Now, just before dusk, climbing down around the curve of the valley, Rebecca took in the breathtaking sight of Waters Meeting and pulled the hope of Tom’s presence about her. The farm hugged the two tributaries where they met to form the one majestic Rebecca River that wound, silver, through fertile black-and-red volcanic soil flats.
She could see from up on high the cultivated paddocks suffering under the weight of a haphazard grazing regime and Charlie’s ‘improved pasture’ sowing program. The farm resembled a patchwork quilt that had faded with age to the point of perishing and tearing.
At the mailbox Rebecca stopped and got out. Charlie often neglected to check the mail bag, so it was no surprise to find a bundle of bills and catalogues still neatly contained in the rubber band that Candy would have put on at the Bendoorin store.
Normally Rebecca would just toss the whole bundle on the office desk for Charlie to sort, but it felt like an opportunity to take back the reins of the farm and her life, so she flipped through. A bill for seed and fertiliser, a bill for stock lick, a bill for drench, a bill for diesel, a bill for groceries from Candy. Then a letter. From the bank.
As Rebecca tore open the envelope and her eyes scanned the message contained within, she felt heat rise to her face. Rebecca gleaned that this was not the first letter from the bank, but the third. The tone was harsh. Apparently they had defaulted on their loan repayments for the third month in a row and a banking officer would be in touch shortly. She looked at the giant fees that had been charged for missed payments on the farm debt and clenched the paper until her knuckles grew white.
Charlie hadn’t told her! Not only was he having an affair, he was failing to disclose the truth about the farm finances! Her farm finances! The bank was about to foreclose on them!
Another wave of nausea. Rebecca tumbled from the car. Bent over, she heaved up nothing but her troubles and her misery. Crying, she slung her leg through the plain wire fence and climbed through.
Normally when she was upset, she would head to the river, with her old dog in tow, but Charlie had taken even that away from her. She began to run uphill. Jogging, stumbling upwards, climbing so that her breath was ragged and her ribs tore with exertion. There at the top of a stony rise she found herself at a rock cairn that she and Tom had once built. Above it was a sagging fence where they had attempted to grow trees. The trees had all but died, but the fence had at least stopped the stock from eating the vegetation on the north-facing hilltop. She remembered the rock where she and Tom had sat after they’d dug the strainer posts.
‘Shithouse fencing job, Tom,’ she said as she easily slipped through the slack wire. ‘But then again, you were only sixteen and I was tagging along to give you the shits.’
As she entered the patch of grassland, she noticed grasshoppers, spiders, beetles, ants and moths all nestled in their tiny worlds amidst a variety of grasses, sags, forbs and poas. Her hands ran over the tops of tall seed heads and with excitement she recognised the native grass species Andrew had taught her. There, thriving, were kangaroo grass, wallaby grass, weeping grass. Each with its own wispy native beauty.
She found a spot on the rock and ran her hands over the lichen, coarse under her palms. A skink making the most of the last of the day’s sunshine slipped away from her presence into a crack in the rock. She looked out beyond the fence. The land looked bleak. There was a cold wind blowing the far-off bellowing of cows to her. Gentle evening sunshine eased the chill only a little.
For the first time in her life, she saw the land with a clear vision. This continent was a hot, dry place that was thirty million years old. A place that existed with ancient grasses feeding its deep rich soil. Grasses that surrounded her now. Grasses that had built soil here on this rocky knoll. She could feel the life teeming under her feet in the soil beside the rock. Billions of microbes. A whole universe of life beneath her soles. Threads of fungi billions of kilometres long vibrating with energy underneath her.
She saw in her mind’s eye how in her grandfather’s day, the first rubber-tyred tractor had ousted his father’s horses from the sheds. Over time the tractors had laid the soil to waste. It’d been nuked and napalmed with chemicals left over from the wars. She looked out before her. The homestead, where her garden grew green and the vegetables were mulched and cared for with not a spray needed — the chooks were allowed in every now and then to scratch up the pests. Her oasis of chemical- and plough-free soil, that stood apart from the surrounding farm, where man was at war with nature. Charlie.
She took in the beauty and delicacy of the grasses around her. There was a fragility, like old lace, to the structure of each seed head. She saw that such interwoven nature held within it a resilience. Rebecca knew if she could get the whole of Waters Meeting looking like this patch of grassland, she would not only stop the farm bleeding to death from drought, but also she could find the money the bank was demanding — the farm costs could be cut by thousands. Suddenly energised and excited by her place, no longer daunted by its challenges, she stood and looked out across the valley.
She remembered something Evie had said the first time they met about reaching to find good thoughts. ‘I am going to follow my bliss,’ she said out loud. Then she asked herself what her bliss would be. And the answers began to roll out of her.
‘My bliss would be a baby girl,’ she said to the wind, gently at first. ‘My bliss would be to stop spreading superphosphate fertiliser. My bliss would be time-control grazing so we grow a landscape just like this. My bliss is to have a grassland, not a farm. My bliss is to have stock on pasture as diverse as this spot here. My bliss is to teach my sons and unborn child how to pasture-crop and build soil. My bliss is that they never see a sod turned again in their lifetime.’ Her voice began to build, her pace quicken, her heart beat faster. Rebecca yelled, ‘My bliss is to build ground cover on this place. My bliss is to have soil that is one hundred per cent covered by plants, one hundred per cent of the time. My bliss is to celebrate the seasons with my family, not fight them. My bliss, regardless of this new baby, is to not spend my life with you, Charlie Lewis. To not spend my life with you! A man who refuses to listen to the land!’
Tears streaming down her face, Rebecca sat back down and hugged her knees to her chest. She buried her face and sobbed. ‘Oh, Tom. I miss you.’
In the windswept dusk, she heard her dead brother’s voice on the breeze. ‘You forgot, Bec. Your bliss is to get a new dog and a new horse. It’s about bloody time you got back in the saddle. Life needs you.’
Twenty-three
Driving over the cattle grid with a whirr towards the homestead, Rebecca could see Charlie had the back-hoe out. It sat with its crooked elbow bent, giant metal scoop resting on the bare ground. The old yellow dozer, now faded to a pale butter-cream and etched with rust, had also been fired up, and it too was parked at the machinery shed.
Rebecca narrowed her eyes. For years, Charlie had been talking about making silage to feed to the cattle in winter, despite her scepticism on the subject. Now, looking at the giant mechanical beasts that sat dormant in the farmyard, she knew exactly what he was up to.
While Rebecca had been away in the city with Archie, Charlie had been left to his own devices, first to visit his family and then during the short time he’d had alone on Waters Meeting; and he was clearly making the most of it. Rebecca wondered bitterly if he’d made the most of his time alone with Janine too? She shoved the thought away. That was only going to unsettle her. That horse had bolted.
‘Fucking oath,’ she said when she drove around the old split-timber barn and saw the giant hummocks of upturned black soil. Charlie had put the silage pit exactly where she didn’t want it. Looking like the beginnings of a dodgy swimming pool, it was on the other side of the fence from her vegetable garden. Her oasis.
Rebecca knew the yard would bog up at the pit with the big wheels of the tractor, the stench of fermenting summer grass permeating the bliss of her garden. The pungent smell of yeast, mould and su
gars would waft over the washing line and drift through the kitchen as Charlie scooped the spongey fodder up with the bucket on the tractor.
With the letter from the bank shoved angrily on the dash, Rebecca wondered in exasperation what her husband was even thinking! Silage cost a lot of money to make and as Andrew said, ‘Why cut the grass in your paddock, take it all the way to your shed or silage pit, only to have to cart it back out again come winter? It’s an English farming concept that doesn’t work here. Why not leave the hay out in the paddocks for the animals to eat as standing dry matter?’
Andrew was always questioning why farmers were still copying the British systems of farming that had so clearly failed here. Now, after sitting amidst the ancient pastures in Tom’s reserve, Rebecca could really, genuinely see it — she’d believed her teacher, but now she’d really understood the truth for herself. The native grasses, if allowed to return, had just as much nutritional and health value when compared to the silage — if not more. The native pastures certainly wouldn’t create the gut problems the cattle would suffer when adjusting to a rich diet of silage only.
Rebecca drove into a skillion shed that was sagging from the weight of an old-lady rambling rose that in summer flowered in delicate white. For a moment she sat in the car, not wanting to face the rest of what was to come.
‘What is it you want me to hear, Tom?’ she asked. She flicked on the CD and the voice of the American spiritual teacher filled the car. Randomly she flicked through tracks. She settled on a segment where a woman was talking. Esther Hicks, the author, she presumed. The woman had an odd mix of an accent somewhere between maybe Spanish and American, a bit like Sol’s. It was a kind voice. She was saying that our lives are meant to be joyful.
‘Joyful? Really?’ Bec said, thinking of the depths of despair Tom had sunk to when he had committed suicide not far from the spot where Rebecca now sat.
Esther was telling her audience that there was no death and that everyone was an eternal being. It was the same concept Evie had spoken about when they were in the city, when Archie’s life had hung in the balance. The woman, like Evie, said most humans had forgotten this fact. The fact there was no death. Rebecca twisted the ignition off, silencing the woman. If there was no death, why was Tom not still here? But then she thought again of Evie’s words in the shop and at the hospital. Goose bumps shivered across her skin and tears surprised her. A smile drifted across her face. Tom was still here.
‘OK, Tom, I’m up for listening now. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’ She felt a warmth wrap around her like an embrace. Suddenly feeling strong enough to go inside, Rebecca got out of the car.
Walking through the garden gate, she could hear the sounds of ‘Black Betty’ blaring from the stereo in the kitchen. She frowned, looking at her watch. It was past dinnertime for Ben and he ought to be winding down for bed. She noticed Murray’s ute was parked haphazardly on the lawn. His shearer’s toolbox was on the back, as was his telltale giant blue Esky, with its lid wide open. There was a cricket set scattered under the clothesline and a pile of empty beer cans mounded up like a modern-day midden. Tangled around the clothesline, sleeping and shivering, was a tiny little black-and-tan Kelpie pup. It opened its eyes as she approached and sleepily got to its feet. She talked softly to it as she untangled its lead, taking in the little tan paws and the pulse of fear and uncertainty that ran through its body. She scooped it up: it was a female, she noted, and beautifully bred too. The pup snuggled into her arms.
As Bec entered the homestead, she could hear the sounds of Charlie and Murray hollering and laughing. Then came high-pitched peals of Ben’s laughter. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the old hallway, annoyed at the time. It was a school night. Ben’s first day back tomorrow after a long stint away.
Pushing open the kitchen door, Bec found the men, and Ben standing small before them, mirroring their stance. His eyes were bright and he was holding onto a small black plastic remote-control box. Every now and then Ben would press a button and laugh hysterically as Charlie convulsed around the kitchen, yelling and jerking, reaching for his throat.
‘Turn it down, you little bastard!’ Charlie screamed, although laughing at the same time. ‘Stop, Ben!’
‘Try it on three! Set it on three!’ yelled Murray to Ben above the music. ‘Up him!’
On the kitchen bench, Bec saw the opened box of an electric dog-collar kit. She marched over and turned the stereo off with an angry jab.
‘What the hell?’ said Charlie suddenly when he saw the fury on Rebecca’s face.
During the awkward gaping silence, Ben hit the button again. Charlie leaped. ‘Argh! Turn it off now, Ben! Mum’s home.’ This time the play was gone from his voice.
Rebecca looked at the box and to Charlie again. He knew she was dead against electric collars. She maintained they tortured dogs, not trained them. It wasn’t the dogs’ fault Charlie couldn’t become a better animal handler. How could he inflict such a regime on his poor old dog, Stripes? And possibly this new pup, if that’s what his intention was? He knew that Bec had lobbied hard to ban companies from exhibiting the collars at the local Bendoorin Show — she had inspired the show committee to invite dog-handling expert and former shearer Ian O’Connell to give humane training advice.
Suddenly she’d had enough of Charlie’s cruelty and dominance and the way he trampled over her every belief — not to mention him encouraging Ben on the same path. Where was his empathy? Where were his humility and kindness? He was unwilling to take responsibility for his attitudes and actions. Not just to the animals, and not just to her, but to the land as well. She felt a power within her rise up. Like the wings of an angel at her back.
She grabbed the electric collar’s remote from Ben, opened up the woodstove that was quietly smouldering and threw it in. Stooped over, with the pup under one arm, she struggled to shut the old unhinged door.
‘God, I wish you would fix this stupid thing,’ she said when she gave the door a furious shove and it closed with a clunk and a cloud of ash.
‘That collar cost me a hundred and fifty bucks!’ Charlie said. ‘And I’ll need it for the pup!’
‘I don’t give a fat rats!’ Rebecca said. ‘You don’t deserve to have a dog in your life, the way you treat them! The way you shot mine without even talking to me about it!’
‘I think you’d better go, Muzz,’ Charlie growled as he began undoing the electric collar from his neck. ‘I’m about to get a bollocking.’
Rebecca narrowed her eyes.
‘Right-e-ho,’ Muzz said, rubbing his hands together. ‘See you then.’ And he was out the door as fast as a shorn wether out the gate.
‘Ben, it’s bedtime,’ Rebecca said quietly. ‘Upstairs. Quick sticks. I’ll be along to tuck you in soon. Here, here’s some jarmies.’ She tugged some flannel PJs from the old wooden clotheshorse that was still in the same place as it had been the day of Archie’s accident and passed them to him.
‘Aw! But, Mu—’ he began, coming over to stroke the pup’s ears.
She raised an index finger at him, bent down and looked him in the eye. ‘Stop! No buts. Just do it, thank you.’
Ben sulked out of the kitchen, but she knew he’d climb the creaking stairs and make his way to the other end of the big old house to his room. She knew he didn’t really want to stay up to see his parents fight.
Rebecca sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, the pup on her lap. Behind her a tap dripped into a sink that was laden with dirty dishes from Charlie’s days of batching. She saw the pot she’d been washing on the day of Archie’s accident, still crusted with old beef stew.
‘We were just having a bit of fun, Rebecca! Or is that something that you’ve forgotten?’ he said.
‘For god’s sake, Charlie. You’re drunk. Again. And to teach Ben that shit. Electric collars. I mean, come on. Can you not see I’ve had enough?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have had enough! Of you. Of me. Of us.’
‘It’s only a dog collar, Bec.’
‘It’s not only a dog collar. It’s everything. Everything! I mean, look, out there! The silage pit. The ploughed paddocks. You don’t listen to a goddamn word I say! And you know what else? You have no respect for me!’
‘I think you’ll find you don’t have any respect for me! Why do you think we’re in the shit like this? It’s because of you. You’re permanently in bitch mode.’
Rebecca tried to ignore his jab. She breathed in deeply, then delivered the words that had been caught in her heart for so long. ‘It’s time for you to leave, Charlie. Go back to your family. Get off Waters Meeting. Go!’
She detected a flinch in him, then he stood straighter, his voice louder. ‘I won’t leave. I’ve invested too much into this place.’
‘Invested? Is that what I am to you? An investment? Fuck off, Charlie.’
He stood before her, fists clenched, brows pulled down over his green eyes. She could tell he was trying not to waver from the dozens of beers he and Muzz must have put away.
‘For fuck’s sake, Charlie, it’s up to you to work out why there’s such a void inside you. Stop blaming me for the crap in your life. You’ve ignored me for years. You edged me out as soon as the boys came along. You spend thousands and thousands on toys for yourself and cut up sick when Ben needs something for school. You shat in your own nest. With that Janine. Now go build a fucking silage pit on your father’s farm.’
Charlie was clearly at a loss — he’d been used to Rebecca’s silence. For years she’d zipped her lips, not saying much beyond some whingey protests. Now here she was, howling like a wrung-out feral cat, trying to kick him out.
‘I won’t go. You want changes around here? I’ll make changes. I’ve already dug a grave for those sad-arse old horses you’ve had hanging on here, costing us a fortune.’
The Farmer's Wife Page 18