The Farmer's Wife

by Rachael Treasure

  After Harry’s death, Bec felt guilty that there were days when she was relieved her dad was no longer on the place. His once green lawn, kept vibrant by the house grey-water, was yellow and bleached. The vegetable garden was now filled with long rank grasses and weeds. Some days it hurt Bec too much to look at it. Let alone go into the place.

  Bec had watched age soften her father a little, so that by the time he’d died, most of the bridges between Rebecca and him had been rebuilt, if only cosmetically. Even though her father’s love was unspoken, Rebecca tried to believe it was there. Like the river. Sometimes it flowed, sometimes it didn’t, but the bed of it, the vein of it, was always there. Deep inside, though, she knew she was telling herself a lie. Her father had resented her. Loathed her tenacity. Her unmovable commitment to remaining on the land, despite the fact he didn’t want her there. He wanted his sons.

  Bec looked at the verandah and imagined her father sitting there. His one arm resting on the squatter’s chair, the stump with the pinned sleeve held close to his chest. His solitary wave as she and Charlie passed his house, both of them busy with the farm. At first he was supportive of her and the plans she and her rural counsellor friend, Sally, had put in place, but then as the seasons stalled and, as she now knew thanks to Andrew, the soils began to decline from their outdated farm practices, Harry’s bitterness and disbelief in her ability had returned.

  Bec suddenly wanted to find a tenant for the cabin so that new memories could be made there. Charlie had reservations about having strangers in their space. But she was ready to move the memory of her father on.

  It was four years ago this summer that Harry had died. On a sweltering day in February, in the same bush clinic she was taking the children to now. His stomach cancer had worsened. Bec had driven him, Harry wincing at each and every pothole. With the morphine no longer hitting the spot, his face had blanched a deathly grey. She hadn’t thought it would be the last time Harry would draw in the fresh Waters Meeting air. Rich clean oxygen, seeping from millions of trees. Instead Harry ended up breathing from a canister, the mask on his face slipping sideways, his inhalations slowly softening until his life was no more.

  When Harry’s casket was lowered into the grave next to Tom’s, it was as if her wounds were torn open again. She didn’t want him buried so close to her brother. Now, four years on from Harry’s death and over a decade on from Tom’s, she still felt wide open and raw. Bec had not a clue how to heal herself.

  The minister in his sermon encouraged the sentiment that it was nice that a father would be reunited in Heaven with his son, but Bec thought bitterly that Harry was the last person on the planet Tom would want to see.

  Even though she had made peace with her father, the shadow of Tom always sat between them. She still got chills as she passed the spot where the old wooden garage used to be. The rafters on which he had slung the rope, long since burned and blown to the wind, gone since the night she took to the structure with a tractor and a chain, followed by a drum of fuel and a match, in a wild rage of grief.

  She often talked about Tom to Ben and Archie, trying to keep the memory of him alive through her words. She rarely spoke of their grandfather. It was sometimes difficult to find positive things to say about him. Ben remembered little of his granddad and Archie had been a baby still being carted about in a front pack by Rebecca when Harry had died. But it was the energy of Tom she wanted to foster in her boys.

  ‘He was so different from your Uncle Mick,’ she would say to them, often when she was busy so the little ones couldn’t see emotion contort her face. ‘He was smaller than Mick, but very, very handsome. And brilliant at art. You know that painting in the dining room? Of his horse, Hank, and the hut? He did that. Before he died.’

  When Ben sometimes asked how their Uncle Tom had died, Bec would go quiet. How could she explain suicide to a child?

  ‘The angels called him away because they needed him,’ she would eventually say, then change the subject. But the shadows of Tom were all about Waters Meeting and the light of him. Some days she was overjoyed to see the sun paint the mountainside golden and she felt sure he was there, still up at the high-country hut, where he had long ago sheltered from the storms in his own head. Other times, in the half-dark, when her own mind was awash with despair, she felt the torment of his haunting.

  As she passed the big double-storey Waters Meeting house on the hill, she wondered why, no matter how much she pushed and worked, she could never seem to transform the place to anything other than a tired old homestead that struggled, alongside a farm and a family that struggled. The visit to Rivermont the night before had made the feeling even more sharp. Bec was failing. Failing life, failing her boys, failing herself. Her dreams were dying before her eyes, yet the reason why was beyond her reach. Did she not pour enthusiasm into everything she did? Did she not try her hardest?

  She glanced at the plastic bag on the front seat; it contained Yazzie’s freshly washed baby-doll nightie. She must’ve been so drunk to borrow it and put it on for Charlie! Along with the spray tan! She felt such a fool. Wheels whirring over the grid onto the bitumen, Bec settled into the drive to Bendoorin. Again she reassured herself that things would be OK. Once the parcel from the sex-toy party arrived, she and Charlie would get back on track and she would feel alive again.

  As Rebecca drove into town, her bleak mood shifted to one of amusement when she saw the sign that announced the current campaigns of the state police. A wag with a big black Texta had defaced the sign. The formal overzealous state budget font read: POLICE ARE NOW TARGETING … And in the space provided some clown had scrawled CRANKY CHICKS.

  She burst out laughing. That was something she and her college mates would have done in their wild Ag College years.

  ‘Police are now targeting cranky chicks!’ she said, giggling again. ‘Huh! That’s funny.’

  ‘What, Mummy?’ Ben asked. ‘What are you laughing at?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, sweetie. Just a silly sign. Not very politically correct.’

  ‘Not very what?’

  She smiled at Ben in the rear-vision mirror, his serious dark eyes looking at her, curious.

  ‘Politically correct. It’s when very nerdy people don’t get jokes and take life far, far too seriously for their own good.’

  She now looked at her own image in the mirror and wondered if she would be considered a ‘cranky chick’ these days. She suddenly realised she too had become a very serious person. With a start, she wondered when? And how had the seriousness set in? Why didn’t she do anything crazy any more, like she had done at Ag College? Where was it in the rule book of life that you had to grow up and be sensible? Even at the sex-toy party, she had barely let herself go. She resolved that she should be more fun, like Yazzie had suggested. Rebecca realised she was in one huge deep rut — she needed Charlie’s bloody stupid new big tractor and a chain to pull herself out of it. For herself, for her boys and, of course, for Charlie. With that resolve in mind, she cranked up the CD of The Sunny Cowgirls for the last hundred metres of the main street, rocking to ‘Summer’ until she turned into the car park of the health clinic.

  An hour later, after the dentist, Bec found herself whizzing the boys in a trolley up and down the supermarket aisles of Candy’s store, making V8 engine noises. At Ag College they’d had many drunken adventures with the sturdy steel contraptions. Why shouldn’t she have fun with them at this age? But even as she whizzed the boys from the canned goods section to the sauces, she felt her mood was forced. Strained. She knew the Who’s Who of Bendoorin would be lurking in the aisles to find out the gossip from the scandalous party at Doreen and Dennis’s. Luckily Bec managed to avoid too many encounters, making it to the checkout with only one ‘Hello, how are you?’ from Mrs Newton, who looked equally knackered from minding the boys.

  At the checkout they found Candy also looking frazzled from the party. Her bright orange poncho with blue knitted flowers cast a sickly hue across her greenish-grey face.


  ‘What a night! I feel so undone!’

  ‘You’re not alone,’ Bec said, loading groceries onto the counter.

  ‘Nice tan, by the way,’ Candy said, starting to bip the goods past the scanner. ‘One of Yazzie’s, I’d say. She got me last week when the parcel first arrived. We took the bloody thing upstairs into my shower and she turned me into a Polly Waffle.’

  ‘Hah! Yeah, it’s not the best look,’ Bec said, holding up the palms of her hands to reveal patches of tanning lotion.

  ‘It’ll wash. While you’re in town, you should get yourself a coffee and some lunch for the boys. Larissa’s new shop is open for business. I know I’m her very proud mother, but she really does make the best coffee. She can give you a double shot. Get you over the line back to Waters Meeting this arvo. There’s also the hoodoo guru’s new shop next door. You should check it out.’

  ‘Hoodoo guru?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Candy said as she bagged a few groceries. ‘Some blow-in woman from somewhere opened it this week. Filled with crystals and Buddhas. If you’re into that sort of thing. The kids might like it. Loads of colours, fountains and that funny-smelling incest stuff.’

  A smile lit Bec’s face. ‘Don’t you mean incense, Candy?’

  ‘Oh my god! Did I actually say incest?! I must still be drunk. Incense … Oh dear, I’ve been in this tiny town too long with people like Ursula!’

  Bec shook her head, smiling. ‘Now I’m intrigued about this shop. I’ll have to take a look.’

  ‘She’s got clothing in there too. But I can’t see you in a kaftan. Bit hard climbing fences in one of those numbers, and the tie-dye colours may scare the sheep. Me though — I bought five of them!’

  ‘Before yesterday, I couldn’t see myself in a bondage suit either, but apparently Yazzie’s ordered me a Catwoman outfit. Never say never.’

  ‘Look out, Charlie, when the parcel arrives!’ Candy laughed. ‘He won’t be driving his new tractor to the pub! He’ll be at home with you.’

  A cloud of puzzlement passed across Bec’s face. ‘He drove the new tractor to the pub?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’

  Bec shook her head and felt her cheeks redden in humiliation and anger as she handed Candy some cash and gathered her grocery bags. ‘I was asleep when he got home. Then we had the livestock contractors out early, so I’ve not really seen him much.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Candy said, searching for eye contact as she handed Bec the change. ‘I thought you would’ve known. He’s a wild boy, your Charlie Lewis. Always was. Always will be.’

  ‘Oh, there’s a lot I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s no biggie. Funny really. The tractor to the pub. What a nong,’ she said, forcing a smile and only glancing at Candy.

  With the little boys in tow, Bec felt a chill as she stepped out through the brand-new automated sliding doors of the general store, despite the summertime heat.

  She glanced at her stern reflection in the window of the shop. ‘Wish they sold senses of humour in there too,’ she said absently. ‘I think I need a new one.’

  ‘What, Mummy?’ Ben asked.

  She was momentarily distracted by the handsome face of Andrew Travis, who smiled back at her from behind the glass. His picture was on a large RLM poster advertising that night’s information seminar at the pub. ‘I wish the store sold men like that too.’

  ‘What, Mummy?’ Ben asked again.

  ‘Nothing, darling. Nothing. C’mon, let’s eat.’

  A while later, full from Larissa’s home-made hamburgers and chips, and Rebecca rejuvenated with a frothy chocolate-dusted cappuccino, they ventured out again onto the now sweltering main street of Bendoorin. Bec was amazed to see on her new iPhone that it was almost two o’clock. She and Larissa had lost themselves talking and laughing about the sex-toy party and who had ordered what. The boys, happy with the toys in the corner and soothed by the air-conditioning, had enjoyed the comings and goings of their other little mates, who had also been dragged in for the half-yearly dental check.

  Bec, who was often tetchy about getting back to the farm as there was always so much to do, surrendered to her hangover and the heat of the day. Surely she could let Charlie sweat it out in the yards with the fellas and she could have an hour or two off for lunch once-in-a-Saturday-while?

  She found herself outside the brand-new ‘guru’ shop admiring a lovely display of potted herbs, vibrant and strong despite the heat. Heaven is Here! proclaimed the sign on the awning. Pretty prayer flags strung underneath it spoke clearly of peace, and silver and bamboo wind chimes adorned the shopfront with colourful sounds.

  The boys and Bec hovered, looking at the display of what Charlie would undoubtedly term ‘hippy shit’. Then the boys, holding the strong work-worn hands of their mother, plunged inside.

  The smell of sandalwood, gentle light from many candles and drifting piano music engulfed Bec’s senses. Peaceful smiling statues of Buddhas, fat and thin, sat or stood in various places all over the shop. Silk lotus flowers floated in small fountains that tinkled silver water. Crystals of all shapes and sizes reflected light and gleamed in glass cabinets.

  ‘Wow!’ said Ben while Archie let go of his mother’s hand and stood, his little head tipped back, blue eyes wide, gazing about the shop.

  ‘This place is boooootiful!’ he said in awe.

  ‘It sure is,’ Bec said, feeling too coarse and too undone by her mood and attitude for this place. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ she warned the boys. The serenity of the shop was shattered by an outburst of yapping.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ a woman’s voice yelled. ‘For god’s sake, Jesus Christ! Put a sock in it!’

  Next thing a little Jack Russell came scampering towards the boys, wagging its entire body and flicking its tongue madly like a monitor lizard.

  Out from behind a curtain stepped a woman who had striking white hair, plaited like a Native American’s and tied with elastics sporting summer daisies.

  ‘Jesus! That’s his name,’ she added as explanation. ‘I’m so sorry about the dog.’

  Despite her white hair, her face was tanned and youthful-looking, even though from the look of her slim strong hands she was definitely old. Her eyes were stunningly green and seemed to see right into Bec. But it was her serene and generous smile that told her all. This woman was utterly alive. How long has it been since I put flowers in my hair? Bec wondered. This woman, whoever she was, looked so energised and above all free from troubles, apart from a crazy dog.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ the woman asked, scooping up the dog.

  ‘Gosh, where to start?’ Bec laughed quietly. ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks. Candy from the store said I should come and have a look.’

  ‘Ah, bless her. What about your little ones? Can I help them with anything?’ The woman stepped forwards and stood before the boys. ‘Hello, I’m Evie,’ she said to Ben and Archie, ‘and that little cretin you are patting is Jesus Christ. Annoying little mutt.’

  Archie tilted his head to the side and looked up at her, clearly fascinated.

  ‘Here, pick a crystal that you’d like to put in your pocket,’ she said to the boys.

  ‘Really?’ Bec asked. ‘Are you sure …?’

  The boys hesitated, blocked by their mother’s discomfort.

  ‘Go on,’ Evie said.

  Archie reached out, his small fingers hovering over the counter that had crystals sorted into boxes, then he plucked out a perfectly rounded reddish-brown polished stone with mysterious swirls embedded within.

  ‘Ahh, good choice, my son,’ Evie said. ‘The carnelian. This little crystal will help you connect with your inner self and give you courage!’ She looked directly at Rebecca with those green eyes that could be crystals themselves. ‘It also has a reputation for rekindling intimacy within marriage,’ she said above the heads of the boys.

  Rebecca’s eyes slid away. Her cheeks coloured.

  Ben, who was normally the more forward of the two boys, reluctantly reached out for a black speckl
ed crystal with blue hues and a dusting of white, like the Milky Way was somehow captured within.

  ‘And you, young man, you’ve chosen the sodalite. “The longest distance you will ever travel is the journey from your head to your heart.” This stone will clear confusion and give inner peace. It can help clear rifts and arguments. Now I know you don’t fight with your brother, but this stone has called you. Maybe to help others around you who are arguing?’ This time both the boys and Evie looked at Rebecca.

  Ben looked back to the palm of his hand where the round polished stone lay. ‘But how do they work?’ he asked, clearly awed both by the stones and the strangeness of the woman.

  ‘Rocks contain energy. You’re from a farm, right?’

  Ben nodded, eyes wide with curiosity.

  ‘Well, all that land you walk on and the mountains around you has an intelligence, an energy. A universal intelligence and energy. The same as what is in your body, my body, your mummy’s body. You with me?’

  Ben nodded. ‘It’s life,’ he said.

  ‘And death and everything in between,’ Evie said. ‘Science has proven that everything in the universe is in a constant state of vibration. You know vibration?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Like when Mum drives on the corrugated road and the things on the dash vibrate off onto the floor.’

  ‘Yes! Good boy! Well, even you hold a vibration. And crystals are the same. If you look at them under an electron microscope, you can see them actually vibrating. Unlike us humans, who waver between good and bad moods, being happy and sad, these crystals are stable and their vibration is steady. Because of this they can help us heal our unsteady vibration.’

  Ben closed his hand over the crystal.

  ‘And now for you, Mum? A store-opening gift for you?’ Evie asked.

  ‘No, please, really … You have a living to make.’

  The woman smiled gently at her. ‘You must allow people to give you gifts,’ she said.