The Cowgirl

by Anthea Hodgson

  Teddy pulled herself back from the window and made her way to the kitchen. She would make tea, she decided. Will was leaving, which wasn’t the end of the world, really. She’d only known him for a short time, and she’d always known he was off shortly. With cold fingers she put the kettle on the hob and found the teabags.

  She was sitting quietly when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to see Will standing there. He held out his hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Teddy,’ he said. His voice was rough, and it broke a little.

  ‘Goodbye, Will.’ It hurt her to look at him. She took his hand and shook it.

  This is the last time you will touch the man you love. Remember how he feels. Remember how he looks at you now that he knows you.

  He turned and walked away.

  The wind had died down when Deirdre reached her house. The farm was waking up in the dusky dawn and the magpies were calling from the bush near the dam. The weak sunlight was starting to find its way along the sheds, casting long pale shadows that almost dissolved under her eyes. The ute was parked by the workshop and the clothes were still hanging on the line from the day before. A crow came down to land on the fence running along the shearing shed and turned its head sideways to look at her, cawing and flapping its wings.

  She wiped her tears on her sleeve and glared at it, then she slowly made her way back into the silent house, through the front door that squeaked on its hinges. She slipped off her shoes in the kitchen and tiptoed with her case as quietly as she could to her room, where she lay down on her neatly made bed, placed her arms beside herself, closed her eyes and slept as if she was dead.

  The house was still when she woke. Deirdre sat on her bed and stared at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror for a long time. She didn’t look the same, she told herself. She couldn’t. She’d never be the same again. Eventually, she rose, and walked out quietly to find an empty kitchen.

  She glanced out at the clothesline to see the washing hadn’t been brought in yet. She began to worry that Vivian was sick. She tiptoed back down the hallway to her sister’s room, sneaking past her sleeping father so as not to rouse him.

  ‘Viv? Viv,’ she murmured. Nothing. She knocked lightly, guilty at waking her, afraid of waking her father. ‘Viv?’ Nothing. It occurred to Deirdre that something was wrong. She pushed the door open and walked softly into the room.

  Viv’s bed was made up and there was no scent of powder in the air. She went to the window and drew open the curtains and when she turned she saw an envelope on Viv’s pillow. Her heart seized, but she made herself walk stiffly to the bed, reach down, lift it to the light, open the letter.

  Dearest Deirdre,

  The first thing to say is that I love you. Harry loves you, too, which makes all this so horribly difficult. You see, dear Deirdre, we are in love with each other – desperately in love – and we’ve realised that the only way we can be together without hurting you every day is to leave the district.

  I know this will come as a terrible blow, and believe me if there was something I could do about it, I promise I would, but Harry and I have tried to ignore our feelings for each other and we can’t be apart any more. I love him more than my own life, Deirdre. I love him enough even to lose you, so you know that it must be a lot. I know you won’t forgive us – I don’t expect you to, and I will never forgive myself – butI can’t be without him.

  I think we will stay in Perth until we can marry at the registry office, then we’ll probably move to Sydney. Harry likes the excitement of the big cities, not the small towns. He’d die of boredom in Windstorm, don’t you think?

  I was thinking that one day, if God is kind to us both, we’ll each have a daughter. If I do, I’ll name her Deirdre, after you – do you think you might do the same? That way, even if we are never close again, or if it takes too long to heal the damage between us, we’ll have a Deirdre and a Viv. I like to think they may meet and be friends in the future. What do you think of that?

  Your loving sister,

  Vivian

  PS Harry says can you please milk the cows, as a special favour, but I think he’s joking.

  Deirdre fell to the ground and sobbed.

  ‘I feel such a fool, Ida.’

  ‘You’re not a fool, Deirdre – anything but that,’ Ida said gently as they sat together on Ida’s back verandah. ‘Maybe they’ve done something foolish but they’ll come back. Harry will realise that you’re the girl for him and Viv . . . Well, Viv will be horribly upset that she’s hurt you this way.’

  ‘They won’t be back. They’ve chosen their path, Ida.’ She was resolute. ‘I hope I never see either of them again.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Deirdre. I hate to think you’d never see Viv again.’

  ‘Well, she’s stolen the man I love and I’m left here looking like a fool.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Deirdre,’ Ida said, her eyes glistening. ‘I thought you and Harry would make a go of it together.’

  ‘I was taken in by him, Ida. I thought the world of him. And there he was making eyes at Viv the whole time. The pair of them! Oh, I’m going to be sick.’ She was. Deirdre dashed to the edge of the garden and threw up, then she crumpled onto the lawn and sobbed. Ida ran to her and sat on the lawn beside her, stroking her back.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she murmured. ‘You just cry, Deirdre, just cry and cry —’ She glanced down at the damp lawn. ‘But perhaps we’ll go back to the verandah. You’ll get grass stains on your dress . . .’

  ‘What do I care about my bloody dress?’ Deirdre snapped. ‘I hate this dress! I’ll tear it up and use it for rags!’

  Ida looked pained. ‘Now, what will that achieve? You’ll only have to make a new one. Why not look after this one? Look –’ she pointed to the gathered skirt – ‘it’s an old friend.’

  Deirdre sobbed anew. ‘What will I do now?’ she wailed. ‘Who will love me now?’

  ‘I will,’ said Ida.

  ‘How will I face the locals?’

  Ida kept stroking her back. ‘You’ll be doing that shortly,’ Ida told her. ‘The ball is tomorrow night.’

  Deirdre gave a horrified sob. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ Ida responded. ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘But everyone will know, Ida.’

  ‘So what? You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘But I’ll be the subject of gossip.’

  ‘Deirdre, you already are.’ Ida grinned at her sympathetically. ‘If you don’t go tomorrow the story will forever more be Harry Parkinson and Vivian ran off and left Deirdre, and she was so devastated she couldn’t go to the ball. But if you do go, the story will forever be Harry and Vivian ran off and left Deirdre, but she went to the Debutante Ball anyway because she’s got guts.’

  ‘Ida —’

  ‘And she looked beautiful.’

  ‘Ida —’

  ‘The end.’

  Deirdre had been crying so long her eyes stung. ‘Ida, I haven’t told you the worst part.’

  ‘What’s that, Deirdre?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. You’ll never speak to me again – and quite right, too.’

  ‘Deirdre, darling, what is it?’

  Deirdre rolled over onto her back and stared at the sky. ‘I think I’m pregnant.’

  A long silence.

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deirdre didn’t need to explain herself to Ida. Her confession spoke for itself. She had given herself to Harry and now she was disgraced. She held her hands over her stomach in case she could feel something, but her body was silent.

  Was his baby growing within her, even as he was marrying her sister in Perth? It was too awful. How would she face the people of Windstorm with her bastard?

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ida asked.

  ‘I’m late for my period, but I haven’t been to a doctor,’ Deirdre said. ‘I thought I would be married this week and it wouldn’t really matter. It could have been a honeymoon baby.’

  ‘Perh
aps you’re not pregnant, and tomorrow you’ll get your period and you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about —’

  ‘Except Harry has left me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ida agreed. ‘Except that.’ She stood up and held out her hand. ‘I think we need a strong cup of tea,’ she said. ‘And then we need to discuss what we’ll do about your predicament.’ Deirdre let Ida pull her to her feet. ‘I could come with you to a doctor. We could go to one in Perth so no one knows. Then . . . Well, then you’ll have some decisions to make.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Deirdre whispered.

  ‘Then we’ll make them together. We’ll find out what you really want, and we’ll make the decision together.’

  ‘What if no one ever talks to me again?’

  Ida put her arm around her shoulder and smiled at her. ‘Then I will,’ she declared. ‘I will talk your bloody leg off!’

  Teddy couldn’t stop herself. Horrified and furious, she followed Will out to the car.

  ‘Is that it?’ she said. ‘You’re leaving? Just like that?’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded.

  ‘Just like that,’ he said. ‘What did you expect me to do?’

  ‘I guess I assumed you’d finish the job.’ He was pulling a few tools out of the boxes of old household items they had collected; the forks and spoons clinked lightly against each other.

  ‘There is no job. Any idiot could dig this pile of crap up. I’m not staying around to dig up shit while I have to be near you.’

  ‘Wow. Thanks,’ Teddy snapped. ‘I can see why Audrey is so proud of you.’

  Will threw a box of kitchenalia on the ground. ‘I’ve had it with you women!’ he shouted. ‘With Audrey, Deirdre and you. You’re too fucking gutless to live your own life here because you’re too scared! Well, life’s a risk, Teddy. It’s not just turning up and looking after other people. You get one chance to take the stage in your own life and you’re letting everyone take it away. You’re hiding away from the world in your family!’ He was throwing things into the back of the car, and some of them weren’t even his.

  ‘And you’re hiding away from your family in the world,’ she yelled back. ‘You’re no better. You’ve abandoned your own mother.’

  He threw the last of his stuff into his car.

  ‘So you just stay here then, Teddy. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?’

  Teddy could feel her face burning with hurt. ‘Screw you, Will, piss off and sulk because I have responsibilities. You don’t want to stick around and see things through, but I do. I am here doing the right thing by my grandmother and don’t you dare think that I don’t love my home. Don’t think that just because I dream about a life off this farm sometimes that I don’t love every inch of it; that I don’t walk through its paddocks just for the pleasure of being here, of seeing the earth, the new growth on the gum trees, the birds returning to their nests. This is my farm. So go on – run away to your next adventure. I seriously don’t give a damn.’

  Will was pushing his overnight bag into the back of the car and it didn’t want to go, so he started kicking. He gave up. He seemed to run out of steam, but he was breathing hard when he turned back to her.

  ‘Here’s a story for you,’ he said, ‘There was once a princess who was guarded by a fierce dragon but every night while she slept, it sucked a little life from her heart, to burn in its firey throat, stealing years away from her and unwilling to let her go. And when the princess realised that she was captive, it was too late and she was too afraid to leave, so she gave herself to the beast and went to sleep, knowing she would never wake again.’

  ‘I’ve got a better one, Will,’ Teddy said, stung. ‘There once was a man who preferred stories to people, and he died alone.’

  ‘Suits me,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Teddy.’ And he kissed her like it was the last time, because it was. And his kiss was hard and bitter and pulled at her heart as if the sky had flooded in for a moment and blown it about like a kite. And even then it was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. She turned and ran for home. Slammed the door, dove into bed, pulled the pillow over her face and screamed until her throat hurt.

  When Teddy was finally silent, Will was gone. The hole in the ground was still there, still the size of a house, so she knew she hadn’t imagined him – with his long, lanky frame and messy hair. She walked slowly about it, noting all the things he had touched. Here the shovel he’d used and there the mug he’d drunk from. With Will gone, the door had closed and she was another step closer to Deirdre, her anchor. Teddy tipped out some cold tea from the mug. It was scummy and gross. Dog came to see what she was doing, then caught the scent of a rabbit and trotted away to monitor the gap between the shearing shed and the burrows beneath.

  She glanced across at Deirdre’s place, still stuck in the mid-sixties, still looking across at the shearing shed. And the dumb hole was still there, too, filled with junk that didn’t matter any more. The blue sky flew past her again, gaining momentum, blowing around the world all the harder.

  The Windstorm debutante ball was ready to start. Mrs Coupland was womaning the piano, dressed in her finest gown with the addition of a jaunty headpiece in her hair. She glanced around the hall at the assembled crowd, and launched into a plodding rendition of ‘To a Miniature’.

  As she struck up the tune, the master of ceremonies announced the first debutante.

  ‘Luise Howard.’ Looking beautiful in her long white gown, Luise’s smile was fixed and her spine ramrod straight as she proceeded slowly down the aisle towards the assembled dignitaries.

  ‘Lovely girl,’ commented Mrs Kingston as she curtseyed gracefully before them, then shook their hands and took her place to one side, smiling as if she herself was Queen Elizabeth.

  Maisie Baxter was next. She floated down on the arm of a strapping young man, curtseyed, shook hands, teetered on her heels a little, giggled and stood beside Luise.

  ‘Ida Wallace.’ Ida took Jack’s arm and made her way towards Mrs Beswick, holding her gaze and walking gracefully as her parents watched on with pride.

  The tune was a little slow. Mrs Coupland was making sure to wring as much destiny as she could from every note and it was taking a while. Dressed in your gown of blue brocade, a rose upon each dainty shoe . . . Ida executed a respectable curtsey and flicked her eyes towards the door again. Deirdre wasn’t coming. She was staying home to cry. She couldn’t blame her; if Jack had done such a thing to her she’d never have survived. Lady in loveliness arrayed, I’d love to dance with you . . .

  The room was getting warmer, and some of the men were starting to look a little uncomfortable in their tight collars. Mrs Coupland began the song again for the next debutante and the next, and some members of the audience had time to wonder if perhaps they might have prepared a second, jauntier tune to move things along a bit. Mrs Beswick moved very slightly from one foot to the other, as if her shoes were squeezing her feet, and Ida began rocking back on her heels while she considered how long she would stay before she went to look for Deirdre.

  Deirdre could hear Mrs Coupland pounding out ‘Miniature’, and from where she sat, she could also hear the murmur of voices and the announcement of the names of the debutantes and their partners. She stared into the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were still red and her face swollen, although she had held her head out of the window on the drive into town to calm her flushed skin. It hadn’t really worked, but maybe it had worked enough. Someone had come outside for a smoke. She drew back in her seat.

  It was Jack Christie. He looked very smart in his suit. He was rolling a cigarette and gazing out at the dark lake.

  She couldn’t do it. There was no way she was getting out of the car with him there to see her. It was humiliating. She glanced down at her dress. It was a little tight. Maybe she would split a seam when she got out of the car. Then her misery would be complete. Jack went back inside, and she realised the piano had stopped.

  Damn it. She’d missed her chance to show them she was brave. Beca
use she wasn’t.

  She imagined Viv and Harry in Perth, not even aware that tonight was the ball because they were too busy being in love. She thought about how he would kiss her, and how she wouldn’t even remember Deirdre’s name. And she thought about her father at home, drunk. Not even waiting for her, but waiting to die.

  A bitterness brushed against her and she shivered. It was a cold, hard sentiment and it could hurt her, but it was satisfying in small doses. It scraped against her, trying to burrow its way in. There were tears behind her eyes, but she stabbed them away. The realisation that she was never going to leave the town was settling around her. It felt heavy and oppressively warm. She sat for a long moment as her future rushed towards her. Here. Her future was here with her father, and she would never leave.

  Then Deirdre McMullan stopped thinking and got out of the ute. She pulled back her shoulders, patted her hair and placed her face into a completely neutral expression because a smile would never fit. She stepped delicately towards the hall doorway, and into the light. Inside there was music playing and people dancing. Mrs Beswick and Mr Kingston were talking next to the stage, and Ida was swirling around on the dance floor with Jack.

  Deirdre wasn’t sure what to do next. Her plan had only extended as far as placing herself in the hall. She stood there in the bright light until Ida noticed her in the doorway.

  ‘Deirdre!’ she called. ‘You came!’ She turned quickly to Mrs Coupland and called out, ‘One more time, Mrs Coupland. We have our most beautiful debutante at last!’

  There was silence in the room. The piano fell silent. Mrs Coupland turned to look and the dancers did the same. Deirdre stood still and looked back at them all. Think nothing, she told herself. Don’t think about humiliation, or shame, or love, or Viv or Harry. Don’t think about Ida or Dad. Don’t think.

  The MC called out, ‘Miss Deirdre McMullan,’ and, as if by instinct, the piano kicked in.

  Soft powdered hair and wistful face, shy dreaming eyes of tender blue.