Suddenly Jamie turned back to Mama. ‘I think poems aren’t just “best words”. They say things that matter, in a way that makes us feel them so we remember — like how Beth Gelert risked his life to save the baby, how Llewellyn should have thought before he killed his dog.’
Mama smiled.
Hannah stared at Jamie. This young man with no schooling had shown her what poetry really was. She had played with rhymes, but she’d never written a poem that said something worth remembering, like the loyalty and loss of Beth Gelert. Suddenly, desperately, she knew what she wanted to do. Not learn algebra. Maybe not even go to university, though it sounded interesting, and a place where she’d find friends like herself.
But more than anything she wanted to write words that wriggled into people’s minds. Words that mattered . . .
‘Hannah?’ Suddenly Hannah realised Mama was talking to her now. ‘I need to write some letters. Could you go upstairs and tell Mrs Murphy there will be just you and me for lunch? Tell her that Jamie won’t come here again. That should stop her gossip. Jamie, you slip away round the side of the house so no one sees you. Tell your mother we’ll be at the farm tomorrow, if she has no objection.’
Jamie grinned again. ‘She’ll be baking all afternoon.’
‘I’ll bring a packed lunch, so she’s not to go to any trouble. Tell her I am glad to do this, and not just for you or her. Tell her . . . tell her she can join our lessons too, if they interest her. And also tell her we’ll be discreet, but if she is ever worried we’ll stop coming to the farm. Can you remember all that?’
‘Yes,’ said Jamie. ‘But I bet you won’t stop my mum cooking for you.’
‘Say “Yes, Mrs Gilbert”,’ said Mama. ‘I am your teacher now. We’ll see if I can be a good one.’
***
‘Mrs Murphy, I wondered if I might ask your advice?’
Mrs Murphy turned from the washing-up bowl, the dishcloth in her hand. ‘If it’s what to give Mr Gilbert for his dinner the butcher’s got some lovely pig’s trotters in. That’s what I’m giving Murphy tonight. Just give the trotters a good boil and skim off the scum, then fry ’em up and cover them with white sauce—’
‘No, not about dinner,’ said Mama. ‘I’ve decided to teach Hannah myself, but I don’t like to use Mr Gilbert’s study, and the morning room has so many distractions. I thought maybe somewhere quiet outside? Somewhere no one will see us.’
Mrs Murphy wiped red hands on her apron. ‘Oh, I understand, Mrs Gilbert. People do gossip something terrible. There’s nothing wrong with a ma teaching her own daughter, and that’s what I told them.’
‘But can you suggest anywhere?’
‘Well, there’s under the house, of course, but it ain’t private with people passing up the road to Mr Harris’s. How about down by the river?’ suggested Mrs Murphy, inspired. ‘There’s a place just down from us, on the road to Pirate’s Cove. No one uses that road now Mr Harris has put the train line through the upper cane fields, except that Mrs Zebediah and that’s only on Saturdays.’
‘Perfect,’ said Mama. ‘I knew you’d have the answer.’
Mrs Murphy puffed with pride. ‘You go past our place — don’t mind Boodle if he barks, he’s a softie really — round two bends and you’ll see the river. Follow it up a way and there’s a sandy beach in the bend, all nice and shaded where no one can see you. I’ll get you a rug to sit on and pack your lunch . . .’
Mrs Murphy would be glad to spend the days unsupervised, thought Hannah, trying not to smile. She could put her feet up and have cups of tea.
‘. . . cheese and pickle sandwiches and some of my scones—’
‘I thought we’d saddle up the horse too,’ Mama cut in.
‘Nothing more ladylike than having a good seat in the saddle,’ said Mrs Murphy, who’d probably never ridden side-saddle in her life.
‘Don’t worry if we’re not back by three,’ added Mama. ‘We might call in somewhere.’
‘Ah, up to the Harris plantation,’ said Mrs Murphy wisely.
Mama just smiled.
***
Smokey clopped out of his paddock and onto the road. Mama sitting side-saddle, with Hannah astride behind her, their lunch and a rug, as well as books, a slate and pencils, packed into the saddlebags. Port Harris was behind them, and Eagle Rock gleamed ahead.
The sea breeze was almost cool so early in the morning, though Hannah knew the humidity would rise by the afternoon. But today her body felt more free than it had ever been — no pinafore over her dress, and Mama had told her to leave her stockings and petticoats off too, and even her chemise.
She examined the Murphys’ house as they passed it. It looked barer and even more dilapidated than at first glance. Boodle lay sleeping, tied by a rope to the front step. He woke at the sound of the hooves and barked frantically at them, straining at the rope. Hannah could smell him, or maybe it was just the stink of his droppings scattered about the yard.
‘Quiet, Boodle! Good morning, ladies.’ A man in moleskin trousers that strained at his belly and a shirt with only three buttons done up leered down at them from the veranda. One shirt sleeve flapped empty as he clattered down the steps towards them. He paused to give the dog a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘I said quiet!’
Hannah felt Mama wince. The dog cowered, and crept under the steps, where he growled dutifully at the newcomers.
‘Mr Murphy? How nice to meet you,’ said Mama, pulling Smokey’s reins to slow his pace, but not stop. ‘Your wife has told us about a most pleasant picnic spot where my daughter can do her schoolwork uninterrupted.’
‘Down by the river you mean, missus?’ Mr Murphy stared at Mama’s ankles where her skirt had ridden up, and then at Hannah’s legs. ‘Maybe me and Boodle better come and show you the way.’
‘Thank you, Mr Murphy, but that won’t be needed,’ said Mama firmly.
‘Wouldn’t be any trouble in the world.’ He grinned, showing blackened teeth stumps, and scratched his belly with his remaining hand.
‘Good day, Mr Murphy. It was a pleasure to meet you,’ said Mama. She nudged Smokey to go faster.
Hannah could feel Mr Murphy staring after them. ‘I don’t like him,’ she said quietly.
‘Nor I. I’ll ask Mrs Zebediah if there’s another way to get to the farm so we needn’t pass the Murphys’ home every day. And, Hannah, if Mr Murphy comes to the house when neither Papa nor I are there, you are not to let him in. Understood? Not even if Mrs Murphy is there. He can go to the kitchen, but not come in the main house.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Hannah should feel sorry for a man with only one arm. But he’d looked like a man who enjoyed himself.
The road grew narrower, grass reclaiming the edges. Cane fields gave way to ancient trees, hung with vines thicker than Hannah’s wrist. A mob of rosellas flew above them, red and blue, then perched on the trees either side of the track, chattering at the humans as if annoyed they had entered their world. Hannah laughed, and the darkness Mr Murphy had edged into the day vanished.
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes, Mama?’
‘I just feel I should mention . . .’ Mama seemed to be hunting for words. ‘You took Jamie’s hand . . .’
Hannah flushed. ‘It wasn’t . . .’ She hunted for words herself. ‘It wasn’t because he’s a boy or anything. I mean, I’d have taken his hand if he was a girl. We just seemed to have to make a big decision together.’
‘Good.’ Mama sounded relieved. ‘You didn’t feel strange holding a dark person’s hand?’
‘Why should I?’ asked Hannah, startled.
Mama glanced back at her. ‘I don’t know whether to be proud my daughter thinks that, or worried. You do understand the risks we are taking, don’t you? Mrs Zebediah has won a very precarious tolerance here. But if you and Jamie were ever seen together he’d face far more than a beating, and Mrs Zebediah might too.’
‘They wouldn’t hurt Mrs Zebediah, would they?’
‘Apart from killi
ng her son? They might burn her house down.’
‘But why? Why do people think that having dark skin matters?’
‘Because that’s what they’ve been brought up to believe. But people can also be scared of anyone who’s different from them. And also,’ continued Mama dryly, ‘some people just need to feel superior to others, especially if they’re not. Nothing anyone can say will make them change their minds.’
‘They’re stupid then.’
‘Stupidity can be the most dangerous force in the world. Wars, famines, exploiting other people to make money — almost all the ills of humanity come from stupidity. Don’t underestimate what stupidity can lead to in Port Harris. As Jamie’s attackers said — that was just a taste of what they might do.’
Hannah shivered. ‘But we’re going out there.’
‘I don’t think it’s a great risk yet. If we’re seen out there once or twice it can be passed off as a neighbourly call to thank the woman who helped us after the shipwreck, or even to buy some fresh cream. But it would be very different if you and Jamie were seen together alone.’
‘We won’t be,’ said Hannah. ‘I don’t even like him much. Not because of his skin,’ she added hurriedly. She was aware that she wasn’t being entirely truthful. She did like Jamie, but he’d made it obvious he was only tolerating her to get an education. ‘We’re just too different,’ she added lamely. ‘Anyway, I think girls who giggle about boys are silly.’
‘Good,’ said Mama. Suddenly she put her finger to her lips for silence, then pulled at Smokey’s reins.
The horse seemed puzzled as Mama pressed her heels against his flanks to urge him quickly into the undergrowth. She pushed away the vines that hung above them, then brought Smokey to a stop behind a tree with one vast trunk and a dozen small ones, like babies, all around it.
Hannah heard the chug of a train and peered around the tree trunk. The engine on the track through the trees above them was tiny, more like a toy train, and it pulled only two wagons, which were crammed with dark-skinned men, their tools over their shoulders. None of them spoke, much less sang the songs Jamie had spoken about. They just sat there, enduring the heat of so many bodies packed together. Only the driver sat apart, a white man in a broad-brimmed straw hat.
Mama waited till the train had vanished around the corner, then spurred Smokey onto the road again. ‘I do need to ask Mrs Zebediah about a more discreet route.’
The forest on either side of them stopped suddenly, a straight line of trees one side and then paddocks of the strange rope-like grass, climbing up the fences in places, or competing with giant clumps of crinkle-leafed flowers. Eagle Rock gleamed above them.
Smokey ambled round the bend and there was the farmhouse again. Smoke curled like twists of tracing paper out of its chimney.
‘Hello!’ Jamie ran down the track to meet them, a different Jamie, grinning and eager, the stains washed from his new blue shirt. He took Smokey’s reins then held out his hand for Mama to unhook her leg from the side-saddle and slide down.
‘Mum’s been baking,’ he said.
‘But I told you to tell her we’d bring our own lunch.’
‘I did tell her, Mrs Gilbert. But you don’t know my mum.’ He added more quietly, ‘You’re visitors, you see. This is real special for Mum. You go inside. I’ll look after your horse. Mum! They’re here!’ he added in a yell. He led Smokey into the paddock and began to undo his girth.
Mrs Zebediah came to the door. She wore a green dress, unfaded and with no darns or patches, a necklace of brown beads, no apron, and her hair was dressed in a neat French roll. She’s all dressed up, thought Hannah. Suddenly she remembered Mrs Zebediah’s words that first day when Jamie had rescued them from the beach. After she married Mr Zebediah, none of her friends had ever come here again.
‘Come in! Oh, do come in,’ she said.
‘I hope we’re not disturbing you too much,’ said Mama. ‘There’s always so much to be done on a farm. I thought perhaps three hours a day of lessons would still give Jamie enough time to do his work.’
Three hours a day would also get her and Mama home before Papa and Angus, thought Hannah. Papa might even assume they had been home all the time, especially as Mrs Murphy would be gone by then.
‘The milking’s already done and the cream is rising, and Jamie can go fishing and hoe the corn this afternoon,’ Mrs Zebediah said, standing back to let them in.
Hannah stared. All Mrs Zebediah’s treasures had been put out. Two vases filled with bright red gerberas and ferns sat on white lace mats that almost entirely covered the wooden fruit boxes below. The table was covered with a starched and ironed tablecloth, with an embroidered white ‘tea cloth’ in the middle, topped with a tiny bud vase that held a sprig of tiny pink flowers. Each wooden chair was now topped with a patchwork cushion, and the old rag rug had been replaced with a brighter one. Even the wood stove shone with blacking. And on the table . . .
. . . an apple pie, one slice carefully pulled out to show the filling; jam drops; pikelets with jam and cream; rock cakes; a ginger sponge topped with cream and passionfruit and strange orange berries; strawberry tarts; meringues; egg sandwiches cut into neat triangles, cheese and lettuce sandwiches, tomato sandwiches . . .
Mrs Zebediah used a much-mended tea towel to protect her hands as she pulled a mashed potato-topped dish from the oven. ‘Fish pie for lunch,’ she said. ‘I made two in case you’d like to take one home for dinner after spending so much time here.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Mama helplessly. ‘Simply wonderful.’
‘The kettle’s on the boil.’
Something orange and black slid past Hannah’s legs. ‘That’s the ship’s cat!’ she cried, as the animal slunk over to a saucer of milk by the stove and began to lap. ‘I thought I glimpsed it on the beach. Did Jamie rescue it too?’
Mrs Zebediah laughed. ‘Is that where it came from? That cat did its own rescuing. It was sitting on the hearthrug waiting for its breakfast last week, and it’s been here ever since.’
‘I’m glad it’s safe,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m glad we’re safe too, thanks to you and Jamie.’
‘I did nothing but give you scones and tea,’ said Mrs Zebediah.
‘You gave us comfort and a welcome when we needed it most,’ said Mama gently. ‘And I will never forget it.’
Mrs Zebediah flushed with pleasure. ‘Will we have morning tea first? Mrs Gilbert, if you’d like to sit here?’ She pulled out the chair at the head of the table. ‘Miss Hannah, you sit next to her, and Jamie, you sit opposite.’
Mama hesitated, then took off her hat with its veil and placed it on the back of her chair.
Hannah tried not to stare. Mama always kept her scar covered, except when she was with the family at home. But neither Mrs Zebediah nor Jamie seemed to think there was anything wrong.
Jamie tucked in with the appetite of a young man who had been working hard since the pre-dawn light. Hannah reached for a sandwich and suddenly realised she had eaten very little the last two days, and Mama too.
And the food was wonderful — the work of a woman who had cooked like this since she was small, using the fruits and vegetables and herbs from her garden, the butter and cream from her cows, and fish fresh from the sea. A woman who made sure her pastry was baked in the cool of the morning so it didn’t toughen in the heat; who didn’t spare the butter in her egg sandwiches or skimp on kneading her bread, and replaced part of the flour with pumpkin to make it lighter and moister in this hot climate; who knew exactly what temperature her oven would be and when to put in the sponge cake so it baked fast and light, and left the oven door open for her meringues to crisp.
At last even Jamie stopped eating. Mrs Zebediah covered the remaining food with fly nets.
‘Well,’ said Mama, ‘I can safely say that was the best morning tea I have ever eaten. But if anyone is going to learn anything today we should get started.’
Hannah felt more like sleeping than doing schoolwork. The d
ay’s heat had increased and the oven made the small room stifling.
‘I thought you might like . . .’ Mrs Zebediah hesitated. ‘Well, see what you think.’
She led the way outside and around the house and opened the door of the dairy. Cool air wound itself around Hannah’s body along with the scents of all the best products of cow. The room had the usual stone flagged floor with a sloping stone channel to remove the water used to wash the crocks or cheeses, and wide shelves with metal buckets of milk, crocks of butter for Saturday’s market, a row of wooden cheese presses and maturing cheeses.
Hannah glanced at Mama enquiringly. The dairy was certainly cooler than the house, but there weren’t even chairs to sit on. But Mrs Zebediah was already crossing the room to a door half-hidden by the jutting shelves.
This room was cool too but with a long window looking out at the paddock, with a bench below it. It was evidently a workroom rather than a storeroom, possibly for churning butter or skimming cream from the buckets of milk. But now rag rugs covered the flagged floor, and four chairs had been softened with cushions. There was even a footstool made from an old fruit box with a patchwork cushioned top, and three fruit boxes wired together by the back wall that might become bookcases when they had any books to put in them.
‘Jamie throws water on the dairy walls twice a day in summer,’ said Mrs Zebediah. ‘Just like my dad used to do. Keeps the place cool. I . . . I thought this would be more comfortable than the kitchen.’
‘Mum was up before dawn to get this done,’ said Jamie proudly. ‘She’d almost finished by the time I found her here.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Mama. ‘Thank you — it’s truly wonderful.’ She undid the satchel and lined up the pencils, the copybooks, the exercise books, the tracing paper and two slates and slate pencils on the bench.
‘Which one has the poetry?’ asked Jamie, looking at the exercise books.
‘I have to order the poetry and other books from Sydney,’ said Mama. ‘You can’t buy them in Port Harris.’ She saw Jamie’s expression and added, ‘But poetry can be in the mind and in the heart too. Not just in books. Just like your father’s words were, I suspect.’
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