The Farmer's Wife

by Rachael Treasure

  She held onto Archie’s hand and Ben crouched at her boots, soothing the hesitant Kelpie pup. It didn’t matter that Charlie wanted to remain away on his family farm, nor that he wanted a divorce and settlement so suddenly. All that mattered was that she was here now with her boys and her baby within. All that there was, was this moment, now. It was Bendoorin Show day! That in itself was the greatest thing! It was time to have fun!

  Thirty-one

  Shelves of perfectly preserved fruit, frilly-capped jars of raspberry, blackberry and apricot jam, and exquisite cakes and slices all crowded the display areas in the Home Industries shed at the Bendoorin Show. Some jars wore blue ribbons and rosettes with gold lettering, others wore red ones, with third-place getters in white. The organisers, made up of the new wave of rather sexy thirty-something Country Women’s Association members in winter long boots, black tights and short skirts, teamed with colourful ‘Best in Show’ aprons, were overseeing the whole affair.

  The general public peered at the photo competition display boards, admiring the winners, picking their own favourites and promising themselves they’d put in an entry next year. Others strolled past the flower arranging, knitting and crocheting sections. But it was obvious where the main attention was, judging by the hub of people clustered around the exhibit of the inaugural Man Cake competition. Clearly farming men had gone to a lot of trouble. Some had borrowed recipes from their wives for the more traditional fruitcake, or a difficult chocolate cake. Others, bravely, had tackled the extremely complex but impressive sponge cake, made all the more yellow by free-range, farm-fresh eggs. But only a few had taken on the Aussie lamb promotion theme for the competition as inspiration for decoration.

  Sol’s ‘chop cake’ was a stand-out in the humorous category with its pink icing and swirls of white ‘fat’ and toothpick Aussie flag. It was getting a lot of laughs from the crowd drifting through the shed. Next to Sol’s entry was Frank’s cake: a giant rectangle of bright green icing, fenced off with plastic farm rails, inside which plastic sheep grazed. Candy’s husband, Brian Brown from the store, had iced his cake as the Australian flag and had set barbecue tongs on top, while Doreen’s husband, Dennis Groggan, had borrowed his granddaughter’s Barbie doll and placed her in a cake skirt. Barbie was decked out in a striped butcher’s apron, holding up a plasticine chop and a mini spatula. Rebecca and the boys laughed. All in all, the category was causing quite a sensation. A film crew from a Sydney cooking show was already bustling in and parting the crowds like Moses’s waters with their bright lights and cameras.

  The show committee had spent every last cent of their budget to ship Sam Kekovich of ‘We love our lamb’ fame in to judge the event, so they would be well pleased with the coverage, and now next year there’d be enough in the budget to invite country-boy cricketer Glenn McGrath, who most of the women on the committee had a thing for.

  Later that night, Sam Kekovich would be guest speaker at the wool growers’ fashion parade and cocktail party. There was an excited buzz in the crowd as they watched Sam pass with the film crew in tow. His Man Cake duty done, he was already being whisked away by the ladies to the luncheon room, where the CWA was dishing him up soup, sandwiches and richly thick cups of tea out of a gigantic metal teapot that looked as if it had arrived with the First Fleet.

  Sam had awarded first place to Dennis Groggan’s Barbie cake, which Rebecca was sure Doreen had made. Sol’s ‘chop cake’, the funniest and most artistic of all the entries, had received not just second place, but also the special People’s Choice Award.

  Rebecca knew Sol would get more of a thrill out of this award than some of his father’s high-pressure, adrenaline-generating business dealings, or from the orchestra applause that smattered like rain around Parisian concert halls. Earlier that week on the phone, Sol had animatedly said how the competition was ‘Ingenious!’ and would help spark a new era for the local Bendoorin Show and CWA.

  ‘It shows such Australian rural cultural cleverness!’ he’d said. ‘That’s what I love about being raised in Spain, but having an Australian father — I am distant enough from it to see the uniqueness of it! And the madness! Es locura!’

  Rebecca had smiled sleepily as she lay in bed listening to Sol’s voice, the tones of Spain making her swoon, telling herself to keep her feet on the ground. ‘We do love to take the piss out of ourselves,’ she agreed.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I love so much about you. And the team in our stables, and living at Rivermont. The cities across the world are far too Americanised. I see it in the corporate people who work for my father. Especially the women. They think they must look a certain way, because they see the American glamour on the TV. They think that is the benchmark for beauty. But it’s women like you, bonita, earthwoman, that make the world rich.’

  Rebecca had shifted a little uncomfortably and brushed his praises away. She knew she was too rough and basic for him. In Sydney, in Paris, in Madrid, in his mother’s artistic circles, he was surrounded by all those sleek beauties. She’d begun to feel a little insecure and inadequate, but what did it matter? Sol was just a friend. And that’s all it could be. It was all she would allow it to be. Oblivious to Bec’s thoughts running riot, Sol had kept on talking.

  ‘A man cooking a cake wouldn’t have the same undertones in the city, as being a foodie is a trend here,’ Sol went on, ‘but in Bendoorin, your people live in the heart of conservative farming culture. The Man Cake is a giant pun. I love it.’

  Rebecca knew Amanda Arnott from the pub and Candy from the store, who had come up with the idea, were just as pleased. They were crossing the conventions of all the Country Women’s Association Home Industry sections, but also breathing new life into what was a dying section of the show. Entries were up across all areas. And there was a resurgence in Home Industries across the board, as if the world was waking up to the benefits of simple country-style living. The CWA was back and basking in its renaissance. The media were lapping it up.

  Just as she looked more closely at the cake, someone nudged her shoulder.

  ‘Isn’t it magnífico?’ Sol was looking at her, smiling warmly. He was utterly out of place here at the country show, in his charcoal denim pants, tight black woollen skivvy with groovy silver zip at the neck and pointy Italian shoes. His black hair, which was greying slightly at the sides, was flopping over the excited shine in his dark chocolate eyes. Rebecca couldn’t help but beam back at him as the kids squealed in delight to see him.

  ‘People’s Choice!’ he said, indicating the ribbon. ‘That is better than getting first!’

  He was so lit up. It’s as if he’s won some prestigious orchestral music award, Bec thought, amused. ‘Yes, I saw. Brilliant!’

  He bear-hugged the kids, then turned so he looked directly into Bec’s eyes. ‘I have missed you so much, mi amigo especial.’

  Rebecca baulked for a moment, glancing around the crowd. The way he delivered the words so passionately and intensely was like a performance from an Antonio Banderas love scene in a movie. His manner caught her off guard.

  He pointed to his cheek. ‘You must give a congratulatory kiss, for this Man Cake man, sí?’ he said in his sexy accent.

  Rebecca’s eyes darted around the Home Industries pavilion. Should she be kissing him in this small-town public space with her boys right next to her and so soon after her husband had left? She hesitated for a little too long, uncertainty flashing on her face. Sol caught her hesitation. A look of hurt momentarily passed across his face. He narrowed his eyes at her wariness. Gently he moved the boys out of his space and back to stand beside their mother. He leaned towards her and, in a frustrated whisper, said, ‘You are worried that there is more than just cake judging going on?’

  His expression was that of challenge. Rebecca felt her cheeks flush from his nearness, but she still could not shake the feeling that all the other women were watching. And yes, judging. Before she could think of anything to say, the film crew was moving over, asking Sol for a quick comment
about his cake and the People’s Choice Award.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘My cake commitments call.’ He bent and gave her a kiss anyway, and Rebecca was left standing there, wondering why she felt as if the earth had tilted suddenly and the room had just spun full circle.

  Later that afternoon, eating hot chips with tomato sauce, Rebecca, Archie and Ben sat high on the grandstand watching sheep being paraded onto vibrant green lawn-look carpet for the Merino ram supreme championship ribbon of the show. Rebecca remembered the years when it was a massively prestigious event and the pavilion was packed with studs vying for the big ribbon. Nowadays, since the wool industry had taken a slide and many of the producers had switched to meat sheep production, the show had a ‘has been’ feel to it.

  The remaining exhibitors were the true stayers of the industry. Even the younger men, in their twenties, were dressed as though they were from another era. Rebecca knew their faith and passion in the production of wool was sometimes the only thing that kept them going. Other times it was their stubborn clinging to the past and traditions. Still, the sheep that were turned out today were spectacular animals. The rams were standing tall and proud with curled horns; they were groomed to perfection. And, for Rebecca, there was nothing like wool and the whole process of growing it — it was the ultimate natural fibre. She had begged Charlie to keep a core mob of Merino ewes for wool instead of swapping all their enterprises over to meat sheep.

  ‘I like that one the best,’ said Ben, pointing to the ram on the end.

  ‘He’s my pick too. Take note which stud he’s from. You can take on the ram buying for Mummy if you like.’

  Ben looked up at her with surprise. ‘But I’m too little to buy a ram!’

  ‘Nah! If you’re keen on something, it doesn’t matter what age you are. I’ll help you buy him if you like.’

  ‘But Daddy wouldn’t let us.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy-schmaddy. He’s not here to say what we can and can’t do. Times have changed, Ben. I want you boys to make your own way on Waters Meeting if you want. It’ll be all different from now on. It’ll be fun. You’ll see. You and Archie are in charge of the farm with me now.’

  Ben’s eyes slid back to the big ram on the end of the line-up and Rebecca could sense the thoughts in his mind flowing fast. His eyes looked alive with excitement. She felt his small hand reach for hers and he squeezed.

  ‘Thank you, Mummy.’

  Farming, she thought, it’s in the blood. How often was it considered a curse? It was time to see the boys’ heritage as a positive, not a negative. Then a cloud crossed her mind, the cloud of Charlie’s words this morning: ‘A lawyer will be in touch about what I get out of the farm.’

  Could he not see the place was not his to own, but merely one to caretake for the next generation and so on? Waters Meeting didn’t even belong to Rebecca. Andrew had made her see that concept clearly. They stood on a continent that was thirty million years old! How could anyone ‘own’ a patch of it? The land owned them. Surely Charlie could see that, and even in his greed would not distort what was best for his boys?

  ‘Hello, MILFy,’ came the cheeky voice of Joey in Bec’s ear. He was sliding in beside Rebecca, sitting far too close to her and looking far too hot for his own good, in jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt and cowboy boots. His hair was all spiked with product, and he smelled like he’d not just sprayed but dowsed himself with Brut.

  He elbowed her. ‘You coming to the cocktail party later? We can do the wild thing on the dance floor if you like. I can show you my moves. Bit of bump and grind.’ He waggled his eyebrows.

  Bec pulled her eyes away from him and focused on the rams, one of which was about to be awarded the ribbon. The noise from the crowd had died a little as the anticipation of the moment built. Rebecca hoped the locals weren’t watching her. Then she thought of Sol and her caution in even an innocent kiss. When would she stop worrying about what other people thought around here? It was as if she’d taken ten steps backwards being out like this in Bendoorin. She turned to Joey and smiled.

  ‘I think Yazzie is keen for us to go. She’s even lined up Evie as a babysitter and got me a party frock. So, I guess, we’re on!’

  ‘So we’re on? Like as in a date?’

  Bec tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. ‘A date? If you don’t mind, Joey, just a mate’s date I think.’

  Joey mirrored her quizzical head tilt and narrowed his eyes. A moment passed where a look of disappointment crossed his face, but then changed to his standard expression of a larrikin.

  ‘Ooh!’ he said, way too loudly. ‘I think someone is over her toy boy. I think someone may have a crush on the boss man!’

  ‘No, I don’t!’ Bec protested.

  Joey began jabbing her in the ribs with his index fingers, teasing, ‘Do so. Do so.’

  ‘Do not! Don’t be a git, Joey!’

  Next he was standing and doing a happy dance, circling his arms about in front of his hips and wiggling his bottom. ‘Rebecca’s in lerve! Rebecca’s in lerve! With her heart and Sol!’ He clamped his hand to his chest.

  ‘For god’s sake, Joey, sit down and shut up,’ said Rebecca, dragging at his arm as people turned to look, some in blank mild interest, others with amusement.

  He waggled his eyebrows in the air. ‘I reckon the feeling’s mutual! He’s been acting all funny since the day you turned up at Rivermont. Go on. Give him a go.’

  ‘Joey! Shush!’ Bec said, her cheeks colouring.

  ‘That man’s been like an older brother to me. I’m hotter of course, but it’s your choice to go for an old man. I reckon it’s great.’ He gave her the double thumbs-up, then delivered her a big kiss on her cheek and gave each of the boys, who were now giggling profusely, a high five.

  ‘You have one hot mama, kids!’ he said to them, before turning to her, eyes bright. ‘See you later, Princess Playgirl!’ He winked, cocked a gun and fired it at his heart. ‘She is one prowly, growly cougar!’

  And with that he was gone, leaving Rebecca red-faced before the judge, who was glaring at her.

  The judge clicked on the microphone with a loud clunk and in a formal voice proceeded to announce the supreme champion ram of the show.

  Thirty-two

  Later that night in the sheep show pavilion, whippet-thin fashion models sashayed down the red carpet to pumping music, their cheekbones white under the bright lights, their hungry eyes hiding in shadowed hollows. The girls, shipped in from Sydney, were strutting the latest Merino creations from Australia’s top fashion houses while many of the country men ogled from the crowd. Bec, who was standing next to Joey, watched him glance up from his beer.

  ‘Some of ‘em could do with a decent feed,’ he said.

  Rebecca was surprised. For all his flirtatiousness, she thought he’d be drooling with desire and making lascivious comments like the bulk of the men in the room. ‘But they look gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Not like us fatty-boomba average women!’ She tugged at her dress.

  Joey shook his head. ‘Genetic freaks, they are. Not my idea of a woman.’

  He ran his hand along the sway of Rebecca’s back as she stood in a silver figure-hugging stretchy, strapless dress Yazzie had lent her and in which she had felt oversized when her friend had drawn the zip closed with a determined yank.

  ‘I love curves,’ Joey said. ‘And you, my cougar princess, are the most beautiful woman here. You look very sixties Bond girl. Well, at least like a Bond girl with a bun in the oven. Wait till the boss sees you!’

  ‘Oh, shush you on the Sol thing!’

  ‘You love it,’ he teased.

  Bec smiled at Joey, grateful for his companionship and compliments. Up until a few months ago, she had felt invisible to men, covered in a gauze of motherhood and domesticity. Maybe it was some pregnancy pheromone or something, but she definitely felt more attractive than she ever had before. With Joey leaning close, she glanced about, still a little uncomfortable that every single one of Charlie’s mates would be watch
ing her, maybe reporting to him on their phones. Was she being paranoid? They were, after all, just friends.

  Just as she thought that, Murray wove past in the crowd. ‘Being a good girl?’ he asked with an accusing leer.

  She just gave him an uncertain smile back.

  ‘How’s that pup going?’ His tone had an edge to it. Definitely one of Charlie’s allies. Not that she wanted to war with anyone.

  ‘Yes and fine. Thank you, Muzz.’

  She glanced apologetically at Joey, then excused herself and took herself off to the ladies’, tip-toeing in Yazzie’s heels away from the buzzing, noisy party-shed and into the darkness. She walked across the grass to an ugly grey showground toilet block. Inside, she looked at her reflection. Yazzie had styled her hair up in what she thought was a rather over-the-top pony tail — yet, looking at it now, she did think it was rather wildly sexy. She remembered what Evie had said once, about trying to be an ‘observer of herself’, so that life didn’t just sweep her along.

  As she looked at her reflection, she decided to stand outside herself and see Rebecca Saunders from that viewpoint. It was there, beneath the flickering fluoro light, with a tap dripping into a rust-stained sink, that Bec discovered, for the first time in her life, that she was beautiful.

  Her inner critic had never allowed herself to see it. She had never wanted to see it. All her life she had so badly tried to fit into the world of rough, dusty farm work with the men, to be equal to her brothers, to get the same kind of recognition from her father.

  That way of being, she realised now, had made her hard. Shut her down. She saw she didn’t have to be so defensive and steely. It was possible to be feminine in that farming world. Memories of the star-dusted night sky at Deni came back to her. What had Joey seen in her that night that she had failed to see?

  Sure she was blonde, and thanks to the farm work her pecs seemed to keep her breasts in the right place, unlike some of the less active women her age. Since kicking Charlie out, she had shed kilos, so she now had a waist that curved nicely inwards from broad, toned shoulders. A lifetime of walking the hills at Waters Meeting meant her legs were strong too. She stepped back so she could see more of them in the soap-smattered mirror. Her legs looked good in high heels. Really good. How strange she had never truly seen herself before this time. Just quick and critical glances in the mirror at all her flaws, like the freckles on her nose, the too big hips, the flubbery mummy tummy. But tonight she saw something utterly different. Turning sideways, she ran her hand over the belly swelling over her baby. Dr Patkin was very pleased with how she was progressing. He’d even said half a glass of wine wouldn’t hurt on the odd occasion. She loved country doctors! As she headed back to the pavilion where the voices were getting more and more raucous, she thought one wouldn’t hurt.