Pat and Dulcie had to pitch in too, they were expected to help with everything from firing scrub on land Bill wanted cleared, putting up new fencing and keeping the fire breaks around the paddocks clear, to helping out in the shearing shed in August when the shearers came to do their job.
While involved in all this hard work, Dulcie began to understand why Bill and his men were like they were. To farm in the outback, a man had to become like the landscape, harsh and arid, for they couldn’t afford to be weak, faint-hearted or sentimental. Whilst it didn’t make Dulcie like them any better, she could at least respect their dogged perseverance.
Then all at once it was October and spring. Rainfall turned the paddocks of wheat and barley green and lush, and around the edges of the cultivated land, amongst the gums, patches of brilliantly coloured wild flowers sprang up. Dulcie was enchanted by them and was only too glad when Pat sent her off to take sandwiches for the men as it gave her an excuse to examine them. To see the Banksia trees alight with their red, yellow and orange flowers like prickly candles gladdened her heart, she got a thrill from seeing Kangaroo paws, delicate wild orchids, bright pink cone flowers, feather flowers, the yellow blossom on the wattle and pretty white myrtle. She picked bunches of everlastings and brought them home, gleeful when she found the colours wouldn’t fade even after weeks.
Pat smiled at her enthusiasm and said she was in danger of falling in love with Australia and the outback, when most girls fast approaching sixteen were more interested in falling in love with a man. But Dulcie didn’t ever see any young men, and if all farmers had personalities like Bill and his men, she didn’t think she wanted a boyfriend.
It began to get hot during the day again and the flies came back with a vengeance. Sheep had to be checked for fly-blow, maggots breeding on their rear ends, and treated promptly with insecticide, and all the sheep had to be dipped to rid them of parasites. Each evening, no matter how tired Dulcie was, she had to lug pails of water from the tank on the barn to water the vegetables to keep them growing. Yet as soon as the sun went down, the nights were cold, and she and Pat would huddle around the fire in the living-room after the evening meal was cleared away.
Pat still often retreated into dark moods when she snapped at anything Dulcie might say or do. But Dulcie had learnt to accept that was just the way she was, just as she had come to accept that it was her lot in life to stay here till she was eighteen, to work a seven-day week without complaint.
Yet there were some good moments. Jake occasionally drove her and Pat to Esperance, and for a couple of hours they had a break from work, looking at the sea and the shops. Dulcie’s savings were growing fast with nothing to spend her wages on, and Sergeant Collins still often dropped by to bring her new books and magazines to read. Bill taught her to drive the tractor, something she loved, on odd occasions he even let her drive the truck too, and she could cook nearly as well as Pat now.
May was her main anxiety, for she rarely wrote, and when she did it was never more than a few stilted lines. Dulcie worried that Reverend Mother would send her sister to somewhere like this when she was fifteen. She knew May would never placidly accept the grinding hard work, the lack of company, or wearing clothes that were little better than rags.
Dulcie still wore her old green St Vincent’s uniform dress most days. It was worn and faded, but she kept the blue one she’d made herself for best, which really meant she only wore it when she went to Esperance. When she was working outside on the farm she put on the old trousers Pat gave her, so there was really no need for anything else. Yet when she looked at the magazines and saw pictures of girls in pretty dresses, high-heeled shoes and stockings, wearing makeup with their hair all permed and glamorous, her heart ached to look like that too. Her hair had grown now, right to her shoulders, but the only attention it had was washing and brushing and tying it back just the way Pat wore hers. Her hands were callused, her nails all broken, the only care her complexion got was Ponds Cold Creme every night.
Pat said the spring weather was just right for a good harvest. They had light rain a couple of times a week right up until the crop began to turn golden, then nothing but sunshine from the end of October as it fully ripened. Bill was like a cat on hot bricks as he waited for it to be ready, any rain now would lower its value. But no rain came and in the third week in November Bill decided it was time, and he and his men began work with the combine at first light. Dulcie and Pat were pressed into service too, driving the tractor that pulled the machine. The grain came out of a funnel which filled sacks, then the sacks had to be loaded on to a flat-bed truck to be taken off to the bulkhead down by the station in Salmon Gums. There was no question of anyone stopping for a rest now, every minute counted at this crucial time and the men were often more bad-tempered than usual. Day after day the work went on, and still the weather held. Dulcie’s face and arms were blistered by the sun, every bone in her body ached, but she found deep satisfaction in seeing one huge paddock after another left with nothing but the prickly stubble.
On the evening of Dulcie’s sixteenth birthday in December she sat out on the veranda looking up at the star-studded sky and petting the two dogs. Sly, the older, dark one, was her favourite, he appeared to understand every word said to him. Prince, the russet one, was equally intelligent, but more aloof.
‘It’s my birthday today,’ she whispered to them. ‘But May hasn’t written or sent me a card.’
Although the Sisters had never made anything of birthdays at St Vincent’s, she and May had always made each other little cards and the other girls had sung ‘Happy Birthday’ and given the birthday girl the bumps. No one here knew it was her special day, and she hadn’t liked to announce it. It hadn’t seem to matter much during the day, they’d all been too busy for her even to think of it, but now in the still, warm darkness Dulcie ached to see her sister, and tears trickled down her cheeks.
Sly made a funny little whining noise and moved closer to lick her cheeks as if sensing her sadness. Dulcie hugged him to her, getting a little comfort from his affection for her.
The same evening, at St Vincent’s in Perth, Reverend Mother was visiting one of the very old Sisters up in her cell on the first floor of the convent, when she happened to glance out of the window. The cell was on the side of the convent overlooking the orphanage, and she spotted May sitting alone on the steps of the veranda by the schoolroom.
Just the way the girl sat, her elbows on her knees, head in hands, told Mother the child was worried or upset by something. All the other girls were playing rounders in the playing field, she could hear their voices in the distance.
This small, pretty blonde with her big blue eyes and her winning ways had captivated her almost as soon as she set foot in St Vincent’s. She felt no guilt that she singled this one child out for special treatment, or that her attachment to her in five years had grown far beyond mere affection. In her view May was special.
She turned back to look at the old lady lying in bed. ‘I’ll come back later, Sister, there’s something I must deal with immediately.’
Reverend Mother let herself out through the side door of the convent and walked swiftly across the gravelled area which led to the covered walkways that connected the four buildings.
May looked startled when she suddenly appeared in front of her, and jumped guiltily to her feet. Although she was only twelve and a half, her body was rapidly developing. Only a few weeks earlier Mother had taken her to be fitted for a brassiere, and her first thought when she saw the girl sitting alone was that maybe she had began menstruation and hadn’t been able to tell anyone.
‘Well, May, why are you sitting here all alone?’ she asked. ‘Is there something troubling you?’
She took hold of May’s hand and led her to walk with her away from the building down towards the kitchen garden.
‘I was just thinking about Dulcie,’ May said, looking up at her with an anxious expression. ‘It’s her birthday today. I hope she got the card I made for her in time.’
‘I’m sure she did, I posted it myself,’ the nun said, feeling absolutely no guilt that she had in fact destroyed it, just as she did all the letters to and from the sisters.
‘I wish she would write to me,’ May said, her voice quavering. ‘I think she’s forgotten me.’
It wasn’t the first time May had made this remark, and as always Reverend Mother had a reply ready.
‘When girls become old enough to work they often get their heads turned by their new way of life and lose interest in their siblings,’ she said. ‘I expect you’ll find the same thing will happen to you too, May.’
‘But she said she’d never forget me,’ May pouted. ‘She made me promise to write, she said when I was old enough to leave she’d find a job near where I get sent, and that one day we’d get a place together.’
This was something May hadn’t revealed before, and it only served to make the nun feel she was right in intercepting their mail. She had long-term plans for May and they didn’t include an older sister clinging on.
‘Young girls say that kind of thing all the time,’ she said, and caressed May’s shoulder. ‘But things happen, they make new friends, and they just move on. But you mustn’t brood about it, you see, I intend to find you a much better job than just working on a farm in the outback, that wouldn’t be suitable for you at all.’
‘What kind of work would I do then?’ May asked. Everyone who left here seemed to go to stations or farms.
‘Well, there’s positions in offices, department stores, all kinds of nice jobs for girls who are pretty, confident and well-spoken.’
‘Am I pretty?’ May asked, looking up at the older woman with wide eyes.
Reverend Mother laughed. ‘You know you are, you vain little minx, and delightful with it. Now, run along back to the other girls and forget about Dulcie.’
She watched fondly as the girl ran back towards the playing field. May was pretty now, but Mother knew that in a few years’ time she would be beautiful. She liked to imagine May at eighteen, her lovely blonde hair longer, styled by a real hairdresser, wearing one of those elegant sheath dresses that were all the fashion and dainty high heels and stockings. She felt that if she patiently continued to nurture her carefully through to womanhood, May would be hers for all time.
She felt absolutely no guilt at her guile in breaking down the bond between May and her sister, they had nothing but a dead mother in common after all. So she destroyed all the letters which came for May, and simply forged an occasional one back to Dulcie, making them as dull and disinterested as possible, to weaken the link still further. May’s handwriting was so childish it was very easy to forge, and if she was upset at getting nothing back from her sister, then that was an excellent opportunity to give her extra petting. May would thank her for it one day.
May was not comforted by Reverend Mother’s opinions as to why Dulcie hadn’t written to her. All she’d done was stir up all those contradictory feelings about her sister still more.
Mostly when she was feeling happy she didn’t care about Dulcie. She had it good here, better than anyone else. If Mother did as she said she was going to do and got her a good job when she left, she certainly didn’t want her sister turning up and telling her what to do. She’d had enough of that in the past.
Today, though, she’d been thinking about the good memories from the past, how Dulcie always stuck up for her, how she used to creep into the dormitory to kiss her goodnight, the way she always cared when no one else did. It was scary to think that in a couple of years she’d have to go to work, she wouldn’t know anyone, they might be mean to her, and it would be nice to think Dulcie was nearby.
When she was feeling sad and alone she got frightened Dulcie had abandoned her because of that thing she’d heard her mother say the night she was killed. May had confided that to Mother once and she’d explained it meant she and Dulcie weren’t real sisters. Maybe Dulcie didn’t love her any more now she knew that.
But still more often she felt that her sister didn’t write because God was punishing her for being so glad when Dulcie left here a year ago.
Dulcie’s presence had inhibited her, even though May was popular with the other girls and the Sisters, and a particular pet of Reverend Mother’s. Dulcie had always been greatly admired for her intelligence, kindness and ability to do any task quicker and more thoroughly than any other girl. She was honest and noble, and the story about her taking a terrible beating for something she hadn’t done, just to save everyone being punished, was one of St Vincent’s often repeated legends.
For the four years Dulcie was with her, May had squirmed every time the story was related to a new girl. She hated Dulcie for making her feel bad about herself. But more than that she despised her sister for not seeking revenge on anyone who ill-treated her. May never let anyone get away with anything – just a sharp word, criticism, a slap, someone leaving her out of something, and she found subtle ways of getting back at them. Even before Dulcie left there had been many girls who had to suffer the indignity of being punished as a bed-wetter because May had slipped out of the washroom and into the dormitory while the others were washing, to take a pee on the bed of the girl she wanted humiliated. She would steal and destroy any personal belongings, especially photographs of relatives or old letters, because she knew how much comfort and pride these gave to the owner. It pleased her to slip nasty things into a mean Sister’s dinner, a few maggots from the compost heap weren’t noticed amongst the pearl barley in soup, and when Sister Anne was ill for several days after eating one of the meals May had prepared, she was even more delighted.
Once Dulcie was gone, it was a great deal easier to creep around the Sisters and make them idolize her. She studied them, discovered their weaknesses, loves and hates, and used them to her own advantage. Sister Ruth loved flowers, so she pretended to have the same passion, helping her water them, asking her their names. Sister Agatha suffered from headaches, and when she sat down holding her head, May would go over to her and massage her forehead. But getting Reverend Mother’s affection and keeping it had been the biggest triumph of all.
Yet May didn’t want to be Mother’s pet any longer. That was her real problem and there was no one she could go to for help or advice. Tonight she would give anything to have Dulcie here, for she knew that her sister would know what to do.
It had seemed so smart to suck up to Mother and become her special girl. To get to go out in the car with her, to be allowed to wear her hair longer, to have piano lessons with her. It was glorious getting taken into a tea shop and having a cream horn and hot buttered crumpets when they were out, a bar of chocolate here, an ice-cream there. Then there were all those little things May had stolen from shops while she was with her – chocolate, hair slides, sachets of shampoo, little toys and costume jewellery. No one watched a child with a nun, it was like suspecting a priest of dipping into the collection plate. She used those little goodies to buy friends, because suddenly she’d found she didn’t have any real ones any more, except for those dags whom no one else wanted to play with.
She thought she was so clever, right up till about three months ago. She was out on the playing field with the other girls for gym exercises when she suddenly felt Mother looking at her in a special and unnerving way. All the girls were wearing just their knickers and vests, and many of them, like May, had budding breasts that jiggled up and down. Yet when it came to May’s turn to do handstands, Mother moved forward to assist her by holding her legs, and her hand slid right down on to her bottom.
May had been patted on the bottom many times by other Sisters, but she knew this wasn’t the same, and the very next time she had to go over to the convent for her piano lesson, Mother caressed her breasts and said she thought it was time she bought her a brassiere. A month earlier May would have killed to have such a thing. The girls who already wore them only got dished out with a secondhand one once their breasts were becoming an embarrassment. Yet she would rather have had the most worn, stretch
ed one in the box than the humiliation of having Mother coming into the cubicle with her in the shop and insisting on fitting it herself, and her hands touching her bare skin.
Sometimes May tried to tell herself that this sort of touch was one that any mother would give her daughter, but even if she could only barely remember her own mother now, her heart told her that wasn’t so. Reverend Mother kissed her on the mouth too when they were alone, and the last time she’d done it she put her tongue in and held her very tightly. It made May feel really sick.
The worst of it was, she knew it wasn’t going to stop either, not unless she hit Mother or made a huge fuss. But what would that bring her? A beating like the one Dulcie got? She could still see those weals on her sister’s bottom now and her face contorted with pain. She didn’t think she could bear that.
Tears trickled down May’s cheeks as she made her way on to the playing field. She had always held up that night Sister Teresa had put her in the Dark Place as the worst thing that could ever happen to her, she still had occasional nightmares about it. But this was equally bad in a different way because she felt a kind of evil presence with her at all times, knowing deep down that she was being sucked into something that was horribly wrong. Dulcie had once said before she left here that creeping around Mother wasn’t a smart thing to do. At the time May just thought she was jealous of the treats she got. But maybe Dulcie knew what she was like, perhaps Mother had even touched her.
‘You should have warned me, Dulcie,’ she thought indignantly. ‘And if you don’t write to me soon I’ll forget all about you too.’
The harvest was finally finished on Boxing Day. Apart from a roast chicken dinner, Christmas had passed like any other day, and Dulcie was glad of that. She was too exhausted when she crawled into bed on Christmas Eve to remember the time when she and May had hung their stockings on the end of the bed and lain awake for ages trying to see Santa Claus coming in to fill them.