She had never felt anything like it before, each delicate probe sent spasms throughout her entire body. If he never went beyond doing just that she could be happy for the rest of her life. But she wanted to please him too, and she lifted his face from her breast to kiss him, at the same time arching her back so he could go further inside her. He wasn’t just kissing her now, but devouring her, and it was wonderful. She ran her fingernails down his spine, and her pleasure was heightened still more by his shudder of delight.
He was half over her, his mouth so eager, moving between her lips and breasts. Dulcie slid her hands down his sides to push down his pyjamas. She could feel his penis hard against her thigh, near the source of her pleasure, she slid her hand towards it, and tentatively cupped her hand around it.
All at once it went limp and as it did he drew away from her like a startled cat. His reaction was so sudden, just like a light being switched off, and for Dulcie, a sick feeling of dread replaced the bliss there had been just moments before.
‘It’s all right,’ she murmured instinctively, as she would to a frightened child. ‘I love you, everything’s all right.’
But it wasn’t all right. He turned his face into the pillow and she knew he was crying. Bewildered as Dulcie was, she sensed that trying to question him would only make the situation worse. She curved herself along his side, put her arm around his back and just held him.
As she lay there in the darkness, holding him, she wished that she knew more about the mechanics of love-making in humans. She knew exactly how it worked for animals, living on a farm she’d seen it all dozens of times. Clearly it worked much the same way for humans, but perhaps there was a further dimension she didn’t know about. She had thought that touching his penis would give him pleasure, but clearly it had repelled him. It was her fault.
The feeling that it was all her fault grew as the months passed. Ross could not be induced to talk about what had happened that night, and he didn’t touch her again. She had received only a postcard from May with a picture of Sydney Harbour Bridge. No address to write back to, just a couple of lines saying she was safe and well. If her own sister thought so little of her that she couldn’t write a proper letter, it stood to reason she was lacking in something.
She missed Betty so much too. No more cosy woman-to-woman chats during the day, discussion about recipes or a new design for a quilt. Dulcie felt she could have confided her worries about Ross to her, and she would have known what to do.
The summer ended with violent storms, bringing heavy rain that turned the paddocks into lakes. Ross had dug the foundations for their house during the hot weather and he was furious that the work he had done was now wasted, the holes filled again with mud. Dulcie could keep the mud out of Bruce’s house, but it was impossible to keep it out of the caravan, just a walk over to the lavatory in the bunkhouse brought it in. Sometimes at night when she was tired, she’d sit on the end of the bed and weep with frustration to see the tiny floor in the kitchen area which she’d only cleaned that morning filthy again. However careful they were to remove their shoes the minute they got inside, the mud still seemed to get on their bare feet and ended up on the sheets.
Before the rain came she’d decided she should make the evening meals for herself and Ross in the caravan. She felt that if they pretended to be a happily married couple, perhaps they’d eventually become one. It was enough hard work putting the bed away so they had a table and benches to sit on, but the little stove was temperamental, flaring up suddenly for no reason, and the meat was often raw in the middle and burnt on the outside. She could hardly blame Ross for going off to the pub later, she was so tetchy after cooking a meal and serving it in the house, then rushing over here to do it all again. On top of that the caravan was often full of smoke.
She tried cooking their meal in Bruce’s house while she made the men’s, and bringing it over, but that was just as much of a palaver, running backwards and forwards for something she’d forgotten. Ross still went off to the pub, and so when the rain came she gave it up and they went back to the house for meals as before. But she felt such a failure.
Once it began to get cold, the caravan was like an icebox and so was the shower in the bunkhouse. Soon she was darting over to the house in the mornings in her dressing-gown, having a shower there and dressing. That made her feel guilty too for it was like rejecting the home Ross had worked so hard on. She would linger in the house with Bruce after supper, staying longer and longer with him. She told herself she was just keeping him company and what was the harm in that?
Yet she knew there was harm, for she and Ross were locked into a circle of destructive behaviour. She knew if she was to beg him to stop going to the pub, he would, but that would mean she’d have to stay with him in the caravan. While he was drinking he wasn’t going to make any attempt to sort out their marital problems; if he kept away from her, she could pretend they didn’t exist.
Sometimes Bruce would make a concerned remark about the way things were, but Dulcie didn’t think he had any real idea of the gravity of the situation, for Ross going off to the pub wasn’t unusual behaviour. Few Australian men were homebodies, drinking with their mates after work was considered quite normal.
Bruce had always liked a drink himself, but lack of money to spend on it for most of his marriage had meant that by the time he did have the money, he had lost the urge. He was glad of Dulcie’s company too, sometimes they watched television, sometimes she helped him with the accounts, or they just talked. He still missed Betty so much, and as time passed, Dulcie was becoming more and more the daughter he’d never had, and she looked upon him as a father.
Towards the end of the winter, Ross began working on their house in earnest. He would get up an hour earlier to lay a row of bricks before starting the milking, any spare time during the day and he was back to it. He lost interest in going to the pub, after supper he would take a couple of kerosene lamps out there with him to continue, his bedtime reading was books on building.
These were times of happiness between Dulcie and him. By day she would help him when she could, passing bricks, mixing concrete, and the shared project pushed their problems aside. Ross was never more content than when he had hard work to do – he flourished on it, smiling and whistling all day. He was more demonstrative with his affection for her, he talked and laughed readily. Dulcie could pretend then that everything was fine, she didn’t attempt to try to coerce him into love-making any longer, and quite often days would pass without her even thinking about it.
Yet it was around early October that she began to see he was driven in a way other men weren’t. She studied John, Bob, Bruce and other men who called at the farm, and noted that although their work was very important to them, it wasn’t their whole life the way it was with Ross. They looked forward to the fortnightly Friday night dances, the annual ball at the Bijou theatre was eagerly anticipated, as were picnics at the beach, parties and barbecues. In winter football was the sole topic of conversation, for every small town had its team and every single man went to see the Saturday matches even if it meant driving 100 miles or more. But Ross showed little or no interest in any of these things. His love was work, and the harder he drove himself the happier he was.
And so Dulcie wrote to a problem page in a women’s magazine, asking for their advice. Even if she’d been able to get over her embarrassment at talking about such an intimate subject with someone she knew, she felt she couldn’t admit such things to anyone who also knew Ross. So she poured it all out in a letter and enclosed a stamped addressed envelope for a personal reply.
The harvest, her birthday, Christmas, the new year of 1961 and their first wedding anniversary on 8 January passed before the reply came. Bruce came in with the post while Dulcie was doing some ironing. ‘Have we resorted to writing letters to ourselves now?’ he joked as he handed her the envelope addressed by herself.
‘I wrote to a magazine in Sydney,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘I hoped they might
be able to help me find out where May is.’
She felt ashamed of telling him a lie, and it shocked her she could think one up so fast. Perhaps she getting more like May.
Bruce laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘She’ll get in touch when she’s ready,’ he said. ‘The truth of the matter is that she’s probably having such a bloody good time she’s forgotten her big sister will be worried.’
‘But it’s a whole year now,’ Dulcie said, glad to unburden this anxiety, if not her main one.
‘A year goes past very quickly when you’re having fun. You and Ross should get out and enjoy yourselves more. I’ve just been talking to him, he’s almost ready to put the roof on. I think we ought to throw a roof-raising party like we used to do in the old days.’
Dulcie smiled. ‘That sounds good. Do we have it in the house?’
Bruce chuckled. ‘No, of course not. We have a picnic or a barbecue, all the men help put the roof on, the women sit about and chat. Once it’s done we all celebrate with drinking and dancing.’
‘That would be fun,’ she said with enthusiasm, thinking of how many of Bruce and Betty’s old friends she could invite.
‘I’d better get going,’ Bruce said, leaving her letter on the ironing board. ‘We’ll talk about it over supper tonight, and get a list of guests together.’
The minute Bruce went out, Dulcie snatched up the letter and took it into the bathroom in case anyone came in while she was reading it. She perched on the lavatory and pulled out the letter.
Dear Mrs Rawlings, she read. Thank you for your letter, I’m sorry I have taken so long to reply. It must be very distressing that you have been unable to consummate your marriage, but far more so for your husband. You say he is driven by work, and I would say this is caused purely by what he perceives to be his sexual failure.
My advice to you is to just be patient and loving. Never belittle or nag him, and let him feel the constancy of your love for him. When he does appear to wish for some kind of lovemaking, make no demands on him, just accept what he offers and don’t question him if he is unable to complete the act. You said that he lost his erection when you touched it. It may be that you were too rough, or hasty. It is quite usual for men to dislike women taking the dominant role. As for him refusing to talk about all of this, I am surprised you imagine other men could! By asking him to speak of it you are giving him the message that you find him disappointing, and therefore he is even less likely to try again for fear of further failure.
You have only been married a year, and it seems to me you have been blessed in other directions in that your husband is hardworking and kind to you. Be patient, show him how much you love him, allow yourself to cuddle up to him without any expectations, and I am sure in time his problem will disappear.
I hope my advice is helpful,
Yours sincerely, Aunt Angela
Dulcie read the letter through several times, then tore it into pieces and flushed it down the lavatory. She was very disappointed, and she knew without being an expert that all Aunt Angela had done was make her feel even more guilty and responsible than she did before. She sat there for some little time thinking about it. She was patient and loving, she never belittled Ross or nagged him, but whatever this woman said, she didn’t feel she could keep it up indefinitely.
Surely she had a right to be happy? To have children, and to look to the future with optimism?
‘I should never have married him,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Now I’m trapped because he’s building that house and I’ll have to stay for ever.’
But you love him, a little voice in her head reminded her. There must be some reason why he’s the way he is.
‘What did the magazine suggest about finding May?’ Bruce asked at supper.
Dulcie gulped. She had forgotten about that. ‘Um, nothing much,’ she said, searching desperately for something sensible to say. ‘They said I could try putting an advert in the Sydney paper asking her to come forward,’ she added hastily.
‘Why don’t you try it?’ Ross asked, putting one hand over hers. ‘I hate to see you so worried about her.’
‘I doubt May ever read a newspaper in her life,’ John said. ‘But someone else might write and tell you where she is.’
‘Perhaps I’ll try it then,’ Dulcie said. ‘Now, what about this roof-raising party? Are we going to organize something?’
Dulcie came out of the house carrying two large pitchers of orange squash and smiled at the scene in front of her. Around fifteen couples and their children were scattered around the front garden. The older ladies were sitting on chairs under the shade of the tree, plates of sandwiches, flans and cake on their laps, the younger ones in groups on the grass, the men gathered around another tree by the side of the track up to the house where they had set up the beer on a table. Children were scooting around everywhere and a couple of prams holding babies were being rocked by their mothers as they chatted. Everyone looked very happy to be there.
‘This chicken is beaut!’ old Mrs Scarsdale, a close friend of Betty’s, called out to Dulcie, waving a drumstick in her hand. ‘I’d say it’s as good as Betty used to make.’
‘Well, thank you, Mrs Scarsdale,’ Dulcie said as she went over to top up empty glasses for the children and the women who weren’t drinking beer. ‘I wish she was here today with us, she loved parties.’
The roof had been put on the house over three hours ago, amidst much laughter from the women and subdued cursing from the men. It was a tin one, as almost all roofs were here, and once it was on and secured, everyone had cheered, toasts had been made, then Ross picked Dulcie up in his arms and carried her inside. ‘Well, Mrs Rawlings?’ he joked. ‘Does it meet with your approval?’
It wasn’t anywhere near finished inside of course. The windows had to go in, the walls had to be plastered, but the floor was in, and the veranda outside, and at last it was beginning to look like a real house rather than a pen for animals.
There were two bedrooms, a bathroom and a large living-room, with the kitchen opening off from it. The windows in the living-room went right down to the floor just as Ross had said, so they could sit and watch the kangaroos at night.
‘It’s almost perfect, Mr Rawlings,’ she said, kissing him on the lips. ‘So just go on to perfect it, and make it snappy!’
‘Great tucker, Dulcie!’ Steve, a stockman from a neighbouring farm, called out. ‘If Ross ever gets tired of you I’ll take you on, cooks like you are hard to find.’
Dulcie laughed. She’d had so many compliments like that today, and ones from men who said how pretty she was. She was wearing the dress May had insisted she bought in Perth, with the net petticoat underneath, and she had put her hair up the way May used to do hers. It was lovely to be the centre of attention for once.
Bruce was sitting with the older ladies and she went to ask him if he wanted another beer. It was good to see him looking happy again, and Betty’s old friends were all making a fuss of him. ‘I’ll just have some of that squash,’ he said. ‘You know when you’re getting old when you can’t hold the beer any more.’
‘Old age brings its own rewards,’ she teased him. ‘At least you get a seat in the shade and don’t have to stand about with all the younger men boasting about your car or your dog.’
Bruce beckoned to her to come closer. ‘Have you talked to the English bloke yet?’
‘Yes, he’s nice,’ Dulcie replied. ‘He and his wife were very touched we invited them because they don’t know many people.’
Doreen and Mike Perkins and their children were one of the many new families to the area. Dulcie had met Doreen in the shop in town, and when she heard her English accent she stopped to talk and introduce herself. Doreen and Mike had only been in Australia two years, and they’d bought a farm up at Gibson.
‘He’s a damn fool,’ Bruce whispered. ‘Talking about putting a swimming-pool in.’
Dulcie laughed, she had heard Mike talking about it to the other men, but they’d soon put him
straight that water around here couldn’t be wasted on something so frivolous. Yet she sympathized with the man, it was so hot in the summer, and it took English people a long time to really value water. Just thinking that reminded her she no longer thought of herself as English. Doreen and Mike had been surprised to discover that she was, she sounded and acted so Australian.
‘Maybe the swimming-pools will come when the planes do,’ she teased Bruce, and playfully tipped his cotton hat right over his eyes. ‘Or maybe hell will freeze over first!’
‘You look and sound happier today,’ he said suddenly. ‘Is that because the house is nearly ready? Or just because you’ve got some company?’
‘Both, I expect,’ she said lightly.
‘You make sure you arrange to meet some of these young wives again,’ he said, looking sharply at her. ‘The house alone won’t give you what you need.’
She wondered how much he’d picked up about her and Ross. A man as astute as Bruce who had had such a long and loving marriage wasn’t likely to be fooled for long. But she was saved from making any further comment because one of the babies in a pram started to cry. It was Doreen’s youngest, born here in Esperance, and knowing Doreen had gone into the house with another child to use the bathroom, Dulcie went to the pram and picked the baby up.
She had never held a small baby before, not since May was tiny anyway, yet she instinctively supported its tiny head and laid it gently against her shoulder, patting its back soothingly. ‘There, there, Mummy will be back soon.’
Dulcie had no idea if it was what she said that triggered her tears, a reminder of her own mother, or the desire for a baby of her own. But all at once she was crying and she couldn’t stop.
Trust Me Page 47
