Fifty Bales of Hay Read Online Free

the bed. Tom was nowhere to be found on the rumpled, sweat-sagging sheets that spoke of restless hot harvest nights. He was long gone to work. She dragged herself up, pulling on Tom’s T-shirt, feeling a strange rush of desire merely from the lingering scent of him on the garment. She remembered the moon. Was it all a dream?
    Sleepily she stood. ‘I’ll get you a bottle, mate,’ she said to her boy and groggily she made her way out to the kitchen, glancing in on Milly who was still deeply asleep in her little girl’s bed. Still half asleep herself, Stella stood at the kitchen bench and glanced at the picture of Nigella on the fridge.
    ‘Well? Did I dream it?’
    Nigella said nothing, but she seemed to be looking in the direction of the laundry. As the kettle bubbled steam into the already warm morning air, Stella glanced into the laundry. On the floor lay a crumpled pile of clothing, along with Tom’s work shorts, her old bra. Also on the pile was a fine, black lace corset, crusted with dam clay.
    Stella smiled to herself. She turned back to the kitchen where she saw the gifted belt buckle propped up in its box, sitting in pride of place in the centre of the table. There was also a note.
    No need to cook smoko for me, darling. I’ll be in at ten-thirty to eat you instead, baby! Your loving (sexy) husband of ten happy years, Tom xx
    Stella held the note to her heart and turned to face the fridge.
    ‘You did this, didn’t you, Nigella? You gave us the moon last night.’ She smiled with tears in her eyes and began to laugh at her good fortune, and as she did, she was sure she saw her goddess wink.

The Crutching
    T he handpiece vibrated in Mervyn Crank’s strong grip as he dabbed the last bit of wool from the tail of a ewe and gently let her go. She slid in a stunned stupor with her little cloven feet cast in the air and disappeared down the chute to the count-out pens below the shearing shed. There she joined the other fifty Pine Hills ewes who, because they had the dirtiest tails, had been drafted off to be crutched and wigged a second time before lambing. The early spring flush of lush green grass and no access to dry tucker to bind them up a bit had been giving the ewes grief, and Mervyn Crank was not a man to allow a lamb to come into the world through a veil of sodden dung at a ewe’s rear end. He’d been happy to help Mrs Taylor out with the crutching again.
    Mervyn slipped out of the shearer’s backsaver sling that hung from the rafters of the shearing shed. The sling creaked a little on its taut spring as it dangled and bounced in the warm evening air. Sweat had beaded on Mervyn’s lined brow and pooled in his tufted grey eyebrows. He flexed backwards, placing two big hands into the small of his back, and groaned a little as he arched his tired muscles.
    ‘She was the one I’ve been looking for today,’ Mervyn said, grabbing up his water cooler. ‘The last one!’ He took a swig. ‘Getting too old for this game. I only crutched fifty and look at me!’
    Mrs Taylor, who had been watching him in silence for the past fifteen minutes, stepped forward, unhooked his towel hanging from the nail near the shearer’s stand and handed it to him. He took it with an inclination of his head and a glance of gratitude in his vibrant light blue eyes. As he swiped the towel across his face, he winked at Mrs Taylor and said, ‘Thank you, madam.’
    She indicated the clock on the wall. ‘Yes, tired you may be, but you completed the task in good time,’ she said in a smooth and gentle voice. ‘You’ll make your first of the season lawn bowls competition with time to spare, of that I am certain.’ Mrs Taylor slipped her elegant hand into the pocket of her black mohair cardigan. ‘How much do I owe you, Mervyn?’
    Mervyn looked at the red lipstick applied perfectly to Mrs Taylor’s lined but still full and shapely mouth, then lifted his gaze to her large, hooded brown eyes. Her eyes were clouded with what seemed