Fifty More Bales of Hay - Rachael Treasure

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it had been a lonely few years and Marrilyn was grateful that a fine man like Garry would have deep feelings for her. Her memory flickered through a movie of past encounters with Garry at various Yard Dog competitions at various showgrounds around the country. She recalled Garry bringing her a salad roll during a lunch break, and a paper plate loaded with slice and biscuits during morning tea. On their arrival at the trial grounds he had often walked with her while King emptied out, the dog focused intently on his toileting. The way he had heartily congratulated her with a kiss after she had beaten him and Cindy by three points in the semifinals. His concern each time she put King in the dog crate and started her engine to make the long journey home to Glencraig. She smiled. She hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t been looking to see.

      Now with each thrust from Garry, she noticed the rattling of the glass cabinet containing her fine bone china figurines. The floor shook and the Limited Edition Monica, who carried the flower basket of roses, began to wobble; the delicate woman teetered on the dust-free shelf inside and was rattling her way dangerously close to the Swan Lake ballerina. Suddenly the Limited Edition Monica took a tumble, toppling the ballerina over with a chink. That, in turn, brought down the tuxedoed Rhett, who up until a moment ago, had stood in an elegant waltz pose with the equally limited edition ‘Gone with the Wind Scarlett Southern Belle of the Ball’. Marrilyn had set herself a goal of collecting fifty of the figurines before her fiftieth birthday. If one broke now, it would leave her with forty-eight in her collection. Two off target before June.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Marrilyn said to Garry. ‘Tewwibly sowwy to point this out wight now, but my Woyal Doulton is getting quite upset. Would you mind?’ She nodded towards the cabinet.

      ‘Pardon?’ said Garry, who momentarily stopped his thrusting and looked towards the oakwood display case. ‘Oh, yes. Awfully sorry. Shall we … ah?’ He inclined his head in the direction of the dogs outside the French doors.

      ‘Ehm, yes,’ she said primly, which she realised was rather an odd tone for her to use, given her situation. ‘That would be tewwific. Thank you.’ Then Garry and she, still joined, crab-crawled across the rug towards the window, safely away from the figurines. There, in a patch of sunlight, Garry Goodwood gently cupped Marrilyn Ruthbridge’s broad horsewoman’s hips, and began again to tip his pelvis towards her, in and out, with a punctual beat.

      Normally she wouldn’t ever have entertained the thought of starting a relationship with a man named Garry. Not that they were in a relationship, and not that she had an aversion to his name, although she knew her mother would have. But she had always been careful in her younger years to select boyfriends who carried no ‘r’ in their name. Not that she’d had many boyfriends. Only one to speak of. Only Hugo.

      Back when Marrilyn’s parents had christened their baby girl in a Cambridge church, they hadn’t known that their child wouldn’t ever be able to say her ‘r’s. Had they known this fact, they would never have named their baby Marrilyn Roweena Ruthbridge.

      The issue of Marrilyn’s speech had meant a lifetime of avoiding eye contact with people so as not to engage in conversation. It had meant not saying very much at all … especially to Australian boys. Boys who cruelly teased her at her rural school.

      ‘Mawwilyn Woweena Wuthbwidge,’ they would taunt. ‘Fwom Gweat Bwitain now wesiding in Victowia, Austwalia, on Glencwaig Fawm!’ Then they would pretend to ride horses and call out, ‘Twot on! Twot on!’

      Her adolescence was a disaster. It was easier for Marrilyn to stay out with the poddy lambs and the sheep dogs when Mother entertained the other graziers’ wives and their children than to sit and join in. As a result, Marrilyn spent much of her time on the farm with the workmen and Father, or on her pony getting more and more precise in her riding and competitive about beating the popular girls at pony club. She had quite a talent with animals. And Father had taught her about British class and status, so her speech deficit never bothered her around the workmen, because she became a good leader to them. It was only in the world outside Glencraig Estate that she struggled.

      Marrilyn’s life had been something of a solo journey for her. She had been twelve when she had been shipped out from Britain to the antipodes by her parents, following the death of an Australian-based relative, who owned a rather large estate in Victoria’s Western District. The distant uncle was somehow connected to them through the Earl of Dottingtonshire, a somewhat distant line itself, and in a twist of fate, had left his entire farming estate to his sole surviving relative, Marrilyn’s father.

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