‘And I had to put up that shelf, and you’ve never put a bloody thing on it,’ he’d grumble.
In the late spring of their second year together, Del had come home from the paddocks to find her in the kitchen surrounded by buckets of overripe peaches.
‘What in God’s name?’
She held up a warning hand. ‘I’m going to make jam.’
‘I don’t like peach jam. Do you even know how to make it?’
‘I’ll learn. I’ll teach myself. It can’t be that hard.’
Her certainty left no room for argument.
Pots and pans burped on the stovetop all afternoon. He’d been forced to make them a ham sandwich for dinner, realising no hot meal was forthcoming. In the mild night air, he sat chewing out on the front step to get away from the smell of sugar and peach, listening to her banging lids and occasionally exclaiming in frightened surprise. That night, when she finally came to bed, there was a faint burnt fragrance in her hair.
The next morning, his wife was not in bed beside him, and the smell of oversweet fruit was gone. He found her sitting at the table.
‘Sit here, Del. I want to show you something.’
‘Here’s fine.’
‘No, here. In this one.’ She pointed to the chair next to her. ‘Please? For me?’
He humoured her, mindful of her late night.
‘Now, close your eyes and don’t open till I say.’
‘Marjorie.’ There were jobs needing his attention. Lambing season was beginning in earnest, and he wanted to check the orchard netting before the day got away from him.
‘Oh, Del. No arguments today, please.’
And so he sat, feeling foolish, with his eyes tight shut.
She lay a slim hand over his. ‘Now, look up there.’
Del opened his eyes, looking in the direction she’d indicated. Jar after jar of her peach jam sat in a precise row on her shelf, lit up like jewels by the light bouncing off the sink opposite. They glowed of their own accord like a stainedglass window. He couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so ordinarily beautiful.
She beamed beside him. ‘I saw it, you know. All those months ago when we were building. I was in here painting that window frame, and the sun came in and lit up the wall. I thought, we must have a row of jam jars there. Peach, or something golden.’ Her hand tightened on his. ‘Oh, I know you were cranky putting it up, but I could see us, just like this, at our table. With our mornings all lit up.’
While he’d been thinking of all the work to be done at the time, she had been in here imagining the ribbon of their lives spooling out into the future. Imagining their mornings together and the possibilities before them.
‘Do you like it?’
He leant across and kissed her. ‘I do.’
‘Now, how about breakfast?’
She went to toast bread on the stovetop grill and spread it thickly with butter and jam, grinning as she passed him the laden plate.
It was as he expected. The jam was not sugared enough and held the acrid tang of an accidental burning. He was no fonder of peach jam now than ever. He chewed slowly and swallowed. ‘Lovely.’
For that year and all the years after, Del ate her peach jam as though it were the making of his day. Until that cool autumn morning he came in from milking, with butcher-birds calling from the porch rail, to find her cold and still on the floor. He’d made a sound he didn’t recognise as he bent to her on the hardwood floor and held her, telling her how he loved best to lie beside her at the end of a workday and listen to her breathing in the night. That she had always been enough.
In the days after the funeral, and the weeks and months following, he had walked through his days with a numb despair, working until dark to avoid the loneliness of the house, until even the placid animals protested his presence. He couldn’t adjust to the stillness, the echo of his own feet on the floorboards.
Now here was her shelf, tossed on the pile of junk like an unwanted toy. He had no doubt how it had got there. The Foster woman had been coming for months, fussing about, unasked and unwanted. Twice a week she would arrive on the ridge in her absurd red car, chugging up the drive with gears grinding. Smiling and robust, she would push through the house with a desperate energy, washing his clothes and dishes and floors, urging him into the house with cups of tea and biscuits. His sensitivity to her own widowhood stilled his tongue when he felt inclined to tell her she was not welcome.
Del had heard whispers that people in the district had begun to think of them as an item. On the few occasions he ventured into town, people spoke to him as if it were a matter already arranged. Until today, he had seen the situation developing as something akin to a dry winter, a blight of crop—to be borne patiently and which would pass with time.
Something shifted within him as he held the shelf. In strides, he was at the back door, fresh nails biting in his pocket. He hammered the plank into its original place, testing it for strength with a tug, before turning to fill the kettle.
A scrap of paper on the floor caught his eye, and he bent to pick it up.
Dear Del,
I’m not able to come anymore. I hope you’ll manage all right without my help. Jane has asked me to live with them for a time and help with the kiddies as she’s going back to work.
Marjorie asked me, many years ago, to look after you if anything should happen to her, and I have done my best, but now it’s time I look after myself for a while. She was a good friend to me and would expect nothing less.
I’ve left you some of my jam. I know it’s a favourite of yours, although it’s probably not a patch on hers. I’ve left the recipe, so you need never run out if you don’t want to.
That silly old shelf fell off the wall while I was sweeping. Impossible thing it was. I could never dust it without a stepladder! It’s out by the woodpile if you’re looking for it.
Best wishes
Edith
With hands hard against the table, he spoke aloud to the room. ‘You’re a bloody old fool, Del Winters.’ A flush of shame pinked his face as he buttered bread and spread it with jam. He stood looking down at the plate, full of trepidation, before taking a bite. It was a perfect balance of sweet and tart, possibly the best peach jam he’d ever tasted. He would call Edith in the morning, thank her for her kindness.
He read the recipe she’d left there, then dug out Marjorie’s stained one in the kitchen drawer. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
They were the same, word for word. His Marjorie, who hid from snakes in her apron and couldn’t cook to save herself. Who tasted of summer and imagined the way light would shine through jars before their house was even finished. He would carry the fault line of her death in his world forever.
Del stared at the empty shelf and went to get the buckets of fruit from the back step. Rolling up his sleeves, he bent to the cupboard for the pans she kept for jam making, lay the two recipes side by side on the bench and got to work. It couldn’t be that hard.
Air That I Breathe
Though it was Tuesday, it felt like a Monday. Mondays always felt full of possibility. A new day, a new week. The weather had broken late last week and the watery sun had shifted enough to smooth its way through the slats in the blinds and light the sink as Joyce tidied after lunch, the muted sound of talkback radio filtering through the glass doors leading to the sunroom. She’d settled Francis in his armchair, a blanket across his knees against the chill air. He’d forgotten that he’d had lunch already, and they’d argued until she’d given in and made him another sandwich.
‘Not much of a lunch,’ he’d said, staring at the plate.
He would be content with his cup of tea and the radio, long enough for her to get the housework done if she made good time.
The hot water in the sink soothed the splinters of arthritis in her fingers, and she resisted rushing, pushing back against her usual brisk routine of dishes done, bed made, washing in, floor swept.
Pulling out a plate, Joyce held it to the lig
ht, watching the countless bright bubbles slide back into the sink. Her hands looked so old now, the skin on the back a tracery of gardening and cooking and cleaning over the years; the fingers holding the soapy plate bending awkwardly, more so of late. She had modified tasks to the problem, bent her body around its own frailties, to carry on doing as she had always done.
She remembered smoothing the paper skin of her mother’s hands once she’d been forgiven for running off and Francis became the blue-eyed boy instead of the devil incarnate. His endless patience opening stubborn jars, moving pot plants around; her own impatience with frailty of any kind. And now here she was, they were. She had never countenanced the idea of herself and Francis as old. In that car of his, driving through their small-time town, a leather roof that could be pulled back to the sun and the wind. The road ahead seemed to stretch on forever then, hazy in detail, bright nonetheless.
At sixteen, she’d been sent to work at her aunt and uncle’s dairy, six miles from town. The family her aunt had married into were a sour lot, notorious for their stinginess and mean ways. She hadn’t wanted to go, had pleaded to stay on at school. Her mother wasn’t having any of it.
‘You’ll go, all right,’ she’d said. ‘Your father and I have decided. Time you learnt to do as you’re told. Better now than later. What do you need with school, anyway? You’re almost grown.’
‘I like school. I want to do something with my life.’
‘The dairy will earn you a nice living, help you stay in line. You’ll keep yourself tidy even if it’s me who keeps you that way…You think I don’t know you walk the long way home with the Davey lad?’
‘How can you say that? He’s a friend.’ Joyce had coloured up despite herself. Small town, small minds.
Her mother looked at her over the washing basket, one eyebrow raised. ‘Friend now, maybe. There’s trouble in that family’s blood. I’ll not have it. Nip it in the bud. There’ll be no nonsense to be had out at the dairy.’
She thought about the few times she’d gone out to her aunt and uncle’s farm. The flat hot paddocks and flies at the edge of her lips. ‘No. I want to stay here.’
‘What you want counts for less than my left foot. Sooner you swallow that, the happier you’ll be in this world.’ Her mother set the basket down on the kitchen table with a sigh. ‘It’s all arranged. They’re expecting you Monday. Dad will drive you. Sundays you can come for lunch if there’s a lift available, but don’t be pestering them.’
Joyce felt a squeeze on her shoulder as her mother navigated the gap between the table and stove.
‘It’s the right thing. You’ll thank me one day when you’re settled nicely.’
There was no point arguing. Both her parents were in accord for once, and she owned no practical resources to fight them. Well, she would go, and first chance she got, she’d be out in the world making her own decisions. Girl or not.
In the end, there had been few Sunday lifts back home, and months would go by between trips to town. Her uncle and aunt were inclined to leave Joyce minding the children while the couple went in for shopping and farm business. Her mother communicated with her sporadically by phone, although without much news, their conversations became increasingly stilted by resentment at one end and awkward guilt at the other.
More than a year passed before anything changed, and then one Monday everything did.
Joyce had been carting the pails up to the back of the kitchen, ready to scour out the last dregs of milk, when Francis came to the farm, the new rep selling agricultural chemicals, new gadgets for the dairy, eartags for the herd. His arrival announced itself with a plume of brown dust billowing up the driveway. He didn’t climb out wearily from the car like the other men, instead launched himself out, a charge of electricity in that dull place.
Her uncle had kept him out in the hot sun of the front driveway as he talked; a tactic, she assumed, to keep visitors on the back foot.
Joyce put down her buckets beneath the branches of a gnarled apple tree by the house. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but the young man’s enthusiastic pantomime was entertaining enough to stay. He was not an imposing figure, yet energy lifted off him like a water fountain. She judged him to be around twenty or so. He must be new or she’d have heard something.
Gradually, his gestures shrinking, he looked around as if to find fresh ideas. His eye caught on Joyce before he turned back towards his vehicle. Show over.
He stopped, car door open, and came back. Her uncle raised a hand ready to halt any more talk of sales, but Francis walked towards her, ignoring him. ‘I don’t suppose you dance?’
She blushed and shook her head.
‘I’ll bet you can. I can teach you. I’m good.’ His gaze never wavered. ‘How about I pick you up on Saturday night and we find out? Can I ask your name?’
‘Joyce.’ Her voice was faint through the buzzing in her ears.
‘Joy. I’ll call you Joy. Would that be okay? The dancing, I mean?’
An ant carried a seed on its back across the path at her feet. She nodded despite herself.
‘At six. Be ready. I’ll be here.’
It was all she could do not to stare as he shot back down the drive.
*
That Saturday, her aunt looked her up and down with a sceptical air. ‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ her aunt warned. ‘Only out for one thing. Don’t you dare go with him. Joyce? You hear me? I’ll be calling your mother.’
Joyce did everything that could be needed of her by five in the afternoon and took herself to the washhouse. She scrubbed at her armpits, gratefully noticing a green smear of cow dung up high on one shoulder, brushed her unruly hair into a shiny mop and pinched at her cheeks. She only had one dress suitable for town and slipped it over her head, despairing its age and frumpiness.
Her aunt started on her as soon as she saw her change of clothes. ‘I thought I told you, you are not to go out with that boy.’
‘Well, I am going, and you can’t stop me.’ She was all nerves and little grace. ‘Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll stay in town and go home for lunch. Dad will be able to bring me out again Sunday night.’
‘You go out with that flash in the pan, you better look for another job.’
A hot flash of injustice ran through her, and she pressed a hand against the door jamb. The farm was badly run, the children ran wild, the house always dirty. It didn’t matter how much she worked, it was never enough. She would take the consequences, couldn’t bear not to. ‘All right. I will.’
As she left the kitchen, her aunt was already reaching for the phone. She collected her few things from the mean little room they allowed her and packed them hastily into her case. Without another word, she marched down the driveway to the mailbox at the highway and sat herself down on a stump to wait. Time looped around her as she waited. Perhaps he hadn’t meant to come at all, and she would sit here all night waiting, like some abandoned girl in a cheap novel, or go mad and wander the highway in a nightgown. Well, she didn’t have a nightgown suitable for wandering in, and the idea didn’t seem so romantic with the dung beetles starting to buzz in the dusk.
She would not, could not, go back, even if she had to walk the fifteen miles into town by herself in the dark. She wondered briefly what her mother’s reaction would be, but pushed the thought away. It was done now.
Just as she was about to give up and begin walking, a blue car came sliding around the bend, the top pushed back to the softening air.
‘Ready?’
Joyce picked up her case and put it in the tiny back seat, ignoring Francis’s raised eyebrows. ‘What time is it?’
‘Six.’
‘Exactly six?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I thought you might not come.’
His eyes laughed at her from beneath his long fringe.
Darkness was beginning in earnest. She was with a boy she didn’t know, going to her first dance, and had no job to go back to. She’d never felt more alive.
Francis helped her into the passenger seat. ‘One thing you can rely on, Joy…’ He started up the car.
‘Joyce.’
‘One thing you need to know, Joy, you can always rely on me. I’ve got a feeling you and I could make a good team.’
The car pulled out onto the road and the breeze of it tugged at her hair, her eyes stinging. ‘I’m glad you’re sure of yourself, at least. Hope you can live up to it.’ Was this her flirting? ‘I don’t go dancing with just anybody you know.’
Even clasped firmly in her lap, her hands still trembled.
*
All those years ago. He’d been right, other than some bumps in the road, they had made a good team.
Now, Francis was snoring over the murmur of the radio. She went in to the sunroom and collected the plate with its uneaten sandwich from his lap, pausing to smooth his collar without waking him. A few straggly white hairs sprang from his ears. Not so flash now, my boy.
On her way back to the kitchen, the phone rang, and she picked up.
‘Mrs Chandler?’
‘Yes. Speaking.’ She waited as the line hummed in her ear.
‘It’s Karen, here, from Waterside Health.’
Joyce closed her eyes, wanting and not wanting.
‘The doctor asked me to call.’
She gripped the handset.
‘He says to tell you the results were negative.’
Breath leaving her in a rush.
‘Mrs Chandler?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Thank you. Tell him thank you for me, please.’ Her head swam when she stood up, and she leant back against the kitchen counter to steady herself.
She heard Francis call out from the sunroom. ‘I’m hungry. Where’s that woman with the breakfast?’
He was querulous. Time to get him out in the sunshine for a walk. He didn’t always know who she was now, but it didn’t matter. Today was another day, a Tuesday that felt like a Monday, and there wasn’t anything they couldn’t face together.
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