Love in the Age of Drought

by Fiona Higgins

  If I could do it with flying, I could do it with a baby.

  CHAPTER 22

  The vista from the Danube’s window looked different this summer, my third in Jandowae. The white fairy bolls of cotton had been replaced by yellow arrows of sorghum, pressing skywards as they ripened under the unforgiving sun. My belly was swelling, too, with the first visible signs of the mystery within. Inexplicably, my previous anxieties about babies and motherhood seemed to be diminishing in proportion to my expanding girth.

  In mid-December, Stuart and I travelled to Brisbane for a routine obstetric appointment. I attempted to retain some kind of dignity as I lay spread-eagled with a blanket over my knees. At the end of her investigations, the specialist printed out a black-and-white ultrasound image and thrust it towards me.

  ‘Looking good,’ she smiled.

  I accepted the image politely and studied it. An amorphous globule floated, tadpole-like, against my uterine wall. According to the printout, the tadpole was ten centimetres long.

  ‘Have a peek here,’ the doctor invited, pointing to the screen in front of her. I turned onto my side and there it was, plain to see: a mass of rapidly developing cells with a tiny head and a newly beating heart. Stuart squeezed my hand. Somewhere deep within me, a cold, hard plug shifted, almost imperceptibly.

  On the return journey from Brisbane the next day, I stared out the window, contemplating the wonder of it all. There is a being growing inside of me. A someone. Stuart talked intermittently about matters which seemed entirely trivial.

  As we neared the main street of Toowoomba, Stuart pulled over on the side of the road and let the Festiva’s engine idle. ‘I’ve got to pick up my ute from the mechanic,’ he reminded me. ‘We’ll have to return in separate cars. Are you all right to drive by yourself, do you think?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied.

  After collecting his ute, Stuart drove ahead. I tailed him in the Festiva, some twenty metres behind, grateful for the opportunity to be alone. My mind returned to the marvel I had seen on the ultrasound screen. Who are you, in there? Who will you become?

  Almost two hours later, we turned onto the Warra–Marnhull Road. I glanced at the farm in the distance, golden sorghum reflecting the sun’s midday glare. Dust and pebbles flew from the gravel up onto the windscreen as I followed Stuart’s ute. Navigating a small speed hump, I accelerated through a series of soft ridges. The wheels of the Festiva seemed to slide a little, then the car lurched to the right. Disconcerted, I attempted to correct my steering. I wrenched at the wheel and felt the tyres spinning through more powdery dirt.

  Suddenly, I was careering out of control towards a barbed-wire fence. The car spun a full 180 degrees. The seconds seemed to pass in slow motion as I was thrown against the steering wheel. I watched in dread as wooden fence posts loomed closer. Oh God, little one.

  I shielded my face as the Festiva came to rest in a ditch, barbed wire just centimetres from my window. Somehow I had managed to avoid contact with the fence. There were no injuries, no damage – just one stalled engine and adrenalin surging through my body. Metres ahead of me, Stuart slammed on his brakes and reversed.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I called, as he leapt from his ute.

  Opening my door, Stuart pulled me from my seat and into his arms.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘What happened?’ I faltered.

  ‘You lost control on the loose gravel,’ he said, releasing me. ‘These things happen bloody fast. Easy to do when the roads are so dry.’

  I leant against Stuart and rubbed my abdomen. I need to stay focused, for both of us.

  News of my pregnancy travelled fast in the district and I found myself regularly entertaining locals over endless cups of tea. In the course of such sittings, I summoned the courage to experiment beyond my ‘never fail’ lemonade scones formula. These more complex scone recipes called for buttermilk, baking soda and other ingredients which, to my mind, were utterly exotic.

  After sampling a particularly tasty batch, Stuart leant back in his chair and observed, ‘You know, it’s the Jandowae Show in a couple of weeks. You should enter your scones in the culinary competition.’

  I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ I said. ‘I saw the scones section at last year’s show. There are women in Jandowae with 40 years of scone-making experience. The Queensland Country Women’s Association would chew me up and spit me out.’ Stuart laughed, undeterred by my ranting.

  ‘But it’d be fun,’ he said. ‘And they’d like you for trying. You know, brownie points for the city girl. You don’t have to take it seriously. You should just have a go.’

  Two weeks later, I blushed as I handed in my registration as a bona fide entrant in Section 5 Class 1 (‘Plain Scones’) at the Jandowae & District Show.

  ‘Good luck next Saturday, and take one of these,’ urged a middle-aged woman accepting entries. She waved an Official Show Manual at me, replete with a comprehensive list of ‘Hints and Tips’ for entrants in the cooking competitions.

  I pored over its contents in the car park. Eggs should weigh approximately two ounces. If your butter is hard to cream, add one tablespoon of boiling water. If using a fan-forced oven, cook at approximately twenty degrees below recommended heat.

  Back home, I thrust the booklet at Stu. ‘Just look what you’ve got me into,’ I whined. ‘It’s the egg and butter Gestapo. How much is an ounce, anyway?’

  Sensing my alarm, Stuart said, ‘Look, I know an insider within the Country Women’s Association. I’ll call her for help.’

  He picked up the telephone and dialled Delcie Welsh. Twenty minutes later, the fax machine spat out two pages of helpful pointers. Delcie’s fine cursive writing set out the specifications of a perfect scone:

  Size should be medium (not small or large), approximately 1.5 – 2 inches in diameter. Scones should not touch each other during cooking. A fine, light texture is very important. There should be no cracks or wire-cooler marks on the base of the scone. Brush top with milk prior to cooking. Brush flour off cooked scone with dry pastry brush, for presentation.

  Delcie also addressed one of my chief concerns, namely, the demoralising fact that my otherwise appetising scones routinely emerged from the oven as Leaning Towers of Pisa. She advised: Tilting scones may be due to cutter dragging down – make sure it is very sharp and well-floured. This was a revelation: I had certainly never contemplated flouring my cutter before. Upon inspection, I realised that my scone-cutter – a sentimental acquisition from my grandmother – was blunt indeed. Maybe that was the root of the problem. Two days before the show, I drove to Dalby and purchased a spanking new, razor-sharp cutter. It sliced through dough effortlessly. The following morning, I dropped in six freshly baked scones to the Jandowae showground for judging.

  On Show Day, Stuart and I arrived early. Entering the produce hall, I was once again dazzled by the diversity of rural produce on display. We approached the Perishable Culinary section and quickly found the plain scones, adjacent to the more famous Queensland pumpkin variety. I located my plate of scones, wrapped in plastic, at the very end of the display. No ribbon or notification was attached.

  ‘Just as I thought, they were no good,’ I said, deflated.

  Then I noticed a corner of white cardboard, poking out from underneath the plate.

  ‘Hang on …’ I said, lifting the plate to read the certificate beneath:

  Jandowae & District Show Society. First Prize. Awarded to Fiona Higgins, for Plain Scones. Section 5, Class 1, Category 1. Judge: M.J. Bell.

  Stuart whooped with delight. Recovering his composure, he proceeded to take photographs of the prize-winning batch.

  ‘That’ll set the cat among the pigeons, babe. A city girl defeats the country entrants,’ he said, bubbling with pride.

  An elderly woman hovering nearby sidled up to me. ‘Oh, you’re Fiona?’ she asked. She was wearing a name tag and obviously held an officiating funct
ion at the show.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said, beaming. Glancing over her shoulder, she leant in towards me. ‘Bessie Jones won almost every other baking category, except Plain Scones,’ she whispered. ‘Bit of a turnaround. Haven’t seen that for years.’

  She patted me on the back and wandered away. Briefly, I wondered what price I might pay for toppling a local fixture in the scone-making stakes.

  ‘Quick, let’s get out of here before Bessie comes stalking,’ said Stu smugly.

  As we drove home in the ute, I turned to Stu and smiled. ‘So, does that make me a true-blue Jandowae local?’ I asked.

  Stuart chuckled, shaking his head. ‘If you won the competition annually for the next twenty years, maybe,’ he replied.

  As the season turned, the baby began stirring within my womb. An almost imperceptible fluttering became a series of distinct kicks. My body started to ripen, my previous angles and edges softening into generous curves. My pregnant body became a glorious work of art, unfurling in delicate detail. As the sorghum slowly turned a burnished red, I felt deeply connected to the farm in a way I’d never been before. I too was a medium of nature, a receptacle of life itself.

  By my sixth month of pregnancy, however, my heightened sensuality waned. My swollen belly moved beyond a delightfully rounded state, and began to impede ordinary activities. Sitting down at a desk proved challenging, as did ironing shirts and driving cars. As my impending motherhood became more obvious, the radical honesty of Jandowae locals began to grate.

  ‘Coooorrr, you’re not as streamlined as you used to be,’ observed Geoff, a patron at the local pool in which I’d been swimming throughout my pregnancy.

  I’m profoundly aware of my body’s changes, thanks Geoff, without you having to point them out. I hauled myself out of the pool and removed my swimming cap.

  ‘If you think you’re tired now,’ he added, ‘just wait till the little tacker’s on the ground in six months’ time. Then you’ll be knackered.’

  Leaning heavily against the handrails to catch my breath, I nodded politely at a 60-something woman making her way towards the pool. As she stepped into the water alongside me, she reached out and patted my protrusion in a friendly, isn’t-that-nice way. Does pregnancy automatically confer the right to invade a woman’s personal space?

  ‘My daughter reckons raspberry tea helped her,’ she confided. ‘Her little boy slipped out real easy.’

  Dismayed by that mental image, I beat a hasty retreat to the change room.

  Sydney was no better. As the resident pregnant woman in the office, I felt like a dancing bear in the circus. I routinely sidestepped well-intentioned discussions about the benefits of fit balls, kinesiology, pan flutes or doulas in facilitating labour.

  ‘Have you chosen a name for the baby?’ a middle-aged woman asked, as I stood in a supermarket queue.

  ‘Not yet,’ I lied. Although Stuart and I had developed a short-list of names, I had little desire to discuss them with a stranger in Bi-Lo.

  ‘Well, do you know if it’s a girl or a boy?’ she persisted.

  I shrugged evasively. It’s fifty-fifty, lady.

  ‘Looks like a girl to me,’ the woman assessed, eyeing my girth. ‘You’re certainly a wide load.’

  I refrained from accosting her with a carrot, collected my shopping bags and waddled out of the store.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘How was Sydney?’ Stuart asked, pulling himself out from underneath a tractor. ‘Did you arrange everything we talked about?’

  It was the beginning of my seventh month of pregnancy and I’d returned from work in Sydney just in time for the sorghum harvest.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘We’re all set up for a Sydney birth.’

  In recent weeks an obstetric visit had revealed a complication in my pregnancy. According to a pelvic ultrasound, I was affected by a condition called placenta praevia, where a portion of the placenta grows over the cervix.

  ‘If the condition doesn’t resolve itself naturally towards full term,’ the obstetrician had advised, ‘you’ll need to have a caesarean.’

  Returning to Jandowae from that appointment, Stuart had been resolute.

  ‘That settles it,’ he declared. ‘You’ll need to be in a city hospital for a caesarean, especially if it turns out to be an emergency caesarean. That’s a major abdominal operation, you know.’ I flinched at the thought. I’d never been to hospital, let alone had an operation.

  ‘There’s no neo-natal intensive care facility at Dalby or Toowoomba,’ Stu continued. ‘If anything goes wrong, that’s a 400-kilometre drive.’ I stared uneasily at the road ahead, digesting this information. The statistics on rural health, including obstetric outcomes, were sobering.

  ‘I guess we’d better have the baby in Brisbane then,’ I said. Stuart reached over and squeezed my hand.

  ‘Well, if you have to be in Brisbane, you might as well be in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing it’d be nicer for you to be close to your mum around the time of the birth.’ I was delighted by this suggestion.

  ‘So how’s harvest shaping up?’ I asked, eyeing the mechanical disarray spread across the shed.

  ‘I’ve had a few breakdowns,’ Stuart muttered, hoisting himself upright and dusting off his football shorts. ‘And I’ve got some news,’ he announced, pulling me towards him and planting a lingering kiss on my lips.

  ‘I missed you,’ he added.

  ‘I missed you, too,’ I replied. ‘But what’s your news? A buyer for the farm?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I’ve been offered some work in Zambia.’

  I leant heavily against the tractor; the weight of my bulge was starting to fatigue me. Just the time to head to Africa.

  ‘When will you go?’ I asked.

  ‘Not long after harvest,’ Stuart replied.

  I attempted to calculate the proximity of Stu’s departure to the impending birth.

  ‘And when will you get back?’ I asked. Stuart pulled out a pocket diary and flicked through its pages.

  ‘May 29,’ he said. ‘Which gives us three weeks until you’re due.’

  If everything goes according to plan, that is.

  In the days that followed, I spent every waking moment organising our move. Stuart’s departure to Zambia would coincide with my thirty-third week of pregnancy. As flying was not recommended after the thirty-fourth week, we agreed that I would leave Jandowae with Stuart and make my way to Sydney. Once there, I’d wait out the remaining six weeks of pregnancy and find us somewhere to live in the months after the birth. All being well, Stuart would return during my thirty-seventh week of pregnancy, in time for us to catch our breath before the baby’s arrival.

  ‘Find us a short-term rental, if you can,’ said Stu over dinner one evening. ‘With any luck the farm will sell after harvest, then we’ll be able to plan our next steps. If the farm doesn’t sell quickly, we’ll renew the lease. I can keep coming up here to the farm every couple of weeks while you stay in Sydney. Now that’d be a role reversal, wouldn’t it?’ he said, smiling.

  I had my reservations: having a baby in Sydney was one thing, living there was quite another. What if it took forever for the farm to sell?

  ‘Hey,’ murmured Stu, sensing my concern. ‘Trust me, babe. It’ll be okay.’

  On the final day of the sorghum harvest, I stood on the Danube’s verandah watching the header combing the fields, shearing the heads of sorghum in its path like a giant lawn-mower. Is this the last time I’ll ever witness a harvest? I wiped my eyes with palms covered in fine sorghum particles. A trail of dust in the distance announced a vistor; a familiar ute drove up the driveway.

  ‘G’day,’ called Toby, pulling up outside the Danube. ‘Just thought I’d stick my beak in at the harvest. The crop looks pretty good, given how dry it’s been.’

  He climbed out of the ute and tipped his hat at me.

  ‘Turns out sorghum’s the new white gold, Toby,’ I said.

  ‘Who�
�d have thought it?’ he replied. ‘This time last year we were watching the cotton being brought in, remember?’

  I nodded.

  ‘There’s no doubt about farming – it keeps you guessing,’ he chuckled. He looked out at the header, humming in the distance.

  ‘How’re you doing, anyway?’ he asked, glancing sideways at my stomach.

  ‘A bit tired, frankly,’ I replied.

  ‘Yeah, I know all about it,’ he said. ‘The missus has been through it four times before.’ He continued to follow the header in the field.

  A wave of emotion overcame me. Would I never stand side by side with Toby and survey these paddocks again? I dabbed surreptitiously at my cheeks.

  ‘I hear you’re having the baby in Sydney,’ he said. The bush telegraph strikes again. ‘Understandable, really,’ he continued, squinting against the heat haze. ‘O’course, I’ll be sorry to see you leave,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Stu for goin’ on ten years now. He was single for so long, I figured he was queer,’ he laughed. ‘Most of the farmers out here are salt of the earth, and they really add flavour to our community,’ he continued, thrusting his hands into his pockets. ‘But Stu’s sugar, y’know? He’s a very different type of flavour. He’s not a farmer’s son who’s just going to do things a certain way out of habit or tradition.’

  I smiled. ‘So it won’t surprise you to hear he’s heading to Africa next week?’ I asked.

  Toby chuckled. ‘No surprises there. That’s our Stu. He’s a bit mysterious. People often don’t know where he is, then he’ll pop up in places like Cambodia or Uzbekistan. There’s nothing predictable about Stu.’ Toby wiped the sweat from his brow and replaced his hat. ‘Three years back, when Stu told me about Princess Fiona, I knew you had to be a pretty special lady,’ he said, grinning, ‘because Stu was never going to end up with a farmer’s daughter from down the road.’

  He turned and faced me. ‘The two of you are a bit different, you suit each other. You’re both prepared to go out on a limb to give something back to the world. So Africa’s no surprise,’ he said.