Читать книгу Under The Harvest Moon - Gary Blinco - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

Veronica Byrne sat on the verandah of her cottage listening to the tired cries coming from her one-year-old daughter, Jenny. The child was resisting her afternoon rest, but the small cries lacked determination and Veronica knew she would soon be asleep. She hoped so. She wanted to go and talk to the small ginger-haired man she could see working across the courtyard. She sat on an old day bed on the small verandah, watching Jenny squirm under her insect net in the afternoon heat.

As she waited, she let her mind drift back over the years that had led her to this wonderful place. She had been an only child, not spoiled or overindulged as only children are apt to be, but much loved by her parents. They had wanted several children, but after Veronica was born her mother was unable to have any more. The love and devotion she had reserved for a big family therefore became concentrated on her single offspring.

Her father was a country boy at heart who was somehow forced to live near the city because that was where the good jobs were. They had lived in a rented cottage on the outskirts of town, where the city met the bush. Fortunately his job as a commercial traveller took him back frequently to the bush he loved. Before she was old enough to attend school, Veronica and her mother would often accompany him on his country rounds. She loved the nomadic life, sleeping in different hotels, or sometimes in a rough camp in their tent. When she was old enough to go to school, she still enjoyed the country visits during the school holidays. While her classmates headed off to the seaside, she went with her parents in the big brown van, pedalling her father’s goods to the bush towns and farms. She did not envy her friends at all. She loved touring about the country with her parents.

She thought of how different, how brief, her life would have been if she had joined her parents on that last trip. But her final senior exams were looming and she had stayed in the city with friends. To keep the trip short and to ensure they would be back for Veronica’s graduation from high school, her father’s employer arranged for him to do his rounds in a chartered aircraft. He had been a pilot during the war and he was an accomplished aviator. That was why it had come as such a shock to learn that the plane had crashed in a storm near Goondiwindi, in the west of the state, killing both her parents instantly.

Had it not been for her and her exams, they would have done the rounds in the van as usual. She still carried an unreasonable burden of guilt over the accident; she was like that by nature, often blaming herself unfairly, feeling responsible for someone, or feeling their pain more intensely than they felt it themselves.

Suddenly she was seventeen years old and alone in the world. She was beautiful, and like many truly beautiful women, she seemed unconscious of the power of her beauty. She was aware of her looks, but she did not flaunt them, never allowing the constant stream of praise from people to turn her head. Apart from her beauty Veronica had also been academically brilliant at school. Her study record and her bright personality endeared her to people, and she was soon able to find work in a bank, a coveted occupation at the time.

Refusing any help from charitable well-wishers, she remained in the small cottage where her family had lived for years. She wanted to surround herself with the furniture and household items that her parents had accumulated; the presence of these familiar things seemed to soften the blow of her loss, cushioning her grief. Her father’s estate was not large by the Symons’s standards, but she was far from being destitute.

Her father was only in his late thirties when he died and he had not gathered too many material possessions. Perhaps the war had something to do with his lack of wealth as well; one did not grow rich on the five bob a day that was paid to servicemen during the war. She was, however, happy with the inheritance. The personal items would always remind her of her parents and the love they had shared, and there was quite a tidy sum of money as well to see her started on the rest of her life.

Her father had saved 400 pounds towards the farm he longed to own. He often talked about how he needed 500 quid to qualify for a soldier’s grant of land. She had cried when she saw how close he had come to his goal. He also had some life insurance valued at about 500 pounds. All things considered, she was quite well off.

She had met the man who was now her husband, Derwent Byrne, when she was sixteen. He was not the academic type and had dropped out of school early, largely because his domineering father wanted his son as cheap labour on his small farm. But Derwent had resisted the will of his father, finding work in a local factory instead, and living anywhere he could find a bed whenever his father flew into a rage and ordered him off the farm.

Derwent kept contact with his ex-fellow pupils as he belonged to a band that frequently played the music of the day for high school dances. She had been attracted to his dark good looks at once. When she went out with him and found that he did not appear shallow like other boys she had dated, she was sure she was in love.

He had not seemed to be sexually aggressive like the others either; he seemed gentle, even shy when they were alone together. He was happy to sit on the verandah of the cottage after dinner and play his guitar, singing in his clear sweet voice. Her father had approved of Derwent as well, an important consideration for Veronica. Her father was her hero and mentor. If he approved of anything, then it also gained her approval as well.

Derwent became as one of the family, spending most of his free time at Veronica’s house. He rode an old beaten up motorcycle and worked as a labourer at the local brick factory, and this rough persona somehow added to his appeal. She became the envy of her friends because of Derwent. His slightly outsider status made him very popular with everyone, especially the females. Somehow the popularity seemed almost lost on him. He only had eyes for Veronica.

When her parents were killed Derwent asked her to marry him and she never considered if love or sympathy had motivated him because she had always assumed they would marry one day. She accepted without hesitation, although she was only just over seventeen and he was twenty-one. Most people married quite young then, so nobody thought much of their liaison. Derwent moved into the cottage on their wedding night. He could not get time off from his job for a traditional honeymoon and she was committed to the bank, at least until her father’s estate was finalised.

The wedding had been very small, just Derwent’s surly and reluctant parents, a few of his relatives and some of her school chums. Derwent’s family was large, though most of his siblings had grown up and left home to escape the clutches of their father. To Veronica’s surprise, the family was not close as she expected a large family to be; perhaps the poverty stricken life they had lived under the stern hand of the father had set them apart. Derwent’s father was a simple but demanding man; and he liked to smoke and drink, indulging his habits at the expense of his wife and children who lived in almost primitive conditions on their small farm.

In the end Derwent lived intermittently on the family farm, depending on how well he was getting on with his father at any particular time, and then only to please his rather oppressed and unhappy mother. It seemed to Veronica that Derwent was keen to get away from his parents, and that they were just as keen to see him gone. He clearly loved his mother and she him, but his continued presence led to unpleasant, and sometimes, violent scenes between son and father; with his mother always caught in the middle.

Veronica’s parents were English by birth, and there never seemed to be any relatives on her side living in Australia at all, or if there were she had never met them. Now, apart from Derwent, she had no family of her own, and she could never envisage becoming a close part of his. They treated her with the same studious indifference as they did their own offspring.

Their honeymoon night had been wonderful she remembered. Derwent seemed so shy and uncertain as they climbed into bed, his lack of confidence somehow adding to her own. She eventually had to lead him a little, although she had no previous experience of sex. When they finally got started he became insatiable, leaving her alone only after she protested that she was too sore to continue. He relented then and fell asleep in her arms. She lay awake stroking his dark locks, feeling happy but confused with this new intimate arrangement. The emptiness of the cottage suddenly seemed reduced; she had a new family now and she drifted off to sleep smiling with pleasure as she contemplated her new life.

The first few months were very special and she felt fulfilled in every sense, in her work at the bank and in her personal life with Derwent. He seemed to want her constantly, carrying her to the bedroom as soon as he came home from the brick factory, not even waiting to shower first, sometimes not even bothering to carry her to the bedroom, taking her in the kitchen or on the lounge room floor. It was exciting at first, but she felt that she needed more time to become aroused and that he was not aware of, or sensitive to, her needs. She felt sometimes that he was driven by some insatiable inner need for love and this frightened her. She began to reject his advances, asking him to be gentler, more romantic. He retreated into silence, becoming sullen and withdrawn. He saw her requests as an attempt to take control of and direct their lovemaking, which undermined his fragile grip on his manhood.

As the months passed he seemed almost to lose interest in her, as if he had gorged himself on her in the beginning and now was faintly repulsed by her. She began to wonder if he had somehow, perhaps unconsciously, inherited his father’s mood and manner, that it was true after all that a man modelled himself on his father. Derwent had never been a drinker, but he began to arrive home late in the evenings, often a little the worse for wear, with the stale smell of beer on his breath. Then one night he arrived home well after midnight, very drunk and despondent. When she protested about the hour and his condition, he told her in loud tones that he had been sacked for punching the foreman at the factory.

‘I hit him because he was givin’ me the shits, like you do sometimes,’ he yelled.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ she cried, her eyes wide in shock, wondering how this man she loved, and whom she thought loved her, could speak to her in such a way.

‘Because you expect too much of a man, that’s why,’ he said loudly, but there was a catch in his throat, like a chastened child. ‘The boss wanted too much from me, it smothered me. I had to get away from it so I punched him, flattened him right out. Then he sacked me.’

‘You got the sack?’ she said, incredulous. ‘Yeah!’ he spat.

‘An’ I don’t care. They wanted too bloody much from me, just like you do.’

‘But I don’t, Derwent,’ she protested. ‘I don’t make any demands of you, do I? And if you hated the job so much, why didn’t you just say something?’

‘You don’t make demands in so many words,’ he said, flopping on the bed and cradling his head in his hands, ‘It’s just that I know what you expect; and there aren’t too many friggin’ jobs about here, or so you would have told me. Why whinge about the one I had.’ He looked at her with one eye closed so he could focus through the effects of the drink.

‘You want me to be your mother and father; to bring home the bacon like good old dad did, and I can’t … I feel smothered by it all.’ She moved to sit beside him on the bed, suddenly sobbing as he pushed her away roughly.

‘Give me some room, for fuck’s sake,’ he said hotly, ‘Just leave me alone.’ She returned to his side, hoping to console him. He pushed her again, harder this time and she fell to the floor, giving a frightened little cry as she came to rest sharply against the bedroom wall. Derwent rolled over on the bed, covering his head with the pillow and moaning softly. He was unconscious in seconds.

She sat and stared at him for a long time. He looked so young and vulnerable as he slept heavily, the anger gone from his face as he snored softly. She wondered if she had been unconsciously demanding, if she really did have an unspoken expectation that he would replace the parents she had lost. Her mind raced as she tried to remember what she might have said, or what she may have done that caused him to be so threatened, so unhappy in his new life.

She wondered why it had taken a belly full of grog to give him the courage to cry out as he had done. She sat on a chair in the darkened room and thought about both the past and the future for a long time. Perhaps the time had come to move away from this little cottage with its friendly ghosts. Perhaps the only way this marriage could succeed would be if they left this town and struck out on their own somewhere, away from the ghosts of her parents and the clutches of his overbearing father. What Derwent had said in his drunkenness was true enough. She had assumed that she could continue her life as it had been, with a new family the only difference. He had not been consulted in her plans; she just assumed he would fall into line. She smiled at last, the bones of a plan firm in her mind. She undressed and climbed into the bed beside him.

* * *

The next day Derwent was contrite and repentant, apologising for his drunken behaviour, or the parts of it he remembered. ‘I’m glad you got it off your chest before it festered any more,’ she said airily as they sat over breakfast. ‘I think we need to get out of this place and now seems like a good time to do it. You have lost that rather awful job, and I can leave the bank any time I like, and I think I like now.’

‘But what can we do? We need money to live on, you know,’ he said, suddenly more responsible without the abandonment that comes from drunkenness. ‘The few bob I get from the band won’t pay the rent and feed us, and I won’t even have that if we move away from here.’

She smiled at him over the rim of her teacup. ‘I have a bit of money now’, she said. ‘Mum and Dad left me a bit, and probate on the will came through two weeks ago. We can set ourselves up pretty well.’

He looked at her evenly. ‘I didn’t know you were left any money,’ he said slowly. She realised suddenly that she had not told him, had not even discussed her inheritance with him at all. Somehow it had not occurred to her that he should have been told, that sharing everything was an integral part of marriage.

‘Of course not,’ she laughed, deciding to try to keep the moment light. ‘I wanted to be sure you were not just marrying me for my money.’ She fell serious as he squirmed a little at her words. ‘I, no we, have about 900 pounds. We can buy a small truck, something big enough to cart the stuff we need to set up a little home wherever we go. I want to keep the things mum and dad left me, at least some of them. We will still have a bit of back-up money in case it takes a while to find work somewhere.’

He had raised his eyebrows at the amount and she could see dark clouds deep in his eyes, but he seemed excited by her suggestions. ‘I know where we can get a truck like that,’ he said eagerly. ‘I can trade the old bike in as well, then we can just take off.’ He smiled widely, like an excited child who had been let out of school early.

‘Good,’ she grinned. ‘Now let’s finish our breakfast and wash up the dishes. Then you will take me to the bedroom and perform your husbandly duties, the ones you denied me last night. Then we go shopping.’ He rose quickly from his chair and threw the dishes in the sink, and then he gathered her in his arms and carried her giggling form to the bedroom.

* * *

They left the town three days later, the two-ton dodge truck packed neatly with a careful selection of her inherited belongings, and her father’s camping gear in case they had a mind to live rough from time to time. They had sold everything else. They called at the small farm to say goodbye to his parents and shared a few strained minutes in the little farmhouse over a cup of tea. Later his parents had waved them off, a look of detached relief on their faces as they watched the small truck recede down the lane before a billowing cloud of dust.

Derwent seemed so happy as they drove away that day, and the happiness and good spirits continued for a long time. They travelled widely, chasing the seasonal work around the countryside, defying the tyranny of distance in the old truck and growing closer as the months wore on. They worked the sheep farms around shearing time, Derwent worked in the shearing sheds and she usually found work cooking or helping out somewhere on the stations. When the shearing cut out, they looked for the wheat farms and the harvests, or the fruit picking seasons along the granite belt of the state. Life was good, free and easy and their love for each other provided the bond that held it all together.

Then for some unexplained reason Derwent began to drift away from her again, as if the stability in their relationship was too rich for him, too far removed from his troubled upbringing, a happiness he didn’t deserve. He began to drink heavily, withdrawing from her and finding a new interest in the ready supply of women who also adopted the nomadic life they had. Many of the seasonal workers were from other countries, ‘New Australians’, as most people called them in hushed, condescending tones, as if their inability to speak English was a sign of some inherent stupidity.

The women among these newcomers often had more relaxed morals and attitudes, and Derwent was popular with many of them. His free spirit somehow appealed to people who had fled a war-scarred Europe or England. His shyness and gentleness about sex had disappeared as well, and his new confidence gave him a raw earthy charisma. Now he was often rough with her, and he appeared to feel the need to prove himself at every opportunity. Perhaps that was why he began to look at other women, to prove that he could be a man with them as well. It was as if he had consciously thrown off her hold on him and rebelled against her as he had done for most of his life with his father.

Derwent soon became well known and popular in every labour camp they found, and they began to follow the same crowd of workers to each new employment opportunity. His musical talents and good looks, coupled with his carefree but shy sort of charm, endeared him to most people. His interest in other women was just the occasional flirtation to begin with, but she knew the time would come when it would be more than that. She wished she had been more open with him in the beginning, and that she had not simply married him and expected him to adapt without question into the life she had in mind for them.

Despite the growing tension in the marriage, they travelled about the country working at a variety of jobs for two years. Their marriage, like so many others, seemed to settle down to one of comfortable indifference. He did his things and she developed interests of her own. Sometimes, when they were alone together, they would suddenly begin to relate, often in an unexpected sort of way, almost like old friends meeting after a long absence. Then the passion of their relationship would flare anew and she would be on a high for days. These times were rare; mostly they just continued to coexist with remote indifference.

They were working with a shearing gang on a large property near Goondiwindi when the first serious indiscretion occurred, or at least the first that she knew of. There was a large gang of shearers and support staff on the place, rough men and their wives and children, people who worked hard and played hard. Every night there was a singsong and party around a large campfire that they lit at sundown each day to cook a wide range of cultural dishes. Men played mouth organs and accordions; others played guitars and sang with talent or gusto, rarely both, often well into the night. Derwent became the star of these nightly banquets and concerts and she watched him with a sort of detached pride as he performed.

While there was sometimes a brooding tension between them, she loved him and felt that the troubles would pass once the job ran out and they were again in the intimacy of their own company. She was determined to make him happy, if only she could find out what he really wanted. Derwent was working on this gang as a wool classer, grading the fleece as it came from the sheep, and directing the shed hands to pile the wool in the appropriate boxes ready for baling. His job was quite easy and he had plenty of free time when new sheep were being mustered, or there was a break in the shearing process for one reason or another.

One day she made a tray of fresh scones and went to visit one of the other wives in a worker’s hut that stood on the opposite side of the courtyard. She walked into the open hut without formality, as people were apt to do in this casual lifestyle. She found the plump woman naked on the floor in a passionate sexual embrace with Derwent. She was too shocked and heartbroken to utter a sound as she fled the cottage, running back to her own quarters with tear-filled eyes.

She sat on the bed in her cottage, staring at herself in the mirror, looking in wonder at the confused pretty face that stared back at her. She knew that she was beautiful and desirable; she had seen the way that men looked at her. Why then did Derwent betray her for a rather fat, plain Italian woman who had three children and a husband of her own? She threw herself on the bed and surrendered to the tears of anger and hurt that crept through her like a cold sharp wind.

She was still huddled on the bed crying when Derwent came home from his shift in the shed. He sat quietly as she challenged him over the incident; he did not attempt to deny it, simply shrugging his shoulders dismissively. ‘I just can’t seem to help it,’ he said simply. ‘They come on pretty strong sometimes, I don’t feel I have much choice, I can’t knock them back.’

She stared at him. ‘They?’ she said, her voice rising with her anger, ‘How many have there been, for God’s sake?’ He shrugged again, not answering.

‘You are mentally ill Derwent,’ she screamed. ‘Do you think you have to have sex with everyone who wants you? My God, how would you feel if I was like that? Every man in this camp, and every other camp we’ve been in might have wanted to fuck me. How would you have felt if I’d obliged?’ She was walking about the room while he watched her, a look of detached amusement on his face. He had never heard her swear before. ‘But I love you, you bastard, I don’t want anybody else. I thought you felt the same about me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, simply, as if he’d just broken her favourite piece of china rather than her heart. ‘I do love you, but it’s just not enough sometimes, I don’t know why.’ He took her in his arms; she did not resist but sobbed a little against his chest.

‘Oh Derwent,’ she sobbed, ‘please help me make this marriage work. We made vows to each other, you are all I have in the world, please don’t break my heart.’

He squeezed her quickly. ‘I’ll try harder,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘I gotta go to the concert now, they’re waitin’ for me. Come over later if you like.’ Then he was gone. Just like that, she thought, the tears coming again to her eyes. Should she leave him right now? The question loomed large in her mind and she shivered in fear at the thought of it. Derwent was her family, her life, and she did not know what else she could do but stay and work on the marriage. True, he had betrayed her, but she had no money left from her inheritance and nowhere to go.

Where could she go, and what could she do, she wondered. And why should she give up so easily on her dream of a happy life with her husband. She had plans that they would travel around for a few more years, and then find a place where they could live and build a future together. They would find a real job for him, one that would hold his interest. They could have children then and become a real family, and surely he would settle down when his wild youthful days were behind him. She suddenly wished she had shared these plans with him, but she had assumed again that he would want the same things as she did.

She sat alone in the cottage and cried for a while longer, fighting against the sense of betrayal that rose in her like bile. Then she got up determinedly and washed quickly at the small basin that stood on the table in the corner, put on her prettiest dress and made up her face. She walked through the shadows between the cottages and sat on a log near the fire, deliberately seeking out the woman she had found on the floor with Derwent earlier.

As she sat down, the plump woman gave her a knowing, indulgent smile. Veronica returned the smile mechanically, and then she looked at Derwent as he stood on the other side of the fire playing his guitar and singing. She wanted him to see her and the woman together, wanted him to see how she looked by comparison. He seemed to get her point, winking at her over the flames.

She was glad when the job cut out and she could get him on his own again, away from the temptation of loose women and the easy, irresponsible people who followed the labour camps. The carefree gipsy life was fun for now, but she knew she could not carry on with it forever, that she longed to put down solid roots somewhere soon. She resolved to try harder to make him happy, and to draw him deeper into her plans, rather than make assumptions on his behalf. She would allow him more room to do the things he wanted to do, and try not to smother him as he called it.

The shearing season was over by now so they headed for the Darling Downs, in the southeast of Queensland, looking for a position on one of the grain farms. Veronica liked the look of the countryside as they left the western districts behind and entered the fertile wheat country along the Condamine River. They had a lead to go to. It was a property on the Grasstree Creek that was owned by the Symons family. The publican at a small ex-mining village called Leyburn told them there was a permanent position going there for a good all round general hand. She liked the sound of that; perhaps it would lead to them becoming a permanent part of a new community where they could begin to build a settled life together.

They drove along narrow country lanes, through thick bush that frequently gave way to wide rolling cultivation paddocks. Her heart raced as she saw countryside that somehow began to match an inner vision that her father had imprinted on her mind of his dream farm. Often, as they had travelled about in the commercial traveller’s van, he would stop beside a field of wheat and stare at the crop with a faraway look in his eyes; expressing his dream of owning a mixed farm. Somehow this place reminded her of his description.

Long belts of tall trees surrounded wide expanses of waving yellow grain; a dreamy haze shimmered above the paddocks that fell away to a backdrop of blue hills in the distance. Shaded ribbons of creeks meandered through the landscape, many of them reduced to strings of waterholes due to lack of rain. She saw small mobs of cattle or sheep under the shade of the clusters of trees that remained around the dams and waterholes. Sedate country cottages sat among pepper trees and outbuildings, with lazy wisps of smoke drifting from the chimneys.

Showers of colourful birds rose starkly against fleecy white clouds that adorned the deep blue sky, their calls somehow blending into the scenery, their mottled shadows racing across the ground as they flew. The whole landscape looked like a page from a picture book. Dad’s dream farm was just like this place, she thought as they drove along. She turned to smile at Derwent, but he was lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

They had been following a narrow dirt road for several miles when they came to a small, pretty cottage that stood beside a lane and creek crossing with bright flowerbeds drawn up against it like a colourful apron. They both climbed from the truck and Derwent rubbed the lethargy from his limbs as the engine of the little truck creaked and groaned as it began to cool, a wisp of steam rising from the radiator. Veronica stared at the large vegetable patch that grew in healthy abundance between the house and the creek. She looked at the line of tall gum tress that crowded around a large waterhole beyond the garden. Magpies warbled in the trees and some wild ducks cruised gracefully about in the water. It was all so peaceful and she felt her heart warm to the area at once.

A tall man came out of an old shed beside the house, wiping his greasy hands on a piece of rag. A rather haggard looking woman emerged from the house followed by a tribe of grubby bush children, their faces alive with eagerness to meet the strangers.

‘G’day,’ the man said cheerily. ‘I’m Noel Brinkley, that’s the cook, Sarah,’ he ignored the children in his introduction, apparently not reckoning them as people because of their age.

‘Have you come far?’

‘Far enough,’ Byrne said sullenly, he was in a bad mood and the truck had been overheating for the last few miles, adding to his anger. It had not occurred to Veronica that he might be feeling resentment at being led into a permanent job that he did not really want

‘We’re looking for the Symons’s place,’ Veronica said, as she frowned at her husband, embarrassed by his rude manner, not understanding why he could be so surly in such pretty surroundings. ‘We were told there may be a permanent job going there,’ she added. ‘We have been on the road for a while, so we are both a bit tired.’

Derwent looked at her quickly, picking up on the apology in her tone, and then he managed a wry smile, some of his old charm suddenly showed through. ‘My name’s Derwent Byrne,’ he said, ‘This is my wife, Veronica.’

‘Pleased ter meetcha,’ Brinkley said, offering his hand to Derwent and nodding at Veronica. Sarah smiled and the haggardness left her face at once, a faded beauty suddenly showing through the wrinkles around her eyes. ‘Yer betta come and have a cuppa tea,’ she said. ‘Noel can give you some directions, can’t yer love?’

‘Too right,’ Brinkley said easily. ‘Once I find out which Symons yer after, the bastards own all the land round ‘ere. Our joint sits right in amongst the buggers’. As they sat around the battered table in the small but tidy kitchen drinking tea, Noel gave them detailed directions and a good run down on the Symons family. ‘Old Nigel Symons is the current leader in a long line of his clan. His grandfather selected a lot of this land around here,’ Noel explained. The children had been banished from the house. ‘Yandilla station covered most of this area at one time, our little place was once a shepherd’s outpost, that’s why it’s so small.’

He looked at his wife as she poured more tea into his cup.

‘Chuck us a scone will ya, love,’ he said. ‘Old great grandfather Symons must have been a pain in the arse fer the Yandilla Station owners, come to think of it,’ he added.

‘Because he selected land along the creek ‘ere, and he must have cut them off from a lot of the water for their stock at times.’

‘The new generation who are on the property now, are they nice people?’ Veronica asked suddenly, cutting in on Brinkley’s narration. ‘I mean some of the big landholders we have met have been pretty horrible.’

‘Nah,’ Sarah Brinkley said firmly, covering for her husband’s surprise at being interrupted in the middle of one of his favourite stories, ‘They’re good blokes, and the wives are mostly nice too, aren’t they Noel?’ Veronica looked at Noel for a reply, the sudden silence heavy in the quiet room as an ancient clock with a cracked face tick-tocked audibly in the background. She could hear the excited sounds of children at play coming from somewhere outside the house, and a kookaburra laughed away in the distance.

Brinkley nodded, his mouth choked with scone and melon jam, the heat of being cut short quickly fading from his face.

‘Bloody oath,’ he said easily. ‘They all buy vegies from our garden, and there’s always a bit of work about if I want it to bring in a few extra quid.’

Derwent looked at Noel steadily. ‘Are you interested in the permanent job then?’ he said slowly. ‘Sounds like it would be right up your street.’ Veronica shot him a quick look and frowned because this was the first hint that he did not really want the job himself.

‘No bloody fear,’ Brinkley spat decisively, shaking his head to emphasise the point. ‘I don’t wanna work for any bastard permanently. I’ll do a few days when and if it suits me, but I got me own place to run. It’s not so big and grand as the Symons’s empire, but we make better use of the land we got, and the big water hole in the creek means we always got water fer irrigation. We do orright,’ he added firmly. Sarah smiled and Derwent looked disappointed.

After they finished their tea with the family, Derwent and Veronica drove across the old bridge that spanned the creek, following Brinkley’s clear directions to the cluster of buildings that marked the Symons’s homestead. Veronica had liked Sarah at once and she hoped she would be seeing more of her in the future. She longed for a mature woman to replace the strength and guidance she had received from her mother. When they arrived at the homestead, Derwent left her in the truck while he went to inquire about the job, thus giving her time to study the surroundings. She liked what she saw and was about to follow him into the house to make sure he gave a good account of himself.

Before she could move a tap on the truck window brought her eyes back from wandering about the farm and she looked into the pretty dimpled face of a young woman. ‘Hello, I’m Sybil Symons,’ the woman said cheerily. ‘The male masters sent me to invite you in for a cup of tea. They are giving your poor husband the third degree.’ Veronica smiled as she introduced herself before climbing stiffly from the truck. Sybil took in her slim figure and pretty face with envy; she was a little on the plump side herself.

‘My house is over there,’ Sybil said pointing. ‘My husband is number four in the Symons’s son assembly line, and we have three kids. I spend a lot of time at the old homestead during the day. The old lady is rather ill, and I like to keep her company and help out where I can, until my kids get home from school.’ She continued to chatter away as she led Veronica into the house.

Inside the spacious and well-furnished old home she saw Derwent sitting nervously in a deep lounge chair facing an old man across a small coffee table. The old man rose as she entered the room. ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘You are a beauty, if you will permit an old man to comment.’

She smiled warmly. ‘Please do,’ she said, ‘Though I must look a wreck, we’ve been on the road for a while’.

‘It has not detracted from your beauty, I assure you,’ he said charmingly. He cleared his throat. ‘We have been talking to this husband of yours about the job we have on offer, so far he fits our needs very well. But this is a permanent position, or as permanent as anything is in this life, of course.’ He suddenly remembered his manners and waved her to a chair. Sybil went off to make some tea. ‘But we want the lady of the manor to be happy with the arrangements as well,’ Nigel continued when she was seated. ‘There will be the occasional bit of work for you as well, in the busy times, and I need someone to keep my ailing wife company and to see to her little needs, I...’ Nigel paused when he saw that she was not concentrating on his words. He followed her line of vision and saw Lennie standing in the doorway, loaded with a map board and an armful of record books.

Lennie’s eyes were on Veronica, he seemed mesmerised, like a bird under the spell of a snake. She had felt her heart leap for some unknown reason when she saw him enter the room. Now their eyes locked for what seemed like a long time. Nigel cleared his throat again and Derwent looked disdainfully at Lennie. ‘Ah,’ Nigel said. ‘This is my son Lennie. He is the administration manager of this farm. Lennie has taught an old man to regard a farm as a business you see. In the old days we tore down a few trees, ran on a few head of stock or threw in a crop and hoped for the best. But it is more scientific now, or at least it is on this place, thanks to Lennie.’ The old man was clearly very proud of his son. ‘This is Mr Byrne’s wife, Veronica,’ Nigel said to Lennie. ‘I have been outlining her part of our proposal to her.’

Lennie entered the room and sat down at the low table, he seemed a little nonplussed and Derwent grinned, looking from Lennie to Veronica with amusement. He’d seen this reaction from men before and it reminded him of how beautiful she was, a fact that somehow escaped him when he was mad at her for organising and directing his life for him. ‘And how does it sound, Mrs Byrne?’ Lennie asked quietly.

‘Wonderful,’ she said, and Lennie visibly thrilled at the sweetness of her voice. He pretended to study the books in his hands until he regained his composure; his father regarded him quietly, noting his reaction to the girl. ‘We will pay eighteen pounds per week and an annual bonus based on your performance and the success of the season,’ Lennie said authoritatively. ‘There is a good cottage across the courtyard. It’s partly furnished, and I believe you have quite a lot of your own belongings with you to make up the difference.’

‘When we are not in harvest or planting mode, the hours are from eight until five, five days a week. We want to keep the job as close to normal work conditions as we can. We supply meat and milk, and the lady of the house will be expected to nurture the hens, for a reward system that can be worked out with my father.’

Lennie smiled and she warmed to him as he relaxed. ‘My father likes his chooks. Well, what do you think?’

Derwent looked quizzically at Veronica and she smiled happily. ‘When do we start?’ she said as a dark look fell unnoticed across Derwent’s face. Lennie grinned and opened one of the books he had been carrying and began to take down their details.

That was almost two years ago. Now her first feelings had been confirmed and she had come to love the place dearly. Derwent had not been as taken with the place as she had been, but he seemed resolved to give it a go. He began to drink more than she liked, and she suspected he was a little more than just friendly with one or two of the local women, but his open boldness and recklessness hid his deep insecurities from all but her.

She knew that she had almost bullied him into the job here and she was therefore tolerant of his behaviour because it suited her to stay here, but there were times when she thought of giving up on the marriage and leaving him. But where would she go? To leave Derwent would be to leave the farm, and she could not bear such a thought. From the first day she had felt her heart welding to the place, almost as if she owned it herself.

She had even considered having a fling of her own in a wrong-headed attempt to balance the books, but none of the men she had met stirred any desires within her, except Lennie. But somehow she could not bring herself to allow any more than a platonic relationship with him because if she did, and she knew she could if she wanted to, there would be no turning back. And something inside her wanted her relationship with Derwent to continue as a sort of refuge from too much change. It was familiar to her and part of her could not bring herself to admit defeat. She wanted things to continue as they were, frozen in time.

Her frequent long walks across the paddocks took her through the bush and down to the nearby creek where she discovered so many beautiful and private places to sit and be alone. In time she almost forgot that Derwent was her husband at all, he became just another family member who shared a house with her. She saw little of him and found herself not caring where he was, who he was with, or what he was doing. On rare occasions they still connected and pockets of passion flared, but usually she kept out of his way.

And Lennie was always there, always available to her and a reminder that she was attractive and desirable. Despite her determination to keep him at arm’s length, she felt her affection for him growing every day; it imposed upon her thoughts and gnawed at her heart, fighting against the denial that she instinctively threw up against it.

Old Mrs Symons was very ill and Veronica’s job of providing daily companionship and care for the old lady took her frequently to the main homestead where she began to spend most of her time. Lennie too spent most of his time in the office, only venturing out about the farm to monitor the various crops, or to check the breeding programs of the remaining stock on the place. He often asked her to help with general office administration tasks like filing, bookkeeping and typing; but her real passion centred on a book he was writing about the history of the Darling Downs.

He wrote the manuscript in his neat, almost feminine hand and she typed it on the office typewriter. She fell in love with the work, not because it gave her an insight into the district, but an insight into Lennie. She identified with his warm sensitive nature, her own artistic instincts drawing her to him. Lennie was illustrating the book himself, which meant he would go off and paint an old building or some historic spot whenever he could. Veronica, who had been good at art in school, now began to do pencil sketches, based on something she had read in the manuscript. Before long the book somehow became a joint effort.

Lennie found an old pushbike in one of the sheds and got it working for her, thus giving her greater mobility. She could range further then, exploring the bush and looking for subjects to sketch or to just enjoy. Lennie would often, seemingly by accident, end up at the same location as her. They would laugh at the strange coincidence, avoiding one another’s eyes to hide the truth that they somehow denied to themselves. Often as they worked together their hands would touch, or their bodies would make contact as they studied a draft. Her heart thrilled at these innocent encounters.

Then suddenly there was Jenny. Jenny had been conceived after Derwent returned from a tour with a band. He had been angry that she had decided not to accompany him; and he had come home drunk, argued with her and accused her of flirting with Lennie. There had been a terrible argument that ended with them both in tears. She felt sorry for him then because she knew she had drawn him to this place and that he only stayed because of her, his own heart longed for the road and the carefree excitement of the labour gangs. They had gone to bed and made love with such urgency, as if the loving would heal the great abyss that seemed to stretch between them. In the urgency of their lovemaking, they threw the usual caution to the wind and she soon found out she was pregnant.

This occurred about six months after they had come to the farm and any thoughts she may have had about leaving him disappeared with the added responsibility of a child. But Derwent could not remember their night of passion because of the drink and he held a festering suspicion that the child was not his own, and this suspicion served to widen the gap between them. Despite his dark brooding mood swings and his nagging belief that she was somehow having an affair with Lennie, her commitment to the troubled marriage was supported by her love of the farm and her concern for her daughter’s future.

She supposed she was being selfish in a way. She wanted to keep Derwent in her life for the child’s sake at least, but she also wanted to stay on the farm and be close to Lennie. There were times when she felt she saw brief flashes of the future, disturbing insights that told her she could not have it all, that at some time she must decide what it was she really wanted.

Derwent became almost like a boarder in her house as time went by, she tolerated him and he mostly ignored her and the child. She never actually acknowledged her love for Lennie; indeed she denied it to herself every day. In the end she determined that she would remain married in name only, for Jenny’s sake at least. Her life had become a case of it being easier to stay than go, because she did not know where to go, at least for the time being. If she could hold her life together, she reasoned she could be happy, taking it one day at a time like an alcoholic in remission.

When Lennie’s mother died shortly after Jenny was born, Veronica went with him and his father to the funeral. They sat together in the little church at the end of the lane, sharing long looks of understanding as the simple ceremony took place. Derwent was away again with his band and she was glad of his absence because it removed the day-to-day conflict from her life. She could spend time with Lennie and not feel guilty. She wondered if Lennie was getting tired of their platonic relationship, if he felt cheated by the frustration of being with her but not being able to have her.

She looked at him quickly but he was staring at the coffin that contained his mother’s remains, his eyes heavy and wet with tears and his heart and mind somewhere in the past. She felt guilty at once because her thoughts had been on her own needs rather than on his grief. Later they buried the old lady in the homestead garden with her forebears.

Old Nigel hired a full-time maid named Norma Mackie after that. Veronica could not spare the time from her new responsibilities as a mother to act as a domestic servant for Nigel and Lennie, and Derwent would never agree to such an arrangement anyway. But she still worked in the office with Lennie, doing the paperwork and helping with the book, which was now almost finished.

* * *

Veronica suddenly came back from the confused journey through her past. She rose from the day bed on the verandah and peered into the small cot at her child. Jenny slept peacefully; a thin film of sweat glistened on the tiny face in the heat of the summer afternoon. She went to the kitchen and made a jug of cordial, loading the drink with ice cubes; then she slipped from the house and walked across the courtyard.