by Maris Morton
The talk of violets had brought back the memory of her only meeting with Alyssa.
Had it been Alyssa who’d brought the violets? She couldn’t have: it had been the wrong time of year. Chrysanthemum time, and asters. No, Alyssa certainly hadn’t brought her violets. What was it then?
Martin must have told Alyssa where she was. He hadn’t come to visit her himself; Paul would never allow that. But when she’d woken up one afternoon, not long after the surgery, dopey with painkillers, there, standing by the bed had been this … vision: young and slender, with translucent white skin. Wearing faded jeans and a blue-grey sweatshirt, designer label, of course. And that hair: exactly the colour of a red setter dog, glossy, curly, full of life, tumbling in almost indecent profusion around her shoulders.
Alyssa had introduced herself and perched on the chair by the bed. That must have been the moment when she’d become aware of the scent of violets — her perfume. Once their heads were more at a level, Clio could see that her eyes were grey, the lovely skin faintly freckled, and the thought had drifted through her head that here was a young woman who was very nervous, but hiding it well. Through her fatigue, Clio was aware of the need to establish some sort of rapport with this young woman who was destined to be her daughter-in-law and the mother of her grandchildren; it was vital that they find a way to like each other.
When Alyssa said she was a music student, Clio relaxed. There was common ground already. Alyssa told her she was studying to be an opera singer. Clio could visualise her on stage. The colouring would be a bonus; under a spotlight that hair would burst into fire. Her slenderness and white skin would make her a natural for Mimi or Violetta.
As the girl talked, Clio began to understand that Alyssa was very like she had been at that age, and just as passionate about her music. She was rehearsing the role of Micaela for a student production of Carmen. Her dream was to sing the Countess in The Marriage of Figaro. Did Clio know it? Such a sad woman.
At the recollection of the rest of the visit, Clio cringed. She’d been feeling the beginning of love for the girl by then, and felt obliged to give her some idea of the life in store for her at Downe; but she didn’t have the energy for subtlety.
‘Where do you expect to get to sing the Countess, when you’re living in the bush?’ she’d asked, partly rhetorically, partly out of interest in what Martin might have led the girl to believe.
‘Oh, I’ll be spending most of my time up here still. Going to Sydney and Melbourne, too, I hope. A married woman should have a career. Martin will come up at weekends, like he does now, and I’ll go down there when I’ve got the time.’
Clio had been flabbergasted, and without allowing herself time to think had unleashed an account of what Alyssa could realistically expect from her life as châtelaine of Downe. She could see that the girl was shocked; her white face went even whiter and the pretty curves of her lips straightened and formed a tight line, then abruptly she made her excuses and disappeared, never to be seen again.
Thinking about the scene now, Clio could see the funny side of it. Alyssa would have been expecting to find a nice old lady in a frilly bed jacket resting her tired head against the pillows, embowered in flowers and a flutter of get-well cards. But the woman she’d encountered had been gaunt, exhausted, a wreck. No wonder she never came back. She probably thought I was one of those jealous mothers, thinking nobody’s good enough for her precious boy, Clio mused. If only she knew.
13
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, WITH SHEARING done for the day, Cec took Mary to visit the ultrafine-wool wethers.
The shearers revved their cars and roared off down the track in a haze of dust and noise. The evening chill was settling around them like a cold blanket, but at least — as Cec observed with an air of satisfaction — it was staying dry.
The floors in the wether sheds were made of metal mesh, and that made a different kind of sound under their feet from the wood slats flooring the shearing shed. The interior was divided into pens, each with feeding and watering arrangements in place. The wethers were big sheep, fat with snowy wool, just very slightly greyed by ambient dust where their fleece wasn’t covered by a jacket. They were very quiet, moving now and again, the occasional rumbling bleat, nibbling at their food, seemingly quite contented. There was a gentle flow of fresh air through the shed, and with the urine and droppings falling through the mesh floor to the ground underneath, the smell was mild.
‘Do you give them special food?’ Mary asked.
Cec was running a careful eye over the animals. ‘Oat hay, chopped into chaff, a bit of grain but not too much. We grow it ourselves — that’s one of Garth’s jobs — on remineralised paddocks.’
‘Remineralised paddocks?’ Mary tried not to stumble on the word.
Cec cleared his throat, about to give a lecture. ‘You know that Australia’s a very old continent.’ Mary nodded. ‘That means that most of the minerals have leached out of the soil. Especially here, on the Yilgarn Block: it’s one of the oldest slabs of rock in the world.’ Mary stored away this snippet of information. ‘Pre-Cambrian. Well, what that means is that we have to watch out for mineral deficiencies. Sheep need copper for fine wool and luckily we’re not too badly off for that. If you get the minerals right you can avoid a lot of the things that go wrong with sheep.’ Mary was entranced by Cec’s expertise. ‘They get fresh feed and water every day, and one of us — Angus or me — checks them all. As you can see, keeping them this way’s expensive, so we have to make sure the quality of the wool’s high enough to still make a profit.’
‘Do you keep them in here all the time? Is this something new?’
‘Nothing new about it. Back in 1829, Macarthur wrote about sheep kept indoors in Europe. It protects the animals from stress — bad weather, poor food. Stress is what makes weak patches in the wool, and we have to avoid that.’
‘It’s all very clean.’
‘Has to be if we want clean wool.’
Mary leant over and reached for one of the wethers. It wasn’t afraid and stood still while she touched its nose, velvet soft.
Cec pulled the animal closer and parted the wool on its neck above the jacket, laying the palms of his hands over it to keep the wool open. ‘There, feel that.’
To Mary’s surprise the wool was hot from the animal’s body heat. The wool was quite white, the crimp barely visible, and it was unimaginably soft. ‘It’s not like wool at all! It’s more like …’ She tried to find a good comparison.
‘Angora. Yes, it’s about the same thickness as angora rabbit hair. And that’s greasy. It’s even softer scoured. Worth the effort, d’you think?’ He beamed at her, full of pride.
Mary was impressed. She’d had no idea that wool could be so fine, so soft. And there was such a lot of it. ‘How many are there in here?’
‘Five hundred in here, another five in the other shed. We don’t aim to have more than that shedded. This is only a small operation.’
‘Yes, I see. So … you work on increasing the fineness of these top sheep?’
Cec was pleased at her interest. ‘And that means the quality of the rest of them goes up, too. It takes around ten years of selective breeding to knock off one micron from the wool diameter. It’s lucky Ellen Hazlitt started the line back in the twenties; it’s given us a head start. The locals thought she was mad, but the old lady stuck to her guns.’
‘And now Paul’s reaping the benefit.’
Cec’s wide mouth turned down for a moment. ‘He gets the money and his picture in the paper. But I get the satisfaction.’
BY THURSDAY, Mary was aware that all was not well in the shearing shed, but the cooking was quite enough to keep her occupied and she put it out of her mind. Pea soup was simmering on the stovetop, alongside a big pot containing a piece of corned silverside with carrots. An apple upside-down cake was browning in the oven.
When she delivered the cakes for afternoon smoko, she spoke to Garth. ‘What’s going on? There was a definite atmospher
e at dinner. Do I sense a problem?’ She lightened the question with a smile, but Garth was looking sombre.
‘Two things. Young Dave … you know?’ Mary nodded. Young Dave was the cheeky one with the spiky blond hair. ‘Dave’s hand’s gone on him.’
‘Gone?’ For a mad moment she had a vision of Young Dave’s hand detaching itself and floating off into the blue.
‘Sort of like RSI — hand swells up and hurts like buggery. Sorry!’ Garth gave her a quick grin in apology for the bad word. ‘He’s new to the game. Means we’re a man short.’
‘I suppose he’ll lose pay, too.’
‘Not so much. There’s still plenty for him to do. The other problem’s worse: young Jamie. Angus caught him belting into the wethers.’ He waited to see whether she’d grasped the enormity of this.
Mary adjusted her expression to one of sober concern. ‘What’ll you do?’
‘Ought to fire the young bugger. You can’t have that kind of thing, not with sheep like these. Anyway, Young Dave’s taken on Jamie’s job, and Jamie’s off somewhere sulking. As long as he doesn’t go near those ewes …’ His kind face was creased with worry. ‘Not your problem, Mary, but you might be cooking for these blokes again Monday. Just so’s you know.’
‘Can you get someone else to fill in for Young Dave?’
‘We’ll try, but it’s not likely.’
On Friday, once it was clear that the shearing wouldn’t be finished that day, Paul and Martin flew off before the midday meal. Without them, the mood at the dinner table was positively hilarious. Mary asked after Young Dave’s hand, and he showed her the swollen appendage; she offered ice, he accepted the mothering and the teasing with good humour, making a series of jokes, some of them very funny. The men ate with their usual appetite, but lingered over the meal for — Mary timed them — half an hour before retreating to the shed for a smoke. Irrationally, Mary felt flattered.
The bad news was that they hadn’t been able to find a replacement for Young Dave. This was a nuisance for the Downe employees, but no big drama. Paul would be back in plenty of time to sign the cheques on Monday afternoon. With the weekend coming up there was a feeling of holiday in the air.
14
MUCH RESTORED BY A GOOD NIGHT’S REST, Mary went out into the morning sunshine. The oranges were coming into their peak of ripeness, and there were still dozens — hundreds — of them hanging among the dark green leaves like glowing Christmas baubles. Along the branches, waxy clusters of flower buds had appeared, ready to develop over summer into the next year’s fruit.
Gayleen went pedalling past on her bicycle, and Mary waved to her. Gayleen turned the bike and came over, stepping off the pedals and leaning, panting slightly, on the handlebars. She was looking anxious, flushed, and quite lovely.
‘Have you seen Jamie, Mary?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, not since dinner yesterday.’ Or was that the day before? The days were passing in a blur.
‘I can’t find him. He’s not at his place. He’s not anywhere!’ She was close to tears.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘They’re so rotten to Jamie. Mr Melrose roused on him. But he can’t help it, he hates sheep. He’s scared of them! They shouldn’t make him work with them.’
This was a tall order for someone at the bottom of the pecking order on a sheep farm, but Gayleen wouldn’t want to be reminded of that. ‘Sorry I can’t help you, Gayleen. If I do see him I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.’
‘I better keep going then.’ Gayleen put her weight on the pedal and pushed off again, back the way she’d come.
After breakfast, Mary went to find out whether Cec was free to visit the reserve with her today or, if not, tomorrow.
It was Janet who came to the door, without make-up and without a smile. She was wearing a grey marl tracksuit and woolly slippers, and Mary realised it was probably too early in the day for social calls.
‘Sorry to come by so early, Janet. Is Cec around?’
Janet glared at her. ‘What do you want with my husband?’
‘He said he might come with me to the reserve again. It’s two weeks since last time and there should be more flowers out.’
From the small added height of the doorstep, Janet was staring down at her coldly. Mary could imagine the effect this look must have on a quivering third-grader. ‘Can’t you go by yourself ?’
‘I could go on the bike, but it’d be quicker by car. I don’t like leaving Clio for too long … and I learn such a lot from Cec.’
Janet considered this, and Mary made a point of turning to look around her, not wanting to seem to be hanging on Janet’s decision.
‘Cecil!’ Janet called. There was a murmur from inside, and Janet took a step back into the house. ‘Someone to see you, dear,’ she said sweetly to Cec, who appeared in the gloom behind his wife.
‘Oh, Mary!’
Janet drew back, leaving them alone at the threshold.
‘It looks as if it’ll be staying fine enough to visit the reserve again,’ Mary said, not sure that this was such a good idea after all. ‘This afternoon, possibly? Would you have time? You did say you might come.’
Cec looked a bit flustered. ‘Yes. Yes, I did, didn’t I. Let me see …’ He turned and called back into the house. ‘Did we have anything planned for this afternoon, Mother?’
There was silence for a minute. Then Janet’s voice drifted out. ‘Didn’t you say you were going to do your tax this afternoon?’
‘Did I? I don’t remember saying that. Anyway, the tax can wait.’ He turned back to Mary. ‘The reserve sounds like more fun. Yes, Mary. What time do you want me to pick you up?’
MARY MADE A TOUR of the garden before going into the house. There were more narcissus blooming, their powerful scent drifting through the new growth evident everywhere. The strawberries were coming into flower, and the first fat green asparagus spears were poking through the mulch.
Inside, Mary put on a load of her own washing and got out the vacuum cleaner. The shearers had tracked in sand and vestiges of wool, and trodden crumbs and the odd pea into the worn boards of the back verandah. Over the noise of the vacuum cleaner, Mary could hear very little. When she looked up, Clio was standing in the doorway, frowning.
Mary kicked off the switch. ‘Yes, Clio? Is there something you want?’
‘Yes.’ Clio took a deep, slow breath. ‘I missed you last week. I thought I might come out to the kitchen today and we could talk.’
‘Can you wait till I finish this? I’ll get the chair from Ellen’s room for you.’
Clio’s frown deepened, and her mouth tightened. ‘Do you have to do that now?’
Mary was startled by her tone. ‘No, I guess not. But once I start something I like to finish it.’
Clio turned to go back into her room. ‘It doesn’t matter. This afternoon will do, I suppose.’
She looked so forlorn that Mary capitulated. ‘I’ll just put this away and get the chair, if you’ll wait a minute.’ She hesitated, knowing Clio wouldn’t be happy. ‘I’m going out this afternoon.’
Clio stood in the doorway, her black eyes enormous. ‘Going out?’
‘I’ve arranged with Cec to go to the reserve.’
Clio’s eyes were filling with tears. ‘It doesn’t matter about me, then, does it. Nobody wonders whether I might like to go to the reserve.’
God! Mary thought. What was this game she was playing. ‘I’m sorry, Clio, but if you truly would like to go I’m sure that would be fine with Cec. The three of us could fit into his ute quite easily.’
‘I’ll have to see how I feel after dinner. What are you making?’
‘For dinner? I haven’t decided. There’s pea soup, thick as pease porridge now, and some ham. Or there’s always fish in the freezer.’
Clio sighed, but there was no misery in it this time. ‘Pease porridge and ham. I haven’t had it in … years and years. Can you glaze the ham?’
The ham was a big piece on the bone b
ought for shearers’ sandwiches. ‘Yes, I can do that. Mustard and marmalade glaze all right?’
‘Yes, that sounds fine. And we can have fish tonight.’
Mary parked the vacuum cleaner and fetched the chair. Now she had to find things to do in the kitchen, something she hadn’t been planning. She wiped up the breakfast dishes and put them away, hanging the tea towel over the plate rack to dry. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Mm? If you’re having one.’
Mary dragged the kettle onto the hotplate and assembled cups and saucers. There was a fine pale-blue lustre cup and saucer she liked using, and another set enamelled with little Japanese figures taking tea.
‘More of Ellen’s things?’ Clio said. ‘I’ll have the blue cup, thanks.’
When they were waiting for the tea to cool, and Mary was trying to think of something to talk about, Clio broke the silence.
‘I’m surprised Janet’s letting Cec go out with you.’
‘Are you?’ She recalled Janet’s odd manner this morning. ‘Could she stop him?’
Clio’s facial muscles moved in an expression that could have been amusement. ‘No, you’re probably right. He does love his wildflowers, and I imagine Janet has to wash her work clothes or her hair or something on Saturdays. Clean the house.’ She reached for her cup and tested the temperature of the tea. ‘They might have their funny little ways, but I think that on the whole Cec and Janet have a happy marriage.’
Mary interpreted this as a warning. ‘I wasn’t nursing any ambitions to lure Cec away from Janet.’
‘I never thought you were! I’m sorry if you thought I was saying that. All marriages are different …’
Mary nodded.
‘You must be wondering why Paul and I … why Paul and I …’
Mary glanced at Clio, who was scrutinising the contents of her teacup. ‘It’s none of my business.’