Jacaranda Blue by Joy Dettman

celebrated her mother’s death by retiring from her position at the high school, then setting off to see the world on her mother’s hoarded money. Only when she began to run short of cash did she curtail her travels, sell the old house, and buy a modern unit at the retirement village behind the hospital.
    Her stance upright and proud, her thick hair rinsed a champagne blond, a touch of make-up, carefully applied, Miss Moreland refused to be considered as one of the elderly. Few in town had known the grand old dame’s age until she broke her arm, when her date of birth was exposed to hospital staff. Within days the news had filtered across the town to become the main talking point at tea parties.
    Calculations were made by the town busybodies. ‘She must have been in her sixties when she’d taught me in form four. I was sixteen in form four. She must have been over seventy when she retired from the school, and well into her eighties when she went on the cruise to New Zealand. She couldn’t have been far from ninety when she went to India. My word, she could have died there amongst the heathens.’
    Miss Moreland had no fear of gossip, age, or gods, be they Anglican or heathen. Having travelled to the far end of her life, she looked to her ultimate death with great interest, as many might look towards a grand tour of Europe. Death was one of the few places she hadn’t been; still, if her plane was running a little late, she had no complaints. Her bags were packed and in order, and when her flight from Maidenville came in, she would freshen up her lipstick and fly away with a wave of her hand.
    The old rocking chair on her front porch was her one concession to age. She was seated there now, rocking, watching for her late visitor.
    â€˜You’re late, my girl. I thought you’d absconded with the guild’s funds,’ she called as the car drew to a halt in her drive.
    As with Bonny, being around Miss Moreland always made Stella aware of her own lack of colour. Today her old friend looked a young and vigorous seventy-five in her grey slacks, and shirt of red and grey.
    â€˜I went for a long drive, my dear. It has been so long since I’ve managed to wheedle the keys away from Father, I took the opportunity to . . . to just drive. I forgot the time.’
    â€˜Forgot to put your hair up too.’ Miss Moreland stood and pulled at a corkscrew curl that the wind had found free to tangle. ‘You look like an underfed mouse with dreadlocks. If Arnold Parsons got a look at you today, he’d have good reason to call you Miss Mousy.’
    Stella ran her fingers through her hair, gathering it. Habit twisted it into the familiar knot, then she remembered the scratch on her neck. She let the hair fall back. Her hand straying to the scratch, she drew a curl forward.
    â€˜It’s Mousy Two. He began it way back when I was three or four. I tell him frequently that he is giving me a complex, but he tells me it’s a compliment.’
    â€˜Some compliment.’
    â€˜It’s from a tale of two mice swimming in circles in a vat of cream. He told it to me long, long ago, and I often wish I could remember it. I used to buy old nursery rhyme books as a child, hoping to come across it, but I never did.’ She removed her sunglasses. ‘You look well as usual. I do like your shirt.’
    â€˜I got it at the department store yesterday. It cost enough – and don’t you go trying to turn the subject on me. Your father said you weren’t yourself this morning, and for the first time in his life he may be right. Have you looked in a mirror lately?’ She led her guest indoors where she propped her before a mirror that took up most of her small hall.
    Stella peered at the face of the stranger. Her eyes were deeply set and bloodshot. The half-circles beneath them stood out like bruises. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’
    â€˜More than a sleepless night