Stillwater Creek (29 page)

Peter spent the days after the dance surveying Ferndale and wasn't too impressed. Not with the landscape but with his stewardship of it. For over a decade he'd been here and there was so little to show for it. Methodically he catalogued his omissions of care and soon filled half-a-dozen sheets of foolscap paper. But his affinity with Ferndale was growing day by day.

Sometimes, though, he forgot what he was doing. The jagged mountain range would capture his attention. Or the tiny blue flowers on the shrubs hugging the top of the cliff, which he'd never noticed before, or the cracks in the dry earth. It was only Spot jumping up on him that reminded him of what had to be done. Then he paused to wonder if a sense of faith was being restored to him. Faith in what, he was unsure. The land. The light. The possibility of loving.

On the last day of the survey, he took a satchel containing lunch down onto the beach below the homestead. Even here it felt hot. There wasn't the slightest stirring of air, in spite of the crashing breakers. Hat tilted against the glare, he sat in the shade of a large rock. Gnawing on hard bread, on which he'd arranged lumps of even harder Burford Cheddar – he'd
forgotten to replenish the pantry and was having to make do with what he could scrounge – he felt he now had a future. A future beyond mere survival.

Ilona must visit Ferndale. Tomorrow he would drive into Jingera and persuade her to come. How would the place seem to her? Squinting, he glanced around. At the northern end of the short beach, the fissured cliff face was dotted with lime green and olive-coloured bushes that were stunted by their southerly exposure. Below the headland, waves washed around some jagged pinnacles of rock. Two black cormorants, perched on the highest rock, surveyed the sea. It was a dangerous place to surf but Ilona knew about dangerous water after her experience on Jingera Beach. He wouldn't need to convince her that she couldn't swim here.

After finishing lunch, he returned to the homestead. That was at least structurally sound, although undeniably dilapidated. The verandahs needed reroofing and the woodwork needed repainting. Several hundred yards distant was an agglomeration of sheds, yards and water tanks. They jostled around the bleached weatherboard cottage that had once housed the manager.

Perhaps, when he got the place going properly again, he'd find another manager. He'd been reluctant to do that before because he'd wanted to be alone. Maybe now he was getting ahead of himself; he should leave the manager idea for a bit and proceed incrementally. First he'd hire some casual labour and see how things worked out. It wasn't a shortage of funds that had been hampering him but a shortage of motivation.

The main house felt baking hot inside. Before leaving that morning he'd forgotten to shut the windows against the heat. After closing them, he drew the curtains; they were shabby velour things that needed replacing. The outbuilding that was
the kitchen seemed even hotter than the house, the fuel stove making the room almost unbearable. After making a pot of tea, he put it on a tray, together with a cup and saucer. In the glassed-in walkway connecting the kitchen to the main house, he paused. There was something strange about the lozenges of light cast by the stained glass panels; they were too yellow somehow. The light outside was queer too, an almost luminous yellow. He glanced at his watch. Only three fifteen and far too early for the sun to set. A strong wind had sprung up in the short time since he'd come indoors and was buffeting the Monterey cypresses and radiata pines surrounding the house. The highest branches whipped back and forth, as if they were made of some flexible wire rather than brittle wood. The sky was now covered with a thick layer of dark grey cloud tinged with orange. That must be red dust scooped up from somewhere out west; they had no earth that colour around these parts.

At this moment a streak of lightning sliced the sky, followed a second later by a crack of thunder so loud that the walkway windows shivered. On the verandah, Spot began to howl and even the two old kelpies whimpered a bit. He let the dogs inside. Gently he stroked quivering Spot: this was probably the first thunderstorm he'd ever experienced. Flashes of lightning and claps of thunder formed a syncopated entertainment. When Spot began to whine, he shut him in the dining room and returned to the walkway, his exhilaration growing. This would be the first rain for months.

But when it came it was mainly dust. Dabs of fine mud splattered the windows and stuck there, leaving penny-sized circles of red ochre. Soon there were so many that it was hard to see out and even the flashes of lightning were barely visible through the fine layer of mud covering the glazing.

Then, as suddenly as the storm had started, it ceased. The wind dropped and the red-tinged clouds drifted slowly eastwards.

He released Spot from the dining room and went outside with the dogs. The house and ground were coated with red dust. More precious tank water would have to be used to clean the windows. There wasn't even a scent of water on soil and the temperature must still be pushing a hundred. Although the trees were intact, half-a-dozen branches littered the patch of weeds that were once called a lawn.

But he'd ask Ilona and Zidra to visit anyway. They could see Ferndale at its worst.

It got Jim worried, Zidra trailing round after him all day as if she wanted to tell him something and her face so miserable that tears couldn't be far off. There was no chance of them finding anywhere quiet to talk though, with the other kids milling around at recess and Roger the nong saying that Zidra was his girlfriend. Once school was over, and everyone was streaming out of the school gates, she remained close to him. Still not a word as they walked side-by-side down the hill. Past the pub, Mr Bates standing there as usual to say
g'day
with Mrs Bates right next to him, and all the time Zidra so close that she kept bumping into his schoolbag. But instead of turning to go down the hill, she turned right as if she'd invited herself back to his place and he was glad of that. Finally, when the other kids had peeled off and Andy had dashed ahead, he said, ‘What's up?'

‘I want to talk to you.'

‘What about?'

‘Not here.' Her face crumpled like screwed-up tissue paper, she looked furtively around, but there was no one to hear them, just Andy some yards ahead and out of earshot.

‘We can talk in a hiding place below our chookyard if you like. No one'll see us there.'

The branches of the fig tree formed a thick canopy over the hollow in the ground. Jim perched in his usual spot against the trunk of the tree while Zidra sat cross-legged next to him. He watched her face assume a greenish tinge in the dense shade. Straight ahead she stared, at the bush beyond the back lane and the glimmering of water in the distance.

‘What's the matter?' he said. ‘You can spill the beans now. No one can hear.'

‘It's hard to tell.' From her pocket she pulled out a handkerchief and started to twist it around her fingers.

‘You mean you don't know what's the matter or you don't know how to explain it?'

‘Don't know how to explain it.'

‘Just start at the beginning then.'

‘It's about Mr Bates,' she said.

‘What about him?'

‘He frightens me.'

‘I thought you really liked him. You know, like he was your dad.'

Pulling at the edge of the handkerchief, she seemed reluctant to continue. ‘I bumped into him the other day,' she said eventually. ‘It was after Roger'd put the jam on the back of my tunic and all the kids were laughing at me. So I took the long way home through the lanes.' Although her voice broke, she continued. ‘Mama – Mum – was giving some piano lessons so I thought I'd have a bit of a walk through the bush. You know, down to that spot by the lagoon where you cooked those potatoes that day.' Again she stopped and fiddled with the handkerchief.

‘Near Stillwater Creek,' Jim said.

‘Yes.'

Tears were beginning to trickle down her face. Tempted to put an arm around her shoulders, he thought better of it; she'd
surely shake it off. ‘Then what?' Hoping his mother or Andy wouldn't appear, he cast a quick look behind them. All he could see were a few chooks scratching around in their yard in spite of the heat.

‘I met Mr Bates and he gave me a whole bag of lollies and we sat down and ate them.'

Jim started to feel uncomfortable. ‘And …?' he prompted.

‘He asked if I'd told anyone about our little secret, when Lorna and I took out your dad's boat.'

He'd been right, the two girls and Batesy had been up to something down by the boathouse and he'd suspected that all along. His father had noticed too; the padlock had appeared on the boathouse doors not long after.

As if to gauge his reaction, Zidra glanced quickly at him.

‘Who cares about the boat?' he said gently. ‘Dad wouldn't, as long as you put it back.' This was a lie but he'd never before seen Zidra look this vulnerable.

‘Mr Bates said I could go to jail.'

‘They'd never lock you up for something like that. No way.'

‘You sure?'

‘Yeah, I'm sure.' He watched Zidra scrubbing at her tears with the twisted-up handkerchief. ‘There's nothing to worry about.'

‘There's more though.'

‘What?'

‘Mr Bates pulled out some pictures.'

‘What of?'

‘Can't say.'

‘Got to say.'

‘You know …'

‘Please tell me, Zidra.'

‘Rude things.'

‘You don't mean …?'

‘Yes. I didn't know what they were at first.' She swallowed and wiped the hanky across her mouth. Then so quickly he could barely make out the words, she said, ‘Then he took out his thing.'

‘What thing?'

‘You know, in there.' She pointed to Jim's fly.

‘No.' Shocked to the core, Jim felt himself blushing deeply and his hands started to sweat.

‘Yes.'

A wave of nausea swept over him but he managed to say, ‘And he didn't …?'

‘No.'

‘And then?'

‘I ran away as fast as I could. I'm much quicker than he is.'

At this point she was overcome with sobbing and he patted her on the shoulder. Although he'd known something was wrong, he hadn't guessed it was this. Couldn't have guessed it was this, although ever since that awful boat trip he'd wondered why Batesy had fussed over her all the time.

Now he knew.

‘You mustn't worry,' he said, surprised that his voice sounded so calm. ‘But you've got to keep out of his way for a bit while we work out what to do.'

‘I'm doing that, but I'm frightened of him coming out of the pub. He's always there on the verandah.'

Of course she was right, Batesy was always there, smiling and nodding at the kids, and fawning over Zidra, the creep. ‘I'll walk home with you after school. All the way to your house.'

‘What about when you're at cricket practice?'

‘I'll walk you home first.' But he wouldn't always be able to walk her home. There'd be some days when she'd be on her
own and by the end of the summer he'd be off to his new school. Then anything could happen. He started to chew at his thumbnail.

‘I can't tell anyone else,' Zidra said. ‘No one else would believe me.'

‘I believe you. I'll think of a way of dealing with this.' Indeed, an idea was already forming in his mind.

And the idea would develop, together with his anger, over the next few hours.

Cherry watched Bill all evening to make sure he wasn't drinking. That night, when the last customer had left and the doors of the hotel had been locked for the night, they were alone.

‘Have a good practice yesterday afternoon?' Bill said, rather too casually, Cherry thought.

‘Not too bad.' This was the time to confront him. For a day she'd been formulating what to say but now the words vanished from her mind. She began a routine inspection of the ashtrays. The bar stank of stale cigarette smoke and beer, and the room was hot and stuffy. The little speech she'd prepared was forgotten but something had to be said. She opened her mouth to speak but Bill got in before her.

‘I saw the Talivaldis woman go up to the school yesterday afternoon after school was out. Elinor or Ilona or whatever she calls herself.' So hard was he scrubbing at the bar top you might have thought he was sanding it. ‘Zidra's not ill, is she?'

‘No, Bill. She's not. Or at least not as far as I could see. Ilona went to see Miss Neville.' She picked up a damp cloth and, with trembling hands, folded it into a small square.

‘Do you know why?'

‘I've got a fair idea. I'm not sure Ilona has though.' She wiped out the inside of an ashtray with the cloth, which turned black. It was disgusting. Putting down the cloth, she braced herself for what had to be said. ‘You haven't been interfering with the girl, have you, Bill?'

He stopped scouring the bar counter and stared at her. A slight twitch under the right eye gave him away. She'd got through to him and her heart began to race as fast as if she'd been on a long run.

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' he said.

They remained staring at one another. She was not going to look away first. His face had become even more scarlet than usual and against this heightened colour, his eyes were the palest blue.

‘I think you know exactly what I'm talking about,' she said slowly, observing the slight twitch again. ‘I'm talking about little girls, Bill. I'm talking about you wanting to do things with little girls.' With fists clenched so tightly that the fingernails dug into her palms, she was glad of the pain: it would keep her to her purpose. ‘It's got to stop or I'm going to tell everyone.'

‘There's a thing or two I could tell people about you, old girl.'

Her heart jumped. Surely he couldn't know about Miss Neville: they had been so careful! A hot flush suffused her face and neck, but she was angry rather than ashamed. ‘I really don't care what you tell anyone.' Her words were like bullets, cold and hard. She could no longer bear to look at him. Instead she stared at the reflection of the back of his head in the strip of mirror behind the bar. Blond tufts of hair framing a shining red dome and, above this, a frieze along the top of the mirror advertised Tooth's Beer.

‘Well, you should. I saw you kissing Pat Neville. On the mouth, in the classroom. I don't think that would go down well with the Education Department, do you?'

In that instant she realised that she no longer cared what people thought about her. After all, she was an adult and could make her own choices, and take the consequences too. She thought again of Mr Ryan losing his job at Burford High School all those years ago but he was a man and people wouldn't believe that two women would do such a thing, and if they did believe it, so be it. ‘I'm not going to be distracted by that nonsense,' she said, though her voice was shaking.

‘Don't think I haven't noticed.'

‘I don't fancy little girls like you do. Now I know why you lost interest in me all those years ago. It was because I'd grown up. I'd become a woman and you wanted a girl.' The pain of this realisation was still with her. She glanced at his face, a fleeting look. His features were swollen with anger and she couldn't bear the sight of him. Children weren't in any position to make their own choices and that was why men like Bill had to be stopped. What really mattered was protecting children from people like him.

‘You and Miss Neville, you'll be the laughing stock of town. Once they've finished lynching you.'

‘No one would believe you,' she said slowly and distinctly, but she was beginning to feel frightened. ‘All I care about is that you lay off Zidra and any other kids you might have your eye on. Do you understand?'

Who could tell what he might do next. A big man, he could easily knock her down, just as her dad had knocked down her mother all those times when she was growing up. She gauged the distance to the doorway into the hall. Three yards at least but she was lighter on her feet than he was and she wouldn't
be cowed. Deliberately, unhurriedly, she walked towards the door. There she turned. Bill was standing in the same position, as still as a block of stone. Once she might have felt pity for him – not any longer. Although at this instant he was immobile, as soon as he recovered from the shock anything could happen. He'd never hit her yet but he was cornered now.

She ran up the stairs two treads at a time. Once she'd locked the bedroom door, she took the key out of the lock and put it in her handbag. Only after pushing the heavy chest of drawers against the door did she begin to feel reasonably secure. Her hands were still shaking and her voice box hurt. This lingering tension in her throat made her realise how loudly she must have been shouting at Bill.

Tomorrow she'd go to the police but he was unlikely to guess that. She'd been docile for years and he'd think she was going to stay that way. Or that's what she hoped now she'd decided to leave.

After pulling a small suitcase out of the wardrobe, she began to pack. She wouldn't take much, it would be easier to travel light and it would be less conspicuous too. Just a few underclothes and dresses, her sponge bag and of course her make-up. Tomorrow before seeing the police she'd have to let Miss Neville know what was going on. First thing in the morning she would drop into her house, going as usual down the back lanes where the dunny cart used to go, and that way she wouldn't be seen. If she was seen it wouldn't matter, not any more, not now she'd made up her mind to leave. After that she'd go to Burford. It would have to be the Burford police that she told, not Jingera. That local man Davies was too thick and knew Bill far too well and would never believe her.

Now she'd made this decision she felt a little better. No less anxious or nervous but at least she knew that she was doing
the right thing at last. Miss Neville would help her all she could because she was a friend. After that, what might eventuate was anyone's guess. It was no good hanging around waiting for things to happen, waiting for the situation to get resolved. She had to act herself to settle it. Now she'd determined what to do she was more comfortable with herself, although still apprehensively listening to the noises of the hotel, the creaking that a wooden building always made at night, and listening for Bill's tread.