sitting on a stool in a tiny box ferrying men with soft hands up and down. I think of Emily and her sisters as little girls, their tiny palms and fingers smoothing soap and water over that big calloused hand. His humility, their tenderness. Drying the hand with a towel, patting it as if he were a doll. But even this image stirs no feeling in me.
Tonight, no matter where I walk or what I see, I am still in the Westaways’ yard watching Connie fold towels with her quick hands. I think about living next door when the news of her engagement does the rounds. Looking down from my little window as she goes off to the church. Her mothershining with pride; Connie ready to take her husband’s hand and begin her big adventure. I wonder how long it’ll take to get Mum and Dad sorted. I wonder what time the drill hall opens.
That first night when I got home—not home, I can’t say home—that first night when I got to my parents’ house, I still had the rattle of the train in my body. I swayed down the hall and had to convince Mum I’d not stopped at the pub. That first night—before I’d twigged to tiptoe down the hall in my stockinged feet, boots in my hand, and let myself out the front door ten minutes after their lights went out—that night, I didn’t know how I’d get to sleep. I tried to keep the old man up with me. We sat in the front room and I told him stories about every shearer and every sheep and about Jasper till his eyes were hanging out on stalks.
Can’t get a word out of him during the day,
he said, shaking his head.
Come bed time, can’t shut him up.
I said I’d toss him: heads, ten more minutes; tails, off to bed now.
The poor bugger. He’s an early riser, always was. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
I’ll have to call it a day, son,
he said, as I sent my coin spinning.
No need to squeeze it all into one night.
He grabbed it right out of the air. Plucked it like a lemon when it paused at the top of its flight and put it in his pocket. Pity. It wasn’t just any old coin. It won me my new saddle in a two-up school last winter, back on the station. That was my lucky shilling.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte
THERE IT IS again, that slight heaviness in my abdomen that I felt as I rolled on my side during the night. Not a twinge, exactly. More a weight. A disturbance in the flesh. I feel it as I stretch my arms above my head at the beginning of
surya namaskar
and again in
vriksana.
The sole of my foot presses against the mat and the toes are spread, firm but not clenching. I breathe and feel my muscles respond, loosen. The first class of the day brings the energy of the sun and these familiar poses balance and awaken and empower. The air is still bracing; these old heaters take some time. The class is lined up before me, concentrating. They have not noticed anything amiss. They are following my movements, my instructions for each pose, but I do not feel balanced.There is something here that is not right.
‘Draw the flesh of the right inner thigh outward,’ I say. ‘Engage the thigh muscle. Engage the knee. Pull the skin on the inside of the left leg towards the back of the room.’
Some in the class are fluid and some are not. My heart goes out to the stiff ones, the way they try week after week, struggling with something that does not come easily. It gives me hope. It reminds me of the resilience and determination of life.
‘Soften the face, soften the breath.’
When I say this, they all concentrate on being soft. They see no contradiction in this. They do not understand the courage that is required simply to surrender. It makes me smile.
I sometimes take the evening class but this early one, before the sun is up, is the busiest of the whole day. It’s mat flush against mat—black for the boys, purple for the girls— all of them office workers or executives in their shorts and leotards. The men have this intense focus like they’re negotiating a corporate takeover in the middle of downward dog; the
Tonight, no matter where I walk or what I see, I am still in the Westaways’ yard watching Connie fold towels with her quick hands. I think about living next door when the news of her engagement does the rounds. Looking down from my little window as she goes off to the church. Her mothershining with pride; Connie ready to take her husband’s hand and begin her big adventure. I wonder how long it’ll take to get Mum and Dad sorted. I wonder what time the drill hall opens.
That first night when I got home—not home, I can’t say home—that first night when I got to my parents’ house, I still had the rattle of the train in my body. I swayed down the hall and had to convince Mum I’d not stopped at the pub. That first night—before I’d twigged to tiptoe down the hall in my stockinged feet, boots in my hand, and let myself out the front door ten minutes after their lights went out—that night, I didn’t know how I’d get to sleep. I tried to keep the old man up with me. We sat in the front room and I told him stories about every shearer and every sheep and about Jasper till his eyes were hanging out on stalks.
Can’t get a word out of him during the day,
he said, shaking his head.
Come bed time, can’t shut him up.
I said I’d toss him: heads, ten more minutes; tails, off to bed now.
The poor bugger. He’s an early riser, always was. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
I’ll have to call it a day, son,
he said, as I sent my coin spinning.
No need to squeeze it all into one night.
He grabbed it right out of the air. Plucked it like a lemon when it paused at the top of its flight and put it in his pocket. Pity. It wasn’t just any old coin. It won me my new saddle in a two-up school last winter, back on the station. That was my lucky shilling.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte
THERE IT IS again, that slight heaviness in my abdomen that I felt as I rolled on my side during the night. Not a twinge, exactly. More a weight. A disturbance in the flesh. I feel it as I stretch my arms above my head at the beginning of
surya namaskar
and again in
vriksana.
The sole of my foot presses against the mat and the toes are spread, firm but not clenching. I breathe and feel my muscles respond, loosen. The first class of the day brings the energy of the sun and these familiar poses balance and awaken and empower. The air is still bracing; these old heaters take some time. The class is lined up before me, concentrating. They have not noticed anything amiss. They are following my movements, my instructions for each pose, but I do not feel balanced.There is something here that is not right.
‘Draw the flesh of the right inner thigh outward,’ I say. ‘Engage the thigh muscle. Engage the knee. Pull the skin on the inside of the left leg towards the back of the room.’
Some in the class are fluid and some are not. My heart goes out to the stiff ones, the way they try week after week, struggling with something that does not come easily. It gives me hope. It reminds me of the resilience and determination of life.
‘Soften the face, soften the breath.’
When I say this, they all concentrate on being soft. They see no contradiction in this. They do not understand the courage that is required simply to surrender. It makes me smile.
I sometimes take the evening class but this early one, before the sun is up, is the busiest of the whole day. It’s mat flush against mat—black for the boys, purple for the girls— all of them office workers or executives in their shorts and leotards. The men have this intense focus like they’re negotiating a corporate takeover in the middle of downward dog; the
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