Tilda and I were out of place in our nice jeans, our clean Adidas runners. The men wore workman shorts and leather sandals, their dusty toes bulging through. They held beers like microphones kept handy for swigging, for laughing louder into each new bottle. The women wore frocks so expansive it was hard to tell if they were expecting or had let themselves go. I could not picture Donna with this crowd as friends. She was more like us in her black denims, her blue blouse with frill collar. Red leather boots with wineglass-stem heels that pocked the dirt like footy sprigs as she tended the grill. Tilda had more makeup than her, too much in fact—it looked like she was trying too hard. If she was hoping to put Donna to shame she was doing the opposite. For all her red boots Donna was just naturally better—more beautiful, I mean. She had no need of blush and eye shadow. She had no fat arm getting fatter by the minute because the sleeve was left off as an experiment for socialising.
I didn’t contemplate this at the lunch itself. I didn’t think she was competing with Donna—the older woman attempting to outshine the younger, radiant belle. But the Swahili between us rings true. Especially given her Archibald entry was a failure. It didn’t even make the first cut. She was embarrassed but bluffed it over with anger. ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know with these things. You’ve got to be sleeping with someone or brown-nosing the judges to win prizes.’
Such statements make a failure look bitter. Saying them at a barbecue makes people clear their throats and blink in search of a different line of conversation. I provided it by pursuing the topic of genetics. I’d been guzzling wine and it fired me up for a performance of big-noting. ‘This genetically modified foods issue you’ve mentioned. We shouldn’t be too quick to slam it. Not if it’s going to stop starvation in the world. No famine—wouldn’t that benefit humanity?’
I received frowns and muffled guffaws. One fellow swigged his microphone and spoke so close into it he produced an echo. ‘Not if all nature is mutated.’
I rose onto the balls of my feet and returned his frown. ‘Science deserves more credit than that.’
‘Are you a scientist?’
‘No, I’m a reporter.’
‘Reporter?’ His scoff blew another echo from his bottle.
‘I’ve written a thing or two on this subject for the Wheatman. I’m their specialist grains person. Trials conducted at Ouyen and Boort predict a trebling of tonnage per hectare if growing oilseeds or wheat using genetic modification. The plants become drought-tolerant which, in the growing process, conserves thirty parts per millimetre of natural moisture in the soil. You can feed the world from the grain belts of Australia.’
There were indeed trials, there really were. I honestly had written two stories about them. But my ‘trebling’ statement was an elaboration. I couldn’t remember the precise percentages. As for thirty parts per millimetre—I made that up to sound learned. Which worked. There were no scoffs anymore, just a general mutter of ‘I’m still concerned’ and ‘We must still be vigilant.’ On the subject of genetics there was deference to me.
‘You’ve got to love an expert,’ Donna said, giving the browning meat a prod. ‘I didn’t realise you were such an expert, Colin.’
‘Oh yes,’ Tilda butted in. I wanted Donna to keep going with the compliment, not have Tilda affectionately slipping her fingers down my back pocket. ‘Who’d have thought that when I met him he wanted to be an actor.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ I pulled her fingers out by the wrist.
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
‘It was just me mucking about in my youth. I’m more practically orientated. Science is my forte. Agricultural journalism.’
Chapter 65
There is a custom in seating arrangements that I don’t understand. If a group of couples is spread along a dining table they’re placed boy-girl, boy-girl so as not to sit beside their spouse. I suppose it encourages more diverse interaction, but it also encourages flirting.
You have to be quick arriving at the table if you intend to flirt. Arrive last and you’ll be plonked beside the person others avoided. Arrive first and you can be selective. You can act as if you’re waiting to be directed to a position by the host when in fact you are really shuffling yourself between people until paired with your preference. That’s what I did with Donna. Tilda got shuffled sideways between two microphone swiggers and a wide-frocked alpaca breeder. I had Donna to the right of me, and I can’t remember who on the left—I looked left only once to pass the potatoes. Right was my priority. I didn’t look right often; I kept my gaze forward. Tilda was seated only four placings away, so keeping my gaze forward was safer. I had Donna visible in my eye corner to read the signs: a heavy breath of boredom if she wasn’t liking me; an allowance for our elbows to touch once in a while if she was. If I lifted my head to turn her way she would avoid our eyes meeting at such close range if she liked me.
I remember the four main topics we covered in conversation.
One. She admired my stance on genetic modification. Didn’t agree with me so much as appreciated my knowledge. She valued my social conscience in wanting solutions to famine. ‘It’s tough to take an unfashionable stance. But there’s sense in what you’re saying.’ Cameron was robust in his opinions, she said. She’d been starved of that since his passing. She leant closer to me and spoke at a whisper, her hand over her mouth as if for coughing. ‘My neighbours are very pleasant but, you know, they’re simple people.’
Two. She had enrolled in a psychology course at the university in Bendigo to keep her mind sharp and critical.
Three. She intended to get fit, lose the hips motherhood gives you. I couldn’t resist saying, ‘Hips? They’re perfect.’ Ruth crawled from under the table onto Donna’s knee at that moment. If she hadn’t I might have continued the flattery. I’d judged by now that she liked me well enough.
Four. She intended changing her married name back to her maiden one. Not now but soon. ‘I don’t want to be one of those women looked at as eternally widowed. I’m too young.’ She often wondered how long a period of grief should be. ‘They say it takes twelve months. That means I’m halfway through it,’ she figured.
Her saying this got me thinking: in six months she’ll be out for fresh mating. I felt jealous in advance about whoever the bloke would be. A silly chill of jealousy. I shivered for it to be gone from my shoulders.
In the car home Tilda asked me, ‘So, what did you two chin-wag about?’
‘Boring stuff. Genetically modified crops, that sort of thing. Boring.’
‘I had a windbag telling me alpaca wool was a wonderful fabric. Banged on and on and on. But the rissoles were nice.’
‘The rissoles were. Did you have to mention the acting stuff?’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t refer to it in future, please.’
‘Why not? It’s funny.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It is.’
‘It makes me sound flaky. Don’t do it again, please.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘I’m asking you not to do it again, please. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Thank you.’
Chapter 66
The Scintilla Picnic Race Meeting, Melbourne Cup day. I had a free family ticket, a gift from the racing club to the Wheatman. I said to Tilda, ‘This family ticket. I see no point in using it, just the two of us. It’s a waste. Let’s give it away.’