The Hanging of Mary Ann. Angela Badger
spider in the clutches of the murderous female golden orb.
Lateish in the summer these spiders weave multi-layered webs stretching between bushes and plants and trees. Not a flat web such as spiders usually spin, but a great trap which stretches in three levels and snares a multitude of flies.
The fat, striped female spider waits complacently in the centre for her next victim, and further out the single, tiny male clings to a strand and awaits the remnants of her meals. Wing of wasp and leg of beetle are his lot while his mate gorges on fat bodies. Not wanting to be her next repast he keeps to the furthest edges of the web.
Mary Ann had always marvelled that birds did not swoop down and gobble up the fat spider waiting in the middle but Grand-père had explained the spreading gossamer confounded them. Not one web but several confronted them, so they kept away.
Mrs McAllister extracted yet another piece of Turkish Delight from its box and discreetly brushed the icing sugar moustache from her upper lip. Her mate hovered just out of reach.
Two more weeks of this? Mary Ann picked at her cake and wished herself many miles away. How much she had looked forward to the visit and now her thoughts were entirely of Bywong, the space and silence of the farm. Away from this place where heavy sandstone and brick and cobbles crushed and covered the earth.
As the ladies clucked and commiserated the hours away Mary Ann thought longingly of just such a mellow afternoon back at Bywong. The air would be filled with busy calls from the chickens as they wallowed and fluffed the afternoon away in their dust baths. From the fowl run would come those deep contented exchanges the birds made as the soft sand slipped through their feathers and between their claws. Living so close to Nature she’d observed that hens had different calls for different times of the day. In the morning an urgency marked their exchanges, sometimes the triumphant cackle for a newly laid egg, but, in the afternoon contentment softened their songs, bringing forth deep caws of pleasure, sounds redolent of full gizzards and fat worms and all the things that made a chicken’s life a delight.
Just like the hens in their run Hannah and her friends filled each day with routine; a visit to the dressmaker, a pianoforte concert at a neighbour’s house, an afternoon at the races, a conversazione, or maybe an opera. Soon Mary Ann had no heart for all these entertainments, so intriguing at first, now she could think of nothing except Bywong.
She yearned for the fresh wind from the ranges touching her cheeks. She pined for the soft touch of the grass under her feet as she made her way down to the orchard.
“When are we going home?” complained Grand-père, “Can’t stand much more of this. House full of clacking women and that Edward! Fellow’s got nothing to talk about. I asked him for the price of this season’s ewes and he just stared at me! Got the conversation of a counter jumper.”
“Another week the surgeon says, and remember, Dr Morton said you mustn’t attempt the journey home until you can walk up and down the steps on your own. Remember what he said?”
“All I do is listen to what people say these days! No one listens to what I have to say any more, do they? It’s ‘do this’ or ‘go there’ and…”
“Grand-père!” Hannah’s head came round the door. “You have a visitor. Mary Ann, take that bowl away. Brush your grandfather down, he’s got crumbs all over his waistcoat…I’ll give you a minute.”
“Who can be visiting us?” Mary Ann puzzled, no one of their aquaintance would be in Sydney…
When Frank de Rossi came into the room she was still tidying up her grandfather.
Something in his confident stride, his polite bow and warm smile made Bywong feel a little closer. No mincing city fellow, a real man. Someone from home, what a pleasure!
Smiles wreathed her features as she grasped his hand, definitely not a ladylike greeting, but all thought of those stiff circumspect bows and proffered fingertips that Hannah had inculcated was swept aside.
“Excuse us, sir, we had no idea you were still in town.”
“Delighted. Delighted.” A rare smile wreathed Grand-père’s features, for so many months pain and irritability had been the order of the day. “Now I can have a decent conversation for once. All they talk of hereabouts is politicking and prices. Sick to death of it all, I am. What’s happening down at the lake these days?”
“No rain for one thing. We badly need a drop and some are talking about a drought.”
Mary Ann picked up her embroidery. She might have left the men chatting but could not bring herself to leave the room. Just like her grandfather she yearned for news of home.
“Help me, Mary Ann,” Hannah snapped, “We need to bring in the wine and biscuits.” Soon they were back in the room again, the younger sister hanging on every word.
Swiftly Frank de Rossi moved from details of the latest sales in Goulburn to the worrying lack of labour on the properties. Granpère had so many questions; so much can happen on the land in a matter of weeks. Then there was the flight from the countryside of so many in search of gold, and the burden which fell heavily on the squatters. Of course the harvest prospects proved the most important topic but what about that mysterious blight that had taken the crops further out on the Limestone Plains? And what about those new-fangled butter churns everyone was talking about, and was that Murray going to stand again and, and, and…
Then all too soon the visitor was making his adieux, thanking his hostess and bowing before Mary Ann.
Hannah could scarcely wait till the door shut behind him before she launched a barrage of questions.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew he was coming up to town? I could have asked him to dinner.” She frowned as she looked at them. “I don’t know, what is wrong with country people. They don’t seem to know how to make a life for themselves. How long have you known the Count de Rossi?”
“How long?” Grand-père scoffed. “I knew his father before you were born, my girl. He came to the Colony a few years later than me. Just had the two boys, his wife had died… died young. The old man gave up his title, wanted none of it, but young Frank always had a liking for his birthplace, Corsica that is, he took up the title.”
“A real count!” Hannah shook her head in wonderment.
“Oh they’re a noble family alright. Old Rossi told me once they can trace their ancestors back to Charlemagne. Mind you, he was possibly trying to go one better than the de Guises.” He chuckled to himself.
Even Edward was impressed when he returned that night. “Ah, the de Rossis, yes, clients of a chap I know, most dependable family. Of course many notable families settled on the Limestone Plains. End of the War and all that, all those officers from the army and the navy looking for good land. Yes, some fine people down there.”
“The back of beyond,” sniffed Hannah, “but he was a charming man, wasn’t he, Mary Ann?”
Surprised at the question being addressed to her, Mary Ann felt her cheeks burning. “Nice enough.”
“I’m surprised he’s not wed, such a handsome man with such a great inheritance coming to him.”
“Oh he’s been sought after. I’ve heard that. More than once a lady’s set her cap at him but seems he didn’t find any to his fancy,” the old man answered.
“Well, Grand-père, he’s too old now,” Mary Ann shrugged.
“Too old! Too old! Why my girl, he not much older than I am. That’s not too old for anyone to marry,” her sister spoke up.
“Who’d want him anyhow? Nice enough, but he can be a bit stuck up too.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t speak so disrespectfully, Mary Ann,” her grandfather regarded her sternly. “I’ve invited him to dinner before we leave town. I trust that is alright with you, Hannah?”
His eldest daughter beamed at him and clapped her hands