enquiry about the piano lessons. Her funds were going down; slowly, it was true, for living in Jingera was cheap, but she would have toget some pupils soon if she wasnât to eat too much into her savings.
Passing the hotel, she exchanged a greeting with sweet-faced Cherry Bates, who was washing the hotel verandah floor. She would have liked to stop and talk but didnât feel able. In spite of what George Cadwallader had said about Cherryâs interest in the piano, she hadnât approached Ilona about lessons. On through the town she walked, past her house, screened from the road by a dense hedge, and down the hill to the lagoon. There she turned along the track to the jetty.
It wasnât until almost reaching the end of the jetty that she noticed the man sitting on the steps leading down to the water. She stopped at once. Never had she seen a full-blooded Aborigine before and she couldnât help staring. Never had she seen such black skin.
He glanced up and smiled.
Smiling back, she rested one hand on the splintered jetty railing. Dressed in ragged clothes, he continued to look her way although not directly at her. One hand held a fishing line and next to him was a bucket whose contents she could not see.
âI am Mrs Talivaldis,â she said eventually. Her words seemed to hover rather awkwardly in the air. âWe have recently moved here from Homebush in Sydney. Before that we lived in England and before that in Latvia. We are refugees.â
âTommy Hunter,â the man said. Although he didnât seem disposed to add anything else, Ilona realised she would like to establish some sort of communication. Why, she didnât understand; perhaps it was because she felt so lonely or because his silence seemed friendly.
âWhat do you do, Tommy?â This was too direct; she realised at once that it could be construed as impertinence.
âFish, and when Iâm not fishinâ I pick beans.â
âWhere do you pick beans?â
âWherever they need pickinâ. âEre, there and everywhere.â The man shrugged.
An itinerant bean picker. That was the sort of job Oleksii would have been doing if he were here with her; he would have been looking for a job as a peripatetic labourer.
And perhaps she would be looking for work like that soon if she didnât get any pupils. Leaning on the jetty railing, she looked across the water. In the middle of the lagoon was a white-painted timber post and on the top of this a pelican was balanced. Its beak was the colour of a fragile rose, the palest pink.
She found she wanted to tell Tommy about Oleksii. The Aborigine was unlikely to spread what she had to say all round the town. âMy husband died in Sydney,â she said slowly. âHe hated it there. He was a musician, a composer. He worked in a biscuit factory though.â She hesitated and glanced at Tommy, but all she could see now was the back of his head. Dark wavy hair covered the collar of his shabby black jacket, which must once have been part of someoneâs best suit.
âNo one cared much for Oleksiiâs music, either in Sydney or in England,â she said. âHe was ahead of his time. And became increasingly unhappy with his work at the factory, and with the need to feed our daughter and me.â
Tommy now pulled in a fish. Averting her eyes, she inspected the bushes on the other side of the water; she had heard them described as ti-tree. Behind that grew some stringy trees that she intended to identify one day with the tree book sheâd seen in the library.
âGood tucker,â Tommy said. She understood that he meant the fish.
âMy husband couldnât get work in an orchestra,â she said, when Tommy had cast his re-baited line back into the water. âAnd he didnât want to teach. He wanted to write music. So he went to work in the biscuit factory, but he wasnât happy there and he wasnât happy at home. He
Passing the hotel, she exchanged a greeting with sweet-faced Cherry Bates, who was washing the hotel verandah floor. She would have liked to stop and talk but didnât feel able. In spite of what George Cadwallader had said about Cherryâs interest in the piano, she hadnât approached Ilona about lessons. On through the town she walked, past her house, screened from the road by a dense hedge, and down the hill to the lagoon. There she turned along the track to the jetty.
It wasnât until almost reaching the end of the jetty that she noticed the man sitting on the steps leading down to the water. She stopped at once. Never had she seen a full-blooded Aborigine before and she couldnât help staring. Never had she seen such black skin.
He glanced up and smiled.
Smiling back, she rested one hand on the splintered jetty railing. Dressed in ragged clothes, he continued to look her way although not directly at her. One hand held a fishing line and next to him was a bucket whose contents she could not see.
âI am Mrs Talivaldis,â she said eventually. Her words seemed to hover rather awkwardly in the air. âWe have recently moved here from Homebush in Sydney. Before that we lived in England and before that in Latvia. We are refugees.â
âTommy Hunter,â the man said. Although he didnât seem disposed to add anything else, Ilona realised she would like to establish some sort of communication. Why, she didnât understand; perhaps it was because she felt so lonely or because his silence seemed friendly.
âWhat do you do, Tommy?â This was too direct; she realised at once that it could be construed as impertinence.
âFish, and when Iâm not fishinâ I pick beans.â
âWhere do you pick beans?â
âWherever they need pickinâ. âEre, there and everywhere.â The man shrugged.
An itinerant bean picker. That was the sort of job Oleksii would have been doing if he were here with her; he would have been looking for a job as a peripatetic labourer.
And perhaps she would be looking for work like that soon if she didnât get any pupils. Leaning on the jetty railing, she looked across the water. In the middle of the lagoon was a white-painted timber post and on the top of this a pelican was balanced. Its beak was the colour of a fragile rose, the palest pink.
She found she wanted to tell Tommy about Oleksii. The Aborigine was unlikely to spread what she had to say all round the town. âMy husband died in Sydney,â she said slowly. âHe hated it there. He was a musician, a composer. He worked in a biscuit factory though.â She hesitated and glanced at Tommy, but all she could see now was the back of his head. Dark wavy hair covered the collar of his shabby black jacket, which must once have been part of someoneâs best suit.
âNo one cared much for Oleksiiâs music, either in Sydney or in England,â she said. âHe was ahead of his time. And became increasingly unhappy with his work at the factory, and with the need to feed our daughter and me.â
Tommy now pulled in a fish. Averting her eyes, she inspected the bushes on the other side of the water; she had heard them described as ti-tree. Behind that grew some stringy trees that she intended to identify one day with the tree book sheâd seen in the library.
âGood tucker,â Tommy said. She understood that he meant the fish.
âMy husband couldnât get work in an orchestra,â she said, when Tommy had cast his re-baited line back into the water. âAnd he didnât want to teach. He wanted to write music. So he went to work in the biscuit factory, but he wasnât happy there and he wasnât happy at home. He
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