The Farmer's Wife

by Rachael Treasure

  As he stripped for his shower, he swivelled to look in the mirror. He even had a touch of sunburn on his glowing white arse cheeks to prove his midday session had really happened.

  If Bec asked about the scratches, Charlie decided, he’d tell her he did it getting a wether out of the scrub. Although, as he ran the water hard, he knew Bec wouldn’t ask about his neck, let alone his sunburned bum. She barely looked at him these days. Her focus was always on Ben and Archie. Her touches, her cuddles, her kisses and her smiles, when they came, were reserved for the boys. Not him. Not any more. She’s as cold as a witch’s tit, Charlie thought bitterly. No wonder I’m playing about, he reasoned as he kicked his oily jeans across the bathroom floor to the growing pile of dirty washing and stepped into the shower. With a wife like that, what man wouldn’t stray?

  An hour later, when Charlie walked through the door of the Dingo Trapper Hotel, the place felt vastly different from the night before. The bar was subdued and the carpet, usually cleaned to within an inch of its life thanks to Amanda Arnott’s steam-cleaner machine, smelled of stale grog. The crutching plant crew had been in on a bender that afternoon and had left a wash of spilled beer, torn sodden coasters and chip crumbs scattered in a trail that would confuse even Hansel and Gretel. The reason for the remaining mess was that Amanda, with her post-sex-toy-party hangover, had taken herself upstairs for a nanna nap, leaving Dutchy to run both the kitchen and the bar, with his rather inept young offsider, Lucy, who was on the dopey side of simple.

  Charlie cast his eyes about for Kelvin and his crew, but the team must have left, chasing more pub action and a larger selection of women in Bendoorin. Instead Charlie delivered his cheeky grin to the cluster of farmers who had gathered at the bar for the no-till cropping and holistic grazing information night. All the men were clutching beers for security and their stilted farming conversations were peppered with pauses as wide as the Great Dividing Range.

  ‘What crops you putting in?’ asked one.

  ‘Oats.’

  Then there was a pause.

  ‘Dry. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  Pause.

  ‘Who’s gunna make the cricket finals this year?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Pause.

  ‘You reckon that knob Andrew Travis knows what he’s on about?’

  The men shrugged.

  All were relieved when they found Charlie in their midst. Their faces brightened and their belted-in personalities loosened a little. Charlie Lewis was always one to liven things up.

  ‘Hear you got a new John Deere that knows its way to the pub already,’ said Dennis Groggan.

  ‘Yeah!’ beamed Charlie. ‘I sure do!’

  As he told an embellished version of last night’s tale, he glanced about, searching for Rebecca. In the corner of the bar at a wooden table were a handful of government scientists and facilitators, who were polishing off their travel-expense-covered counter meals, all clad in their uniform of baby-blue polo shirts and navy trousers.

  Their task was to chaperone Andrew Travis to as many regions and reach as many farmers as they could rally. Not an easy task. Despite their jovial conversation, the RLM men looked slightly nervous to be in the vicinity of the menfolk farmers, who collectively carried with them a brutish judgemental air of scepticism regarding bureaucrats. Particularly when the farmers held the belief that the RLM staff were ‘shiny bums’, overpaid and underworked. People who wasted their time fluffing and fussing over ‘feedback’ forms for their ‘reports’. To make the RLM’s job even harder, Andrew’s crucial message about increased carbon sequestration into soil using grasses not trees, and his controversial stance on reducing the use of both fossil fuel and artificial fertiliser, were not liked higher up the chain in the political arenas. Their bosses in upper department levels were loath to spruik too loudly about a system that let the giant corporations down. Corporations that the government backed. There was a lot of money to be made and revenue to be generated in tampering with Mother Nature. Andrew’s philosophy was dangerous and the on-the-ground RLM men were junior in the pecking order.

  At a slight advantage over the male RLM staff were the female members, who the farmers had a little more time for. They wore their pony tails pulled back tightly, looking ‘sciencey’ yet pretty in their manly uniforms. Regional Catchment Coordinator Mary was the pick. She had bright smiling blue eyes, lovely long wavy hair and an arse in jeans that the men loved to admire. Charlie was disappointed she was sitting as he looked at her now and made a mental note to have a good look when she stood up.

  As he ordered his beer, Charlie glimpsed Andrew in the lounge area setting up a projector and tinkering with a laptop. He was dressed in a cobalt-blue RM Williams shirt and Charlie jealously noticed how flat his stomach sat against his golden belt buckle. A fit bastard, he concluded. Still, he reasoned, he certainly had a bit of age about him. Andrew’s once black hair was blended with grey and his life in the sun as a Queensland farmer had deepened the laugh lines around his eyes. Charlie sniffed and sipped at his beer, not taking his eyes off Andrew. He may have been going bald, but so far he had not found one grey hair on his head.

  But if Andrew was here, where was Rebecca? Charlie glanced at his phone. No messages. Where was she?

  Andrew Travis, satisfied the room was set and ready, strode towards the bar with his long muscled denim-clad legs. His authentic smile of greeting warmed up his yet-to-be-seated audience in an instant. The way he slid past the RLM employees and casually propped himself alongside the farmers at the bar without any hint of self-consciousness and easily slipped into conversation told Charlie that this bloke was one of their kind. There was no faking it with farmers, and Andrew was one of the clan. Charlie felt a little disgruntled.

  ‘And have you met Charlie Lewis?’ Dennis Groggan asked. ‘Got a big place not far from here. Waters Meeting.’

  ‘Ah, no, we haven’t met,’ Andrew said, setting down his beer and turning to Charlie. ‘But I sure know Rebecca, your wife. What a girl! You’re a lucky man. She’s been to a few of these. She’s keen as buggery to trial a few things. It’s nice to see you along.’

  Charlie raised his beer to his mouth and his eyebrows at the same time. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, mate,’ he said dryly and swallowed down his beer.

  Twelve

  When Rebecca saw Charlie’s battered Hilux parked beneath an old gum on the side road outside the pub, her resolution to be strong wavered for a moment. She sat in the Stantons’ Kluger and puffed out a big billowing breath. How would she face him? And was the woman he was screwing also sitting inside the pub? She breathed in deeply and blinked quickly, not wanting tears to ruin the eye makeup Yazzie had so carefully applied.

  ‘Daddy’s here! I see his ute!’ shouted an excited Ben, diving to undo the car door.

  ‘Wait for us, Ben,’ Rebecca said snappily, her nerves frayed.

  ‘Mummy said wait, young man,’ Sol cautioned kindly. ‘So hold your horses.’

  Rebecca watched as the big man elegantly unfolded his frame from the driver’s side and opened the back door for her. He gently cupped her elbow as she stepped down from the car in Yazzie’s high black shoes. For a moment, with Sol’s hand on her skin, she felt his touch stirring her shut-down body awake. Looking up at his handsome profile, Rebecca felt as if she could be alighting from a chauffeur-driven vehicle in Paris. He had such grace about him: like Pierce Brosnan, only grittier, sexier, Spanish. Divine. Gabs would be wetting her pants to be even standing near someone like him. She felt a deep breath of desire inflate her lungs. How could she even be thinking like this? Because, she thought, it feels like revenge. Rebecca knew it was dangerous, but she wanted to feed the feeling.

  ‘Yazzie has a way,’ Sol said, smiling down at her. ‘You look transformed. There is nothing more beautiful than a freshly groomed woman,’ he leaned a little closer, ‘except for a freshly bedded woman. Provocativo!’

  She cast a self-conscious glance at
Yazzie, who just shook her head and laughed.

  ‘You’re such a dweebazoid, Sol,’ the other woman said as she helped Archie down from the car. Rebecca wondered why Yazzie never seemed to show a flinch of jealousy at Sol’s ways.

  ‘Sol, why don’t you take the boys inside and get them a lemonade?’ Yazzie suggested. ‘Rebecca and I will be in shortly. We need to get the “girl power” thing happening before we go in.’

  Looking like one of his sleek dark racehorses in his cool slate-grey denim jeans and tight black T-shirt, Sol took the hands of the two little boys on either side. Their joyful laughter pealed upwards into the evening sky as he gently lifted them one-armed, carrying them through the air. Yazzie watched him go and Rebecca noticed a hint of emotion cross her face.

  ‘He’s gorgeous, really. Once you get past the gruff bit,’ Yazzie said.

  ‘He’s bloody more tolerant than Charlie. He never complains much that you boss him about. Most men would call you a nag,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Hah! I’m entitled to boss him.’

  ‘You’re a lucky girl, Yazzie. I wish Charlie had some of Sol’s traits.’

  ‘Me? A lucky girl? God to have a brother like that? All the broken-hearted ex-girlfriends I’ve had to counsel! He’s too much! I just wish he would settle! He’s been miserable for years — ever since his first wife left him. They married so young.’

  Rebecca frowned. ‘Brother?’ she asked. ‘Are you for real? I thought he was your husband!’

  Yazzie threw her hand to her mouth, covering her explosion of laughter. ‘Sol? My husband?! God! No way! Yuck! How could you think that …? He’s my brother, you dork! Well, half-brother — same dad, different mums. Dad’s ex-wife is Spanish and went back to live in Spain. She’s the musician of the family. That’s where Sol gets it from. And our sister Estella was a dancer and pianist. She’s my half-sister too. But she’s in Venice now. Studying art.’

  ‘Wow. So he’s your brother! No wonder!’ Rebecca wound her thoughts back over the time she had met them both. It all fell into place. ‘So you’re the youngest?’

  ‘Yes. Mum met Dad when she was being one of those car-bunny models at the Grand Prix in Germany. I think after Sol’s mum, Dad wanted someone less complicated. Less creative. Less intelligent. But he certainly judged my mum by her cover. She was doing the Grand Prix job to help pay for her Master’s. She’s madder than a cut snake and smarter than Stephen Hawking and Leonardo da Vinci combined. Poor Dad. She gives him a run for his money. So Sol’s from the first Spanish batch. I’m from the second all-Aussie one. And Dad’s parted company with my mum and is onto his third missus. French this time. So, all in all, it’s a mad family. Mad.’

  Yazzie pulled a silly face, then laughed, her light blue eyes opening wide. ‘Now you know Sol’s not my husband, you get to perve and flirt with him a whole lot more. I wondered why you weren’t falling all over him. Most Australian women do. It’s the accent. Makes me wanna puke.’

  ‘Me? Fall all over him? I hadn’t even thought of him as hot. And I’m a married woman. I haven’t looked sideways at a man in fourteen years — not since I started going out with Charlie at Ag College. Well, maybe I did look once. At Tim McGraw, when he came to Melbourne to play his concert and he was wearing that tight white T-shirt, even tighter jeans and that big black hat.’ Bec put her hand to her chest. ‘That really got my pulse going. But other than that one time with Tim, I haven’t looked.’

  ‘You’re either a liar or a fool. You’re allowed to look, silly.’

  ‘Charlie would argue differently.’

  Rebecca stared down at her freshly painted fingernails glistening in the pub’s verandah light and thought of how Charlie had thrown a fit every time a man came near her. It was easier to shut herself down.

  ‘Things change,’ Yazzie said, linking her arm in Rebecca’s. ‘Come on, yummy mummy. It’s time you let your inner goddess out again. We warrior women go to war to win!’

  And with Yazzie steering her, they crossed the road, Rebecca steeling herself for what was about to come.

  Thirteen

  The banter from the pub crowd cut to silence when Yazzie and Rebecca entered the bar. From the back, someone wolf-whistled.

  ‘Geez, Bec, you scrub up all right,’ called out Tonka Jones from his bar stool. The men laughed and the conversations resumed, still with a few eyebrows raised. What was going on? some of the local men wondered. First the sex-toy party, then Charlie Lewis’s missus arrives dressed like that with the Stantons. Something was out of place.

  Ignoring the stares, Bec delivered Tonka and the men a gentle smile, her face a mask on the turmoil that swam within her.

  Charlie had already been put off balance by the sight of an incredibly handsome male stranger ushering Ben and Archie, his own children, into the pub! The boys had only run to him briefly to say hello and were soon back talking animatedly to the tall foreign-looking bloke.

  Then Rebecca had swanned in, wearing a short tight black dress and incredibly high heels. The blotchy tan had been washed smooth and her limbs looked honey-coloured and edible. Her normally long wavy hair had been straightened, then turned in loose curls at the ends. The blonde sheen of her hair under the pub lights and the way her made-up eyes glinted caused Charlie’s jaw to drop and his hackles to rise. What was she up to? He hadn’t seen her out of scuffed boots, oversized rugby tops, the same old pony tail and grimy jeans for years. When they did have a ‘do’, she always dragged out the same dress with the same old complaints about how fat she’d become and how she really should buy new shoes since Ben had spewed on her only good pair when he was two.

  And who was the little blonde piece with her? She too wore a body-hugging dress, this one in a stone colour that showed off her long lean brown limbs. She was as pretty as a swimsuit model, but without the large breasts: the ones she had, nonetheless, would have been enough of a handful for Charlie’s liking.

  Rebecca glanced over to Charlie and caught him eyeing Yazzie’s cleavage. She gave a snide smile and mouthed ‘hello’ before walking straight-backed like a snob to the tall dark-haired man, who passed her a glass of champagne while feeding the kids chips and lemonade. Charlie felt an uneasiness simmer inside when he saw Rebecca’s smile warm to that of a cosy winter fire, as she received the champagne from the man and offered him up a stylish ‘thank you’. What was with the champagne? Charlie wondered. Since when was Bundy not up to scratch? And who were these people? Surely not the Stantons? Surely she hadn’t befriended those rich tossers? After all the grief they’d given them on the roads and with the helicopter while they built their racing empire? She wouldn’t dare.

  Charlie was about to move from his bar stool when Andrew set down his beer, swivelled off his own bar stool and called out, ‘Rebecca!’ With a bright smile, he moved over to her. ‘Great to see you! You look wonderful. My goodness. You really look wonderful! I don’t know what’s in the water up here. And this must be Yazzie? Sol and I have been on Skype talking through the changes at Rivermont, and he told me you’d at last moved up here.’

  Andrew shook Yazzie’s hand, then put his hand on Rebecca’s waist and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. Even though the muscles beneath her skin felt like wire from the tension of the day, she welcomed the pressure of Andrew’s hand on her and drank in the warm lips brushing her cheek.

  ‘Inner goddess,’ she heard Yazzie whisper in her other ear. ‘Bring her out to shine.’ She smiled back at Yazzie, holding in her emotions. She would not, could not, be crushed by Charlie and what she had witnessed today.

  Soon it was time to begin the information evening, so the Stantons and Andrew made their way, still chatting, into the lounge room. The RLM crew were doing their best to round up the farmers from the bar and get them to follow and take their seats.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Charlie whispered to Rebecca.

  She looked at him, her blue eyes direct and strong. ‘Maybe I should ask you the same question?’

  Charlie froze
for a split second. He grappled to read the expression on her face. She looked utterly different. It wasn’t just the makeup. There was an energy to her. A fury.

  Maybe she knew? But how could she know?

  ‘Dunno what’s up your bum tonight,’ he said casually. ‘I’ve been working. As usual. Working.’ He sipped his beer, his eyes sliding away from her.

  ‘Working? Have you?’ Rebecca delivered another frosty smile, and tears brimmed a little in her eyes. ‘Thanks for telling me how nice I look. Thanks, Charlie.’ She nodded. ‘You’re putting in such a fine effort to “get us back on track”,’ she said sarcastically. She stood looking at him, pain written across her face. ‘I have to settle the children,’ she said, her voice tight, then she was protectively putting both hands gently on the backs of Ben and Archie and ushering them away from him. As she stooped to speak to the little boys, Charlie caught a glimpse of her full, curved breasts. That dress was dangerously low cut. Far too low cut for the mother of his children. And again, Charlie thought angrily, she’s being an utter bitch to me.

  In Dutchy and Amanda Arnott’s private living room above the bar, Rebecca kissed both boys on the head, her lips meeting first with Archie’s blond curls, then the sheen of Ben’s dark crown as they settled in front of the DVD. Trollop, the pub dog, knowing children often spilled food, settled herself down at the boys’ feet, hoping for a stray corn chip if she could keep herself awake long enough. Bec hovered over her boys and shut her eyes, holding in the scent of their perfection. The boys sensed their mother’s nearness and need.

  ‘I love you, Mummy,’ said Archie, turning his face to her, his voice light and kind. He put a tiny little hand on her forearm and she felt the glistening of what felt like tiny stars sparkle across her skin.

  ‘I love you too, sweetheart,’ she replied. Then the hurt came again like a dark swelling wave … a new knowing that her and the boys’ future as a family on the farm hung in a new and frightening space — in the blackness of uncertainty. Then Trollop farted and suddenly they were all undone with laughter. The air waved clear by flapping hands, she settled the boys back down again and left them to twelve episodes of Ben 10, hoping they would drift off to sleep before Andrew’s talk was through.