Four Fires

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Ach, it is not so easy. In a university is always politics and ambition. I think better we know za vote before waiting for za official result.’

  ‘If we can win this one it will mean more than simply a win for Sarah, if we do it well it can be the beginning of something a lot bigger.’ Mrs Barrington-Stone smiles, ‘One of the great learning institutions of the land is not a bad place to start a gender revolution.’

  ‘Lots of luck, Mrs B.S., I don’t think the blokes are gunna give in that easy,’ Big Jack says in his laconic way.

  ‘Do you think I am too aggressive, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, but understand you’re in for a real fight,’ Big Jack replies. He looks Mrs Barrington-Stone in the eye, ‘Matter of fact, I’ve had to swallow a few objections myself in the past few days, when I’ve got annoyed with something you’ve said. But I’ve bit my lip and then afterwards thought about whatever it was you said and decided you’re mostly right. Men, for the most part, don’t think women should be able to challenge their authority and they do think they know better, so women just have to cop it sweet.’ He smiles, ‘They’re not going to give you an inch, you’re going to have to fight to the death for everything you gain and, remember, they will be the ones to dictate the terms of engagement.’

  ‘Oh, but I love a fight!’ Mrs Barrington-Stone laughs. ‘If I had been born a man I feel sure I would have been a boxer. When I was ferrying Spitfires to the various air bases in Britain, I had a burning, almost irresistible desire to join a dogfight. To get in among the Messerschmitts and give them what for. Had there been any means to arm the aircraft I was flying, I feel sure I would have joined in. Does that seem strange to you coming from a woman?’

  Morrie looks at her, ‘To fly is enough strange, to fight in za air is crazy.’

  ‘Battle of Britain, eh? Always seemed like an easy way to die to me,’ Big Jack Donovan observes. ‘Wouldn’t do it unless I had to, I guess.’

  ‘It wasn’t only the excitement it was also the injustice! I couldn’t stand the injustice of Germany trying to ride roughshod over a little island, over a people who had never provoked them. That was why I wanted to fight. Bullying and arrogance and injustice. This is the same fight, Sarah like so many of our gender is being judged and possibly punished for a biological factor that is as much the male’s responsibility as the female’s. In the meantime, young Templeton is no doubt being heralded as a sporting hero at Duntroon. I simply cannot abide the injustice, the sheer hypocrisy and the arrogance of the whole thing.’

  ‘Hang on, Mrs B.S., the review committee hasn’t made the decision yet,’ Big Jack reminds her.

  ‘That’s just it, Jack! It shouldn’t even be convening. Can’t you see there is no moral or ethical decision to make?’

  ‘Perhaps a practical one?’ Big Jack Donovan suggests,

  ‘Sarah is pregnant after all?’

  ‘No! Not even that. Sarah’s pregnancy is her own concern and not theirs and she doesn’t have to answer to them for the physiological changes taking place in her body. Her entrance marks have earned her the right to become a medical student regardless of gender. Nothing more should be required. Providing she observes the common rules set out and which are equal for both genders, she should have equal rights. If she fails academically, whatever the reason, then they are entitled to terminate her course, but that would be the same with a male student. There can be no practical reasons for excluding her unless, of course, she has an infectious or dangerous disease or is a disruptive influence to the detriment of the other students. What we are fighting is the seemingly God-given right of public institutions to make rules that are patently designed to militate against and to disadvantage women.’

  Big Jack Donovan smiles at this, ‘I must admit I’ve never thought about it much, but you’re right, Mrs B.S. Gawd help us if you ever decide to take on the police force, now there’s an institution that knows a woman’s place and it certainly ain’t in a pair of regulation size-twelve copper’s boots!’

  The first outward sign that things were working was when Mrs Billings phoned Mrs Barrington-Stone in Yankalillee to report that the first date for the meeting had been agreed upon. She went on to express her surprise, saying that this had never happened before and it was usually the last date that was reluctantly complied with.

  ‘You know how it is? Men must appear to be too busy to serve on committees and always insist on being given sufficient time to clear their desks for the half day required for a hearing. It’s all nonsense, of course, they won’t be any busier this week than they will be in three weeks’ time. It’s all about posturing and ego!’ Celia Billings pauses, ‘Mrs Barrington-Stone, you’ve worked a miracle to get them to the hearing on the first date and I can’t imagine how you’ve done it.’

  ‘Ah, my dear Mrs Billings, men constantly underestimate the determination of women armed with a just cause, especially when it is their wives. And may I say, you, my dear, are an admirable example of this same quality.’ It was the nicest compliment anyone had ever paid Celia Billings and as she put down the receiver she knew she would happily crawl over broken glass for her.

  It was a promising start. There remained one last touch for which Big Jack Donovan was responsible. Whether in the end this was a good idea or not will never be known, it was what Big Jack called ‘adding a touch of uncertainty’. He visited Russell Street police station where an old mate of his was in charge.

  On the morning of the twenty-second of March, as each of the review committee members drove out of his driveway he was met by a motorcycle cop who was briefed to greet him in more or less these words: ‘Good morning, sir, I am instructed to escort you to the university. Would you mind following me please.’ If there was an objection or a request for a reason, the policeman was simply to say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, afraid I don’t know, all I’ve been told is that you are attending an important meeting at the university and I am to see that you are not caught up in the rush-hour traffic.’

  Interestingly enough, the younger members of the review committee take it in their stride, some even thinking it might be fun. But the older ones challenge the policeman, demanding to know why and who authorised the escort and, in turn, receive the standard reply. But in the end, despite their protests, they all find themselves following a motorcycle cop who, during the busier sections along the way, uses his siren to clear the traffic ahead.

  The policeman drives right up to the gates of the university and dismounts, leaving his motorcycle parked in the centre of the driveway and directly in front of the car he has been escorting. He then walks up to the driver and salutes. ‘Good day and good luck in the meeting this morning, sir,’ he says and returns smartly to his motorbike.

  That was all that was said, no names, no pack drill, the effect of the unexpected motorcycle escort hopefully leaving the committee member more than a little bemused, not sure who might have sanctioned the police escort or why they had chosen to do so.

  After all, they would tell themselves, the meeting was essentially a domestic issue involving the Faculty of Medicine and not of great importance to the university. But now they would be forced to speculate. Was it the Premier’s Department? The Department of Education? The University Council? They would have to conclude that some outside authority was aware of the reason for the meeting and thought it important enough to send a police escort to ensure they were not late. There would be no time to make inquiries, they would go into the meeting with the disconcerting feeling they were being watched without knowing by whom or why.

  While admitting it was a risky move, Big Jack explained his reasons. ‘I reckon these blokes in the uni think of it as a sort of private club. They make the rules and they don’t have to answer for the consequences of their actions, so they’ll make things as easy as they can for themselves. But if they think someone from the outside, someone with the power to question them, is interested in the decision, they may j
ust think the issue out a little more carefully.’

  Mrs Barrington-Stone sighs, ‘Well, it’s drawing a long bow, but I can’t think of anything more we can do and if it makes them think a little harder that’s all to the good. It’s such a pity we’re dealing with doctors who are also academics. A thoroughly nasty combination if you want my opinion. They’re both arrogant vocations and these two in the same individual will make him feel that he is answerable only to God.’

  The morning of the review is one of those days where you know that the autumn weather has finally come. A crisp breeze is blowing in from the mountains and the first cardigans of the year are seen on the street.

  Mrs Barrington-Stone wears a grey tweed suit and brown lisle stockings and what she calls her sensible shoes, plain-brown brogues. Sarah fronts up once again in Mike’s green New Look dress and pink cardigan. Only the top three buttons of the cardigan are buttoned up because the remainder can’t make it over her tummy to the buttonholes on the other side. Her stomach appears as though it’s forced the buttons open in an attempt to escape. If Mike had been there, he wouldn’t have allowed the cardigan, pink doesn’t suit redheads, he always says. Big Jack, awkward in civilian clothes, wears a white open-neck shirt with the collar turned over his Harris tweed jacket, brown trousers and black highly polished shoes. Morrie is in his Sunday best again.

  They don’t go through the main entrance of the university in Grattan Street but take the Swanston Street entrance, which is nearest to the School of Medicine and the Professorial Board meeting room in the Law building where the review committee will meet. It is almost 8.30 a.m. when they arrive and watch as the various members of the committee are dropped off by their respective motorcycle escorts. The younger members seem quite cheery, most smile at the departing cop, while the older professors appear grim-faced and distinctly huffy, their feathers plainly ruffled, the experience of being hijacked through the morning traffic not at all to their liking.

  ‘Oops! Looks like it’s working,’ Big Jack says quietly.

  Then a few minutes before nine, the four of them take up their positions on a bench outside the Law School building. Celia Billings passes them on her way in, her black court high heels going clop-clop-clop on the cement pathway. As has been pre-arranged, she appears not to notice them.

  Professor Marcus Block, who is the last to arrive, nods briefly at Sarah and Morrie without slowing his stride. He reaches the steps going up into the building, hesitates, and walks back to stand in front of Sarah.

  ‘Miss Maloney, I was unaware that you had been informed of the date of this morning’s review committee meeting.’ It was said with some annoyance. Marcus Block looks down at Big Jack Donovan and Mrs Barrington-Stone, concluding no doubt that they must be Sarah’s parents and ignores them in case a casual nod might cause them to react and he’d have a fuss on his hands.

  For a moment Sarah looks confused, then quickly regains her composure. ‘I went to the Admin office, sir, it was posted on the bulletin board.’ Which was true, the notice had appeared the previous day and Celia Billings had alerted them to its presence in case, as had just happened, they were questioned.

  This perfectly obvious answer hasn’t occurred to Professor Block, who now says rather pompously, ‘Well, then perhaps you should understand that as the chairman of the committee I have a discretionary vote that is never exercised.’ Without waiting for Sarah to react or to introduce Mrs Barrington-Stone or Big Jack Donovan, he turns on his heel and with his gown flapping climbs the steps of the Law School building two at a time.

  ‘What a pompous little man!’ Mrs Barrington-Stone declares.

  ‘What’s he mean?’ Sarah asks, ‘A discretionary vote that’s never exercised?’

  ‘It means,’ Mrs Barrington-Stone explains, ‘that in theory the chairman has a vote but in practice he never casts it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘The idea is that he mustn’t appear to take sides. We’ve long since done away with this silly affectation in the CWA, a chairman has opinions just like everyone else and she ought to jolly well express them for everyone to hear.’

  ‘Politics! It is all politics. Afterwards za professor he must again be the boss of them all.’ If he takes one side or anuzzer he will make enemies,’ Morrie says, explaining the role of the head of department at a university from his own experience.

  The morning seems to stretch into eternity but shortly before noon Celia Billings comes out of the building carrying an armload of papers. As she passes them, a small note drops from her hand at the feet of Mrs Barrington-Stone, who waits until Celia has turned and walked past the Geology building before she picks it up and opens it. Her eyes close suddenly and her hand comes up to clasp her neck as she winces. Her expression plainly tells them they’ve lost.

  ‘The vote is deadlocked, five for and five against.’ She looks up, ‘If it’s an even numbers vote, the status quo remains. We’ve lost, my dears,’ she says, her voice shaking as she fights the urge to cry. ‘Oh, how very disappointing!’ She hands the note to Sarah.

  Sarah looks down at the note, unable to read it through the sudden tears that well and then run silently down her cheeks. She defiantly wipes them away with the back of her hand and tries to smile. ‘Thank you, thank you for being my friends and wanting to help me,’ she says softly.

  ‘Five votes for, five against, the chairman didn’t bloody vote! Imagine that!’ Big Jack says in disgust. ‘What a pissweak little shit!’ Then he puts his arm around Sarah, ‘Go on, girlie, have a good cry, gawd knows you’re entitled.’

  ‘Maloneys don’t cry!’ Sarah whispers, nevertheless, a single additional tear escapes and runs down her cheek and over the edge of her chin to splash and disappear into the wool of her bright-pink cardigan. ‘Bugger!’ she says softly and hands the note to Morrie and then clasps her hands around her tummy, as if to protect her unborn child. ‘Politics! Always politics,’ Morrie sighs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Well, let met tell you, the whole of Yankalillee was split into two sides when the Age newspaper, showing a pretty picture of Sarah, head shot only, reported:

  PREGNANT STUDENT

  REFUSED PERMISSION

  TO ENROL AT UNIVERSITY

  The day after the Age piece appeared, the Truth newspaper also picked up the story and headlined it all the way across the front page, showing a photo of Sarah in her New Look dress with her tummy sticking out a mile. Nancy said it was in bad taste even if it was poetry.

  UNI STUDENT’S UP

  THE DUFF REBUFF!

  Both newspapers came out strongly against Melbourne University and both sides in Yankalillee thought it was a disgrace, but a different disgrace. The first disgrace was the university and the second disgrace was Sarah. One side wondered how Sarah could think of disgracing the town’s good name by applying to be a student in her condition and as an unmarried mother-to-be. The other side, like the newspapers, thought the disgrace belonged to Melbourne University for its decision to exclude a favourite daughter who had been undone by a dastardly deed.

  For once it wasn’t only a Catholic versus Protestant thing. What with Mrs Barrington-Stone, a topnotch Protestant and from the richest and most famous family in the district defending one of the poorest Catholic families in town, it was difficult to turn it into a religious issue, though this didn’t stop some people from trying.

  The Templetons, of course, were furious because it had flared up again and their good name was in all the Melbourne papers. Unfortunately for them, a reporter from the Argus made a telephone call to the Templetons late in the afternoon when Mrs Templeton was well into a bottle of Gilbey’s and alone at home. She proceeded to give the reporter the Templeton version of things, pointing out on the way that she was the great-grandniece of the Archdeacon of Salisbury Cathedral, the greatest Anglican cathedral after Westminster Abbey. She then told him how Nancy Maloney s
hamelessly used her ‘harpy’ of a daughter to try and trap her son into marriage in an attempt to raise their miserable station in life. She gleefully told the reporter how they’d foiled this malicious little plot by sending Murray Templeton to Duntroon and then how, out of the kindness of their hearts, they’d offered the Maloney family money, which they had the nerve to refuse.

  ‘Offered money, what was that for?’ the reporter inquired.

  ‘To have her brat elsewhere or to get rid of it, we didn’t much care which!’ Mrs Templeton said, not realising in her inebriated state how that might sound to the outside world.

  It was unfortunate for her that in her cups she forgot to ask the name of the reporter, who was Sean O’Conner, the features editor of the Argus, Melbourne’s most trusted newspaper. Mrs Templeton would forever deny that she’d meant Sarah should have an abortion, insisting that ‘get rid of it’ meant to have it adopted. But of course it was too late and no one believed her anyway. Mr O’Conner wrote a fullpage feature with the headline:

  PREGNANT STUDENT

  BOY’S PARENTS OFFER

  ABORTION MONEY!

  Nothing like this had ever happened to Yankalillee.

  Father Crosby came around to see Nancy and to urge her to tell Sarah to keep her mouth shut because the Bishop wasn’t at all pleased with the publicity. Nancy told him to go to hell and also that after she’d read the article she knew for sure there was a God in heaven. He told her that she had committed blasphemy. She told him to add it to her list of sins. He stormed out as usual. Later it was discovered that the Bishop was on the board of Newman College, the allmale Catholic college at Melbourne University, and preached regularly at its magnificent Walter Burley Griffin designed chapel, which was supposed to be the biggest university chapel in Australia. So, as you can see, while a battle royal raged in Melbourne, it was on for one and all on the home front as well.

  By this time, which was a week after the review committee decision, the name ‘Sarah Maloney’ was well known to most people in the city and also as far as the papers reached into the country, which was probably all of Victoria. Sarah was practically, nearly, almost famous. The Grand Plan, which had moved into what Mrs Barrington-Stone called the ‘Second Phase’, had got completely out of control.