by Jane Carter
‘You’re doing a wonderful job with those kids, you know. I don’t know how you cope.’
‘That’s what Rosie said yesterday. It made me so mad.’ Diana poured the water into the teacups with the tea bags. But her hand was trembling. ‘I think I’ll take this outside, check on the kids.’
She knew her mother wanted to talk but she just couldn’t. She walked over to the yards away from everyone. Cope. What was coping? Wallowing in misery was not her style, neither was it an option. Her night time wanders were bad enough. Were you expected to tell a five year old, ‘Sorry, Mummy has to have time out for a little cry right now’?
She had hoped coming home would ease the burden but they were still her kids, her responsibility. She sipped the hot tea, welcoming the burn, as she stared down the drive to the gate and the ribbon of grey that was the road. Such an empty, lonely road for the most part.
Moving in with her parents had its downside. Her family was in a right mess, and Diana couldn’t see a solution. The thought of her dad finding a hobby to fill up his life was ridiculous. Maybe Mal could just hold off for a few more years. Maybe the problem was him. Was he going through a midlife crisis? Maybe that was her problem, too.
She felt a hot scalding behind her eyes. Tears? She hadn’t had many of them since Charlie, since the accident. Angrily she wiped them away. More hot tears sliced out of her, along with the pain. God. Trouble was she didn’t know who she was crying for—Charlie or herself. How pathetic.
Disgusted, she tipped out the rest of the tea. She heard running feet behind her. Milo went past flat out, followed by Sienna, both making weird noises. They were playing. Finally. She was so relieved. What strange games kids played—she really had no idea what they were doing. She and Rosie had played all the time, what did they use to play?
She’d better go and cover her wheel again—she bet the kids hadn’t done it. With the old wool bale in her arms, she stood looking at her wheel. She couldn’t pot. Was that what was really annoying her? That she couldn’t sit still long enough without these horrible negative, swirling thoughts of Charlie disrupting her concentration? Before, she could disappear into her world of slippery clay, to the drone of the spinning wheel, and create pots, plates, dishes. It was so satisfying. Someone asked her once if she started out with a plan of what she wanted to make. She didn’t like to say the clay had a life of its own and often she ended up with something quite different from what she intended.
She made anything that took her fancy, really. Last year she started creating little pairs of love birds, and they’d been a great success. She’d glazed them an incredible blue, using a barium glaze. It was a deadly poison, but all right if you didn’t use it for anything that might hold water or food. They’d sold like wildfire.
Every minute she could afford, Diana was in her studio, lost in her own world. The rush it gave her was addictive. The money was not to be sneezed at either.
Hesitantly, she pushed the treadle foot up and down. It was stiff, it probably needed oil. Suddenly angry, she stood and threw the cover back on and walked out, not looking back.
* * *
The next morning Diana took Milo to the shearing shed.
He had been sitting on his bed, totally absorbed in the incomprehensible world of the wretched iPhone his other grandparents had bought for him for the trip out. What was so engrossing? It must be games as there was no reception in the house.
‘Tommo’s gone ploughing. Do you want to come and see the shearing shed?’ she’d asked.
‘Tommo isn’t ploughing. He’s sowing with the air seeder.’
He may as well have been talking a foreign language. What on earth was an air seeder? Trust her son to have the facts correct. She wasn’t going to dispute it with him.
But at least he pocketed the damn phone and together they walked out the back and over the hill to where the shearing shed stood. Surrounded by the old wooden sheep yards it had been there a long time, built entirely of grey corrugated iron, with small glass-louvered windows. Steep wooden steps led up to a door with the paint peeling off. There was an open platform out one end of the shed, used to load the bales of wool onto the trucks. Diana opened the door and followed Milo in. She had always loved the shearing shed. It was the heart of the farm for her. Dim filtered light striped through the glass louvres and dust motes suspended in the air around them. The lovely smell of wool and sheep. Silence … waiting to be filled with the noise and energy of men and sheep again. Inside, the uprights were solid tree trunks, the pens made from sawn Oregon.
‘You know, this wood probably came out on an old sailing ship all the way from England,’ Diana told Milo. ‘They brought logs of Oregon and beautiful wrought-iron panelling as ballast to Australia, and loaded up with wool for the return trip.’ She ran her fingers along the soft wooden surface, oiled over the years with lanolin from the sheep.
She went to stand in front of a shearing machine, the long silver arm dangling at an angle behind her. ‘This is the board,’ she said, pointing to the floor in front of her. ‘The shearers pull out a sheep from the pen behind me, drag it out by its front legs and shear while holding it upside down.’ She fingered the small triangular tin on the little shelf just behind the machine. ‘The shearers keep their combs and cutters here, and oil for their hand pieces.’
Diana stopped, remembering standing at the doorway with her mother, hearing the buzz of the machines, and the chiacking between the shearers. Wool everywhere—fleeces on the floor, in the bins and bundled on the wool table. Everyone with a job to do. The frenetic energy. The farm came alive when the shearers moved in.
‘It’s dark in here.’
‘When they’re shearing, they usually open those roller doors at the end. That lets in the light and a bit of air. The generator has to be turned on before we can turn on the lights in here.’
Milo went over and pulled up the door at the back of the shed.
‘After they’re shorn, they push the sheep down the chute.’
Milo came back to examine the open chute. ‘It’s like a slippery dip.’
Diana smiled. ‘Tommo used to throw me down there, too. Go on, off you go.’
Milo looked dubiously down the dark chute and sat tentatively at the top with his legs dangling. Diana couldn’t resist and gave him a little push.
‘Mum, yuk! There’s poo down here! I can’t get back up.’ But at last there was a smile on his face.
‘Watch out, here I come.’ Laughing, she followed him down. ‘Come on, we’ll crawl out and I’ll count you out, like Stan does to the sheep.’
They walked back into the shed together, her arm round him, feeling her son’s knobbly backbone and the sharp, fine shoulder blades under her fingers.
‘Then they pick up the wool and throw it on this table.’ A couple of bundled fleeces lay on the old wooden wool table, and a new press stood, metallic and shiny, next to the old wooden Kurtz press.
Diana noticed the wool scraps littering the floor. Obviously no one had cleaned up after the last crutching. And there was some old netting and broken fence posts piled in a corner behind the shearing shed. This mess would never have been left in her day. Never ever.
‘Let’s clean this up a bit,’ she said. ‘There’s a broom over there. You sweep, I’ll pick up.’
Milo started to sweep, running in a straight line, the broom in front of him. He ran from one end of the board to the other, pushing the accumulated mess. Diana laughed at his energy, picking up enthusiasm for the task. She really was surprised at the state of the shed, it used to be so clean you could eat off the floor.
She bent over, separating the stained and daggy pieces from the woolly scraps on the floor.
‘Yuk! Mummy, that’s sheep poo.’
Diana looked up grinning. ‘We learnt not to waste any of the lovely stuff. Look over there on the old wool table. Feel the softness.’ She scrunched some fleece wool in her fingers, smelled it, and held it out to show him. ‘Go on, smell it.’
Milo stopped suddenly. ‘Sharks don’t eat us, really. You said they don’t. Lions and tigers eat us sometimes. But they like other things better, like deer and goats and things.’
‘Yes, we only get into trouble when we’re in their space, I suppose.’
‘Is God a predator, then?’
Diana turned to look at him. ‘No, no, Milo. Why do you ask?’
‘Didn’t he take Daddy?’
‘No, it was an accident, a terrible stupid accident.’ Diana knelt down, put her arms around her son, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears. Hugging him close. Milo, oh Milo.
‘Didn’t he want Daddy then?’
‘Of course he does. That’s where Daddy is right now—in heaven with God.’
But for the life of her, she couldn’t explain why. Not to Milo, not to herself, either. She was so angry. So angry with Charlie. At the unnecessary loss, at the sheer waste.
She was so angry with herself.
‘I like it here, Mummy.’
‘Do you? Do you really?’ Diana searched his round freckled face. ‘So do I, Milo. So do I.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Breakthrough! Her father had come to her while she was hanging out the washing, put his finger to his lips and pulled her along.
They stopped. Sienna was kneeling in front of the dog run, nearly, but not quite in reach of the young pup. It was sitting quietly, watching her intently. She put out a dry piece of dog food and pushed it slowly closer to the pup. The pup reached out and picked it up as if it was the greatest delicacy. Then he went back to waiting. Sure enough, Sienna pushed another towards it.
Diana nearly choked. Well, they weren’t actually touching but it was the closest she’d seen any of the children to the dogs since they’d arrived. She smiled at Tom and gave him a thumbs up. They tiptoed back to the clothesline.
‘Are you going to go to the races?’
‘No. Bloody stupid idea. We haven’t gone for years.’
‘Oh. But you’ll think about it, won’t you?’
‘No.’ And he picked up the basket and clomped inside.
That wasn’t a good start. Diana followed him in.
‘Rosie wants you to go over for dinner tonight.’ Stella was still washing up from breakfast.
‘All of us?’ Diana took an apple, scraped off the sticker and took a bite. ‘I swear these apples are better than the English ones.’
‘No, just you,’ her mother continued. ‘We thought you needed a catch up. Why don’t you stay the night? The kids and I are getting into Scrabble.’
Diana chuckled. ‘A sleepover. What fun.’ She sat on the counter eating the apple. ‘How does Sassy get around the spelling? She doesn’t like coming last.’
‘No problem. She gets three extra points for her words because she’s three years younger.’ Stella smiled.
‘She’s had a bad year this year. Joined the wrong group, and she’s been bashing her head trying to get accepted.’
‘She’s got a wicked sense of humour, and she’s bright. She’ll work it out.’
‘Why do you have to go through these battles your kids engage in? Why do I take it so personally?’
‘I don’t know. Can’t answer that one. Only that it seems to be just as bad for you as it was for me.’ Stella was drying the dishes and piling them on the counter.
‘Mum, why does Dad hate the idea of going to the races so much?’
‘He’s always complaining that at parties he can’t hear any one. Not that it would matter because all he would hear was drought talk.’
‘He and Patrick are good mates, or so you say.’ Diana put the apple core in the bin.
‘Yes, he comes over with a bottle of whiskey, and he and your dad sit and talk about the state of the world. I think his latest idea is growing hops. Crazy, isn’t it? He wants us to do it, too. Patrick’s always asking us down to Sydney but we haven’t ever been able to go.’
‘Tell me, is this Patrick really very wealthy?’ Diana grinned.
‘Oh yes! He and his brother own pubs in Sydney.’ Stella picked up the plates and handed them to Diana to put away. ‘He has oodles of money for fencing, and has built state-of-the-art cattle yards. We don’t have the money for that anymore, so here everything is running down. We can’t stock like we used to, and so our income’s reduced. The Powell’s paddock came up for auction last month, a paddock your father has always hankered after because of its superb protection. But we were blown out of the water by the starting price. Didn’t get a bid in.’ Her mother sighed, picked up the bucket from the sink and carried it over to the back door. ‘Lucky really, more debt we don’t need.’
* * *
Diana readjusted her pashmina and paused at the door of the sitting room. It was dark already and the curtains were drawn. The standard lamp shed light on the newspaper her father was reading. Stella and the children were concentrating intently on the Scrabble letters on the floor, enjoying the warmth coming from the firebox with its glass door.
She remembered herself and Rosie, sitting in the same spot playing with her grandmother. Only it was her parents standing at the door ready to go out. The flickering from the open fire. Cody crying, in her Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas, not wanting her mother to go.
She let out a breath. ‘I’m meeting Rosie down at the ramp, to save her coming in.’
‘Do you need a torch?’ Her father lowered the newspaper.
‘No there’s a slip of a moon out already. I’ll be fine.’ Diana kissed him on his freshly shaved cheek.
She bent over Milo. ‘What on earth is that word? Barph? That’s not a word.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Where’s the dictionary?’
‘No, Stella said if we could tell her what it meant it would be okay.’
‘Well, what does it mean?’
‘It’s the stuff that comes out of the air seeder at the back when it’s going along.’
Behind her she heard her father choke. She really would have to find out what an air seeder did. ‘I give up!’ said Diana. ‘I cannot believe you are condoning cheating at Scrabble, Mum. You never let us,’ she grumbled, kissing the girls.
‘Your grandmother taught you how to cheat. Now it’s my turn. I’m allowing the ingenious rule, and I’m enjoying myself immensely.’
‘What’s the ingenious rule?’
‘Ingenious means clever, resourceful.’
‘I know what ingenious means. I’m not all that sure my kids do.’
Her mother waved her away. ‘Go on. Go!’
So she did. None of them looked up. For three children that had hardly left her side for the last three months, Diana wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or a little bit hurt.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The little white Honda was pulling up just as Diana got down to the ramp.
‘Good timing.’
‘I hope you’re not freezing. I’ve got the heater going. Do you want to turn the fan up?’
‘It’s the most beautiful night. I’ve been watching the stars come out. I swear there are millions more here than in London.’
‘Ah, but in London you have all the nightlights, or should I say nightlife, to compensate. Trade me a few neon lights anytime.’
‘You don’t see much nightlife with three kids in the house. You’re lucky if you make it to nine o’clock without falling asleep on the couch.’
‘Well, I say enjoy the moment. Wait til you’re staying up until they come home from a party, there’s no sleep then.’
‘Thank you for organising this, it is so good to have time for a real catch up.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Just like old times.’
‘Yeah.’ Diana smiled across at her sister. ‘Oh Rosie, I’ve missed you.’
‘Me too, Di, me too.’
* * *
The house Rosie and Mal had bought when they first
married was just half a kilometre away. It was a fibro, triple-fronted workman’s cottage, and came with about one hundred and fifty acres, which was enough to run thirty odd cows, and a few chooks. Apparently Rosie ran chooks, now her mother didn’t anymore.
‘Wow!’ Diana stopped just inside the front hall. The interior had gone through a transformation since she’d last seen it. All the front rooms had been amalgamated into an enormous open-plan family room, the kitchen at the back all gleaming black granite, with a computer corner, two dun leather couches, and the biggest plasma TV Diana had ever seen in her life, hanging on the wall.
‘Rosie, this is amazing! When did all this happen?’
‘About three years ago, after Mal started working for Patrick at Lost Valley. I have to say he pays well.’
Patrick again.
Diana sat on the comfortable leather sofa, where she could watch Rosie in the kitchen. ‘He’s asked Mum and Dad to go to the races.’
‘So Mal was saying. None of us have been for years,’ Rosie said, getting a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator.
‘I was thinking if we all go, it would cheer everyone up a bit, wouldn’t it? I’m guessing you and Mal are going. Mum and Dad seem to be sticking in their heels. What’s happening there?’
Rosie handed a glass of white wine to Diana. ‘My theory is, I think Dad’s suffering from depression.’ She sighed as she sat down, tucking her knees beneath her. ‘I’ve been on to the Beyond Blue website and it’s all there. I ticked the list—won’t go out, won’t talk. He isn’t sleeping properly. What’s worse, he’s losing his temper all the time with Mum.’
‘Can’t Mum do anything?’
‘She won’t see it—and I mean, will not. She has her head in the sand. She has a foot in our camp and a foot in Dad’s, trying to keep the balance.’
‘Well, I talked to Dad the other day and there doesn’t appear to be an imminent date of departure. He said they’d have nothing to live on.’
‘Oh dear, I know. I’ve told Mal that until I’m blue in the face. We know damn well that Mog’s Hill won’t support two families, not at the moment anyway.’ Rosie got up to consult the calendar on the fridge. ‘To return to the subject at hand, when are the races … They’re still two weeks away.’