by Helene Young
‘I’d like that,’ she said. The relief was like the wave that swamps you as the first decent rains of the wet season fall. It washed the tension out of her body. She sagged a little. She’d have to tell Felicity the truth, but not tonight, not yet. ‘I’m tired, Lissie. You know that. Every day I spend worrying about the station takes a little more out of me.’
‘I know, I know, Mum. I’m happy to help out with that too. I miss this place.’ Lissie looked around. ‘I miss you,’ she said, smiling at Ivy before leaning down to hug her again.
‘And I miss you.’ She covered her daughter’s hands, those strong capable, healing hands, with hers.
They sat in silence for a moment and Ivy could see the curve of her daughter’s cheek in the mirror. Felicity was smiling. She knew then that whatever happened, her sunny little girl would be all right.
‘I’m not afraid to die, you know,’ Ivy said. ‘I’m ready to join your father.’
‘Being ready and actually going don’t necessarily follow along, Mum.’ Felicity didn’t look shocked.
‘I prayed to God to take me last night.’ Ivy tilted her chin, daring Lissie to tell her she’d done the wrong thing. ‘Why won’t he do that?’
‘Oh, Mum.’ Felicity stroked her hair, her voice thick with tears. ‘Maybe there’s something else you need to do before he can gather you up. Something you have to put right. I wish I knew.’
Ivy’s eyes brimmed. She was trying to tidy up the loose ends, but it wasn’t easy. ‘I miss your father, Lissie. There’s no joy in the land for me anymore.’
‘I know,’ Felicity said, as a dog barked outside. ‘Is it time to try somewhere new, then? We don’t need to sell here to get you into a retirement estate, not with Mitch wanting good grazing land. We could look for a smaller place in town together.’
She straightened. ‘It was good enough for your father to leave here in a box. It’s good enough for me.’
Felicity sighed, sat back on her heels. ‘I’m just saying it’s not easy for you, Mum. You only have to say the word and we can look at options.’
‘You can move in here. That’s all I need.’ Ken was going to have a pink fit. He’d already tried to move in. Said there was no point in the two of them living in grand homes alone. She’d said no. She knew how that would have panned out. And she wasn’t handing him squatter’s rights after she’d gone. Lissie was different. They rubbed along well enough together. So what if she couldn’t cook? Ivy was already eating frozen dinners half the time. Besides, she could still give her directions, even if her own hands could only manage baking.
‘We’ll talk some more in the morning. I’ll start putting feelers out for work. Do you need a hand getting ready for bed?’
‘No, dear. I’m fine now.’ Ivy’s smile wasn’t forced. This Sunday child of hers had brought her a reprieve.
‘Okay.’ Felicity kissed her goodnight and hummed as she walked down the hallway.
Esmay was right. She should have told her girls earlier. Ivy looked at herself in the mirror. ‘You’re a silly old woman.’
Felicity opened the door to the office, hoping the hinge wouldn’t squeak as her mother’s bedroom was next door and neither she nor Ella had stirred yet. Her father’s reproving gaze tracked her from his vantage point on the wall and she squirmed.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ she whispered, ‘but this is important. It’s for Mum.’ It felt like his unwavering stare softened a touch. She’d always loved this room with its masculine presence. It was everything a station manager’s lair should be. She’d lost count of the times she’d snuck in here when she was home from boarding school. The window looked out across the front paddock and on towards Trethowan’s land. In wintertime, as the sun shifted north, the golden light of sunsets cascaded through the window, tumbling over the walls and shining on the photos of the three previous Dunmores who’d farmed the land. Ivy’s photo should be up there too. She’d done just as many hard yards as her husband.
Felicity found the credit card statements easily in Ivy’s tidy filing system and ran her finger down the pages. There were several accounts from the Feed Shed over the last three months as well as fuel accounts.
Looking to the ceiling, she tried to remember the last time Ivy mentioned driving her car. A month, maybe more? And the journey to town and back was about fifty kilometres in total. Not enough to rack up a bill for around seventy dollars every couple of weeks. Felicity doubted that amount of fuel could even fit in Ivy’s sedan.
In total there was close to $5000 that potentially had nothing to do with her mother. If Ivy was bailing out Ken, was he planning on paying it back? She knew her mother had dispensed with the cleaner two years ago because of the cost and Felicity hadn’t been able to convince her to buy new clothes for almost as long. The whole point of agisting cattle was to give Ivy enough to live on, not pay Ken’s bills. Felicity tried to ignore the swell of anger. It was her mother’s money, she tried to reason. She could do whatever she wanted with it.
But still it irked. Ken had never stood on his own two feet. He’d almost lost Arran Downs when Samantha left him. Goodness knows where he’d found the money to fight the divorce settlement. But she had a fair idea.
And now it seemed that the tidy sum that had been in Ivy’s account when Charlie died had vanished completely. She’d been vague when Felicity queried her last year. How was she going to raise this latest issue with her?
She closed the folder and returned it to the filing cabinet. It was all very well being independent, but if Ivy needed care there was no longer enough to pay for it. And Felicity didn’t have any means to help, either. She kissed her fingers and touched them to the photo of her father.
‘We’ll sort it out, Dad,’ she said. She left the room, closing the door silently behind her, and made her way to the kitchen. The lightening sky had cast a square of light through the window onto the floorboards. While she waited for the kettle to boil she logged onto the internet and drummed her fingers on the smooth benchtop. Waiting, waiting, that’s all she seemed to be doing. Waiting for Todd’s lawyer to respond, waiting for approval to take long service leave and, most importantly, waiting for Georgie to call her back.
Initially she was miffed that her sister’s phone bounced straight to message bank. Now, after so many attempts, she was worried. Surely they would have heard if something dreadful had happened to Georgie? If an aircraft on an aid mission had been shot down or lost over Syria it would have been all over the news. Georgie was a cornerstone in her world. Indestructible and dependable, even if she could be volatile. She wanted Georgie here beside her so she didn’t have to face Ken on her own.
The kettle started to burble. She turned the gas off and poured water over her tea bag in the mug, smiling at the thought of Ivy’s reaction if she witnessed this sacrilege. But brewing a pot felt wasteful in times of drought. Besides, she was almost fifty years old. She could make a cup of tea however she chose.
Fifty. There was no fun in celebrating this milestone. All it did was highlight how thoroughly her dream life had slipped away. Though it had clearly slipped away some time ago, if she were honest. She’d cancelled the booking for dinner at the swanky restaurant on the Brisbane Riverbank. Paula and Steph were both adamant she needed to celebrate, but if she was at Roseglen, there wasn’t anything they could do about that. And if she wanted to sulk and wallow in self-pity, that was her choice.
It was too easy in the face of what was shaping up to be a bitter divorce to think that she’d never been happy. There had been laughter in their marriage, days full of wriggling bodies covered in sand and salt and sunshine on holidays at the beach when the kids were little. Nights watching movies jammed together on the couch, fingers sticky with butter, crunching homemade popcorn. There’d been the hiss of bubbles and the chink of crystal to celebrate promotions and graduations and successes. Sadly, those memories didn’t stack up against the slow petrification of their marriage or that hateful day. She doubted that particular memory would ever be
fully erased.
Her inbox pinged. Great. One from Todd and one from Ken. An anxious hollow expanded in her stomach. She wanted to hear from Todd’s lawyer, not have to put up with more of his bullshit directly.
Todd’s email concerned the sale of their house. Predictably, he thought the real estate agent was undervaluing it. The price he wanted to ask was ridiculous. And apparently Sean had decided to move in with him. Felicity’s stomach churned. It felt like a betrayal. Couldn’t Sean have told her himself? She’d need to ring him today. She ignored that part of the email and sent a short reply saying they had to be realistic about the house.
Ken’s email was directly below. Her finger hovered for a moment before she opened it.
Felicity, Mum says you’re home for a couple of days. We need to talk. Trethowans aren’t welcome on our land. You need to tell him to remove his cattle. He’s ripping Ivy off. You should never have arranged it in the first place without consulting me. Call me. Ken.
Typical Ken, with this trifecta – rude, an order and a bone to pick. She expected nothing less. The tea bag was in danger of bursting as she prodded it. ‘Bloody Ken.’ He did not run Roseglen, no matter what he thought.
Fury, hot and uncontrollable, rose like the steam from the kettle. ‘Damn hormones,’ she muttered, pulling at the neck of her shirt as heat prickled her skin. What the hell happened out the other side of menopause, when these tides of murderous rage and hot flushes subsided again? Did she, and every other woman over fifty, become invisible? Beige ghosts in crowded lifts where pretty young things chatted like colourful lorikeets? Not that menopause was entirely to blame for her anger.
The computer pinged again. She smiled as she read through Paula’s latest dramas. Her friend’s recent foray into the world of Tinder was providing endless entertainment for all of them. Paula ended her email with, ‘And don’t forget to screw Todd, he deserves it.’
Felicity grinned at that. She was trying to be rational, to keep the pain, the embarrassment, even the guilt in perspective. To move on. Yes, coming back to Roseglen was a form of escape. She wouldn’t have to face all that sympathy, those ghoulishly fascinated questions from her colleagues at the hospital. She didn’t want advice or pity or to have to swap stories of straying husbands and expensive lawyers. As least in Limestone Hill gossip spread like floodwaters from a cyclone. It would be tumultuous and ugly for the first week and then she’d be old news.
For now, she needed to find work. And at some point she’d have to look at the books and see if the property could be restocked. Her money from the sale of the house could go to buying cattle. It wouldn’t be a big herd, but it would be a start. It would mean giving up nursing completely.
Her heart quickened, part anticipation, part terror. Could she, at this age, walk away from everything she knew, from a job that was mostly instinctive after thirty years? After two decades in the hospital’s cardiovascular unit, she’d made the move last year to the Emergency Care Centre. The sometimes frenetic pace and the unpredictability made her think outside the square and challenge herself. It had been just what she needed. It was a close-knit team with a good mix of old hands like herself and enthusiastic young people. She loved the diversity, but lately she’d begun to wonder if there wasn’t another side of nursing she could explore, one where there was more time for the patient. Community nursing, perhaps, although there was probably not much call for it out here. Or maybe it had never been offered before.
Whatever else the divorce brought, at least she wouldn’t be spending the rest of her life making compromises to keep a husband happy. One spectacularly awful Christmas, Georgina had accused her of being a doormat. When Ivy agreed, Felicity had been deeply hurt.
There was no chance of that happening again, because there’d be no second husband. She wasn’t equipped for the modern dating game. She’d barely managed it the first time around. And Tinder sounding like a nasty little rash that would need heavy-duty antibiotics to sort out.
A surge of uncertainty and self-doubt made her palms damp. She’d never really dated anyone. Her one act of rebellion, in a moment of hot-headed jealousy, of wounded pride, had led to Todd. And all because Mitch Trethowan had chosen to take Shelby, the local bad girl, to the annual Limestone Hill fundraising ball.
Not that he’d given her any reason to believe he was seriously interested in her. One kissing session at the caves did not a marriage make. She knew that now, but back then, seventeen years old and still finding her way, she’d been angry and mortified.
The thought of having to face him with Shelby had sent her running to the toilet in tears, so she’d thrown her hat in with three girls she knew from primary school and headed instead to the Chillagoe B and S ball, wearing the gorgeous dress she’d handpicked with Mitch in mind.
The alcohol, the attention, the buzz of not being scrutinised as one of the Dunmores had gone to her head. When a tall, good-looking guy, who’d been quietly watching her dance, sauntered over, slid an arm around her waist and whispered in her ear, ‘G’day, I’m Todd and you’re mine, baby,’ she’d almost melted on the floor.
The heady drug of slow kisses had turned into something supercharged and overheated. When he’d slipped the straps from her shoulders and fastened his hot mouth to her nipples, she’d sagged against the rough wall of the shed. So this was what all the fuss was about.
She’d woken up in the back seat of his Commodore, with his coat draped over her, her head heavy with a hangover. He was propped on one elbow watching her and, smiling slow and steady, held out a palm with two painkillers. She’d thought she’d found her prince.
She’d ignored Mitch for the rest of her holiday at Roseglen, then gone back to Brisbane to finish her nursing degree and within six months she’d moved in with Todd.
Not long after that Mitch marched down the aisle with Shelby and not long after that, they had a baby.
She and Mitch had reached their own amicable agreement over time. Her heart had thawed when Shelby walked out and took their children, Maddie and Aaron, with her. Mitch had been devastated when the courts gave Shelby primary custody because of the isolation of the property. The man was born to be a father. Maddie must be twenty-six, same age as Ella, and Aaron thirty-one. Felicity wondered if Mitch still made time to go and stay with them in Sydney. According to Ivy, Aaron had a couple of his own children. Maddie had a girlfriend, Mary-Lou. ‘Trying for a baby, apparently,’ Ivy had told Felicity. ‘I do wish they’d visit the property. He misses them terribly. And he’s never going to judge them. She should know that.’
Felicity hadn’t replied. What a parent thought wasn’t always apparent to a child, no matter their age.
She plonked her cup in the sink then pushed open the screen door. The dogs rose from their kennel, tails lifting in welcome. She bent to pat them and looked at the gardens either side of the verandah. Long before Charlie installed the ramp, she used to sit on the top step, with a glass of red cordial, watching him dig over the soil. ‘Aerating it, love,’ he used to say. ‘Just enough to give the plants a chance to spread their roots. Not so much that they get sunburned.’
The gnarly rosebushes were all thorns and long stems, straggling up into the guttering. She walked over to where the irrigation hose was coiled behind the dogs’ run. The water pump was housed in a wooden lean-to. Too early to start it, but the switches were clean and the diesel tank sounded full when she tapped. She’d water them later. She headed back to the house and looked for Charlie’s secateurs.
They were on the windowsill, where he’d always kept them. The blades were thick with a layer of rust, the red handles dusty. She found the lubricant under the kitchen sink and then sat back on the verandah, spraying and wriggling. She’d learnt patience from her father. ‘Let the horse get used to you,’ he’d say, leaning on a fence beside a new gelding, idly tickling its whither with a stalk of grass. It worked on patients as well, she’d found.
Laying out tools before a job started was another lesson she learne
d in Charlie’s shed or out repairing a fence or a recalcitrant bore pump. It always made her smile inside when she lined up her equipment in a busy hospital ward. ‘No point starting the job without the right tools,’ her father used to say. ‘That’s a recipe for disaster. And how can I blame my tools if they’re not there?’ he’d add with a wry smile.
The catch on the clippers let go and the insides of the blades were still bright from Charlie’s wetting stone.
She crouched down beside the first bush. Gardening was infinitely more fun than cooking. The spindly wood cut cleanly, the stem healthy with the sheen of sap. She’d started on the second bush before she heard the clickety-clack of Ivy’s wheels. Which Ivy would it be? The feisty Mrs Dunmore or the teary, needy mum?
‘There you are. I thought you’d gone for a walk, and then I heard . . .’ Ivy attempted a wobbly smile. ‘Silly me . . .’
‘I loved being in the garden with him.’ The undertow of sadness at Charlie’s absence was still strong.
‘His little garden gnome, he used to call you.’
Felicity wrinkled her nose. ‘I always thought that was a comment on the size of my nose.’
‘Your father believed children were no different to plants. Keep them fed, pruned and watered, make sure the ground’s fertile, and you’ll have healthy ones.’ Ivy’s voice sank. ‘I cut too deep with Georgina and not deep enough with Ken. Hindsight’s the only time you have clear vision, but . . .’ She lowered herself onto the seat of her walker, clutching the handles.
‘Georgie’s fine.’ Felicity was surprised at Ivy’s admission. ‘She’s tough. She’ll always survive.’
‘I know, but I made her that way. You know the difference between you and her?’ She peered at Felicity, the magnification of her glasses making her eyes appear huge.
‘I’m a whole lot younger?’ Felicity teased, moving to the third bush.
