Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

  It’s two o’clock. I’m tired now and can’t be bothered with any of this. I remove my new clothes and fold them over the back of the chair, then put on the pale-blue nightie with wide bands of lace on the midriff and shoulders. It’s quite nice.

  I lie on top of the bed, pull the cotton blanket over me and drift to sleep.

  Then Stella has her hand on my shoulder. She’s telling me Chester isn’t coming. ‘His wife isn’t well.’

  Laura must have found out I’m here and caused a fuss. The notion pleases me.

  Old people and their memories; it is so rich and big and no one would ever imagine. Laura in the hospital bed beside mine, with the curtain drawn around her; me talking to her, asking forgiveness on Mark’s behalf because he had been responsible for the death of her only child. She ignored me until she was ready to speak, and it took me by surprise because in the hours she’d been sharing my room she’d not uttered a single word to me, but tormented me with the high volume on the television. We were settling for the night, it was dark, a thin, yellow light was creeping in from the corridor. Her voice was calm; perhaps she’d been preparing what she wanted to say all the time she was enclosed in her white cotton lair.

  ‘I know you had a crush on my husband,’ she said. ‘You always put on that dreamy help-me look around him. But then you were married to Norman.’

  Then she half-laughed.

  My heart skipped and raced. I burned. And I stared at the plain hospital ceiling. I didn’t reply.

  Of course, what Chester and I did was wrong. Yet being around him made my skin tingle, my breath deep and slow. And I will say this: it was him as much as me. It was Chester, driving along Maryhill Road in his LandCruiser, who flashed his headlights and waved at me to stop. I was on my way home from dropping Caroline somewhere. The dusk light was bright yet flat. We leaned against my car, hugging into our coats, hands in our pockets, the temperature probably close to freezing. I have thought of this moment a thousand times; it’s embedded in my brain. I can still feel his touch, the softness of it – the way he reached out and lightly traced my face with his finger. I closed my eyes. Such gentleness was almost too precious to bear. I smiled at him, tears wetting my eyes, and I knew he understood. ‘If he ever hurts you again, tell me,’ he said.

  Whatever was going on between him and Laura, and why he cared for me, was never fully explained. But our slow dance started then, and it was still years before we met in the privacy of his work shed.

  From behind the protection of the white curtain, Laura’s voice seemed weaker. ‘You Ballantines have always thought you were better than everyone else, strutting around the district all high and mighty. But everyone knew Norman was afraid of the cows.’ She laughed, soft, as if to herself. ‘Good thing Freddie got Keith in to run the place.’

  It was too much. When I phoned Ross to ask him to come and get me, she was still talking to me, but I wasn’t listening. Ross’s phone was turned off. So I phoned Stella and begged her to get Ross to come for me. It was impossible to survive the night in that room. With all the upset, they gave me a tablet, drugged me, and as far as I was concerned it was a blessing. I floated into oblivion trying to make sense of Norman, who he was.

  The clues were probably always there. Norman told me on our honeymoon, a vague, off-centre look in his eyes, that he hated farming: ‘Hate it.’ We were in the dining room at Florence House, roast beef with gravy and vegetables in front of us. I reached for his hand as if to comfort him. Not for a minute did I think he meant it, or think to ask what else he would prefer to do. Freddie and Evelyn had four daughters before him. He was their only son. All his life Norman had been groomed to take on the farm; there was never a discussion about alternatives. So my husband farmed and we were bound together.

  Even though Norman always deferred to Keith Sanders to make the farming decisions, he still acted like the boss with his hasty strides, shoulders back, looking too clean and stern. It’s true Keith decided when to buy or sell the sheep and cattle, move stock around, drench, fix fences, whatever. Laura was right. Before Freddie died he put Keith on, as if he knew what was to come.

  It was never clear to me what alternative life Norman would’ve chosen if he could. I don’t think he had much of an imagination. Every day he would sling a canvas bag over his shoulder packed with his morning tea: a thermos and tin mug, and a Tupperware container with a piece of sultana slice or pineapple fruitcake. At lunchtime he returned to the house and we listened to the ABC midday news while eating a hot meal, whatever I cared to make – which was what I knew he liked because pleasing him made things easier. The afternoon was the same as the morning when he went out again with his canvas bag. Dinner was always at six-thirty, never a minute later.

  Stella is telling me that the quiche and salad she’d prepared for lunch with Chester is now being saved for dinner. ‘What would you like in your sandwich?’ she asks.

  Her jeans are too tight, and the grey top she’s wearing is too low, its buttons need to be done up a bit further.

  ‘A salad with no cheese,’ I tell her.

  ‘You on a diet, Margie?’

  I won’t admit to her I’m feeling a little spongy; all this lying around with no activity isn’t good for my waistline.

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘Girl’s gotta watch her figure, right?’ She winks at me and I’m uncomfortable at the thought that this banter might lead to more familiarity.

  And when she brings me the sandwich, just as I asked, I think I might thank her. I’m considering how it would feel and how she might receive it. But I don’t get the chance because she drops a sheaf of bound papers on the bedside table and says, ‘My play. In case you’d like to read it.’

  I turn away, no.

  ‘Margie, seeing you’re here, living with us, how about you come to the Monday-night meetings in the dining room? Be a part of the group.’

  Chester will be there.

  My mouth is open and I can’t quite close it. Stella wants me to join her theatre group. Of course I won’t go, but even as I think this, I’m exhausted by my own paralysis. A theatre group. I have never seen a play. Although I recollect sitting far back in dim lighting, looking downwards at a stage, but I don’t know where or what it was.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asks.

  Actually, I would enjoy a small glass of brandy.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  When she’s gone, I pick up the plastic-bound script and feel its weight. I Did My Best is in big letters on the front cover. I flick through the pages. And there, on page 39 in capital letters, is the four-letter word. I slap the play shut, reach my arm out and let it drop to the floor.

  Chapter 17

  Stella

  BY nine Tuesday morning it’s already thirty-one degrees; the wind is strong and there’s no rain in sight. It’s one of those days that makes me think about bushfire, yet it’s March and should be too late in the season for us to be worrying about that.

  I’m in the car with Isobel and Jemima at the Marion Road bus stop. Dust swirls off the ground. Dead leaves fly. The school bus is about two hundred metres ahead – and a box-leaf wattle is flattened across the road, blocking its way. The driver tells me she’s called the council to clear it, and the girls say they can wait in the bus. But I hang around to be sure the truck arrives so they’re not left stranded.

  By the time I turn up at the cattle yards, they’ve already started the pregnancy testing.

  Three white utes are lined up: the stock agent’s, the vet’s from Mansfield, and Ross’s. The sky is clear blue. A dust haze rises above the enclosed braying cows. The air is so thick with flying dirt, the agent and his stockman wear dust masks. As they usher the cows and calves from the holding pen, they talk calmly, giving instructions as if the animals might understand: Come on, up you go. That’s the way. Go on, be a good girl. Sometimes they whistle in little bursts, as if that means something. The cows have been here enough times to know the routine – the few w
ho don’t remember get a quick single tap on the rump to prompt them. Calves are drafted into a large holding yard; their mothers are corralled in the pens. The chains jangle on the metal gates as the cows, in single file, filter into the enclosed steel race.

  The rising dust isn’t so bad in the work area. Ross has been doing my job as well as his. ‘Tree across the road,’ I yell, taking my place. He nods, gives a small wave. In minutes there’s grime on my face and I’m already thirsty.

  The cow at the front of the queue hesitates. Her eartag identifies her as M106. She’s nervous at being confined, and I don’t blame her. She lifts her head, sees the opening and makes a run for it. Ross catches her in the head bail and presses the lever down, making sure it’s firm. Our vet, Hannah, slams the waist-high kick gate shut, lifts M106’s tail and inserts the thirty-centimetre ultrasound probe into the rectum. Two seconds, and Hannah calls, ‘Pregnant.’ There’s a vague outline of a foetus on the monitor that’s sitting on the trestle table; Hannah sees it in the electronic monocular covering her right eye. Our vet is ten years younger than me, a smart and brave country girl who fulfilled an ambition. Her ponytail is threaded through the back of a cap that says High Country Vet. She’s wearing blue overalls, workboots, and a shit-covered plastic glove up to her armpit.

  Ross releases M106 and she trots out to the paddock, udder swaying. We glance at each other – Ross, Hannah and me – getting the timing right. I pull the gate open, and a cow enters the narrow testing bay. Ross locks her in the head bail. And while Hannah stands in, the ultrasound poised, Ross looks at the animal’s feet, udder and general health. There’s a problem this time, because he records her eartag number on his phone.

  We keep working. A line of obedient black cows trails through. Twenty, thirty, forty. All pregnant. Then Hannah inserts the probe into a big old girl and shakes her head. A pause in the action, so I pour iced water from a thermos into a tin mug and drink as many mouthfuls as I can. I signal to Ross, telling him to have some too. He ignores me because he’s distracted with everything going on: the cattle moving through, what Hannah’s doing, calculating the result. Hannah reaches far into the rectum, past her elbow, feeling for the uterus to check for fluid and a foetus. She pulls out and goes in again, unsure. Perhaps she’s like me, hoping to avoid what comes next. Standing back, she calls, ‘Empty.’ To set the cow apart from the others, I step forward and trim her tail with scissors. When Ross releases the cow from the head bail, the agent drafts her away from the main herd.

  In this herd there’s three hundred and fifty breeders, and we’re done by lunch. Ross does the maths: ninety-four per cent pregnant. The ‘empties’ – poor girls, as if it’s their fault – are going to market at the first opportunity. For three cycles, sixty-three days, they were with the bulls. Ross always says, ‘They had their chance,’ and he’s not going to feed a cow who isn’t pregnant or tending to a calf. Some are first-time heifers; others had a late calf the previous year. Then there are the old girls, those who’ve had seven or eight calves, and I think, for them, it’s enough. Mostly I’m resigned to the pragmatic business of managing cows.

  Ross and the cattle agent are talking beside the utes, deciding when to sell the calves. We’re all filthy. Splats of shit and dirt on our jeans, shirts, faces. I’ll be soaking Ross’s and my clothes for a day before they go in the wash. My shoulder aches from pulling the gate open and closed.

  Ross is concentrating, standing straight-backed, arms crossed. His felt hat is sitting back; his sunglasses glint in the noon sun. There’s no rain forecast and not much feed in the paddocks or hay shed. The pregnant cows will lose condition if the calves aren’t taken off them. The ABC news, just this morning, said we had the world’s hottest-ever recorded February – partly from the El Niño, but also due to long-term global warming. It scares me, the responsibility of feeding animals if it isn’t going to rain.

  ‘Sale next Friday in Euroa,’ the agent says. ‘Prices will be good.’

  Ross has already made up his mind. ‘Let’s do it.’

  That means we’ll have three days of hearing the penned calves cry for their mothers, while the cows bellow for their babies. Then they’ll forget each other and weaning will be over. The cows will drift away from the yards to feed, and the calves will discover that silage, with its sweet molasses smell, is tasty.

  Ross and the agent agree on a plan: how many pens at the sale, steers, heifers, Charolais and Angus. A group of Angus heifers will be set aside for China, and I wonder exactly where – whatever happens, I’m relieved there will be fewer mouths to be fed. It’s the way it goes.

  And so. My timing isn’t good. When the agent and Hannah leave, and Ross is slugging back a litre of water – half of it wetting his face and dripping to the ground – I tell him I’m returning to the house to shower, then taking a run into Benalla to buy a television for Margie to watch in her room.

  Ross’s eyes harden.

  The wind is still blowing dust, stirring the cows. Some are pacing the yards, wanting their imprisoned calves to be released, sniffing for them. It’s noisy and distracting.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Ross says. ‘Getting her a TV just encourages her to stay bunkered in that bloody room. And I fucking hate these games she plays and the way she treats you like a waitress.’

  I take a step back.

  ‘She doesn’t even thank you,’ he says. ‘Nothing. Zip. So just get over it. She’s not staying.’

  How is it possible to love someone – for life to seem perfect – then, standing in front of Ross, there’s nothing there. This blockage, his lack of caring. I expect more from him and I decide I don’t like him.

  ‘I don’t know you anymore,’ I say. ‘The way you treat her appals me.’

  Something shifts; a shadow crosses his face. ‘Don’t do this now. I’ve got to bring silage down to the calves, move feeders and bring hay here for the cows.’

  I turn away.

  ‘Stell.’

  His negativity towards his mother is too complex for me to understand. All I see are the tears that come so easily to her eyes, and half the time she doesn’t even notice. Margie intrigues me. She’s so unconvincingly stoic. And it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s still vain, that her appearance is so important to her. Old age seems a terrible affliction.

  But I won’t be going to Benalla because Ross and I always decide things together, and it’s too upsetting and conflicting to disagree about this.

  I look back at him and announce, ‘You’re a heartless bastard.’

  Ross turns away first. And I drive to the house feeling heavy in my body, upset and hating that I just said that.

  Margie is waiting for lunch, but I’d prefer to soak in the bath. I quickly wash my hands, make tuna salad sandwiches and take Margie’s to her with a cup of tea. She seems alert when I enter, sitting up like she’s waiting to ask me a question.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  As she reaches out to receive the tray, she says very seriously, ‘Thank you for bringing me lunch.’

  Then, as if suddenly shy, she turns and looks to the window as though something is very interesting out there.

  I feel love for her, knowing the effort it’s taken for her to say that.

  ‘A pleasure,’ I say. ‘Would you like anything else?’ I hear the tone of my voice – Ross is right, I sound like her personal waitress.

  ‘No.’ She glances at her sandwich and quietly repeats, ‘Thank you.’

  All this politeness, so I smother the moment by telling her about the preg testing, the percentage results, and the decision to send calves to the cattle sale on Friday.

  ‘Ross is feeding out now,’ I say.

  ‘I think he’s a good farmer,’ she says. ‘But what do other people think?’

  ‘I don’t know, Margie. What does it matter what anyone thinks?’

  She looks out the window when she speaks. The gleditsia sways; the lace curtain lifts and floats. The air is warm. ‘A local man worked here for many yea
rs, a good fellow called Keith Sanders. Freddie employed him because he knew Norman wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. I don’t like it that other people understood that.’

  ‘What other people? I’ve never heard anyone talk about Norman.’

  She ignores me and picks up her sandwich.

  ‘It must’ve been difficult for Norman if he didn’t like farming,’ I say. ‘What did he want to do?’

  She shakes her head as if disbelieving she’s said so much.

  But I can’t leave this undone. ‘Ross knows what he’s doing and he only has Eddie to help him when there are big jobs in the yards. So I’d say he’s a good farmer.’

  She nods, then bites into the sandwich.

  I tell her that I’m having a bath.

  There’s so much about her I don’t know, but I can now piece together fragments of her life with Norman. He was a reluctant farmer and angry man who could be violent. Ross said his father watched a lot of television – game shows with cued laughter and applause. I walk away from Margie feeling a yearning sadness for her – that she found herself living on the inside of Norman’s troubled life.

  Water pours into the bath; bubbles froth. I peel off my clothes and step in. Yard work is the only time I really do this, the slow thaw of soaking. My muscles need it and I’ve earned it. I close my eyes, feeling the warmth. But, anxious and still angry, I listen for Ross.

  When he finds me he’s holding the plate, eating his sandwich. He’s forgotten we’re in the middle of an argument, or he thinks I’m over it. ‘How about I get in?’ he says.

  I sit up. ‘No.’

  He braces, takes a confusing step back. And he now doesn’t want to be here.

  He takes another bite, chews, and is half-turned away when I tell him I have developed a great affection for his mother.

  ‘I love her. You don’t know her story,’ I say. ‘What she’s had to put up with.’