Fifty Bales of Hay. Rachael Treasure

of it matters really. None of it. The harvest. The washing. The cooking. The rush. Only the people you love matter.’

      Tom smiled and gently rubbed his hand on her tight neck. ‘You matter to me. So much. I love you, Stella.’ She looked down, feeling almost shy in the moment, a soft smile on her pretty pink mouth.

      He set his beer down, turned her around, then pulled her to him, stooping to kiss her and fold her into his arms. Kissing with love, kissing with passion before the giant harvest moon.

      She inclined her mouth invitingly up to his and gasped at the sensuous feeling of his torso pressed against hers. She felt the desires of her body, dormant for so long, rush to life. It was like a spark fused in her brain. Her body drinking in all that she could as she began to kiss her husband with a fierce wanting. Her husband of ten years, a love that had sprung from B&S balls, from Bundaberg Rum and wild circle work in utes, and lazy Saturdays spent lying by rivers. A love sprung from bed sheets rumpled in passionate lovemaking, of laughter rising up from quickies had in hay sheds, on tractors and on the backs of utes when the olds were away. Their history shared, their young country love now rejoined and renewed, the moon as their witness.

      Stella felt her husband’s hands roam further downwards towards the wetness between her legs. His erection was pressing urgently against her thigh. She wanted to prolong the moment, so she pulled away. This moon, this night, was a gift. She wanted to savour it. To tempt her man. To tease him. So that when he had her, she was the prize he had so longed to win.

      ‘Wait. I have something for you.’ She passed the gift to him. Tom opened the box and his jaw dropped when he saw what lay within. The buckle reflecting its silver and gold beauty back to the moonlight. She encouraged him to turn it over and as he read the inscription, she saw emotion well in his eyes.

      He pulled Stella to him and buried his face into her neck. ‘Oh, thank you, baby. It’s brilliant. I love you. So much. Happy tenth anniversary too, babe.’ He held her hand and turned towards the moon. ‘You know, somewhere out in the future when we are old and grey and have grandkids asking to borrow my belt buckle, drink my beer and use my grandpa car, I’ll be saying to you “Happy fiftieth anniversary, Stella darling”. Because I know right at this moment, I’m goin’ to love you forever. You’re my woman.’

      Stella’s expression gave way to tears as she looked into the face of the moon and then looked at the beautiful face of her man. In her heart, she knew what Tom said was true. They would love forever. Eternally.

      She kicked off her boots and turned so Tom could unhook the eyelets of her corset. She folded the garment away from her body, dropping it onto the bleached summertime grasses, revealing her naked body to him. Then she turned to her man and put her arms about his neck. He scooped her up and carried her into the dam. The water lapped at their limbs as they tumbled into the wash of cool brown water, the slide of mud between their toes washed clean with each kick. Together they swam to the middle where the moon pooled in a big yellow melted disc at the dam’s heart. There they kissed, like first-time lovers, deeply, gently, lingeringly, until every nerve ending of each other’s body was alive, almost glowing with electric energies. Entwined, limbs sliding over one another, Tom found footing on a long forgotten boulder and also found his place deep within his wife, sliding her body onto his cock. With relief, he simply held her there, conjoined, both of them drinking in the closeness. As they began to gently move in slow, deeply penetrating pulses, Stella kissed the water from her husband’s hot skin. He tasted of soils, rich with life. He tasted of farm life and of love. And there under the wash of the moon, Stella joined the stars as she cried out with the climax of her life clutching her deep within. Her husband, Tom, journeyed with her and together they both drifted into the ether in a love renewed.

      The next morning, Stella woke to the sound of Ned burbling, ‘Mum, mum, mum, mum,’ in his cot beside the bed. Tom was nowhere to be found on the rumpled, sweat-sagging sheets that spoke of restless hot harvest nights. He was long gone to work. She dragged herself up, pulling on Tom’s T-shirt, feeling a strange rush of desire merely from the lingering scent of him on the garment. She remembered the moon. Was it all a dream?

      Sleepily she stood. ‘I’ll get you a bottle, mate,’ she said to her boy and groggily she made her way out to the kitchen, glancing in on Milly who was still deeply asleep in her little girl’s bed. Still half asleep herself, Stella stood at the kitchen bench and glanced at the picture of Nigella on the fridge.

      ‘Well? Did I dream it?’

      Nigella said nothing, but she seemed to be looking in the direction of the laundry. As the kettle bubbled steam into the already warm morning air, Stella glanced into the laundry. On the floor lay a crumpled pile of clothing, along with Tom’s work shorts, her old bra. Also on the pile was a fine, black lace corset, crusted with dam clay.

      Stella smiled to herself. She turned back to the kitchen where she saw the gifted belt buckle propped up in its box, sitting in pride of place in the centre of the table. There was also a note.

      No need to cook smoko for me, darling. I’ll be in at ten-thirty to eat you instead, baby! Your loving (sexy) husband of ten happy years, Tom xx

      Stella held the note to her heart and turned to face the fridge.

      ‘You did this, didn’t you, Nigella? You gave us the moon last night.’ She smiled with tears in her eyes and began to laugh at her good fortune, and as she did, she was sure she saw her goddess wink.

       The Crutching

      The handpiece vibrated in Mervyn Crank’s strong grip as he dabbed the last bit of wool from the tail of a ewe and gently let her go. She slid in a stunned stupor with her little cloven feet cast in the air and disappeared down the chute to the count-out pens below the shearing shed. There she joined the other fifty Pine Hills ewes who, because they had the dirtiest tails, had been drafted off to be crutched and wigged a second time before lambing. The early spring flush of lush green grass and no access to dry tucker to bind them up a bit had been giving the ewes grief, and Mervyn Crank was not a man to allow a lamb to come into the world through a veil of sodden dung at a ewe’s rear end. He’d been happy to help Mrs Taylor out with the crutching again.

      Mervyn slipped out of the shearer’s backsaver sling that hung from the rafters of the shearing shed. The sling creaked a little on its taut spring as it dangled and bounced in the warm evening air. Sweat had beaded on Mervyn’s lined brow and pooled in his tufted grey eyebrows. He flexed backwards, placing two big hands into the small of his back, and groaned a little as he arched his tired muscles.

      ‘She was the one I’ve been looking for today,’ Mervyn said, grabbing up his water cooler. ‘The last one!’ He took a swig. ‘Getting too old for this game. I only crutched fifty and look at me!’

      Mrs Taylor, who had been watching him in silence for the past fifteen minutes, stepped forward, unhooked his towel hanging from the nail near the shearer’s stand and handed it to him. He took it with an inclination of his head and a glance of gratitude in his vibrant light blue eyes. As he swiped the towel across his face, he winked at Mrs Taylor and said, ‘Thank you, madam.’

      She indicated the clock on the wall. ‘Yes, tired you may be, but you completed the task in good time,’ she said in a smooth and gentle voice. ‘You’ll make your first of the season lawn bowls competition with time to spare, of that I am certain.’ Mrs Taylor slipped her elegant hand into the pocket of her black mohair cardigan. ‘How much do I owe you, Mervyn?’

      Mervyn looked at the red lipstick applied perfectly to Mrs Taylor’s lined but still full and shapely mouth, then lifted his gaze to her large, hooded brown eyes. Her eyes were clouded with what seemed like a lifetime’s sadness mixing and melting into two pretty dark pools. In her younger days, she’d been a stunner around town, a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn. She still was in a way. Mervyn tapped his fingertips on his lips as he thought, his eyes fixed on hers. She didn’t belong here. Not here in the shed, and not here in this district. She was graceful and nervous, like a deer, but those who knew deer knew that they were also strong and elusive