The Schoolmaster's Daughter

by Jackie French

  ‘Look!’ called Hannah. ‘A yellow bottle top.’

  Jamie peered at it. ‘A bowerbird must have brought it all the way from Port Harris for its bower. Those blobs must have been blue flowers too.’

  ‘Why do you think bowerbirds like blue?’ wondered Hannah.

  ‘Because it’s bright?’ suggested Jamie.

  ‘Yellow is brighter, but they collect more blue flowers than yellow.’

  ‘Maybe a bird sees differently than we do.’

  ‘I wonder.’ Hannah turned back to Mama ‘Could birds see differently from us?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Mama, her expression hard to read. ‘I haven’t read much about birds.’

  ‘But it makes sense,’ argued Jamie as they began to walk again. ‘Look at eagles. If we were that high we couldn’t see hardly anything, but an eagle must be able to see its prey on the ground. Hey, that looks like an eagle’s nest. See, up on the ledge? I’ve never noticed it before. Do you want to see it? They nest in different places every year so it’ll build a new one this year.’

  ‘Mama, may I climb up there?’ Hannah asked.

  Mama looked startled. ‘Not today.’

  Hannah gazed up at the cliff. ‘It’s not too high. Jamie will help me. Please, Mama?’

  ‘I said no,’ said Mama quietly. ‘Come on. If we’re to get any work done today we need to keep going.’

  The beach was in its calm blue mood today, the waves slipping in and out as though each was a movement in a dance. Mama sat on a rock at the end of the inlet and watched them.

  ‘You’d never know it could be a place of such terror,’ she said at last. ‘Well, come on, you two. To work.’

  ‘We’ve both been reading Treasure Island,’ said Hannah. ‘While you were away we decided we could discuss the books better if we both read the same one. I think that—’

  ‘I said we’d do mathematics today,’ said Mama shortly.

  ‘But we don’t have our workbooks or slates.’

  ‘You’ve wet sand and sticks. The students at Plato’s school in ancient Athens used sand and sticks — a lot simpler than a blackboard. We’ll start with long division: 3928 divided by 92. Let’s see who’ll get the answer first.’

  ‘How will you know if we have the right answer if you don’t have the book?’ demanded Hannah. She longed to take her boots off and feel the sand under her feet, but Mama would disapprove of a young man knowing she wasn’t wearing stockings.

  Jamie grinned. ‘If we both get the same answer we’re probably right. If we get different ones we check each other’s work.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mama, but her smile was strained.

  The lesson was the shortest they’d ever had. Hannah and Jamie had only done a dozen sums when Mama stood and brushed the sand from her dress. She gave Jamie a long look; a strange one, thought Hannah, of both pride and regret.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much more I can teach you about mathematics, young man. You’ve got the textbook if you want to go further.’ Mama paused and looked round the beach where this strange education had had its beginnings. ‘You’ve done brilliantly, Jamie. I don’t just mean how much you’ve learned. I . . . I may not be a proper teacher as the world sees it, but you’ve given me a gift few schoolmasters ever have: being able to fulfil a hunger for learning.’

  ‘You’ve given me words,’ said Jamie seriously. ‘I knew them before, but not how to use them. Not the power of them neither. I’ve seen the world in books, or bits of it — and I’d never have known if you hadn’t taught me.’

  Mama nodded. ‘Thank you, Jamie. That . . . that means a lot, far more than I can say. But we’d better be getting back. I . . . I’m concerned about Angus.’

  Hannah looked at her curiously. Angus seemed strong enough to run to the moon and play cricket with it among the stars. Something else was wrong. But Mama wouldn’t speak of it till she was ready.

  ***

  Mama was silent on the walk back to the farm.

  Mrs Zebediah came out to greet them. ‘That didn’t take long. Usually those two are out there for hours. I’ve thought sometimes I should get a sheepdog to herd them back. Will you stay for lunch? I thought we could have pancakes.’

  ‘With the ginger filling?’ asked Hannah eagerly. She turned to Mama. ‘Mrs Zebediah makes a sort of spicy vegetable chutney to spread on pancakes, and puts sugar and lemon juice on other ones. She’s going to show me how to make them.’

  ‘That’s kind of her,’ said Mama, but her voice was troubled. She looked at Mrs Zebediah. ‘Have you been showing Hannah other recipes?’

  ‘All her favourites and Jamie’s, and how to make my strawberry jam, so the berries float in it, and the coconut cake you like so much, and yes, some other things. We’ve had so much fun.’ She turned to Hannah. ‘You tell your ma about those first meringues you made. We could stretch them right across the kitchen! But she’s becoming a right good little cook. I always wanted a daughter.’ She stopped at Mama’s expression. ‘No offence, Mrs Gilbert. I didn’t mean . . .’

  Mama took Mrs Zebediah’s hand. ‘No offence taken at all. I’m so glad Hannah found a refuge with someone as kind as you. I’m glad of all you’ve taught her too. But I think perhaps she and I shouldn’t come out to the farm for a while. Jamie’s reading is going so well now.’

  ‘No!’ cried Hannah. ‘I love it out here. Please, Mama!’

  ‘There are things you should be doing.’

  ‘What things? Mama, I’m learning so much. Understanding things I never thought about!’

  ‘I . . . I think it best,’ said Mama, not elaborating.

  ‘But you will come back?’ asked Jamie anxiously.

  Mama didn’t reply.

  ‘Mrs Gilbert?’ Jamie said again.

  ‘Hush, Jamie,’ said Mrs Zebediah. Her face looked twisted, as if she was trying not to cry. She nodded at Mama. ‘You’re right, Mrs Gilbert. I should have thought . . . I should have realised. But I understand.’

  ‘I . . . I thought you might,’ said Mama. They shared a long look, as if saying things silently they did not wish their children to hear.

  ‘But I don’t understand!’ cried Hannah.

  ‘Hannah, hush,’ said Mama. ‘I’ll explain later. And of course we will see you again. We are friends, all of us. But I think . . . I think there is no more need for the school in the dairy.’ She held out both her hands this time and Mrs Zebediah took them. ‘Mrs Zebediah, an Australian man called Adam Lindsay Gordon wrote a poem years ago. I can’t remember it all, only the last verse:

  ‘Life is mostly froth and bubble,

  Two things stand like stone

  KINDNESS in another’s trouble,

  COURAGE in your own.

  ‘That is always how I’ll remember you,’ said Mama, and Hannah realised she was almost crying. ‘Your kindness and your courage.’

  ‘But we’ll see you soon!’ cried Hannah. ‘We will, won’t we?’ she asked Mama.

  Once again Mama didn’t answer. She hugged Mrs Zebediah quickly.

  ‘I truly do understand, Mrs Gilbert,’ repeated Mrs Zebediah softly, the tears still in her eyes. ‘I hoped . . . but . . . but I know what Port Harris is like, all too well.’

  Jamie said nothing. He just looked from one woman to the other, then wordlessly went to get the saddle and Smokey. He helped Mama up, then stood back as Mama held out a hand to help Hannah.

  Mama clicked the reins. Smokey began to clop down the track. Impossible not to cry now. Hannah wiped her eyes, and looked back.

  Mrs Zebediah still stood outside the kitchen. Hannah thought she might be crying too. Jamie stood next to her, his arm around her waist.

  Hannah waved, and they waved back, then Smokey rounded the first corner.

  Mama rode quietly, letting the horse find his own pace. At last Hannah could bear it no longer.

  ‘Mama, it’s not fair! I’ve learned more at the farm than I ever would at a school.’

  ‘You’ve never been to a good s
chool,’ said Mama shortly. She hesitated, then added, ‘No, your father’s schools have been good ones. But you’ve only been taught by your parents, at school as well as at home. You haven’t ever had a chance to learn more than we know.’

  ‘Of course I have. I’ve had books! They’re teachers too — and I’ve had hundreds of them! And when Jamie and I talk about the books we’ve read we see things we missed, like the reasons the writer wrote the book, and other important things.’

  Mama twisted round in her side-saddle to look at Hannah. ‘Is that the real reason you want to go back there?’

  ‘No. I want to go back because I love it! I love Mrs Zebediah showing me how to make chutney. I love going down to the beach, talking to Jamie, discussing things with him. I’ve never had a friend like him before. There’s no one else like Jamie in Port Harris!’

  ‘I know,’ said Mama. She looked as if she was trying to find the right words. ‘Hannah, you’re not going to stay in Port Harris long.’

  Hannah looked at her in surprise. ‘But we were at Lyrebird Creek for ten years. And Mr Andrews was schoolmaster here for about twenty.’

  ‘Your papa is eager to teach in a bigger school — not a bigger one-teacher school, but a private school where he might be made assistant science master, and a housemaster or principal one day.’

  ‘Has he been given a job like that for next year?’

  ‘You’d have to leave Port Harris soon even if your father doesn’t get another position,’ said Mama, not answering Hannah’s question. ‘And Angus too. Angus will have to go to boarding school when he’s ten, unless we’re somewhere with a good boys’ day school for him. And you need more than I can teach you.’

  ‘But I am learning—’ began Hannah heatedly, just as a smirking voice said, ‘Well, if it isn’t little Miss Gilbert and her ma. Good afternoon to you, Mrs Gilbert.’

  Mr Murphy was leaning on his front gate. He swept off his ragged hat and gave an ironic bow. ‘You been takin’ flowers out to the beach again, missy?’

  Mama looked startled.

  ‘I told Mr Murphy how we take flowers to the beach in memory of poor Mr Vandergeld,’ said Hannah quickly. ‘I did it while you were in Sydney.’

  ‘I’m so glad you did,’ said Mama smoothly, tugging Smokey’s reins so he halted. She smiled at Mr Murphy. ‘Yes, we were at the beach today.’ She bent and brushed some of the sand still clinging to her hem.

  Mr Murphy stared at this undoubtable evidence of beach-going. ‘I did wonder if your missy might have some other reason for going down Pirate’s Track.’

  ‘What on earth could give you that idea, Mr Murphy?’ Mama was at her most charming.

  Mr Murphy leaned closer. ‘I seen her with that darkie, up near the huts. Those huts are a long way from the beach. Just the two of them, they were. The little miss says, “I’m just picking flowers for the poor dead man”, but why go all the way up there to pick them? And with a darkie too? She looked all upset to get caught. Well, Mrs Gilbert, I just thought you ought to know. You bein’ away in Sydney so long . . .’

  ‘Yes, Mr Murphy?’ Mama was still smiling, though her fingers clutched the reins so hard they were white.

  ‘Let’s just say some people might think “like father like son” with that Zebediah boy not knowin’ his place. Some people might be thinkin’ he’s got his eye on your girl here, and she might be slippin’ out—’

  Hannah gazed at him in horror. ‘Mama!’

  ‘Be quiet, Hannah. Mr Murphy,’ Mama fixed him with the stare that came of growing up the daughter of a wealthy landowner, ‘some people may say anything, especially when they have filthy minds and get their ideas from the bottom of a bottle of rum.’

  Mr Murphy grinned, showing his blackened teeth. ‘And some people might not be sayin’ anythin’ at all if it’s made their while. Ten shillings maybe? Make it a guinea. People say you got a good bit o’ money all of your own. It’d be worth a fair bit, I reckon, to make sure people don’t go gettin’ the wrong idea about the schoolmaster’s daughter.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Murphy. But you may not know we have the law of slander in this country. If you make any allegation about my daughter I will see you in prison. Is that understood?’

  ‘Can’t put a man in prison for sayin’ what he thinks!’

  ‘We shall see, won’t we, Mr Murphy? And there is blackmail, too. A man can get ten years in prison for blackmail. Who do you think the courts would believe: a rum-soaked layabout or the wife of the schoolmaster? I could see you in prison for fifteen years, Mr Murphy, and don’t think I won’t do it.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . Fifteen years?’

  ‘All I have to do is ride down to the police station and tell the sergeant everything you said just now, slander and blackmail, with my daughter as a witness.’

  Mr Murphy’s mouth stayed open, and his eyes were wide too; he looked like a dead fish on a trestle table at the market.

  Mama gave a calm smile. ‘Or would you prefer to apologise?’

  Mr Murphy stepped back, nearly falling into the geraniums. ‘I’m sure I didn’t mean no offence, missus.’

  ‘You apologise?’

  ‘Yes, missus. I ain’t told no one else about it neither.’

  ‘Then we will hear no more of this. I asked my daughter to take flowers to the beach, and I asked Mrs Zebediah if her son could make sure she got there safely and back. There are snakes — and men — that she might need protection from. And if you were there, I am very glad indeed that Jamie Zebediah was looking after her. Good day, Mr Murphy.’

  Mama urged Smokey into what was almost a trot, knowing that his home paddock and a bag of oats were near.

  Hannah waited till they had turned the corner. ‘You were wonderful, Mama! Is there really a law of slander?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Mama tightly, spurring Smokey to go faster. ‘You stupid, stupid girl.’

  Hannah flinched. Mama had never spoken to her in anger like that before. She had never called her stupid.

  ‘How often did you go to the farm without me?’

  ‘Most days,’ said Hannah in a small voice.

  ‘And you went out alone with Jamie?’

  ‘Yes. But we didn’t do anything wrong! We talked! We discussed Socrates, and Jamie showed me how to use his fishing net.’

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ said Mama grimly.

  ‘That’s why you don’t want to go to the Zebediahs’ any more, isn’t it?’ demanded Hannah. ‘Because Jamie and I are friends now! Because he’s black!’

  ‘Of course it is. Hannah, you’ve seen too little of the world. And don’t tell me you’ve seen the world in books. There aren’t any books about the worst danger for a woman. Not shipwrecks, not seduction, but losing her very identity. Years of boredom, day after day. A small life made smaller by the chatter of gossips. And gossip about a woman can mean her life gets even smaller—’ She stopped. ‘That’s Mr Harris’s car! I hope nothing’s wrong with Angus. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to school today.’

  She looped the reins around the fence, then hurried into the garden and up the stairs, Hannah following her. The smell of the corned beef Mrs Murphy must be boiling wafted down the stairs. The corned beef Mama never wanted to eat again . . .

  ‘Mr Harris!’ cried Mama as a figure on the veranda stood. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? I’ll say it’s wrong.’ Mr Harris’s flushed face looked half-angry and half-desperate. ‘The world is going mad. It’s this new so-called parliament down in Melbourne. Well, those fine politicians of yours are going to ruin me — and ruin all of northern Australia too.’

  ‘But how?’ asked Mama. ‘Mr Harris, please come inside and sit down.’ She turned to Mrs Murphy who was hovering in the hallway. ‘Mrs Murphy, will you bring the tea tray? Some sandwiches too. Have you had luncheon, Mr Harris?’

  Mr Harris’s face turned even redder. ‘How can you think of food at a time like this?’

  Mrs Murphy gave a quick
curtsey and hurried out.

  ‘But what is it?’ asked Mama urgently.

  ‘Those idiots down in Melbourne are debating a Bill to send all the Islanders home. Every man jack of them. Who’ll work the cane if they do that? Cutting cane, loading it, clearing the undergrowth — it’s hard work and far too hot for white men. The plantations will go back to jungle. The refineries will close; towns like Port Harris will simply disappear!’

  ‘But why are they doing this?’ asked Mama. ‘I could understand making laws for better working conditions.’

  Mr Harris snorted. ‘Better conditions! You’re as bad as those fools down south. The boys on my plantation have everything they need — a roof over their heads, their rations. No, this is because those southerners say the Islanders and other coloureds coming to Australia work for so little they force down wages for white men. But I tell you white men won’t do the work.’

  Not for six pounds a year, thought Hannah. And not living in dirt-floored sheds.

  ‘Mr Harris, you said they are debating the Bill. That means it hasn’t been passed yet,’ said Mama soothingly.

  He looked at her angrily. ‘And what would a woman like you know about politics?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Mama dryly. ‘I was one of those who marched for women’s suffrage and a new Commonwealth parliament that might give it to us.’

  ‘You! I might have known. I suppose you supported that Federation nonsense too? I would have thought your father’s daughter had more sense. We were doing fine as we were till you would-be reformers came up with the idea of a new parliament. Votes for women,’ he mocked. ‘Make laws that send boys to school when they should be working to help their families. Send back the labour that made Port Harris and this district what it is, and most of Queensland too, all because of do-gooders like you.’

  ‘Mr Harris, please. Yes, I campaigned for Federation. But I’m certainly not in favour of sending away men who have lived here most of their lives—’

  ‘A bit late to be sorry now. I’d never have appointed your husband if I’d known he was married to one of you lot. You who think yourself too good to help teach, and your daughter too.’ He glared at Hannah. ‘After all I’ve done for your family and the school. Well, if this Bill passes I won’t be paying the school bills any more, nor the schoolmaster’s. There may not even need to be a school at Port Harris, and you can tell your husband that from me. Good afternoon, Mrs Gilbert.’