Three Seasons

Mij Tanith

© 2010 Mij Tanith. All rights reserved

© 2010 Cover photograph by Helen Printer Volume produced by Laurin McKinnon at www.lesbianebooks.com.au

– a notforprofit project of the Gay and Lesbian Digital Arts Association

Mij Tanith

2010©

For Sue

With thanks to Joan Russel and Pauline Gambley for their help and encouragement

1

On a grey day in December,when the sky was the colour of bruised flesh, Gloria set up a Christmas tree in the courtyard between the classrooms. She hoped that the clouds would slide away to the east, and that the weather would be fine for the party. She helped the students plan for an elaborate endofterm lunch, bought film for dozens of photographs, and, on the final day, when the women put their plates of spring rolls and chicken salad and fried rice on the table, and the men dropped ice cubes into everyone’s beer, she told them what a wonderful class it had been, and how she was going to miss them all.

“Clor Liah, Clor Liah,” said the women, “You muss fine a husban. No husban, no happy.”

“Clor Liah, Clor Liah,” said the young Vietnamese men, “Have you got a boyfriend?” She flirted with them, just enough to make them laugh and strut. They laughed, and Gloria laughed, and put on the Latin music they liked to dance to. She danced with them, taller than all of them, her freckled skin and honeyblonde hair conspicuous in the sea of dark faces.

Lien said, “You muss visi. You muss bring your boyfriend.”

“But I don’t have a boyfriend. Can I still visit?” She patted Lien’s pregnant belly. “I want to see your baby when it’s born.”

Later, when the courtyard had been cleared and the Christmas tree given away, she felt empty. For a moment she envied the students because their lives were so structured, and because they had no expectation of each other beyond tradition.

At home she sat at her desk and wrote in her journal : My life is divided into ten week segments. I spend five days a week with my students for a whole term, and by the end they’re like family. Closer than family, sometimes.

Closer than a lover. And suddenly – no contact. I’ll visit Lien, but it won’t be the same. She’ll try too hard, and make me eat too much, and we’ll find we have nothing to say to each other outside the classroom. Move on, Gloria.

That’s all you can do. Next year there’ll be another group to fall in love with.

It might have been different – easier – if Tuan were still around.

In the evening she drove to the city for the final Women Performing of the year. She met Billie at the door, and together they waited in the ticket queue.

“Will herself be here?” asked Billie.

“You mean Carmen? She said she’d be coming, but …” The sentence drifted into an arid silence that continued until they had paid their money and were walking into the hall.

“I must say, Glor, you look tired,” said Billie. “You look as if you’re about to cry, as if the whole world is burdened down upon your shoulders. Is she giving you a hard time?” Gloria shook her head. “Ashley, then? His end of year exam fever giving you the shits?”

“Ashley’s fine. No worse than usual. His exams are over, and he spent the day at the beach with his mates.”

“Best place for a body in this heat, at least until after the storm breaks.” She lifted her man’s shirt away from her very womanly bosom, and flapped it to create a breeze. “Is that what’s up with you? Weighed down by all this humidity?”

It was humid. It had been for days, and Gloria was tired from the sheer weight of it. More than that, though, she felt the whole weight of the year on her shoulders. She felt like a clockwork mouse whose spring had finally wound down. “Billie,” she said, “I’m just tired.”

“I’ll get us a drink then. You find us a place to sit.” She found a couple of chairs up front, near the stage, and sat so she could watch Billie’s progress through the tables to the bar. She caught sight of Kym and Sally across the room, envied their youth and vitality.

She waved to them, but they were too busy with each other to notice.

She wondered if Carmen would show up. There was Gypsy on the stage, doing a sound check with voice and dulcimer, and then talking at the edge to a woman Gloria didn’t know – younger and taller than Gypsy, her hair like spun gold in the stage lights. She scanned the faces of the women at the bar, the women crowding in through the door and filling up the hall.

Hundreds of women, but no Carmen. She watched as Billie came towards her, a threemaster in full sail, a glass in each hand.

“Here,” said Billie as she sat down, “Bourbon. I hope you didn’t want scotch. A bourbon and a night of good music can do wonders for the soul.” She had to shout to make herself heard over the crowd noise. She sat, one muscled arm across the back of her chair, the other on the table, and watched Gloria watching the crowd.

The noise died abruptly when the lights dimmed and Gypsy appeared on stage. She positioned a single wooden chair, sat on it and nestled the dulcimer in her lap.

“Oh it’s such a pleasure to be back in town,” she cooed to the audience.

“And I’ve brought a friend. Say hello to Rhiannon, the loveliest piper you could ever hope to meet.” Rhiannon, with the spun gold hair, stood behind her with a set of highland pipes. She began to play, and the drones swelled in the silence. Then came a single melody line, a slow simple air, and when the dulcimer joined in, filling the space between the piper’s notes, Gloria felt the heaviness of the last weeks begin to loosen and slip away. She watched Gypsy’s fingers move like spiders across the keyboard, then closed her eyes and gave herself over to the music.

Billie took a mouthful of bourbon and studied her friend. She does look tired, she thought. She looked at her hair, that curtain of dark honey blonde, saw that it needed washing, and, truth to tell, a decent cut.

Looked at her face, which even in profile, showed new lines around her mouth and eyes. Even you, my dear friend, are no longer quite young.

Time, that old bastard, will do for us all in the end.

The music ended with the pipes playing high and wild, playing solo, and holding the last note quivering in the air for an eternity.

“You’ll have noticed,” said Gypsy before the applause had even begun to die down, “that my friend Rhiannon didn’t need to stand anywhere near the microphones, so powerful was her playing. And there was my father telling me all the years I was growing up that it took the strength of a highland warrior to get a decent tune out of the pipes. Not that she doesn’t look like a highland warrior, towering over me with her wild highland beauty that puts the likes of me to shame.” And when the audience protested, she went on, “Here she is, born in the Blue Mountains and looking like a Celt and here’s me, a Glaswegian, looking for all the world like one of the Dark People. You know, more than one of my many friends tells me I look like Vita SackvilleWest – those smouldering Latin eyes ...”

“Where’s your moustache, then?” came a shout from the audience.

“Ooh, I see we have a literature expert. Unlike Vita, I keep mine strictly under control.”

Amid the laughter and the applause, Gypsy slipped off the stage, walked over to Gloria and Billie and hugged them both.

“Helloooo Gloria Sunset,” she said. “Hellooooo Billie the Kid.”

“Do you really have a moustache that needs controlling?” asked Billie.

Carried away by her own patter, Gypsy said “I’m glad you’re interested, Billie. No doubt you’ll be wanting me to give you the definitive answer to that insightful question. Come outside with me while I have a wee cigarette, and I’ll tell you all about it.” It was cooler outside, but just as noisy. Bunches of women stood smoking and talking.

“You broke all the rules,” said Kym. “Our ears weren’t built for all that wildness.”

“Nonsense. An audience that can’t cope with being stood on its head once in a while should stay home and sleep,” said Billie.

Rhiannon was there too, shy, standing with Gypsy and sipping beer.

On stage she had appeared inexhaustible, but under the street lamp she looked pale and tired.

“That comes from moving house all day,” explained Gypsy, “She came back with me from Melbourne.”

Gloria glanced for some reason at the door, and there, framed in a spill of light, was Carmen. She saw Gloria at the same moment, drained her glass, and moved towards her. Gloria watched her approach, watched the muscles of her thighs in tight blue jeans.

She took in Carmen’s red hair, newly cropped and spiked, and the flush of red in her cheeks. A bit too much sun, she wondered, or perhaps a beer or two before coming here. This last thought caught her unawares, and she pushed it away.

“Hi,” said Carmen, with that easy smile. “I was wondering where you were.”

“I got here early. I was up the front with Billie,” Carmen managed to look hurt. “You could have waited at the door. I said I’d be here.”

But that doesn’t mean anything, Gloria wanted to snap. She resisted the impulse to quarrel, and the impulse to reach up and wrap her arms around Carmen’s neck, to pull her head down and kiss her. Instead, she stood with her hands in her pockets and said, “You were late, as usual.”

“I can make up for it.” Those blue eyes glinted with mischief. “Skip the rest of the show. Come back to my place and we can create our own.”

“No, thank you.” Gloria’s voice was suddenly prim.

“Why not?”

“You’re leaving in the morning, and all I’ll end up doing is helping you pack. Who knows how long you’ll be gone. Or what you’ll do while you’re away.” She tried to stop the words, but they kept sliding out. “Or with whom.”

“Or with whom,” came the mocking echo. “Only an English teacher would say ‘with whom’. We could be saying goodbye forever, and still you’d be grammatically correct.” She waited for a response, then went on, “You look dreadful with your mouth all screwed up like that. It makes you look smallminded and mean.”

“Perhaps I am.” Gloria felt sad. She felt her love for Carmen sliding away, and when her lover said again, “Come home with me,” all she could manage in return was, “I want to see the rest of the show. And then I have to get back to Ashley.”

“At least sit with me. Give me a chance to persuade you.” Carmen grinned, and Gloria’s heart lurched just a little, remembering.

Despite the attentive charm, Gloria went home alone, left Carmen sitting there at the end of the show, with her eyebrows raised in that old, exasperating way.

The front door was open as she walked up the path, creating a rectangle of light across the lawn, and from Ashley’s window came the sound of classical music. Chopin, she thought, or maybe Mozart. I really should make an effort to recognise his pieces.

In his room, in a circle of light from the reading lamp, Ashley was playing Moonlight Sonata, in a way that Beethoven would have been proud of. The skin of his back gleamed in the heat, and his hands touched the keys with languid tenderness. There was a smell of datura flowers from the garden. Gloria listened in his doorway, not wanting to interrupt, and he played on to the end of the piece. He stopped then, and turned, and saw her.

“You’re late,” he said, “and you stink.”

“Yes,” she said, “smoke and beer.”

“Did you have to go to that place?”

“The cabaret? You mean that particular one, as opposed to any other?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Tell me.” But he didn’t, and played annoying little runs on the piano instead. Suddenly tired, she walked over to him and kissed his sleek black hair.

“Go to bed Ash. It’s late.”

He stopped playing then, but later, when Gloria was writing about Carmen in her journal, she could hear him moving through the house, opening the fridge, turning taps on and off, and she wondered if there was anything more difficult than being the single mother of an adolescent male.

2

There were very few properties on the market in January. Gloria went out once with Billie to a place just east of Mount Pleasant, drove with the dogs standing in the back of Billie’s ute through parched hills littered with outcrops of granite. They’d picked the day for its relative mildness, but even so, they sweated in the heat of the cabin. Billie drove with her window down and her elbow on the edge of the door. “I must say,” she said, “I think this is a wild goose chase. West of the ranges might be viable, but out here ...” She looked up at the boundless blue sky, at the burnt brown grass that covered the hill s. “It’s beautiful, Glor, but it’s rain shadow country. What would we do for water?” It turned out she was right. When they arrived at the property they found a monstrous cream brick villa squatting alone in a landscape devoid of trees.

“A waste of time,” moaned Billie. “We should stick with one or two agencies who know what we want.” They drove back to Birdwood and stopped at the Elders office.

“What we’re looking for,” explained Gloria to the agent, “is a property with loads of charm. Trees, for a start, and something that’s not dead flat.

A house, if possible, that doesn’t look like an office block.”

“Not cream brick,” added Billie. “We want something old.” The agent looked from one to the other.

“Just the two of you?” she asked.

“No. We’re a housing coop. We want, eventually, to build a number of separate dwellings.”

“That means council approval. You’re not likely to get that in the hills.”

“We thought, maybe out of the catchment area ...”

“Yes, possibly. But there’s not much on the market.” The agent looked away, and frowned, and then said, “What about further out? Near Swan Reach? Is that too far?” There was something attractive in her deliberate, slowmoving manner. A country woman, thought Billie, even though she masquerades in city clothes. There’s an honesty there, in her plain, open face, in her strong squarefingered hands. “That’s two hours from my place,” she said. “Longer from the city.” She looked at Gloria. “It makes no difference to me, but for the rest of you ...”

“It may not be at all what you want,” said the agent. “There’s no house.

No power. But it’s right on the river. And it’s beautiful.”

“I’m interested,” said Gloria. “When can we see it?”

“I’ll be up that way tomorrow.”

“Jenny’s about to drop her foal,” said Billie. “I need to be there, but you go.” And as they got up to leave, the agent stood up and held out her hand. “I’m Jane Pfitzner,” she said. “Who knows? I’m sure we can find something for you.”

With Carmen still away, spending January on Amazon Acres, according to rumour, with a woman she’s met at the Solstice Festival, and Kym flat out building sets for the Acting Company, and Sally making the most of her holiday job, it was only Gypsy who could go with Gloria. She asked if she could bring Rhiannon along for the ride.

“Oh, oh,” said Gloria, “Is this a new romance? Do you do more than play music together?” But Gypsy was pofaced, for once, and said nothing.

Halfway through the journey, though, Gloria noticed an increasing space between her and Gypsy, and no space at all between Gypsy and Rhiannon.

The two had settled into each other like peas in a pod.

“So it is a new romance,” she said. “I thought from the way you played that night you must be more than friends. How did you meet?” Gypsy’s tan appeared to deepen, and she looked at Rhiannon, sitting with her beautiful eyes closed. “I was playing this gig in Melbourne,” she said, “this pub full of drunken wee laddies, each one noisier than the one beside him, and halfway through the second bracket she came up with her pipes and played beside me. I can tell you, I was so overwhelmed by her kindness I felt I should spend a wee bit of time with her. And at the end of the evening she kind of followed me home.”

“You invited me,” said Rhiannon, eyes still closed.

“Like a little lost puppy. And when I said I was so hungry I could fall over, she cooked me pancakes and sat me down and made me eat them.”

“Crepes,” said Rhiannon.

“Not that I tasted them. I could have been eating clumps of dishrag.” Gypsy warmed to the topic. “Or oatcakes, over generously smothered with axle grease and wood shavings. She sat there like a hussy and blatantly ogled me with those big eyes of here until the plate was empty and she’s missed the last bus.”

“And then?”

“And then it was too late for her to go home, so I said, ‘What’s it going to be, Rhiannon? A forty minute walk at two in the morning through suburbs jam packed with nasty wee laddies with rape and murder on their nasty wee minds, or the lumpy couch where Janis hides her manky bones, or my bed?’”

“Dead romantic she was,” said Rhiannon. “How could I refuse?” She opened her eyes, and they flashed passion, and her teeth were large and white in her laughing mouth. Gloria was reminded for a moment of Carmen, and of the careless, physical greed that first attracted her.

They were approaching the Murray. The road in front was straight, the land on either side scattered with dead eucalypts, drowned when they built locks all along the river. The sky was an empty blue promise.

They met Jane Pfitzner at the Swan Reach office, and followed her white Laser out of town and along dirt roads that shivered and swam in the heat. The agent’s car was hidden by a dust cloud of its own making, so Gloria kept her distance, allowing the worst of the dust to settle before she drove through it.

Even so, she lost sight of the Laser for a moment, and almost missed the turnoff. She braked, and the van slid in a thrilling semicircle across the loose road surface, and the other women swore in alarm. Then she backed up and turned into a paddock with Elders signs wired to either side of the gate.

A moment later the earth dropped away beneath them, and they saw at once the full magnificence of the flood plain, and the river that flowed the length of it, and away to the left, the white Laser bumping its way down the track towards the bottom of the cliffs.

“Holy Goddess,” said Gypsy. The others were speechless. They could only gaze in astonishment at this undreamed of land with its red earth, green water and blue, blue sky.

There was a narrow strip of high ground, running the length of the property, then cliffs of ochre and sand that dropped thirty or forty metres to a rich alluvial plain bounded on three sides by the river. The plain was thick with River Red Gums, Yellow Box, River Box, Native Willows and Ghost Gums, and, further away from the water and the likelihood of flooding, scrubby Casuarinas and stands of Mallee. An oasis in this midnorthern region of low rainfall and burning desert winds.

“There must be five hundred acres,” said Rhiannon, after an eternity of looking. And when they’d looked some more, Gloria eased the van forward and down the narrow track to where the agent stood waiting.

“Is she one of us?” asked Rhiannon as she looked at the grey hair cut short, and the white runners.

“I bet she’s het,” whispered Gypsy. “I bet she’s married to some bigshot businessman who takes her out to dinner every Thursday and plays squash with her on the weekends.” Aloud she said, “I’m Gypsy, and this is Rhiannon, my lover.”

The agent smiled, and held out her hand. “I’m Jane.” She drove the trio around the property, through the heat and the midday silence. She stopped from time to time to point out the beauty of the ochre cliffs, the size and age of some of the eucalypts, and the clean white sand that lined the near bank of the river.

“It’s wonderful,” said Gloria, “but what would we do with it all. And where would we get the money?”

“It’s not as expensive as you might think. It’s semidesert, useless for growing anything. There’s no power, and no mains water.”

“There’s the river,” Gypsy pointed out.

“Yes, but you need permission to pump from it, and from what I gather, the paperwork alone would use up an acre of pines.”

“So we use rainwater.”

“In a semidesert area,” said Gloria carefully, “I would imagine there isn’t a lot of rain.”

“Who owns the land over there?” asked Gypsy, pointing to the opposite bank of the river.

“It’s crown land. A national park.”

“That means millions of campers and canoeists, I suppose.”

“There’s no easy access to that part of the river, so I doubt it.”

“What about skiers, then? And boats?”

And Jane played one of her trumps. “Restricted area. No speed boats, no loud motors.” She summed up Gypsy in a glance. “And no hoons.”

“We’d have to check the local council regulations,” said Gypsy.

“And all those new environment laws,” said Rhiannon, with Gypsy’s arm across her shoulders.

“I’ve got copies of all those in the car.” Gloria was impressed. “What about swimming?” she asked. “Is it safe?”

“There’s a bit of a current, so you have to be careful. Best to stick to the edges unless you’re pretty fit.” She has a way of making the most neutral of statements sound personal, thought Gloria, and resolved to visit the gym more regularly.

“What d’you think, Gloria?” asked Jane.

“It’s stunning. There’s a kind of ... sacred feel about the place. As if it ... as if it doesn’t belong in the present. But I don’t know if I could live here.”

It’s perfect,” said Gypsy. “We can build near the river.”

“Er ... no.” Jane grimaced an apology, and took a moment to brush a way a persistent fly. “No dwellings on the flood plain. Obvious reasons. You’d have to live on the high ground.”

“There are no trees up there,” said Rhiannon. “It’s all erosion gullies and hot as hell.”

“You don’t have to make a decision today,” said Jane. “Take your time. There’s lots to think about.”

The conversation dwindled for a moment. Gypsy and Rhiannon drifted off to swim in the river. Gloria stood with Jane and watched while the others stripped naked and ran, like a couple of sleek brown puppies, into the water. Gloria, gritty with dust and sweat, looked at Jane, at the crisp white collar of her shirt, and at her shoes, still white beneath a layer of red dust. The others were silhouettes against the glare of the water. She wanted to swim with them, but instead sat in the shade with the agent.

She felt the heavy, insistent energy of the day, and the energy of the woman sitting beside her, scribbling in the sand with a twig. A silence grew between them, while the others cavorted in the river and flaunted the newness of their passion.

“They seem very fond of each other,” observed the agent at last.

“Yes,” said Gloria. She wondered if Jane was embarrassed by their constant touching. And then, to fill the silence, “How come you’re handling properties way out here when you’re based in Birdwood?”

“I’m filling in for the Swan Reach bloke. And I’m doing a stint in the Adelaide office once a week. Anyway, it does me good. I was born up near Burra, and being here is like coming home.”

“We must,” said Gloria on their way back to the city, “call a collective meeting.”

“With Carmen away?” Rhiannon, it seemed, had already assumed membership of the group. “Shouldn’t we wait?”

“That could take weeks,” moaned Gypsy. “She’s just as likely to piss off north with her latest floozy.” The pain showed in Gloria’s eyes, and Rhiannon noticed.

“Hey Gyp, you’re not about to win any prizes for tact.” And immediately Gypsy was all apology.

“Ah sweetie, I’m sorry.” She reached over and squeezed the back of Gloria’s neck. “You’d think after such a time of being around you, I’d have learned to look at my words before they come tumbling out of my mouth.

I truly forget sometimes you’re still stuck on Carmen.” But for all of Gypsy’s soothing, the words still hurt.

The sun, as they headed west through the barren hills, sank lower, and Gloria struggled to keep the glare out of her eyes. She was irritated by the sweat that formed between her breasts and tricked down to the top of her jeans, by the small ache between her shoulder blades, and, finally, by the youth and careless passion of her passengers.

“We had a meeting last night,” said Gloria when she fronted up to the Elders office in the city. Jane was tidying papers on her desk.

“How was it?”

“With the best of intentions, consensus decision making can be hell on wheels.”

Jane laughed, and, for a moment, the richness of the sound surprised Gloria, so that she too began to giggle.

“We spent hours,” she said, “trying to decide whether or not to put in an offer.”

“Hmm. Houses are usually bought and sold on the sayso of individuals.

Or couples.” The laughter was suddenly gone, leaving behind a sadness that accentuated the lines in her face. She smoothed a fold in her crisp linen skirt, fiddled with a string of paper clips.

“What did you decide?”

“We’d like,” said Gloria, “to camp on the land for a few days. Get the feel of it.” She waited for Jane’s reaction, and seeing nothing negative, continued, “The whole collective.”

“I don’t see why not. In fact, I think it’s a great idea.” The agent smiled again, and the warmth of it relieved the sadness just a little.

“The owner won’t mind?”

“The owner wants the property sold. Besides, it won’t hurt him to open up his land to a group of city women. You’ll love camping there. You’ll need a key for the gate.” She slipped one off her own key ring, and, as she handed it over, she said, “I do hope you enjoy it.” Gloria was touched by her sincerity.

“Thanks,” she said. “How about you? Are you doing something nice?”

“No. No, not what you’d call nice. I’m leaving my husband.” She kept twisting the key ring in her fingers, and kept on looking at Gloria.

Gloria felt a stab of pain, then a sudden desire to laugh. She didn’t of course, and she resisted the temptation to ask, Does one commiserate or congratulate? Instead she said gently, “You could come camping with us.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be busy.” Jane turned away, and it was obvious she wanted to be alone.

Gloria rode home, dodging the five o’clock traffic on her city bike, and arrived at her front gate in a bath of sweat. There was a note under the front door. “I’m home,” she read. “The festival was wonderful, and I’m exhausted. Ring me later tonight.” The signature was a large C with a + dangling from the bottom of it.

Ashley was mooching around the kitchen went she went to make a cup of tea. “I’ll cook dinner, if you like,” he offered.

“Oh. What happened to Ben?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“To the shack.” Ben’s parents owned a holiday house on the waterfront at Black Point. “I told you last week he was going.”

“So you did, Ashley, and I forgot. I also forgot why you can’t go with him.” Gloria’s tone was sharper than she intended, and both of them were surprised.

“Jesus, Mum, what crawled up you and died?”

“You’re never home, Ashley. How can you expect me to keep track of your social calendar?”

“It’s bloody holidays. You don’t think I’m going to sit in my room and rot, do you?” He flung himself out of the room, slamming the door as he went.

Gloria sighed, and wondered why it was so often like this. Wondered how it was possible to raise a son, to love him dearly, and yet be annoyed by every second word he uttered. She abandoned her plan for a cup of tea, took a can of Fosters Light from the fridge, and went in search of the boy. He was sitting at the piano, slumped over the keys, making no attempt to play.

“Here,” she said, offering the beer. “Want some?” and when he swiveled round to accept, “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“No big deal.” Ashley couldn’t decide between being meek and magnanimous. He opened the can, sipped at the froth, and handed it back. Gloria drank long thirsty swallows that filled the silence.

“So why couldn’t you go with Ben?” Ashley was the very essence of patience. He said, “I have a dentist’s appointment on Monday.”

“Couldn’t you have changed it?”

“You always say not to. You tell me not to muck people around.” He took the can from his mother and sipped again, and Gloria wondered why he couldn’t drink openthroated, like a man.

“So I did, dear boy. I’m sorry.”

“That’s your second apology. You still want me to cook dinner?”

“I could get fish and chips.”

“I’ll cook, Mum.” He slid off the piano stool and headed for the door,

“Why don’t you ring Carmel?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I read the note.”

“Ashley! It could have been ... really personal. She remembered the torrid letters Carmel used to write, when their relationship was new.

“Yes, I know.” He smiled, a slow parting of the lips that was so much like Tuan. “Never mind. I shall keep hoping.” He dodged the empty can his mother hurled at him, and she heard him in the kitchen, clattering dishes and whistling.

Over dinner, a surprisingly edible tuna and beetroot casserole, she told him about the weekend.

“That’s cool,” Ashley said.

“What will you do?”

“Sleep over at Darren’s place. Or he can come here.”

“Hmm.” Gloria was not thrilled at the thought of the two of them turned loose in the house for several days, but she was unwilling to risk the truce they had established.

After dinner, Ashley drifted off to the piano. Restless, too hot to sleep, and not wanting to phone Carmen, Gloria took a book out onto the verandah and tried to read, but the mosquitoes were bad. She got up to light some incense, to brush away a persistent moth from the light, and when she sat down again, she thought suddenly of Jane. She remembered the look on her face when she’d said, ‘I’m leaving my husband.’ She’s be my age, thought Gloria, and married for half a lifetime. Has she got children? Does her husband beat her? Does he come home from the office and abuse the hell out of her for not having dinner on the table at six?

Does he have an easy, boyish charm, and drool over other women at parties? Or is he upright and solid, a Rotarian, perhaps, who treats his wife and children with a blind and suffocating kindness?

And what of the manner of her leaving? Would he, in his kindness, help her pack, and make sure the phone and power were connected in the new place? Or would he go fishing for the weekend, and spend the time sulking in a boat, pretending not to think of her?

Gloria remembered her own leaving, the time she and Tuan had called it a day. The pain of that final decision, and the months that followed, when night after night Ashley had screamed with colic, and she had walked him round and round that lonely little flat. The old ache grabbed at her heart, and in its wake came the pains of all the other endings and betrayals, all the lost or stolen dreams that lay between that night and this. She leaned back against the wall, and surrendered to it.

Ashley chose this moment to slide into a bluesy version of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien, and Gloria was forced to laugh through her tears at the silliness of it all.

“What’d you think, Mum?” He called out from his room when he’d finished playing, “D’you recognise it?”

“Sure. Where’d you get the music?” But he was playing again, and didn’t hear her. She dried her face on her Tshirt, sniffed a bit, and went into Ashley’s room. “You sleepy?” she asked.

“No. Too hot.”

“Wanna go for a swim?”

“Sure.” So they drove through the stuffy suburbs to the beach, where others of like mind still lingered in the water, or sat on the sand with eskys and cold chicken and stubbies of beer. They swam, and then, cool for the first time in days, walked along the sand. Silence between them, and, for the moment, no tension. If only, mused Gloria, we never had to speak to each other. It’s the words that get in the way. If we were to open our mouths now, it would come down to politics, or my deviant lifestyle and we’d be at each other’s throats in an instant.

3

Carmen arrived the next morning while Gloria was still asleep, bringing with her a feeling of boundless raw energy, and a touch of the great outdoors. She was wearing cotton drawstring pants, and the sandals Gloria had given her a year ago.

“You look lovely,” she said when Gloria got up to let her in. “All sleepy and soft and defenceless.” She reached out her arms, but Gloria ducked beneath them and went off down the passage to the kitchen. Carmen fol owed her, and sat down at the table. There was a note propped against the sugar bowl. Gloria read it and dropped it into her dressing gown pocket.

“A secret admirer?” asked Carmen.

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Ashley. He’s gone over to Darren’s.”

Carmen dipped her fingers into the sugar and licked them. “Let’s hope he stays there.” She dipped and licked again, and Gloria bristled.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said. She sounded like a mother. Carmen took one last lick and pushed the bowl away.

“Where were you last night? You were supposed to call.”

“I went to the beach with Ashley.”

“Hell, you could have asked me. I was hanging out for a swim.”

“I needed to spend time with him.”

“I’m the one who’s been away for weeks.” Yes, but not alone, Gloria wanted to say. Instead, she offered tea and toast, and while she made it, she listened to Carmen’s account of the Solstice Festival.

“They held a full moon ritual,” Carmen was saying, “the biggest spiral dance you’ve ever seen. The energy was amazing. And when it was finished, there were a bunch of us so connected we couldn’t go back to our tents.” Gloria at this point had visions of a mass orgy under the gum trees, in a vast circle of grass flattened by the dancing hordes.

“What did you do?” she asked. Her voice was sweet, but her arms were folded across her chest.

“We went swimming. All except Melanie.” Gloria poured tea for them both, and banged the pot on the table, but Carmen seemed not to notice.

“She’s from Lismore. She’s studying the Caballah. She sat on the bank and played her flute.”

“I suppose you slept with her.”

“No.”

“But you wanted to.”

“Sure I did. She was gorgeous like you. But even I can’t get everything I want.” She sat there laughing, tanned and cleareyed and arrogant, with her legs sprawled and one arm hooked over the back of the chair. Gloria felt the marrow in her bones begin to melt.

“More toast?” she said, and then, “Why tell me about her?”

“She might be coming to Adelaide.”

“Oh.” She stood up, and took the plates over to the sink.

“Hey Glor, I was joking. Teasing you. She’s not that gorgeous.” She watched as Gloria snatched the sugar bowl from the table, and put it in the cupboard behind the sliding glass doors. “It’s you I love.”

“But she is coming to Adelaide.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Last I saw she was heading north.” Gloria leaned against the cupboard, with her hands in her pockets and her face turned away.

Carmen said again, “It’s you I love.” She got up and stood in front of Gloria and put her arms around her, reached up and kissed her on the mouth.

There was a moment of surrender, and the prickly fence that had been building for the past five weeks was dismantled, branch by branch, and for the time being, nothing else mattered.

They managed the passage back to Gloria’s room, threw off their clothes, and spent the rest of the morning in glorious sexual combat. And when the heat and the intensity of their passion has abated, and they lay panting and sweating and drowning in the smel of sex, Gloria told Carmen about the land on the Murray, and how the collective planned to camp there over the weekend.

They dozed, and Ashley came and went without disturbing them, and returned to find them back at the kitchen table, drinking tea. The sugar bowl was between them.

When he walked in, Carmen said to Gloria, “Let’s eat out tonight. Just you and me. I’ll shout.”

“I don’t know. It’s my turn to cook. I sort of promised Ashley something decent.”

“That’s very commendable,” said Carmen.

Ashley stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other. Gloria waited for him to say, ‘That’s all right, Mum, I can get something for myself.’ She waited for Carmen to say, ‘Let’s eat here then. Going out can wait.’ Finally she broke the silence herself.

“How about pasta and salad. I’l make a special sauce. Maybe,” she said, looking at Carmen, “we can go out afterwards. Maybe a late movie.”

“Hey, Glor, it’s our first night for ages. I don’t want you to cook.” She sat there, sure of herself. Sure of victory. Gloria looked again at Ashley, but he offered nothing.

“Why don’t we buy takeaway,” she said, “and some wine. We can eat in the garden.”

So they settled for Indian curry, with pappadams and rice and all the accompaniments, and while Gloria waited at the counter, Carmen walked down the street to buy two bottles of Verdelho and hire a couple of videos.

Ashley was lying on a blanket in the shade of the apricot tree when they got back, with his feet in the thick grass at the edge.

“It’s a bloody jungle,” said Carmen, amazed. She hadn’t seen the garden since she left, five weeks before, and during that time Gloria had done nothing but water it. The lawn was unmowed, and the trumpet vine with its huge yellow flowers was thick and rampant.

“It’s been too hot,” she apologised. “I only come out here to shift the sprinkler and pick the tomatoes.”

They spread the food and themselves on the blanket, and ate. Their senses were filled with the smell of curry and bruised grass and overripe apricots from the branches above them. The wine in the bottles took on a green tinge in the evening light. Even Ashley seemed mel ow. He prattled on about how good the food was, and about how he had spent the day in the airconditioned comfort of Darren’s house, playing pool. When the meal was finished he offered to bring them coffee.

Later, though, when the women settled down to watch Bogart and Hepburn do battle with each other and the Germans, Ashley went to his room to practise piano. Gloria got up to close the living room door, but the sound still pervaded.

“Does he have to?” Gloria heard the beginnings of anger in Carmen’s voice, and felt the return of tension to the muscles in her neck.

“He hasn’t played all day.”

“Why now, then? Can’t you teach him a little consideration?”

“He has to practise. He’s got an exam.” This wasn’t, strictly speaking, true, but Gloria figured he was sure to have one sooner or later.

“He should learn to choose his times.”

“He thought we were sleeping, earlier on.” She thought the mention of their day in bed might soften the moment, but Carmen’s anger remained.

She glared at Gloria.

“He’s a creep, that son of yours, and you cater to his every whim.”

“Seems I spend a lot of time catering to yours.”

“If you think that, then how come you let me sit there through what could have been a very pleasant dinner and listen to him dominate the entire conversation?”

“He didn’t.”

“You call yourself a lesbian feminist, and yet here you are, being controlled by the patriarchy in your own house.” There could be no answer to that level of attack. Gloria picked up her keys and walked out into the night.

Instead of getting in her car, she walked no further than the Datura tree on the far edge of the front lawn, where the branches hid her from the glare of the streetlights. The scent of the flowers was cloying, and it made her head swim. There was a void in her head where no thoughts could come, and for a time, she could neither see nor hear what went on around her.

Eventually, though, she was aware of Carmen’s voice, broad and ugly with loathing.

“Every time I come here, you dominate the whole house with your artyfarty music. And I hate to tel you this, kid, but you’ve got no talent.”

“And every time you come here you try to take over,” screamed Ashley.

“It’s not your house. It’s hers and mine. So why don’t you fuck off back to where you came from.” Even as she cringed, Gloria found herself admiring her son for standing up to Carmen’s fury.

There was a sound of breaking china, a plate or a mug being hurled at a wall, and Carmen emerged from the front door. Gloria watched from the dark as she stood on the verandah, noting the car still in the driveway.

“Gloria! Gloria! Where are you?” But Gloria was overcome by a kind of paralysis. She felt no connection with the woman on the verandah, or with Ashley, or with the house. It was as if all her nerve endings were severed, like moorings on a boat, and she were drifting away in a silent, private sea.

Eventual y Carmen stopped cal ing and walked off, with the streetlight turning her red hair pale, and her sandals slap slap slapping on the pavement.

It was a long time before Gloria moved, and when she did, the house was in darkness. Her one thought as she opened the door was that at least someone could have left a light on. She crawled into bed, worn out by the conflict, but it was hours before she fell asleep.

In the morning the phone rang, and she stumbled out to the passage, still groggy.

“Oh my, don’t you sound lovely.” It was Billie.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly half past nine.” Bil ie paused to al ow this to sink in, and then added, “And what day is this? Why it’s Friday.”

“Oh shit! The shopping! I was supposed to meet you.”

“You still can. You’re only half an hour late.”

“Er... listen Billie. I need to check up on a few things. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“You sound terrible. Got a hangover?”

“No.”

“But you’re not terrific.” Billie’s voice took on its social worker tone.

“Why don’t I do the shopping and then drop in for an early lunch? And why don’t you go back to sleep?” She hung up, abrupt as usual, and Gloria wandered back to her room to sit for a moment on the side of her bed.

Then, pul ing on last night’s T shirt and jeans, she went in search of Ashley.

He wasn’t in his room, or anywhere in the house. She checked the garden, front and back, and the kitchen table in case he had left a note.

She looked up Ben Grampian’s number, and dialled it. After half a dozen rings she remembered Ben was at Black Point with his parents, and hung up. She tried Darren’s place, and when he answered, she asked if he had seen Ashley.

“Gee, Gloria, I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure. You must know if you’ve seen him or not.” She heard a shuffling noise, and a vague murmur of voices.

“Sorry, Gloria, I er... I definitely haven’t seen him. Not for a day or two, at least.”

“Darren, I just want to know if he’s there. If he doesn’t want to speak to me, that’s fine.” There was more shuffling, and then Darren’s voice again, saying, “Er, yeah, Gloria, he’s here. Sorry about that. I er... I wasn’t sure...”

“It’s fine, Darren. Just tell him I’m leaving this afternoon, and won’t be home til Sunday. You’re welcome to stay here while I’m gone. And tel him I love him.” She said this last sentence very quickly, as if the speed of it would make it less embarrassing for all concerned, and as she hung up she wondered if he would. Not that it matters a damn, she thought.

Love never made anything easy. She thought about phoning Carmen, and finally did, and was relieved when there was no answer.

Billie took food shopping very seriously, and Gloria wasn’t surprised when she didn’t turn up till after twelve. She came puffing up the front path, her face red in the heat. Her arms were full of groceries.

“Yoo hoo,” she called. “Get the door, will you Glor.” The rhyme made her giggle. “Oh my, it’s hot out there.” She walked down the passage and dumped her packages on the kitchen table. “I’ve brought us some lunch. Just a bite.”

She took out fresh rolls and a wedge of brie, slices of smoked salmon, a mignonette lettuce and a punnet of strawberries, and then peered suspiciously into the fridge.

“You do have butter,” she said. “And I know you’ve got tomatoes. Be a dear and pick us a couple.” And when the food was arranged to her liking, and the two of them were sitting at the table, she said, “Well, my dear. You look like a mad woman’s nightmare. If you were any happier you’d burst into tears.” Gloria looked at her lunch. She found it depressingly unappealing.

“Wanna tell me about it?” Gloria shook her head. “All right, you don’t want to talk. That leaves wallowing and partying.”

“What?”

“You’ve got a decision to make. Either you spend the rest of the day wallowing in your misery, in which case I’ll finish my lunch quick smart and leave you to it, or you pull your finger out, lift your game, brighten your ideas, and forget about whatever it is that’s bugging you. In which case I’ll stay, and we can have a good laugh together. I might even,” she added, “let you do a Tarot reading for me.” Gloria grinned a bit, and said, “I wouldn’t dare wal ow, after al that.” After lunch she laid out the cards on a cloth on the kitchen table. The Hanged Man appeared in the centre, covered by the Two of Pentacles. Bil ie, who real y had no belief in the esoteric, said, “Cut to the chase. I don’t want the analysis, just the outcome.” Gloria studied the images, then held up a card from the top righthand corner of the spread. “The King of Wands,” she said. “Reversed. I wish you’d let me explain the whole reading.”

“Just the outcome, Glor, or we’ll be here all afternoon.”

“There’s a lot about friendship,” said Gloria, carefully. “The end of something, a friendship endangered. And in the end, ordeal by fire, fol owed by a greater understanding of those around you.” She didn’t add that the ordeal would also result in a harshening of Bil ie’s attitude to life.

“Fire,” mused Billie. “Perhaps a bush fire. It’s certainly a hot dry summer. Not a barrel of laughs today, are you Glor.” The collective members met in the cool of the evening at the top gate Gloria, Billie, Kym and Sally in the van, and Carmen with Gypsy and Rhiannon in Gypsy’s old Holden.

“I hope you realise you’ve been travelling with a wimp,” said Carmen, leaning back against the bonnet. “She walked out on me last night. Left me to deal with her charming son.” She laughed, but Gloria heard the bitterness in it, and in front of her a chasm opened, yawning and black. She struggled to keep her balance on the edge, and turned away to open the padlock.

“At least she could buy him a silent piano.”

“The boy’s got talent,” said Billie, and watched with satisfaction as Carmen struggled to find a response.

They took a moment to look down at the trees and the river, and the beauty of the place overwhelmed them once again. Even Carmen was impressed.

“It’s magnificent,” she said, and moved closer to Gloria. More quietly she added, “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I just wanted the evening to be perfect.”

“And your idea of perfection doesn’t include my son. Damn it, Carmen, d’you know how I feel when you carry on like that? Have you any idea?” She spun away, and in a single movement scooped up a massive clod of clay and hurled it far out over the cliff edge. It exploded on impact. She threw another, and another, and then turned round to see Carmen watching her. The others were nowhere in sight.

“Oh dear, you’re angrier than I thought. Can I get you some more to throw?”

“I hate what you said to Ashley last night.”

“I was angry! He gets right up my nose. So I shouted. Is that a crime? It cleared the air.”

Gloria saw the argument stretching out in front of her. All the should haves and didn’ts. All the pain. She walked back to where the cars were parked. The Holden was gone.

“Hey, can I come with you or do I have to walk?” She unlocked the passenger door and waited while Carmen climbed in, and then drove down the track and across the flood plain to where the others were already setting up camp.

Just before sunset, when the tents were al set up and the women were thinking of food, Gypsy pointed to the sky, and they turned their faces up to see half a dozen pelicans flying in formation, fol owing the bend of the river. Even Carmen, still arguing with Gloria, was struck silent by the magnificent spectacle. They stood, all of them, watching as the birds soared across the sky and into the distance.

The collective meeting, held that evening under a full moon, and in a stand of magnificent ghost gums, was long and difficult. Gypsy and Rhiannon wanted to put in an offer, “We buy the land, we live on the high ground, and we set up the flood plain as Women’s Space. You know, for camping, or festivals, or workshops.”

“What about toilet facilities, and water?”

“It’s not a huge job to provide those. All we’d have to do was charge enough to cover expenses.”

“And who does the organising?”

“Holy Goddess, Billie, don’t be such an enquirer after details. We can work all that out later. I would say that if we spend days and days dillydallying over the fine print, then we’re likely to miss out forever on this piece of earthly paradise.”

“I like your vision,” said Kym. “We need somewhere for women to feel safe. Permanent accommodation...”

“We can’t build down here,” said Rhiannon.

“...on the high ground, then. There’s plenty of room.”

“You mean we spend eighteen months looking long and hard for a suitable property, and we find it, and we spend more time and a whole heap of money building our houses, and then we spend the rest of our lives viewing this constant stream of city dwellers we’ve sold our souls to get away from?”

The discussion wore on, and the moon reached her zenith and began her long slide back to earth. Carmen favoured an entrepreneurial approach, and argued for setting up the col ective so that one or two of them could make a living from the land and its visitors. Gloria disagreed.

“It doesn’t feel right to own this place,” she said, “let alone exploit it the way you want.”

“You’re not making any sense, Gloria,” argued Carmen. “It’s a real gift. You can’t just walk away from it.”

“I just feel ... Damn it. It’s so hard to explain... There’s a spiritual feel about the whole place, and I think it’s going to be changed if we buy it.” Sally spoke for the first time. “The six of us could live here, seven if Rhiannon’s really wanting to join but the land couldn’t support hordes of visitors. Even if they brought their own water, they’d cause massive erosion to the high ground with their cars and whatever.” After a time, it became clear there would be no consensus. Five were in favour of buying the land and working out details at a later stage. Bil ie and Gloria were not. It was Billie, in the end, who made the suggestion.

“I think I should withdraw from the collective. Save a lot of mucking about.”

“But you and Gloria set it up,” protested Sally.

“I’ve still got the farm, so it’s not a lot of skin off my nose.” But the disappointment showed.

The others looked at Gloria. “Hey, sweetie,” said Gypsy, “there’s surely a way of resolving all this without splitting up a good team. Why don’t we sleep on it, instead of making some horrible decision tonight?”

“Gloria,” said Carmen as they sat on the sand and watched the moondance on the river, “you can’t leave the collective.”

“Why not?”

“What about us? We’re supposed to be in this together.”

“Doesn’t seem such a good idea right now.”

“All right. I’ve got a foul temper, but I’ll work on it. Promise. I’ll even be friends with Ashley.” She screwed up her face, trying to look comic.

“I’m not sure we want the same things anymore.”

“Sure we do. Sex, adventure, money and good times.” She grinned.

“Speaking of which, where do I sleep tonight? I didn’t bring my tent.”

“You can have mine. I’ll share with Billie.” The words sprang from a tight ball of pain at the base of her sternum. She had been trying all day to dispel this pain, to loosen its hold on her heart.

“Hey, Glor, sleep with me. Things will be fine in the morning.”

“Things are always fine in the morning. By the end of the day they’re stuffed again.” She tried to speak gently. “I want us to stop, Carmen. It’s like living on the Mad Mouse. One moment we hit the heights, and its wonderful, and the next we’re on a downhill slide to Hell, and I’m left wondering what I did wrong.”

“You’ve said this all before.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You’ve said that before.” She held out her hand and said softly, “At least stay with me tonight. At least we can still be friends.” But Gloria was already standing up. “Goodnight, Carmen,” she said.

“The tent’s in the van.”

Bil ie’s tent was smal , and there was barely enough room for Gloria to slide in beside the other woman’s bulk. She lay down, still dressed. The moon through the trees made patterns on the walls. Billie snored, and smelt of horses, despite the day in the city. Gloria turned this way and that, and tried to sleep. After an age, though, with her head full of her own last words to Carmen, she crawled out, and put on her shoes, and followed the moon along the bank of the river to a place where the cliffs came close, and loomed overhead.

At their base, with its roots stretching to the water stood a huge and ancient river red gum. She sat on these roots and leaned her back against the trunk. The tent’s in the van, she thought. The tent’s in the van. Can you really end a relationship with a sentence like that?

She was still there at dawn, watching the beginnings of the day, and listening to the mutterings of the vast flock of cockatoos in the trees at the bottom of the cliffs.

As she watched, the sun came up and cast a long corridor of light across the river. The water was cold, and where the sun touched, a light mist rose and drifted into the shadows. A magic scene, one deserving of a profound silence, but at that moment the first of the cockatoos flapped from the trees to wheel and screech overhead, with the early light catching the yellow undersides of their wings.

The sun gained height, and other patches of light and mist appeared on the river, so that soon the whole surface seemed to be drifting. Gloria half expected the opposite bank to disappear, like a magician’s illusion, into the gentle vapour. But it remained solid, a shadowed green footing for the gums.

Soon the mist was gone, burned off by the heat that produced it, and the day became ordinary. Crows and magpies joined the morning chorus, and galahs swooped down in their pink and grey to feed on the patches of green near the water. And with the spell broken, Gloria wandered back around the corner of the cliffs towards the tents. She was hungry, and there was the smell of breakfast on the air.

She saw Carmen loping with long strides across the grass, with the sun glinting on her red hair and her tanned skin. She was naked, except for her sandals, and she had been swimming. Her body was distorted in the beginnings of the heat haze. She called out something to Rhiannon, and at the instant of hearing her voice, Gloria knew that it was really over, and she felt a growing lightness of spirit.

She turned then, buoyed by this lightness, and walked to the water.

On an impulse, she kicked off her shoes and threw herself into the river.

“Best to stick to the edges,” said the agent’s voice in her head. Fuck the edges, thought Gloria, and she struck out for the middle.

Halfway across, she was beginning to tire. The current was stronger here, and it pul ed her steadily downstream. She struggled to gain ground, her breath now coming in great gasps, and her heart beating with fear and exertion. Stupid she thought. You’re nearly forty. You haven’t swum like this since last summer.

Slowly she gained ground, and the fear subsided as she saw the opposite bank at last within reach. Her hands brushed the river mud, and she stood. Her feet sank, and she squelched through the shallows to the bank, head spinning and limbs shaking with exhaustion.

Stupid! Now I’ve got to get back. But the earth for the moment was warm, and she lay face down until her body stopped trembling and her breathing slowed to normal. She sat, then, with her back to the sun. Its reflection in the water was blinding. She closed her eyes and felt the heat pour down on her shoulders. A branch cracked, and the bush settled into a busy rhythm that wasn’t quite silent. Smal things moved, the eucalypts sweated their beautiful oil, and the buzzing in her head seemed to go on for a long time.

Or perhaps it was only a minute or so, but the voice, when she heard it, pul ed her back from somewhere quite distant. She was dreaming of bones stripped clean and bleached perfectly white by the sun. She resented this voice that tugged at the edges of her mind, and she tried to brush it away.

“...sitting in this terrible sun, and not even a hat? You’l fry them brains of yours. Always supposing someone who’d do such a damn fool thing’s got brains...”

It went on and on, a constant stab of words that tore at the fabric of her dreaming. Her eyes opened, and she looked around, squinting against the light. She swung onto her knees, and searched the sand and the bushland behind her.

“Least you should do is wear a hat. Think of all that ozone pouring down on your shoulders.” And she saw an old woman, sitting in the deep shade between two trees; one, a pale, gleaming ghost gum, and the other, something smaller and darker, with rough, furrowed bark.

“Come here.” The woman made a stabbing motion at the ground in front of her. Gloria obeyed, with her head ful of black spots, and her legs hurting from the sudden rush of blood.

“Sit.” And Gloria did. There was a basket of pomegranates between them. The woman reached in and handed one to Gloria, who began to feel she was stil dreaming. The fruit had already split, and she put her mouth to the overripe flesh.

“Like that, do you?” Gloria nodded, and the woman nodded, as if her deepest suspicions were confirmed.

“Too fond of it, is my feeling.” She spoke her words careful y, and Gloria thought perhaps she wasn’t used to conversing out loud.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at what you’re eating.”

Gloria looked. The skin of the pomegranate had developed pleats and folds, and the flesh inside the ovoid scar was moist and glistening. She blushed, threw it away, and watched it roll to a stop amongst the gum leaves. The old woman laughed, not the sort of highpitched cackle you’d expect from the Crone, but a sound like crushed velvet, full of sympathy.

Something broke loose inside Gloria, dropped like a stone through her guts and pinned her to the earth. She was shaking, and for a moment it seemed that the pain she held inside must wel to the surface and escape in great noisy sobs. But the woman was poking her hand into the pomegranate basket and pul ing out a bundle wrapped in cloth. Silk, by the way it fel open on her lap. Inside the silk was a deck of Tarot cards. She shuffled them, held them out for Gloria to cut, and laid out an eleven card spread.

“Here,” she said, jabbing at the Three of Cups with her finger, “this is what I mean. Sex without love. Without respect. That is not the way to find what you need.” Gloria thought of Carmen, and before her, Nettie, and wondered how much the old woman knew.

“And here,” she continued, “The Wheel of Fortune. Al is changing, and if you will be free, you will have to let yourself change.” The spread was full of the major cards – The Hermit above and the Hanged Man below, with The Devil, reversed in the past. Gloria pointed to the Ten of Swords, not liking what she saw. “Tel me about this,” she said.

“This is your Self, with many wounds in the back. But not to worry, that is the worst you can get.”

In the retel ing of the scene, Gloria remembered that she never thanked the old woman. One minute she was there, and the next she was up and away, waddling through the trees with her basket in one hand and a sheep’s skull, complete with curved horns, in the other.

She watched till the old woman was out of sight, then wandered upstream, looking for a narrower place to cross. She swam back, aware this time of the danger and the need to conserve her strength.

When she finally arrived at the campsite, it was late morning, and Carmen was persuading Rhiannon to help her plan a prosperity ritual. “I can tell,” she was saying, “that you’re a spiritual woman. I think our energies will mesh beautifully.” Billie, busy rolling her swag, snorted and looked up at Carmen.

“You sure it’s just your energies you’re planning to mesh?” she said.

Carmen was all injured innocence. “We’ll need,” she went on, “an extra eighty thousand if we want to buy the land outright. A mortgage wil just weigh us down.”

“We haven’t actually decided to buy it,” Rhiannon said. “Not as a full col ective.” And while she searched out the other members, Gloria changed her clothes and ate a bowl of muesli.

“Where were you?” said Gypsy when they were all together. “We were starting to get worried. We thought perhaps you might have been carried off by the dreadful Bunyip, and we had visions of you gasping out your last breath at the bottom of some gurgley mud pool.”

“I went for a swim.”

“Let’s get this sorted out,” said Billie, and this time it was easy. She and Gloria agreed to withdraw from the collective, leaving the others to make any further decisions. They arranged to meet at the bank the following Monday to have their names removed from the collective’s account.

After that, there wasn’t much point in staying. The two of them packed the van, left Gloria’s tent for Carmen, and gave the gate key to Gypsy. On the way home, Billie drove, and Gloria crawled into the back and slept.

4

There were things to tidy up. The group owed Gloria petrol money for several country trips. According to the constitution, Rhiannon’s name had to be added to the collective before hers and Billie’s could be removed.

Someone had to notify the agents they worked with, and give them the new contact numbers.

In front of the others Gloria was calm, but at home she snapped at Ashley, or sat alone and laid out the cards to see how long the pain would last. The Hermit came up in every reading, and often, the Five of Cups.

She reread old journal entries, trying to discover how her relationship with Carmen could have been different, and came to equate the heaviness in her heart with the still, thick heat of summer and the oppressive silence of her room. Mornings merged into late afternoons with nothing in between.

Time, thought Gloria, as she sat at the kitchen table in the gloom of midday, with the blind drawn to keep out the heat, Time is like a stagnant pool of water. The less it moves, the greater its grip on anything within its grasp. Surely Hel must be a pool of water, eternal y stagnant, and each sinner a captive to all the hours and years that Time can encompass.

Sometimes Bil ie dropped in, and once she persuaded Gloria to go with her to a Lesbian Line dance. Carmen was there with someone new, and Gloria’s brave facade had crumbled. She spent the evening moping in dark corners until Billie had whisked her onto the dance floor. She danced and cried with her friend’s arms around her and her face buried in her shoulder.

On and on they had danced, wordlessly, til the music ended and the lights came up.

The others were tied up in endless collective meetings, and at times when they might have been free, Gloria found the thought of Carmen’s brazen new love too much to bear.

She remembered Lien, looked up her phone number on an impulse one evening, and began visiting. The tiny baby with its shock of upright black hair and its fat blue bottom reminded her of Ashley at that age, and whenever she held him, she was transported to an earlier time of innocence and joy.

“Look,” she said on one occasion, “He’s smiling. I think he recognises me.”

“You not too old to have another baby,” said Lien. You muss find a boyfriend.”

“No,” she said. “No baby, no boyfriend.”

“Why not?’ She was often tempted to tell Lien why not, to lay her life out like a map for this woman who had no idea, to say this is who I am, and this is the road I follow, and these are the women I find along the way. But her courage failed her and she never did.

In the last week of January, the mercury topped forty degrees during the day, and didn’t drop below thirty at night. Streets were deserted as people hid indoors, barricaded by blinds and shade cloth against the sun, their tolerance for the weather and each other unraveled by an accumulated loss of sleep. They listened to hourly bulletins, hoping for the promise of a cool change, and ran up huge power bills with their air conditioners. Even the beaches were deserted, as the population heeded the ominous public warnings of heat stroke, and sun burn, and skin cancer.

On the last Thursday before school went back, the temperature rose to 43 degrees, or 109 Fahrenheit for those who could remember, and a hot north wind choked the city with dust. On such a day, Gloria had to drive Ashley to school to finalise his subjects and col ect his books. They started early, hoping to be home and barricaded by mid morning, but there were delays. Ashley wanted to take European history, and the times clashed with Music, and he had to wait and talk to the counselor. The counselor’s car had broken down in the heat, and it was not until eleven that he arrived, parched and lethargic, at his office. Half an hour of wrangling produced nothing positive, and Ashley had to settle for Economics as his fifth subject.

A fine layer of dust had settled on the car by the time they finished, and Gloria had to clean the windscreen and the wiper blades before she could drive. Ashley was silent al the way home, thinking perhaps of the load he was to carry during the year, but once in the relative cool of the kitchen, fridge open and a coke already in his hand, he broached the subject.

“Hey Mum, Mr. Matthews was telling me...”

“Who’s Mr. Matthews?”

“You know. The counselor.”

“Oh, right.”

“He was telling me about this kid from Broken Hill who needs somewhere to live this semester.”

“And?”

“And I thought he could stay here.”

“Where?”

“In the spare room.”

“Do my ears deceive me? Ashley, you won’t even bring your friends around when I’m home, in case they catch something nasty. What’s it going to be like if we have one of them living here?”

“I thought now that she’s gone...”

“Who, she?”

“Carmen.”

“Go on.” Gloria felt the blood climb steadily up her spine and into her skull.

“Well, things’d be different.”

“You mean I’d be different? You mean you wouldn’t have to let on to whoever this boy is that your mother’s a lesbian.” Ashley shuffled the can of coke around the table, searching for the right words. Looking for the right way to say yes.

“It’s much better here without her,” he said instead. “She treated you like shit.”

“Look, mate, I don’t want to talk about Carmen.”

“Well, she did. And me. She acted like I was something that crawled out of a sewer.”

“Drop it, Ashley.” She struggled for control, and waited for the tide of blood in her head to abate. “What if,” she said, “what if I did agree to have this boy stay here, and somewhere along the line I started another relationship?”

“Then I’d do everything I could to wreck it.” Gloria was shocked by the coldness in his voice, and, for the first time, she was afraid of what she knew her son could do. They stared at each other, neither knowing how to withdraw, neither daring to move further into battle. It was Ashley, in the end, who dared to break the hot, unbearable silence.

“I hate it when you let other women walk all over you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You fall in love with someone, and you let them do what they like in this house, and pretty soon you’re acting like they own it and you and me have to change our lives to suit them.”

“Bullshit!”

“It’s true. You should take a look at yourself sometime. You’re a fucking doormat!” She slapped him then, hard across the face, and watched while this son of hers, this almostman, folded his arms and smiled.

“And that’s another thing,” he said, still smiling as she picked up her car keys, “you’re always running away.” He’s right, she told herself as she wound her way up the freeway past Eagle on the Hill, he’s so bloody right. But it didn’t stop her. She kept on driving, thinking of Billie’s cool dim kitchen, and the smell of horses and saddle leather.

The dogs barked when she arrived. Ruth, a madeyed red kelpie, and Bess, a young border col ie, chased each other in circles as Gloria got out of the van and pulled her shirt away from her sweaty back.

Bil ie cal ed from the cool green dim of the verandah “Hey, mad woman.

What’re you doing out on a day like this?” She took a long look at Gloria.

“You look like one of those pine cones, just about to explode in the heat.” And when they were inside, and standing at the kitchen table, “Do you want a shower?” The offer was a generous one, with the big rainwater tank almost empty, and the dam turning to mud around the edges.

“What’s the crisis?” Billie asked, when Gloria sat clean and cool in one of her friend’s outsized shirts.

“Dunno. Ashley, I suppose. Sometimes I feel I’m oppressing him with my lifestyle.”

“So?”

“What do you mean So?” Billie sighed. “D’you want me to spell it out, Glor?” And when Gloria said nothing, she went on, “When I was at school, there was this weird religious family. The girls weren’t allowed to play sport. Weren’t allowed to go to parties. Don’t you reckon they were oppressed?” Gloria was unconvinced.

“And when Mum died, and Dad shot through, I had to leave school to support Jillie and the boys. I picked bloody grapes for a living.”

“Not the same as being a dirty lezzo.”

“The hell it’s not! Jillie wouldn’t ask her friends home because all we had for tea was bread and vegemite. And the boys wouldn’t ask theirs, because Dad would occasionally turn up, pissed as a fart and violent.”

“Ashley won’t ask anyone new in case they see the posters on the wal s.

And in return, he won’t visit any of them.”

“I would say, my dear, that the degree of oppression young Ashley chooses to wear is delightful y mild.” And when Gloria didn’t answer, “So what are you gonna do? Go back in the closet? Find a man you can trot out from time to time to impress Ashley’s friends? Get married, for fuck’s sake?”

“No.” Gloria looked as if she were about to cry.

“So you were just sitting there, were you, sipping on a nice cold beer, and al of a sudden you thought, ‘My God! I’m oppressing Ashley! I’d better drive up through all this heat and dust and danger of bushfires to tell my friend Billie about it.’ Never mind you could have told me in the cool of the evening on the telephone.”

“We had a fight. I hit him.”

“Did he hit you back?”

Gloria shook her head. “He’s the original pacifist. He looked as if he’d scored a point or something.”

“What was it all about?” asked Billie. “He called me a doormat. Said I always let my lovers take charge.”

“Face it, Gloria, you do.” Billie sat there, beefy brown arms folded on the table, and a look of no nonsense on her face. “Must give you the heaving shits to know he’s right.”

In an instant the barriers were down, and Gloria allowed herself to feel. She howled, she raged, she poured tears first onto her bare arm and the table top beneath it, and then onto the cloth of Billie’s muscled, comforting shoulder.

“Let it out, honey,” crooned Billie, holding Gloria as she held her little sister, years ago; rocking her as Gloria herself rocked Ashley when he whimpered or screamed with colic. “Think of it like diarrhoea. It might hurt to let go of it, but it’s a whole heap better than keeping it inside.” Gloria had to laugh, but she hadn’t finished with crying, and so the sobs took on a strangulated texture, and only gradually did they dwindle into silence.

In the evening, when there was a bit of a gully wind, and the temperature dropped, Gloria took the kelpie out to the back paddock with a bal . There were no sheep on the property, and Ruth’s instinct for rounding up animals had been subverted into catching and returning anything that could be thrown. Tennis bal s were her sacred objects, but pine cones would do at a pinch, or sticks, or even halfchewed bones. She dropped a bal at Gloria’s feet, then stood back with her yel ow eyes glinting and her tongue hanging out. Gloria threw it, again and again, until her pitcher’s arm grew tired. She paused for a break, walked away to lean against a tree. Ruth fol owed, and again dropped the bal at her feet.

“All right,” said Gloria, “let’s do this till we both can’t move.” The game quickened. With each throw, the bal rose up and away from the earth, and the dog seemed barely to touch the ground as she raced to meet it. She leapt high for each catch, scarcely breaking the rhythm of her run, and landed each time with the grace of a dancer. Soon there was nothing in the world but the ball and the red kelpie flying to meet it against the hand painted silk of the evening sky.

It was late when she left Bil ie’s, and much cooler. She hoped that the worst of the summer’s heat was finished.

5

There was a plane tree on the footpath in front of the house, and all through that last week of her marriage, Jane watched the council workers prepare to uproot it. They cut back its branches, and each day they came with their jack hammers and back hoes to deepen the trench they had dug around it. The road had to be widened, they said. The tree had to go.

It was to be replanted in the park.

On the final day she heard a massive low rumbling, and then the shout of the workers. They were earlier than usual. She sat opposite Barry at the kitchen table while they both pretended to eat.

“It’s a crying shame,” he said.

“What is?”

“That tree. Sounds like they’ve brought in the crane.”

“Yes.”

“They could have planned the road around it.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Do you have to leave me?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it, Jane, it’s not what I want. Never what I wanted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not even ... you don’t even seem pleased about going.”

“Barry...” She reached across to him, but he shoved his chair back suddenly and stood, fists on the table, glaring down at her.

“Do we have to be so fucking civilized?” She thought he might hit her, and she wondered what it would be like. She wondered if her wounds would spurt blood onto his crisp linen suit.

“Do we have to be so fucking nice to each other?” he said. “Do you have to be so fucking selfish? It’s not just me you’re walking out on.” He was shouting, and she hoped he would hit her, because she thought the physical pain might be easier to bear.

“Michele’s coping,” she said. “Better than you are. She sees divorce al around.”

“She’s still at school. God knows, this’ll wreck her grades. You could have waited...” His voice died away, and Jane saw the tears in his eyes.

“She wants to stay with Kelly for the next few days. I said it was al right.”

“I’ll be late,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting at nine.”

“You’d better go then. I’ll be gone when you get back.”

“Yes.”

She watched from the window as he backed the company’s Fairlane out of the driveway and drove slowly past the crane and the council workers. And after that she watched the workers and their machinery, as they prepared to uproot the tree. She saw the boom of the crane quiver and rock, and the chains bite deep into the trunk. She heard the awful cracking of the roots as they were wrenched apart by the relentless upward pull. She stood and watched with a terrible fascination as the tree, with its butchered canopy and its truncated root system, swayed in mid air on the end of its chains.

She turned away, numbed by the surfeit of pain, and walked to the bedroom. The wardrobe door stood open, and she swept armfuls of clothes onto the bed, and then into the suitcases they had used for their overseas trips.

In the living room, she packed books and folders of sheet music into cartons, and sorted through the records and C.D.’s. She raided the cellar for a dozen choice bottles of wine, and, working at last at a furious pace, loaded everything into her car. As an afterthought, she heaved the smal er of the television sets onto the front seat.

Later, when she had driven up the freeway to the cottage, when she had unpacked the car and eaten the first truly solitary meal of her life, she sat at the window and wept for the end of a tolerable marriage.

All through February, she worked harder than she has done for years.

Six days a week she sold real estate, travel ing from her office at Birdwood to properties all over the hills and the vast Murray flats, and visiting the city once a week to keep in touch. She was glad there was enough work to keep her busy.

“G’day Jane,” said the farmers when she drove up in her Laser, or sometimes, if they were old and courteous, “G’day, Miz Pfitzner.” She was courteous in return, and talked with them about their crops, or the likelihood of rain, or the price of sheep, and was never in a hurry to mention the purpose of her visit. And when the business of prices and conditions and whether or not to auction has been finally decided, they offered her freerange eggs, or vegetables from a hand watered garden.

In the Birdwood office, she handled paperwork, and brokers, and company policy, and Marge. Efficient and direct, with a style of dress that would make a nun look gaudy, Marge carried out her secretarial duties with a blunt and frightening efficiency. The loyalties of the office, she maintained, lay always with the owners, whether they were selling or merely renting their properties. Her particular duty, as she saw it, was to protect them from high risk buyers and dubious tenants.

One slow Wednesday afternoon Jane watched from her desk as a scruffy young man in the street read the ads in the front window. She found herself hoping that Michele would never fal in love with anyone like him.

He looked positively feral, and she fancied for a moment that he had been raised by wolves, in some mythical mountains far away. She hoped he would vanish, but in a moment he had made up his mind and was pushing open the door.

“The last of the flower children,” muttered Marge, just loud enough for Jane to hear. She patted her hair, made sure the regimented waves were perfectly in place.

“I was wondering,” the young man began, and then faded into silence.

“I was wondering...” He looked silly, standing there with his dreadlocks and his dusty bibandbrace overalls and his bare feet.

“Yes?” said Marge, deigning to look up.

“I was wondering if you do rentals.”

“We might.” And after a pause long enough to intimidate, “What sort of place were you after?”

“Something cheap. Don’t mind if it’s a bit, you know, run down. I could fix it up. Maybe in return for low rent. I’m kind of... unemployed.”

“Unemployed.” Whenever Marge said it, the word sounded like a terminal illness. The young man shuffled.

“There’s Taylor’s Cottage,” suggested Jane from her desk across the room.

“I wouldn’t put a dog in there.”

“He said he could fix it up.”

Marge recognised the tone, and bent reluctantly to take a form out of her drawer. “Fil this in.” She watched while the man picked up a pen from the desk and wrote in the spaces. When he had finished, she gave him a key, and another sheet of paper with a map on it.

“Here. Though goodness knows why you’d want to bother.” The women watched him leave, and then Marge leant back in her chair and held his form at arm’s length and squinted. “Jeremy,” she read. “His name is Jeremy. I’m surprised he can write. With hair like that, I don’t suppose he ever went to school.”

“I rather liked him,” said Jane. “He seemed very gentle. Not at al what I expected.”

“You can tel a lot by hair,” continued Marge. “If I stopped dying mine, I’d have men helping me in and out of cars, and people like you telling me it’s time I retired.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Retire? Terrible thought, Jane. Terrible thought. What would I do all day? Take up knitting, and have the government support me?” Jeremy was back within the hour, anxious to move into the cottage.

“Are you sure?” said Jane. “It’s not very flash.”

“Neither am I. I’d feel silly in a flash place.” Marge snorted without breaking the rhythm of her typing.

Jane ignored her. “There’s a lot needs repairing,” she said.

“Reckon I can manage. Needs a bit of plastering. Bit of carpentry too.

All those wonky window frames.”

They agreed that he wouldn’t pay a bond or sign a lease, and that the first two weeks would be rent free. And then, because she had had enough of Marge and the office, Jane picked up an inventory sheet and followed Jeremy to the door. Marge brought her typing to an abrupt and dramatic halt, then sat back in her swivel chair and folded her arms.

“No bond,” she said. “No rent for two weeks. I’m surprised at you. And I’ll be very surprised if head office doesn’t have a word to say.”

“My decision, Marge. I’ll handle any flack.”

“Ray Taylor won’t like it.”

“Ray Taylor is a tightarsed old miser who hasn’t spent a penny on repairs in ten years. The place should have an H.I.O. put on it.” She had the satisfaction of seeing Marge’s mouth purse into a tight little knot.

Out in the hot afternoon sun, she fol owed Jeremy’s wreck of a station wagon to the edge of town, and pulled up behind him in front of the cottage. As he opened the driver’s door, a border collie leapt over from the back seat and onto the footpath. The man scooped something up, and when he turned, she saw a young pup wriggling in his arms.

“That there’s Dusty,” he said, “and this one’s her baby. I gave all the others away.” She liked the way he held the animal, the way his blue eyes grew tender when he looked at the mother. The collie, she thought, has the power to tame this feral young man.

“I have to find him a home. D’you want him?” He held the pup out to Jane.

“Yes,” she said without a moment’s hesitation, and her response surprised them both.

“Hey boy,” he said. “Hey boy,” and he did a little dance on the footpath, holding the pup upright in his arms. “I found you a home, and maybe when the wind’s from the east, this woman’ll bring you to visit.” After the inspection she drove home with the pup asleep on her lap.

She thought of how she would like to train him, and how he would ride with her in the car with the window down and the wind blowing his ears.

She was glad that he was a farm dog, and not likely to be spooked by the sight of sheep.

In the cool of the evening she turned the hose on, and laughed as he leapt at the water, and tumbled him about in the grass until the phone rang. It was her daughter.

“I don’t understand, Mum,” Michele said.

“You keep telling me that.”

“...why you had to leave. It’s not like you hate him. You never even fought.”

“I’m doing what’s right for me.” She was sure they both winced at the cliché.

“What about me?”

“Come and stay. I’ve painted the spare room for you. Put new sheets on the bed.”

“Dad needs me here.”

“Well then.” There was acid in her voice, and in her mouth.

“Don’t be like that. You don’t know what it’s like here. Every time he looks at me he cries.”

“Don’t, Michele.”

“He does, Mum. He’s always putting his arms around me and squeezing.

His bones hurt me.”

“D’you want me to talk to him?”

“No!” The word was fired with anger. “Not unless you decide to come back. It’d only upset him more.” She sounds so sure of herself, thought Jane. So sure of what’s right.

“You won’t come up? Just for the weekend?”

“I’m going out with Kelly.”

“All weekend?”

“I’ve got to study.”

“This early in the year?”

With every rejection she felt less like a mother, less like someone who was ever married. At times she resented this, and at times she was relieved.

After the phone call she made a bed for the pup in a cardboard carton, and sat on the floor with a glass of wine to watch him sleep. He snored, a vulnerable little noise that was halfway between a sigh and a growl, and she named him Eric after her father, who was also a gentle snorer.

6

The days were still long enough afterwork, to spend time in the garden. She cut back the climbing rose, weeded the vegie patch, and collected cow manure from the paddock next door. She started a compost heap, and planted a hundred daffodil bulbs along the driveway.

By the time they flower, she thought, I’l have been here six months. Time enough to shed my city skin. Time enough to repair the bond with Michele, or to see the two of us become strangers. The longer I am here, Jane thought, the more I know it was the right decision. She mused on the irreversible nature of time itself, and began to realize that, living alone as she was now, time was infinitely more precious.

She took her watch off every Friday evening, and lived each weekend hour as it came. The small television sat dusty and neglected in a corner.

At dusk she fell asleep with dirt under her fingernails, and her reading glasses sliding down her nose. Often the pup was in her lap. At midnight she woke to prowl through the house or walk the fire track with him if the moon was up. Sometimes she opened a bottle of wine and sat drinking at the open window, listening to the violin concertos of Mozart or Brüch.

One night it rained. The sound of it was comforting on the tin roof, and she lay listening for a long time before she fell asleep. She woke to notice that the pines outside the window looked like cardboard cutouts, because the rain has come hard from the west, creating a dark strip the length of each trunk, branch and twig. They stood out in twodimensional relief against the burnt brown grass of the paddocks.

Like stage sets, thought Jane. Like an endless row of il usions. Perhaps that’s what life is. Every structure society weaves around us, merely an illusion. All those years with Barry, all those expectations, all that time in the box on the stage, being stabbed with swords. How much of the box was real, and how much an illusion of her own creating?

She pondered the question over breakfast, and decided the answer no longer mattered. More important was the current rhythm of her life, where the days were measured by the number of successes at work, and by the slow creation of order in the garden.

On an impulse, she decided to spend the day at home. She called the office and spoke to Marge.

“Not sick, are you dear?”

“No, no. I just need some time out.”

“Probably a bit off colour, then. You have been overdoing it. Better to have a nice long rest and come back after the weekend.”

“Thanks, Marge, but I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow then. How’s that dog of yours? The one you got from the horrible hippy. Is it as hairy as its master?”

“No, Marge. He’s got a coat like a Border Collie and he’s very cute.”

“Humph! Oh, there was a fax from Broome. They want to know if there’s any interest in the Stevens place.”

“Send something back to them, can you Marge? Tell them nothing so far, but I’m doing my best.”

She poured herself a cup of tea and wandered out into the garden. It was cool under the shade of the pines, and the smell of the night’s rain on dry grass evoked something almost remembered from her childhood.

She struggled with the memory, and found within her grasp a feeling, an unfettered feeling where the future stretched out over hills golden with wheat to a horizon of infinite possibilities. A voice in her head kept saying, Anything is possible. You can grow up any way you like.

The pines were solid enough when she touched them, solid enough when she sat on the damp ground and leaned her back against a trunk.

A number of insects hung in the air, suspended motionless by the effort of buzzing wings, and she wondered how much energy it took for them to simply stay in one place. She wondered how much energy she had spent within her marriage, simply staying sane. How much energy she spent within the magician’s box, lying still enough to avoid the swords.

That’s the beauty of being single, she thought. Apart from work, no one can have any expectations of you. And on the other side of that, you can leap beyond your own into a landscape of endless possibilities. Struck by this phrase, she repeated it out loud. “A landscape,” she said to Eric, “of endless possibilities. I could buy another dog, or a piano, or a herd of sheep for the back paddock. I could toss in my job and buy a hacienda in Mexico, or I could become a maudlin drunk, and sit out my days in this cottage, slowly going to seed along with the parsley and the spinach.” She saw a reproachful look in Eric’s liquid brown eyes, in the way he twitched his ears and thrust his head forward. “Oh I know,” she said.

“There’s responsibility. The Stephens’ place. I will, I promise I’ll find a buyer.

After a second cup of tea, she called Gloria Somerset and arranged to meet her later that day in the city office. “There’s another place you might like to look at,” she told her.

Later, when Gloria walked in, Jane noticed immediately the change in her. Gone was the slight swagger, the air of confidence; this new Gloria seemed somehow diminished. Her honeyblonde hair was longer, and her freckles stood out against skin so pale it seemed translucent. She’s thinner, thought Jane, and incredibly beautiful.

“How have you been, Gloria?”

“Oh, busy, I guess.”

“I was surprised to hear you’d left the collective.”

“Yeah, well. Different visions, in the end. Best to go before things get too messy.”

“Yes.” There was a longish pause, when neither of them could find a way to continue. Finally Gloria managed, “You got the key back alright?”

“Yes.” Where was the spark, Jane wondered. Where was the ease between them? “I’ve got something else you might be interested in. A smaller property. Maybe just you and Billie.”

“Right now,” confessed Gloria, “I haven’t a clue what I want.”

“Not worth just a look? A deceased estate. The heir lives in Broome, and wants everything wound up with no fuss.” She sensed Gloria was about to decline. “Look, no pressure. If you’d rather...”

“No, no. I’d like to look, but I can’t speak for Billie.”

“How about Sunday?” and as they made arrangements to meet at the Birdwood office, Jane wondered why either of them was bothering.

A moment later, she stood outside on the footpath, watching Gloria disappear into the five o’clock traffic on her bike.

“That was disappointing,” she said to Eric when she got into the car.

“Perhaps I’d better stick with dogs.”

There was a need to do something significant with the rest of the day, and so she headed for the beach to stride along the sand with her hands in her pockets until the tension was loosed from her bones and blown away.

After a long time of walking, she sat on a pile of seaweed above the tide mark, and watched Eric chase seagulls. The gulls were searching for morsels in the running tide, mil ing in groups, and as the pup ran through them, bouncing and barking with his whole body, they rose and floated overhead. And after each dash, he stood stock still, grinning widely, and shook off the water in long silver arcs.

How wonderful it is, thought Jane, that this animal can create its own purpose in life, and then enjoy it to the full. What a tragedy it would be if someone were to appear right now, and put him on a leash.

The sun was low by the time she drove back along Burbridge Road, and she was hungry. She turned right along West Terrace and pul ed up in front of Hawkers Corner. The place was crowded. Jane surveyed the counters along one wall selling Thai, Indian, Chinese and Indonesian food, and decided on a green chicken curry.

“What number?” asked the man behind the counter.

“Pardon?”

“At which table are you sitting?” Jane scanned the room for a vacant chair. There were people at every table.

“Twenty nine,” said a voice behind her. “She turned and saw Gloria, standing with legs apart and hands in her pockets. “You can sit with us,” she said, and when Jane hesitated, “Really, I’d like you to.”

“If you’re sure.” Gloria, she noticed, had changed, and now wore jeans and a shirt instead of the blue dress. She was startled to see a young Asian man, dark and handsome, sitting at the table as they approached.

“This is my son, Ashley,” said Gloria.

“I didn’t know you had a son.” The remark slipped out almost before the thought formed in her mind, and she wondered if the boy was the result of a one night stand, or if Gloria loved, even lived with the father.

The thought was so contrary to the image of the woman she had been carrying that she found herself staring, shifting her gaze between the two of them. Perhaps Gloria was not, after all, what she seemed.

Ashley was speaking. “Pardon?” said Jane.

The boy looked amused. “She had me a long time ago,” he repeated.

“She wouldn’t be caught dead with a man these days.” To Jane’s amazement, Gloria blushed, and looked around to see when the food would arrive. “Apart from me, that is.”

The food did arrive, and they spent a while in silence, manouveuring their chopsticks and casting envious little glances at each others’ plates.

“Would you like some?” asked Gloria, offering her Laksa. Jane sipped tentatively, and choked on the raw chil i. She grabbed for a glass of water as Ashley sat watching.

“You should have bought the Indian curry,” he said. “It’s better than the Thai. It’s what a real curry should taste like.” He tried to sound worldly.

He reminded Jane of Barry, impressing his clients at a company dinner, and she felt uncomfortable with the familiar patronising air.

“Thank you, Ashley.” She was tempted to ask how old he was, and what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“That was a terrible conversation we had today,” said Gloria.

“Yes it was.” There it was then, an admission that both had expected something more.

“I had a terrible day at school. The timetable was all stuffed up, and I had to teach a double load. Six hours of ‘What time does the deli open?’ and ‘Can you tell me the way to the bank?’ Jane laughed at the accents so accurately reproduced.

“All beginners?” she asked.

“This lot are.”

“You really don’t have to come on Sunday.”

“I’d like to. It’s just that you’ll probably be wasting your time.”

“Come for the ride. I’ll be glad of the company.” Ashley looked from one to the other, and pushed his lank dark hair out of his eyes. The gesture was self consciously languid, an affectation perhaps.

“Are you married?” he asked Jane.

“I’m separated.” It was the first time she’d described herself that way.

“Mum was married once. I don’t think she liked it. These days she prefers to have affairs.” He looked at them both with his dark innocent eyes.

“And what about you, Ashley?” Jane asked sweetly. “Do you have affairs?” The boy turned red.

“Oh, I... er... I...”

“He’s saving himself for marriage to a good woman,” said Gloria.

“Not even a fling?” pressed Jane. “Or a one night stand?” And then, while he battled to frame a reply, she relented and changed the subject.

“My pup,” she said. “He’ll have chewed up my briefcase by now. I’ll have to go.”

When she reached the car, Eric was standing with his front paws on the rim of the driver’s window, mouth open and bits of the street directory still between his teeth. There was a wet patch on the passenger seat.

“At least I don’t have to sit on it, you vil ain.” She put him out on the footpath for a wee, just in case there was anything left, and then settled him in the back of the car.

Instead of heading for the freeway, she found herself driving towards her old house, thinking al the while of Michele, and how she was the same age as Gloria’s son. Would she have affairs with boys like Ashley, she wondered. Had she already? And would Ashley, with his good looks and his smooth tongue be any more acceptable than Jeremy?

As she pulled up in front of the house, she saw that the hole in the ground where the plane tree once stood had been filled in, and that the footpath was newly repaired with asphalt. The patch looked dark under the street lamp. She switched off the engine and the lights, and looked out across the road and the smooth front lawn to the living room window.

The curtains had not been drawn, and she could see someone moving. It was Joyce, her motherinlaw, picking up cups and wiping the coffee table.

Jane knew that the cloth she used would be very clean and only slightly damp.

How convenient, Jane thought. She’s much more of a housewife than I ever was. I don’t suppose they mind very much that I’m gone. And suddenly, unexpectedly, a great gulping sob was born somewhere in that hol ow just behind her heart. It expanded, forced its way up past her larynx and into her mouth. She struggled with the sensation, and with the emotions it brought with it. She swallowed. She attempted to breathe.

She fought to understand the confusion she felt, and finally, by a great effort of will, she managed to hold down the next sob that was growing deep in her chest. And all the while there was an image in her head of Joyce picking up the coffee cups.

After a while she started the engine and drove away from the house through streets that fortunately were not busy. And by the time she was on the freeway, with the city lights laid out like stars below her, she had begun to understand. The isolation she felt arose not from the desire to return to the comfort and security of her marriage, but from her certainty that it was over.

7

On Sunday the weather was perfect. A warm autumn day, with a clarity of light not seen in other seasons. The kind of day, Jane thought, that should go on forever. She noticed as she drove across the hills to Birdwood that the first flush of green had appeared in the paddocks, and that the whole world sparkled. The car sparkled too. She had cleaned it, and had spent a long time brushing the upholstery to remove the dog hairs. There was a rug on the back seat, where Eric lay sleeping and twitching. He snored, and occasionally gave out a snuffly kind of bark.

Gloria was leaning against the van when she pulled up outside the office. There was a purple backpack at her feet. Like the day she looked beautiful, and her hair swung like a curtain as she bent down to open the door.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, yourself. What a wonderful day.”

“It’s nicer here than in the city.”

“I would think so,” said Jane. “Shall we go in my car?” Eric was awake by now, and he crawled over to sit on Gloria’s lap. She played with his ears as Jane drove down the main street and turned west towards Lenswood.

“Tel me about the house,” said Gloria, as she watched Jane’s hands on the steering wheel. There was a band of white skin where her wedding ring had been.

“It’s a deceased estate. There’s a sole inheritor and she lives in Broome.

She doesn’t want to spend money on auctioning. Basically, she’ll take the first reasonable offer she gets.”

“What’s it like?”

“Wait and see. Your own impressions are more to go on than anything I could say.” Even to herself she sounded abrupt, and she regretted the statement. It would have been nice, she thought, to burble on about the house. It would have filled the silence. But it was too late. She glanced over at Gloria, and saw that she was holding the pup so that his feet rested on the open window and his head was out in the wind.

“Do you like dogs?” she said.

“Yes, but Ashley’s allergic, so I’ve never been able to have one.”

“Tell me about Ashley.”

“Tell you what?”

“Is he your only child?”

“Yes. His father and I weren’t together very long.”

“Do you mind talking about it?”

“No. It was a long time ago. I married him because I thought I wanted a normal life. He married me to stay in Australia. He was Vietnamese, studying Economics at Adelaide Uni.”

“That’s all there was to it?”

“We were fond of each other. We thought it might work.”

“What happened?”

“He realized he was gay and I accepted the fact I was lesbian. There didn’t seem much point after that.” Gloria pulled Eric down onto her lap, and bent her head so that her hair hid her face. Jane kept on driving, glad that at last the word had been spoken. She hoped Gloria would relax a little.

“Do you still see him?”

“He died. He got sick with AIDS soon after we separated. And no,” she added in answer to Jane’s sharp look, “I was lucky. He didn’t pass it on.”

“Oh.” She wanted to ask more. She wanted Gloria to keep on talking about herself, so she could begin to understand the attraction she felt.

“That’s my twenty questions,” she said instead. “Yours’ll have to wait.

That’s the house up there on the corner.” The property was surrounded on three sides by a wormwood hedge, grown straggly with age. Inside the hedge were the remains of an oldfashioned garden. The house itself was red brick, with a wide front verandah on brick and concrete pil ars. Beyond lay the ruins of an orchard, separated from the rest of the garden by a low stone wall. Jane watched to see Gloria’s reaction to the place.

“I would say you haven’t fallen in love with it at first sight,” she ventured.

“No, but it is interesting. How old is it?”

“It was built in the twenties.”

“Are you going to show me around?”

“No, I thought I’d let you browse by yourself. You don’t want me peering over your shoulder. I thought I’d take Eric for a walk.” She cal ed the pup, and set off along a gravel road that gleamed white in the sun, and the smal black dog trotting ahead of her cast a smal black shadow.

Actually, she admitted to herself, I’d have been quite happy peering over her shoulder, breathing in that woody perfume of hers. What does that make me? Certainly not a lesbian. No one who’s been married for twenty two years can be a lesbian. I just find her... and she cast about in her mind for the right words... different. There’s no ... and again she flipped through a dozen words to find the right one... there’s no artifice about her. It would be nice to have a friendship with this woman, and to talk with her about real things.

Eric was on the grassy verge, barking at a cow that eyed him with curiosity from the other side of a barbed wire fence. His body bounced with each furious high pitched yelp, and Jane laughed out loud at his fury in the face of such bovine passivity. She called to him, and he came running, with a seehowbraveIam grin on his silly face.

“They’re not seagulls,” she said. “They’re not going to grow wings and fly away. And anyway, it’s their paddock.” It took her a while, when she got back to the house, to find Gloria. She searched through the rooms and the outbuildings, and saw her at last on the low stone wal at the bottom of the garden, with her back against a tree and a thick book in her hands. As she drew close, she saw the purple backpack and a loose bundle of sticks lying on the wal beside her.

“Well,” said Jane. “What do you think?”

“The I Ching says no.”

“The what?”

“The Book of Changes. Look.” And she held it out.

“Read it to me,” said Jane.

“It’s all about limitation. Here’s what it says. ‘In human life the individual achieves significance through discrimination and the setting of limits.’ And nine at the beginning talks about knowing those limits and waiting for the proper time.”

“What do you think are the limits in this situation?”

“It’s hard to say,” said Gloria, looking around at the straggly hedge and the sagging fences. “It seems somehow ... irredeemable.” Jane sat on the wall next to Gloria, and looked down at the orchard.

Apricots, shriveled and brown, stil clung to the branches, giving the trees a forlorn, neglected appearance. They littered the ground and were, she decided, the source of the faint smell of decay that pervaded the whole property. The land was good though, and the house, with a bit of work, could be charming. “It seems to me,” she said, “that you’re not seeing beyond the surface.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Gloria considered the question. She closed the book carefully and placed it in the backpack. “I never know how to behave,” she said eventually. “I don’t mean manners. I wouldn’t know what to do with a house like this. I think I see potential in something, but as soon as I commit myself, I start stuffing things up. Like I did with the river land.

Perhaps I should just keep renting.”

“How many houses have you stuffed up?”

“Two or three.”

“Not just houses?”

“No.”

“Can I ask what else?”

“No. At least, not right now. It’s my turn. I get to ask the questions.” It was an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

“Ask away,” said Jane.

“Do you have any children?”

“A daughter. Michele. She’s fifteen. She laughed at the look on Gloria’s face and said, “It’s all right. I can see you’re wondering why such an old woman has a child of only fifteen.”

“You’re not old,” said Gloria.

“We were so busy being a professional couple I forgot to get pregnant till I was thirty.”

“Do you like each other?”

Jane shrugged. “We used to,” she said. “Right now she thinks I abandoned her.”

“Did you really leave your husband that weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The answer was a long time coming. “He was terribly excited about going to a football match.”

“And?”

“And I suddenly realised he’d been terribly excited about football matches all his life, and probably would be till the day he died. Trouble is, he never understood why I wasn’t. And it struck me quite suddenly I can remember it clearly that if I had to watch him go off to one more football match, I’d go off my face. Permanently.”

“But you didn’t leave that day.”

“No. It took me six months. It was like trying to fight my way out of a blancmange.”

Gloria laughed. “What a wonderful image,” she said. “I can just picture you. Up to your elbows in the stuff, wading towards some indefinable edge. And every now and then you sink back, because it’s really quite comfortable, and not at all unpleasant. Personally, though,” and she giggled again, “I find blancmange incredibly boring.”

“Exactly! I think I’d been dying of boredom for twenty years.” Gloria looked impressed. “What a commitment to permanence,” she said.

Jane gave a little tilt of the head which could have meant anything, and then stood up.

“I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s find something to eat.” She cal ed to Eric, and cal ed again when there was no answering bark.

And there he was struggling towards her, dragging Gloria’s backpack between his legs.

“Oh no,” she said. “Oh no.”

“Oh shit,” said Gloria. “Where’s the book?” They pounced together, and the pup jumped away in alarm.

“You villain,” said Jane, and she grabbed the backpack. “It’s all right, Gloria. It’s still here. He hasn’t touched it.” She pulled the book from the pack, and they both turned and glared at poor Eric.

“What about the yarrow stalks?” said Gloria.

“The what?”

“That bundle of sticks. I left them on the wall.” The yarrow stalks were well and truly scattered, some on one side of the wall, and the rest on the other. A good many of them had been chewed. Jane grew hot with embarrassment.

“Oh shit,” she said, and then, “I’m dreadful y sorry.” She watched Gloria pick up what was left of the sticks and wrap them in a scarf. “Can you replace them?” Gloria picked Eric up and held him at arm’s length.

“Can you replace him?” she said to Jane. Then she brought him close, so that their noses almost touched.

“Vil ain,” she said. “Savage marauder. If we’re going to be friends, you’l have to learn to respect my things.” The pup danced in her arms and licked her face.

“Where can you get them?” Jane persisted. Gloria bent to put Eric down, then straightened and pushed at her hair.

“Gypsy grew these when she lived at Summertown.”

“You can’t get any more from her?”

“No, but they can’t be that hard to find.” She put the stalks and the book in her pack, and hefted it onto her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jane. It was just a bunch of sticks.” And when Jane didn’t smile, she said “You mentioned food. Billie’s not far away. We could drop in on her.”

“Oh ...er... fine, if you think that’s...”

“Of course, we could leave that manky little dog of yours here to suffer.”

“Manky?”

“Smelly. One of Gypsy’s words.”

“Oh.”

Billie was in the round yard when they arrived, lunging a chestnut gelding. A quarter horse, Jane thought. They watched her from the car, a tough, substantial figure in jeans and riding boots and an old Arkubra hat, turning slowly as the horse trotted a circle around her. She waved to them, but it was her dogs who provided the real welcome.

“My God,” said Jane, “are they always this noisy?”

“Yep. The kelpie’s Ruth, and the one that looks like Eric is Bessie. You’d better leave him in the car for now. They might eat him.” Jane noticed she made a point of taking the backpack with her when she got out.

“Give me ten minutes,” called Billie from the paddock. “Go see Jenny and the foal. She’s a bonza little thing.”

“We’re starving,” called Gloria in return. “Can we make some lunch?”

“There’s some stuff in the fridge.” Instead of continuing with the horse, she slowed it to a walk, then moved over to it, coiling the rope as she went. They were too far away to hear, but Jane saw her rest her head on the horse’s cheek, and she imagined Billie talking to it in gentle tones.

She saw her unbuckle the head col ar and scratch the base of the animal’s ears. This woman, she thought, has no need of human love.

By the time Bil ie had seen to the horse, the others had set food out on a table under the shade of a trel ised grape vine – feta and olives from her fridge, and fresh bread from the bakery in Lenswood. She stood at the corner of the paddock, watching. Gloria, in her usual jeans and tshirt, looks too thin, Bil ie decided, likely to be blown away by the next strong northerly. Next to her, Jane was a smal compact figure. Her head was framed by a tendril of vine leaves, and her face was in shadow. Something about the way she stood there, immobile, one hand resting on the table, set a strange pulse beating in Billie’s breast. She watched as Jane brought Eric in from the car, watched while she hovered like an anxious parent, ready to snatch him away if either of the other dogs lifted a lip in anger. But they satisfied their curiosity by rol ing him over and over with their paws, and then ignored him.

When Billie reached the table, she said, “What was the house like?” Gloria shook her head. “I didn’t fall in love with it.”

“Ah. Did you do a reading?”

“Yes. It said the timing was wrong.” Nothing, thought Jane, about the disaster with the yarrow stalks. And just when she was feeling safe, she felt Billie’s gaze, openly curious.

“I must say,” said Billie, “I’m surprised to see you two together.”

“We’re not together,” said Gloria, very quickly. “Jane just showed me...”

“I thought it was just a business appointment. But here we are...” She leaned back in her chair and waved a hand at the lunch. “Not that you’re not welcome. I’m delighted to have visitors. Keeps an old dyke like me from growing lonely.” She did seem pleased with their company, Jane thought. Perhaps after all the horses weren’t enough.

“I’l show you around,” Bil ie said, when they got up from the table and walked out into the sun. The dogs followed, and Ruth searched out pine cones and dropped them at Jane’s feet.

“Don’t let her bug you,” said Bil ie. “She shouldn’t be running. Hurt her shoulder last week, showing off.” She showed them the new loose boxes she’d had built, and the grove of sheoaks, planted two years before, and already changing from saplings into trees. She took them down to the back paddock to meet Jenny and her foal.

“She’s brown, like her mother,” said Gloria.

“Bay,” said Jane.

“What?”

“Bay. A brown horse is called a bay.”

“Oh right. Well she may be a bay, but she’s got a pretty brown baby.” Gloria said.

“Know something about horses, do you?” Billie asked Jane, quite abruptly.

“A bit.”

“What d’you reckon she is?” Jane studied the mare, watched the way she moved, considered the shape of her nose.

“I’d say there’s a lot of Arab in her, but she’s pretty big for an Arab.” Billie hooted in delight.

“A woman who knows her horses,” she shouted. “Oh my! If you knew how rare that is these days. These city dykes like our Gloria come up here and don’t know one end of an animal from the other. Brown indeed. And not for long either. That foal’s going to turn into the most beautiful grey.”

“And you’re right,” she went on, “she is big. It’s the blood stock in her.” And then, as they stood and watched, Billie spoke to Jane again.

“Do you ride?”

“I used to when I was young. My uncle had a farm.”

“Care to have a trot on Jenny? She needs the exercise.”

“God no. Not after that lunch.” And then, because it sounded ungrateful, she added, “sometime though, it would be lovely.”

“Where d’you live?”

“Out near Dawsley.”

“Drop over next Sunday after breakfast and we’l make a day of it. Take Jenny and the foal over to Mt Pleasant in the morning, I’m showing them in the led class. Come back here for a late lunch and a bit of a ride in the afternoon if it’s not too hot.”

“Jane may not want a whole day of your divine company. She may have clients to see next Sunday. Open inspections. A date with a lover.”

“I meant, of course, if she’s free.”

“I’ll call you,” said Jane. “I may have to work.”

Later, when they were driving back to Birdwood, Jane asked, “Would you come next Sunday?”

“Ashley’s got a recital. I promised I’d be there.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, I wasn’t invited.”

“I assumed she meant both of us.”

“I think she fancies you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, really. She offered to let you ride Jenny. D’you know how long it took her to trust me around her bloody horses? It was twelve months before I got to ride. And even now only with her around.” Jane cast a sideways look at Gloria. She was leaning against the door, with her right foot on the seat and her arm hooked around the backrest.

Her face was in shadow, and her expression was impossible to read.

“I would have thought,” said Jane. “you’d look good on a horse.”

“That’s beside the point. The fact remains she fancies you.”

“Oh help. What do you think I should do?”

“Nothing, unless you want to. She’s not going to leap on you.”

“I hope she knows I’m not ... not...”

“Not what?”

“Not a lesbian.” It was the first time Jane had said the word out loud in relation to herself, even in the negative. It didn’t sound like much of a denial.

“How can I let her know,” she went on, “without being obvious?”

“Get yourself a ‘Fred Nile for Prime Minister’ tshirt. Or a Festival of Light badge. That should keep her at a safe distance.” They were back in Birdwood, pulling up behind the van.

“Well,” said Jane.

“Well,” said Gloria.

“Thank you for an interesting day.” My God, Jane thought, with a parting comment like that, the woman won’t want to see me again.

“I enjoyed it,” said Gloria.

“In spite of the accident with the yarrow stalks?”

“Accident!”

“Wel , probably not an accident. Not real y. He probably meant to chew them up.”

“Hmmm.”

“I am sorry.”

“If you’d just stop apologising,” said Gloria, “I might get to like you.” She leaned over and kissed Jane on the cheek. “You’re very cute.” She opened the door and leapt out onto the footpath.

“See you soon,” she called, then she swung herself into the van and was gone.

All the way home Jane considered the word. I may be many things, she decided, but cute is not one of them.

8

On Monday, Jane asked Marge what she knew about yarrow.

“Why?” said Marge. “Have you done someone an injury?”

“Pardon?” For a moment Jane wondered if every detail of the weekend was printed in bold on her forehead. “Not exactly an injury,” she blurted.

“It's supposed to heal wounds,” said Marge. “And cure fevers. Mend broken hearts and all that codswallop. Achilles somethingorother. After Achilles, whose mother held him up by his heel.”

“It wasn't in any of my plant books”

“I'm not surprised. You want to get yourself a complete herbal.”

“Do you know where I could find some.”

“Wrong season. Wrong season entirely. All you’d find now would be dead stalks. No use at all.”

“It’s the stalks I'm after.”

“Whatever for? No use for dried flower arrangements. Far too ugly.”

“Marjorie, I’l take your word for it. Nevertheless, I am looking for some useless, dried up yarrow stalks. As far as I'm concerned, the uglier they are, the better.”

“Well then. You should have said.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Seems to me I do recall seeing some. Taylor’s cottage, if I’m not mistaken. Been growing there for years.”

“Thanks, Marge. I’ll pick enough for both of us.”

“But you’re not...” Jane had col ected her keys and was out of the door before Marge could finish the sentence. The day was far too inviting to contemplate spending it indoors with Marge.

Jeremy was sitting on the front steps when she arrived. He had a window frame between his knees, and was working a plane along one edge. The sun shining through a coloured fivepointed star in the middle of the glass made splashes of colour on his drab clothes. Dusty lay at his feet, wagging her tail in slow considered thumps. There were wood shavings in her coat and on the ground, and the smell of pine in the air.

“G’day,” Jeremy called. “Did you bring the pup?”

“I did indeed,” said Jane. She opened the car door and watched Eric tumble out and sniff his way across the footpath and through the gate.

“Hey, boy, I knew she’d bring you to visit. Are you getting lots to eat?” He put down the plane and scooped Eric into his arms. “Is her place a good place to live?” To Jane he said, “His coat’s getting real shiny.” And a breath later, “Have you come to check up on me?”

“I've come to visit. And to ask you a favour.”

“Oh?” He seemed puzzled by the mention of a favour. “D’you want to see what I’ve done?”

“Sure.”

He put the pup down gently, and pushed him in the direction of Dusty.

“Here. Say hello to your mum.”

Dusty’s fur bristled and settled, and she got to her feet, head lowered so she was eye to eye with Eric. Her face was bland, but her tail, held straight and quivering, showed puzzlement, and only slowly did it start to swing. Eric made a leap for the loose skin at the side of her neck, and she snarled. He leapt again, and hung on with teeth sharp as needles, enjoying the game. Dusty snarled again, in earnest this time, and shook him off, and sunk her own teeth into the back of his neck.

The pup howled, and Jane leapt forward to rescue him. She hauled Dusty away with one hand, and picked Eric up with the other. Then she turned to Jeremy.

“You could have warned me,” she said.

“I didn’t know the girl’d do that.”

“She could have killed him.”

“Hey, man, she was just showing him new manners. He’s not her baby anymore.”

“I’m not a man.”

“Hey, Jane, it’s all right. Look at him, laughing at me with his mouth.

He’s not even scared. Come and see what I’ve done.” With the pup still in her arms, she followed Jeremy up the steps and into the gloom of the house.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, when her eyes had adjusted. And reluctantly, “I’m impressed.” There were new window frames in the front two rooms, and patches of new plaster on the walls. The door between the passage and the living room had been rehung.

“It’s cold in there,” Jeremy said, “and I want to keep the wind out. I want to make it look nice, too. Can I have some paint?” There was not a trace of awkwardness about him, and Jane wondered at his ability to live so entirely in the moment. She wondered if it was naivety or guile she saw in his light blue eyes.

“I’ll see what I can manage,” she said. Ray Taylor was still grumbling about the lack of rent, and wasn’t likely to want to spend money on paint.

But there was the work already done.

“How much did the frames cost?”

“Not a whole lot. I made them.”

“And the wood?”

“I found it.” Jane didn't like to ask where, or how. She walked along the passage and into the kitchen.

There was a camp stove on the floor, a billy and two saucepans next to it. In the corner was an old door, balanced on columns of bricks. Its surface was covered with lengths of wood, sawdust, carpentry tools and the remains of several meals.

“Where do you sleep?” asked Jane. She had seen no sign of bedding.

“In the car. Them other rooms aren’t cleaned yet.”

“You must get cold.”

“Dusty keeps me warm.” They wandered out through the back door and into the sun.

“What’s the favour?” said Jeremy.

“Oh,” Jane was surprised he remembered. “I want to see if there’s any yarrow in the garden.”

“That’s a herb. I read about it somewhere.”

“Yes.” They stood side by side and gazed around the yard. Jane still held the pup in her arms. Neither knew what to look for.

“There’s some funny kind of grass behind the tank stand,” said Jeremy.

“Smelt kind of funny when I picked a bit.” They walked over to a patch of tal pithy stalks, dried brown and stil bearing their large, flat flower heads.

The smell, when Jane crushed a stem between her fingers, was pungent, and recognisable.

“Yes,” she said, “this is yarrow.”

On her way back to the office, she wondered if she had picked enough.

How many sticks in a bundle? Not easy to judge, when all you remember are the chewed and broken bits.

She remembered, too, the dog fight, and the way Jeremy had said “He’s not her baby anymore.” The incident stayed in her head throughout the day, disturbing her, but it wasn’t until later that night she realised why.

There was a nagging familiarity about what had happened, not in the actual events, but in the way her brain responded to them. She felt a sense of loss, a sense of guilt that suddenly had more to do with Michele than either of the dogs.

It was nearly three months since she’d seen her daughter, over two weeks since they’d spoken on the phone. Time enough for the season to turn, for the oak trees in the lane to lose their leaves and reveal their dark furrowed branches. Time enough for the nights to turn bitter. Yet even as she dialled the number, she wondered why she was bothering. Michele answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” Her voice was expectant, a little breathless.

“Hi, gorgeous.”

“Oh, it’s you.”

“How have you been?”

“All right.”

“How’s school?”

“Same as always.”

“What new and exciting things are happening in your life?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah. Nothing at all?” Frustration put an edge on her voice. “Tell me, Michele, what was the most interesting thing you did today?”

“Mum? I gotta go. I’m expecting another call.” With infinite patience, Jane said, “Michele, I left your father because I was very unhappy with him. I didn’t leave you.”

“Yes you did. You walked out.”

“You could have come with me.”

“And live in that pokey little place? Anyway, Dad needs me.” Jane felt defeated. She made one last effort.

“How about coming up on Saturday? We could talk. Go to a movie.” She could feel the reluctance oozing along the wires.

“All my friends are down here.”

“We could meet in town. Lunch, if you like. A mere hour of your time.”

Silence. Jane sighed. She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d pictured lunches with Michele at the table under the pines, and early morning chats, with Michele sitting on the end of the bed, tucking her feet under the doona the way she used to. She’d had expectations of visits from her daughter’s friends, and of the cottage filled with the buoyant energies of youth.

“What?” she said.

“I told you, I gotta go.”

“Well then.” She put down the phone, and sat looking at it for a long time. “Damn you,” she said eventually, very softly, and then, “Come on Eric.”

She put on a jacket and scarf, and set out to walk the dog along the fire track. In the dusk the trunks of the eucalypts were pale, and the galahs in their branches groaned their monotonous song on the inhale and exhale of every breath. At the end of the track, rising high above a patch of uncleared scrub was a magnificent blue gum, its canopy on fire with the last of the sun’s rays, its trunk already in shadow.

She stood stock still while Eric whined at her feet, and she watched the tree until the glow had died from the canopy and the evening had slid away into darkness.

And still she stood, feeling light and hollow like a stalk of summer grass, long dried and yet still rooted in the earth. I ought to be feeling more than this, she thought. I ought to be jumping in the car and rushing down the freeway to the city. I ought to be forcing the issue with Michele.

I should be feeling guilty. But al she felt was the beginning of a thin cold wind.

She was disturbed by the sweep of headlights on high beam, and the sound of a motor being gunned up the slope. She cal ed to Eric and pul ed him aside as the car drew level. There was a burst of laughter, and something was thrown from the passenger window. A bottle, Jane thought as it smashed against a tree. Probably a stubbie, and probably more to come.

“Damn you,” she shouted after the car, but it was no more than a set of tail lights disappearing over the crest of the hill. She turned for home, striding through the dark, surefooted and furious, while the dog trotted like a deeper black shadow at her heels.

Inside the cottage, she turned on the table lamp in the living room, picked up the phone and dialled Gloria’s number. There was no answer.

She let it ring till she heard the cut off tone, then hung up.

The next night, and the nights after that she walked for hours while the sun lowered and sank in a blood red sky, while a sickle moon hung high above her shoulder and her feet scuffed the white dust of the road.

She thought about phoning Michele, and about the yarrow stalks she hadn’t given to Gloria. She thought about Barry and the years of their marriage, and marvelled at the absence of any identifiable emotion. And always at her side was Eric, the constant black shadow.

9

By Friday this hollow mood had settled hard on her soul, and even Marge was moved to comment.

“You’re not yourself Jane. Missing your family, if you ask me. Why don’t you patch things up with Barry?”

“There’s nothing to patch up.”

“Look, I’m not one to pry, I would never pry, but...” She straightened up a file on her desk, then looked up. “I’ve lost two husbands, and I know what it is to be lonely.” That, coming from Marge, was somehow shocking.

“I’m not lonely, Marge. At least if I am, I don’t mind.” Jane could see herself, night after night, embracing loneliness, tasting it like wine on her tongue, living on its sharp edges until her soul was stripped clean and could accommodate in all its fierce beauty the call of a magpie at dawn, or the cold sharp angles of the stars, or the curve of a muscle in some woman’s shoulder.

The phone rang. Marge answered it, listened, and said, “It’s for you.

Someone called Billie.” She switched the call to Jane’s desk and turned back to her paperwork.

“Jane? Thought I’d give you a call.” There was no mistaking that booming voice. “I never heard from you about Sunday.”

“Oh shit. The horse show.”

“You forgot?”

“No, no. It’s just that...” Even in the face of Billie’s silence, Jane couldn’t think of a way to end the sentence. “I’ve been meaning to call.”

“Still trying to find a way to say no?” Jane was aware of Marge’s silent busyness. “It’s probably not a good time,” she said.

“To talk, or to visit?”

“Um, both.”

“Marge listening, is she? Ears flapping with every word you utter?”

“Something like that.”

“Too bad. Worked myself up to a bit of a natter. Don’t suppose you’re free at lunch time?”

“I can be.”

“Have to pop over to Birdwood to pick up a saddle. How about we meet at the pub?”

“Sounds fine. About twelve? Twelve thirty?”

“Twelve thirty. Front bar. See you there.” Marge spun round in her chair as soon as Jane hung up. “I hope that’s not the Billie I know,” she said.

“Big woman, loves horses?”

Marge’s lips disappeared into a thin white line. She patted her hair, as if the mere thought of Bil ie might cause it to escape from its serried rows of curls and spring upwards in fright. “She’s a lesbian,” she said.

“That’s the one. Not a friend of yours, Marge? Pity. I’m having lunch with her today. You could have joined us.” Marge humphed and spluttered, as the light of battle flared and died in Jane’s eyes.

In the pub Jane hardly recognised Bil ie. Gone was the Akubra hat, the work clothes, the sense of the great outdoors. Her slacks and jacket were tailored, more business woman than farmer, and the shirt beneath the jacket a surprising jadecoloured silk. Her hair was newly cut and swept backwards to end in a neat duck’s tail just above her collar. She had obviously made an effort. As they waited for their food, Jane asked, “Do you know Marge?”

“She’s been around the horse scene for years. Doesn’t do much except judge, these days. Homophobic old trout.”

“Yes.”

“How can you work with her?”

“She has her good points.”

“Ah. What about Sunday then?” Her sudden change of tack startled Jane. “Have we got a date or not?”

“I think perhaps not,” said Jane as gently as she could.

“Fine. Long as I know.” Billie smiled, but behind the facade was disappointment, and Jane sensed a loneliness to match her own.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Is there, as they say, someone else? Are you and Gloria an item?”

“No! No, not at all.” Jane could feel herself blushing.

“But you like each other?”

Oh Fred Nile, thought Jane, where are you now? “Yes,” she said, “we like each other.”

“But?”

“Pardon?”

“I was expecting to hear a but at the end of that sentence. You know,

‘we like each other but we’re just good friends’ or ‘we like each other but not in the way you think.’ There was warning in Billie’s voice.

“You’re very fond of Gloria,” Jane said.

“Yes.”

“Billie, I...”

“Let’s have a beer. Or would you like a whiskey? Don’t often drink the stuff before sunset, but when I’m in the mood it just hits the spot.”

Jane shook her head. “Not for me,” and Billie, having half risen, sat down abruptly.

“Well then,” she said, “I won’t either.” There was an old Beatles song on the juke box, and the room smelt of cigarettes and fried food. I say yes, you say no, I say stay, you say goohoh, sang the Beatles.

“Gloria told me you just left your husband.”

“Several months ago.”

“Was he a bastard?”

“No. He’s really quite a nice man.”

“As long as you’re not one of these women who plays around with dykes and then goes back to the security of her marriage.”

“You’re assuming a lot.”

“Am I?” Billie’s gaze was unrelenting. Friend or foe, Jane wondered.

She could be either, and as either she would be formidable.

There was a message from her motherinlaw when she got back to the office.

“She wants you to ring,” said Marge, with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Where is she?”

“At your house. I gather she spends quite a bit of time there these days.”

“Did she say what she wanted?” asked Jane as she dialled.

“No,” said Marge as she settled in to listen.

Joyce, on the other end of the phone, was flustered, her voice tremulous with indecision.

“Oh Jane,” she said, “I didn’t know whether to call you or not.”

“What’s happened?”

“Michele said she didn’t want me to, but I just thought... I just thought...” Jane could picture the older woman standing in the living room, gazing at the photos on the wall while the tears welled up in her eyes.

“Joyce, take it easy. Just tell me what happened.”

“Michele had an accident on her bike. It’s al right, she’s not hurt.” The words came out in a rush. “She’s all pale and shaking, and I just think you should be here.”

“I’m on my way.” She was about to hang up when she paused and added

“Joyce? Thank you.” To Marge, as she hurried out the door, she said “Cancel my appointments for this afternoon, will you? Tell them I’ll see them on Monday.”

All the way down the freeway she cursed herself for not having forced the issue with Michele, for not having simply dropped in to see her once a week. She cursed the lumbering cement truck in front of her, and down on the plain, she cursed the traffic and every red light she hit. When she pulled up in front of the house she noticed Michele’s bicycle, a crumpled heap on the lawn, and she sat for a moment, forcing herself into a state of calm.

The front door was open, and in the kitchen Joyce was pouring tea.

Michele sat at the table, still pale, and when she saw Jane she burst into tears. Head down on her arms, she sobbed and shook while her mother stood behind her and stroked her hair, and her grandmother heaped spoonfuls of sugar into a teacup and pushed it towards her.

In a while, when Michele had cried out the worst of the shock and they were drinking their third cup, Joyce said, “Tell your mother what happened.”

“There’s not much to tel . I was nearly home when this car came round the corner too fast and hit me. I mean hit the bike. It’s all buckled up. I landed on the road and when I looked up it was just speeding off. They didn’t even stop.”

“Some people can be heartless,” said Joyce, “utterly heartless.”

“Some people can be criminal,” said Jane. “Did you get their number?”

“No.”

“Pity. You’re not hurt?”

Michele held out her hands. “Look,” she said. “I skun my palms. And I hurt my knee. But I’m all right.”

“Seeing as you’re al right,” Joyce said, “I’l be off. I can’t sit here being idle. I’ve got my own home to attend to.” She stood up, col ected handbag and car keys, and turned to go. “There’s a casserole in the fridge,” she added. “You make sure and tell your father.” Her words were for her granddaughter, but the meaningful look was directed at Jane. On an impulse, Jane stood up and hugged the older woman.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, and when she saw the tears in Joyce’s eyes, she hugged her again, a short fierce embrace that cut short the need for any more words.

Joyce left, and Jane saw herself and Michele pulling apart, like the flesh round the edges of a halfhealed wound. She struggled to hold the edges together.

“I’ve missed you too,” she said. She reached over and took her daughter’s poor grazed hand in hers, gently, with the palm turned upwards.

“That looks sore. Have you put anything on it?”

“Yes.”

“Come back with me to the cottage. Just for the weekend.”

“I can’t. I’m playing netball tomorrow.”

“With that knee?”

“I have to watch, at least.”

“Why don’t I come with you?”

There was a spark of interest in Michele’s eyes. “If you want to,” she said as casually as she could.

“Shall I pick you up? What time do you play?”

“I have to be there at one.”

“I’ll be here at twelve thirty.”

“You could stay the night,” said Michele.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be fair on your father.”

“I don’t understand why you had to leave him. You never even fought.

I always thought you loved each other.”

“We’ve been through all this before.”

“But you never told me why!” In her frustration, Michele jerked her hand away from Jane’s, and her cup, half full of cold tea, went flying.

Neither moved for a moment, but watched the puddle spread towards the edges of the table.

“It was like being in a box,” said Jane. “It might have been comfortable, and safe, but if it gets too small, you just have to get out.” Michele paused to consider this statement. She drew stick figures in the tea, a father, a mother in a triangle dress, and between them a child holding the hand of each parent.

“He still loves you.”

“I know.”

“And you? Do you still love him?”

“Not in the way you want me to, Mich.”

“It’s really over, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s really over.” They sat in silence, listening to the clock on the wall tick away the minutes.

“You’ve got your freedom,” said Michele eventual y. “What are you doing with it?” She was scribbling now at the edge of the puddle, wiping away bits of it which dried in streaks across the table.

“Enjoying it. Liking my own company. Meeting a few new people.”

“What new people? You’re not seeing another man, are you?”

“No.”

“That’s all right then.”

“And if I were?”

“I don’t think I could handle it.”

And what about another woman, thought Jane. There’s no way she could handle that. “I’ve got a dog,” she said, “a puppy. I should be getting back to him.”

“You didn’t tell me.” said Michele, “What kind of dog?” She spoke with assumed indifference.

Jane hesitated. “Tel you what,” she said, “come back with me tonight and I’ll drive you down to netball in the morning. That way you can see for yourself.” She could see Michele was tempted. “We can sit outside and eat fish and chips and you can watch Eric play til he fal s panting at your feet in sheer exhaustion.”

“Eric! You called him Eric? That was Grandpa’s name!” At the cottage they sat at the table under the pines and ate their fish and chips out of newspaper, and they watched while the pup romped on the grass. The light failed, the raucous wattle birds shrieked, and Jane felt happier than she had in a long time. She hoped the healing of the rift was permanent.

Later, though, when Michele was asleep in the spare room and Eric, spoilt rotten, lay at her feet, Jane sat at her bedroom window and thought about Gloria. How can I feel what I think I’m feeling, she thought, after a lifetime of being with a man. And if I am feeling it, then how can I possibly do anything about it without destroying Michele? She was tempted to phone, to make a time to see Gloria, but it was late. Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll call her tomorrow, before we head down for the netball game.

In the morning she awoke early, put the coffee on to brew, cooked eggs and toast for them both, and took Michele her breakfast on a tray.

“Hey sleepy,” she called. “It’s a glorious day. Sit up and take notice.” And when Michele grunted and slid further into the quilt, “I’ve cooked eggs, and they’re getting cold.”

Michele grunted again, and sat up, pulling the quilt to her chin. “It’s freezing,” she said.

“Nonsense, it’s a crisp autumn morning.”

“Mother, it may seem like a crisp autumn morning to you, but I’m freezing my tits off.” Jane tossed her a jumper and settled the tray on her lap, then climbed onto the bed and leaned back against the spare pil ows.

“D’you like the colour?” she asked, indicating the deep green of the walls.

“Hmm,” said Michele, her mouth full of egg.

“Hmm yes or hmm no?”

“Hmm yes. I’d like it even better if you got me some of that coffee I can smell.”

“You mean you can be bribed into flattering me?”

“No, but you can be flattered into waiting on me hand and foot.” The day was good. In the parklands Michele, too stiff and sore to play, stood on the sideline and barracked for her team. Eric on the end of a leash barked encouragement, and for a while Jane felt like a mother again.

There was the familiar smell of grass and oranges, and, carried on the wind, the sound of traffic from Greenhill Road. During the break, Michele hobbled over to talk to her teammates, drew them into a tight little circle around her, and ignored Jane. Even when one or two of them looked Jane’s way and waved, Michele drew them into her circle again, and shut her mother out. It seemed to Jane such a cold and deliberate act of retribution.

After the game, she delayed taking her daughter home. She suggested coffee at Al Frescos, and to her surprise, Michele said, “Can I ask Kelly?”

“Sure. It’ll be nice to catch up with her.” In the car Michele rummaged in the glove box for a comb, and pulled out a parcel wrapped in a fine silk scarf.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A bundle of sticks.”

Michele opened the scarf, and the smell of yarrow drifted through the car. “They’re a present. For a friend.”

“A bunch of dried out old sticks?”

“Hmm,” Jane nodded.

“Mother, is this friend of yours a weirdo?”

“Not at all, Michele. She’s ...” Jane was about to say, Rather lovely.

“She’s a teacher.”

“She uses these at school?”

“No, darling. I can’t explain exactly how she does use them, but if you ever meet her I’m sure she’ll be delighted to.” As an afterthought she added, “Eric chewed up her first set.” The fine crisp day had turned overcast, and the wind was blowing harder, so they sat inside at Al Frescos amid the clatter and hiss of the coffee machines.

“How’s school?” Jane asked.

“Mum, what sort of dumbarse question is that?”

“Pretty dumb one, I suppose. You’ll both tell me what you want to tell me, and I’ll have to wait till the end of term before I know the truth.”

“She’s not doing too bad,” said Kelly. “I’m doing OK too. I got an A in history last week, even though you weren’t around to help.” She yelped as Michele kicked her under the table. “What was that for? I can say I miss your mum, even if you’re too stubborn.” She sat back in her chair, arms folded, shoulders rigid.

Jane turned to her daughter, “Too stubborn to invite Kelly up to the cottage sometime? Maybe over Easter?” Michele grunted, but said nothing.

She’s already bored, thought Jane. And truth to tell, so am I. What sort of mother does that make me?

“It’s getting late,” she said. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Yeah, us too,” said Kelly. “We have to go home and get ready.”

“You’re going out tonight? Who with?”

“Bill and Ben, the flowerpot men,” said Michele.

“What?”

“These two boys from school. They’re not very exciting.”

“Boring, in fact,” added Kelly.

“But harmless.”

“Except for Ben. He picks his nose.”

“Then why go out with them?” asked Jane.

“They’ve got tickets to Metallica.”

“That explains everything,” she said straightfaced.

After she had dropped them at their separate homes, she drove back to the parklands, locked the car and threw sticks for Eric until her arm grew tired.

“What should I do?” she asked him as he lay panting. The wind was ruffling his silky black hair. “Should I phone her, or just go home?” Eric grinned at her, noncommittal. “Give it a go, d’you think? I don’t suppose she’l bite me.” She bundled the pup back into the car and drove until she found a phone box.

She could feel her mouth drying up as she dialled, and by the time Gloria said hello, any words she might have uttered were stuck, like a spoonful of peanut paste, to the roof of her mouth.

“Hello,” said Gloria. “Hello, hello.” She paused, and then very clearly, enunciating every syllable, she said “You must put your money in now.

Near the top there is a place.” Another pause, and “Hello? Hello?” again.

“It’s me,” Jane blurted.

“Jane? Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought it was one of my students. They’re sometimes so nervous about speaking English they forget how to use the phone.”

“I know how they feel.”

“Jane, are you all right? You sound funny. Where are you?”

“South Terrace. Michele’s team were playing. They’ve gone now and I thought maybe we could meet for a coffee.” Stupid suggestion, she told herself immediately, one more hit of caffeine and you’ll be jangling like a cheap chandelier in a gale.

“Why not come here?”

“Wel ...” She didn’t want to appear too eager. “If it’s al right with you.

You’d better tell me your address. I can’t stay long, though.” She was there in ten minutes. Gloria’s place was a single fronted sandstone maisonette, with a bullnosed verandah and a tiny ragged front lawn. There was a single tree, smoothtrunked and ancient, just inside the gate. Not a gardener, she told herself. Definitely not a gardener.

“You’d better stay here,” she said to Eric. “She might have cats.” She rang the string of cowbel s on the verandah post, and when Gloria opened the door, she held out her silkwrapped bundle in both hands, like an offering. “Here,” she said, “a present for you.”

“Oh,” said Gloria, still standing on the threshhold as she unwrapped the sticks. “Oh, thank you. I’d give you a hug, but I know I reek of fish sauce and garlic.”

Indeed she did. Jane caught the pungent aroma of Asian food with every breath as she followed Gloria down the hallway to the kitchen. The room was tidier than she’d expected, spotless in fact, with the benches scrubbed and gleaming, and the floor newly polished. She could detect, in spite of the garlic and the occasional waft of yarrow, the warm and comforting smel of Johnson’s floor wax. She was surprised by this display of domesticity.

There was no sign, though of any Asian food. Jane looked around, took in the struggling pot plant on the window sill, and the posters on the walls. FUCK HOUSEWORK LET’S DANCE said one, and she thought that’s more her style than this cosy tidiness.

“Here,” said Gloria, holding the scarf out to Jane. “You’d better take it now. I’m bound to forget later. It’s for you. I bought it for you.”

“Oh. It’s very beautiful. Thank you.”

“Your colour, I thought.”

“Oh, d’you think so?” She wrapped the scarf around her neck, and flashed a smile. Her hair and her freckles were the same shade as the honeycoloured scarf. Jane’s heart leapt behind her ribs. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, her feet unable to move on the floor that smelt of wax, and watched while Gloria smiled and smiled.

“Shall we look at the rest of the place?” Gloria said eventually. They were laughing at each other, something recognised. They toured the house, Gloria’s room with its smell of sandalwood and its air of abundant chaos, the study, where three walls were lined with books, and Ashley’s room, very neat and dominated by a handsome upright piano.

“Where is he?” asked Jane.

“Gone to see some dreadful movie with his mates. And then on to Time Zone for an evening of mindless video games.” She spoke with affection, indulgence even, and Jane could tell she loved her son. “You just missed him.”

“Must cost him a bit.”

“Yes. He spent hours cleaning the kitchen after lunch to earn extra.

That’s why it’s looking so nice. Anyway,” she said, turning suddenly to face Jane, “why are we discussing Ashley? It’s you I want to know about.” They were at the door of Ashley’s room where the late afternoon sun shone on keys of the piano. On either side of them the corridor stretched interminably towards the front and the back of the house.

“What about me?” asked Jane.

“Anything you want to tell me.”

She wanted to say, I love you, to try out the sound of it on her tongue, but she wasn’t quite sure it was true. She wanted to say, You excite me, which was closer to the way she really felt. She looked at Gloria, leaning on the door frame, the scarf still around her neck, one hand looping a strand of hair behind her ear. She wanted to say, You’re beautiful, but she didn’t know if one woman could say it to another in quite the way she would mean it, or how such a comment might be received.

“I had lunch with Billie the other day,” she said.

“I know about Billie. Tell me about you,” said Gloria.

“Let’s have a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want a cup of tea. I don’t want to go for a walk. In fact,” she said, “I never did get to ask you those twenty questions. If I sit you down and feed you, can I have my turn?”

In the kitchen, Gloria moved between fridge and table, setting out dishes of rice noodles, shredded lettuce, cucumber and mint, fine strips of cooked beef, crushed peanuts, fish sauce. She laid out bowls and chopsticks and sat down opposite Jane.

“Let’s eat,” she said.

“You cooked all this?”

Gloria laughed. “That would impress you, wouldn’t it? Some students came over at lunchtime and prepared it all.”

“I’m eating leftovers then. Not nearly so impressive.”

“Sure, but they are delicious.”

Jane picked up her chopsticks, then put them down again. “I’m embarrassed,” she said.

“Because I’m watching you?”

“Yes.”

Gloria leaned her elbows on the table and said, “You’re gorgeous.”

“I can’t eat if you’re going to say things like that.” Jane was blushing, and the chopsticks shook in her fingers.

“Use some of the sauce,” said Gloria. “That’s where all the taste is. All the chillies and garlic.” She was right. Jane had never experienced such a dynamic combination of tastes.

All through the meal, Gloria watched Jane eat, watched the way she handled her chopsticks, the way she arranged the food on her plate before choosing what to put in her mouth. And as she watched, she wondered how she could be falling again, so soon after Carmen. She remembered what Ashley had said about her lovers, the way she let them walk al over her, and she resolved to end the meal and send Jane on her way. It won’t hurt, though, she thought, to linger awhile, to share a glass of wine on the verandah while the dusk settles over the city and the datura spreads its perfume on the air.

But it was cold outside by the time the meal was done, so they sat at the kitchen table, with the remains of the food between them. It grew late, they talked on, and every time Jane made a move to go, Gloria asked another of her twenty questions. It can’t hurt, she thought, to know the kind of woman I’m walking away from. In this manner time itself took on a brittle and dangerous energy, for the later it got, the less likely it was that Jane would walk out the door and get in her car and drive al the way up the freeway and through the dark winding roads to Dawsley. But the more likely it was that Ashley would arrive, perhaps alone, perhaps with one or more of his mates.

In the end it was Jane who broke the mood by pushing back her chair and standing up. “I real y must go,” she said. “Whatever wil Ashley think when he comes home to see me still here.”

“You could...” said Gloria carefully, as she looked up into Jane’s greygreen eyes, “You could stay the night. I mean, you’ve had a glass or two, and it’s a long way home.”

Stay the night. Stay the night, thought Jane. Does she real y want me to stay the night? Is she offering me a mattress on the floor because she thinks I’m over the limit, or is this the beginning of something? “You could kiss me,” she said. The words tumbled out of her mouth without passing through her brain, and immediately Gloria was in front of her, and her arms were around Gloria, and they were kissing. Her mouth, her nipples, her cunt were all on fire, and her bones were melting.

And yet, she thought, we are barely touching. Your lips are just grazing mine, and if I keep my eyes open, if I draw back just a little, if I stop this kiss for just a moment, and look up at you, I can see the way the eyelashes lie on your skin. I can see the curve of your cheekbone. Her hand went up to Gloria’s face. I can see my fingers, my skin on yours. Final y, my skin on yours. I can smell you, too. The smell of garlic, faint on your neck, much stronger when my mouth touches yours and I breathe in your breath.

“What about Ashley?” said Jane. “What about Eric, cooped up in the car all this time?” The sounds were a whisper, a mere flutter of air on her tongue. But the mood was broken, which was just as wel , with the sound of a car door slamming, and the sound of a key in the front door lock.

“Shit!” said Gloria, and they sprung apart like naughty children caught with their fingers in the sugar bowl. Jane straightened her clothes, Gloria ran her fingers through her hair, and Ashley came into the kitchen.

“Hello, Ashley, I’m just going,” said Jane. Gloria, still standing close, whispered, “Stay.” In a flurry of movement, though, Jane had gathered up her car keys and was walking out the door, banging it shut on the way out.

10

In the morning Gloria woke to the sound of Ashley practicing. A Beethoven Sonata, she thought. Opus 27, the first movement. That much I’ve learnt in the past month. Thank the Goddess the recital’s today. She lay for a moment, remembering the way Jane had flounced – yes, that was the very word – had flounced out of the house, remembering the sound of her car as she revved the engine before taking off. She listened to Ashley’s gentle music, noted the switch from Tchaikovsky to a series of complicated, brilliantly executed scales, so arresting, so demanding of attention that Gloria wanted to shout to the world, ‘Listen! That’s my son. Isn’t he wonderful.’ A paral el impulse was to leap off the bed, pound her fists hard on the wal and shout, ‘Fuck off, Ashley. You’re showing off. You’re ruining my life.’

She got up, shrugged on a dressing gown, and stopped at the door to Ashley’s room, feeling the old pull between son and lover, remembering Ashley’s threat on that unbearable day in January. “Hi Ash,” she said.

“You’re up early.”

“Are you having another affair?” His tone was flat, and Gloria could tell he was angry, “I’m surprised she went home. How long’s it going to be before she moves in and takes over?” He sat facing the piano, his hands resting on the keys, his back to the door. Gloria, standing stiff in the doorway, said, “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s going on.” He began playing again, a piece she hadn’t heard before, full of hard edges and discord.

“D’you want some breakfast?” she asked.

“No,” he said, with his hands hammering at the keys.

Several times that day Gloria phoned Jane, but the calls went unanswered, and with each unsuccessful attempt, the tension built. All through the day, too, Ashley sulked. Over lunch he was silent, and on the way to the recital in the afternoon he sat brooding, his arms locked hard against his chest, and his face turned resolutely to the car window. Here we are, thought Gloria, on the way to a really important concert, the culmination of months of practice, and we can’t even be civil to each other.

She sat with her hands on the wheel, waiting for the lights to change, and took several deep breaths, hoping each one would soften the lump that sat like a mess of cold porridge around her heart.

“Ash,” she said, “I’m sorry if the timing is bad. I want you to know that, right now, I’m really proud of you, and being at this recital is the most important thing I could be doing with my day.” At the recital Ashley sat stiffly in a row with the other performers, waiting his turn. The younger ones went first, and Gloria settled in for a longish session of nursery airs and simple melodies, painstakingly played.

Most of the tunes she had heard before. Some were those Ashley had struggled with in the past. “Dum tiddy tiddy dum tiddy tiddy,” she found herself urging one little girl. “Keep the rhythm, sweetheart, and your fingers’ll find the notes much easier.” When Ashley’s turn came, he ambled over to the piano and sat down without looking at anyone. He lifted a bored hand, pushed back his hair, and began to play not the lyrical first movement he had been practising all month, but the more difficult third. Gloria felt herself grow hot. She sat, literally, on the edge of her seat, neck muscles tight in anticipation of disaster.

The audience until now had been lovingly attentive, tolerant of mistakes and lost notes, aware of a commonality of experience. Aware that each one of them had listened endlessly to a child’s practice, had encouraged or cajoled, had sometimes gone without to pay for lessons.

They shared parental pride. Now, though, they sat up and listened in a new way. The playing was technically faultless, but it was Ashley’s desperate mood that allowed the piece to soar, that severed its bonds to any earthy origin. Even the youngest of the children, restless before this moment and squirming in their seats, were suddenly and dramatical y stil .

There seemed to be a collective holding of breath, and it was only when the last note had been struck and allowed to fade that there was an exhalation, a relaxing of shoulders, a softening of the look of hardedged rapture on each face. A moment of silence, and then the applause went on and on and on. Ashley, emerging as if from a dream, was embarrassed, and left the stage in a series of bows and sideways shuffles.

“I’m very proud of you,” said Gloria as they walked to the car. “Dammit, Ash, Beethoven would have been proud of you.” She stopped in the middle of the footpath, pulled Ashley’s head down and kissed him on the cheek.

“There. I don’t care if you are mad at me. Let’s celebrate.” Ashley, hands shoved deep into his pockets, grunted.

“Come on Ash, your choice. What’ll we do?”

“Just you and me?”

“Ask Ben if you like. Ask Darren. Ask Mr May’s entire group of students!”

“Mother, please,” muttered Ashley. “You’re being dramatic.”

“What’ll it be, then?”

“All right, mother, all right. We’ll celebrate.”

“Where?”

“Hawkers Corner?” For all his pretentions, Ashley was most at home in the knockabout atmosphere of this eating place.

“Fine.”

“Can I ask the guys?”

“Sure.”

Ben and Darren were there when they arrived, sitting at a corner table, arm wrestling. Darren at nineteen was bearlike, with a voice to match his frame. He always seemed to Gloria like a young, male version of Billie.

Ben was much taller, quieter. On the still rare occasions Ashley invited him home, Gloria found him quite pleasant. Both, real y, were nice enough in small doses.

“Hey guys,” cal ed Ashley, and Ben looked up, smiled, lost concentration for an instant. Darren seized the moment and, with a grunt, forced Ben’s forearm flat to the table.

“Not fair,” said Ben. He leaned across and cuffed Darren on the side of his head, and threw a soft slow punch at his chin.

“Cut the violence,” said Ashley. “My mother is here and she’s shouting.”

“Does that mean we can pig out?”

“It means you two philistines can congratulate the boy wonder on a brilliant performance, and then eat with gratitude whatever modest meal I decide to buy for you.” Gloria ruffled Ben’s hair, sat down and pul ed out her wallet. “Here,” she said, handing Ashley a fifty dollar note. “Go buy what you like.”

Ashley smoothed the note in his fingers. “What about you?” he asked.

“Just a laksa. I’m not really hungry.” Gloria ate slowly, watching the boys, enjoying their exuberance, not minding the sheer maleness of their energy. Ashley, she thought, was a lot like his father. He had the same way of holding his chopsticks, the same gesture of lifting his hair from his face with a limp and weary hand.

When he was as relaxed as he was now, his laugh, his very smile was so like Tuan’s it still took her breath away.

She watched the others as they jostled for elbow space, and raided each other’s plates with lightning jabs. There was a flash of something between the two, a physicality that was never there before. With a shock, Gloria recognised it as a spil ing over of sexual tension. She put down her chopsticks and studied first Ben, then Darren. There was no mistaking it.

Nothing as obvious as holding hands under the table, but an almost visible electric charge that sparked from one to the other.

She glanced at Ashley. Was he aware? How could he not be aware? He seemed oblivious, riding on his own wave of achievement, still high from the recital, laughing at the antics of his friends. For the first time, Gloria noticed a separateness about him, as if the others had taken their first step away from innocence, and left him behind. She felt a sudden desire to hold him in her arms, to protect him while she could from all of life’s knowledge. There was an image in her head of herself with her arms around Ashley, struggling to hold him back from the edge of the precipice while he struggled to break free and jump. The image flipped, and there she was with her arms around Jane, standing the way they had stood last night.

She felt herself blush, felt her hands grow sweaty, heard Ashley say from somewhere behind the fog

“Hey Mum, here comes Billie.”

“What?”

“Billie. Mum, are you all right? You’ve gone all red.”

“Yes, thank you Ashley, I’m fine,” she said in her primmest voice.

“What’s that about Billie?”

“She’s here,” said Ashley with great patience. “She’s pul ing out a chair and sitting down. Now she’s going to say hello to you.”

“Hello, Gloria,” said Billie. She looked wonderful in her blue shirt and deep cream moleskins, a solid dependable rock in a sea of shifting uncertainty.

“Hel o, yourself,” said Gloria, and gave her a hug. “Have you come here to eat or to find us?”

“I remembered Ashley’s recital was today, and I figured that if you felt the need to celebrate, where else would you be?” Gloria introduced her to Ben and Darren, and then said, “Are you hungry? We’re all just finishing.”

“I’m fine. I’ll get something later.” And without missing a beat, she turned to Ashley and asked, “How was the recital?”

“All right,” said Ashley, with a great show of nonchalance. “I was unbelievably brilliant. Did you really come here to ask?”

“Of course, dear boy. I remember Gloria telling me you were playing, and I drove al the way down from the hil s after a hard day with the horses just to find out how it was.”

“Bil ie, I real y appreciate your support and interest, but, um, I’m gonna kick off now.” He glanced at Gloria, caught her dismissive shrug, then turned to Darren. “Hey man, let’s go play pool at your place.” The boys, restless now the food was finished, jumped at the suggestion.

They thanked Gloria for the meal, stood up and loped single file through the tables towards the door.

“Goddess be praised,” said Billie. “I wish I could clear a meeting of social workers that fast.”

“I meant to tell him to be home early.”

“Give the boy a break. I’m sure he’ll have more fun with his mates.”

“What’d you think of them?”

Billie shrugged. “I only saw them for a moment.”

“First impressions?”

“Ordinary kids. Blokes. Hard to know what to call them at that age.

Anyway, Glor, aren’t you going to ask how I did today?”

“Oh, the horses. Jenny and the foal. Did you win anything?”

“Only a first.” Billie grinned with pride. “In spite of the judge. You should have seen her, Glor, trying to smile when she gave me the ribbon. Must’ve been a ding dong battle between her principles and her homophobia.”

“Oh, poor you,” laughed Gloria. “I’m real y pleased, though. You deserve it.” She leant over and kissed Billie on the cheek.

“Yes, I did. So I decided to kick up my heels a bit with a friend or two. If I hadn’t found you I was going to drop in on Kym and Sally. Maybe we can do that anyway.”

Gloria looked at her watch and pul ed a face. “A quick visit, but I can’t stay long. I need an early night.” She thought of the lessons she hadn’t prepared, of the phone call she wanted to make to Jane as soon as she got home. Then, catching Billie’s look of disappointment, she spread her hands and , “What the hell. It’s worth celebrating. Let’s buy some booze and see who we can find to share it.”

They drove separately to Gloria’s place where she left her car and a note for Ashley, and then climbed into Billie’s Jackaroo. Billie was silent as she manoeuvred the back streets, but once on South Road she asked,

“Why d’you need an early night?”

For the second time in the space of an hour, Gloria felt herself blushing, and she was glad Billie was too busy driving to notice. She was reluctant to talk about Jane, equally reluctant to be less than honest with Billie.

“I wouldn’t have thought,” said Bil ie, “it was a question that required so much musing.”

“I’m tired,” answered Gloria, “because I spent the evening with Jane, and after that, I couldn’t sleep.”

There was a long silence, broken finally by Billie as she shifted gears at the traffic lights.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said.

“Don’t I always? Don’t I always walk into situations with my eyes wide open?”

“She’s a married woman.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She might go back to him, Glor. They’ve only been apart a few months.”

“She’s a lesbian. I feel it with every bone in my body.”

“That’s lust, and besides, it takes courage to live as one. Can’t see you being happy with someone who hasn’t come out of the closet.” Gloria gazed out at the traffic. It had begun to rain, fat heavy drops that splattered on the windscreen and blurred the lights of the oncoming cars. She was annoyed that Billie hadn’t turned on the wipers.

“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I think I’m in love with her.”

“Ah, then nothing I could say would make an iota of difference.” Bil ie’s voice softened. “Not that I blame you. Did she tell you we had lunch on Friday?”

“She mentioned it.”

“Did she tell you I made a fool of myself?”

“No.”

“The woman’s got integrity at least.” There was such an expression of sadness on Billie’s face that Gloria had to turn away. When she looked back the sadness was gone, and the face just seemed old.

“I’m really sorry,” Gloria said, and she put her hand over Billie’s as it gripped the steering wheel.

Final y Bil ie turned on the wipers, and they drove in silence, listening to the rhythmic slap slap slap on the windscreen. The rain was coming down harder now, fal ing in sheets, fil ing the gutters and lying centimetres deep across the road. Driving was difficult, and required ful concentration.

When they pulled into Kym and Sally’s driveway, Billie turned off the engine and sat with her hands in her lap.

“What about Ashley?” she asked without looking at Gloria.

“He played bril iantly at the recital. That was after sulking al morning.”

“That’s hardly fair. The boy’s got cause to be worried, after the way Carmen treated him.”

“Jane’s not Carmen.”

“He’s not to know that. Go easy on him, Gloria. Don’t ignore him.”

“I never ignore him.”

“I know what you’re like with new love. Nothing else exists.”

“It’s different this time. She’s not like other women. She’ll understand about Ashley.”

“Why should she?”

“She’s got a daughter.” At that moment, Gloria hated Bil ie’s interfering.

She hated having to justify what she felt, what she wanted to happen with Jane. She fiddled with the foil of the champagne bottle she was holding, ripped it off, started undoing the wire that held the cork. She felt Billie’s hand gentle on her arm.

“Hey Glor, at least get out of the car before you open that stuff.” Gloria didn’t want to get out of the car. She wanted to hijack the vehicle and drive like a bat out of hel , alone, up the freeway and into the hills. It didn’t matter that Jane hadn’t given her a map. It seemed the attraction she felt was compass enough to guide her through the dark to the cottage where by now her love would surely be waiting for a phone call.

The front door opened, and Sal y stood on the verandah, a vague figure through the downpour.

“It is you,” she called. “If you’re waiting for the rain to stop, you’ll be all night.” She turned and shouted back into the house, “Hey Kym, it’s Billie!” and then to the car, “Make a run for it!”

“Glor,” said Bil ie softly, “we don’t have to stay long. Maybe you’ve got better things to do tonight.”

Resenting even this insight, Gloria leapt down from the car and made a dash for the house.

11

The rain was thundering down, too, on the roof of the cottage at Dawlsey.

Inside, Jane sat listening to Shostakovich and dreaming images into the flames of the open fire. She reran, frame by frame, the previous evening.

The kiss, the feel beneath her hands of Gloria’s shoulders, her breasts with their pebblehard nipples. She recal ed the long wild drive home, with the half moon shining on the trees, and the trees bending in the wind.

After a night of lying awake, listening to the sighing of the pines, she’d been up before dawn, and spent the day in a fury of paperwork at the Birdwood office, desperate to do something useful. By mid afternoon she was searching for tasks, and when she knew there was nothing left to do, she’d locked the office and was on her way home.

She drained the wine from her glass, set it down on the bricks of the fireplace, and turned her hand over to examine her nails. They were carefully manicured, but perhaps she should keep them shorter in future.

The memory of Gloria came flooding more strongly, and she was tasting again the taste of fish sauce and garlic.

A sudden rush of wind sent sparks spiralling up the chimney, and Eric, sleeping on his mat in the corner, whiffled. Restless, Jane stood up, walked across the room and opened the front door. She turned on the outside light, and stood watching the rain as it slanted in heavy sheets across the garden. Behind her the fire was inviting, outside, the night was full of sound and movement. There were pools of water on the flagstones, the beginnings of a stream from the downpipe at the corner of the verandah through the shrubbery to the fence.

She shivered, and withdrew to the warmth, closing the door against the excesses of the night. Shal I cal her? she asked out loud. Shal I pick up the phone and dial and have her sweet voice on the end of the line in an instant? She hesitated, picked up the receiver, replaced it, picked it up again and stood without dialling. It was true she didn’t know the rules.

Twenty five years ago, she’s always waited for Barry to make the moves.

It was easier then, knowing who was responsible for what.

How could you tell with another woman? Did it matter who called whom? Perhaps it was decided by age. Perhaps she, being older, should call Gloria. Then again, Gloria was a true lesbian, while she was... what?

Perhaps she should wait. The tone from the receiver changed from a burr to an insistent beepbeepbeep, and she hung up in a spasm of guilt, feeling as though the Telecom Thought Police were reading her mind.

“Paranoia,” she muttered, and picked up the phone again. This time she dialled, but there was no answer.

She made herself a hot chocolate and took it to bed, but when she turned off her light and tried to sleep, her mind was still full of Gloria, full of the smell and the feel of her. Exhausted, she felt like a traveller at the end of a long plane journey, jetlagged and confused. She was a stranger in a new land, wondering how much to pay the cab driver, wondering if she could rely on the address she clutched in her hand, scrawled on a scrap of old sheet music.

For hours she drifted on the surface of sleep, aware of the rain, and of the wind that howled around the cottage, that blew through her head and tumbled all her thoughts, like autumn leaves, into untidy piles at the edges of her mind.

“The Winds of Change,” she heard herself muttering, “The Winds of Change, windsofchangewindsofchange,” until the sound became a mantra, and she relaxed enough to sleep.

She awoke to the sound of the phone ringing.

“Hel o gorgeous,” said Gloria, “Are you stil talking to me?” The warmth of her voice sent sparks leaping all through Jane’s body.

“Hello yourself,” she managed. “And why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, you know. You left in rather a flurry the other night.” And when Jane didn’t answer, “I tried to call you all day yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“Did I wake you up? You sound sleepy.”

“It’s all right. I have to get up anyway.” Now she was actually talking with Gloria, she couldn’t think of a word to say. She hung on, listening to the breathing on the other end of the line, and to the sound of her own heart thumping.

“When can I see you?” said Gloria.

“I have to be in town tomorrow. Perhaps we could meet. Go for a walk.” She wanted to be with Gloria – this much she knew. But not when Ashley was there. She thought of the moment she’s heard his key in the lock, the feeling of panic and something more. Something akin to shame. She didn’t want to feel that way around this lovely woman.

“I could use those lovely sticks and do a reading for you,” murmured Gloria. “See what your chances are of spending the night with a beautiful woman. See what my chances are.” Obviously, thought Jane, she’s done this all before. Many times, probably. She tried to match the banter.

“Brazen hussy. I thought your I Ching would be concerned with matters of a higher moral tone.”

“What could be more moral than anticipating a night of passion with a beautiful woman?”

“Am I?” asked Jane. “I’ve never thought so.” The sun through the window slid several degrees along the wal while she waited for a response.

“Yes,” said Gloria. “I adore you. I didn’t sleep all last night, thinking of you.”

“What about Ashley? I feel kind of ...” she searched for the right word.

“Kind of restricted when he’s around.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Jane let out her breath in a long sigh. She seemed to have been holding it for an eternity. She was suddenly lightheaded with wonderment, with a kind of relief that she hadn’t, after all, been imagining things.

“Hang on,” said Gloria, and Jane could hear her talking to Ashley.

“There’s money in my wal et,” and then to Jane, “I’ve gotta go. What time tomorrow?”

“What time do you finish teaching?”

“Four.”

“I’ll be waiting at your place.”

The strong winds had dropped, and the rain for the moment was holding off, but the clouds in the west hung low, threatening another downpour.

“Damn,” said Jane. She was hoping for a fine day, one that would take her out of the office and away from Marge.

“Damn,” she said again, on her way to work, as the first of the fat, heavy drops exploded on her windscreen.

“Everything all right, is it?” asked Marge as soon as she walked in.

“Yes, fine.” Jane wondered what could possibly be wrong.

“No problem with Barry? With young Michele?”

“Oh that!” The weekend’s events had erased Friday’s drama from her mind. “Michele fell off her bike, Marge, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Marge, spoiling for something to ease the boredom of a wet

Monday morning, said sweetly, “I saw that friend of yours on Saturday.”

“Which friend?”

“At the horse show.”

“Oh, Billie.”

Marge disciplined her thinning lips, and managed to look almost benign. “That’s the one,” she said. “I was judging the mare and foal section. Had to give her a blue.”

“She won? Jenny and that beaut little bay?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Women like that shouldn’t be encouraged.”

“Women like what?” asked Jane, all innocence.

“You know, Jane. Like her. There are young girls around.”

“Oh,” said Jane. “You mean everyone who comes within spitting distance is in danger of being contaminated? Of having a purple L emblazoned on their innocent and unsuspecting cheek? Or do you mean she’s a seducer of young girls? A corrupter of youth?”

“I mean,” said Marge grimly, “she sets a bad example.”

“Don’t we all, one way or another.” Jane cast around for way of changing the subject. “I’m sure I set a bad example for Michele, staying with Barry as long as I did. And what about you, Marge? Who do you set bad examples for?”

“Hmph,” said Marge, speechless for once.

“That contract for the Walsh place,” asked Jane, “is it ready yet?” The diversion worked, and for an hour both women sat in silence, Marge working on the contract, and Jane scanning the real estate sections in the weekend papers. Eventually, though, Marge stood up to check a file. She stood at the open drawer of the cabinet, biting the end of her pencil.

“What I can’t understand,” she said, “is how you can waste your time with someone like that.”

“Who, Marge,” said Jane. Anger began a slow burn up her spine.

“Billie Sandry. How did you meet her anyway. She’s never been a client of ours.”

“Can’t this wait, Marge? I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, if the subject of lesbians offends you...”

“No, Marge, the subject of lesbians doesn’t offend me. It’s your attitude I find hard to take.” The slow burn ignited into flame, and Jane let fly with a torrent of words, each one bitten off and spat out in furious precision.

“What if I were to tell you, Marge, that I spent a good deal of the weekend wishing I was in bed with, and making love to, the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. What if I were to say that as far as I’m concerned that makes me a lesbian, and that as far as I can see, for the rest of my life I want to go on being a lesbian.” Marge stared at Jane, her mouth opening and closing in comic silence.

“Perhaps you made a mistake,” she squeaked eventually. “I’m sure it was only that Sandry woman’s influence.” She looked suddenly horrified.

“It wasn’t her, was it?”

“No, Marge.”

“Well, there you are then. Probably something hormonal. Perhaps it’s menopause,” she added coyly.

“I really thought she was going to die,” said Jane when she was retelling the scene. “Right there at the filing cabinet.”

“With one hand raised in horror and both legs ready to run,” laughed Gloria. “D’you think she’ll resign?”

They were walking along the beach, boldly hand in hand, watching Eric chase seagulls at the water’s edge. “She might.”

“Would you fire her?”

Jane considered the question, walked a dozen or more paces before answering. “No. She’s never get another job at her age.”

“And if she resigned? Would you try to stop her?”

“It’d be her choice. I wouldn’t persuade her to stay.”

“D’you mind me asking all this?” said Gloria. She flashed a smile, half apologetic, half seductive. “I want to know how your mind works.” Jane threw back her head and laughed. She picked up a piece of driftwood Eric had dropped at her feet and hurled it into the waves. “Go get it boy,” she shouted, then turned to Gloria and hugged her in a sweet, fierce embrace.

“You want to know how my mind works,” she teased. “I thought you were just after my body.” She held Gloria at arm’s length, then kissed her on the mouth and pulled her close again. “It’s been years since anyone took this much interest in me.”

“You like my questions? Here’s another one then. What are we going to do when those two hoons walking towards us with their pit bul terriers get close enough to scream ‘Filthy Lezzos’, and kick sand in our faces?” Jane spun round in alarm. She had thought they were the only ones on the beach, and yet, just as Gloria had warned, two youths and their dogs were ambling towards them, moving in that deceptively looselimbed way that signalled danger.

“Oh shit,” she said. “What’ll we do?”

“Keep walking,” said Gloria. “Ignore them.” She turned and linked her arm through Jane’s, and they forced themselves to strol , when every nerve in their bodies was urging them to run. Jane flinched as they drew level with the youths, who had stopped, and were standing with their legs apart and their thumbs hooked into their belts. She felt their malicious stare, and she pul ed her arm, and Gloria’s with it, closer to her body.

“Filthy lessos,” she heard, and a clump of wet seaweed hit the back of her neck. She stopped abruptly, glanced at Gloria, and turned back to face the youths. But they were already off, running with their dogs up the beach, leaping and hooting with glee.

The women hurried then, took the first set of steps up to the road, and walked back along the footpath. Eric, sensing the tension, stayed close at heel.

“Bastards,” spat Gloria, as she sat behind the wheel of the van, her hands shaking with rage. “Bastards,” she repeated. “Morons. Arseholes.” Back at Gloria’s house, they sat in the kitchen, drinking tea.

“Bastards,” Gloria was still saying. “I’d like to rip their balls off and shove them up their nostrils.”

“It’s all right, they didn’t hurt us. Don’t let it spoil the evening."

“Yeah, I know. I just get so mad.”

“Where’s Ashley?”

“Piano lesson. We’ve got about ten minutes to ourselves. No time for anything interesting. You’ll just have to sit here and talk to me.”

“Al right then.” Jane leaned her chin on her hands, gazed into Gloria’s eyes, and said earnestly “How was your day?”

“Boring. I didn’t get round to preparing anything decent, and I taught both sessions by the seat of my pants. Tell me more about Marge.”

“What about her?”

“Did you intend coming out to her?”

“Coming out?”

“Of the closet.”

“Oh. No. It’s just that she got up my nose so much I couldn’t help myself.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“There was a certain satisfaction,” Jane admitted. “I just hope the shock wasn’t too much for her.”

“What about Michele?” asked Gloria. “When are you going to tell her?”

“I don’t know.” Then, to soften the brevity of the statement, “I don’t know. Enough hard things for one day, don’t you think?”

Soon Ashley arrived home, and Gloria was busy with him, and with cooking dinner. Jane wandered out into the back yard to give Eric the food she’s remembered to bring. She would like to have sat down, but there was nowhere that wasn’t damp, no garden seat, not even a clear patch of path she could squat on. A vine of some sort, uncouth and vaguely tropical, sagged on a wobbly trel is and tangled itself in the grass. A row of tomato plants hung limp on their stakes, and a single clump of silver beet, long gone to seed, leant against the fence. Even the fruit tree, with half its leaves fal en and the rest a dul and uninspiring brown, lacked energy. Oh Gloria, thought Jane, I could do wonders with this place.

Over dinner Ashley was surly, and Gloria as a consequence subdued.

“Ashley,” said Jane at one point, “I heard you were brilliant at the recital on Sunday.”

“So?” Jane waited for him to continue, and when it became clear he wasn’t going to, she added, “You play very well. How long have you been learning.”

“Long enough.”

She could sense Gloria’s anger, could tel she was about to pounce. She flashed her a pleading look and turned back to Ashley. “You must have started very young.”

Ashley, with a great show of patience, put down his knife and fork.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “You won’t be around long enough to charm me. Mum goes through lovers like rolls of bog paper.” He pushed his plate away and stood up, arms folded, staring down at her. “You’ll be lucky if you last a week.”

He slid out of the room, and in a moment they heard him turn on the television, a rock show, loud and intrusive.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Gloria, her face white. She stood up and moved around to where Jane was sitting, held her head, stroked her spiky grey hair. “I’m really sorry. Don’t be upset.”

“He knows how to make things difficult.”

“Yes.”

Jane learnt her head against Gloria’s belly, listened to her heartbeat, wondered how best to react.

“This is al very new to me,” she said careful y, “I think it’s best if I go home tonight.”

Gloria’s fingers in her hair were stil . “Why?” came the question, softly.

“Because I don’t want to rush things. I want to be friends with Ashley.”

“They always win,” said Gloria sadly.

“Who?”

“The boys. Ashley. Those hoons on the beach. I’m tired of fighting.”

“Hey Glor, I’m not giving up. I really like you. I just know when to go slow for a while.” She felt Gloria’s hand move again through her hair.

“Spend the weekend at my place, and I’l try again next week with Ashley.” She left soon after, melting with love, longing to stay.

12

Gloria watched the tail lights of Jane’s car til they merged with others at the end of the street, then returned to the house, to the television which held no promise of distraction, to her study where she wrote in her journal: Why do I only turn to this when I’m miserable. I can go for months feeling fine, with never a need to put pen to paper, and then Whammo! It hits. She goes, trailing my energy behind her like the tail of a comet. She goes, when we both want her to stay. Al because of Ash. Or does her sensitivity to my child arise from concern for her own?

I don’t want to fight with the boy. That’s what destroyed Carmen and me. Al that energy spent on arguing. Al the time she spent hating him. I need a strategy. Plan it out for a change, instead of reacting in the heat of the moment.

Right now the house is silent – he’s probably doing his homework – and I want to be thinking of Jane, but my whole brain is jammed with knowing I have to first find a way to make things right with Ash.

She put down her pen and wandered down the passage towards the kitchen.

“Hey,” she called out as she passed his door, “D’you want a cuppa?” She heard a noncommital grunt, and tried again. “Cup of tea, Ash? I’ll even bring it to you.”

“If you want.”

Ungracious turd, thought Gloria, but she bit her tongue.

When she took the tea into his room, she put the mug on his desk and sat on his bed, crosslegged, with her back against the wal . Ashley ignored her. She watched him writing for a while, an essay by the look of it. He wrote easily, had her love of words, his father’s knack of tuning out everything except the task in hand. Eventually she said, “Drink your tea before it gets cold.” Ashley stopped writing and took a swallow.

“What did Mr May think of the recital?” Gloria persisted.

“Good.”

“Just good? He didn’t say you were brilliant?”

“Yes, he said I was bril iant.” There was a note of pride in Ashley’s voice, despite his attempts at a monotone.

“Any chance of a scholarship next year?” Ashley turned to face Gloria. “Aren’t you going to yel at me?” he said, half belligerent, half hopeful.

“Would it do any good?”

“No,” and then with a bit of a shrug, “it might make me feel better.” His face looked so comically guilty that Gloria nearly laughed. “You weren’t very nice, were you?”

“No.” He fiddled with his pen, spun it in a complex, practiced manner between his fingers.

“She’s not like Carmen. She’s got a daughter.”

“So?”

“She understands about kids. She thought you might like to go up to her cottage some time.”

“Oh.” Ashley was surprised. “Why?”

“She’s got a great collection of classical music, for a start.” She could see he was tempted, and was tempted herself to keep pushing. Instead, she unfolded her legs and stood up.

As she walked to the door Ashley said, “At least she doesn’t heap shit on me the way Carmen always did. I can’t remember a single time she was nice to me.”

Was she real y that bad? Gloria wrote. She sat back in her chair, leaned forward again, doodled in the margin of her journal. Was I so blinded I didn’t see it? She pondered the question, held it in her head while she slept, turned it over in her mind in the days that fol owed, though neither she nor Ashley spoke again on the subject.

In the cottage at Dawsley Jane was trying to work out how to prepare for a night of mutual seduction. Trying to work out whether that was even what she wanted. How do I avoid the clichés, she wondered. Should I avoid the scented candles, the dinner by firelight? Should I dress for the occasion, only to hope for a slow and sensual undressing at the end of it?

And what about music? A CD of romantic classics, or the best of Ella? She settled on Ella, and firelight, and a simple dinner of pasta and salad, and was opening the wine when Eric started barking. She put the bottle down, and was at the door, opening it, before Gloria could knock.

“Bloody hell,” said Gloria, all hatted and scarfed and gloved against the cold, “it feels as if I’ve been driving for hours. And with no streetlights to light my way, I’m surprised I ever found you.” She dropped her backpack, took off her gloves and hat, and began unwinding her scarf. It was, Jane saw, the one she had given her. In the firelight Gloria looked younger, rested, the lines of tension around her mouth no longer there.

She was laughing, too, and holding out her arms.

“After travelling to the ends of the earth,” she said, “I deserve a really warm hug.” And there was Jane, stepping into the circle of her arms, and reaching up to kiss, feeling the shock of her warm lips on Gloria’s cold cheek.

“Take your things off,” she said, “and go stand near the fire while I bring in the food. We’ll eat in here, and be warm.”

“Am I imagining it,” said Gloria, when dinner was finished and they sat on the floor, either side of the fire, “or are you actual y holding me at arm’s length? Those lovely eyes of yours have been speaking volumes ever since I arrived, but whenever I think I might reach out and touch you, you move away, you pour more wine, you put another log on the fire.”

“I don’t want to rush things, that’s al . I want to savour every moment of the evening. And I want to know what I’m letting myself in for.”

“Meaning?” Gloria reached for the wine and poured herself a glass.

“I don’t want to just drift into this. I don’t want to fall into bed with you just because it seems the easiest thing to do.” Jane reached out with the fire tongs and rearranged the logs, and then sat back to watch the flames. Ella’s golden voice on the stereo was singing down through the years:

I’l sing to you, each spring to you And worship the trousers that cling to you Bewitched bothered and bewildered am I ...

Gloria said nothing; she watched the firelight flicker in her wine glass.

“I spent too many years just drifting,” Jane continued. “I drifted into marriage with Barry, and I stayed there because it seemed the easiest option.”

“The easiest option, Jane, would be for you to not fall in love with a woman.” This time it was Jane who held the silence, staring into the fire, searching for answers. “Do you fancy me,” said Gloria after a while,

“because I’m the first available lesbian you’ve met since leaving your husband?”

“I fancy you because you’re gorgeous, because you care about your son, because I’ve always had a thing about freckles. There. But is it enough?”

“Jane, you’re looking for guarantees, and there are none. Love is love, no matter who it’s between. You could fall for me, and after a passionate six months, you might find I’m as boring as Barry. What then? Would you regret those passionate six months?”

“No,” came the answer, softly.

“Well then, do I stay the night, or do I go home?”

“Stay.”

“Because you’d feel sorry for me driving all that way back home, or because you really want me here?”

“I want you here; I want you in my bed.”

“Shall we go to your room?”

“No. It’ll be freezing in there, and we’d have to hide under a mountain of bedclothes. If I’m to seduce you, or if you’re to seduce me, I want to see you naked.” She was suddenly busy, pulling cushions off the couch and arranging them on the floor, stoking up the fire to a blaze of light and heat. Then she sat there on the cushions, waiting, finally wordless.

And as the fire flared and burned, they made love, with Gloria leading the way and Jane catching on fast.

After it was over, and they lay there in that delicious swoon that comes with orgasm, too spent to move, Eric on silent feet padded over and thrust a cold wet nose into Jane’s shoulder. She groaned, rolled onto her back and shivered. The air was cold on her body. Gloria moved too, raised herself on one elbow, pushed back her hair and said, “This is your first time? I could have sworn you’d been practising.” She traced a path with one finger from breast bone to pubic hair. Jane’s skin, where the finger touched, puckered into a line of goosebumps. “Look,” said Gloria, “I’ve made my mark on you.”

“Oh, you did that long ago. That day by the river. Remember?”

“I nearly drowned in that river.”

“When you were little.”

“When we camped there. The weekend you left Barry. The day I swore celibacy forever more.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Jane. Battling to hide a sudden thrill of fear, she rol ed onto her side and pul ed a blanket from the couch to cover them both. “You should’ve said something.”

“About the drowning?”

“No. Yes. About the other.”

“The celibacy?”

“Yes.”

“Seemed a good idea at the time.”

“And now?”

Gloria smiled, and pushed the blanket away from Jane’s shoulder.

“I’m not so sure. D’you mind if we start all over again?” But Eric was whining at the door, and had to be let out, and the fire was a pile of ashes in the grate. The room was cold, and they were forced, after all, into the greater chill of the bedroom.

In the morning, Gloria lay for a long time in that halfswoon between sleeping and waking. Eyes closed, she listened to the sounds of the room, to the call of a wattle bird close outside the window. She heard wind chimes, deep and melodious, on the verandah, and she took the sound of them back into her dreams. She was aware of Jane’s head on her shoulder, and of the pins and needles all up her arm. Even when, eventually, she opened her eyes, she lay still, preserving the magic of the moment. She felt Jane’s hand on her breast, and saw again those strong brown fingers, and the blue veins under the skin. Bil ie’s voice in her head said, ‘You can hide your age with a face lift, but hands are a dead giveaway.’ Yes, thought Gloria, her hands look old. But she loved the soilroughened texture of them, the thought of al the physical work they were doing. She loved the feel of Jane’s compact body curled up close, and the feel of each breath on her neck. She thought of the whole day stretched out before them – no Ashley, no piano, and for Jane, no work appointments. Best of al , no need at the end of it to hurry back down to the city. This day, then, was a gift to be seized, to be held, to be experienced with mindfulness.

She looked around at the room. It was large, and sparsely furnished.

Apart from the bed, with its simple black metal railings and striped quilt cover, there was a single armchair, covered now with last night’s clothes, a cedar ladderback chair under a plain cedar writing desk, a chest of drawers, an old kitchen dresser. The polished floorboards gleamed in the early morning light. Very Zen, thought Gloria. No clutter, no ornaments, nothing out of place except our clothes, all tangled up together on that chair.

She felt Jane stir and grow still again. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she whispered. In response, Jane moved her hand, ran it slowly down Gloria’s flank, and back again to her breast. Outside in the garden, a magpie carolled and Gloria said, “Listen. Isn’t it beautiful.” There was a charged quality to the song, as there would be to everything that happened that day; every taste, every smel , every touch so ful of energy that time itself seemed to simultaneously expand and contract around each jewelled moment.

Later, Gloria would remember the day as a series of still photographs; the play of light on Jane’s silver hair as they made love, the ordered and abundant garden beds, with Jane pointing out the reason for each new planting. This woman, she thought, believes in herself. This woman has found her own rhythm in life through the creation of beauty. She is a kind of magician, in a way that I, with all my learning and language skills, could never be. Her favourite remembered image was of a moment just before sunset, of Jane in a white shirt and red windbreaker, standing with a yel ow rose in her hand against a backdrop of green paddocks and a clear yellow sky.

After that earlier conversation with Ashley, Gloria thought he might be more accepting of Jane. But he remained cautious, polite but aloof whenever she was in the house. Noone mentioned again his visiting the cottage. The weekends Gloria stayed there, he chose to remain in the city.

“D’you think he minds you spending half your life up here?” asked Jane.

They were sitting either side of the fire on a windy, ragged day at the end of autumn, with the curtains drawn to shut out the last of the daylight.

“He enjoys it,” said Gloria. “He takes the posters off the walls and invites his mates over.”

“Don’t they know you’re lesbian?”

Gloria shrugged. “Ash thinks they don’t.” She thought about Ben and Darren’s behaviour in the restaurant.

“Is it difficult,” asked Jane, “having a man in the house, living with someone who doesn’t approve of you?”

“At times. It was terrible when he hit puberty. One minute I had a child on my hands, and then without warning, his voice broke, and his body smell changed, and he started telling me what to do.” She shuddered dramatically. “I nearly went demented. So did Ash.”

“And now?”

“Good and bad patches.”

“What about other men?”

“What about them?”

“What do you think of them? Where do they fit?” And when Gloria chuckled, she added, “socially, I mean.”

“I don’t think about them much. By and large they’re irrelevant.”

“And the men in your classes? You don’t ignore them, do you?”

“No,” said Gloria. She chose her words carefully. “I find myself being quite fond of some of them.”

“Fond?” The word amused Jane.

“I suppose it’s because they struggle so hard with their English. I’m part of that struggle. I help them.” She frowned, paused to select the words she wanted to use. “I react,” she said, “to the essence of them.

Their humanness. Without language, the cultural baggage, the sexist assumptions just don’t get in the way. It’s not the humanity of men I dislike, it’s their maleness.”

“Meaning?”

“Their attitudes. Their bodies. The way they always want to be in control.”

“So it’s the femaleness of women you love?” teased Jane.

“Yes.”

“All women?”

“Some more than others. One in particular these days.” She smiled, a slow, lazy smile that seemed to soften all the angles of her body.

“Hmm,” said Jane, “I’m about to get up and cook dinner, so put those thoughts of yours on hold till later.”

“Is that an order? Can I persuade you to change your mind?” She slid off her chair, moved over to Jane, knelt between her knees. “Sweetheart,” she said, “there’s something I’d much rather eat than whatever it is you’re intending to cook.”

Dinner was very late that night, an unplanned mushroom omelette eaten on trays before a fire that had to be rekindled.

“It’l be Easter soon,” said Gloria between mouthfuls. “I thought maybe we could go camping for a few days.”

“Sounds nice.” Jane spoke with caution, head down, her fork busy with the last of the omelette.

“You don’t sound too thrilled.”

“I promised Michele she could spend some time up here.”

“She could come with us.” Even before she spoke, Gloria knew it wasn’t a possibility. “You haven’t told her yet,” she said.

“About us? No.”

“Are you going to?”

“When the time is right.”

“Before Easter?”

“Don’t push me,” said Jane. “I have to tread carefully with Michele.”

“Probably better to blurt it out in the heat of the moment, like you did with Marge. Or perhaps not,” Gloria added quickly, heeding the warning flash in Jane’s eyes, and deciding that comedy was the best approach.

“You could,” she said, “be really subtle about it. Give her a subscription to Lesbian Network for her birthday. Send her a singing telegram – you know, something like – and she sang in dreadful tonelessness:

“I can’t take you camping at Easter Can’t join you for a ride on your bike I’m spending the time with my new love And my new love’s a radical dyke.”

“Gloria,” said Jane, “there’s no way I’m going to expose an impressionable teenager to a sense of humour like that.”

13

Jane and Michele were away for the whole four days of Easter, in Sydney, visiting Jane’s parents.

“It won’t be easy to cal you, Glor,” she said. “There’s never any privacy.”

“Use a public phone,” said Gloria.

Bil ie was away too, at a horse show in the midnorth, and the weekend stretched empty and depressing from Thursday night to late Monday. On Friday, Gloria swept up the leaves in the garden, pulled out the dead tomato plants, made a compost heap in the corner, bribed Ashley into helping her prune the apricot tree. In the evening they hired a Rocky Horror video and watched it twice, right through, singing al the lyrics. They went to bed late and slept till lunchtime the next day.

Ashley was practising a new piece, and Gloria listened as he fumbled for keys, struck wrong notes, played phrases over and over until the music became an irritation. She was in the study, trying to work on a lesson plan and getting nowhere. Frustrated, she threw down her pen and got up.

“Ashley,” she said, standing in his doorway and watching, “must you?”

“Must I what?”

She didn’t want to fight with him. She didn’t particularly want to be nice to him, either, and so she stood, undecided and gloomy, while he swung round to look at her.

“What’s up with you?” he asked.

“Bored.”

“Go and see someone.” He turned back to the piano and played a series of tender chords. “Write a poem to your girlfriend. Fix the tap in the bathroom. I’d help you but I have to learn this before Tuesday.” He punctuated the last words with a dribble of notes in a minor key, and then returned to his practice piece. Dismissed, Gloria was suddenly angry. She snatched up her car keys, made for the front door, and slammed it on her way out.

She parked the van outside Gypsy’s place, walked around to the back of the house, and found Gypsy in her kitchen. The room was filled with cardboard cartons, some empty, others already filled and stacked against one wal . She saw a steaming teapot and eight mismatched mugs on the table.

“Hello, Glor,” she said, “Just in time to join me in a cuppa.”

“You expecting company?”

Gypsy sat down and indicated the mugs. “I’m trying to decide which ones to take with me.” Gloria slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Take with you?”

“I’m moving on, and what won’t fit into the back of my car will have to stay behind.”

“Where’s Rhiannon?’

“Gone.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Back to Melbourne, back to her old lover.” She said it casually, as if she didn’t care one way or the other, but it was a casualness Gloria couldn’t quite believe.

“Are you hurting?” she asked.

Gypsy shrugged. “Not so’s you’d notice,” she said.

“How can you care so little?” Gloria was annoyed. “How can you toss something like that aside so easily?”

“Listen, sweetie, when you come from a family of thirteen kids, you learn to take love where you find it, and to move on when it’s no longer there.”

Gloria reached for the teapot and poured. “That’s a terrible attitude,” she said.

“To tell the truth, Glor, I’m a bit over it myself. It was sweet while it lasted, and the music was truly something you’d stand in line to buy tickets for, but we never intended to settle down in a tidy little cottage and raise children.” She grinned, stretched so that her shirt rode up and exposed her brown belly. “Come on, Glor, don’t look so shocked. You know I’m all for a change of scenery after a month or two.” Gloria was shocked, not surprised, but diminished in spirit by what Gypsy was saying. She thought of Jane, of the years she hoped they’d be together.

“Anyway,” continued Gypsy, “It’s time I grew up. “I want to spend time by myself, work on my music, write some decent songs.”

“I’ve been pushing you to do that for ages.” Gloria pul ed a mug towards herself and blew away the steam.

“Seems I can’t take myself seriously when I’m having to go along with someone else. You know how it is, if I’m wanting to have a wee sleep of an afternoon because I’ve been up all night learning a new song, and someone wants to opportunistically crawl into bed with me, or wants to invite her friends home for a few beers in the garden, wel , it just doesn’t work.”

Gloria noticed she’s stopped using Rhiannon’s name. “So where will you go? What about the housing coop? I thought,” she said deliberately,

“I thought Rhiannon was part of it now.” Gypsy took a mouthful of tea, held the mug in her hands while she talked. “It was a mistake,” she said, “for both of us. Can you imagine me settling down for ever in any place?”

“What about the others?”

“Sal and Kym are trying to find new members. They’re having a hard time with Carmen, now there’s noone around to keep her in line.”

“The whole thing’s going to fall apart, isn’t it? It seems such a waste.”

“It was only ever a dream, Glor. Comes a time when we all have to recognise when something dies. We have to learn to tidy up the tiny wee corpses of our dreams and find a pretty place to bury them and then set off on a new adventure.”

While they were talking, the room had fallen into a weird kind of darkness. They noticed, eventual y, and when they went outside and looked up into the sky, they saw a crescent sun with the shadow of the moon across its face.

“The eclipse,” said Gloria. “I’d forgotten it was today.” They sat in the garden and watched the progress of the moon. Along with the growing dark there was a drop in temperature, and they shivered, and al the birds stopped singing. When it was over, and the sun shone strong again, they both knew something in the universe had shifted.

She left Gypsy’s as the sun was going down, drove home with it melting into the clouds on the horizon. She bought fish and chips, and shared them with Ashley at the kitchen table.

“Hey, Ash,” she said, “will you still want to know me in twenty years, when I’m all wrinkled and dottery?”

“You mean when you’re more wrinkled and dottery.” She threw a chip at him.

“Depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On what’s in it for me.”

“So much for filial devotion. After al my years of kindness to you.” She got up, put the kettle on the stove. “Wait till you’re old.”

She stood watching him as he ate, loving him, grateful for his presence.

For the next two days she was tender. She gave him chocolate eggs on Easter morning, read the cards for him, gave him money for a night out with Ben and Darren. Not until Monday evening, though, and a call from Jane, did she lose the tension that had kept her on the edge of snappishness, that had kept her jumping every time the phone rang.

14

After Easter Jane thought about the best way to broach the subject with Michele. For weeks on the way to work each morning, she rehearsed.

“Michele,” she tried out in her head. “You know how I’ve always taught you to respect people’s differences.” Far too pompous.

“Michele, there’s a great uncle I never told you about.” Start with Uncle Pete and his friend, whom all the family talked about in hushed tones, and progress to her own situation.

“Michele, the reason I left your father is...” The openings, plain, convoluted, gentle, abrupt, reassuring, confrontative, rolled through her mind until she pul ed up in the carpark. And each morning she got out of her car, still undecided, and walked into the office to face Marge.

After that last unforgettable conversation, Marge was distant and correct, opening her mouth only to discuss matters relating to the office.

Jane arrived daily expecting her resignation, but the old woman hung on.

As time passed, though, the stiffness between them was eroded by a steady flow of clients and buyers, until one morning Marge leaned back in her chair in that familiar conspiratorial way and said, “I saw Ray Taylor’s  daughter in the bakery last night.”

“Oh?”

“She told me her father’s run off with Jan Foley from the lawyer’s office.”

“The old bastard. Ray Taylor the miser? Ray Taylor, who lectures his customers on the wages of sin and goes to church every Sunday?” Steady, Jane, she told herself, don’t overdo the enthusiasm, just because she’s treating you like a human again.

“The very same,” said Marge, her mouth a tight pocket of satisfaction.

“How about poor Edna?”

“Seems she’s happier without him. Young Joanie said she’s drawn all the money out of their joint account and is redoing the house.” There was a moment of silence, and the hint of a smile on Marge’s stony face. “New curtains,” she continued, settling into her rhythm. “A new lounge suite, wall to wall carpet.”

“I wonder,” said Jane, “if he’ll die of apoplexy when he finds out.”

“It must be the first time in living memory those wal s of his have had a lick of paint.” Marge tucked in her chin and looked at Jane over the top of her new glasses. “Which reminds me; that hairy hippie is two months behind with the rent. Now it’s going to Edna, we’ll have to make sure he pays up.” Abruptly then, she straightened her face into its usual semblance of order, and returned to her work.

“People adjust,” said Gloria when Jane told her on the phone what had happened. “They realise after a while it’s no big deal, and then things get back to normal.” The question of Michele hung in the air, but she couldn’t think of a way to broach the subject that wouldn’t make things difficult.

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking,” said Jane. “I haven’t told her yet.”

“When?”

“This weekend, maybe. I thought I could spend Friday night at your place, then bring Michele up here on Saturday.”

“She’s not playing netball?”

“They’ve got a bye. Gives me a chance to spend some time with her.”

She paused, but there was no response from Gloria, and she rushed on.

“I’ll take her home late on Sunday, so I could spend the night again, and go straight to work on Monday.”

“Yeah, fine,” said Gloria, but there was something, sadness perhaps, or resignation, in her voice.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. I’ll see you on Friday.” That hint of sadness troubled Jane, and she resolved to tackle Gloria about it when they met. But Friday night passed in such a haze of love and lust that she forgot. On Saturday they woke early, languid with spent passion, and so happy that not even Ashley’s thunderous playing in the next room could dent their good humour. It seemed inappropriate, then, to talk of sadness, and Jane left, soon after breakfast, without saying anything.

Michele, too, when Jane picked her up, was in high spirits.

“I'm organised,” she boasted. “Did my homework last night, so for the next two days I can be as slack as I like.”

“Oh. And what form might this slackness take?”

“Oh, you know, lots of sleeping and watching T.V. Lots of eating.”

“You mean dawn to dusk grazing with occasional feeding frenzies to stave off the boredom?”

“Something like that.” They smiled at each other, comfortable in the moment until Jane remembered the purpose of the visit, and her spirits shrank.

“D’you mind if we do a detour on the way?” she said. “I have to collect some back rent from a tenant. You might like to meet him anyway. He’s the one I got Eric from.” At the sound of his name, the pup barked in the back seat, and scrambled over to sit in Michele’s lap.

“G’day Jane,” called Jeremy as they pulled up in front of his place. He was sitting on the verandah, smoking a handrolled cigarette.

“Who’s this then,” he said when he saw Jane wasn’t alone.

“My daughter,” said Jane. “Michele, this is Eric’s grandfather.” Jeremy laughed. “How is he? Did you bring him to visit? I’l keep Dusty inside if you like.” He took a last drag on his cigarette, pinched it out and put it in his pocket. He was wearing boots, and Jane wondered how his feet would adjust to the confinement.

Michele got out then, and stood with the pup in her arms.

“Wow,” said Jeremy, “you’re very pretty.”

“And you’re a bundle of laughs,” she replied, stung because she thought he was having a go at her. She put Eric carefully on the ground and straightened up.

“He means it,” muttered Jane behind her. “He always says what he thinks.”

“Here comes Dusty,” said Jeremy, and they watched as the older dog loped around the corner and stiffened at the sight of the pup. Eric, too, froze in mid stride, held himself immobile, cowed in submission. Dusty walked over and sniffed the back of his neck. When her tail began a slow swing back and forth, Eric rolled over onto his back and grinned his silly grin. They do it so much better than we do, thought Jane. They have an instinct for the rules.

“I suppose you’ve come about the rent,” said Jeremy.

“Do you have the money?”

“No.” He smiled and shrugged, but offered nothing more.

“Just – no?” said Jane. Michele, embarrassed, moved away to watch the dogs.

“I’ve got something I could trade.” He turned abruptly and disappeared through the front door. Jane followed, walked behind him along the bare boards of the corridor into the kitchen. There was the same makeshift table against the wall, the same campstove and utensils on the floor. In the middle of the room, though, amid the debris of living, on a floor littered with coffee cups, cigarette butts, a well chewed bone – whether Dusty’s or Jeremy’s she couldn’t be sure – twists of rag and scraps of well worn sandpaper, stood a magnificent kitchen dresser. It was old, bore the marks of generations of use, but it was solid and complete, and it gleamed in the dim light. It was so unexpected a sight that Jane stopped short, unable even to voice the question in her head.

“I found it,” said Jeremy, “in one of them other rooms. It had all this yukky paint on it.”

“You stripped it? Jeremy it’s beautiful!” Jane walked over to the dresser, slid her hand along the wonderfully smooth wood, breathed in the smell of beeswax and turpentine. “You’ve done a wonderful job. It must have taken you weeks.”

“That’s why I got no rent money. It’s al gone on stripper and sandpaper and stuff. Seems a better thing to do than pay it to some old fart who doesn’t need it.”

For al her experience as a land agent, Jane found herself agreeing with him. One by one, she pushed down the old latches and opened the doors, slid the dozen or so tiny drawers on their runners, pul ed out a breadboard from its slot in the centre, tried to think of a way to respond to Jeremy.

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked when she had run out of bits to examine.

“Thought you might like it. I’ll give it to you if you pay my rent.”

“I’d love it, but it’s not yours to sell.”

“They would’ve chopped it up for firewood.”

“Let me talk to Edna.” Jane didn’t want to mention Ray’s departure. “If she doesn’t want it, I’ll buy it off you at a fair price.” In the car, Jane said, “You should have come inside. He’s been restoring this beautiful old dresser.”

“No thanks. It looked like a pig sty. And it stank of dope.”

“Dope?”

“He was smoking it. Marijuana, mother. Don’t tel me you didn’t notice.”

“That cigarette?” said Jane. “I thought it smelled funny.” Michele laughed. “You mean you didn’t know what it was?” She enjoyed the moment. “Anyway, how come he didn’t have the rent money?”

“He’s unemployed, Michele. No job, no pay.”

“He could get the dole. If he’s that poor he shouldn’t be living there.”

“He’s got to live somewhere.”

“He should stay with his parents.”

“Michele, my sweet, he may not have parents. They may be dead and buried. They may have been eaten by tigers in the depths of an Indian jungle. He may have been raised by wolves in the frozen wastes of Alaska.” She drove on, watching Michele out of the corner of her eye as she sat there, head lowered, playing with Eric’s ears, the way Gloria had a couple of weeks ago.

“Wel ,” she said. “Is he a wolf man? He looks like a werewolf, don’t you think?”

“Mum, you don’t fancy him, do you?” said Michele in a smal tight voice.

“My God no! Whatever makes you say that?”

“It’s just...” She turned Eric’s ears inside out, flipped them back again, flattened them against his narrow skul . “It’s just that when women leave their husbands they sometimes go funny. I read it somewhere.”

“What sort of funny?”

“You know. A younger man. Someone weird.” Jane tightened her hands on the wheel. “Michele,” she said carefully,

“I don’t fancy Jeremy in any way. He’s just an interesting client.” She drew a deep breath, let it out, and went on, “But I have met someone.” She watched Michele slide down further in the seat and cover her eyes with her hands.

“Oh, I don’t think I want to know about it.” After a while, though, when Jane offered no further information, she uncovered her eyes and asked “What’s his name?”

“Let’s wait till we get home.”

“Well,” said Jane. “D’you want to know?” They had arrived home, had lunch, and were sitting at the kitchen table with cups of tea. Jane fiddled with her fork on the empty plate, poked holes with it in the tablecloth.

Her head was ful of the opening lines she had rehearsed, but she couldn’t get her tongue around any of them. She waited for Michele to say something, but the girl was holding her silence.

“It’s not easy,” Jane began. She looked at her daughter, saw the wariness in her eyes. “I’ve found someone I can really love.”

“You told me that before. So who is he?”

“It’s a woman.”

“You’re joking.” The wariness grew an edge of fear, and it showed in her laugh. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

“Her name’s Gloria. She’s got a boy a bit older than you.”

“That’s sick,” cried Michele. She slammed her hands down on the table and stood up, glaring down at Jane the way her father had, months ago.

“You’re sick,” she cried again. “It’s not true.” She spun away, walked out through the back door into the garden. Jane fol owed, and saw her leaning against one of the pines, with her back to the house. It was windy again, and her hair blew in long streamers against the bark of the tree.

“Michele?” called Jane. “Michele?” She walked over to the girl, and tried to put her arms around her, but the girls spun out of her reach and strode off towards the gate.

“We have to talk,” Jane shouted after her. Michele paused and turned, with her hand on the latch, then flung open the gate and was gone.

“All right,” muttered Jane, “be a spoilt brat.” She went back into the house, washed the dishes at a furious pace, put a load of clothes into the machine, and swept all the floors without pausing for breath. When, eventually, she looked for Michele, she found her in the spare room, packing.

“What’s going on?” asked Jane.

“I’m not staying here.”

“Oh.” She sat on the bed and picked up Michele’s silk pyjama top.

“What’s this? A present from your father?”

“He gives me whatever I want,” said Michele. She snatched the top from her mother and stuffed it into the bag. “Can you drive me home?”

“No.”

“How am I going to get there?”

“I suggest you wait till tomorrow afternoon, like we planned.” They glared at each other, dismayed and furious, until Jane stood up and walked out.

For the rest of the afternoon they ignored each other. Jane busied herself in the garden, braved the wind to mow the grass and heave loads of compost around on the end of a pitchfork. Finally she ventured inside, to see Michele sprawled in front of the television.

“I’m taking Eric for a walk,” she said. “Do you want to come?”

“No.”

Alone then, she walked the dog along the fire track and into the scrub at the end, with her jacket held tight against the cold. There was the threat of rain on the wind when she started, and by the time she turned for home it had set in, driving fine and sharp against her face, soaking her hair and her jacket. She called to Eric, a blur in the fading light, and together they trotted back down the track to the cottage.

Dinner was a miserable affair, eaten in silence.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Jane at the end of it.

“You need to see a shrink.” Michele sat back in her chair, arms folded, face like a rock.

“Why?”

“So you can stop this fantasy before it gets any worse.”

“Fantasy?”

“Stop repeating what I say.” She glared at Jane, “This fantasy of loving a woman.”

“Is that what you think it is?” Jane rested her chin on her hands and gazed at Michele, took in the face that was changing from child to adult, noticed the slight tremble of the mouth, and the hard look in the eyes.

“It’s not a fantasy,” she said softly. “We sleep together. We’re lovers.”

“That’s disgusting,” spat Michele. “Only lesbians do that.”

“Yes,” said Jane. “There you have it.” Michele stood up and walked into the next room. Jane could see her though the doorway, picking up the phone and dialling, waiting for an answer, slamming it down again in fury.

“If you’re calling your father,” she said, “there’s no point. You said yourself he’d be out tonight.” She watched Michele hurl herself into an armchair and cover her face with a cushion, watched her spring up again and stand wildeyed in the middle of the room.

“Why d’you have to be a lesbian? Why d’you have to be so fucking weird?” She stood there, trembling with rage and wiping away the tears that ran down her face. “You real y know how to make a person hate you,” she screamed.

Defeated, too numb to push any more, Jane set and lit the fire in silence. She poured herself a glass of red and sat down to watch the flames. Eric crept off his rug and lay at her feet. Michele, she supposed, was in the spare room.

It grew late. The rain, begun hours earlier, had settled into a steady drumming on the roof, and the sound of it, combined with the warmth of the fire and several glasses of wine, soothed her into a kind of dream state, half sleep, half trance. Outside, the pines were groaning in the wind, and it seemed that one of them was crying out louder than the rest above the noise of the storm. In her dreamstate, Jane and the pine were one, withstanding that brutal battering, voicing their pain together. When there came the sound of splintering wood, she felt the shock of it in her breast.

Her woman’s body began to tear. At first there was a small fissure in the skin where the base of the neck met the col ar bone. The fissure deepened, clove down through the chest, and exposed the beating heart. It split the thorax and the pelvis, and ran a ragged line between the hips.

The tearing echoed again in Jane’s head. There was a thunderous crash, and she awoke with a jolt, her heart beating a tattoo behind her ribs, and her skin clammy with fear. She heard a series of overlapping smaller crashes, and recognised the sound of a major limb as it split from its tree and fell.

All at once the room was full of sound and movement. Eric was awake, barking his anxiety at the walls, and Michele, wrapped in the quilt from her bed, stood in the doorway.

“What’s happening?” she demanded.

“There’s a branch down.” Jane stood up, the memory of the dream stil tearing at her mind. She staggered slightly, leaned against the mantelpiece and put her hands over her eyes. The vision continued, one half of the figure drooped and fell, with its head lolling in the mud at Michele’s feet.

In the other half the heart beat on, spurting blood.

“Mum?”

“There’s a branch down,” said Jane again. She shook her head and glanced at Michele. “Shal we have a look?” She picked up Eric and thrush him into Michele’s arms. “Here, hold him, can you. I don’t want him getting all soggy.”

Outside, even with the verandah light on, it was impossible to see further than the corner of the house. The rain had eased to a drizzle and the wind had dropped. The only sounds were the ceaseless drip drip drip of water from every leaf and twig in the garden, and the ripple of it as if flowed in the gutters and downpipes.

“Well mate,” said Jane, “Shall we look or shall we wait till daylight.”

“Daylight,” said Michele. Her voice was softer than it had been all day, the sharp edges blurred perhaps by sleep. “It’s gruesome out here.”

“Shall we have some supper? Toast and cocoa in front of the fire?” Michele shrugged and feigned disinterest. “If you want to,” she said.

If only, Jane thought as they sat drinking their cocoa, we could be like dogs. She watched Michele play with Eric’s ears, ruffle his silky black coat, roll him on his back and scratch his belly. If only we could resolve this awkwardness with a snarl and a couple of well placed bites. She sipped from her mug and leaned back in her chair.

“Mum,” said Michele eventually, “you’re not really a lesbian, are you?” How easily she says the word, Jane thought. She remembered her own adolescence, when the very mention of ‘lesbian’ or ‘homo’ induced sly fits of giggling in a group of listeners.

“Yes,” she answered, “I am.” In the silence that followed, Jane threw another mal ee root on the fire, poured the last of the wine from the bottle, and took a sip from her glass. “I’m quite happy to talk about it.”

“No, thanks,” snapped Michele. The guard was up, she was on her feet and halfway to the door before the words were spoken. “I want to sleep in tomorrow. I’ll get up when you’re ready to take me home.”

15

Jane was awakened mid morning by a phone call from Gloria.

“Hi, gorgeous, what’re you doing on this gloomy Sunday?” She sounded cheerful.

“Sleeping.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d be up and about by now.”

“Late night,” Jane muttered.

“Gallivanting, eh? Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”

“No, no, just give me a moment.” She sat up and pulled the covers around her shoulders.Talk to me while I wake up.” She looked around, forced her eyes to focus first on the inside of the room, then on the row of pines that led down the driveway to the gate. “Oh shit!” she said.

“There’s half a tree on the ground.” She gazed in dismay at the split trunk, at the huge branch that had torn away. One ragged, splintered end was still attached at the base of the tree, and the bulk of it lay thick and immovable across the driveway. “I’m trapped,” she said into the phone.

“I’ll never get my car past it.”

“You can’t move it?”

“Not a chance.”

“Not even if you invited me up for the day and I lent you my glorious body with its gloriously strong muscles?” Jane smiled. “If your glorious body were here,” she said, “I don’t imagine I’d even think about the tree.” The smile grew wistful. “It’s a pity you’re not though. We’d have the perfect excuse for spending the week together.”

“Seriously, d’you want me to come up? I could borrow a chainsaw from Billie.”

“Michele’s here. I told her yesterday about us.”

“And?”

“Imagine the worst possible reaction, and double it.”

“Oh, not a good time then.” Her voice held a mixture of sympathy and exasperation.

It’s too early in the morning for this, thought Jane. Too early to sort through all that has to be sorted through before I can even answer that.

She considered the alternatives. Protect Michele by not taking up Gloria’s offer. Try to find someone else with a chainsaw willing to work on a Sunday. Spend the day with Michele, and organise someone tomorrow to deal with the branch. If she did that, she’d have to miss a day of work.

Or throw Michele off the deep end, say yes to Gloria, and hope the two of them found something to like in each other.

“Jane, you still there?”

“I’m thinking.” She looked out at the fallen branch, and remembered the dream, and the way the heart beat on after the body was torn asunder.

“I’d love you to come up. And if you want to help us with that bloody tree, I’d love it even more.”

“Have you got a chainsaw?” asked Gloria. “Shall I bring one with me?”

“No, I haven’t, and yes, you can bring one.”

“Shall I prize Ash out of bed and ask him along?”

“If you like. Will he risk his hands doing physical labour?”

“He could cut the sandwiches. Squeeze the lemons for the lemonade.

Barrack on the sidelines.”

“We don’t have any lemons.”

“Beer then. I’ll buy some beer on the way up” Michele was annoyed when Jane woke her to tell her about the tree, and furious when she learnt about Gloria.

“I won’t stay here,” she shouted, “I’l cal Dad and ask him to come and get me.” But when she tried, there was no answer. She turned to Jane, stil shouting. “Why didn’t you ask some of our other friends? Why not the Johnsons? Uncle Mick’s got a chain saw and he could bring the boys up to help. Why not someone from the golf club?” When Jane remained impassive, the torrent petered out with, “Why her, why her?”

“Because,” Jane began slowly, piecing the reasons together as she spoke, “because I’m separate here. I’m independent. I don’t want to fall back on those old connections. Not for this reason.” She would have said more, but Michele was already walking away.

“Just don’t expect me to help,” she muttered, with her back turned and her hands jammed hard into her pockets.

The rain of the past few days was gone. It was still soggy underfoot, but at least, Jane thought, the sun will dry things out a bit. She was working on the smaller branches, cutting them off with a bow saw and tossing them in a pile at the edge of the garden. Michele stood watching.

There was a spin of gravel at the bottom of the driveway and the van was there, spil ing out not only Gloria and Ashley and a carton of stubbies, but Billie as well, with a chainsaw in each hand. Oh shit, thought Jane, more crosscurrents at one time than you could poke a stick at.

“You’ve got a big one there,” called Billie. She put down the saws and walked over to examine the splintered trunk. Ashley sauntered towards the house, stopped when he drew level with Michele, and looked at her with curiosity.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Ashley. She...” he tossed a nod in Gloria’s direction,

“is my mother, but don’t hold me responsible.”

For the first time in twenty four hours, Michele smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, and she worked hard at not letting it show at all. She looked across at Jane and said, “She’s mine. I won’t blame you if you don’t blame me.”

Ashley held out the carton of beer. “Can I put this somewhere?” he asked, and together they disappeared round the side of the house to the kitchen.

“Phew,” said Billie, watching them “it’s a bit like putting a mare to stal ion. You never know if it’s going to work. You watch them sniff around each other and then either the fireworks start, or they float off in a haze of mutual disinterest.”

Jane smiled, conscious of the effort Billie was making. To Gloria she said, “Did Ash really want to come, or did you bribe him with some unspeakable indulgence?”

“He volunteered. Said he wanted to check out your music collection. He’s at a loose end, real y. His two best mates have gone off to Melbourne for the weekend, and he’s feeling quite forlorn.”

“Put him to work,” boomed Bil ie. “Better for the heart than any amount of music.” She moved over to Jane; put an awkward arm around her shoulder. “Well, do the workers get a hug before they start?”

“Of course.” Jane turned and was engulfed in a solid, bearlike embrace.

She emerged from it to find Bil ie looking first at her, then across at Gloria.

“Your turn,” said Billie. “You must be dying to. I’ll even turn my back.

I’l do something discreet like go and say hel o to your daughter.” She was hearty, forcing the joviality just a little, and Jane suddenly knew that the woman was hurting. “How can I handle her as well as Michele?” She wondered. “How can I not tread on any of their toes?”

“Oh, I don’t think she’s ready for that. Did you see the way she avoided being introduced?”

The hug she gave Gloria was selfconscious and brief enough to stop the melting of her bones as soon as it began. She turned away quickly, picked up the nearest chainsaw and said, “How do I work this thing?” Billie took charge. She gave Jane the smaller saw, pointed out the safety features, gave tips on how to hold it. She coopted Ashley from his refuge in the kitchen to clear and stack the wood as it was cut, and then picked up the heavier saw. She wielded it with skill and confidence, choosing with a practiced eye where to cut, and ripping through the wood so quickly Ashley could scarcely keep up.

Jane and Gloria worked together, more slowly. One cut while the other hauled branches and held them steady for the bite of the chain. For a while even Michele helped. She scooped up armfuls of greenery, added to the pile Jane had started, careful to avoid any hint of contact with either Billie or Gloria. She grew bored though, and drifted off to sit in a patch of sun and watch, scowling all the while with disapproval as the women and Ashley worked on.

After a good two hours, all the side branches had been reduced to lengths of firewood and stacked in neat piles to season.

“Don’t use them this winter,” said Bil ie. “Too much resin. It’l coat the inside of your chimney and the whole place could go up in flames.” The twigs with their springy green needles lay in mounds on either side of the driveway, and the main limb with its furrowed bark lay bare in the sunlight. Their hands and arms were sticky with fresh resin, and the smell of pine, astringent and clean, hung in the air.

“Great work,” said Gloria, “but it’s still a monster. How’re we going to move it?”

“I’m hungry,” said Billie. “Can we eat while we’re deciding?” In the kitchen they scrounged a meal of bread, cheese and leftovers from last night’s dinner.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid,” said Jane. I hate shopping.” She thought of the meal at Billie’s, of the dolmades and olives and pitta bread under the vines, and that day seemed to her now to have been full of sunshine and innocence.

“Where’s Michele?” asked Gloria.

“Sulking, I would think.” Jane took the last apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it to Gloria. “Here,” she said. “Dessert. To be shared five ways.

I’ll be back in a minute.”

She walked out to the front verandah where she knew Michele was lounging in a deck chair.

“Lunch,” she said.

“You don’t think I’m going to sit at the same table as her.”

“I’d like you to.”

“Well I’m not. Specially not with that other one. She looks more like a man than a woman.”

“Perhaps she does, Michele. And you’re sounding more like a spoilt child every time you open your mouth.” Anger flared, and she struggled to control it. She pulled up another chair and sat down next to Michele, staring with her out over the garden and the driveway.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I know it’s hard. I didn’t plan it this way.”

“Plan what?”

“Any of it. Falling for Gloria, throwing you into the middle of it so soon.” She turned to look at her daughter, at the way her head was drooping, at the way she was picking at her nails. “Don’t do that,” she said, and reached over to hold one of Michele’s hands in hers.

“Mum, if it wasn’t her, would it be some other woman?”

“Eventually, yes. I know now who I am. Why I was never totally happy with your father.” Michele withdrew her hand and went back to picking her nails.

There was a shuffle in the doorway behind them, and Ashley stood there with a plate of food in each hand.

“Mum said to bring these out before she and Billie eat them.” Jane shifted in her chair, craned her neck to look up at him. There was a softness, a hesitancy about him today that made him look a lot like his mother. “Thanks, Ash,” she said, and took the plates.

“Um, d’you want a beer?”

His affability surprised her. “Yes please,” she said, “if you don’t mind waiting on us. And after that, you’re welcome to browse through my music.

Most of the good stuff’s on CD. I’ll make copies of anything you want.” She handed one of the plates to Michele, and picked up a piece of bread and cheese from the other.

With most of the work done, the urgency had dissipated, and the women lingered over their meal. They moved out to the verandah, sipped beer and allowed Beethoven’s Fifth at full volume to wash over them.

Ashley was in the living room, up to his delighted elbows in CD’s and old records, and Michele, with a surprising show of energy, had taken Eric for a walk.

Or is it avoidance, wondered Jane. Would she use up more energy simply being around us, having to be polite. She sat with her eyes closed, her hand in Gloria’s. The sun for the moment was warm on her face, and she could have relaxed, if only her hand weren’t tingling where it clung, skin against skin, to Gloria’s; if only she could, in total disregard of everyone’s feelings but her own, stand up, pul Gloria to her feet and propel her gently in through the front door to the bedroom; lie with her on the bed in that shaft of afternoon light and give in to what her body had been craving all day. Only after that she could relax.

She heard the scrape of a chair, and she opened her eyes.

“This is very lovely,” said Bil ie, “but al the relaxing in the world won’t get that log moved. Now look at the two of you, blushing like a pair of choirboys. Is there more to that handholding than I dreamed possible?”

Jane felt a silly grin spread across her face, felt herself grow redder, saw Gloria do the same. She leapt to her feet, careful to keep her distance, and tried to look businesslike.

“Yes,” she said, “we need to move the log. I’ve been thinking. What if we loop a towrope around one end and use the van to pull it clear?”

“You were thinking that?” asked Gloria, wideeyed, with the colour stil high in her face. “All the time you were thinking about tow ropes?”

“Some of the time. Well, a bit of the time, while I drank my beer.”

“Well? Who’s got a rope?” Billie had turned away, moved to the edge of the verandah, and was tossing the words back over her shoulder. “Have to be strong if it’s going to work. Might lose a few bushes – that camelia for a start.” Pain showed in her voice, and in the way she held her head.

Oh shit, thought Jane. She flashed a look of regret at Gloria and said guiltily, “I’ve got a steel cable.”

The job proved easier than they’d thought. Gloria backed the van as close to the limb as she could manage, and Jane and Billie looped the cable around the splintered end close to the tree, and dropped it over the ball of the towbar.

“Take it easy, Glor,” yelled Billie. There was no sign of the pain now.

“Just take up the slack and see what happens.” And as Gloria inched the van forward, she called, “Whoa! You’re about to sideswipe the camelia.” She moved off the driveway to where the tail of the log was bedded in the soft wet earth of the garden, gave an experimental shove, and called out to Jane.

“Get Ash, can you?”

They tried again. This time, as Gloria juggled clutch and accelerator, pulling the log slowly forward, the others crouched, put their shoulders and hands against the tail of it, and strained. It moved. They pushed again, and it rolled a little, gained momentum and kept rolling until it rested on the firm gravel of the driveway. It was easy, then, to wait until Gloria had towed it almost to the gate, for the four of them to push it off the gravel again and onto a bare patch of ground.

They stood panting and sweating in the late afternoon light, breathing in the scent of pine and the damp earthy smell of the garden, grinning in delight at their success.

“What we need,” said Gloria, “is a photograph, like fishermen take when they catch something huge.”

“Before it gets away, you mean? I’ll get the camera.” They set up a series of ridiculous poses, with Jane’s camera propped on the gatepost and programmed for automatic. The four of them – Jane, Gloria, Ashley and Bil ie – sat primly in a row on the log. They were a high school hockey team, knees together and hands folded in their laps, with the chainsaws crossed in front of them. The three women held Ashley in a horizontal embrace while he leaned on one elbow and tried to look nonchalant. Bil ie and Ashley stood like bookends in matching poses, one foot on the log and a chainsaw hefted on the opposite shoulder. Jane draped herself, Fay Wray style, across the log while Ashley, leering like a demented magician, held the larger saw above her midriff and Gloria, in a series of studied moves, thrust him aside and gathered Jane into a stylish cinematic embrace.

Noone saw the man approach, or could say afterwards how long he had stood watching. Ashley noticed him first as he went to open the back of the van.

“Mum, stop fooling around.” His voice was pitiful, halfway between a squeak and a whisper, but loud enough to break the mood. Gloria and Jane broke apart and turned as one to look first at Ashley and then in the direction he was staring. The man was standing by the gatepost, with Jane’s camera in his hand. He was young, perhaps twenty, and dressed in black jeans and duffle coat with a black beanie pulled low over his eyes.

His glance slid coldly from the two women, to Ashley, and then to Billie, frozen in the act of putting the saws in the van.

“You’d better watch out,” he said to Ashley, “or you’ll end up like them.”

“What?”

“A bunch of old dykes.”

They stood in silence, the four of them, unmoving, while the man dropped the camera from one hand to the other.

It was Billie who broke the tableau.

“If you’re thinking of doing any damage to that camera.” she said softly, “think again. Put it back where you found it. Careful y.” She moved clear of the van, took two steps towards the gate. The man dropped and caught the camera once more, hesitated, then placed it on the post.

“Thank you,” said Billie, “you can go now.” She held his gaze, kept moving towards the gate until he turned and slouched off up the road with his hands in his pockets.

Again it was Bil ie who spoke. “Nasty piece of work,” she said. “Where’d he come from, Jane?”

“I’ve seen him a couple of times. I think he lives up the fire track.” She walked over to the gate and picked up her camera, gingerly, as if it might be contaminated.

“Arsehole,” said Ashley. He was trembling slightly, wiping his hands down the sides of his jeans.

Eric appeared in the driveway, barking and panting, with Michele ambling along behind.

“Did you see him?” shouted Ashley. “Did you see the bastard?”

“Who?” She bent down to pick a grass seed from her sock.

“That guy walking past,” said Jane.

“Sure.” She looked from one to the other, sensed their mood, caught the sharp smell of danger

16

For most of the drive down to the city, Ashley was silent. He said, “See ya,” to Bil ie when they dropped her off at her place, and then not another word until they hit a slow stream of cars just above Devil’s Elbow. Gloria flashed him a glance now and then, tried to fathom his mood, decided in the end he was either still smarting about the incident with the stranger, or just plain tired. When the van slowed to match the pace of the car in front, she reached over and squeezed the back of his neck.

“Hey Ash,” she said, “thanks for today. You were quite a help.”

“Hmph,” he said, and then, “That guy was a real arsehole, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Silence again, while Gloria negotiated the hairpin bends, while she eased the van to a halt at the Cross Road lights.

“Mum?”

“I’m listening.”

“Mum,” he began again, “am I like that?”

“An arsehole, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Heaping shit on you for being a dyke.” The reply was a long time coming. “No Ash,” said Gloria, final y, “you’re not like that.”

“How am I different?”

“Oh Ash, you just are,” she said, but he persisted, and she had to think it through. “You’re angry,” she offered eventually, “but underneath it all you understand. People like him don’t want to understand. They’re just looking for an excuse to hate.”

Ashley held his tongue until Gloria thought he wasn’t going to speak again. When he did, he was serious. “Does that mean I’m not completely rotten?”

“It means I have high hopes that you’l turn out to be, in the end, quite a lovely man. There, that’s all I’m going to say, or you’ll be insufferable for weeks to come.”

Their mood was still mellow when Jane arrived later that evening.

“Where’s Eric,” asked Gloria, as they walked down the passage.

“In his kennel, exhausted. So many visitors to keep track of. And when he wakes up in the morning there’s a shin bone that’ll keep him busy all day.”

There was a Scrabble game, half played, on the kitchen table, and the board was full of words like ‘symphony’ and ‘circumstance’.

“Good game, is it?” asked Jane. She looked tired, and the lines on her face were deeper than usual.

“Not terrific,” said Ashley. “She’s beating me. Now you’re here I might escape and watch some mindless violence.”

“You don’t have to...” began Gloria, but he was already on his feet, sweeping the tiles from the board back into the box. “I’m glad he did though,” she added when he was in the living room, turning on the television. “There’s been something on my mind all day and it’s not Scrabble.” She put her arms around Jane, pulled her close, bent to kiss the silver hair. Jane was shaking, a fine tremor at first that was hardly noticeable, but growing more perceptible by the moment.

“What is it, sweetheart?” whispered Gloria. She pul ed back to look into Jane’s face, saw her beautiful eyes closed tight and tears escaping from under the lids. She reached up to wipe them away. “Hey listen. It’s been a shit of a day for you. Why don’t I tuck you up in bed and bring you a hot chocolate and we can light some candles and listen to music. See if we can drown out the mindless violence, for a start,” she said, wincing at the noise from the television. “If you want,” she added, “we can talk.” Jane nodded, a defeated little movement of her head. Then she turned up her face and kissed Gloria briefly on the lips. “You’re very sweet,” she said.

In the bedroom, where the candlelight licked and flickered on the wal s and Nina Simone crooned I Put a Spel on You from the stereo, Jane sat propped against the pillows in Gloria’s bed. She sipped from her cup of steaming chocolate and said, “It’s good. What’s in it?”

“Brandy. I found some in the cupboard. It’s supposed to be good for damsels in distress.”

Jane smiled for the first time that evening, and held out her hand to Gloria. “Hey,” she said, “nobody’s ever looked after me like this.”

“Not even Barry?”

“Especial y not Barry. His idea of tenderness was to pat me on the head and tel me I’d be al right in the morning.” She sipped again, and relaxed against the pillows. “You make me feel loved.”

“You are loved. Gloria swung her legs onto the bed and crossed them.

“I love you very much.” She watched the play of the shadows on Jane’s face, caught a look of sadness before the eyes closed once more and the face became blank.

“Jane? Talk to me. Tell me what’s the matter.”

“Like you said, it’s been a shit of a day. A shit of a weekend, in fact.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, I guess I just want to forget everything that happened.” Her eyes were still closed.

“What in particular,” she persisted. She took the mug from Jane’s hand and leaned over to place it on the floor. “What do you want to forget?

Michele? That slime of a man?”

Jane’s eyes jolted open, spilling a flash of anger. Gloria waited for the outburst, but the words when they came were mild.

“If you really want to help me, then take off your clothes and come to bed. Don’t expect any passion, though. I don’t think I’m up to it tonight.” Indeed she wasn’t. She fell asleep almost immediately, leaving Gloria wide awake, lying with her bel y pressed against Jane’s back, and her arm resting on Jane’s smooth hip. She matched her breathing to Jane’s, tried to relax. The more she tried, though, the more tense she became, until every muscle and nerve ending in her body was jangling. This isn’t what I need tonight, she thought, you asleep and me wanting you. Scenes of the day flashed through her mind – Jane standing in the driveway watching as the van pul ed up, looking gorgeous with the sun on her face and the wind riffling her hair – Ashley sauntering towards the house with the carton of beer – Jane draped teasingly on the log, with her head turned to one side, her neck exposed and vulnerable. Not that I’m a vampire, thought Gloria. Every scene was redolent with the scent of pine.

It was there now, faintly, in Jane’s hair, and Gloria knew she would always remember it as the smell of thwarted desire.

Slowly, careful not to disturb the covers, she rolled over, swung her feet to the floor and dressed, shivering in the cold of the room. Ne M’quitte Pas sang Nina as Gloria blew out the candles.

“Want a cup of tea, Ash?” she called as she walked down the passage to the kitchen. She made a pot, and took it with two cups and a packet of Tim Tams into the living room.

The movie was truly awful, as Ashley had predicted, ful of men kil ing each other in a dozen different ways.

“Not that it matters,” muttered Gloria to herself, “the quicker they wipe themselves out as a species, the better.”

“What?” said Ashley.

“Nothing mate.”

“Are you all right? Where’s Jane?”

“Asleep.”

Ashley looked uncomfortable. He reached out for the Tim Tams, stuffed one into his mouth, munched until it was gone, and then said, “She’s nice. For a friend of yours, I mean.”

“Yes she is.” Why then, she thought, do I feel so awful right now? She’s tired, that’s all, she deserves to sleep.

She’s tired, wrote Gloria in her journal, long after the movie had finished and Ashley had gone to bed. It must have been a shit of a weekend. She wrote a long and detailed account of the day, starting with her mid morning phone cal and ending with, That’s al . I hope I can sleep now.

She did, but it was a fitful, anxious sleep, full of dreams. In one, she was walking again along the river bank, watching the mist rise and drift over the water, watching the corridors of light as the sun came up. Then suddenly she was in the water, swimming against the current, struggling to stay afloat, while along the bank, in a dress and high heels ran Jane, shouting, “It’s best to keep to the edges, dear.”

“Hey, Glor, it’s morning and all the birds are singing in the trees.” It was Jane’s voice, soft and warm in the early light. “I made us breakfast.” Gloria resisted for a moment, then stretched and rolled over.

“Oh,” she said as she opened her eyes, “you’ve made toast.” And then, as Jane pulled back the curtains, “What a miserable looking day.”

“I’m sorry about last night,” Jane said. “I woke up at one stage and you weren’t there. Were you mad at me?” She settled a tray on Gloria’s lap. On it were coffee and toast and a single yellow rose in a bud vase.

“Look,” she said, “a peace offering.”

“Oh,” said Gloria. She picked up a piece of toast and nibbled at the edge. “Marmalade. Thank you.”

“You are mad at me.”

“A bit. I got up because I couldn’t sleep.”

“I really am sorry. Can I make up for it this morning?” Jane reached out, ran her fingers along Gloria’s jaw, touched the hol ow where the col ar bones met, traced a path along the valley between her breasts. “Can I?

Can we?” Her green eyes were pleading.

Gloria watched a pulse throb in Jane’s neck, at a spot where her shirt slipped away a little and exposed her throat. She looked at her hair mussed with sleep, at her face, less strained now than last night, at her hands and the white mark that still showed where her wedding ring used to be.

“D’you remember what I said last night?” she asked.

“Tell me again.”

“I love you. It feels like a very deep thing.”

“So I did hear right. I was just too tired to do anything about it. I’ve had a good sleep since then.” Her voice was tender, teasing.

“But I haven’t.” Gloria hated the words as soon as they were spoken, hated their bitter sound. She flinched as Jane withdrew her hand and said

“Go back to sleep then. I’m sorry I woke you.” A small pain squeezed at Gloria’s heart, and spread cold over the skin where Jane’s hand had rested. She put her own hand to the space between her breasts, and hunched her shoulders.

“Don’t be like that,” she pleaded. “Just give me a moment to get my brain into gear. Talk to me. Let me drink my coffee.”

“What shall I talk about?”

“Why you were so stressed last night.”

“Ah. Persistent, aren’t you.” For a minute or more Gloria thought she wouldn’t continue, but then suddenly Jane was talking at full speed, the words pouring out in a relentless stream that hardly left time for breath.

“Michele’s been missing days at school. Hiring videos and staying home, hanging round Rundle Street with a bunch of dropouts. Last week she was picked up for shoplifting in Woolworths. Barry blames me, of course.

He was pissed off as all hell last night. That was before Michele dropped the bombshell about you and me. Then he really spat the dummy. Said if I went on seeing you he’d drag my name through the courts and make sure I never saw her again.”

“Isn’t she too old for that? Custody battles, I mean.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Al I know is he’s got enough clout to make things very difficult. He could move interstate. Send Michele overseas on some exchange programme.”

Gloria took a mouthful of coffee. She heard Ashley practising scales.

She could picture him, standing at the piano in his pyjamas, unable to walk past it without the morning ritual, the laying on of hands. He would play for perhaps ten minutes, always scales first, then his current piece.

She couldn’t remember a time when the piano hadn’t been a part of her morning.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked Jane. “You’re not going to give in to the bastard?”

“Of course not. I think he’s just blustering. But I’l fight to keep contact with Michele.”

It was too late, after all the talking, to do anything but get up and get dressed. Gloria had a class at nine, and Jane had appointments with clients in the city.

“When will I see you?” asked Jane, standing at the front door with her arms around Gloria.

“You’re seeing me now.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Greedy, are we? I’ll call you tonight.” With that Jane was gone, into the car and off down the street while Gloria leant against the door jam and watched after her.

She taught a mediocre lesson that morning, mistimed the pace of her presentation, lingered too long on obscure points of grammar when the new Polish student asked, “Please tel me when we wil practise the future perfect subjunctive.” Words from an old Joni Mitchel song kept repeating in her mind.

I am on a lonely road and I am travel ing Looking for the key to set me free Oh the jealousy, the greed is the unravel ing She hadn’t heard the song for years, and yet she could recall it now, line by line. Was she greedy, expecting passion at the drop of a hat, wanting Jane to be hers alone, jealous of Michele and al the other things in life that pulled her away?

The jealousy, the greed is the unravel ing was the phrase that stuck in her head all through the morning lesson, all through lunch and the staff meeting that followed. Halfway through the afternoon she announced a headache, packed her books and a sheaf of papers to be marked, and rode home.

It was cold, and piles of sad brown leaves blew along the gutters, wedged themselves in the spokes of her bicycle wheels. She had an urge to shake the last of them from the trees, to sweep them away, to tidy up the streets. At home she tidied up her room, smoothed the covers on the bed, and sat on it to cast the I Ching.

She used the sticks Jane had given her, split the bundle and counted, split and counted until the six lines of the hexagram were decided. ‘Keeping Still’, she read, ‘... the problem of achieving a quiet heart.’

“Well, shit, I know that,” she said out loud. “The question is, how?”

“The question is, what do I do?” she said later, on the phone, to Billie.

Then, before Bil ie could answer, she added, “I guess it’s not fair, dumping all this on you. I’m just so ...”

“...used to having me around,” finished Billie. “It’s not so bad. Gives me a chance to talk about her, say her name half a dozen times in one sentence.” She laughed at her own predicament.

“Well?” said Gloria.

“You’re a panic merchant. Poor Jane has a few hiccups with her daughter, and in your mind she’s running back to home and husband.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Tell me what the Book of Changes says.”

“What makes you think...”

“Gloria, my dear, whenever you’re in a pickle, you do two of three things. You cast the I Ching, you do a Tarot reading, or you panic. Four things – you cal me. You’ve panicked, you’ve cal ed me, so was it the cards or the sticks?”

“The sticks.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s about keeping still,” said Gloria obediently. “About achieving a quiet heart. It’s about letting go of the ego.”

“In other words, forget the panic and only react when there’s something worth reacting to.”

“All day I’ve had this urge to phone her, to challenge her, to find out what she’s likely to do.”

“To see if she’s planning to leave town without making an honest woman of you?”

“Something like that.”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“You mean sit back and do nothing?”

“Yes.”

“I hate doing nothing.”

Yet for the next hour and a half she did precisely that. She sat at her desk, hopeful of putting a lesson plan together, but her head was crowded with images of Jane, snatches of conversations they’d had, moments of lovemaking, and woven in with it all was the phrase from the song that repeated and repeated.

Ashley came home just on dark, banged doors, turned on lights, and when he shouted, “Where are you, Mum?” Gloria stared for a moment at the blank page in front of her, then emerged from the gloom of the study to cook tea. Later, she hovered over the phone, snatched it up as soon as it rang, went weakkneed with love and relief when she heard Jane’s voice.

“Oh,” she burbled, “I was just thinking of you.”

“I’ve got to see clients tonight,” said Jane, “but how about we go out to dinner tomorrow, and see a movie, or see a movie first and then eat.” The heaviness was still there, but at least, Gloria thought, she wants to see me.

They ate at the Rang Sayang, a city restaurant specialising in Southern Indian food, and then with the taste of the hot Madras curry stil on their tongues, they drove in Jane’s car to the Trak for the nine o’clock session of The Company of Strangers. Al the way, Eric stood with his head out the back window, loving the wind and the city lights. Would she have brought him, Gloria wondered, if she wasn’t thinking of staying the night?

It didn’t matter that she’d had seen the movie before. Once the lights went out, once Jane had reached over and taken her hand, she was happy.

She was aware of Jane’s breathing, soft and regular, aware of the quickening of the skin where their palms touched. She felt slightly drunk, whether from the wine at dinner or from the sensations of the moment, she couldn’t tell. On the screen the story unfolded with delicious languor, and Gloria experienced a kind of fusion with the characters. She was Mary, explaining in that wonderful drawl, “Well, you know, Cissy, I’m a lesbian.” For a long time she was Constance, sitting in the summer house, gazing out over the lake for hours on end, waiting to die. Towards the end, though, she was aware of feeling queasy, and she wondered if it were something she’d eaten.

In the car, she resisted the temptation to say “Stay the night, sweetheart.” Instead, she said, “I love seeing that film.”

“Yes, I thought you might.” Jane concentrated on backing the car out of the parking lot, then, when they were on the road and heading for Gloria’s, she said, “That lake. What a stunning image. What a brilliant setting.”

“There’s a hexagram in the I Ching cal ed The Lake,” said Gloria. “I was reading it yesterday.”

“What does it say?”

“It talks a lot about joy. Says that knowledge as a vital force can only come through discussion with friends; that learning things on your own is a pretty sombre thing to do.”

“Sounds a bit wacky.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Jane waited til they were stopped at a red light, then turned to Gloria and asked, “What’s it mean?”

“Just that.”

The lights changed, Jane shifted gears and drove on. “Interpret it for me,” she said, “in the light of our situation.”

“It seems to me,” Gloria began, slowly, “that it’s talking about practical knowledge. Knowing best how to live in this world.”

“Go on.”

“It’s saying that if you’ve got a problem, then for fuck’s sake talk it through with someone, instead of scrabbling around in the dark on your own for answers.”

“I take it you’re referring to the mess with Michele?”

“I suppose I must be.” Gloria was reluctant, now, to say any more on the subject.

“You know what I liked best about that film?” said Jane. “The peacefulness of it, the slowness, the way the women wait, knowing there’s nothing they can do.”

In the driveway Jane switched off the engine and took the key out of the ignition.

“I’m not very good at sharing my problems,” she said.

“So I’ve noticed.”

“I don’t know how to change.”

“Start with a little change,” suggested Gloria. “Stay the night instead of rushing home to spend half a dozen sleepless hours deciding whether or not to break it off with me so you can get back on an even keel with Michele.”

“Is that what you think I’m about to do?” The deep lines were back on her face, accentuated by the light from the streetlamp.

“Yes,” said Gloria. She was miserable, wishing suddenly the evening would end. She watched Jane playing with her key ring, turning it round and round in her fingers.

“Is it always this hard?” whispered Jane.

“Not always.” She took the keys from Jane’s hand and got out of the car. She walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door and said, “If you’re going, then at least let’s have a decent goodbye.”

“You’re presuming a lot,” said Jane. Her voice was quiet, her face, with her head turned to the side, was in shadow. Gloria shifted from foot to foot, waited for Jane to make a move.

“Have I ever said I was going to leave you? Have I even hinted at it?”

She swung her legs out of the car and stood up, angry and beautiful.

Ashley was studying late at Ben’s place, and they had the house to themselves. They sat at the kitchen table, drinking the last of the brandy.

“What is it with you?” asked Jane, still angry. “You don’t have much faith in me.”

“Nothing personal. I’ve just seen it too many times.” Gloria was muttering, her words hard to catch.

“Seen what?”

“Women coming out of marriages. It’s like they’ve been hanging out for a lesbian affair for so long, and when they finally make the leap, they think it’s going to be all plain sailing. Then the problems start. Like Michele. And that slime bag the other day. You hated the way he way he walked up and threw shit all over us. You hated having no control.” She paused for breath, looked quickly at Jane to judge her reaction, and then continued.

“When it gets hard you start to wonder if it’s worth it. You build a nice little closet around yourself for safety, and pretend to your family you’re still straight. And when the deceptions get too much to cope with, you give up and go back to men.” Fear and anger and old grief grabbed at her stomach, and she felt sick. She drained the brandy from her glass and leant back in her chair.

“Very dramatic,” said Jane. “Have you finished?”

“I think so.”

“Do you feel better?”

“No, I think I’m going to vomit.” She leapt up, and made it out the back door and into the garden before the Madras curry, in all its technicolour glory, the raita, the mango pickle, the rice bal s in cardamon syrup emerged more or less intact in a series of violent spasms.

“I guess that meal’s been churning around inside you for hours,” said

Jane, behind her. Gloria felt an arm across her shoulders, saw the glass of water in Jane’s hand. “Here, wash your mouth out.” She rinsed and spat, rinsed and spat, and then sat down on the back step.

“Come inside,” said Jane, “it’s freezing out here.”

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” she asked, when they were in the kitchen again.

“Dunno. I suppose I got angry.”

“Most people throw things when they get angry.”

“I did. My dinner.”

The joke was a weak one, but Jane smiled anyway. She reached across the table and touched Gloria’s hand. “Has that ever happened to you?” she asked. “Someone breaking it off because they couldn’t handle the flack?”

“I’ve seen it often enough.”

“But personally?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Carmen?”

“It was before Carmen. Long before. The first woman I ever loved.”

“She walked out on you.”

“No.” Gloria placed both elbows on the table, both palms together so that the fingers matched exactly. “I walked out on her.” She sat for a moment with her index fingers brushing her lips, and her thumbs supporting her chin. “Are you shocked?” she asked. “I was the one who couldn’t handle being out. My mother threatened to die of shame. I was afraid of losing my job. Afraid of everything.”

“And now you think I’ll do the same to you?”

“I know how you feel about Michele.” The words came quickly, fired like a volley across the table. She waited for the reaction, half expected Jane to stand up and walk away.

“Gloria, would it be a dreadful anticlimax if I told you I have no intention of leaving you? If I told you you’re the first person, including Barry, I’ve ever real y loved, and I intend to be around for a long time yet?

Would it be too much?”

Gloria tried to answer, but she could only shrug, and wipe away the tears that were suddenly on her face. “No. I suppose I could cope with that.”

Jane stood up, walked around the table and pulled Gloria to her feet.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, with her arms around her.

“No.” Gloria moved away, sat on the edge of the table with her feet on a chair. “It’s not enough.” She mumbled it, kept her eyes on the floor so she wouldn’t have to see the hurt on Jane’s face.

“It’s all I’ve got. I’m giving you all I can.” There was anger as well as hurt in Jane’s voice.

Gloria felt the beginnings of panic. “I just mean,” she said quickly, “I don’t see enough of you. Easter was hell. And with all the shit you have to deal with around Michele, I’m scared I’ll see even less.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Jane. She was back in her chair on the other side of the table, and Gloria had to swing round to look at her.

“I don’t know.” She wanted that to be the end of it, but there were more words coming. “I’m tired of all the travelling,” she said. “Yours and mine. I want us to live together.” There, it was said. The thought had been in her head for weeks now, nagging away, refusing to disappear. It had seemed dangerous then, even more so now it was spoken. She waited while her whole world tilted and hung askew.

“I don’t see how we can,” said Jane eventually, “with your job down here and mine in the hills.”

“Will you at least think about it?”

“Yes,” said Jane, and the balance righted itself just a little

17

Jane lay with Gloria in her arms, listening to the rain on the roof and on the pavement outside the window. With one hand she stroked Gloria’s neck, ran her fingers through the heavy hair. She breathed in the sweet sandalwood smell of her, the compelling sexual smell of her, and tried to balance this pleasure with the responsibility she felt for Michele.

“You’re right,” she murmured, “we don’t do this often enough. I feel I’ve missed out for half a lifetime.”

“Must be a slow starter,” whispered Gloria, “a late developer.” She turned her head and ran her tongue along Jane’s col arbone. “So you don’t think you’ll go back to Barry?”

“No.”

“You won’t neglect me entirely?”

“No.”

There was the sound of a car in the street. A door slammed, and a moment later they heard a key in the lock.

“Ashley,” breathed Gloria. “Nearly eighteen and I stil worry if he’s late home.”

Ashley, thought Jane, nearly eighteen and he still has problems with his mother’s lifestyle. What hope, then, have I got with Michele? She pondered the question, wondered how other lesbians handled their children. Did any of them grow up not caring a hoot who their mothers slept with? How did they act on family occasions? What about weddings, for goodness sake? Was there anything in the etiquette books about the girlfriend of the bride’s mother? Was this the sort of thing that concerned Gloria when she left her first love, all those years ago?

“What’re you thinking?”

“What was her name, the lover you walked out on?”

“Daisy.”

“Was she heartbroken? Were you? What was she like?”

“Political y sound,” was the instant reply. “That’s what I remember most about her. She ran her life according to the principle of nonaccountability, you know, like some women did in those days.”

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “I was busy being a young executive’s wife.

Tell me.”

“She was outrageous. Got me to do things I’d never done before, like kiss in a public park, hold hands in a restaurant, above the table. That’s why I fell in love, I suppose. The newness of it all. But I could never depend on her. We’d make arrangements to go out, I’d get a babysitter, then she’s ring up at the last minute and cancel. Or she’d turn up when I was least expecting it, with a bunch of flowers in her hand, wearing another lover’s dress. She’d expect me to drop everything and go raging with her.”

“Must have been hell.”

“Well, yes. I was young and gullible. She was a dazzling dyke.”

“Is that why you left her?”

Gloria hesitated. “Ultimately,” she said, “I left because I couldn’t reconcile the kind of life she demanded with what I knew I wanted with Ashley. I guess I was more in love with my boy.”

“Was she heartbroken?”

“I was one of several. I’m sure she coped.”

“And you?”

“I cried for days. I thought I’d blown my only chance to be a real lesbian.”

“Sweetling, I’m sure there’ve been many between her and me.” She said it gently, turned slowly, kissed Gloria on the mouth. “Did you live with Daisy? Did you live with any of them?”

“No, not Daisy. I shared with one or two. Carmen lived with me for a while, but she hated Ashley.” Now she had the chance to talk about it, Gloria felt reluctant. She yawned and checked the time on the clock radio.

“It’s very late.”

“You’ve got a class in the morning?”

“I haven’t got one all day, but a girl has to have her sleep.”

“Can you take the day off? We could sleep late, have a picnic, browse some antique shops.”

Gloria thought about the pile of papers still to be marked, about Thursday’s lessons still unprepared. “Sure,” she said, “as long as I have some time in the evening.”

“The only problem is Marge. She’ll want to know why and I won’t feel like explaining.”

“Ring her now,” said Gloria. “Leave a message on the machine.”

“That’ll mean getting up out of this nice warm bed and walking to the phone. You real y should get one of those new cordless ones.” But she did get up to stand naked and shivering as she dialled.

“Marge,” she said after the beep, “I won’t be in today. I don’t have any appointments, and there’s nothing urgent, so you should be able to manage.” She was crisp and professional, clipped the edges of words that wanted to blur with love and fatigue. How strange, she though, to be standing naked in the passage of someone else’s house, talking business while a woman’s hands cup my breasts from behind. I wonder if it shows in my voice.

“Did your mother really threaten to die of shame?” Jane asked. They were on the freeway, driving through fog so thick they could hardly see the lines on the road. Gloria’s hand was warm on her thigh, and Eric, used to hanging his head out the window, sat mournfully in the middle of the back seat.

“Sure. She said a lot of other things too. Like ‘You’re not real y a lesbian, dear, it’s just postpartum depression.’ And ‘You can’t be a lesbian, dear, you look so pretty in dresses.’ I tried for a while to be what she wanted. Dressed ultrafemme, wore makeup.”

“Stayed away from bad women?”

“For a while.” Gloria screwed up her face and laughed. “I wasn’t cut out to be a nun, though.”

“D’you still see her?”

“Not much. She moved to the Gold Coast when Dad died.” Above Eagle on the Hill, the fog thinned, but lingered in pockets over the dams and creeks, giving the landscape a kind of clichéd beauty. They took the Birdwood turnoff and headed not towards the office but to Taylor’s Cottage.

“While we’re in the area,” said Jane, “I could salve my conscience by dropping in on a tenant I really need to see.” There was no sign of Jeremy when they pulled up in front of the cottage. Dusty was there though, at the front gate, wagging her tail and looking behind them at Eric. Jane bent to scratch the dog’s head. “Where is he,” she asked, “that man of yours?” She knocked on the door, waited, then pushed it open when there was no answer.

“Should you?” said Gloria, “he might be in bed with someone.”

“He’s not the type.” As a precaution, though, she called, “Jeremy, are you there?”

From the back of the house came a clatter of metal, and when they reached the kitchen they saw him packing the last of his saucepans into a dufflebag.

With the exception of the dresser, which stood in magnificent isolation in the middle of the room, the place was bare. The makeshift table was gone, the floor had been cleared of all debris.

“Hey Jane,” he said, “it’s good to see you. I was going to leave a note, but I won’t need to now.”

“A note?”

“I’m leaving. Me and Dusty are heading north. Darwin maybe. Winter in these hills is too hard.” He was different, somehow. His eyes were red, the pupils dilated. His hair was longer and wilder than ever, and there were patches of reddish stubble on his cheeks, as if he’d tried shaving with a blunt blade.

“Jeremy,” said Jane, with her arm around Gloria, “this is my...” She hesitated. Oh hell, she thought, what do I say? Friend? Lover? Partner?”

“Gloria,” said Gloria, and she held out her hand. Jeremy reached out and shook it. His wrist, Jane noticed, was skeletal.

“Have you been eating?” she asked.

“Not a lot. My money’s all run out.”

“I thought you were on the dole.”

“I forgot to put my form in,” he said. “Shit happens, eh. I’ll get work up north.” He seemed edgy, anxious to be gone.

“I came about the rent,” said Jane. “I don’t suppose you can pay?”

“No. Did you see the lady about the dresser?”

“She says it’s not hers. It must have been left here by someone else.”

“Does that mean it’s mine? Does that mean you pay all the rent I owe and you get to keep it?”

Jane did a quick sum in her head. He owed for ten weeks. She had no idea what the dresser might be worth, but the four hundred dollars she’d have to pay was probably a bargain.

“Al right,” she said, “but that stil leaves you with nothing. You’l need petrol money, for a start.”

Jeremy shuffled his boots on the floor, left a pattern of swirls in the thick dust. “I’ll go and see my old man,” he said. “If I can make him feel guilty enough he’ll give me some.”

“You’ve got a father?” For some reason Jane was shocked.

“He lives in Beaumont. He hasn’t talked to me since I gave him a copy of the Karma Sutra for Christmas.” Behind her, Jane heard Gloria divert a belly laugh into a polite cough.

She kept her eyes on Jeremy, caught a look of sadness on his face. He’s got no idea, she thought. She watched him scrape another pattern in the dust. “Are we keeping you?”

“Yeah, reckon you are. I want to see me Dad and be on the road before dark.”

“I like the boy,” said Jane. They were back on the freeway, heading for Bridgewater with food for a picnic on the back seat. “He’s not as rough as he looks.”

Gloria snorted. “He’s a dopehead!”

“What do you mean?”

“A user. He was off his face on something or other. Did you see his eyes? His hands? He couldn’t stop them trembling.”

“Oh,” said Jane, “D’you think so? I thought he was just hungry, a bit feverish perhaps.”

Gloria swung round in her seat to look at Jane. “Are you serious?” She laughed, and at the sound of it Jane felt a wave of passion from throat to pubic bone. She took her eyes off the road for a moment, reached over and pulled Gloria close, kissed her hard.

“I adore you,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you take delight in knowing things I don’t know. Because you laugh at me and I love it.”

“I adore you too, sweetheart, but if you don’t pay attention to your driving we’re going to end up in the ditch.” Jane swung the wheel hard to keep the car on the bitumen. “Sorry,” she said, and a moment later “Even so, I am worried about him.”

“Who, Jeremy?” Gloria sounded incredulous.

“Well, perhaps not worried. A bit sad. I kind of liked the thought of him living there. It set Marge on her ear, for a start.”

“But you don’t owe him anything. Why’d you agree to pay his rent? Is that ethical? Would you do it for other tenants?” Jane took her time in answering. “I suspect the dresser’s worth a lot more than the money he owes, but I think I would have done it anyway.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Perhaps I still need someone to mother.” Afterwards, Jane remembered the stolen day for it’s intensity. The early fog, heavy against the windscreen, pressed in on them like a physical force. It shrank their world to the inner dimensions of the car, created a bubble that confined and reflected the pulse that bound her and Gloria together. Even when it cleared, it left lines of moisture glistening along the fence wires, hung in droplets that focussed the energies of the day like a million tiny prisms.

She remembered every word of her conversation with Jeremy, remembered the thinness of his wrist, the way his hands shook. She could recall, too, the sound of the magpies, the picnic in the thin afternoon sun, and the sudden cold of early evening. And as a kind of bass line in the whole symphony, the idea, unspoken by either of them, of their living together.

Carried forward from that day was a feeling of unease attributed to that last meeting with Jeremy. There was around his leaving a faint sense of betrayal, of having been used. She told Marge about the dresser.

“My goodness, Jane,” was the response. “You’ve been a bit of a bunny.

I told you couldn’t trust a man who never combs his hair.”

“I don’t mind about the money. I’m sure it’s worth more than I’m paying. I just don’t know how ethical it is.” Marge slid her glasses down her nose and peered at Jane over the top of them.

“Ethical?”

“I did check with Edna, but...” She shrugged. “I guess I don’t feel I have the right to take it.”

“Ask her again,” said Marge.

She checked with Edna. The response was the same, but the feeling of unease persisted. The more she thought about it, the less sure she was of its source.

At this time of year it was dark by the time Jane arrived home from work. Gardening was out of the question, and housework seemed irrelevant. There was a quarter moon this night, flying high, and stars that burned sharp and clear. She walked with Eric along the fire track, breathed in the earthy smel s of the night, and sat to rest on a bank. Overhead the Southern Cross dissected the sky as cleanly as a scalpel. If only, thought Jane. If only. She felt the pull between the swelling moon and the hard white angles of the stars, between love and all it could encompass, and loneliness. For a time she was aware only of the vast night sky, and of her place at the very edge of it. But the cold crept into her bones and she had to move.

The phone was ringing when she got back.

“Hey Mum,” said Michele, “is there a vet up near you?”

“A vet?” Jane looked at Eric, lying at her feet, panting. “Why would I need a vet?”

“Not for you, sil y. I have to do work experience and I can’t find anyone in the city who can take me.”

“Have you tried?”

“Of course I’ve tried.” She sounded so indignant Jane began to understand.

“Ah. From the tinge of panic in your voice I would say your work experience starts next week.”

“Hmm,” said Michele.

“And you’ve only just got around to thinking about it.”

“Hmm.”

“I thought so. For how long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Does that mean you’d stay with me for two weeks?”

“Well, I’d have to, wouldn’t I? I couldn’t catch the bus up there every day.” She said it grudgingly, but in her voice was something akin to eagerness.

“I’ll see if I can find anyone,” promised Jane. “I’ll call you back.” She thought about the problem over dinner, rejected the one who’d given Eric his puppy shots as a dithering idiot, and decided to ring Billie.

“I need some help,” she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She suspected most people turned to Billie primarily for help.

“Another tree?”

“No, no. Just some advice. And maybe,” she added, “we can meet for dinner sometime.”

“Maybe.” Billie sounded cautious.

“D’you know of a good vet near Birdwood?” She explained the situation.

“You want someone who’s good with kids, then. Someone who won’t bite her head off if she asks questions.”

“I guess so.”

“I know just the woman. Graduated five years ago, a bit of experience under her belt, stil young enough to get on with youngsters. I’l give you her number.”

While she waited, Jane wondered whether or not to pursue the dinner invitation. She liked Billie, thought perhaps that friendship was possible if only the timing were right. It was Billie, though, who spoke first.

She gave Jane the number, and then said, “I’ll say yes to your offer.

Your place or mine or somewhere fancy? And I think we’ll both be more comfortable if Gloria is there too.”

Jane felt a rush of affection for this honest woman. “Why not my place?” she offered. “Saturday. I’l spend the afternoon cooking something wonderful.”

She phoned Michele back, and gave her the number.

“The rest is up to you,” she said.

“Mum,” Michele pleaded, “I was hoping you’d do it for me.”

“No way, Mich. Part of the experience is finding your own work.”

“Just this once?”

“No, but I do look forward to you staying for two weeks.”

“Will she be there?”

“D’you mean Gloria?”

“Hmm.”

“Some of the time. Is that a problem?” There was a long silence, then a sigh, and finally Michele said, “I suppose I’ll have to cope with it.”

The concession was a major advance. Jane was smiling when she put the phone down, still smiling when it rang again a moment later.

“I’ve been trying to get through all evening,” complained Gloria.

“Don’t exaggerate. Anyway, I was about to call you.”

18

Gloria shivered a little as she put the phone down. It’s cold, she thought.

Why haven’t I got the heater on? Back in the study she turned on the gas fire, sat down at her desk and marked the last half dozen student assignments. She stretched, yawned, tried to think about the next day’s lessons, and came up with nothing. After fifteen minutes she opened her journal and began to write.

How many different ways can you teach irregular past tense verbs? Her class at the moment was a mixture of Polish, Vietnamese and South American immigrants, and her problem as always was to balance the differing needs of each group. How can you teach grammar to people who expect language to magical y flower at their fingertips? How can you teach passion to people who won’t write a word unless they’re sure it’s grammatical y correct? Stumped, she wandered out to the kitchen to see Ashley toasting bread and cheese under the griller.

“Ash,” she said, “what d’you think of Michele?” She picked up an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table and took a bite.

“Dunno. Kind of cute.” He raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “Is that what you wanted me to say?”

“She’s going to be staying with Jane for two weeks.”

“Oh?” His attention was on the toast, trying to slide it off the tray and onto a plate without burning his fingers. Having accomplished the task, he sat down at the table and said, “Is that what you’re looking so sour about?”

“Am I?” Gloria forced her face into an expression more agreeable, overdid it, and had them both laughing.

“Mum,” said Ashley, “what do you think of ...?” The sentence dwindled into silence. She waited for him to continue, took another bite of her apple and then said, “What’s on your mind, Ash?” He hesitated, played with the fruit in the bowl.

“What d’you think of Ben and Darren?”

Gloria shrugged. “They’re your mates. Sometimes they’re as painful as you are.” She laughed again and reached across the table to steal a piece of his toast. “They’re decent kids.”

“D’you think they’re gay?” He looked up suddenly, and Gloria saw the pain in his eyes.

“It has crossed my mind,” she said carefully. “Do you think they are?” She noticed the beginnings of tears, heard anger as well as pain in his voice when he spoke again.

“Jesus, Mum, I don’t know. They fool around all the time.”

“How?”

Ashley flapped his wrist and wriggled his shoulders. “Like that,” he said. “They’re always touching each other.”

“It’s likely they are.” She said it as gently as she could, but even so she saw the tears spil out over his lashes. He dropped his head and stared at the table.

Gloria’s first impulse was to put her arms around him, to rock him like a baby and stem the flow of tears. Her second was to sit stil and al ow him to cry. She watched as a pool of tears and snot formed on the table. He was crying hard, quite silently. She reached into her pocket for a hankie, and slid it across to him. Final y she asked, “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“A while.”

“Pretty angry.”

“Yeah.” He answered between sobs.

“What else?”

He blew his nose on the hanky, dried his eyes, tried to wipe up the pool on the table. “Jesus, what a mess.”

“What else, Ash?”

“I don’t want to see them anymore.”

“Because they’re gay? Have they been awful to you?”

“Because they’re arseholes,” he shouted. He picked up his plate and hurled it at the wal . It shattered, and the pieces ricocheted onto the floor, the sink, and the table. Without thinking, Gloria pushed the bowl of fruit in front of him. He stood up, grabbed an orange and flung it at the spot the plate had hit, watched it pulverise and slide down the wal . He picked up another orange and hurled it, then half a pineapple, an avocado, then al the apples, one after the other, until the bowl was empty and the kitchen looked like the inside of a food processor. Final y, he picked up the bowl, held it over his head with two hands, and smashed it against the corner of the table.

For a while they listened to the steady dripping of fruit juice from the window ledge onto the drain board.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” said Gloria. She resisted the impulse to laugh, to throw back her head and roar with the pain and the silliness of it all. “Shall we clean it up now or in the morning?” Ashley shook himself like a dog coming out of water. “Oh,” he said,

“it’s impressive, isn’t it?”

“Are they really that bad?” asked Gloria. She was sponging down the wall, picking pieces of embedded plate out of the plaster. Ashley threw a handful of china fragments into the rubbish bin and stopped to consider the question.

“Not really,” he said. “I just feel lousy when I’m around them.”

“Why?”

“Dunno.”

“Think about it.”

“I suppose I...” He stopped and stared at the mound of fruit pulp on the floor. “I suppose I feel kind of ... unnecessary.”

“I know how you feel.”

“You can’t,” he said, quick as a flash. “you’re too old to remember. And anyway, you’re female.”

Gloria saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. “I can,” she said. “It would be like finding out Jane had gone back to men.” When the kitchen was clean and Ashley was on his way to bed, he came up to Gloria, clumsily, and put his arms around her. She reached up to stroke his sleek black hair, to pull his head down onto her shoulder, and was surprised at how tall he had grown. They stood for a moment, neither speaking, and then he was gone.

She didn’t leave the city till late on Saturday, and by the time she reached Jane’s, Billie was already there, standing in front of the fire with a glass of whisky in her hand. A Chopin nocturne, one of Ashley’s pieces, was playing on the stereo, and she stood in the doorway for a moment, listening. Eric padded over and leaned against her leg. He nuzzled her hand, then wandered back to his mat in the corner.

Jeremy’s dresser stood against one wall, perfectly proportioned in the long room. “Nice, isn’t it?” said Billie. There was an antique miner’s lamp on the dresser, unlit, a single piece of curved and branching driftwood, and a framed photograph of a young Michele laughing into the camera, with Jane’s arms around her from behind. On the top two shelves were books, clothbound, most of them, with gold lettering on the spines.

“It’s beautiful,” said Gloria. She walked over to Billie, hugged her, felt the tension in her shoulders.

“Where’s Jane?” she asked.

“In the kitchen.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Gloria again over dinner, “but it reminds me of the Trojan Horse.” The others looked puzzled. “Think about it,” she said.

“It’s a finely crafted monument in wood, left behind as a gift when the Greek army withdraws.”

“Jeremy’s not a Greek army,” said Jane.

“Still.”

“D’you think,” said Billie, “that any moment now a whole platoon of little Jeremies is going to burst forth from those polished sliding doors and run amok here in the cottage?”

Gloria smiled and shrugged. “Maybe.” They were eating pasta, and she wound up a fork full of noodles from her plate.

In the silence, Billie said to Jane, “How did you get on with Jenny?”

“She seemed really pleased to be asked. Said to say hello to you”

“Jenny?” asked Gloria.

“Jenny the vet.”

“Oh,” said Gloria. She blushed, took a large mouthful of wine, and coughed.

Jane looked from one to the other until the penny dropped. “You mean to say...”

“I’m afraid so,” said Gloria. “but it was years ago.”

“You’ll meet her,” said Billie, “at my Solstice Party. You’ll both come, won’t you?”

“Sure,” said Gloria. “When?”

“Two weeks tonight. I’m inviting all the old crowd.”

“What’s she like, this Jenny?”

“Quite lovely, but when I was with her she was a student, and terribly enthusiastic about tapeworms and chook lice.” Gloria babbled on, cracked jokes, and the others laughed. There was an air of tension, though, that they found hard to dispel.

It’s not just me and Jane, she thought. There’s Billie, still half in love and trying too hard.

After dinner they sat around the fire and watched the flames lick away at the mal ee stumps. Conversation dwindled, and the silences became longer.

“What are the books?” asked Billie suddenly. She had been drinking slowly all evening, first whisky, then wine, and now whisky again. Her words were beginning to slur.

“Poetry, mainly,” said Jane. “My father’s collection.”

“Any Yeats?” Billie stood up and walked over to the dresser, holding her glass. She ran her free hand along the top shelf, stopped, pulled out a book. “There’s a poem of his.” She flipped through the index and turned the pages. “Here. Gloria. He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven. I want you to read this to Jane.”

Gloria opened her mouth to protest, saw the fixed look on Bil ie’s face, and meekly held her hand out for the book.

“Face her while you read. Hold her hand.” The tension in Billie’s voice was unbearable. Gloria did as she was told.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light...

She hesitated, and looked at Billie, who had turned away and was playing with her scotch, tipping a thin stream of it onto the edge of the fire. She looked at Jane, and could read in her face only a wary stillness.

Then she read on:

I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet...

The fire flared dramatical y, and Gloria stopped again. Before she could complete the poem, Billie, still turned away, carefully enunciated: Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

They listened to the fire burning on in the grate, burning on in the silence until Jane said, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“My gift to you both,” said Bil ie, abruptly. “I’l love you and leave you now.” She rose to her feet, a bit unsteady, and looked around for her keys.

“You could stay the night,” said Jane.

“I’m all right to drive.”

“Come on Billie,” pleaded Gloria, “you must be well over the limit.” Billie ignored her. She picked up her keys, walked to the front door, and opened it. Behind her the stars burned in a clear cold sky.

“Remember,” she said, “it’s a gift. Don’t squander it.”

“Should we go after her?” asked Jane.

“No.”

“Why not? She’s likely to write herself off.”

“Two reasons. She may be pissed as a lizard, but she’s not stupid. She’l drive home at a snail’s pace. She’ll stop and look twice at every crossroad.

I’ve seen her do it.”

“When she’s as upset as this?”

“That’s the second reason. She’d rather die than spend the night under the same roof as the two of us.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“She’ll be all right, Jane. If you like, we can wait up and phone her in a while. Please.” She put her arms round Jane’s neck, stared into her eyes to force home the message. “She’d hate it if you tried to make her stay.” They heard the car then, spitting gravel as it skidded through the gate and onto the road.

An hour later Billie picked up the phone and barked, “Yes?”

“It’s me, Gloria.”

“Didn’t I just leave you?”

“Seems like you did. I just rang to see if you made it home all right.” She waited for Billie’s reply. It seemed a long time coming.

“Yes, I’m safely home.”

“Well, that’s all, really.” Gloria felt awkward now, aware there was nothing more she could say. “Go to bed, Billie.”

“It’ll all be all right in the morning. Is that what you’re going to tell me?” Her voice held a mixture of despair and sarcasm.

“Hell, no.” Gloria felt the sting of tears in her own eyes. “I know how you’re feeling,” she said. “But it will pass. Eventually. I should know.” There was another long silence, and then Billie said “I’m too old to wait that long.” She hung up, and Gloria stood for a moment with the phone in her hand. Slowly she put it down and turned to Jane.

“Let’s go to bed,” she said.

“Is she all right?”

“Sure.” She looked at Jane, standing by the fire with one hand on the mantelpiece. Her shirt hung in soft folds against her breasts and the muscles of her arms. “Poor Billie,” she said, “you can’t blame the woman for losing her heart over you.”

That night, for all their love, the shadow of Billie was between them.

They fell asleep barely touching, and in the morning they awoke with a shared feeling of melancholy.

“D’you think you should call in on her,” asked Jane over breakfast.

“She needs someone who isn’t me for a week or two. I’ll call Kym and Sally, and suggest they spend some time with her.”

The end of the first semester was two weeks away. Gloria stayed late at the Col ege, planned last minute changes to her course, counsel ed each student to work out their best options for future classes. She took work home every night, thought about Billie, longed to be with Jane.

“Please,” said Jane on the phone. “One evening. Take one evening off and visit me.”

“I can’t. I’m up to my eyebrows. Why don’t you come to the city?” As soon as she said it she knew what the answer would be, but she burbled on, forcing the point. “That way I wouldn’t have to spend half the night travelling.”

“What about Michele.”

“Bring her with you.”

“To your place?”

“There must be a friend she wants to see. Leave her with Barry, if you have to.”

But Jane was reluctant, and it wasn’t until Friday night they saw each other.

“Where’s Michele?” said Gloria when Jane walked in at nine o’clock. She was scowling a bit, delighted to see Jane, but put out still that she’d chosen not to visit all week.

“With a friend. I’m picking them up at ten tomorrow for an early match.” She took a long look at Gloria, tilted her head to one side and asked, “Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

“You seem a bit ...” She chose the word carefully. “... a bit distant.”

“I haven’t seen you for a while,” said Gloria. “Sometimes you take a bit of getting used to.”

“Rubbish,” said Jane. She took a step forward and held out her arms.

“Come here.”

With Jane’s arms at last around her, all the tiny annoyances that had accumulated like prickles in her skin began to dissolve. The muscles in her neck and arms relaxed, and she felt herself grow limp, felt her body mould itself, breast and belly and thigh, to Jane’s.

“What was that all about?”

“End of term weariness, I suppose.”

They spent the next two hours on the couch, in each others’ arms, watching a pirated copy of Desert Hearts. Only when it was finished did Jane think to ask about Ashley.

“Where is he? I’ve got some music for him.”

“Gone to a postexam party. He’ll probably stay the night.”

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “There’s some wonderful stuff. I wanted to see what he thought.”

“He’ll be home tomorrow. Meanwhile, sweetheart, there’s always me.” She turned to Jane and slowly, one by one, undid the buttons of her shirt.

“Not that I’m any substitute,” she said as she pulled open the shirt and blew softly on the skin beneath it, “for a spottyfaced youth like Ashley.”

“He hasn’t got spots,” said Jane, running her hand over Gloria’s freckled face. “Anyway, what’s wrong with spots?”

“Have you ever thought about moving closer to town?” asked Gloria.

They were in the kitchen, eating breakfast. Jane looked up from the orange she was peeling, juice dripping from her fingers. Gloria held her breath and watched the juice form a pool on the plate.

“Why?” said Jane. “I love the cottage.”

“Less travelling for both of us, if you chose somewhere between my work and your office.”

The clear eyes clouded a little, and Jane looked down to concentrate on the orange.

“You wouldn’t have to sell this place. Rent it out for six months. It’s a compromise, Jane. That way you still have your independence, and it’s not so hard on me. I hate al that time on the road. I’m beginning to feel like a truckie.”

“Perhaps, Glor. It’s something to think about.” Back home, Gloria worked hard for the rest of the weekend, completing the last of the student assessments late on Sunday. She thought about phoning Jane, but found herself dialling Billie’s number instead.

“Hi, Hon,” she said. “How’re you feeling?” There was a pause, and then Billie answered cautiously, “All right.”

“D’you want some company?”

“Not right now.” In the background one of the dogs was barking. “I’m about to take Jenny out for a ride.”

“The horse or the vet?” There was another pause, and this time Billie laughed.

“The mare,” she said, “though I wouldn’t mind an afternoon with Jenny the vet. Anyway, what’s on your mind?”

“Checking up on you, that’s al . And seeing if you stil want us to come to the Solstice party.”’

“Hey Glor, what do you think?”

“I think you might have a better time without us.”

“Everyone is coming, including you and Jane. This is Billie, remember.

Tough as old saddle leather on the outside, with a heart to match.” Oh Bil ie, you’re not nearly as tough as you pretend, thought Gloria as she hung up.

By Wednesday she had finished al counsel ing, assessments, paperwork and precourse planning for the next semester. She rode home in the early evening, with the wind gusting at her back, pushing her on through oilslicked puddles and the yellow harsh reflections of car lights. Through all the traffic, her mind was on Jane.

At home she made herself a cup of tea, and read the note propped on the sugar bowl.

Hey Mum, nothing happening at school tomorrow so I’m crashing at Ben’s tonight. Catch you later. p.s. they may be a couple of pooftas but they stil want me around. At the bottom of the note was a big smiley face.

Gloria was surprised. Ashley hadn’t mentioned Ben since the fruit salad night. She sipped at her tea, thought about the evening stretched ahead of her. She thought about the long dark road up the freeway and into the hills, and made her decision.

“Hello gorgeous,” she said when Jane answered the phone, “I’m free.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Jane. “I wouldn’t even call you cheap. Quite classy you are, to my mind.” She tried again. “I’ve finished all my work, and there’s nothing for me to do at the college until Friday. I could brave the impending storm and drive up. We could have a late dinner.”

“I’m cooking now,” said Jane. “Michele wants an early meal.”

“Have two dinners. I could bring some takeaway, save you cooking twice. Or I could eat a lonely little meal by myself, and creep off to bed feeling unloved and insecure, and not see you till Saturday.”

“Blackmail, is it?” said Jane. “You’d better come up. Don’t bother about the takeaway. I’ll have something ready for you.” The verandah light was on when she pulled up at the cottage, and as she got out of the car the front door opened, and there was Jane walking towards her through the shadows. Eric was behind her, barking a welcome.

Gloria was dizzy with love and hunger. She wanted to dance with Jane around the wild wet garden under a fat yellow moon, wanted to lie with her all night in a room full of candlelight and incense. They hugged, a hard, fierce embrace.

“Come in,” said Jane “before we get blown away. I’l cook supper; you’ll have to brave the fearsome offspring.” Inside, Jane made straight for the kitchen, leaving Gloria in the living room with the fire, and Eric, and Michele. Michele was watching television, yet another rerun of I Love Lucy. She looked up briefly, muttered, “Hi,” and returned her gaze to the screen. Gloria took her jacket off, dropped it on the floor, and sat in the chair by the fire. Eric, his loyalties divided, stood in the middle of the room. His tail swung with uncertainty as he looked from one to the other. On the screen, Lucy screeched as she teetered on the ledge outside her apartment, and banged on the window to be let in. With every move she made, the audience laughed.

When the ads came on, Gloria shifted in her chair and asked, “How’s the work experience?”

“Pretty good,” came the cool reply.

“You get on all right with Jenny?”

“Sure.”

How beautiful she is, thought Gloria. How like her mother. I wonder if Jane had hair the colour of autumn leaves when she was young. “What sort of things have you been doing?” she asked.

Michele sighed, pushed her hair away from her face with a gesture of infinite forbearance and turned at last to look at Gloria.

“Are you interested?” she said, “or are you just making conversation?”

“I’m interested. I wanted to be a vet when I was your age.”

“What stopped you?”

“Lack of money. And my mother, I suppose. She thought teaching was a much nicer job for a young lady.” There was a ghost of a smile on Michele’s face. “She didn’t think ladies of any age were cut out to spend their days looking at the insides of animals.” The commercial break ended, and Michele turned back to the television.

Lucy was on the screen again, safe once more in her apartment and tel ing everyone how difficult it had been.

“You’ve got it easy,” muttered Gloria, but noone heard her except Eric.

She stood up and wandered out to the kitchen, saw Jane putting the finishing touches to a magnificent omelette.

“I tried,” she said.

“Did she talk to you?”

“A bit, while the ads were on.”

“Better than I thought. Before you got here, she swore she could never bear to be in the same room as you.” She stood with her hands on her hips, looking first at Gloria and then at the omelette. “Eat. I’ve put my heart and soul into this.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll watch.”

Later, as she lay in bed, watching Jane undress, she asked, “Do you love me?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Why?”

Jane was undoing her shirt. She stopped at the third button. “I don’t know why,” she said. “I just do.”

Jane undid the rest of her buttons, took off her shirt and threw it on the armchair. “Why?” Gloria asked again. She looked at Jane, standing naked and wonderful, with the cold bedroom air puckering her nipples.

“Come to bed before you answer.”

When Jane was under the quilt, leaning on one elbow and running her hand down Gloria’s flank, she said, “Because you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You challenge me, make me look at things differently.”

“What about my body?” murmured Gloria. She felt the fire ignite in the space below her belly, and she reached out a slow hand for Jane’s breast.

“Your body,” said Jane, “is a whole new experience. Like discovering a Steinway after you’ve been playing a Woolworth’s toy piano for years.” She smiled and lifted her hand to Gloria’s face. “Do you ever doubt I love you?”

“No,” said Gloria, “no.”

But the uncertainty showed in her voice, and Jane asked, “What then?”

“I sometimes wonder whether you’l ever be able to...” She struggled for words, rol ed over and sat up, pul ed the quilt up to her chin. “I don’t know if you can ever integrate what you have with me into the rest of your life.” Jane sat up too. “What do you mean?” she said.

“You keep me separate from everything else you do. Like tonight. You rush out and hug me when I arrive, but once I’m in the house, you don’t lay a finger on me. I’ve been feeling like your maiden aunt all evening.” She leant over and held Jane’s face in both hands. “Jane, I’ve never met any of your friends. Heaven knows, you must have had a social life before you met me.” She took her hands away, leant back against the pillows.

“Have you finished?” said Jane, very quietly.

“Yes.”

“I love you, Gloria. Isn’t that enough?”

“You know it’s not.”

“You still want us to live together.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we could talk about it in the morning.” She turned out the light and lay with her head on Gloria’s shoulder, and Gloria held her while they both tried to sleep. I have spread my dreams under your feet, ran the voice in her head. I have spread my friends under your feet. She thought of her friendship with Billie, and of the potential, stil , to damage it. She thought of that day by the Murray, watching Gypsy and Rhiannon romp like puppies in the clear brown water at the edge of the river. She wondered where Gypsy was at the moment, imagined her riding a camel across a vast stony desert into a painted sunset. The image carried her into sleep, but in her dreams she danced with Jane across a midnight blue paddock studded with tiny white flowers.

19

It was still dark when Gloria awoke. She had been dozing and waking for half the night, it seemed, and her body was stiff with tension. She eased herself away from Jane, swung her feet to the floor and reached out for the pile of clothes. Once dressed, she walked out of the house through the back door and into the garden. She called softly to Eric, and then set off in the predawn dark along the fire track.

She walked with the borrowed dog for an hour or more, only turning for home when she saw the first red light of the sun bleed along the horizon.

Back at the cottage, with the chain from the gate heavy in her hand, she stood and looked down at the house. There was a moment of not wanting to return to the bedroom, to the warmth of the bed. Instead, she was tempted to walk on again into the crisp cold of the morning, into the clear yel ow sunlight, to climb into the van and drive back down to the city. There was a moment of preferring loneliness, which is freedom, over love, which by its very nature always wants more.

There was a moment of decision where she walked in through the gate and let the chain down gently over the pickets. Stil dazed from lack of sleep, she walked through the house to the bedroom, and stood for a long time looking down at Jane while she slept. As she watched, the room spun with sunlight and the shadows of the pines. The sun shifted, cast a pattern of leaves on Jane’s open palm, and the sun and her lover’s breath in the cold air of the room, for the moment, were enough.

About the Author

Mij Tanith is an Adelaide lesbian, well known for her political activism in a number of areas including refugee rights and gay law reform. She has been WriterintheCommunity with many different organisations, and her work has produced a number of anthologies. For several years she wrote feature articles and theatre reviews for blaze, Adelaide's main GLBTIQ newspaper. She has written plays, poetry, short stories, and music theatre.

Three Seasons is her first published novel. Mij is currently working on the biography of a Congolese refugee family, and is planning a second novel set in a post oil future.

For more great Australian lesbian writing go to www.lesbianebooks.com.au

Table of Contents

Three Seasons

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

About the Author