Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

  The glass louvres are stiff to open, but I persist with the top ones along the length of the room. Even in this sallow light I see cobwebs, the shapes of dead blowies, a thick film of dust. Cool air comes in with the breeze. It’s pleasant.

  I need the toilet and know this is going to become a problem.

  I lower myself onto the bed and look to the familiar white slats of the ceiling. Dark mouldy patches stretch from the windows all the way across – possibly wood rot from a leak in the roof. In the years since I lived here, not much has happened in the way of maintenance. But I consider that even if Ross and Stella haven’t kept the place the way they should, they’ve made a nice family, the farm is managed properly, they are getting on with things. And Chester is, too. He’s grown a moustache and is involved in Stella’s play.

  It occurs to me I’ve been left behind. And I drift to sleep trying to make sense of that; it’s important to gather up the lost years and understand.

  It’s still dark when the first magpies warble. I half-squat in the far corner and relieve myself beside Freddie’s old office chair. It’s disgusting, and I blame this humiliation on Ross and Stella for having a faulty doorknob. The inside of my legs and the hem of my nightie are wet. I hate the feeling and have nothing to wipe myself with.

  I return to the divan. It’s cooler now. I pull the old quilt over me, with its foul stink of mice. Eventually I return to sleep, sometimes twisting my right hip at an angle to ease the pain. I dream and smell the perfume of roses; perhaps I am in a garden, but I don’t open my eyes.

  Chapter 19

  Stella

  WHEN I wake it’s still dark, the first silvering of dawn. The ceiling fan gently whirs. Ross is collapsed in sleep; his arm hangs over the edge of the bed. I lean across and kiss his shoulder, and he doesn’t stir. He came to bed after me; we’ve not spoken since he left the house last night to sit on the concrete bench and stare into his own thoughts.

  Through the bay window I see a single radiating star in an inky sky. It’s beautiful and surreal, like I’m in a movie looking at something supernatural. In that moment of awe, the story of my life flashes before me and I feel very lucky to be standing here. Magpies carol. The air from the open window is cool and welcoming, but I know it’s going to be another hot day. Mid-thirties all week and no rain – yet leaves are turning red, orange, gold. The grapevine climbing the pergola is almost fully red.

  Yesterday’s clothes are on the floor where I dropped them. I reach down, shake them to be rid of any spiders or bugs that have hidden there overnight, and put them on. Ross doesn’t wake. I shut the door quietly behind me.

  Diva is loitering at the back door and I let her out. In the kitchen I empty the girls’ schoolbags and read their notices. Jemima’s homework is to create a musical instrument out of recycled materials. School photos are being taken today, so I’ll do something special with their hair. I unpack the dishwasher, wipe the benches. I like the morning quiet, being the solo witness to the waking house, the creaks, the birds, the strengthening light.

  Victorian Rural Arts hasn’t notified me yet about the funding and I’m anxious to check my emails, though it’s not even business hours. Any day now.

  The kettle boils and I know Margie will want a cup of tea too. I leave the tea bag in so she can remove it when it’s at the right strength. Up the hall, I turn right towards her bedroom. Her door is open and I’m surprised by this. I walk in and see her bed empty and unmade. Her walker is gone. She’s not in the bathroom. The girls are still asleep in their rooms. I stride down the hall, peer into the front room, then through the house, my dining room, the family room. I’m confused.

  Outside into the garden, I circle the house. The glowing star is now barely visible in the pale sky. At the pergola, I hear the distant blast of the gas gun over at Eddie and Dianne’s. A kilometre north, across the boundary cypresses, I see thousands of cockatoos scatter like snow in a storm. They’ll settle in the eucalypts and poplars along Maryhill Road. And wait. The battle will go on and on until harvest in April, the birds’ tenacity matching our neighbours’ resolve to make a living.

  Margie isn’t on any of the concrete benches. I go down the path to the cars and towards the sheds. Perhaps the laundry, but she’s not even in there.

  Back in the house, I’m looking around expecting to see her, an apparition in every corner, doorway, sitting on a chair patiently waiting for me to present her with the cup of tea. I do another circuit inside the house. Margie is missing.

  I wake Ross. He turns, looks at me.

  ‘I can’t find your mother.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he says, stretching, rolling onto his back. ‘She’ll be around somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve been everywhere, inside and out, even down to the sheds. I don’t know what to do.’

  He sits up. ‘She’ll turn up.’

  ‘We have to find her.’

  ‘I’m onto it,’ Ross says. He throws the covers off and walks to the bathroom, and I hear the long stream of his piss. He dresses without talking, unhurried and unconcerned. So I leave him and scout around the house one more time, staring inside every room, believing I’ve somehow missed her the first time.

  I peer under Margie’s bed; she might’ve fallen.

  ‘What the hell?’ says Ross from the doorway behind me. ‘You think she’s hiding?’

  I turn, expecting him to smile, but he’s grim-faced.

  ‘She’s not in the house,’ I say. ‘

  I’m having breakfast then I’ll take a run around on the bike.’

  The girls get up, one then the other into the family room, both quiet, sleepy and expectant, wanting their morning hug. Ross attends to them because I’m turning in circles. I’m impatient with him, snappy because he should be outside by now, looking for Margie; she’s wandering somewhere, pushing the walker. She’s had enough and is trying to escape from us. Then I think of the dams and the bush down at the creek, all the places that are dangerous for children and perhaps old people, too.

  Finally, the back door slaps behind Ross. Then the groan of the quad bike, the sound fading as he trails away. I wonder if Margie has a special place on the property, somewhere she might go. The garden, the birds.

  Then I remember the front porch. I go back up the hall, then right at the grand, glass-panelled front door. I turn the knob; it’s stiff so I push and twist. A little jiggle.

  The door opens and shoves in against Margie’s walker. A whiff of mice and mouldy dust; something else, dense and thick like a toddler’s wet nappy. It’s cooler in here than anywhere else in the house. Margie is on the day bed, lying on her back, mouth open. For a terrible moment I pause, waiting for the rise of her chest. I lean down to feel her breath.

  ‘Margie,’ I call.

  She opens her eyes. ‘I’ve wet myself,’ she blurts.

  I blink.

  She struggles to sit and I help by pushing from behind. With a heave and gasp, she’s on her feet, taking three strong steps before she hesitates and drags her right leg as if partially paralysed. I’ve noticed her do this before, and the sigh that comes with it – as if for a moment she’s forgotten then suddenly remembers her injury.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ I ask.

  ‘Just taking a look. The door wouldn’t open.’

  And she’s pushing her walker back up the hall to her room.

  When the girls are on the school bus, hair braided for the class photos, I deliver Margie her porridge with sliced fresh figs from the garden and a dollop of honey and yoghurt. I’ve also made her a fresh mug of tea.

  I set the tray before her and she pours milk over the porridge.

  ‘I was frantic when I couldn’t find you,’ I say.

  She doesn’t look at me or acknowledge me in any way, like she’s deserving and I’m a servant. This is not new, but I’m now paying a high price for my kindness: Ross and I aren’t looking at each other properly, and neither of us can fully breathe because of it.

  I’ve had enough
.

  Margie picks up the spoon.

  ‘I think you should say thank you,’ I say.

  She glances at me, a worried frown.

  ‘I went to the garden and picked those figs for you specially. I’ve made you a fresh cup of tea just as you like it. I wait on you hand and foot, and I think the least you can do is show some appreciation. It’s good manners.’

  Her hand trembles when she puts the spoon down. Poor woman. She’s so defiant yet vulnerable, and I can’t bear to see the fright that has come into her tired brown eyes.

  I sit on the green-cushioned chair.

  She stares at the food on the tray and I know she won’t touch it. She’d rather go hungry.

  ‘Margie.’

  She glances at me.

  ‘I need your help. It’s time we got real.’

  She turns away, looking at her clasped hands.

  ‘Ross is angry with me for allowing you to stay here. But I want you to know I’m more than willing for you to live with us. I know you’ve had a difficult time in some parts of your life, and at your age someone should be supporting you. But you need to help me. How are we going to sort things out with Ross? We’re usually so happy here, Ross and me, but since you’ve moved in, it’s not been great and I don’t understand.’

  She lies back into the pillow and closes her eyes, blocking me out.

  ‘Open your eyes, Margie. You’re too old to be playing games like this.’

  She doesn’t move.

  I stand up and say, in a quiet voice that I hope sounds caring, ‘Ross told me that his father used to hurt you. When he was a boy he saw you pressed against the kitchen bench; Norman had your arm up your back. And Ross thinks other things happened between you. He heard fights. You being smacked about. He heard crying.’

  With her eyes still closed, she shakes her head and says, ‘None of that is true.’

  Tears leak from her eyes.

  ‘But, Margie, why did you move to the front porch, then? Why didn’t you sleep in the same room as your husband after your son died?’

  Her lips quiver and move like she wants to say something – like she’s practising vowels. I wait, but she remains silent. Surely she’ll speak or open her eyes. Seconds pass and I can’t bear to see her struggle.

  I surrender. And smooth her hair, as I do with the girls when they need comfort.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Let’s forget about all of that old stuff. Please eat your breakfast.’

  I lightly kiss her forehead. Then tell her that I’m going to help Ross feed out some hay, and that I’ll be back for morning tea.

  She opens her eyes before I leave the room, but she stares ahead and I wish I could say something that would matter to her.

  All that comes is something that matters to me. ‘Have you read my play?’

  A little shake of her head.

  At the hay shed, Ross is in the tractor loading 350-kilo bales onto the long trailer. He stacks four on the base and three on top and keeps one suspended on the tractor forks. I sit behind the wheel of the ute, pull the seat forward, change into first gear. I slowly accelerate and feel the heavy weight behind me. I’m not sure where we’re headed so I follow him.

  Inside the tractor cabin, he bounces on the seat when he crosses a dry gully and bumps on the track. He’ll have the air-con on and is probably listening to Life Matters on Radio National. I tune in, too. Ross opens gates and I swing wide to get the trailer and load through. Young heifers stand in a herd, staring, inquisitive. By August they’ll be four hundred kilos, joining weight. Ross will put a couple of Angus bulls in with them – both bred to sire small calves. On the radio, the presenter is talking about teenage computer-game obsession; it seems unique to boys who spend hours or even days locked in their bedrooms playing elaborate wargames. I drive down the track, past the yards and through another gate, and by now I’m glad I’ve got girls.

  Ross has set the feeding cradles in a long row, twenty metres apart. I pull up beside the second one. He lowers his bale into the first one, then out of the tractor he finds the end of the hay netting and pulls it away. The cows are grazing in the distance, searching for feed near the dam and swamp gums, and in the tussocks. They see the hay – perhaps they smell it – and start walking, then running, a dust veil behind them. Very soon there’s a frenzy of cows around Ross as he’s pulling the netting away. He’s calm, keeps working. Back in the cabin, he tips the forks, and the bale falls nice and loose into the cradle.

  I open the window, feel a breeze. The Life Matters host asks if a child becomes antisocial as a result of too much solitary time, and I think of Isobel.

  The cows look all right; their black coats shine like polished shoes. The gas gun at the walnut orchard fires again; a pause – then a fluttering white shadow appears above the cypress. I feel the release of weight, a lightness, when Ross lifts a bale from the trailer. Handbrake off, clutch out, I drive forward to the next feeder. We know the routine. In fifteen minutes the eight bales will be swarmed, and by lunchtime the cradles will be empty. Cockatoos will eat the leftovers.

  When Ross and I are back at the shed, it seems churlish not to be talking, being normal with each other. But Ross is out of the tractor, talking on his phone. He turns his back on me and I feel insulted.

  I wait.

  He shakes his head; whoever he’s talking to, there’s a problem.

  Under an open shed, I sit on an old wooden bench. At my feet are offcuts of fencing wire and a tangle of bungee ropes. The tyre on the wheelbarrow is flat. A stack of twisted star pickets and rolls of old barbed wire are waiting for the next tip run. Always stuff to do.

  Ross walks further away, now leaning on a gate, still talking.

  He knows I’m waiting for him; perhaps that’s why he seems in no hurry to get off the phone. I don’t like it that he now seems to be enjoying the conversation.

  I look across at the chook pen and remember when we had hens. I was intent on them being free-range so let them scavenge around the place, leaving their droppings wherever they pleased. Until a fox took them all, six in one go. It remains a mystery: did the fox come and go with each kill, or was there a pack of foxes? I lost heart and never replaced the chooks.

  Ross is walking to the machinery shed. He’s off the phone and not bothered with me. I won’t be ignored, not like this. I wanted to simply have a chat, try to connect, but now I’m instantly bloody furious.

  I walk fast. ‘Ross.’

  He glances up, and recognising from my tone of voice that trouble is coming, he turns away and removes the fuel cap on the quad bike. He picks up a jerry can.

  ‘Is this how it is?’ I ask.

  He looks at me. Puts the can down and straightens up.

  My hands are on my hips.

  ‘I’m not fighting with you,’ he says.

  ‘Well, just so you know, I’m fighting with you. If you don’t care about her, then you don’t care about me. That’s how I see it. So sort it out.’

  He puts the yellow funnel in the bike’s fuel tank. And picks up the jerry can. As I leave, I hear the gurgle of unleaded as it pours.

  ‘Wait,’ he calls.

  Something in his voice.

  Ross is standing at the shed door, telling me it was our stock agent on the phone. ‘He said Chester’s wife, Laura, died yesterday when her heart gave out. And he’s got some paddocks going for agistment.’

  I shrug, digesting the news. I didn’t know Laura; only ever saw her a couple of times up at the local shop. A straight-backed, unsmiling woman who never made eye contact with me. And already I’m thinking about how this news affects me, the distraction this will cause Chester in making the sets and organising the lighting.

  ‘I said no to his paddocks,’ Ross tells me. ‘He wants too much.’

  My husband holds my gaze, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. He’s never pretended to have any affection for his mother. So what right did I have to bring her into our home?

  That first lentil-burger
night when we walked to the Lex Bar, Ross told me he wanted to be a pilot. A dreamy look on his face when he talked about landing on foreign tarmacs, being far away, independent and happy. He’d just qualified as a commercial pilot and flew for pleasure some weekends.

  Somewhere along the way, I understood the pressure on him to farm Maryhill, that it wasn’t negotiable. Yet after my first meeting with Margie, it became complicated. Ross was caught trying to manage the farm while spending too many nights with me in Brunswick. Margie chased him on the phone with questions and accusations. Sometimes it felt like stalking.

  He was driving up the Hume, that long stretch between Seymour and Euroa, when he phoned to tell me he’d made the decision to quit the farm and apply for a pilot cadetship. ‘You only live once,’ he said.

  Qantas didn’t get back to him. Cathay accepted him. So, we were confronted with settling in Hong Kong and me being on my own for stretches of time. I wasn’t sure.

  Isobel changed everything. The pregnancy test line turned a faint blue. We both stared at the strip, then to each other, and grinned. Perhaps I panicked, but I didn’t want to raise a baby alone in an unfamiliar city with Ross coming and going. I couldn’t visualise it.

  Ross gave up his dream for me. He said he wanted me to be happy; that on the farm we’d be together every day, raise our kids, and ‘maybe reclaim something’.

  ‘Reclaim what?’ I asked him.

  ‘Don’t know. Just do things the right way. Be happy.’

  Our first day in the house, we lit the candelabras in the not-yet-claimed dining room and ate chicken tikka with rice. I was four months pregnant, so we toasted with green tea and danced to JLo – the dark eyes and milky white faces of the portraits staring at us.

  Around five, when it’s a little cooler, I put on my straw hat and go outside. It’s been a couple of days since I watered. The tips of the azalea leaves are browning, the hellebores are wilting, and a general lethargy infuses the garden. I drag the hose around the front of the house, twist the nozzle to spray and prepare to stand patiently while the plants drink. An ibis glides low over the house, its legs stretched behind; a galah follows as if they’re in chase.