Summer at Mount Hope

by Rosalie Ham

  ‘I hate this rotten place,’ screamed Lilith. ‘I can’t wait to get married and leave!’

  ‘Neither can we,’ said Phoeba and followed her father to the vineyard. His thumbs poked in his waistcoat pockets, Robert gave her her second lesson, on sampling.

  ‘Sampling is a means of testing the sugar, acidity and taste of grapes about three to four weeks before harvest.’

  Phoeba eyed the hard, green berries. ‘But it’ll be weeks before they even start to ripen.’

  ‘And you, Miss Grape-Expert, will then begin sampling. Avoid collecting grapes from end vines and outside rows. Always select berries randomly from various parts of the vine, for example …’ He pointed to one grape berry from the crown of a top bunch, one from the outside of a bunch, one at the bottom of the vine, and one from the inside of a middling vine. ‘Place it in your mouth, burst it over your tongue then write down for me exactly what it tastes like. We’ll compare notes.’

  He issued her with her instructions for the day; she was to scare birds, make lunch, cut thistles and at sunset turn the irrigation on for one hour.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I have a sign to make,’ he said, and went to the shed.

  When the general congregation had left the church, Mr Titterton led his fiancée, wearing her mustard frock and green hat, to the altar. Hadley and Henrietta sat tight-jawed in the second pew. Mrs Overton, Marius and the three Temperance women were the only other guests.

  The vicar took his place and looked down at the bride and groom. Henrietta felt unwell, like she had when she’d tried to get drunk with Hadley and Phoeba by eating grapes. Hadley lowered his forehead into his hands. Please God, don’t let Mr Titterton retire and breed swine at Elm Grove.

  The vicar placed his finger on the open page of his prayer book.

  Mr Titterton sensed his fiancée next to him trembling with emotion, so he took her small hand and looped it through his elbow. She was, he felt, such a frail, helpless little thing. For the first time ever, Widow Pearson wanted to loosen her corset. But Henrietta had tugged it very firmly that morning. The Widow felt as if her ribs had met under her breastbone and were grating against each other.

  The vicar read: ‘ “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this small congregation to join together this man and this woman in Holy matrimony”.’

  A sob laced with spittle burst from Henrietta and the vicar paused. Hadley, looking as dignified as he could under the circumstances, put his arm protectively around his sister and rubbed his knee with his other hand. He prayed: Please God, don’t let Mr Overton go broke and sack Mr Titterton.

  The small convoy headed back to the manager’s house for the wedding breakfast. Mrs Overton excused herself but Marius attended. He stood against a wall behind a frond of potted Phoenix palm on a walnut canterbury. As soon as he could, Hadley excused himself from the Temperance women and joined Marius, turning the conversation to the strike.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘It was a rum affair but we showed them, didn’t we?’

  He knew it was he who’d shown them and he wanted to be acknowledged for his bravery again. Marius had done nothing to confront the troubled shearers: he’d gone driving to see Lilith Crupp. The man’s heart didn’t seem to be in being a pastoralist, thought Hadley.

  ‘Of course, negotiation is a matter of engagement,’ he said, but suddenly Henrietta and Marius disappeared and Hadley found he was talking to a potted palm. He turned and saw why. The vicar was heading towards him to discuss raising funds to line the church ceiling. Hadley suggested he raffle one of Maude Crupp’s plum cakes.

  ‘They are,’ he said, ‘rich – and she’s making so many these days.’ But though the vicar knew Mrs Crupp’s cakes were very good, he wasn’t sure about the family: the oldest girl was inclined to be pithy.

  Later, as the honeymooners waved from their departing train, Hadley and his sister pondered their future with a new father – he would build a new house to retire to and if Hadley went away classing, as both his mother and Mr Titterton seemed to want him to do, then Mr Titterton would run Elm Grove. And as long as Mr Titterton was at Overton, Henrietta had her instructions to adhere to customs in the manager’s house that reflected the high standard in the main house. She was even supposed to see the housekeeper for a uniform that afternoon.

  ‘My life is over,’ she said.

  Hadley patted his sister’s shoulder as if he was testing wet paint. ‘We will look out for one another, Sis,’ he said, but his voice was cracking.

  Spot moved to the gate, took the apple gently from Phoeba’s palm and chewed, the woody noise echoing in his long skull. He sniffed her pockets for more while she bridled him, then she stood in front of him and showed him the scythe.

  ‘You may come to cut thistles, Spotty, but if my hem gets wet I will give you to the itinerants and they will slice you into thin strips and toast you over their campfire for dinner.’

  She rode him bareback but only at an amble – he kept pausing to take in the view or to sniff green tufts of grass. He stepped sideways, giving the Sunshine harvester a wide berth, but kept on, his pace suddenly quickening, heading for the dam.

  ‘No,’ said Phoeba, pulling his head the other way. But Spot walked on. She begged, kicked and threatened, cursed and told him he was mean but he just turned circles, reversing and then going forward, until he had worked his way to the water. Resigned, she raised her boots to his rump and lay flat with her arms around his neck as he splashed into the water. She surveyed the thistles and Salvation Jane. She watched the Melbourne ferry steam across the bay. She pondered Robert’s new sign: Please travel slowly dust ruins grapes, R. Crupp.

  She was watching dragonflies hover over the dam surface, her cheek against Spot’s hot, smelly neck, when she heard a horse neigh softly.

  Rudolph Steel and his sturdy mare sat on the dam bank. Phoeba felt a rush of delight at seeing him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Crupp,’ he said formally.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Steel.’ She rested her head on Spot’s mane again.

  ‘I see the hot dry weather continues.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘so it’s reassuring that the stock dam is quite full.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Why do you think he does it?’

  She was suddenly conscious that she was wearing her father’s socks and that her skirt was riding up, but there was nothing to be done.

  ‘He’s always liked water,’ she said, ‘but the older he gets, the more he likes it.’

  ‘How are his shoes?’ said Rudolph.

  ‘The farrier at Overton does them.’

  ‘That farrier should have been a coach painter.’

  They waited in the hot sun discussing this and that and Spot didn’t move.

  ‘How’s Angela?’ asked Rudolph.

  ‘We didn’t go to church today so I don’t really know.’

  Steel nudged his horse towards the dam, Spot suddenly splashed through the water to the sweet grass by the inlet. Rudolph followed, got off his horse and put his hand up to Phoeba – she could have easily swung down on her own but she accepted it. His coat smelled of sun-warmed wool.

  Rudolph ran his hand down Spot’s neck, across his sloppy breast and down to his front hoof while Phoeba tried to think of something to say rather than just staring at his nice hands and admiring the way he touched her horse. There were feathers poked into his hatband.

  ‘Did you collect all those on your walk down from Broome?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘What breed is your horse?’

  ‘It is a Holstein, German. They’re renowned for their excellent legs, and good, hard feet.’ Rudolph stood up, wiped his hands together and smiled at her. She smiled back, like a small girl on her birthday.

  ‘Your horse has got an inflamed pedal bone,’ he said to her, and her smile fell. She felt very silly.

  ‘We thought he was just v
engeful.’

  Rudolph was nonplussed. ‘You didn’t check?

  ’ ‘Dad was an accountant,’ she shrugged, ‘but I’ve looked at them and they never look any different.’

  ‘I suppose you checked before you rode him.’

  ‘The rest of the time he stands in dams.’

  Rudolph laughed and rested his hand on her shoulder lightly, just for a moment.

  ‘To be fair,’ he said, ‘it’s only his front feet and pedal foot is only evident after certain distance. The dam is cool. We can ease it by adjusting his shoes.’

  She slapped Spot’s neck sadly. ‘He’s been trying to tell us.’

  They walked together towards Mount Hope, Spot and the German horse clopping along behind them, and Phoeba struggling again for something to say. But Rudolph seemed happy with the lack of conversation, so she luxuriated in walking along with a nice man who wasn’t Hadley or her father.

  ‘Have you managed to please yourself so far?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. And I’ve displeased almost everyone else.’

  He laughed, and then there was another silence. She watched the tips of her boots poke out from under her skirt as she walked.

  ‘Do you think Marius Overton will marry again?’ she blurted.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but it’s … there’s a respectable time people should wait, isn’t there?’

  ‘I suppose. If you care what people say.’

  He knows, she thought: the whole district must know.

  He seemed to read her thoughts and said, ‘There are some things we can’t control. Things happen and they can be untimely.’

  ‘Sometimes people marry for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Yes. Or they marry for the right reasons and it turns out to be wrong. You never know the future,’ he said, almost to himself.

  She wanted to ask him if he’d had a broken heart but decided it was best not to know. She pointed to the vines. ‘There’s my future. I’m going to grow excellent grapes and make wine.’

  ‘You are going to grow the grapes?’ He stopped walking and looked slightly taken aback.

  ‘You don’t think I can?’ said Phoeba.

  ‘I’m sure you can. It’s just I didn’t realise that your future depended quite so much on Mount Hope.’ But he seemed suddenly preoccupied. ‘This area is perfect for grape growing for wine but it’s a lot to do. Still, you will need help,’ he said, as if that solved some sort of problem.

  ‘I can hire help. And swaggies always want work. What about your future, Mr Steel?’

  ‘I just want to get this harvest started. It’s very important for the future of Overton.’ He frowned and looked up to the house, worried. He needed a haircut, thought Phoeba, and toyed with the idea of telling him that Lilith would cut it for him. No. Not Lilith.

  ‘Won’t the itinerants—’

  ‘No,’ he said, waving his hand towards the grounded harvester. ‘They refused because of that.’

  The thresher team was still at the church cutting chaff. It could take a week to reach Overton, Phoeba knew: too long to wait when a lot depended on the crop. She laid her hand on his arm and he turned and smiled at her.

  ‘It’s good to see you’re recovered.’ He handed her the scythe. ‘Hadley Pearson is on the veranda waiting for you.’

  Hadley was looking straight at them. His bespectacled face was passive, his hat on the couch beside him and his long fingers wrapped over his grey woollen knees. Resting on his thin thighs was the looking glass.

  A rush of fury shot through her, then a wave of terrible pity.

  ‘Hadley,’ she sighed. She turned back to Rudolph Steel. ‘You could stay for tea—’

  ‘No.’ Rudolph took Spot’s lead, ‘I’ll take this old ungulate to the farrier.’

  He got on his horse and nudged the mare but she was anchored fast by Spot, who leaned back, his ears screwed around to Phoeba and the whites of his eyes showing as he pulled against the reins.

  ‘Off you go, Spot,’ she said, patting his rump. He didn’t move. She whacked him so hard that her hand stung but it didn’t dispel her mood. Bother Hadley, sitting like a spy on her veranda. Spot gave her another, reproachful, tragic look then haltingly followed the dark mare. Phoeba walked up to the house.

  ‘Hadley,’ she called, through gritted teeth. ‘How was the wedding?’

  ‘Very ordinary,’ said Henrietta, clattering out onto the veranda with a tea tray, her mouth already full of plum cake. ‘There’s no one here so we made ourselves at home … since we are without a home now. And there is your mother’s excellent cake.’

  Phoeba took a seat next to Henrietta. Hadley feigned great interest in the tea in his cup.

  ‘Spot has pedal foot,’ she announced. ‘Rudolph helped me—’

  ‘I saw,’ said Hadley, waving the looking glass. ‘You call him Rudolph, do you? You must be on good terms.’

  She wanted to be on better terms with Rudolph Steel, she thought. When she was with him she felt elated. The air was fresher, the clouds were whiter, the road was interesting and everything seemed of greater value.

  ‘Would anyone like wine?’ she asked, feeling celebratory, and ran to fetch a jug. When they were settled with a glass each, Hadley said, ‘You know he’s a banker.’

  ‘He’s not,’ she said, a little too defensively, ‘he’s an investor.’

  ‘Tarred with the same brush,’ warned Henrietta. ‘He’s sent the scullery maid, the house maid and the housekeeper away—’

  ‘—and put the cattle on the train to the abattoir,’ added Hadley.

  ‘Overton must be going bad,’ said Henrietta, leaning back and resting her foot up on the veranda post.

  ‘No,’ said Hadley, ‘the wool’s gone to be sold and there’s the crop yet.’ He cleared his throat, ‘Speaking of scandal, they say Lilith is having trysts— ’

  ‘With Marius Overton?’ said Phoeba, her voice brittle. So it was true. Lilith was probably with him at that moment. Well, thought Phoeba, it would either make them or break them. He would either marry her or abandon her – and then Phoeba would be stuck with her forever.

  ‘Even the boundary rider knows about it and he’s hardly ever back here!’ said Henrietta, her brown eyes bright and her cheeks flushing red. Wine always made Henri shine a bit.

  ‘Well then,’ said Phoeba, ‘he has to marry her.’ She raised her glass.

  ‘Mrs Overton has expectations for her only son,’ said Hadley sounding strangely like his mother, ‘but I just want you to know I won’t be swayed by it, Phoeba. My regard for you stands and my … expectations for us will never change.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Henrietta and beamed.

  ‘How’s shearing?’ Phoeba asked, wanting to move on from marriage.

  Henrietta spoke on her little brother’s behalf. ‘Hadley’s nearly finished the scour. He hates it, but he’ll get almost £100 for it.’

  ‘I wanted more,’ he muttered.

  ‘Did you know he repelled a hundred strikers on his own, Phoeba?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well,’ said Hadley, sitting a little straighter, ‘a pack of them. I repelled them on my own. They were armed with pikes carved from saplings, and strychnine. They could have thrown it in my eyes! And they had shears strapped to the end of spears.’ He got up and moved to the veranda rail, as if he was under a proscenium arch, and by the time he’d got to the end of the saga he was animated. He acted out the scene where he shot the bullet with an invisible rifle, ‘… and they fled, and The General was safe.’

  He was no longer Henrietta’s little brother, a small, orange boy bearing a dead lizard tearfully to a neat grave under the persimmon tree. And when she saw them off, Phoeba knew he was happy. He’d had three glasses of wine and he felt he’d impressed her, but it made her sad for him. She sat on the front step and pondered Rudolph Steel. Her heart felt faint when she thought of him. Perhaps that was how Lilith felt about Marius, but did he feel that about Lilith?

  There was on
e way to find out.

  Phoeba walked up through the boulders to where the trees thickened, careful not to stand on fallen branches. A third of the way up she saw the Arab horse. She stepped behind a tree. Did she really want to know what they were doing? They’d be reading poetry, or something. Holding hands perhaps? Or would it be worse. Through the bush she spied Lilith’s skirt and fought an urge to run away. What if they saw her? What would that do?

  Her stomach churned. Then her curiosity got the better of her. She crept closer, staying behind the bushes.

  Lilith was pinned against a tree, Marius kissing her and grinding his mouth to hers. Phoeba felt vaguely nauseated and the hair on her neck crawled. Then Lilith jolted, her head falling back and her curls shuddering. She raised her knee and Marius’s hand searched up under her skirt. The white of her petticoat folded back over her hem. Suddenly, Phoeba wanted to flee, but Marius looked up and saw her – looked straight into her eyes – and she went cold.

  He stepped back, wrenching up his trousers. Lilith’s skirts fell and she turned and saw her big sister. Her expression settled into one of challenge.

  ‘Stickybeak,’ she spat. Phoeba felt rude and ridiculous. ‘How dare you,’ said Lilith, her lip curling.

  Phoeba stayed behind the bushes, paralysed, embarrassed.

  Marius called, ‘It’s not what you think.’

  It’s not what you think? That was exactly what it was. So ridiculous, she started to giggle. ‘Then what is it?’ she asked, stepping from behind the tree.

  ‘She won’t tell,’ said Lilith, ‘and anyway, if she does they won’t believe her. They never do.’ She backed into Marius’s arms. ‘Plain old Phoeba.’

  ‘Everybody knows, Lilith. You’re the talk of the district.’

  ‘Are we?’ said Marius, horrified, struggling to button his fly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Phoeba, crossing her arms. ‘Are you going to do the right thing?’

  Lilith’s chin went up. ‘We’re getting married.’

  ‘We can’t!’ cried Marius. Then, ‘Not yet.’ He looked like a naughty boy, shoving his shirt into his trousers.

  ‘We can, when the time is right,’ said Lilith, in a reasoning tone.