Everyman’s Rules for Scientific Living (Picador 40th) by Carrie Tiffany

knitted peach sundress that droops sadly at the back. ‘It’s a new recipe, this slice, from a book.’ She gives me a dry smile, all cake crumbs and false teeth.
    â€˜I wouldn’t have thought there was much on that train that couldn’t be found in books.’
    â€˜I liked the chickens,’ Doris says. ‘There were some lovely chickens. The big white ones – Wyandottes. And that funny little chick-man. Little Chinese. He was a card. What was his name, Jean?’
    â€˜Mr Ohno – from Japan.’
    More laughter. Doris blows tea out of her nose and has to dab at her face with a napkin.
    â€˜Mr Oh-no.’ She gasps between dabs. ‘His little feet, Jean, his dear little feet. Do you know I dreamt about his little feet? Like a goat’s, they were – cloven.’
    I notice Elsie’s face is flushed. She chews her lip and seems torn between wanting to protect me and joining in the fun. I can hear the boys outside doing laps of the house, waiting for cake scraps and the dregs from teacups. I think of Mr Ohno’s pale pink tongue. Of his cool hands with skin so perfect, so without lines or joins or blemishes they look moulded from clay. I wonder what I am doing with these women whose lives seem to have neither science nor passion.
    I clear my throat to gain their attention. ‘Actually Mr Ohno taught me the art of chicken sexing while I was on the train. It can only be done by those with nimble fingers and a quick mind. I believe he does it for pleasure. In fact when I did it I found it quite pleasurable too.’
    The women lift their teacups in unison and drink through pursed lips. Elsie picks at a rumball on her plate and shakes her head. There is nothing left to do but leave.
    Doris McKettering stops me at the door. She is large and barrel-chested. All of her curves are outwards but in a firm and quite attractive way. She is the only one to meet my eye.
    â€˜My husband, Mrs Pettergree, fancies himself as a bit of a scientist – although he’s pure duffer from what I can see. I’m going to send him over. Ern’s his name. Tell your husband to expect him.’
    Then she pats me gently on the arm and lowers her voice. ‘And don’t fret about fitting in. You’ll find your place, lovey. Things just move a bit differently in the Mallee.’
    I’m well down the driveway when I hear her calling out behind me. When I turn around she’s holding a small parcel aloft.
    â€˜Jean. Jean. Leftover cakes. Take a box. Sweeten up that man of yours.’

— 12 —
    SOME THOUGHTS ON FENCING
    T he farm is changing Robert’s body. He is hardening. Growing some thicker outer crust to his skin. His hands are bigger. Recently I have woken with his hands on my belly and been momentarily confused, thinking that another man is touching me. Orange soil is seeping into his hands. His face is leaner and a deeper red, while the hair on his arms is so white it is almost translucent. When he scoops water to his face in the mornings, his shirtsleeves rolled high, I am reminded of Sister Crock preparing to bathe an infant – water dripping from her forearms like falling light.
    On Tuesday 9 April Robert sows Rannee 4H south of the house. He sows twenty-three acres with three and a half bags. From 14 to 18 April he sows fifty-four acres with eight bags. On 3 May he sows Wethers thirty-two acres with just under five bags. On 4–6 May he sows the West paddock of twelve acres with two and a half bags of Ghurka.
    On Tuesday 9 April I do out the front room, do out bath, coppers, floors and safe, Bon Ami windows, clean fireplaces, peg out clothes, clean shoes, test new Trio Brite cleanser, bake mutton, potato and onion pie, make rice custard, milk Folly and take her out to graze in the ‘long paddock’, water the house trees and experimental plants, sew some school pants for Elsie’s boys next door, write to Buckleys & Nunn for a Dr