The Indigo Sky

by Alison Booth

  ‘Don’t think you can go sidling out the front door, George. I don’t know exactly where you go sometimes. Swigging down the beer with that drunkard Hargreaves. I can smell it on you when you get back.’

  He chose to ignore this remark. Any response would be construed as deliberately provocative. Eileen was probably feeling pretty much as he was about Jim’s return to Stambroke. George pulled out a chair and sat down heavily on it. His gammy leg was hurting; it was doing that more often these days. Maybe he should get a stool to sit on in the shop. Even when there were no customers, he was on his feet all the time.

  ‘I’ve been alone all day and I’d like to hear a human voice,’ she said, sitting down too.

  Reconciliation didn’t come easy to her. So moved was he by the sorrow in her voice that he said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Jim will have a good year.’

  ‘Yes, but it will be his last.’

  ‘He might get a maximum pass.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Getting As in everything and first-class honours in his honours subjects.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, probably. And then on to Sydney University.’

  ‘If he gets a scholarship.’

  ‘He will. And a living allowance, besides.’

  They sat in a silence that was almost companionable now they’d calmed down a bit. Eventually, he said, ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you, Eileen.’

  ‘That’s all right. I know you’ll miss Jim too.’

  ‘I can’t believe they’re growing up so quickly.’

  ‘Nor I. It seems like only yesterday when they were babies.’

  ‘You’ve been a good mother, Eileen.’

  ‘I’m still a good mother, George.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was too much to hope that she might ever say that he’d been a good father.

  ‘I’m still not keen on Andy doing an apprenticeship next year,’ she said.

  George sighed. ‘The Army Apprentices’ scheme provides more than that. I wish you’d read the stuff that Andy got.’

  ‘Let me finish before you interrupt. That’s what I wanted to tell you, I did read it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘I see.’ It had only taken her a month. ‘In that case you’ll know what it offers. Did you see what they pay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I was in the army I knew a number of coves who’d come out of the Balcombe Barracks and moved up the ranks. Of course that was in wartime, but you never know. Anyway, Andy actually wants to run his own joinery business in time. Think of that.’

  ‘Ilona Vincent says there’s good money in joinery.’

  George winced. When he’d said that very same thing to Eileen some time ago, she hadn’t taken a blind bit of notice. ‘She’d know,’ he said, more rudely than he’d intended.

  ‘No need to be sarcastic, George.’

  George refrained from replying. No response was needed. He guessed the discussion was closed, at least for a while, and with a bit of luck Eileen might accept that an apprenticeship could offer opportunities rather than dead ends. It was clearly going to be easier now Ilona had signalled her approval. ‘Maybe I’ll feed the chooks,’ he said. ‘It’s a nice evening for it.’

  Afterwards, George sat down on the chopping block and lit a cigarette. He only smoked outside and he shouldn’t even smoke there, he knew. Cigarettes were that expensive these days. If you smoked a few packets it was like burning ten-shilling notes, and he’d resolved to give up next time they put up the cigarette tax.

  Through the trees he could see the colour draining from the lagoon as the evening advanced, the water palely reflecting the lightening sky. Against the background roar of the surf he heard birds chittering. Turning, he saw, in the shrubs on the side boundary, a pair of crimson rosellas. They swooped down the garden just as Andy erupted from the passage along the side of the house.

  ‘Have a good day, son?’ George said stamping out his cigarette. Didn’t do to smoke in front of the boy.

  ‘Yeah. Cricket practice this arvo.’

  ‘Ah, cricket practice.’ Really he must take more notice of what Andy was doing. He was growing up so fast, he was taller than George was now. Covertly he inspected his son. All skin and bone but with a handsome open face, and fair skin and hair. George experimented with putting him into an army uniform, like those cut-out paper dolls and their wardrobes that some of the kids used to play with when he was a lad. Andy wouldn’t look too bad in a uniform. All the girls would be after him. That larrikin aspect of Andy would appeal to them too. You just wouldn’t want there to be another war, though.

  Next George removed the uniform and tried putting Andy in a carpenter’s apron with pockets full of tools. He wasn’t sure where this get-up came from. It certainly wasn’t what the carpenters he’d come across wore. Old trousers and shirt more like it. Must have been from that book he used to read to the boys when they were small: Carl the Carpenter.

  ‘What are you grinning about, Dad?’

  ‘Was I grinning? Must be because it’s going to be a really clear night and I might get the telescope out later.’ Although he’d had an early start that morning and was tired, it would be too good an opportunity to let pass. He hadn’t looked at the celestial hemisphere for a while. The weather conditions hadn’t been right and with Jim home he hadn’t really felt like it.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having a look through your telescope again some time, Dad.’

  ‘Sure, son. I’d like that.’

  ‘Not tonight though. Too tired. I’ve got to feed the chooks next.’

  ‘I’ve already done it.’

  ‘Why? That’s my job.’

  ‘Your mother said you had lots of homework.’

  ‘Nah, school’s only just started. Anyway, I like feeding them.’

  He picked up the pail George had left on the ground and clattered up the back steps. As the fly-screen door banged shut behind him, George heard him shout, ‘I’m home, Mum! When’s tea?’

  Jim would be back at Stambroke now, unpacking and settling in. George got to his feet and slowly climbed the steps to the verandah. Just the three of them for tea tonight and it was going to be cottage pie.

  Chapter 28

  It was way too early on a Saturday morning. Zidra’s wretched in-built clock just couldn’t cotton on to the fact that it was a weekend and that she should be sleeping in. A few weeks back at school was all it had taken for her body to switch off that lovely sleeping-in until nine or ten o’clock in the morning mode. So here she was, as bright as a budgerigar, and it was only seven. She could hear distant clattering of crockery from the kitchen that indicated her mother and Peter were already up.

  After climbing out of bed, she flung open all the curtains before collecting from her desk the two letters that arrived yesterday. For a moment she hesitated in front of her favourite view to the west. The early morning sunlight caught the tops of the pine trees and tinted mauve a few strips of cloud above the distant mountain range. Leaning forward, she could see, between the trees, the manager’s cottage. It was empty, although not long after their move to Ferndale Mama had arranged for it to be painted pale pink and the window frames white. Only the rusty corrugated iron roof had escaped attention. Maybe she’d shift in there in a few years time . . . but no, she was going to Sydney once she’d passed the Leaving Certificate, and then on to see the world.

  Sitting up in bed again, she took up the first of the letters from its slit envelope. This one was from Eric and she’d been surprised to receive it. Surprised but pleased, too, for she loved getting letters.

  6th February, 1962

  Dear Zid,

  Just a quick note to let you know you haven’t been forgotten, and I hope you haven’t fo
rgotten me either, the Boy from Walgett whom Jim warned you off, I’ll bet! Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you and the lovely Sally.

  Sometimes when things get tough here – during prep, for instance, when there are insuperable algebraic heights to be scaled that only James Cadwallader seems to find easy, or during prayers – I conjure up the image of Jingera Beach and all that freedom that you enjoy in your beautiful part of the world. Not for me though. To use a cliché (and we all know they’re banned by the cliché police who are everywhere at Stambroke College), you can take the boy out of Walgett but you’ll never take Walgett out of the boy, and that’s why I’m off home again once this last year of school is over.

  I know you don’t like reading about sport. So I won’t bore you with details of our fantastic rowing successes or those on the cricket pitch or the terrific fielding achievements of

  Yours truly,

  Eric.

  P. S. Please give Sally my best wishes and tell her I’m not much of a letter writer, as you will have noticed.

  It was quite a good letter, even at this second reading, and she was touched that he’d bothered to write at all. The other letter was from Jim and ran over several pages. This one she’d read three times already. Even at this fourth perusal, she took it slowly, to string out for as long as possible the joy that reading his words gave her. An even greater pleasure lay at the end of the letter, where Jim had substituted a new phrase – with love from – in place of what he’d written in all those earlier letters over the past years – yours sincerely.

  7th February, 1962

  Dear Zid,

  Thank you for your letter which was such a pleasure to receive as you conjured up so well and so amusingly, what it must be like travelling to Burford on the school bus. But I’m sorry to hear that the Bradley boys continue to give you gip. I would try to sort them out for you, if I were there, although I’m sure you need no help from me. Do remember that there are three of them, not that you can’t count, but that three against one can be dangerous. Anyway, warnings aside, I would love to hear more about the school bus and what happens on it.

  Life goes on as always here, with each morning beginning with rowing practice. Yes, I know you don’t want to read about sport, but this paragraph isn’t about sport, it’s about how I pass my days and in your last letter, you said you wanted to know about that. So if you’re still reading, you now know that we take rowing very seriously. Afterwards we have breakfast; the food is terribly stodgy, but you’d eat anything after exercise. Then we go to chapel, followed by lessons all day, and a bit of training after school followed by dinner and prep. And that’s where I’m writing this letter to you.

  I’m starting to rev up for some concentrated study. I never worked hard in the past. I never felt I needed to, and anyway I didn’t want to be called a swot – pathetic, isn’t it? – but I don’t want to miss out on a place doing law at Sydney University either. I’ve finally decided that’s what I want to do – unless it’s physics! There will be students competing from all over the state.

  It’s funny how you can miss a place so much but not want to spend the rest of your life there. That’s what I feel about Jingera. It’s a part of me but soon I won’t be living there anymore. I suppose, anyway, that it’s been years since I did actually live there. Stambroke College has been my home and it’s a bit like a military camp. It’s certainly made me tidy which I never was before.

  Philip Chapman asks about you from time to time and I’m sure he’d really appreciate a note or a card from you. Your mother has written to him several times and he was very pleased about that. He’s mentioned the Talivaldis Variations, which evidently made a profound impression on him, so it seems your actual father was a man to be very proud of, as is Mr Vincent as well of course. Philip practises the piano whenever he can and he’s allowed off sport because of this, but that doesn’t make him any more popular I’m afraid. He’s been acting strangely all term, in ways it’s hard to describe. Dissociated, I suppose. Maybe even desperate. He’s the sort of boy whom boarding school just doesn’t suit. If ever I have a kid like that I wouldn’t dream of sending him here. You wouldn’t believe the sort of things that go on, or maybe you would. Just think of the Bradley boys.

  The weather here continues warm and dry, which makes rowing practice a dream once you get over the shock of rising so early.

  Back to the books now.

  With love from

  Jim

  After refolding the letters, she restored them to their respective envelopes. She would write to Jim this weekend, and Philip too. She hated to think of him being unhappy. And maybe a short note to Eric in a few weeks’ time. Soon she would get up and have breakfast but first perhaps a little snooze.

  Chapter 29

  ‘We’ve got a letter from Jim!’ Eileen called to George as he came in after work.

  He took off his shoes just inside the front door and trod heavily down the hallway in his argyle socks, the green and red ones that she’d given him for Christmas. He was becoming used to them now. It was just as well. They were good quality and would last forever.

  Eileen was sitting at the table in the kitchen shelling peas. Simmering on the stove top was something that might be beef stew, with a bit of luck. Through the open back door, he caught a fleeting glimpse of that pair of crimson rosellas swooping down the hill and settling on the fig tree.

  ‘There’s the letter, George. On the dresser.’

  As usual, he ostentatiously washed his hands at the tub in the laundry. Although he’d already done this before leaving the shop, he knew that repetition at home gave Eileen reassurance that no trace of Cadwallader’s Quality Meats remained on his hands. After drying them on the laundry towel, he picked up the letter and sat down opposite Eileen.

  For someone with all those prizes, Jim wasn’t much of a letter writer, George decided after he’d read the single page of rather large handwriting. Then he labelled as mean-spirited this slight feeling of disappointment that he often felt after reading his son’s letters. The boy was busy in his last year and probably had other letters to write. At least he did write regularly, and that was probably more than many kids in similar situations would do.

  ‘Where’s Andy?’ he said.

  ‘At football practice.’

  ‘It’s starting earlier and earlier every year.’

  ‘That’s where he said he was,’ Eileen said.

  George looked at her in surprise. ‘If he said that’s where he said he was, that’s where he is.’ He paused. ‘What have you been up to today?’

  ‘The usual. And my embroidery.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I noticed it on the lounge this morning before I left for work. It’s very splendid, no doubt about that. The two rainbow lorikeets are beautiful. The leaves are too, and that red Christmas bush.’

  ‘That’s not Christmas bush, it’s grevillea.’

  ‘I could make a hanger for it. It’s too beautiful to keep tucked away in a drawer.’ He meant it, for it was indeed a lovely thing.

  After tea was over and the dishes had been done, Andy retired to his bedroom where, as usual, he turned on his transistor radio, while George and Eileen sat in the lounge room. With her embroidery on her lap, Eileen perched on the middle of the sofa, under the bright light that made her dark hair shine. In the armchair opposite, George began to read the newspaper. Or to look at it, for his eyes felt tired, and he was starting to think that he might need spectacles; he was having to hold the paper further and further away in order to make out the print. He squinted at the interesting-looking article about the Parkes’ radio telescope.

  He was about to get up to fetch the magnifying glass from the kitchen when Eileen said, ‘I’ve been doing some thinking, George. Maybe I could move to Mornington Peninsula, if Andy gets into the Army Apprentices’ scheme, that is.’

  It t
ook a few moments for the import of her words to sink into George’s tired brain. It was her use of the first person that hit him. I could move, and not we could move. He felt as if he’d received a punch to his chest and only by inhaling deeply was he able to recover enough to speak. ‘I don’t want to move to Mornington Peninsula,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a nice house here and I’ve got a good business. It is just starting to pick up. There’s no way I’m going to throw in the towel and head south to a place where we don’t know anyone, and where we’d have to start all over again.’

  ‘That’s what I did when I came here, George.’

  ‘You wanted to. Anyway I’d already bought the business when we met. I asked you to come, and you agreed. You could have said no but you didn’t.’

  ‘And I’m asking you now.’

  ‘And I’m saying no.’

  ‘I can go though,’ she said, smiling, although there was nothing to smile about.

  ‘How could we afford two places? While business is improving, there’s only enough to run one establishment.’

  ‘You could sell the shop.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Rent it back.’

  George felt a surge of anger the likes of which he’d never experienced before. His heart began to pump so fast it felt as if a wild thing was beating against his rib cage. She was going to use Andy’s application to the Balcombe Barracks as a bargaining ploy. Andy goes, I go. Andy stays, I stay. She loved him; that was clear. But she didn’t love her husband. Maybe she never had.

  While he desperately wanted to leave the house and get some time alone to work out the meaning of all that she’d said, he stayed put a little longer. Holding up the paper between himself and his wife, he didn’t attempt to decipher the print and after a moment shut his eyes. Deep breaths, in and out, but the palpitations in his chest showed no sign of diminishing, and he thought he might faint. In the meantime, Eileen carried on sewing. He could hear the rasp of thread on fabric and after a while she began to hum. He could stand it no longer. Throwing down the paper, he stumbled to the door and with shaking fingers opened it and shut it behind him. Carefully, slowly; the last thing he needed now was for Eileen to shout, Don’t slam the door, George.