A Darker Music

by Maris Morton

  Apparently the Hazlitts weren’t pioneers: the first settlers had taken up land in this area in the 1850s, and cleared and fenced it. Edgar had been in correspondence with agents in Western Australia before leaving England and had known what kind of place he wanted. The Hazlitts had bought land that was already a farm, if a relatively undeveloped one by today’s standards.

  SUNDAY WAS ANOTHER DAY of freezing wind and showers. While she waited for the washing to dry in front of the stove, Mary made cakes and biscuits for the coming week. She’d done as much cleaning as she needed to for the moment, and as the kitchen was the only room that was warm she wasn’t tempted to leave it.

  For lunch she baked potatoes, hollowed them out and dusted the cavities with chopped chives before breaking in some of the fresh eggs Gayleen had brought over. She seasoned these with paprika and grated parmesan, then baked them until the eggs were just set. After the meal, she had a shower and washed her hair. If the bathroom was still a cold and cheerless place, at least there were no mats of curly dark hair clogging the drains, and the smell of urine had just about gone.

  At midafternoon, Gayleen came to fetch her. Her hair was tousled by the wind, her cheeks rosy with the cold. Mary went to remind Clio she was going out, but Clio was asleep.

  Bundled into her parka, Mary trudged behind Gayleen through the blowing rain, rounding the peppercorn trees that thrashed in the wind. Angus wouldn’t be sitting out here today. The dogs whined briefly as they passed, but Gayleen ignored them. A pair of black cats scuttled away.

  The fibro walls of the house were streaked with rain. Pulling the outer door shut with a scrape and a bang, Gayleen led the way into a kitchen bright with fluorescent light and filled with people Mary had never seen before. They were all looking at her, faces alight with curiosity. For a moment, her heart sank.

  Gayleen broke the silence. ‘This is my mum,’ she said.

  Gayleen’s mother had the same ash-blonde hair, but straight and shoulder-length, and the same rosebud mouth. But where Gayleen’s eyes were dark, her mother’s were greenish, her brows and lashes without colour.

  ‘Gloria.’ The woman held out a warm hand. Her cheeks were flushed. She was wearing a green velour tracksuit and short ugg boots, with an apron tied around her middle. She was heavier than her daughter, but that was probably just a matter of age and motherhood. ‘And this is Janet Melrose,’ she said.

  Janet was older, short and thickset, with greying gingery hair cut short and permed. She was wearing glasses, and her face was heavily powdered, possibly in an attempt to cover the freckles that were sprinkled like sesame seeds all over her face; and probably the rest of her, too, Mary guessed, glancing at her hands. Janet nodded at Mary with a polite little smile.

  ‘Janet,’ Mary acknowledged, fixing the name to the face in her mind.

  ‘And my hubby, Cecil,’ Janet said.

  Cecil nodded at Mary without a smile, though he seemed friendly enough.

  ‘And my dad,’ Gayleen said.

  The man supervising a rack of muffins cooling next to the sink was slim and neat, with small dark eyes like the currants in a gingerbread man’s face. He gave her a grin. Two little boys were hanging about in the doorway leading into the rest of the house, hopefully inhaling the scent of baking. Mary smiled at them, too, but they ducked their heads and avoided her eye.

  ‘That’s Glen and Gary,’ Gayleen said. ‘They’re pretty well over the measles now. Gavin’s still crook, though.’ Over their pyjamas, the boys were wearing hand-knitted sweaters, felted from repeated washing; on their feet were scuffed sheepskin slippers.

  ‘You’ve had measles, I hope, Mary?’ Gloria said.

  ‘Yes, when I was ten. And all the other things, too, except mumps.’

  ‘Good. Now sit yourself down, won’t you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mary pulled out a vacant chair.

  While Gloria poured the tea, it fell to Janet to fill the conversational hiatus. ‘We haven’t seen you around these parts before, have we, Mary?’

  ‘No. I live in Perth. I flew down with Martin.’

  Janet nodded. They all knew this. ‘Paul — Mr Hazlitt — didn’t mention anything about getting someone in.’

  Mary couldn’t help admiring the delicacy of the enquiry. ‘He employed me through the agency I use in Perth.’

  Janet considered her next question. Gloria finished dispensing tea, then put half-a-dozen of the muffins on a plate and handed it to the boys in the doorway. ‘One for Gavin, too, don’t forget.’ They disappeared into the hallway. Gloria went to the fridge and took out a cream-filled sponge cake and set it on the table in front of her visitors.

  Janet went on with her inquisition. ‘And is this the kind of work you usually do, Mary?’

  ‘Yes. I work as a temporary housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh?’ Janet peered at her over the tops of her glasses. ‘Have you been doing that for long?’

  Gloria handed her a knife. ‘Do the honours, will you, Janet.’

  With careful precision, Janet sectioned the cake and distributed the slices. There were cake forks and paper serviettes; the crockery was bone china that Gloria probably kept for best.

  Mary accepted her cake with thanks, then answered Janet’s question. ‘No, I’ve only been doing this work for a year or so. It’s satisfying, helping people out when they need it. And I like experiencing how other people live.’

  There was a pause while they sampled the cake.

  ‘Old Angus said you wanted to know about the sheep stud bizzo,’ Garth said. ‘You better talk to Cec here.’

  Cec had a long face, his oiled crimped hair receding from a widow’s peak. He seemed embarrassed to be the focus of attention.

  ‘Yes, I’d be really interested to hear about it,’ Mary said. ‘You breed Merinos, don’t you?’

  ‘We breed for ultrafine Merino wool,’ he said.

  Mary was no wiser. ‘What does that mean, Cec?’

  Cec moved his haunches in his chair, staring into his cup as if searching for inspiration. He cleared his throat before replying. ‘The easy answer is that it’s the micron measurement,’ he said, glancing up to make sure she was listening then keeping his gaze fixed somewhere near her left ear. ‘That’s the actual thickness of each fibre. The average human hair’s around sixty microns. Your usual Merino wool goes around nineteen to twenty-five microns, depending. Anything over thirty feels itchy, to give you an idea. When you wear it, made into a sweater or something. You can see what they mean when they talk about wearing hair shirts as a punishment.’ He looked directly at her, his expression serious. ‘Here at Downe, we aim for nothing over thirteen-point-five microns.’ He waited for the applause, and Mary beamed at him, hoping this would do. ‘The market for ultrafine is mainly the Italians, those suits Paul Keating used to wear. And the Japs. They pay a premium for it.’ He paused again for dramatic effect. ‘A bale of thirteen micron can fetch over a million dollars.’

  Mary stared at him in wonder. That was serious money. ‘For one bale?’

  ‘It did, a few years ago.’ Cec seemed to swell with pride. ‘We’ve got one better than that. It’s just been through all the tests. We don’t know how much it’ll fetch, but it’ll be a bomb. They call tenders with wool like this; it doesn’t go in the regular auctions, so it’s a lengthy business.’

  ‘Tell her the rest,’ Garth interrupted.

  ‘That’s wool from our best wethers. We keep them shedded, feed them specially. It’s not enough the wool being fine, it’s got to be bright and strong and clean to get those fancy prices. The rest of the flock isn’t that good, nor the Southdown crosses.’

  ‘So there are different flocks?’ Mary was surprised at this but remembered the sheep she’d seen when she’d arrived, with their brown faces and legs; they must have been the Southdowns.

  ‘That’s right. Different grades, different quality. There’s the ewes, they’re graded, too. The culls are mated with Southdowns for fat lambs. The best ram lambs are left entire and
either sold off or we keep the best, as long as they conform to the Downe type. We sell ewes, too. We’ll be taking a truckload up to Perth for the Show, end of September.’

  Cec stirred sugar into his tea and lifted the cup for a long sip. Janet seemed to take this as a signal that he’d finished talking about sheep, and went on with her own investigations.

  ‘And tell me, Mary, do you have a family?’

  ‘I’ve got a younger brother. My parents live in Queensland.’

  ‘Yes? And what about …’ Janet left the question dangling.

  Mary let the pause grow. ‘Oh, do you mean am I married? Well, I was.’ She watched the look of concern cross Janet’s features as she anticipated the dreaded word divorce. ‘But my husband …’ She was taking an unseemly delight in teasing Janet, and lowered her voice to a level that implied the direst tragedy. ‘My husband, Roy, was killed.’

  Janet gasped and drew back as if to isolate herself from such barbarity. Everyone else was silent, waiting to hear the story: this was better than television. ‘Oh, my dear! What …’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t some horrible crime,’ Mary explained, looking down while she carefully broke a piece off her cake with her fork, ‘though if you believe that war’s a crime then I suppose it was. Roy was a soldier, with the UN Peacekeepers in Afghanistan. He was blown up by a roadside bomb.’ She made a wry face. ‘Soldiers get killed. No use complaining when it happens to you.’ She raised the fork to her mouth. The cake was a classic sponge, light, eggy and not too sweet; luscious with jam and cream.

  ‘Oh,’ Janet said, ‘you’re very hard.’

  ‘No, I’m not hard.’ Mary had had enough of people telling her how she ought to be feeling. Surely it was nobody’s business but her own. ‘Of course it was a shock. But I’ve had to get over it. Life goes on.’

  Janet hadn’t finished. ‘But doesn’t the Army give you a pension?’

  Mary was familiar with this reaction. ‘Yes, they do. But I enjoy working, so I do. Roy didn’t like me having a job, but when he was away on postings I used to do temp work in hotels. When he was at home, I studied.’

  Janet was taking this in. ‘Fancy,’ was the best that she could manage, but disapproval was writ large upon her face.

  ‘So you’re a widow?’ Gloria said, just to be sure.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you’ll be marrying again?’

  Mary gave her a smile; she was used to this question, too. ‘I’m in no mad rush. I don’t know anyone I’d think of marrying; and, really, I like my new autonomy too much to want to give it up.’

  ‘Fancy!’ Janet said again.

  Mary wondered if she was one of those married women who was deeply distrustful of any woman who was single — and didn’t have two heads — as if she might conceive a passion for their own husbands and lure them away. Mary glanced at Cec. As if!

  ‘But don’t you get sick of moving around?’ Gloria said.

  ‘It’s what I’m used to. My father was in the Army, too, and we lived all over the place.’ She didn’t intend to tell them more than this; Janet was having enough trouble as it was. Mary took one of the muffins: it was apple and cinnamon, probably out of a packet, but none the worse for that, and Gloria had put a streusel topping on it.

  ‘Where’s Angus?’ Garth asked his wife.

  ‘I never invited him. He’s in here for dinner every day as it is.’

  ‘I already met Angus,’ Mary said, glad of the change of direction. ‘We had a chat the other day.’

  ‘More tea?’ Gloria said. ‘Gay, put the kettle on again, there’s a love.’

  Gayleen did as she was asked and sat down again, fixing her gaze on Mary, who she now realised was a much more interesting person than she’d imagined.

  The rain was lashing outside, but the room was warm, the windows fogging with condensation.

  Garth moved restlessly. ‘If it wasn’t so wet out there I’d take you to see the vegie garden,’ he told Mary. ‘See what you want.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but isn’t it your vegie garden?’

  ‘We’ve got an arrangement: I grow vegies for the boss, I can garden in work time. Same with the eggs. And the milk. Suits us both.’ His little dark eyes were alight with happiness. ‘Course, with the Missus away they didn’t want any of my vegies, so we got to eat the lot.’ He patted his flat belly.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Mary said. ‘I’m afraid those days are over. I shall be making huge demands on your garden. What have you got?’

  ‘Carrots, celery, onions, silverbeet, cabbage, broccoli and sprouts. Salad greens. Plenty of pumpkins still from summer, and apples and pears. Heaps of pears, love?’ he said to Gloria.

  She nodded. ‘They better be eaten up pronto. They go off soon’s you turn your back.’

  Garth went on with his catalogue. ‘And there’s still walnuts. Rhubarb. The Missus grows her own herbs and things. Asparagus, strawberries and raspberries, in the spring. There’s fruit trees over there, too.’

  The kettle boiled with a shriek, and Gloria motioned to Gayleen to refill the teapot and offer more tea around the table.

  Mary turned to Cec. ‘I hear you know a lot about the local wildflowers, Cec?’

  He lowered his head modestly. ‘It’s a bit of a hobby of mine.’

  ‘Is there a reserve near here where they grow?’

  ‘Just up the road a bit. Nothing on Downe. Too well cleared. You go north a way, there’s a bit of a wetland, too. Plenty of sundews and pitcher plants. It’s not far.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mary said, ‘but I’ve got no idea where the road is.’

  For a moment there was silence.

  ‘Of course, you flew down!’ Janet said. ‘So you haven’t got your car here?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Garth said. ‘The kids have all got bikes, and while they’re crook they’re not using them. Can you ride a bike?’

  ‘I used to be able to. Don’t they say it’s something you never forget?’

  Garth was pleased with himself for thinking of this. ‘When it stops raining we’ll go and get you sorted.’

  There was general laughter, and Mary decided it would be a good moment to bring up her next question. She turned to Gloria. ‘Now, Gloria: shopping. I believe that if I phone an order to the Co-op, you’ll bring it home in the bus. Is that right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The trouble is, I have no idea what the Co-op carries. Do they have meat — chicken or pork, for instance? I don’t want to sound like a total dimwit when I phone them.’

  ‘You want a chook?’ Garth said. ‘I’m going to be chopping a few CFA hens tomorrow. Tough but tasty.’

  ‘CFA? What’s that?’

  Garth grinned at her. ‘Cast for age. That’s what we call ewes that are too old for anything but cat food.’

  Mary considered the offer. It must have been Garth who had dealt with the carcass that had been hanging in the meat room; when she’d come back from one of her walks, she’d found fresh meat stacked in the fridge. Had that sheep been CFA? She imagined a pot of rich chicken stock, the flesh, if it was too tough, minced and made into croquettes. ‘Yes, an old boiler would be excellent. Even two, if they’re going.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘To answer your original question, before I was so rudely interrupted’ — Gloria gave Garth a look of affection — ‘the Co-op has a very good range. And yes, they’ve got a butcher, so Pauline won’t think you’re an idiot if you want meat. Not that you’ll need much of that here.’

  ‘I’m doing my best to tempt Clio — Mrs Hazlitt — to eat,’ Mary said.

  They all looked at her, solemn-faced, and she could sense their surprise at her use of Clio’s first name.

  ‘And how is Mrs Hazlitt?’ Janet asked. ‘On the mend, I expect?’

  ‘I think so.’ Mary was itching to ask if any of them knew what Clio’s medical problem was, but no further information seemed to be forthcoming. ‘She’s playing her records now and not sle
eping so much.’

  Janet nodded wisely. ‘I always thought it was such a pity she gave up her music.’

  Mary was mystified, but Janet wasn’t going to say any more. Instead she gathered herself and rose to her feet.

  ‘Come along, dear, it’s time we left these good people to get on with their day.’ She flashed a smile, a brief baring of the gums, at Gloria. ‘Thank you so much for inviting us.’

  ‘It was lovely meeting you both,’ Mary said. ‘I expect I’ll see you again.’

  ‘At shearing, if not before,’ Cec said and trailed out after his wife.

  As soon as they’d gone there was a lightening of the atmosphere. Garth and Gloria exchanged smiles as Gloria reached for the last piece of cream sponge.

  Gayleen stood up, pushing her chair in and leaning over its back. ‘Can I go now?’ she asked her parents. ‘I want to watch TV.’

  ‘Okay, lovey,’ Garth said. ‘You’re off-duty now. See if the boys want anything else, will you?’

  ‘I ought to be going, too,’ Mary offered, but there was still tea in her cup.

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ Garth said. ‘Glory’s got a bit of a problem with Her Ladyship, but there’s no need for you to go as well.’

  Gloria was busy with her cake, ignoring the fork and eating it with her fingers, licking the cream from them with sensuous delight. She caught Mary’s eye, wary of a disapproving stare. Reassured by Mary’s smile, she said, ‘She gives me a pain.’

  Garth flashed her a warning look — one of the little boys was standing just outside the room. ‘What is it, Gary?’

  ‘Come and watch the TV, Dad. It’s about volcanoes.’ Like Gayleen, the boy had his father’s bright dark eyes; this time they were scanning Mary with interest.

  Garth received his wife’s tacit approval and got up from the table, taking his used crockery over to the sink. ‘I’ll leave you two girls to it, then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t enjoy.’

  Mary smiled at him and turned her attention back to Gloria. Her first impression of Janet had made her rule out any thoughts of having a close friendship with the woman, but with Janet working away from the farm five days a week that was never likely anyway. Janet seemed much older than she probably was, with the bossiness you so often found in people accustomed to being obeyed. ‘Cec seems okay,’ Mary said to Gloria, interested in hearing her response to that.