Rush Oh!

by Shirley Barrett

  Did his sudden departure, so soon after that of Darcy and Louisa, add weight to her charge that he had assisted in their elopement? Certainly my father thought so. My own natural inclination was to believe that in denying knowledge of their elopement, John Beck had given a truthful account to my father, and thus I argued in his defence that Louisa had simply invented the story as a way of saving face. (What contact did she have with Edenites, I wonder, to learn of this supposed gossip concerning her marital status? I myself had not been privy to any such talk, but perhaps I was excluded owing to the fact that I was her sister. Certainly I was familiar with the abrupt cessation of conversation whenever I walked into a shop; the glancing over shoulders, the whispering behind hands. Nonetheless, my general impression was that the question of whether or not Darcy and Louisa were legally wed paled into insignificance when compared to the larger scandal of her running away with a blackfellow.)

  Besides, I argued to my father, when would this supposed marriage have taken place? Somewhere in the darkness outside the School of Arts on the night of the ball? That seemed preposterous; also, the note that she had left in the kitchen indicated that they were ‘to be married’, not already married. This leaves us with the unlikely scenario that they had somehow met up in Yambulla, whereupon John Beck had seized the opportunity to preside over their nuptials. It is all simply implausible, or so I argued to my father. But since that time, I have grown gradually less certain. For I began to think about the dates.

  Checking the envelope of Louisa’s letter from Coonabarabran, I saw that it was postmarked June 1910. She and Darcy absconded sometime on the night of 22 November 1908. In her letter, she writes of having a son, and expecting her second child ‘any day now’. It takes only the most rudimentary arithmetic to work out that Louisa was expecting Darcy’s child when they absconded; in truth, I imagine the knowledge of her condition is what compelled them to run away in the first place. I can also see how, in desperation, Darcy might have confided in John Beck under the mulberry trees outside the School of Arts, and begged him to marry them so that the child might at least not be born out of wedlock. Clearly plagued with misgivings (for had I not witnessed him shaking his head amidst Darcy’s pleadings?), John Beck may nonetheless have seen that he could not well refuse. The horse had already bolted, as it were; confronted with this, he may have felt it his duty, as a decent man and a Christian, if not as an actual Methodist minister, to ensure that at the very least their child was born within the holy ties of matrimony.

  As I say, I cannot be certain; I merely see that it is possible now, whereas at the time I could not. In some ways, accepting Louisa’s version of events makes his abrupt departure less painful to me, for I can see how he may have feared that his role in events would eventually be revealed, as indeed it was. No doubt the consequences for him – had he stayed to suffer them – would have been calamitous. Thus the unhappy chain of circumstances combined in such a way as to render it impossible for him to stay, even in spite of his evident feelings for me. In seeking happiness with her true love, my sister – who can say? perhaps inadvertently – deprived me of my chance of the same.

  Our Aboriginal whale men had a strange story about green frog mussings. I never understood it completely, but they said that if you powdered up a green frog, then put it in a handkerchief and waved the handkerchief around with the ‘mussings’, people would go all funny. If you liked a woman and you waved the mussings, then she would follow you and never leave you. They said it was possible to get any woman you wanted if you had these mussings. The woman would never even realise she’d been mussinged.

  There were murmurings at the time that maybe Darcy had used the green frog mussings on Louisa, but I did not believe this. Those two had liked each other since childhood; it was plain enough to see. But particularly as the years went by, I did sometimes feel as if I had been mussinged by John Beck.

  The Silverware in Situ

  A few weeks after the departure of Louisa and Darcy and John Beck, Dan and I were in the kitchen cutting up plums for jam when I heard the first distant ‘Hell-o-o thar!’ of Mr Crowther’s approach. We looked at each other very sadly, for of course this made us think of the handsome Sphinx which sat silently in the front room.

  ‘Perhaps we should hide the plums, or he will eat them all,’ said Dan, which we proceeded to do. On this occasion at least, I had no need to rustle up any cakes for Mr Crowther, as Louisa’s elopement had brought on a flurry of visitors anxious for more details, each of them bearing fruitcake. I suppose due to its sombre, substantial nature and the fact that it keeps indefinitely, fruitcake was considered the appropriate offering. And yet none of us liked it much. We were much more in need of something really delicious to lift our mood – a good sponge with whipped cream and strawberries, or a chocolate cake. But perhaps that would have seemed too festive, even frivolous, given the circumstances.

  My father heard Mr Crowther too, and he came into the kitchen and emptied his money pouch onto the table. He counted out fourteen shillings and threepence, and passed the coins to me.

  ‘Here is our instalment,’ he said. ‘Tell Mr Crowther that I have gone into Eden. And don’t mention the business with Louisa.’

  ‘But maybe we should mention it,’ I said. ‘After all, he travels all over the district. He might keep a lookout for us. Perhaps he may even have heard something.’

  ‘He is a gossip,’ said my father. ‘That is why he is coming here in the first place. Normally he would not be expected till the New Year.’

  And with that, he headed off to hide out down in the try-works, leaving us to slice the fruitcake and open the gate for Mr Crowther.

  It was Mr Crowther himself who brought up the subject of Louisa and Darcy, within minutes of settling himself down to his afternoon tea and asking us once again if we did not consider the Wunderlich ceilings to be at once durable and fire-resistant, and yet stylish and attractive. He accepted the instalment of fourteen shillings threepence with a slight raise of his eyebrows, and as he wrote out the receipt he remarked that he had wondered if we would continue to pay off the Singer’s instalments, seeing as how Louisa could have no further use for it.

  ‘No further use for it?’ I cried. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, forgive me for mentioning it, but did she not run away with one of the blackfellows?’

  I suppose it gives some indication of the efficacy of our self-protective armour that in a bad situation such as this, where something is changed irrevocably, some small part within us keeps desperately hoping that things are not truly as they as seem, and in fact will very soon be restored to order. Although I knew the reality to be otherwise, this small deluded part of me continued to blithely hope, perhaps even expect, that Louisa would shortly return and conduct her life exactly as before, scowling and avoiding the dishes and doing battle with the Sphinx in the front room. It was not until Mr Crowther expressed Louisa’s departure in terms of ‘having no further use for the Singer’ that this small hopeful voice within me seemed to finally comprehend the reality of her being gone. It was as if he had slapped me hard across the face. I began to cry and found myself unable to speak for several minutes. Dan stood awkwardly by my side, patting me on the shoulder.

  Of course, Mr Crowther was aghast that he had reduced me to tears in this fashion. He leapt up at once and volunteered to give the Singer a look-over and a touch of oil, and then he disappeared into the front room until he considered it would be safe to return. Whereupon he informed us that the Sphinx seemed to be in excellent working order; and that with Christmas upon us, he had much to do and regrettably must be on his way. I was so delighted to hear this that I wrapped up a slab of fruitcake and pressed it upon him, and then I accompanied him to his sulky.

  ‘Mr Crowther,’ I said, as he climbed up to the driver’s seat, ‘if you hear of any news of Louisa in your travels, we would be most grateful if you could let us know.’

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bsp; ‘Of course, of course. I will keep my ear to the ground,’ said Mr Crowther. ‘You may be sure of that.’

  ‘By the way,’ he said, as he picked up the reins, ‘what became of that Methodist minister fellow you had here?’

  ‘Oh, do you mean John Beck?’ I responded, happy to have a reason to say his name aloud. ‘I believe he may be currently working a small lease at Yambulla.’

  ‘Yambulla? Is that so?’ he said, and a slight smile spread across his face. ‘As it happens, I am headed in that direction.’

  ‘Will you please pass on my best to him, if you do see him?’ I said.

  ‘Pass on your best? Well, I suppose I could,’ he said. ‘After I have notified the relevant authorities.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe him to be an imposter, with a string of prior convictions, including larceny and attempted murder. If he left you with any of your silver, then you can consider yourself very fortunate.’

  I stood there and stared at him, my mouth gaping open. He tipped his cap and urged his horse to move; the sulky rattled out the gate. I closed the gate behind him, and stood there waving till the sulky had disappeared around the curve in the road; then I turned and ran full pelt back inside, straight into the front room. The only silver we possessed was a cruet set, some napkin holders and a soup ladle, which were kept in the top drawer of the old bureau. It was a sticky old drawer and required a certain technique to pull it open; nonetheless, using brute force, I managed. There was our silverware, in situ and in need of a polish, just as I knew it would be. Mr Crowther had been wrong about John Beck.

  The Rawleigh’s Ointment Man

  For the past five years, since my father died, I have been living in the suburb of Ryde with my younger sister Vi (Violet), her husband Jim, and their three children, Margaret, Lionel and George. It is not an especially large house, but I have the back room, a covered-in verandah, and I find it quite suitable for my needs. Certainly it is a thoroughfare, as it leads to the backyard and the WC; also the laundry. However, I find that by hanging a thick curtain, which can be drawn or left open, I can retain a sense of privacy when required.

  Further, the house is situated two streets from the Methodist church, with which I am now quite involved. I am a member of both the choir and the Ladies’ Guild, and for two years now I have served as secretary of our branch of the Methodist Women’s Fellowship, in which capacity I have taught myself to type. At one point, I was considering perhaps even becoming involved in missionary work, inspired by the great work of a visiting missionary, Reverend Loftus, amongst the Aborigines near Alice Springs. (What a great shame there are no whales in Alice Springs, for the Aboriginal people are such excellent whalers.) Ultimately, however, he discouraged me, citing that it was no place really for a woman, and that perhaps I was doing more useful work here with my coconut tartlets (this said with a smile), of which he was a great admirer. A pity, as I should very much like to have seen Ayers Rock. Nonetheless, he was correct in suggesting that we perform our share of good work here on the home front. In fact, I was earlier typing up a list of our activities for our annual meeting (Mrs Lunn, our president, would have me type up the Old Testament if she could, and then roneo a hundred copies – she feels it somehow imperative that I be ‘kept busy’ with these innumerable petty tasks she dreams up for me). Anyway, I shall copy it out here, for it offers an interesting indication of the breadth of our activities:

  ‘M.W.F. (Ryde Branch) – Annual Report of Pastoral Activities – 1938

  77 visits to the sick

  109 trays of food distributed

  26 bouquets

  63 visits to shut-ins

  48 letters and cards sent

  250 garments repaired and sent to Aboriginal Mission (N.T.) and Foreign Mission (East Bengal)

  £35 raised for the Church Building Fund through various teas and socials etc., which went a long way towards assisting in the much-needed recent addition of the WC.’

  Our minister, the Reverend Davis, is somewhat elderly and his sermons rather dry; however, he is shortly to retire, and we are promised that his replacement is to be a good deal younger and known for his ‘great sense of humour’. I confess to looking forward to the change; occasionally Reverend Davis will attempt a humorous quip to enliven proceedings, but mostly he abstains from much in the way of frivolity. He is certainly not the type to roll up his sleeves and show me his arm muscles, nor do I imagine him to be proficient at cards; still, I suppose these are hardly prerequisites for the position.

  Vi and Jim run a small printing business which keeps them quite busy, so I have been able to make myself useful by looking after the children whilst they are at work (although admittedly the children are getting older now and don’t require much looking after; in fact, Margaret is nineteen and engaged to be married). I would gladly cook for the family except Jim is finicky about food and prefers that Vi do most of the cooking: I sometimes joke with him that he is as bad as the whalers as regards his digestive intolerances. Still, I make a lot of cakes and slices, which keep the boys content, especially after school when they are always ravenous.

  I am very fond of all the children, and I like to think they are fond of me; we rub along together reasonably well. The youngest, George, takes a great deal after his late uncle Dan; he is only twelve years old and yet he has taken up smoking! As we are often home alone together after school, it is a secret we keep from his parents: at times, I have even found myself procuring his tobacco. Of all the grandchildren, he is the one most interested in whaling, and I suppose it is particularly for George that I set out to write this memoir. When he was a few years younger, he would insist that I tell him whaling stories at bedtime, particularly those that involved the heroic antics of Tom and his chums. ‘What did Tom do then?’ he would always ask at the end of the story, with the whale dead and the Killer whales leaping out of the water triumphantly. ‘Well, then Tom was feeling very sleepy, and so he took himself off to Blanket Bay,’ I would reply. ‘Goodnight.’

  I often think it a great pity that George cannot bend to the oars and chase down a whale himself, as have the generations of Davidson men before him. I feel similarly about Lionel, who at fifteen is worrying his mother by knocking about with a crowd of local lads who consider themselves hoodlums. There has been some drinking and some broken windows; once a policeman brought him home after he had been caught trying to break into the local bowling club. Vi is very hard on him, understandably, yet I find myself saying to her: ‘What do you expect? He is a Davidson! He should be out whaling.’ To which she replies, especially if Jim is present: ‘He is not a Davidson, he is a McGynty.’ Yet I know deep down she agrees with me. There was something about whaling that straightened a boy out.

  Telling George these stories and having to go back to the scrapbooks to refresh my memory set me to thinking about writing some of these stories down in more detail, particularly now that I have a typewriter. Jim has even suggested he may print up several copies, so that various members of the family might have one; that is, he always goes on to say with a smile and a roll of his eyes, if I ever finish it. And so almost every morning during the working week, if I have had no other activities involving the church, I have set up my typewriter on the kitchen table, and typed up my recollections to the very best of my ability. Dusty, our house cat, keeps me company, sitting at the back door making small squeaking noises at a pair of mynah birds who visit each day to steal the remains of her cat food. Occasionally she will sit beside me as I type and stare disapprovingly at my work, but as she is not really allowed on the kitchen table, I only tolerate this in small doses. She was sitting here a moment ago, but now she has become bored and jumped down to go and wash herself in the afternoon sunshine spilling through the back door.

  The process of writing has brought back a great many memories, and although many of them have been painful, it has nonetheless been a rewarding experien
ce to go back and live for a few hours each day in that particular year of my life. Reading it through, I see that I have gone on about John Beck rather more than I intended, and certainly I will remove those chapters before I allow anyone else to peruse them. After all, it is simply meant to be an account of one particular whaling season, concerning itself mostly with the trials of whaling and the antics of the Killer whales, perhaps lightly touching on some of the characters of the time. I find these days when I tell new acquaintances that my father was a whaler, many of them respond in a horrified fashion, and that is before I even go into the details, and so now I am inclined to keep mum on the subject altogether. I’m sure some members of the congregation would be astounded to learn that Miss Davidson with the grey frizz in the second row of the choir once fired a whale gun at a Killer whale! (And missed, I am relieved to say.)

  Quite recently – only a few months ago, in fact – as I sat typing in the kitchen, there came a knock at the front door. I opened the door to find a nice-looking young man in his early thirties, swarthy in complexion. Hung from his neck was an open display case which contained an array of salves and ointments. ‘Excuse me for bothering you,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if I could interest you in some Rawleigh’s ointment today. We’re also pleased to announce a new product, Rawleigh’s Ready Relief, containing eucalyptus oil. You’ll find it beneficial for a variety of conditions, suitable for man or beast.’

  In fact, we already had an ancient container of Rawleigh’s ointment in the bathroom cupboard which Vi used on George’s chest whenever he had catarrh; nonetheless, mention of the Ready Relief, suitable for man or beast, piqued my interest. Dusty had at the time a rather large and unsightly abscess on her face from brawling with our neighbour’s tabby, and I wondered aloud if this might help her. He listened with interest as I described her condition, and then he enquired if he might have a look at her; ‘that is, if she is up to receiving visitors’.