by Maris Morton
Mary pushed her breakfast dishes aside. ‘Now?’
‘Come on!’ Gayleen commanded.
Mary went to tell Clio she was going out. Clio was listening to music and just nodded.
Mary collected Gary’s bike and wheeled it out to where Gayleen was waiting. ‘Where are we going?’
Gayleen smiled mysteriously. ‘Just follow me.’ She pedalled off over the grass. Mary followed, wondering what this was all about.
She’d often thought about Gayleen in the weeks since Jamie’s death. She’d imagined those two young people — no more than children, really — fumbling their way through their first sexual experiences on a cushion of casuarina needles, in that idyllic place where the Aborigines used to camp and later the Browns had toiled, altering the land to grow the crops they were familiar with. She’d wondered whether the power of the past that she’d felt so strongly there had in some way enhanced their experience. Then she’d laughed at herself: unlikely! They were just two kids, doing their best to get the mechanics of the business right. Even if the place had magic to her, it didn’t mean that it had to them.
Gayleen seemed to have got over the shock of Jamie’s death. The fact that her period had arrived on schedule, as she’d cheerfully reported to Mary, had been enough to lift her spirits.
Today they were riding in a different direction from the pool, bumping over a cattle grid and then down a long laneway from which a series of small paddocks opened, some of them crowded with sheep placidly grazing. Gayleen slowed and signalled to Mary to do the same. They got off the bikes and propped them against the fence. Gayleen put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t make any noise, just follow me.’
They went through a gate and across grass that was like a deep shag-pile carpet. Mary began to hear a sound that was far higher pitched than the usual mumbling of ovine voices. Gayleen was heading for a belt of trees. She stopped, and holding Mary’s arm pointed into the shadows under the trees. ‘See? Angus said they’d started.’
There was a dot of bright white, flickering in the dappled shade: a lamb! There were perhaps half-a-dozen of them, cavorting on the grass, tiny things with waggling tails and piercing treble voices. Mary took a step forward, the better to see the little creatures.
‘Don’t!’ Gayleen warned her. ‘You mustn’t frighten the ewes. Most of them haven’t dropped yet, and if they get a fright they might lose the lamb or reject it.’
‘Of course,’ Mary said quietly. ‘These are valuable sheep, aren’t they. How long before they’ve all lambed?’
‘Couple of weeks, maybe.’
The lambs were all together in a group, leaping stiff-legged, bumping and nudging each other and wagging those ridiculous tails. Their shrill voices were answered by lower maternal grumbles, and soon the game broke up and the lambs went to their mothers, folding their front legs to fit under their dams’ woolly bellies, butting their heads into the swollen pink udders and furiously waggling those tails. The ewes stood still till they’d had enough of the bunting then moved off, stately matrons leaving their infants protesting and running after them until the next game was ready to start. Mary was enchanted: the white babies against the dark foliage, the vividness of the grass against the tender blue of a sky dotted with puffy clouds, the hum of insects and songs of unseen birds making a descant for the muttering of the ewes all came together in a paradigm of the kind of spring that the English poets used to write about.
BACK IN THE HOMESTEAD, Mary found Clio sitting on the verandah in the sun. When she heard Mary, she lifted her head. ‘Well? Where have you been?’
‘Gayleen took me to see the first of the lambs.’
‘Already? Aren’t they a sight worth seeing!’
‘They certainly are. It’s a perfect day for it, too. I’ll make your bed now, shall I.’
While she was working, Clio talked to her through the open french doors. ‘I’ve been listening to Vivaldi. I’d almost forgotten I had some of his CDs. Do you know his music?’
‘Only the Four Seasons.’
‘Everybody knows that. He wrote heaps of other things. He was called the Red Priest, they say because he had red hair.’
‘Really?’ Mary came out to thump the pillows against the verandah posts. She wasn’t all that interested in Vivaldi, but while she was talking about him Clio’s face was alight with interest, and that had to be good for her. ‘Was he a priest?’
‘Yes. In those days the Church was the main patron of all the arts, and most music was written for men to perform — and men to listen to — in church. Vivaldi, though, wrote a lot of music for women.’
‘How come?’ The pillows were back inside, and Mary was shaking the duvet now, watching the sunlight catch the dust motes flying off it.
‘He was a music teacher at the Ospedale della Pietà, an orphanage for girls in Venice. After mass, the girls were expected to give public performances.’
Mary put the bed back together and came out to join Clio in the sunshine. The wisteria buds were getting fatter by the day, and she smoothed her fingers down the braided tassels. Out in the garden beds, the jonquils were starting to wither, but the next wave of flowering bulbs was on its way. ‘That’s a lovely story, isn’t it. It’s nice to imagine those little orphan girls being taught by a really good musician.’
‘I like to imagine them, holding their viols, at the keyboard of the harpsichord, fingering their recorders, like something out of a painting.’
‘And all in the magical light of Venice,’ Mary murmured.
Clio looked at her with surprise. ‘Have you been there?’
‘When my father was based in Paris we travelled around Europe a lot. My mother was born in Hungary.’
‘Really! What did you think of Venice?’
‘My parents insisted that my brother and I read up on the history of the places we were going to visit, so when I arrived there I had a good idea of what I was going to see. And of course, Venice is almost impossibly beautiful, just like a Canaletto or a Turner painting; as long as you don’t look too closely at what’s floating in the water, or the crumbling foundations of the buildings, or the litter the tourists leave lying around … and the smells.’ She made a face. ‘Or remember the weight of history behind it: the wars and dark dealings, greed and treachery. But you have to forgive all that for the sheer magnificence of it — and the improbability. Can you imagine building a city like that on wooden piles? In the twelfth century? And it’s still there? Sinking slowly, but still a serviceable city.’
‘I must confess I envy you that. I had no idea …’
‘That your housekeeper was a sophisticated woman of the world?’ Mary said the last words with an exaggerated Hungarian accent. ‘Yes, I was lucky. I think that’s why my father angled for the Paris job — so his children could round out their education without it costing him a fortune, and Mother could visit her homeland, sadly altered as it was at that time. I was a teenager then. When they came back to Australia, I stayed on at one of the hotel schools in Switzerland.’
‘Heavens … but why …’
‘Why am I working as your housekeeper?’ She could see by Clio’s expression that this was exactly what she meant but hesitated to come out with in so many words. ‘I like the work. I like seeing different places. I’ve never seen newborn lambs before, but that’s only one of the new experiences I’ve had here at Downe. I’d never been a shearers’ cook — that will look terrific on my CV!’ She smiled at Clio. ‘I like getting things into shape again. I love cooking, though this place has been a bit of a challenge, with having to shop by telephone.’
‘You’ve managed very well, though.’
‘Well, what there is here is of excellent quality. I’ve never had such good mutton, in fact I had no idea it could be so good.’
‘That’s another thing to credit Ellen with. She insisted on having as comfortable a lifestyle here as could be managed.’
‘This house is a comfortable one.’
‘All it needs is repaint
ing and some new carpets?’
‘And a clothes dryer. But Paul won’t do it?’
Clio was shaking her head. ‘It has to stay the same as it was. Don’t ask me why. It doesn’t make sense to me, either.’ She smoothed the rug over her knees. ‘How are you getting on with the scrub and polish?’
‘I’ve just about done as much as I can. As you say, it really needs a coat of paint. But at least now it’s all clean, and polished where it needs to be.’
‘And the garden’s under control, too. So now that you’ve got time to spare, how do you plan to fill it?’
Mary sat on the edge of the verandah. A cloud of bees was busily collecting pollen and nectar from the plum blossom. ‘When I work in the city, I can go home for my days off. Or shopping, or to a movie, or to visit friends. Here, I can’t do any of those things. I hadn’t realised how far Downe is from everything.’
‘You haven’t used the vehicle yet?’
‘No. When you’re better, I might. In the meantime, I get around quite well on Gary’s bike, and the exercise is good for me.’
‘You didn’t play the piano last night?’
‘I was reading Ellen’s diary. About Peter. He sounds like a bit of a worry. Ellen didn’t like Morna much, did she.’
‘A woman smoking and wearing trousers didn’t go down too well in those days.’
‘I’m up to Morna being pregnant. With Paul, I imagine?’
‘Ellen quotes her as saying getting pregnant with Paul was their only mistake. It doesn’t get any better.’
Mary was silent for a moment. ‘That’s dreadful. Does he know she said that?‘
Clio shook her head. ‘I told you, I don’t think he’s ever read the diaries.’
‘Still, it must have been disappointing for Ellen.’
‘I’m sure it was.’ Clio stretched her arms and sighed. She rarely used her left arm, holding it by her side as if to protect it, but Mary didn’t pry. If Clio wanted to tell her that would be another matter. Clio was looking better lately, much brighter and happier, and their weekends were becoming a pleasure.
Assuming that the original agreement she’d made with Paul still stood, she’d be here for another month. With the period of adjustment behind her, she was enjoying herself, especially when the men were away. The last month looked like being easy.
DUSK WAS FALLING, and Mary was in the kitchen making pasta for the evening meal. Clio was in her chair beside the stove, watching.
Making pasta wasn’t something Mary would contemplate doing for a crowd, but for just the two of them, she didn’t mind. When the dough was ready, she picked up the rolling pin — a heavy porcelain antique that must have come with Ellen from Edwardian England — and began rolling, leaning her weight into each stroke, flouring and turning the dough as she went.
There was a clatter at the back door, and Mary looked up, expecting to see Garth, or possibly Gayleen, but it was Angus, shouldering in through the screen door, a six-pack of beer in one hand, an open stubby in the other. He lurched over to the table.
‘See, Mary, you like a beer. Brought you a beer, Mary.’
He was all spruced up for Saturday night, stubbly hair wet, clean clothes, and a wave of spicy aftershave followed him.
‘Actually, Angus, I’m busy.’ But he was pulling out a chair and sitting himself down, plonking the beer on the table. It was running with condensation and made the tabletop wet. ‘Angus, thank you for the thought, but I don’t really like beer.’ She deliberately made her tone more firm than friendly, but still wasn’t getting through to him.
He reached into the breast pocket of his flannelette shirt and extracted tobacco and papers, laying them on the table ready to start the ritual of making a cigarette. He was taking no notice whatever of Clio, in her chair beside the stove. Clio was watching Angus with disbelief.
‘Angus, you can’t smoke in here!’ Mary warned him.
After a moment of hesitation, he abandoned the cigarette-making and fumbled instead with the plastic wrapping on the six-pack, eventually ripping it open, and extracting a stubby and holding it out to Mary. ‘Here. Brought you a beer. Nice little thing like you.’
Mary had been avoiding eye contact, but now she looked into his face and registered his bloodshot eyes and foolish grin: Angus was drunk.
‘No, thank you, Angus. I’m busy. You should go.’
‘Go?’ He was incredulous. ‘Go? Only just got here! ’S no way to treat a fellow … Have a beer, Mary, go on.’ He was holding out the stubby still and sucking from his own at the same time.
Mary looked at Clio, but there was no help there.
Shaking his bristly head, Angus put down the beer he’d offered to Mary. ‘Well, if you won’t, you won’t. I thought you might want to go out with me. Seeing it’s Sat’d’y night.’
‘Go out with you, Angus? Where were you thinking of taking me?’
Angus gave her a drunken leer. ‘I thought … my place … or we could drive into Eticup, few beers first.’
Mary was dumbfounded. Men never ceased to amaze her. Hadn’t he noticed Clio sitting there? ‘No, thanks, Angus.’
He made a sad face. ‘Aw, Mary. I thought you liked old Angus?’
‘I do like you, Angus, but not to go out with.’ She was speaking slowly and distinctly, as if to a child who was not very bright. ‘Thank you, but no. And I think you’d better go home now, back to your place.’ She stood watching him, holding the heavy rolling pin. He looked at her and gradually realised that she meant what she was saying. ‘And you’d better take your beer back, too. It’ll only be wasted here.’
After a long silence, Angus clambered to his feet, on his face a mixture of hurt pride and embarrassment. He picked up the broken six-pack and his own stubby and stood, swaying, while he tried to think of a good parting shot. Mary noticed with a twinge of horror that the front of his baggy brown cords was tented by a giant erection. She tore her gaze away from it. Taking a firmer grip on the rolling pin, she said, ‘Good night, Angus.’
Angus mumbled something and fumbled his way towards the back door. As he reached it, he caught sight of Clio, and with a muttered oath he bolted, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Mary let out her breath. He’d left the unopened stubby standing on the table in a ring of condensation. In an effort to make a joke of it, she offered it to Clio. ‘Do you feel like a beer?’ She was startled to see on Clio’s face a look of sheer horror.
‘But … Angus,’ she whispered. ‘He works here!’
‘So do I,’ Mary reminded her.
‘How dare he! How dare he!’
19
ON MONDAY, JUST AS THE DAY was giving way to evening, Mary heard someone at the back door. For a moment she dreaded seeing Angus.
Under the halo of the verandah light, Garth was standing there, holding a newborn lamb in his arms. The image was spoilt when the lamb gave a piercing bleat and kicked with all four legs in a spirited bid for freedom.
‘First of the orphans,’ Garth said, grinning with paternal pride.
‘So?’ She knew him well enough by now to tease him. ‘I’m not a ewe.’
‘Aw, Mary. Don’t be like that.’ He brushed his cheek on the lamb’s curly head. The lamb bunted him back with more vigour than affection and bleated again, a cry shrill with urgency. ‘He’s hungry. Thought you might want to see what we do with these little beggars. You could give us a hand with them — the Missus used to help out.’ He paused, an awkward moment. ‘She’s not …’
‘No, she’s not up to it this year, I don’t think.’ She smiled at the image of Clio in her nightgown feeding a lamb. ‘I don’t mind giving you a hand.’
She picked up a torch and followed Garth through the dusk to his house. Gloria was busy in the kitchen peeling vegetables, with Gayleen at the end of the table doing homework. The lamb announced their arrival with another bleat, loud in the confined space.
Gary came into the kitchen, face shining. ‘You got one?’ He reached up to fondle
the little animal.
‘He’s hungry,’ Garth said. ‘You get the bottle.’ Garth turned to Mary. ‘First one’s always a bit of a scramble.’ He was keeping a watchful eye on the boy as he mixed milk powder with warm water and stretched a rubber teat over the neck of the bottle. ‘Test the temperature,’ he reminded his son. ‘If you can’t feel it, either hot or cold, it’s about right. If it’s too hot or too cool the poor thing’ll get the runs.’
‘Can’t afford to lose any of these little fellas,’ Gloria said. ‘Could be worth a fortune when he grows up. Hold the bottle up against your cheek, Gary, if you’re not sure. Or if you want to make really sure, you can always have a suck of it.’
Gary gave her a look of revulsion and nonchalantly shook a few drops of milk onto the inside of his wrist. Then, mindful of the consequences of a mistake, he held the bottle for a few seconds pressed to his cheek. For confirmation, he thrust the bottle at his mother.
‘Should be fine,’ she said. ‘Now get him out of my kitchen, if you want any tea tonight.’
The lamb-feeding party moved out into the laundry. ‘Squirt a bit of milk on its nose,’ his father said. Gary took hold of the lamb’s head and held it steady; the lamb opened its mouth and took the teat, not sure for an instant what to do with it. But instinct cut in, and it set up a rhythmic sucking, bending its front legs and bunting its nose against the bottle and Gary’s hand, its skinny little tail waggling for all it was worth.
‘That’s it,’ Garth said. ‘He’ll be right now. Mind you keep the end of the bottle up, Gazza, don’t want him getting a tummyful of air.’ Mary and Garth leant against the laundry tubs, watching. Gary was totally absorbed in his task, as was the lamb. ‘Sometimes they won’t take the bottle,’ Garth said.
‘So they just … die?’
‘They just die.’
‘What happened to this one’s mother?’
‘One of the old ewes, had some good lambs. This one managed to get a feed of colostrum before she was cold. Angus brought them up in the ute.’ He flicked a glance at her. ‘What have you done to old Angus, Mary?’