Trust Me (60 page)

And so Dulcie wrote to a problem page in a women’s magazine, asking for their advice. Even if she’d been able to get over her embarrassment at talking about such an intimate subject with someone she knew, she felt she couldn’t admit such things to anyone who also knew Ross. So she poured it all out in a letter and enclosed a stamped addressed envelope for a personal reply.

The harvest, her birthday, Christmas, the new year of 1961 and their first wedding anniversary on 8 January passed before the reply came. Bruce came in with the post while Dulcie was doing some ironing. ‘Have we resorted to writing letters to ourselves now?’ he joked as he handed her the envelope addressed by herself.

‘I wrote to a magazine in Sydney,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘I hoped they might be able to help me find out where May is.’

She felt ashamed of telling him a lie, and it shocked her she could think one up so fast. Perhaps she getting more like May.

Bruce laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘She’ll get in touch when she’s ready,’ he said. ‘The truth of the matter is that she’s probably having such a bloody good time she’s forgotten her big sister will be worried.’

‘But it’s a whole year now,’ Dulcie said, glad to unburden this anxiety, if not her main one.

‘A year goes past very quickly when you’re having fun. You and Ross should get out and enjoy yourselves more. I’ve just been talking to him, he’s almost ready to put the roof on. I think we ought to throw a roof-raising party like we used to do in the old days.’

Dulcie smiled. ‘That sounds good. Do we have it in the house?’

Bruce chuckled. ‘No, of course not. We have a picnic or a barbecue, all the men help put the roof on, the women sit about and chat. Once it’s done we all celebrate with drinking and dancing.’

‘That would be fun,’ she said with enthusiasm, thinking of how many of Bruce and Betty’s old friends she could invite.

‘I’d better get going,’ Bruce said, leaving her letter on the ironing board. ‘We’ll talk about it over supper tonight, and get a list of guests together.’

The minute Bruce went out, Dulcie snatched up the letter and took it into the bathroom in case anyone came in while she was reading it. She perched on the lavatory and pulled out the letter.

Dear Mrs Rawlings
, she read.
Thank you for your letter, I’m sorry I have taken so long to reply. It must be very distressing that you have been unable to consummate your marriage, but far more so for your husband. You say he is driven by work, and I would say this is caused purely by what he perceives to be his sexual failure.

My advice to you is to just be patient and loving. Never belittle or nag him, and let him feel the constancy of your love for him. When he does appear to wish for some kind of lovemaking, make no demands on him, just accept what he offers and don’t question him if he is unable to complete the act. You said that he lost his erection when you touched it. It may be that you were too rough, or hasty. It is quite usual for men to dislike women taking the dominant role. As for him refusing to talk about all of this, I am surprised you imagine other men could! By asking him to speak of it you are giving him the message that you find him disappointing, and therefore he is even less likely to try again for fear of further failure.

You have only been married a year, and it seems to me you have been blessed in other directions in that your husband is hardworking and kind to you. Be patient, show him how much you love him, allow yourself to cuddle up to him without any expectations, and I am sure in time his problem will disappear.

I hope my advice is helpful,

Yours sincerely, Aunt Angela

Dulcie read the letter through several times, then tore it into pieces and flushed it down the lavatory. She was very disappointed, and she knew without being an expert that all Aunt Angela had done was make her feel even more guilty and responsible than she did before. She sat there for some little time thinking about it. She was patient and loving, she never belittled Ross or nagged him, but whatever this woman said, she didn’t feel she could keep it up indefinitely.

Surely she had a right to be happy? To have children, and to look to the future with optimism?

‘I should never have married him,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Now I’m trapped because he’s building that house and I’ll have to stay for ever.’

But you love him,
a little voice in her head reminded her.
There must be some reason why he’s the way he is.

‘What did the magazine suggest about finding May?’ Bruce asked at supper.

Dulcie gulped. She had forgotten about that. ‘Um, nothing much,’ she said, searching desperately for something sensible to say. ‘They said I could try putting an advert in the Sydney paper asking her to come forward,’ she added hastily.

‘Why don’t you try it?’ Ross asked, putting one hand over hers. ‘I hate to see you so worried about her.’

‘I doubt May ever read a newspaper in her life,’ John said. ‘But someone else might write and tell you where she is.’

‘Perhaps I’ll try it then,’ Dulcie said. ‘Now, what about this roof-raising party? Are we going to organize something?’

Dulcie came out of the house carrying two large pitchers of orange squash and smiled at the scene in front of her. Around fifteen couples and their children were scattered around the front garden. The older ladies were sitting on chairs under the shade of the tree, plates of sandwiches, flans and cake on their laps, the younger ones in groups on the grass, the men gathered around another tree by the side of the track up to the house where they had set up the beer on a table. Children were scooting around everywhere and a couple of prams holding babies were being rocked by their mothers as they chatted. Everyone looked very happy to be there.

‘This chicken is beaut!’ old Mrs Scarsdale, a close friend of Betty’s, called out to Dulcie, waving a drumstick in her hand. ‘I’d say it’s as good as Betty used to make.’

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Scarsdale,’ Dulcie said as she went over to top up empty glasses for the children and the women who weren’t drinking beer. ‘I wish she was here today with us, she loved parties.’

The roof had been put on the house over three hours ago, amidst much laughter from the women and subdued cursing from the men. It was a tin one, as almost all roofs were here, and once it was on and secured, everyone had cheered, toasts had been made, then Ross picked Dulcie up in his arms and carried her inside. ‘Well, Mrs Rawlings?’ he joked. ‘Does it meet with your approval?’

It wasn’t anywhere near finished inside of course. The windows had to go in, the walls had to be plastered, but the floor was in, and the veranda outside, and at last it was beginning to look like a real house rather than a pen for animals.

There were two bedrooms, a bathroom and a large living-room, with the kitchen opening off from it. The windows in the living-room went right down to the floor just as Ross had said, so they could sit and watch the kangaroos at night.

‘It’s almost perfect, Mr Rawlings,’ she said, kissing him on the lips. ‘So just go on to perfect it, and make it snappy!’

‘Great tucker, Dulcie!’ Steve, a stockman from a neighbouring farm, called out. ‘If Ross ever gets tired of you I’ll take you on, cooks like you are hard to find.’

Dulcie laughed. She’d had so many compliments like that today, and ones from men who said how pretty she was. She was wearing the dress May had insisted she bought in Perth, with the net petticoat underneath, and she had put her hair up the way May used to do hers. It was lovely to be the centre of attention for once.

Bruce was sitting with the older ladies and she went to ask him if he wanted another beer. It was good to see him looking happy again, and Betty’s old friends were all making a fuss of him. ‘I’ll just have some of that squash,’ he said. ‘You know when you’re getting old when you can’t hold the beer any more.’

‘Old age brings its own rewards,’ she teased him. ‘At least you get a seat in the shade and don’t have to stand about with all the younger men boasting about your car or your dog.’

Bruce beckoned to her to come closer. ‘Have you talked to the English bloke yet?’

‘Yes, he’s nice,’ Dulcie replied. ‘He and his wife were very touched we invited them because they don’t know many people.’

Doreen and Mike Perkins and their children were one of the many new families to the area. Dulcie had met Doreen in the shop in town, and when she heard her English accent she stopped to talk and introduce herself. Doreen and Mike had only been in Australia two years, and they’d bought a farm up at Gibson.

‘He’s a damn fool,’ Bruce whispered. ‘Talking about putting a swimming-pool in.’

Dulcie laughed, she had heard Mike talking about it to the other men, but they’d soon put him straight that water around here couldn’t be wasted on something so frivolous. Yet she sympathized with the man, it was so hot in the summer, and it took English people a long time to really value water. Just thinking that reminded her she no longer thought of herself as English. Doreen and Mike had been surprised to discover that she was, she sounded and acted so Australian.

‘Maybe the swimming-pools will come when the planes do,’ she teased Bruce, and playfully tipped his cotton hat right over his eyes. ‘Or maybe hell will freeze over first!’

‘You look and sound happier today,’ he said suddenly. ‘Is that because the house is nearly ready? Or just because you’ve got some company?’

‘Both, I expect,’ she said lightly.

‘You make sure you arrange to meet some of these young wives again,’ he said, looking sharply at her. ‘The house alone won’t give you what you need.’

She wondered how much he’d picked up about her and Ross. A man as astute as Bruce who had had such a long and loving marriage wasn’t likely to be fooled for long. But she was saved from making any further comment because one of the babies in a pram started to cry. It was Doreen’s youngest, born here in Esperance, and knowing Doreen had gone into the house with another child to use the bathroom, Dulcie went to the pram and picked the baby up.

She had never held a small baby before, not since May was tiny anyway, yet she instinctively supported its tiny head and laid it gently against her shoulder, patting its back soothingly. ‘There, there, Mummy will be back soon.’

Dulcie had no idea if it was what she said that triggered her tears, a reminder of her own mother, or the desire for a baby of her own. But all at once she was crying and she couldn’t stop.

Bruce got out of his seat and came to her. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed, trying to hide her face against the baby’s back.

‘Come inside with me,’ he said, and taking her elbow he led her away. Doreen was just coming out as they got to the door. She was a small, plump woman with short dark hair and kind eyes. ‘Has she been playing up?’ she asked, then seeing Dulcie’s tears, she moved closer. ‘Shall I take her, or was it her made you cry?’

Dulcie nodded. ‘She’s so beautiful. It’s so good to hold her.’

Bruce was just standing there saying nothing, but taking the scene in. ‘Can she borrow her for a bit?’ he asked Doreen.

‘By all means,’ she said. ‘But call me if she starts yelling.’

‘Come in my room,’ Bruce said once they were indoors. ‘We can talk privately there.’

Dulcie sat down on the chair by the window, and she remembered how often she’d sat right here when Betty was ill. She’d learnt so much in this room, not just about Betty’s life, but herself too. She’d put away the sadness of her childhood, grown into an adult as she bathed and cared for her friend. She thought the self-esteem she found within these walls would stay with her for ever, but she knew it was crumbling now.

‘I’ve seen that look on Betty’s face so often when she held a baby,’ Bruce said as he closed the door. ‘But you are young, Dulcie, you can have one of your own. So I can only think you are crying because you don’t believe that.’

Dulcie lowered the baby girl to her knees and held the two tiny hands in her own, looking down at the sweet little face with its rosebud mouth and button nose.

‘I suppose so,’ she said reluctantly.

‘You’ve only been married a year,’ Bruce said, sitting down on his bed and looking at her. ‘Now, I know I’ve no right to pry, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but I’ve known for a long time there was something badly wrong between you and Ross, and you might feel better if you confide in me.’

Dulcie glanced up at him. He was so big, he made her think of a saggy, baggy, well-loved old teddy bear sometimes – the way his stomach crept over his belt, the bags under his eyes and the brown liver spots on his hands and face. All so dear and familiar, and such a wealth of understanding in his fading blue eyes. She enjoyed so much looking at old pictures of him when he was young and handsome, dashing astride a horse, wearing long boots and a slouch hat. The ones of him in uniform showed a man who would have died cheerfully for the country he loved. He had done so much, seen so much, he’d taken tragedy and poverty in his stride and worked his way through them. She knew that whatever she told him today would go no further than these four walls. She felt too that he’d understand both her and Ross.

‘I want to, Bruce,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s not easy to talk to a man about things like this.’

‘I was married a very long time,’ he said gently. ‘Betty and I shared everything, I’m sure you could have confided in her if she was still with us, so pretend I’m her, and maybe that will make it easier.’

‘We can’t have a baby,’ she blurted out. ‘Because we don’t do it.’ She blushed furiously, bending her face over the baby.

‘Is it you who doesn’t want to, or Ross?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he’s not a poofter,’ she said quickly. ‘He just can’t.’