The Farmer’s Wife. Rachael Treasure

pivoting onto the floor onto her back, snorting laughter. Candice was peeking through Speedo’s cage, trying to feed the disgruntled budgie her hand-made ‘cheese dicks’.

      Bec, who sat at the smorgasbord of sex toys, tried again to focus on her order form and ignore the chaos about her. What on earth should I get? she wondered, flicking through the catalogue, muddled by the rum. She decided to switch to water for the rest of the evening. What would Charlie like? He never even talked to her much about sex these days. It was as if he had shut down from it. It shocked her to realise she no longer knew what her husband liked. As her pen hovered over the order form, she heard a voice beside her. ‘Hi, I’m Yazzie.’

      Rebecca looked up. ‘Rebecca.’

      ‘From Waters Meeting?’

      ‘Yep, the one and the same.’

      ‘I had so hoped to meet you!’ Yazzie said brightly. ‘My father isn’t so good at getting out to meet the neighbours. He’s never here, and I fear we’ve made a terrible racket getting the place built.’

      ‘It has been a bit of a whirlwind,’ Bec said a little coldly, thinking back to the times when she and Charlie had been furious at the way the workmen drove huge trucks around the middle of the blind corners of the tight-turned mountain roads, and about the chopper unsettling the calving cows and lambing ewes as the rich Stanton man from the city built his Taj Mahal of racing in their once quiet valley.

      But Yazzie seemed not to notice Rebecca’s coolness towards her, or, if she did, she was ignoring it. ‘What are you getting?’ she asked with the same pretty smile as before.

      ‘I really don’t know. Not sure if I need any of this stuff; plus what if my boys found my stash of sex toys?’

      ‘Just tell them they’re part of Mummy’s lightsaber collection,’ Yazzie said.

      Bec laughed. ‘You’re right.’

      ‘Here, allow me,’ Yazzie said, taking the pen and the order form from her. ‘I’ll choose and I’ll pay. Think of it as an apology gift. I know what a balls-up my father creates in people’s lives. Trust me.’

      ‘No, really. No. That’s too much,’ Bec said, reaching for the form.

      Yazzie pulled it away from her. ‘Please. I insist.’

      Bec watched, amazed, as Yazzie sat down in the chair next to her. ‘You’re giving me sex toys? As an apology gift?’

      ‘Why not? And the policewoman’s uniform. You and I can go riding in them. That would be a hoot. I’m assuming you do ride, don’t you?’

      Bec nodded. ‘When I can.’ But truthfully she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on Ink Jet, her horse, who was so old now Bec felt guilty even leaning against her, let alone chucking a saddle on her high-withered swayback. She’d wanted another horse and pored over the pages of Horse Deals, but never felt she could afford it. Or, more to the point, Charlie didn’t feel they could afford it.

      His interest in horses had waned over the years. He’d ridden the runs with her in the early years of their courtship, holding her hand as they silently rode side by side, Charlie on Tom’s old horse, Hank. But as time passed, he would say, ‘Easier to take the steel horse,’ and he’d rev away in a cloud of blue-grey exhaust fumes. Nowadays, despite the ruggedness of the mountain country, he didn’t think it necessary to teach the boys to horseride. Instead he’d got them little four-wheel bikes that buzzed like bumblebees on steroids. Bec thought they looked incredibly dangerous when the boys were taking sharp turns, but Charlie had said no to ponies for them. She sighed.

      As she watched Yazzie fill out more and more items on the order form, then pull out her credit card, Bec felt her cheeks redden.

      ‘Stop stressing,’ Yazzie said. ‘Let someone spoil you for a change.’

      Should I be offended by this bright little rich girl sitting beside me? Bec wondered. Or should I soak up the vibrant energy she seems to emit? This Yazzie bird was almost as intoxicating as Doreen’s Cowboy shooters. She seemed to buzz.

      ‘While you do that, I’ll get us another drink!’ Bec said.

      ‘Thanks. This will bump up the party earnings!’ Yazzie said, tapping the end of the pen on her teeth. ‘Doreen’s going to get so much free stuff she could open a shop. And just wait till the parcel arrives! Your husband’s gunna love it!’

       Five

      By midnight the Dingo Trapper Hotel was fairly humming, thanks to the cut-out crew who, in a bid to shear the last of the wethers, had finished late at the Clarksons’ place. After a few beers on the board, the team had eagerly jumped in their utes, collecting some mates along the way, and poured themselves into position at the bar. Hours later, gun shearer Murray was still leading the charge with a huge smile on his boxy butcher’s-dog face. His bristly jowls had captured a few tiny locks of wool from the day’s shearing and lanolin still coated his clothes and skin. He was steering his men down a river of drinking that had flowed from beer to Bundy — and now several of them were even lighting Sambuca, then dowsing it with Blue Curacao, before throwing it into their gobs.

      Billy Arnott, the bar owner, better known as ‘Dutchy’ (short for Dutch Cream because of his fair European looks and the fact his surname was a biscuit brand), was enjoying the pantomime that was playing out before him. He and his wife, Amanda, had only taken over the pub three years prior, after a ‘tree change’ from Sydney. The Arnotts had big shoes to fill following the death of the last publican, Dirty Weatherby, and Dutchy knew it.

      Dirty Weatherby, who was buried at the church down the road, still had uproarious visits from his clientele, who would bring him a beer and stand and toast him around his gravesite. His old dog, Trollop, who was as fat and wide as a grizzly bear, would lumber along with the pub crowd and dutifully piss on her owner’s grave, much to the mirth of Dirty’s former clients, who loved him and the dog in equal measure. Tonight Trollop, full of leftover beef schnitzel, fishermen’s basket and chips, had settled herself into an armchair beside the pool table and was farting as powerfully as she was snoring, the resulting smell forcing the pool players to evacuate the area from time to time.

      Dutchy was grateful the dog had stuck around.

      Even though the former city newsagent was used to wooing a crowd, so too was Trollop. She evoked the memory of Dirty so strongly when people looked into her sincere brown canine eyes that when word got around Dutchy was keeping ol’ Trollop, even initially suspicious people would stop in at the pub to see her especially. One beer with the dog began to extend to three and four. And then the locals started to come back. Nights like these were now almost weekly at the pub that was nestled in a pretty river bend, almost entirely isolated from the town. Only the lonely hillside church, a few Ks down the road, was anywhere nearby.

      As Dutchy ripped open another packet of chips, emptied them into a bowl and set it on the bar, he smiled at being given the chance to start life over in this part of the world. He and Amanda knew this area was about to awaken, thanks to the sealed road and hungry, thirsty, cashed-up travellers. And even though it was dire news for the district, there was talk of mining exploration for coal. The geos and their crews loved a beer and a chicken parma too, so the future looked bright for the pub. Suddenly life seemed more interesting for the local tarts as well, who’d helped the pub get its nickname, the Fur Trapper.

      In the off-season, though, Dutchy knew he had to look after the locals. Give them free stuff to keep them feeling warmed and welcomed. Deliver complimentary trays of golden nuggets and sausage rolls to the bar, along with copious quantities of tomato sauce. Keep the wood fire blazing on cold winter nights. He’d also made sure he’d kept the music collection country as much as possible, despite the complaints from travellers. As another twanging Toby Keith song finished and the CD was about to flip to The Wolfe Brothers’ new hit song, there was a lull in the raucous pub