Stillwater Creek by Alison Booth Page B

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 feelinghot, 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