FRANCES JANE McNAUGHT sipped her tea.  It had been a good morning.   Her eye ranged over the array of cakes lined up on the table by the back wall.

     She smiled to herself.  She was a good cook even if she did say so herself.  All you needed was good ingredients, a good recipe and a good stove.  She had all those.  And experience, she thought.  Mother had seen to that.  She had no time for girls who couldn't cook and sew.  And keep a clean and tidy house. 

     She was lucky to have had a good mother.  Of course the cooking and sewing and housekeeping abilities ran in the family.  All the women of her family were able housekeepers. 

     Not so some of the younger ones though.  This next generation didn't put such store by these things.  So many of them worked outside the home.   You had to admire them of course.  Some of them were business women.  Some had professions.  Wonderful really that they could manage to work and run a home.  But then they couldn't cook like she did.  Her eye ran over the cakes again.                                                                                           

     And they bought their clothes.  There was no way of doing that when she was a girl.  Even if there were good clothes to buy.  There just hadn't been the money to do things like that.  Mother had made every stitch they wore until the older ones had grown big enough to take over some of the work and made their own.

     How things had changed!  It was a different world.

But some things were still the same.  This old house was much as it had always been.  It was roomy and comfortable.

     Movement caught her eye.  A car coming up the road. Who was coming at this hour?  She glanced at the clock.  Eleven thirty.  Nearly lunch time.  What did she have to offer a visitor for lunch?   Untying her apron she slipped it on the hook behind the door and picking up her cup and saucer, took them to the pantry.  She made her way out to the verandah.

     The car pulled up at the gate and a young woman got out.  She waved.  "Hullo Fanny," she called.  "I've brought our entries for the fleece competition.  You said you'd be good enough to take them in your ute for us."  She was pulling a wool bale out of the boot of the car.  "I won't have a skerrick of room in the car for them tomorrow.  It's such a help you taking them."

     Frances hurried down the path and together they dragged the bale to the car shed.  "Leave it here, Helen," Frances said.  "I'll get John to put it in the back of the ute when he comes up from the paddock later."  She dusted her hands.   "Come and have a cup of tea."   They walked through the house.                                                            

     "Oh look at all your cakes!" Helen cried, "No doubt about you Fanny, you'll get most successful exhibitor as usual."  Helen looked around the room.  What a cook Fanny was!  But why ever didn't she modernise this place a bit?   She didn't even have a sink in the kitchen.            

     It was a comfortable room; welcoming; the old dresser with crockery stacked the way it always had been.  When you came to think of if really rather like some of the 'country style' decorations you saw in magazines today.  Only this one had been like that for as long as she could remember.

There were no built-ins.  Just the dresser, a cabinet and a safe, the big kitchen table and chairs and another table by the wall.  And the fuel stove.   Then of course she had the big pantry.   The only concession to modern convenience was a big frig and freezer.

     Frances put two cups and saucers on the table.  "The kettle is still boiling.  I've had a cup, but I'll keep you company with another."  She brought a packet of tea bags from the pantry.  "Tell me how you like this tea," she said smiling at Helen.  "It's herbal tea."    She poured the boiling water on the tea bags.  The aroma wafted up.

     "Mm, smells nice," Helen said.  "She sipped it experimentally.  "Tastes nice too."

     "Supposed to be better for you than ordinary tea.  Anyway it's a nice change.  Something new."  They sat talking until Helen rose to go.

     "I'd better get back and have dinner on the table when Bob comes in.  He's flat out ploughing that bottom paddock.  We'll plant if we get rain.  It's supposed to be on its way.  Hope it holds off till after the show though.  Still never complain about rain."

     Frances watched the car bump down the track.  She'd have to do something about that track.  It was getting pretty rough.  Oh well, with all the preparation for the show, there was no time today to stand thinking of that.

     She stopped in the dining room to pick up the box with her entry slips.  The next hour was spent in labelling entries and packing them in plastic bags and boxes.

     The cakes attended to, she brought out her jams and preserves.   She was just finished packing everything ready for the early morning trip to town, when she heard the tractor coming up from the creek paddock.  It stopped at the back gate and heavy boots tramped to the door.

     "I'll fill the ute with petrol and check it for you for morning Miss McNaught," a man's voice called.

     "Thanks John."  Frances hurried into the kitchen.  "And would you put that bale of wool on the back please.  Helen brought it over.  They won't have room for it tomorrow."

     He looked at the sky. "Hope we get this rain they're talking about.  The ground's not too bad.  We can plant if we get some more now."

     "That's what Helen said.  But I hope it holds off a couple of days.   Just to get the show over."

     It was a good time of the year.  All the crops and vegetables for the display.  Lots of flowers.  Not the spring flowers of course, but then they had the Flower show in the spring and everyone knew the date.  Always the last Saturday in September.

     The Hospital Auxiliary had wanted that date for their Garden Party, but the Horticultural Society had always had the last Saturday in September. They knew that.  Better to stick to the usual dates then everyone knew where they were.  No confusion.

     It was that new woman at 'The Brigalows' they'd elected president of course who had wanted to change things.  She was very nice. But she'd have to learn to fit in.

     Like now.  The Show.  Agricultural and Horticultural Show.  Always the first week in May.  And you knew where you were.

     Frances walked out into the garden.

     She was organised now.  Sewing and knitting packed up in the dining room.  She had a good many entries this year.  And some pieces of embroidery she was really proud of.

     She drew a rose closer.  Yes.  She'd have enough good ones of the Peace, Iceberg, and Blackboy, to make up a collection of each.  And the little Cecil Brunner.  The ferns and succulents were ready on the verandah. She'd pick the flowers first thing in the morning and be in at the showground early.

     She ate her usual solitary tea at the kitchen table, then after washing up in the old dish, she carried it out and emptied the water on the grape vine.

     The sun had set with a golden glow.

     Looks like a clear day tomorrow, she thought.  I don't think the rain will come just yet.  She pulled a cane chair down the verandah and sat down.  The news was just coming on.  She turned the radio up.

     She liked to listen to the local news.  But it was also good to hear the Toowoomba news.  They were very 'go ahead' there.  Mostly good things.  But some things you heard seemed to be a bit of a waste of money.  Like that bit on the state news about all those millions spent on the Casino.  Turning the old Treasury building into a casino!

     Of course some people thought the money spent on the Arts, things like galleries and the cultural centre, was a waste.  But no.  She didn't.  You needed beautiful things.  Whether it was music, or painting, or whatever.   Not some of those dreadful paintings that you didn't know which way up they should be of course.  She didn't like them. Never could see anything in some of those that had been in the last Arts Council Touring Exhibition.   But something nice.  Something beautiful.  She'd love to be able to do something like that.  To paint something.

     Wouldn't know where to start though.  And a bit old to start now, she supposed.  To paint a rose now.  Like that red rose there.  Or the view from where she sat.  That gum tree down the paddock; the grass, and the sheep going across the track; the soft after glow in the sky.  It would be lovely to be able to paint that.  Things so lovely it pulled at your heart.

     The news was coming to an end.  She switched the radio off.  Nothing sensational tonight.  Not in her area anyway.  Plenty of sensational things going on in Europe.  Just went to show how much it mattered what you believed.  Such cruelty!  Such destruction!

     Like in the last war.  World War II they called it now.  It wasn't the 'last war' was it? But it was the 'last war' as far as she was concerned.   She leaned back in the chair.  So long ago.

     At first, time had seemed to stand still.  Her world had come to an end.  Hope, all the dreams.  All the plans.  But then she had learned to live again.  To go on with life.  And time had started to move again. 

     The perfume from the red rose near the verandah carried to her on a breath of air.                                             

     The words of the song flashed into her mind.  "I want some red roses for a blue lady."  And hot on its heels that other one, "Send me one dozen roses, put my heart in beside them, and send them to the one I love."

     She sighed.   Why was she thinking like this tonight?  She hadn't thought like that for ages.  You couldn't dwell on things.  On the past.  The might have been.  You had to accept things as they were.  And make the best of it.  Perhaps she was tired.

     She picked up the radio and went towards the door.  Then turning, walked back to the edge of the verandah.   She reached out and drew the red rose to her face.

     The perfume assailed her nostrils overpoweringly.   The tune of the song surged through her head.  Momentarily she closed her eyes.  Visions raced before her eyes.                     

     Impulsively, she picked the rose, and cupping her hands around it, carried it inside and placed it in the slim vase on her bedside table.