Jacaranda Blue by Joy Dettman Page B

Stella’s heart thumped in her throat, and her mind returned to the shed and to the smell of the earth, and her blood on the earth, and the stink of his sex. She could still smell it in her hair. The wind had not blown it clean. She had washed it and washed it last night, had used the last of the shampoo on it; still it smelt of him. Her hand rose to her hair. She drew a strand forward, smelt it. Have to cut it off, she thought. Go to the hairdressers and get it all cut off.
    â€˜What’s wrong with your hair today?’
    â€˜I . . . I washed it last night and rather foolishly went to bed with it wet. It dried wild. I’m . . . I’m thinking of getting it cut like Bonny’s.’
    â€˜What did you get up to yesterday?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ Her voice was defensive, her heartbeat erratic as guilt rose like a wave in her brain. Guilt planted by God, and her mother, to cower the innocent. Blood rushed her cheeks, her brow. Her hands began their burning.
    â€˜Did you go to the funeral?’
    â€˜No. Father went to the funeral.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t be much of a show without Punch, would it? I hear he’s got another one on Monday.’
    â€˜Monday. Yes. Yes. A lot of relatives are from out of town. The two boys.’
    Again the silence.
    â€˜Did you see Bonny yesterday?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Stella’s chin lifted. ‘We were speaking about . . . she said she’d potted out a lot of junipers, and we thought we might have a separate gardening stall this year. There is so much in my own garden. I’ll have to get into the shed and – ’
    Her mind went away to the shed, and the rape and the silence grew long again as she sat, shoulders hunched, counting stitches with her fingers, recounting stitches while the old woman stared at her bowed head.
    â€˜Stella Templeton. What in God’s name is the matter with you today?’
    â€˜I . . . I didn’t sleep well.’
    â€˜We’ve been through all that. Spit it out. I know there’s something troubling you and don’t deny it. I’ve known you too long, girl.’
    â€˜I’m fine. Really.’
    Miss Moreland rose, walked to her cupboard, selected a bottle then poured a portion into a glass. She added water from the tap. ‘Here then, get this into you.’
    â€˜What – ?’ Stella took the glass.
    â€˜Down the hatch with it and don’t you give me any arguments. You’re as white as a sheet and if you’re not going to tell me why, then drink this down then go home to bed. I don’t know what your father was thinking of, allowing you to come out today.’
    â€˜I’m quite well, really.’
    â€˜Pseudo martyrs are two-a-penny in this town. And I can assure you that the town and I will survive without you for a few days. You go home to bed, and if you don’t feel any better in the morning, then give Parsons a call, and have a check-up.’
    Stella sat handling the glass, peering at its contents, thinking of Doctor Parsons and if perhaps he would be the one to tell. He would understand, and he could keep a secret – but would he keep this secret? And what could be gained – unless she pressed charges against the youth? And what would Marilyn do if she did? And Ron? What would he think of her?
    â€˜Drink it. Get it into you, girl.’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜It’s brandy and water, and it’s gotten me through every emergency that’s arisen in my life in the past seventy-odd years, and God willing it will keep me going long enough to get my telegram from Queen Lizzie. Now down the hatch with it and go home. I will brook no argument today, girl.’
    Stella emptied the glass, then she left.
    Â 
    The minister was waiting for his car at the front gate. She stopped the vehicle, climbed out, and handed him the keys.
    â€˜Did you buy milk, Daughter?’
    â€˜Milk?’
    â€˜I asked