Summer at Mount Hope (3 page)

Spurring his brown mare through the intersection, he glanced up to Mount Hope. Phoeba didn't believe in God. ‘You just live and die and turn to dust,' she said. Sometimes he could spot her, a distant figure in a white blouse and dull skirt reading the paper on the front veranda. But none of the Crupps were visible now, just a group of swaggies making their way up the outcrop track – last year's shearers returning to Overton, hoping for work.

The lane led him through the outcrop pass to the Overton homestead, which sat on the plain like a wedding cake on a vast table. Scattered around it were stables and sheds, sheep yards and the shearers' store, workers' quarters, tank-stands and haystacks. The mare cantered through the gateposts, and Hadley, nervous but hopeful, tethered her to the yard gate at the back of the house. At the kitchen door he handed the cook an empty string basket. The cook was Chinese, so Hadley spoke carefully and loudly: ‘Today for hamper I will have butter' – he mimed spreading butter on bread – ‘and one leg of lamb. And six eggs.' He held up six fingers. ‘Berry good,' said the Chinese cook, and Hadley walked around to the front of the house and knocked, standing back to admire the stained glass flowers bordering the door and its ornate brass knocker. A maid opened the door, a runt of a girl with a lazy eye. He asked for Mr Overton and she showed him to a low seat in the hall. Hadley could hear Mr Guston Overton's voice as it filtered down the wide, sweeping stairs, but it was a different man, a broad, suntanned chap wearing jodhpurs who appeared up on the landing, and called, ‘You're Pearson?' His accent was English and his coat – very flash – had never rubbed against a sorting table or pressed against a fly-blown ram. He came down the stairs two at a time, dark-haired, with strong, regular features, rugged for a Pom. The hand he offered was not marked by hard work, but his grip was firm: ‘I'm the new manager, Rudolph Steel. Your reputation precedes you, Pearson,' he said, moving to the front door. ‘I think we can find room for one more good classer.' He swung the door open and looked back at Hadley, who reached for the clasp on his bag, ‘My certificate—?'

‘I'll send word with Mr Titterton, but we'll start next week.' Rudolph Steel gestured at the wide veranda and the manicured garden beyond. ‘There'll be a bunk for you in the workers' cottage.'

‘Right,' said Hadley and marched through the door. His coat caught on the decorative brass doorknob and pulled him up violently, wrenching him so that his nose hit the edge of the door and his spectacles were dislodged.

‘Looking forward to having you here,' said Rudolph Steel, and closed the door behind him. Flummoxed, Hadley followed the gravel path back to the kitchen door where the cook handed him his string bag and his account for the month: £2.0.6. Hadley felt rash, generous. He had a job. Henrietta could make a cake to celebrate. He held up six fingers: ‘Six more eggs, please.'

When the cook returned with the eggs wrapped in newspaper, Hadley asked him to set aside ten chicks for him, next time the hens hatched.

Riding out through the towering gateposts he felt secure, manly, somehow weightless. He had a job. He would sink a bore, fertilise his land, plant his trees and fix his fences. All he needed now was a wife and the only wife he had ever wanted was Phoeba Crupp. So now they would get married. What a surprise for everyone, and how happy it would make Henrietta! What a way to start the year – he even had a new suit ready for a wedding.

It was natural that Phoeba would marry him, a matter of course really, and that's what she'd say when he asked. ‘Of course,' she'd say, and she would smile in her understated way. And Maude would throw her arms around him and say, ‘I knew it! I always knew you would be my son-in-law!'And Robert would shake his hand and open good wine.

And there, bouncing towards the outcrop on the plain ahead of him, was Robert himself on his white horse. Just the man, a fortuitous chance. Robert was always easy to identify because his horse was white, like his hat, and an ex-pacer – a rough but swift ride for an ageing, round man. The hamper tied behind the saddle forgotten, Hadley spurred his mare on to a gallop: ‘Mr Crupp!'

Robert's words, pounding up and down at derby pace, were punctuated by his mount: ‘Had-lee-ee. Fan-ce-ee …' He had a wine-drinker's nose and it drooped a little over his large, tobacco-stained moustache.

Hadley's brown mare cantered hard to keep up. ‘I wondered if I could have a word with you, sir.'

‘No-ow-ow?' asked Robert.

‘It's an important matter.'

Robert leaned back on the reins, the bit dragging his horse's jaw open. Gradually the gelding slowed to a walk.

‘I have something to ask, sir. It's right to ask you first, I think.' His heart was pounding and his voice sounded high, so he cleared his throat and said, hoping for a lower register, ‘It's an important matter so I've given it thought.'

Robert eyed the steep track that wound to the top of the outcrop.

‘Phoeba and I have known each other for fourteen years now,' Hadley began. ‘We have similar lives, went to school together, go to the same church—'

‘The only one in the district.'

‘—and I think we could make a good … partnership.'

Robert looked suspiciously at the eager, sweaty youth. He'd seen more imposing moustaches on the Temperance women.

‘I think we should get engaged, sir.'

Robert pushed his straw hat back on his head. ‘Holy mackerel,' he said.

‘What do you think, sir?'

‘Not much. I don't think much of it at all, frankly.' He pointed to the track. ‘Ride on.'

Hadley, disappointed, nudged his horse. Mr Crupp followed him in silence. It was the surprise of it, Hadley decided, he was upset at the prospect of losing his elder daughter. He stopped his horse. ‘I wouldn't marry her until I'd worked, invested money into Elm Grove, built a new house. I'd travel, work as a classer, breed up my father's sheep stud. And I have an idea for a ram emasculator.'

‘Yes,' said Robert doubtfully, ‘your marvellous invention.' Over the years he'd seen all the drawings. Robert couldn't imagine Phoeba marrying Hadley. Then again, he couldn't imagine her marrying anyone; she wasn't the usual type. Lilith was a different matter. The sooner she married the better, she was damned expensive to run. At the top of the rocky hill, he stopped his horse again and looked at the tremulous young man. ‘Shouldn't you ask her?'

‘I'll have to,' shrugged Hadley. He knew what Phoeba would say; Robert was the unpredictable one.

‘If you ever put sheep on my land, Pearson, I'll rise up out of my grave and emasculate you with your own invention and put strychnine on your pizzle.'

‘Right,' said Hadley feebly. They rode in silence towards the house, and a tiny shaft of doubt pierced Hadley's racing heart. But he dismissed it.

Phoeba saw the horses picking their way down the outcrop track and called to her mother in the cellar.

‘Is he bringing a new horse?' she called back.

‘No, he's bringing Hadley.'

By the time Hadley had tied his horse to the peppercorn tree by the dam gate Phoeba had a jug of lemon tea and glass cups waiting. Hadley came towards the small, hot weatherboard house, the knees of his new wool trousers bagging and his new boots squeaking. But he was smiling.

‘You look as if you're about to melt, Had,' called Lilith, kicking the screen door open.

‘Not really,' he said red-faced but cheerful, on their parched patch of lawn with his kitbag and his mother's hamper.

‘Hadley again, so soon!' said Maude clattering out.

As he stepped onto the veranda the toe of his boot caught on the step and he lunged. Lilith, Phoeba and Maude said, ‘Oh,' and thrust their arms to break his fall, but he caught the arm of the wicker lounge and settled himself on it as if nothing had happened. He dropped his hat on the floorboards, reached into his kitbag, brought out copies of the Melbourne newspapers and handed them to Phoeba.

‘Thanks, Hadley, we haven't had
The Age
for weeks,' she said, passing the social pages to Lilith, the
Ladies Home Journal
to Maude. She left the business section on Robert's chair, with its headline
DROUGHT WORSENS, MILLIONS OF SHEEP PERISH IN QUEENSLAND
.

‘Oh,' gasped Lilith, settling on the top step. ‘Paul Poiret, who dresses Mrs Asquith, writes that we should “return to our natural form and do away with corsets”. Fancy that!'

‘Your Aunt Margaret never wore a corset and look where it's got her,' said Robert, picking up his newspaper and settling in his chair. Aunt Margaret was Maude's poverty-stricken spinster sister.

‘Your father and I rode over from Overton, where I've just come from a meeting,' said Hadley.

‘My word.' Maude nodded meaningfully to Phoeba. ‘A meeting.'

Phoeba poured lemon tea and Lilith asked, ‘What was it about?'

‘A position at Overton.'

‘Such a perfect way to start the new year,' said Maude, clapping her hands.

‘Well, Had,' chirped Lilith, ‘you can't have got the manager's position. Mrs Flynn told us they'd employed a stranger, didn't she, Phoeba?'

The smile slid from Hadley's face. Lilith was pretty with her dark curls and bright eyes but she was bold and she liked spoiling things. She shortened his name to Had and always sat right in the middle of the wicker lounge, taking it all for herself. Phoeba was different. Her eyes were just a little too close together and her chin strong for a girl, but she made the most of her good posture. She was sturdy, sober and direct. You always knew where you stood with Phoeba Crupp, thought Hadley, and, unlike Lilith, she didn't stamp her feet to get her point across. He stood up and moved to the veranda rail, his new boots squeaking.

Robert folded his newspaper. ‘Righto then Hadley, thanks for dropping in—'

‘I'm not going,' he spluttered.

‘Hadley has news, don't you Hadley?' said Phoeba and winked at him.

‘Yes,' he said, his chin rising. He placed his left hand, soft from working wool, carefully along the balustrade and looked at Phoeba. Then he cleared his throat and said proudly, ‘I have a position wool classing at Overton.'

‘Hooraaayyyy,' cried Phoeba, leaping up and throwing her arms around him. His face went red and his glasses tumbled from his nose but he was clearly enjoying the embrace.

She let go of him. ‘Hadley, you deserve that job,' she said and poured him a cup of tea.

‘A very good start to your career,' said Maude, tugging her boisterous elder daughter's skirt. ‘Sit down and behave,' she hissed.

‘It's just for the season,' said Hadley, sitting back on the couch. ‘I met the new manager—'

‘Really? Does he have a wife?' asked Maude.

‘You'd think Marius would be the manager,' said Lilith.

‘Marius is a dilettante,' mumbled Robert from behind his newspaper whose page read, WOOL PRICES SLUMP FURTHER.

‘It must have been very distracting for him to lose his wife,' said Maude. ‘Such a tragedy.' And they all looked out to the bay and thought about Marius Overton's young wife, dead after twenty-seven hours of labour, the baby gone with her.

‘Still,' said Hadley, wanting to get back to his happy news, ‘it is the new year tomorrow.'

‘Here's to the new year,' said Phoeba, toasting with her tea.

‘Hear, hear,' they said.

Then Maude brought the conversation back to marriage.

‘A man of Marius's position will find a new wife. Someone will catch him. Marriage is natural, the right thing, especially for women, don't you agree, Hadley?' She flapped her jabot to fan her hot cheeks.

‘Yes.'

‘So do I,' said Lilith, emphatically.

Robert rustled his newspaper.

‘Tell us about your new job,' said Phoeba trying to redirect the conversation again.

Hadley rubbed his knees with his hands: ‘There are still sixty thousand to shear even though it's been very dry. They're mostly merinos – Tasmanian stock – Bellevue. A good sheep with a solid frame and the wool's from the Saxon lineage.' He kept rubbing. It was nerves. He'd done that for as long as she could remember.

‘And I'll be able to put my wages into Elm Grove,' he said, brightly.

‘Yes,' she said.

‘My father's sheep have cleaner-than-average, first-class fleeces, you know. I'll shear three inches of fine, bright wool and it'll weigh at least twelve pounds per head, or more. They're beautiful sheep.'

‘They are,' said Phoeba. Hadley felt about his sheep the way she felt about Spot. There was a silence then; Hadley seemed to have run out of plans.

‘Very well, then,' said Maude at last, and stood up. Then Lilith stood up, then Robert and they all filed into the darkness of the house. Phoeba was left with the warm breeze, her lemon tea and Hadley's description of his meeting with Rudolph Steel – although he didn't mention how brief it was or that it took place in the front hall.

‘His first name is Rudolph?'

‘It is, but his surname's the worry – Mr
Steal
. A bad name for a banker.'

He launched into a lecture on the economy, the recession, the future of the wool industry and the power of ‘white gold' to carry the nation, but Phoeba interrupted, irritated: ‘I do read the newspapers.' As if Hadley, of all people, didn't know – right now she wanted to get her chooks to their roost before the sun went down and get cracking with tea so she could finish off
The Age
before bed.

She picked up his bag. The eggs had all broken and strands of yolk dripped from the strings. ‘You'd better get going, Hadley. Your mother and Henri will be beside themselves with anticipation.'

Reaching for his kitbag, he walked towards the dam, Phoeba following with his hamper of eggs and butter. Behind them, Maude and Lilith watched from the parlour window, Robert hovering nearby with his hands behind his back and his pipe in his mouth.