‘Mary,’ said Mrs Pike, taking hold of my arm as I lurched dizzily off the dance floor after several rounds with Uncle Aleck, ‘where’s your father? Won’t you encourage him to come inside and have a dance with me?’
‘All right,’ I said, and I went outside to find him. In truth, I was hoping also to find John Beck, as he seemed to have disappeared for the moment.
My father was in the middle of telling his snake and umbrella story, and so I stood about, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to finish. In essence, it was not a complicated story, but my father paused so often in the telling, remembering small details that he should have mentioned earlier or becoming sidetracked by other unrelated thoughts, that the story went on far longer than it deserved to. It concerned a man who had fallen asleep in the bush, and upon waking up to find it raining, opened his umbrella. It felt rather stiff going up and there was a terrible tearing sound, and suddenly a black snake fell to the ground, split in two from head to tail.
Now while I was waiting for my father to get to the end of his anecdote, I glanced around, wondering where John Beck had got to, when suddenly I espied him, standing in the shadows beneath the mulberry trees. He appeared to be in earnest discussion with someone I could not immediately identify, for this person’s back was towards me. I would not have seen them at all, had not a party of ball-goers walked past them, lanterns in hand, and momentarily illuminated them. The other person appeared to be doing most of the talking while John Beck listened intently but with some concern, for his hands were deep in his pockets and he appeared to be slowly shaking his head. The lanterns passed and the two of them plunged into darkness again; in some bewilderment, I turned my attention back to my father.
‘You see, it had swallowed the umbrella whole, except for the handle,’ my father was saying in triumphant conclusion. And at that moment it struck me with absolute clarity that the person John Beck had been talking to was Darcy, for certainly Darcy was not part of the group of whale men that sat around now, laughing appreciatively at my father’s story.
I interrupted the general merriment to tell my father that he had been specifically requested as a dance partner by none other than Mrs Pike, the proprietress of the Great Southern. With a show of bashful reluctance, he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet and accompanied me back inside.
‘Tell us, Mary,’ Darcy’s father, Percy, called after me, ‘how are Salty and Bastable faring in there? Have they had any luck in their wooing?’
‘Since you ask, I did notice Salty in the company of a lady,’ I said with a smile, to which the whale men responded with ribald glee. In fact, I had seen Salty ‘tripping the light fantastic’ with the widow Mrs Guthridge; he was surprisingly nimble on his feet for a portly man, and conducted himself very reasonably in the Country Dance. Now it was my father’s turn to join them, with Mrs Pike on his arm. He was too stiff-legged to dance well, yet nonetheless he cut a commanding figure. He held himself very upright – ‘like dancing with a plank of hardwood,’ is how Louisa described it – with a look of fierce concentration on his face, moving his lips as he counted. Regardless, Mrs Pike seemed well-pleased to be in his arms and circling the dance floor.
It was soon midnight, and supper was called; all available hands were summoned to assist. There was tea and coffee to be brewed in four-gallon buckets; cold meat and mustard pickle and fish-paste sandwiches to be served, and sponge cakes (light as air!) to be sliced.
‘Where is your sister?’ asked Robert Heffernan, who was suddenly standing over me as I attempted to daintily arrange some sandwiches on a serving platter. It seemed he may have had a bit to drink as he was somewhat flushed in the face. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, not recently,’ I responded. ‘She is here somewhere, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, do you mean Louisa?’ asked Elspeth Gilbert cheerfully. ‘I saw her outside just before with one of the blackfellows.’
‘One of the blackfellows?’ I cried. ‘How peculiar.’
My heart thudded in my chest, for I noted Robert’s colour rising.
‘I think she may have been taking the poor fellow something to drink, that’s all,’ continued Elspeth. ‘She has always been a thoughtful and considerate lass, taking after your mother in that way,’ she added.
Thoughtful and considerate! I thought to myself indignantly. If anything, I was the thoughtful and considerate member of the family, the one that took most after my mother. Why was everyone so inclined to bestow upon Louisa virtues she did not possess? Mind you, it had not occurred to me to take any beverages out to our Aboriginal whale crew, but then that was because our whale men generally looked after themselves in the matter of beverages. It has to be said they would not have greeted my offering them a cordial with much enthusiasm.
‘If I were you, I would take your sister in hand,’ muttered Robert Heffernan ominously. ‘She is in danger of making herself a laughing-stock.’ And with that, he moved away before I could think of a worthy retort.
‘Well, he is certainly the moody type,’ commented Elspeth. ‘I imagine he is jealous, over such a petty thing as your sister giving a blackfellow a drink of cordial!’
The conversation changed to the more pressing need of locating more teaspoons so that people might be able to add their own sugar to their tea; Elspeth went off in search of some. I was instructed to take my plate of sandwiches and offer them to anyone who could show their entry ticket, thus easing the crush around the supper table. I set off in hope of coming across John Beck, for I fancied the thought of settling down with him in a darkened corner, perhaps sharing a fish-paste sandwich. However, I had no sooner emerged from the kitchen than I was waylaid by Salty, beckoning me over with some urgency to where he sat with Mrs Guthridge. As I advanced upon them with my plate, I was surprised to hear that Mrs Guthridge appeared to be labouring under the misapprehension that Salty had been, in a former life, a minister of the Methodist church.
‘May I ask, what then compelled you to leave?’ she enquired, an expression of intense fascination upon her face.
Here Salty passed a hand through his beard and affected a sombre expression, as with his other hand he reached out and grasped several sandwiches from my proffered plate.
‘Temptation,’ he said finally.
‘Temptation?’
‘That and a certain . . . susceptibility.’
Glancing up to find me staring at him in frank astonishment, he broke off and popped a sandwich into his mouth, chewing away vigorously with his few remaining teeth. Just then, an unpleasantness broke out at the supper table; some riffraff had got in without paying and were helping themselves to the cakes and sandwiches. When they were remonstrated with by Mrs Atcherley, one smart alec issued an insolent riposte before flinging a sandwich at Robert Heffernan, who happened to be standing at other end of the supper table, broodingly stuffing his face. Robert howled indignantly and returned fire with a lamington. At once, merry hell broke loose; all available menfolk jumped into the fray to ‘sort it out’, including my brother Harry. The men who had been drinking outside came hurtling in as reinforcements; punches were thrown indiscriminately, women screamed, china was broken and one hapless Edenite was thrown against the tea urn, thus knocking it over and setting hot tea and tea leaves all over the supper-room floor (miraculously, no one was scalded). The melee seemed to go on for a full five or ten minutes before order was once again restored; however, the supper table was the worse for it, and many tears were shed at the sight of flattened sponge cakes and lovingly prepared sandwiches squashed underfoot. The guilty parties (three young ne’er-do-wells from Pambula) were chased off into the night, whereupon it was later discovered that they must have returned at some point and loosened the wheels of various sulkies, for a number of unfortunate accidents ensued on the journey home. In some ways, however, the supper-room fracas provided a welcome distraction, for in all the excitement, amidst which he
incurred a bloody nose, Robert Heffernan seemed to forget about Louisa and Darcy.
Once everything had settled down again and the supper room was put back to rights, some additional entertainment was provided. Mr Oslington attempted a humorous recitation of ‘Sandy McGlashan’s Courtship’, but forgot too many of the words for it to be considered entirely successful. Mr O’Henessey sang ‘The Little Irish Girl’ to much laughter and applause, and after this our own Eden Christy Minstrel Club proceeded onto the stage. I at once recognised Mr Howard the Price-Cutter leering ominously at the audience, and immediately I resolved not to enjoy them. I did not so much as tap my foot during ‘Oh, Dem Golden Slippers’, but when they launched into ‘My Old Kentucky Home, Good Night’, the tears began, inexplicably, to roll down my cheeks.
‘They hunt no more for the possum and the ’coon,
On meadow, the hill and the shore,
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by that old cabin door.
The day goes by like a shadow o’er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight.
The time has come when the darkies have to part,
Then my old Kentucky home, good night.’
Perhaps I am more susceptible than others to the effects of a sentimental song, but for me at that moment, it was the humpback and the southern right that they hunted no more, and instead of the Kentucky home it was our little house at Kiah Inlet, and instead of just the darkies having to part, it was the whale men, it was all of us. For it was as if some small part of me sensed all the sadness and loss and disappointment and separation that awaited me. Dabbing futilely at my streaming eyes, I turned to Louisa (for she had suddenly reappeared by this time), expecting to see her similarly affected. But she just sat there with a scornful expression on her face, and when they left the stage to thunderous applause, she remarked, ‘Thank goodness for that. I thought they’d go on all night.’
After the entertainment, there commenced a great washing up of the supper plates. Louisa and I were last on the roster, and so found it our duty to wash and dry every last cup and saucer in the building, a task which took us some time. When we had finally lowered our tea towels and removed our aprons, I suddenly discovered, nestling in the corner, a small blue and white teacup that we had somehow overlooked.
‘Look, Louisa,’ I cried, for I was thinking of our kitchen superstitions. ‘If when washing dishes, you forget an item, it is a sign you will hear of a wedding! I haven’t heard of any weddings tonight. Have you?’
‘No,’ said Louisa wearily, and mostly she just seemed annoyed about having to wash another cup. ‘Here, I’ll do it then,’ I said, for a feeling of elation had overtaken me; I proceeded to wash and dry this little teacup with infinite care. You see, I was nurturing high hopes about this wedding I might hear of and, in particular, whose wedding it might be.
When I had finished, I stepped outside. The fat full moon hung suspended over Twofold Bay. The younger lads were out on the street playing cricket; Dan, still dressed as the Major of the Artillery, was arguing the point over a fallen wicket. Bodies lay about, snoring richly. I suppose somewhere in the darkness the ne’er-do-wells from Pambula were loosening the wheels of the sulkies. The whale men sat on the grass, exchanging fond reminiscences from the whaling season just past; someone offered up a toast to whaling season, 1909.
‘And may it bring with it a great profusion of humpers!’ cried Uncle Aleck.
‘Hear, hear!’ was the rallying response. But I could not see John Beck amongst their number, so I turned and headed back inside.
The Powers family had retired for the evening, and the last remaining dancers were left to rely upon the vagaries of Mr Aikenhead’s drunken piano-playing. Having eaten a great many jujubes and run around madly all night, Violet and Annie slumped, sleepy and out of sorts, on the benches. I went over to join them; no sooner had I sat down than Violet rested her head on my lap and fell soundly asleep. It was then that I saw John Beck come in. He stood in the doorway, casting his gaze about the room, and as his eyes lit upon me, his features softened to a smile to which my heart thumped a joyful response.
‘There you are,’ he said as he sat down beside me. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘I have been doing the washing up,’ I said.
‘The washing up,’ he repeated, gazing at me earnestly. ‘Yes. And I’m sure you would have performed the task admirably.’
‘Well, I suppose so,’ I responded hesitantly. The truth was that Louisa had had to pass back to me several cups from which I had failed to remove residual coffee stains. I had finally had to inform her that some of these marks appeared to be stains of long standing and were simply impossible to remove without resorting to vinegar and bicarbonate of soda, and frankly I had better things to do with my time whilst at the ball. Also, it struck me as something of the ‘pot calling the kettle black’, since her own washing up left a great deal to be desired and consisted mostly of dipping an item briefly in water and making a slight, half-hearted swirling motion.
‘I daresay you have had a bit of practice over the years,’ said John Beck, still looking at me intently. ‘With the washing up, I mean.’
‘Oh yes,’ I responded, feeling somewhat bewildered. Why was he so interested in my washing up all of a sudden? Was it possible that men took such matters into consideration when evaluating a future wife? Could this possibly be some kind of preamble in that direction? ‘I suppose I am rather good at it,’ I added, after a moment’s thought.
He nodded, as if satisfied by my response. He looked away briefly, deep in thought, and then he turned back to me.
‘Mary –' he began, but suddenly Salty was upon us, all pink and shiny in the face.
‘Father,’ he hissed excitedly, ‘do you have a psalm or a prayer you can lend me quickly? I took your advice, Father, and I think I’m in with a chance!’
Surreptitiously he indicated Mrs Guthridge, who sat on the bench near the door, nodding her head in time with the music.
‘Oh. Well. Let me think,’ responded John Beck. ‘Was there any particular theme you had in mind?’
‘No, Father. Just something of a biblical nature.’
‘How about this?’ John Beck suggested. ‘Oh ye Whales and all that move in the water, bless ye the Lord and praise Him forever.’
‘That’s perfect, Father!’ cried Salty delightedly. ‘How does it go again?’
‘Oh ye Whales –'
‘Oh ye Whales,’ repeated Salty, his face a study of concentration.
‘And all that move in the water –'
‘Would that not be more effective if I was to say “swim” in the water, Father?’
‘Well, yes, possibly, if you wish.’
‘Not saying I can improve on the Bible, Father. It just rolls off the tongue better, is all. Go on.’
‘Bless ye the Lord and praise Him forever.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Well, it goes on about Fowls of the Air and the Beasts and the Cattle and so forth.’
‘No, no. I can’t be bothered with Fowls of the Air, nor the Beasts and the Cattle. Let them look after themselves. It’s only the Whales I am interested in.’
‘Well, then, there you have it.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ beamed Salty. ‘It will do very nicely.’
‘Good luck!’
‘Yes, Father. And good luck to you also.’ This last delivered with a broad wink, and a nod towards me. And with that, the self-proclaimed Professor of Whales hurried back to Mrs Guthridge.
‘Sorry about that,’ said John Beck, after a moment, turning back to me.
‘That’s all right,’ I replied. ‘But what did Salty mean exactly when he said he had taken your advice?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he responded, somewhat sheepishly. ‘But for whatever reason, he
appears to be pretending to be a Methodist minister.’
‘Good heavens! Him too?’ I riposted. ‘It is practically an epidemic.’
At which he threw back his head and laughed. And leaning in towards me, he then suggested in a low voice that perhaps it would not be a bad idea to step outside and take some air, to which I agreed that yes, it was really quite stuffy in the hall. Prising Violet off my lap, I followed him out. And there ensued a short stroll in the moonlight, the details of which I shall keep entirely to myself, except to say there was no further talk of washing up; in fact, not much in the way of talking at all.
When To Marry
Marry when the year is new
Always loving, kind and true
When February birds do mate
You may wed, nor dread your fate
If you wed when March winds blow
Joy and sorrow both you’ll know
Marry in April when you can
Joy for maiden and for man
Marry in the month of May
You will surely rue the day
Marry when June roses grow
Over land and sea you’ll go
Those who in July do wed
Must labour always for their bread
Whoever wed in August be
Many a change are sure to see
Marry in September’s shine
Your living will be rich and fine
If in October you do marry
Love will come, but riches tarry
If you are wed in bleak November
Only joy will come, remember
When December’s snows fall fast,
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