by Maris Morton
‘What an awful thing to have happen,’ Mary said. She could imagine the scene. ‘Farms are such dangerous places, aren’t they. You hear of such terrible accidents.’
Janet nodded. ‘Vehicles, drowning in dams, fires … There are kiddies dying every year. We lose one all too often.’ Mary realised that by we she meant the Eticup school. Janet got up and started gathering their used crockery, stacking the saucers neatly. ‘Well, that’s the sad story of poor David. Now, you’d better get on if you’re going to the reserve before it gets dark.’
The ute parked outside had a metal cage on the back — for carrying sheep, Mary guessed — and it rattled as Cec drove down the track. Mary sat forward, taking everything in. They were passing through territory that was new to her. Eventually, they came to a wide gateway with a letterbox on a post to one side and a sign that said Downe Merinos. This must be what passed for a front gate.
Cec turned left and drove along the dirt road. He was a good driver, steady and deliberate, and after a while he slowed to a stop. ‘In there.’ He pointed towards the sea of low vegetation, most of it no more than shoulder high, stretching away as far as Mary could see. ‘You want to take a look? We mustn’t be long.’
Mary got out, her feet sinking in the loose sand. The air here was different, free from the smells of grass and sheep that pervaded Downe. Here there was a scent of honey, eucalyptus and damp earth. There was the sound, too, of bees. Birds darted about, hovering on fluttering wings and dipping their beaks into the flowers.
‘We can walk along the firebreak,’ Cec said, setting off along the strip of soft ploughed earth that ran parallel to the road. ‘Watch out for snakes. I’ll go first.’ He looked up at the sky, cloudy now. ‘Looks like it’s coming on to rain, better get a move on.’
Foliage in myriad forms ranged from almost grey, through khaki and bronze, to tender new green. The flowers — once she focused properly on them — were in every colour you could imagine, gold and purple, pink and white, scarlet and heavenly blue, in every odd and spiky and brush-like shape. Many of the bushes were bountifully in bud, not yet showing their colours. The ground under her feet crackled with dry leaves and last year’s wispy grass. There were tiny orchid-like flowers down among the litter, and she felt guilty when she accidentally trod on one.
This was a new world to Mary. ‘Was it all like this once?’ She waved a hand to indicate the countryside around them. From where she stood, she couldn’t see any cultivated land.
‘Originally, yes. Then the farmers cleared it to grow wheat, mainly. Some of these plants are poisonous to sheep, so they had to be got rid of. No fences, back in the early days. The Noongahs found plenty to live on around here.’
‘What are those blue flowers? I don’t think I’ve ever seen any flower so blue.’
‘They’re leschenaultias. Those over there are leschenaultias, too.’ He pointed to a circle of scarlet. ‘People called those ones lambs’ blood.’ Cec was watching her. ‘You do like them,’ he observed, satisfied. ‘Not just a tourist gawking as you drive past.’
‘They’re wonderful. There’s so much to see. I’ll have to come again.’ She looked around, stunned by the variety and complexity of this natural garden.
‘This is just the start of the season. It’ll get better from now on. I can lend you some books, if you like.’
‘Yes, thanks, Cec. That’d be great.’ A few drops of rain spattered cold on her face. ‘We’d better go now before we get soaked. If you’ll lend me some books, I’ll read up and come back another day.’
When they got back to Downe, Cec went in to fetch the books he’d offered.
‘Say thanks to Janet for me, will you?’
By the time she walked in the back door of the homestead, Mary felt as if she’d had some quality time off. The geography of the place was becoming clear, the history, and the pattern of the weather. And the people?
The smell of dust might be just about gone from the house, but there were still plenty of secrets.
11
MARY TOOK CLIO’S EVENING MEAL IN and found her sitting up, leafing through a magazine. When she closed it and laid it on the bed, Mary saw that it was something to do with rural women.
‘I don’t suppose you realise, but before’ — Clio hesitated and Mary understood her to be referring to her illness — ‘I used to do a lot of the work here. Bookwork, stud records, accounts … I’ve never driven a tractor or shorn a sheep, but then, neither has Paul. There was a write-up about me in this old magazine. I can remember the journalist coming out. God, it seems like another life.’
Clio took the tray from Mary, settled her knees under it, and picked up her knife and fork. ‘What have you made this time?’
‘Chicken croquettes.’
During the week, Mary had simmered the two old hens that Garth had sent over until they had given up much of their flavour to make a big pot of excellent stock. She’d stripped the flesh from the carcasses and minced it finely, then bound it with a stiff béchamel sauce flavoured with parsley, onion and lemon, formed it into cork shapes, which she’d then crumbed and fried. It was labour-intensive but worth it.
‘Croquettes! Heavens, Mary, what a treasure you are. Did you buy a chicken?’
‘No, they came from Garth. We can have chicken soup next week. Jewish penicillin. That should have you up and about in no time.’
But Clio had started to eat and wasn’t paying attention to Mary.
That evening’s piano playing was a success, with the scales and ‘Für Elise’ coming back to her more easily. After going through everything once, Mary opted to spend some time with Cec’s wildflower books. The kitchen was still warm from cooking, and she wouldn’t be interrupted. As she studied the pictures, she marvelled at the variety of forms, using scraps of paper to mark the pages showing flowers that she’d be likely to find tomorrow in the reserve.
AS IT TURNED OUT, her research was a wasted effort. She woke on Sunday morning to the sound of rain pouring out of the gutters into the tanks and spattering the blades of the louvres in her room like birdshot. When she hurried outside to pick oranges, the rain stung her face.
‘You won’t be going to the reserve today, then,’ Clio said, accepting the juice.
‘I’d probably get blown off the bike. This is the nastiest day since I’ve been here.’
‘There could be snow on the Stirlings, then.’
‘What?’
‘Most winters we get a snowfall or two on the Stirlings.’
Mary tried to recall the maps she’d looked at before she’d flown down here. ‘How far away are they?’ The idea of snow falling in sunny Western Australia was a novel one.
‘Around twenty kilometres, as the crow flies. More than twice as far by road, though. They’re famous for wildflowers.’
‘Not near the coast?’ Mary said, remembering the blue hills she’d seen from the Piper on the way here.
‘No. Cec can tell you all about the geology, if you’re interested.’ Clio sipped her orange juice. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. ‘I had a bad night last night. I’d rather you didn’t go out today.’
‘Today should be my day off,’ Mary said.
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I don’t like being in the house by myself. Sometimes I get frightened. I know it’s silly.’ Clio tried to smile, but the attempt was a failure. The network of fine wrinkles on her face stood out like the creases in an ancient document.
Mary felt a stab of compassion. ‘That’s all right, Clio. I’ll be around.’
Clio finished her drink and handed the empty glass to Mary. ‘You’re a great comfort, Mary. I’m glad you’re here.’
Despite these moments of empathy, Mary was reluctant to take on the role of Clio’s prop and friend. After all, she was only being employed to get the homestead up to scratch; she wouldn’t be here forever. When Clio was better, she’d be able to resume a life that most women could only dream of: a leisured lifestyle in beautiful surroundings, and the mean
s to live with grace, not to mention the status of being part of a famous stud. Mary had her own life to lead, and it wouldn’t be in this remote part of the country.
‘I’ll be going over to see Gloria later,’ she said. Clio looked at her without expression. ‘I need to ask her about cooking for the shearers. They’ll be starting on Monday week and I’ll need to organise supplies.’
‘Why do you want to consult Gloria? I’ve done that job a hundred times.’
Mary was surprised. ‘Please tell me, then. I’ve never done it before.’
Clio sat up, turning carefully to adjust her pillows. ‘Give them plenty of meat. Roasts for dinner, leftovers in sandwiches for morning smoko. Pudding for dinner. Cakes for afternoon smoko.’
‘That’s all there is to it?’
‘Not quite. They start at seven so they’re hungry by morning smoko, and they like something substantial and preferably hot. Toasted sandwiches, hot scones …’
‘How about pizza?’
Clio gave the question a moment’s consideration. ‘That would probably be okay. Dinner’s sharp at twelve, afternoon smoko at three and they knock off at five. You must never be late. They get paid per sheep, and if they have to wait about for their meal it costs them money.’
Mary was taking all this in.
‘As for supplies, you’ll have to order in more meat, especially beef — get a hindquarter. Potatoes: they go through plenty of those. A mountain of sliced sandwich loaves, preferably white — yes, I know — and margarine, ice-cream, jelly crystals. You can get things from the baker — sweet buns and so on, don’t try to do it all yourself. If you’re not sure, ask Pauline at the Co-op. If you need to you can always send Martin in to pick up anything extra, but I always tried not to do that.’ She did manage a small smile this time. ‘It shatters the illusion of omnipotence.’
‘Thank you for that, Clio. I can see I didn’t need Gloria after all.’
‘And never, ever, give them curried egg sandwiches!’
Mary hesitated in the doorway. ‘What?’
‘Nothing that gives them wind. They’re bending over all day.’
THE WEATHER DIDN’T IMPROVE, and so Mary decided it would be a good time to get ahead with Ellen’s diaries, before Paul came home tomorrow. She flipped through one of them. Much of it concerned people she knew nothing about, and she skimmed through those passages. There was a bit about Ellen’s plans to breed the fine-wool Merinos, but it didn’t add significantly to what she’d already learnt from Cec. Ellen had bought something called Saxon-blood sheep from some place in Tasmania to start her breeding programme.
There was a knock at the back door. Mary marked the place and closed the book. Gloria was standing on the step, shaking raindrops from her umbrella.
‘Oh, hi,’ Mary said. ‘Come in out of the cold.’
Gloria stood for a second in the doorway, looking around the room. ‘That’s more like it, Mary. Looks real nice.’
‘It wasn’t when I came.’
‘No, it was a mess. Gay would’ve cleaned it up if His Lordship’d been willing to pay her, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Before she got sick, the Missus always kept it spick and span.’
‘I was wondering how Paul and Martin managed to eat, before I came.’
‘Good question. I did the odd roast for them, but I think they went to the Eticup pub most nights or the roadhouse. There was plenty of food in the freezers, but I don’t think they touched it. Paul likes being waited on. Anyway’ — she advanced into the room — ‘according to the radio there’s been snow on the Stirlings.’
‘Clio said there might be. Cuppa?’
‘Just had one, thanks. I just popped over to let you know Gayleen’ll be back at school Monday, in case you want her for anything.’
‘Thanks. Is that good?’
‘Bloody marvellous. Gets her away from that loser Jamie. At least the boys at school are still at school.’
‘Is Jamie a problem?’ Mary still hadn’t sighted the boy.
‘There’s nothing really wrong with Jamie. He’s a decent enough lad, but I don’t want her rushing into marriage. She ought to get a good job and travel a bit before she settles down. See a bit of the world. She’s way too young. So’s Jamie, for that matter.’
‘But the hormones are a problem?’
‘Too bloody right they are.’
Mary fetched the pastry she’d made earlier out of the refrigerator and set to work rolling it out.
‘What’s that going to be?’ Gloria asked.
‘Quiche Lorraine. With chicken soup made from Garth’s CFA hens.’
CLIO FINISHED THE SOUP with good appetite but only picked at the quiche. Mary was disappointed. ‘It was very nice,’ Clio explained. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’
Mary nodded, appeased. ‘Then let’s hope the chicken soup works its traditional magic.’
Clio looked limp and pale against her pillows. ‘Would you like some music? I could get it for you.’ Clio observed her with those great eyes, shadowed with tiredness. ‘No. I’ll just have a sleep.’
Mary pulled the curtains over the french doors. The fabric was too flimsy to deaden the sound of the wind and rain, but the visual barrier made the room seem cosier. Clio closed her eyes, and Mary took the tray and went softly out of the room.
With the clean-up finished, and the morning’s washing draped to dry over the stove and clothes horse, Mary went into Ellen’s room to play the piano. She might as well use the time while she could.
CLIO DRIFTED IN and out of wakefulness. Without the strength — or the fortitude — to work her way through the exercises they’d given her, she was never physically tired, but there was a weariness of the spirit that lay on her like a leaden weight. Then there was the pain. That hadn’t gone away like they’d told her it would. She knew it was stupid to hold out against using the stronger tablets, but taking them seemed like admitting defeat.
She’d been home for nearly two weeks now. She was marking off the days in the little gold diary that she took with her wherever she went, in the same way that Paul and Martin carried their mobile phones. The two weeks had seemed like a lifetime — and no time at all. Thank God for Mary: without her she’d have starved to death, here in this room alone.
She could hear music again, coming through the wild weather. The memory of walking across the Domain to the Conservatorium through the buffeting wind and rain gusting off the harbour was suddenly vivid, the wind scouring through the canyons of the city, the icy rain getting through her brown raincoat despite its buttons and straps, dripping down her neck. Once through the gates into the Botanical Gardens, it was slightly better, the edge of the wind softened by the trees. There were fewer people about, and they weren’t travelling with the same blind haste. The beat of the traffic was muted, too, and as she came close to the old building she could hear its own peculiar symphony: a soprano singing scales, a snatch of Grieg’s piano concerto, a cellist, and someone wailing on a clarinet; a wall of sounds that circled the enchanted castle like a palisade.
Once inside the front door, the symphony faded to a moment of silence, a pause between movements. Then, as she walked down the narrow corridor past the teaching studios, she heard the music again. Passing each door brought a distinct burst of sound, a mosaic of music.
When her family had learnt from the lawyer in Italy that Papa’s great-uncle had left them an old viola, they’d been bemused. Clio’s mother was the musician in the family, singing beautifully, it seemed to them all, and playing the piano well enough to accompany herself. Penny was being subjected to piano lessons that she claimed to hate. She’d inherited Bronwen’s talent for singing, but Clio had a voice like a bullfrog’s.
But when she first beheld the viola, gleaming like a chestnut in its bed of faded blue velvet, she fell in love. Papa allowed her to pick up the precious instrument. She held it under her chin the way she’d seen musicians do on television, and touched the bow to the strings, drawing it down, expecting her ears to fill with the
sound as if the instrument had been waiting for just this moment, like Sleeping Beauty waiting for the kiss of her prince. But there was nothing, and her eyes filled with tears. Papa took the viola out of her hands and laid it back in its case, closing the lid and using his thumbs to secure the worn brass catches.
He was planning to sell it. It wasn’t a Stradivarius or anything like that, just an ordinary old viola, but it would still be worth real money. Clio cried and cried, until in the end he agreed to pay for one term’s lessons, enough for her to learn at least how to hold it and tune it.
Much later, he confessed that he’d been certain that she’d get sick of it in no time, and he’d quietly sell the instrument. But he’d been wrong.
When it became obvious that Clio wasn’t going to give it up, and was even thinking about going to the Conservatorium to learn to be a proper musician, her father did his best to talk her out of it. ‘If you must learn, at least study the violin. Or the cello. Nobody plays the viola. It’s dull.’
But she’d never wanted to play the violin. The viola made a sound far richer. The resonance filled her head and her heart with joy. She never cared for the cello, either. What she had was a viola, as long as her father would let her keep it.
By the time her mother died, Papa had given up all idea of selling her viola: perhaps he thought that taking away another thing — the other thing — that Clio loved would have seemed too cruel.
And so she’d learnt and practised, and in due course been accepted as a student at the Conservatorium of Music.