by Rosalie Ham
‘I’ll have to,’ shrugged Hadley. He knew what Phoeba would say; Robert was the unpredictable one.
‘If you ever put sheep on my land, Pearson, I’ll rise up out of my grave and emasculate you with your own invention and put strychnine on your pizzle.’
‘Right,’ said Hadley feebly. They rode in silence towards the house, and a tiny shaft of doubt pierced Hadley’s racing heart. But he dismissed it.
Phoeba saw the horses picking their way down the outcrop track and called to her mother in the cellar.
‘Is he bringing a new horse?’ she called back.
‘No, he’s bringing Hadley.’
By the time Hadley had tied his horse to the peppercorn tree by the dam gate Phoeba had a jug of lemon tea and glass cups waiting. Hadley came towards the small, hot weatherboard house, the knees of his new wool trousers bagging and his new boots squeaking. But he was smiling.
‘You look as if you’re about to melt, Had,’ called Lilith, kicking the screen door open.
‘Not really,’ he said red-faced but cheerful, on their parched patch of lawn with his kitbag and his mother’s hamper.
‘Hadley again, so soon!’ said Maude clattering out.
As he stepped onto the veranda the toe of his boot caught on the step and he lunged. Lilith, Phoeba and Maude said, ‘Oh,’ and thrust their arms to break his fall, but he caught the arm of the wicker lounge and settled himself on it as if nothing had happened. He dropped his hat on the floorboards, reached into his kitbag, brought out copies of the Melbourne newspapers and handed them to Phoeba.
‘Thanks, Hadley, we haven’t had The Age for weeks,’ she said, passing the social pages to Lilith, the Ladies Home Journal to Maude. She left the business section on Robert’s chair, with its headline DROUGHT WORSENS, MILLIONS OF SHEEP PERISH IN QUEENSLAND.
‘Oh,’ gasped Lilith, settling on the top step. ‘Paul Poiret, who dresses Mrs Asquith, writes that we should “return to our natural form and do away with corsets”. Fancy that!’
‘Your Aunt Margaret never wore a corset and look where it’s got her,’ said Robert, picking up his newspaper and settling in his chair. Aunt Margaret was Maude’s poverty-stricken spinster sister.
‘Your father and I rode over from Overton, where I’ve just come from a meeting,’ said Hadley.
‘My word.’ Maude nodded meaningfully to Phoeba. ‘A meeting.’
Phoeba poured lemon tea and Lilith asked, ‘What was it about?’
‘A position at Overton.’
‘Such a perfect way to start the new year,’ said Maude, clapping her hands.
‘Well, Had,’ chirped Lilith, ‘you can’t have got the manager’s position. Mrs Flynn told us they’d employed a stranger, didn’t she, Phoeba?’
The smile slid from Hadley’s face. Lilith was pretty with her dark curls and bright eyes but she was bold and she liked spoiling things. She shortened his name to Had and always sat right in the middle of the wicker lounge, taking it all for herself. Phoeba was different. Her eyes were just a little too close together and her chin strong for a girl, but she made the most of her good posture. She was sturdy, sober and direct. You always knew where you stood with Phoeba Crupp, thought Hadley, and, unlike Lilith, she didn’t stamp her feet to get her point across. He stood up and moved to the veranda rail, his new boots squeaking.
Robert folded his newspaper. ‘Righto then Hadley, thanks for dropping in—’
‘I’m not going,’ he spluttered.
‘Hadley has news, don’t you Hadley?’ said Phoeba and winked at him.
‘Yes,’ he said, his chin rising. He placed his left hand, soft from working wool, carefully along the balustrade and looked at Phoeba. Then he cleared his throat and said proudly, ‘I have a position wool classing at Overton.’
‘Hooraaayyyy,’ cried Phoeba, leaping up and throwing her arms around him. His face went red and his glasses tumbled from his nose but he was clearly enjoying the embrace.
She let go of him. ‘Hadley, you deserve that job,’ she said and poured him a cup of tea.
‘A very good start to your career,’ said Maude, tugging her boisterous elder daughter’s skirt. ‘Sit down and behave,’ she hissed.
‘It’s just for the season,’ said Hadley, sitting back on the couch. ‘I met the new manager—’
‘Really? Does he have a wife?’ asked Maude.
‘You’d think Marius would be the manager,’ said Lilith.
‘Marius is a dilettante,’ mumbled Robert from behind his newspaper whose page read, WOOL PRICES SLUMP FURTHER.
‘It must have been very distracting for him to lose his wife,’ said Maude. ‘Such a tragedy.’ And they all looked out to the bay and thought about Marius Overton’s young wife, dead after twenty-seven hours of labour, the baby gone with her.
‘Still,’ said Hadley, wanting to get back to his happy news, ‘it is the new year tomorrow.’
‘Here’s to the new year,’ said Phoeba, toasting with her tea.
‘Hear, hear,’ they said.
Then Maude brought the conversation back to marriage.
‘A man of Marius’s position will find a new wife. Someone will catch him. Marriage is natural, the right thing, especially for women, don’t you agree, Hadley?’ She flapped her jabot to fan her hot cheeks.
‘Yes.’
‘So do I,’ said Lilith, emphatically.
Robert rustled his newspaper.
‘Tell us about your new job,’ said Phoeba trying to redirect the conversation again.
Hadley rubbed his knees with his hands: ‘There are still sixty thousand to shear even though it’s been very dry. They’re mostly merinos – Tasmanian stock – Bellevue. A good sheep with a solid frame and the wool’s from the Saxon lineage.’ He kept rubbing. It was nerves. He’d done that for as long as she could remember.
‘And I’ll be able to put my wages into Elm Grove,’ he said, brightly.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘My father’s sheep have cleaner-than-average, first-class fleeces, you know. I’ll shear three inches of fine, bright wool and it’ll weigh at least twelve pounds per head, or more. They’re beautiful sheep.’
‘They are,’ said Phoeba. Hadley felt about his sheep the way she felt about Spot. There was a silence then; Hadley seemed to have run out of plans.
‘Very well, then,’ said Maude at last, and stood up. Then Lilith stood up, then Robert and they all filed into the darkness of the house. Phoeba was left with the warm breeze, her lemon tea and Hadley’s description of his meeting with Rudolph Steel – although he didn’t mention how brief it was or that it took place in the front hall.
‘His first name is Rudolph?’
‘It is, but his surname’s the worry – Mr Steal. A bad name for a banker.’
He launched into a lecture on the economy, the recession, the future of the wool industry and the power of ‘white gold’ to carry the nation, but Phoeba interrupted, irritated: ‘I do read the newspapers.’ As if Hadley, of all people, didn’t know – right now she wanted to get her chooks to their roost before the sun went down and get cracking with tea so she could finish off The Age before bed.
She picked up his bag. The eggs had all broken and strands of yolk dripped from the strings. ‘You’d better get going, Hadley. Your mother and Henri will be beside themselves with anticipation.’
Reaching for his kitbag, he walked towards the dam, Phoeba following with his hamper of eggs and butter. Behind them, Maude and Lilith watched from the parlour window, Robert hovering nearby with his hands behind his back and his pipe in his mouth.
At the brown mare Hadley turned to Phoeba, his expression serious.
‘My future is set now, Phoeba,’ he said.
‘It is.’ He seemed oddly nervous so she reassured him: ‘You’ll be the best wool classer they’ve had.’
‘After the season I’ll be able to get more work and build the new house at Elm Grove. I can develop my emasculator—’
‘Yes,’ said Phoeb
a.
Hadley adjusted his glasses. ‘—and I can get married and start a family.’
‘Married!’ She was amazed, thrilled, delighted for him.
His face lit up. ‘You’re pleased then?’
‘Of course,’ said Phoeba, picturing a handsome girl with spectacles who liked sheep. Then, suddenly, she wasn’t sure how she felt about her childhood friend getting married. After all, she’d saved him once from Mrs Flynn’s belligerent rogue gander, charging up to him with Spot at a slow half trot and dragging him off by the back of his coat.
Hadley sank down on one knee and she thought he must be feeling the heat.
She glanced up to the house and saw the parlour curtain move. Inside, Maude reached for a chair; Robert said, ‘Damn,’ and Lilith said, ‘Henrietta and I will be attendants. We should wear white. It’s all the rage.’
Phoeba looked at Hadley and his eyes shone up at her. A dread, a feeling like having eaten too much fresh bread and jam, grew large in the pit of her stomach.
‘Phoeba, will you be my wife?’
Her immediate impulse was to laugh but Hadley’s eyes, burning blue behind his spectacles, stopped her. She turned away and patted the horse. She’d never had any reason to think seriously about marriage for herself. No one had ever entered her world and prompted her to think about it. And, she’d never even had an urge to marry.
‘Phoeba, we both want the same things in life.’ Hadley started to panic and reached for her hand but she thrust his string basket at him.
‘I hate sheep. They rot from the bottom up.’
‘Not if you look after them properly!’ he said looking truly offended. ‘And anyway, you won’t have to go anywhere near a sheep if you don’t want to.’
He took the bag from her and got to his feet, round patches of dust on his knees. The yolk pooled onto his shiny, new boots.
‘You must want children, a partner in life? You’re a girl, surely …’
It was very strange, Phoeba thought as she watched the sticky yellow mess, to be talking to Hadley about getting married. It seemed … lewd.
‘I don’t think I ever wanted those things,’ she said, struggling to compose her thoughts.
‘That’s just because you’ve never given it any thought.’
It wasn’t supposed to be like this; he’d thought she’d say yes and now he was floundering. He hadn’t thought about what to do if she said no. So he put his hat on. He’d give her time, that’s what he’d do. ‘Your father said—’
‘You didn’t!’ she yelled, and he stepped back. ‘Tell me you didn’t ask him! Why, Hadley, why did you ask him? It’s got nothing to do with him.’
‘Promise me you’ll think about it?’ he asked, reaching for his horse, wishing he hadn’t said anything, wishing he sounded stronger. ‘There are lots of reasons to get married,’ he suggested. ‘It’s about building a future …’
She shook her head at him, confused. Her eyes had turned grey and she was frowning.
‘Will you at least think about it?’ he said.
Phoeba couldn’t gather her thoughts at all. And Hadley looked so desperate. She put her finger to her chin as if to ponder.
‘Don’t mock me, Phoeba.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I will think about it.’ She hadn’t seen him this upset since she pushed him off the swing and broke his arm.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
Hadley climbed onto his horse and looked down at her. ‘You might find, one day, that marriage is the right thing.’
‘Happy New Year,’ she called feebly, watching him ride away. ‘Blast,’ she said. She felt irritated, sad and bothered. Nothing would be the same now; Hadley had always been like a brother, and of course she didn’t want to hurt him. But she knew he would go home now to sit on his thin, boy’s bed in its tiny room of books and plans and dreams. He would sit with his forehead in his hands and tears running down his lovely straight nose. Henrietta would be cross with her and when her mother found out she’d refused a proposal she’d be furious.
Spot whickered long and low from his paddock and she crossed the dry grass to him and rubbed his muzzle, the hot breath from his nose on her hand. Up on the outcrop, smoke wafted down from a swaggie’s campfire. Phoeba turned back to the house, hearing three sets of feet rumble hastily up the hall towards the kitchen as she approached.
Hadley slowed his mare to a walk as soon as he was beyond the signpost, then he halted her and sat looking ahead to Elm Grove. Had he ruined everything? He knew Phoeba would think so. No, they would always be friends. And Phoeba would think about it and see sense. He screwed his face in agony. Such a fool. Fool, fool, fool. Obviously it was too sudden for her. Of course she wasn’t expecting it; he’d never said anything, never even tried to be affectionate or tender. He should have brought flowers. Presents. He should have given her a book for her birthday last week. He would talk to Henrietta. No, he mustn’t tell Henrietta. She might feel she had to take sides. He would keep it all close to his chest.
Maude was humming, ‘I Hear Wedding Bells’ as she set the table while Robert sat in the spot at the end of the table that caught the breeze between the front and back door and watched her slice cold meat and arrange pickle jars. Lilith asked her mother to order a yard of plain linen so she could make serviettes for trousseau boxes.
Phoeba ignored them all.
Finally, Maude asked breezily, ‘Did Hadley bring any other news we haven’t heard—’
‘No!’ said Phoeba, and stood up and went to bed.
The heat throbbed through the weatherboard, the crickets were in full voice. Phoeba opened Far From the Madding Crowd. Gabriel had just proposed to Bathsheba and she had refused, telling him he should marry someone with money who could stock his farm. Clearly, thought Phoeba, it was an omen.
It wasn’t long before Lilith came in, undressed, chucked her clothes into the corner and flopped onto her bed. She tucked her mosquito net in and fanned herself with Madame Weigel’s Journal of Fashion: ‘What were you and Hadley talking about today?’
Phoeba ignored her. She’d been trying to ignore Lilith since she was born.
‘I said, what were you—’
‘Sheep.’ She closed her book and turned down the lamp.
‘Do you like Hadley?’
‘How can anyone not like Hadley? He’s lovely.’ And Phoeba pulled the sheet up over her head.
‘He’s a dill,’ said Robert untying Maude’s corset. ‘Fancy wanting to go off and start a sheep career in a drought, with strikers everywhere, squatters going bust left right and centre.’ He loosened the strings and Maude’s upper body sagged, her breasts pulling down so that her shoulder bones seemed to rise and push up against her skin. She dragged her rouleaux curl from her crown and placed it on the dressing table where it lay like a sleeping rodent.
‘There are still sheep to be shorn, Robert, money to be earned for a wife and for my grandchildren. He’s sincere and he’s trying,’ replied Maude.
‘Trying indeed.’ Robert sat gingerly on the edge of the bed as Maude removed her drawers, lifted them with her toe and dropped them into the basket. ‘He can try all he likes but I doubt she’ll take him on – and I don’t want a son-in-law who thinks my vines are a waste of good sheep country.’
‘Most people think your vines are a waste of good sheep country, Robert, including me. At least sheep eat the grass down.’ She gestured at the door with her potty. ‘Now off you go to the shed.’
‘Come on Maudie, old thing, you can’t throw me out just because Spot behaved badly. Mosquitoes eat me alive out there—’
‘They could bother the cart horse instead, if we had one.’
Robert sighed, heading forlornly to the shed where he lay on a hard, gritty bed scratching at the mites which crawled into his armpits, slapping at the insects which flew into his ears.
In the dark, Lilith was still talking.
‘You and Hadley are so alike, Phoeba. You’re both old-
fashioned and you like animals.’
How could they not be alike? They were formed next door to each other. Henrietta, Hadley and Phoeba interpreted the world entirely from a Bay View perspective. From the time Phoeba was ten they had fished, swam, played and gone to school together. They had shared responsibility for a blue tongue lizard, catching insects to feed it, taking it swimming in summer to cool it and warming it in the slow oven in winter until Henrietta left it too long and cooked it. For her eleventh birthday, Henrietta and Hadley had given her a red-back spider, which ran up the twig to the top of its jar for a live fly until she found it on its back, curled like a tomato stem, one day. She still had it, somewhere.
And Maude had spent many evenings teaching all four youngsters to dance, each of the girls taking a turn with Hadley. Phoeba had never thought about marrying Hadley, although it seemed that’s what people did. They grew up and married someone suitable when it was time. Then they had babies, worked hard and made do, argued, and died.
Suddenly, Phoeba Crupp felt very tired.
The first wedding cake
Monday, January 1, 1894
Phoeba rose through the layers of slumber to hear bird-song in the still morning. It may have been New Year, but it was Monday – washing day. She would get up, milk the goat, light the copper, have breakfast and get to the washhouse before Lilith woke. After the wash she would ride to see Henrietta. Then she remembered: Hadley had proposed and now nothing could ever be the same again. She had hurt him and the refusal would always be there, lurking, like a thieving boy behind a hedge. She kicked back the sheet and hurried out, away from it.
It was a scorcher of a day and, and after a morning with boiling sheets, Phoeba sat on the veranda step to take advantage of the breeze from under the house. She removed her stockings, draped them over her boots, unfastened the buttons of her high-necked blouse and yanked her skirt up so high that the white work and ruffles of her drawers showed. Out on the bay a cargo boat with three steam stacks lurched out to sea. She put the looking glass to her eye and studied the flags: Dutch.
