The Quilt (3 page)

Leslie sat up stiffly.

“I have told you the cottage is far too small for us.”

Paul sighed and rubbed his gritty eyes with the back of his hands. 
Couldn’t she be grateful for what he was giving her?

“
It is all I can provide at least in the short term.” 

He pushed the chair back and stood up before speaking.

“If you need help with organizing the wedding, Jean has offered her time and I am sure both Angela and your parents would be happy to be involved.”

Paul turned away and walked
out before he could be drawn into another argument.

The heat was oppressive. Paul stood uncomfortably in the tiny local church pulling at his tie self-consciously.  His unruly hair had been cut to reluctant submission, his normally mud-covered boots replaced by polished formal shoes, his normal singlet replaced by a formal white shirt and he was choking under a soft blue tie. He looked incredibly handsome but far from relaxed in his expensive, well-cut suit.  His eyes were as hard as flint and his mouth was set in a tense grim line.

The church was packed with eager locals
crammed into the pews.  Any event was exciting in a small community.  It was an opportunity to break routines, dress up, and catch up with neighbours who in an area comprising huge blocks of land were often separated by miles.

This particular wedding was made e
ven more exciting because it involved one of the districts most eligible bachelors. Jean and Sean Clarke’s son would be settling down in the King Country as had the generations before him.

Jean was
considered a pillar of the community.  She helped out with the old folk delivering meals and baked cakes to fundraise for the local school. She often organized the kitchens to feed the transient shearing gangs that moved from property to property when high country farms required additional help with their huge flocks of sheep.

Today she sat silently o
n the uncomfortable wooden seat letting the hum of conversation flow over her.   Her expression was stony.  Her eyes were focused on the ornate stained glass window above Paul’s head. 

Music stilled the chatter and the silence of anticipation fell over the small church.  Paul swallowed hard. What the hell am I doing here? A strong feeling of impending doom weighed down on his shoulders, so strong that it had set his hands into a steady and unfamiliar shake.   The music started again and Leslie, stunning and faultless in a fitting white gown adorned with lace, made her way slowly down the long aisle.  Paul glanced at the gorgeous blonde face and fought to return her smile.  This was her moment but all he could feel was empty.  He locked his hands firmly together in an effort to quiet his nerves.

The service droned on and Paul felt his co
ncentration wandering.  He imagined himself as a spectator, emotionally removed from the occasion.  His hands instantly steadied.  He ran his eyes down the line of bridesmaids.  They stood, serenely clutching extravagant cascades of pink and white flowers that appeared to blend into the vulgar coral of their flowing gowns.  Who chose that colour?  Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the details.  It drained the life out of the bland faces of the girls.  Angela met and held Pauls eyes, she studied his face and her eyes narrowed.  “Pay attention.  Don’t you dare stuff things up.”   He looked back “fuck off Angela.”

His gaze travelled to Jean and Sean Clarke.  They sat
stiffly in the front row.  His mother focused on a point somewhere above his head.  Her face looked drawn and tired.  His father met his eyes briefly before looking down at his calloused, sun-browned hands.  Two months ago they had looked younger as they watched Paul receive his graduation with honours certificate.  That same day he had written to decline the offer of a place in the Veterinary course.

The monotone stopped and the old man standing in front of him made an exaggerated noise to clear his throat. 

“Will you repeat after me?”

Paul locked his hands together firmly.  He focused on a point above Leslie’s
baby blue eyes and mumbled his vows without feeling any emotion at all. 

“Well?”

Leslie
sat on the edge of a large, soft bed in the Shearers Cottage.  She had struggled out of the endless folds of her wedding gown cursing at the tight confines of the corset-like restraint that had bound her waist.  Damn uncomfortable dress had left a deep impression on her skin.  She positioned herself to the best advantage.  She moistened her lips, stretched her long legs in front of her and slightly tilted her head.  What the hell was he looking at? 

“What do you mean
by well?” 

Paul rubbed at his
eyes.  The wedding had been an ordeal and he had only just managed to maintain composure throughout the day.  It had left him drained.  Surely she realized their marriage was not one of choice?

“Honeymoon? 
What couples do after they are married. I expected to be whisked away to somewhere romantic,” Leslie giggled, turning the diamond ring around on her elegant finger.

“
I can’t just leave the farm at this time of the year.”

“Sheep
, Paul, bloody sheep.  I am now Mrs Paul Clarke and I should be your first priority.”

Paul glanced at the long curved legs, the soft blonde waves running over slim delicate shoulders and the full red lips.  A wave of nausea passed through him.

“I need to move some of the stock.”

H
e turned and walked away.

Jean sat at the long oak table.  In front of her a strong cup of tea had been left to go cold.  She heard the farm bike being kicked into life and parted the curtains to watch it retreat into the darkness.  Paul was heading up to the ridge again.  A few minutes later the silhouette of a small dog appeared.  The animal began to follow the distant light but then stopped and turned around before slinking towards the figure standing stiffly in the open doorway of the cottage.  A startled yelp of pain carried to Jean followed by the abrupt noise of the wooden door slamming.  She watched the small dog limp pitifully back towards her kennel.  Damn Leslie. Damn Shearers Cottage, nothing good would come of either of them.

Shearers Cottage was a tiny weathered pioneer’s home set close to the edge of a slow running, rocky-bottomed river that snaked through much of the property. It provided fat rainbow trout for anyone keen enough to cast a fly into its waters.  The Cottage was over one hundred years old and had been occupied when the Station was first fenced for stock by Paul’s grandfather, Allan, his brother James and their parents Charles and Mary Clarke. 

Sean and Paul had freshly painted the walls
a pale soft cream, laid new green carpet and pretty drapes with a bamboo pattern running down their length.  They had purchased a small, forest green settee and two matching rockers that filled most of the tiny lounge and were positioned close to the pot belly that took pride of place in the corner.    The men had replaced the rotted timbers on the veranda and Jean had found some large terracotta pots and planted them with pretty petunias in preparation for Leslie’s arrival. 

It was three o’clock in the morning.
  A gentle breeze struggled to cool the damp summer heat.  Leslie sat on the settee, a small trail of saliva running from the edge of her mouth.  In front of her the last few drops of champagne ran across the coffee table before dripping slowly on to the new green carpet.  On the cream wall a trail of red wine left a long stain before it also pooled on to the floor.  Shards from her glass lay in jagged piles at the foot of the stain.  How dare he treat her like this?  How dare he not come home on their wedding night?  Leslie’s head slowly fell forward as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

Life on a farm settles into a seasonal rhythm.  Lambing the previous year had been a disaster with unseasonal and early falls of snow claiming many newborn.  This year was milder and drier.  Despite the kind weather, Paul spent long hours working, both by necessity and by choice.  Ewes had to be checked at regular intervals and although they were now grazing closer to the house, the lambing beat was a strenuous and demanding time.

Through years of
selective breeding the Clarke family could boast some of the best Romney ewes available.  Sheep suited to the King Country conditions and selected for their hardy disposition.  However, they still were found cast regularly and they still required help if a lamb was not presented properly at birth.  The Clarke’s flock consistently produced some of the highest lambing percentages in the district but to maintain this required long, tedious hours to insure no more lambs were lost than was necessary.

A month after the wedding and Paul sat broodily at the large oak dining table in the main house.

“Paul can you please carve the roast
?” 

He was so deep in thought his mother had to repeat the question.

“Paul,” she raised her voice and her brow knotted with concern.

“Are you listening
?  Please can you carve the roast?”

“Sorry, I was drifting off.  I’ve been busy and the late nights are catching up
,” he smiled sheepishly.

“You can say that again
,” snapped Leslie. 

She
received a sharp look from her mother-in-law.

Jean walked to the fridge and took out a bottle of crisp white wine.

“Yes, please if you wouldn’t mind,” Leslie smiled.

Paul saw his mother tense immediately.

“I really do not think drinking is advisable when you are pregnant, Leslie.  Especially in these early stages”

“One glass is hardly going to do any harm
,” Leslie persisted.

Sean
glanced quickly at Jean.  She had hesitated, her face set in a fierce frown.  She was about to turn on Leslie.  He quickly changed the subject. 

“How is the work going up at
James Ridge?”

Paul tensed and looked at his father with questioning eyes. 
James Ridge was an almost vertical rock face that ran along the back boundary of the farm.  For years there had been no construction work or machinery in that area. 

Most people felt ill at ease when they visited
James Ridge but strangely Paul frequented it when he needed time to think and it always seemed to provide a soothing and restful haven.  He could never explain why a site that had been the location of nothing but pain and tragedy could make him feel comforted. Riding up there had become part of his daily routine; a routine he thought had gone unnoticed.

“The work is going fine
.” He looked at his father and met an intense questioning stare.

“I saw you had started a garden
, Leslie,” Jean struggled to find a positive subject and defuse the tension.

Leslie
turned her anger towards Paul.

“Yes
, I started to plant a vegetable garden for the house.  But...”

S
he hesitated to emphasize her annoyance before continuing.

“But
, the possums and rabbits ate everything I had planted on the first night.”

Sean laughed
.

“Unfortunately
, it is not always easy in the country.  Perhaps we could take the spotlight and do a night shoot?”

“It is a little late now, the garden is ruined and already full of we
eds.  Anyway my husband is never home at night.” She sniffed and slumped down sulkily in her chair.

The family fell sil
ent.  Jean watched her daughter-in-law picking at her meal.  Something was not right.

Later that evening Jean looked up from the tiny mittens she was knitting.

“This
is not a suitable environment to bring an innocent child into.”  She put down the needles and placed her hands on the cold cup of tea sitting on the table.

“Keep out of their business Jean
.” Sean shook his head.  There wasn’t much he could say to make his wife feel better about the obvious tension and the growing rift between the young couple. 

The rain had started.  The parched soil was transformed to a sea of green and the scent of pine filled the air.  Paul pulled off his boots and shook the droplets of moisture from his hair.  He took a few more minutes than was necessary before opening the door to the cottage.  The stale smell of damp greeted him.

“Why would you paint the interior this colour? I hate it and I hate the settee and the drapes
.”

“
At least let me dry off before you start! Something had to be done to make the Cottage suitable for us to live in.  Jean chose the colour, she was sure it would be restful and make the lounge look bigger.”

“I should have been consulted
.”

“Yes
, I agree, and normally you would have been.  But at the time you were busy making the plans for the wedding.  You were also newly pregnant and didn’t need another stress to cope with.  It had to be done.  There was no point in leaving it until we were due to shift in and having you inhaling paint fumes in your condition.”