Rain Music

by Di Morrissey

  Ned rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘Yes. I think I do. I was so looking forward to her visit. I feel that Toni and I have a deep understanding of each other. I mean, we’ve never talked about future plans or anything like that, and I know it’s only been a short time, but she’s been the best thing that’s happened to me in a long while.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should tell her how you feel?’

  ‘And the point would be? I have nothing to offer her. My brilliant idea for a musical has come to nothing. She has a career, while I wander around, performing when I can. And Bella, I honestly don’t think I’m equipped to be a father.’ He shook his head. ‘I just don’t think I’ve got what it takes. Maybe the best thing I can do for this kid is not to get involved at all.’ He stopped, feelings and thoughts rushing over him.

  ‘Ned, I’m sure you’d be a terrific father,’ said Bella.

  Ned grimaced. ‘That’s nice of you to say, Bella, but I’m hardly the model of stability a child needs. I just can’t see myself as a parent.’

  Bella sighed. She looked at Toni, now swimming gently in the river. ‘Even though I’ve only just met Toni, she seems a good person. A big-hearted and sensible person, with her feet planted firmly on the ground. Perhaps she’s just the sort of person who is right for you. You could sort it out together. Would you consider talking to Mum about what’s happening?’

  Ned shook his head. ‘No, that wouldn’t be fair on her. This is my life, and you’re right. I have to make the decision.’

  Bella stood up. ‘I’m going to change. You need a bit of time to think this over. Let the shock wear off and then see how you feel.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘Shall we start organising the dinner?’

  With the flame torches and candles flickering, the night river darkly still, the three sat quietly together after dinner. The meal had been quiet and there was tension in the air.

  Ned was the first to speak. ‘I’m going to have a nightcap. Bella? Still mineral water, Toni?’

  ‘Not for me, Ned,’ said Bella. She turned to Toni as Ned gathered up the plates. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘A bit tired,’ Toni said in a subdued tone.

  Bella nodded. ‘I’ll clear up, Ned, then I might go to bed and leave you two out here. I’m reading some fascinating old letters,’ she said to Toni. She kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sleep well.’ She rested her hand on Toni’s shoulder for a moment, then looked at Ned. ‘Enjoy your nightcap.’

  Ned and Toni sat apart in the pale light of the torches, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Ned watched the torchlight flicker across Toni’s face. She looked weary and drawn. He felt his gut twist.

  Seeing Bella’s shadow move through the house, Ned thought about her rescue. His sister was back safe and sound, and although clearly shaken by her terrible experience, she seemed determined to face what had happened to her with strength and courage, which he greatly admired.

  Toni shifted in her seat and his attention came back to her. Toni’s news had brought him no such comfort. He felt confused and overwhelmed. What on earth was he going to do?

  Ned looked at the accumulation of dark clouds in the night sky, occasionally backlit by far-off lightning heralding the wet, and recognised his own life in the oncoming change of season.

  10

  August, 1899

  My Dear Mother,

  I have been thinking of you often this week as it has now been a year since Father’s passing. I am still saddened. He was a good man and one whose faith was strong. But think, dearest Mother, of what joy there will be when we are all united once again in our Lord’s presence.

  Our school continues to flourish. Under the direction of the good Bishop, we are receiving girls of all denominations, as St. Mary’s is the only respectable educational facility for girls in Far North Queensland. Now, however, we have lost several of our sisters to the tin-mining township of Herberton, where they have gone to run a small primary school. Thankfully, their work here has been taken on by more sisters from Ireland, so we remain a place busy in the work of the Lord.

  Cooktown is gradually changing as the gold in the region peters out. There are fewer prospectors arriving and, indeed, there are many people leaving. Father O’Brien tells us that there are fewer hotels than there once were. I can only be cheered by that news, but the place still retains its feel of a frontier town.

  One morning recently, Sister Mercy and I had just left the convent on an errand when a carriage drawn by two powerful piebald horses thundered past us. Sister Mercy jumped back in alarm, but I could not help but admire them.

  Sister Mercy was quite irritated by the incident and told me as she carefully brushed dust from her habit that driving like that showed no regard for others and she thought it was quite dangerous. Although she is right, the quality of the horses indicated to me that there are still wealthy people residing in the area.

  On our walk back to the convent, I confided to Sister Mercy that Reverend Mother had asked me to visit a family who lived some distance south of Cooktown. It seemed that they wanted private lessons in both singing and pianoforte, and Reverend Mother wanted me to assess the situation. Father O’Brien was to take me to meet them and I asked Sister Mercy if she could ask Reverend Mother if she, too, could come.

  However, it was not until the following week that Reverend Mother could spare us. I was quite excited to be able to travel with Father O’Brien and Sister Mercy to Mount Cook, which rises south of the town, and I could not help but wonder who would build a home on its slopes.

  The pony trotted along gamely, transporting the three of us in a dog cart through the tropical woodland and forest. Eventually, instead of towering rainforest trees and tangled vines, we noticed straight young eucalypts fringing the track, which had been deliberately planted in an orderly manner. A narrower path led away from the track and it was bordered by coconut palms and fruit trees. Then we came around a bend and saw before us a wonderful sprawling home set on a ridge. Its position gave it breathtaking views across the Annan River, and we could see well-cared-for farmland stretching below us. I understood from Father O’Brien that the owner of this property was a businessman, and by the looks of the house, I judged him to be a very successful one.

  As we approached the house, several dogs started barking and our pony stopped suddenly, whinnying in alarm. The dogs were hauled away by a small group of Aboriginal children, and as Father O’Brien coaxed the nervous pony onwards, a tall man with a clipped beard and hair so blond it seemed almost white, appeared on the verandah and watched our arrival, his hands on his hips.

  He began calling out, ‘Boy, boy!’

  An old white-haired Aboriginal man wearing a faded shirt, his trousers held up with a black leather belt, stepped forward and took the pony’s bridle.

  The fair man came down the steps of the house and introduced himself to us as Mr. Arne Pedersen, and welcomed us all to his home. I must confess that Mr. Pedersen, who comes from one of the Scandinavian countries, seemed to me to be a true Viking, with his tall stature and pale blue eyes. After the introductions, I asked him how many children we would be instructing and was very surprised by his answer.

  ‘Whoever turns up,’ he said.

  Then our host called out again, and a slim figure materialised beside us in silent slippers. He was a Chinese servant wearing black pyjamas, its loose top with long sleeves. He wore a pigtail hanging down his back. His shining skin and oiled hair gave him a well-scrubbed appearance. He approached us in a gliding sort of shuffle and told us in a singsong voice that his name was Billy. He led us down a long hall into a formal drawing room and announced that he would bring us tea, and gave a small bow and left.

  Father O’Brien raised his eyebrows and we all stared at the lavish trappings of the room. It was filled with Oriental carpets, gilt-framed paintings of English rural and hunting scenes as well as several paintings of racehorses and dog
s, while china and glass ornaments stood about on table tops and the mantelpiece. There were heavy brocade drapes at the windows, and solidly carved furniture. A fine grand piano sat in a corner covered with a lace cloth as well as many framed photographs. I wondered how often the piano was used.

  It wasn’t long before Billy returned with a silver tea service on a tray. He was followed by an Aboriginal woman wearing a long skirt and white apron, who was carefully carrying a jug of milk and a plate of biscuits, which she put onto a side table. Obviously very shy, she quickly left the room as soon as she had completed the task. I was curious. I’ve heard that some people use the natives as domestic servants, but I had not actually seen it done.

  We had just begun to pour the tea when we heard voices in the hallway and Mr. Pedersen returned, accompanied by his wife and, I assumed, his daughter. I was quite surprised when he introduced his wife as Desdemona Pedersen. This seemed to me an unnecessary familiarity. Perhaps it is the Scandinavian way, but I certainly do not intend to address her as anything other than Mrs. Pedersen.

  Mrs. Pedersen then introduced us to her daughter Helena and explained that their other children were still cleaning down their ponies as they had all been out riding.

  Mrs. Pedersen was tall and fair, like her husband. She looked somewhat windswept and her face was flushed. She was wearing a dark riding habit and carried riding gloves and a veiled hat. I noticed that she wore dainty riding boots. She spoke in a very cultivated English accent. I asked her if we would be using the piano in this room, but she looked somewhat horrified and hastily said that there was another for the children’s use. She told us that as soon as we had finished our tea, Billy would show us where to go, and that the children would be there waiting for us. She explained that although Helena had an excellent singing voice, she showed a reluctance to entertain any guests, although she was now fourteen and was expected to do so. Mrs. Pedersen hoped that lessons with us would instil in her the necessary confidence to enable her to perform in front of company. She added that although she usually accompanied Helena on the piano, today she would leave them all in our hands.

  I was tempted to say to Mrs. Pedersen that our convent school provided many opportunities appropriate for young girls such as Helena, amongst them tutelage in performing for visitors, but thought it wiser to assess the talents of the Pedersen family first.

  Mrs. Pedersen swept from the room and we were left alone to enjoy our tea from fine Minton teacups before the Chinese servant, Billy, shadowed by the shy Aboriginal girl, silently appeared in the drawing room.

  As the girl began to place the cups and saucers onto the tray, Billy asked us to follow him. We entered the hallway to find Mr. Pedersen standing beside a flight of stairs, evidently waiting for Father O’Brien, as he wished to show him around the farm. Sister Mercy and I continued to follow Billy until he pointed to a closed door, behind which we could hear squeals and laughter. I pushed open the door and both Sister Mercy and I caught our breaths as we walked in.

  Feeling thirsty, Bella carefully put the Sister’s letter on the funny little table beside her bed and quickly made her way to the kitchen. There was enough moonlight for her to see the tap and an empty glass sitting on the sink, so she didn’t bother to switch on the light. As she turned on the tap, she looked out into the garden and there she saw her brother sitting alone, facing the river. For a moment she thought of joining him to ask if he had come to any decision, but then rejected the idea, for Ned seemed deep in contemplation. Better to leave him until the morning. Besides, she wanted to get back to Sister Evangelista and the Pedersens. Curling up in bed again, she reached for the letter and continued reading.

  My initial impression was that there were a lot of children in the room. There was squealing and laughter as three young boys chased each other, while a young girl with brown skin and dark eyes helplessly tried to restore order. These children surely can’t all belong to Mr. and Mrs. Pedersen, I thought, for indeed, the little flock was quite a mixture. Besides the dark girl there were two sandy-haired boys, about nine and ten years old, who were tugging at the shirt-tails of an impish native boy, possibly the same age. Helena joined us. She had changed out of her riding outfit and was now wearing a white muslin dress. She bade the children line up and tell us their names.

  ‘Achilles,’ said the youngest boy.

  ‘Agamemnon,’ the native boy giggled.

  ‘Nestor,’ said the other blond boy.

  ‘Atlanta, but I’m called Attie,’ said the girl with the dark skin and doe eyes. The girl’s voice was soft and lilting.

  I was very surprised by this mixture of cheerful children with names borrowed from the Trojan Wars, and somewhat puzzled. The dark children I’d seen earlier were not here, but Agamemnon and Atlanta seemed to be part of the family. I looked around the room. It appeared to be the nursery, full of games and toys, but there was also an upright piano, and, on closer inspection, Sister Mercy and I found an assortment of other musical instruments including a tambourine, a flute and a violin.

  I asked Helena where their governess was and she told me that they did not have one at present and that Mrs. Pedersen was teaching them. She also told me that they were expecting one to arrive shortly. I know that young single women, mostly from England, come to all parts of Australia to take up such positions. But I also know that such women rarely stay single for long as there is a great demand for wives, especially in the more remote areas. I suspect that the governess issue is a perennial problem for the Pedersens.

  I took out some of my sheet music and sat at the piano and asked them to sing. Then I asked them to show me what they could play on the various musical instruments.

  The two fair-haired boys sang with gusto, although little ability. Agamemnon seemed to be able to hold a tune with some proficiency, while Helena’s voice was pleasant enough. I think with more training she would be able to perform satisfactorily in company.

  But when Attie sang, it was as if a songbird had swooped into the room! Sister Mercy and I looked at each other in such surprise, and then could not stop smiling. Sweet, clear as a bell, it was a voice from the heavens. The child has been given a great gift from our Lord. Although not properly trained, she was pitch perfect, and when I played for her, she hit each note with purity and clarity. I am sure that with the right discipline this child could sing anything. She is shy, like a small forest animal, but when she performs, her intelligent eyes brim with delight at the sheer joy of singing. My first thought was of how to nurture this amazing girl.

  Two hours sped by until Mrs. Pedersen tapped at the door. She was now dressed in a white dress with a high neck and long sleeves buttoned at the wrist. She had gloves that looked like gauntlets and a muslin shawl that was draped over her wide-brimmed hat, allowing very little of her face to be seen. As she entered the room, she removed the hat and gave us a small smile, then promptly told the children to leave. With a chorus of thank yous and bobs the five children left the room and Mrs. Pedersen asked me my opinion of their talents.

  I told her I thought that they were a very mixed group and then, realising how my comments could be construed, I quickly apologised and said that their musical talents varied.

  Mrs. Pedersen smiled graciously and then told me how the children had come into the family. She said that Agamemnon and Atlanta had, in fact, both been rescued by Mr. Pedersen. It appears that Atlanta’s mother had worked somewhere in the cane fields to the north of Cairns and that she had died. When Mr. Pedersen heard of this, he said that it was better for the child to be raised in the Pedersen household than to be left in the sugarcane fields with an uncertain future, and so he brought her here. I thought at once what a very Christian man Mr. Pedersen must be to take such kind action.

  Agamemnon, Mrs. Pedersen explained, had joined the family when her husband, while travelling north, had come across a blacks’ camp that had been recently raided by some cattlemen. Evidently the blac
ks had been stealing their cattle, so the cattle men had found the camp and indiscriminately shot some of the blacks as punishment. When Mr. Pedersen rode through the camp, he heard a cry and realised that a baby had been hidden beneath a bush. He felt he had no other option than to bring it back for the family to raise.

  Sister Mercy was very impressed by these actions and told Mrs. Pedersen that they did her husband great credit. I nodded in agreement, but I could not help but wonder in which world the little boy would live once he grew up. Our world would probably not accept him and he would not know his own people or understand their way of life.

  Mrs. Pedersen then asked me to evaluate the children’s musical ability. I said that I believed Helena would truly benefit from being at our school, and that Atlanta, whose talent seemed quite exceptional, would also profit from being educated at St. Mary’s.

  Sister Mercy and myself were both disappointed when Mrs. Pedersen shook her head and said that she did not think she would send them there as all the children were company for each other and they had their own interests about the farm. She suggested that instead we should return on a regular basis to the Pedersens’ homestead to further their musical knowledge. Then she announced that she had to attend to her bees and, thanking us for our efforts, she replaced her hat and veil, gathered up her gauntlet-like gloves and left the room, though it seemed to me that her presence lingered. There are some women who are very definite people and who make a lasting impression. Mrs. Pedersen is one of these.

  I thoughtfully picked up my sheet music and pushed it into my bag and Sister Mercy and I walked back along the corridor, where we heard Father O’Brien’s voice. We turned to look for him and he greeted us and said that he hoped that all had gone well. He then took us to join Mr. Pedersen in the conservatory, where our host was to show us his collection of orchids and other unusual plants that he has found in this part of the world. As we entered the room and looked around us, we were amazed by the variety and beauty of Mr. Pedersen’s orchid collection. The flowers ranged from thumbnail size to some whose extent was almost equal to that of my hand. Everywhere was a jumble of colours, from vibrant yellows, pinks and lavender to deep purple, blues and creams. Some stems seemed to hold dozens of blooms, while others no more than one or two. It was a dazzling display. Both of us were overwhelmed by the beauty around us and said so.