Everyman’s Rules for Scientific Living (Picador 40th) (14 page)

Loaf nine was my error, but the rest are the result of poor flour. These are loaves grown in bedrock and it shows.

Robert was repairing the caravan when I took him the results. He reached inside, placed the piece of paper on the bed and went back to hammering.

— 21 —

SEWING FOR THE FULLER FIGURE

T
he early morning wind sucks the curtains against the bedroom window. Two flies skitter about on the bedspread. I curl around a pudding bowl sour-mouthed from dry retching. Sister Crock's morning sickness cure was a mixture of gin and honey – the thought of it is enough to make me heave. I roll over and notice the Bible on my night table. A folded flap of paper sticks out:

The word bread occurs 264 times, wheat 40 times and loaves 17 times according to the standard edition. In the miracle of feeding the multitude of 5000 people with five loaves and two small fishes I believe the loaves were unleavened barley cakes – hardly bread. I can't account for the fish.

I can't account also, for why I have been unable to provide for you in the ways that you want or need. I have work in Wethers. Robert.

There is a blotch of ink after the word fish. He has held the pen too long in thought, allowing the ink to pool and bleed. He often leaves me an article or journal to read, something technical and edifying, but I have never seen him pick up the Bible.

I should be starting on a layette for the baby but first I must finish Doris McKettering's going-away clothes. I sit at Ollie Bowd's sewing machine with a cup of weak black tea and the pudding bowl nearby. The bridge dress is nearly ready. We are having problems with the draped belt inasmuch as it doesn't drape, but encircles her middle. The day dresses need finishing first so Doris can give them a showing here, before they go. The other clothes can wait. I could even post them down, she says, but it would be nice to arrive with everything just so.

The McKetterings' new after-the-farm life will be at the three-storey boarding house of Ern's aunt at Moonee Ponds. Doris likes the idea of stairs and living layer upon layer, not like here where everything is so wide and dusty and spread out. Ern and Doris will have the ground floor with the aunt. Above them, four women boarders – shopgirls and typists – and on the top floor four men, two of them ‘older'. I imagine one of the men will have a car and they will all go for drives on the weekend, Doris in the back seat with the shopgirls, Ern in the front smoking a pipe . . .

The Bible rests on the bodice of Doris's peach satin sundress. Ern could only spare a pound for her new city clothes and the clearing sale didn't bring much so he was being generous at that. I have cobbled things together, used my samples from the train and unpicked my own clothes for her. The table is a landscape of cloth. Grey linen folds over white lawn over yellow bouclé. Midnight blue satin drips to the floor. Each piece of cloth is pinned to its newspaper pattern. The newspapers are several years old – Ern brought them over after clearing out his shed. I scan each line across to where my scissors have cut through the sentences following Doris's curves:

Overall poor and disappointing results Wheat Crop Championships compete H.E. Bath of Donald for a Ghurka weeds, mice, rust and preventable A meeting of the sand drift relief the Mallee area. Requests for assist The committee reported on the activit A bicycle is to be raffled by the Wychepro guttering. Although if current drought condi be required. Raffle tickets can be purchased at

At the time each of these problems seemed separate and surmountable: drought, mice, sand drift, poor yields. But to read it all together, as the one big picture, it makes us look naïve.

The newspapers are thinner these days. The Mallee is emptying out – less people, less news. Perhaps we'll be the only ones left – me and Robert and the baby.

The Doris dummy hangs slack-armed on the back of the bedroom door. She's a homemade concoction of brown paper and pillows tied to a coathanger with string. I miss the modern mannequin from the train with its wind-out bust and hips. I measured Doris thoroughly and tried to classify her figure type as I was taught. When I tied the piece of elastic around her middle and waited for it to roll down to find her natural waist, it stuck fast and I had to cut it free. She has sloping shoulders, a large low bust, full abdomen and an average seat. According to the chart of special figure types I should avoid empire waistlines, midriff inserts, chemise dresses and overblouses.

Doris spent her pound on a flat-busk Lady Ruth advertised with a coupon in
Woman's World
. It is designed to coax the abdomen type of figure into more interesting lines and is specially reinforced over the thighs with wide elastic straps. Doris wears the Lady Ruth for fittings. It holds her so firmly her torso feels like a drum. It is only when I measure or pin her arms or the tops of her legs that I can feel the true warm weight of her.

I imagine her taking tea in the boarding-house parlour wearing the afternoon dress with interchangeable collars and cuffs; cleaning the grates in the peach satin sundress; carrying breakfast trays up the stairs in the Hungarian cardigan. But mostly I imagine her in the kitchen of the farmhouse, a kaleidoscope of coloured biscuit tins like bright wheels above her head. I imagine her looking out of the window at the sleepout where Ern slept as a boy and where, on windy nights, his mother knelt and blew the dust from his eye sockets with her warm breath, and I feel immeasurably sad.

There is only the hemming to finish. Doris is due in the morning to collect her clothes and have a final cup of tea. I sit on a cushion on the back step and sew until the light starts to fade. Then I walk over to the shed and look for some wheat snagged in the hessian of the empty bags. I slide one ear into the hem of each of Doris's dresses and sew a few tiny stitches to keep them in place. Sweet Doris. Let her take the Mallee with her.

Robert's parting gift to Ern McKettering is a copy of his article from the
Agriculture Journal
: ‘EVERYMAN'S RULES FOR SCIENTIFIC LIVING'. It came with a warning. Robert feared for Ern. He considered the practice of scientific living a much more straightforward affair in the country than in the city. At our parting Robert warned Ern that the city's many uncontrollable social factors – politics, fashions, unions, plays – could distract a man from his purpose: ‘The city, McKettering, is a laboratory. The darndest social laboratory. You'll need your wits about you.'

We hugged and kissed them, Doris wept a little, then we waved them goodbye – albeit in a back to front sort of way, as Ern's car had a broken gearbox and was stuck in reverse. They drove to the train station, all of ten miles away, backwards. Doris held her vanity mirror on the dashboard for Ern to steer by. The broken gearbox was Ern's last triumph. When the bank manager collected the car from the train station (a final contribution to the McKettering debt) he backed it straight into the bulk silo. The rear end crumpled like paper.

I fetch the journal Robert gave me in the paddock at Jeparit. It is in a drawer of the sewing machine with the thimble and my measuring tape. I lie on the bed and re-read the
Rules for Scientific Living
and rub my belly where the skin is sore and stretched.

THE ONLY TRUE FOUNDATION IS A FACT.

This rule makes me think of Sister Crock's lecturette on Health and the Expectant Mother: ‘At three months of age the human foetus is the size of a large cooking onion. There is a surprising uniformity in the size of the foetus. It appears to remain constant throughout the vastly different physiques and races of the world. The pygmy foetus being of much the same size as the rather tall Norwegian.' Or something like that.

AVOID MAWKISH CONSIDERATION OF HISTORY AND RELIGION.

I think of the days I spent in the soil and cropping wagon helping Robert in the narrow aisle between the plants. How we threw shadows on each other as we worked, watering, measuring, mixing additives, taking notes. When I cut my hands on the wheat Robert took them in his own, examining them intently then, slipping the canteen from his belt, he dribbled water into my palms; it ran like quicksilver. The heat of his hands surged up my arms and into my body. I felt compelled to say something provocative. Something that would be important to us.

‘Robert, do you believe in God?'

‘This is my religion, Jean, I believe in this,' and he cocked his head to signal everything around us. At that time it was exactly the right answer. ‘This' was the sun streaming through the glass roof, dazzling us with white light, ‘this' was the mealy smell of the wheat, the pleasing pattern of the stems swaying against each other in their plots. ‘This' was surely also me.

KEEP THE MIND FLEXIBLE THROUGH THE DEVELOPMENT AND TESTING OF NEW HYPOTHESES.

Although Robert's scientific interests are primarily in soils and cropping he has stretched his mind to other areas. Within the journal is a cutting of an article he had published in the
Graziers' Gazette
:

Deal Lightly with the Lamb
It is in the best interests of producers that animals intended for export or local trade should arrive at their destination in peak condition. Yet many thousands of carcasses are rejected for export annually due to blemishes, bruises and wound marks.

With this problem in mind I made an informal study of local graziers and have formed the following hypotheses: much unnecessary knocking about takes place when loading or unloading sheep and lambs or when they are being driven on the hoof. This damage, although not obvious on the live animal, will show up plainly after slaughter.

Dogging, prodding with sticks, whacking, flogging and lifting by the wool all bring about carcass deterioration.

Livestock buyers are keen to notice any outward signs of damage, due to heavy punishment or knocking about, but are frequently disagreeably surprised to find that they have been deceived by outward appearances. The grazier would do well to deal lightly with the lamb lest he find a heavy loss in his bank balance.

And what of the lamb, Robert? What of its pain and trauma? Is it not enough that we should treat the lamb kindly because kindness is simply good?

BRING SCIENCE INTO THE HOME.

Robert says science brings the potential for infinite human progress, that once the big questions have been solved the scientist will focus in on the small, smaller, smallest things. He predicts the invention of microscopes so powerful they can analyse the very atoms of our being. He says the true attitude of the scientist is to seize hold of things, to permit no ideals or sentimentality but to consider directly, without attachment, each fact he is given.

Four months ago, when I told him about the baby, that was exactly what he did. He took his hat and notebook and went out to examine the
Nabawa
to see how it was standing up to the rust.

— 22 —

AT WAR AGAIN

M
y birthday. Mary sends me a novel and a photograph of her eldest – a sturdy blonde toddler who, she says, isn't the least bit shy. Doris sends me a parcel from the city – two crocheted baby's bonnets and some old issues of
Woman's World
. She doesn't say if she's happy at the boarding house and she doesn't mention Ern. The magazines are well-thumbed and several years old. She recommends the ‘Modern Mother' pages to me.

Good News for the Modern Mother

This is the age of science and wonderful are the things done for poor humanity in its name. The tiny wee brain of a two-month-old baby was penetrated by a tamping pin in a railway yard explosion recently without fatal result. The infant victim remained conscious throughout the harrowing operation that followed and has fully recovered with no ill effects. This astonishing instance of the wonders of modern surgery takes the breath away.

Toilet Hints for the Modern Mother

If on the too plump side after your confinement consider a few weeks of reducing but take care not to reduce too quickly. Nature needs time to readjust herself to the new conditions. If you reduce too quickly flabby muscles will be the unlovely result. Don't encourage a visit from the ageing neck – she will surely come to stay.

Robert buys me a crate of oranges and says I must eat them all. The oranges were grown in Mildura.
Oranges. Full of Goodness From The Sun. Eat More Oranges Every Day in Every Way
, says the sticker on the side of the crate. This would have been enough for me – the waxy sheen of the oranges, some still with a few leaves, a piece of sharp stem attached. The history of the fruit relives as I rub the peel between my hands to release the oil, hold them to my face and inhale. Hello, Dad. But as well as the oranges, which Robert describes as a nutritional supplement, there is an outing – tickets for a rare performance of the Vienna Mozart Boys' Choir to be held in Kerang.

We have been following the travels of the choir, twenty boys on a world-wide tour, recently arrived from New Zealand, in the newspaper. As our new Prime Minister Menzies tours country Victoria, so too, coincidentally, does the choir. While the choir sings to the graziers of Coleraine, Prime Minister Menzies visits a new dairy plant at Warrnambool. As the boys rehearse in St Arnaud, Mr Menzies is at a nearby Pomonal merino stud having the delicacies of artificial insemination explained to him so euphemistically he has no idea what he has just heard. The choir and the Prime Minister shadow each other from town to town. Mr Menzies and his entourage of advisors (things are rocky in Europe, instant speeches may be required), and twenty fine Austrian boys, well schooled in their evocations of the Danube, of the snow-capped mountains and great cities of the Fatherland.

The
Ensign
says that the Vienna Mozart Boys' Choir puts the birds to shame. That they are even better than currawongs. We drive to Kerang in convoy with the rest of the Wycheproof contingent. Robert wears his good blue suit and I have sewn some diamond-shaped panels of green cotton into my yellow frock to make it roomier for my expanding waist.

Someone rings a handbell and we find our seats in the hall. A dusty curtain jerks aside to reveal twenty boys in white pompadour wigs and red lipstick. Half of them wear ice-blue crinolines; their pale shoulders rise sharply from the low-cut dresses. The other half wear Mozart suits – long jackets, knickerbockers and tights. There is a crushed and tired look about them – lopsided wigs, a vase of badly bent peacock feathers in the middle of the stage, sagging crinoline hoops. A few seconds' silence, then a soft communal intake of breath. Finally a sound so indescribably pure it seems unlikely it could be coming from the shabby scene in front of us. Some people in the audience actually turn and look over their shoulders to try and locate the true source of the sound. It rolls and grows around us, gaining in force and sweetness. The audience is not so much held still by the sound, but let free. Backs and necks unfurl. Heads reach out, inclined, towards the sound.

They sing Mozart's love opera,
Bastien und Bastienne
. The boys' voices slide together and apart, adding and subtracting with mathematical perfection. I think it is a new way of hearing – not filtering through the ears and brain, but hearing with the body. The baby swoops and jabs inside me as if it is conducting. I would like Robert to take my hand – so I could hear it through his body too.

The next item is
Caccia
– the hunt. The boys mimic the sound of the horns, barking dogs and the flight of the deer. The conductor is flushed with exertion. I notice Stan Hercules, sitting in the row in front of us, leaning forward in his chair urgently as if he is riding a horse. Then a bizarre rendition of Valtzing Matilda sung in strange lisping English as if their mouths are full of bees. It is clear they sing for sound alone untroubled by the reality of zwagman, villabongs, or yumbuks.

In one corner of the stage a soccer ball rocks slightly. As the boys go offstage they dribble it to the dressing room and then back again. Tricky – to dribble in a crinoline. The program reports that the boys have won many cups for singing and some for soccer. They beat the New Zealand Baptist Boys' team six nil. They are also keen collectors. One boy has a suitcase full of bath chains and plugs he is planning to take home as keepsakes, and together they save silver paper from all of the chocolates they have eaten on tour. The collection is so large and impressive they hope to sell it on their return to Vienna.

‘Mutti, Mutti,' chirrups the smallest boy in the final vesper. The mothers of the audience sigh a collective sigh and fold their arms across their chests. To be so far from home, so far from a loving mother to smooth your golden hair.

The applause is uproarious. The conductor, Herr Georg Glebber, a thin man with impressive muttonchop whiskers, takes centre stage to address the audience.

‘It is a delight for us to sing for you – noble farmers of Australia. When we sing we give the air a sound. Simple science. We trap the air into a vessel, the body, and let it out again. To travel here today we come through the wheat and oatses. I tell the boys to put their heads out windows and breath. The air is so thin and so dry it makes in my boys such nice music, yar?'

Glebber bows as we break into applause once again. The concert is called to a close and people file next door to the supper room. Iris has brought Anzac biscuits on our behalf. The boys mingle amongst us, expert at sliding through the crowds to congregate around the supper table. There are vanilla slices toppling sideways from an excess of yellow custard, and lamingtons as thick as housebricks.

Iris looks wistfully at the boys, some still in their white knee stockings and ornately buckled court shoes. ‘Like little dolls, aren't they, Jean? Wouldn't you like one to take home? Imagine him sitting up on the windowsill warbling away like a bird.'

The conductor is standing behind us. Iris turns and smiles at him. He clucks his tongue. ‘Ah. They look for marzipan, everywhere – Wellington, Auckland, Sydney, they look for marzipan. But no luck!'

We laugh. Iris introduces herself to the conductor and then steers him towards Robert.

‘Mr Glebber, Mr and Mrs Pettergree. Mr Pettergree is our local wheat scientist.'

Glebber cocks his head at Robert.

‘Ah. So you are the Herr Mendel of Australia. What a life, eh? Peas and celibacy!' Glebber winks at me theatrically. ‘Do you know in my country Herr Mendel is reaching back into fashion?'

Robert shakes his head.

‘He advocated pure breeding to keep constancy of type in the plant. We find that the same is true for the human. Look at my boys, eh, no hybrids, good breeding. All one race – like your wheat, Mr Pettergree.' Glebber reaches out to shake Robert's hand.

‘Excuse me but coffee I must find, something you Australians do not understand at all.'

Robert nods at Glebber and watches Iris direct him towards the urn.

‘He sounds like Mr Talbot on sheep breeding. Surely he isn't right?'

‘About Mendel or about coffee?'

‘Mendel, of course.'

Robert frowns. ‘He's wrong about Mendel but he's right about eugenics. Why would you want to risk defects if you can breed them out?'

I place my hand on my belly. We both turn to look again at the boys around the supper table. They are so handsome and confident, speaking in their guttural German, wishing for marzipan. There was a nervous moment at the beginning of the concert when it looked like they might salute. We waited anxiously for the outstretched Nazi arms but instead they coyly interlaced their fingers and started to swing them from side to side.

‘But what about the baby, Robert? We will still love this baby even if it isn't perfect – won't we?'

Before he can answer Iris bustles up and hands me a cup of tea. ‘I can't stop thinking about Mozart. How he wrote that beautiful music before this country had even been discovered. Imagine that – this whole country just sitting here empty while the rest of the world was listening to opera. How are we ever going to compete with that?' she says.

Stan Hercules joins us. He tells Iris that the whole thing is an unnatural caper – that boys wearing dresses and screeching like girls is against the proper order.

Two of the choirboys dart past us chasing a skink. It hugs the skirting boards, frantically looking for an escape.

Prime Minister Menzies is in Colac when war is declared in Europe. ‘Australians are a British people,' he says, ‘fitted to face the crisis with cheerful fortitude and confidence,' then he returns, quickly, to the city.

The Mozart Vienna Boys' Choir is stuck behind enemy lines. An old army van takes Herr Georg Glebber to the Tatura Internment Camp for Aliens along with many Italians and others with questionable backgrounds. But what of the little vessels – Frederick, Otto, Olaf, Leopold, Gustav, Hans and the others? It is reported in the papers that they are in limbo. Iris nabs me at the grocer's. She's thinking of taking one, perhaps a small one, but she's worried about the language problem and the difference in ‘customs'. She does feel some sort of responsibility, though, some sort of connection with them since we attended the concert.

Rescue comes from Archbishop Mannix in Melbourne, who sacks his cathedral choir and installs the boys at St Patrick's. Local families offer to billet them – pleased to help out for a few months.

Robert and I listen to the wireless for two days and two nights on end, but there is little real news. We are at war again. Robert says it will be over quickly – perhaps even before the baby is born.