Summer at Mount Hope by Rosalie Ham Page A

to see drawings. ‘But I’m not silly,’ said Hadley. ‘He’d just steal my idea.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Henrietta. ‘Now you must plough as well as you do at home and we’ll see you victorious at lunch.’
    â€˜Righto.’ He looked at Phoeba and opened his mouth to say something so she planted a quick, sisterly kiss on his cheek. ‘Good luck.’
    That was that over and done with: the first confrontation. She could relax.
    The horse teams were always first away after the starting flag fell and drivers had until noon to complete their quarter acre. Traditionally, Guston Overton started off by ploughing the first furrow but this year it was Marius who began. A Scotsman named Jim who’d won £10 last year followed him, throwing up his hands in exaggerated dismay at the furrow and making the crowd laugh.
    Phoeba and Henrietta climbed the windmill, as they did every year. From the top they could see Mrs Overton on the homestead balcony, her white skirt falling over her knees. Behind her three maids stood with their hands behind their backs, watching the smoke that curled from itinerants’ campfires and from the shearers’ camp on the creek bank. Behind the majestic homestead the shearing shed waited, its high stumps hidden behind a thousand yarded sheep. And way out on the western plain a thin curtain of red dust rose up – more sheep being shepherded in.
    Widow Pearson passed beneath Phoeba and Henrietta, clinging to Mr Titterton’s arm, her bustle behind her like a dwarf under her skirt.
    â€˜Have they been kissing lately, Henri?’
    â€˜I avoid them, just in case they are,’ said Henrietta. ‘It’s no good for my health.’
    The vicar trailed behind the Widow’s bustle, his stomach jutting out and hiding his feet.
    â€˜It’s terrible even eating with old Tit. There’s an extra sound in his mouth when he chews. Imagine when the vicar comes to lunch. There’ll be the sound of his chins slapping on his collar as well.’
    They laughed and below them, Robert looked up. He was walking with Guston and Marius Overton, and the new manager was with them too.
    â€˜They say he’s a bank man,’ said Henrietta.
    â€˜A handsome bank man,’ said Phoeba, thinking she must have looked a sight flying along behind Rocket.
    Just then, he looked up, straight into her eyes, feigning an outraged expression at the two ladies perched on the narrow windmill ledge. Then lifted his hat. Phoeba smiled at him.
    â€˜Hadley’s better looking than him,’ said Henrietta defensively.
    Perhaps, Phoeba thought, but Steel was different, more mature. She watched the group of men move through the crowd to the ploughing field. ‘Do you think Overton has money trouble?’ she asked. Henrietta shrugged.
    There was a gunshot, Guston Overton firing to start the teams. Mr Titterton, who was one of the judges, followed a plough. He stepped from furrow to furrow measuring the depth and gauging the neatness of the dry brown wave. Hadley was proceeding steadily, carefully, way behind the other competitors. The bullock teams with three- and four-blade ploughs took up their starting position on the other side of the field.
    Henrietta took the suffragettes’ pamphlet from her pocket: ‘Dress Review, by The Healthy and Artistic Dress Union’. It suggested she abandon her corset. Henrietta’s mother made her wear a corset but she never tightened the cords, ever. ‘I should show this to mother,’ she said, but she screwed it up and threw it down onto the grass. Nothing would separate the Widow from her tiny waist.
    Phoeba read hers aloud: ‘ “Suffrage, marriage and women’s rights. Marriage should protect your freedom, not make you a slave. Women should be able to get divorced and keep their children and property.” ’ The first heading was