The road shimmered silver in front of the tractor and his nostrils flared with the smell of diesel. Sweat trickled from his armpits, but he liked the heat and the stillness and the way he owned the road. It was all mixed up with a pleasant memory of ladders and boxes and tired muscles and the satisfaction of leafy trees stripped of fruit and the sun going down and a cool splash of water at the end of the day. Ah yes, he would go into the cool house and crush some lime ice blocks into a bowl. Ruth would be there. He felt a twist of doubt suddenly. Wouldn’t she? What was she doing? Where was she?

By the time he had turned into the dirt drive past the gum tree he had lost his peace. His eyes were already straining to the English garden that was an oasis at the end of the dry white track. He could see a spray of water, but was it from a hose held by her or was it only a sprinkler? No, no sign of her. And yet his body told him she was close—was that a shadow of movement from the kitchen window? She must be inside.

He pressed the accelerator down and the tractor lurched forward in the same way his body leapt forward at the thought of her. He had no more thoughts at all until he reached the shade of the back veranda and stepped inside the house. He was aware only of the pressing need in his flesh. But as the screen door banged behind him (he would have to fix that spring later) he felt her in his soul. This always stopped him short, confused him.

His body’s messages were simple, clear and strong. She was his wife and so she was his to love whenever he pleased. Every soft fold of her, every warm part he hungered after with the delicious knowledge that he could take his fill however and whenever he wanted. Sometimes he could hardly believe this freedom. And yet he couldn’t countenance life without it. Not for a moment.

And still sometimes, like today, as he approached her, his mind became confused and doubtful. Only for a moment, then he shut it down and rushed forward into that need that obliterated all else. But for that moment a terrible dark thing snaked out and gripped his heart.

Times like this he almost expected to see her with another man. Certainly the way she jumped up with that guilty look on her face would suggest it. But there never was another man. Once he was so sure of it that he pretended to look for some keys so he could go through every room of the house. But there was nobody.

Ruth drew the brush across the clean white paper and in the summer hush she almost expected it to scrape as loud as sandpaper. The delicate watery green of the paint formed leaves under her hand and she marvelled at it. It was going perfectly today. Her hand was steady, the paint was responsive and the brush was keeping its perfect point. She had made real progress today. The tiny painting was almost complete. She sighed. Would the day ever come when she would be allowed to finish a painting in one sitting?s

She heard the hum of the tractor, right on cue. She withdrew her hand from the painting before its tremble could mar the picture. She felt the familiar contraction of her stomach muscles and the tightening in her shoulders. No, I don’t need to stop, she thought. What’s wrong with me doing a little painting? She forced herself to take up the brush and poise it over the paper once more. But the flow had gone, the freedom had vanished, her mind had frozen over. Still, she stubbornly sat on.

When the screen door slammed she leapt up in an instant, painting forgotten, resolve vanished. Antonio’s presence filled the house and she quailed in it. Wife, that’s what she was. Just wife. She would have been bitter about it if there had been any room for bitterness, but uneasiness pushed it to the outer edges of herself. Those very outer edges, so clear and sharp while she was painting, seemed to blur and disappear as soon as her husband entered the room.

She always felt vaguely guilty for painting, as if she shouldn’t be enjoying herself so much. She knew it was silly which was why she forced herself to paint on even when she could hear his footsteps up the path and the scrape of boots on the veranda. Sooner or later she would lose her nerve, however, and rise and take up her ‘servant’s pose’. She knew she did it and even mocked herself, but she couldn’t help it.