by Juliet Bell
‘I had to repair the damage done by all those people tramping through here that day. But it’s hard with just me.’
‘I know.’
We sat for a long time in silence.
‘It wasn’t your fault, you know, Jane. There was nothing we could have done to save her.’
‘If I hadn’t been distracted. If I hadn’t gone to chapel that day…’ It was the thought I kept torturing myself with. If I’d never rejected Helen; if I’d been there with her; if I’d realised how stupid I was being, a week, or a day, or even just an hour earlier; if I’d run; if I’d simply run, through the school, rather than walked because of my fear of getting into trouble. If I’d done any of those things she’d still be with me now.
‘Then you might have been the one bitten,’ said Miss Temple. ‘You heard what the doctors said. The antivenin they use isn’t very good. And if it’s left too late, it doesn’t help.’
‘If I’d been here…’
‘We can all think like that. Helen often helped in the chapel – if I’d asked her to help that day, she wouldn’t have been here in the garden. You can’t blame yourself. It won’t bring her back.’
I couldn’t answer. She was trying to help, but I knew I couldn’t bring Helen back. Every waking hour of every day, I knew that.
‘And you need to start thinking about what you’re going to do when school finishes. It’s only a couple of weeks now.’
I shook my head. Without Helen I couldn’t imagine what I would do. She had been the only fixed point in my future.
‘Have you thought about staying here?’
‘As a nun?’ I almost smiled as I remembered Helen’s reaction to that idea. ‘I’d be a terrible nun.’
‘I was thinking as a teacher or a house mistress.’
My fingers stopped their relentless pulling at the blades of grass in front of me. I let the idea settle in my mind and found that it sat there very easily. For the first time since she had joined me, I looked at Miss Temple properly. She looked happy. Content. I wanted to feel like that.
‘I might like to be a teacher.’ Like you, I thought. Since Helen’s death, Miss Temple had been the one person who hadn’t seemed to want to steer me away from my grief. And school was where Helen had been. At least I wouldn’t be leaving her all over again.
I thought some more about the idea. ‘To be a teacher, I’d have to go to university. I don’t have any money.’
‘Would your family help?’
‘No.’ I’d had one letter from Mrs Reed this year, simply stating that now my final tuition fees had been paid, her duty to me was complete. Effectively I had no family.
‘Well, maybe you could stay here as an assistant, and study on the distance-learning programme. That’s how I trained. I could help you.’
‘Would the sisters let me?’
‘I can’t promise, but I think maybe if I told them I’d be your mentor. The lower-school assistant is leaving at the end of the year, and you already know the school. There wouldn’t be much money, but you’d have somewhere to live included.’
It was so much more than I deserved. I felt tears in my eyes again. Grief for Helen and gratitude towards Miss Temple merged together.
‘But, Jane, I want you to promise me something.’
‘Ok?’
‘Promise me that you won’t sit here on your own all the time. I understand. I do. But this isn’t good for you. If I help you, you must promise me you’ll stop coming here like this.’
I closed my eyes and pictured Helen’s beautiful face and then took a deep breath. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, but at least this way I had a friend to help.
‘I’ll try.’
That transition from pupil to teacher was easier than I expected. The nuns were very happy to take me on as a trainee and I quickly enrolled in distance education. I now had my own small flat at the school, and had learnt to drive the school’s station wagon, so I could pick up new girls from the train station. This task and the occasional school outing were the only times I ever left the grounds of Our Lady. On my days off, I mostly studied. I was determined to become a teacher. The lessons I received in the mail weren’t difficult, and I had passed my exams easily. Less easy was the thought that at some point, I would have to go to Armidale for on-campus lessons and exams.
And every day I would go and sit in the staff room. At first, I was almost too nervous to go there. I still felt like a student, invading the teachers’ private space. But when I walked in that first time, Miss Temple was there, with a pile of students’ exercise books on the table in front of her.
‘There’s a fresh pot of tea made, if you want some, Jane.’
‘Lovely. Thank you, Miss Temple.’
Her hand stopped moving and she placed her pen beside the stack of books. ‘Jane, don’t you think it’s time you stopped calling me Miss Temple? At least in private. You’re not my student anymore. You’re my friend.’
She was right. We were friends. I felt closer to her than I had to anyone since Helen. She was so different to Helen, but there was a tiny streak of the rebel in both of them. Miss Temple hid it well, but there were moments when I caught her rolling her eyes at some pronouncement from one of the nuns.
‘I would use your first name,’ I said as I sat down next to her. ‘Except for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know what it is.’
She started to laugh. ‘Really?’
‘In all these years, I’ve only ever heard you referred to as Miss Temple.’
‘Well, my name is Gail.’
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Gail.’
Chapter 24
Betty
Betty checked her appearance in her compact mirror. What a difference twelve months made. And a bit of money. Her hair had been done properly at the hairdressers’ and there wasn’t a hint of frizz to be seen. Her skin was creamy and smooth, freckles painted away with powder and concealer. She didn’t like her new dress, though. It was plainer and homelier than the clothes she liked. But it was what Mason had ordered. Now she was ready.
She followed Mr Mason through a gate into the showgrounds, ignoring the crowds and the noise and the smells. She knew what she had to do. She was to be polite, well-behaved and amusing with the property owners and clients she’d met during the year. She was to talk to their wives and daughters. She was not to flirt. She was not to have opinions. She was not to, in Mr Mason’s words, make a show of herself. They all had to think well of her. They were her references, and, if the week went badly, her fall-back plan.
Richard was already in the members’ enclosure, walking around briskly, giving out business cards and shaking hands. Betty scanned the crowd. There were a smattering of faces she recognised. She smiled like she was supposed to. She waited for Mr Mason to call her over. She was not to be bold, not to be forward. She came when beckoned and not before.
‘Eliza, this is Mr Rochester who owns Thornfield.’ He turned to the older man alongside him. ‘My wife, God rest her soul, and I adopted Eliza when she was just five years old.’
Betty didn’t flinch at the word ‘adopted’. Let him make like she’d always been part of the family. If it got her a ticket away to somewhere with wide open spaces and nobody looking over her shoulder then she wasn’t about to complain.
The older man nodded. ‘Adopted?’
‘Eliza was orphaned.’
That word stabbed harder, but she didn’t let the smile shift from her lips.
‘Sorry to hear that.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You know much about cattle, Eliza?’
She shook her head. She knew she wasn’t expected to know anything.
‘My wife never knew a thing about cattle. Grew up on a cattle property and then married me, and she couldn’t tell a Hereford from Brahman. She looked after us, though, didn’t she?’ He directed the question to the young man who was approaching from the other side of the arena.
‘Didn’t she what?’
‘Your ma – she looked after us.’
The younger man nodded slowly. He turned to Betty. His brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
He didn’t remember. Betty felt a twist of disappointment. Why would he remember? It had been a moment, less than a moment, a whole year before. She held out her hand very properly. ‘Eliza Mason.’
‘Edward Rochester.’ He took her hand and shook it. His skin was smoother than she’d expected. He was dressed like his father and the other property owners, but she was quite sure those hands had never done a proper day’s work.
‘My son, Edward.’
‘Eliza!’ As slowly as she dared, she pulled her hand away. Mr Mason put his hand on her arms. ‘Eliza, Mrs Weston is here. She’s very keen to show you the craft stalls.’
Betty nodded and allowed herself to be shepherded away by a buxom woman in a brightly patterned polyester dress. She listened to Mr Mason making her excuses. ‘Eliza’s first full year at the show. This is all new to her.’ She strained to hear as he lowered his voice. ‘So innocent. Mrs Mason put a lot of store on girls being raised properly. If you know what I mean.’
Betty suppressed a giggle. Just like that her purity was reborn. She shot a quick glance back over her shoulder, enough to make sure that Edward Rochester knew that she’d seen him watching her leave.
The next few days were similar to the first. Freddie Rochester wasn’t even at the show this time. The gossip was that he was now even further out of favour than the year before. So, she was dangled like a carrot in front of Edward and his father, and then sent away to engage in some chaste and appropriate activity. It was so boring she wanted to scream. She drank tea, and ate scones, and looked at patchwork quilts until she thought her stomach would burst and her eyeballs would bleed.
On the fifth day she was back at the side of the arena, Mr Mason on one side of her, the Rochesters on the other. Mr Mason cleared his throat. ‘This must be very boring for you, Eliza.’
She sensed an exchange of glances above her head. Mr Rochester spoke next. ‘Edward, why don’t you take Miss Mason for a look around? Stretch your legs a bit.’
Edward looked at her. Again she found herself pinned down by his gaze. She’d heard of men undressing women with their eyes, and she thought she knew what that meant. She’d thought it was the look of lust she was used to, but this was something else. She didn’t feel coveted. She felt undone. Eventually he nodded. ‘Why not?’
She followed him around the arena. Edward didn’t speak. He strode across the ground, confident that nobody would be in his path. Betty followed. She didn’t know anyone who moved like that. Mr Mason was stiff, always upright, always watchful. Richard tried to act like he owned the place but it was a façade that anyone could see through. Edward Rochester behaved like a man who was entitled to go wherever he chose.
Eventually he stopped. ‘I want a beer. Come on.’ And off he went again, doubling back on his route to get to the bar. Betty followed him inside. He was greeted with shouts and laughter. He disappeared for a moment into the crush of bodies. A second later he reappeared, grabbing her wrist and pulling her towards a huddle of men next to the bar. ‘Max, Gordo, everyone, this is Eliza.’
There was a volley of cheers and a single wolf whistle. ‘She’s all right, mate.’
Betty smiled. This she understood. These were little boys dressed up like men. She dipped her head and looked up at them through her lashes. Even dressed up as nice, demure Eliza Mason she knew how to deal with boys.
Rochester thrust a glass of wine into her hand. She’d have preferred a long cold beer, but Mr Mason had told her that a proper lady would drink wine, and he’d made her practice until she could take an elegant sip without pursing her lips against the sharpness in her throat.
For a time, Rochester ignored her while his mates all had a go at chatting her up with their cheesiest lines. Rochester had just watched and she’d thought maybe she’d blown it. Then he grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the tent. She stumbled after him, blinking against the bright sunlight. His lips were on hers before she’d had time to adjust. She was frozen to the spot, unable to respond, mouth clenched closed in shock. He pulled back before she could gather herself to respond to his lips.
He smiled. ‘They were telling it like it is, then.’
She frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘You really are as pure as your old man said.’
Her confusion when he kissed her had been interpreted as something else. She didn’t know if this was a good or a bad thing.
His smile widened, wolf-like and hungry. ‘It’s all right.’ He took her hand. ‘We should get back anyway if I’m going to talk to your father.’
The deal was done while Betty drank another of the interminable cups of tea in the CWA tent. The Rochester and Mason men were gathered at the cattle ring, and, just as the beasts were bought and sold, so was Betty.
The women around her whispered and nodded knowingly, but Betty ignored them. Behind the tent, someone had started a barbecue. The smell of cooking meat was thick in the air, but Betty ignored that too. Through an open tent flap, she occasionally caught an explosion of brightness, as the sizzling fat burst into flame. Betty longed to walk over there; for the release of the fire warming her skin and the flames dancing in front of her, and the sparks flying away into the sky. She wanted to fling off these stupid neat clothes Mr Mason had put her in and feel the heat on her body. In her body.
Then they were back, all four men beaming as they called her over. Edward Rochester’s smile was faint, and he looked at her as if he was looking inside her, taking her apart one bit at a time. She almost shivered.
She stood as they entered, like a proper lady was supposed to.
‘So, Mr Rochester has decided to make Mason’s his sole stock and station agent.’ Mr Mason’s smile was triumphant.
The older Rochester patted her arm. ‘You’re a pretty thing.’ His hand was shaking slightly. Betty wondered if he was drunk, or maybe sick.
‘Shall we retire to the bar and drink to our new partnership?’ Mason led the man away, but Edward stayed with her.
‘My old man’s right.’
Betty’s brow furrowed.
‘You are pretty.’ He reached and lifted her hand in his. ‘But you’re not happy, are you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He stared at her. ‘Yes. You do. You’re like me. You’re restless stuck here. You want to get away.’
She knew what she was supposed to say. She was supposed to say that she was very happy living here, being Eliza Mason. She didn’t reply.
‘You wouldn’t manage, though. Not on your own.’ He continued. ‘You’ve probably never seen anything outside of your nice house and your nice life.’ There was a spike of bitterness in his voice.
Betty’s mind drifted back to her daddy – her real daddy – and to the long boat trip, and to the years of working for her keep in the kitchen, and to the boys in alleyways, on tree stumps, against walls. She stayed silent. Eliza Mason hadn’t seen any of those things. Eliza Mason was the perfect, appropriate, respectable bride for a rich man’s son.
His fingers moved to her face. ‘It’s all right, though. I can show you everything.’ He smiled. ‘You’re not like anyone I’ve been with before. You’re so innocent.’
Betty let him continue.
‘So when we’re married, we’ll have a place in Sydney. As long as Freddie is at Thornfield, we’re free to do what we want.’
So that was that. She would finally be free of Eliza Mason. It didn’t matter that she had not been asked if this was what she wanted. Edward Rochester could give her the freedom she ached for. She was never going to say no to that.
Chapter 25
Jane
‘Miss Eyre, I think I left my swimming togs at the pool. Can I go and look, please?’
It felt strange to be giving detention rather than receiving it, but that was what I was doing. Some girls had b
een discovered swimming in the school pool without teacher supervision, which was strictly forbidden. Two of them had been tasked with setting all the tables in the dining hall as punishment, and I was overseeing them, keeping a sharp eye open for left-handed table settings, which had been a trick when I was still a student.
The girls had finished their detention, and now one of them was asking to go back to the pool.
‘You know you are not allowed at the pool without a teacher there.’
‘But I won’t go in the water.’
‘Why don’t I go and get them for you?’ I had to check the pool anyway. When it was this hot, girls were always sneaking in for a swim.
The pool had been built a few years before. It was a gift from a former student, and was a blessing during the hot summer months. It sat in a far corner of the grounds, with a thick hedge hiding it from view. There was a fence and a gate also protecting it, but as I approached I saw the gate was open. The pool, however, was empty, with not even a wet stain on the concrete surrounds to indicate a recent hasty exit. The door to the changing shed, however, was open. I walked over, my soft-soled shoes making no sound on the pool surround.
As I stepped through the doors, my eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. Two girls were sitting on the wooden benches at the far end of the room. It looked as though they had not long been out of the pool. Their hair was wet and their bathers had been discarded on the floor. Before I could speak, the girls embraced.
I backed soundlessly out of the shed. It was a private moment. I had no business being there. At the gate, I stopped. I grasped the fence as if it was a lifebuoy that could stop me washing away on a tidal wave of emotion. I’d been telling myself I was over my grief. I thought I had locked it down where it couldn’t hurt me anymore. I’d accepted Gail’s kindness and help, and convinced myself that I was doing all right now. Seeing those two girls together, so simply and so totally together, was all it took to put me right back at the centre of my pain. My arms almost tingled with the emptiness of not being able to hold the person I loved.