The Farmer’s Wife

Soon Yazzie settled Ben and Archie outside with their drinks in a shaded, picture-perfect courtyard beside a fenced swimming pool, the dogs lying panting at their feet, waiting for the ball action to commence. Bec watched them sadly from behind the white wooden wall-to-ceiling bi-fold doors that made up one entire side of the kitchen.

Inside, after Bec had hastily sketched out her story, Yazzie ushered her to one end of the monumental table and they both sat staring at the now silent iPhone that lay between them. They eyed it with suspicion, as if the thing would come to life and jump up and bite them. It had already bitten Rebecca today, savagely.

‘Are you sure it was him on the video call? Could he have lent his phone to someone else today?’

‘I’m sure it was him. He accidentally called me too and the phone went to message bank. Listen.’

Yazzie’s eyes lit up. ‘No, don’t play it!’ But it was too late. The kitchen filled with the muffled moanings. Rebecca let the recording play longer and suddenly the voice of Charlie said, ‘You wanna play tennis? Do you? Huh?’ Then there were some scuffling sounds and a woman began to moan, ‘Oh yes. Oh, Charlie!’

‘Yuck! Turn it off!’ Yazzie said, grappling for the phone. They sat staring at it once more until she eventually spoke again. ‘Maybe he was just tossing off. You know, blokes do. They are, after all, most of them, just apes. Wankers, quite literally.’

‘Yuck. No. You heard. There was a woman there.’

‘Maybe they were actually playing tennis and it was a really hard game?’

Bec shot Yazzie a look.

‘Sorry.’ She passed Bec another tissue. ‘Did you see on the video call what she looked like?’

Bec shrugged and wiped her nose. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter who?’

‘What are you going to do?’

She hunched her shoulders up and down, then hung her head and devastation swamped her. Life as she knew it had just ended forever. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

Outside Sol Stanton pulled into the garage and collected a giant box of groceries from the back of his Kluger. He whistled to let the dogs know he was home, but already he could hear them barking from the other side of the house. There was a strange vehicle in the drive, and he wondered which local had dropped in with some trivial excuse for a sticky beak. Yazzie had often complained in her emails of the fine balance between building their dream and not offending ‘the natives’.

As he went to the back door, Sol almost dropped the box; he swore in Spanish, as was his habit. He was having trouble adjusting to the time zones. He’d woken far too early, his body clock still geared to the Northern Hemisphere, and now the day was dragging. He still had the seminar evening to get through tonight and badly needed a coffee.

He thought briefly of the trouble he’d left behind in Paris. The delicate lead violinist with her shocking English but sexy accent screaming at him and hurling a bunch of flowers. Her extreme Italian behaviour was a parody of itself and even though at the time Sol was laughing on the inside at the clichéd Mediterranean tantrum, he also could feel her pain. Not so much the pain of his leaving, and his going home to Australia, but the pain caused by his indifference to her.

He had bedded so many women like her. Ones he could be indifferent to. Ones who left his heart still closed off and hard like a stone. The European orchestra scene was far too abundant with women who were both beautiful and volatile. Maybe it was time to settle down? He decided there and then, as he leaned the box against the door and grappled for the doorknob, that he ought to go on the fidelity wagon for a time.

Settle back into a domestic existence. Just him and Yazzie. He was looking forward to at least six months in Australia if his workload would allow, mostly based at Bendoorin, working to get the racing stables up and running. It was just the thing he needed.

No more women, he vowed.

Sol at last swung the kitchen door open and walked in juggling the giant box of groceries. He stopped momentarily when he saw a pretty and curvaceous blonde woman at the table. He couldn’t stop his eyes running over her tight jeans and the slightly torn, checked blue cowgirl shirt that hugged her curves. Pearl press-stud buttons nearly popped at her breast line and her décolletage was tanned deeply. So different from the thin pale Italian girl he had recently bedded. There was something about her … Then he realised with a start that it was the same woman he’d met the night before.

In the light of the kitchen, even with Yazzie’s terrible spray tan blotching the woman’s skin and no makeup, she looked prettier than he’d remembered. One of those natural earthy types, he concluded. And such blue eyes! Eyes that had been crying. There was no vanity in her as she stared back at him. A contrast to his Parisian orchestra women, all dolled up, looking stunning, but with ice-cold agendas inside them. Ones who still tried to look attractive even when they cried. He knew the women played him for his wealth and connections ahead of his Spanish-born soul.

Sol realised as he looked at … Rebecca, that was her name … that she still held the same aura of sadness and uncertainty she’d carried with her the night before, only today the sadness seemed deeper. Maybe some teasing to cheer her? Sol thought.

‘I see you’re a little more clothed than last time I saw you,’ he said as he set the box down on the kitchen bench. ‘Get any business last night? How’s the hangover? As bad as the tan?’

‘Leave her alone, Sol,’ barked Yazzie.

He shrugged and began unpacking all the contents of the box onto the island bench.

‘What are you doing?’ Yazzie said, irritated. ‘Do you have to do that now, Sol, honey? We’re having a very important girls’ chat.’

He cast her a dark look with his intense brown eyes. ‘I’m sure it’s infinitely important. Earth shattering in fact.’ Sol steadily laid out flour, eggs, vanilla essence and an array of cookbooks.

‘Sol,’ Yazzie growled.

‘Shush!’ he said loudly so that Rebecca started, her nerves frayed. ‘I’m on a mission to make a “Man Cake” for the Home Industries section at the Bendoorin Show. I saw a poster at the store.’

‘You have got to be kidding,’ Yazzie said. ‘Spare me.’ She put her head in her hands.

‘The theme of the show is Prime Lamb, so my plan is to work in and around that theme,’ Sol said. ‘There is a comedian who promotes Aussie meat who will be judge of the cake competition. It’s the first of its kind.’ He waved his arms around as if conducting an orchestra.

Bec frowned, momentarily distracted from her plight with Charlie and slightly annoyed by the arrogant man who had burst into the room. No matter how good-looking he was or how endearing his Spanish accent, he still spoke to his wife far too haughtily — and was he serious about the cake cooking? How insensitive and rude! Couldn’t he see that she was distressed? Could he do nothing but think of himself and bang on about baking cakes? She concluded Yazzie was married to an arsehole, and all men — no matter what nationality — could be selfish and thick at the worst possible times.

‘You do know the show isn’t until October,’ Bec said coldly.

‘Yes, of course I know, but I want to perfect it now,’ he said with a theatrical sweep of his hand.

Yazzie let out a frustrated scream while Bec thought, what a pansy! A piccolo-playing pansy!

‘He’s always like this, Rebecca! Mr Pedantic Pants!’ Yazzie turned to him. ‘Just because you didn’t get your orchestra gig doesn’t mean you can slip back into being Mr Slack-arse-I-do-bugger-all around here other than bake cakes for shows. That’s bent! You’re bent! There’s a tonne of work to be done out there. Dad would be livid. Get out of my kitchen.’

‘Your kitchen? Shut up, Ms Vocal Velocity. I briefed the staff this morning before I left for town. You seem to forget I’m the one with the jetlag. You are the one with the hangover.’ He cast another dark gaze at her and Yazzie poked her tongue out at him like a child.

Rebecca shut her eyes, not wanting to witness the strain in other people’s relationships. Yazzie picked up on Bec’s discomfort and dropped her tone to one of gentleness. ‘Please be nice, Sol. Rebecca’s not had a good day.’

‘You make your bed, you lie in eet,’ he said, his accent thickening with his theatrics.

Rebecca knew Sol was referring to her hangover, but she felt a twinge of deep upset. She had made her bed. She had tried so very hard to create a life on the farm with Charlie. But nothing seemed to work. She had tried to be everything to everyone. A good daughter to her father as his body shut down with illness. A good daughter to her mother, even though she was always absent. A good mum to her boys, tending to their every need with as much grace as she could muster. A good wife to Charlie.

Even when the boys had been tiny babies, she had still summoned all her mental and physical strength to both work the farm and put a meal on the table. She had strived to be a good workman beside Charlie in the paddocks, despite the internal drag of depression within her. She had mixed memories of those times, some of them fond, some of them forlorn, of having to pull up in the paddock or the yard to breastfeed the baby or change a nappy or both, either on the seat of the ute or on a blanket that picked up thistles from the barren paddocks. Sometimes she felt strong and empowered like women of the ages who had worked in the fields, but other times she felt completely uncherished and used up.

There were days when all she wanted to do was fall to her knees and cry with exhaustion. She had been everything to everyone, but nothing to herself. And it had all come to nothing. Or at least not nothing. It had all come to a ten-second vision of Charlie humping into a bare and moaning woman via an iPhone. It was Rebecca who felt stripped bare. Punished as a witness.

At that moment bickering between the boys could be heard coming from the courtyard. Rebecca groaned and stood up.

‘Leave it to me,’ Yazzie said. ‘I’ll fix them. Now, Sol, please get out of the kitchen. I’m not used to having you in here, hulking about with icing sugar and food colouring. It’s just plain wrong. And take Rebecca with you. Give her a tour. Cheer her up for me.’

‘But the information night at the pub with Andrew is on soon,’ Sol protested, ‘and I’ve only just got in.’

Bec glanced at Sol. So he knew Andrew Travis? The fact startled her. They were so unalike. From different worlds.

‘There’s time,’ Yazzie said, glancing at the clock. ‘Rebecca can come with us. You were going, weren’t you, Bec?’

Bec shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I can. Not now —’

‘Rubbish,’ Yazzie interrupted. ‘I have a plan. After your tour, give me thirty minutes and I’ll transform you into a diva to die for. Charlie won’t know what’s hit him when he walks into the pub. If he’s cheating on you, then he deserves to be shown what he’s so carelessly destroying and throwing away.’

Rebecca glanced at Sol, who was still busy unpacking his ‘Man Cake’ ingredients, his dark eyebrows pulled down over his broody eyes in a frown. Should he also know all her business? ‘I really better get going,’ she said, trying to block any more involvement with the Stantons, regretting the fact she’d come here. ‘The information night starts at six-thirty and I have to get the boys’ dinner. It’s almost five now!’

‘Stay,’ Yazzie implored. ‘I insist.’

Bec looked at the other woman’s pleading blue eyes. She noticed they were not only filled with compassion but also, perhaps, a hint of loneliness. It was too late. She had a brand-new friend. Yazzie was now heavily involved in the grubby secrets of her life. And so too was Sol Stanton, whether she liked it or not.

‘Why go back to him right now? Give yourself some space and time for reflection. I’ll fix the kids something. After Sol’s shown you around, you can go have a soothing bath and then I’ll do your hair and makeup. I’ll pick out a dress for you to wear.’

‘A dress? To the pub? The Dingo Trapper?’

‘Yes! A dress. Oh, there’s strategy in what I do!’ Yazzie said. ‘We’ll show him. Beauty, if used correctly, is strength. And strong you shall be. Sol, don’t just stand there. Take her for a tour. Get her mind back to the place where it should be.’

Sol set down the packet of flour and looked at both women, unimpressed. Just when Bec thought he would refuse, he abruptly said, ‘OK. Follow me.’

As uninviting as his tone was, Rebecca followed in the wake of his expensive cologne.

‘You have a way of cheering up ladies, don’t you, Sol?’ Yazzie called after him in a voice that sounded a little too sarcastic for Rebecca’s liking. Not at all wanting a farm tour, but not knowing what else to do, she followed him meekly.

Ten

Sol ate up the distance of the long glass-faced hallway with his stride. He wore classic navy shorts, his legs fit and handsome with skin a delicious-looking milk-chocolate brown. He barely slowed for Rebecca, who had to jog to keep up with him, feeling pummelled by his tail wind. He flung open a door at the end of the wing and held it for her, letting her pass. But then he was off and racing again towards another stone courtyard, this one flanked by rows of beautifully crafted stables of deep red wood, made even more glorious by shining brass latches and hinges.

Giant wine barrels spilled with red and white geraniums, the Rivermont racing colours if the flag flapping in the wind was anything to go by.

At the centre of the yard was a stone horse trough that had a small bronze fountain at its heart. The sound of trickling water soothed the stable courtyard, giving it an aura of tranquillity and opulence. At the other end of the long line of stables, one man was unloading feed bags, another trudging a wheelbarrow filled with stable waste out a side gate and yet another was scraping water from the sides of a deep bay gelding in a washbay. A tiny pasty-faced girl, clearly a trackwork jockey, waved as she carried a saddle pad and disappeared into a stall.

Surprising Rebecca, Sol whistled low, then called out in a deep voice, ‘Hello, my beautifuls! Come talk to me!’

Over the tops of the stable doors came the heads of tall thoroughbreds, classy and glossy, their brown eyes bright with curiosity. Some shuddered out a welcoming whicker. Others flicked their ears in Sol’s direction, pawing at the doors and tossing their heads.

Rebecca was slightly amazed. This big-wig rich man, who had just barked at her and Yazzie, and behaved like a complete self-absorbed tosser, had the whole stable of horses under his spell. She could tell the horses were drawn to his deep cooing noises and giant peaceful presence. She watched as he tenderly rested his brow on the starred forehead of a black racer and lifted his hands to either side of the horse’s face. Just then, as if the gods had flicked a switch, the most beautiful sunset draped golden light across the jet-black hair of the man and the midnight sheen of the horse. Rebecca saw, roaming in the darkness of the horse’s coat, a silver light. She took in a hasty breath and goose bumps spread across her skin. She surprised herself by feeling so moved by this moment of tenderness as she watched the big handsome man communicating in silence with the giant horse.

She remembered the woman’s words in the shop, how thinking thoughts of positivity and gratitude and living in the moment would allow her life to transform. Suddenly she was grateful something had brought her here. Just this snapshot vision was enough to fill her with hope. Then there was the kindness of Yazzie to be grateful for.

For the first time Bec really understood the true richness of the gift of seeing how life could be.

Beauty and bliss were everywhere, if you knew how to look.

As she continued to feast on the visuals of Sol and the horse, she suddenly thought how the man before her would make a beautiful lover. Shocked, she stamped the brakes on her thoughts. Where did that come from? she wondered. Her cheeks flushed and she swallowed nervously.

Then Sol was off again, striding down the length of the stable doors. ‘We have thirty horses in,’ he said over his shoulder to Rebecca, who was still jogging to keep up, ‘and only five running at present until we get properly set up. The rest are just young stock we’ve picked up in our travels. Racing blood from America, Ireland and Japan. All a bit of a gamble, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

He walked up to a dark bay horse and laid his hand on its face. The horse dropped its head into the pressure of his hand, half closed its eyes and let out a contented sigh. Bec wondered if his hands on her body would prompt the same reaction.

‘This one here is our hope for the Melbourne Cup in a few years. We’ll see how we go, won’t we, Arthur, boy?’

But the warm stillness and slowness of Sol as he stood with the horses didn’t last. Without warning, his aloof, abrupt mood seemed to return. He spun about and was off again, quickly pointing out an enclosed sand roll, a high-fenced round yard for education of horses, the heated indoor horse swimming pool, and the tack room where not a bridle or a lead rope was hung out of place and every bit of metal on the gear threw bright reflections out to the world.

Before she could take it all in, Rebecca was ushered through the door of the staff room.

Around the table sat a collection of fresh-faced girls, an older man and an extremely good-looking young bloke. All of them were downing beers or bottles of brightly coloured lolly-grog drinks.

‘I see you’re hard at it, you lazy lot!’ Sol said in his deep Spanish-draped voice, but the smile in his eyes told Rebecca he spoke in jest. She sensed he was as glad to see them as they were him.

‘Just finished the night feed-up, boss,’ said the young man, who was showing no signs of discretion in the way he eyed Rebecca’s breasts.

‘This is our neighbour from Waters Meeting, Rebecca Lewis.’

‘Saunders,’ Rebecca corrected. It came out of her mouth so suddenly it surprised her. Rebecca Saunders — the name she’d had when she was young. When she was a jillaroo and single. Her days before becoming a farmer’s wife. Before she married Charlie. A name, after today, she wanted again.

‘Rebecca Saunders,’ Sol said, sounding slightly irritated once again. ‘I’m giving her a tour.’ He took a step back and surveyed her. She couldn’t tell if his gaze was cold or mocking.

‘Rebecca, meet some of the staff who’ve come with us in the move from Scone. We couldn’t get rid of them,’ he said, his fond tone returning when he addressed them. ‘This is Daisy Peters, our foreman; Kealy Smith, our stablehand; Bill Hill, our everything; Simply Steph, because no one can say her surname; and —’

‘Don’t introduce her to Joey, boss,’ the older man, Bill, said quickly. ‘He’ll race her off to the sand roll when youse aren’t looking.’ The girls all sniggered.

Sol Stanton cast them an amused look. ‘Yes, well … and this is one of our riders, Joey,’ he finished.

‘Rider’s right,’ muttered the pint-sized Daisy cheekily.

‘One of?’ Joey said. ‘Your best rider.’ He had jet-black curly hair and violet-blue eyes, and he scraped the legs of his chair on the timber floor loudly as he abruptly stood up. He half bowed, reached out and shook Bec’s hand. Then he stooped over to kiss the back of it and, as he did, Bec took in the stubble on his chin and the twinkle in the eyes smiling wickedly up at her. His looks set him up to be more like a pretty-boy actor than a jockey.

At the table, the strong-looking, curvy, short-haired girl in the Blue Heeler Hotel singlet, Steph, gave a mock cough behind her hand. ‘Man whore,’ she hacked. The girls giggled as Steph ‘coughed’ again.

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