Stillwater Creek (9 page)

Jim took the pail from his mother. She gave him a push in the direction of the back door, as if he wouldn't have known which direction to take unless she guided him. ‘Feed the chickens, there's a good boy,' she said. She never called the chickens chooks; that was common. His dad never did either, except when she was out of hearing.

‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!' Jim clucked, once he was inside the chicken coop, ducking his head because he could no longer stand up in the run. After distributing the food, he refilled the water trough. ‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!' he said, and grinned as the fowls clucked back.

His favourite hiding place was under the fig tree behind the back of the run. Well fertilised by chicken manure, the tree formed a dense canopy over an amphitheatre-like depression. He sat down and leant against the trunk of the tree with his legs stretched out in front of him. The ground fell away so steeply that he could see, over the top of the paling fence, the dense bush on the other side of the lane, and beyond that the glimmering of the lagoon. Time to himself was what he wanted. Something was troubling him and he hadn't yet been able to work out what it was.

It had been a lucky thing that he'd come across Zidra and Lorna that afternoon. He'd been scared when he'd broken up the fight. Not on his own behalf but because of what he'd seen on Roger's face. That look of hatred. He returned to it as if he were picking at a scab. Two girls against four boys. A wog and an Abo against four proper Australians.

The ground under him was littered with leaves, through which ants and a small spider were making their way. He placed a twig in front of the spider and watched it change its route. Why he wanted to compensate for what he'd seen on Roger's face that afternoon he couldn't understand. It wasn't his fault. He'd rescued the girls after all, but he felt a need to do something more. Then he remembered seeing Zidra creep under the hedge when he was racing his billycart down the hill. Tomorrow he'd ask her if she'd like a ride on it. Lorna too, if he could find her.

‘Jim! Jim!' His mother crashed out of the back door and the screen door slammed shut after her. ‘Where is that dratted boy? Time for him to set the table.'

‘He'll turn up.' Dad's calm tones could be maddening to Mum when her anger was up. Jim didn't wait for the reaction. So far Mum hadn't noticed his cubbyhole under the fig tree and he wanted to keep it that way. Out of the hiding place he crept, and up the side of the yard. Then he pounded down the side passage as if he'd been round the front all the time.

‘Where's your pail?'

‘I left it in the chook run.' Jim clattered down the back verandah steps to retrieve it.

‘Chicken run,' Mum bellowed after him.

‘Jim run,' Jim muttered to himself as he sprinted back up the steps. ‘What's for tea?'

‘Steak and kidney pie.'

‘My favourite,' said Dad, and Mum looked pleased.

The next afternoon Jim took the back route around to Zidra's house. No one should see him inviting her out to play; the last thing he wanted was unnecessary teasing. They'd see her later, if she came out, and that would be soon enough. And they wouldn't need to know he'd invited her; they'd just think she invited herself.

He looked for Zidra under the front hedge. No one there. Then he knocked on the front door and The Talivaldis opened it. Quickly she replaced a surprised expression with a broad smile. ‘Master Cadwallader,' she said, ‘whom I must only call Jim.'

Jim knew she was laughing at him. Embarrassed, he looked at his scuffed leather sandals through which calloused toes peeped. Brother Andy could bite his toenails; that piece of information would shock The Talivaldis. Now he couldn't think of anything to say. If she were his age and not one of those unpredictable adults who alternated between familiarity and distance, he might make a joke about her name. That wouldn't go down well though; she'd been most particular about his pronunciation when he'd last called, and anyway he wanted to get away as soon as decently possible.

‘Perhaps you would like to come inside?'

‘Just wanted to invite Zidra out to play.'

‘But how kind! She has so few friends and I'm sure that she would love to play.'

Zidra appeared in the hallway behind her mother. ‘I've got lots of friends,' she muttered, glaring at her mother. Jim saw the red flush rise up her neck. Once it reached her chin he
could no longer bear to look. He glanced again at the mother, who was smiling encouragingly at him. ‘Jim would like you to play, Zidra,' she said, eyes now firmly fixed on him as if she thought he might make a run for it.

‘Yeah. I could let you have a go on my billycart.' Jim absent-mindedly picked at a piece of loose skin around a fingernail and wished he'd never come. Playing with Andy in the bush or mucking around on the beach seemed like much more appealing activities now.

The Talivaldis clapped her hands. ‘On one of those cart things, how wonderful! My darling Zidra, of course you must go!'

Catching Zidra's eye, Jim grinned. She was just about to reply when her mother added, ‘But you must not ride down this steep hill, on no account ride on this steep hill. I beg of you that you will take care of her.'

Zidra stayed silent. Probably the best thing to do when her mother was in full flight. Jim surreptitiously licked the bleeding skin around his fingernail. Only when he had promised to take the billycarts somewhere flat did The Talivaldis quieten down. Zidra was forced to wear a floppy blue sunhat below which her hair stuck out like steel wool, and somehow Jim's torn fingernail managed to acquire a plaster. Then they were set adrift into the hot afternoon.

Before they'd even reached the front gate the piano could be heard, as The Talivaldis thumped out some processional march to accompany their flight up the hill.

Ilona had seen the emerald green swimming costume in the Homebush opportunity shop just before leaving Sydney. She had asked the sales assistant if she could try it on in the small cubicle at the back of the shop.

‘That's not allowed for reasons of hygiene,' the woman had explained very slowly, as if Ilona were stupid instead of foreign. Her height made looking down her nose seem natural.

‘I could wear it over my undergarments,' Ilona had offered. The assistant had refused, as if her undergarments might be unhygienic too. But Ilona had fallen in love with the soft emerald fabric and bought the swimsuit regardless. It was cheap and it looked as if it had hardly been worn, and she could always use her needle and cotton to make adjustments if it turned out to be too big.

This morning, when at last she tried it on, she discovered it was far too large, two sizes at least. It needed drastic needlework before it was presentable. The side seams would have to be taken in and the straps shortened. In the meantime she could wear it as it was, held in with a couple of safety pins, and hope there was no one on the beach when she went swimming, for she was determined to swim today. It was already feeling
hot, although it was only mid-morning, and she had put off going into the surf for far too long.

Now she lingered on the narrow bridge over the lagoon. There was no one around, apart from a distant figure sitting on the steps at the end of the jetty; Tommy probably, fishing as he seemed to do every morning about this time. Putting down the string bag holding her towel, she readjusted the straps of the swimming costume she was wearing underneath a loose dress. The whole day lay ahead, with nothing pressing for her to do until school came out. She noticed, on the beach side of the lagoon, a dilapidated fibro boathouse with a rusting corrugated iron roof. It was barely visible, sheltered from the town by a twist in the river and a dense stand of spiky-leafed trees.

She picked up her bag and walked on. The bridge opened on to a wide track leading onto the beach. Instead of following that as she had originally intended, she took a turning to the right, along a narrow path winding through the bush and which must be the access path to the boathouse. It weaved its way through the trees she'd identified from a library book as melaleucas. Their leaves rustled like sheets of fine paper in the warm breeze. Some unseen bird trilled a single bell-like note. Eventually the path opened into a grassy clearing in front of the boathouse. Through a dirty pane of glass, she could see a rowing boat resting on the sand; at high tide the water would flow right into the boathouse. She walked around the side of the building and saw that the doors of the boathouse were slightly ajar and the tide was starting to come in; the water lapped gently at the sand. A flock of perhaps twenty pelicans stood about in the shallows of the lagoon, as if waiting for some excitement. She walked slowly towards them and one of them sounded a warning, more a growl than a honk. The more timid birds waded away fast, splashing in their haste.

Another narrow path led from the back of the boathouse in the direction of the beach and she decided to take this rather than to return the way she'd come. The path climbed a steep ridge. The melaleucas growing here were thin and rangy. They leant away from the ocean; only their roots, anchored in this inhospitable-looking soil, were constraining them to stay. From the top of the ridge, over a green fringe of bushes, the entire length of Jingera Beach could be seen. Not a soul in sight. She could swim anywhere without fear of being seen in her too-large swimming costume. The track headed straight down into the dunes. She slipped off her sandals, but the beach was even hotter than the air and burned the soles of her feet, so she put them on again to pick her way over the sand.

The sun beat down on her head in spite of the hat, and beads of moisture formed between her shoulderblades and trickled down her back. Above the line of detritus marking the last high tide, she put down her bag and unbuttoned her dress. Almost blinded by the glare, she skipped across the burning sand to the edge of the surf. Straight into the line of breakers she went, until she was wet to halfway up her thighs. Knees bent, she immersed herself to waist-level. The shock of the cold water took her breath away, but after a few seconds the water seemed warmer, and her body began to tingle. For a moment she relaxed, feeling her body shift with the movement of the water that was like a living thing; the dragging of the receding waves, and then the tugging back to shore of the incoming waves; this incessant pushing and pulling. It was as if each outgoing wave were pushing away old cares and each incoming wave ushering in new joys, and she laughed out loud.

Then a harsh noise intruded on her reverie, a loud bellowing from the beach. A man was sprinting towards her, arms flapping as if he were controlling traffic, and he was shouting
again. And now she could make out the words, ‘Don't go in! Don't go in!' He peeled off his shirt as he ran and then his shorts, revealing black swimming trunks, and all the time he continued bawling at her, while discarding clothes onto the sand.

Perhaps she had been mistaken in thinking this was public beach; this must be private land and that explained the shouting. Reluctantly she came out of the water, conscious of her wet swimming costume, the fabric of which seemed to be stretching with the weight of the water and slipping down her legs. Arms hugging her chest, she was reassured that the top of this most unfortunate garment was not wet and that the safety pins were bearing up.

At the edge of the waves, she stood waiting, her heels slowly sinking into the sand as the water eddied around them, shifting the grains.

‘You mustn't go in there,' the man gasped, coming to a standstill several yards away. Hands on hips, he had to stop speaking to regain breath.

‘I must apologise if this is your beach,' Ilona said, avoiding looking at the dark tufts of hair under his arms and focusing instead on his face. ‘I had not intended to cause anyone offence.'

The man puffed ridiculously in front of her, face red with exertion and eyes a cold deep blue, like the almost endless ocean she had crossed to reach here.

‘I might have been thinking,' she continued, struggling a little with her English, ‘that there is so much empty space here and that one swimmer would not you trouble.'

‘You've completely misunderstood,' the man said rather crossly when at last he had regained his voice. Such an unfit – if undeniably good-looking – man should really not be running up and down beaches driving away harmless swimmers but
instead should be resting or perhaps engaging in some gentle swimming exercise himself. This was precisely the moment to tell him to take things calmly, and she was about to do so when he interrupted. ‘It's much too dangerous here. Surely you can't have failed to notice the strong rip out there?' He pointed towards the ocean.

Following the direction of his finger she saw that the surf was indeed frothing about rather furiously just beyond where she had been standing. It would not have been at all pleasant to be caught up in that. This stranger had perhaps saved her life and she was about to thank him, but now he was glancing at the drooping bottom of her swimming costume; glancing obliquely, it was true, and then averting his eyes. Surely that twist of his lips was a quickly suppressed grin. So the words that came out of her mouth were not those she intended. ‘Of course I had no intention of going out that far,' she said, clasping her arms more closely over her chest. ‘Only a
nincompool
would do that.'

At this he laughed outright. ‘
Nincompoop
,' he said when he'd sobered up a bit. ‘That's the correct word. You wouldn't have had any choice. You would've been dragged out there by the rip. You're jolly lucky I came along. If I hadn't, you'd have been halfway to New Zealand by now.'

He was one of those men who always had to be right, she decided. Now staring at the sand, she traced out a wide arc with her right foot, aimlessly pushing grains into a small pile. Inadvertently she flicked some of it over his feet. Several wet particles stuck to his ankles, while the rest trickled gently back onto the beach. She felt slightly shocked at this, as if she had made direct physical contact. Looking up again, she saw that he was watching her intently. Gazing as keenly back would help reduce this odious feeling of being caught at a disadvantage.

A few seconds later she turned away, and watched the roiling rip. Her eyes filled with tears. An illusion had been shattered. There
was
danger here, even on this pristine beach, from either the ocean or from men appearing so surprisingly from the bush. She felt humiliated besides, to be seen in a too large costume performing a too stupid action in a too rough sea. How ludicrous I am, she thought. If her rescuer had been homely instead of handsome, her reaction would have been of gratitude and not humiliation. Quickly she blinked away the tears and, after a moment, turned to thank him, the words coming easily now, as if it had not been a battle to be gracious.

‘I'll show you where it's safe to swim,' he told her. ‘I'm going in myself.'

Once more she thanked him. It was important to learn something from every experience and from him she would learn where it was appropriate to surf. But on no account would she go into the water with this man. Almost better to be at the mercy of the currents than to expose herself again to his scrutiny in this ludicrous swimsuit.

They exchanged names as they marched along the beach on sand firmed by the waves. Peter Vincent; the name sounded faintly familiar. At this point she remembered the man with the Armstrong Siddeley she'd seen on that first visit to Woodlands. ‘I've seen you before,' she said. ‘At Woodlands.'

The man glanced at her. ‘I remember you now,' he said, smiling. ‘You were wearing a purple hat.'

It was irrational to feel irritated that he had fastened on that unbecoming hat, and to feel even more irritated when he changed places with her, so that now he was on the ocean side, as if afraid that she might suddenly dart into the waves again. They carried on walking in silence and after a time she began
to feel her annoyance ebbing away. There were a number of shells washed up on the beach and she stooped to pick up a pale violet one. Next to it lay a small flat stone. On it was an indentation that looked remarkably like the fossilised remains of something: a small creature perhaps, or a tiny fern. She picked it up.

‘Someone must have dropped it here,' Peter said. ‘You can find fossils under the headland if you look hard enough. Not so many left now as when I was growing up, but you can still see them in the cliff face.'

‘I will give this to my daughter.' Ilona ran a finger over the small impression in the stone. There would be no one to look after Zidra if she were not here to protect her. So in a sense Peter Vincent had saved both Zidra and herself.

When they were almost at the thin trickle of water escaping from the lagoon, Peter stopped. ‘It's safe to swim here,' he said, before explaining how the gradual breaking of the waves could be exploited by a body surfer. ‘This is where I swim,' he added, giving the place an extra benediction. ‘There's a small beach at my place but it's too dangerous. Too exposed. I come here when I want to surf.'

Surreptiously she glanced at him. Brown body, even browner hands and neck. Clearly he engaged in outdoor work of some kind and probably not in the company of others.

‘Where are you from?' he asked.

‘Jingera.'

‘No, I mean where are you from originally? What part of Europe? I hope you don't mind my asking.'

‘Latvia.'

‘A lovely place, so I've heard. I've been to Europe but never to that part.'

‘Where did you go?'

‘Britain, Germany, Holland. I got shot down over Holland in the war and got stuck in a POW camp for two years.'

His voice was as calm as if he'd been stuck in a traffic jam. No sign of emotion; no twitching of lips or eyes, nothing. Never would she be able to say, straightaway to someone she'd only just met, that she had been in a concentration camp. She had to keep all that stuff tightly buttoned up or she would fall to bits. For an instant she wondered what his war had been like and then pushed that thought away. Her heart was starting to pump too fast and she had to change the subject quickly before an anxiety attack could begin. Desperately seizing upon the first thought that entered her head, she said, ‘Who owns the boathouse?'

‘George Cadwallader.'

‘Cadwallader's Quality Meats.'

‘Indeed. The odd thing about the boathouse is that it's on the wrong side of the water. There used to be a shack behind it once but it fell down years ago. George keeps his boat there. Goes fishing on the lagoon when he's allowed.'

She was grateful for this long response, to which she only half-listened. Her heart rate was slowing to normal. She was going to be all right. She repeated Peter's words, ‘When he is allowed?'

‘When he can fit it in.'

‘Perhaps I should swim in the lagoon rather than the surf. Is the lagoon safe?'

‘Yes, but it's okay to swim in the surf if you choose the right spot. You've got to choose the right day too, and it's best to go in with someone if you don't know the conditions.'

This didn't metamorphose into an invitation and she was almost disappointed not to be given the opportunity to refuse. Peter simply said, ‘Better get on with it then.' Nodding briefly, he strolled towards the surf.

For just an instant she looked wistfully after him, for the waves did indeed appear inviting. Then she turned back up the beach. Before long she found a secluded stretch of sand by the lagoon. Like a cautious middle-aged matron, she would swim somewhere shallow and safe.

Once in the still water, her spirits calmed. The water caressed her skin as she glided through it in a leisurely breast-stroke. Eventually tiring of this, she turned over and floated, head tilting back so far that her toes broke the water's surface. Far above was the empty dome of the harsh blue sky that was almost too bright to contemplate.