by Jane Carter
‘I was in England, not Jupiter or Mars! Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘We did tell you, or tried to. It was difficult to talk about it and you weren’t here to see. It’s been so gradual, and Rosie and I felt we could cope.’ She paused. ‘Then there was the accident and you had so much to deal with … But when you said you were coming I had to tell you before you saw her. I knew it would be a shock.’
She made it sound so straightforward and simple, but it was hard to take in changes when you were half a world away. You didn’t really want anything to change somehow, it was important that it all stayed the same.
‘On the phone she always sounds so good.’ Diana still couldn’t believe it.
‘I know. If you’re talking about the past she can be very convincing.’
Diana felt ashamed. She should have rung more often. There’d been a flurry of calls after the accident; before that they were fairly sporadic, she had to admit. It had been so hard these last few weeks just trying to keep her and the kids together. It was as though they’d been living in bubble wrap. Nothing seemed real.
Her mother spooned homemade jam into a small dish. Diana couldn’t resist a swipe and taste.
‘Mmm, yum.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Granny, I can’t wait to see her. I was hoping to stay for a few weeks. I want the kids to get some Australian sun, if nothing else. To breathe some fresh air and develop some roots. Get to know their grandparents.’
That, more than anything, had brought her back to Australia, for her children to get to know her parents. But they’d never know their great-grandmother now, not like Diana had known her. Her relationship with Peg had been so special. Someone she could always talk to.
‘We’d like to get to know your children too,’ said Stella. ‘It’s been almost six years since I came to London when Saskia was born.’ She looked up and smiled rather wistfully at Diana. ‘I am so glad you’re here,’ she added, as she poured lemon cordial into the mugs. ‘Well, I think we’re ready.’
Diana put down her cup, went down the back steps and joined her three children. Granny couldn’t be as bad as her mother had described. Peg was such a strong person, always had been. She’d been brought up on tales of Granny and Grandfather Frank carving out Mog’s Hill, how they’d turned it from a ‘bush block’ to a superb sheep farm.
‘Come and look at the dogs,’ said Diana. Taking Saskia’s hand, she pulled her along, the other two trailing behind. The four of them went to stand in front of the dog’s run. There was one young dog and one old one. The young dog was the one that had been jumping straight up and down on all fours, barking, when they’d arrived earlier. It was now straining on the chain towards them. Saskia retreated behind her mother, pulling at her hand and whimpering.
Milo looked as if he were trying to be brave. For heaven’s sake, it was only a young dog. And it was on the chain. Yet they were all three apprehensive. Living in London there’d been no room for a dog. Her kids had had so little contact with animals. Growing up, she and Rosie’s lives had been packed full of pet lambs and working dogs and there’d always been a cat somewhere. She’d always loved the sheep, not surprising when her father had such a passion for them. So she’d brought her kids home to touch a sheep, make friends with a dog.
And some space for all of them.
She knelt before the young dog, noted it was a male and put out her hand.
‘Look, this is how you say hello to a dog—let him sniff you first.’ The dog, he wasn’t much older than a pup really, licked her fingers enthusiastically. Diana laughed and patted his head.
‘See, he’s really very friendly.’ She turned to look at her children. ‘Come on, Milo,’ she urged. He made no effort to step forward. Diana sighed and stood up, dusting herself off.
‘Come on then, we’ll go inside and have some tea.’
* * *
The children sat quietly drinking their lemon cordial when Diana heard the motorbike coming. The engine stopped and then there was a clump of footsteps up the back steps.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Another hard hug, she wound her arms tightly round his neck and drank in his scent. ‘I can smell sheep.’ And they were both laughing. Her father was only a little taller than herself, but he seemed to have shrunk too, their eyes were level now. She pulled back to look at him. Same lean face, with the deep grooves running down to his mouth. His hair was salt-and-pepper grey now, his forehead reaching back further than it had, but the eyes were just as blue behind his glasses. The wide, welcoming smile on his weather-beaten face did wonders for her poor battered soul. The bands around her heart eased another notch. She was home.
‘Well now, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?’ He turned to the children. Obviously he thought better of approaching the two little girls, as they sat there, stiff and withdrawn. ‘Hello, Milo.’ He put out his hand to shake. Diana watched her son reach out his small hand, manfully, in return.
Tom leant back against the kitchen counter and accepted his tea from her mother with a buttered scone. In his thick socks, work-stained woollen jumper, blue-checked flannelette shirt and dusty jeans, he looked so good. Just the same. Diana saw him wink at the girls.
‘I was just asking Mum if it would be all right if we stayed for a few weeks. Reacquaint these kids with their Australian heritage. Give me some time to work out what I want to do. I know it’ll be a bit of a squash.’ Diana looked from her father to her mother and caught the ‘I told you so’ that passed between them. It didn’t surprise her; what did surprise her was how much it still hurt. ‘Of course, if you think we’ll be too much trouble …’
‘Of course not, Diana, you know you’re always welcome here,’ her father cut in.
Yes, he meant it. She looked at her mother.
‘Diana, don’t be ridiculous. We love having you all here.’ Stella turned to the oven and poked at the meat. And with a short look at her husband, she added, ‘Your father could do with some help.’
‘Dad? Where’s Mal? Why isn’t he helping?’
‘Mal is working down at Lost Valley now, for Patrick Morley.’ said Tom. ‘His contracting business is pretty well defunct. Anyway, I don’t need Mal’s help.’ He frowned at Stella. ‘I can do everything as I’ve always done here. Numbers are down, but we’ve still had to feed right through summer.’ Her father was matter of fact.
Twenty years ago her parents had announced they were leaving the farm to Rosie and Mal, that it wouldn’t provide enough of a livelihood if they divided it. So Diana had taken the plane ticket offered to her and left, angry and bitter, in her usual, hot-headed way. Upside was, they’d been right—she had made it on her own and she had her potting. It was interesting how one’s view could change over the years.
‘What’s Rosie up to?’
Her younger sister by two years, Rosie had been considered the beautiful one, while Diana was known as the artistic Crawford. Their little sister, Cody, had been just six when she’d died, not enough time to leave much of an imprint, just an awful hole in all their lives. Cody had been such a bright spark, she might have been the intelligent one.
‘Rosie has a job in town, at the hospital,’ Stella began.
‘Hang on,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll just move the kids to a telly.’ They looked so tired, sitting there like three little zombies. ‘They’ll be right in here, won’t they?’ She shepherded the children into the sitting room and handed Milo the remote.
Her mother came to the door to watch. ‘Since Philly left she’s put in a magnificent vegie garden, and is running chooks and sells the eggs in town.’
‘I remember she always loved chooks.’ But Rosie and vegetables? Diana couldn’t even imagine Rosie as a glorified waitress at the hospital, washing up and mopping the wards. They came back into the kitchen.
‘And Phillipa?’ Rosie and Mal’s daughter, she’d surely be nineteen by now.
‘Phillipa is enrolled in college in Albury, doing her second year of Hospitality Management.’
Diana hadn’t reme
mbered that. ‘What does she want to do?’
‘It should get her a job running hotels.’
Diana was impressed. When she’d last seen Phillipa ten years ago, she was the same age her kids were now. Wasn’t that incredible?
Diana suddenly felt very tired. She picked up the mugs, put them in the sink and then went back to look at the kids.
Everything was so upside-down since the accident. Usually Sienna and Milo would be arguing over which program they’d watch. Sometimes she found herself wishing for a bit of fighting spirit, or even just some whingeing from the kids.
‘I think I’ll go out for a while,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come?’ They were sitting quietly, Saskia snuggled up to Sienna with her thumb in her mouth. None of them even looked her way. ‘Okay, I won’t be long.’
CHAPTER THREE
Stella watched Diana grab a jacket from the hall on her way out. There were dark circles under her eyes and she was thinner. She picked up the green shawl Diana had discarded on the back of the chair, squashing the soft fibres between her fingers.
Diana was home. How Stella had prayed for this day. Already there’d been so many wasted years. After Charlie’s accident she’d thought surely they would come, and had asked Tom whether they should suggest it. That was after the funeral. Stella had wanted to go but it was too difficult—too much money, and they were hand-feeding the sheep. It was so constant, impossible to get away.
Diana had been hard to get through to these last couple of months, very vague. Living on the other side of the world hadn’t helped, and so much time had passed. Where had it gone? Tom had said to let her sort herself out. Stella crushed the shawl to herself. Now she was home and those beautiful children, her grandchildren, were finally here. She moved into the sitting room.
Two pairs of eyes were trained on the television. Milo was hunched over his phone. Dark-haired like Peg, she thought, and so serious. No, he was Frank all over, definitely a Crawford. He hadn’t smiled yet. None of them had.
Stella smiled at them. ‘It must have been a long trip. Does anyone want to use the bathroom?’
The girls looked up at her standing there with Diana’s shawl nervously wound through her fingers. Milo was still absorbed in his game.
‘That’s our mummy’s pashmina.’
Sienna had spoken. She was blonde like Charlie, but there was something in the directness of her look, or the stubborn set of her chin, that reminded her of Diana.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ said Stella.
‘Daddy bought that for Mummy.’
‘We all bought it. We went to the markets, remember?’ Milo looked up briefly. ‘It’s Australian wool. That is, we think it is. Mummy said it must be because it was so soft.’
‘Daddy says it’s the same colour as her eyes,’ Saskia spoke up. She was like Rosie, with the same hair and eyes. So beautiful.
None of them had Diana’s eyes. Her daughter’s eyes were so unusual—a frosted light green, made more startling under those straight, black eyebrows. Nothing about Diana had been what she expected.
‘It is, isn’t it?’
A six-year-old Rosie smiled up at her, and Stella’s heart melted.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’
‘No, thank you.’
Those high-pitched English voices. She sat in a chair. ‘What are you watching?’
‘We don’t know.’ After briefly scanning the unfamiliar cartoon figures on the screen, Stella realised neither did she. It didn’t remotely look like Postman Pat or Thomas the Tank Engine, the English shows she remembered watching with Phillipa.
‘ABC Kids is usually quite good. That’s our Channel Two.’ She gestured towards the phone Milo was fiddling with. ‘I wonder if you’ll get much reception in here, you may have to go outside.’
‘It’s an iPhone. Grandma and Grandad gave it to me.’
Surely he was too young to have a phone? Stella hoped he wasn’t trying to ring the UK, but she couldn’t say anything. The reception was appalling here. She fell silent, not making head nor tail of the flickering images on the television screen. The children must be feeling so strange when even the television shows were different. Poor babies. This was going to take some time. And time, thank heavens, appeared to be something they might be going to have. She could hardly believe it when Diana had rung and said they were coming.
Her prickly, defensive eldest daughter was finally home. She sighed. There were so many unresolved issues. She was determined to make it better. All she needed was time.
* * *
Diana drew a deep lungful of clean, crisp air. It was so beautiful. No doubt about it. The sky went up and out for miles. Not a single person or another house to be seen. How amazing was that? The sheer feeling of space was glorious, liberating. She walked with an easy stride, out the back, past the dogs. England had civilisation going back thousands of years, but out here it was the land that was ancient. The rock screes on the hillside shone gold in the late afternoon sun. The far off hills, covered in thick woolly scrub, had barely been touched by man. The paddocks of Mog’s Hill stretched out to the base of the closest range. The sun would set shortly. It was a red, round circle surrounded by a few fluffy-pink clouds, striping the paddocks in gold and pink.
Happy now?
What do you think, Charlie? Look at this view. Sensational, isn’t it?
I always preferred tiled roofs and a few smokestacks, myself.
Diana smiled, and wasn’t that the truth.
Once upon a time this could have been mine, you know.
* * *
Diana lifted the suitcase onto the bed. She looked at her image in the mirror on the dressing table and pulled her hair back into its elastic. The flush of excitement beamed right back at her.
A change of plans. And she hadn’t told anyone.
It was such a great feeling to have finished. Away for three years at Art School and now the rest of her life in front of her. She’d been ecstatic when she’d heard her uni tutors had negotiated a resident scholarship with a commune of potters in London for her. And until last week, that was what she was going to do. But now she’d changed her mind. She’d always have her potting, and it would always be part of her life, but home—Mog’s Hill—was where she wanted to be, where she belonged, on the farm with her dad. She’d worked it all out. She was going to do a wool-classing course through TAFE and help with the sheep on the farm. It would be hard to get a job in some sheds but girls were doing it now. She could do it. Their shearing contractor would help. Her dad could concentrate more on the cropping. He’d be happy.
She walked down the hallway. Entering the sitting room she heard the pop of the champagne cork and everyone laughing. She’d thought it was for her. To celebrate her return, her good marks, a new beginning.
Everyone was in the sitting room, which was unusual, but then champagne wasn’t a common occurrence. The scene was freeze-framed in her brain. Mal was there, his sleeves rolled up, sitting with Rosie on the sofa. Rosie wearing a new pink shirt. The two chintz-covered chairs patterned with large lilac roses, and her mother sitting with a broad smile on her face. Her dad was pouring champagne into the wide open glasses they used to have. She suddenly noticed Mal and Rosie were holding hands.
‘To Mal and Rosie! Congratulations!’
Then they were all standing, clinking glasses. She hadn’t known.
‘And to Diana, the beginning of a future in potting. We’ve been told you have what it takes, or so your lecturers said.’
Her dad had looked at her proudly, but all she heard was that Mal and Rosie were engaged, and eventually would be given the farm. Not just yet, but Mal would be working with her father. To this day, Diana avoided champagne, the bubbles in her nose brought on that sick, empty nausea, because what followed had been the beginning of her nightmare. Her father handed her an envelope and when she’d opened it there was a return plane ticket to London. She was numb. All she could think of was that at last, her father had what
he had always wanted. A son. Not that they said it. Oh no. They were so proud of her. This was such a great opportunity. She must be so happy.
But she wished someone had asked her what she wanted.
* * *
Diana wandered round the collection of sheds: the large machinery shed housing the tractors and a four-wheeler bike, a tool shed, a meat shed. She stopped suddenly. Sadly, she touched the ruins of her kiln, now a crumbling pile of bricks. No one would ever guess what it had been. She remembered poring over the plans of the do-it-yourself kit with her dad. It had taken them months to build.
Hearing soft footfalls behind her, she turned to see him now.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘We’re so sorry about Charlie, Di. It was a terrible thing to have happened.’
Diana couldn’t answer, the lump in her throat too large.
Her dad put his arm round her. ‘Come, the tool shed is locked. I brought the key.’
He inserted the key into the door of the small corrugated-iron shed and waited for her to go inside. In the corner was a knee-high object, covered in an old wool bale. With a little cry, Diana skipped over and pulled off the dusty cover.
‘My potting wheel! I can’t believe it. It’s still here! Dad!’
Tentatively, she reached out and felt the smooth surface of the kick wheel with loving fingers. She moved the treadle with her foot and watched the wheel start to turn. No fancy electric wheel this.
‘Do you remember going to Albury to buy it at the auction?’ said Diana. ‘We’d seen it advertised in the paper.’
‘I remember being nagged to death until I relented. You were always a determined minx,’ her dad smiled.
‘And when we got there we saw we needn’t have taken the truck after all.’ Diana laughed. ‘You moaned about it all the way home.’
‘I wasn’t exactly told what to expect, was I?’
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ All of a sudden she wanted to cry. What was the matter with her?
‘Don’t have to thank me for anything. It’s yours.’ His voice was gruff.