But Friday was Friday and the sweet allure of a dance kept the girls working through their chores, anticipating the moment at which they would dress up, leave the farm behind for a few hours and dance with the boys at Windstorm Hall.
Deirdre would think about Harry instead. He had just come back from Sydney to look after his brother’s place. His brother, Frank, was a successful farmer who had bought another property in Beverley and was spending a lot of his time developing the ram stud there. He’d asked Harry to come back and farm the house block while he was busy, with the promise that the farm could become his, should he wish it. Deirdre thought of Harry’s handsome face and easy smile, and hoped with all her heart that he would.
The girls fussed over their makeup for another long moment, opening their eyes wide to place their kohl strategically, stretching their lips across their teeth to apply bright lipstick, then, clutching their purses and cake tins, they trotted out to the car, and headed into town. Their father was asleep in the lounge room, as usual. He normally went there for his ‘nap’ in the afternoon, which meant that he had passed out in his chair with a bottle of whiskey at his feet. If they woke him, he’d roar, so they had learned to talk quietly, and to turn the wireless on softly to mask their movements. On Fridays Deirdre kept the old car parked next to the workshop so that its distance from the house could mask the sound of the engine. Their father wouldn’t stop them going, but he’d scream at them that they were harlots and whores, and they were going straight to hell. It hadn’t stopped them the last time he’d caught them, but Deirdre’s knuckles had been white on the steering wheel and her heart had threatened to burst with shame on the dark road to town.
They pulled into the haphazard parking area next to the hall and took their supper inside. The copper was already lit, the cups and saucers already arranged in rows, and the band was playing a foxtrot. They dashed from the kitchen behind the stage, down the stairs at the side, to find their friends on the floor. Their friends Ida and Audrey waved from the group of girls they were chatting with and Mr Cameron gave them a nod from the sidelines.
‘Excuse me, Deirdre. May I have this dance?’
The sisters turned to find Irwin Broderick standing behind them. He was around Deirdre’s height, with large red ears and a receding hairline. Deirdre had the impression he had been trying to get her attention for a short while because he glanced behind himself at some giggling he could hear from the Dawes girls. They were the local gigglers. She sighed inwardly.
She didn’t enjoy dancing with Irwin, even though he was a kind man and a good worker. He was awkward and shy, although he held a determination to dance that allowed him the brief courage to approach young ladies such as Deirdre and Vivian to ask for a turn around the room. They would never refuse him because of their kind hearts and good manners. This wasn’t always the case, Deirdre suspected, and he had narrowed his attention to the girls who could be relied upon to reward his stilted efforts.
‘Certainly, Irwin,’ she replied, and passed her little bag to Vivian to hold, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly as if to say, You’ll be next.
Vivian grinned at her; they’d be laughing about this in the car later. Poor dull Irwin. Such a nice chap, but such a terrible dancer. She observed him counting steps and gently lurched around the floor with him as he pulled her about, ignoring the beat of the music.
‘I like this tune,’ he said over her shoulder, his ears aflame.
‘Oh, yes,’ Deirdre returned, ‘I think it’s “Sweet Violets”. Viv and I heard it on the hit parade a few weeks back and now she can’t stop singing it! Of course she’s terrible at remembering the words!’
Irwin laughed briefly. ‘I’m sure you’re both very good singers,’ he assured her.
‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘We’re better than the wireless when the news is on anyway!’ Irwin’s ears had been calming down but they glowed red again. Deirdre glanced over his shoulder at Mrs Beswick, who was frowning in the direction of the dance floor at something she had recently observed, and wondered what would happen if she actually kissed him. She immediately dismissed the thought, but Irwin’s ears appeared to have caught it anyway because they stayed an alarming cherry red. His eyes began to blink furiously as if his lashes could create enough breeze to cool down the side of his head.
Deirdre bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Have you finished shearing yet, Irwin? Dad said the team was out your way this week?’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve been busy all right,’ he said proudly. ‘I’m carrying almost three thousand at the moment, which is too many really, but our lambing was so good this year that we’ve ended up overstocked. I’ll be selling some weaners in a couple of months.’
Deirdre nodded and tried to look interested. She wasn’t sure it worked because she saw Irwin’s smile falter then return with a sort of determination. ‘How interesting,’ she added for effect.
Before Irwin had a chance to go on the song changed to ‘Love Letters in the Sand’.
‘Oh – I love this one!’ Deirdre exclaimed, and did a quick pirouette to prove it.
Irwin glanced uneasily at Mrs Beswick, who was in deep conversation with Mrs Coupland and was shaking her head in Deirdre’s direction. ‘I think Mrs Beswick has her eye on you,’ he said.
Deirdre flung a careless look over her shoulder on the next turn. ‘We’re agreeing to disagree,’ she said. ‘She disapproves of Vivian and me coming to the dances unaccompanied, but we can’t get here any other way – and quite frankly we really look forward to our outing every Friday!’ She glanced back at Mrs Beswick, who was still assessing her from afar. ‘It’s worth a bit of scandal to have a dance and a laugh at the end of the week, don’t you think?’
By nine thirty there was a cool breeze coming up from the lake, through the open doors at the side of the hall, and it carried with it the scent of the water, the weeds and the cigarettes from the men drinking beer on the jetty. Deirdre stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched the long grey shadows of the dancers spilling out of the hall and onto the ground outside.
‘Have you seen Harry?’ she asked Viv, who had come up from the dance to see if the milk was hot enough for supper.
Viv shrugged. ‘Last I saw him he was heading to the lake to see the men – I’m not sure he’s back yet.’
Deirdre picked up a floral cake tin. ‘Here, then,’ she said. ‘Help me with the supper things.’ They arranged the platters of food and the cups and saucers for the dancers, working efficiently amid the chatter and laughter floating up from the dance floor.
‘Here you are, ladies.’ It was Harry, leaning on the doorway looking tall and dangerous. ‘I snuck out for a beer with the boys and I thought you’d gone home – then I saw your old bomb outside.’
‘Ha!’ laughed Deirdre. ‘You leave Bertha alone – she’s got some miles on her, but she’s still a lady!’
‘Sounds like Mrs Beswick.’ He winked at her. She fell silent briefly because she wanted to giggle but she wasn’t going to let herself; he was already too confident.
‘Supper’s on in a minute. Have you come back in to dance beforehand?’ she asked instead.
His glance took in her bright sapphire dress and nipped waist. He took her hand. ‘As long as you’ll dance with me, Deirdre – you’re the only one who knows the gypsy tap properly.’
‘Evelyn Dawes knows the gypsy tap,’ she said, hurrying happily alongside him, listening to her thin heels rapping against the boards. They left the long supper table behind and took the steps down to the dance floor where Mrs Beswick was overseeing the gypsy tap.
‘Too tall,’ Harry replied.
‘Elsie Barber?’
‘Too chatty.’
‘Audrey . . .’
‘Not you,’ he informed her, and pulled her into his arms.
‘Harry!’ she gasped. ‘You’ll ruin my reputation!’
‘You’ve got a reputation now?’ Harry whispered warmly in her ear. ‘Fantastic. I knew I found you fascinating for a r
eason!’
Deirdre playfully slapped his arm and was pleased to find it held hers firmly.
They dashed down the small steps to the dance floor and she fell into step without thinking, without counting. She was a great dancer – light on her feet, intuitive, sensitive to her partner, and she was sought after on the dance floor. Viv was almost as good, but she lacked the lightness; she knew all the steps to all the dances, but her feet wouldn’t perform them without thinking.
Viv was a good partner to Deirdre; they practised most days on the concrete floor of the workshop after they’d finished their chores. The walls were covered in tools and different gauges of wire, containers of nuts and bolts lay scattered, and forgotten projects were often discarded and in the way. They dragged flat tyres and pieces of broken machinery out of the way, and swept the concrete clean, so they could spend an hour or so singing the dance tunes loudly, and arguing over the lyrics. No, Deirdre. It’s not ‘no one will ever know my heart is empty’, it’s ‘aching’.
The song came to an end and Harry escorted Deirdre to the supper table.
‘Do make sure you dance with Viv next, won’t you?’ Deirdre pressed. ‘She likes to dance almost as much as I do!’
Harry smiled at her. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m always ready to dance with a pretty girl!’
‘My sister is the prettiest girl in the district, if you ask me!’ she declared proudly. Harry reached for a cold punch and handed it to her, taking her fingers gently in his own, in case she should drop it.
‘I don’t know about that, Deirdre – she’s got some competition,’ he said in a low voice, and the thrill of it ran straight down her spine, just like in the pictures.
The evening was a cool one, but the combined effects of the crowd and the dancing had warmed the hall.
Mrs Beswick was sitting in her usual spot with a couple of the other older ladies, drinking tea and talking about the news of the week. She glanced across the crowd now and then, leaning in to make pronouncements to those assembled around her and to admire or approve of dresses worn by the young ladies. She was the president of the Country Women’s Association and she liked to think she was attending the Friday dance as its representative. She was a severe looking woman with short black hair and a well-cut suit dress she liked to wear to gala occasions.
Mrs Beswick had known Deirdre and Viv’s mother and had been appalled when she ran away to the city, leaving her two girls to fend for themselves alone on the farm with their drunken father.
She had never quite liked the woman. Oh, perhaps she’d liked her well enough, but she’d always felt there was something weak about her. Then to have married that horrible creature and subjected those girls to that life. It was almost no surprise when Dolly left them all; except of course that it was a crime for her to have deserted her girls that way. She’d left with never so much as a note. And now the girls were coming into town unescorted. The mere thought of it made her want to recoil. She had once offered to send Mr Beswick to collect them, but her offer had been rejected lightly. If she was absolutely honest with herself, it suited her to avoid the ongoing commitment. For all their carry-on at the dances, Mrs Beswick, in her quieter moments, would have had to acknowledge that the McMullan girls were as respectable as they could manage, given their unfortunate circumstances.
At ten o’clock the dancers had their supper. The band, who always stopped on the dot anyway, was ready for a quick beer down at the lake.
Mr Cameron carried in jugs containing milk mixed with Bushells Coffee Essence and another large jug of milk for tea. The teacups were ready and the cakes were piled high with cream. Deirdre picked up a small plate of cakes she’d collected and a strong cup of tea, while Vivian reached for some chocolate cake and a weak black tea.
‘You doing Mrs Beswick tonight?’ Viv asked.
Deirdre nodded as she moved gingerly away. ‘If that’s for Mrs Coupland, you’d better take the chocolate cake off,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘She hates chocolate.’
‘Oops!’ Vivian replaced the chocolate cake with a couple of scones. Supper delivery was a duty they took upon themselves to ease their way with the older ladies from town. ‘Careful you don’t spill it on Mrs Beswick this time! She’ll think you’ve been drinking again!’ Viv said.
Deirdre held the teacup at an alarming height and headed for the dance floor at the bottom of the narrow steps where the ladies still sat chattering brightly before they took their supper. She teetered dangerously in her high heels.
‘The old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be . . .’ she sang as she went.
‘Deirdre! Shush!’ Viv giggled. ‘She’ll hear you!’
Windstorm Hall echoed with easy chatter and the clatter of china. The men had returned from the lake at the sound of supper commencing, although many of them were still talking about farming even while they held large pieces of cake and crumbling biscuits. Their voices were lower than the ladies’, and the effect of so many together at once was almost deafening. Groups of men and women had taken their supper down the little stairs at the side of the stage to chat along the side of the dance floor, where the elder patrons sat. Deirdre took a moment to survey the crowd.
Mrs Beswick’s suit was a little severe for a dance, but if it gave the citizens of Windstorm the impulse to salute or curtsey, then it was well and truly serving its purpose.
She imagined Debbie Reynolds sitting in the hall alongside Mrs Beswick, or Elizabeth Taylor, even. Those were real women, with grace and style, not this silly old biddy in a pillbox hat. She smiled at the air next to Mrs Beswick as she approached.
Liz, darling, have you met Millicent Beswick? She pretty much runs this town, you know. Don’t go kissing any boys around here without a ring on your finger, Liz. She has spies!
Elizabeth Taylor was laughing. Really?
Oh, yes. Once she took me aside in the ladies’ room at the CWA because she was concerned I may have been seen having a drink with the men down at the lake! Can you imagine? Liz was drinking champagne and no, frankly, she couldn’t imagine it. Her violet eyes glittered more brightly than her diamonds and her dark, glossy hair was piled high on her head like a princess more perfect than Princess Margaret. Liz glanced around as if she was expecting whomever was due to kiss her next.
‘Is that mine?’
‘Pardon?’
Mrs Beswick was gesturing to her tea.
‘The tea, dear,’ she said patiently. ‘Was it for me?’ The group of middle-aged ladies had stopped talking and were watching her, standing there as if she’d forgotten her purpose, because she had.
‘Oh, yes!’ Deirdre handed over the tea and cakes, wondering if she had looked as if she was eavesdropping. Mrs Beswick hated to be overheard; she seemed convinced everything she said was not only of great import, but enormous interest as well. Deirdre couldn’t imagine why.
‘Thank you, Deirdre,’ Mrs Beswick said, pleased she had been given her due.
‘My pleasure, Mrs Beswick.’ Deirdre fought the urge to curtsey. ‘I’ll be back soon to collect the cup. I’ll just take a bit of supper around the hall.’
‘Very nice idea.’
Approval.
Deirdre turned neatly on her heel and headed up the stage steps to find Viv, grinning all the way. Mrs Beswick, tamed for another week.
How she loved these brief moments of shared warmth with her sister and her friends, these moments with Harry, when she felt a world away from her father, when her heart was light and her feet were dancing.
‘I’m too old to entertain, Teddy. My knee’s been playing up.’ Deirdre gave it an experimental half-hearted kick to prove her point and Teddy rolled her eyes.
‘He doesn’t want to come here for dinner,’ she complained. ‘I thought part of his charm was that he liked his own space.’
‘He also likes to not starve to death,’ Deirdre snapped. ‘If you don’t have him for dinner, then I will – though it’ll cost me. My knee is giving me a terrible time in thi
s cold weather.’
‘Do you have some sort of doctor’s certificate for that?’
‘Did we raise you to let people starve to death?’
‘Fine! Fine. I’ll have him over for dinner.’
‘Good. I’ll come, too.’
‘Would you like me to call the ambulance to bring you over?’
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’ Deirdre stood up and made her way to Teddy’s verandah. From where Teddy stood at her front door she could see Will washing something the size of a subterranean bread box. ‘Hey, you! Will!’ Deirdre shouted. He looked up from the dig. ‘Teddy wants to cook you dinner.
Will seemed surprised.
Teddy groaned quietly.
‘I don’t need feeding,’ he called back.
‘You do eat, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, then, she’s a good cook. You won’t die.’
‘Ah, okay.’
At that Deirdre nodded and marched down the verandah steps home to her house, past the bobbing green grevillea she’d planted between the two houses to attract honeyeaters in the spring.
Teddy sighed. She made a point of sighing because Deirdre wasn’t there, so she was fairly sure she could get away with it. Deirdre didn’t approve of sighing as a rule; it demonstrated a penchant for the dramatic that she found particularly irritating.
She leaned in the doorway and watched Will hit something with a really large hammer that he’d commandeered from the workshop. She couldn’t see what it was. Maybe it was fragile. Well, if it hadn’t been fragile before he started smashing it with a hammer, it certainly was now.
She let herself notice the power in Will’s back as he bent to the task, and the dark hair along his arms. She made herself look at the wheelbarrow for a couple of seconds, and then she let herself look at his hands. Strong, she thought. Artistic. But worker’s hands, nonetheless. She wondered what he’d like for dinner. Then she decided she didn’t care, because he was getting lamb roast. She tied her messy auburn hair back, went to the kitchen and started where every good meal should begin – with dessert.
The Cowgirl Page 3