On a dull Saturday afternoon the previous autumn, Patsy Bedser drove into the countryside north of the suburb, into the river valley and through the small farming towns and hamlets it contains.
The street along which she drove had no trees, like most of the streets in the suburb, for they were cleared away to make room for the houses. There were no leaves on the ground and no sign that it was autumn apart from the misty rain and the still air. She drove her pale green Morris Minor from the street, where she had lived for the last five years since leaving England with her father, and steered it towards the hills, and the old township road that eventually led into the countryside.
As she watched the street recede in the rear-vision mirror, she realised how much she hated it and how happy she was to be leaving it, if only for the afternoon. The plain and ugly weatherboard houses, some painted, some still left with only a slapped-on undercoat, the bare yards, the pathetic gardens, the dirt road like a cattle track, the vacant lots and the wide open paddocks, caught between farm and suburb. She wished they’d never come. She was a city girl, from Liverpool. Not a big city, but city enough. And this was a frontier settlement. But they were ten pound Poms, the boat ticket only took them one way, and there was nothing else for it but to see the whole thing through.
At the flour mills she crossed the railway lines and turned right into the suburb’s other major road. One ran east west, the other north south. Where they intersected they divided the suburb, like a T-square, into three separate regions. The road that ran north south led to the old neighbouring township and the army camp. There were a few houses along that mile-and-a-half drive, but once she passed the old township she entered the open country.
At a curve in the country road she had chosen to travel, she stopped at a deserted bluestone church at the top of a small river valley, just before the road descended to the narrow bridge that forded the stream.
She parked the car and sauntered towards the church, which was set well back from the road. There was a mixture of gums, elms and slender birches all around her and the bright, fallen leaves were sodden under her feet, almost slippery, and she was careful as she walked.
When a black Austin Wolseley pulled into the road siding behind her she looked over her shoulder briefly, then turned back to the sight of the sun in the trees. Even when the car door slammed she stayed staring at the sun.
A young man with long legs and black pointy boots and a loping, cowboy stride was walking towards her. A hi-fi salesman. He sold her a hi-fi a couple of months before, but the thing didn’t work. She called him back and they’d no sooner finished discussing the problem with the hi-fi, when they found themselves talking about music. Real music. Eddie Cochran. Gene Vincent. He took the thing away and brought it back a few days later. It worked for a week then stopped again and she called him back again. It happened three times and every time their conversations went a little longer. Eventually she said he must be sabotaging the thing. ‘And why would I be doing that?’ he said. Patsy shook her head. She was going out with a local plumber. They met every Saturday night and went to the pictures and watched whatever was on. They rarely went out through the week because he was too busy. He was setting up a business and rose early on workdays. Patsy was happy enough with it all, until she met Jimmy, the hi-fi salesman.
It had been mid week. Late afternoon. She remembered the details clearly. Patsy was home early from work at the hospital. She was a nurse. Her dad was still at the docks. There she was standing on the front steps, talking to this Jimmy again. She was flirting and she knew it. He had just asked her why he would do such an unethical thing as sabotage the hi-fi. She didn’t reply. And when the young man repeated his question with a bit of a grin on his lips this time, she said it must be because he liked their talk and all, and that every time he took the hi-fi he fixed the old problem but created a new one so he could come back again.
It was a joke, a long shot. But there was an awkward silence afterwards and she wished she’d never opened her big mouth. So when the young salesman eventually nodded and said that was right, she laughed. Then she saw he wasn’t laughing. The grin was gone from his lips and he was just looking at her, openly, staring like there was no need for games any more, and she knew he wasn’t joking.
That’s how it all started. They see each other every week. But, whatever it is they’ve got, she knows it’s not for keeps. He’s a bit like his hi-fis, this Jimmy.
They weren’t looking for the old church the first time they drove out to the country together. But they found it. There were weeds and wild flowers growing from the gaps in the bluestone, and it was tucked away under the trees, but they found it all the same. And when she followed his black Wolseley into the siding that first afternoon they came here, a still autumn day of brilliant sunshine, she knew exactly what she was doing. They both did. It didn’t take much to snap the lock on the door. A quick look around to make sure nobody was watching and they were inside.
It became their hideaway. During the week, nobody ever went there. A perfect sanctuary. Only a half an hour from the suburbs, but it was another world. It was also another Patsy who went there.
When the young man’s long legs finally crossed the siding and reached Patsy, who was still staring at the sun coming through the trees, he simply spun her around by the shoulder, without a word, and they were dancing. He was singing too. He knew all the latest songs because the records came in with the hi-fi’s and they played them in the store whenever they got the chance. The young people, that is. The oldies turned up their noses. But that, he said, was only because they weren’t far away from turning up their toes. He’s got a cheek this one, thought Patsy. And he can sing.
He danced her in through the doorway of the old church, spinning her around in circles and singing something about a teddy bear. When they were inside his voice bounced and echoed all around that empty church, and Patsy, who was all too aware of having been a good girl all her life, was breathless.
Now, she’s running from the kitchen to the lounge room and back again, carrying plates and cutlery and paper serviettes. Her father, George, is enjoying a quiet moment in the kitchen before everything begins. The plumber, to whom she is becoming engaged this night, is arranging chairs in the lounge room before putting music on the hi-fi. At the moment they are the only occupants of the house. But the guests are already making their way down the street and within minutes they will be standing in the hallway, lounge and kitchen of the house, and everything will begin.