Summer at Mount Hope (9 page)

When the new horse passed Spot, he stuck his nose in the air, suddenly preoccupied by the smell of freshly cut hay on the warm breeze.

At the intersection Robert reined the small convoy to a halt. Aunt Margaret looked around at the sweeping empty landscape and said impatiently, ‘What's happened now?'

He was pointing down to the railway line where men unloaded wheat from a flat-bed wagon. They were using an A-frame and a chain-and-pulley system, their team of horses moving obediently forward and back to raise and lower the bags onto the square stack of bulging grain sacks that were growing at the siding. ‘The grain co-op have acquired a mechanical device to haul those sacks, a conveyer belt elevator apparatus, I believe. It'll do the wool bales as well.'

‘Marvellous,' said Margaret, flatly.

The sundowners won't be pleased, thought Phoeba.

‘Now see Robert,' called Maude, ‘there's traffic.'

The Hampden approached, overtaking three trudging swaggies who waved, begging a lift. Widow Pearson pointed forwards and Henrietta drove on.

‘Gracious,' said Maude, ‘she's got a new bonnet.'

Widow Pearson rarely went anywhere that required standing, walking or heavy breathing. It appeared she had abandoned her postiches for a new brown bonnet, which looked like an upturned purse on her head and, Phoeba noted, they had attached the fringe to the Hampden roof. Henrietta, in her best brown skirt and jacket outfit, still managed to look dishevelled.

‘That bonnet is from Lassetters catalogue,' sniffed Lilith. ‘The style was fashionable back in '83.' Her tantrum forgotten, Lilith said she would go in the Hampden if Maude came.

‘I'm not going with her,' said Maude, waving at the Widow. ‘She'll boast all the way about Hadley's job.'

‘Oh for Mercy's sake! I'll go,' cried Phoeba, feeling itchy and irritated.

‘If Lilith drives,' said Aunt Margaret, crossing her arms, ‘I will walk back to Geelong, now!'

‘Well then,' said Robert, ‘why don't you go with the Pearsons, Maude, and you can boast that Marius Overton came for lunch.'

Maude and Lilith shot from the sulky at once and got into the Hampden, waving back cheerily as it moved off.

‘Well done, Robert, now we have all the dust,' said Aunt Margaret. It was obvious Centaur knew where he was going, dust or no dust. When Phoeba turned him towards Overton he broke into a canter immediately. Margaret clutched the armrest and held her hat and Phoeba leaned back on the reins, trying to stop the horse from racing. They hurtled around the tail end of the outcrop and through the pass and there, laid out before them, was the tall square Overton homestead.

In the front of the house, tethered horses, buggies, traps, wagons and carts formed a disorderly queue beside the ploughing field and on the opposite side of the field the competing ploughs and their teams lined up in just as disorderly fashion. A brass band marched in between the two, its own warped lines oom-paaing and thumping while children in straw hats skipped behind. The crowd watched from under their hats and parasols or sat on picnic rugs. Bunting on the white and green produce marquee flapped in the hot breeze.

As soon as they could, Phoeba and Henrietta linked arms and escaped through the crowd. There were farmers and workers, and fancily dressed women from Geelong sauntered about in their city clothes – satin wing sleeves and matching collarettes, kid boots with ribbon laces, hats as big as wheat sacks and matching parasols trimmed with lace. Lilith would be green with envy. The country girls dashed about in their walking skirts and outdoor jackets, straw hats and sensible leather gloves.

Next to the produce marquee was a photographer. A crowd had gathered around the small tent where Guston Overton stood with The General, the new prize stud ram he had purchased for a record price of three hundred guineas. Guston had boasted in the papers and all over the district that the expensive ram would ‘secure the future of Overton through sales of its progeny and infusion of good breeding blood into the stock'. The ram was a showy well-proportioned animal, symmetrical, with a long level back, and Guston posed with his prize against a painted backdrop of Kensington Palace. As soon as the image was taken, the ram was led into a small holding yard cushioned with hay for all to admire, and the photographer turned to the crowd: ‘I'll take your photograph for sixpence … immortalised forever for your loved ones.' Phoeba and Henrietta had thruppence between them.

Beyond Kensington Palace, an engineer advertised a portable farm steam tractor – ‘A Miracle Machine to Replace the Expensive Horse and Wagon' – and a man wearing a strap-on Cahoon's Patent Broadcast Seed Sower strolled through the crowd turning the handle on a box strapped to his chest so that a huge disc of seed sprayed around him, pounding the ground like hard hail and flinging it into the air to land on ladies' parasols and gather in hat brims. Passing on her way to the produce tent, Maude scolded the salesman. The seed spray would surely get stuck in a child's ear, she declared, and bumped into two women wearing badges, Australian Women's Suffrage Society. They stood either side of a sandwich board that obstructed passing pedestrians. One was well groomed, her hair cut short and neat. Her dress was bohemian, loose and sack-like but well made, and she held a signboard:
VOTING RIGHTS FOR WOMEN IN ALL STATES AND TERRITORIES, NOW
. The other was dressed similarly, only her hem was short enough to show the top of her boots.

Henrietta and Phoeba headed straight for them.

‘Women in South Australia will be able to vote this year and stand for government as well,' they said. Curious, the girls took pamphlets from them, tucking them into their pockets and out of their mothers' sight.

They took their time in the produce tent, admiring the fine knitting and lace work, the preserves and fresh vegetables, the tumbles of wool clips and vases of wheat, the watercolours and oil landscapes – including Aunt Margaret's dead fowl – and eggs on their straw beds. Then they wandered out to the field. ‘We should find Hadley,' said Henrietta.

‘You go,' said Phoeba, lifting her skirt as if to flee. But Henrietta caught her arm.

‘He'll be disappointed if you don't come, Phoeba.'

‘Has he said anything?—'

‘Not a thing.'

‘Right,' said Phoeba, and braced herself. It would be worse if she didn't go; she may as well get it over with.

They walked along the line of thick, competent draughthorses, plaited and burnished with their harnesses almost gleaming, on through air thick with manure and pungent horse. Hadley was standing behind his team, the harness reins around his neck and his hands gripping the single-furrow mould-board. He tilted it from side to side, and made the soft noise of a blade carving through earth.

‘Hello,' called Phoeba and he dropped the handles instantly, the colour in his cheeks deepening. He rushed towards Phoeba but the reins were still around his neck and they pulled him up, jerking his head so his hat fell off. Almost without missing a beat he picked up his hat and came towards her. He always recovered himself well, she thought.

‘I knew you'd be here for me,' he said.

‘I always will be,' she said, then regretted it and added, ‘as any good friend should be.'

‘Of course,' said Hadley, and gestured at the horses, ‘My team—'

‘Yes, they're lovely—'

‘The furrow horse tends to race a bit.'

‘If you win,' said Henrietta, ‘we'll have our photograph taken.'

‘We should have one taken anyway,' said Phoeba, ‘to remember the good times.'

Hadley looked at her, levelly. ‘Are the good times over, Phoeba?'

‘Of course not, Hadley,' said Henrietta, quickly. ‘Don't be a dill. She meant as a keepsake so we can look at it together when we're eighty.' She straightened his tie and slapped his shoulders. ‘So, Had, what did the man say about your emasculator?'

‘Oh,' said Hadley, and explained that he had spoken to the chap wearing the strap-on Cahoon's Patent Broadcast Seed Sower about his invention but that the man had said he'd need to see drawings. ‘But I'm not silly,' said Hadley. ‘He'd just steal my idea.'

‘Of course,' said Henrietta. ‘Now you must plough as well as you do at home and we'll see you victorious at lunch.'

‘Righto.' He looked at Phoeba and opened his mouth to say something so she planted a quick, sisterly kiss on his cheek. ‘Good luck.'

That was that over and done with: the first confrontation. She could relax.

The horse teams were always first away after the starting flag fell and drivers had until noon to complete their quarter acre. Traditionally, Guston Overton started off by ploughing the first furrow but this year it was Marius who began. A Scotsman named Jim who'd won £10 last year followed him, throwing up his hands in exaggerated dismay at the furrow and making the crowd laugh.

Phoeba and Henrietta climbed the windmill, as they did every year. From the top they could see Mrs Overton on the homestead balcony, her white skirt falling over her knees. Behind her three maids stood with their hands behind their backs, watching the smoke that curled from itinerants' campfires and from the shearers' camp on the creek bank. Behind the majestic homestead the shearing shed waited, its high stumps hidden behind a thousand yarded sheep. And way out on the western plain a thin curtain of red dust rose up – more sheep being shepherded in.

Widow Pearson passed beneath Phoeba and Henrietta, clinging to Mr Titterton's arm, her bustle behind her like a dwarf under her skirt.

‘Have they been kissing lately, Henri?'

‘I avoid them, just in case they are,' said Henrietta. ‘It's no good for my health.'

The vicar trailed behind the Widow's bustle, his stomach jutting out and hiding his feet.

‘It's terrible even eating with old Tit. There's an extra sound in his mouth when he chews. Imagine when the vicar comes to lunch. There'll be the sound of his chins slapping on his collar as well.'

They laughed and below them, Robert looked up. He was walking with Guston and Marius Overton, and the new manager was with them too.

‘They say he's a bank man,' said Henrietta.

‘A handsome bank man,' said Phoeba, thinking she must have looked a sight flying along behind Rocket.

Just then, he looked up, straight into her eyes, feigning an outraged expression at the two ladies perched on the narrow windmill ledge. Then lifted his hat. Phoeba smiled at him.

‘Hadley's better looking than him,' said Henrietta defensively.

Perhaps, Phoeba thought, but Steel was different, more mature. She watched the group of men move through the crowd to the ploughing field. ‘Do you think Overton has money trouble?' she asked. Henrietta shrugged.

There was a gunshot, Guston Overton firing to start the teams. Mr Titterton, who was one of the judges, followed a plough. He stepped from furrow to furrow measuring the depth and gauging the neatness of the dry brown wave. Hadley was proceeding steadily, carefully, way behind the other competitors. The bullock teams with three- and four-blade ploughs took up their starting position on the other side of the field.

Henrietta took the suffragettes' pamphlet from her pocket: ‘Dress Review, by The Healthy and Artistic Dress Union'. It suggested she abandon her corset. Henrietta's mother made her wear a corset but she never tightened the cords, ever. ‘I should show this to mother,' she said, but she screwed it up and threw it down onto the grass. Nothing would separate the Widow from her tiny waist.

Phoeba read hers aloud: ‘ “Suffrage, marriage and women's rights. Marriage should protect your freedom, not make you a slave. Women should be able to get divorced and keep their children and property.” ' The first heading was Contraception. She took off her straw hat and slipped the paper inside, under the headband. ‘I suppose we should go and find the picnic,' she said.

The Crupps and the Pearsons settled to eat lunch in the shade between their buggies, Henrietta and Phoeba handed out sandwiches while Maude propped herself against the buggy wheel, her corset rising to her armpits as the widow recalled Hadley's neat furrows. Hadley rolled his eyes in frustration.

‘Ah! Some familiar faces.' The vicar's trousers strained across his thighs as he bounced towards them. He took hold of a buggy spoke and lowered his bulk onto the blanket next to Henrietta, eyeing her sandwich.

‘I see I am just in time for lunch.' He leaned closer, ‘And good morning, Miss Pearson.'

Henrietta pulled back.

They hadn't really brought enough for him but it was too late, the picnickers moved around with their tea and sandwiches to accommodate his spreading form.

‘How nice to see you again, Vicar,' gasped the Widow, the tinge on her nose deepening. ‘My son Hadley is the new wool classer here at Overton. He works with the stock overseer, Mr Titterton.'

The vicar took a plate of sandwiches from Henrietta and said to Phoeba, ‘I must come to lunch one day and taste your wine.'

‘She would enjoy that very much,' said Maude.

Hadley took his fob watch from his pocket as if he urgently needed to know the time and Phoeba quickly reached for the scones. ‘Lilith made these,' she lied, ‘please have one.'

‘No cream?' said the vicar and he turned to smile at Lilith, scone dough clogging his gums.

‘We don't have a cow,' said Lilith. ‘Mrs Jessop has a cow but we've got a goat because they're cheaper. The Pearsons sold their cow because their soil is salty and their milk was always brackish.'

‘If you say so,' said Hadley, mildly offended. Widow Pearson was speechless with indignation.

‘She's looking for a husband to cook for, aren't you Lilith?' said Phoeba. Lilith scowled, but Phoeba ignored her and offered the cake tin to the vicar. ‘The plum cake is lovely too, Vicar.'