Picnic at Hanging Rock

by Joan Lindsay

  At dinner that evening the two young women had never seen the Head so gracious. Positively loquacious. The governesses were already stifling their yawns after the hectic activities of the day when Miss Buck was requested to ring for Minnie. ‘There is a little brandy, I think, in the decanter in the pantry? You remember, Minnie – the day the Bishop of Bendigo came to lunch?’ The decanter and three glasses were brought. They sipped at it delicately and even drank to the health and good fortune of Mademoiselle and M. Montpelier. Dianne wearily taking up her candle at eleven o’clock thought it was the longest evening she had ever spent.

  The clock on the stairs had just struck for half past twelve when the door of Mrs Appleyard’s room opened noiselessly, inch by inch, and an old woman carrying a nightlight came out on to the landing. An old woman with head bowed under a forest of curling pins, with pendulous breasts and sagging stomach beneath a flannel dressing-gown. No human being – not even Arthur – had ever seen her thus, without the battledress of steel and whalebone in which for eighteen hours a day the Headmistress was accustomed to face the world.

  From the window at the top of the staircase moonlight fell upon the row of closed cedar doors. Mademoiselle slept at the far end of the corridor, Miss Buck in a small room at the rear of the tower. The woman with the nightlight stood listening to the tick-tock, tick-tock, coming up out of the shadows below. A possum scudding across the leads overhead made her start so violently that the little lamp almost fell from her hand. By its feeble light the big double bedroom appeared in perfect order; fresh, chintzy and smelling faintly of lavender. The blinds were all drawn to the same level, disclosing identical rectangles of moonlit sky and the dark tops of trees. The two beds, each with a pink silk eiderdown quilt neatly folded, were immaculate. On the dressing-table, flanked by two tall pink and gold vases, the heart-shaped pincushion where she had found and instantly destroyed the note. Again she saw herself bending over the child in the smaller of the two beds. Eyes, hardly a face now – only those enormous black eyes, burning into her own. Again she heard her cry out, ‘No, no! Not that! Not the orphanage!’ The Headmistress shivered, wishing she had put on a woollen spencer under her nightdress. She put the nightlight down on the bedside table, opened the cupboard where Miranda’s dresses were still hanging on the left hand side and began methodically to go through the shelves. On the right, Sara’s blue coat with the fur collar, a little beaver hat. Shoes. Tennis racquets. Now the bureau. Stockings. Handkerchiefs. Those ridiculous cards . . . dozens of them. Valentines. Directly after the holidays she would have Miranda’s things removed. Now the dressing-table. The washstand. The little walnut work table where Miranda kept her coloured wools. Lastly the mantelpiece. Nothing of any significance there – only a photograph of Miranda in a silver frame. The first grey light was showing under the blinds as she closed the door, put out the nightlight and threw herself on to the great fourposter bed. She had found nothing, deducted nothing, decided nothing. Another dreadful day of enforced inaction lay ahead. The clock was striking five. Sleep was out of the question. She rose and began taking the curlers out of her hair.

  Thursday was unseasonably warm and Mr Whitehead, who was taking Good Friday off, decided to do as much as he could in the garden today. No more rain yet by the looks of it although the top of the Mount was shrouded as usual in fluffy white mists. He thought the hydrangea bed at the back of the house could do with a watering. The place without the young ladies was strangely quiet but for the peaceful clucking of fowls and distant grunting of pigs, and now and then the rumble of wheels going past on the highroad. Tom had gone into Woodend in the buggy for the mail. Cook, with only a handful of adults to cater for instead of the usual complement of hungry schoolgirls, was having a grand clean up in the vast flagged kitchen. Alice was scrubbing the back stairs, she hoped for the last time. Miss Buck had gone off in a cab for an early train. Minnie was snatching ten minutes in her bedroom, greedily devouring a bunch of ripe bananas for which she had developed a passion during the last month, and joyfully letting out the waistband of her print frock, already too tight for comfort.

  Dianne de Poitiers in a flurry of tissue paper was packing her small but elegant wardrobe. The very sight of the simple white satin wedding gown made her heart turn over. In a few hours’ time Louis would be escorting her to the modest Bendigo lodging house where he had engaged a room for his fiancée until Easter Monday. She felt like a bird about to be set free after years of captivity in the cheerless room where she had so often cried herself to sleep, and began, very softly, to sing ‘Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot’. From the open window the bittersweet little tune floated out over the lawn where Mrs Appleyard was discussing with Mr Whitehead the planting of a new border for the drive. ‘Have to be getting on to it after Easter, Ma’am, if you want a nice show for the Spring.’ Salvias? They were a useful sort of flower, Madam suggested. The gardener half-heartedly agreed. ‘A lot of young ladies have their favourites. Funny thing I can never see a Christmas lily without thinking of Miss Miranda. “Mr Whitehead,” she used to say, “lilies always make me think of angels.” Well, she’s probably one herself now, poor young creature.’ He sighed. ‘How about pansies?’ The Headmistress forced her thoughts to pansies and observed that they made a good show from the front gate. ‘Now little Miss Sara – she’s the one for pansies. Often begs a few off me for her room. You feeling cold, Ma’am? Could I fetch you a shawl?’

  ‘One expects to feel chilly in March, Whitehead. Is there anything else you want to discuss before I go indoors?’

  ‘Only about the flag, Ma’am.’

  ‘Good gracious, what flag? Is it important?’ Her foot tapped impatiently on the gravel. ‘I have a good deal to attend to today.’

  ‘Well,’ said the gardener, an avid reader of the local papers, ‘it’s like this. The Macedon Standard is asking anyone in the district who has a flag to fly it on Easter Monday. It seems the Lord Mayor is coming from Melbourne for lunch at the Shire Hall.’

  A double brandy after breakfast had made her head as clear as a bell. In a flash she saw the Union Jack floating out from the tower, a signal to the prying gossiping world that all at Appleyard College was well. She said graciously: ‘By all means run up the flag. You will find it under the stairs – you remember we put it there after the Queen’s birthday last year.’

  ‘That’s right. I folded it up and put it away myself.’ Tom was beside them with the mail bag. ‘Only one letter for you, Ma’am. Will you take it here or shall I bring it inside?’ ‘Give it to me.’ She turned and left their, without another word. ‘She’s a funny one, that,’ the gardener said. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting she don’t know a pansy from a chrysanthemum unless I tell her which is which.’ And he made up his mind to put in begonias all down the drive.

  The letter was addressed to Mrs Appleyard in a distinguished hand, precise and unfamiliar. Dated two days ago from an expensive Melbourne hotel, it read:

  Dear Mrs Appleyard,

  I regret that as I have been looking into my mining interests in North Western Australia, with no possible means of communication, I have been unable to forward the enclosed quarterly cheque for Sara Waybourne’s fees until today. The purpose of this letter is to let you know that I intend calling at the College for Sara on the morning of Easter Saturday (28th). I trust this arrangement will be convenient to you as I am occupied all day on Good Friday and don’t care for her to be here alone at the hotel, excellent though it is. If Sara is in need of any new clothes, books, drawing materials, etc., could you kindly have a list made out so that we can do some shopping together in Sydney where I shall be taking my ward for a few days holiday. As Sara must now be nearly fourteen, which I find hard to realize, I imagine something more sophisticated in the way of a party dress would be appreciated? Anyway, you can give me your views when we meet.

  With kindest regards and hoping once again that you will not be inconvenienced by looking after Sara (of course, at my expense) until Saturday.


  I remain,

  Yours sincerely,

  Jasper B. Cosgrove.

  16

  Constable Bumpher was inured to varying degrees of shock and surprise. Nevertheless the letter marked CONFIDENTIAL that had just been handed to him at his desk had left him, to use his own words, ‘with a nasty taste in the mouth’.

  Appleyard College,

  Tuesday, March 24th.

  Dear Monsieur Bumpher,

  Forgive me if I address you incorrectly, as I have never before written to a gentleman of the Australian Police. I find much difficulty, in English, to explain just why I write to you at this moment – nearly midnight – except that I am a woman. A man would perhaps have waited for more definite proof. However, I feel that I must act, from my heart, without delay, and you may think, without sufficient reason.

  Last Sunday morning (March 22nd) when I returned to the College from Mass, about midday, Madame Appleyard informed me that Sara Waybourne, a girl of age about thirteen years and our youngest pupil here, had been taken away by her guardian shortly after most of the household had left for church. I was very surprised, as Monsieur Cosgrove (the child’s guardian) has excellent manners and had given Madame no warning. He has never to my knowledge acted in this impolite way before. As I write this I know you will see little reason for my uneasiness. The truth is Monsieur, that I fear this unhappy child has mysteriously disappeared. I have asked a few questions – very discreet – of the only two persons at home during the time of Monsieur Cosgrove’s visit, besides Madame herself – both women honest and good. Neither of these women, Minnie the femme de chambre and the cook, saw Monsieur Cosgrove arrive at the house, nor did they see him leave, with or without the child Sara. I understand, however, that there may be an explanation for this. Other reasons for my fears seem to be much more important, and much more difficult to make clear to you in English. It is late, and the house is in darkness. This morning I have passed an hour in the bedroom usually occupied by Sara, and in the beginning, by Miranda. Here I observed very carefully while helping a servant to tidy the room, certain things which I shall explain to you later. I have neither the Time, nor the good English without my dictionary, to write down here the shocking thoughts which have gradually come to me, with a clearness quite horrible, after leaving that empty room this morning. As I shall be leaving the College on the day after tomorrow (Thursday) and will be married on Easter Monday in Bendigo I enclose my new name and address if you should wish to write to me on this matter. Meanwhile M. Bumpher I am gravely troubled and shall be most grateful if you can visit the College as soon as possible and make some enquiries. You will not of course disclose to Madame or any other person that I have written this letter. You will I hope receive it on Thursday morning. Unfortunately I have no way to post it earlier as Madame herself sees everything that is put into the mail bag and so I must wait to give this to someone whom I can trust to post. I am exhausted, and shall try to sleep a little before dawn. I can do nothing more without your help. Forgive me for troubling you.

  Goodnight Monsieur . . . Dianne de Poitiers.

  Minnie the femme de chambre tells me today that Madame A. had insisted on opening the front door herself, on Sunday morning. Because of my terrible suspicions I find this disturbing.

  D. de P.

  Bumpher had formed an excellent opinion of the French governess ever since the day when they had driven to the Picnic Grounds with Edith Horton Not the type of young woman to lose her head without any reason. He read the letter again with growing uneasiness. The Bumphers’ neat weatherboard villa was close to the Police Station in a neighbouring back street, and here he presently surprised his wife by appearing on the verandah with a request for a cup of morning tea. ‘Right here in the kitchen – I happened to be passing our gate with a few minutes to spare.’ While the kettle was boiling he asked casually, ‘You off to one of your bun fights this afternoon?’ Mrs Bumpher sniffed. ‘Since when have I been out to tea? If you’d like to know, I’m going to clean right through the house for Easter.’

  ‘I was only asking,’ said her husband mildly. ‘Because last time you went to a social you brought home those cream puffs I like – from the Vicarage – and a lot of gossip.’

  ‘You know very well I’m not one for gossip. What is it you want to find out?’

  He grinned. ‘Shrewd little woman, aren’t you? I’ve been wondering if you ever heard any of your lady friends mention Mrs Appleyard at the College?’ In Bumpher’s experience it was amazing how an ordinary housewife seemed to know by instinct things that might take a policeman weeks to find out. ‘Let me see. Well, I have heard it said the old girl’s a bit of a Tartar when she flies into one of her rages.’

  ‘Flies into rages, does she?’

  ‘I’m only telling you what I hear. Smooth as silk to me, if I happen to run into her in the village.’

  ‘You know anyone who’s actually seen her in a rage?’

  Drink up your tea while I think . . . you know the Comptons down at the cottage with the quince trees where the College gets their jams? Anyway, the wife told me she was terrified of making a mistake in the account because once when her hubby was away she had to take it over by hand and it was a pound out and Mrs Appleyard sent for her and gave her hell. Mrs Compton thought the old girl was going to have a stroke.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only that a girl by the name of Alice who works at the College told that woman in the fruit shop that she drinks a bit. This Alice hadn’t ever seen her tiddly or anything but you know how people talk in this town! Especially since the College Mystery.’

  ‘Don’t I just!’ Over a second cup of tea he tried to extract a few crumbs of information about the French governess by announcing she was to be married next week. ‘Go on! I’m not much of a one for the Frogs, as you know (remember that fellow who played the flute?), but I must say I thought this one was a real pretty girl the only time I was close enough to see her face.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘At the Bank. This Mademoiselle was cashing a cheque and Ted – that’s the teller with the ginger hair – gave her too much change. She’d gone half way down the street before she noticed it and brought it back. I remember because Ted remarked to me at the time: “My word Mrs Bumpher, there’s honesty for you! I would’ve had to pay back that money out of my own pocket.”’

  ‘Well, thanks for the tea – I’ll be off now,’ said Bumpher, pushing back his chair. ‘Expect me when you see me this evening. I may be very late home.’ There was a lovely piece of rump steak for tea but Mrs Bumpher had been married for fifteen years and knew better than to ask why.

  The promise of fine weather for Easter continued all through Thursday. By twelve o’clock it was almost hot, and Bumpher taking notes in the stuffy privacy of his office took off his jacket. Mr Whitehead too had taken off his coat to fork over the dahlias. As soon as he had finished his early dinner the gardener went into the tool shed and dragged out the hose, already rolled up for the coming winter, with the intention of watering the hydrangeas before the bed got too dry. Tom asked if he could lend a hand, otherwise he was going to take Minnie for a stroll down the road. The gardener said no, he had the place in pretty good shape to leave for a day tomorrow, but would Tom give the hydrangeas a bit of a sprinkle if the sun came out again strong, like today, on Good Friday? Tom promised, and taking Minnie by the arm was mercifully spared from participation in subsequent happenings during the next few hours.

  The hydrangea bed, eight feet wide and running along the back of the house for most of its length, was the apple of Mr Whitehead’s eye. This summer some of the flower heads were at least six feet above the ground. He had just fixed his hose on to the nearest garden tap when he noticed an offensive smell which seemed to be coming from the direction of the hydrangeas. Before turning on the tap he thought he had better investigate or Cook would be kicking up a shine with a stink so close to the kitchen door. He had been too busy with the autumn pruning
the last few days to stop as he often did to admire the close growing hydrangea bushes, their dark glossy leaves crowned with clusters of deep blue flowers. Now to his annoyance he saw that one of the tallest and most handsome plants, in the back row, a few feet out from the wall directly below the tower, had been badly crushed and broken, the beautiful blue heads limp on their stalks. Possums! The darned things were always gallivanting about on the leads. Tom had even found a possum nest in the tower last year. Tom would have gone crashing into the bushes there and then in his heavy boots in search of a dead possum. The gardener, however, removed his waistcoat, took a pair of secateurs from his trouser pocket in order to make a clean snip at the broken flower stalks, and began crawling carefully between the bushes on his hands and knees so as not to disturb the young growth at the base of the roots. He was within a few feet of the damaged bush when he saw something white beside it on the ground. Something that had once been a girl in a nightdress, soaked with dried blood. One leg was bent under the tangled body, the other wedged in the lower fork of the hydrangea. The feet were bare. The head was crushed beyond recognition, even if he could have forced himself to look at it more closely. Even so he knew that it was Sara Waybourne. No other girl at the College was so small, with such thin arms and legs.