by Rosalie Ham
Beyond Kensington Palace, an engineer advertised a portable farm steam tractor – ‘A Miracle Machine to Replace the Expensive Horse and Wagon’ – and a man wearing a strap-on Cahoon’s Patent Broadcast Seed Sower strolled through the crowd turning the handle on a box strapped to his chest so that a huge disc of seed sprayed around him, pounding the ground like hard hail and flinging it into the air to land on ladies’ parasols and gather in hat brims. Passing on her way to the produce tent, Maude scolded the salesman. The seed spray would surely get stuck in a child’s ear, she declared, and bumped into two women wearing badges, Australian Women’s Suffrage Society. They stood either side of a sandwich board that obstructed passing pedestrians. One was well groomed, her hair cut short and neat. Her dress was bohemian, loose and sack-like but well made, and she held a signboard: VOTING RIGHTS FOR WOMEN IN ALL STATES AND TERRITORIES, NOW. The other was dressed similarly, only her hem was short enough to show the top of her boots.
Henrietta and Phoeba headed straight for them.
‘Women in South Australia will be able to vote this year and stand for government as well,’ they said. Curious, the girls took pamphlets from them, tucking them into their pockets and out of their mothers’ sight.
They took their time in the produce tent, admiring the fine knitting and lace work, the preserves and fresh vegetables, the tumbles of wool clips and vases of wheat, the watercolours and oil landscapes – including Aunt Margaret’s dead fowl – and eggs on their straw beds. Then they wandered out to the field. ‘We should find Hadley,’ said Henrietta.
‘You go,’ said Phoeba, lifting her skirt as if to flee. But Henrietta caught her arm.
‘He’ll be disappointed if you don’t come, Phoeba.’
‘Has he said anything?—’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Right,’ said Phoeba, and braced herself. It would be worse if she didn’t go; she may as well get it over with.
They walked along the line of thick, competent draughthorses, plaited and burnished with their harnesses almost gleaming, on through air thick with manure and pungent horse. Hadley was standing behind his team, the harness reins around his neck and his hands gripping the single-furrow mould-board. He tilted it from side to side, and made the soft noise of a blade carving through earth.
‘Hello,’ called Phoeba and he dropped the handles instantly, the colour in his cheeks deepening. He rushed towards Phoeba but the reins were still around his neck and they pulled him up, jerking his head so his hat fell off. Almost without missing a beat he picked up his hat and came towards her. He always recovered himself well, she thought.
‘I knew you’d be here for me,’ he said.
‘I always will be,’ she said, then regretted it and added, ‘as any good friend should be.’
‘Of course,’ said Hadley, and gestured at the horses, ‘My team—’
‘Yes, they’re lovely—’
‘The furrow horse tends to race a bit.’
‘If you win,’ said Henrietta, ‘we’ll have our photograph taken.’
‘We should have one taken anyway,’ said Phoeba, ‘to remember the good times.’
Hadley looked at her, levelly. ‘Are the good times over, Phoeba?’
‘Of course not, Hadley,’ said Henrietta, quickly. ‘Don’t be a dill. She meant as a keepsake so we can look at it together when we’re eighty.’ She straightened his tie and slapped his shoulders. ‘So, Had, what did the man say about your emasculator?’
‘Oh,’ said Hadley, and explained that he had spoken to the chap wearing the strap-on Cahoon’s Patent Broadcast Seed Sower about his invention but that the man had said he’d need to see drawings. ‘But I’m not silly,’ said Hadley. ‘He’d just steal my idea.’
‘Of course,’ said Henrietta. ‘Now you must plough as well as you do at home and we’ll see you victorious at lunch.’
‘Righto.’ He looked at Phoeba and opened his mouth to say something so she planted a quick, sisterly kiss on his cheek. ‘Good luck.’
That was that over and done with: the first confrontation. She could relax.
The horse teams were always first away after the starting flag fell and drivers had until noon to complete their quarter acre. Traditionally, Guston Overton started off by ploughing the first furrow but this year it was Marius who began. A Scotsman named Jim who’d won £10 last year followed him, throwing up his hands in exaggerated dismay at the furrow and making the crowd laugh.
Phoeba and Henrietta climbed the windmill, as they did every year. From the top they could see Mrs Overton on the homestead balcony, her white skirt falling over her knees. Behind her three maids stood with their hands behind their backs, watching the smoke that curled from itinerants’ campfires and from the shearers’ camp on the creek bank. Behind the majestic homestead the shearing shed waited, its high stumps hidden behind a thousand yarded sheep. And way out on the western plain a thin curtain of red dust rose up – more sheep being shepherded in.
Widow Pearson passed beneath Phoeba and Henrietta, clinging to Mr Titterton’s arm, her bustle behind her like a dwarf under her skirt.
‘Have they been kissing lately, Henri?’
‘I avoid them, just in case they are,’ said Henrietta. ‘It’s no good for my health.’
The vicar trailed behind the Widow’s bustle, his stomach jutting out and hiding his feet.
‘It’s terrible even eating with old Tit. There’s an extra sound in his mouth when he chews. Imagine when the vicar comes to lunch. There’ll be the sound of his chins slapping on his collar as well.’
They laughed and below them, Robert looked up. He was walking with Guston and Marius Overton, and the new manager was with them too.
‘They say he’s a bank man,’ said Henrietta.
‘A handsome bank man,’ said Phoeba, thinking she must have looked a sight flying along behind Rocket.
Just then, he looked up, straight into her eyes, feigning an outraged expression at the two ladies perched on the narrow windmill ledge. Then lifted his hat. Phoeba smiled at him.
‘Hadley’s better looking than him,’ said Henrietta defensively.
Perhaps, Phoeba thought, but Steel was different, more mature. She watched the group of men move through the crowd to the ploughing field. ‘Do you think Overton has money trouble?’ she asked. Henrietta shrugged.
There was a gunshot, Guston Overton firing to start the teams. Mr Titterton, who was one of the judges, followed a plough. He stepped from furrow to furrow measuring the depth and gauging the neatness of the dry brown wave. Hadley was proceeding steadily, carefully, way behind the other competitors. The bullock teams with three- and four-blade ploughs took up their starting position on the other side of the field.
Henrietta took the suffragettes’ pamphlet from her pocket: ‘Dress Review, by The Healthy and Artistic Dress Union’. It suggested she abandon her corset. Henrietta’s mother made her wear a corset but she never tightened the cords, ever. ‘I should show this to mother,’ she said, but she screwed it up and threw it down onto the grass. Nothing would separate the Widow from her tiny waist.
Phoeba read hers aloud: ‘ “Suffrage, marriage and women’s rights. Marriage should protect your freedom, not make you a slave. Women should be able to get divorced and keep their children and property.” ’ The first heading was Contraception. She took off her straw hat and slipped the paper inside, under the headband. ‘I suppose we should go and find the picnic,’ she said.
The Crupps and the Pearsons settled to eat lunch in the shade between their buggies, Henrietta and Phoeba handed out sandwiches while Maude propped herself against the buggy wheel, her corset rising to her armpits as the widow recalled Hadley’s neat furrows. Hadley rolled his eyes in frustration.
‘Ah! Some familiar faces.’ The vicar’s trousers strained across his thighs as he bounced towards them. He took hold of a buggy spoke and lowered his bulk onto the blanket next to Henrietta, eyeing her sandwich.
‘I see I am just in time for l
unch.’ He leaned closer, ‘And good morning, Miss Pearson.’
Henrietta pulled back.
They hadn’t really brought enough for him but it was too late, the picnickers moved around with their tea and sandwiches to accommodate his spreading form.
‘How nice to see you again, Vicar,’ gasped the Widow, the tinge on her nose deepening. ‘My son Hadley is the new wool classer here at Overton. He works with the stock overseer, Mr Titterton.’
The vicar took a plate of sandwiches from Henrietta and said to Phoeba, ‘I must come to lunch one day and taste your wine.’
‘She would enjoy that very much,’ said Maude.
Hadley took his fob watch from his pocket as if he urgently needed to know the time and Phoeba quickly reached for the scones. ‘Lilith made these,’ she lied, ‘please have one.’
‘No cream?’ said the vicar and he turned to smile at Lilith, scone dough clogging his gums.
‘We don’t have a cow,’ said Lilith. ‘Mrs Jessop has a cow but we’ve got a goat because they’re cheaper. The Pearsons sold their cow because their soil is salty and their milk was always brackish.’
‘If you say so,’ said Hadley, mildly offended. Widow Pearson was speechless with indignation.
‘She’s looking for a husband to cook for, aren’t you Lilith?’ said Phoeba. Lilith scowled, but Phoeba ignored her and offered the cake tin to the vicar. ‘The plum cake is lovely too, Vicar.’
Suddenly there was a ruckus; the picnickers stood to see the fuss. The president of The Victorian Ploughmen’s Association and three other gentlemen were marching two suffragettes to their buggy, gripping them by the elbows. They shoved the women up into their carriage, led them towards the driveway and let the horse go. The two women swung their buggy hard left, tearing straight across the ploughing field, their escorts hot on their tail. The buggy bounced alarmingly and the horse panicked, his head up racing. Pamphlets flew along in his wake while horse teams, bullocks, judges and competitors scattered before him. Spectators clapped, including Phoeba and Henrietta, who gave a long, loud whistle. The Widow Pearson lurched sideways at this, gasping, her complexion purple. But the daring suffragettes managed to circle the ploughing arena twice – and ruin it – before escaping.
‘Well,’ said Phoeba, ‘that was worth a day out!’
Lilith said they needed to be doused with a bucket of cold sal volatile; Widow Pearson said it was a craze she hoped would disband, glaring at her daughter; Maude declared they’d ruin their families’ reputations, ‘the way they make a spectacle of themselves’.
‘Henrietta does equal work with Hadley but she won’t inherit the farm,’ Phoeba pointed out and the Widow snapped, ‘That is none of your concern.’
‘And Mother,’ said Henrietta, ‘how would you feel if you lost us because Dad divorced you?’
‘My husband died,’ wailed the Widow and turned to tell the vicar all about her tragic life. But the vicar had left in search of better luncheon baskets.
‘Gone to Mrs Jessop,’ said Aunt Margaret, patting Widow Pearson’s hand. ‘Mrs Jessop has fresh cream.’
‘Ooops,’ said Hadley, scratching at the dripped pickles on his new wool pants.
‘Our new washing machine will get the stain out,’ said the Widow, triumphantly. ‘Did I mention, Mrs Crupp, that Hadley has ordered us a washing machine from Lassetters?’
‘They say,’ sniffed Maude, ‘that those machines only wash as well as the person turning the handle.’
At three o’clock the produce tent filled with the babbling crowd. Henrietta and Phoeba stood with Hadley at the front. Patiently waiting on the podium were the judges from the Ploughmen’s Association and Mr Titterton and Marius Overton. The vicar rolled up to the front uninvited and stood with the judges, his chins raised in anticipation. Marius spoke. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ – the crowd hushed, the air of expectation rising – ‘the judges and I have inspected the furrows and reached our conclusion. But before I announce the winners, we will need someone suitable to present the awards.’
The vicar said, ‘Of course!’ and stepped onto the podium, but as he did so, Marius looked down and extended his hand to Phoeba saying, ‘Miss Crupp?’
From nowhere, Lilith reached out and took Marius’s hand. He had no option but to welcome her onto the platform. The vicar turned suddenly as if someone had called his name. Marius cleared his throat. ‘The winner in section one, single furrow plough, two-horse team is, Mr Hadley Pearson.’
Thank goodness, thought Phoeba. Hadley entered every year but this was the first time he had won.
Lilith presented him with a silver-plated ham-bone holder and matching marrow spoon with the aplomb of someone who’d officiated at ceremonies all her life. But it was Phoeba Hadley looked to, joy and triumph in his eyes.
The marquee had been dismantled and the bunting rolled away, The General returned to his comfortable enclosure under the shearing shed, the brass band was long gone and a child’s cap blew along the plough ruts. Mr Titterton and Hadley rode back to Elm Grove between sweeping paddocks tinged with orange rays from the setting sun.
‘The General is a remarkable ram,’ said Hadley. ‘He’s thick through the heart and perhaps thirty pounds good wool on him, at a guess.’
They approached the intersection, Mr Titterton looking disapprovingly at the thistles and other weeds that grew thick along the boulder fences, spilling into the paddocks.
‘City people just don’t know,’ said Mr Titterton. ‘Raising hogs is the thing. Manageable animal, your hog, and big, lots of meat on ’em. People will always want bacon, but no good ever came from grapes. And sheep can be ruined in no time through scab or footrot.’
Hadley could have responded that good management would prevent these things but he was more concerned about the campfires that dotted the shadowy hill behind the Crupps’ cottage: the workers, he thought. And no good would come of them if they couldn’t get work.
That night at Elm Grove, the Pearsons and Mr Titterton settled around the dining-room table. Henrietta had baked rabbit and potatoes and she proudly placed the silver-plated ham-bone holder and matching marrow spoon in front of Hadley’s place at the head of the table. But Hadley’s mother turned to him. ‘Let Mr Titterton take the head of the table tonight, Hadley,’ she said.
Hadley’s jaw dropped and Henrietta began, ‘But mother—’
‘You take your usual place near the kitchen, Henrietta.’
Mr Titterton said grace and an icy silence settled in the room. Hadley found the food difficult to swallow and Henrietta slid most of her potatoes into her napkin and shoved it in her pocket.
Mr Titterton breathed on Hadley’s silver-plated prize, whipping out his creased and slightly stiff handkerchief and polishing it.
‘I put in a good word for you,’ he said, with a smirk to Hadley.
Widow Pearson smiled as if this was the greatest generosity, but Hadley looked destroyed.
‘You did?’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Mr Titterton, all graciousness, ‘and your furrows were among the best—’
‘They were the best,’ said Henrietta, ‘truly, they were.’
‘Calm down, Henrietta,’ snapped her mother.
Hadley put down his knife and pushed away his plate. He hadn’t won fair and square. He wondered if everyone knew. ‘I’ve had a big day,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll—’
‘No, Hadley,’ gasped his mother. ‘Mr Titterton has something else to say. Something important.’ She fanned her face as if it might push the air towards her thin blue mouth.
Mr Titterton stood up, smoothed the shiny strands of hair on either side of his sparse middle part, and stretched one arm along the mantelpiece. He looked down at Hadley and smiled. Hadley didn’t smile back; he focused his gaze on Mr Titterton’s forehead, avoiding those dentures.
‘Son,’ said Mr Titterton gravely, ‘your mother and I are to be married.’ He lowered his mouth to touch Widow Pearson’s hand as she reached out to him. ‘Your
mother will join me at Overton.’
‘In the manager’s house,’ said the Widow happily. It took a second for the information to register.
Henrietta held her breath, wiping her palms on her apron. How embarrassing, she thought. What will people think? They’ll share a bed.
Hadley stammered, ‘Congratulations,’ but the implications of all this were circling, waving at him like enemy flags over the crest of a hill.
‘Thank you, Hadley, son.’
Widow Pearson pointed to the sideboard drawer where her precious house plans were kept. ‘And while we are at Overton Mr Titterton will have the new house built for us.’
‘To retire to,’ interjected Mr Titterton, ‘although my days as stock overseer at Overton are not over yet.’
Henrietta sat very still, trying to take it all in, trying to grasp what was truly happening. Could it be that she would stay here, with Hadley? Could it be that her mother would have maids at Overton, that Henrietta would be free? She was breathless with anticipated joy.
‘Hadley, you must thank Mr Titterton for the recommendation too,’ said her mother. ‘He secured your position at Overton for you.’
Hadley frowned: had he achieved nothing on his own?
Mr Titterton pointed to him with his pipe. ‘You must take advantage of your new career – travel, gain experience with all types of sheep in all conditions. In that way you can improve the land here at Elm Grove as you planned.’ The enemy was marching down the hill; Mr Titterton would take over Hadley’s inheritance, Hadley saw, while Hadley paid for the improvements to Elm Grove that Mr Titterton would supervise to his satisfaction in order that the property would support him comfortably until his death.