by Rosalie Ham
‘I should have clouted you more often,’ he said, ‘but I think this will be the making of you.’
‘And I think that you’ll miss my presence very much,’ said Lilith. ‘You underestimated me, Dad,’ she said and threw the tablecloth at him covering his head.
He laughed and pulled the cloth away just as Henrietta came riding down from the outcrop with a basket of roses from Mr Titterton’s garden. ‘For corsages,’ she called, ‘and the bouquet if you like.’
‘Henri, you are priceless,’ said Lilith. ‘I look forward to having you as my neighbour at Overton.’
Henrietta found Phoeba in the vineyard. ‘Rudolph’s back,’ she said quietly.
‘Do you think—’
‘I can’t tell, Phoeba. Perhaps after the wedding …’ Henrietta looked pained.
By Friday evening, Maude was in bed, wrung-out and aching. Phoeba gave her a cold marjoram compress for her throbbing forehead and a warmed sack of lavender and oats to ease her cramps.
‘There are ants in my veins,’ she said.
But for the first time in days, Phoeba felt wonderful. Tomorrow was Saturday, Lilith’s wedding day. And Rudolph would be there.
Saturday, February 10, 1894
It was a glorious day. Maggie blinked and stopped chewing her cud when she saw Phoeba coming at dawn. She walked hesitantly on sleepy legs to her milking stand and sprang up, and together they watched the sunrise push a sheet of cloud back to reveal a brilliant sky. A breeze wafted in carrying the smell of dew on stubble, sheep manure and dusty eucalyptus leaves. Today must go smoothly; there must be no scenes, no hitches. Lilith must get to Overton on time, composed and radiant.
Phoeba shook her awake at seven with a cup of tea and said, ‘The water in the copper is hot and the bath is waiting.’
Then she went to Spot. By eight o’clock, he was currycombed to a glossy black hue, his mane and fringe trimmed and his hoofs polished. Only then did Phoeba lock herself in the washhouse – and stayed there half an hour. She stepped into the kitchen dressed and ready in her blue frock with her best hat, her hair looped in a loose nape coil that draped around her bow-tie collar. ‘By Jove, Phoeba,’ said Robert, who wore his small suit and pudding-bowl hat, ‘we’ll lose you today as well.’
Maude looked like a frilly barrel under a massive hat. It was almost a yard wide and so laden with satin and feathers that the brim drooped and touched her high Juliette sleeves.
‘When you make an effort, Phoeba, you can actually look quite pretty. Is that strawberry water on your lips?’
‘And I have scent behind my ears.’ Her face had dulled to a more agreeable shade of rash and she felt quite beautiful.
Lilith emerged from Maude’s bedroom, pale and trembling. Her skirt was hemmed to the new length to reveal her white shoes and stockings. Her hat was also very modern – white, low over her head, its oval brim reaching out to her shoulders while pink roses crowded the hatband. She was all pastel and creamy with brilliant blue eyes, and she clutched a bouquet of gum flowers and bottlebrush, roses and fern leaves.
She looked truly lovely, so Phoeba told her so.
‘You know, Phoeba,’ said Lilith, ‘you have never once, not ever, said anything nice to me. You have disliked me for as long as I can remember. It’s in the tone of your voice.’ Phoeba was about to say that that wasn’t at all true, but realised it probably was. ‘I have always had to sleep with the lamp turned up.’
‘You had no trouble sleeping; you snored,’ said Phoeba. ‘And why shouldn’t I read?’
‘You don’t think of others as much as you suppose, Phoeba. You like everything your way but you think that you don’t: at least I’m honest about myself. You never let me ride your big fat horse and you never let me drive the sulky. You never played with me or let me be friends with Hadley or Henrietta—’
‘We didn’t like playing at mothers and fathers—’
‘How do you know they didn’t? You never let them. Mother has been my only friend.’
‘Now, now,’ said Maude, fussing with Lilith’s bouquet. ‘We won’t cause a scene today. You’re just different to each other, that’s all. Margaret and I are unalike, and tragedy forced us to be good sisters.’
‘Which brings me to the subject of sulkies,’ said Robert, taking a penny from his pocket. ‘It would be an inconvenient day for both of us to die in the manner of your parents, Maude, and it would look bad for Marius if he lost another bride. So let’s flip a coin to see who gets to go with Spot.’
‘Heads,’ said Lilith, winning herself the seat next to Robert in the sulky with Spot. Hadley drove the Hampden into the yard right on time, helped Phoeba heave Maude into the front seat and they followed, travelling via Bay View to collect Margaret from the siding.
Spot gave a superior sideways glance to the ducks as he stepped proudly through the gate, the shiniest horse with the most sparkling sulky in the area, and the Crupp convoy travelled – slowly so as not to cause dust – without incident all the way to the intersection, where they turned towards Overton. Then Spot stopped dead and wrenched his head, stepping sideways and trying to turn around.
‘No!’ shrieked Phoeba from the Hampden.
Robert leaned back on the reins. ‘Not the dam, Spot, not today.’
Lilith sat grim-faced and frozen next to him: the dam was low, the banks slimy and the sulky would bog up to its axle and sink, the bridal white turning putrid with mud. Spot dug his shoes into the ground and groaned, the metal wheel rims twisting in the dirt as he dragged them, inch by inch, and Robert battled all the way with the brake handle calling, ‘No Spot, bad horse.’ But Spot wasn’t heading for the dam; he was trying to get closer to the signpost.
Phoeba leapt from the Hampden and grabbed Spot’s bridle, and there in the middle of the intersection, slumped on her carpetbag and hidden by the thistle bushes that surrounded the Mount Hopeless sign, was Aunt Margaret, weeping. Her smart new purple jacket and slim, striped skirt were flecked with thistle spikes and her bowler hat was cast aside. Her nose was mahogany and her mouth was dry and stuck together. She couldn’t seem to get her words out.
Maude said looked down from the Hampden, rolled her eyes and said, ‘Tsk.’
Lilith cried, ‘I haven’t got time for this.’
‘Margaret, old thing,’ said Robert, ‘this is supposed to be a happy day.’
Phoeba knelt down in the sharp thistles next to her bony old aunt, put her arms around her quaking shoulders and said, ‘Ashley?’ and Aunt Margaret brayed like a mule.
‘Chin up, Aunt Margaret,’ said Hadley, helping her into the Hampden – she was the only aunty Hadley had ever encountered. He stopped beside the water tank at Overton so Phoeba could press a cold, wet handkerchief to her aunt’s dry, burning cheeks.
It was a wedding without much ceremony – no grand entrances, no gasps of wonder. Henrietta and the Tittertons arrived at the same time as the vicar; Mr and Mrs Overton appeared with Marius. And they all stood on the lovely carpet – surrounded by crystal decanters and mahogany mantel mirrors, the upholstered drawing room suite (ten piece), the vases and exotic flowers, and the sumptuous pot plants that curled from pot stands and hung from the walls. Lilith became Mrs Marius Overton of Overton. Maude used her best accent throughout – and didn’t seem to notice that Mrs Overton spoke to none of them, didn’t even look at Phoeba’s face to see how it was mending. Phoeba drank three glasses of sparkling wine and wondered if Lilith would inherit the big, black pearls threaded through Mrs Overton’s bun, or the matching pearls that dangled from a belt slung loosely around her waist. Perhaps the diamond on her wedding finger and its matching drop earrings. Mrs Overton’s décolleté, powdered and painted with faint blue lines to give it a delicate hue, was too low for someone of her age, thought Phoeba, and her wrists were heavy with girlish gold bangles and bracelets. Perhaps Lilith’s daughter would inherit them?
It could have been the wine, but Phoeba allowed herself to believe that all was well. This was the way it
would be. As the remaining single girl, as the spinster, she was bound to help her mother, help her father – she was released from the need for marriage. She took another sip: her future was resolved. She would be able to stay at Mount Hope, free. It would do very nicely.
Still, she couldn’t help imagining Rudolph Steel coming down the staircase at the big house, or working behind the heavy closed doors, and she glanced at the gilt mirrors now and then just in case they reflected him. When he finally did step out of the shadows, looking very European in a mid-length vicuna suit with silk trim, Phoeba’s happy freedom dissolved: she was like a jittery country girl in a hand-made dress. He shook Marius’s hand and placed a kiss on Lilith’s cheek. ‘Congratulations.’
He turned to Phoeba, took her hand and kissed it. ‘And, you have a brother,’ he said. ‘He will be an asset, I know.’
In the days he had been away she had forgotten how brown his eyes were, so velvety that their pupils were almost indiscernible. The back of her hand hummed where his soft lips had touched. Hadley hovered after Aunt Margaret, refilling her glass often and discussing the paintings with her, keeping to the fringes of the room: Phoeba knew he was only pretending not to watch her every move, and she was sad to think she was making him behave so. When he went to stand with Mr and Mrs Overton they looked as nonplussed as three Quakers witnessing a bar brawl – but Phoeba decided she must push all these disgruntled people from her mind. This was a happy day, and she was standing between Henrietta and Rudolph Steel.
Robert nudged her aside to talk to Rudolph about landowners planting vineyards across the peninsula to the south. ‘They’re put in riesling grapes at Pettavel,’ he said, worried about the dangers of the new vignerons and outbreaks of phylloxera like the one in the 1870s. The cake remained uncut and Robert was still talking to Rudolph when Mr and Mrs Overton senior drifted upstairs without a word. It seemed to signal the end of the occasion.
Rudolph leaned close to Phoeba. ‘They don’t like me much either.’
As she snuggled deeper under her quilt in her room, Phoeba heard her father walking softly by and saw his lamplight pass as he made his way to his bedroom. Apart from Aunt Margaret snoring in Lilith’s bed, she felt all was right with the world. She even allowed the truth that had been incubating at the back of her mind to blossom. She had gone soft on Rudolph Steel. She felt it when she stood next to him and she felt it again now, imagining him in his satin-trimmed coat on one knee at the outcrop in a golden sunset, holding her hand – she could even feel his firm fingers around hers.
It came quickly then, a strange sinking feeling: Lilith was now living at Overton. Phoeba could never live there with Rudolph – she’d be stuck with Lilith forever! She pushed her daydream out. It was silly. Then she thought of a solution: she’d have to build a house on top of the outcrop, halfway between her vines and her husband’s work.
There, she had thought the word – husband. But she knew her dream was far-fetched. Anyway, she reminded herself, she was happy on her own. She didn’t want anyone interfering with her or with the vines. She wanted to run them. She wanted to be a vigneron. Why didn’t the Overtons like Rudolph? Money, of course, she thought. He owned half of them. So he would run Overton and she would run Mount Hope. They would meet somewhere in the middle.
Sunday, February 11, 1894
On Sunday, Aunt Margaret arrived at the breakfast table irritable and cranky while Phoeba hummed as she dressed and prepared breakfast. ‘Stop making a din,’ Margaret snapped, so fiercely that Robert asked if her gout was acting up.
‘Why would I have gout, Robert? I don’t overindulge in wine, like you!’ she said, but Phoeba knew her hip flask was empty. She fed her aunt bread and dripping and then her mother arrived, teary and snivelling.
‘For pity’s sake, Mother, what’s the matter now? Will you never be happy about anything?’
‘You just wait for this time in your life, Phoeba!’ said Maude, shakily. ‘I can’t control it. And I am concerned that Lilith will move to the city.’
‘Lilith will make sure she’s all right no matter where she is but I don’t know what’s to become of me,’ cried Margaret, dramatically.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Margaret,’ said Maude, wiping her eyes, ‘it’s just a broken heart. You made your bed. Remember that ridiculous quote? “She who has never loved has never lived.” You have lived.’
‘You are a cruel and selfish sister, Maude.’
‘Me? You sold our home—’
‘Enough!’ said Robert, throwing his newspapers aside. ‘All I ever hear is whining and complaining! You are wearing me out and if it weren’t for the rabbits I’d be dead from working to feed you all!’
Maude crept back to her bed and Aunt Margaret left, her footfall hard on the back porch. In a fit of pique, she attempted to harness Spot to the sulky. Spot stood patiently while she placed the collar over his head and then found she could not thread the trace straps because the collar was on back-to-front. He lowered his head while she removed it and replaced it properly, then he sighed and looked hopefully to the house while she failed to join the girth strap again and again. Eventually, Phoeba came, and when Spot was correctly attired, Aunt Margaret rebuffed Phoeba’s offer to drive. ‘I can drive,’ she snapped, and wriggled the reins over Spot’s rump. ‘Take me to Mrs Flynn, Spot,’ she said with great pathos, and Spot obediently loped out the gate.
An hour later, he strolled back up the lane again. Behind him, Aunt Margaret was up to her waist in her dusty paintings while at the shop, Mrs Flynn leaned on the counter and wondered what to do about the square patches on her wall where the green paint had not faded under the canvasses. It all looked very bare.
Spot stood respectfully on the dam bank while Aunt Margaret constructed a clumsy pyramid of oil paintings in their cheap frames and threw a lit match at them. As each one grilled and melted she took another from the sulky and placed it on top. She took every canvas from the walls of the house and burned them, and finally chucked her sketchpad onto the blaze.
Phoeba was reorganising the bedroom, spreading her garments evenly through the drawers and shelves vacated by Lilith when her aunt came in and shoved all her things into her carpetbag.
‘I am, once again, extraneous,’ she spluttered, tugging her bowler hat on and stomped off down the passage. She kicked the screen door open, thumped down the front steps and out the front gate leaving a small wake of curling dust.
Phoeba and Spot followed her.
‘No one is ever extraneous, Aunt Margaret. Everyone has a place,’ she called. Of course her aunt must stay at Mount Hope – it was obvious, Phoeba knew, even though she was compromised again. She’d still have to share a room, and she’d have to cook and wash for one more person – chauffeur one more around. She invited her to stay anyway.
‘I’d rather eat a sundowner’s toenails,’ spat her aunt and threw her carpetbag into the back of the sulky. They drove silently to meet the twelve o’clocker, her aunt glaring out at the bay.
Mrs Flynn asked as she wrote out the ticket, ‘Where’s your flash friend?’
‘Probably with one of his other friends,’ said Aunt Margaret, her voice like wire grating on tin.
The shopkeeper nodded knowingly. ‘If you want your back scratched use a doorjamb I say.’
‘Hear hear,’ said Margaret.
‘Have you heard from Freckle?’ asked Phoeba.
‘It’s a secret,’ said his mother, looking about in case there were vengeful itinerants behind her flour bins. ‘He’s seeing the whole of Victoria way up to the border. A lightning-squirter’s job isn’t easy but it was the snake in the mailbag that finally made up his mind.’ Mrs Flynn studied the floor around her feet. ‘It had twelve little babies and they all crawled off in here somewhere.’
‘You won’t ever tell Mother that, will you?’ said Phoeba.
‘Not unless I need to – for some reason.’
As they waited on the siding for the train, Aunt Margaret said grandly, ‘I wi
ll not be ruined by some fickle, capricious man, Phoeba. It isn’t dignified. What every woman requires is a loyal friend to bury you when you’re dead, bring you a cup of tea when you’re ill and scratch your back when you’re without a suitable doorjamb. Romantic love, what humbug.’ She thought for a moment then added, ‘Mind you, the intimate thing was something I’m glad I didn’t miss out on.’ And she shivered, still delighted.
‘Good,’ said Phoeba, ‘but one man shouldn’t dash your hopes. As the suffragettes would say, “Men should protect your freedom, not make you a slave to their whims”.’
The light in her aunt’s green eyes switched back on, ‘The suffragettes, of course!’
Phoeba tried to read late that night, tried to relish having her room to herself, but she was soon asleep, exhausted. Her dreams brought rain, thunder, weddings and Rudolph Steel.
Monday, February 12, 1894
She woke feeling tense. A cold air eased up under her skirt as she walked along the hall. She kicked the cloth snake against the gap and stood at the window in its squares of brittle morning sun to eat her porridge, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Robert came in from the outhouse, threw a slice of bread on the hot plate, poured himself tea, and then moved his chair to the other end of the table by the stove.
‘Place is dull without Lil, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Phoeba, cheerfully, not missing her at all. ‘But we’ll have grapes, Dad, fat pale grapes. And next season will be a bumper crop and we’ll make wine.’ She would make it herself, all going according to plan. She put her bowl in the sink and said, ‘I think I’ll ride to see Henrietta.’
She had decided to confront Rudolph, to find out about the crop, and find out what would happen to Marius and Lilith if it went bad.
But before she could finish her chores, Henrietta rode down from the outcrop astride Liberty, her skirt screwed under her thighs and her shins exposed where her stockings had come adrift from her garters. She flopped at the kitchen table.
