The Newspaper of Claremont Street (10 page)

Nastasya was right about the rain. It came during the night, pouring on the iron roof of the old house, a sustained hammering of rain gradually increasing in sound as it fell more heavily.

‘Is like the wonderful last movement of the seventh symphony of Beethoven,' Nastasya said in the dark. ‘Only you Veekly cannot know what I mean, it is lost on someone like you! Oh,' she stretched herself in bed, ‘is heavenly, the rain!'

But Weekly knew music that was like rain, she heard everything in the houses where she worked; often she polished with Mozart or Beethoven and talked down Bach. She tried to ignore Nastasya and listened to the rain
in her own way as it came off the roof and rushed over the trembling gutters. The first rain on the dust and dry leaves brought a sharp fragrance up from the ground. It was like an anaesthetic, the smell of rain, almost too biting to breathe and yet it was impossible not to take deep breaths of the wonderful cool freshness after the intense heat and silence of the summer. Life seemed withdrawn during the summer, it was there of course, but hidden, the rain coming changed the season at once and brought the life out from its summer hiding place, back into the world.

Weekly thought about the five acres. Opposite her slope of land were upland paddocks half-curtained by the big trees of the shallow ravine. During the hot weeks, these paddocks, which were high and lifted up on the shoulders of the earth, were dry and brown. The rain would start them turning green overnight. She listened to the rain happily. She thought about the cottage, if only she could be there at once. This last waiting was the hardest.

‘Hope the roof doesn't leak,' she muttered to herself. She thought about the creek at the bottom of her land. It had been dry all summer. She tried to imagine how it would be flowing with water and how much water would flood the part Mr Rusk had described as flats. For the first time in her life she experienced real impatience. She wanted her land now. The coming of the rain and the smell of it in Claremont Street made her long for the
greater fragrance she knew would be waiting for her up there.

The Newspaper of Claremont Street had no time to sit in the shop telling gossip and dwelling on the misfortunes of others. She was busy going to town to buy things. She bought a spade, rubber boots, some candles and groceries and polish and she began packing them into the old car. Last of all she bought a pear tree. It looked so wizened she wondered how it could ever grow. Carefully she wrapped it in wet newspapers and laid it like a thin baby along the back seat.

On the day Mr Rusk gave her the key, Weekly went to work with it pinned inside her dress. She felt it against her ribs all morning. She was glad of the perfumed, warm untidiness of Mrs Lacey's bedroom, and she tried to work quietly without too much excitement. The weeks had gone by and at last, after more rain and a great deal of patience, the money mountain was removed for ever from Weekly's sight. Her early morning picture, in the first light, was now of the cottage waiting alone for her to come. Every morning, before getting out of bed, she allowed herself a few moments to pause on the tiny threshold as if about to open the door.

No one was at home at the Laceys' so she was able to leave on time and instead of scrawling one of her notes, ‘Will spend more time on the bedroom floor next week.
M.M.', instead of one of these little notes of promise and comfort there was nothing for Mrs Lacey except the clean house and a polite letter, written at home on cheap ruled paper the night before, explaining that owing to domestic reasons it would not be possible for her to come any more. And, instead of going on to the Chathams', she walked along Claremont Street dropping similar letters into all the letterboxes of the places where she had worked. Then she went on home to the room in the old house in Claremont Street. There she handed her key to the astonished landlady and she took her few clothes and bits of crockery and Nastasya and they drove together to Weekly's piece of land.

The same trees and fragrance and the cottage were all there as before. At once Nastasya discovered honeysuckle and roses, a fig tree and a hedge of rosemary, four little apple trees and an almond tree, all neglected and, for some reason, not seen by Weekly on her first few visits there. While Nastasya talked, Weekly looked at all these things and saw they were waiting for her to continue with them what some other person had started a long time ago.

Weekly tried to move away from Nastasya. She felt she would die there that first day. A weakness seemed to spread all over her body and into her limbs as she opened the cottage door to look inside. She looked shyly, she was quite unlike herself, at the tiny rooms and then wandered
about on the land looking at it and breathing the warm fragrance. The noise of the magpies poured into the stillness and she could hear the creek, in flood, running. She sank down onto the earth as if she would never get up from it again.

She counted over the treasures of the cottage. After having nothing she seemed now to have everything: a bed, a table, chairs and, in the kitchen, a wood stove and two toasting forks, a kettle and five flat irons. There was a painted cupboard and someone had made curtains of pale blue stuff, patterned all over with roses.

‘See that red gum Veekly,' Nastasya followed her about. ‘That tree, Veekly, and some of the other beeg trees—' her voice went on and on. ‘They must be three hondred years old at least!' Nastasya stood beside Weekly on the sunlit slope. ‘When these trees were saplinks Veekly,' she said very seriously, ‘do you realise that no white man knew that this country existed!'

Weekly knew she should clean out the cottage and Nastasya kept saying she was hungry, but she wanted to rest on the earth and look about her, feeling the earth with her hands, and listening for some great wisdom to come to her from the quiet trees and the undergrowth. Somewhere out of sight, down at the edge of the creek, thousands of frogs were making a noise as if talking to each other.

‘Veekly make me some coffee! I am quite faint for some
food. I like some coffee now Veekly, stronk and bleck!' Nastasya's voice interrupted. Better to clean the cottage and make Nastasya's special soup. Weekly made a great effort to get up. Tomorrow she would rest on the earth. She would look at the creek and discover its curves and depths.

She began an unmerciful cleaning of the cottage.

she sang as she cleaned. She took down the little curtains and washed them and spread them on the rosemary hedge to dry.

she polished the linoleum and washed out the cupboard and rubbed the tiny windows till they shone, singing all the time

At about five o'clock the sun, before falling into the scrub, flooded the slope from the west and reddened the white bark of the trees. The sky deepened with the coming
evening and Weekly put on the new rubber boots. She looked at Nastasya who was bent over greedily eating her food. The little kitchen seemed too full of Nastasya. She took the spade and the thin pear tree and still singing,

she went down to the bottom of the land.

There is something vulnerable about a person's back when bent unsuspecting over food. The sight of Nastasya eating was a sad one and Weekly never wanted to hurt anyone if she could help it. Perhaps in some way she could atone for what she had done to Victor all those years ago by being kind to Nastasya. Besides she had been taught as a child never to take a person for granted. She tried not to think about Nastasya. She had looked forward for so long and so much to what was now hers. Just now she would forget Nastasya.

Bravely she walked all over the flats. She sank deep in the mud and the new boots were stuck all over with clay. With difficulty she pulled one foot out of the mud and then the other, exploring her land. She discovered that the creek came onto the property in two curves, one at each corner. There would be time to look at that in the morning. Choosing a place for the pear tree, she began to
dig a hole. It was harder to dig in the clay than she thought and she had to pause to rest several times. Lovingly she looked at the little tree lying there waiting to grow. She could not really believe that it had any life. She tried to hurry with digging the hole. The tree must have a chance straight away.

‘You don't understand, Veekly do you hear me? You don't understand the delicate operation of planting a tree,' Nastasya called from the edge of the flats. ‘Give me your boots and I show you. I know everything about planting a young tree!' If only Nastasya would give her peace to enjoy her land and let her be in peace to plant her tree.

‘Give me your boots!' the voice went on and on spoiling the quiet evening. ‘Give to me your boots!'

So Weekly stood barefoot in the soft mud and Nastasya with great difficulty forced her larger feet into the boots.

‘Now,' Nastasya said. ‘See the bleck soil up on the slope where the beeg trees lies on the ground, not there Veekly, higher up.' Nastasya was more than a little impatient.

Weekly looked up her land to where the fallen tree was. ‘It did not fall Veekly,' Nastasya said, ‘it was pushed there and a lot of bleck soil is under ziss tree, ziss soil you hev to fetch down here and put in this hole.'

So Weekly obediently went up and down with her bare feet fetching soil on the spade. She wanted to plant the
tree and had looked forward to it. Nastasya's overbearing manner had become intolerable and she bitterly regretted not taking her to the hospital. She found the burden of Nastasya far heavier in this place. These thoughts pushed aside any pleasure she would have had planting the tree.

‘Hurry Veekly! My beck is breaking!' Nastasya was bending over holding the tree in the hole; the mud was halfway up the new boots as she had sunk into the clay. ‘Scatter the fine bleck soil around the roots,' Nastasya ordered. She shook the tree so that the soil fell closely around the fine roots. Again and again Nastasya shook the tree and Weekly scattered in more soft dark soil.

‘And now,' Nastasya said, straightening her back a little, ‘you must tread round and round the tree. I cannot as I am stuck, as you see!' and she laughed.

So Weekly firmed the soil, treading gently round and round the tree, passing close to the tree and to Nastasya. She had to step between them.

For the first time in her life the Newspaper of Claremont Street was dancing. Stepping round and round the little tree she was like a bride dancing. She imagined a veil of lacy white blossom falling all around her. Round and round the tree, dancing, firming the softly yielding earth with her bare feet. And from the little foil label, blowing in the restlessness of the evening, came a fragile music for the pear tree dance.

‘Hurry Veekly! it is gettink colder and the dark iss coming. Enough now!' Nastasya ordered, but Weekly went on dancing. She forgot Nastasya for a moment. There was a smoothness and ease about her bare feet on the soft, black soil and the little tree seemed comfortable at last. Weekly looked at its tiny twig-like trunk: perhaps it was not dead after all. It looked glossy and stood bravely there in the dusk. She began to walk slowly up her land, still dancing, it seemed, only more slowly; she heard the tiny label, it was like strange faint music.

‘Veekly! Help me!' Nastasya's voice broke into the dream dance. Nastasya was stuck fast in the wet clay, the new boots were now quite covered by the mud and Nastasya was unable to pull her large swollen feet out of them.

‘Veekly you have to get me out from here! It's so cold now and tonight it will freeze!' Nastasya's voice rose to a pathetic scream as she called after Weekly. ‘Veekly!' the voice followed Weekly up the slope.

‘Veekly help me! You cannot leave me. Tonight it will freeze. It is so lonely here no one can hear me except you. Help me!'

Yes, Nastasya was probably right. She usually was about the weather and the names of trees and plants and everything. It would be freezing tonight. Fortunately there was some wood chopped ready for the stove. As she pulled
the scraps of blue curtain from the hedge of rosemary before going into her cottage, Weekly could feel the chill stiffness of the coming frost already in the damp material.

She was not now able to hear Nastasya's voice. The distance was a little too great. In the fast-falling dusk she was just able to see her down there. She could make out a grey figure alone in the cold grey evening, and it looked as if Nastasya was dancing the pear-tree dance.

It had become the fashion to buy land. All kinds of people were searching for weekend country properties, farmlets they called them. The price of land rose steadily. The township became more desolate as more and more country people, unable to make a living, moved to the city to find work and to live in the new housing estates.

Poor quality fruit was unsaleable and pear trees were bulldozed into the ground. Almond orchards were ruined by the goats which were allowed to roam between the trees. Some houses and sheds were soon in a decrepit and neglected state.

People coming out to improve property, even if only at weekends, was a good thing and the postmistress of White
Gum Crossing welcomed the newcomers. The post office was a small fenced-off part of the general store. With great foresight the postmistress stocked up with handles for mattocks and axes, green netting for hats, and she had wheat for the kind of poultry townspeople are foolish enough to keep as pets. In her shed, she had fencing wire and paint and she had began ordering greater supplies of foodstuffs in preparation for the increasing weekend population.

One of the visitors from the city was a fair-haired, stocky man, middle aged with a quiet disposition. He came often to look and, after a time, he bought a piece of land. He liked to think of himself as the squire of the scattered township which was near his property. He dressed himself in new country clothes and drank beer with the local inhabitants on Saturday evenings. He strode about his paddocks inspecting fence posts and he did a little burning off at the right times. At night he sat studying pamphlets on soil analysis, trickle irrigation and fruit fly. He wrote long letters to many firms asking about trees and machinery and equipment. He was a handsome man, though no longer young, and many people in the little town thought it was a shame he was not married. Such a man could make some woman happy and secure for life. It was a great pity he had no family.

‘It's a waste of a good man,' a woman at the post office
said to him one day. She was in a talkative mood.

‘I suppose you realise you paid too much for that place you bought,' she said. ‘Would have bought it myself but I said to myself that land at that price is sheer robbery.' She paused and put a stamp on an envelope. ‘You'll have trouble with all that swamp on your block, the river flats, know where I mean?' She waited a moment and went on, ‘You could go up the road and see what the Dutchman's done at his place. Where the clay pits are, you'll know the place when you see it. You never saw such a mess. Seems to me all your place is good for is the same as what they're doing there. Why don't you toddle up and have a mosey round?'

He paid for his stamp, he agreed it was a pity he had no wife and thanked her for her helpful talk about his land. In spite of the problems of the poor land, he continued to enjoy his new life and, as soon as he could, he moved out to the country instead of just going there at weekends.

One afternoon he dressed himself with great care and set out to call on his neighbour on the next property. He had heard, on another occasion from the postmistress, that a lady lived there quite alone.

With a springing step he crossed his dried-up paddocks and followed the rubbish-filled creek bed for a few hundred yards. Then he picked and pushed his way
through the overgrown bush which bordered on his own neat place. He came to a little clearing some way up the slope. There was a tiny weatherboard cottage with two crazily painted notices,

and,

by the door. At first he thought no one was there—it was so still.

‘Anyone at home?' he called. ‘Anyone at home?' he called again. He walked round the house and came upon an old woman bending down tying up sticks into little bundles.

‘Good afternoon madam,' he said. She straightened up and, shading her eyes with one hand, she peered at him.

‘Aw my Gawd!' she said, suddenly out of breath. ‘I'll have to set down a minute yo've give me a shock.' He helped her to the broken steps of the verandah.

Weekly had to breathe hard for a moment.

‘Funny old day,' she said to him, cackling to hide her silliness. ‘Funny old day with all this cloud and no rain. But o'course,' she added, ‘the sun's shining up there in the
sky on the other side of the cloud. Learned us that at school didn't they.'

‘Yes. Yes they did,' he agreed. He was wondering whether he should have come.

‘It's yor voice,' she said, ‘yor voice, it reminded me of someone,' she thought she ought to explain her confusion. ‘For a minute there yo' had me bothered.' She sank into her own thoughts. It was so long since she had heard that over-refined way of speaking that did not completely conceal its origin.

‘I've bought the property adjoining yours,' he explained gently.

‘Have you now, that's very nice,' she said, composing herself and remembering her manners. ‘How about I make you some tea?' she asked. ‘Come in and set down.' He helped her up onto the verandah. He had not expected the lady living alone on the next property to be so elderly, but there was something he liked about her and he supposed age did not matter in the nature of the proposal he had to make.

‘Well, perhaps, yes tea would be very acceptable,' he realised how much he needed some after his difficult walk.

They drank their tea together, with appreciation. Weekly, used to being alone always, tried to drink hers more quietly than she usually did. It was quite a strain being well mannered. The visitor was a mystery too; he
did not resemble Victor at all in looks and, of course, a great many people spoke like that; even the tone of the voice, which was so familiar, could belong to many people.

He seemed excited about his idea. He described the clay and the brick-making. His tea cup rattled on the saucer so Weekly took it from him. She listened attentively, fascinated more by the sound of his voice than by the idea which seemed to involve using a part of her land, and part of his, for something she could never want. They walked together slowly down the fragrant slope to the river flats. As the sun fell into the scrub on the other side of the valley the last rays reddened the white bark of Weekly's ghost gums. The evening was coming quickly.

‘This would be the area involved,' he waved his arm towards the flats. ‘I have a similar patch adjoining.' They walked together along the edge of the hard dry clay.

‘In winter,' he said, ‘this clay is very wet and deep and sticky. It's too soft for anything in winter.'

‘Yerse,' Weekly said. ‘I know.'

‘This clay makes special bricks, but,' he sighed, ‘even the best bricks crumble to dust in the end,' he sighed again. ‘Nothing lasts for ever.'

They walked on slowly. For a while neither of them spoke.

‘I see you are trying to grow some fruit,' he said with reverence, pausing beside a tree.

‘Yerse,' Weekly said. ‘That's my pear tree. It takes a while for pear trees to grow. I'm hopin' to get some fruit nex' year. Plant pears for yor heirs! So they say.'

Next to the pear tree was a curious earth-covered mound about the size of a man bent double. It was fenced roughly with pieces of old pipe and bits of wood and bark, and some tin cans had been hammered flat and stuck into the clay.

‘It's quite an art piece,' he said.

‘Yerse,' Weekly agreed. ‘I should like this left as it is too,' she said, ‘I suppose if you, if we, have the clay pit, I should be very much obliged if me bit of fence could be left undisturbed. In a coupla hundred years there should be a interesting fossil here. In the interests of science, you see.'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘in the interests of science of course. We should, if you agree, and you must think about it, we should get a lot of clay out of here,' he said, ‘a lot of clay.' He was quiet and thoughtful as if calculating clay.

They began to walk up the slope together. The thirty-four rows of herringbone stitch on Weekly's skirts looked purple and expensive in the dusk.

The moon was rising behind the tall gum trees. The persistent tremulous movement of the long leaves in front of the shining moon made it look as if little candle flames were flickering all around the outside edges of it.

‘Oh just look at that wonderful moon,' he said.

‘Yerse,' Weekly said. ‘Er fairly races up the sky of a night. Er looks a bit undecided,' she said. She was out of breath.

‘Well I suppose I better be going home,' he said at the door of the cottage. Weekly thought for a moment that perhaps she should invite him indoors. Unable to make up her mind, she let the thought go.

She watched him disappear into the night. Sooner or later they would have to tell each other their names as it was the usual thing to do. She supposed that he would come back, though she thought to herself that she would not mind at all if he did not. As for the name, she was not sure that she wanted to know what it was.