Mrs P. Goes to Town

Chapter 1

Bittamilla
Western Division (Outback), New South Wales
Australia
1933

I trailed the fistful of dried dirt onto my husband’s coffin, opened my hand, released the last powdery dust of it and thought, take that you bastard. Around me, the westerly wind whipped grit and dry leaves like a blast furnace. A loose panel of corrugated iron in the side fence creaked.

All my children were there in the churchyard, the six who’d lived and the three who hadn’t. Those still living crowded around the open grave with their families. My eldest boy, Cecil, held his hat in one hand and his wife in the other. His thinning hair was already showing grey at the temples.

The minister waved away a fly and spoke, but I didn’t hear. I was free, after forty-three years, I was free. Tomorrow I would wake in blissful solitude, for the first time in my life I’d be alone. I’d choose what time I got up, I’d choose what I had for breakfast and when I made it, I’d choose what I did with my day. 

I would choose. 

People moved and I turned without thought, to follow. Inside I nursed a bubble of hope, so wonderful I could barely contain it, and there was no room for anything else. Not for the minister’s rote words, not for the concerned glances my grown children shot each other, not for watching where I put my feet. 

I stumbled and would have fallen, my trodden-down shoe rolling on a bone-dry twig before someone caught my elbow and steadied me.

“Are you ‘right there Mrs P’?” It was my son-in-law, well, one of them.

“Thank you, I’m good, love.” I patted his hand on my arm. “Are those your boys over there?” A few of the younger children, my grandsons, had started a game amongst the older headstones and bleached wooden markers. 

“Cripes, I’ll stop them.”

“No, no, let them have some fun—” But it was too late, he was off, relishing the opportunity to escape my bereaved presence no doubt. If only he knew.

I smiled as I watched him join the kids, his half-hearted attempts to quiet them only adding to the sport. Regrettably this was the moment the minister chose to loom beside me. 

He eyed my grin with a cod-like look of disapproval. “May I offer my condolences?”

“Ah, yes, I was…”

He grasped both my hands between his bony fingers and throttled them heartily. “It was a shame we didn’t see more of Les in church, Mrs Peters.”

“Oh, well…”

“However, I’m sure he’s gone to his just reward.”

“Indeed.” I tried to wrestle my hands free. “I sincerely hope he gets what he deserves.”

The pop-eyed look returned for a moment before he clearly decided I couldn’t have meant what he thought.

“Of course.” His attention wandered away and I waited, impatient for the rest of him to follow. “We’ll see you next Sunday, Mrs Peters.” 

I managed a nod. I wanted this day to be over. I wanted everyone to go away and leave me to my blessed peace at last.