Jacaranda Blue by Joy Dettman Page A

caused that, girl. A good howl caused that. And what’s with that fringe? Your hair never took well to a fringe.’
    â€˜It’s – it was overdue for a change, Miss Moreland.’
    The old lady’s eyes didn’t believe her. ‘Anything you want to tell me, girl? I’m a good listener.’
    Stella shook her head. She stepped back, took a brush from her handbag, flattening her fringe, tidying the wayward curls. She managed a lame smile as she dropped the brush back in her bag and began delving for the knitting she always kept by her side. Unable to look the old woman in the eye, she drew the knitting from the bag and began winding the wool.
    Miss Moreland stood, hands on hips, feet planted wide, studying her. ‘Your father said you’ve been getting obscene phone calls. Is that what’s troubling you?’
    â€˜No. Truly, I’m fine.’ Or I will be soon, she thought. So my virginity has been sacrificed upon the altar of youthful greed, but I have grown accustomed to sacrifice. Tomorrow will be easier, and the day after tomorrow easier than the one before. I have to go on.
    The old lady was speaking. Stella hadn’t heard her. ‘ – haven’t had a decent one for twenty years. My own fault. I always took the wind out of their sails. You know, I used to get a real kick out of those phone calls. Might have even shocked a few perverts into giving it up for life.’ Stella smiled, her mind back on track as she was ushered into the open-plan lounge/dining/kitchenette.
    â€˜Never let them know that they’re shocking you. That’s the trick. Give them back as good as they give you,’ Miss Moreland added.
    â€˜I haven’t . . . Father had a few calls this morning. A bit of heavy breathing, I believe. I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she said.
    Her Saturday afternoons in this modern little unit were never a duty. Her mind never wandered, not in this place. Conversation never lagged. Miss Moreland was a friend, a dear friend, and one with whom she could relax, be herself, speak her mind and shame the devil – or God. As she watched the older woman preparing tea, buttering scones, for one fragment of an instant she thought of telling her the truth, of opening her mouth and sharing the shame. Freeing it to words may make it less, she thought.
    Shame stifled her beginning. She felt her heart begin its mad race and her face begin to burn at the thought of exposing herself to this town. And exposed she would be. She looked at the telephone hanging beside the sink. Miss Moreland would be on the phone to Sergeant Johnson in the time it took her visitor to form three words. What was the use? It is over. In a week . . . in less than a week, I will know if there are to be any further complications. But by then I will be in Sydney. I will put it behind me today. What is done cannot be undone. Time will heal.
    Doesn’t time always heal? When Ron and Marilyn announced their surprise wedding, I got over it, even though I thought Ron still loved me, that he was filling in time with Marilyn, waiting for me. And when I gave up singing with Steve’s band, didn’t the disappointment fade after time? Of course it did. I will be fine once I am away from here, but until I go I have to keep behaving in the same way, keep my chin up, and smile. Give no-one reason to question me, and learn to deal with the problems as they arise – as I have always done.
    Silences were rare between these two, but today a silence kept growing, and though Stella tried to do what her mind bid her do, her thoughts continued their wandering.
    Miss Moreland was no fool. Questions rarely brought the answers desired, but if she waited, watched and listened, answers often had a way of coming unbidden. When they didn’t come this day, she tried her second ploy. She asked an innocent question. ‘Did you get to watch the golf yesterday?’
    â€˜No.’