Jacaranda Blue Read Free Page B

of comfort.
    â€˜What can I do, Mother?’
    â€˜Stop that. Stop it,’ she whispered. ‘God, stop my mind from this thinking or I will begin to scream and it will never end.’
    It was the one well used prayer that still had power. She made it have power.
    Picture the ocean, waves breaking free over sand. Picture it, now grasp and hold it. Hold it steady. Make it grow.
    And it came on cue.
    A too blue postcard ocean wavered before her mind’s eye. She willed it closer, until slowly the waves began to move in, break over white sand. Holding the vision, she rocked now to the rhythm of the waves, her eyes turned to the east, where a new day was creeping into the night sky.
    New day. Already it was out there, way over the ocean. A clean new day to the east.
    East. Sydney. Ocean.
    I should have gone to Sydney, she thought. I planned to, but I have seen nothing. I have been here, doing what was asked of me. I have been a servant of this house, a servant of his church, trapped in this vicious, ugly little town with its vicious tongues and minds – and its vicious little boys.
    She was aware of pain now. Her back, her neck, one arm was aching, and she hurt in that other place. His forced entrance had caused much pain, and he had taken pleasure in her pain. She had never known a lover.
    Don’t think. Don’t think of it anymore. Think of the new day breaking over the ocean. Wild ocean, washing the world clean.
    The image grew stronger. The waves grew wilder. She rocked with the waves, heel to toe, toe to heel.
    Postcard ocean. Postcard from Bondi.
    I miss you so much, Stell. We’ll come here together on our honeymoon. Love from Ron.
    Love from Ron. Love from Ron. Love from Ron.
    Once she had dared to dream of love, dared to crave Ron Spencer’s mouth on her own, dared to believe in love.
    Love from Ron.
    Ron’s son. Handsome rapist. Only weeks ago she had baked and decorated his sixteenth birthday cake. Evil, vicious little boy.
    I loved you, Thomas Spencer. I loved you. I hate you. Hate you. It is a new thing, hate, and it’s hurting me. It’s ripping out my heart.
    But is it so new?
    She shook her head, shook it until she stumbled and fell hard against the chest of drawers, catching the point of her elbow. New pain washed over her. Clean pain. She grasped at clean pain, focusing on her elbow, allowing new pain to wash through her.
    It could have been so much worse, she thought.
    How?
    He could have killed me to hide his guilt. It could have been worse.
    Would that have been worse?
    Again she shook her head. Better that he had killed me. Or better still that it had been a stranger who would be gone now.
    He was here, in this town. A boy. Just a boy.
    â€˜Keep your mouth shut, Stell.’
    He is here, and will be here, so I cannot stay here. I will have to leave.
    â€˜Keep your mouth shut, Stell.’
    Who might I open my mouth to? Father?
    â€˜What you must ask yourself, Daughter, is, have you in some small way, perhaps in your manner, or your attire, have you perhaps led him to believe that his attention may have been acceptable to you?’ she whispered. Martin Templeton. Our father, at any given time, could be relied on to take Angel’s side, and though she was long dead Martin’s conditioned response could not alter. Mankind is guilty until proven innocent. Precious Angel said so, so it was so.
    What you must ask yourself, Daughter –
    â€˜Ask yourself. Ask yourself. What you must ask yourself,’ she whispered. She had spent her life asking her father’s questions, examining her mind until she could no longer be sure which was her mind, and which her father’s mind. Every move she made was governed by the minister’s voice, controlling her from within her own head.
    She lifted her hands, looking at them in the early light, looking at her smallest finger, curled permanently into a C. She looked at the scars. Hard. Hard