Summer at Mount Hope (19 page)

The vicar appeared at the side of the house, waving a dusty bottle of wine. ‘I found the cellar, thank you …'

A great wailing, like a birthing cow, came from the bedroom. Lilith had found her clothes all over the floor and her corset strings cut.

Phoeba escaped to bed early. She was enjoying the solitude,
Great Expectations
was open on her lap and Rudolph Steel was on her mind. She saw his face before hers, felt his presence lingering the way the smell of hot scones did. He had called her Phoeba, touched her, and seemed genuinely concerned about her. He'd be at the harvest dance, surely. A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts and her father came in.

‘There you are!' he said, as if he'd been searching for her for days. He wore his pyjamas and dressing gown, the cord tied high on his tummy. ‘Well, well.' She put her book aside and smiled at him with the good side of her face. He sat on her bed and patted her hand. ‘After you'd fallen out of that sulky and were stuck at Overton, I sat down and asked myself why I'd brought you here. And it was because I thought this was a safe place that offered a more wholesome life and good air for your sickly sister. Turns out she'd rather spend her life shopping in Melbourne and your mother was right, the accident would never have happened if I hadn't brought you to Mount Hope. There's nothing here for you.'

‘You were right to bring us here, Dad. There is everything here.'

‘Your mother says you don't want to marry your suitor. Of course, you must do what is right – and I'm not entirely sure he is – but what if you end up an old maid?'

‘I'm an old maid already and anyway, Aunt Margaret's an old maid and she's all right.'

‘She wouldn't be without handouts from us.'

‘I want to stay here, Dad, I want to grow grapes.'

He patted her hand again. ‘If only your mother had made you a boy.'

‘If only,' she agreed.

‘You want to be the only woman growing grapes and making wine in a prime sheep- and wheat-growing area, laughed at by your neighbours and attacked by hostile Temperance women?'

‘Yes, Dad. I want to learn to make wine properly.'

‘Right. But what about your sister?'

‘Lilith will get married and have a grandson for you and I will leave my lot to him when I die.'

‘Seriously, Phoeba, if she doesn't marry or if she marries a farmer and you're single—'

‘I know, there's a risk her husband would want Mount Hope, or at least Lilith's half and he might even insist I pay him out. But you could prevent any of that in your will – specify that I'm to manage it, for grapes. I planted them; we planted them. I've pruned them every year and harvested alongside everyone else and I would do more only I have to the make cheese and milk the goat and cook … don't worry about Lilith,' she finished, ‘I'll be fair.'

‘You could make her live in the shed,' he suggested. Then said, ‘I'll see about it.'

‘I will never run sheep or tear out your vines for wheat, oats, apples, anything.'

‘It's an awful lot of work and your mother will object.'

‘She'll be pleased when I'm here to care for you both in your dotage.'

His face brightened and he leaned close to her, whispering conspiratorially. ‘A few more years, all going well, just a few more harvests and if we reinvest the returns we will triumph. Mark my words, Phoeba Crupp, one day this whole area will be covered in vines. Covered in them! My grandchildren, your grandchildren, will be rich.' His face was ruddy with joy. He kissed his fingertips and placed them lightly on her cheek. ‘You are my cornerstone, Phoeba.'

Later, Lilith came in and tore off her clothes, threw them in a pile on the floor and settled into her bed.

‘Turn the light down, Phoeba. I've gotten used to going to sleep in the dark.'

Phoeba ignored her. Lilith turned the lamp down herself. Phoeba turned it up and as she opened her mouth to call out to her mother Phoeba snapped. ‘You are an incomplete person, Lilith. You have no tolerance, grace or generosity. You are motivated by your own superficial needs and sadly, it seems, you are indestructible.' She waited for Lilith's wail, but there was silence.

‘And why, Phoeba,' asked her sister very quietly, ‘do you imagine that you're not all of those things too?'

‘And you're not very clever either.'

‘I don't pretend to be,' shot Lilith, tugging the sheet up to her ears. ‘You've got no sense of humour, Phoeba, and you're … ungenerous.'

Phoeba felt her equilibrium slightly rattled. She knew it was true. She could be sour – but only, she was sure, when she was around Lilith. Her sister brought out the worst in her. She went back to thinking about Rudolph and wondering what ‘unfettered liberty' implied.

Saturday, January 27, 1894

T
here was a calm between the sisters when they woke on Saturday morning, and Phoeba did something she rarely did. While she laced Lilith's corset – with its new strings – she asked her sister's advice: what should she put on her face and skin.

‘Lemon and cow's milk,' said Lilith, with great authority. ‘Actually, Phoeba, you could look quite attractive if you put in some effort.' Lilith sat her at the dressing table and stood behind her in her under-garments.

‘Now look,' she said, pulling hairpins from the tight bun at Phoeba's crown. She brushed her sister's hair out then twisted it to a loose bun at her nape. ‘You look less like you've got a tomato stuck to your head now.'

‘Thank you,' said Phoeba, and wondered if Rudolph thought her bun looked like a tomato. Her hair did look nice, she thought, but it wasn't appropriate for vineyard work. She wound it back into a tight bun and went to find her father at the start of the first row.

‘Right,' he said, looping his thumbs into his vest pockets. ‘You must listen very carefully to everything I say, understand?'

She nodded.

‘We have just gone through the stage of—'

‘Berry set. The tendrils have grown long and the flowers turned to berries.'

‘Correct. The grape is a conservative plant, it does not rush to growth in spring and it takes time to ripen. So deciding when to harvest is our most difficult and important task during the entire grape-growing and wine-producing process.'

‘Yes, Dad, and grapes must have good composition. Harvested too early, grapes will lack sugar. Low sugar means low alcohol content. In cooler climates grape sugar and flavour develop slowly. Overripe grapes lead to coarse taste and slow fermentation.'

Maude called. They ignored her.

‘Right then, Miss know-everything, you can tell me when ripening has commenced.'

Maude screamed from the veranda.

Robert handed Phoeba the Collector. ‘You're so good at everything – you shoot all the birds.'

‘I will,' said Phoeba. Her father went to his wife, large and pink in her dressing gown, her corset strings dangling. Phoeba obediently shot at birds, then she harnessed Angela.

Maude arrived at the sulky bound and strapped in her best brown silk taffeta carrying an overnight bag, a parasol and jacket, a purse and a handbag. Behind her, Lilith held a basket of Phoeba's scarce eggs, cold meat and goat's cheese for Aunt Margaret – Maude was off to help her empty the house in Geelong. But Lilith wasn't dressed for town.

‘I offered Lilith new threads and embroidery patterns but she won't come,' sniffed Maude in her most hurt voice. ‘I'll have to travel alone. And only last year a stoker was killed while they were crossing a particularly unstable bridge.'

‘He leaned out too far and fell from the cabin,' said Phoeba.

‘Are you suddenly paraplegic, Lilith?' asked Robert, perplexed.

‘On the contrary,' said Phoeba. ‘Lilith has taken up walking, haven't you, Lilith?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I'm strengthening my ankles for the harvest dance.'

Phoeba rolled her eyes.

‘Don't look like that,' said Lilith, sounding hurt. ‘She thinks it's rot.'

‘It is not rot, Miss Impertinent!' said Maude. ‘There's nothing more debilitating than having a turned ankle. Why are you being like this, Phoeba? You are rude to our neighbours, you act like a boy working outdoors – so much so you'll end up looking like you wash with harness soap. All I have done is try to bring you up to be a dutiful daughter and a nice young lady and you repay me by being pertinacious.'

‘Let's get back to discussing why Lilith isn't going to Geelong, shall we?' said Phoeba, narrowing her eyes at her sister. ‘The focus has passed from Lilith to me.'

‘It's that bump on the head!' said Maude, turning her bottom to her husband so he could heave her into the sulky. ‘The dangers of country life. And I'll need £10, Robert.'

‘Ten?'

‘For longcloth combinations – and the girls need undershirts. And while I'm gone you must do the thistles; the countryside is puce!'

Robert drove. Spot neighed loudly at them as they drove through the gate but the rest of the trip to the shop was very quiet. They found Mrs Flynn uncharacteristically glum. She put her hands on her ample hips and said, ‘Well, you look a fright, don't you, Phoeba Crupp?'

‘Yes,' said Phoeba, gaily. ‘Just one ticket for Mother, please.'

‘Lilith not going? Sick is she?' asked Mrs Flynn sticking her tongue behind her front teeth to concentrate on writing out the ticket.

‘Has my peach parer come?' asked Maude, fanning herself with a medical pamphlet advertising cures for biliousness, constipation and urinary ailments.

‘Na.'

Robert walked around the shop, his hands behind his back, peering behind coils of wire and lifting tins on the counter. He walked out on to the veranda, looked up and down and came back again. There was not a newspaper in sight.

Feeling a scene brewing, Phoeba sat on a flour sack. Once, a long time ago, her mother had displeased Mrs Flynn by mentioning that there was rat dirt in the rolled wheat. A week later Robert had rushed to the shop and threatened legal action because Freckle wouldn't deliver newspapers or mail. Mrs Flynn simply crossed her brown arms over her grubby apron and said cheerily, ‘Well you just tell me when I have to be at the law court and in the meantime you can ride to Geelong for your papers.'

Robert had relented, apologised on behalf of his rude wife, declared that there must be rats in their own larder. Mrs Flynn had magically found a pile of newspapers a week old and Freckle arrived with a sack of mail that afternoon.

‘Mrs Flynn,' said Robert, lightly, ‘we haven't had any papers this week?'

‘There's been a flood.' She snatched the fare from his hand.

‘I know nothing about a flood.'

‘Well, you wouldn't. You've had no papers.' She fanned herself with Maude's train ticket, one hand on her hip.

In the distance, a faint train whistle screeched.

‘Do we owe Freckle money for papers or rabbits?' suggested Phoeba.

‘They're rabbits from our outcrop,' hissed Robert.

‘He's the one what traps them and skins them,' said Mrs Flynn, indignantly.

‘And sells the skins,' muttered Phoeba.

‘But it's not money,' said Mrs Flynn, putting her other hand on her hip, ‘it's your sewing machine. It nearly killed him.'

‘I am deeply sorry,' said Robert removing his pith hat and placing it over his heart. ‘I'll make sure it never happens again.'

‘Killed him how?' asked Maude, and as Mrs Flynn told them the story of the guard throwing the machine, a crimson flush crept up her throat and spread across her plump cheeks.

‘Surely,' said Phoeba, ‘it's between the guard and Freckle, it's their war—'

‘But it's your machine and machines is nothing but trouble if you arst me!'

‘Absolutely right,' said Robert, ‘absolutely right. No more machines for us.'

Mrs Flynn handed over the ticket and the newspapers as Freckle struggled past, heading for the siding and dragging a very large supply cart. It was a heavy, cumbersome, two-wheeled old thing with two thick shafts. Two lads Phoeba recognised from the itinerant's camp walked behind the cart, their hands resting lightly on the back of it.

‘Do you want someone to help you pull, Freckle?' called Robert, wobbling quickly from the shop.

‘Come,' said Maude, bustling from the shop, ‘the train is arriving.'

‘Do you know,' said Phoeba as casually as she could, ‘if the new manager at Overton gets mail from England?'

‘He does,' said Mrs Flynn, ‘but you're too late for the stamps. Freckle collects them.'

‘I see,' she said, wondering how to get Mrs Flynn to tell her more. Did he write back? To a woman? His mother?

‘Mysterious chap,' said Mrs Flynn, sinking on her elbows to the counter. ‘That wagon Freckle's got's for a new stove. The guard telegraphed to say there was a great big iron stove had to be picked up and delivered. And it'll be trouble too.'

The subject of Rudolph had ended.

The three boys lined up along the siding to watch down the line, their bare toes clinging to the edge of the sleepers.

‘The stove must be a wedding gift for Mrs Pearson,' declared Maude.

‘You should get Mr Titterton to pick it up,' said Phoeba to Freckle. ‘A stove's a very heavy thing.'

‘We can make sixpence a mile,' Freckle said, triumphantly.

‘Tuppence each,' said the straw-headed kid with the grimy neck.

The train appeared, the engine slid by and the carriages screeched to a stop.

Robert boosted Maude up the steps and Phoeba handed the baskets and parcels to her through the window. Her mother looked nervous.

‘You'll be all right,' said Phoeba, cheerfully.

‘You could have offered to come,' said Maude, turning away.