The Indigo Sky

by Alison Booth

  In the back garden, he sat down on the chopping block. He’d left his cigarettes in the house and couldn’t bear to go back inside for them. His heart was still pounding and he wondered if he was about to have a heart attack, although there was no actual pain in his chest, only a mild discomfort that was probably more emotional than physical.

  Staring at the bright stars, he tried to concentrate on distinguishing the constellations, but knew that shortly he’d need to try to decipher Eileen’s words. He took long, deep breaths, and after some moments found that his heart had settled back into a slower rhythm and he no longer felt faint. Now that he was calmer, he discovered he knew precisely what Eileen meant. She was planning to leave him. Maybe she’d been planning to leave him for a long time, and would do so as soon as the boys grew up.

  Did he care, or was it simply the shock that had given him palpitations? He loved Eileen and always would. He was the sort of person who didn’t change once he’d determined on something, once he had made a commitment. But if she wanted to leave when she decided the time was right, he wouldn’t prevent her. There was nothing he could do to stop her anyway.

  He was getting ahead of himself though. She was bluffing. Feeling around to see how far she could push him. He mustn’t let her see how deeply she’d wounded him. She might exploit it if she knew. Anything could happen over the next year, but he was blowed if he was going to be pushed into thwarting Andy’s ambitions in order to keep Eileen in Jingera.

  He didn’t look around at the sound of the back door being opened, followed by the slamming of the fly-screen door. There was a pause before he heard quick steps cross the verandah and descend the steps to the garden.

  ‘Brought you a cup of tea, Dad.’

  Surprised, George turned and took the mug that Andy handed him. Only now did he realise how thirsty he felt. ‘Thanks, son,’ he said, his voice croaking slightly.

  ‘You’ve been out here for ages.’

  How Andy had noticed him come outside over the blaring of pop music from his bedroom was little short of miraculous, George decided, taking a swig of tea. Andy sat down on the grass next to the chopping block and stretched out his long legs. George covertly inspected him. The moonlight had drained all colour from his hair. It appeared white rather than sandy, and his freckles had become a streak of grey across his nose and cheekbones. Perhaps Eileen had sent him out with the tea, George thought; maybe she’d taken pity on him, although if she had, surely she would have brought the tea out herself, with maybe an apology and an invitation to come inside again.

  ‘I know what Mum said to you before. I heard everything. She’d never do it, you know.’

  ‘Never do what?’ George abandoned his fantasy of Eileen apologising and tried to focus on what his son was saying.

  ‘Never move to Mornington Peninsula.’

  George felt his heart skip a beat and took a deep breath. The last thing he wanted was to have those palpitations start again. Yet he felt immensely touched by the concern he heard in his son’s voice and his heart settled back into its normal rhythm. Perhaps Andy was feeling responsible for what his mother might do, but he shouldn’t. She was her own mistress and always would be. ‘I know she’d never do it,’ he said, although he wasn’t at all sure. ‘She just says things and doesn’t mean them. We all do, at times.’ While he knew that Eileen had meant to hurt him, and may even have meant what she’d implied about leaving him, there was no need for Andy to share that burden.

  As George sipped the rest of the tea, he became aware of the sounds around them; the surf that was reassuring in its monotony, the eucalyptus trees rustling in the faint breeze, the chirring of a nightjar from somewhere in the bush between the yard and the lagoon.

  Eventually Andy said, ‘You know the coffee table I gave you and Mum for Christmas?’

  ‘The coffee table, yes.’ George was startled by the turn in the conversation. ‘Very fine joinery work. Perfect for your mother’s embroidery.’

  ‘It was for both of you, Dad,’ Andy said, his voice sounding irritated now. ‘That’s the point. I took a cup of tea into the lounge room for Mum before I came out with yours, and there was nowhere to put it. She’s got stuff all over the table. But I made that for both of you.’

  ‘Yes, much appreciated. Thank you,’ George said slightly awkwardly. He didn’t see quite where the conversation was heading.

  There was a long pause before Andy said, his words pouring out in a rush, ‘I bet you wish it was Jim at home, and me in Sydney. You’ve always preferred him to me. Always. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been second best in your eyes. Whatever I do just isn’t good enough. It’s not that you ever criticise, it’s more that you just don’t notice me.’

  Shocked at the accusation in Andy’s voice, George took a deep breath. First Eileen and now Andy; it seemed he just couldn’t make anyone happy. Then the content of his son’s words hit him, and the anguish too. Andy was clearly more sensitive than George had ever thought possible and the last thing he wanted now was to say something that might offend him further. And perhaps Andy was right, perhaps George had directed all his ambitions towards Jim and left Andy to his mother, who so clearly favoured him. ‘You’ve never been second best in my eyes,’ he said slowly. He hesitated. He found it so hard to articulate affection. It was as if all his life he’d been trained not to exhibit emotions and living with Eileen had reinforced that tendency. Eventually he managed to say, ‘I love you, son.’ There, it was out and he meant it. ‘I’m really proud of you. I’m proud of your sporting abilities, and of the fact that you want to choose what career to follow rather than have it thrust upon you by someone else. And I’m proud of the way you’re always so good-natured, and I’m even proud of your sense of humour too. You’re a really good bloke, Andy.’

  There was a brief pause before Andy said, ‘But you didn’t take any notice of the table, Dad. I thought you’d be proud of it. Proud of me for making it.’

  The table, it all came back to the table. Smothering a sigh, George decided to be honest with his son. ‘I felt left out on Christmas morning, as if I didn’t belong in the family,’ he said. ‘The three of you were sitting on the lounge as cosy as could be and there wasn’t any room for me. That’s why I didn’t say much.’

  ‘You should have said, Dad,’ Andy said, the relief evident in his voice. ‘We all really love you. You must be blind not to see that.’ Andy stood up and turned to his father, still seated on the chopping block. Leaning over, he gave him a big hug that almost toppled him off his perch.

  They stayed sitting outside for another half hour or so, not talking much. This new understanding of my son would never have happened, George thought, if Eileen hadn’t mentioned Mornington Peninsula. Good can come out of bad. Soon he and Andy would go inside again and Eileen would be in bed asleep. And tomorrow would be another day.

  Chapter 30

  Later that night, George woke up abruptly with Eileen’s words about moving to Mornington Peninsula ringing in his head. A few moments after, he heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime four o’clock. Although he felt tired, he just couldn’t get back to sleep. For a while he tried counting sheep, but that only made him feel more awake than ever.

  Next, to distract himself from what Eileen had said, he began to count his blessings. Far better to do that than count his worries about his wife. Andy and he had become reconciled, and he had another ally in the family. Business was doing well and his sausages had got a bit of a reputation, everyone was asking for the ones with the different sorts of herbs and spices in them. And Eileen, in her sleep, had flung an arm over his chest, a gesture she wouldn’t have made when awake. His blessings counted, but his mind still active, George gently removed Eileen’s arm. He was starting to feel a bit cramped but tossing and turning wasn’t an option when you only had twelve inches of space. She didn’t stir when he swung his feet onto the floor.
After quietly opening the bedroom door, he tiptoed along the hallway.

  From the back verandah he surveyed his territory. He would never leave here, never, no matter what Eileen might do. This was where he belonged and he’d worked hard to make it a success. The full moon was low in the sky. Deep shadows fingered the garden and between the trees he could glimpse the silvery lagoon. It would be impossible to get back to sleep for a while yet; he felt far too restless. From the laundry he took his old jacket to put on over his pyjamas. After collecting a torch, he slipped on the gardening shoes kept outside the back door. The little book about the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere was where he always left it, in the inside pocket of the jacket, although he wouldn’t use it tonight, it wasn’t a good night for stargazing and anyway it was too late. Instead he would take his dinghy out onto the lagoon and row upstream. There he would ship the oars and drift back with the flow of the river. He hadn’t done that for months.

  On the bridge over the lagoon he stood for a while, as he always did, listening to the water slapping against the piers. There was something about that sound against the distant crashing of the surf on the beach that made him feel whole again. The moon was so bright he hardly needed the torch to navigate the narrow track leading to his boathouse. After launching the dinghy, he rowed upstream beyond the point where the lagoon merged into the river, further than he usually went at night. There he shipped the oars and drifted with the current. He thought of more blessings to add to his list. The celestial hemisphere. That he lived in the most beautiful place in the world. That Andy seemed much happier after they’d talked through their misunderstandings. That Jim’s brilliant future was assured.

  Slowly the current carried George back towards the settlement of Jingera, and only occasionally did he need to use an oar to guide the craft. After drifting back almost to his starting point, he rowed to shore and dragged the dinghy into the boathouse. He’d stayed out for longer than he’d intended and the sky to the east was beginning to lighten and flush with gold. To the west the silvery river mirrored the paler sky, and the lightest of mists softened the layers of hills.

  On the footbridge he met two boys of about thirteen or fourteen, each carrying surfboards. They had to be holidaymakers, their faces weren’t familiar.

  ‘Morning, grandpa,’ one said, his tone friendly rather than offensive.

  George returned their greeting. Aware that he looked like a tramp in his red-and-white-striped pyjamas and paint-spattered jacket, he grinned. Eileen wouldn’t think much of this get-up, including his feet stuffed into shoes lacking laces, but he didn’t care about that anymore. Board surfing for the two lads was probably like stargazing or rowing alone at night was for him. There was more than one way of having a spiritual experience.

  As he strolled up the back lane leading to his house, his heart turned with pleasure when he saw Andy walking towards him. A chip off the old block, he thought, Cadwallader and Son wandering the streets of Jingera in their pyjamas.

  ‘Are you okay, Dad? I woke up early and saw you’d gone so I thought I’d try to find you.’

  ‘I was just out rowing.’

  ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me, Andy.’

  ‘I know I don’t. But I woke up wanting to walk through Jingera in my pyjamas. Never done it before. By the way, I like your footwear,’ Andy said, slapping his father on the shoulder. ‘Next craze at Burford Boys’ High, eh?’

  ‘That and the pyjamas, I reckon. Only you might sew another button on yours. That’s the sort of thing they teach you in the army, you know.’

  They both laughed. And that’s another blessing, George thought.

  Chapter 31

  The sheets were in a tangle yet Peter lay comatose by Ilona’s side. Breathing heavily, he was oblivious to what was going on: the claps of thunder and the flashes of lightning that Ilona could see around the edges of the thick curtains. She’d been conscious even before the storm, managing to wrench herself out of that nightmare that she wouldn’t allow herself to think of now she was awake.

  The storm moved overhead and the flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder became simultaneous. As all things did provided one survived them, the storm moved on, and eventually the rain stopped altogether. But sleep was impossible; she felt much too alert. She got up and crept down the hall, avoiding the creaking floorboards. From the walkway, she observed the moon slipping out from behind a cloud. Almost imperceptibly it sliced through the velvety dark sky.

  The nightmares would never leave her, she knew. None of the survivors of the war would ever get over the experience. Some of us might find ways of coping with the aftermath, she thought, but we’re forever altered. That was another reason, if one were needed, that war and all its crimes should be circumvented if possible. But in that war avoidance hadn’t been an option.

  In the kitchen, she tipped boiling water into the teapot that Cherry Bates had given her before she left for Sydney years ago. It was a rather lovely object, with handle and lid decorated with delicate porcelain gumnuts. Gently Ilona ran her finger over the decorations. She missed Cherry, who’d been her closest friend in Jingera. The teapot was almost too beautiful to use, although years ago Ilona had resolved never to grow too attached to possessions. People and memories mattered, not inanimate things. Now she sat down at the kitchen table, on one end of which was a collection of papers. On top of these was the latest letter from Philip that had arrived a few days ago. She unfolded the page, and read it again.

  10th February, 1962

  Dear Mrs Vincent,

  Thanks for your letter. It made me larf. I am learning one of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas. It’s very hard. You told me not to play too much, but there’s no chance of that here! At least they let me off sport, so I can practise more and go to the Con once a week for my lessons.

  Ilona put down the letter while she poured her tea. Philip might be pushing himself too hard. It was important not to overdo practising difficult passages, in order to allow the muscles of the hand and forearm to strengthen. She hoped his teacher at the Conservatorium wouldn’t overwork the boy, but surely he’d know what he was about. Physical damage, mental damage; the latter was much more likely, and would stay with Philip always. Like Lorna Hunter, he might survive, but he would not survive unscathed. It was the next paragraph of his letter that really troubled her though. She picked up the page and reread it.

  Also I am improving that poem I wrote for Mummy. I need to add more things to it.

  Please write agen.

  Love from

  Philip

  She sighed. I am improving that poem I wrote for Mummy. It was easy to guess what that meant, and she couldn’t bear the thought of poor Philip being tormented. Though she’d dashed off a quick reply as soon as she’d collected and read his letter outside Jingera post office, tomorrow she’d write again. For some reason, Judy Chapman was unable to supply him with the love that he needed or even to realise, let alone admit, just how dreadful boarding school life might be for him. For a moment she wondered if Jude would ever come to resent the friendship that had developed between her son and the piano teacher. Probably not. Jude was much too egotistical to view her as a potential substitute mother. Next holidays Ilona would invite the boy to spend a few days with them at Ferndale again. Even Zidra, a little resentful to begin with, had enjoyed having him around.

  Her tea finished, Ilona put on a raincoat and went outside. Spotless Spot jumped up at once, and followed her as far as the stone steps leading to the beach. When she sat down, he lay at her feet, unmindful of the damp. The stone was cold, and she was glad of the raincoat. Although the storm had moved north-west, the breakers were angrily thumping onto the shore below. Again she thought of Philip’s letter: I am improving that poem I wrote for Mummy. Anything could be happening to him and his parents wouldn’t know.
Was it so different to what was happening to Lorna? Although one child was from a very rich background and the other from a very poor family, both were suffering in the institutions to which they’d been assigned, consigned. Philip’s persecution was at the hands of a system that permitted bullying, or turned a blind eye to it. Lorna’s was at the hands of a paternalistic regime administered by poorly trained and possibly sadistic staff.

  She patted Spot, who wagged his tail. While she belonged here at Ferndale, she sometimes yearned for her little cottage at Jingera. It was the verandah that she missed most, with its views of the ocean and the lagoon, and the birds flitting in and out of the shrubbery. There was something about being elevated that appealed to her, that allowed her to put things into perspective and achieve some acceptance. Sitting here soothed her though, and after a time she returned to the house. She tiptoed into the living room, shutting the door behind her. Quietly she began to play the music that Oleksii had composed and that Philip had played so beautifully when he’d visited. The piece that he’d understood so immediately that his exhilaration had been almost palpable.

  But it was impossible to perform such music sotto voce and soon she stopped. It would never do for Peter to hear her play the Talivaldis music in the dead of night. He would think she’d crept out to communicate with Oleksii through his music and that hadn’t been her intention at all. It was its association with Philip that had made her think of playing it now, that was all. Intellectual music was how Peter had described it, yet she suspected it appealed to Philip intuitively. He was too young surely to fully understand its theoretical foundations, musical prodigy though he undoubtedly was.