Authors: Maris Morton
Mary pegged out the last of Paul’s and Martin’s work shirts. In an instant they were seized by the wind, whizzing the rotary line around. Mary ducked in to retrieve the basket, then went over to the fence. ‘How are you, Janet?’
‘I’m well, thank you, Mary. And yourself ?’
‘Women’s work is never done, is it,’ Mary said agreeably, starting to edge away.
Janet got the message. ‘I thought … Cecil and I thought, if you’ve got an hour to spare this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I could probably manage that.’
‘We thought you might like to pop over and have a peek inside the house’ — she nodded at the stone house — ‘and Cecil’s collection of fossils?’
‘Fossils? How interesting,’ Mary lied.
Mary was starting to think of excuses when she remembered that Cec was the fount of all wisdom about the stud business and she was being offered the chance to interrogate him. ‘Of course, I’d love to see them,’ she told Janet, whose face, without its coating of powder, opened up in a freckled smile. In the cruel sunlight her teeth were yellowish. ‘What time shall I come?’
T
HE TOUR OF
Janet’s house was soon over. Apart from the added-on fibro kitchen and bathroom, there were only four rooms, with a central passage. As Mary had expected, Janet kept everything immaculate: the jarrah floors and joinery glossy, the paint bright and new. She’d collected some old furniture; not fine antiques, but simple, solid farmhouse pieces.
There weren’t a great many of the fossils, and they were in fact interesting. Cec handled the pieces of rock as if they were fragile porcelain, each removed from its tissue wrapping and turned this way and that until the fossil could be seen in all its miraculous detail. While this was going on, Janet bustled around getting ready for the ceremony of afternoon tea.
‘These are all around forty million years old,’ Cec said. ‘This one’s just rushes, they’re common around here. Then there’s this one.’ He handed it to her. ‘See? It’s a little cone, some kind of araucaria. They don’t grow in these parts any more, but their descendants live in South America, and on the east coast and Norfolk Island. They say you can find fossils of ginkgo here, too.’
Mary enjoyed expertise in any form, and this was all new to her. ‘Really? I thought ginkgos came from China.’
‘The living ones were discovered there. But Australia was joined to India and China once. You’ve heard of Gondwana?’
Janet was setting out the tea things on the other end of the table. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have coffee? I’m afraid we can’t run to homemade cakes.’
‘That’s fine, Janet. I’m easy to please.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Janet said.
While Cec was busy rewrapping the pieces of rock, Mary made an attempt to short-circuit Janet’s clumsy pleasantries. ‘I follow Epicurus,’ she explained, listening for the silence that was the usual response to this name-dropping. She had a small hope that Janet, being a teacher, would know whom she was talking about. ‘He said something like:
Pleasure is the beginning and the
goal of a happy life, and the root of every pleasure is the stomach.
I think preparing good food is part of the pleasure as much as eating it, and it’s the one pleasure that you can absolutely rely on.’
‘You might have something there,’ Cec said.
‘If you’ve got the time,’ Janet said curtly.
Mary smiled at her; there was no point in arguing with the Janets of this world.
Cec put the lid on the fossil box. ‘Talking about pleasures, Mary, have you been to the reserve yet?’
‘No, I haven’t. I’m not sure how to get there.’
‘That’s a shame. Tell you what, when we’ve finished tea we can take a run down there.’ He looked at his wife. ‘That all right with you, Mother?’
Janet looked as if she might object but managed a smile. ‘Better take a jacket. It’s chilly out.’
Over the tea and sugary jubilee twist, Janet delicately brought up the matter of Clio’s health, but Mary had little to tell her. ‘She was terribly tired when she first came home but I think she’s a bit stronger now,’ she said. ‘She comes out of her room for a chat, during the weekends.’ This was a mistake, as she saw from the brightening of Janet’s eyes and the way she leant forward.
‘Only on the weekends? I wonder why that is? I understand she and Paul haven’t always got along.’ There was a huge question mark hanging over this and Mary tried to get out of the corner she’d got herself into.
‘I don’t think she’s really up to coping with anything … anything that’s at all
stressful
,’ she said, adopting Janet’s tone of respectful delicacy and hoping that this answer would satisfy her. It must have done, because Janet changed tack.
‘Of course, she blamed Paul for David’s accident,’ she said, clasping her plump, freckled hands on the table. Mary didn’t want to have to ask but she didn’t need to.
‘David was Martin’s little brother. They were about’ — she looked to Cec for confirmation — ‘oh, seven and nine? Something like that. David was the quiet one, big dark eyes like his mum … well, they both had … but a sweet way with him. Martin was always his daddy’s boy, and David was his mother’s favourite. David liked music, like Mrs Hazlitt, and Paul was always trying to make a man of him. Pretty pointless with a kiddie of that age but … Anyway, Paul insisted that David come out around the farm with him. Martin loved it, of course, you couldn’t keep him away from the animals or the machinery. In those days Paul was around more, that was before he started going up to Perth; that started after Martin went away to boarding school. Anyway, as I was saying, this day Paul had young David out with him on the back of the ute. Why he couldn’t ride in the cab with his father and brother I’ll never know, there would have been plenty of room, but there he was, perched on the back, hanging on for dear life.’
She looked at Cec again, and Mary wondered whether Janet had actually witnessed this.
‘Nobody knows why Paul was driving so badly that day. Hungover, maybe. He used to drink a little bit in those days. But he took off down the race as if the devil was after him, the little kiddie hanging on the back, and went round the bend like a bat out of hell. David lost his grip and flew off.’ She paused to give weight to the drama. ‘He was killed instantly, they said. Broke his neck when he hit the ground. Poor little mite.’ She looked down at her hands in sorrowful respect. ‘It’s no wonder, really, that she blamed Paul. It broke her heart. Things were never the same between them.’
‘What an awful thing to have happen,’ Mary said. She could imagine the scene. ‘Farms are such dangerous places, aren’t they. You hear of such terrible accidents.’
Janet nodded. ‘Vehicles, drowning in dams, fires … There are kiddies dying every year. We lose one all too often.’ Mary realised that by
we
she meant the Eticup school. Janet got up and started gathering their used crockery, stacking the saucers neatly. ‘Well, that’s the sad story of poor David. Now, you’d better get on if you’re going to the reserve before it gets dark.’
The ute parked outside had a metal cage on the back — for carrying sheep, Mary guessed — and it rattled as Cec drove down the track. Mary sat forward, taking everything in. They were passing through territory that was new to her. Eventually, they came to a wide gateway with a letterbox on a post to one side and a sign that said
Downe Merinos
. This must be what passed for a front gate.
Cec turned left and drove along the dirt road. He was a good driver, steady and deliberate, and after a while he slowed to a stop. ‘In there.’ He pointed towards the sea of low vegetation, most of it no more than shoulder high, stretching away as far as Mary could see. ‘You want to take a look? We mustn’t be long.’
Mary got out, her feet sinking in the loose sand. The air here was different, free from the smells of grass and sheep that pervaded Downe. Here there was a scent of honey, eucalyptus and damp earth. There was the sound, too, of bees. Birds darted about, hovering on fluttering wings and dipping their beaks into the flowers.
‘We can walk along the firebreak,’ Cec said, setting off along the strip of soft ploughed earth that ran parallel to the road. ‘Watch out for snakes. I’ll go first.’ He looked up at the sky, cloudy now. ‘Looks like it’s coming on to rain, better get a move on.’
Foliage in myriad forms ranged from almost grey, through khaki and bronze, to tender new green. The flowers — once she focused properly on them — were in every colour you could imagine, gold and purple, pink and white, scarlet and heavenly blue, in every odd and spiky and brush-like shape. Many of the bushes were bountifully in bud, not yet showing their colours. The ground under her feet crackled with dry leaves and last year’s wispy grass. There were tiny orchid-like flowers down among the litter, and she felt guilty when she accidentally trod on one.
This was a new world to Mary. ‘Was it all like this once?’ She waved a hand to indicate the countryside around them. From where she stood, she couldn’t see any cultivated land.
‘Originally, yes. Then the farmers cleared it to grow wheat, mainly. Some of these plants are poisonous to sheep, so they had to be got rid of. No fences, back in the early days. The Noongahs found plenty to live on around here.’
‘What are those blue flowers? I don’t think I’ve ever seen any flower so blue.’
‘They’re leschenaultias. Those over there are leschenaultias, too.’ He pointed to a circle of scarlet. ‘People called those ones lambs’ blood.’ Cec was watching her. ‘You do like them,’ he observed, satisfied. ‘Not just a tourist gawking as you drive past.’
‘They’re wonderful. There’s so much to see. I’ll have to come again.’ She looked around, stunned by the variety and complexity of this natural garden.
‘This is just the start of the season. It’ll get better from now on. I can lend you some books, if you like.’
‘Yes, thanks, Cec. That’d be great.’ A few drops of rain spattered cold on her face. ‘We’d better go now before we get soaked. If you’ll lend me some books, I’ll read up and come back another day.’
When they got back to Downe, Cec went in to fetch the books he’d offered.
‘Say thanks to Janet for me, will you?’
By the time she walked in the back door of the homestead, Mary felt as if she’d had some quality time off. The geography of the place was becoming clear, the history, and the pattern of the weather. And the people?
The smell of dust might be just about gone from the house, but there were still plenty of secrets.
M
ARY TOOK CLIO’S EVENING MEAL IN
and found her sitting up, leafing through a magazine. When she closed it and laid it on the bed, Mary saw that it was something to do with rural women.
‘I don’t suppose you realise, but before’ — Clio hesitated and Mary understood her to be referring to her illness — ‘I used to do a lot of the work here. Bookwork, stud records, accounts … I’ve never driven a tractor or shorn a sheep, but then, neither has Paul. There was a write-up about me in this old magazine. I can remember the journalist coming out. God, it seems like another life.’
Clio took the tray from Mary, settled her knees under it, and picked up her knife and fork. ‘What have you made this time?’
‘Chicken croquettes.’
During the week, Mary had simmered the two old hens that Garth had sent over until they had given up much of their flavour to make a big pot of excellent stock. She’d stripped the flesh from the carcasses and minced it finely, then bound it with a stiff béchamel sauce flavoured with parsley, onion and lemon, formed it into cork shapes, which she’d then crumbed and fried. It was labour-intensive but worth it.
‘Croquettes! Heavens, Mary, what a treasure you are. Did you buy a chicken?’
‘No, they came from Garth. We can have chicken soup next week. Jewish penicillin. That should have you up and about in no time.’
But Clio had started to eat and wasn’t paying attention to Mary.
That evening’s piano playing was a success, with the scales and ‘Für Elise’ coming back to her more easily. After going through everything once, Mary opted to spend some time with Cec’s wildflower books. The kitchen was still warm from cooking, and she wouldn’t be interrupted. As she studied the pictures, she marvelled at the variety of forms, using scraps of paper to mark the pages showing flowers that she’d be likely to find tomorrow in the reserve.
A
S IT TURNED OUT,
her research was a wasted effort. She woke on Sunday morning to the sound of rain pouring out of the gutters into the tanks and spattering the blades of the louvres in her room like birdshot. When she hurried outside to pick oranges, the rain stung her face.
‘You won’t be going to the reserve today, then,’ Clio said, accepting the juice.
‘I’d probably get blown off the bike. This is the nastiest day since I’ve been here.’
‘There could be snow on the Stirlings, then.’
‘What?’
‘Most winters we get a snowfall or two on the Stirlings.’
Mary tried to recall the maps she’d looked at before she’d flown down here. ‘How far away are they?’ The idea of snow falling in sunny Western Australia was a novel one.
‘Around twenty kilometres, as the crow flies. More than twice as far by road, though. They’re famous for wildflowers.’
‘Not near the coast?’ Mary said, remembering the blue hills she’d seen from the Piper on the way here.
‘No. Cec can tell you all about the geology, if you’re interested.’ Clio sipped her orange juice. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. ‘I had a bad night last night. I’d rather you didn’t go out today.’
‘Today should be my day off,’ Mary said.
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I don’t like being in the house by myself. Sometimes I get frightened. I know it’s silly.’ Clio tried to smile, but the attempt was a failure. The network of fine wrinkles on her face stood out like the creases in an ancient document.
Mary felt a stab of compassion. ‘That’s all right, Clio. I’ll be around.’
Clio finished her drink and handed the empty glass to Mary. ‘You’re a great comfort, Mary. I’m glad you’re here.’
Despite these moments of empathy, Mary was reluctant to take on the role of Clio’s prop and friend. After all, she was only being employed to get the homestead up to scratch; she wouldn’t be here forever. When Clio was better, she’d be able to resume a life that most women could only dream of: a leisured lifestyle in beautiful surroundings, and the means to live with grace, not to mention the status of being part of a famous stud. Mary had her own life to lead, and it wouldn’t be in this remote part of the country.