The Indigo Sky

by Alison Booth

  Feeling distinctly put out, he carried his cup into the lounge room and sat there sipping it as noisily as he could. Although brightly wrapped presents were arranged around the Christmas tree in front of the fireplace, it didn’t seem like Christmas somehow. The boys were growing up, that was why. Not so long ago the house would have rung with their laughter and games but not anymore. He and Eileen were going to have to get used to the house becoming quieter and quieter until one day, in maybe ten or fifteen years time, the boys got married and had children of their own.

  He’d be close to old age by that time. Sometimes he felt as if he hadn’t started living yet.

  Jim, aware of some tension between his parents, watched them carefully. He might be imagining it but they seemed wary of one another, and certainly excessively polite. Yet there’d been no obvious disagreement the night before and he’d certainly heard no raised voices this morning.

  The four of them were sitting in the lounge room. In front of the empty fireplace was the artificial Christmas tree their mother had bought three years ago after she’d become fed up with the real pine branches Dad used to buy, and which dropped needles everywhere. Andy’s face was alight with expectation and he too was watching Dad closely. Almost like a dog watching its master, Jim thought for an instant. There was too much need in Andy’s expression, and it made Jim feel uncomfortable.

  Andy’s well-wrapped table lay under the back verandah. They’d collected it from Mr Blake a few days before and Andy had hidden it with a neighbour until this morning. While Dad was making tea in the kitchen, they’d managed to smuggle it underneath the house without being seen. There’d been an anxious moment or two when they’d heard the creaking of the floorboards above them. They’d crawled under the house, into the gap between the sloping earth and the timber floorboards, hoping their father wouldn’t come out onto the verandah to see what they were up to. Only when they’d heard his footsteps heading back to the bedroom did they dare to start speaking again. In Andy’s case it was initially a fit of the giggles and that had made Jim laugh too, and they’d rolled around in the dust under the house until they ended up in stitches. When Andy had recovered enough to crawl out, his hair was covered with spiders’ webs and this had made them burst out laughing again.

  Ever since early morning tea, George had been feeling out of sorts. Eileen’s rejection of his advances and sequestration of his pillow still offended him. That she’d essentially ostracised him from his own bed certainly hadn’t made for a good beginning to Christmas Day. The church service she’d insisted they all attend had been even longer than usual, and he’d thanked God the padre only visited once a month. Now she’d just unwrapped the present he’d given her.

  ‘Lovely, thanks,’ she’d said. Although smiling at him, her tone was flat. She barely glanced at the contents of the box, covered with cellophane so the jug and glasses were visible, before putting it on the floor in front of her.

  This wholly inadequate response was like a slap in the face. The rational part of him knew that this was an overreaction, brought about only because she hadn’t sufficiently exclaimed over the gift that he’d selected so carefully. But why had she raved about the water jug and glasses in the shop in Burford, and not when they arrived in the house? It seemed that certain people always wanted what they didn’t have. And when they got exactly what they desired, they treated it with indifference. It was as if things lost all value through shifting from a Burford shopfront into a Jingera lounge room. Distant fields are greener.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open this, Dad? You’ve just been sitting here watching the rest of us open our presents.’

  George took the small parcel Andy handed him. ‘Is this from you, son?’

  ‘No, it’s from Mum. See the label?’

  George opened the package. Inside were three pairs of green and red argyle-patterned socks. Although he needed new socks and these were in principle very welcome, he hated patterned socks and he didn’t know how Eileen could have forgotten this. Or worse, not even noticed his likes and dislikes after eighteen years of marriage.

  ‘Here’s my present, Dad.’ Jim handed him a book-sized package.

  George took his time peeling off the sellotape and stripping back the red-and-yellow-striped paper. Inside was the latest edition of the little book on the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere. How typical of Jim to notice that his copy was falling to bits. ‘Thanks, Jim. That’s very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘One more to go,’ Andy said, grinning.

  Both boys now left the room. After gathering together bits of wrapping paper, George shoved them into the wastepaper basket. Then he sat down again in his armchair just as Jim and Andy struggled back with a large parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Is that for your father or me?’ Eileen said, smiling.

  ‘For both of you,’ Andy said.

  Eileen at once began to undo the parcel, before George even had a chance to sit down next to her on the sofa to share in the unwrapping. It was clear she didn’t want him anywhere near her so he stayed where he was in the armchair across the room. She pulled off layer upon layer of brown paper, revealing at last an elegant coffee table.

  ‘I made it,’ Andy said. ‘It’s what won first prize in woodwork.’

  So this was what the prize had been for. It was a fine-looking thing, George thought, with an inlay of some blond wood forming a border towards the edge of the darker tabletop. But it was for Eileen, not for him.

  ‘This is sassafras,’ Andy said, running his hand gently over the surface. ‘With an inlay of celery top pine. There’s lots of terrific timbers but joiners don’t use the half of them.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Eileen said. ‘I suppose some are easier to work with than others. Come and sit down next to me. This has to be the most beautiful coffee table I’ve ever seen and exactly what we need in here too.’ She gave Andy a hug and a kiss.

  Without really seeing it, George stared vacantly at the fireplace. He felt excluded from the family group: the three others sitting on the sofa, Eileen sandwiched between the two boys, while he was left out on the other side of the room. ‘Well done, son,’ he said at last, as heartily as he felt able to.

  He didn’t look directly at Andy as he spoke, and so didn’t see the expression of disappointment that appeared only fleetingly on his son’s face before it became an impassive mask.

  ‘I’ll have to turn the vegetables,’ Eileen now said. ‘George, you can sharpen the carving knife for me.’

  Picking up his new edition of the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere, George trod heavily after her to the kitchen. Before finding the grinding stone, he put the book into the pocket of his jacket hanging in the laundry. Later he would compare it carefully with his old copy to see what had changed between the two editions.

  Fingering the one pound note in his pocket, Jim stood watching Andy. He was lying on his bed and pretending to read. They’d had guests for lunch, some elderly cousins of their father’s, a couple in their early sixties who’d driven out from Burford. Andy had brightened up a bit when they’d given each boy some money. But after they’d left again, once afternoon tea was over, Andy had retreated into their bedroom.

  ‘Let’s walk up to the headland,’ Jim now said. He guessed Andy was still feeling down about Dad’s reaction to the table that morning. Jim had winced when he’d heard the words: ‘Well done, son.’ Exactly the response that Andy had reported about the woodwork prize. Yet to Jim’s ears it wasn’t the words so much as the way Dad had said them, in that flat, disinterested way, without even looking at Andy.

  On the headland, the sun still felt hot although the shadows were lengthening. The sky to the east appeared pale and washed-out above the darkening blue of the ocean. At the far side of the cemetery they sat on the roughly mown grass, under the partial shade of a young Norfolk Island pine, its needles standing t
o attention on either side of each branch.

  ‘You must have noticed, Jimmo,’ Andy said, almost as soon as they’d sat down. Savagely he plucked at a handful of grass and began to shred it into tiny pieces. ‘You must have seen how Dad didn’t even give the table a second glance, and he certainly didn’t look at me.’

  ‘I think they’d either had an argument or were about to have one. You know how tense Mum gets on Christmas morning. It’s because of having the roast for lunch instead of tea.’

  ‘It’s more than that. Dad just doesn’t care about me, or anything I do, or anything I make. I’ll never be able to please him, however hard I try. “Well done, son,” is all he says. The stock response when people can’t be bothered making an effort to think of something original.’

  ‘It’s high praise from Dad. You know what he’s like. If he says something’s quite nice it means it’s absolutely fantastic. Understated, that’s what he is. “Well done, son,” is the best I’ve ever got from him as well.’ But it wasn’t, he’d also got eye contact and interest, and poor Andy hadn’t received either of these this morning. ‘Mum really loved it, you know she did. She said it was the most beautiful table ever and just what they needed.’

  ‘I know she did. But whatever I do, she thinks it’s wonderful.’ Andy picked a dandelion flower and began to crumple its soft stalk. As the sun advanced down the sky, even the blades of grass were throwing long shadows.

  ‘Maybe it is because she praises you so much that he feels he doesn’t need to.’ This idea had only now occurred to Jim as a means of cheering Andy but there could be some truth in it. One parent had to balance out what the other did.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Andy. ‘But he’s a practical man himself. He makes things. He repairs things. You’d think he’d take some interest in what I make.’

  ‘Sometimes I think he’s only practical because he has to be. But he’s a bit of a dreamer really. That’s why he likes the stars.’

  ‘That’s just an escape. The simple fact of the matter is that, whatever I do, it’s not enough to make him interested in me.’

  Chapter 17

  For over a week Woodlands had been full of visitors and Philip felt he’d never be able to get his mother alone. Of course, he’d had plenty of opportunities to play the piano for her. And for any other of the guests who could be induced to listen, although he knew they’d prefer to gallop about the tennis court or sit on the lawn in the dense shade of the oak trees where the temperature was always a few degrees cooler than anywhere else. When he played the piano, Mummy always sat listening, face rapt.But perhaps his talent wasn’t enough for what he wanted to do.

  Finally, the last guests left, their cars crunching down the gravel drive. He heaved a sigh of relief as Woodlands relaxed once more into its usual peaceful state. The house seemed blessedly empty. You could wander about it without fear of bumping into people who might want to chat to you and listen to your stuttered response. He hated it if they grew impatient and completed the sentence for him. Often they got it wrong. Worse even than this was when they pretended to understand, when he knew all the time that they’d just got fed up with waiting for an answer.

  With the last visitor gone, he could open the piano and practise for as long and as loudly as he wanted to, without disturbing anyone who might be reading the newspaper or a book or talking. On no account was he to start playing if guests were in the drawing room conversing, Mummy had said. Only if he was already at the piano when someone came into the room was he allowed to continue, or if she specifically invited him to perform. Simple etiquette, she called it.

  As soon as the Chapmans were on their own again, his father vanished into his study to look at books on cattle breeding or The Land newspaper, his favourite reading matter. Now at last Philip would have the opportunity to give his mother the poem that would make her understand that he couldn’t possibly be allowed to return to Stambroke College at the end of January. He changed into a clean shirt and washed his face and hands thoroughly – she so liked him to be neat and clean. While drying his face, he inspected his reflection in the mirror. What seemed like a major blemish in term time looked like a mark of distinction in the Woodlands’ cloakroom. One green eye and one brown eye flecked with green was the only asymmetry of his face. Once he was sure his parents would let him leave Stambroke, he’d grow his hair again and that would make Mummy happy.

  He found her sitting in the drawing room reading a novel. After patting the pocket of his shorts, to check that the poem and letter were still there, he sat on the piano stool. As soon as she put down her book, he would show it to her. Quietly, he opened the piano and began to play.

  ‘Oh, Philip,’ she said, before he’d got through more than a bar or two. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for days but with all these visitors about there’s never been a free moment. Such a lovely Christmas we’ve had, but I have to confess I’m really glad that at last we’ve got some time to ourselves. Come and sit next to me, darling, while I tell you about the wonderful little surprise Daddy has lined up for me. He’s quite the dearest man in the world.’ She swung her stockinged legs off the chaise longue and patted the brocade next to her.

  Philip abandoned the piano and sat down beside her, smelling the delicious scent she wore, Amarige, she called it. Smiling, he snuggled up to her and leant his head on her shoulder. After she’d revealed Daddy’s little surprise, he would give the poem to her. They would have the whole afternoon to talk things over, just the two of them. Later today she would tell Daddy that he simply had to write to the headmaster withdrawing their son from his school. Maybe his parents could hire a tutor for him and he could practise the piano whenever he liked. Somehow he didn’t think Mummy would allow him to go to Burford Boys’ High once he was old enough for secondary school. Or there was always the School of the Air that Charlie Madden had told him about.

  ‘You’ll never guess where your father is going to take me, darling.’

  ‘W-w-w-where?’

  ‘Have a guess!’

  ‘H-h-hotel Australia?’

  ‘Yes, first of all. And guess where to next.’

  He couldn’t think of anywhere else they might go, except perhaps to see cousin Hamish who lived near Armidale in northern New South Wales. That wouldn’t fill her with this much joy though. ‘A-a-armidale,’ he said anyway, to keep up his side of their game.

  She laughed, as he knew she would.

  ‘T-t-tell me!’

  ‘To Europe, isn’t that wonderful? Not by flying boat, alas, they stopped those flights after the war. Oh darling, I’ve always wanted to travel to Europe! Now at last your father has decided he can rely on Hardcastle to run the place while we’re away.’

  ‘W-w-what . . . a-about . . .?’

  She waited patiently while he struggled to say the words. After a moment he managed to say, ‘W-w-hat w-w-will b-become of m-m-me?’

  ‘What will become of you?’ she repeated, laughing. ‘What a funny question, sweetheart. We’ll only be gone for one term, so nothing will become of you. You’ll just carry on at Stambroke the way you would have anyway. For Easter you’ll go to stay with your Auntie Susan and Uncle Fred in Hunters Hill. You like them, I know. Susan’s musical, just like you. Maybe you could go to Giles Mellor’s family at Vaucluse for the free weekend. Giles’s mother sent me such a sweet note after you’d visited them last term. I’ll write you lots of letters of course, and dozens of postcards, and bring you home wonderful presents, so it will be just as if you’ve come along too!’

  ‘B-b-but . . .’

  ‘It’s for my fortieth birthday, darling,’ she said, rather more sharply now. ‘You can’t possibly want to spoil that for me.’

  ‘B-b-but . . .’

  ‘Dearest boy, aren’t you pleased for me? It’s something I’ve always wanted.’

  ‘O-o-of c-c-c . . .�
�� The words just wouldn’t form themselves. It was as if pebbles were stuck in his throat. He took a deep breath in readiness for singing his anguish but at that point the telephone in the hall started to ring.

  ‘Must get that, darling. Don’t you go away.’ She removed her arm and kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose before running out into the hall.

  How she could she do this to him? She was the most selfish creature alive. If only he’d given the poem to her earlier, while all the guests were here, maybe that would have shamed his parents into taking him out of school. Mrs Vincent had advised him to tell his mother sooner rather than later. Tears filled his eyes as he realised that it was too late now. He couldn’t spoil Mummy’s pleasure, he knew that was impossible.

  Yet now how would he survive another term at Stambroke? He began to feel dizzy and slightly sick, and his palms were hot and sticky. Slowly he wiped them on the green brocade of the chaise longue. How she would hate to see him doing this. Noticing the whisky decanter on the sideboard, he crept over and took a quick slug. The liquid burnt his throat and he started to cough. After wiping his chin on the back of his hand, he sat at the piano and began to play Mozart’s Requiem, the darkest piece of music that he knew. He’d heard a recording of it several times on the gramophone and could easily play bits of it by ear. Oblivious now of his mother talking vivaciously in the hallway, he didn’t notice when she shut the door to the drawing room. He felt only a profound unhappiness that manifested itself in sound. He had no control over anything apart from his fingertips as they marched across the keys.

  Later he went to the bathroom upstairs and took the nail scissors out of the medicine cabinet. Methodically he worked across his head, cutting off all the new growth, cutting it until it was uniformly half an inch long. His mother would be upset but he didn’t care anymore what she thought. She did whatever she pleased regardless of the consequences, and so too would he.