“You know, Natalie, I’ve just remembered that book again.” Olive leaned forward in her chair. “You should pass it on to Kate now.”
“What book, Granny?” Kate asked.
“You know the one, Natalie,” Olive persisted. “The Model Wife it was called.” She looked back at Kate. “It’s a family heirloom. It was Pa’s mother’s. She passed it on to me and I gave it to your mother. It will give you a laugh and perhaps it should stay in the family.”
Natalie shifted in her chair. “I don’t know exactly where it is at the moment.” It wasn’t really a lie. She couldn’t remember which drawer she’d shoved it in this time but its journey stopped with her. There was no way she was going to pass it on to the next generation. “Anyone for more sweets?” she asked, which raised a collective moan.
“Relax, Nat,” Milt said. “They can help themselves.”
And After Anomaly Natalie did just that. She sat back, her fingers playing with the smooth pearl at her neck.
“That’s so pretty, Mum,” Kate said. “I can’t believe Dad gave you jewellery.”
“I gave her a ring once.”
“Thirty-five years ago,” Kate said and Bree groaned.
Natalie smiled. He had given her the odd piece of jewellery over the years but the pearl had been a lovely surprise. Evidently he’d ordered it online with Laura’s help from a place in Broome.
“Pity I didn’t actually get to Broome,” he said.
“Oh no, how many times have we heard that lately?” Bree sat forward and passed Olivia to Sean. The baby had given a few small cries and Sean seemed to be the one who could settle her.
“You’ll just have to go, Dad,” Kate said. “But together this time.”
“I would but we’ve got this cruise your mum’s booked.”
Natalie raised an eyebrow at him. It had been his idea. He’d just finished reading a book on Papua New Guinea by an Australian zoologist and when he saw a cruise advertised that went there he’d suggested it and she’d jumped at the chance.
“And if we like it there’ll be more cruises,” she said.
Paul came back at that moment, patting the moisture from his neck, his hair still neatly in place despite his exertion on the court. The tennis had gone into recess.
“In school holidays, I hope,” he said.
“Of course.” She still hadn’t got used to having her boss as a potential son-in-law.
“What was Broome like, Natalie?” her mother asked. “Your father and I thought we might go somewhere warmer next winter.”
“It’s definitely warmer,” Natalie said. She told them a bit about the things she’d managed to see in her short time in the northwest. Then her mum had asked Bree about Marla and the conversation drifted in another direction.
Natalie’s thoughts went to the small community with its beautiful beach. That’s where her fondest memories of her Kimberley adventure had been made. There’d been a Christmas card from Rosie. One of her lost boys was going to move back with his family. He was a chef and the community had received a grant to do up the old mission house into a cafe. They were hopeful it would mean some extra employment opportunities and extend their tourist offerings. Charlie was keen to learn to cook and had applied for some training so that he could eventually come back and help with the cafe.
Natalie truly hoped they’d go back one day and see it all.
“Your turn, Nanna.” Sean held the baby out to her.
“Gosh, she looks pink,” Natalie said. “Perhaps we should go inside now.”
Everyone helped, taking armloads back to the house. Milt walked beside her, lugging a pile of folding chairs and gazing down at his granddaughter. She’d seen a different side to him when he was with Olivia. He’d always been capable with their girls when they were babies but he was besotted when it came to his granddaughter.
So was she. Natalie recalled her holiday and Rosie asking her what she wanted in her life. A grandchild had been one thing. And she’d wanted some meaning for her life. The garden had helped with that. It had given her a new focus, as it had Olive who had taken to living some of the week with them and some at her unit in town.
Natalie had also decided to keep teaching, at least for another two years. Paul had convinced her to accept a more formal mentoring role with new teachers and she was keen to give it a go. She and Brenda had caught up in the previous school holidays. They’d had a weekend in Sydney and had decided they’d make a trip away together an annual event. Who knew, she mused, one day they might be a Dot and Faye touring partnership. And there was the travel with Milt, something they were both looking forward to.
They reached the back gate and he rested his pile of chairs against the fence.
“Your turn,” she said and handed over their precious granddaughter.
His face lit up as he took the baby in his arms. Natalie wrapped an arm around his waist and hugged him close.
Milt’s big, kind smile was one she knew so well and said without words that he loved her. She smiled back at this man who she’d known for so long, her husband who had feet of clay but had rebuilt his life on firmer footing and become her rock. She knew he would be there for her through thick and thin and yet she’d turned away from him, travelled halfway across the country to find answers that were here, within her family, her home.
She leaned in and kissed him, a gentle but loving kiss and her heart gave an extra thud. They still had a spark together and maybe Rosie had been right, Natalie had simply had to lose herself to find her way home.
Author’s Note
When I began to write The Model Wife I had the strong feeling that something lurked in Natalie’s mind, an influence that she tried to ignore but came to realise had, at various times in her life, controlled her thoughts and actions. As I wrote the story this ‘thing’ manifested itself as an old book from almost a century before, full of advice for women.
Once I realised it was a book I tried to imagine what kind of advice would have been written on its pages for women in the early nineteen hundreds and I came up with a series of chapter headings. These headings were topics Natalie grappled with at various stages of the manuscript and were declarations such as
A Husband is Master. The model wife loves her husband truly, does not highlight his faults and provides for his every desire.
or
Family before all else. The model wife spends her time taking care of her family and putting them before her own needs.
I did some more research and eventually came up with my own little book to embed within this book. I called it The Model Wife and gave it this introduction:
The Model Wife by Mrs Gladys Norman, London, 1928
In my role as a surgeon’s wife I have managed a busy household, raised three children and maintained a healthy happy marriage. I feel it my bounden duty to offer the benefit of my wisdom and experience here in the pages of this book.
Mrs Gladys Norman, bless her heart, is a figment of my imagination, as is the book I created, but I tried to capture the tone and content of the original sources. Many of them sounded laughable and even cringeworthy to me living in the current day but of course they were based on the way lives of women were viewed at the time. All I can say is thank goodness times have changed… although scarily, even today some of those pervasive ideas linger.
Acknowledgements
In 2016 I travelled to Western Australia and up to the Dampier Peninsula in the north-west. It was a day trip during which I visited several local communities, swam and walked on the beautiful beaches, and explored the local heritage. In particular I enjoyed Cape Leveque and Lombadina, home of the Bard people – and it was there I had a brief meeting with a wonderful woman called Pip, who shone with love for her community and, I discovered, was also a keen reader. That ever-so-short visit had an impact on me and last year I returned for a longer stay. I met up with Pip again and over a cuppa she was kind enough to chat with me about life in her community. When I needed someone to read the m
anuscript she was excited to help so a big thank you, Pip, for sharing your love of your country and your love of reading with me.
This book touches on breast cancer and I wanted to make sure I’d tackled the topic in a way that appreciated what so many go through, both the person and their families. Besides the experiences of several women close to my heart I also contacted friend and McGrath Breast Care Nurse Ros, who also read an early draft and gave feedback.
So many anecdotes of life on a farming property helped feed this story. I would like to thank several women who chatted to me about life on their patch, in particular Joy, Meredith and Jackie, who took time out from their busy lives for extended conversations and some jolly good laughs. Resilience would have to be the middle name for people living on the land.
Thanks to Rob for help with describing life with Year Three. It’s a while since I’ve been there. And thank you to Selina, my talented hairdresser, who let me pick her brains about hair colours and how they work.
While all of these wonderful women mentioned above helped with aspects of the story, I often wriggled things about, so any mistakes, although unintentional, are mine.
Just as I finished the early drafts of this book my dear big sister, Vivonne, lost her battle with cancer. Sisters share a special bond and, being the oldest, Viv was sometimes mother, sometimes mentor, my sounding block and always in my corner. She was the poet of our family – we agreed a long time ago that talent missed me – but thankfully she’s passed it on to her daughter, Nerrilee. Through Viv’s cancer experience she constantly lobbied for better services for regional patients. I know that some of her efforts have helped others and I also know how grateful she was for the support she did receive. On Viv’s behalf I’d like to thank all of you working to improve the lives and wellbeing of cancer patients, especially those in regional areas where distance can be an extra obstacle. You do make a difference.
Also a nod to my sister for Giraffe Soup, which gets a mention in this book. It’s really just pumpkin soup with a few extra vegetables but years ago Viv was making a batch for her grandies and when one turned up his nose she told him it was Elephant Soup, which he ate quite happily. It became a family joke and evolved to Giraffe Soup at our place because we thought the flecks of colour from the other veg against the orange of the pumpkin was more giraffe-like. It’s these special memories that enrich the tapestry of family life.
The team at Harlequin Books/HarperCollins Australia who support me and each new story are amazing and I am so grateful to the many who had a hand in bringing this story to publication. In particular to my publisher, Jo Mackay, and my editor, Annabel Blay – thank you for always stretching the boundaries of what I can achieve. Thanks also to proofreader Annabel Adair and to the fabulous design team headed up by Mark Campbell – I’m always in awe of your work. And to Darren Kelly, Adam van Rooijen, Natika Palka, Sarana Behan, Johanna Baker and the rest of the gang – thank you for all you do to get my books out into the world.
Writers know writers and I’m forever grateful to the many writing buddies I’ve met from all parts of Australia who understand the intricacies and the fallibilities of a writer’s life. It’s so good to be able to share experiences and ideas. Whether it’s a brief catch up at a conference, a hello via social media, a phone call, an email or time talking over a meal, it means a lot – thank you.
Once again my love and thanks to my family and dear friends for their unyielding support. My husband Daryl holds the fort at home, helps with research and reads early versions, and my children, their partners and my grandchildren are always in my corner doing so much. I love you all to bits. This book is dedicated to my talented daughter-in-law Alex, for the many ways she supports me and, in particular, her event organisation and social media help are much appreciated. I am so very lucky.
Readers, booksellers, librarians and everyone else in book land, thank you for championing my books, for loving them and coming back for more. Rest assured another is on the way.
One
Paddington, Sydney, 2018
The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. A sudden thunderstorm in January wasn’t unusual, and Sydneysiders were used to it. On the corner of Mayfair and Third streets the white facade of number one gleamed in the sunshine, a beacon of brightness among the dull greys and terracotta colours of the old terrace houses stretching away on either side. Shoppers were out again, stepping over the puddles, and two joggers pounded around the corner, nearly colliding with a delivery woman who pushed open the door to number one.
A bell tinkled, and the courier paused to take in the decor. The room’s discreet lighting added to the sunshine coming in through the large plate-glass windows. The walls were lined with racks of chic dresses, tailored jackets and stylish skirts, perhaps a little too crowded to show off their quality. Another circular rack in the middle of the room drooped under the weight of formal wear – long dresses, silk creations, laces and chiffons in colours from the brightest scarlet to the softest blue. The delivery woman strode forward.
The young assistant at the counter looked up expectantly, her ready smile creasing into a frown as she noted the wet footprints being left across the whitewashed wooden floor of the main entrance to Ketty Clift Couture.
“Deliveries at the side entrance.”
The courier plonked a small box on the counter. “I was told this was urgent.”
The assistant’s eyes widened when she saw the name of the sender. She signed for the package, scooped it up and, with only a quick thought to retrieving the mop on her way back, she hurried past the heavy linen drapes of the fitting rooms, through the client lounge and out into the brightly lit work area.
Neither the woman bent over the large cutting table nor the other two focused on their sewing machines paid her any attention. The warm tones of jazz could be heard each time the machines paused. Six women worked here and they took turns to select the background music of the day. Today it was Miss Ketty’s choice and she always went for jazz.
In the back corner of the workshop she caught a glimpse of her employer’s now chin-length grey hair. It was swept back from her forehead in a look that might be harsh on some but was softened by the waves of hair that curled back and around to her cheeks. It was a crowning glory above the elegant but simple black shirt and pants the older woman favoured. She was bent over a drafting table with her manager, both engrossed in what they were doing. The assistant hurried in their direction.
Ketty Clift adjusted her reading glasses on her nose with one hand while the pencil in her other swept over the paper, adding lines to the sketch. She was acutely aware of Judith Pettigrew’s sharp gaze following every mark.
“Just another tuck here below the bust and slightly more fullness over the hips…and the hem sitting just at the knee.”
“You don’t think it a little over the top for a woman in her seventies?”
Ketty added a few finishing touches. Judith was an excellent dressmaker and more than capable in her role as Ketty’s second in command, but she sometimes lacked that little extra creativity to translate the customer’s design into a sketch that could then be drafted to a pattern. Her eagerness to get the job done sometimes made her seem brusque but beneath her stiff exterior Ketty knew Judith to be kind-hearted. Ketty also knew the woman who had ordered this dress very well. It would be the fifteenth special outfit she’d made for Enid Hanson and she understood what suited the tall but curvy body of her long-time customer.
“Our work is to make our client look exquisite but also to feel special. Enid still has great legs.” Ketty’s hand swished lower down the paper. “The eggplant shantung will complement her complexion and provide a soft rustle as she moves.” She could picture Enid in the outfit that, as yet, was still a sketch created from the magazine pictures she had provided at her first appointment.
Ketty looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps across the polished cement floor of the workroom.
“Miss Carslake, we do not run in thi
s establishment.” Judith’s clipped voice brought a glow to the younger woman’s cheeks and she slowed her approach.
Ketty smiled at the young assistant. Her dark brown hair, straight with a fringe sitting just above her eyebrows, created a frame for her pale face. She wore a dress of sheer black fabric she’d designed herself. It was skilfully cut so that it floated around her small frame without bulk and stopped well above her knees showing off her shapely legs, which disappeared into the black leather of her Doc Marten boots. A heavy silver chain hung around her neck, the cross it supported resting just above her waist and giving her the look of an angelic but slightly underdressed nun.
“What is it, Lacey?”
“This box arrived by courier. I think it’s the buttons you were waiting on for Miss Davidson’s wedding dress.” The assistant’s look shifted to the orchid chiffon and lace garment on a nearby dressmaker’s dummy.
“Thank you, Lacey.” Ketty took the box and hugged it to her. “What a relief.”
“The dress is looking beautiful, Miss Ketty.” Lacey turned back. “You can rest easy on your cruise now. It will be finished in time.” She stayed where she was.
“Is there something else?”
“I also wanted to let you know my IT friend has your new website ready. I’d love to show it to you before you go.”
Ketty glanced at her watch. “I don’t think I have time, Lacey.” The internet was of little interest to Ketty when it came to her business, which had been founded on the belief that it was the personal touch that mattered to her customers, and she couldn’t equate that with the online world. She’d had a young lad create a website several years earlier and had done nothing to it since. Lacey had convinced her to update it. A friend would do it for a small cost. Ketty had been pleased by Lacey’s enthusiasm but it was low on her list of priorities. “It’s your baby. I’m happy to trust you with it and I’ll have a look when I return.”
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