Chapters (48)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Also by Tricia Stringer
- Title Page
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- Excerpt
- One
But she was hooked on the sparkling results of her labour. Over the years, between marrying Milt, sharing a house with her in-laws and raising children and teaching, keeping a perfect house had become important to her and in the back of her mind hovered the next line from the chapter – nothing destroys the happiness of married life more than the lazy, slovenly wife.
She looked down at the little book gripped in her hands. She’d added her own messages and clippings and photos to prove to herself she wasn’t the submissive and servile woman the chapters described. The loose pieces stuck in the back jutted out at all angles. She opened the book quickly to the last page and removed them, slammed the book shut again and put it to one side. On top of the loose pile of pages was Laura’s handwritten soup recipe. She turned it over. Next was a battered clipping from a newspaper on how to graft roses. That was from when she’d thought she’d start a rose garden as a surprise for Clem. They’d planted one rose beside the front gate but nothing more had eventuated. So long ago now. She turned it over and put it on top of the soup recipe.
Slowly she worked her way through these scribbled notes and clippings she’d slipped into the back of the book over the years. She paused at a page showing how to fold napkins into swans and water lilies and smiled at the recollection of the rainy afternoon she’d spent with her girls trying to make the designs from paper serviettes. Further on there were articles on removing red-wine stains and how to name your pet. That must have been back when they’d got the last dog. Jaffer was eight years old now but it had been such hard work coming up with a name they could all agree on.
Finally she came to the last clipping. It was a full page from a magazine, folded into halves and more recent than the rest. In fact she knew it was four years old and why she’d put it in the book. It was a story on a family of pearl farmers in Broome, an intriguing tale of how they’d started the business from nothing, living in the isolation of the bush north of Broome. She’d cut it out six months before their thirtieth wedding anniversary and looked into fares to Broome. Pearls were the gift for thirty years of marriage and she’d decided a trip to buy them from the place where they were farmed would make the occasion extra special.