if it was at the southern end of the beach with easier road access. It must have been located here for other reasons; someone had fallen in love with the view, or the fishing was perfect, or the river convenient. Although she knew by now that not everything could be explained by logic, by one event leading inexorably to the next.
Seated on the top rail of the fence, she could see the school, where Zidra was at this moment, a clutch of houses and, beyond them, the roof of the hotel.
A headland was a strange place to bury people, she felt, with a panorama that the dead would never see. Man is born astride a grave . Samuel Beckett had been Oleksiiâs favourite playwright. There, she had thought of Oleksii again when she had promised herself she would not. Despite being in Jingera for several weeks, she had avoided the headland until today. She hadnât wanted to be reminded of Oleksii. She looked again at the signs segregating parts of the graveyard. Years ago she had converted to Catholicism in a half-hearted sort of a way, for Oleksiiâs sake, and now he was buried six feet under in the Catholic section of Rookwood Necropolis.
Breathing deeply, she tried to distract herself from these thoughts by listing all the good things about Jingera. When she had finished, and the list was rather long, she began again. By now tears were obliterating the view; she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them away.
It was no longer possible to deny that she felt more lonely now than in those first few weeks after Oleksiiâs death. A death that had been so sudden. How could she have guessed that what appeared to be a mild cold might turn into pneumonia? One day heâd staggered home from the factory at lunchtime, lurching so much that initially sheâd wondered if he was drunk, although putting a hand to his burning skin soon disabused her of this. So high was his temperature that an egg might have been fried on his forehead. So delirious, too, that his incoherent ranting was impossible to interpret. At one point heâd even become violent, imagining she was some assailant from his soldiering days, and so sheâd given up trying to put him to bed. Eventually sheâd convinced him to lie on the sofa while shedashed out to find the doctor. By the time she returned he was only partially conscious and struggling to breathe. The doctor prescribed sulpha drugs â pink cubes that were supposed to be swallowed in batches of six â but Oleksii had been unable to keep them down. That whole night sheâd lain awake beside him, sponging him when he became even hotter, and trying once more with the drugs.
Early the next morning the doctor had visited again but it was too late. Afterwards he explained that asphyxiation had killed Oleksii. Pockets of pus around the lungs had made it impossible for him to breathe. That the delirium would have insulated him from any awareness of what was happening was at least some comfort to her. Why this illness had come on so quickly she did not understand. Most likely Oleksii had felt ill for days and had simply not bothered to tell her. His detachment had dated from soon after they arrived in Australia but it was something that he could not, or would not, talk about. Disappointment, she had guessed, that he could not get a job as a musician. Working in the biscuit factory was probably a bit like a prison sentence to him.
She dried her eyes and looked out over Jingera township. She could just see her cottage, its roof a splash of rusty corrugated iron in the dense foliage that surrounded it. A sea hawk sailed into view. It wheeled around the headland, gliding on some updraft, and drifted north over the long crescent of beach towards the next headland.
After a time Ilona retraced her steps through the cemetery and down the road past the school. Inside, children were singing to the accompaniment of a slightly out-of-tune piano. She sighed. So far there hadnât been a single
Seated on the top rail of the fence, she could see the school, where Zidra was at this moment, a clutch of houses and, beyond them, the roof of the hotel.
A headland was a strange place to bury people, she felt, with a panorama that the dead would never see. Man is born astride a grave . Samuel Beckett had been Oleksiiâs favourite playwright. There, she had thought of Oleksii again when she had promised herself she would not. Despite being in Jingera for several weeks, she had avoided the headland until today. She hadnât wanted to be reminded of Oleksii. She looked again at the signs segregating parts of the graveyard. Years ago she had converted to Catholicism in a half-hearted sort of a way, for Oleksiiâs sake, and now he was buried six feet under in the Catholic section of Rookwood Necropolis.
Breathing deeply, she tried to distract herself from these thoughts by listing all the good things about Jingera. When she had finished, and the list was rather long, she began again. By now tears were obliterating the view; she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them away.
It was no longer possible to deny that she felt more lonely now than in those first few weeks after Oleksiiâs death. A death that had been so sudden. How could she have guessed that what appeared to be a mild cold might turn into pneumonia? One day heâd staggered home from the factory at lunchtime, lurching so much that initially sheâd wondered if he was drunk, although putting a hand to his burning skin soon disabused her of this. So high was his temperature that an egg might have been fried on his forehead. So delirious, too, that his incoherent ranting was impossible to interpret. At one point heâd even become violent, imagining she was some assailant from his soldiering days, and so sheâd given up trying to put him to bed. Eventually sheâd convinced him to lie on the sofa while shedashed out to find the doctor. By the time she returned he was only partially conscious and struggling to breathe. The doctor prescribed sulpha drugs â pink cubes that were supposed to be swallowed in batches of six â but Oleksii had been unable to keep them down. That whole night sheâd lain awake beside him, sponging him when he became even hotter, and trying once more with the drugs.
Early the next morning the doctor had visited again but it was too late. Afterwards he explained that asphyxiation had killed Oleksii. Pockets of pus around the lungs had made it impossible for him to breathe. That the delirium would have insulated him from any awareness of what was happening was at least some comfort to her. Why this illness had come on so quickly she did not understand. Most likely Oleksii had felt ill for days and had simply not bothered to tell her. His detachment had dated from soon after they arrived in Australia but it was something that he could not, or would not, talk about. Disappointment, she had guessed, that he could not get a job as a musician. Working in the biscuit factory was probably a bit like a prison sentence to him.
She dried her eyes and looked out over Jingera township. She could just see her cottage, its roof a splash of rusty corrugated iron in the dense foliage that surrounded it. A sea hawk sailed into view. It wheeled around the headland, gliding on some updraft, and drifted north over the long crescent of beach towards the next headland.
After a time Ilona retraced her steps through the cemetery and down the road past the school. Inside, children were singing to the accompaniment of a slightly out-of-tune piano. She sighed. So far there hadnât been a single