by Di Morrissey
Hearing Lorna return, Sally went into the kitchen where she was making a cup of tea. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I suppose so. That woman would sleep with anything breathing, man or beast.’
‘Oh dear, à ménage a trois or something?’ Sally really had no idea what had happened, this was all so far removed from the delicate indiscretions she’d heard about in New Zealand.
‘They are just a bunch of drunken low-lifes. They live like animals and they act that way. Do you want a cup of tea?’
They were sitting with their tea in the living room, talking quietly, when John Monroe came in. He seemed a bit surprised to see them.
‘Was there a blue down there? I’ve been at the yards, Fitzi said there was a problem with some of the cattle.’
‘Everything is taken care of, John. You’d better talk to Snowy in the morning. I’ve sent that woman packing. You decide if you need those runners around the place.’ Lorna was frosty and put her cup down with a clink in its saucer.
John gave a yawn. ‘I hate the bastards. Waste of fucking space. Trouble is we need a few hands around the joint to do some new yards and repairs. I’ll sort ’em out tomorrow.’
Sally looked at him, thinking Lorna had done a pretty good job of sorting things out herself. She was still amazed at the strength radiating from Lorna. She wouldn’t like to be at the receiving end of her displeasure. It was the first time Sally had seen the steel in Lorna and suddenly she saw that while John was all bluster and noise, his wife wielded a sharp and withering power.
She was staring at John, wondering if he was drunk or sober. He gave her a half smile. ‘Sorry the buggers woke you, Sally.’
Lorna gathered up the tea cups and stood up. ‘Let’s not lose any more sleep. Go to bed, Sally.’
Sally fled back to bed, the tension between Lorna and John was palpable.
Tommy sat up and asked quietly, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s fine, go to sleep.’
‘G’night.’
‘Goodnight, Tommy.’
As he settled down, he whispered, ‘It was a good afternoon, wasn’t it? We’ll do it again, eh?’
Sally felt the tension of the past hour begin to melt.
‘Yep, we certainly will.’
Chapter Seven
JOHN MONROE FINISHED BREAKFAST, virtually ignoring Sally and the boys. The kitchen was quiet, Lizzie was waiting to dish up breakfast for Dougie and Harry.
Monroe stuck his head around the door. ‘No sign of ’em eh, Lizzie? Dish it up and leave it on the table.’
‘Steak ’n eggs get cold, boss.’
‘Too bad.’ He slammed his hat on his head, picked up his .303 rifle from its rack above the assorted bush hats and headed outside. Lizzie went into the dining room and stood there shuffling her feet for a moment.
‘What’s up, Lizzie?’ asked Sally.
‘The old man got ’is rifle, goin’ shoot dem bore pellas. Mebbe Snowy.’
The boys looked up. ‘Nah, he won’t,’ said Ian.
‘He just wants to scare them,’ Tommy added.
‘Should I get your mother?’ asked Sally.
‘She won’t do anything,’ said Ian. ‘Dad’s on the warpath.’
They continued eating and Sally shrugged at Lizzie.
John Monroe roared away in the truck to the single men’s quarters. Holding the rifle, he stepped onto the narrow verandah, went to the middle room, flung open the door and lifted the rifle. The stale odour of booze, vomit and close living hit him in the face. He didn’t look to see who was still in bed but aimed at the back corrugated-iron wall and fired through it. The shot reverberated in the quarters as if in a hollow drum.
Two bodies rose from the bunks, rubbing their eyes and shaking their ringing heads.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Get up and out there, you lazy sodden bastards. You’ve missed breakfast. I want you down at the yards, working, in ten minutes.’ He turned on his heel and drove back to the homestead. It was 8 am; the day had begun.
Sally was as anxious as the boys to get up to the yards to watch the branding, so she struck a deal with them to catch up on their school work after hours. Then they headed to the noisy big home paddock where Snowy and three stockmen were working as a team, lassoing the cleanskins and big weaners, throwing them to the ground, two holding them down, castrating the males while two other men did the branding – heating the irons and searing them onto the hide of the animal, which leapt away with the stinging BC brand on its rump.
The boys were all over the place trying to get as close to the action as they were allowed, looking like smaller versions of the men in their Cuban-heeled boots and battered Akubras. Sally stayed by the fence, intrigued by the activity but wincing as the hot iron seared into each hairy hide.
John Monroe swung up beside her. ‘You really interested in all this? Or just keeping an eye on the boys?’ He sounded cheerful and more relaxed than earlier in the morning.
‘Both. It’s a bit rugged on the poor animals but I suppose it has to be done.’
‘Bloody oath. This isn’t such a good haul, a few decent weaners. Rob’ll come in with a better mob, I reckon.’
‘Who is this Rob I keep hearing about? When’s he coming back?’
John gave her a hard stare. ‘Now listen, Sally, you keep your distance. These blokes are bushies, not for the likes of you. Even the well-educated ones.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘You know what I mean. You had the makings for being a good bush wife, but it’s too late now. You’ve been spoilt.’
‘I wouldn’t say that!’ Sally’s chin lifted. ‘If you get away on a decent holiday every year – this is a good life.’
John slid down from the railing with a rueful grin. ‘Glad you think so. The trouble with holidays is that sometimes someone doesn’t want to come back home.’ He strode away and Sally realised he was talking about Lorna.
Before their talk the previous night it had struck Sally how different John and Lorna were, how little they had in common outside the family. Imperious, immaculate Lorna. John, the ruddy, muscular, rough diamond. At least now she knew why they were together but it seemed a one-sided arrangement.
Sally only occasionally saw any overt and spontaneous displays of affection between Lorna and her family – mostly the youngest, Marty. Between Lorna and her husband, never.
When she returned to the house, leaving the boys at the yards, Sally found Lorna supervising the cleaning. The tableau would burn in her memory for years whenever she thought of Lorna, or indeed if domestic matters came to her attention. Lorna was standing outside the bathroom, her arms folded, back straight, expression stern. Not a hair was out of place, her dress was pressed perfectly, she wore her pearl earrings and watch. In front of her Mattie, the youngest house girl, was on her hands and knees, wiping the bathroom floor tiles. Again.
‘Do it again. You’re missing the corners. Wash every inch. Thoroughly.’ The girl swished the wet cloth.
‘Wring out the water in the bucket, girl. Don’t just wipe dirty water over the floor.’
Sally made herself a glass of cordial from the bottle in the fridge. Lorna came into the kitchen. ‘Do you want a glass, Lorna?’
‘No, thank you. Have one of the girls make a pitcher of lemonade. There are masses of lemons on the tree. It’s much better for you than that sweet stuff.’
‘I know. I was never allowed cordial or soft drinks at home.’
‘Then you shouldn’t drink them here. There’s water in the pitcher on the sideboard.’
The silver water jugs were filled several times a day from the rainwater tank. Lorna followed Sally into the living room carrying a plate of biscuits, which she slipped onto a serving dish on the sideboard.
Sally took one and watched Mattie carry out the bucket from the bathroom to throw on the rose bushes.
Lorna went in and inspected the bathroom floor. Returning she remarked, ‘Well it’s taken he
r four tries.’ Seeing Mattie shuffle back into the room to await her next instruction, Lorna pointed at the rubbish basket next to the table where the wireless sat.
‘Empty the basket, Mattie.’
Sally choked on her drink as she saw the girl pick up the basket filled with papers, up-end it on the floor and put the basket down.
The pitch of Lorna’s voice deepened but the velocity rose. ‘Put the rubbish back into the basket.’ Confused for a moment, the girl then quickly stuffed the papers back in. ‘Now take the rubbish basket, with the rubbish inside it, and put it with the burn rubbish. Outside. Now.’
The girl scurried away and Lorna shrugged at Sally.
‘I hadn’t realised how much effort is involved in keeping a tidy house. I never noticed it at home,’ said Sally.
‘I’m sure you would have noticed if things were not exactly so, though,’ Lorna said with a slight smile. ‘When you’ve been brought up a certain way it shows and you aren’t comfortable with anything less.’
Sally wasn’t sure if Lorna was referring to her. ‘I hadn’t planned on doing a lot of domestic chores when I married.’
‘Nonetheless you must know how things should be done, isn’t that so?’
Sally munched on her biscuit. ‘I thought I had absorbed it all subconsciously.’
Sally had accepted how Lorna ran things, but it seemed a lot of effort when the dust descended so quickly and visitors were rare. Every morning and afternoon tea was served on the best china and the boys were expected to observe and appreciate the niceties of life.
The cement floors of the house were swept twice a day, the seagrass mats shaken and replaced, then each week everything was carried out of the house and the floors hosed down. The silver was polished once a week, and doing the laundry took two days. Lorna had two beater washing machines with a wringer on top that ran from a petrol-driven motor. Everything was rinsed in Reckitt’s Blue wash then dipped in liquid boiled starch. Table linen, sheets, pillow cases, most clothes including John’s shorts, Lorna’s housecoats, the boys’ clothes were crisp and smooth – very little escaped starching. Sheets had to be folded in a particular way and were laid neatly in the linen cupboard.
‘I’ll be glad when those lubras settle down and get back to working properly. They’re too busy lying on their backs now their men are home,’ said Lorna in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘At least the squabbles have stopped.’
When the mail plane was due, Sally suggested she go and collect the bag. She was looking forward to seeing Donny and had planned on taking a small picnic as promised. But Lorna refused. In a firm voice, she told Sally that she must keep the boys occupied.
Sally skulked to the schoolhouse, surprised at how disappointed she felt at not seeing Donny. She wanted to share some of her experiences, talk about the incident with Snowy, the runners and Gloria. She thought Donny could give her the low-down on Gloria, who, to quote Snowy, had been ‘Up and down the Cape like a bride’s nightie.’
‘There’s the mail plane,’ she said.
Marty looked up from his work. ‘We haven’t been to see Donny for ages.’
‘He lets us sit in the pilot’s seat,’ said Tommy.
Sally seized the chance. ‘Well, next week, let’s go and see him!’
Ian shook his head. ‘Mum says we can’t.’
‘She wants him all to herself,’ said Marty.
Tommy hastily explained. ‘They sit and talk, talk, talk. It’s boring.’
‘Maybe your mum wants to talk to someone . . . outside, catch up on the news,’ said Sally, thinking that no one had long conversations with Lorna that weren’t to do with Barra Creek. Maybe she should make an effort to spend more time with her, just the two of them.
‘You get the news on the wireless,’ said Tommy. ‘Everyone gossips.’
‘The problem is everyone else listens too,’ laughed Sally. ‘Back to work, now.’
Sally noticed a slight change in Lorna when they all sat down to afternoon tea. She seemed more relaxed and cheerful and when John asked what was in the mail, she made a small joke.
‘Your pile is on the table, all the bills. Mine is all the magazines and catalogues.’
John grinned at Sally. ‘She spends, I pay. You girls have it worked out pretty well.’
‘You don’t scrimp when you want something,’ said Lorna. ‘Those Elders people can sell you anything. Sally, come and let’s go through the David Jones’ catalogue.’
‘Can we order something, Mum?’ asked Marty.
‘I don’t think there’s anything you’d like. Look in the Anthony Hordern’s one.’ She smiled at him. ‘I hope you’ve saved your pocket money.’
She laughed and Sally realised she hadn’t even seen any cash since she’d arrived at Barra Creek, not that she had anything to spend it on. Her monthly pay cheque was deposited into the bank account she’d set up in Sydney.
Lorna took her cup of tea and the shiny mail-order catalogue out onto the verandah. ‘Let’s have a look, Sally.’
They settled themselves on the two-seater lounge and Lorna opened the book on her lap. ‘Now, if there’s anything you want, just say so. We’ll sort it out later.’
Together they spent an hour going through pages of household and kitchen luxuries, linens, clothes, shoes and cosmetics. Lorna turned over page corners, marking things they liked, then sent Sally to fetch a notepad and pencil and they made a list of sandals, tablecloths and serviettes, a vase to replace one Betsy had broken, nice soap, some blouses and new underwear. It was an enjoyable female spree that became a regular event for them, evoking remarks and anecdotes.
‘My grandmother had a dinner service like that!’ from Sally.
Or, from Lorna, ‘Maybe I should re-cover all the cushions. I rather like this material, what do you think, Sally?’
And eventually the order would arrive, lugged in boxes from the plane by Donny, and it was like Christmas with something for everyone. Sally was never shown an account and she soon realised she was not expected to pay. It became the two women’s ‘day for going shopping’.
As they wrote out their order John would sometimes pass by and ask, ‘Did you two get something nice for yourselves from me? Some nice perfume perhaps?’
Lorna would nod and say graciously, ‘Yes, thank you, dear. I’ve ordered you and the boys new T-shirts and socks, too, and some books.’
Sally knew Lorna ordered beautiful, expensive lingerie, cosmetics and trinkets, many of which lay unused, wrapped in tissue in the chest of drawers in her room.
To John the mail-order catalogues were for women, kids and house stuff. He was a serious buyer of equipment, machinery, horse gear and restored vehicles. Often they were quickly thrashed beyond repair and added to the pile of rusting metal, empty oil drums, broken pipes and bits and pieces that was known as the spare-parts department. This ‘snake harbour’ was kept well away from Lorna’s garden, because she was as particular about the grounds as she was about the inside of the homestead. Nothing unattractive was to come into her line of vision from any vantage point in the house.
Periodically she would insist that John get the men to paint or oil the garden fences. He in turn tried to persuade her to trim back the dense foliage of bougainvillea and grape vines that swarmed over the outside of the house.
‘I don’t want that greenery cut back,’ she said firmly. ‘It softens the outline of the house and keeps it cool.’ Privately to Sally she confided, ‘Men don’t seem to notice the dust and barrenness. I like to think of the house as an oasis.’
Sally thought it was a strange and beautiful jungle, but scary. She could lie in bed and watch small green snakes slither through the vines.
For Lorna the house was her island, marooned in a sea of cleared red earth and a broad dark river bordered with almost impenetrable undergrowth harbouring danger.
The three boys had thawed to such a degree with Sally that instead of reading a story to Marty alone at bedtime, she would now lie between the three of them an
d tell them stories about New Zealand – a country foreign to them except for the All Blacks rugby team. She talked about her parents’ farm, their horses, about hunting, about skiing, and the childhood stories she’d been told.
Some evenings after dinner, John would tell Sally about wild bush characters he’d known, of business deals and entrepreneurs gone bust, the rise and fall of cattle stations, or mad experiments like growing rice and cotton. At these times Lorna would excuse herself to sit on the verandah with her rum as John topped up his own and Sally’s. She assumed Lorna had patiently and politely listened to these stories many times. Ian would sometimes hover, but generally he’d heard the stories before, as had the other boys who made one last escape to play in the garden before being summoned to get ready for bed.
‘How’s that horse going?’ John asked Sally one evening.
‘She’s smart as a whip. The boys and I go riding every afternoon.’
‘You should take them out to meet the stock camp later in the week. The lubras, with their bush knowledge, tell me Rob’s on his way in.’
‘Could we?’ Sally’s eyes lit up. She was surprised after his warning to stay away from the stockmen, then realised it would be more for the boys. ‘That’d be terrific. How far out?’
He gave a belly laugh. ‘Good on you, I figured you’d be up for it. The boys are always on to me to let them go out. But I’ve got too much else to do without keeping an eye on them. Clear it with Lorna first, though.’
Lorna wasn’t enthusiastic at the idea, merely saying, ‘Let me think about it.’
After Sally told the boys, there was no peace as they badgered her to get their mother to agree to let them ride out for half a day to meet Rob’s plant of horses. Finally Marty was coerced into buttering up Lorna as ‘he was her favourite’.
‘That’s not true,’ admonished Sally in fairness to Lorna. ‘Mothers don’t have favourites. They sometimes feel a bit more protective towards their littlest one, that’s all.’ But Sally had also decided that Lorna held a very tender spot in her heart for her last born.
