My mouth is open, and I’m trying to decide how I feel. Angry. Hurt. Yet, it’s clear I’m a nuisance.
Both Ross and Stella are looking at me, my son in his filthy work clothes that he should not have on inside the house.
‘I’ll take you,’ Stella says.
And there I am, apologising that I’m a bother.
‘Weaners going to market wins,’ she says.
Stella makes Ross coffee in a machine. I hear their voices in the kitchen while I hover between my thoughts and movements. If I’m going to town I need to shower, but I can’t manage on my own. The state of my hair upsets me. Stella has offered to help me two or three times, but I’ve refused because I can’t work out how I’ll keep my modesty.
Then she’s in front of me, staring into my face as though to see if I’m all there.
‘There’s nothing for it,’ she says. ‘We need to get you in the shower.’
‘When is the home-care person coming?’
‘Next week.’
She puts her hand on my shoulder and I pull away. ‘I can manage.’
‘Very good. Off you go. I’ll check on you in a tick.’
It’s as if she’s talking to one of her children.
I take small steps down the hall to the bathroom. There’s a film of dust all along the skirting boards, a couple of dead blowies, and I remember myself as agile, moving fast down this hall with a damp cloth and mop. I was a good housewife; the things I could get done in a day.
I close the bathroom door and sit on the shower chair, still wearing my dressing-gown. I’m tugging at the sash when the door opens and Stella walks in. ‘No,’ I say.
She ignores me. ‘Come on, Margie, we need to get your gear off.’
Before I can protest any further, she’s leaning down to undo my dressing-gown buttons. I lift my bottom so she can tug the gown free. Then she holds a towel up like a curtain and instructs me to remove my nightie. I do as I’m told. Even though she isn’t looking, my nakedness shames me – the loose flesh of my body is white and a little scaly, like the underbelly of a silver perch. A towel is draped over me. Stella is bending side-on, taking off my slippers. Her jeans are so low I’m confronted with the crack between her buttocks.
‘Bloody hell. Look at your toenails. I’ll deal with them after the shower.’
I pull my feet away. ‘No you won’t.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says.
Feeling chastised and embarrassed, I stare into the plain white tiles, different to when I lived here – it’s all white and chrome, like at the hospital.
She’s got the water running, waiting for the right temperature. She hands me the shower hose and a face washer. ‘I’ll leave you for a bit.’
When she’s gone I throw the towel away. The warm water is lovely. Stella has put some liquid soap in a bottle beside me on the chair so I don’t have to bother with dropping a slippery bar. I hold the shower nozzle as high as I can, but my arm is stiff.
Stella peeks through the door and comes in.
‘Go away,’ I say.
She acts as if she’s not heard. ‘We need to wash your hair.’
And before I can speak she’s taken the hose from me and is wetting me down like a horse on a hot day. Then her fingers are massaging in the shampoo, just like they do at the hairdresser. I keep my eyes shut tight and try not to cry. I go to the black cockatoos I once saw preening each other in a silver wattle: it looked as though they were kissing. With that memory, I consider the first time I was tenderly kissed, being pulled forward. And I’m overtaken with confusing emotions because Chester was in the house this week – his swagger, laughter, and the impertinence of him being involved in her little play.
The warm water abruptly stops and I sit dripping.
‘That’ll do,’ Stella says. She wraps a towel around my shoulders and starts rubbing, helping me dry off. ‘You okay?’
‘I want my privacy.’
‘I bet you do. I’m really sorry.’ Another towel is dropped over my lap; my body is now enclosed in a tepee of white fluffy cotton. She’s kneeling, nail clippers in her hand. ‘Give me your foot,’ she says.
I was forced to accept Stella. After that first meeting where she spoke of a play, something about a horse, all I could take in was the metal hook in her navel, her blonde hair falling over her face, the thick red lipstick and heavy, dark eye make-up. I hoped Ross would come to his senses and tire of her.
After a few years of him spending increasing amounts of time with her in Melbourne, and of constant arguments between us, the farm showed signs of neglect. Several times he was needed and I couldn’t get hold of him.
Once he returned a call from an island somewhere off the coast of Thailand saying he wouldn’t be home for a week. I reeled off the jobs that required his urgent attention. A fallen tree across a fence. The hay contractor wanted dates for a job. The bulls were still in with the heifers. The tractor was due for servicing. The lawns around the house needed mowing.
He was bad-tempered and it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken rudely to me. ‘I’m not rushing back to mow the bloody lawns.’
‘What’ll I tell the contractor?’
‘What do you think? Tell him I’ll call next week.’
‘But he’ll take on other jobs before ours.’
‘I’m having a break,’ Ross said. ‘Don’t call me again.’
I stopped arguing with him because I feared he would quit the farm completely. And then what? Mark and Norman were gone. Caroline – well, girls didn’t work outside with the animals. Besides, she’d never shown any interest; although, to be fair, it was never encouraged.
While Ross was still sunning himself on the Thai island, a letter arrived with a Qantas logo in the corner of the envelope. I thought it might be important and my thumb, as if of its own accord, peeled the letter open. I read it. And sat down.
He had an interview for the pilot’s cadetship program; an appointment date and time were in bold letters.
I poured a sweet sherry and wandered the house. I stood at Mark’s bedroom door and stared in. A poster of a bearded Eric Clapton playing guitar was hanging on the wall. One corner was drooping; I pressed it against the Blu-Tack with my thumb. I could almost hear the guitar work that Mark loved and played too loudly in his cassette player. His footy boots were side by side on the floor near the window. I had cleaned them with polish and my tears. In my heart I asked Mark how he was, and waited. Of course, there was no reply.
In the grand old dining room, I stood in front of the Ballantine portraits. I looked into their serious faces and asked them what to do. William. Charles. Alexander. Fredrick, always known as Freddie. Norman. I considered the Ballantine heritage, the birthright of the eldest son. The house was still and silent. Through the window, the crepe myrtle was leaning against the wind. Trees all over the farm would be doing the same.
William cleared away the bush and granite, and built the stone house, sheds and fences. He named the property Maryhill and died before he was forty. Charles sunk the bore and introduced the first sheep bloodlines. Alexander bought the first Angus cattle and built the house in 1895. Freddie expanded the landholding by buying the adjoining properties, known as Kirks and Tullys; he was the second son, and by all reports a good farmer. His older brother, John, died in Amiens, France, in 1918. Freddie was a big-hearted man and I think he liked me. I liked him.
The space beside my husband’s photograph had been intended for Mark.
To sell the farm and give up all those generations of work was unthinkable. It would be Ross’s portrait that would hang there with his forefathers. He’d been working the property for several years, but he needed to settle down. This flying ambition and running after Stella were distractions.
It wasn’t hard to do. I opened the firebox and threw the Qantas letter in. For a moment it flared bright.
When Ross arrived home, I sat him down. He looked different, tanned; his hair was sun-bleached and too long, like a surfie
’s – making him look less like Norman, who was always fussy with his grooming. Ross’s stubble wasn’t quite a beard. On his left wrist were ridiculous coloured-string bracelets. When he folded his arms in defiance, I saw the line of a Sanskrit tattoo on his right muscled bicep. And I thought, He thinks I’m old and dull, that I know nothing, that I’ve never had fun or enjoyed sex, that I might have precious memories and still have dreams.
‘Why the tattoo?’ I asked.
He glanced at his arm. ‘Why not?’
I stared at him to let him know I disapproved. ‘Do you love her?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Then marry her and bring her here.’
He shook his head.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘She likes her job.’
‘She’s a waitress.’
He was indignant, defiant. ‘Don’t put her down.’
‘I stated a fact.’
‘She’s into theatre production.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘Is she a suitable partner for you?’
‘The question you need to ask is, am I a suitable son?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Mark was supposed to be the farmer.’
‘Maryhill is your responsibility now.’
He moved in his seat and glanced out the window, as if deciding something. Perhaps he was summoning the courage to tell me he was leaving the farm to fly aeroplanes. I held my breath. I thought of the Qantas letter and saw its brief flash in the firebox. Would there be a follow-up? Would he call them to enquire where the letter was?
I felt the pulse in my neck. ‘I put you through Dookie. It’s expected that you’re taking on the property.’
‘Stella won’t live here,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
The hard set of his jaw, and I knew the hold she had over him was far greater than mine.
‘Because she won’t live here with me?’ I said, sniffing. ‘I wouldn’t ever suggest we live under the same roof.’
I outlined my plan to Ross. We would sell Kirks because the pasture wasn’t very good: waterlogged in parts, with too many granite plates. The sale would free up enough cash to buy me a place in town and provide me with a modest income. ‘I’ve been looking,’ I said. ‘There’s a house on Bishop Street that interests me.’
His quick, alert glance confirmed the problem. It wasn’t about him not wanting to farm, but Stella refusing to share a house with me – as if I would ever entertain such an idea.
‘If she agrees, you’d better treat her properly,’ he said.
‘Don’t use that tone with me.’
‘And stop treating me like a kid.’
I twisted in my seat. There was nothing for it. ‘You have my word. I’ll treat her properly.’
Stella reaches for my other foot. She is very quick, and I expect to feel pain and see blood at any second. I curl my toes to prevent the disaster.
‘Relax,’ she says, prising them open.
She washes the clippings down the shower plughole. Another towel appears – that’s the third one used just on me and I’m anxious about all the washing. The dryer blasts and her fingers pull my short fine hair into some kind of shape.
I shake my head to have her leave me alone, but she keeps going. ‘Sit still,’ she says.
I slump forward. Then sit upright in case she orders me to do it.
‘Margie,’ she says, ‘can you manage to dress yourself? We’re leaving in ten minutes.’
She is always in a rush.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Then she’s telling me she wants to be back by lunchtime, as if somehow I will prevent this. The arts funding business is all she thinks about. My appointment is at eleven and she’s the one driving so I cannot see the problem.
‘Yell if you need anything,’ she says, leaving me and closing the door.
Clean clothes are folded on a chair. I put my underwear on and feel ashamed that Stella has seem my private garments, which are thin and frayed. Knowing she’s laundered them, it’s as if I’m seeing them with fresh eyes. I pull on a pair of black tracksuit pants – the elasticised waist is the attraction; I’ve got three pairs. The blouse buttons are fiddly, or my fingers are clumsy, but I manage. I push my feet into black slip-on shoes. When all that’s done, I feel very good. There’s nothing like a hot shower, clipped toenails, clean hair and clothes.
The mirror above the vanity covers half the wall. I’m practised at not looking, turning away so I don’t see my tired old face. But I look now. It’s almost a punishment to see myself. There I am. It’s because I don’t smile that the lines defining my cheeks are so deeply engraved. There are fine wrinkles around my lips and eyes. My eyelids sag. I’m past grieving for lost youth and middle age, my vanished beauty. I’ve been invisible for many decades. Stella’s efforts have puffed up my grey hair, but there is no doubt that I am a miserable-looking woman. If my lipstick were handy I’d perhaps put some on. And earrings. I have jewellery pieces in my dressing-table drawer back at Bishop Street. I turn my head, imagining the square-shaped pink sapphires set in rose gold. They once belonged to Elizabeth, Norman’s grandmother.
Stella knocks and calls out that we’re going now.
It’s like an experiment when I smile into the mirror. The lines stretch and tighten and almost disappear.
Chapter 7
Stella
ON the road to Violet Town, granite plates slope along Little Clemet Creek. Willows lean gracefully to the water; some leaves are already yellow. The rising hills are tinged green from the February rain; the rusty patches are from the bushfire last year. Cows are grazing on the flats among the tussocks. I love this time of year, the turning from parched summer to the colours of autumn.
Margie is gripping the door’s armrest, and I wonder if she’s bracing from pain or she’s a nervous passenger. Adele is singing my favourite song. Track 9 – about regrets, wanting to live a little more, missing her mother. I can’t say whether I love the lyrics or her soulful voice the most, but she transports me into my play and the opening night at Benalla Town Hall.
The theatre is dark. The audience is silent, staring, anticipating. The stage is lit. And Grace tells her children she wants to discuss her ‘defining choices’. A pause. I see the actors poised, waiting. Timing is key. Then Ruby says, ‘You put your career and Graham first – that’s what defines me.’ Lifting his violin, Jack winks dramatically at the audience. He plays the first few bars of Ellie Goulding’s ‘Love Me Like You Do’.
‘The music is too loud,’ Margie says.
I make a small show of lowering the volume because I’d already turned it way down out of consideration to her.
At the S-bend I slow, accelerate around. A white ute is coming up fast the other way and Margie puts her hand to her mouth. Along the flats my mobile signal is stronger. I press Jannon’s number – a stage manager in the Robinson Street Theatre days, he’s now working with the Melbourne Theatre Company. Three days ago he promised to send me a reference letter for the funding application. In the open space of the car, Margie and I hear the lovely Irish lilt of his voice ask for a message. I try to sound upbeat and undemanding when I say, with a smile, that I’m desperate for his letter, can he email it today? ‘Let me know if there’s a problem.’
Margie walks very slowly from the car into the physio. She’s clenching the crutches and only tentatively puts weight on her right leg. My laptop is heavy in my shoulder bag as I move ahead to show her where the ramp is and open the glass door. She enters reception like the Queen of England and stands in the centre of the packed waiting room. There’s a young man with a walking stick, and everyone else is geriatric or obese.
Margie is told to take a seat. But she doesn’t move and demands to know how long she’ll be waiting. I know this is because she wants to be considered important, not because I need to get the application off in six hours.
The receptionist looks at a screen. ‘Two before you.’
> Margie sniffs and shuffles away to take a seat. She says no to a magazine, but I see a copy of Women’s Weekly with Kate Middleton’s kids on the front and she takes it from me without saying thank you.
With my laptop resting on my knee, I answer the question on the timeline and my proposed touring itinerary. It’s an easy question, I finish it and move to the next one.
Margie is called in, and I don’t offer to go with her.
Victorian Rural Arts want to know how our theatre group will engage and collaborate with the community and what strategies I’ll employ to optimise the investment. Jesus. I read it again and can think of about five ways to answer. I decide to explain who in the district supports us, the publicity we get in the local media and my vision to expand the theatre group through the success of this play.
The physio is looking for me, calling my name. I collapse my laptop and stand up.
He’s around sixty, fit-looking, wearing shorts and runners like he’s about to go for a jog. He’s a good ad for his business. I follow him into his room and he closes the door. Margie is lying on a low bed, flat on her back. She won’t be happy.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I’ve just spoken to Margie’s surgeon. He wants her to have an X-ray.’
The physio tells me it’s to assess how the socket is sitting, that she should have more movement. Her pain is five out of ten and by now should be much less.
There’s a lag in my thinking because already we’re on our way home: a plan has been unfolding, how I’m going to ask Ross to pick up the kids from the bus and organise dinner so I can finish the application. Margie will not stop me.
‘When?’
‘They’ve cleared an appointment. It’s at one.’
Margie is silent, listening. Her hands are clasped over her stomach. She knows I need to get home. I hate her. Yet a small voice says, You did this to yourself. You took her on.
‘Something wrong?’ he asks.
‘Can we do the X-ray tomorrow?’ I say.
His eyes widen like I’ve asked a stupid question, then he steps back as if to separate himself from my way of thinking.
Stella and Margie Page 7
