Milk Fever

by Lisa Reece-Lane

  Then I lower her carefully in.

  I pat the soil down, arrange the stones and then drag the old milk churner over the top of the grave. The wood splitter is silent. Cicadas fill the night with their intense dddzzzzz. Tiredness fills me and I head back to bed, lying on top of the covers in my clothes, a crawling of sweat over my chest and arms.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to waste those.’ She points at my eggs. ‘I would have only cooked you one otherwise.’

  I keep my eyes respectfully down. There were fresh cuts on my thighs again this morning. It’s best not to upset her.

  The back door opens and Wilson stands with his baseball cap in his hands, squinting into the darkness of the kitchen. ‘Mrs Leadbetter?’

  Mother steps away from the sink. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Mr Leadbetter reckons that horse still ain’t right and wants to know if you can call the vet for him.’

  It’s funny watching Wilson in front of my mother. He fidgets a lot and won’t look into her eyes. He’s been in more fights than Muhammad Ali. He has pins and hinges in his right leg after a motorcycle accident. He lost his little finger with a circular saw and calmly held the two pieces together while Dad drove him to hospital, but he’s reduced to a stammering mess in front of her.

  She folds her arms. ‘What about castor oil?’

  ‘We tried that already. She’s still bloated up bigger than a whale and about ready to go down. Mr Leadbetter has been walking her all morning.’

  Mother turns on me. ‘Go and help your father.’ Her voice is like a stock whip. ‘He’s got more important things to do than fuss over that old mare.’

  I don’t want to walk back to the stables with Wilson, but I have no choice.

  He stays close to me, so that our shoulders almost touch. I can feel his anger and hatred curled up taut inside his body like a funnel web spider.

  ‘Have a nice lie in, did you?’ he asks. ‘Loser.’

  I keep quiet.

  We reach the storeroom together; the door is open and chaff and layer pellets spill out over the floor. As I go to step into the stables, Wilson pushes me hard in the shoulder, so that I fall sideways. He spits on the ground next to me.

  He steps inside and I can hear him talking to Dad, telling him that the vet is on the way.

  I haven’t rubbed Melody’s nose for years. Her bony head rests in my lap, her eyes closed. One of her ears has a rip in it where she got caught in a fence. She sighs out in long groans, occasionally kicking at her round stomach with her back hoof. Dad told me to keep her walking, not to let her lie down, but she eventually sunk onto the hay and, no matter how hard I pulled on her halter, I couldn’t get her back to her feet.

  ‘Remember that time we won second prize in the quietest pony competition?’

  She snuffles, her breath warm on my palm.

  The pony had let me slide over her rump and remained still when, dressed up as a clown, I jumped up and down in front of her with a siren, although it frightened a few of the other horses and made Mr Dougherty, the senior pony club judge, furious. It had been one of the happiest times in my life, getting that ribbon.

  — She’s dying.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘Resting.’

  The stable is hotter than a sauna and I wipe the sweat from my upper lip. There is a peppering of flies buzzing over manure in the corner. In the distance I can hear the machines from the milking shed. Melody is quiet now, her breathing is relaxed and I hear her stomach make a sound like a drain clearing of water.

  We probably don’t need the vet anymore, she’s sleeping now, but it still annoys me that he takes so long to get here. If there’s an emergency with one of the cows, he arrives quick as a spark; not that Dad calls him very often, too expensive.

  I pick up a lock of her mane and begin to plait it, like I used to before the shows. ‘I’m sorry I don’t come to see you anymore,’ I say, softly so I won’t wake her. ‘You used to love it when I brushed you and combed your tail. Remember how I pinched Mum’s peppermints for you? Dad said you had the sweetest smelling breath out of all the animals here.’

  I’m almost asleep when Dad and Wilson come into the stables.

  ‘That vet still not here?’ Dad says.

  I sit up carefully, trying not to disturb Melody. ‘She’s sleeping.’

  I see Wilson snigger.

  Dad chews the inside of his lip for a moment and sighs. There is a ring of dirt around his forehead where his hat has been. His eyes are bloodshot from the dust. He squats down beside me and lays a hand on the mare’s head. ‘She’s not asleep, Son.’

  Julia

  Julia is embarrassed to take Oscar to school. The poor little thing is covered from head to toe in mosquito bites and, despite dabbing each spot with calamine lotion, he continues to itch like a dingo with fleas. He isn’t pleased to be going to school either, although Julia and Amber agree that it’s a beautiful little place. There are two bluestone buildings sitting side by side, a handful of new portables and a little weatherboard library — and only seventy-five children between them, an absolute luxury of space compared to the city schools she’d looked at.

  The classrooms are airy and painted in bright colours. Alphabet pictures, a huge atlas and messy artwork line the walls and mobiles that are obviously kid-made hang from the ceiling. It’s impossible to walk upright without being brushed by feathers or glittery ice-cream sticks. Outside, they even have an organic vegetable garden.

  ‘Oh, look kids, they have chickens too.’

  Amber runs over to the pen and pushes her hand through the mesh, wriggling her fingers. A ginger chicken hurries over and Amber giggles with happiness when the chicken pecks at her fingers.

  ‘I hate chickens,’ Oscar says, scratching grooves down his neck from the mozzie bites. His megaphone seven-year-old voice echoes across the quadrangle. ‘I hate stupid chickens.’

  Julia laughs and draws Oscar to her side. ‘City boy,’ she says to one of the passing mothers. ‘He’s not used to everything yet.’

  ‘Ow.’ Oscar scowls up at her. ‘You’re holding me too tight.’

  ‘All right,’ she says, under her breath, ‘behave yourself then.’

  What really endears Julia to the little school is the fact that all the mothers walk with their children up to the classroom, instead of just dropping them off in the carpark like Oscar’s last school. And they wait in an attached foyer, while their kids line up neatly to enter the classroom. The teacher stands in the doorway and shakes the hand of each child and says good morning as they enter the room. It’s a delightful and dignified ritual.

  Oscar doesn’t want to line up. He screams, throws his lunch box across the foyer, hitting a little girl in the knees, causing her to cry. His feet stomp up and down in time with his fists. He sweeps several other bags onto the floor and pulls on Julia’s shirt, stretching it sideways. There are stares of concern from the other mothers.

  Julia’s face is so hot she feels faint. ‘He’s not usually like this.’ She pretends that the punches Oscar delivers to her ribs don’t hurt.

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Amber smiles up at everyone. ‘And sometimes he’s even worse. Once, Mummy had to pay for a lamp that he broke in a shop, and he broke our neighbour’s china dog. And he pulled the arms off my Disco Barbie and cut her hair real short so it sticks up everywhere.’

  ‘Perhaps you should leave him with me,’ his teacher, Ms Phillips says, coming over to intercede. ‘He might settle down once you’re gone.’

  Oscar is red in the face and panting. The other kids are talking about him. He’ll be labelled the ‘naughty kid’.

  Julia picks up her bag from the floor and dusts down her skirt. ‘Really, I think he’s just scared.’ She takes Amber out of the foyer before her daughter can contradict her again and ignores the stares from the other mothers and the screams of rage from her son behind her.

  Outside, Amber asks her why she’s crying.

  Julia shakes her head. ‘All mummies cry when they drop their
baby off to a new school.’

  ‘That’s not why,’ Amber says, too wise for a five-year-old. ‘It’s because he’s so naughty.’

  She’s right, of course.

  Oscar is like her jailor. She feels evil for even thinking it, but it’s true. He surrounds her with his fury, makes bars out of guilt. The obstetrician had pulled him kicking and screaming from her womb with a pair of forceps and laughed at the baby’s angry outburst.

  ‘Good set of lungs on this one, Mrs Heath.’

  And the raging had continued for nearly two years. They had consulted everyone from paediatrician stochiropractors, acupuncturists to homeopaths. Colic, birth trauma, past-life trauma, autism spectrum, allergies, ADD, ADHD, Indigo child, Rainbow child, you name it. Everyone had a theory. The paediatrician insisted Oscar was ‘normal’. ‘Why is he so angry though?’ Julia wanted to know. ‘Some babies just are,’ was all he could offer. So Julia sought more ‘alternative’ views and spent a fortune trying to help her precious son, going along with all sorts of kooky diets and new programs, which did little more than irritate Oscar further.

  In the end, Bryant suggested she ignore it. We’ve tried everything, he would reassure her; perhap she’s just expressing himself. He’s bound to grow out of it soon enough. But the screaming had continued and Julia felt herself sliding towards insanity, her nerves shredded into strips by the constant noise and fury, her energy depleted.

  The only way to explain her son’s rage was that he was extremely unhappy about something. But what? What? It drove her mad guessing.

  By the time Oscar was three, the screaming and shouting had mellowed into whines and tantrums. Not necessarily any easier to deal with, especially at the supermarket, but it was a change in pitch and volume that Julia welcomed all the same.

  ‘So, Mummy, I thought Oscar’s teacher was lovely.’

  Julia smiles. ‘Me too, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘Are you ready for kinder tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’ Amber smoothes the fabric of her dress in a very adult gesture. ‘And you don’t have to worry about me having a tantrum either.’

  They go to the park and, while Amber plays on the swings and slides, Julia summons up the courage to jog. She could dance, of course; that would get her fit. Bryant even offered to screw a barre on a wall of their bedroom so she could practise properly. But she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want a precise measurement of how much physical fitness she’s lost. Running is better.

  She jogs in self-conscious circles around the play area: a slow steady pace, one foot in front of the other. She focuses on the weight she will be burning.

  But, soon it’s her lungs that are burning. Her ankles feel weak and her upper thighs rub against each other. Who cares? This will be toning muscles, burning calories, increasing the efficiency of her metabolism. The pain will be worth it.

  Amber calls encouragingly for her to do another round, but a mother with two toddlers approaches, and Julia feels self-conscious about her turned-out ballet gait, like she’s running across a stage, so she slows to a walk and catches her breath.

  She waits on the park bench, feeling her heartbeat pound inside her head while Amber plays with the other kids. She sends her sister a quick text message, informing her of the new home phone number. Seconds later, Yvonne texts back to congratulate Julia on the move. Come to Lovely for a visit, Julia suggests, feeling suddenly optimistic. She waits for a reply. Twenty minutes later there’s still no answer. With a sigh she puts the phone back in her bag. Julia looks at her watch; just gone ten o’clock. If she were still in the city, she’d be sitting at one of her favourite cafés; at an outside table, sipping decent coffee, reading the newspaper, chatting with Amber, watching people go by.

  She calls for Amber to come over, and together they head back to the car.

  As Julia pulls out of the carpark, she sees a young man standing on the kerb, staring ahead as though he’s forgotten something important and is not sure what to do about it.

  She tells Amber to wind down the window. It’s the guy Bryant has been healing. Julia checks her face in the rear-view mirror. She looks very red in the cheeks and her hair is a mess, but there’s nothing she can do about that now. She releases her seatbelt and leans over. ‘Hi Tom. Do you need a ride anywhere?’

  He stares at Amber then at Julia. His eyes are so clear she can almost see right through them. ‘I was on my way to see Joe. He buys milk from us.’

  She can hear that humming sound from the other night as Tom gets into the car.

  ‘Where does your friend Joe live?’

  ‘He’s got a café in town, just off the mall. He makes his own cheeses.’

  ‘A café?’ Julia holds her breath, scared to ask. ‘He doesn’t know how to make a decent coffee, does he?’

  Tom

  Bryant’s wife is beautiful.

  Julia, Julia, Julia. I say her name over inside my head because the vibration of that word is intoxicating.

  I am hypnotised by her voice, her graceful movements and smile. When she turns her head towards me, I admire the soft curve of her cheek and the tiny lights that play around her head. But the most amazing thing is her sound; it’s a pure high note only angels can sing.

  No wonder Bryant married her.

  ‘My espresso machine is out of action,’ she says. ‘I’ve been drinking instant and, let me tell you, that’s not pleasant.’ She pauses for a moment to turn on the indicator and make a right onto Station Street. ‘The local plumbers seem to be avoiding me. Perhaps they consider installing a coffee machine too menial.’

  ‘They’re trying to teach you a lesson about country life,’ I say. ‘Pretend you don’t care whether they can fix your machine or not, and don’t try to pin them down about what time they’re coming around either. Once the locals think you’ve lost your city expectations, they’ll fix your machine.’

  I direct her to the parking spots and we get out of the car and stroll together through the mall. The little girl walks in long and short steps, avoiding the cracks. When she comes to the mall and the sea of orange bricks, she hesitates momentarily then jumps forward.

  ‘Wow, it’s so dry,’ Julia says, staring at the brown vegetation adorning the mall.

  ‘Lovely was once really fertile land. That’s why my grandfather started the dairy farm here.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It stopped raining.’

  ‘So it was lovely once?’

  ‘It still is.’

  She laughs. ‘If you say so.’ She slows her walk, watching her daughter skip and hop ahead. There are long streamers of pink energy coming out of Julia’s heart, wrapping softly, like a cloak, around her little girl. And anyone who passes receives a tiny offering of her pink light; I’m sure Julia has no idea of her generosity. Her rare shade of light softens the mall.

  ‘How’s it going with Bryant’s healings?’ She stops walking to face me.

  ‘Good,’ I tell her. There are sparkles of gold in her irises, mixing with clear sea grey and deep blue borders. I pretend to be absorbed by her words so I can stare into her eyes. ‘Bryant is healing me here.’ I tap my forehead. ‘It’s called the third eye.’

  She makes a Hmmm sound and continues walking. When we reach the door to the café she says, ‘Be careful, Tom, won’t you?’ and she puts her hand on my arm.

  Something happens there, on the place where her hand rests and the point where our gazes join; a rush of energy between us. The sensation fills me with joy; it pools under my skin and sifts through me like rainfall.

  Julia seems to notice it too, and she pulls her hand away, looking surprised and slightly embarrassed.

  I am scared that I will come undone in front of her and say things I mustn’t so I hold the door open to the café, like a gentleman, and try to distract myself from watching her. But I can’t help noticing, as she passes, how the rose and cream skirt she’s wearing fits so smoothly across her behind, and how her legs are shapely and tinted with gold. And my body fills wi
th such an urgent heat and hard longing I don’t know what to do with myself. I swallow and look up to the fan, circling lazily overhead, to the sensible maroon of a long-ago painted ceiling, and I silently recite the twelve times table in order to distract myself. I try hard not to imagine what it would be like to slide down the zipper on that skirt and watch it fall to the ground at Julia’s feet.

  It’s no good; my mind will not let the image go. I have to wait for a moment, with my back turned and my face burning, trying to calm my breathing. I stare at the sky.

  ‘Hey, Tom,’ Joe calls. ‘You’re letting in all the heat.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I close the door, then hasten to join the others at the booth, with my hands clasped self-consciously in front of my jeans, hoping no one else will notice that my whole body is alight with flames and burning shamelessly.

  Julia is telling Joe that the place reminds her of a café in some street I’ve never heard of before. Joe seems happy about this. He grins at Bruno and Anthony, who are drinking espresso and playing chess. They tell Julia not to give the old fool a big head.

  I watch her eyes widen as Joe sets the cup down in front of her. The rich espresso crema is decorated with tiny milk love hearts. Her eyes close as she takes the first sip and a smile curls her lips. She lowers the cup and mouths the words, Thank you, to Joe. He inclines his head and gives a slight self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders; everyone can see he is beaming with pride.

  All of us watch Julia enjoy her coffee.

  Every tilt of her head is elegant. Her hand movements are delicate and refined, like a princess from long ago. Everything she touches seems to receive a blessing — the cup, a teaspoon, her daughter’s shoulder — everything in her circle is illuminated.

  Joe gives her daughter an espresso cup filled with frothed milk and a finger of bittersweet chocolate on the saucer. The little girl dips the chocolate into the warm milk and smiles contentedly at her mother.