by Peter Corris
Georgia laughed. "I see. Pretty daring for those days. When was this?"
"Nineteen ten. You don't know the half of it."
Georgia made the tea and brought the cups and plates across to the armchair where Trudie sat. "Did you read my book on Argentina, Grandma?" she said.
"Some of it."
"Do you think I'm a good writer?"
"Yes, like your father. He wrote wonderful letters."
"Why don't I write your story and my grandfather's, Jack's? It sounds . . ."
"No!" Trudie sat straight suddenly and tea slopped into her saucer and over her dress. She put the cup on the table with shaking hands. She dabbed at her dress with her handkerchief, agitated.
14
After solemnly promising not to think of researching her family history, Georgia took some time to calm Trudie down. She did not feel bound by the promise and the idea interested her but she did nothing about it. She saw her lover and wrote her articles, struggled to remain the non-smoker she had become ten years before and to keep to her limit of three drinks per day. She was at her desk when Trudie's doctor telephoned to tell her of her grandmother's death.
"I saw her yesterday," the doctor said. "She seemed to be fine. She was ninety-two years old, you know."
"I didn't know," Georgia said calmly. She had seen death in Argentina and other places, deaths of the young and the old, and she was not shocked by it. "What happened, doctor?"
"She was sitting at her escritoire and she had a cerebral haemorrhage. She just fell forward across the desk. It must have been very quick."
"Thank you." Georgia put down the phone, and the tears came. She cried for her grandmother, whose life had been so busy and full at first and then so empty and strange, and for her mother who had thrown hers away, and for herself. When she realised that she was crying for herself she stopped. Known in the office for her good humour and unflappability, Georgia, weeping and snuffling into a tissue, was unsettling for her fellow-workers. She left the office and held a private wake for Trudie, going considerably beyond her self-imposed limit of three drinks.
Trudie's funeral showed Georgia how alone she was in the world. She was the only family member present at the rather florid Anglican service held in the church at Mosman. Trudie had left instructions for this to be done and had, over the years, been a benefactor to the church. The doctor attended, and two neighbours, and Georgia was accompanied by a female friend from the office. It was a small, sad procession to Waverley cemetery where Trudie was buried alongside her late husband in a plot that had long been booked and paid for.
Georgia had to bend down and peer closely to read the old, weathered headstone: JOHN GULLIVER 1895-1925. AT REST. Georgia puzzled over the name, but this was definitely the right plot.
Her friend was standing back. "What're the dates?" she asked.
Georgia read them out aloud.
"That's young."
Georgia looked at the headstone and the fresh earth beside it. "The men in my family die young and the women die old, very old."
She was, as she had expected, the sole beneficiary of Trudie's will. The estate amounted to the Kirribilli flat and an investment portfolio worth sixty thousand dollars, returning an annual income not big enough to live on. Georgia was grateful for this—she could live here or sell the flat and buy another. To be free of the burden of rent or a mortgage would be a relief. She could have used more, though. With other journalists who were concerned at the change in ownership of Australia's media and a growing conservatism that resulted, she'd considered the idea of starting an independent magazine. Georgia was no blinkered radical, but she knew that the corporations and governments colluded and collided in ways that the public, directly affected and needing to be informed, knew nothing about. The magazine would require more money than any of them had. Georgia had entertained the idea that Trudie's legacy might be sufficient.
Well, the old girl would have hated the idea anyway, Georgia thought. So she'd have to keep on working within the system. Perhaps it was best; she didn't know how well she'd handle total independence. At least the extra money would allow her to travel at will. Thanks to Trudie. Everything was thanks to Trudie.
Two weeks after the funeral, on a bright, warm Saturday, Georgia drove to Kirribilli to inspect the flat. She had happy memories of its light and views and she entertained thoughts of living there herself. Trudie's ghost, if such there were, would not upset her. She got the keys from the neighbour who had found her grandmother, endured the condolences and let herself into the flat. The blinds were drawn but the rooms were still full of a muted light. Georgia felt herself drawn towards the writing desk, which had not been disturbed since Trudie had slumped across it. A copy of the Sydney Morning Herald, covered by a thin film of dust, lay on the polished rosewood surface of the desk. It was dated the day of Trudie's death and folded so that a small item on an inside page caught Georgia's attention:
LONDONER SEEKS GULLIVER IN AUSTRALIA
Mr Benjamin Cromwell of Chelsea, London, has announced that he has very good news for descendants of John Gulliver who migrated to Australia with his family in 1910. Mr Cromwell said he was not at liberty to reveal details but that 'a very exciting legacy is in prospect'. Mr Cromwell, an historian and ex-army officer, also said that media interest in the legacy and the story that went with it would be considerable.'There's a film in it, for sure.'
Specifically, Mr Cromwell is seeking the direct descendants of John Gulliver's five children but he stressed that information would be welcome from any parties. Although only the descendants could benefit directly from the legacy, he was prepared to offer rewards for useful information. Mr Cromwell said, 'The beneficiaries may choose to share their good fortune with anyone who has been of service.'
"Gulliver," Georgia said. "Nineteen ten." She began to open drawers in the old writing desk.
Carl,
Mikhail
15
'Southern Maid', Sydney, June 1901
"How old are you, Carl?" Dr Anderson asked. "It appears from these papers that you're fourteen, but you don't look it."
Neither Carl Gulliver nor Dr Anderson was a fool. Both knew that a fourteen-year-old new arrival in Australia would be treated as a near-adult by the authorities. He might possibly be provided with some temporary accommodation, but he would be expected to find work quickly and support himself. Carl was undersized and pale. Anderson had observed that his favourite occupation was reading, of which he had done more and more since the deaths of his parents.
"I'm twelve years of age, sir," Carl said, "and I want to go to school."
"I thought you might. Leave it to me."
Anderson arranged for Carl to be admitted to the orphanage at Petersham, a residential suburb close to the city of Sydney. It had been his melancholy duty to inspect the belongings of John and Catherine Gulliver after their deaths. He had found no will and very little of value. As Carl was the oldest son on hand, Jack having left the ship in Fremantle, Anderson felt free to sell John Gulliver's watch and a few of his wife's trinkets. The small sum raised he deposited with the orphanage authorities; it was his experience that this ensured better treatment than was meted out to the destitute.
Carl packed his few possessions in a small suitcase and carefully tied his personal library of nine books with a leather strap. He bade Susannah and Edward a solemn goodbye and left the ship with the doctor. Since the deaths of their parents and the departure of their older brother, the Gulliver children had spent little time together, as if the demolition of the foundations of their family had brought down the whole structure.
"I'll give you my address in London, and you can write to me," Anderson said as they travelled by horse cab along Parramatta Road. "And I'll come and see you when I'm next in port."
"Thank you, sir." The cab drew up outside a forbidding red brick building surrounded by a high iron railing fence. THE PETERSHAM ORPHANAGE FOR BOYS was printed in severe letters on a faded board above the gate. "I'
m an orphan," Carl said. "I really am."
Anderson glanced at the boy to see whether there was any crack in the shell of his reserve, but he could see none. "It's a hard start for you, Carl, I won't deny that. But you've got the greatest advantage nature can bestow."
"Sir?"
"Brains, lad. Brains."
Carl settled quickly into the routine of the orphanage, which was administered by Mr Joseph Stubbs in an authoritarian manner. Corporal punishment for infringement of regulations was a feature of the institution's emphasis on discipline. Carl shared a dormitory with six other boys, all younger than himself although similar in size, and he attended Petersham junior school. It soon became apparent to Stubbs and the teachers at the school that he was a gifted pupil. He grasped all subjects quickly and worked willingly and effectively.
"This is the best school report one of our boys has ever had," Stubbs informed Carl at the end of the second term.
"Thank you, sir."
"What . . . ah, what do you wish to do when you leave school, Gulliver?"
"I don't want to leave, sir," Carl said. "I want to be a teacher."
Stubbs nodded, dismissed the boy and entered the general comment from the report on the record sheets he kept for each of his charges. 'Intellectually outstanding—performing well above junior school standards.' No inmate from the orphanage had ever attended high school and Stubbs had never before had to consider such a possibility. Clearly, he now did.
Carl was not popular with the other orphans or the children at school, who mocked his London accent. They sensed a difference in him, a deep seriousness, and resented his easy annexation of top place in all subjects. He tried to be friendly but his efforts failed. He was not arrogant because he knew that he was two years older than those he was competing with, and he wondered whether he would be so successful if placed on equal terms with his peers. The doubt made him work harder and perform better.
The orphans were rostered to a range of jobs—sweeping and scrubbing, laundry and kitchen work, gardening, filling the coal buckets. Carl did his share of these tasks but was annoyed by the inefficiency of the system. The boys swapped jobs between themselves, filled in for each other for various reasons and attempted to monopolise the more favoured jobs. Slowly, by a process no one could quite explain, Carl came to organize this side of orphanage life.
"Gulliver," a boy would say, "Williams won't swap coaling for potato peeling with me. I'm sick of coaling; I've done it four times in a row."
"It's a harder job," Carl would declare. "And dirty. It's worth two potato peeling duties. Offer him two for one. That'll give him some time to skive off."
Carl came to know who was lazy and who energetic, who stubborn and who reasonable. He kept lists and rosters of his own, supplementary to the official ones, and helped to make things run smoothly. This activity was noted by the custodians, who were at first amused and then appreciative. More approving comments were entered on Carl's sheets.
Towards the end of his second year Carl was summoned to Stubbs's office, made to wait outside for half an hour and entered a room made chilly by disapproval. Carl had grown to five foot seven inches and filled out a little, but he was still pale and his features were immature.
"You've gone too far, Gulliver," Stubbs said. "What's the meaning of this?" He stabbed his finger at two foolscap sheets on his desk. The sheets were covered with writing and pinned together at one corner.
"It's a petition, sir."
"I know it's a petition. I can read. 'We, the undersigned inmates of the Petersham Orphanage for Boys, respectfully request that corporal punishment be no longer administered without the written consent, in each case, of a clergyman or other responsible person from without.' You've become a troublemaker, Gulliver."
"No, sir."
"Yes. You may be sure I will inform Dr Anderson of your appalling behaviour."
"I have already written to Dr Anderson, sir."
"Gulliver, you are fourteen years of age. I have here a list of employers. I will make application to them on your behalf. You will accept the first one to accept you and you will leave this establishment. I am disappointed in you."
"I'm sorry, Mr Stubbs," Carl said quietly. "I've made other arrangements."
"Arrangements?" Stubbs was a fat man whose collar cut into the folds of flesh around his neck. These folds now swelled and reddened.
"Mr Thodey from the junior school has agreed to take me into his house. I have a place at the high school and I intend to become a teacher."
"We'll be well rid of you."
"If you look at the bottom of the petition, sir, you will see that a number of copies have been made, and that it is the petitioners' intention to send these to interested parties."
Stubbs flipped the paper over and saw listed the names of office holders in education, religion and politics. "H-have these been sent?"
"No, sir, and they won't be if you agree to the petition."
Stubbs agreed. Carl left the orphanage and his name was carved deeply and appreciatively into the tops of many desks.
Hector Thodey and his wife Diane were childless, which was a sadness to them. Carl was the third child they had fostered: they kept photographs of Roger and Patricia, now grown and independent, in their parlour like any proud parents. Hector Thodey was the English master at the junior school; his wife taught piano at home to the sons and daughters of the middle class. Although he was not aware of it, Carl had modelled himself on Thodey from the first. He admired the teacher's good humour and firmness. Thodey controlled his classes with a sarcastic wit and the occasional violent verbal outburst. He never used the strap.
Thodey had seen the scholarly potential in Carl from the first time the boy had read aloud in his class. Like the best readers, Carl's eye and mind leapt ahead of the print, allowing him to read with full comprehension and expression.
"Very good, Gulliver," Thodey had said. "Have you read this before?" The book was Scott's The Heart of Midlothian.
"No, sir. But I've read Rob Roy."
There were sniggers in the class but Carl and Thodey ignored them.
Books and music so dominated the Thodeys' large untidy terrace house in Petersham that there was little conversation. Diane Thodey had a moderate private income and the couple lived well. Hector Thodey's mild socialism kept him in the public school system although he could have had a more agreeable and better paid career at the sort of school he had himself attended.
When he arrived at the Thodey house, but not before, Carl confessed that he was two years older than he had represented himself. "I may not be as clever as I look, sir," he said.
An inveterate reader of novels, Thodey loved an intrigue and a deception. He was a stocky man with a plain, good-natured face and keen, intelligent eyes. He smiled at the nervous-looking boy who was all bones and awkward angles. "I'll just have to give you a test then. You're sixteen, you say?"
"Almost, sir."
"You should be sitting for the fourth year exams straight off. Tell you what, I'll give you a few of the papers from last year. That'll tell us what's what."
Carl struggled with the mathematics and science papers but passed the English, history, and geography tests easily.
"Fourth form," Thodey said. "With some coaching in mathematics and science. What d'you say to that?"
It was rare for Carl to show emotion and demonstrations of physical affection were unknown to him. His eyes grew moist and Thodey put a hand on his shoulder. "You're too thin," he said. "We'll have to fatten you up."
"How can I thank you, sir?"
"Be happy," Thodey said. "And do well."
16
Carl attended Fort Street high school and passed the fourth year examinations without difficulty. At first he had been dismayed to find that he had to study a language, but some instinct told him to choose German and he discovered that he had some grasp of the language from exposure to it as a child. More than he had realized, his mother had used German in her dealings w
ith the household and the children. Mathematics continued to be difficult for him but his marks in the other subjects were outstanding. He entered his final year still resolved to become a teacher, which was gratifying for the Thodeys.
At seventeen Carl was five feet eight inches tall and weighed nine and half stone. His hair had darkened a little and his features, dominated by a large nose and a wide mouth, had set into a serious cast. He travelled from Petersham four miles to the school, which was near the harbour at the north end of the city, on foot and by tram. This was all the exercise he got; otherwise he read and studied. On two evenings through the week and on Saturdays he worked in a lending library, stamping the books, collecting the halfpenny and penny borrowing fees and returning the books to their precise places on the shelves. He was paid two shillings when the library closed at five p.m. on Saturday and he often spent half of it in borrowing books himself.
The Thodeys fed and housed him; they took him to the doctor when he became ill, which was not often, and they encouraged him to study. They did no entertaining and seldom went out. Carl withdrew into himself and the world of books. He had imaginary conversations with the characters in the books and plays he read—with Hamlet and Lear, David Copperfield and Sam Weller, Sherlock Holmes and Raffles. He had no awareness of living in Australia. Apart from occasional visits to Centennial Park and the zoo, he saw no native flora and fauna. The yew trees of English country churchyards and the wolves of the northern European wastes were more real to him than eucalypts and kangaroos. He disliked the climate—the long, hot summers oppressed him and he found the snow-less, clear-skied winters undramatic. He was nostalgic for London's fogs and chill winds.
At school, he endured cricket and football stoically. He thought of them as English games, which helped to make them acceptable. His hand-eye co-ordination was only fair but he was a fast runner and could keep up with a pack, and field on the boundary effectively enough to avoid making a fool of himself. At the high school there was no scope for the organisational talents he had employed in the orphanage, and his passion for lists and schedules found expression only in his re-ordering of the library's borrowing cards and in his study plans.