Jacaranda Blue

by Joy Dettman

  She put her reading glasses on. The frames were heavy and dark, but the lens blurred the world – and the bruise. She wouldn’t be able to drive in them, but once out of the car, she could manage. She’d wear her dark glasses to Bonny’s then change them before she went in.

  Perhaps a more colourful shirt might draw attention away from her eye. She took out the red shirt she’d worn to Miss Moreland’s funeral, only last Thursday. It was camouflage enough. She flipped the collar high, then clipped on a double string of pearls. Miss Moreland’s grey slacks fitted her well. A mite too long, though not with high heels. Her white sandals slipped onto her bare feet, she looked at her reflection in the long mirror and she was pleased.

  ‘There is always my tumble down the staircase to blame if questions are asked,’ she said. ‘Good old much-maligned staircase.’

  Just a Fanciful Thing

  Martin Templeton remained in intensive care for nine days, but it was the fourteenth day of his hospitalisation before Stella packed her bags for Sydney.

  The shed looked normal – if a little neater. She backed the small car out, and was in the process of locking the doors when she took one final look at the scar in the earth, which, as long as the Packard remained in its position, was not visible. The idea to turn on the Packard’s lights, to leave them on, came to her as she locked the doors. By the time she returned to Maidenville, the Packard would not be going anywhere, and having spoken to the minister’s doctor on the telephone, it appeared that it might be some time before Martin concerned himself with vehicles. Her father had been dragged back from the very brink of death.

  Unable to choose between bus and train, Stella had chosen a road map instead. It was only a six-hour drive, still, by the time she reached Penrith, and booked a room for a week in the first motel she sighted there, she’d had enough of strange roads, and of backtracking, looking for signposts. She closed her unit door, turned on the television and tested the bed. And it was just right. She slept ten hours straight.

  Each morning she caught the train to the city, and took a taxi to the hospital. Each afternoon she reversed her steps, relieved to be back in her unit, safer in the suburbs. The train trip was long, but she did not notice it passing, her pen busy, filling the pages of an old exercise book. The taxi ride, the swarming cars and people were adding another element to the tale she wove.

  Sydney was a different planet. The movement, the noise, the crush of humanity suffocated her. Once she had planned to find herself a small neat flat, and a position in some Sydney library. Now she sat each day on crowded trains, sliding through a landscape of buildings while craving the space of Maidenville.

  Each day she greeted the minister with a light kiss on the brow. He accepted the kiss, coy as an eight-year-old boy who knew he was too old to be kissed, but liked it well enough anyway. Perhaps they re-learned love in that hospital, realised they were safe to love again, safe from Angel’s accusations.

  He had been visibly shocked to hear of Miss Moreland’s death, but not surprised to learn that Thomas Spencer had disappeared. She told him all of the town gossip, and they somehow managed to fill the hours she sat beside his bed.

  It was not until he asked the date one morning that she paled, and placed a hand to her unusually tender breasts. That evening, she did no writing, but began her calculations.

  So much had happened. She had misplaced time!

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘My God, what have you done to me?’

  ‘I spoke to your doctor on the way in. He said I can take you home to Maidenville tomorrow, Father.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘I am not up to those stairs yet, Daughter.’

  ‘No. I explained to him that we have access to a unit next door to the hospital.’

  ‘Miss Moreland’s? I thought that unit went back to the community on her death.’

  ‘Not the original units. She bought it outright.’

  ‘Neighbours peering in my windows,’ he said. ‘No garden. However, I admit I will be pleased to be back amongst familiar faces.’

  ‘Yes. I believe one would have to make the transition to the city at an early age. To me it has been like visiting another planet. The people out there, Father. They are like ants swarming at lunchtime, all busy about their own business. I’m just an alien insect floating all alone here, and should I land in the wrong place, I would be swatted with as much thought as we give to swatting a mosquito.’

  ‘Our old world is not as it used to be.’ Martin coughed, and for minutes Stella sat beside him, her mind in another place until he regained his breath, and spoke again.

  ‘France,’ he said. ‘It is not of this world, confound the place. They don’t even eat a civilised breakfast, Daughter. Fed us on cold tea and dry bread. I didn’t sight a piece of toast, and as for a cooked breakfast! One would think I’d asked for human sacrifices.’

  ‘Poor Father. You’ve lost considerable weight. Not that that will do you a lot of harm. I’m sure Doctor Parsons will consider it for the good.’

  ‘Hmph.’

  ‘We have to think of how much worse things could have been . . . if . . . if Patrick hadn’t been able to get those two seats on the earlier flight. If you had collapsed in London, or if you had become unwell in the first weeks, or been admitted to hospital in France.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale, Daughter. We gave our lives that they might treat us like the plague when we dared to visit their land.’ He was racked by a spasm of coughing, and she waited until he sucked in a lung-full of air and settled back on his pillows.

  ‘Did you get to see Paris before you became ill? Did you get to take the boating trip down the Seine by night, see the city of lights?’

  ‘I am certain that is where I caught it. Bad night air. The whole of Europe is full of bad air. And London is worse, even though they do at least speak the Queen’s English . . . or a form of English. Blacks everywhere, blacks with London accents. It’s not the London I knew.’

  ‘And Churchill’s bunker?’

  ‘Worth the trip – if not the illness. Wonderful, but the city. Traffic pouring out noxious yellow gases; the only time the air is fit to breathe is when it’s raining . . . which it did on every other day I might add.’

  ‘Not like our own Maidenville. You’ll be there tomorrow and our delightful air will have you well in no time. I’ll come in early. We’ll try to get away from the city before ten.’

  ‘Am I up to another confounded bus ride, Daughter? If I never see another bus in my lifetime it will be too soon.’

  ‘I told you. I drove the car to Penrith. I’ve been booked into a motel there for the past week. There is a good train service.’

  ‘That will have cost us a pretty penny no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt. I’ll put it on my credit card.’

  He shuddered, coughed. ‘You spoke of an emergency, Daughter. Perhaps it is well that you had the damnable thing to rely on after all.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it has been very handy. I bought a weekly train ticket with it.’

  ‘I’m not up to train travel. If I see one more confounded seat, climb one more set of steps, I’ll – ’

  ‘Of course you are not up to trains. I wouldn’t expect you to travel by train. We’ll take a taxi to the motel, then it will be into your own comfortable little vehicle, and away.’

  ‘It’s a long drive.’

  ‘But we’ll make frequent stops. Relax now. Let me worry about it. We’ll get you home and you will soon be back to your old self again.’

  ‘I’ve got a strong constitution,’ he said, but his words no longer held their old conviction.

  ‘You certainly have. Your doctor said that the fact that you have never needed to take antibiotics before made them so much more effective in your case. He said another week on them and you’ll be as good as new.’

  ‘And require a new wardrobe. Have you been in touch with the Spencers?’

  ‘No. No.
I have made no phone calls. By the time I left, they had given up the search for him.’

  ‘Youth. They are rarely content to live as their parents wish them to live. No doubt he will return when he has had a taste of freedom,’ he said. ‘How were the parents taking it?’

  ‘Badly. Ron was talking about selling out and moving.’

  ‘The little scoundrel. You know, I always had the feeling that he was the one making those confounded phone calls. I am thankful that I was blessed with a dutiful daughter.’ He patted her hand, then looked towards the window. ‘You have been a . . . a stalwart companion to me. I could not have wished for better.’

  ‘Thank you, Father, but you embarrass me.’

  ‘I have been walking too close to death these past weeks. It made me aware of what I have not said – and perhaps of what needed to be said.’ He heaved himself up from his stacked pillows, and swung his feet over the side.

  ‘Stay in bed, Father. Get yourself rested for tomorrow.’

  He waved a hand. ‘Allow me to speak, Daughter. I vowed when I was in the plane, that if God should see fit to spare me, that I would show my appreciation to you for your support and loyalty, to both myself and your dear mother.’ He was watching her as he spoke, her hand was at her breast, she snatched it away, but she could not hold his eye.

  Her breasts appeared to be larger. Her bra felt tight. She drew a deep breath, held it. They never discussed Angel. She did not want to discuss his precious Angel. She had written her out, out of her life, out of her memories, cleansing herself in the process.

  ‘She was not an easy woman,’ he continued. ‘But there were circumstances, and she not wholly to blame, Daughter. And I deserve much of the blame. I bent too easily to her will. Blessed so late in life, I feared, I always feared she may . . . may leave, as my own mother left, that she may take you away. She had her own money, you see – ’ He coughed, bowed his head. ‘I had waited a long time for a child.’

  ‘Miss Moreland once told me I had a twin.’

  ‘That is so. That is so. The boy did not survive – ’ He silenced, coughed a while. ‘I cannot help but ask myself at times, do you . . . do you look around at your friends and envy them their lives, their children?’

  She flinched. A minute passed before she replied, replied honestly.

  ‘I would be lying if I said there was nothing in my life that I regret.’ She studied him closely, then her eyes turned again to the window. ‘Perhaps lately I have had time to regret much; however – ’ She stilled her tongue, and her thoughts went within. Could she kill it? Have it sucked from her? Could she live with herself?

  ‘Speak of it now. We are . . . we are distanced from our old lives, Daughter. Distance, perhaps, may give us the opportunity to discuss that which we have kept within us for far too long.’

  ‘It is just – just that I have been thinking much of children in . . . in recent weeks,’ she said quickly. ‘There are many women now who raise children alone, Father.’

  ‘Women such as Polly Daws.’ His voice was high.

  She shrugged.

  ‘It is past time I came home. Well past time. This is not you, Daughter.’

  ‘Blame the distance, Father. You gave me leave to speak, and so I spoke; still, it’s just a fanciful thing that will surely pass in a day or two.’

  ‘Is there . . . has there been some . . . ?’

  She looked down at her hands, and she slipped easily into fiction. ‘I did meet rather a pleasant man at the motel – ’

  Martin Templeton’s eyes opened wide. He stared at his daughter until she looked up. ‘What you must ask – ’ he began, but a spasm of coughing cut his sentence short.

  She poured a glass of water, handed it to him. He gasped, sipped the water, and she waited, watching the window until he handed her the glass.

  ‘Has he left?’

  ‘Yes. As I said, Father. It is just a fanciful thing. I’m certain it will pass. I am quite certain that within a few weeks I will be quite back to normal again.’

  Perhaps it would pass, perhaps it wouldn’t. At her age it probably would flow away. And if it didn’t, then that was something she would have to think about, but then . . . Still, as with any fiction, it was a good idea to plant early hints that could be picked up later if necessary.

  A nurse came in to check Martin’s temperature and his blood pressure, which was a little high. It was some minutes before they were alone again.

  ‘Where has he gone to?’ the minister asked.

  ‘Who?’ Stella’s mind had been far away in the future.

  ‘This confounded fellow you spoke of.’

  ‘He was . . . is an American. He’s gone home. Washington.’

  ‘Who was he? What was his name?’

  ‘Wayne. Wayne Lee.’

  ‘Lee? A Yank, you say. It sounds Asian.’ With great effort and much coughing, he was on his feet.

  She looked at his long pale feet and thought of other feet. Bare. Had she ever seen her father’s feet bare? She found his slippers, offered them.

  ‘Have this chair, Father.’

  But he needed to stand. There was power in his height, and he needed some of his old power back. ‘Don’t fuss, Daughter.’ He walked to the window, stood there, looking down. ‘I always believed that you inherited many of your traits from my own mother, who had some difficulty settling down to the mundane life of a minister’s wife. Being deserted by her, as a mere babe, is perhaps the reason I chose your mother, who for a time appeared to fill the situation of minister’s wife admirably. My own father deemed her a paragon of virtue. He, of course, did not live long enough to see – ’ Martin scratched at his neck, cleared his throat, then he spoke on to the window. ‘Perhaps, what I am attempting to explain, and not doing it well, I might add, is the desire for an exciting, a modern lifestyle has led to the downfall of many a good woman. Far better to choose substance over a dream.’

  ‘Yes, Father. I’m sure you are right. Now sit down before you fall down.’ She took his arm, and led him back to the chair.

  ‘And an American, no less. They are a race without morals. I recall the war years. The Yanks promised much, but left behind them many fallen women. They are not to be trusted, Daughter.’

  ‘Yes, Father, but that was long ago. This is the nineties and there are no more fallen women. We have been liberated you know. Relax. You’ll have a stroke on top of your pneumonia.’

  ‘Liberated to fall victim to some traveller who cannot be relied on to tell the truth of his situation.’

  ‘Is it your turn for a confession now? What did you get up to over there?’

  ‘I have nothing to – ’ He stopped, looked at her and caught her smile, then he coughed again. ‘Although, perhaps in my youth, during the war, I too was guilty of suggesting a commitment I was not free to suggest. What I am attempting to say, Daughter, is that distance can disorient us at times. Our responsibilities, all so far away, we are unable to bridge the distance. Loyalties can be tested.’ Martin’s face had grown red.

  ‘You are making far too much of this. I merely said – ’ She sighed. ‘I assure you, I will not be leaving you or Maidenville. This trip has been sufficient to convince me of that.’

  ‘You will no doubt feel more settled once I am home and things are returned to normal. The church now? Everything well with the church?’

  ‘Yes. The congregation is managing without you. Mr White has been doing an admirable job. Mr Macy, I am sorry to say, usually preaches to thin air, but it doesn’t seem to concern him. He’ll be taking the service today and I admit I am pleased to be away.’

  ‘And our Miss Moreland?’

  ‘That was a bad, bad time. We had a stranger for her funeral, and he may never be the same again.’ She smiled at his expression, then added. ‘But, it was what she wanted.’

  ‘And what was it she wanted?’

  ‘Oh.’ Stella shrugged. ‘A simple enough service. I spoke of her friendship and of her years at the high school. I sang one
of her favourite songs. Steve’s band played. It was what she wanted. You’d possibly remember that she stipulated there was to be no psalm singing at her funeral, and also that should we allow Mrs Morris to open her mouth, she’d come back and haunt us.’

  ‘I don’t recall off hand.’

  ‘No. You have had other things on your mind. She wrote many instructions in her will and we did it the way she wanted. It was quite . . . well, quite different. No doubt you will hear all about it from Mr Macy when you return, and you may wish to evict me, disown me, toss me out on the street. Oh, and I promised the congregation that we would have a wild bon voyage party for Miss Moreland as soon as you are well enough.’

  ‘You have been busy, Daughter.’

  ‘I have been very busy.’ They sat for a long time.

  ‘I was aware that she had named you sole beneficiary, but does that require you to wear her outfits?’ he finally said.

  She was wearing a black skirt and a red jacket over a white satin blouse. But her black shoes were her own. Brand new, bought in Sydney, they had seven-centimetre heels.

  Metal Screenings

  By June Martin Templeton, though not strong, was out and about again. The steep staircase in the old house would have exhausted him, so rather than move into the downstairs bedroom, and take his bath in a tub, he had remained in Miss Moreland’s unit, with her walk-in shower. It separated him from his beloved Packard, but the car wasn’t going anywhere without him.

  The flat had its fringe benefits, the minister had to admit. It was close to the hospital, where Doctor Parsons spent much of his time. Parsons popped into the unit most days to check on the minister, or to beat him at chess. Several members of the congregation were installed in the retirement units, so Martin was kept busy with visitors, and he never tired of showing off his unit.

  Such extravagance. Modern laminated benchtops, tiled and carpeted floors, luxurious conditions. But the other units he visited were as his own, and many occupied by pensioners. They were the new rich in Maidenville.