In the Shade of the Shady Tree: Stories of Wheatbelt Australia

the purple suit

158 • the purple suit It was two years since Solomon’s father’s “accident.” Two years to the day when the invitation to the harvest ball arrived. The ball was to be a formal affair—one sponsored by the Shire from its mysterious “entertainment” fund, various town businesses, and a few of the richer farmers who’d had bumper seasons. For once, it had been a year of perfect weather. Rain had fallen—plenty but not too much—storms had stayed away, and wheat prices were high. Not like the year Solomon’s father had died—it was bones-of-your-bum drought that year, and foreclosures were routine. The small house Solomon now lived in with his mum was a far cry from the great rambling farmhouse out on Broad Dales they’d once occupied as a family. But he tried not to think about that, tried not to compare. It was the easiest thing to do. There was before, and there was after. And this was after. He didn’t want to go to the ball,but he felt he owed his mum. She wouldn’t go with another man—he knew that and it pleased York 159 t h e p u r p l e s u i t him—but he knew the price of loyalty to his dead father, and his loyalty to her as the “male in her life,” was accompanying her to the ball. That was socially acceptable, socially appropriate. Solomon was a very proper fourteen-year-old who didn’t see himself as like his peers in any way. He didn’t drink, smoke, or “finger” girls on the school bus. He planned to go to university, study law,and eventually buy back Broad Dales,whose loss,along with his father’s death,was sediment at the bottom of his life. There was no money to buy a suit for Solomon, but all agreed he must have one. His mother wouldn’t have minded if he’d gone in his jeans and a crisp shirt, but there was to be none of that. His mum’s clothes were dated but good quality. His parents had been icons of the town, the perfect couple, and the town wheeled them out on special occasions for admiration. Stalwart, reliable, and handsome. Solomon spent the morning walking along the river. It was just starting to turn with the heat, to settle to a mixture of dry stretches where it had been “trained” to prevent flooding, and the few remaining “permanent” waterholes. The waterholes were linked with algae-thick, stagnant streams, though by the town itself there was a long, deep stretch of water that kids still swam in, despite signs warning of amoebic meningitis in fading red letters, dented and bent with assault by stones. He carried a sketchbook with him and added to his paper aviary of birds. That morning he saw two spoonbills, an egret with feathers whiter than how he imagined snow, a white-faced heron, and a group of small waders he couldn’t quite identify at a distance, but guessed would be plovers come out of the stubble to the edge of the river. There were many other birds he didn’t sketch. Walking in again through the back door, he saw it straight away, stretched out on tissue paper on the Formica kitchen table. The purple suit. What do you think? asked his mum. He said nothing, but walked across to the piano, crammed into the kitchen with most things they owned, and dropped his 160 j o h n k i n s e l l a sketchbook on top of the instrument with the piles of sheet music. He noticed a grade one book and guessed that Mrs. Crest’s daughter had been in for a lesson. The town’s worthy sent their young ones to his mother for lessons, to help out. It pained him. Rum tum, tum, rum tum, tum, listen to the big bass drum . . . over and over. It’s not just a loan, Solomon, it’s a gift from Mrs. Crest. It was her eldest, Dean’s old suit. He doesn’t wear it any more. It’s in perfect condition; he just grew out of it. Solomon’s nemesis, Dean. Dean was always kind, but made him feel it. Four years older, Dean was now in the city at the...