One of our Jerseys is dead and stiff, with the unborn calf still inside it. I hurry over and plunge my arm inside, trying to draw out the little sack of calf; a transverse breech, stuck in the birth canal. But the life has gone out of both of them. My heart sinks with shame and tears spring into my eyes. Shit. I could have prevented this, if I’d been out here last night.
Another, one of the Holsteins, is down with her head tucked in tight against her flank. Her eyes are closed and she doesn’t register my presence. Her calf lies a few feet away, puffing weakly.
‘It’s all right, girl,’ I say. I squat down beside the cow and put my knee against her shoulder. I tap the needle, hold it up to the light to make sure there is no air in it and then squeeze the calcium solution directly into the milk vein on her chest. The vet would not approve, but I won’t save her any other way now.
I find another one down, near the fence, but its head is in a normal position and it struggles to get to its feet as I approach. The nerves aren’t so severely affected on this one. It should recover. I slip the needle under its hide. The calf, standing a couple of feet away on shaky legs, looks fine too. I’ll leave them both for now and check on them in an hour.
I walk back to the Holstein and kneel down beside her. There’s not much difference in her condition yet, but at least she’s still alive, and this morning I count that as a miracle.
I carry the sickly calf back to the sheds and fill a bottle with colostrum. Its body is like a hessian sack over my lap, almost gone. I insert the probe into the animal’s mouth, gently down the left side, holding the calf’s tongue down with my right thumb. Releasing the crimp valve, I wait for the liquid to reach its stomach, and hope that it has sufficient life in it to recover.
‘Come on,’ I whisper. ‘You can do it.’ I stroke my hand along the length of its black and white throat. ‘Come on, little one. Drink up.’
But I know the life has dripped out of its body, like the puddle of regurgitated milk on the floor beside me, leaving an empty bag of soft bones and flesh. Desperately, I gather the calf up into my arms and press my face against the soft black patches on its stomach. I squeeze it tightly. And I pray silently to the golden energy that swirls around me every day, and I beg it to re-enter this little black and white body. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Come back inside.’
Faint at first, then stronger, I hear the miraculous pum-pum, pum-pum of a heartbeat. The calf expands its sides in a deep shaky breath and I kiss its nose. ‘It’s alive,’ I call out to Wilson.
‘Big-fucking-woop,’ he says. ‘This place is a joke.’ He moves on to the next udder, gives it a wipe and attaches the cups. ‘Half of’em’ve got bloody mastitis still,’ he says. ‘And there’s a downer in the barn.’
Gently, I lay the calf on a pile of hay and go into the old barn. The cow is trying to get up, its front legs straight, the back ones, with nerves affected from labour, are on the ground. Her healthy twin calves are almost falling over each other in order to reach her udder. I carry the calves to the calf shed with the others, and return to the cow.
Using the hip lifter, I get her on her feet. Then, we make slow figure of eights between the milking shed and the trees lining our property beside the road for most of the morning. She walks in stumbling steps behind me, progressively getting stronger, pausing now and then to bellow for her calves.
There is no lunch today. Wilson shrugs when he sees the bare kitchen table and drives into town. I search the cool back part of the house. Several blowflies circle overhead and sound like old planes struggling with the altitude. I find my parents in their bedroom, talking in low voices. They both look at me as I enter. Mother has a piece of paper in her hand.
‘What is it?’
She lowers it so I can see. It’s the milk test results. ‘They found antibiotics in the last batch,’ she says. ‘And the bactoscan count is way up. There will be no payment for the last delivery. In fact, they’re threatening to lower our grade.’
It worries me that there is no trace of venom in her voice; this passive, beaten woman frightens me more that the sharp-edged mother I’m used to. I don’t know how to deal with her.
‘Did you remember to put the cows on the bucket?’ It’s Dad, barely able to talk. He holds his hand to his chest as though swearing allegiance to something.
God, I can’t remember. There should’ve been big red crosses on the teats of any cows with mastitis. But I can’t remember seeing any.
‘Did you flush the lines properly, Son?’
‘I … I can’t remember.’
Mother squeezes Dad’s hand, gives him a faint smile. ‘Rest,’ she tells him. ‘I’ll get Wilson to see to it.’ And she walks past me as though I’m not there.
Julia
The tea is cold, although chamomile tastes like straw, regardless of temperature. She watches Bryant’s elegant fingers play with the rim of his cup, stroking it gently, his eyes blurred on the pale light at the kitchen window. Somewhere a rooster crows and it sounds as though someone is strangling it.
He’s barely looked at her since she returned. ‘We’ll have to get it serviced, I suppose.’ He means their car, which she has included in the poorly erected structure of lies. ‘And your mobile phone?’ he says. ‘I suppose that wouldn’t work either.’
‘There was no signal.’ God, she hates lying; can’t even look him in the eyes as she speaks.
‘Is your life with me so unbearable?’ Their eyes finally meet and she flinches at the sadness she sees there. There are tiny lines fanning around his eyes and on either side of his mouth. She’s never noticed them before. His boyish looks are fading. ‘I mean, I don’t think I’m that bad,’ he says. ‘Not compared to a lot of husbands. All right, I don’t make heaps of money or drive a BMW anymore. I’ll probably never be what you want, Julia, but then who gets what they want in life? Most married people aren’t happy.’
‘Surely some of them are.’ Although Julia couldn’t name anyone.
‘Not unless they’re living in a TV commercial.’ He taps the side of his tea cup. ‘Why do you want to threaten everything, Julia?’
‘Me?’ She hasn’t forgotten Summer’s seductive smile and the baby growing in her stomach. ‘Why are you?’
‘I’m the one trying to hold this marriage together,’ he says. ‘And let me tell you, it’s not easy with a wife like you.’
‘And you’re Mr Perfection, I suppose?’
‘The way I see it, Julia, is that you have two paths in front of you right now. One is with me and the kids, a little predictable and welltrodden perhaps, but safe and loving. The other,’ and here he spreads his arms wide, ‘well, the other road could hold anything, couldn’t it? You just can’t walk down both of them.’
So there she has it. Make a choice, Julia — passion or predictability, a lover or provider, freedom or a family. She wants both and neither. She wants Tom. She wants the world to stop for a moment so she can get off and lie down, close her eyes and wake up again when every person she knows has gone away. Then, she could start her life over and be someone else; make different choices, meet different people.
‘It’s good to see you two up early for a change.’ Barbara walks past them and fills the kettle. She plays with the pink ruffles on her dressing gown and yawns. ‘You know, I haven’t slept very well since I got here. I think it’s the dry weather. I’m used to the sea breezes.’ She tips instant coffee and sugar into a cup and pours in water. ‘Do you want coffee?’
‘None for me,’ Bryant says. ‘I haven’t been to bed yet.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘I was up waiting for this one.’ He angles his head towards Julia.
‘My car broke down.’
‘Her car broke down,’ Bryant echoes. ‘And her mobile phone wouldn’t work.’
Barbara shakes her head, and then sits down at the table, next to Julia. ‘And I suppose the car miraculously started for you first thing this morning, did it?’
Julia swallows, nods.
Julia closes her eyes. She imagines an alternative existence, one without responsibilities or husbands, without mothers-in-law or expectations.
‘Good morning, Mummy.’ Amber goes directly to Julia and climbs onto her lap. Amber’s getting heavier, not her little baby anymore, although her hair is just as soft as when she was a few months old.
Oscar has come in too and sits on his grandma’s lap with his grumpy morning face. Barbara rocks him from side to side, her cheek resting on his ruffled hair. The love between them is almost visible.
Although Julia isn’t keen on the woman, she loves her right then for loving her children.
Maybe she doesn’t have to make a choice. Surely she can have her family, and a lover. Heaps of women juggle the two. In fact, some women even have a career on top of all that.
She kisses the top of her daughter’s head and says, ‘Let’s have a picnic at the lake today.’ She laughs at the cheers from the children.
And sees a spreading smile of misunderstanding from her husband.
Tom
When I was younger I played clarinet in the school orchestra. Mr Watts, the music teacher, said I had talent and should practise every day. But mother said it turned the milk sour. So I stopped playing and began to listen instead; past the surface melodies and chords and into the vibrations that lay hidden underneath.
Soon, I realised that people vibrated too, and each person had their own note. Some people were in harmony, like Dad and I. Others had notes that clashed, like Mr Watts and half the kids in the percussion section of the orchestra, which is probably why he had difficulty controlling those boys.
Julia sings in the same key as I do.
The thought of us being together has made me responsible. I get up extra early, before Wilson arrives, and start milking the cows, careful to treat the ones with mastitis and make sure their milk goes into the buckets to be thrown away. When Wilson arrives, I see to the calves; there are twenty-three of them now, including the little one who resurrected herself from death. Then we both hose the yard down and pump the effluent onto the pasture.
I go inside and leave a message for the AI guy; several of the cows are ready for insemination today. I ring the factory and apologise for the contaminated milk. ‘Controls have been put in place,’ I assure them. ‘It won’t happen again.’
While Mother is in town, I make breakfast by copying a recipe out of her Women’s Weekly Best Ever Recipes book, and bring it to Dad on a tray with a copy of the local paper and a flower beside it.
He blinks at it, as though he’s never seen eggs hollandaise before, and looks up at me. ‘This looks …’ He swallows. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Son, thank you.’
I sit on the bed beside him. ‘You should eat all of it too. It will help repair your body. I’ve taken care of everything today, and I mean everything, so there’s no need for you to worry.’
He breaks the skin of the egg yolk with his fork but doesn’t eat. ‘Son, your mother has gone into town, to see the solicitor.’
‘Try some of the toast. I cooked it in bacon fat, that’s why it’s all crispy, see?’
‘She’s getting a will made up for me.’
‘Here, I’ll cut it for you.’ I take the plate from him and balance it on my knees. I cut the toast into fingers and then cut them again diagonally. I cut the tomato into triangles, the sausage into pieces, then put it back on his lap.
He looks at the meal sadly before lifting a piece of toast into his mouth, chewing deliberately like one of the cows on her cud. He swallows. ‘Son, you need to face the fact that I’m not well. The doctors have only given me a few months to live.’
Shock runs through my body and settles in my stomach like coils of electricity. ‘No. Don’t you ever tell lies like that. You have to stop taking her tablets, that’s all. She’s poisoning you; that’s why you’re so sick, because of the poison in her tablets.’ I stand up and the room tilts to one side. ‘Now, lie back and rest while I get your tea. I forgot all about tea.’
The kitchen is growing smaller, constrictive. The mustard walls beat in front of me like a membrane and the floor makes undulating movements beneath my feet. It’s that grey, swelling feeling again, creeping up behind me, making my hair rise, my heart quicken. I’m swallowed by it.
Stop it.
Get a teabag.
Breathe in and out.
Put the hot water in first, then the milk, otherwise something about the temperature of the tea happens. Spoon on the draining board, milk in the fridge.
I can’t go back in there though. The hallway is a charcoal mouth, waiting for me. Dad won’t be there anymore either. He’s disappeared into that blackness too; everything has been swallowed by it.
I crash into Mother as she comes in the back door. ‘For goodness sake,’ she says, but it’s under her breath and not aimed at me for a change.
I take the tea to the dam and throw sticks into its brown mirror sky.
— He’s dying.
Shut up!
— But he said months, didn’t he? Months. And you know what he means by that. No, don’t cover your ears.
I’m not listening.
— You need to face the truth. He’ll be dead soon. And then it will be you and her. She’ll suck you dry like the leeches do, until there is nothing left except a shell. Do you want that, Tom? To be a shell like I was?
‘Who are you?’ I hold my breath, waiting for an answer.
I wait for an eternity, not moving a muscle, but there is only a dry breeze whispering secrets into the top branches of the gums, and I am too far below to hear anything.
I feel a sudden, desperate need to see Julia, so I get to my feet and hurry down the drive.
I walk along the winding dust paths into town, then through the mall. I walk up the hill, pausing for a moment to remove my shirt in the shimmering heat and realise that I am still holding the cup of tea. I set it down on the side of the pavement and continue onto Drew Street.
The air outside her kitchen window smells of burnt sugar and butter. I huddle beneath the sill and listen to them.
Julia is speaking. ‘It’s in the fridge.’
I rise slowly, my knees creaking, and peep over the sill.
There she is, her hair tied up into a ponytail, holding a plate piled high with pancakes. Bryant, the fat lady and the two kids don’t even wait for her to put the plate down on the table before they begin spearing the pancakes with their forks. They pour on syrup, squeeze lemons and sprinkle sugar. And my mouth begins to water.
‘This is the life,’ Bryant says.
I should be in there, just me and Julia. My knees are beginning to hurt and I lower myself onto my heels, my back pressed to the wall. I push my fingers into my temples where the cracks are beginning to spread.
Why are they so happy? If Julia told them all that she was leaving them, why are they laughing and eating pancakes together?
‘Mum, can we watch cartoons?’
‘Eat first.’
‘But we can put our plates on our knees.’
‘Oh, all right then.’ That is Julia. She is pretending to be cross, but her tone carries the sparkle of laughter under her words. ‘Watch you don’t spill any.’
‘They grow up so quick,’ the fat lady says.
Bryant says, ‘Why don’t we have another baby?’
My heart stops for a moment.
But Julia laughs, what a beautiful sound, ‘The ones we’ve got are enough of a handful,’ she says. ‘And I don’t think I’m good mother material.’
I keep my head down and walk back alongside the house. It’s obvious that Julia needs rescuing.
Julia
When the doorbell rings, she pushes her plate away. The smell of food, which a moment ago made her hungry, now brings on a wave of nausea. Julia knows Tom is standing under the veranda at the front door, waiting for her to answer. She can hear him, but she can’t see
him. She mustn’t. There’s not a chance in hell she can act normal in his presence anymore.
Barbara gets to her feet with an exaggerated groan.
‘If it’s for me,’ Julia tries to sound casual, ‘I’m not here.’
Barbara pauses for a moment, probably expecting more of an explanation, but when none comes, she walks into the lounge room, telling the kids to turn down the TV.
Julia can hear Tom’s deep voice, Barbara’s smug tone. ‘No, I don’t know where she is.’
Bryant leans forward in his chair. ‘Is that Tom, do you reckon?’ Already he’s putting down his serviette, pushing back the chair.
‘No, I doubt it.’ She reaches for him. ‘It’s probably a Jehovah’s Witness.’
Then, there is a third voice at the front door. ‘It is you!’ Bryant says. ‘Come in.’
Voices in the hallway, coming closer.
If she sees Tom, her normal façade will come undone and then even Bryant will know something is going on between them. So much for her earlier decision to juggle family and lover. No, she reassures herself; she can still do it. It’s just that the two worlds must never meet. She’s always been such a hopeless liar. The safe thing is to avoid Tom completely when Bryant is around.
Julia hurries into the bathroom and closes the door behind her.
The bathroom is close enough to the kitchen that she can hear Bryant offering Tom a coffee, some pancakes. Tom’s voice is too deep to distinguish his words. Did he just ask where she is? Barbara is telling Tom that they were about to go out. Oh, wonderful motherin-law, thank you. But Bryant ruins everything by saying they are in no hurry.
The door handle turns. Shit, now what?
She holds her breath and hopes whoever it is will go away.
There is a pummelling of fists at the door.
‘Yes?’ she whispers.
‘Mum, I need the toilet.’ It’s Oscar.
‘Can’t you wait?’
‘No, I can’t.’ When she still doesn’t open the door, he threatens, ‘You don’t want me to pee my pants, do you?’
Milk Fever Page 17