The Cowgirl

by Anthea Hodgson

  ‘Oh God, she’s off again!’ Viv was laughing. ‘If you give Deirdre half a chance she’s off dreaming of adventures and romances.’ She looked mildly accusing. ‘You were, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘You were off with the fairies!’

  Deirdre smiled, self-conscious. ‘No,’ she protested. ‘Of course not. I was just thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘Thinking about boys, I’ll bet,’ said Val, with a measure of satisfaction. ‘That’s what I hear! You and that Harry Parkinson. Nice looking boy he is, too. You could do worse.’

  ‘Val!’ Deirdre admonished her. ‘You are such a gossip!’

  Val chuckled indulgently. ‘But you didn’t deny it, did you, Deirdre McMullan? Oh, there’s a story there, all right.’

  ‘We brought in some lamingtons today,’ Viv said to change the subject, and Deirdre blinked gratefully.

  ‘And fruit cake for Mrs Coupland,’ she chimed in.

  ‘And lemon slice in case the Williams girls come in.’

  Val inspected the tins of cake. ‘And scones?’

  ‘Well, yes, but not really worth mentioning,’ said Viv. ‘Of course we brought scones, Val.’

  ‘We’re not heathens, after all!’

  Val turned her jam jar vase just so and led the way to the kitchen.

  ‘Come, girls. Afternoon tea awaits!’

  ‘Hello?’ A deep voice was calling out from the tearooms, and when the girls stuck their collective heads out they found Harry was looking a little lost in the midst of Val’s flowers.

  ‘I was hoping to enjoy a quick cup of tea with you before all the ladies arrive,’ he explained. Viv nudged Deirdre solidly in the ribs and Deirdre stifled a giggle.

  ‘Of course!’ she told him. ‘One cup of tea coming up. And you can help us light the stove. It’s a real swine!’

  It was nice to have Harry there. He looked so tall and handsome next to all the ladies coming and going. Deirdre sat with him too long, happy to bask in his company and proud that the news from town would be I saw young Deirdre McMullan with Harry Parkinson again today. And what a nice couple they make. Mrs Beswick and Mrs Jarvis came in after a while, with bags of knitting wool they were exchanging. They settled at the table next to Deirdre and Harry.

  ‘Good afternoon, Deirdre,’ Mrs Beswick said primly, so that Deirdre would know to be on her best behaviour.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Beswick.’

  ‘And Harry Parkinson. We don’t often have men in here.’

  ‘But I hope I’m welcome?’ He winked charmingly.

  ‘Oh, yes, we’re very broad-minded at afternoon tea!’ she twinkled at him.

  ‘We owe Harry a debt of gratitude,’ Deirdre added. ‘He’s managed to get the stove going.’

  ‘That rotten thing should have been pensioned off years ago. Thank you, Harry,’ Mrs Beswick said. ‘I see you like to dance?’

  ‘Only if that’s where the pretty girls are,’ he said. Deirdre picked up the tea things and started to head back to the kitchen, blushing with embarrassment and pride.

  ‘Well, I wonder if we’ll see you at the debutante ball I’m organising. There’s bound to be plenty of pretty girls there.’

  ‘A deb ball?’ Viv squeaked, overhearing. ‘Here? In Windstorm?’ Viv and Val were delivering two plates of lamingtons and scones to Audrey, and Val looked up with interest.

  ‘Oh, it has been a while since we had a deb ball!’ she remarked. ‘It would be a great occasion!’

  Before long there were cake-affected women discussing the ball. It was always exciting to have an event to look forward to, Deirdre thought, as she washed the plates. Harry had snuck out unnoticed while the discussion was well underway. As the afternoon sun streamed in the windows, the girls were chatting and laughing from table to table, in a happy babble.

  Deirdre returned to pour everyone another cup. ‘I’ve just got to have a quick check of the haberdashery,’ she told Viv, and trotted out of the tearooms to the back of the co-op, to the shelves of buttons and cotton, and the bright bolts of fabric. There would be something there for a ball, perhaps, or maybe they’d have to go to Narrogin to find a better selection of fabrics in white. A blue floral cotton caught her eye and she absent-mindedly reached out to touch it, her mind already considering its weight, how it would fall, and if it would better suit her or Viv. She put both hands out and stroked the stiff cotton and imagined it sewn into a dress with wide skirts starched to perfection. How smart it would look! Deirdre caught herself smiling at the fabric as if she was making a new friend. She’d need a few yards. She picked it up and took it through to the co-op front desk.

  ‘Hello Mr Honeyman,’ she said. ‘I was wondering how much three yards of this fabric would be?’ Mr Honeyman, his thick white hair combed back neatly and his shirt sleeves rolled up ready for business, looked over his glasses.

  ‘It’s a nice colour, don’t you think?’ he asked. Deirdre nodded. He glanced at the price tag.

  ‘It’ll be fourteen shillings,’ he said, ‘but I give a small discount to loyal customers. I’d give it to you for thirteen shillings and sixpence.’ Deirdre grinned.

  ‘Thanks very much!’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure to wear it to town, brighten the place up!’ He laughed and started cutting.

  ‘You do that, Deirdre,’ he told her. ‘Mrs Honeyman and I like to see the outfits you girls make yourselves. You always look very well turned out. I think you would be an excellent dressmaker.’

  ‘I am a dressmaker!’

  ‘Oh, no, I mean a professional. You know, like those women who design dresses for the rich and famous. Wouldn’t that be the business?’

  Deirdre blushed. ‘Now wouldn’t that be something?’ she asked, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

  Monday was washday, and washing took pretty much all day. So every Monday without fail, Deirdre allowed herself to think of nothing else but dressmaking.

  As she boiled the copper and mixed up Silver Star starch for their clothes, as she wound the wringer to get the last of the water out, as she dragged the heavy sheets over the line strung between two young saplings in the backyard, she allowed herself to spend the day in Paris or New York, walking the streets and choosing which fabric, which tassel, which jewel would grace her next creation. Most Mondays it was gowns – long flowing gowns with huge bows at the waist, daring strapless gowns that dipped a little too low at the back. Gowns that rustled with stiff, rich fabrics, which caught the light, which moved like sculpture across the beautiful women who danced at parties.

  Deirdre nodded shyly at the humble bolt of cotton on the counter in front of her and was glad Viv wasn’t there to give her away.

  When she had completed her business, she found laughter flowing out of the tearooms and she followed the sound. Ida was telling jokes she’d heard on Jack Davey’s show on the wireless the night before, and even Mrs Beswick was entertained.

  ‘Tell that one again!’ Val demanded. ‘The one about the cat is my favourite!’

  Audrey handed Deirdre and Viv a cup of tea before they had made it to a table, and Val had brought the entire chocolate sponge out of the kitchen and was cutting huge, soft, sweet piles of fluffy cake while ladies dropped five shillings in the jar that sat beside the plate.

  ‘Since we’re all here,’ Mrs Beswick announced, ‘I thought I’d let you know there are already plans afoot for the ball.’ There was a murmur of assent among the gathered ladies. ‘I have already invited the dignitaries. Mr and Mrs Kingston from the Road Board will be there to receive the young ladies, along with myself, representing the CWA and possibly that nice MP, Bob something – I forget his name, he’s only new. Mrs Coupland has kindly agreed to provide the music for the occasion, and it has been decided she will play “To a Miniature”.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a nice one,’ someone said.

  Mrs Beswick nodded, and took another sip of her tea. ‘Yes, it is. Now, we will be having a rehearsal or two. I believe a couple of the young men may need some help with their dancing,
so we will be running through the occasion to make sure everyone is presented at their best . . .’ She continued describing the plans for the event. Deirdre and Vivian glanced at each other.

  Mrs Coupland was the slowest piano player in the world but no one was willing to risk offending her by not requesting her services. She played for the church as well, and they were often in fits of giggles as she ground out ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus’ like a funeral dirge. I think even Jesus will drift off to sleep, if she doesn’t move it along a bit! Deirdre had once whispered to Viv, who had giggled helplessly into her hymn book, glancing guiltily at Mrs Beswick two rows ahead who had been staring heatedly back.

  Once they had hijacked the tempo, singing enthusiastically and loudly so that the congregation was forced to join them, and poor Mrs Coupland had been dragged along, too, her fingers skipping across the old organ keys, a startled expression on her face.

  Deirdre sighed to herself now and took another sip of tea. Old people. So frustrating.

  Even if she meant well Mrs Beswick was judgemental and interfering, Mr Honeyman was obsessed with stories about the town during its infancy, and Mrs Kingston talked about nothing other than her brilliant grandchildren, paying particular attention to the arrival of each of their teeth and the viscosity of their snot. She glanced out of the window and imagined how it would feel to never see them again, to never see her father again. To be free.

  Teddy woke up the next morning thinking about the .22 and Will’s delayed departure, which wasn’t surprising, given that she’d fallen asleep thinking about it as well. She’d been on the farm way too long.

  She rolled out of bed and ate some toast while she stared out of the window at the home in the ground she had never known was there, as if the shame of her great-grandfather’s alcoholism had driven it underground in disgrace. She could understand her grandmother’s reticence all these years; she imagined it came with many bitter memories.

  Deirdre rarely spoke of her sister, Vivian, at all, except to say her sister had left her, had broken Deirdre’s heart and died. It seemed one of the only stories Deirdre was willing to tell. Occasionally she would tell Teddy about the time she first noticed Teddy’s grandfather in Windstorm. Pleasant enough man, he was, and very polite. He was kind to me at a dance once, and I was grateful. I believe we formed an understanding, and the rest just happened. Deirdre had meant their subsequent marriage and fifty years together on the farm: raising their son, working in the community, planting out the seasons and harvesting them back in again. It wasn’t the world’s most exciting or romantic tale, but Deirdre was hardly the world’s most exciting woman.

  She saw Will arrive at the hole so she scraped more Vegemite onto a cold slice of toast; she didn’t want get there too early. She was absolutely playing it cool. And anyway, she wasn’t sure what the protocol was when you had just fired upon someone’s property. He was probably still pissed off about it, which would be understandable.

  She finished eating, brushed her teeth and headed out to greet him.

  ‘Morning, Will,’ she said, putting on her cheerful voice. He appeared to be measuring the depth of the hole he was surveying, and he didn’t look up.

  ‘Morning, Teddy. Sleep well?’

  Be cool. For once in your life. Be cool.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She crouched next to him and pulled on her boots. ‘You?’

  He grinned at her. ‘Hardly at all,’ he said. ‘But now you’ve got me here, let’s get to work, eh?’

  The room was a bedroom, Teddy had decided. She could see the rusted bedhead, along with some lumps of dirt being dragged from the earth. The corroded metal snapped and Will jumped out of the machine and began to drag at it. Teddy sipped her tea, and relaxed, as he pulled it free and then struggled with the piece that had been detached. There was the sound of metal squeaking and straining in protest and of Will huffing with effort. The mattress had dissolved over the years and although it was almost indiscernible from the rest of the earth, it had held together a clutch of soil that slowly peeled away from the metal frame of the bed and fell with a flop on the pile of dirt by the hole. Will picked up his shovel, jumped back into the hole and began to dig. The earth coming out was deep red; it wasn’t like that all over the property, often it was sandy or a lighter loam, but here it was a deep red and it clung to the old bedhead as it clung to the past.

  Will’s demeanour had changed. Teddy watched on as he crouched, stood, turned, then began digging, first by hand and then, carefully as if he was feeling his way, with the shovel. He wasn’t going deep any more, he was searching.

  He glanced up at her and she found herself picking her way across the uneven earth towards him. ‘What?’ she asked, looking down.

  ‘There’s something here,’ he murmured, gesturing to the spot he’d been digging.

  ‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Looks like dirt.’ He nudged her.

  ‘That’s because it is,’ he said, and dropped to his haunches, pulling a hand digger out of his back pocket. He kept taking away the soil. She dropped to a squat beside him and watched as a couple of rusty bedsprings came out. He tossed them aside. ‘Hose them down later,’ he said. ‘There’s something else.’

  Teddy stared at the dark earth, and wondered if it was the vase Deirdre had mentioned at Sewells Rock. She’d never talked about it before. Deirdre probably thought she’d sound foolish, recounting a childhood memory of a modest treasure owned by their modest family. It was just a silly story told to a child who’d believed it, as children do. That must have been why she didn’t bring it up all these years. And yet, the thought of it had stayed with her, the most practical woman in the entire universe. So now here was Teddy, digging. For something that probably didn’t even exist. So why was she so excited?

  ‘How can you —’

  Will held up his hand, his attention focussed on the space in front of him. He dug again, and hit a hollow metallic object. ‘There it is,’ he muttered.

  ‘There what is?’ Teddy asked.

  ‘No idea.’ He handed her the trowel. ‘Your turn.’

  She was secretly pleased, despite herself. She knew this wasn’t going to be the lost treasure of the McMullans but still, it was something being dug up for the first time since – well, since man landed on the moon, since her parents were born, since . . .

  It was a box.

  ‘Biscuit tin,’ Will murmured. He waited for her to keep going, his attention focussed on the box. ‘Get it out and open it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we call the museum?’

  His dirty hand came around her shoulder and she liked it. ‘Don’t be smart,’ he said. ‘I know you want to open it as much as I do.’

  Teddy grinned. Yeah, she really did. Maybe there would be a clue to her grandmother in here. Maybe there would be a diary in there with a note that said, Today I’m going to try being grumpy, to see how long I can keep it up . . . She prised at the lid but it wouldn’t open.

  ‘It’s rusted shut,’ Will said, and handed her a chisel. She stabbed the lid and half of it collapsed inwards. A few clods of dirt fell into the old tin box. Will carefully lifted out the shards of rust and let her peer inside.

  At first she wasn’t sure what was in there. She ran her fingers gently through the dust until she could feel some loose paper. It was fragile.

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed. ‘It’s like a time capsule.’ She lifted a family of little dolls into the light and inspected them, wondering if they had belonged to Deirdre or Vivian. The dolls were looking back at her, as if they had never expected to be rescued from their grave, and it gave Teddy a feeling of relief, and of sadness for the years they had lain hidden from the world, unloved, untouched and abandoned. Will stood by with his hands on his hips watching her.

  ‘We should show Deirdre,’ he said. ‘It might not be amazing, but it’s something.’ He took one of the dolls and held it gently, looking pleased. Teddy looked up at him as he considered the doll. His face was softer than she’d seen it before, like
he was divining the doll’s story, what games it had played and who its playmate had hoped she’d become. He glanced down and caught her staring and he looked back at her for a long moment. She forgot about the doll in the deep blue of his eyes. He took her hand and placed the doll back within it.

  ‘Yeah, she’ll be happy to see these,’ she said. ‘Much more interesting than spoons.’ She turned them over in her hands again. ‘How many more of these do you think we’ll find?’

  ‘Dunno. This may be it. Metals quite often survive okay, depending. Plastics last but they can get brittle. Ceramics do well.’

  ‘I just don’t get it,’ Teddy murmured. ‘It’s a lot of trouble for a couple of dolls or a vase. She’s never been the sentimental type, but I think you could probably tell that.’ Maybe she really believes in that vase.

  Will grinned. ‘You never know, some people get sentimental when they get old, and some when they get drunk. I was on a dig with some Russians once – tough bastards until the vodka came out.’ She waited, in case he was going to tell her about Russians; she’d never met any Russians. She’d watched James Bond movies and Dr Zhivago.

  ‘Go,’ he pressed her. ‘I’ll keep fiddling about down here.’

  Teddy left, cradling the rusty tin lightly in her hands – she couldn’t remember if she was up to date with her tetanus shot. She crossed the yard.

  ‘Grandma!’ she called. ‘Hey! Grandma! Look what Will found!’ She swung open the gate as Deirdre came to her door.

  ‘What’s all the noise about?’ she snapped. Teddy held up the tin.

  ‘We’ve found some dolls,’ she said, meeting Deirdre on the verandah. ‘Are they yours?’ Deirdre looked down at the rusty metal tin and her face lit up.

  ‘Well, I never . . .’ she muttered, then walked back inside and sat down on the kitchen chair with a thump. Teddy followed her and placed the tin on the table, where Deirdre stared at it for some time.