The Best of Fiona Kidman's Short Stories (25 page)

Another day she is out staking the sunflowers. The kittens roll and bite at her ankles. Three of the five kittens are ginger like their mother, like small sunflowers themselves, plump, yellow and everywhere. A prolific time. She feels a slight ache in the small of her back and suddenly it occurs to her that she hasn't menstruated for nearly two months. Slowly she straightens up, and the bright sunny day has a cool dark tunnel in it directly in front of her eyes.

She shrugs. It is nothing. Shock. Change. Harder work than usual. But deep inside she knows that the greatest shock is that it hasn't come. The ache in her back is reassuring, though. It means it won't be long and soon she'll be back to normal.

Only nothing happens. Or not to her. The plums ripen and fall from the tree. This year she leaves them bruised and rotting on the ground, and her body is unchanged. And nothing happens as the season turns and the hay is ready. So this is growing old, she says to herself, full of curious sad wonder.

She makes a point of seeing Harry at the shed. He has bought himself a small ute, and she has a slight pang when she first sees it, realising that he must have savings of his own, that he had prepared for an independent life
while he still lived with her. Or perhaps it had been for them both, when they were free? But she has sent him away and now she cannot ask. Strictly speaking, she supposes she owes him something more from the farm, after fifteen years on it. But what? The first businesslike moves had seemed rational and sensible enough, now she is confused as to what she should do. She mentions the haymaking to him in a tentative way.

‘It's fixed,' he says.

‘What do you mean, fixed?'

‘We always had the Rowse gang come in. They asked me the other day'

‘Asked you?'

He looks at her sideways. ‘I'm sorry,' he says after a while. ‘If you'd rather get someone else I'll tell them.'

‘No, of course not. Who would I get? They've always been fine. It's just …' She turns away.

‘They'll come next week,' he says, and gets on with the cleaning out.

That evening she picks a bowl of raspberries, cool and slightly sour, and sits on the verandah eating them with cream. The night draws in and she sees what looks like a flying saucer in the pale dark but it is an aeroplane far above, the reflection of its lights caught on a wisp of cloud. She has never been on an aeroplane and wonders what it would be like. Perhaps she will sell the farm and go away on aeroplanes? She does not know where she would go.

The night before the grass is to be cut for hay, Nora goes down late, after Harry has finished the milking, to see that all is well for the morning. Or that is what she tells herself, for there is nothing to be done, except that which Harry has undertaken already. The main paddock lies by the river bank and tall trees grow at its edge. In the morning the machines will sweep through, leaving the grass rank upon stubble and smelling as sharp as cider. Often when she was younger she had lain on the riverbank the night before the haymaking to get the last sweet scent of the grass before it fell. But it has been fifteen years now since she did that and the last time had been the first that she wasn't on her own, when she had had a lover to share the grass and the river and the evening with her. The night before the accident.

She drops on to her knees and falls forward into the grass, lies there. At first she feels foolish and pulls the grey cardigan tightly about her even though the evening is still and warm. But the earth is familiar beneath her and her body fits where she lies.

‘I thought I'd find you here,' he says above her and she knows that it can only be Harry, though her arms muffle her ears. She starts scrambling to her feet but he pushes her back to the ground. A small scream rises in her throat and her eyes widen with fear.

‘… to tell you, don't struggle, I won't hurt you, don't run away from me …'

She understands then that he means her no harm, although the thought may have passed through his mind, but more from anger than lust.

They sit apart and she is afraid he will go away without saying what is on his mind.

She cannot contain her curiosity any longer. ‘What did you come to tell me?'

He turns the grass beneath his hand, this way and that. ‘Well. If you aren't in too great a hurry, I could perhaps learn to be a married man.'

He waits and she says nothing. She thinks of the aeroplane that flew over the farm last week. There are so many alternatives, so many things that one might do, if you only knew how to go about it.

‘You could think about it anyway,' he says. He takes the old worn ring out of his pocket and holds it in the palm of his hand. Nora reaches out and touches it, to feel its shape for the last time. He digs a little hole between the blades of grass.

‘I'll help you,' she says, and they scrabble together at the soil. They bury the ring in the cool earth knowing that tomorrow the place will be covered over and impossible for them to find.

L
IKE TURNING YOUR HAND OVER
, things could go either way with the weather. Six a.m. and the bay is turbulent and green, but at that hour of the morning anything can happen. Standing at the window, just listening, the whole house is a heartbeat. Looking at the bay, the water, the clouds. I think I can hear the busy clink and chatter of the rigging on the boats parked on the hard at the bay, but that can't be right, it's too far away. Oh you can hear anything, see anything on a morning like this, it's the day of the wedding. Our son's getting married.

There is a stirring in the back rooms; there is so much to do, I will never get done, it's crazy this, but the wedding's to be here, not at her place but mine. I am speaking now of the bride's mother and myself. Well, it's a long story, how the wedding comes to be here instead of there, but that's the way it is. She's bringing the food later in the morning, and there'll be crayfish and scallops like nobody ever had at their wedding before, and mussels of course. They are mussel farmers from the Sounds. They. Well I mean the bride's parents.

I love our daughter-in-law to be, I really do. You might think I don't mean that, mothers-in-law rarely do, but its true. She's a good person. She's loyal. She's had to put up with a few things. Our son's on a win. I want to see him married.

Perhaps they know that. There are times when I think they haven't been so keen. Perhaps they think she could have done better. I don't know. It hasn't been easy, getting this wedding together. But if you knew him, our son, you'd know she wouldn't settle for anyone else. Anyone
less.
Now there's a mother talking, but I've fallen for it, that same old charm of his, and I'll go on forever, I guess. He puts his arms around me, and says, ‘Love ya, Ma,' and I'd forgive him anything.

It's true. He brings out a softness in me. That, and rage. But the anger never lasts for long.

There is no time to go on reflecting about it this morning though. There's the smell of baked meats in the air, I need to open up the house and blow it through, I've got the food warmer to collect from the hire depot, and the tablecloths aren't ready, and I have to set up a place for the presents, and there's his mother, that's my husband's, to be got up, and there's relatives to be greeted, and oh God I am so tired. Why didn't anyone tell me I'd be so tired on our son's wedding day, it doesn't seem fair, because I want to enjoy it. Oh by that I mean, I want it all to be right, of course, and I want to do it graciously. We've been at each other a bit over this wedding. Them and us. But I want to make sure it goes all right today. They're bringing the food and the flagons of beer; we're providing the waiters and waitresses in starched uniforms, and the champagne. You have to cater for everyone at a wedding.

Eleven a.m. The food hasn't come. The flagons haven't come. She hasn't come. That's the bride's mother. The wedding is at two. I am striding around the house. The furniture is minimal. We've cleared everything back. There's hardly going to be standing room. That's if there ever is a wedding. There is nothing more I can do. Nothing and everything. If only we had another day. It would be better if we had held off another month. The weather would have been better. Not that it's bad but the breeze is cold. It'll be draughty in the church.

The church, ah, the church. It looks so beautiful. The flowers. They are just amazing. Carnations and irises, low bowls of stocks … there are the cars now, all the relatives bearing trays and pots and dishes, straggling up the stairs. The food looks wonderful. God, those crays, there're dozens of them. I'm glad they've done the food, I could never have done it so well. And the cake. Our daughter-in-law-to-be's auntie has made the cake and it's perfect too.

Everyone's exhausted, it's not just me, they've been up all night. Still, I wish they could have got here a bit sooner and we all have to get dressed yet. It's cutting things fine. I feel faint, even a little nauseous, as if lights are switching on and off inside my brain. She can't be as tired as I am, nobody could be that tired. How am I going to make it through the rest of the day?

‘I'd better be getting along,' says the auntie to the bride's mother. ‘I've still got to finish off your hat.' The aunt has a knack with things, clothes and cakes, she's the indispensable sort.

Inside me, something freezes. ‘Hat,' I say, foolishly, and in a loud voice. ‘You're wearing a hat?'

There is a silence in the kitchen.

‘Well, it's just a little hat,' she says.

‘You said you weren't going to wear a hat.' I hear my voice, without an
ounce of grace in it, and I don't seem to be able to stop it. There is ugliness in the air.

The auntie, her sister, says, ‘She needed a hat to finish off the outfit. It wouldn't look right without it.'

‘But we agreed,' I say. ‘You said you couldn't afford a hat, and I said, well if you're not wearing one, I won't.'

The silence extends around the kitchen. She fumbles a lettuce leaf, suddenly awkward at my bench.

‘It's all right,' I say, ‘it's nothing.' My face is covered with tears. I walk out, leaving them to finish whipping the cream.

‘Where are you going?' my husband says, following at my heels.

‘Out. Away.'

‘You can't go away.'

‘I have to. I'm not going to the wedding.'

‘No, stop, don't be silly.' He's really alarmed, I'm right on the edge, and he's right, I might go off at any moment and make things too awful for everyone to endure. At the rate I'm going there mightn't be any wedding.

‘Come into the shed,' he says, speaking softly, like a zoo-keeper talking down a wild animal. ‘Come on, it'll be all right. You're tired, just tired.'

I follow him. Inside the toolshed I start to cry properly. ‘I want a hat,' I say. ‘I wanted to wear a hat all along, but I promised her. I promised I wouldn't get a hat.'

‘I'll get you a hat. Come along, we'll go into town and buy you a hat.'

‘It's too late, the shops will be shut.'

‘We could just make it to James Smith's,' he says. But it is too late, I can see that. Even if we broke the speed limit I'd only have five minutes, it being Saturday. The shops are due to close in half an hour.

‘I can't go without a hat. What'll I do?'

‘You'll think of something,' he says. ‘You always do. Hey, we can do anything, can't we?' He pulls my fists out of my eyes. ‘What can we do? We can …' He waits for me to join in the refrain with him.

‘We can walk on water if we have to,' I chant.

But I'm not sure how I will.

Back in the kitchen everyone is tiptoeing around. ‘It looks wonderful,' I say heartily. ‘Just great. Don't you think you should be getting along. I mean, if you're going to get dressed?'

They nod. They are not deceived, but they are glad to be excused. They have been afraid to take their leave in my absence.

They are gone, and our son and his best man are dressed, preening in their three-piece suits. Oh they are so handsome. It calms me, just seeing
them. As for him, I want to stroke and stroke him. My boy. In a suit. Oh I'm square. When it all comes down to it. But he's proud of himself too.

‘Y'okay, Ma?'

He doesn't know what's been going on, but he sees I'm pale.

‘Of course I'm okay,' I say, and for his sake I must be. I must also have a hat.

I ring our daughter. ‘What about all those hats you bought when you were into hats?' I ask. I think of the op shops where she has collected feathered toques and funny little cloches. I have a feeling that none of them will suit me. She is so tall and elegant. ‘I think they're in the baby's toybox,' she says.

‘Have a look,' I command.

‘God, I've got to get dressed too.'

‘Have a look.'

I hold grimly on to the phone. She comes back. ‘There's three, the black one with three feathers, and the sort of burgundy one, and the beige one with the wide brim.'

‘That's it, the beige one. I'm sending Dad over for it right now.'

‘But Mum.'

‘It'll be all right. Well, look I can try it anyway.'

‘But Mum.' This time she gets it out. ‘The baby's been sick on it.'

‘How sick?'

‘Really sick.'

No one is going to put me off now. I think she is conspiring with the odds to stop me making a fool of myself. I won't let her save me, though. ‘Dad'll be right over,' I say.

But it's true. The baby has been very sick on the hat. I'm sure our daughter shouldn't have put it back in the toybox like that. I resolve to speak to her about it at some later date.

In the meantime there is work to be done. I fill the sink with hot soapy water and get out the scrubbing brush. In a few moments the sick has gone. I have a soggy felt hat dripping in my hands, but at least it is clean.

The husband and wife team, ‘available for cocktail, waitressing and barman duties in the privacy of your own home', has arrived. ‘Don't worry about a thing,' they say. ‘You just enjoy yourselves and we'll take care of everything from now on.'

In the clothes drier, the hat whirls around.

Our son has left for the church. Soon we'll have to go too. My husband is resplendent. He wears his father's watch chain across his waistcoat. His father was a guard on the railways, back in the old days. That watch has started a thousand trains on country railway stations. Sometimes I remonstrate with
my husband for wearing it; it doesn't always seem appropriate. Today it is exactly right. The spring in the watch has given up long ago, but the watch will start the wedding on time. Sooner or later.

My hands shake so much he has to do up the pearl buttons on my Georgia Brown silk. ‘It's time we were going,' he says tentatively. I know he's thinking about the hat, and wondering if he can get me away without it.

But it's dry. Dry, and softly drooping around the brim, so that it swoops low over my right eye when I put it on. I stare at myself in the mirror, entranced. I feel beautiful. I glow. I love hats. This hat is perfect.

Our son's wife-to-be is late, but then she usually is. Anyone is allowed one failing. I don't mind. It gives me time to relax, breathe deeply, smile and wave around the church. Across the aisle I see her, the mother of the bride. She is not wearing a hat.

Instinctively, I touch the brim of mine. I have shamed her into coming without her hat. I should feel jubilant but I don't. I feel bad, wonder how to take mine off without drawing attention to myself. But it's impossible. At the door to the church the priest has said, first thing when he sees me, ‘Oh what a beautiful hat.'

I look away, embarrassed. I tell myself I must not think about it. The wedding is about to happen, and we can't repeat it when I'm feeling better, so I've just got to stop thinking about it, the hat on my head.

And then they're there, coming into the church together, which is what's been arranged, and it's not quite the same old responses, because some of that wouldn't be suitable, but they say some nice things to each other, making promises to do things as well as they can, and they're so young, so very young, and that's all you can expect from anybody, to do their best, isn't it?

The couple are facing the congregation now. This really is very modern. Our daughter stands up at the lectern and reads from the Book of Ecclesiastes, and then some Keats,
O
brightest!
though
too
late
for
antique
vows,
and she's pale and self-contained and not showing signs of things turning over inside of her, and so lovely; she and the boy, her brother, look at each other, and it's as if they're the only ones in the church for a moment,
Holy
the
air,
the
water,
and
the
fire,
like a conversation just for the two of them, putting aside all their childish grievances, though a few people in the church who haven't done English Lit. look a trifle confused but it doesn't matter, these two know …
so
let
me
be
thy
choir
…
thy
voice,
thy
lute
…
and then our son and his new wife's baby cries at the back of the church where he's being held by the auntie, and the spell's broken, as the two parents look anxiously after their child. The wind rises in the funnel where the church stands, and a plane roars overhead, and the light shines through the stained-glass window on to the same spot
where my father's coffin stood last year, and with all the light and the sound I don't hear any more of the service, I just smile and smile.

It's over. We're forming up to leave. She and I look at each other across the church again. Suddenly it's all bustle and go, and what none of us have thought about is the way we get out of the church, but there it is, as old as the service itself, or so it seems, the rituals of teaming up, like finding your partner for a gavotte, step step step an arm offered and accepted she goes with my husband and I go with hers, that's the way it's done. Delicate, light as air, we prepare our entrance to the dance, to the music, but before we do, she and I afford each other one more look, one intimate glance. Hatted and hatless, that's us, blessed are the meek, it's all the same now. We're one, her and me. We're family.