The Farmer's Wife

by Rachael Treasure

  The horse didn’t seem to mind the feel of the strange gear when Bec threw on the saddle blanket, cinched the girth and clipped on the crupper and the breastplate. The old saddle and dirty saddlecloth looked far too grotty on such a tremendous animal. Even worse was the bridle, which looked so worn and brittle that the reins might snap at even the lightest pull.

  But there was no time to fuss. Rebecca, hot-headed and flushed with a quiet anger and confusion over all that was happening, led the mare about the round yard. She flapped each stirrup leather noisily against the saddle pads to test the mare’s tolerance. Standing at her shoulders, she asked the mare to flex her head around with each rein. She obeyed perfectly. And then Rebecca swung on, carefully avoiding the bulge of her pregnant belly, giving the mare a few turns of the yard in both directions, first at a walk, then a trot, then a calm lope.

  Bec instantly relished in the amazing lightness of such a well-schooled creature. She was rock solid.

  After a time, she side-passed to the yard gate, lifted the latch, swung the gate open and with one sound of a kiss opened the mare up to a loose-rein lope across the river flat towards the mountain that lay beneath the bright shine of a waning moon that was rising before the sun had yet set.

  As she rode, the thought of her unborn child passed through her mind. She could feel that they were both safe on this mare. Sol had chosen well. She felt a gratitude rise in her and a flash of intense love … then intense guilt. As she settled at a canter, she felt joy for the fact her baby was riding with her for the first time. She had ridden often when pregnant with her first baby, Ben. Why not ride with this one?

  She thought she would ride as far as the river, then turn around, but something within her made her want to keep going. How long had it been since she’d been on a horse? How long since she’d had any kind of solitude? Or how long since she’d splashed across the river and ridden the trail up the mountain to the hut? The mare only gave one snort as she dropped her head to peer at the darkened river crossing, but then she plunged in. Bec pulled her feet from the stirrups and lifted her legs a little to avoid her boots getting wet. Ears cast forwards, the mare picked her way steadily over rocks, then eagerly climbed the bank on the other side with minimal effort. Rebecca wasn’t sure where Sol had bought the mare, but she was clearly experienced and a pure joy. She ran her hand over her beautiful neck and kissed her on again.

  It didn’t take long to reach the first ledge. Rebecca knew she was lucky to have the moon. It was so strong it created a faint halo of light on the domes of the mountains as it rose in the blue-black sky. She pulled up for a moment and stroked the mare’s neck. Should she head back down to the homestead, which she could see off in the distance? Andrew had turned on the kitchen lights and she could just make out the faint trail of white smoke from the revived woodfire.

  He’ll be all right alone with the boys, she thought. For the moment she just couldn’t face going back there. She didn’t want to lie awake in her old marital bed, with Andrew sleeping in the spare room, while all the while Sol was somewhere on the other side of the world feeling hurt by her. She didn’t want the weight of the old homestead with all its ghosts and memories pressing down on her as she replayed over and over in her head the fact she was about to lose Waters Meeting at the hand of her long-dead father, her brother and her estranged husband, while her mother stood mute and watched. She didn’t want to accept the devastating fact that in the months Charlie had been gone, he had not made an effort to see his boys, yet he was willing to drop everything and come to Waters Meeting with Mick if it meant sinking Rebecca on the farm.

  No, she thought, I’m not going back tonight. On an impulse, she urged the mare on, up the mountain. How many times, she thought, have I run away? Like the time she’d cleared out north from her father. Or in a blind rush of disappointments felled and burned down the pines after Tom’s death. And then, recently, buried the plough. She realised her patterns of reaction had to stop. If she was to transcend where and who she was in life, she had to respond differently to life’s pressures. But surely she could have just one night in the hut? One night alone.

  She told herself, this time, I am not running away. She was taking time out to think. She reached into her coat pocket for her phone. She knew a stump on the rock plateau on the next zig-zag up on the track that offered one bar of reception. As she neared it, she steered Miss Luella to its side and the mare stood obediently as Rebecca scrabbled from the horse and onto the stump, then sent Andrew a quick text.

  Need to camp at hut tonight. Sorry. See you first light. Please watch boys. Will be home before they wake. She pressed the send button, then swung her leg back over the saddle.

  Her phone beeped a reply text. OK, no worries, was all Andrew sent back.

  ‘Good girl,’ she said to the mare and again stroked her as she settled back into the saddle. ‘You are magic. I think I’m falling in love with you.’

  It was much darker by the time she reached the hut. The moon offered a little assistance on the trail in between the white trunks of ghostly gums and the mare was sure-footed on the track. The moonlight glinted off the corrugated-iron roof.

  Charlie and Murray had replaced the old tin the summer before on one of their boozy shooting weekends. Rebecca hadn’t seen it since: she hadn’t been to the hut in years. Before the boys came, she would sometimes ride up with Charlie, checking the cattle on the summer runs. They would camp in the hut, throw partially defrosted chops on the barbecue, happily down a can or two of Bundy, then cuddle up in the swag. Charlie would soon be snoring, but Rebecca always lay awake in the hut, listening to the whispers of Tom who, at one time, his darkest time, had sought refuge here.

  After seeing to the mare in the night yard, Rebecca dumped the saddle down on the verandah. She lifted the latch on the door, surprised to find it was new. Small touches that somehow eroded the strength of Tom’s memory. She was grateful Charlie had done some work on the hut, but when she struck a match and lit a few candles, then ignited the glowing kerosene lamp, her gratitude became tainted, even tortured.

  The light revealed Muzz and Charlie had plastered the hut walls with girlie pictures from pornographic magazines. A pyramid of beer cans was stacked to the roof in one corner. Charlie had made this his male domain. As she cast the lamplight around the room, Rebecca felt reduced. His reach was still so powerful into her psyche. She looked at the faces of the women, who pouted full lips, thrust out their backsides or lifted their breasts up. Some lay back in high-heeled shoes, their legs spread, their vaginas and puckered arses waxed and bleached back to childhood. She felt humiliated. She had given this man children. Given away her own body for their family … to become a mother, and this was Charlie’s answer to her devotion. This was his tribute to her womanhood?

  Why had Charlie had to do this to Tom’s place? Why had he had to do it to her? Why did so many men not see the impact and the insult? She felt tears rise again and the baby inside her kicked. She stooped, lit the woodheater and started to tear down the images of the women, burning them one by one.

  When she got to one rough-sawn post and began to rip away yet another porno page, she knew what she would find beneath. She was crying before her fingertips found what she was searching for. The initials carved deep in the wood. Her grandfather, her father, then of course the initials belonging to her and Tom.

  ‘Help me,’ she said as she leaned her forehead against the post, meeting with the indented carvings made so long ago by Tom. She began to sob, her knees giving way. She allowed her body to slide onto the cool damp floor, her back held rigid by the post. She hugged her knees to her chest and let the tears flow. As she gazed into the roaring flames of the woodheater, she saw the women burning, the corners of the pages where their images were trapped curling up in the inferno. The women were screaming, then bursting into stellar orange flames, then fading to black.

  She thought of all the women in history who had been burned at the hands of men. Men who feared their p
ower.

  As the frenzy of the fire settled into a lull, Rebecca saw the face of Tom in the dark recesses of the heater. His features were a blend of shadow and fire, but as the flames leaped and danced, sometimes Rebecca found a steadier, clearer view. To her horror, she saw on his face the devastation she was feeling: he was crying too.

  Thirty-nine

  Stiff from cold, Rebecca woke from a shattered night of sleep. She was glad to hear the first bird call on the edge of dawn and felt a deep longing to see her children. She got up from where she had dragged a camp-bed mattress and blanket in front of the now dead fire and stretched her aching body. Wearily she pulled on her dogger boots, tidied up a bit in the hut, then, dragging her jacket more tightly around her, went out to saddle the mare.

  By the time she was heading across the mountain plain, the sunrise was well on its way and beginning to drape colour onto the treetops. Despite the turmoil of thoughts that still swam in her head, she couldn’t help but feel the joy of the horse beneath her. What a sure-footed, sure-minded, magnificent creature. But then trudging through her mind came Charlie and Mick. She could feel them on their way. Charlie would’ve stayed the night in the city, Trudy fussing over him at dinnertime, then they would be setting off by now. Filled with camaraderie at the ‘task’ they had ahead of them. Was Charlie even thinking about the little boys he seemed to have abandoned to her care?

  She thought of Evie and how she advocated that ‘you reap what you sow’. Why was it that Rebecca felt she had only ever put forth love and a driven passion for her family and her farm, and yet here she was on the outer of it all? She felt her father’s reach. It was as if he was sending his henchmen to do his dirty work. He’d never wanted her to have the farm. What would Evie advise? she thought desperately as she wove her way down the track.

  The morning sun was now turning the understorey of the bush a deep silver. She suddenly recognised within herself a damaging core belief: that she didn’t deserve the best in life. What if that was the very thing that kept tripping her up? The belief that she didn’t deserve?

  But hadn’t Evie also said, ‘There are nasty, greedy bastards in the world.’ What did you do when you woke up and discovered they are not just in your world, they are in your very own family? She knew what Evie would say. It was hard to swallow. Evie would say to practise being grateful for the ‘nasty bastards’ and send them love anyway, for it was only through their greed and unkindness that they were showing her the way to a better life of being forgiving and loving, particularly to herself. It was a tough concept to take on board. Particularly today. She wound her fingers in the mare’s flaxen mane for warmth and breathed in the sweet scent of the bush.

  As the track dipped away beneath her, then rolled up another rise, Bec pressed the mare into a jog, turning Evie’s philosophies around in her head. On the flat rock plateau above the valley of Waters Meeting, Rebecca sat back in the saddle and the mare abruptly stopped. Both horse and rider cast their gaze out to what was in front of them.

  The valley swept off into the distance, split by two rivers like the forked tongue of a snake. When the rivers merged, they widened and the Rebecca River continued, ribboning along fertile flats. The homestead sat to the southwest and Bec watched as the sun cleared the mountain and began to illuminate the blank faces of the windows of the house. It was hard to know what decisions the men would bring to the table, but Rebecca had the feeling the property was about to slip right through her fingers. She clenched her jaw so tightly her skull felt a split of pain run up and over it. Should I have been able to remain silent in the thankless role of the farmer’s wife, she thought bitterly, the property would have remained the same.

  She resolved to fight them today. To make sure Waters Meeting would not be carved up and sold out from under her boys and the baby within her. She pressed the mare on and descended the track.

  The dodgy old woodstove was lively and Andrew had already found his way around the kitchen. Porridge was gently geysering in a cast-iron saucepan on the edge of the stove top. A silver pot of tea was by its side. Rebecca was about to turn from the kitchen to seek him out when she heard him on the stairs. He had his bag in his hand and was looking at her with an expression of concern and also one of slight embarrassment. He came to her.

  ‘All OK?’ he asked, taking in her tired eyes and messy hair and her nose, slightly reddened from the cold of the dawn.

  She nodded, but her eyes remained haunted.

  ‘Come. Have breakfast with me. I’ve got to get on the road in about twenty minutes. Frank and Gabs want me to stay with them tonight so I can explain their soil tests to them.’

  She felt his quiet energy as he led her to the kitchen, stood beside her and drizzled honey over her porridge. He passed her a cup of tea.

  ‘I’m sorry this has happened,’ he said.

  Rebecca smiled gently. ‘I should’ve seen it coming, but I just couldn’t face it, I guess.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to call Sol back? He could help.’

  She paused before she answered. ‘No. It’s not his business.’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘I was brave enough at least to ask you for help. You need to do the same.’ He moved away, dishing up his own bowl of porridge and sitting across from her at the large wooden kitchen table. ‘What time do they get here?’

  Rebecca shrugged.

  ‘What will you do?’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘I opted not to change my schedule. So I didn’t crowd you. But I put in some calls and got onto Gabs. Frank and Dennis will happily modify the machine for you. Frank’s modified one himself, and the Groggans are doing the same, so they’ll be over next week. I’ve also contacted Evie and Yazzie about the meeting today. I hope you don’t mind. Evie’s all ready to mind Archie for the day. She said you send him in on the school bus to her from time to time.’

  Rebecca nodded gratefully, a little sad Andrew was leaving. ‘Oh, Andrew. Thank you. You are the best!’

  He looked at her sympathetically. ‘I fly out to LA at the end of the week and then on to Montana. My offer still stands. You could come on board as a project manager. We’d pay you good Bernard Truman kind of money. We’re searching now for someone. The speaking circuit will run for a year, then if the movie funding comes on line, we could be looking at extending to a two-year project. Your role could be carried out mostly from the Montana ranch. It’s amazing. Like a village. You and your little family are welcome.’

  Rebecca thought of the passports that lay in a folder in the farm office. She’d been so excited when the boys’ navy-blue books had arrived with their cute little photos, trying so hard to look serious. She’d been attempting to arrange a trip away as a family. To Bali? Or Fiji? A package tour. Anything. Anywhere. But then Charlie had put the knockers on it.

  The passports had been a waste of time and money.

  ‘Impossible,’ Bec said.

  ‘Nothing’s impossible.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Andrew, but thank you.’

  ‘The Trumans would welcome you on their ranch. They have any number of houses. Saying they’re not short of a dollar is an understatement. Bernard Truman and his wife are big-time movie producers. Big ideas and big Montana hearts. It’d be exciting work for you — Bernard is somewhat of a philanthropist and a Hollywood A-lister. And he’s keen to get the soils message out to the world. He’d love you on board. There’s even a ranch school for the kids.’

  Rebecca stared down at the bowl of porridge, knowing she ought to eat, but feeling disoriented and ill. ‘Thank you. But I couldn’t. I can’t leave this place.’

  Andrew fell silent and got on with his breakfast.

  A little while later, Rebecca stood outside the back gate. Andrew bent to give Funny a pat.

  ‘Thanks for having me,’ he said, glancing up at her.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been a little rattled,’ she said. She reached up to hug him goodbye and he stooped and kissed her softly on the cheek.

  �
��Good luck,’ he said, ‘I’m here for you. Always remember that. Call me any time. And stop apologising.’

  Watching him drive away, Rebecca felt a bitter wind get up in a gust, blasting the loose strands of hair from her forehead. She wrapped her arms about herself and, frowning, went back inside the empty kitchen and began to wash up Andrew’s bowl. Never had she felt so alone.

  It wasn’t long until Ben and Archie were thudding sleepily down the stairs and pressuring some normality into her morning. As Bec rushed to get Ben ready for school and Archie ready for a day at Evie’s shop, she felt a dull panic begin to wrap itself around her. Mick and Charlie were on their way to take Waters Meeting from her.

  Forty

  They arrived around eleven-thirty. Mick clambered out of a fat-cat four-wheel drive and Charlie, who had obviously put on an extra few kilos from his mother’s cooking, got out too and stretched. Rebecca watched them from the kitchen window, feeling distaste and a distance of a million light years. It was odd seeing Charlie back here again, and her mother-bear hackles rose at the thought of him not seeing the boys all these months. He could’ve called in to see Ben at school and Archie at Evie’s if he’d been interested, but clearly he was not.

  Mick walked to the back door of the vehicle and dragged out a briefcase. He looked ridiculous in his crease-proof beige chino trousers, boating shoes and a big expensive navy jumper, all teamed oddly with Blues Brothers sideburns. His hair was long and wavy, receding slightly on either side of his forehead. His skin looked marshmallowish: puffy and white.

  Rebecca hadn’t seen Mick out on Waters Meeting since three Christmases back. He got bored here. The reception on his phone wasn’t strong enough, a fact of which he often complained. It meant he missed work calls. Trudy too was always reluctant to come. She stressed over every little danger on the farm with Danny and David and always insisted they take off home a night or so earlier than planned. The more the boys grew into surly teenagers, the less their parents liked to share car travel time with them. Rebecca turned to heave the woodstove door open and stoke up the fire. She then dropped the hissing kettle onto the hob to make them a cuppa. Isn’t that what you do for family who are about to unravel your entire life? she thought sarcastically. Give them a cup of tea?