CHAPTER 26

MADELEINE

Andrew was no sooner out of the door than I snapped at Tom. ‘If you had an ounce of sensitivity or thought for others you’d have realised Genevieve should have been told first thing that Andrew was still alive. Personally, I think they would make a perfect match.’

‘Why don’t you write and tell her yourself?’

*

I enjoyed entertaining and was very much taken up with improving the house in preparation for my first social season in the Central West. Of course, I was aware that my disinterest in sheep-raising was a disappointment for Tom. Sheep were grubby-looking animals that smelt. They were grey in colour, unlike the snowy white animals seen in children’s picture books. I stayed well away from them. That stuff clinging to their rear ends revolted me. And, try as I might, it was impossible for me to show enthusiasm for the rams so proudly purchased by Tom to improve Bellara’s wool quality.

The working dogs on the property were too aggressive for my taste. I told Tom, ‘I like dogs as companions, Tom. Why can’t we have a nice little dog to keep me company in the house?’

‘Because the sheep dogs wouldn’t tolerate it,’ he said. ‘No dogs in the house, Madeleine.’

It was apparent to me how delighted Tom was when Andrew agreed to stay at Bellara. Tom was fortunate to have a man he related to and trusted implicitly, not only to help him re-establish the old McCann place as a viable grazing property but also to share his enthusiasm for the stock. I also was happy to have Andrew’s company and willingly agreed to refurbish the old McCann house for him. Tom arranged to have the place painted and newly furnished and, with Rose’s help, I made cushions and curtains. Tom told me he hoped that Andrew would stay at Bellara permanently. I didn’t think that was likely; in my opinion Andrew wasn’t the type to work on someone else’s property. He’d want his own as soon as he was confident enough to run it.

The goods ordered for the total refurbishment of the homestead at Bellara began to arrive in April and continued to do so for most of the year. Often they arrived in unacceptable condition. Having minutely examined the contents of each crate upon its arrival, I frequently flew into a rage – and why not? It was incumbent on me to point out the deficiencies in workmanship and packaging to my husband. Upholstery didn’t always fit well, and occasionally timber was chipped. I wasn’t going to accept that and demanded Tom pack the lot up and return them.

I also had quite a lot to say about the carelessness and inefficiency of the ‘colonial bloody workforce’, and Tom seemed to take that as a personal criticism. Of course I knew I was behaving like a termagant but thought there was every excuse – and Tom was so relaxed about my problems. It really was infuriating.

Another problem was giving me much concern, and Tom too, I suppose. We were arguing most of the time, or rather I was arguing and he was silently listening. When we were having our rows, especially if my attacks became personal, Tom rarely responded. Admittedly, sometimes, I went too far. How angry he was when I once accused him of being ineffectual – not surprising, really. In my opinion, Australians had no idea how to deal with the lower classes because even the so-called higher classes were descended from lower classes. ‘Show them who’s the boss, Tom,’ I said more than once. ‘Tell them you won’t pay for shoddy goods. Don’t put up with mediocrity.’

I realise now that I never let up nagging, and I’m sorry for it. There was a time when I even blamed him for the weather, saying that the Australian winter was as bad as England’s or worse because over there they had some idea how to heat a home.

‘Give it a rest, Madeleine,’ Tom would say.

To be perfectly honest, because I was so taken up with my complaints, I rarely heeded the warning in his voice. Once or twice he responded in kind. I remember once when he took me roughly by the shoulders and shook me until my teeth nearly rattled. I’d never before been threatened like that. He yelled at me in a way I’ll never forget. ‘Don’t you ever stop complaining? You said how much you hated the heat when you first arrived – the mozzies, the flies, the bull ants as well as all the other bloody insects. Now you never stop whingeing about our winter. You’re nothing but an overgrown spoilt brat.’

I thought he was going to strike me, but he pulled himself together and stormed out of the house.

Tom developed the habit of riding over to Andrew’s place after work and coming in late for dinner. It seemed he found peace and companionship over there, and when he came home late for dinner, which I’d served and left to get cold on the table, his breath always smelt of whisky.

Well, I was pregnant at that time and going through the stage of vomiting most mornings – and evenings! So he should have shown me a little sympathy. Anyway, I wasn’t too thrilled about having a baby. I didn’t have any longing for a child, certainly not yet while I was trying to establish myself in a new country.

We were both aware that our relationship was quickly deteriorating, mostly, I suppose, because I did rather constantly speak my mind in a particularly forthright manner. Tom was, as I said, usually mute and stubborn in the face of my tirades.

Fortunately, my ante-natal illness subsided somewhat and, with the house improvements nearing completion, my humour was restored to a certain extent and our relationship improved. We received invitations from several families in town and on the land to dinners, luncheons and afternoon teas. Tom didn’t always accept, although I did – anything to get away.

During that autumn and early winter, I brooded quite a lot. I couldn’t understand why the romance seemed to have gone out of our marriage already. I didn’t love him, although I did have physical needs. I came to the conclusion that Tom didn’t love me and didn’t have physical needs. Maybe he had a bad experience at the war that he didn’t want to talk about. Oh, well, whatever the reason, he was totally insensitive to my needs. I was certain he thought more of those smelly animals than he did of me. It had just been lust with Tom, I was sure of it.

The house wasn’t ready for formal entertaining. We formed the habit of asking Andrew for dinner at least one evening a week, on a Friday or Saturday. I enjoyed his company, admired his looks, his wit and his good humour, and often wished Tom was more like his less serious and more sociable friend.

*

Rose McCann ‘did’ for me three days a week. She met Andrew frequently in the few weeks during which he stayed at the homestead and before he took over the McCann place. It became the custom for me to drive to town to pick up Rose for her day’s work and Andrew or Tom drove her home. Rose enjoyed working at Bellara, and I was quite convinced that this was mainly because she enjoyed the opportunity to see and talk to Andrew. She was after him, I could plainly see.

With the worst of my housing problems over, my morning sickness a thing of the past and my social life becoming satisfactorily established, I realised a month had passed since I determined to write to Genevieve. It was time I told her that she would be an aunt in December as well as the news about Andrew. Before doing so, I wanted to discuss with Tom the subject of Rose McCann. I wanted to know if, in his opinion, Andrew was encouraging Rose. No point writing to Genevieve if the man I was writing about had taken up with our housekeeper.

‘I’m a bit put out with Rose,’ I began.

It was after dinner and Tom’s face, as usual, was buried in The Land, his main source of reading material. ‘Why?’

‘She’s chasing after Andrew – always finding excuses to drop in over there.’

He appeared exasperated and spoke to me as if I was a fool. ‘Madeleine, isn’t it time you showed a little understanding? Rose is a young woman and a widow. I don’t think it’s too unnatural if she sets her cap at Andrew. She only lived with Matt for a matter of days and that was back in 1915. She is probably desperately lonely.’

I said that was all well and good, but I was worried and he should be also.

‘Why?’

‘I have found it necessary to speak to her on another matter. She has formed the habit of cooking extras and taking them to Andrew. No doubt she wants him to be impressed with her culinary skills; possibly believes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’

‘You’re being too hard, Madeleine. She is just being friendly. Anyway, it’s not as though we are short of food.’

‘If you believe she is merely being friendly then you’ll believe anything. She is a pretty woman – a lonely and pretty woman – and that is a dangerous combination. What if he is encouraging her?’

‘Rose is not Andrew’s type.’

I thought that was a puerile comment and said so. In my opinion, any woman is the type for any man who lives alone. Men can be particularly vulnerable, especially these days when they’re in such short supply with every second woman hurling herself at them. ‘Anyway, if you’re convinced Andrew is not interested in Rose, I intend writing to Genevieve tonight to tell her to come home as soon as possible. I’d have written before but I’ve been too busy getting your home into some sort of suitable order. Genevieve would be perfect for Andrew; I’m certain of it.’

‘You are overdramatising, Madeleine. I am utterly convinced that nothing is going on between Andrew and Rose. I will never understood why it is that women can never rest until they see a happy, carefree bachelor encumbered with a wife.’

‘Encumbered is not a word I would use. Women are well aware that men are never really happy when they are single.’

I could see that Tom was tempted to pursue that discussion; however, he simply did his usual thing and picked up the newspaper again.

*

That night I wrote the following letter to Genevieve.

My dear Genevieve,

This may come as a great shock to you. Someone you know who was reported missing presumed killed has turned up alive and well months after the Armistice. He was in a civilian gaol in Germany. So you see, Genevieve, I wasn’t so stupid when I waited until well after the war before accepting Charlie’s death – miracles do happen. Although they didn’t happen to me. Anyway, that’s water under the bridge.

Andrew Osborne wrote to Tom a few weeks ago and is at present living at Bellara in the McCann cottage. He is no longer in the Army and is giving Tom a hand. Tom hopes he will stay and become manager. I’m certain that won’t happen and expect him to go looking for his own place when he believes he has gained enough experience.

Coincidentally, I first met Andrew on the voyage to Australia, although neither of us was aware of the connection with Tom.

Now, I think it would be a good idea if you come back here. We probably need a nursing sister at our own hospital in town. More importantly, though, I suspect Andrew is the sort of man who would appeal to you – the right age, highly presentable and charming.

Genevieve, as Tom is always saying, ‘Seize the day.’ I believe someone like Andrew will soon catch the attention of the young women around here. In fact I have noticed that already Rose is showing considerable interest.

Remember, Genevieve, our house is your house; besides I’ve been hoping you’d be available to help me out because we are having a baby. Can you imagine me with a baby? I can’t. Already I am the size of a house and not yet four months. The doctor says it is possible I could be having twins, although he doubts it, having only heard one foetal heart beat. Anyway, it’s probably too early to tell. Tom doesn’t believe I am having twins. He says there is no history of twins in the Howard family and the reason I am so large is that I never stop eating. It’s possible that I am slightly over-eating – nothing much else to do.

The thing is; I have to tell you, I am terrified of the whole business. I’ve never been good with babies and suspect that, like my mother, I might be rather short on maternal instinct. Please come home. I need you.

Love as always, Madeleine.