CHAPTER 24
Each day in the cool of dawn, before the sun stretched itself across the mountain, Tom and Hank would ride slowly away from the hut, their breath passing as white mist from their nostrils and mouths in the cool mountain air. From the track Tom looked out across the valley and followed the ribbon of gums that lined the river. The farm had once looked so pretty from up here. Now, in the dry, it looked barren and heartless. Even the beauty of morning sunlight couldn’t lift Tom’s heart. The dark body of water, which was once the proud and plentiful Rebecca River, had slowed to a thin stretch of silver through a winding path of grey boulders.
His father never saw him ride into the yards on Hank, with Bessie trotting at his heels. His father was now always in bed until at least nine when he would slink down to the kitchen table in stinking work clothes. He wouldn’t emerge outside until eleven, moving about slowly with a blank face and cold eyes. Tom recognised his father’s depression. He understood it. He knew what it was like to sink into that cold abyss. Dark walls all about, with no way to climb back out.
It was his father’s depression that had at first made Tom decide to stay at Waters Meeting. For the first few weeks Tom had made plans in his head to leave. He pictured himself packing up the work ute with his swag, bags and Bessie. Travelling north to find work or heading to the city to enrol in an art course. But as the days wore on, Tom found himself frozen with fear, a deep fear of the outside world. It overshadowed the fear he had for himself and the fear he had for his father. As the days passed he watched the depression settle over his father like a black cloud. It drew his father’s mouth and shoulders downwards and shrouded out the light in his eyes. When his father began to drink each day and order in cartons of whiskey from Dirty’s pub, Tom felt he could no longer go anywhere. His world had slipped beyond something real. His world was black. And so Tom stayed – down there in the abyss with his father.
Dutifully, Tom fed the chickens and collected the eggs. He’d sit half of them in a metal bucket at the back door and wrap the rest carefully and place them in his saddlebag. He fed the last remaining straggly bales of hay to the horses and the steers and carted water in buckets from a muddied pool in the river to the troughs. Tom had opened all the gates to the mountain run so the breeding cows could find feed in the gullies. The grass was hanging on well there, but they needed rain desperately or the mountain springs would run dry. The merino sheep had all been sold and the silos were now empty of grain. As Tom watched some of the weaker ewes stagger and fall in the mud surrounding the waterholes, his heart sank further. It dragged on and on. Day after day of dryness.
On some days, when Tom couldn’t face the starving stock any longer, he’d hide away in the darkness of the machinery shed and busy himself with jobs – like changing the oil in a vehicle or fixing the hydraulics again on the bale-feeder. But he hated the darkness and the smell of the shed. It reminded him of Mick.
Every Tuesday and Friday, Tom cranked over the ignition of the old farm ute and drove the ten kilometres to the mailbox over the dusty road and up the other side of the valley to pick up the grocery order and mail.
He’d leave the groceries at the back doorstep of the homestead, feed the cat, fill his saddlebag with fruit or potatoes and top up his quart-pot with milk.
Sometimes he’d knife a skinny killer and hang it dressed and quartered in the shed for his father. He’d take most of the chops because there was no oven to roast a leg or a shoulder at the hut. Tom cooked on an outdoor fire which smouldered and sulked all day while he was away working on the lowlands. Occasionally he passed his father in the yard without a word. In the shed once, as Tom was coming and Harry was going, their shoulders almost touched, but they could not look at one another.
On nights when the moon was full, hanging high and huge in the sky, Hank and Tom descended through the ghostly white of the mountain gums. Tom would sneak into the house and tiptoe along the hall to the office. In the bedroom above his head, his father lay in a drunken stupor between grimy sheets.
The cool blue light of the computer shone on Tom’s face as he checked the books once more. They could hang on for a year. Just a year. He paid the bills on-line and wrote another email to the bank manager. He couldn’t bring himself to write to Rebecca. Her life was a whole world away from here. Her message to him flashed in the inbox. He clicked on it.
Hi Tom
Have been dog-sick worried about you. Are you still in your hut hideaway? What’s the go with the farm? How’s Mick’s new job/life/Turdy pregnancy going? How’s the old bast … I mean Dad? Write to me! I’m worried sick. Has Turdy taken the computer and that’s why you’re not writing? Please get in touch.
Love sis
PS We snaffled a high distinction for our assignment on the farm. You should email Sal and thank her. Thanks for your help on that. Can’t wait to put it into reality and get Waters Meeting back on track with you some day.
PPS I’ve teamed up with the loveliest bloke … His name’s Charlie Lewis. You’d love him.
Tom closed his eyes. Then he switched the computer off and the room was suddenly dark.
It was two a.m. by the time he reached the hut and the moon had sunk beneath the line of snowgums. Still clothed, he kicked off his boots and fell into the icy sheets beneath the canvas of his swag. He reached under the thin grimy pillow and pulled out a sagging worn teddy bear. He hugged it to him before falling into the blackest sleep.
CHAPTER 25
He asked Frankie over a steaming dish of roasted lamb on a bed of rosemary, drizzled with a rich garlic sauce. Peter put the plate down in front of her, poured a tinkling stream of red wine into a crystal glass and knelt down next to where she sat.
‘I hadn’t planned on doing this so soon and it’s an impulse thing, so I won’t be offended by your reaction, but … Dr Frances Saunders, will you marry me?’
While Frankie looked at Peter’s frowning and almost pleading face, Henbury waddled up to where Peter knelt. The dog sniffed at the dinner table and then sniffed at Peter’s crotch.
Frowning, Peter elbowed Henbury. ‘Go away Henners. You always interrupt at crucial moments!’
Peter’s eyes crinkled in a smile as he reached for Frankie’s hand and looked up into her eyes. A breath caught in her throat. She was stunned. Feelings of joy and panic came all at once. She laughed and breathlessly said, ‘Peter!’
She reached out to hug him and laughed again. ‘This is such a surprise. I don’t know what to say!’
‘Yes! Say yes!’
‘I want to say yes. I’d be delighted to say yes … Oh!’ She placed a hand over her mouth. Her future life flashed before her. She saw them, growing old together. Getting a proper house with a garden, not just this tiny flat. The two of them, tying up tomatoes, podding peas and pottering. Lazy weekends reading thick weekend newspapers in the sun. Evenings filled with their easy chatter about science, her vet work and his students. A life filled with his warmth, his gentleness. But as the images flicked through her mind, Frankie felt the guilt kick in. Any time she felt joy for herself, her subconscious stole it away. She was the woman who had left her children – unforgivable. Would they see this as her final desertion? Peter watched as Frankie’s joyful expression fell from her face. He held her hands tighter. ‘If it’s too soon, and you need time to think … you can have all the time in the world, Frankie.’
‘Oh, Peter, it’s not that. I love you. I truly do … It’s just … oh, I don’t know …’
‘Well while you think about it, I might get up – my knees won’t take much more of this,’ he said, trying to bring a little light to the situation. But there was hurt in his voice. Frankie heard it and more guilt flowed into her being. He moved to get up, leaning heavily on one knee and straining stiffly, holding his back as he rose.
‘Don’t know why you’d want a clapped-out old fella like me anyway,’ he joked.
‘Peter,’ she said gently and placed a hand on his arm, ‘sit down here next to me.�
� She pulled out the straight-backed dining chair. Then she kissed him lovingly on the lips and held both his hands in hers.
‘First, let me explain how I feel,’ she said gently.
‘Yes. Go ahead.’ he said.
‘Yes, I would love to marry you, but I can’t help feeling there’s a but.’
Peter nodded. ‘Your children?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking down.
‘They’ll be fine.’
‘I know! They’re all adults, I know, but I can’t help feeling that this will be so final. That they’ll feel like I’ve left them for good.’
‘Frankie,’ he said, ‘you’ll always be their mother, whether you’re married to me or not.’
‘Yes, but what sort of mother? I’ve been terrible. It’s this … this guilt.’
‘No. Don’t say things like that. You can’t carry guilt around with you like that, it’s useless. It’s not good for you.’ She felt his love for her flow into her. Tears welled in her eyes.
‘Look,’ Peter continued, ‘your children will be fine about it. I know it. They’re off making their own lives. They’ll probably react the same way as my children will. They’ll be shocked at first but they’ll grow used to the idea. Besides, if we don’t take this chance, we could both grow old all alone, and I don’t want that for either of us.’
Frankie nodded and swallowed back her emotion as Peter continued to reassure her.
‘We’ll both get time off. We’ll arrange to go on a trip. We can drive up to Waters Meeting to break the news to Tom. We can even go as far as Rebecca’s college … Frankie, they’ll be fine about it. I promise. They might even like the idea.’
His eyes pleaded with her. She reached out and pulled him to her. He smelt so good. Of soap and the rich smells of cooking. She felt so safe with his arms about her. She drew back and looked at him.
‘Oh, Peter,’ she sighed, ‘I’m a sucker for your eyes and for your hugs.’ He laughed and they hugged again.
A knock on the apartment door broke their embrace.
‘Who could that be? Were we expecting anyone?’ Peter frowned as Frankie walked to the door.
‘Frankieee! Hi,’ Trudy’s high-pitched voice rolled into the flat and the quiet atmosphere was shattered.
She bustled in kissing Peter and Frankie on both their cheeks, Mick following quietly behind with a cylindrical container tucked under his arm. Henbury shuffled out from under the dining table, whined a greeting and waved his feathery tail about.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ Frankie beamed when she saw how healthy her son looked. She put her hands on his upper arms and squeezed them. ‘Good to see you! And Trudy, you’re looking so well.’
Trudy put her hands to her swollen belly. ‘Not long to go now. I hope we’re not interrupting dinner,’ Trudy eyed the plate of food on the table, ‘but we’re so excited! We’ve just picked up the plans for the new house. Daddy’s architect friend is building it on his Whispering Pines housing estate. It’s perfect!’
‘Wonderful,’ said Frankie cautiously, looking for a reaction from Mick. But, as Mick excitedly swept away the newspapers and magazines from the coffee table and unrolled the house plans, Frankie realised he was just as happy and proud of their new life in the city suburbs. His fingers, no longer stained with oil and callused from fencing, ran over the clean lines of the house plans, explaining to Peter the benefits of the design and proudly showing his mother which room the baby would have.
‘We were just soooo excited,’ Trudy sung again, looking at the plans from over Mick’s shoulder. ‘We know we haven’t seen you much since we moved back from the bush, but we were driving past and I … we … thought what a good idea it would be to drop in!’
Frankie placed a hand on Trudy’s forearm and looked into her shining brown eyes. ‘We’re so glad you did. There’s more dinner in the oven. Peter always cooks enough for an army. Would you like to stay?’
‘Great,’ Michael said.
Trudy clapped her hands.
‘In that case, we’ll be needing this.’ She began to rummage in her bag. From it she pulled a brown paper bag and held it in the air, ‘Champagne!’ They all cheered.
‘Of course I’ll only have a little sip!’ said Trudy patting her belly.
‘Perfect!’ said Frankie. She looked across to Peter and smiled excitedly.
‘Peter and I were about to start a celebration of our own.’ She dared herself to say it. To test the water.
‘He’s just asked me to marry him.’
It was like dropping a stone from a high cliff. Frankie waited for the smash as the stone hit the ground. The silence seemed forever. Then Trudy let out a squeal.
‘Ooooh! That’s terrific for you. Wonderful!’ She clapped her hands again and bounced her pregnant self up and down on the spot.
Frankie twisted her fingers together, waiting for Mick’s reaction. Relief swept through her as a smile came to his face and he stood to offer a hand to Peter.
‘Congratulations.’ He moved over to his mother and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good on you, Mum.’
‘Hang on! I haven’t really said yes yet!’
They all laughed.
‘Judging from our reaction Mum, I really think you should,’ Mick said, as he put his arm around her.
‘Yes. Then, yes!’ And Peter moved over to hug her.
As they sipped their champagne and toasted the new house, new baby and the new engagement, Frankie watched her son. Their move away from Waters Meeting seemed to have lifted a cloud from him. He seemed less defensive, less arrogant. Trudy was happier too. She seemed more … likeable now.
‘How’s the new real estate job going, Mick? Are you missing the farm?’ Frankie asked.
She let his answer unfold, listening with interest, her head tilted on the side, glass held still in the air as she leaned an elbow on the table.
Later, as the laughter around the table mingled with the clatter of knives and forks on plates, Frankie realised that, yes, their choices had been right.
During the night Frankie woke with a dry mouth from too much wine and champagne. In the bathroom as she drank thirstily from the glass she remembered the water. The water in her dream, raging fast in the riverbed. Further downstream in a quiet eddy which seethed underneath, her son Tom lay face down, naked, with sticks and leaves clustering against his white skin. She shook the dream from her head and went back to bed to snuggle against the warmth of Peter’s back.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER 26
From the window of Charlie’s old Holden ute Rebecca squinted at the trees and red rooftop in the distance. The house and sheds were surrounded by a swathe of green wheat fields running next to neat rows of cotton bushes which stretched to the far horizon. No fences divided the crops, only straight lines of barren, cracking dirt or the hump of an irrigation channel bank.
‘You said your house was on a hill!’ said Rebecca. ‘You call that a hill?’
‘Of course it’s a hill … can’t you tell?’ said Charlie as he drove the ute over the grid without slowing and muttered, ‘Just because you’re from goat country.’
Bec punched him lightly on his thigh. He slung an arm about her neck and kissed her firmly on her head. He was excited to be taking her home. He had delayed it long enough. Rebecca had wanted him to show her the family farm during the term, but he’d managed to put her off until the end of the university year.
When he looked towards his parents’ house in the distance Charlie felt tension rise in his shoulders. He already knew what his mother would think of the girl sitting beside him in the ute. He looked across at Bec now. She was brown as a berry. The tan ran along her lean, strong arms and over her shoulders. She was wearing a soft blue singlet, which matched her eyes and faded blue jeans, a chunky leather belt and her old faithful cowboy boots. Her hair had been blown about by the hot wind through the window and had escaped from her ponytail. Sexy, thought Charlie. But Charlie knew his mother expected him to marry a gir
l who would take care of not just him, but his washing, his meals, his garden and his children. Not a girl like Bec who was independent and ‘couldn’t be fussed with frills’, as she had put it when she’d got dressed this morning.
Frills, thought Charlie. Frills. So often he had been dragged to church on Sunday by his mother and thrust at young girls wearing florals and frills. ‘Nice girls’, Mrs Lewis would call them. They were always daughters of her churchgoing friends. They would stand there in long skirts and cardigans and stare up at Charlie’s handsome face with wide eyes and hope in their hearts. Sometimes Charlie wondered why the girls didn’t just stamp the words ‘marry me and breed with me’ on their foreheads. He once thought about saying this to his mother. Instead he just put up with her matchmaking efforts and humoured her enough to keep her from nagging.
‘Mrs Conningham’s Alice is a pretty girl, don’t you think?’ Mrs Lewis would say as she sipped milky tea from a chipped cup in the church hall.
‘She’s about your age, Charlie. Perhaps you’d like to ask her over for lunch one Sunday after the service.’
Charlie would inwardly groan but tell his mother he was busy on the farm with a breakdown on Sunday. ‘The part’s arriving this week and Sunday’s the only day I can fit it,’ he’d lie.
To his surprise, his mother always believed him. She didn’t have a clue about the day-to-day management of the crops and machinery on the farm. She didn’t even know the paddock names on the property. It was like that at their place. The house was her domain and she ruled it like a queen bee. But the farm, that was the male territory and she only dared venture onto it if asked, which was not very often. Mr Lewis liked it that way. To him, women belonged in the kitchen and the garden, but not in the paddocks. Children also had to be quiet and obedient. They had to respect their elders and be loyal to their parents. These things were never expressed in words, but in daily goings-on that was just the way it was in the Lewis household.
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