It's been weeks since I last wrote in this journal. The truth is that I couldn't bring myself to record events which are so painful to recall, but what point is there in writing a sanitised version of my life? I will know it's a lie, and if I can't write the whole truth I might as well stop this record right now.

But as usual, I am getting ahead of myself. Since that wonderful weekend when James and I first made love, and indeed made love many times, I have been down to Charleville for two further weekends. Anyone looking at what we did might say they were not a very exciting times, but for us they were. You could say we played at being a married couple, albeit one which was enjoying a honeymoon period. We made love of course – many times, but we didn't spend the whole time in bed. We cooked meals, sat in the garden, read books, went shopping; we even went to the observatory one night and looked at the amazing stars that blaze in the country night sky. It was a truly wonderful time, and that tiny cloud on the horizon which was me remembering that I had not fulfilled the promise to myself to tell James about my past, had faded to almost invisibility. I even persuaded myself that there was really no point in telling him now.

Having visited James at Charleville several times, it seemed only right to invite him to Mackenzie Station to see where I live. We waited until a suitable long weekend could be found and at last James was able to secure a Monday off. I said I would fly down late Friday afternoon and he could meet me at the airport with his suitcase after work, and we would fly back to the Station. That way we could spend Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights together, and I would fly him back early Monday morning in time to start work.

Everything went according to plan. I picked up James at 6pm on Friday evening, and soon we were airborne and heading west. It was an overcast day which I was pleased about as it meant I was not dazzled by the setting sun. The clouds were not too low, so we were able to fly beneath them and could look at the countryside beneath us. James was fascinated by the country as we descended toward the station with its ring of surrounding hills. For some reason he seemed very impressed that I could fly a plane with such ease – something I don't think about because I've been doing it so long.

Jack was waiting to greet us when we landed, and he and James shook hands.

“G'day. Welcome to Mackenzie Station,” said Jack, “We've heard a lot about you.”

“All good I hope,” said James with a smile.

“No worries about that,” replied Jack.

It's true that I've tried to downplay my relationship with James, but I suppose inevitably my feelings for him had become common knowledge, and of course I'd talked about him to Mary, Jack's 'missus' and no doubt she had passed some of it on.

Jack gave us a lift back to the homestead, and I led James inside, showing him through the rooms. I paused at one and jokingly said “This is the guest room, but I guess you won't be needing that.” Then we walked through the rest of the house.

“Do you ever feel lonely living by yourself in such a big place?” asked James.

“I suppose I'm used to it. Even when John was alive there was only the two of us. Of course when the original Mackenzie family who built the homestead owned the property, there were quite a lot of people living here.”

It crossed my mind to tell James about the story of the Mackenzie boys who had gone off to fight in the First World War, but I decided to leave that until another time.

I had left a cold chicken in the refrigerator together with salad for tea, and afterwards we sat in the big old parlour with a glass of port in front of a fire because the nights are starting to lengthen, and we chatted for a while before James yawned and I laughingly said it must be his bed time and I hoped he wasn't too exhausted. James laughed as he stood up, helped me to my feet and then held me against him. It quickly became obvious that he wasn't too tired at all!

We held hands and walked to the bedroom and once again enjoyed the special pleasures of a loving couple. I told myself that I would never tire of James's body.

Saturday and Sunday we spent with me showing James around the station. He was duly impressed with the size.

“I've been out to Jean and Jim's property,” said James, “But it would be dwarfed by Mackenzie Station; and yet you seem to handle everything so well.”

“Well I was taught by an expert, and anyway, I don't do it on my own. Jack is a great help,” I replied. I suppose it might have felt awkward talking to James about John but somehow it didn't seem that way. I was, and am sure in my mind that John wanted me to be happy when he had gone, and now I had been given a second chance at happiness and couldn't be blamed for taking full advantage of it.

Saturday evening we had a barbecue and some of the hands came along to meet James. They all seemed to get along very well and I was pleased about that, since I had it at the back of my mind that perhaps he would come to live here.

Sunday morning we set out again, so that James could see more of the station. I had asked him if he had ever ridden a horse and he said he hadn't, apart from pony rides when he was a child. However he said he was willing to try, so we found a very docile old mare for him, and after packing some sandwiches and drinks into our saddlebags, we set off for a ride around the property. James soon got the hang of riding, and I could tell he was enjoying himself.

“You're not afraid of getting lost out here?” asked James.

“Well apart from the fact that I know the place like the back of my hand, when I first arrived here I found the ring of hills around the property was a great signpost. The homestead is more or less in the middle, so if I ever felt lost, I just kept my back to the nearest hills and eventually I'd come back home,” I replied.

Sunday evening I cooked a roast. I enjoy cooking, although it's hard to drum up enthusiasm if you are just cooking for one, which is why I often invite friends over if I feel like flexing my culinary muscles.

After dinner, we were sitting in the parlour talking about this and that, and the conversation turned to the old days at the homestead. I mentioned that I had collected some pictures of how it looked back in the nineteen twenties to fifties and would James like to see them? When he nodded, I went to one of the bookshelves to fetch down a big old photograph album and that's when it happened. As I took down the album, a single small black and white print dislodged from somewhere and fluttered to the floor. James bent down to pick it up and glanced at it as you do with any photograph.

I froze. In that instant I had realised exactly what the picture was. Soon after I had arrived at Mackenzie Station, John had taken some pictures for me to send back to my parents in England. He had two sets of prints made so that I could keep one, and this was one of those pictures. There was no disguising where it had been taken – I was standing on the broad steps of the homestead which were instantly recognisable. What was also obvious was that the Leslie in the photograph was slim, with short hair, no breasts and definitely not a female. James stared at the photo and looked at me. I could almost hear his brain ticking over.

“This is you isn't it,” he said. It was more a statement than a question. My flaming cheeks made denial useless.

“Yes it is, but I can explain,” I faltered.

“I don't think any explanation is necessary, do you?” he said.

The look on his face was strange – not angry, not sad, it was just blank, drained of all emotion..

“Why didn't you tell me the truth about you?” he said quietly, “Couldn't you trust me with it?”

The tears were starting up in my eyes but I was determined not to use tears as a woman's weapon. I have seen other women do it and despised them for it.

“I was going to tell you,” I said “But I wanted to pick the right time, and then when we...when we..it seemed too late. I'm sorry, I really am.”

“So am I,” said James. There was silence for a minute and then he sighed.

“Look I think I will take up your offer of the spare room tonight. I'm rather tired after all that riding and I need a good night's sleep.”

“Of course,” I said. What else could I say?

“Goodnight then,” said James as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. I sat down again, and now that he was gone I let the tears flow. How stupid of me, how plain bloody stupid. I had been given a second chance of happiness and I had blown it. I poured myself a large glass of port and gulped it down – forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be flying James back in the morning. When the tears finally slowed, I walked to my big lonely bedroom, undressed and got into bed.

I tossed and turned for hours, going over and over in my mind the events of the evening. Where on earth had that print come from? I thought they were all safely stored in another small album in my locked filing cabinet, although thinking about it, I had wondered if one print was missing. I should probably have destroyed them, but then like most people I hate to destroy photographs – they are a visual record of our past and we almost always want to keep them.

I must have finally fallen asleep about three o'clock because when I awoke and looked at my bedside clock, it was broad daylight and nine o'clock, much later than I ever wake up. The house was quiet. I put on my dressing gown and padded in bare feet down to the room where James had slept. The door was closed so I knocked on it, gently at first and then louder. There was no answer, so I opened the door and went inside. The bed had been neatly made and on it was lying a single sheet of paper.

'Dear Lesley,
I've getting the mailman take me to the railway station to make my own way back to Charleville. I think that's for the best.
I'm sorry for what happened last night, but I need time to think.
Take care,
Love,
James

I sat on the bed for a while and the tears were brimming in my eyes again. I suppose that one word 'Love' gives me hope, and hope is all I have to cling to right now. The thought crossed my mind to race down to the station to try and see him before he left, but I realised that that was probably not a good idea. Instead I went back to the bedroom, put on my slippers and went to the kitchen.

Coorah, the young aboriginal woman who had recently come to work in the kitchen turned as she heard me enter the room and smiled.

“Morning Missus, you want breakfast?” she said.

“I'll just get myself some tea and toast, thank you, Coorah,” I replied.

“Mr James had his breakfast about six o'clock,” she continued, “He said he was going with the mailman to the train.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I had told James about Jerry the mailman coming early on Monday mornings. I couldn't decide now whether that was a good thing or not.

“He's a very nice man. You are lucky woman, Missus,” Coorah continued. I thought the remark was a bit cheeky, but she meant no harm by it and after all she didn't know how hollow that sounded to me now. Somehow I managed to summon up a smile I didn't feel.

“Yes Coorah, I am,” I replied.

I cooked and buttered my toast and took it with my mug of coffee to my office. Coorah meant well, but I didn't trust myself to continue the conversation without giving away my true feelings.

All that happened three weeks ago, and only now can I bring myself to write it down. Even so, my eyes are filling with tears again and I will have to stop because I can no longer see the paper clearly. Life will go on of course, it always does, but how different it will be from the life I thought I was going to lead.

To be continued.

Image credit: Australian cattle station by Harris Walker reproduced under Creative Commons licence with attribution.