The Quilt Page 3

  “Honeymoon? What couples do after they are married. I expected to be whisked away to somewhere romantic,” Leslie giggled, turning the diamond ring around on her elegant finger.

  “I can’t just leave the farm at this time of the year.”

  “Sheep, Paul, bloody sheep. I am now Mrs Paul Clarke and I should be your first priority.”

  Paul glanced at the long curved legs, the soft blonde waves running over slim delicate shoulders and the full red lips. A wave of nausea passed through him.

  “I need to move some of the stock.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Jean sat at the long oak table. In front of her a strong cup of tea had been left to go cold. She heard the farm bike being kicked into life and parted the curtains to watch it retreat into the darkness. Paul was heading up to the ridge again. A few minutes later the silhouette of a small dog appeared. The animal began to follow the distant light but then stopped and turned around before slinking towards the figure standing stiffly in the open doorway of the cottage. A startled yelp of pain carried to Jean followed by the abrupt noise of the wooden door slamming. She watched the small dog limp pitifully back towards her kennel. Damn Leslie. Damn Shearers Cottage, nothing good would come of either of them.

  Shearers Cottage was a tiny weathered pioneer’s home set close to the edge of a slow running, rocky-bottomed river that snaked through much of the property. It provided fat rainbow trout for anyone keen enough to cast a fly into its waters. The Cottage was over one hundred years old and had been occupied when the Station was first fenced for stock by Paul’s grandfather, Allan, his brother James and their parents Charles and Mary Clarke.

  Sean and Paul had freshly painted the walls a pale soft cream, laid new green carpet and pretty drapes with a bamboo pattern running down their length. They had purchased a small, forest green settee and two matching rockers that filled most of the tiny lounge and were positioned close to the pot belly that took pride of place in the corner. The men had replaced the rotted timbers on the veranda and Jean had found some large terracotta pots and planted them with pretty petunias in preparation for Leslie’s arrival.

  It was three o’clock in the morning. A gentle breeze struggled to cool the damp summer heat. Leslie sat on the settee, a small trail of saliva running from the edge of her mouth. In front of her the last few drops of champagne ran across the coffee table before dripping slowly on to the new green carpet. On the cream wall a trail of red wine left a long stain before it also pooled on to the floor. Shards from her glass lay in jagged piles at the foot of the stain. How dare he treat her like this? How dare he not come home on their wedding night? Leslie’s head slowly fell forward as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

  Life on a farm settles into a seasonal rhythm. Lambing the previous year had been a disaster with unseasonal and early falls of snow claiming many newborn. This year was milder and drier. Despite the kind weather, Paul spent long hours working, both by necessity and by choice. Ewes had to be checked at regular intervals and although they were now grazing closer to the house, the lambing beat was a strenuous and demanding time.

  Through years of selective breeding the Clarke family could boast some of the best Romney ewes available. Sheep suited to the King Country conditions and selected for their hardy disposition. However, they still were found cast regularly and they still required help if a lamb was not presented properly at birth. The Clarke’s flock consistently produced some of the highest lambing percentages in the district but to maintain this required long, tedious hours to insure no more lambs were lost than was necessary.

  A month after the wedding and Paul sat broodily at the large oak dining table in the main house.

  “Paul can you please carve the roast?”

  He was so deep in thought his mother had to repeat the question.

  “Paul,” she raised her voice and her brow knotted with concern.

  “Are you listening? Please can you carve the roast?”

  “Sorry, I was drifting off. I’ve been busy and the late nights are catching up,” he smiled sheepishly.

  “You can say that again,” snapped Leslie.

  She received a sharp look from her mother-in-law.

  Jean walked to the fridge and took out a bottle of crisp white wine.

  “Yes, please if you wouldn’t mind,” Leslie smiled.

  Paul saw his mother tense immediately.

  “I really do not think drinking is advisable when you are pregnant, Leslie. Especially in these early stages”

  “One glass is hardly going to do any harm,” Leslie persisted.

  Sean glanced quickly at Jean. She had hesitated, her face set in a fierce frown. She was about to turn on Leslie. He quickly changed the subject.

  “How is the work going up at James Ridge?”

  Paul tensed and looked at his father with questioning eyes. James Ridge was an almost vertical rock face that ran along the back boundary of the farm. For years there had been no construction work or machinery in that area.

  Most people felt ill at ease when they visited James Ridge but strangely Paul frequented it when he needed time to think and it always seemed to provide a soothing and restful haven. He could never explain why a site that had been the location of nothing but pain and tragedy could make him feel comforted. Riding up there had become part of his daily routine; a routine he thought had gone unnoticed.

  “The work is going fine.” He looked at his father and met an intense questioning stare.

  “I saw you had started a garden, Leslie,” Jean struggled to find a positive subject and defuse the tension.

  Leslie turned her anger towards Paul.

  “Yes, I started to plant a vegetable garden for the house. But...”

  She hesitated to emphasize her annoyance before continuing.

  “But, the possums and rabbits ate everything I had planted on the first night.”

  Sean laughed.

  “Unfortunately, it is not always easy in the country. Perhaps we could take the spotlight and do a night shoot?”

  “It is a little late now, the garden is ruined and already full of weeds. Anyway my husband is never home at night.” She sniffed and slumped down sulkily in her chair.

  The family fell silent. Jean watched her daughter-in-law picking at her meal. Something was not right.

  Later that evening Jean looked up from the tiny mittens she was knitting.

  “This is not a suitable environment to bring an innocent child into.” She put down the needles and placed her hands on the cold cup of tea sitting on the table.

  “Keep out of their business Jean.” Sean shook his head. There wasn’t much he could say to make his wife feel better about the obvious tension and the growing rift between the young couple.

  The rain had started. The parched soil was transformed to a sea of green and the scent of pine filled the air. Paul pulled off his boots and shook the droplets of moisture from his hair. He took a few more minutes than was necessary before opening the door to the cottage. The stale smell of damp greeted him.

  “Why would you paint the interior this colour? I hate it and I hate the settee and the drapes.”

  “At least let me dry off before you start! Something had to be done to make the Cottage suitable for us to live in. Jean chose the colour, she was sure it would be restful and make the lounge look bigger.”

  “I should have been consulted.”

  “Yes, I agree, and normally you would have been. But at the time you were busy making the plans for the wedding. You were also newly pregnant and didn’t need another stress to cope with. It had to be done. There was no point in leaving it until we were due to shift in and having you inhaling paint fumes in your condition.”

  “What do you mean, my condition?” she snapped.

  “You are pregnant. Remember? After the baby is born and lambing is over we will go away for a few days and you can have the Cottage repainted in any colour you want.”

  Leslie was flushed
and Paul knew she would not be pacified easily.

  “I am sick of being left here alone. It is so isolated.”

  “Well, take a car and go into town. You could meet up with Angela or take Jean with you.”

  “No, I don’t want to!”

  Paul turned away and walked towards the bathroom.

  “You will have to do something about that bloody dog of yours. She keeps slipping the bolt to her kennel and trying to follow you. Perhaps she should be put to sleep if she is too lame to work.”

  He stopped mid stride. Had she done something to aggravate Jess’s injury? Was that why the old dog had been too sore to go out for the last few weeks?

  “Don’t you dare do anything to harm Jess.”

  Leslie dropped her eyes and her cheeks coloured slightly.

  A cloud of steam followed Paul out of the bathroom. Leslie had disappeared and he no longer felt hungry enough to eat. He collected a thick woollen blanket and settled down on to the green leather settee. He would be a father to his child, he would provide for Leslie but he could no longer pretend to be her husband.

  Chapter 2

  “Paul & Leslie Clarke”

  “I hate it. Most days he is gone before the sun comes up and I am asleep before he gets home.”

  Angela put a reassuring hand over Leslie’s.

  “What about getting a job in town, an interest or learning a new skill?”

  Leslie arched a delicate eyebrow. Angela was not being at all helpful.

  Leslie had not mentioned that Paul now resided in the lounge, choosing to sleep on the settee rather than in their bed. She had also not mentioned that the relationship had been ground down to a paper-thin morning greeting or a curt evening acknowledgement through gritted teeth. That the cracks in her marriage had widened into giant canyons and that the rural lifestyle made her feel like she had been marooned on a remote, uninhabited island. Why the hell had she thought a baby was a foundation solid enough to build a future on?

  “Did I tell you the bastard came home with a Harley Davidson a few weeks ago? He hadn’t even asked me if he could buy it!”

  “Perhaps he needed something for himself. You know he didn’t want to get married in the first place. Perhaps you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  Leslie jolted upright. Her hand snaked across Angela’s cheek with a resounding crack. The café fell silent. A couple sat in stunned silence; a woman raised her hand to suppress a muffled giggle. Angela stood and looked down at her friend sadly.

  “Go to hell, Leslie.”

  She then turned and walked away.

  Leslie had no interest in the daily running of the farm. Her lack of knowledge was proving an unexpected advantage. Paul could easily justify returning later than necessary and therefore delay or even avoid the inevitable heated verbal exchanges and inedible food that greeted him on his return.

  It was late June and the rain had reduced to a light drizzle that fell constantly and sent silver lines to dance in front of the harsh headlight. It was too wet to detour to the ridge or ride the Harley through the winding, narrow country roads. He shuddered under the weight of his clothes. Despite the heavy oilskin Paul had worn all day, he was wet to the skin.

  Five Huntaway dogs and Jess, his border collie, ran happily beside the bike. They were ready for their kennels and biscuits after working all day on the hills. Paul had been over on the back of the farm repairing a break in the electric fence. It had allowed cattle to work their way into the forestry block. It had been a long day. Too long and he was returning even later than was normal.

  Paul turned the bike into the Cottage drive. The light was still on, glowing dimly from behind the closed curtains. As the headlight arched, his father stepped out of the darkness. He was alone in the miserable wet, his head bent against the weather, his oil skin running rivets of water to pool in muddy puddles around his gumboots.

  “What the hell are you doing out at this hour, in this weather?”

  Sean looked anxious and weary. He looked like a man with something to say but no words to express it. Paul began to kennel the dogs, making sure they had clean water and a portion of biscuit each.

  “Did you fix that fence?” Sean continued without waiting for a reply.

  “We will need to lock up for silage for winter-feed. The weather forecast is predicting more rain.”

  Paul held up his hand.

  “Dad, only someone mad would choose to stand out here in this weather wanting to talk about winter feed. Tell me what is on your mind so that we can both get cleaned up and dry.”

  Paul looked towards the Cottage. There was going to be an argument unless Leslie was already asleep.

  “Your mother has asked if you could come up to the house before going inside.”

  “You’ve got to be joking? Can’t it wait until tomorrow? My reception isn’t going to be very good at home as it is.”

  The curtain had moved in the Cottage. A small stream of light filtered weakly across the puddles.

  “No, sorry son, this is important.”

  Jean stood nervously wringing her hands and looking into the comforting glow of the fire. The temperature had not warranted lighting a fire but stacking the kindling and placing the dry logs in the hearth had been a distraction. On the huge main table sat a half full tumbler of amber scotch. It was not often that Sean drunk and when he did there was always a reason and the reason was always serious.

  Sean sat down and took a large gulp.

  Without greeting her son, Jean turned her back and put on the jug. It was not necessary, but allowed her time to calm down and compose herself.

  “I think you had better tell me what is going on.”

  “Did Angela visit you yesterday?”

  “No, she didn’t visit me, but I think she called in to see Leslie.”

  “Did she speak to you?”

  “I am not sure why you would be interested? But, no, we exchanged a few brief words as she was leaving. She asked if everything was going well and that’s about it. Perhaps you had better explain. Angela can’t be the reason you sent Dad out in this weather to find me?”

  Paul frowned recalling how Angela had pushed past him, her face flushed and her eyes unable to meet his.

  “It’s Leslie; well, no, it’s actually the baby.”

  Paul felt his mouth go dry.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “There is no easy way of telling you this Paul.”

  The jug started its high pitched scream and was spewing steam towards the spotless ceiling. Jean felt her eyes moisten and brushed impatiently at her face. She had had time to find the best way of speaking to Paul. But now the words fell out in a messy pile. She inhaled deeply.

  “I’ve had some concerns that Leslie has not been showing signs of a developing pregnancy. I’ve even asked several times if she has had her routine medical check-ups.”

  Jean hesitated before continuing. This wasn’t easy.

  “Paul, she is not pregnant. There is no baby.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? She has been moody and I guess that is just hormonal changes. If there was a medical problem or if she had lost the baby I would have known.”

  “Paul, there never was a baby.”

  Jean’s words were hardly audible.

  “I really don’t know what the hell you are talking about. I saw the positive pregnancy test myself.”

  Paul felt the sweat break through his damp skin, enveloping his tired body in an uncomfortable slick. He felt unable to breath under the heavy oil skin.

  “Paul, you saw Angela’s positive pregnancy test. She called in to the Cottage yesterday and tried to convince Leslie to tell you herself. They obviously had an argument.”

  Paul sat down heavily. Was Leslie mad? What the hell had she been thinking?

  Jean continued.

  “Angela said she gave her one day to put things right. She told Leslie if she didn’t tell you herself then she would. Angela came to see me thi
s morning. She said she couldn’t face you again, but needed to make sure you were told the truth.”

  “Paul, she was terribly upset. I know Angela has been party to a very costly lie. But I believe she is suffering terrible guilt now and was manipulated, like we all were. Once she stood back and saw the whole picture she has at least tried to do the right thing.”

  Paul stood up abruptly and grabbed the back of a chair for support.

  “Fuck!”

  Paul turned on his heel. He reached for the half full tumbler of scotch on the table and gulped the hot, soothing liquid down. He walked to the airing cupboard and took out the first warm blanket he could find. It smelt faintly of mothballs. He strode to the back door without saying another word. He had almost reached the handle when he hesitated. Jean looked up in time to see him take the almost full bottle of scotch from the cupboard before walking out.

  The door slammed closed and Jean made a move to follow.

  “No,” said Sean. It was a simple command.

  “This is something he has to sort out for himself.”

  “Fuck,” said Jean. It was the first time she had uttered that word. She dissolved into tears.

  Paul woke with a dozen demons armed with tiny hammers trying to escape from behind his eyes. The empty scotch bottle lay on the wooden slats of the shearing shed. It bore testament to Paul’s unsuccessful attempt to drink himself into oblivion. The rain had vanished and sun streamed through the dusty cobweb covered window biting at his alcohol saturated brain.

  Jess lay on the floor in front of him. She had let herself out of the kennel during the night and now eyed him through solemn pools of liquid brown. Paul reached down and gently patted the old dog’s head before crawling back under the mothball-smelling blanket and shutting his eyes.

  It was then he felt her enter the shed. He hadn’t seen or heard her, he just knew she was there. Paul raised a hand against the glare of the morning sun. Leslie looked small and vulnerable. Her eyes were red, although her makeup still looked unblemished. Her makeup always looked perfect. Today, it irritated Paul more than usual.