The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean

by Robertson, Mira;

  ‘That was before we came and changed the watercourses,’ Uncle Cec had explained to her once. ‘Back when the blacks roamed the land.’

  She had wanted to know what had happened to the blacks. Where were they now? Uncle Cec had gone vague and mumbled something about progress and civilisation before changing the topic, warning her not to go swimming in the swamp. ‘The first layer’s warm enough but underneath it’s cold as charity, and there are holes you can’t see, big enough to swallow a cow.’ He made her promise to be careful.

  At last she came to a stop beside the cattle ramp. Nearby grew a twisted old peppercorn tree and she sank down in its shade, feeling weak. Why hadn’t she brought water? At least she had the apricots. If she was careful, they should last until she reached the station. Or until an obliging farmer with a bottle of water and a bag of crisp apples stopped to pick her up. She took an apricot from her pocket and bit into it, the sweet juice flooding her mouth. The second and third apricots went the way of the first, as she imagined herself in the comfort of the farmer’s truck, the fence posts whizzing past. She leaned against the trunk of the peppercorn, her eyes closing. She must get up and keep walking, the sooner the better. She couldn’t be late. Whatever happened, she mustn’t be late for the train.

  It rattled along with a clackety-clack. Home soon, home soon, she sang in time to the train wheels turning. Her throat was burning and dry; she had nothing to drink. A woman came in and offered her a glass of water but, when she took it, the glass was empty and the woman gave a harsh laugh and vanished. After that she found herself walking along the passage peering into all the compartments. Two schoolgirls were drinking tea from china teacups with roses on them, but the door to the compartment was stuck, and when she tapped on the glass one of the girls gestured angrily for her to go away. It couldn’t be? Was it … Dorothy? She tried to call out her name but no sound emerged. In desperation she banged on the glass with her fist. Dorothy turned away just as the glass shattered.

  Emily woke with a start and sat up. Beads of sweat ran down her face and neck, and her heart was thumping. At first, trapped in the dream world where people appeared and disappeared at random, she thought that the young man standing a few feet away was just another apparition.

  ‘I’m awake,’ she said aloud, to check that it was really so, and to see if he would vanish. But he was still there, and she felt her stomach lurch. Adrenaline shot through her system and she leaped up, ready to run. But which way to go? He was standing in the way, saying something that she couldn’t understand. Was she in a dream after all? One where people babbled in strange languages? She grabbed the suitcase and held it against herself like a shield.

  ‘Stay away from me.’ It was meant to sound authoritative, but her voice let her down and the me came out as a squeak.

  The young man was making calming gestures with one hand, and she noticed that he had a long-handled shovel over his other shoulder with a canvas waterbag hooked on the end.

  ‘Is okay, is okay. No need for fright.’

  He was wearing what looked like an army uniform but, instead of the usual khaki, it was the colour of a blood plum. A curl of black hair poked through the hole in his old felt hat. He put his free hand on his chest and smiled at her. It was hard not to smile back.

  ‘My name is Claudio. And you?’ He gestured towards her.

  She shook her head, knowing her voice would betray her with another squeak, and anyway she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to reveal her name. The monologue in her head continued. What sort of name was Cloudio? Like a cloud with an io, like cheerio. And didn’t he know it was rude to stare at people? She realised she’d been staring at him ever since her abrupt awakening, but that was different somehow. She might be in danger.

  Suddenly he swept off his hat and the shovel on his shoulder swung precariously. ‘My name is Claudio,’ he repeated. ‘I am from Italia.’

  He continued to speak, reverting to the earlier foreign babble, which she now recognised as sounding like Mr Donati, the Italian greengrocer from whom her mother bought their fruit and vegetables. What was he saying, and why, when it was clear that she couldn’t understand? She took the opportunity to examine him. His hair was black and curly, and his eyes were almost black too. Mysterious, unlike the pale cornflower blue eyes of the boys on the morning tram. She wondered how old he was. Older than the pimply schoolboys, she was sure. He must be at least twenty. She was forgetting that she might be in danger.

  ‘Prison of war.’

  The words jolted her back into the present. ‘What?’

  ‘Prison of war. Me,’ he said.

  What had Della said? Something about feeding the enemy. Was this who she’d meant? It must be him. She was alone with the enemy.

  Claudio pointed to himself and repeated his name for the third time. ‘And you?’ he asked again.

  Perhaps she ought to play along. After all, what did it matter if she said her name?

  ‘Emily.’

  He smiled. ‘Emilia.’

  She smiled too; it seemed like the safest thing to do even though he had mispronounced her name.

  ‘Where you wanna going?’

  She looked down at the suitcase, still clutched to her stomach, and tried, as casually as she could, to lower it into a more natural position.

  ‘Train.’

  Claudio nodded. ‘Long way, no? How you are walking?’

  Emily detected a note of scepticism in his voice and wished that she did not feel so dizzy. She hadn’t even left the farm – property – and the train wouldn’t wait. She had to go now, immediately. She took two steps and then her legs gave way and she slumped down like a bag of oats falling off the back of the cart.

  Claudio dropped his shovel and ran forwards with a cry. ‘Emilia!’

  ‘Water,’ she whispered.

  He unhooked the waterbag, pulling the cork from the spout and, with a supportive arm around her shoulders, drizzled water into her mouth. She gulped it greedily – the cool musty water had never tasted so delicious.

  By the time she had drunk her fill, the dizziness had passed and she felt quite normal again. It was time to continue her journey.

  Claudio helped her up and held out her suitcase. She imagined her hand grasping the handle, her feet moving forwards through the arch. She saw herself marching along the road with iron-willed determination, repeating where there’s a will, there’s a way. But an opposing inner voice began to make itself heard. The station was miles off, and if nobody drove past, she’d never make it on time. The plan was childish. It wasn’t even a plan; it was just running away. She was stuck between the impossibility of reaching the train station and the embarrassment that awaited on turning around. How could she explain her second arrival in the space of twenty-four hours – this time on foot, dragging her suitcase? There seemed to be no way out of her dilemma when Claudio spoke.

  ‘Go back, eh? Too far, by jingo.’

  Despite how gloomy she felt, hearing Uncle Cec’s expression made her smile.

  ‘I carry her,’ he said, gesturing to the suitcase. He nodded as if to affirm his decision. And then without waiting for her to agree, he hoisted the shovel over one shoulder and, with the suitcase in his other hand, set off towards the homestead. She wanted to tell him to stop and that he had no right, but her feet were already in motion.

  They walked together along the drive. She was surprised to find that the lack of conversation was not uncomfortable, and had just made a vow never to prattle on again, when the silence was broken by a sharp whistle from some way off. Claudio stopped. There it was again, followed by the sound of Uncle Cec calling his dog.

  Claudio threw the shovel down in the long grass beside the drive, grabbed her hand and jerked her towards the nearest pine. They crouched down behind the tree. He put a finger to his lips, and she complied, for she dreaded having to explain her presence to Uncle Cec, and supposed that Claudio felt the same way even if she did not know why.

  She pressed her cheek
against the rough trunk and watched a row of ants as they marched past in single file. She felt the warmth of Claudio’s body next to her and heard his breathing. He was still gripping her hand, and her fingers had begun to grow numb. When she pulled it away, he did not seem to notice.

  They waited together. A minute ticked by. The ants began to abandon their original path for a short cut over the parts of her pressed against the tree. Then she heard the sound of hooves on the gravel drive. Peeping around the edge of the tree, she saw Uncle Cec and another man, riding along at a leisurely pace. A brown dog trotted behind them. As they got closer, she saw the other rider was Roy. When they were in line with the tree, Roy looked across and their eyes connected. She whipped back behind the tree, waiting for the inevitable.

  ‘Emilia?’ Claudio whispered. She shook her head, sure that they were about to be flushed from their hiding place. But it did not happen. Instead, the sound of hooves gradually faded.

  When they could no longer hear anything, Claudio rose. He stepped around the trunk, and soon signalled the all clear. They hurried on, with Claudio striding out so that every few steps she had to break into a run to keep up. Nothing was said, and now that they were once more on their way, all she could think of was reaching the house before anyone had discovered her absence, if in fact it was not already too late.

  Claudio opened the orchard gate. They wove across and reached the verandah where William’s old punching bag hung. He put her case down by the French doors, smiled and then pressed a finger to his lips once more. She nodded and, before she could thank him, he was gone.

  She was still thinking about how white his teeth were when she heard Grandmother calling her name. There was just enough time to enter the room, shove the suitcase under the bed and sit at the dressing table before Grandmother hurried past the open bedroom door. A second later, she reappeared.

  ‘Where on earth have you been? We’ve been searching high and low for you.’

  Emily heard in her mind her mother declaiming: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. Often, just for good measure, her mother would add: Remember, if you want to tell a fib keep it simple. On one such occasion Father had been writing his sermon with the study door open and had interjected that teaching one’s child to lie was thoroughly irresponsible.

  ‘Emily?’ Grandmother prompted.

  ‘I went for a walk and forgot the time,’ she mumbled, focusing on her feet, knowing that her lie would collapse under the scrutiny of Grandmother’s sharp gaze. When she dared to look up, having arranged her face in a suitably innocent expression, something unexpected happened: more words tumbled out.

  ‘I can’t stay until Easter. I have to go back to school. I know Cousin Eunice was a governess but I’m too old for a governess, and she doesn’t know any Latin, and anyway … I can’t …’ She sputtered to a stop.

  Grandmother was staring at her. ‘Easter? Eunice, a governess?’

  ‘Did someone call my name?’ Eunice arrived at the doorway, somewhat belatedly for her.

  Grandmother turned to her. ‘You never told me you were a governess.’

  ‘A governess?’ Eunice looked bewildered. ‘Never.’

  ‘What’s all this nonsense? Really, Emily, I thought you had more sense. You can’t possibly stay here until Easter – it’s out of the question.’

  For a second she felt offended. Why shouldn’t she stay? And then relief flooded in as the full import of Grandmother’s words took effect. Lydia had got it wrong. It was all a mistake.

  ‘What a waste of a morning,’ Grandmother added huffily. ‘And you’ve missed breakfast too. Come along, perhaps Della can find something for you.’

  Emily followed Grandmother to the kitchen where, to her great relief, the crumbed brains had all been eaten by the early risers.

  ‘What about a cup of tea and a scone?’ Della suggested. ‘There might be a scrap of apricot jam going spare.’

  Emily was dabbing her finger onto the plate to get the last crumbs of the scone when Lydia wandered in.

  ‘So they found you,’ she said, as she filled the kettle at the sink. ‘Caused quite a kerfuffle.’

  ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Everyone was worried.’

  ‘Not that. I mean about Easter and Eunice giving me lessons. Grandmother says it’s not true.’

  Lydia put the kettle on the stove, pulled out a chair opposite Emily and sat down.

  ‘Oh, that. You didn’t believe me, did you? You knew I was joking.’

  She stared at the empty plate. What a pathetic idiot she was.

  5

  FOLLOWING THE DISCOVERY THAT SHE would not have to stay until Easter, Emily abandoned her fantasies of running away and resigned herself to staying at Mount Prospect until the school year began. It was only five weeks anyway, which sounded quite manageable until she counted it out in days.

  But after a week of Eunice’s endless list of jobs, a day at Mount Prospect was beginning to feel like a month. Eunice was always on the lookout for idle hands and seemed determined that Emily should pay her way.

  That morning when, expecting an ally, she’d complained to Della, the cook had been unsympathetic.

  ‘It’s like the chooks, there’s got to be a pecking order,’ she said. ‘You’re on the bottom.’

  The chook comparison was apt as they were cleaning out the chook yard at the time. Or at least she was; Della was sitting on a stump, instructing her, now that it was one of her morning chores. It used to be Old Stan’s job – Emily recalled that he did the odd jobs and helped in the garden. But he was no longer around and, except for Roy, nor were any of the station hands and workmen who’d always been there in the background. Men with names like Mick, Ernie and Jim.

  ‘Where are all the men?’ she asked Della.

  ‘War. Where do you think?’

  ‘Even Old Stan?’

  ‘Course not. He’s too old and, anyway, he’s got the rheumatism, poor bugger. Moved into town.’

  Emily put the last of the clean straw in the nesting boxes, wondering why Roy hadn’t joined up. Was it because he was black? She knew the Aborigines didn’t have the vote. They were not citizens either, which was confusing. If they weren’t even citizens, what were they? Her father said it was a disgrace, a stain on the whole country.

  ‘What about Roy?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He hasn’t joined up. Aren’t they allowed? Aborigines, I mean.’

  ‘Course they are. Albie and Ray Fenton are blackfellas. Joined up quick smart.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t Roy?’

  Ignoring her, Della heaved herself off the stump. ‘Right. I can’t stand around yacking with you all day. Make sure you clean out the trough, and don’t forget the bucket.’ At the chook yard gate, she stopped and looked back. ‘Reckons he’ll join up when blackfellas get treated right.’

  Emily watched the cook head off to the house.

  She swished the straw broom along the shallow trough, getting rid of the dirty water. Did Roy mean that he was not treated right at Mount Prospect? Or was he talking about Aboriginal people in general? Either way, it made her feel uncomfortable and she almost wished Della hadn’t said anything.

  Later the same day, she finally began Middlemarch. Reading at the kitchen table, with Della and Florrie busy around her, she was expecting Eunice to turn up at any moment with an additional task for her list; it added a nervous intensity to the whole endeavour. She turned a page, wondering how she would ever get to the end of such an enormous tome. She was only at chapter two and already there were things about the novel that were quite unnerving. For example, the heroine’s name, Dorothea, was a constant reminder of Dorothy. And Mr Casaubon, for whom she had developed an instant dislike, was a reverend like her father. But Dorothea seemed nothing like Dorothy, and nor did Mr Casaubon resemble her father. If only she could stop thinking about them as she read.

  It was a relief to find herself distracted by the conve
rsation between Della and Florrie, who were rolling out pastry for jam tarts at the other end of the table.

  ‘Whatsisname reckons he’s going to show us how to make spaghetti the proper way.’

  Della called Claudio Whatsisname or, sometimes, Mussolini, although not to his face. Claudio was no sort of name for a man. Despite keeping an eye out for him, Emily had scarcely seen him since that first morning. She knew that sometimes he and Roy ate dinner in the kitchen with Della and Florrie, and she’d felt sure that by helping with the dishes each evening, she might run into him, but it had not yet occurred.

  ‘What’s the proper way?’ Florrie asked, pressing a pastry circle into the tart tin.

  ‘How would I know? The Eye-tie way I ’spect.’

  ‘When?’ Emily startled herself, having only meant to think the question.

  Della and Florrie both swivelled their heads in her direction. She tried to smile nonchalantly.

  ‘This arvo, if Mr Cec doesn’t need him,’ Della replied.

  Emily shrugged and returned to her book. Her eyes moved across the page without taking anything in. ‘I could help if you like,’ she said without lifting her head. She continued her pretend reading, relieved when the cook agreed, on the basis of many hands making light work.

  The conversation moved on to other things, and she let their voices recede into the background and picked up the thread of her novel again. It was clear that Dorothea was going to make a terrible mistake and reading of the heroine’s wrong-headedness made her feel increasingly agitated.

  After lunch, she found herself lingering near the kitchen door, having swept the back verandah without any prompting from Eunice. Della came out to empty the ash can just as she began to sweep it for the second time and she felt the cook’s eagle eye on her. It was best to pretend not to notice. How could she admit to Della that she was awaiting Claudio’s arrival with such anticipation? It was far too revealing.