A Darker Music by Maris Morton

Gary,’ Gayleen said. ‘They’re pretty well over the measles now. Gavin’s still crook, though.’ Over their pyjamas, the boys were wearing hand-knitted sweaters, felted from repeated washing; on their feet were scuffed sheepskin slippers.
    ‘You’ve had measles, I hope, Mary?’ Gloria said.
    ‘Yes, when I was ten. And all the other things, too, except mumps.’
    ‘Good. Now sit yourself down, won’t you.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Mary pulled out a vacant chair.
    While Gloria poured the tea, it fell to Janet to fill the conversational hiatus. ‘We haven’t seen you around these parts before, have we, Mary?’
    ‘No. I live in Perth. I flew down with Martin.’
    Janet nodded. They all knew this. ‘Paul — Mr Hazlitt — didn’t mention anything about getting someone in.’
    Mary couldn’t help admiring the delicacy of the enquiry. ‘He employed me through the agency I use in Perth.’
    Janet considered her next question. Gloria finished dispensing tea, then put half-a-dozen of the muffins on a plate and handed it to the boys in the doorway. ‘One for Gavin, too, don’t forget.’ They disappeared into the hallway. Gloria went to the fridge and took out a cream-filled sponge cake and set it on the table in front of her visitors.
    Janet went on with her inquisition. ‘And is this the kind of work you usually do, Mary?’
    ‘Yes. I work as a temporary housekeeper.’
    ‘Oh?’ Janet peered at her over the tops of her glasses. ‘Have you been doing that for long?’
    Gloria handed her a knife. ‘Do the honours, will you, Janet.’
    With careful precision, Janet sectioned the cake and distributed the slices. There were cake forks and paper serviettes; the crockery was bone china that Gloria probably kept for best.
    Mary accepted her cake with thanks, then answered Janet’s question. ‘No, I’ve only been doing this work for a year or so. It’s satisfying, helping people out when they need it. And I like experiencing how other people live.’
    There was a pause while they sampled the cake.
    ‘Old Angus said you wanted to know about the sheep stud bizzo,’ Garth said. ‘You better talk to Cec here.’
    Cec had a long face, his oiled crimped hair receding from a widow’s peak. He seemed embarrassed to be the focus of attention.
    ‘Yes, I’d be really interested to hear about it,’ Mary said. ‘You breed Merinos, don’t you?’
    ‘We breed for ultrafine Merino wool,’ he said.
    Mary was no wiser. ‘What does that mean, Cec?’
    Cec moved his haunches in his chair, staring into his cup as if searching for inspiration. He cleared his throat before replying. ‘The easy answer is that it’s the micron measurement,’ he said, glancing up to make sure she was listening then keeping his gaze fixed somewhere near her left ear. ‘That’s the actual thickness of each fibre. The average human hair’s around sixty microns. Your usual Merino wool goes around nineteen to twenty-five microns, depending. Anything over thirty feels itchy, to give you an idea. When you wear it, made into a sweater or something. You can see what they mean when they talk about wearing hair shirts as a punishment.’ He looked directly at her, his expression serious. ‘Here at Downe, we aim for nothing over thirteen-point-five microns.’ He waited for the applause, and Mary beamed at him, hoping this would do. ‘The market for ultrafine is mainly the Italians, those suits Paul Keating used to wear. And the Japs. They pay a premium for it.’ He paused again for dramatic effect. ‘A bale of thirteen micron can fetch over a million dollars.’
    Mary stared at him in wonder. That was serious money. ‘For one bale?’
    ‘It did, a few years ago.’ Cec seemed to swell with pride. ‘We’ve got one better than that. It’s just been through all the tests. We don’t know how much it’ll fetch, but it’ll be a bomb. They call tenders with wool like this; it doesn’t go in the regular auctions, so it’s a lengthy