Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘There’s no need for that. Mr Burton, Mr Burton, Mr Burton. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  He rummaged around in the pocket without success. ‘No, I’ll have to come into the booth with you, see you don’t get in a muddle.’

  ‘No!’ She could not keep the indignation out of her voice, but could see no way of stopping him.

  ‘Come along, Mr Stewart, don’t block the door, please,’ said the clerk. ‘Mrs Stewart, will you come this way?’

  Amy made to follow him, with Charlie a step behind, when the clerk stopped abruptly. ‘No, you wait here, please,’ he told an astonished Charlie. ‘Your wife must go into the booth by herself, then you can go in and cast your own vote.’

  ‘I’m going to see she doesn’t get in a muddle,’ Charlie said indignantly.

  ‘No, you’re not, Mr Stewart,’ the clerk said. ‘You’re not the first man to make a fuss about it today, either.’ He went on before Charlie had a chance to interrupt. ‘No, I’m sorry, it’s the law. Either Mrs Stewart goes in that booth by herself or she doesn’t vote.’ He stood with arms folded and one foot tapping the floor lightly while he waited for Charlie to make his decision.

  ‘All right, she can go in by herself,’ Charlie allowed. He turned to Amy. ‘Now, have you got the name sorted out?’

  ‘Mr Burton,’ Amy said one last time. She smiled at the clerk as she took the paper he held out, then strode into the booth, leaving Charlie with the two boys.

  What had Mr Seddon said? She closed her eyes for a moment to recall the Prime Minister’s words that she had read in one of Charlie’s newspapers.

  ‘A great power has been given to women with the granting of the vote. Let she who has a husband, whom she loves and respects, be guided by that husband.’

  Loves and respects. But I don’t. So that means I can please myself.

  With a bold stroke she marked her choice: William Kelly.

  32

  November – December 1893

  From soon after the time Malcolm started school, Amy had had to accept that he was not going to be much of a scholar. To Malcolm school was something that got in the way of what he wanted to do, and occasionally he decided it was worth arguing over whether or not he had to go at all. He generally had the sense to keep these arguments between himself and Amy; on the few occasions he was foolish enough to ask his father why he had to waste time going to school, he usually received a clip over the ear and was sent packing. Charlie kept the boys home from school whenever he decided he needed them on the farm, but teachers at country schools were used to such absences.

  With Malcolm’s attitude to women already set in a mould of disdain, Amy had hoped that the teacher who replaced Lily might be a man. But when term had started the previous year, yet another woman had been appointed.

  The new teacher, Miss Metcalf, was well over forty, grim-faced, and built on sturdy lines. As soon as they heard that another woman teacher had arrived, Frank had teased Lizzie that she would have the Education Board on her back if she married off another of their teachers, forcing them to find a replacement again, but one look at Miss Metcalf convinced them both of the folly of such an idea.

  ‘You’d never talk Alf into taking her,’ Frank remarked.

  ‘The very idea! She must be nearly as old as Ma.’

  ‘And with a face that would sour milk.’

  ‘Mmm. No wonder she’s never found a husband. Honestly, some women have no idea.’

  With Lizzie’s help withheld, it seemed that Miss Metcalf was doomed to spinsterhood, and that the pupils of the Waituhi School were doomed to having her as their teacher. She was as stern as her appearance suggested, and her pupils learned belatedly how lucky they had been in Lily. Miss Metcalf had a strong right arm, and she exercised it several times a day wielding a strap on any children who stepped out of line.

  With such a daunting personage, David’s first day at school had been far more alarming than Malcolm’s. Amy had taken him down that morning while Malcolm rode on ahead; parting with her little boy for the day had given her a pang. David arrived home that afternoon, clinging around Malcolm’s waist on Brownie. Dried tears made two trails down his grubby face, and his right hand bore a red welt.

  ‘Davie! What happened, darling? Did you get in trouble?’ Amy had asked.

  Malcolm had volunteered the explanation. ‘He bawled, and that grumpy old Miss Metcalf gave him the strap. She was wild!’

  ‘I wanted to stay with you, Mama,’ David had said, his eyes wide with the memory of his frightening day. ‘The teacher growled me. Everyone was singing a song, but I didn’t know how to sing it, and I wanted to see you, and I cried. She said I was being a baby, and she hit me with the strap. She’s horrible.’

  ‘School’s stupid,’ Malcolm had chimed in.

  ‘But lunch-time was good,’ David had said, brightening visibly. ‘I went and played in the bush with all the other boys. It was fun.’ It was also, Amy was sure, how he had got his face and clothes so dirty. ‘Then I wanted to come home, and I cried again. The teacher hit me again. See my hand?’

  Amy had kissed the grubby little paw and comforted David with milk and biscuits, and had tried to explain to him that school had more to offer than day-long torture sessions interrupted by running around in the bush for an hour.

  But David was by nature eager to please. He had now been at school a little over a year, and lunch-times were still the high point of his day, but he generally got the strap only when Miss Metcalf decided to punish the entire classroom of children for some unruliness. As far as schoolwork went, David seemed to be keeping up with the other children of around his age.

  It was Malcolm who worried her. Whenever Amy tried to quiz him on how he was getting on at school he brushed her aside. But she could see no sign that he was making any progress at all, and from the occasional muttered complaint he let slip she knew he was regularly being punished for getting his work wrong.

  Malcolm never referred to any lessons at school. The only things he spoke of were the lunch-time escapades in the bush and, just occasionally, some mischief that the bigger boys had got up to. The older boys figured frequently in his after-school conversation, with the name of Des Feenan, the main actor of the ink-throwing incident, often coming up, always in tones of admiration.

  As far as Amy was concerned, Feenans meant trouble. She could never hear the name without remembering the fight at the hay dance and what had happened after it. Her whole life had been shaped into its present mould by that night.

  But she knew that forbidding Malcolm to spend time with Des at school would only give the older boy more glamour in his eyes. Malcolm did not usually take any notice of her forbiddings, other than as something to rebel against.

  Charlie seemed never to have wondered what progress Malcolm might be making at school; he apparently took for granted that his son was learning whatever he needed to. The reality had to be forced upon him.

  The day of reckoning came at the end of the school year, when the district inspector had made his annual visit to examine children for entry to the next Standard. Now that Malcolm was in Standard One, for the first time he had to face an examination by the inspector, and all Amy’s fears on his behalf proved to be justified.

  Charlie was thunderstruck when he received a note saying that Malcolm would not be advancing to Standard Two in 1894 because he had failed the examination.

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ was his first response. ‘That teacher’s got the boy muddled with some other lad.’

  But there had been no mistake, and a visit from Miss Metcalf confirmed it. When she arrived at Charlie’s house she resisted Amy’s attempts to draw her into conversation, insisting that she wished to speak to Malcolm’s father.

  Amy ushered the teacher into the parlour, put the kettle on for tea, then sought out Charlie. Malcolm and David did not need her whispered warning to make themselves scarce once they heard who the visitor was.

  Charlie walked into the parlour just
after Amy had carried through tea and biscuits on a tray. He sat down opposite Miss Metcalf and gave her a stony-faced stare.

  ‘You say there’s something wrong with my boy,’ was how he introduced the subject. ‘You’re trying to make out he’s simple.’

  ‘I’ve said nothing of the sort, Mr Stewart,’ Miss Metcalf answered.

  ‘Why isn’t he to move up a class, then? Why are you holding him back?’

  Miss Metcalf matched his stare with one just as grim. ‘Because he failed his examination. He failed it very badly indeed.’

  ‘What’s in this fancy examination, then? Some load of foolishness, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Charlie, please—’ Amy began, but Charlie cut in on her.

  ‘You can keep your mouth shut or get out of here. I’m talking to this woman, trying to find out what nonsense she’s holding the boy back over.’ Amy cringed at his rudeness, but Miss Metcalf looked no more sour than before.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s in it, Mr Stewart, then you can judge for yourself how foolish the examination is. The child was asked to read a few words of one syllable—words like “house”, “fence”, “stream”, and so on. Then he had to write down on his slate the small letters of the alphabet, and then he was given some numbers to add together. Call those things nonsense if you will, but that’s what’s required to pass Standard One, and Malcolm made a very poor showing.’

  Charlie was speechless for a few moments. ‘That’s just reading and writing,’ he said at last. ‘The boy’s been at school three years and he’s not reading and writing?’

  ‘That’s correct. He’s barely able to read, and his writing is even worse. I didn’t put him forward for the examination last year because it was so obvious he wasn’t up to it, but I’m obliged to present any child of eight or older for the examination or make excuses to the inspector. Malcolm is the only child his age who still can’t pass Standard One. Maud Kelly, for instance, is almost a year younger than him, and she passed the examination with no trouble, though I’d hardly call her a brilliant scholar.’

  ‘He’s behind the rest?’ That, Amy could see, was in Charlie’s eyes worse than Malcolm’s inability to read and write. ‘Well, why is he, then? It’s your job to teach him. You said yourself he’s not simple—why can’t you do your job?’

  ‘I’m doing my best, Mr Stewart,’ Miss Metcalf answered. ‘I don’t think there’s anything much wrong with your son’s mind. If the boy would only apply himself he’d get on well enough, even if he’s not particularly gifted.’

  ‘Apply himself? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Malcolm is a most troublesome child,’ Miss Metcalf announced. Amy’s heart sank. It was obvious what was in store for Malcolm. ‘He talks in class, his work is messy when he does it at all, when he goes off into the bush at midday he sometimes chooses not to come back at the proper time, and he generally ignores what I tell him even though I punish him whenever he’s disobedient. I’m constantly having to give him the strap for getting his answers wrong, but it seems to be doing no good. There’s only so much I can do with a child like that. Your son is wilful.’

  ‘Wilful, is he? We’ll see about that,’ said Charlie.

  Miss Metcalf demolished a biscuit in two large bites, took a last gulp of her tea, and rose to leave. ‘Well, I don’t think there’s any more to be said on the subject. I’ll be on my way.’ She turned as Amy led her to the front door and remarked, ‘The younger boy’s not too bad. David behaves reasonably well.’ But Charlie hardly seemed to notice what she said. Muted praise of David was no compensation.

  ‘Where’s the boy?’ he asked as soon as Amy had closed the door on Miss Metcalf.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Amy answered truthfully. ‘He went off somewhere with Dave.’

  ‘I’ll have to find him, then.’

  ‘Leave it for now, Charlie, can’t you?’ Amy said. ‘You’ll have to go trudging around after him, he could be anywhere. If you wait for lunch-time he’ll turn up of his own accord.’ And with a little luck, she hoped, Charlie’s anger would have cooled from its current pitch.

  ‘This won’t wait,’ he said grimly.

  It took Charlie some time to find Malcolm, and the effort of searching for the boy did nothing to improve his temper. Malcolm had learned to take punishments with increasing stoicism, but his yells told Amy this was a worse thrashing than usual. In between the sounds of the stick falling on flesh and Malcolm’s cries of pain she heard Charlie’s voice in snatches:

  ‘Shamed me before the whole valley—Wilful, she says—Disgrace to your name—Even Kelly’s girl did better than you—I’ll knock some sense into you, boy.’

  The only reference Amy made to the examination that day was to whisper to Malcolm that evening as she tucked the boys in, ‘You’re not a disgrace, Mal. You haven’t shamed anyone. Your father didn’t mean that.’ No child of hers was going to believe itself a disgrace while she had breath in her body to tell it otherwise. But tonight was not the right moment to tackle Malcolm about his school work; that could wait.

  She bided her time for a day or so, then chose a Saturday morning when she had the boys to herself while Charlie took the milk to the factory. When both boys were sitting at the table with milk and biscuits, Amy fetched a small bundle from her room and sat down beside Malcolm.

  ‘Mal, I want to talk to you about that exam.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Malcolm said, clearly unwilling to be reminded of the unhappy subject.

  ‘No, I won’t leave you alone. I don’t like seeing you get hidings any more than you like getting them. Miss Metcalf says you haven’t learned anything this year, and if you go on like that you’ll fail again next year. You know what that’ll mean, don’t you?’

  Malcolm glared at her, but his defiant expression could not hide the fear behind it. ‘I can’t help it.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his chair; his new crop of bruises must be troubling him. Amy remembered the pain of such bruises all too well.

  ‘I think you can, Mal. You’re not silly, you’ve just wasted a lot of time at school and now it’s hard for you to catch up. You don’t like Miss Metcalf much, do you?’

  ‘She’s crabby,’ David volunteered, but Amy shushed him. Malcolm was her concern for the moment.

  ‘The trouble is, it’s not Miss Metcalf who gets the hidings if you keep failing. It’s you.’

  Malcolm shot her a hostile look. ‘It’s stupid, all that stuff at school. Dumb stories about old kings and stuff, and stupid poetry things about flowers.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that stuff can be boring. But if you never learn to read, you won’t be able to find out all sorts of interesting things from books.’

  ‘Books are stupid.’

  ‘Not all of them. Some things are pretty good. I was reading this the other day.’

  Amy pulled a page ripped out of the Weekly News from the bundle of papers on her lap. ‘It’s about some horses they were selling at a special sale up in Auckland. They sound like good horses, really fast ones. Shall I read it out to you?’

  Malcolm looked at her suspiciously. ‘It’s not about horses. It’s about old kings or something.’

  ‘Not everything that’s written down is boring, Mal. Listen to this.’ She read a few lines aloud from the newspaper item describing the horses offered for sale. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Malcolm following her words with keen interest.

  Amy stopped in mid-sentence and put the paper down. ‘That’s enough of that, I think.’

  ‘Read the rest!’ Malcolm protested. ‘You were just up to a good bit.’

  ‘If you got better at reading you could read those things for yourself, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Malcolm muttered. ‘It’s too hard.’

  ‘No, it’s not, Mal. If you just try a bit you’ll be able to read properly in no time.’ She pulled her chair over so that Malcolm’s shoulder brushed against her arm. ‘Look at this. It’s what I was reading just before. Do you know any of these words?�
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  Malcolm looked where she was pointing and shook his head. ‘Not when the writing’s all small like that.’

  ‘No, it’s hard with newspaper writing. Do you know your letters?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘I know mine,’ David put in. ‘A, B, C—’

  ‘I know them like that,’ Malcolm said scornfully. ‘Just saying them one after the other. That’s not what Ma means.’

  ‘That’s right, Mal, I mean looking at the letters all muddled up and knowing which is which. Here, I’ve written them out, let’s have a go at making the sounds.’

  ‘That’s boring,’ Malcolm complained. ‘That’s what old Miss Metcalf tries to make me do all the time. “Ba-Ba-Ba” and all that. Anyway, then if you look at words and try and say the sounds it doesn’t work properly.’

  ‘Yes, it does!’ David protested. ‘C-A-T, that’s cat.’ He beamed at Amy.

  ‘Well, it works for easy words like that, but not for real words.’

  ‘That’s true, it doesn’t always work, but it gives you a clue. You sound it out, then you can usually figure out the word. And once you can read properly you just look at the word and you know what it is without sounding it.’

  ‘But it’s boring!’ Malcolm insisted. ‘Just making stupid noises from the letters.’

  ‘All right, then, let’s see if we can make it not so boring. I’ll write a few words out big from the paper. Look at this.’ Amy carefully copied out words that might appeal to Malcolm onto a scrap of blank paper ripped from the edge of the newspaper. She pointed to the first one. ‘Sound this out for me.’

  Malcolm turned his face away. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try, Mal. Just try a bit.’

  ‘It’s stupid!’

  ‘Do you want your pa to give you another hiding like that?’ She hardened her heart against the frightened look her words elicited. ‘Do you want one every week? Your pa’s going to start taking a lot more notice of how you’re getting on at school. Come on, be a good boy and look at this. See, it starts with H. What does H sound like? Ha-Ha-Ha. Then there’s an O. Ho-Ho-Ho. Then R. Hor-Hor—’