Stillwater Creek (17 page)

Now Grace put one arm on the top of Peter's chair and leant over him for the water jug. ‘Sorry, darling,' she said when he tried to help her, but he was not to be caught twice and fixed his eyes on the candelabra in the centre of the table.

‘Have you met the Jingera genius?' Grace asked Peter.

‘I saw her here a few weeks ago,' Peter said. ‘In the yard here, just as she was leaving.' Wherever I go people are talking about her, he thought, and wondered why.

Into his mind sprang that image of her on Jingera Beach, dressed in the ill-fitting swimming costume and hugging her chest. There'd been something touching about that gesture. He'd thought of it again and again but he certainly wasn't going to expose Ilona to the ridicule of the people sitting around this table. Nor would he mention the number tattooed in blue on her forearm. He'd got her number. A new and nasty meaning to that expression. He'd got her number but he knew little about her apart from that.

‘You've always been marvellous at finding the right people, Jude. Just look at your divine husband,' Grace said. ‘How do you do it?'

‘I didn't find Jack, as you know full well. He found me. At the tender age of seventeen at the Hotel Australia, my second ever ball.'

Later, when the guests had either retired to their rooms or gone home, Peter strolled with Jack across the damp lawn in front of the house. The cool air rinsed away the irritation of the dinner party. He accepted a cigarette from Jack. As they sauntered across the grass, a loud scuffling broke out in an oak tree nearby, followed by a carking noise like an old man clearing his throat. An angry possum leapt from the tree to the slate roof of the house, pursued a second later by a slightly larger possum. A territorial fight or a family argument, or perhaps one possum had just wanted to be left alone. A misanthrope like Peter, who was now thinking that a dinner party was like a lottery. You couldn't choose who you sat next to and you couldn't choose when to leave.

He drew hard on the cigarette. Now he thought about it, he'd probably been a misanthrope ever since he'd got out of the camp. Too many human beings, too many inhumane beings. People didn't mention that when they talked of prisoner-of-war camps. Each day petty irritations were magnified by the pain and the hunger and the malnutrition, and the itching skin that made you even more irritable. The fear too, that compounded the jitteriness. The fear you'd die or your mates would die, and that you'd lose all dignity in the manner of your death. It was people who introduced that fear, people who developed that fear.

Only in small groups that he could leave at any time did he feel comfortable. An hour or two at the pub was about all he could stand. There he could listen to a few tales from uncomplicated people he'd known for years, and at any moment he could choose to get up and walk straight out the door. He didn't feel hemmed in there and nothing was expected of him.

In silence he and Jack strolled around the Woodlands garden. Jack was one of the uncomplicated people and he felt comfortable with him.

‘Have you ever thought of marrying?' Jack said. ‘It's one way to avoid a situation like tonight.'

‘No.' Peter looked at Jack who was occupied in striking a match to light another cigarette. Probably Jude had put him up to this; it was the most personal question he'd asked in the twenty or more years they'd known each other. Jack's face, illuminated by the burning match, looked older than it had in the soft lighting indoors. His cigarette end glowed in the darkness.

‘I thought you might have married Jenny,' Jack added.

‘We were far too young before the war.' And by the time he'd returned to Australia, she'd married an academic whose war had been spent in Intelligence. Not that he'd been faithful to
her memory. On his leaves in London there'd been plenty of coupling – in strange bedrooms, in hotels, in a dark doorway one night – with women who wouldn't have looked twice at him in peace time. Everyone loved a pilot; even a colonial one. Marriage wouldn't suit Peter now, he felt sure. Men like him in their late thirties were too set in their ways.

‘Get engaged instead,' Jack said lightly. ‘It's just as effective but half the cost.'

Peter had nothing more to say. One by one the Woodlands lights were switched off. Jack stubbed out his cigarette and the two men returned to the house.

In the guestroom he'd been allocated, Peter folded down the counterpane and washed his face at the basin. Unused to late nights, he felt wide awake now. That critical hour when his body would switch from wakefulness into slumber had long since passed, probably over the dessert. After opening the window wide, he leant on the sill and breathed deeply the fresh night air. A jasmine vine must be growing somewhere below the window. Its rich scent filled his nostrils and reminded him of that first summer in England all those years ago, a fresh young pilot from the antipodes. That summer when he'd been both innocent and idealistic; that last summer before he grew up.

It was hard to believe that the war had ended so many years ago, when the ripples from its aftermath were still being felt in people's lives. He'd begun his war with idealism and the insouciance of youth. Flying was great fun, the pilots claimed at first, after a drink or three in the mess. Teamwork and initiative were what mattered, they'd all said, and the excitement, the adrenalin. They'd thrived on that, at least to begin with.

Just after he'd been transferred to Leuchars in Scotland, just after they'd given him a new Bristol Beaufighter to fly, something had happened to him. Some fear, planted like a tiny seed
in his head, began to germinate. A little fear that was not of death itself but rather that he might choose death. That he might choose to fly his plane as he'd seen that pilot performing near Braidwood. Up, far far up into the sky, and afterwards a quick somersault and into a nose dive. Straight down to earth – spinning, diving, spinning, diving – until at last he would lose control.

It had seemed like such a simple way to go, at a time of his own choosing. That fantasy became a temptation each time he flew out, each time he flew back, palms sweating, hands shaking as he fought this impulse. It was only the responsibility for his crew, who trusted absolutely in his steadiness, that allowed him to carry on. Yet he'd understood that soon something would have to be said. That soon he'd have to tell someone and fly no more.

The day after reaching this decision, he'd flown a mission along the Dutch coast, and a Messerschmitt shot down the Beaufighter. Bailing out over Holland, he and the navigator had parachuted into Nazi-occupied territory, and so no one had ever learnt of that secret fear.

After that he'd never flown again and never would fly again. The panic that was vertigo would never leave him. It was with him in his dreams. Especially in his dreams. This was what was keeping him from climbing into bed here at Woodlands: the dreams that lay waiting for him once he dropped off to sleep.

But he was being stupid and overly introspective. Rarely did he wake up screaming so loudly that others in the house might hear. He wondered why he was thinking of these things again. It couldn't just be the scent of jasmine outside the window. He should think of something else.

A few books were piled up on the bedside table: James Thurber, CS Forester, a couple of battered-looking
Readers'
Digest
s, and a book on the history of merino sheep breeding by one JB Langham. He wondered if Judy altered the selection depending on who was using this room. Probably not: music was her thing, as she so often proclaimed. Sprawled in bed, he opened the Thurber and several hours later was relaxed enough to fall asleep.

Jim stood in front of Miss Neville. After school was over she'd called him into the office and now she was staring at him intently. This made him nervous; not that he'd done anything amiss, or at least not that she could know about. Unless she'd heard about that incident with the billycart and old Mrs Beattie.

‘I suppose you're wondering why you're here.'

Nodding, he looked down at his shoes. In spite of the polishing he'd given them that morning – a polishing forced upon him by his mother – they were scuffed. They felt tight too; he'd need new shoes before the year was out.

‘I received an interesting letter today.'

Jim glanced quickly at her. Just then the telephone rang. While she dealt with it – something dull about the new curriculum – he returned to contemplating his shoes.

After some time she put down the phone. ‘Sit down.' She gestured towards the chair next to her desk.

Taking a deep breath, he sat. His bare knees bumped against the desk and he edged the chair back a few inches. The chair legs scraped across the floor but she didn't seem to mind.

‘The letter had some wonderful news.' Miss Neville's tone was nicer than he'd ever heard before. ‘I'm so very proud of you. You've got in. You've got the scholarship.'

How could this be? There must be some mistake. He'd already decided he wasn't going to get in.

‘Are you sure?'

She laughed. ‘Yes, absolutely.'

So it was true and, for an instant, he wanted to jump for joy. He'd beaten those other boys; hundreds of other boys. Boys from the Stambroke Preparatory School, boys from all over the state who'd sat the exam. He must be brighter than he'd thought and he glowed with satisfaction, but this lasted only for a moment, and then doubts began to nibble around the edges of his elation.

Maybe all those other boys were just not as bright as he'd thought they were, and the fact that he'd beaten them therefore meant very little. He wasn't really all that clever anyway, there were lots of things he couldn't understand and he began to feel quite daunted by the path lying ahead. He'd have so much to live up to and that would mean he'd have to work harder than he did now. In fact, he barely worked at all. The schoolwork had all been far too easy, but things would be different at Stambroke, there'd be much more competition. What if this exam success was just because he'd had one lucky day? When you tossed a dice sometimes it fell the way you wanted it to and sometimes it didn't. If the only reason he'd got in was good luck, he'd have to allow for bad luck in the future. It was all so risky and he'd have to prove himself by continuing to do well. The thought of failure made his knees weaken. Not only was there that fear, but he'd have to leave Jingera and his family too. That would be hard; he loved it here, at least for most of the time. Sometimes, though, Jingera
seemed so awfully small. Increasingly, ever since his trip to Sydney, he'd felt that. It had made him unsettled, although only for some of the time. Most of the time he avoided thinking about it.

He would have to say something to Miss Neville; she was staring at him with a big grin on her face. ‘G-g-good,' he stammered at last.

Now a cold feeling began to creep up his bare legs and spread through his whole body, so that he shivered slightly in spite of the warmth of the afternoon.

‘Aren't you pleased? Perhaps it's just too big a shock for you. It'll take time to absorb. It's a tremendous achievement, you know. This is the first time ever that a child from this area has won such a distinction.'

‘Very pleased,' he muttered, reminding himself again of Miss Neville's kindness in organising the entire thing, even though she'd got it wrong in referring to him as a child. He was a boy, and one who would soon be in secondary school. A tremendous achievement, she'd said, when all he'd done was something he happened to be good at, or that the others were bad at. ‘Dad will be pleased as well.' That was an understatement. His father would be overjoyed. At that prospect his glow of pleasure returned.

‘And your mother too.'

This was unlikely. He couldn't bear the thought of the rows that would follow once she heard the news. It would mean extra expense, she'd said so often enough. She'd begin snarling at Dad again, and Dad would be patient back, and she hated that.

Maybe he'd wait until teatime before breaking the news. His father would persuade his mother it was a good thing and then he'd go off to Sydney next February, to become a different person. One with a straw boater and a smart blazer, like those
boarders he'd seen strolling about the perfect lawns on the day of the scholarship exam.

It didn't bear thinking about any more. Later he'd return to it.

Afterwards, strolling down the hill below the school, he began to feel jubilation at his success and found himself skipping. Remembering that he was too old for this, he stopped and quickly glanced about. There was no one to see. Looking back, he caught sight of Miss Neville standing at the gate watching. Ten minutes ago, being seen skipping by her might have been embarrassing, but now it didn't matter. She smiled and waved, and he waved back. Then he continued down the hill to meet Andy and some of the other boys at the lagoon. They were there already; he could see them clowning on the bridge while they waited.

A light wind was blowing in from the south and a few seagulls wheeled along the river, taking advantage of the direction of the breeze to speed their flight. Just before the bridge they turned north and their cries became barely audible above the thudding of the breakers. That would be him next February, heading north to Sydney and a brand new life. He didn't want to think about this yet. Later, when he was in bed, he would think about it and get used to the idea.