text: This is my worst nightmare. I would love to tell you that I don’t know how the hell I got dragged into this, but I’d be lying. Lying to you and to myself because everyone around this neck of the woods knows that when Mrs Ursula bloody Quartermaine clicks her expensive high heels, people around here jump to attention and do as they are bid. This especially applies to my mother, Lillian. My mother idolizes Ursula Quartermaine; has done since they went to school together. Personally, I can’t stand the woman and never have but, as a 21-year-old Kooma girl I am country town savvy enough to know that a woman’s reign as top hen in the pecking order is never based on personality. No, Ursula Quartermaine has only ascended to her position as leader of the females through the powerful combination of name, wealth, social standing, and the ownership of a seriously large farm. I was dragged into this hell at precisely 9 pm, an hour ago, when Ursula Quartermaine had phoned my mother to ask a favour. Well, let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? There’s no pretending Mother, and subsequently I, ever had a choice in the matter. When Ursula Quartermaine threw a scrap of attention on the ground Lillian McAllen was the first to swoop down and gobble up a chance to please her leader. ‘No’ was not an option. I was interrupted just as I settled in to write a letter to an old friend of mine, May. May had escaped from Kooma with her friend, June to go and live in the city of Adelaide. That was a year ago now; January 1953. If everything goes to plan and if I find the courage, I will soon be joining them. My mother urgently explained to me that Ursula Quartermaine was in a tizz because her darling daughter, Suzanne, needed a ride back from the dance in Tilbin; the next wheatbelt town down the road. Suzanne was originally supposed to get a ride back in Jack Spragg’s brand new 1954 Holden FJ Ute but the car had developed a flat and Jack had to renege on his offer. Ursula was ringing to see if I would drive down to Tilbin to bring her back. If I knew Jack as well as I thought I highly suspect that, after a few beers and some time to reflect, he had purposely chewed through the wall of the tyre using his own teeth. This would be preferable to the prospect of the 24 mile drive back to Kooma, imprisoned alone with the impossible princess that is Susan Quartermaine. I can’t say I blame Jacko, I would have shot off my toes to avoid the same fate, but at 9pm that summer night Ursula bloody Quartermaine had clicked her heels , Lillian McAllen had jumped and I was too chicken poop to say no to the formidable pecking order of Kooma. So here I am, Cate McAllen, driving down the Western Highway on a stinking hot January night towards the town of Tilbin; towards self-imposed entrapment with my mortal enemy, Suzanne bloody Quartermaine. I have never liked Suzanne Quartermaine and I’m sure she has never liked me. She and I started school on the same day and for whatever reason she has had it in for me ever since. Perhaps it’s because I am introverted, bookish and quiet. More likely it’s because Suzanne Quartermaine is simply a giant insufferable cow and, like her mother, was born to lord over anyone she deems beneath her lofty station. Her attacks on me began as school bullying and childhood pranks; like the time she, unknown to me, tucked the back hem of my dress into my knickers and I walked around for half a day looking like a pubescent baboon. In time Suzanne’s terror campaign became more sophisticated and centered more on psychological warfare. This usually came in the form of made-up gossip about me. Make no mistake, the grown-up game of Chinese Whispers is the #1 entertainment occupation of any country town and Suzanne easily found patrons willing to lap up each juicy snippet; spoken morsels to be tasted and savoured before being passed on to the next eager host. That the rumour is true or not doesn’t matter in the slightest. All that really matters is the flow of whispered words must not dry up. That there is always enough gossip to feed the mill. Titillating for some? I’m sure. But it becomes unbearable when you yourself become the focus of the microscope that is Kooma. It’s at that point all you, I, can think about is escaping the toxicity. ___________________ My headlights brush past the Rotary Club’s ‘Welcome to Tilbin’ sign and I touch the brake pedal to slow down for Main Street. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been here, so I hang my elbow on the opened window and look around. I reckon Tilbin is much like any other West Victorian wheatbelt town that I can think of. All the Wimmera towns that I know sport wide streets; streets that host the usual collection of rural businesses: post office, petrol station/mechanics, milk bar, land agent, chemist, and such. Of course, there are always pubs, all closing at 6 o’clock for the day. I pass the Commercial Hotel, the Railway Hotel, The Grand and lastly; The Royal. A pub on every other corner. The pub is the hub of the male herd in a country town like this, where beer is drunk, sports dissected, wheat prices discussed, and weather obsessed over. Women are not welcome. Oh, don’t get me wrong, women are allowed IN but, if they do enter the hallowed sanctuary, they are corralled into a room called the ‘ladies lounge’. There the ladies drink shandies, a mix of beer and lemonade. Their children drink raspberry vinegars, which sound horrible, but taste lovely. After I pass The Royal I put on my blinker and turn left, bucking my way across the steel rods of the western railway line. There is always a railway line that runs past a wheatbelt town. The train east carries away bags of wheat and wool and people. The train west returns the people. Most will never leave. Turning right into cemetery road I crunch my way along a narrow gravel road that is edged by gnarled gums, towards the corrugated iron town hall. As I close in on the building I can see there’s quite a crowd of people outside, taking in the night air. Their dark forms are silhouetted against the background light of the frosted hall windows. Others are secreted in the dark and can only be seen by the glowing ends of cigarettes, pulsing on and off as the smokers take a drag. The car park is full of cars, so I nose my little Morris further along the road and find a place to stop. My green Morris Minor is my pride, my joy, my independence and my deliverance. It’s unusual for a woman to own a car in these parts. I call her ‘Titch’ and I hope one day that she will take me away from here. I find a park next to a Ford sedan that I recognize as belonging to fellow Koomarite, Keith ‘Bluey’ Jones. Bluey’s a nice bloke, hard to miss with his big frame and crop of red hair. Like all red headed men in Australia Keith has been branded with the ironic nickname, ‘Bluey’. I tap the steering wheel and look out the windscreen. What now? Do I just start asking around for her worship ? Maybe I should go into the hall and look for her? Bugger, I don’t want to go inside. I’m wearing the comfort of slacks and a short sleeve cotton shirt, no makeup, and I know I’ll stick out like a sore thumb amongst all of the ladies clothed in dresses and powder. Stalling, I light a cigarette and start smoking. With any luck Lady Muck will show herself so I can make a beeline for her and we can get out of here without too much fuss. I’ve just about finished my smoke when I spot h er nibs next to the hall steps. She’s wearing a blue rose print cotton dress with matching high heels. Her blond hair is coiffed in the most perfect bob I think I’ve even seen. Of course, she is beautiful. That’s the way life works. She is talking to another woman in an overly animated way. I watch with a sick sort of fascination at the way she snaps her head back to laugh. Her neck ripples, her red lips part as she emits a laugh so shrill that I can hear it from where I sit. It’s a laugh that is designed to turn as many heads as possible; to direct maximum attention towards herself. She’s now resting her left hand on the other woman’s arm as her right hand flits in the night air like a Spanish dancer. It is making exaggerated turns here and there to emphasize some point she is trying to make. Every single thing about her makes my stomach feel heavy. I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore. I open my glove box and pull out a pencil book and start writing. When I finish, I open my car door, unfold my legs, step out into the night air and place the sheet of paper under one of the wiper blades on Bluey’s car. He’ll find the note before he drives home. Dear Bluey, Please take Suzanne Quartermaine home to Kooma. I can’t do it. Best, Cate McAllen. I turn the key to start Titch and back out onto the gravel road. The warm air feels delicious on my skin as I change gears and pick up speed. I actually feel giddy? Light? I’m smiling. It’s going to be a hot one on the wheat plains again tomorrow. I wonder what the weather will be like in Adelaide?