Under The Harvest Moon. Gary Blinco
to most people. His interest in other women was just the occasional flirtation to begin with, but she knew the time would come when it would be more than that. She wished she had been more open with him in the beginning, and that she had not simply married him and expected him to adapt without question into the life she had in mind for them.
Despite the growing tension in the marriage, they travelled about the country working at a variety of jobs for two years. Their marriage, like so many others, seemed to settle down to one of comfortable indifference. He did his things and she developed interests of her own. Sometimes, when they were alone together, they would suddenly begin to relate, often in an unexpected sort of way, almost like old friends meeting after a long absence. Then the passion of their relationship would flare anew and she would be on a high for days. These times were rare; mostly they just continued to coexist with remote indifference.
They were working with a shearing gang on a large property near Goondiwindi when the first serious indiscretion occurred, or at least the first that she knew of. There was a large gang of shearers and support staff on the place, rough men and their wives and children, people who worked hard and played hard. Every night there was a singsong and party around a large campfire that they lit at sundown each day to cook a wide range of cultural dishes. Men played mouth organs and accordions; others played guitars and sang with talent or gusto, rarely both, often well into the night. Derwent became the star of these nightly banquets and concerts and she watched him with a sort of detached pride as he performed.
While there was sometimes a brooding tension between them, she loved him and felt that the troubles would pass once the job ran out and they were again in the intimacy of their own company. She was determined to make him happy, if only she could find out what he really wanted. Derwent was working on this gang as a wool classer, grading the fleece as it came from the sheep, and directing the shed hands to pile the wool in the appropriate boxes ready for baling. His job was quite easy and he had plenty of free time when new sheep were being mustered, or there was a break in the shearing process for one reason or another.
One day she made a tray of fresh scones and went to visit one of the other wives in a worker’s hut that stood on the opposite side of the courtyard. She walked into the open hut without formality, as people were apt to do in this casual lifestyle. She found the plump woman naked on the floor in a passionate sexual embrace with Derwent. She was too shocked and heartbroken to utter a sound as she fled the cottage, running back to her own quarters with tear-filled eyes.
She sat on the bed in her cottage, staring at herself in the mirror, looking in wonder at the confused pretty face that stared back at her. She knew that she was beautiful and desirable; she had seen the way that men looked at her. Why then did Derwent betray her for a rather fat, plain Italian woman who had three children and a husband of her own? She threw herself on the bed and surrendered to the tears of anger and hurt that crept through her like a cold sharp wind.
She was still huddled on the bed crying when Derwent came home from his shift in the shed. He sat quietly as she challenged him over the incident; he did not attempt to deny it, simply shrugging his shoulders dismissively. ‘I just can’t seem to help it,’ he said simply. ‘They come on pretty strong sometimes, I don’t feel I have much choice, I can’t knock them back.’
She stared at him. ‘They?’ she said, her voice rising with her anger, ‘How many have there been, for God’s sake?’ He shrugged again, not answering.
‘You are mentally ill Derwent,’ she screamed. ‘Do you think you have to have sex with everyone who wants you? My God, how would you feel if I was like that? Every man in this camp, and every other camp we’ve been in might have wanted to fuck me. How would you have felt if I’d obliged?’ She was walking about the room while he watched her, a look of detached amusement on his face. He had never heard her swear before. ‘But I love you, you bastard, I don’t want anybody else. I thought you felt the same about me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, simply, as if he’d just broken her favourite piece of china rather than her heart. ‘I do love you, but it’s just not enough sometimes, I don’t know why.’ He took her in his arms; she did not resist but sobbed a little against his chest.
‘Oh Derwent,’ she sobbed, ‘please help me make this marriage work. We made vows to each other, you are all I have in the world, please don’t break my heart.’
He squeezed her quickly. ‘I’ll try harder,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘I gotta go to the concert now, they’re waitin’ for me. Come over later if you like.’ Then he was gone. Just like that, she thought, the tears coming again to her eyes. Should she leave him right now? The question loomed large in her mind and she shivered in fear at the thought of it. Derwent was her family, her life, and she did not know what else she could do but stay and work on the marriage. True, he had betrayed her, but she had no money left from her inheritance and nowhere to go.
Where could she go, and what could she do, she wondered. And why should she give up so easily on her dream of a happy life with her husband. She had plans that they would travel around for a few more years, and then find a place where they could live and build a future together. They would find a real job for him, one that would hold his interest. They could have children then and become a real family, and surely he would settle down when his wild youthful days were behind him. She suddenly wished she had shared these plans with him, but she had assumed again that he would want the same things as she did.
She sat alone in the cottage and cried for a while longer, fighting against the sense of betrayal that rose in her like bile. Then she got up determinedly and washed quickly at the small basin that stood on the table in the corner, put on her prettiest dress and made up her face. She walked through the shadows between the cottages and sat on a log near the fire, deliberately seeking out the woman she had found on the floor with Derwent earlier.
As she sat down, the plump woman gave her a knowing, indulgent smile. Veronica returned the smile mechanically, and then she looked at Derwent as he stood on the other side of the fire playing his guitar and singing. She wanted him to see her and the woman together, wanted him to see how she looked by comparison. He seemed to get her point, winking at her over the flames.
She was glad when the job cut out and she could get him on his own again, away from the temptation of loose women and the easy, irresponsible people who followed the labour camps. The carefree gipsy life was fun for now, but she knew she could not carry on with it forever, that she longed to put down solid roots somewhere soon. She resolved to try harder to make him happy, and to draw him deeper into her plans, rather than make assumptions on his behalf. She would allow him more room to do the things he wanted to do, and try not to smother him as he called it.
The shearing season was over by now so they headed for the Darling Downs, in the southeast of Queensland, looking for a position on one of the grain farms. Veronica liked the look of the countryside as they left the western districts behind and entered the fertile wheat country along the Condamine River. They had a lead to go to. It was a property on the Grasstree Creek that was owned by the Symons family. The publican at a small ex-mining village called Leyburn told them there was a permanent position going there for a good all round general hand. She liked the sound of that; perhaps it would lead to them becoming a permanent part of a new community where they could begin to build a settled life together.
They drove along narrow country lanes, through thick bush that frequently gave way to wide rolling cultivation paddocks. Her heart raced as she saw countryside that somehow began to match an inner vision that her father had imprinted on her mind of his dream farm. Often, as they had travelled about in the commercial traveller’s van, he would stop beside a field of wheat and stare at the crop with a faraway look in his eyes; expressing his dream of owning a mixed farm. Somehow this place reminded her of his description.
Long belts of tall trees surrounded wide expanses of waving yellow grain; a dreamy haze shimmered above the paddocks that fell away to a backdrop of blue hills in the distance. Shaded ribbons of creeks meandered through the landscape, many