by Jim Haynes
It was revealed by Mr Hopper’s daughter that, besides giving his curious interpretations of the scriptures, Mr Ham ‘got Gracie Nott to put a stitch in his pants when he tore them on the barbed wire’.
‘Hi!’ said Mr Bisley, ‘Gracie is a comely maiden and must be protected!’
‘And he had the pants on when Gracie mended them!’
After tea the two famous lay preachers decided to see Mr Hart, the Inspector of Schools—just informally—and take counsel with him.
Mr Hart was at home. No, he wasn’t too busy at all, and he was pleased, he said, to see the two gentlemen.
Mr Hart was a peppery-looking, important-looking man, of indeterminate age.
After pious preliminaries, Mr Hopper asked after Mr Foster’s two broken legs.
‘I regret,’ said Mr Hart crisply, ‘that I can report no immediately promising progress.’
‘So he won’t be likely to be back at that there school at the Grey Box yet?’
‘One of Mr Foster’s legs needed breaking and re-setting.’
‘So that young man, that very indiscreet young man, that most irreverent young man, will continue to as . . . as . . . as the . . . as a . . .’
‘We mean that there young Ram at the Grey Box,’ said Mr Hopper.
‘Ham,’ said Mr Hart.
‘Well, we want him shifted, he’s no good.’
‘Really, really, gentlemen,’ replied the official Mr Hart, which wasn’t the real Mr Hart at all, ‘there are certain strict formalities in these matters, and there are certain well-defined regulations governing them.’
‘Which goes to mean you are going to do nothing about it.’ There was a man of action in Mr Hopper.
‘No! But there are very salutary cautions and precautions. Are you ready to lay substantial charges against Mr Ham that will make his dismissal necessary or his transfer desirable?’
In his best style Mr Hopper got off his tale of complaint—the wicked scripture stories, the implications of intimate buttons and patches, the growing rumours of visits to a disreputable family named Twine.
Mr Hart decided to pay an unannounced call on Mr Ham.
In due course Mr Hart did go out to the Grey Box on his exploratory tour.
There were sounds to reach his ears long before he reached the schoolhouse. Strange sounds, not to be diagnosed as recess, for Mr Hart looked at his watch to verify the time. There were laughing and wailing and shouting and yelling and singing sounds that children never make or do when authority is near, even in their play.
Closer view showed children, mostly girls, at every window on the outside, and struggling for a view within; several boys on the roof and a small crowd yelling encouragement to them; certain enterprising youths trying to get a butt out of the nanny goat with a millet broom; another group hanging a ‘bushranger’ on an acacia tree. On the verandah a fairly big girl, Nancy Stibbert, it turned out eventually, was wringing out a handkerchief or small towel.
Mr Hart walked up from the road, after commandeering a boy to hold his horse, with his most official tread. The children recognised him even before his sulky stopped.
Word went around quickly, ‘Here’s Mr Hart!’
It acted like an extinguisher on a candle. Everyone put on looks of concerned innocence—and succeeded in ‘guilt writ large’.
‘Where,’ said Mr Hart, looking around accusingly, ‘where is Mr Ham?’
Only Nancy Stibbert had presence of mind. ‘He’s inside, Mr Hart. And he’s very ill.’
‘Ill!’ repeated Mr Hart. ‘Ill, did you say?’
Nancy nodded, very nicely and seriously.
‘What is the matter?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Hart. He fainted about half an hour ago, and we’re trying to bring him around.’
Mr Hart went in, followed by Nancy. The faces disappeared from the window and retired to a distance where what was happening inside might still be seen without undue recognition of those looking.
Mr Ham was lying on his back in the middle of the floor. He was quite unconscious, though the announcement of Mr Hart’s arrival had sent a violent shiver through him. But only a temporary shiver. He relapsed into complete immobility again.
A grey blanket had been improvised as a pillow for his head. Gracie Nott was in charge. She was dabbing Mr Ham’s forehead with a damp rag. Gracie was a very self-possessed young miss, and was not overawed by the presence of Mr Hart. She kept on with her ministrations.
‘What happened?’ Mr Hart almost deferred to the managerial Gracie.
‘Fainted,’ she replied as to a bystander of no consequence. ‘Ah, his eyes are flickering, have the brandy ready!’
‘Do you give brandy for a faint?’ Mr Hart asked uncertainly and tentatively.
‘Always!’
‘Always!’ repeated Mr Hart in some wonder.
‘Well, it always brings Mr Ham round. Vic, like a good girl, you had better get a new collar for Mr Ham. There are the two I ironed yesterday on the dressing table in his bedroom.’
Then, looking at his shirt, opened as far as it would go, Gracie added, regretfully, ‘He’ll have to keep his shirt on, there isn’t a clean one to give him.’
Mr Hart felt more hopeless, but he thought he’d better do something to assert himself. With some distaste he took Mr Ham’s wrist to feel his pulse. He was not sure what he could do about the pulse when he had felt it.
‘No need to,’ said Gracie, ‘I felt it just now. Low—very low. It only disturbs him to feel it.’
Mr Hart put the wrist down.
Mr Ham opened his eyes, slowly flickering, and closed them again.
‘He’s coming to, thank goodness!’ said Gracie.
The others breathed relief.
‘Give him air,’ said Gracie, and waved the others back, including Mr Hart.
‘Ith that Mithter Hart I thee?’ and Mr Ham raised his head a little.
‘Don’t worry Thithle, you’ll be alright.’ Gracie’s tones were almost motherly.
‘Thank you Grathie, I’m better now.’
Mr Ham waved the brandy aside, perhaps in deference to Mr Hart. Gracie gave orders for the disposal of the brandy and other items used in bringing Mr Ham round. The blanket and brandy went back to the bedroom, the vinegar and basin back to the kitchen and the washers, towels, rags and handkerchiefs to the clothes line.
Word got around the now subdued groups that Mr Ham was better. But Mr Hart at last decided to act. He had the school lined up and addressed the small gathering. He had decided, he said, in view of Mr Ham’s indisposition, to send them home for the rest of the day.
Gracie and Vic didn’t want to go.
‘Are you sure, Thithle, that you’re alright?’
‘Thank you Grathie, right ath rain.’
Gracie and Vic left reluctantly.
‘Queer turn that wath, Mithter Hart.’
Mr Hart thought it and many attendant circumstances decidedly queer, but he didn’t say much. He was feeling official strength and confidence beginning to surge through him.
‘I came out,’ he said, in a level official voice, ‘to inspect the school.’
Mr Ham’s eyes lit up with even greater surprise than usual.
‘To Inthpect the thcool?’
‘But I find that impossible—it will have to wait. Are you often indisposed, like that?’
‘Indithpothed?’
‘Please, don’t repeat. I said ‘indisposed’. Do you often faint?’
‘Yeth, Mithter Hart, often. I get quite dithy.’
‘Dithy!’
‘Yeth—dithy.’
Mr Hart pondered over that, and a few other things—prominent among them was ‘Thithle’. But he was a diplomat too, of a heavy kind.
‘Perhaps, Mr Ham, it’s the climate that doesn’t agree with you.’ His official eye was coldly glancing around the room. It was in a fine disarray, and on the small blackboard was a primitive sort of sketch with ‘That’s Thithle’ attached.
But Mr H
am didn’t think the climate made any difference. And the liked the Grey Box, he said.
Mr Hart left it at that. He didn’t probe, for he was afraid of what he might find. But his mind was made up, and he wondered how far the faints were genuine.
In less than a week the department moved Mr Ham to a far corner of the state. It removed at the same time the bright spot in the lives of the Grey Box children. Gracie and Vic were wild about it, and blamed each other for something, and didn’t speak to each other for a long time.
In its wisdom the department sent along a maiden lady of an age no man could calculate, who seemed all made up of vinegar and chastity. She set that school in order. There was no nonsense about Miss Gorm—and there never had been. She was born a teacher and would die a teacher—and in the great beyond she would be a teacher for all eternity.
It was the end of the Ham regime, and only the pleasant memory was left.
Mr Bisley and Mr Hopper were pleased; they rejoiced, in fact, in their hearts that they had ‘shifted’ Ham and the dangers of him. There was no danger, potential or otherwise, in Miss Gorm.
Even Venus would have been a different and a broken character entirely after a week of Miss Gorm.
BENEFIT OF CLERGY
ALEXANDER ALLEN
AS THE PRIEST REACHED the door of the Squatters’ Rest a dozen arms were stretched out to hold his horse and help him alight.
‘It’s a hot ride you’ve had, for sure, Father,’ said the buxom proprietress.
‘Faith, hot’s no name for it Mrs Dargan. Is there anything left in my bottle?’
‘Well, it’s close on four months since you was ’ere, your reverence, but I’ve got some good old Irish tack ye’re welcome to.’
‘That’s right, Mother. Let’s have some, an’ a bite too, for I’m off again immediately.’
‘Yer won’t be stayin’ the night, then?’
‘No, I’ve a sick call at Bulbul Station, and I must start again at once to get there tonight.’
‘I’m sorry for yer hurry, Father, for there’s some business for yer here.’
‘Indade! And what moight it be?’
‘Well, Father, there’s Mary. She’s near her toime to Ted Hogan, at Howlong; an’ they wants joinin’.’
‘Call ’em in, Mother.’
Mrs Dargan went out of the parlour, and soon came back followed by Mary and her lover, a hard-faced young boundary rider, who, fortunately for himself and the object of his affection, had ridden over to the Squatters’ Rest that morning.
‘So,’ said the priest, sternly, ‘so, you’ve not had the dacency to wait my comin’?’
The young couple made no reply.
‘How do you expect to obtain a blessin’?’ continued the priest, ‘when you stole the joys of matrimony widout God’s leave? Kneel down, the pair of you. Now, say the words after me. Mrs Dargan, call all hands in as witnesses.’
For some minutes the ceremony proceeded; then the priest asked, ‘Mary O’Niell, do you take this man for your husband?’
‘You ain’t asked him if he’ll ’ave me first, Father.’
‘Silence, you hussy. Will you have him? He is going to marry you.’
‘Yes, yer Riverince.’
‘That’s right. There now, you are man and wife, and God bless you.’
‘Whiskey all round, mother!’ cried Ted Hogan and all joined in the toast which followed.
‘Is there anything else now, Mrs Dargan?’ asked the priest.
‘Yis, yer Riverince, there’s a baptism.’
‘Whose is the child?’
‘It’s Jane’s, Father.’
‘Jane! She’s not married!’
‘Ah! Poor thing, Father, she’s in a bad way an’ her man won’t be here this side o’ Christmas.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Alick MacIntyre, the bullocky.’
‘Heavens! The sin, the sin of it all! Fetch the mother and child in at once.’
A pale young woman was brought in, bearing in her arms a fine young boy one or two months old.
‘Ah! Jane, you’ve been in a devil of a hurry,’ said the priest, not unkindly. ‘Who stands sponsors for this child? God bless him! He’s a beauty, too.’
A toothless old rabbiter in for a spree, and a young fellow from a neighbouring selection, stepped forward, and the ceremony was soon over.
‘There, Jane, my girl, the little one is as pure as the snow now. But what’s all these tears for, Mrs Dargan? What’s wrong?’
The women folk, as if by magic, had all begun to sob; and the men stood here and there conversing in whispers and looking very glum.
‘Come now, Mother, what’s the meaning of it all?’ asked the priest again, and impatiently this time.
‘Ah! Father, there’s Pretty Nellie yet.’
‘And what, in Heaven’s name, is wrong with her—The angel of the flock? The pride of the Big Gum Plain. The flower among so many weeds.’
There was a ring of alarm in the old man’s tones, and he looked anxiously from one to the other.
‘Faith, Father, it’s buryin’ she wants.’
‘Burying? Nellie dead! No, no. So bright, so fair. The queen of you all! Not dead?’
‘Indade, Father.’
‘Take me to her.’
‘She’s all nicely laid out, wid a pretty coffin, too, made by Ted, here. The poor lamb died yester-morn.’
Mrs Dargan led the priest into an adjoining room where, on a stretcher, lay the body of poor Nellie. She had been a very beautiful girl, and even death could not rob her perfect features of their charm. The long golden hair had been carefully brushed and trained down each side of the reclining figure. On her breast was a bunch of wild flowers.
‘She’d been ailin’ since yer last visit, Father. The young gentleman from Mooraboo run was after her, and Nellie was very fond of him. But the damn blackguard, savin’ yer presence, Father, wint away and got spliced to a lady in Adelaide, an’ our girl here broke her poor heart an’ died.’
Mrs Dargan told her tale with many sobs.
‘And she was . . . innocent, do you think, Mother?’ asked the priest anxiously.
‘More’s the pity, no, Father. She was . . .’
‘Oh God! The sin, the sin! Poor lamb, to be wrecked by that son of the devil. Wait until I meet him, which, please Heaven, will be soon! Now bring all hands in, Mrs Dargan, and I’ll say prayers.’
When it was over he spoke to them about the savage way they were living, and said that the back-blocks should be called the black-blocks because there was no light there.
An hour later, after poor Nellie’s body had been placed in the rough grave prepared for it, the priest took his leave of the shanty and its inmates, blessing them all from his seat in the saddle.
As he rode away a tear trickled down his face. ‘Lord,’ he whispered, ‘when will women know men?’
A SABBATH MORN AT
WADDY
EDWARD DYSON
SUNDAY SCHOOL WAS ‘IN’ at Waddy Wesleyan Church.
The classes were all in place, and of the teachers only Brother Spence was absent, strange to say. This was the first Sunday of the new superintendent’s term, always an evil time for grace, and a season of sulkiness, and bickering, and bad blood.
Each beloved brother coveted the dignity of the office, and those who failed to get it were consumed with envy and all uncharitableness for many Sabbaths after. Some deserted the little wooden chapel on the hill till the natural emotions of prayerful men pent in their bosoms could no longer be borne, and then they stole back, one by one, and condoned in hurricanes of exhortation with rain and thunder.
Brother Nehemiah Best occupied the seat of office behind a deal table on the small platform, under faded floral decorations left since last anniversary. Rumour declared that Brother Best was unable to write his own name, and whispered that he spent laborious nights learning the hymns by heart before he could give them out on Sunday, as witness the fact that he ‘read’ with equal fac
ility whether the book was straight, or endways, or upside down.
Brother Best was thin-voiced, weak in wind, and resourceless and unconvincing in prayer. No wonder Brother Spence was disgusted. Brother Spence could write his own name with scarcely more effort than it cost him to swing the trucks at the Phoenix Mine; his voice raised in prayer set the loose shingles fairly dancing on the old roof; and his recitation of ‘The Drunkard’s Doom’ had been the chief attraction on Band of Hope nights for years past. Ernest Spence had not hesitated to express himself freely at Friday evening’s meeting: ‘Ay, they Brother Best, he no more fit for pourin’ out the spirit, you, than a blin’ kitten. Look at the chest of en!’
‘True for en, Ernie!’ cried Brother Tresize. ‘They old devil, you, he laugh at Best’s prayin’, surelie, Brother Spence some tuss, you.’
But Brother Spence had left the meeting in a state of righteous indignation. Yet here were Brothers Tresize, and Tregaskis, and Prator, and Pearce, and Eddy. True, they all looked grim and unchastened, and there was an uneasy, shifty feeling in the chapel that inspired boys and girls, young men and young women, teachers and choir, with great expectations.
Brother Best, in his favourite attitude, with one arm behind him under his coat tails, his right hand holding the book a yard from his eyes, his right foot thrust well out, the toe touching the floor daintily, made his first official announcement: ‘We will open they service this mornin’ by singing hymn won, nought, won.’ Then, in a nasal sing-song, swinging with a long sweep from toe to heel and heel to toe, he gave out the first verse and the chorus, ending unctuously with a smack of the lips at the line:
‘Thou beautiful, beautiful Poley Star!’
Nehemiah was a dairyman, and had a fixed conviction that the poley star and a poley cow had much in common. The hymn being sung, the superintendent engaged in prayer, speaking weakly, with a wearisome repetition of stock phrases, eked out with laboured groans and random cries. Brother Tresize could not disguise his cynical disgust, and remained mute.
A prayer to be successful amongst the Wesleyans of Waddy must make the hearers squirm and wriggle upon their knees, and cry aloud. Brothers and sisters were all happy when moved to wild sobbing, to the utterance of moans, and groans, and hysterical appeals to heaven, and when impelled to sustain a sonorous volley by the vigorous use of pocket handkerchiefs; but that was a spiritual treat that came only once in a while, with the visit of a specialist, or when the spirit moved Brother Spence or Brother Tresize to unusual fervour.