Jacaranda Blue

by Joy Dettman

  ‘No-one should die alone,’ she said. ‘No-one.’

  Busy hands, they pressed and folded, they spent time over that red and grey blouse, and when it was done, all done, again she wandered, just touching things, creeping closer all the time to the bedroom, trying to find nerve enough to enter.

  ‘It is just another empty room,’ she said, and she was in there, standing before the dressing-table with its large mirror. ‘I always like to keep mirrors around me, girl. They tell me the truth when no-one else has got the gumption to,’ Miss Moreland once said.

  All the scents, all the memories of Miss Moreland were in this room, but there were other odours here too. She opened the window, then again turned to the mirror and she saw her dark-rimmed eyes and fading hair, pinned behind her ears. Truthful mirror, as its owner had been truthful. She pulled the pins from her hair, and stood combing her curls with Miss Moreland’s comb.

  ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s been the greatest fool of all?’ she said.

  The built-in robe bulged with barely worn garments. She scanned its contents, searching for the gown Miss Moreland had stipulated in her will. Red satin with matching shoes. Stella knew all about it – and about the shoes. She’d been with the old lady when she had seen the dress.

  ‘I always wanted to wear a red satin ballgown. I think I’ll buy it for my funeral,’ Miss Moreland had said. And she did. She’d had to order the matching shoes. It was eight or more years ago, but they’d be here somewhere.

  A black and white check suit hung over a red silk blouse. Stella had always loved it. Now she placed it on the unmade bed. She stood staring at the mattress. Someone had stripped it bare. She moved the suit, walked to the linen closet and found the spare bedspread, tossing it over, and covering the naked pillows before again searching the wardrobe.

  So much of everything. ‘You extravagant lady,’ Stella whispered, taking up the white satin blouse with its embroidered front. Perhaps she should package everything up as she went. Give the clothing to the opportunity shop.

  ‘Oh, no. Oh, no. I do not want to see others wandering around town in your beautiful things, my dear. They wouldn’t wear them with your style,’ she whispered and she sorted on.

  The satin shoes were in their box on the top shelf, and in one shoe was a pair of red and gold patterned sunglasses, and a note.

  You’d better believe it, Miss. Now don’t you chicken out and let me down.

  Stella laughed. She put the glasses on and looked at her image in the mirror, and she tried to stifle her mirth with her hands.

  ‘God. If someone should hear me, they would think I’d lost my mind.’

  The wicked red dress was hiding inside a grey zip-bag. She laughed again as she opened the bag, freeing the rich satin thing. Its neckline was low and heavily beaded in gold. The frock held before her, she stood again before the mirror.

  ‘Perhaps I should be a little wicked too. Lend me some of your gutsiness, my dear friend. Of late, I have been sadly lacking in the guts department.’ She fitted the frock to her waist, studied her reflection. ‘I’m not so old, am I? I used to wear red, once, a long, long time ago. I could still wear it. I am not so old,’ she said. ‘However, you wicked woman, as I told you the day you bought this . . . this abomination, it would better suit a lady of the night working a shift at Kings Cross.’

  The bed became lost beneath the pile of clothing. It was near four when she took a large case from the hall closet and began packing.

  ‘For your trip, my dear. I am packing this for your trip. You’ll need some casual clothing for the days, and something nice for the evenings. Perhaps your embroidered sweater, and the grey slacks, and the black. You’ll need the white skirt, and your black and white check suit. And certainly the black suit and the white satin blouse. And the red jacket, definitely the red jacket.’

  It wasn’t so bad after that. She near emptied the wardrobe and several drawers, filling two cases which she carried out to her car. Then she returned and emptied more into a carton. The rest could go to the needy.

  So many scraps of a lifetime of hoarding. It was lucky that Ron Spencer had thought to drop off half a dozen boxes mid afternoon. She thanked him profusely, but did not invite him in, as she did not invite Mrs Murphy and Mrs Morris inside when they came to offer their help.

  The best of the old china she wrapped carefully in newspaper. Much of it had belonged to Miss Moreland’s mother. It would have value, as would the few ornaments and a very elderly marble clock. She packed efficiently now, marking each box with texta before moving on. The nieces would probably appreciate the family heirlooms. The photograph album she packed also. Before sealing that box, she glanced again through the album. Strangers’ faces. They had meant something to Miss Moreland. Perhaps they would to the nieces. There were very few faces Stella recognised. She turned to the photograph of Cutter-Nash, and she looked at his eyes. Jaguar eyes, Miss Moreland had said.

  ‘I wish you had told me all you knew of him, my dear. Now their secrets will truly die with you. He looks so familiar, but he was dead before I was born. How could he look familiar? Perhaps his eyes are a little like – no.’ She shook her head. ‘I will not think of him, and I will not allow my imagination to run away with me.’ The album closed, she sealed the box, and scribbled Album, Old China on its lid.

  ‘So much,’ she sighed. ‘How do we accumulate so much in one short lifetime?’ She lifted a piece of patchwork to her face – tiny hexagons made from all the fabrics of Miss Moreland’s life.

  ‘Every dress I ever loved, since my sixteenth birthday, is in there. I’ve saved a bit from each. One of these days, you might have to finish it for me, girl.’

  The old lady’s words were like the whisper of the wind in the wires. They still lived in this flat and in Stella’s memory. The dead are not lost, only the ones who remain are lost.

  ‘I will finish it, my dear, and I’ll treasure it. It will have a place forever in my life.’

  She stood looking at the fabric for minutes, then she took up a pair of scissors and returned to the bedroom and to the pile of clothing she’d placed to one side for the needy. From the sleeve of each favourite frock and blouse, she cut a fifteen-centimetre square.

  As she sat at her writing that night she allowed new emotion to flow to paper, and when she read her evening’s work, she knew it was good. On Wednesday, she began again while Chris Scott worked downstairs, stripping away the worn-out brown linoleum, hammering a backing board to uneven floors. What a noise. But she needed that noise. Now she transferred noise to her pages.

  Wednesday died too quickly, and Thursday dawned with a clear blue sky for Miss Moreland.

  The town stood still. Shops closed their doors at midday, and the people came to the church to fill it, and to spill over to footpath and lawn where Steve Smith had set up large speakers.

  There were many tears, but no more from Stella. This was a time for strength and efficiency, and certainly no time for sadness. The service was as Miss Moreland had planned it, and a riot. The only strangers there were not amused; still, the one who had demanded she be present at her own funeral, just to keep an eye on proceedings, looked wildly wonderful in her cheeky sunglasses and red frock, her red-as-sin hat. She appeared to be enjoying the farce.

  When the coffin was carried from the church, and orderly crowds slowly emptied the front pews, Stella sat on. She tried not to see . . . see him. He was one of the pallbearers. Pale. Surly.

  Ron had wanted it. He had been fond of Miss Moreland, and he’d wanted his son at his side. How could she say no? Steve and Chris Scott made up the four.

  She glanced up, and caught the eye of Miss Moreland’s long-lost nieces. If it had been possible to walk out of a funeral in disgust, Willy Macy and the nieces would have walked. Of that, Stella was certain.

  ‘Who am I becoming, Miss Moreland? You are changing me in death as you tried in vain to change me in life. Who will I be tomorrow? Will I be tomorrow? Or without you, will th
is town wear me away? Have I left already? I certainly don’t feel like me today.’

  ‘Time to go, Stell.’ Steve Smith walked back to her pew. He thought she was crying and his hand reached out to comfort her, but she turned to him with a smile, and his hand withdrew.

  The church bells were tolling out their own goodbye. ‘I’ll sit for a moment longer, thank you, Steve,’ she said. ‘I’ll just sit here a while and say my own goodbye while the crowd clears. Sit with me.’

  ‘Did you see old Willy Macy’s face when he got a load of her rig-out – and that pair of prune-faced old tartars? I was expecting them to start spitting pips.’

  ‘Oh, I did. I certainly did, but I promised I’d do as she wished. You had better keep me away from Mr Macy, too. If he attempts to chastise me today, I may say something I could be ashamed of later.’

  ‘You and me both, Stell. You and me both. You’d better watch out for that pair of prunes. I think they’ve got their knives out for you.’

  ‘I was not sure what to expect – after all, they are her blood. But how? How can they be her relatives, Steve?’ She shook her head. ‘Goodness me. Where is my charity today? I’m afraid that I’m feeling rather un-me, but I don’t quite know who I am.’

  ‘Want to ride with me to the cemetery – or give me a lift? Mum’s gone off with Bonny and Len.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you, Steve.’

  Miss Moreland’s nieces waited until their aunt was safely underground before they made their joint attack.

  ‘We are upset, and with good cause, I may add. My aunt made a laughing stock at her own funeral – ’

  ‘We are all upset, so perhaps we might leave this discussion until a more appropriate time and place,’ Stella replied, standing before the duo, her eyes shielded by large sunglasses. She was breathing deeply. Anger, too long swallowed, was eager for its freedom, but she controlled it. She always controlled anger.

  ‘The service was a mockery. A cruel mockery.’

  ‘It is sad that you feel that way. It is what she wanted. Perhaps if you had known your aunt – ’

  ‘What are you trying to say? What are you trying to say, you uppity little bitch?’

  ‘What I am attempting to say perhaps, is that my dear friend was not quite so popular, nor so revered by her family in life as she appears to be in death. I do not recall seeing either of you in town before. But perhaps you were not aware of her great age.’

  ‘We live in Sydney. It’s a long drive and we’re not as young as we used to be.’

  ‘No, you are certainly not, and you still have a long drive home, so do take care.’ Stella turned away, but the smaller of the prunes followed her, grasped at her arm. Stella shook off the hand and continued walking.

  ‘We’ll break that will. You see if we don’t. We are her closest relatives, and entitled to inherit all she owned. We’ll take it to the courts. You see if we don’t.’

  ‘That is, of course, your prerogative.’

  ‘You wheedled your way into a senile old fool’s life. I know your type.’

  ‘Which, thankfully, is not your type, Mrs Mackenzie. Good afternoon,’ Stella said and she walked briskly away.

  Steve had been behind her, now he walked with her to the near empty car park, his smile wide. ‘Good one, Stell. Good for you.’

  ‘I behaved badly. I should not have allowed – darn them.’

  ‘I didn’t know she’d bought that flat. I thought she was renting, like old Mrs Thomson. What’s the situation? I mean, can you move into it, or do you need to be over sixty-five?’

  ‘Who knows? I . . . I couldn’t leave my garden. John Parker suggested I rent it out. You know Doctor Parsons has been advertising for an assistant. It would make an ideal doctor’s residence, John said. Perhaps. Perhaps the nieces will break the will. Who knows.’

  ‘Buckley’s hope I’d say – the way it was worded.’

  A shrug her only response, Stella unlocked the car and slid in as Steve folded his limbs into the passenger seat.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to go and grab a bit of dinner somewhere, would you Stell? It’s after five.’

  She looked at him, then back towards the town, and she shook her head.

  ‘Up to you. But I sort of feel a bit queer going home. It’s like a day off from . . . I don’t know. I don’t get many days off. God it was a riot. The best funeral I’ve ever been to.’

  ‘I think this has been the strangest day of my life, Steve. No doubt tomorrow I will be feeling very . . . very guilty about that attack. I’ll sit stitching my clowns, feeling terribly wicked about the entire day.’ She looked at him.

  ‘Then why not give yourself something to feel wicked about? Come and have a drink with me.’ Again she shook her head. ‘We’ll wish her a good trip. We’ve got to get on to that party too. Throw her a real wing-ding. Do one of those whole life videos. You know, with old photographs. Mum reckons Miss Moreland was a raving beauty in her day. Has she got many photographs?’

  ‘Heaps. I was going to give them to the nieces. But – ’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I won’t – as for the party, we’ll wait until Father comes home. He was fond of her – in his own odd way. I know he’d want to . . . to feel a part of it. He may disown me of course.’ She looked up at Steve, and shook her head. ‘Was it so wrong, what we did today? The service, the frock, those glasses?’

  ‘I work on the principle that you go with what feels right at the time, Stell. It felt pretty right to me. She was there too, and loving it. Christ, I won’t forget that look on Willy Macy’s face until the day I die.’

  ‘What is he going to say to Father?’ Again she looked at Steve. ‘Oh, why not? Let’s have that drink for her, Steve. I know, I know she’d approve of that – but perhaps not in town. Could I suggest we go to Dorby, far from the disapproving crowd?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  She started the motor and pulled away from the kerb, feeling strange, nervous, but so brave.

  ‘You’re looking good today. A bit more like the old Stell I used to know. It’s nice to see you in a bit of colour for a change.’

  Stella pulled at the lapel of her red silk blouse. ‘It’s one of Miss Moreland’s. I felt if she was determined to wear her scarlet ballgown then I couldn’t embarrass her by wearing the old beige.’

  They spoke of many things that night, of stoves and planes and tours and Martin, and they spoke of Miss Moreland. Stella drank peach cooler, and Steve drank beer. Slowly their conversation altered. They began laughing about the old days, and the old band, and the Saturday nights when they had sung a duet in this same club. The crowd was younger then. They were younger. They talked and ordered more drinks while the hour grew later and the band played on.

  ‘Feel like a dance, Stell?’

  ‘Dance? Good Lord. I haven’t danced in a millennium.’

  ‘It can’t be that long.’

  ‘It certainly feels like it. I’m sure I’ve forgotten how.’

  But she hadn’t forgotten how. Steve had a fine sense of rhythm and it only took a few minutes for Stella’s white sandal-clad feet to find their own rhythm.

  Foolish, foolish woman, she thought. You are making a complete spectacle of yourself tonight. You are talking too much, laughing too loud. Perhaps the peach cooler is not lolly water after all. Just a mote afraid of her laughter, when Steve ordered more beer, she ordered coffee. ‘Miss Moreland might enjoy the joke, but I don’t really think I want to get booked for drunk driving,’ she said. ‘That may be carrying things a little too far, do you think?’

  They outstayed the band. They sat on drinking coffee until the weary workers began moving chairs back for the cleaners.

  ‘I think they want us to move, Stell. They’re going to vacuum us out in a tick.’

  She stood, and she wasn’t quite sure which way to walk. He took her arm, and held it as they walked down the steps and across the car park. It made her feel so young. So delightfully young and silly.

  ‘I think Miss Morelan
d would be proud of me tonight,’ she said.

  ‘I was proud to be with you tonight. Real proud. You should wear red more often. It does something to you.’

  She felt sixteen. Foolish, gauche. Drunk on four glasses of peach cooler and an old friend’s company. She didn’t quite know what to say so remained silent until she found her key, until she unlocked the car, until they were both seated, until she found her own way back to the highway, until the dark countryside began slipping by and memory of the nights of long ago and driving home near dawn in the old band van, urged her to sing as she had then.

  It started small. Steve joined with her. Their first attempt to harmonise raised safe laughter, but they tried again. She let him choose the key and she hummed along until she found the old mellow blend. They sounded good. They still sounded very good together, and she’d always had an ear for harmony.

  ‘Do you remember, “Send in the Clowns”, Stell?’

  ‘That was my swan song,’ she said. ‘That last night, remember?’

  All the way home they sang the old songs, and when she pulled the car into the churchyard beside Steve’s utility, and the night was over, and in the distance old Wilson’s rooster was signalling dawn, they sat on.

  ‘We ought to do it again some night – if you feel like it, that is.’

  ‘Perhaps we will, Steve. Perhaps we should. Thank you so very much for today – for yesterday,’ she corrected. ‘Thank you so very, very much.’ And she drove away, grateful her father was safe on the other side of the world.

  So Many Clowns

  It was Monday night, and the seventeenth night Stella was to spend alone in the old house. Martin had sent two more postcards, one of Paris, a city of lights, and one of a castle in Germany. Uncertain of where he might be at any given time, and of how long it may take her letter to reach him, she chose not to write back, not to tell him of Miss Moreland’s untimely death. Time enough when he returned on next Sunday’s bus, and time enough for the wild party she and Steve Smith were planning to host at the shire hall.