earlier than usual this morning, and Rose hoped he wasn’t intending to stretch his stay until lunch. It was just after nine when she heard his bicycle clatter against the front door. She and Johanna were in the kitchen, talking about the boy in Port Fairy who was tentatively courting her. It had become a ritual after the morning milking for Rose and Johanna to repair to the kitchen while John Abbot checked fences and did running repairs on machinery. The intimacy between them was easy, sisterly, but wasn’t so deep that Johanna felt able to raise her feelings about Rose’s husband or her brother. When she’d first come to the farm, in June the previous year, John Abbot had been cool to her, resentful of her femaleness, because the person he’d wanted was a male. Farm work was for wives and blokes, not young sheilas — especially young sheilas who looked like Johanna Scotney. She pulled her weight, though, so his resentment subsided, and he stopped minding paying her the 40 shillings a week that Rose insisted was fair. After all, the going rate was 30 shillings, and that included food and board. Johanna didn’t need three meals provided — lunch was all — and she went home at the end of each day.
Johanna had disliked John Abbot on sight. He was short, and she didn’t like short men, and he could only be bothered shaving a couple of times a week, so his already ugly face was made uglier by dark bristles. Still, Rose and John Abbot seemed solid, reliable, and hardworking, so she didn’t mind that her feelings for John were unpleasant. They would gradually calm into indifference, or they might have done if, about three months after her arrival, John Abbot hadn’t made an obscene remark to her. They’d been repairing a fence, refitting a strainer, when Abbot had said, out of the blue, ‘You’ve got a bloody good set of breasts on you. Anyone ever tell you that before?’
Johanna hadn’t known what to say. She blushed and turned away from him.
‘Didn’t mean to offend,’ he said. ‘I was just saying. Do us a favour and don’t tell the wife I mentioned your knockers.’ He laughed. ‘She might get jealous.’
She said nothing to Rose — partly because she liked her, and partly because she felt sorry for her having to crawl into bed each night beside that hairy-shouldered gnome. Was she also worried that Rose might believe that she’d encouraged John to speak to her like that? Her mother had warned her to be careful around Catholics. They knew no restraint. Johanna hadn’t understood what she’d meant by this. As if it cleared the matter up, Mrs Scotney had said, ‘Well, you only have to look in their churches and at the number of children they have.’ What one had to do with the other wasn’t enlarged upon, but John Abbot’s obscenity confirmed for Johanna what her mother had hinted at.
Somehow it didn’t seem odd to Johanna that she felt comfortable in Rose Abbot’s presence. Although Johanna couldn’t understand how she could bear to be physically intimate with her husband, she saw no evidence in Rose’s gaze of the revulsion that she, Johanna, felt when looking at John Abbot. Catholics, of course, never divorced, so perhaps Rose was making the best of a bad situation. But, no; there was nothing of the martyr about Rose. The only conclusion that Johanna could reasonably come to was that, inexplicably, Rose loved her husband. It was this, really, that prevented her from voicing any complaint about him. Johanna couldn’t put Rose in the position of having to take sides. Besides, Rose was the only woman, apart from her mother, in whom she could confide, and she rarely confided in her mother. Not that she didn’t get on with her mother. It was just that she didn’t want her interfering in her budding romance.
The boy would soon be 18, but he was mature for his age — he could, he’d told her, grow a moustache if he chose to. His name was Timothy Harrison. He was tall, and not yet settled
Johanna had disliked John Abbot on sight. He was short, and she didn’t like short men, and he could only be bothered shaving a couple of times a week, so his already ugly face was made uglier by dark bristles. Still, Rose and John Abbot seemed solid, reliable, and hardworking, so she didn’t mind that her feelings for John were unpleasant. They would gradually calm into indifference, or they might have done if, about three months after her arrival, John Abbot hadn’t made an obscene remark to her. They’d been repairing a fence, refitting a strainer, when Abbot had said, out of the blue, ‘You’ve got a bloody good set of breasts on you. Anyone ever tell you that before?’
Johanna hadn’t known what to say. She blushed and turned away from him.
‘Didn’t mean to offend,’ he said. ‘I was just saying. Do us a favour and don’t tell the wife I mentioned your knockers.’ He laughed. ‘She might get jealous.’
She said nothing to Rose — partly because she liked her, and partly because she felt sorry for her having to crawl into bed each night beside that hairy-shouldered gnome. Was she also worried that Rose might believe that she’d encouraged John to speak to her like that? Her mother had warned her to be careful around Catholics. They knew no restraint. Johanna hadn’t understood what she’d meant by this. As if it cleared the matter up, Mrs Scotney had said, ‘Well, you only have to look in their churches and at the number of children they have.’ What one had to do with the other wasn’t enlarged upon, but John Abbot’s obscenity confirmed for Johanna what her mother had hinted at.
Somehow it didn’t seem odd to Johanna that she felt comfortable in Rose Abbot’s presence. Although Johanna couldn’t understand how she could bear to be physically intimate with her husband, she saw no evidence in Rose’s gaze of the revulsion that she, Johanna, felt when looking at John Abbot. Catholics, of course, never divorced, so perhaps Rose was making the best of a bad situation. But, no; there was nothing of the martyr about Rose. The only conclusion that Johanna could reasonably come to was that, inexplicably, Rose loved her husband. It was this, really, that prevented her from voicing any complaint about him. Johanna couldn’t put Rose in the position of having to take sides. Besides, Rose was the only woman, apart from her mother, in whom she could confide, and she rarely confided in her mother. Not that she didn’t get on with her mother. It was just that she didn’t want her interfering in her budding romance.
The boy would soon be 18, but he was mature for his age — he could, he’d told her, grow a moustache if he chose to. His name was Timothy Harrison. He was tall, and not yet settled
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