Rush Oh!

by Shirley Barrett

  ‘No, that’s not correct,’ said Louisa. ‘We gave you three shillings in July.’

  ‘July of this year?’

  ‘No, last year.’

  ‘Ah yes, here it is. Three shillings, 21 July 1907.’ He sighed and looked up at us. ‘You have defaulted on the last four instalments. Do you have the outstanding amount for me today?’

  ‘What is the outstanding amount?’ I asked.

  ‘Four payments of fourteen shillings threepence, plus this quarter’s due.’

  ‘And how much is that altogether?’

  ‘Do you wish me to work it out?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It may be quicker for you to simply tell me how much you are able to pay.’

  ‘Oh. Well, none of it just now. We have no money at all, unfortunately.’

  Mr Crowther sighed heavily and closed his receipt book. ‘Then I am very sorry to say I have no choice but to reclaim the Singer. I have strung you out for as long as is possible. Mr Singer will not tolerate it any longer.’

  Here it was: the death knell we had feared. Louisa rose up out of her seat at once and fled the room, which I took to be a sign of her emotion.

  ‘There, you have upset my sister!’ I cried. ‘I hope you are satisfied.’

  And certainly, Mr Crowther seemed concerned, for he broke into a light sweat. I suppose he understood how important the Singer was as a memento of our mother, let alone as the only thing that kept us looking faintly presentable.

  ‘Miss Davidson, I am very sorry about this,’ he said. ‘But you must realise I am answerable to Mr Singer himself, and he is expecting his money. I have put him off and put him off, but he will have no more of it. You understand, he must pay the wages of his employees.’

  It was an odd conceit of Mr Crowther’s that he professed to be in direct personal contact with the founding fathers of the firms in which he dealt. He had even gone to the trouble of devising particular character traits for each of them: the brothers Griffiths were prone to spells of nervous disquietude if they learned you had lately been enjoying a rival’s tea, and Mr Singer was always fretting about his employees.

  Just at this moment, Louisa returned.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take this. It might count towards some of it.’ And she handed him the gold sovereign awarded her by Mr Caleb Cook for being the best-dressed and most prepossessing young lady at the Eden Show.

  Mr Crowther’s mood immediately lifted; he thanked her profusely and said that Mr Singer would be delighted; that of course Mr Singer understood about the whales and the Norwegians and whatnot, and that the last thing Mr Singer wanted was for us to lose our machine. Hastily he wrote out a receipt, and then took it upon himself to give the Singer a look-over and apply a bit of oil to its moving parts, and while he was at it he had a look at our cream separator also. By which time, of course, evening had fallen, the men had returned home from another fruitless day on lookout, and Mr Crowther thought he may just as well stay for tea.

  We had stewed several rabbits (augmented with giblets and potatoes) for the evening meal, and now Mr Crowther helped us carry the pots down to the sleeping hut. There his interest seemed excited by the spectacle of John Beck saying grace, and in a low voice he questioned me as to the identity of our new whale man.

  ‘That is the Reverend John Beck,’ I responded. ‘He is an oarsman in the Number Two boat.’

  ‘Reverend?’ queried Mr Crowther.

  ‘Yes,’ I responded unhappily, for once again I noted that John Beck was avoiding my gaze. ‘He was formerly a Methodist minister.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Mr Crowther, stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘Would you be so kind as to introduce me?’

  Happy to have a reason to approach John Beck, I led him over. John Beck was now hunched over his plate: he seemed startled by our looming out of the shadows, for he at once jumped to his feet, as if he might run.

  ‘Excuse me for startling you,’ I said. ‘I would like you to meet Mr Crowther. He is the agent for Singer sewing machines. Mr Crowther, this is Reverend Beck.’

  They each said, ‘How do you do?’, and Mr Crowther shook John Beck’s hand in a bracing fashion.

  ‘May I join you?’ he asked. John Beck nodded his consent, and Mr Crowther at once sat down beside him in a manner which struck me as oddly familiar. He patted John Beck on the knee, and urged him to eat up and not to mind him.

  ‘I hear from young Mary that you were formerly a Methodist minister,’ he remarked, by way of conversation.

  ‘That is correct,’ responded John Beck. He seemed reluctant to elaborate more on the theme, although Mr Crowther smiled at him encouragingly. In truth, he was having difficulty with his portion of meat – I noted with dismay that it appeared to be the shoulder girdle of one of the more senior rabbits.

  ‘Tell me, are you aware of the recent scandal involving one of your kind in Milton?’ enquired Mr Crowther.

  ‘I have never been to Milton,’ said John Beck. ‘So I would not know anything about it.’

  ‘Never been to Milton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you hail from Sydney originally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must pass through Milton to travel down to Eden! It is a pretty little town – you would not easily forget it.’

  John Beck said nothing but instead concentrated on eating his rabbit. The very act of pulling the meat from the bone appeared to be hurting his teeth.

  ‘Are you able to furnish us with some detail as to the nature of the scandal?’ asked Uncle Aleck. He was seated nearby and sucking on a thigh bone. ‘Did you say it concerned the Methodist minister?’

  ‘It did,’ replied Mr Crowther, settling into the story with an air of enjoyment. ‘Very popular was he, and well-liked by all. It is a small parish, but the congregation had been steadily growing in numbers since he took it over a year or so prior. This minister, by all accounts a fine-looking man – I have forgotten his name – took it upon himself to start a fund, the purpose being to raise money for a church organ. He worked assiduously at this task, enlisting the support of many of his churchwomen. Letters were written petitioning some of the more prosperous townsfolk. In short order, the fund had reached a little over forty pounds, whereupon the minister absconded –'

  ‘Absconded?’ cried Uncle Aleck.

  ‘Taking the organ fund with him –'

  But just at this point the story was interrupted, for my father approached Mr Crowther, looking very upset. He had just learned that Louisa had given over her gold sovereign in payment for the Singer, and he demanded that Mr Crowther return it to her at once.

  ‘It is my responsibility to pay for that machine, and pay for it I will. But you will not take money from my children, especially in my absence.’

  And opening his leather purse, which he normally kept secured in a safe place, my father emptied its entire contents into his hand and thrust it at Mr Crowther. It was the sum of about twelve shillings and a few odd pence – all he had to see us through till they captured a whale.

  ‘Now give that sovereign back to the girl, and be on your way,’ said my father, and his voice shook discernibly.

  The scraping of plates had stopped; everyone had gone quiet. It was very unusual to witness my father so inflamed, and the whale men recognised the significance of the occasion. Without delay, Mr Crowther dug deep into his breast pocket and handed the gold sovereign over to me. Then, counting the scattered coins quietly under his breath, he secreted them into his pocket.

  ‘I have no wish to offend, I’m sure,’ he said to my father. ‘But this is not a full instalment. You are very much in arrears. You will need to pay more next time.’

  ‘Next time I will pay it off in its entirety,’ said my father. ‘On that I give you my word.’ (Unfortunately, the fortunes of whaling were such that my father was
unable to pay the Singer off in its entirety for another four years.)

  ‘Very good,’ said Mr Crowther. And tipping his cap, he rose from his seat and headed off into the night. He made no mention of what Mr Singer might say about this.

  ‘Gather the pots and get back up to the house,’ said my father, turning to me. He seemed embarrassed and irritated that I had witnessed this exchange.

  ‘And if you must feed us these aged vermin, kindly allow the rigor mortis to subside before you stew them,’ added Bastable.

  Now here is a very odd thing. It took me some several minutes to gather the pots etc., and as I headed back up to the house, I could hear that Mr Crowther was in the process of harnessing his horse as best as he could manage in the darkness. It seemed by the sound of it that the horse was giving him some trouble, for I could hear scuffling noises and low curses emanating from that area. Taking pity on him, I went over with my lantern, and as I did so, I was suddenly aware of a dark figure moving off abruptly at my approach. Mr Crowther himself seemed somewhat agitated, and I noted his shirt was free of his trousers, as if some kind of struggle had ensued.

  ‘Most kind, most kind,’ he murmured, but all the while his eyes darted nervously about.

  I stood over him till he had lit his lanterns; in fact, I had to take over at one point for his hands were trembling so much he had difficulty in lighting the matches. Then, in great haste, he climbed up into his sulky and drove off into the pitch-black night. The question of bushrangers seemed suddenly not to bother him.

  A Sermon Interrupted

  John Beck suggested to my father that we celebrate the Lord’s day by conducting a short non-denominational service for the whale men and family early on Sunday morning, before the men rowed to the lookout. Perhaps he had hinted that this might be beneficial in terms of whales, for somewhat unexpectedly my father embraced the idea, and not wanting to displease my father, the whale men felt obliged to attend. Benches were arranged on the sand as if pews, and John Beck stood before us. In lieu of cassock and surplice, he had donned a clean white shirt, and it complemented his suntanned complexion admirably.

  ‘Today I would like to talk on the subject of Temptation,’ said John Beck, after we had sung what we remembered of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. This was in fact only the chorus, and the verse about the rich man in his castle and the poor man at his gate.

  ‘For who amongst us has not been buffeted by temptations?’ John Beck continued. ‘I know I most certainly have, and sadly I yielded to them, and that is why I am no longer a minister of the Methodist church.’

  I found myself sitting upright now. This had become rather more interesting than I had anticipated.

  ‘If you are no longer a minister of the Methodist church, then why are you imposing upon us this sermon?’ demanded Bastable.

  ‘Well, I suppose I am acting today as a kind of lay preacher,’ John Beck replied. ‘But back to the subject of Temptation. Who amongst us has not been buffeted by temptation?’

  ‘Father, since you ask, I have not been buffeted by temptation in a long time,’ said Uncle Aleck.

  ‘Me neither,’ admitted Arthur Ashby.

  ‘I would very much like to be buffeted by temptation, but sadly no one is buffeting me,’ said Salty.

  ‘I wonder if we could get on to the business of praying for a whale,’ said my father.

  ‘Yes, in a moment, but first – I understand that some of you may not have been to church for some time and may have forgotten the procedure, but the idea is I talk on a theme for twenty minutes or so – generally there are no interruptions – then we might have another prayer and a hymn or two. Does that sound all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, by all means.’

  ‘As I was explaining, whilst I was serving as a minister of the Methodist church, I was greatly buffeted by temptation.’

  ‘Bragging,’ muttered Bastable, behind me.

  ‘Would this be some of the ladies in the congregation buffeting you, Father?’ asked Uncle Aleck.

  ‘Yes, in fact it was.’

  Louisa nudged me sharply in the ribs. A murmur of interest passed through the congregation.

  ‘You see,’ John Beck went on, ‘I have always been greatly susceptible –'

  ‘They’re not shy then, Father, the Methodist lasses?’

  ‘As I say, Uncle Aleck, generally speaking a sermon is not a question-and-answer style of discussion. Rather, I expound at length on a certain –'

  ‘Just get on with it, Father, pay no attention to Uncle,’ said my father.

  ‘Yes, yes, proceed; pay no attention to me,’ agreed Uncle Aleck.

  ‘Thank you. Now, where was I?’

  ‘You were telling us about your susceptibility,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said John Beck, and here I seemed to notice a flush of colour rising up from his collar. ‘You see, my difficulty was that I have always been burdened with a natural susceptibility to whatever is amiable’ – here he glanced at me nervously – ‘in a woman.’

  ‘More bragging,’ said Bastable.

  ‘Well, not really bragging – you see, it was my undoing, and the reason that I stand before you as an oarsman in the Number Two boat.’

  ‘There’s no shame in being oarsman, Father,’ cried Bastable. ‘I have been an oarsman for nigh on fifteen years and proud of it.’

  ‘What he means is, he is only oarsman in the Number Two boat,’ said Darcy, who was of course an oarsman in the Number One boat.

  ‘No, no –' John Beck protested.

  ‘Oh, so the Number Two boat isn’t grand enough for you?’ declared Salty, ever quick to take umbrage.

  ‘No, you have me all wrong. What I mean is, I am now an oarsman – forget the Number Two boat – where once I was a minister of the Methodist church.’

  ‘And that makes you a better man than us, does it?’

  ‘No, not at all, I am simply saying that temptation has brought me greatly undone.’

  ‘Are you referring to your exploits with Mrs Lee in ’Frisco, Father?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of Mrs Lee.’

  ‘Then is it regarding the organ fund?’

  ‘Once again, I must reiterate that I have never been to Milton –'

  ‘Back to the buffeting, if I may,’ said Uncle Aleck. ‘What were the ladies doing exactly? Were they pressing up against you in the sacristy?’

  ‘I have no wish to go into details – that is hardly suitable –'

  ‘Could we pray for a whale now?’ asked my father.

  ‘If you could just let me finish. You see, I thought that God had abandoned me, given the depths to which I had fallen –'

  ‘Is that Tom?’ cried Dan suddenly.

  ‘Yet the other day when we were out at sea –'

  ‘I saw him! I swear!’

  ‘– and we prayed – do you remember?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘– well, it seemed to me that Somebody heard us.’

  And just at that moment, directly behind John Beck, Tom rose out of the water, revealing the full length of his magnificent black and white body. He curved gracefully – surprisingly lithe for such a corpulent fish – and seemed almost to hover in mid-air a moment before re-entering the water and slapping his tail down hard upon it with a sound like the crack of a whip. Come now! was unmistakably his terse instruction.

  ‘Rush oh!’ cried my father, leaping to his feet.

  The whalers clambered over each other in their haste to get to the whaleboats. Tom had sounded his clarion; now they must do his bidding. The children ran off, relieved to be let out of church. Only Louisa and I remained in our seats. John Beck glanced over at us, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Well, it would appear that I have lost my congregation to a Killer whale,’ he said.

 
; ‘What a shame, for it was very interesting,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, well – I am a little out of practice.’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘It was all right?’

  ‘It was extremely enlightening.’

  ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said, gazing at me earnestly. ‘That’s kind of you to say.’

  ‘Perhaps you had better go now and catch the whale,’ said Louisa, for the whale men were dragging the boats into the water.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I had better, especially since I am oarsman in the Number Two boat.’ He laughed nervously. ‘That bit didn’t go over so well, did it?’

  ‘Whalers can be very prickly about such things,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I see that now. Well . . .' Here Salty shouted at him to get into the boat. ‘Please excuse me, ladies.’

  Throwing off his coat and tossing aside his sermon notes, he ran down to the water and jumped impressively into the whaleboat. How magnificent he looked rowing, and how well that white shirt set off his physique. There was certainly nothing of the nanny goat in his appearance today, as I pointed out to Louisa.

  ‘I admit he looks quite nice in that shirt,’ she conceded. ‘But don’t you find him awfully dull?’

  I did not find him dull. I was in love with him. And as I watched him bend to the oars as the whaleboats pulled over the breakers, it became clear to me that I could not remain passive; I must act. I must buffet him with temptation as he had never been buffeted before, not even by the good ladies of the Methodist church.

  The Boat-Breaker

  As a rule, whales are distinctly bovine in temperament. If they lived in a paddock, they would stand about chewing their cud and staring into the middle distance. If they saw another whale sitting down under a tree, they would think to themselves, ‘Maybe I will sit down under the tree also.’ Then, when they got to the tree, they would think, ‘Why did I come over to the tree again? I can’t remember.’ And they would start to wander off again. And then they would think, ‘Oh, look at that whale sitting under a tree. Maybe I will sit under a tree also.’ (I will desist from this allegory now as I feel it is becoming rather strained.) Suffice to say, whales are placid, dull creatures and mean no harm. But every now and then comes a whale different to other whales, and that whale is known as a boat-breaker.