Feeling significantly buoyed, Emily tried to remember where she’d put her résumé and when she had last updated it.
Rounding the final corner, she saw a large plume of dust rising a little way off. Her foot automatically came off the accelerator and the car slowed. She frowned slightly, taking it in. That’s odd, she thought. Definitely not smoke; too reddish brown.
She stopped the vehicle and stared. Her heart lurched before skipping a couple of beats. Half of the old cottage was a pile of stone, concrete, timber and iron. All that remained was the chimney and part of the northern and eastern walls. But not for long. Emily held both hands over her gaping mouth and watched as a large green front-end loader lined up and drove forward, the bucket hitting the brick chimney structure mid-section. After a few moments it wavered and began to topple.
Unable to bear seeing the final walls come down, Emily moved the car slowly forward before picking up speed and driving around the corner, past the house, and into the shed.
So he’d actually done it. She shook her head, surprised at how calm she felt; she wasn’t even that angry. What was the point – it wouldn’t rebuild the cottage, would it? And it was his farm; he had every right to tear down a dilapidated building to make way for a hayshed.
Emily felt a tug of sadness for the people who had spent possibly years building what had been rendered a pile of rubble in a matter of minutes. Would their angry spirits now haunt them?
Part of her hoped there would be some sort of karmic payback for John, but another part told her he was already difficult enough to live with. She sighed deeply.
‘Come on, Gracie, let’s get these groceries unloaded.’ Walking to the house felt to Emily like wading through mud. She could smell the dust that coloured the sky the full length of the house and beyond.
She sighed again. There was no way John would have thought to shut the windows. The place would be a mess thanks to the stiff north-easterly breeze.
As Emily walked up the path, she tried to block out the hum and intermittent roar of the tractor. She sternly told Grace to stay outside, instantly feeling guilty at the dog’s downcast look. But she had to start staying outside, else risk a boot from John.
Entering the kitchen and seeing the leg of lamb defrosting on the sink, Emily regretted her decision to cook John’s favourite meal.
She sniffed at the air. There was no mistaking the faint scent of red loam. After dumping the bags of groceries on the floor, she wiped her fingers across the dark surface of the antique timber table. As expected, a film of red-brown dirt clung to them.
Emily made her way through the house, shutting the windows and cursing John for his lack of forethought – she’d just done the vacuuming the day before. She thought about leaving it so John would see the mess he’d caused, but what would be the point? He’d just say something like, ‘How was I to know you’d leave the windows open all day?’ And she’d still have to clean it up. Vacuuming, just like cooking and washing, was ‘women’s work’ that he had no intention of participating in.
Emily had just finished vacuuming the house when the roar of the tractor became considerably louder. She looked up as the big green machine made its way past the bedroom window toward the shed, and hoped John had other things to do before coming in.
Minutes later, Emily was at the kitchen sink peeling vegetables when she heard a loud bang. She jumped slightly with fright. A gun shot? Definitely sounded like it; she’d heard plenty before. But this one seemed awfully close, and it wasn’t dark enough yet for spotlighting. John must have seen a feral cat or something, she decided, and went back to what she was doing.
But she couldn’t concentrate. God, she hoped Grace was on her bed by the house. She brought a hand to her heart as it began to race, and was just about to look for the dog when John entered the kitchen.
‘Keep that mutt out of the paddocks and away from the sheep,’ he said, before Emily had a chance to say anything. She felt the colour drain from her face.
‘You shot Grace?’ she said in a quiet, shaky, but slightly incredulous tone.
‘No, but next time it won’t be so lucky,’ he said, tossing his filthy Akubra onto the bench in the far corner of the room. Emily had to grip the kitchen sink for support. Her hands shook as she put the tray of vegetables into the oven.
John got a beer from the fridge, sat down at the end of the table, and turned on the small television set with the remote beside him.
Emily cringed at the little clouds of dust that rose from his clothes with every sudden movement, but held her tongue.
‘Well that was the best fun I’ve had in ages,’ he announced. ‘What’s for dinner? I’m starving. Ah roast, good,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. When Emily didn’t reply, he looked at her. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘You shot at my dog, and you say it’s the best fun you’ve had in ages!’ she said, willing herself not to cry.
‘It needed a fright,’ he said, waving a dismissive arm. ‘If I’d meant to kill it, I would have. And, for your information, I was talking about having fun with the loader and the old cottage. They certainly don’t build ‘em like they used to.’
‘John, shutting the windows on the house would have been helpful; I’ve just spent the last hour vacuuming.’
‘Didn’t know they were open,’ he said, twisting the cap off his beer and taking a long sip. John Stratten gave his customary shoulder shrug and turned-down mouth expression. ‘Took ages to bring the old girl down,’ he mused, before taking another large slug of beer.
‘I thought we didn’t have the money for the hayshed this year,’ Emily said, setting his place around him.
‘We don’t,’ he said, looking up at her with a lopsided grin.
‘So why pull the cottage down now?’
He shrugged. ‘Something to do while the weather’s too cool to reap. Dad wants to borrow the loader for a few months straight after harvest.’
‘What are you going to do with the pile of rubble?’ Emily cursed the words as they escaped her lips.
John shrugged yet again, and for the first time Emily realised how much she hated it. Had it once been one of his endearing mannerisms?
‘It’s fine as it is; maybe push it into the creek later if I can be bothered.’
If it was going to be left where it was, why did it need to come down?
‘But I thought you needed the space,’ she said.
‘Nup – there’s five thousand or so other acres to choose from.’
And then Emily saw the truth, the realisation hitting her like a sharp slap to the face. She stared at him, unable to stop her mouth from dropping open. But she couldn’t speak.
‘Maybe now you’ll stop with all this bed and breakfast nonsense,’ he said with a smirk.
Emily felt her face begin to flame. Had he really done it just to kill her dream? And had he smiled while telling her so? Surely even John wouldn’t be that cruel?
‘You demolished the cottage so I would stop thinking about the B&B?’ Emily said, incredulous.
‘Well, it’ll stop you going on about it.’
Emily clenched and unclenched her hands. She wanted to scream at him that a dream, a scrapbook and the odd mention were hardly ‘going on about it’. But there was no point. No matter what she said, John Stratten would have the last word. And anyway, there were more important things to consider, like the fact he’d just shot at her dog – a harmless, defenceless puppy.
Emily finished preparing dinner, served it, and ate in a trance, barely tasting each morsel. Chewing was a struggle that seemed to take forever. But she pushed on, refusing to give John the satisfaction of knowing just how much he had hurt and upset her. How could she have ever fallen in love with this man?
Emily thought about what Liz said at Gran’s funeral. Her cousin was right: she hadn’t grown up – she’d lost her identity. At some point she’d stopped standing up for herself and her dreams. But it wasn’t just her she had to stand up for now, was it? It w
as up to her to protect Grace. And she would.
With a shock Emily realised that she was actually going to leave her husband. She had to; for herself, and also for Grace.
She felt oddly calm. There would be no hysterics, no ‘hissy fits’, as John called them. No, whatever it took, she would deny him that satisfaction.
That night, as John snored loudly beside her, Emily lay awake, seething and resisting the urge to smother him with a pillow. It would be so easy, she thought, and eventually had to leave the room lest she try to find out.
Chapter Eleven
The following morning was just like any other.
Emily brought John Stratten his breakfast of toast and jam, and packed his lunch for the Agricultural Bureau ‘sticky beak’ day. Then she waved him off from the glass door – more to make sure he left the property without harming Grace than from any affection.
After doing the dishes, putting them away and leaving the kitchen tidy, she made the bed and tidied the bedroom. Her order of morning tasks rarely changed, and ensured that the house was perfectly presentable by nine o’clock should unexpected guests arrive. The routine was another inheritance from Granny Mayfair, and today she was especially grateful for a well-honed system that she could work through with little thought; she hadn’t had much sleep.
Emily packed her clothes into her large and medium sized suitcases and then added her toiletries. The only other things she would take were Grace’s bits and pieces, the three boxes of Gran’s belongings, and the button jar. She’d have liked to arrange a truck to empty the house, but she wasn’t prepared to take so much time and risk John coming home early. And where would she send it anyway? Her mother’s? Enid would have a fit. No, she’d worry about furniture and household effects later, or not. She could live without it all if necessary. She didn’t like the idea – there were some really nice things she treasured. But at the end of the day it was only stuff, and stuff could be replaced.
After putting everything by the sliding door leading outside, Emily checked the rest of the house to make sure there wasn’t anything else she needed. She kept seeing things she’d like to take, but resisted. Her main concerns were to get out of there and to leave the house in good order. Her mother-in-law would most likely be the first to arrive when the news hit.
Mrs Stratten – Thora – was one of those women about whom you got the feeling you’d never get approval or praise from, even if you came up with a cure for cancer. She was a glass-half-empty type. Not a lot different to Emily’s own mother, really. And, as with Enid, Emily had never felt good enough in Thora’s eyes.
Gerald Stratten was a dear, sweet man, though he was rarely seen in the presence of his wife. He’d made being absent an art form. He and Emily had shared a couple of great conversations along the way, but she felt she didn’t know him at all. Again, in all the wrong ways he was like her own father – they were both dominated by the women in their lives.
Emily regularly wondered if Gerald had any idea of the state of their finances, and just how much had been syphoned off into the John-has-to-be-kept-happy-at-all-costs fund. Through a system of emotional blackmail, their son was slowly ruining them and they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see it. Or perhaps there was a magic money tree after all. It was hard to believe that the Strattens could be so wealthy when they spent so much; weren’t the rich meant to be miserly? Wasn’t that how rich people stayed rich? Could be they’re still getting by through old money, she supposed.
Anyway, soon it would no longer be her concern. What would she be entitled to through the divorce? No doubt they would have set everything up in a trust that couldn’t be touched – it was what smart farming dynasties did. Part of Emily hoped she’d be adequately compensated and John adequately punished for her three years of unhappiness, but a bigger part of her said that the less there was to fight over, the less time it would take to cut all ties and get on with her life.
Except that right now she wasn’t sure what she wanted out of life. She hoped it would become clear once she got out of this mess. But the first step is to get out of this house, Emily told herself sternly.
Patting Grace on the way past, and telling her to wait, Emily brought the car from the shed and parked it outside the glass sliding door. She packed everything carefully into the boot. It was a struggle, but she managed to fit it all in. She was glad that no one would be able to see what she was up to and that there would be no difficult conversations to be had unless she wanted to have them. She could take things one step at a time, in her own time.
Emily closed the boot lid with a bang and felt a wave ripple through her. Sadness? No. More like disappointment. She went back to the house and did a final check that she’d taken what she immediately needed. Nothing looked out of place – there weren’t even any obvious signs of missing items. She wondered how long it would take John to realise she wasn’t just late back to prepare his dinner but wasn’t coming back at all – ever – and allowed herself to indulge in a brief moment of satisfaction.
Back in the kitchen, Emily sat in a chair opposite the clock above the original chimney hob that had been altered to house the modern oven. It was nine twenty-five.
Each forward movement of the second hand seemed to take ages, and its tick seemed to vibrate right through the cheap plastic cover and then roam around the otherwise silent room before being followed by the next.
Emily waited, her handbag strap over her shoulder, her left hand clutching the car keys so tightly it hurt. Grace, who had been sitting at attention, gave up and lay down at her feet. The portable phone handset became slippery in her right hand and she put it down on the table.
As the clock struck nine-thirty, Emily picked up the phone, took a couple of deep breaths, dialled, and waited.
‘Barbara, hi. It’s me, Emily.’
‘Emily, hi! How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you. And you?’
‘Great. Um, is everything all right? You sound different.’
‘Yes, fine thanks, but I was wondering if you fancied a visitor for coffee – only if you’re free, that is. I understand if you’re busy.’
‘This morning? That would be great.’
‘Only if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding.’
‘Not at all. Would you like me to meet you in town to save you driving all the way out here?’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I think the drive will do me good. I need to get out of the house – you know how it is, just one of those days.’
‘Do you mean now? Are you sure everything is okay?’
‘Yes, fine. And, yes, I’m actually ready to leave now. Unless it’s too early for you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Thanks Barbara, see you soon.’
‘Drive carefully.’
‘I will.’
Emily put the handset back in its charger cradle, took a final glance around the kitchen, called Grace to her, and walked out. She stood at the closed sliding door a few moments, struck by an overwhelming feeling of apprehension.
But the feeling wasn’t so much about leaving John as facing her mother, the townsfolk, and life itself.
A lump lodged tight in her throat and tears teased her eyelashes. Marriage had been horrible; John had been horrible. She’d tried to stick it out. Why shouldn’t she leave? A small voice in her head – not unlike her mother’s voice – told her it might be worse to be alone.
But of course there was Grace to think about now. Next time John shot at her – and there would be a next time, of that she was sure – he probably wouldn’t miss. All that mattered was that they had each other; they’d muddle through somehow.
‘Come on, Gracie, we’re going on a little adventure,’ she said, holding the passenger door open for the pup to get in, and then closing it again.
Beyond spending a couple of hours with Barbara, Emily had no plans. All the hours of thinking the night before had just resulted in her decision to leave, no matter what. She wasn’t even sure if she’d
tell her new friend the truth.
Chapter Twelve
For the first few kilometres, Emily’s heart was leaden in her stomach, but gradually the feeling eased. By the time she was approaching Barbara’s, a tiny part of her was even feeling a little excited about the prospect of going through life alone and being in control of whatever successes she had. She ignored her inner voice reminding her that the failures would be all hers as well. She would have none of that. Anyway, as her wise old gran used to say, ‘Mistakes are only failures if you don’t learn from them’.
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Gracie,’ she said aloud, causing the pup to look up from the passenger’s seat and flap her tail. If only she knew what she wanted to do with her life.
Emily felt like a high-powered engine sitting in neutral – all revved up but with nowhere in particular to go. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands and concentrated hard. But the more she thought about it, the less clear her thoughts. Hopefully she’d have a light bulb moment before too long – before she’d chewed through her five thousand, seven hundred and fifty-seven dollars and thirty cents of savings.
Barbara bounded down her verandah steps and was at the car before Emily had even turned off the engine. It took a few more moments for the old dog to ease herself from her sleeping position and waddle after her mistress. Barbara peered through Emily’s open window.
‘Oh. I thought you’d be all loaded up because you left John,’ she said with obvious disappointment.
Without replying, Emily got out of the car. She had difficulty standing: her legs were shaking so much. Grace leapt out after her and engaged in a hearty reunion with her mother. The two friends hugged briefly before Emily broke away and silently went behind the car and opened the boot. Barbara followed her, a perplexed expression on her face.
‘I have. These are my worldly possessions,’ she said, sweeping her hand across the top of the tightly packed boot.
Saving Grace Page 7
