fading light began to turn greenish, as if filtered through leaves that she could not see. She inspected the roof light. Nothing more than a vertical glazed panel where part of the ceiling slanted up at an acute angle. Again she tried the door. Still locked of course, and bolted too. She’d heard the click-click of the two barrel bolts being pulled across after she was pushed inside all those hours ago. She rattled the door and put her shoulder against it; a futile
gesture as the door opened inward.

  Once more she looked around the room, and up at the ceiling. Closely she inspected the roof light. Maybe that glass panel wasn’t so fixed after all; it looked as if there might be a handle halfway up the sash. She’d never be able to reach this though, in spite of her height, in spite of standing on her tiptoes. Again the walls seemed to be pushing towards her, and her heartbeat was becoming frantic. Slowly, deeply, she inhaled and exhaled until the panic started to abate.

  Of course there was the bedstead, she thought. Although it was heavy, she was easily able to push it underneath the roof light. Standing on it, she tried to reach the handle, but it was still too far away. Doubling the mattress over would give her an extra few inches. Quickly she rolled the mattress up, struggling with the lumpy old kapok. Soon she was climbing up onto it. Just as she was balancing there, she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. She had to get down fast. The bed had to be back in its proper place against the wall. No evidence; that would only mean more punishment.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop. The footsteps passed by the door without a pause. Clip-clop, clip-clop. Straight down the hallway to the far end, where they stopped. A door was opened. After a few moments she heard it shutting again, and the footsteps returning.

  ‘Let me out,’ she shouted, banging on the door. ‘Let me out!’

  There was no response, apart from the clicking of metal-tipped heels, straight past the room in which she was imprisoned, and down the corridor. Then there was only silence. And with it she felt the return of her claustrophobia. Heart pounding, palms clammy, mouth so dry it was hard to swallow.

  She wouldn’t give in though.

  She pushed the bed back under the roof light and again rolled up the mattress. After climbing on top of it, she balanced precariously, arms stretched out to each side until she felt stable enough to raise her hands above her head and slowly stretch towards the roof light handle.

  Now it was within reach. She turned it and felt it move. A slight push, and cool air washed in. She gave the sash a harder shove. Hinged at the top, it opened outwards. After placing one hand on each side of the opening, she hauled herself up. Lucky I’ve got arms like an ape, she thought. That’s what they’d said about her when she’d been brought here first, after they’d stripped her and washed her in carbolic soap and scrubbed her all over until her skin hurt.

  As she pulled herself up and over the sill, she heard the plop of the mattress as it unrolled onto the wire bed-base. For a moment she sprawled on the metal roofing. The corrugated iron was still hot, although the sun had now set. Above her, a crescent moon hung low in the washed-out sky and the first few stars began to appear.

  This was the furthest she could escape to, she knew that already. From the top of the three-storey building, with its steep roof dropping away on all sides, there was no way out. Although there were some trees nearby, they were too far from the building. She would never be able to reach their branches. For a moment she wondered if she would only break a leg if she were to jump over the edge of the roof. Probably not. She’d break her spine or her neck too, or be dead on impact. The choice was always hers to try. Not tonight though; not yet.

  In the meantime she sat on the roof, her stomach rumbling with lack of food. The minutes passed, the hours passed. The sky was now swathed with stars. Big mob stars. Years ago, her mother had told her the story of how they’d formed. Once the sky had been dark, darker than anything she could imagine. Darker even than her claustrophobia. Dark until two ancestors had sailed up the river and into the sky, and transformed themselves into stars to shine down on their people. And from that time the spirits of the earth mob after death went up into the sky, and made a river of shining stars.

  Tears filled her eyes. She desperately wanted to see her mother again. It had been four years since the last time. Worse even than this was the manner of their parting, without a proper farewell. How she longed to see her, to feel her warm arms around her, to rest her head on her shoulder, to smell that scent of sunlight on clean cotton. And to feel loved. I love you, she whispered into the warm night air. I love you, Mum.

  An instant before the doors of the school bus clanged shut, Zidra Vincent hopped down the three steps and onto the pavement. She’d just caught sight of her parents’ car parked near the hotel, which meant they must be here in Jingera. Ahead of her were the other Jingeroids, the girls and boys who, like her, travelled to and from Burford each day. Among them was her friend Sally Hargreaves, whose family had moved to Jingera last September. Though, at fifteen, Sally was a year older than Zidra, they’d struck up a friendship on the school bus.

  ‘Want to come home for a while?’ Sally asked. She had freckled skin, blue eyes and long dark hair, and a laugh that could make even the grumpiest of people smile.

  ‘Thanks but I might miss my lift. Saw Dad’s car there and thought I could avoid an extra ten minutes on the bus with the Bradley boys.’ Once the Jingeroids alighted, the Bradley boys were the only other kids on the bus. Living on a property a few miles north of where Zidra lived, their idea of sport was baiting her until she could get off at the entrance gate to Ferndale.

  Now she strolled across the square in Jingera, around the war memorial with its wreath of red paper poppies from Remembrance Day, and down towards the post office. For a moment she stood next to the car, a vintage Armstrong Siddeley, and looked around. The new pub that had opened three years ago was a hideous building, everyone agreed on that. Walls an ugly brick, as yellow as jaundice, and a speckled red-and-ochre-tiled roof that fortunately could be seen only from the headland. There was a new clientele too, the surfer boys who, a year or two back, had got the message that the surf at Jingera beach had a good curl to it.

  The car was unlocked but her parents were nowhere to be seen. She scribbled a note on a scrap of paper from her school-case and left it on the dashboard, before placing the case on the floor in front of the passenger seat, where they could see it.

  After strolling by the war memorial, she accelerated past the post office – hoping Mrs Blunkett wouldn’t catch sight of her, otherwise half an hour would be lost in idle chatter – and turned into the unkerbed street leading down to the lagoon. Weatherboard cottages lined the road; some were semi-concealed by hedges and others had no gardens at all. Several hundred yards down the hill she stopped at a gate, on each side of which was a glossy-leafed hedge studded with sweet-scented white flowers. She used to live with her mother in this cottage. She still thought of it as theirs, even though they’d stayed there for less than a year. They’d moved out nearly four years ago, after her mother’s marriage to Peter Vincent and the adoption that had made him her legal father. The house, what you could see of it behind the vines, seemed shabbier now. Someone from Melbourne had bought it as a holiday cottage but it wasn’t much used. Its windows gazed blankly at her without even a glimmer of a welcoming reflection.

  She opened the gate and walked up the brick path. It had been several months since she’d last visited the cottage, and the verandah floorboards seemed more weathered and splintered than ever. Yet she found it reassuring that they still squeaked in exactly the same places as when she’d lived there. Though she loved everything about Ferndale homestead, visiting the cottage felt like coming home. She sat on the verandah’s edge. The only sounds she could hear were the surf thudding onto Jingera beach and seagulls wailing.

  At this point, Zidra saw her father passing by the front gate, marching purposefully up the hill. He had a rolled-up towel under his arm and wet hair.

  ‘You’ve been surfing. You could have taken me!’ she called, leaping up from the verandah.

  ‘You were at school,’ he said, giving her a hug. ‘Anyway, what are you doing hanging around this place? You’ve got a new home now, remember?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Your mother and I decided to come into Jingera on an impulse. So I thought I may as well have a swim after collecting the mail. There are two letters for you toda
y; they’re in the glove box of the car.’

  ‘Good. Where’s Mama?’

  ‘Seeing Mrs Cadwallader.’

  ‘Oh, that means she’ll be ages yet.’

  ‘She said she’d be back at the car by 4.30. I think one of your letters is from Jim Cadwallader, by the way.’

  Zidra tried to conceal her delight, and to saunter to the car rather than rush at it as she really wanted to do. She took the letters from the glove box. She wouldn’t open them yet. She would postpone that pleasure until after she’d thoroughly examined the envelopes.

  The first letter had a Vaucluse postmark and Zid Vincent, Ferndale nr Jingera scrawled across it in Jim’s spiky handwriting.

  He’d started addressing her as Zid from the time of his first letter to her, after he’d gone off to Stambroke College in Sydney as a scholarship boy. She knew it was to make all his new friends think that Zid was a boy.

  She looked at the second letter. Her name and address were written in block capitals sloping from left to right, in a hand that she didn’t recognise. ZIDRA TALIVALDIS, LAGOON ROAD, JINGERA. The old address and her former surname, but Mrs Blunkett had known which postbox to put the letter in. The envelope was of poor quality paper and very thin. There couldn’t be more than a page inside and there was nothing written on the back of the envelope. She squinted at the postmark that was faint and smudged, and tried to decipher what the letters said. Her heart lurched as she made out the word GUDGIEGALAH.

  Lorna Hunter had written at last.

  Or maybe it wasn’t from Lorna at all. That backward sloping printing wasn’t in Lorna’s style. The message must be about Lorna, and a little worm of anxiety turned in her stomach. Glancing around her, she saw that her father was heading across the square and into Cadwallader’s Quality Meats.