by David Vernon
“It won’t interfere with my schooling, Mother. The training is done after lessons.”
Her mother turned from the old wood stove, waved away a hovering fly and swept back loose strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes before she answered with a stern look.
“You’ll do the training after lessons, will you? And who do you think is going to help me with the children if you are at the school house till all hours.”
“It’s only for a couple of extra hours, Mother. Anyway, what about Emma? She’s the eldest. Why can’t she help you when I am not here?”
“Your sister has her hands full looking after the babies, as well you know, young lady.”
“But Mother, after two years I will get paid. I can help you by earning money.”
“Earn money? Earn money, indeed. A woman’s place is in the home. What man will want you if you go around giving yourself airs above your station. Men do not want to marry women who are smarter than they are. Your fanciful ideas will ruin your chances of making a good marriage.”
“But Mother, getting married is not enough for me. I want to do things. I want to achieve things. Mr Allpass says I could be a fine writer one day.”
A sharp look of disapproval crossed her mother’s face. “A fine writer is it? Writing such nonsense as this, I suppose.” She reached into her apron pocket, retrieved a piece of paper and held it aloft between her thumb and forefinger as though she were holding a dead mouse by the tail. She eyed it with the same distaste she might bestow on the rodent. “I’ve told you before; this nonsense you are writing is not fit for respectable people to set eyes on.” Her mother screwed the piece of paper up into a tight ball, enclosing it in her clenched fist.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s just a poem about the bush. Mr Allpass said it was a good poem.”
“Mr Allpass indeed!”
Protecting her hand from the heat with an old cloth set aside for the purpose, her mother turned the handle of the small iron door at the front of the stove and flung the crumpled piece of paper into the fire chamber. The flames devoured her beautiful poem. Her mother closed the chamber door firmly, straightened and turned back to her daughter.
“You need to get your thoughts in order, young lady. This world is for men, not women. You will only create misery for yourself with your foolish dreams.”
“Why, Mother? Why? Why can’t women do more than just look after babies?
“Because that’s the way it is and the sooner you accept it the better.”
“Well, that is not the way it’s going to be for me. If a job doesn’t need muscles and brawn, a woman can do it just as well as any man. One day I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone. I’m going to do something to make the world a better place for women.”
“That’s enough from you, young lady. There’s work to be done and you can start by peeling the potatoes.”
Loud cheers and applause brought the woman from her reverie. When she realised who the crowd was cheering she sat forward with alert interest. It was Vida Goldstein. By starting a newspaper in Victoria advocating women’s rights, Vida had copied what she herself had already done in NSW. She listened in anticipation of hearing her name mentioned, her thick dark eyebrows coming together in concentration. Vida Goldstein spoke about the history of the women’s suffrage movement and mentioned several people who had contributed to the good fight. Each person’s name was greeted with applause and cheers. However, Goldstein finished her triumphant victory speech without referring to the woman who sat at the back of the hall.
The anguish from her childhood memory was transferred to the present with bitter thoughts. She had been the first to start a newspaper for women but Goldstein had conveniently forgotten that. And have they all forgotten she was also the first to publicly call for women to have the vote? That was back in 1888 through her Ladies Column in The Republican. Ever since then she had fought for women’s rights. She had also been one of the founding members of the Womanhood Suffrage League.
Waiting around to endure the indignity of further indifference was something she did not propose to do. While the official speeches continued, the woman pulled on her gloves and picked up her bag. With cat-like disdain, she rose from her seat and crossed the room. Her strong, tall physique was revealed, the puffed sleeves of her floor length dress accentuating her height and adding to the width of her ample shoulders. Despite her commanding physical presence, the women in the audience who were giving their full attention to those on the front stage did not see her as she made her way to the door. However, on reaching the exit. her departure was stalled by a woman dressed in a lace-collared satin gown with immaculately coiffed hair who stepped in front of her.
“Louisa,” said Margaret Windeyer, gently taking her arm. “Please do not leave yet.”
Someone in the crowd turned and, recognising the woman in the doorway, called out.
“Mrs Lawson! Louisa Lawson is here.”
Others in the crowd called her name.
“Louisa.”
“Louisa Lawson.”
A startled expression, which quickly turned to pleasure, crossed the woman’s face. She stepped back into the room. Hands began to clap.
The speeches had ceased. All those on the podium joined in the applause. A wave of enthusiasm brought the whole audience to its feet. Long, voluminous skirts swished as the women rose from their seats and turned toward the back of the room.
Louisa Lawson was swept by a torrent of excitement down the aisle and up to the podium. Miss Rose Scott, a genteel lady and secretary of the Womanhood Suffrage League, applauded her onto the platform. Miss Scott, her fair hair curling out from under a pert hat, raised her hand to silence the audience After following the customary protocol of acknowledging honourable and distinguished guests she focused on Louisa Lawson.
“This lady is the pioneer who started our journey. She was the first to give public voice to our cause. By the time she joined us as a founding member of the League she had already fought fiercely for womanhood suffrage through her excellent newspaper, The Dawn, and later the Dawn Club. It gives me much pleasure to welcome, Mrs Louisa Lawson, the mother of womanhood suffrage in NSW.”
A storm of applause broke forth and thundered through the room. As she stepped forward, her bearing radiating dignity and pride, Louisa Lawson sent a silent message to a departed one. I told you I would make the world a better place for women, Mother.
Historical note: The Woman at the Back of the Room is based on the life of Louisa Lawson (mother of Henry Lawson), in particular her involvement with the Womanhood Suffrage League which, in 1902, resulted in women in Australia finally being given the right to vote, and the right to stand for Federal Parliament.
JB Rowley is a writer, an oral storyteller and an educator. Born on the Snowy River in a small town called Orbost where she enjoyed a free and feral existence, JB now lives in Melbourne surrounded by warm and generous friends and family. Recent short story successes include The Flowerdale Tattoo which won the ABC Hope 2011 competition.
The Bunyip Hunter
— Michelle Williams
There was something exciting going on at the river. Ellen always found the river exciting, the twisting and turning silver waters lined with swamp grass and marshes that enveloped her feet, making funny sucking sounds as she struggled to pull her legs out from the sodden grasp of the earth. She knew she wasn’t allowed near the waters alone, but that seldom stopped her. And now there was surely more reason to creep out at first light and sneak across the grass before her father woke to the sunlight streaming into his room.
She had heard him talking mutedly to her uncle the night before and had reasoned that their hushed voices could only mean one thing: they didn’t want her to hear. And if they didn’t want her to hear what they were saying, she knew it had to be exciting. She had lifted her nightgown skirts and crept quietly across the wooden landing to the stairwell, wary of the broken board that made the planks around it squeal whenever they were s
tepped upon.
“There’s something going on in those waters, James. I don’t care what anyone says about the Ned Kelly gang. What I saw weren’t no man.”
“No man would last long in those waters anyway, ‘specially with a bullet in him.”
Ellen could hear her uncle exhaling heavily. “I would swear it was a creature. Like those men at Midgeon Lagoon said they saw. Looked like a dog but not like any I ever saw. All that hair.”
Ellen heard the crunch of her uncle sitting heavily in the battered rocker, heard the tracks roll backwards, then forwards, to silence as they met the threadbare carpet in the centre of the room. The fire crackled and spat, unusually for this time of night. She realised her father had added fresh logs especially for Uncle Edward’s visit. The men weren’t going to be heading to bed any time soon. She tucked her nightshirt tightly round her knees and wrapped her arms around them for extra warmth, craning her neck forward so she could hear more clearly.
Her father suddenly sounded closer than he had done before and Ellen flinched, scared he was coming to the staircase, that he would see her and send her back to bed with his belt.
“Ed, you got to think careful, now. There are families round here need to know if some of the Kelly gang are hiding out in our waters. We got women to think of, children. No matter how many times I tell Ellen not to go out there I’ll be darned if she takes one bit of notice.”
“I swear ‘til I’m blue, it was a creature. Clear as day.”
Ellen felt excitement grow in her chest. Billy Bowen had told her about this creature. A bunyip! It had to be. A bunyip outside her own home. And she would show Billy. When they had been talking about it he had bragged that he could catch one and be famous and she said she could do it as well. He had laughed real nasty at her and said a girl couldn’t do something like that. Well, she would show him.
Wary of being caught, the sting of the last hide whip she had had for staying out too long and getting her dress dirty fresh on her behind, Ellen got carefully to her feet and hurried back to bed, eagerly awaiting the dawn.
At first light she dressed quickly and hurried downstairs where she skidded to a halt. Uncle Edward had fallen asleep in the rocker and was rolling steadily back and forth in time with his snores. She crept past him, deciding against the risk of grabbing something to eat, and snuck out the front door, racing across the course grass to freedom and a day of bunyip hunting.
As she neared the waters the grass was less scratchy and more sodden, squelching as she walked. When she placed her feet down water rushed up around her boots, running in through the holes in the stitching. She didn’t like swamp water between her toes, particularly when it made that funny smell. She couldn’t describe it, but it made it hard to breathe for a while until she got used to it. Rubbing her nose, she set her jaw and took more determined steps. Come on, girl, she told herself, never mind no smells. You got yourself a bunyip to find.
She trudged along for what felt like eternity until the sun was high above her and the flies began to bite. With a sigh, she sat down on the wet grass, miserably. This wasn’t as fun as she’d hoped. It was colder than she liked, the bright sun giving the illusion of warmth when really the lake water held a terrible chill. Goosebumps had risen on her arms, brought on by her ceasing movement, and they prickled when she rubbed them. She was nearly at the deep waters, she reckoned. Surely if her uncle had seen something it would have been around here.
She raised a wet hand to shield her eyes and squinted, gazing out across the swamp before her. Saw nothing but stillness.
She was just about to give up and head off back home when she heard something; a sluicing, slapping sound in the waters up ahead. Frowning, she moved into a crouch, her arms sinking into waters up to her wrists, her fingers curling around wads of grass. Could this be it? A real, true life bunyip? So maybe she didn’t have the means to capture one, fair enough. But just to see one would be enough. She could imagine herself going right up to Billy Bowen, saying right to his pudgy red face, “I seen a bunyip with my own two eyes.” She grinned at the thought, then froze as the noise up ahead became louder, and suddenly not so much up ahead as just to the right of her. She made to turn, the smile frozen on her lips, then tried to scream as a sodden, muddy hand clamped down over her mouth and she was forced down into the earth, water swirling up to her neck, her dress completely submerged in the dark water. She struggled to sit up, splashing swamp water in a cascade around them in her panic.
“You keep quiet, missy. I won’t ask you again.” The voice was gruff and cold, and his breath smelled worse than anything she had ever come across at the swamp.
She looked at the person crouching beside her in the long grass with curiosity. He was covered in mud, most of it dried onto his face like a layer of crusty skin. A wad of earth stuck to his nose, making it look snouty and snub, like a dog. Ellen cringed, thinking of the conversation she had heard last night, how her father had wondered if the creature Edward had seen had been nothing more than a Kelly bushranger, laying low for the heat to blow over before making his escape. She shivered, her teeth chattering together. She didn’t know what was worse in that moment, the fact that she was at the mercy of an outlaw on the run, or the fact that the bunyip wasn’t real after all.
The man looked around edgily, checking she was alone.
“It’s just me.”
“I believe you,” he answered scornfully, raising himself up to see further afield.
“It is. I swear it.” She watched as he lowered himself back down to a sitting position, his eyes still darting around, looking wild and white in their mud-caked sockets.
He fixed them on her suddenly. “What’s a little girl doing out here alone, anyway?”
“I was looking for a bunyip. But it turns out it was you all along.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“Me? What’re you on about?”
Ellen plucked her sodden skirts away from her knees and made to stand. “My uncle-ow!” she squealed as the man reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly back down.
“Don’t move until I think about what to do with you.” He growled.
Ellen lowered her head. What to do with her? Whatever did he mean? Father had said the Kelly gang weren’t all bad, that they were robbers but that was about it. She hadn’t up until that point thought he might hurt her. She decided it might be best to keep him talking, just in case.
“So, my uncle thought he had seen a bunyip out here last night but my dad said he thought it was probably one of your gang hiding out... like you are now. My uncle said he swore blue it were a creature, but I guess he was wrong.”
“You came out here to find a creature?”
Ellen nodded, solemnly. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’m real sad it’s just you.”
The man smirked. “Yeah, you will be... Anyway, I wasn’t out here last night. I only got here first thing.”
Ellen frowned in thought, then gasped as the man rounded on her and gripped her shoulders, pushing her down towards the waters. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“Sorry, girl. I’ve gotta hide out here a little longer yet. Can’t have some kiddy running out to tell her folks I’m down here.”
“I won’t! I won’t say anything.” Ellen felt hot tears course down her cheeks, stroked away by the cold and stinking waters of the swamp lapping over her face as she struggled.
“I won’t go back inside. Can’t risk it for anyth…Hey... Hey! What is that?”
Ellen hadn’t heard anything approaching them over the sound of her own thrashing in the water as she struggled, but as she watched her captor’s face changed, his eyes bugging out in surprise, chalky flecks of mud scattering down onto her skin as his mouth formed a silent scream and he was wrenched away from her.
Ellen sat and watched as the man was pushed down into the swamp under the weight of something large. Something covered in long shiny hair. Something that, when it lifted its head to glance
at Ellen, had the snub nose of a dog, long flapping ears that couldn’t possibly belong to a fugitive on the run.
When the man was still, tangled face-down in the long grass, the bunyip slowly backed away from Ellen and submerged as it hit the depths of the river.
She stood up and smoothed out her sodden clothes, barely sparing a thought for the belt that she would get when her dad saw her dress. She had found a bunyip alright. She trekked home with a spring in her step.
Just wait until Billy Bowen heard about this.
Historical note: The Bunyip Hunter is based on the cryptozoological phemomena. The Bunyip, a shaggy haired, dog-like creature which has been sighted since the 1800s in and around the lakes and rivers of New South Wales and Tasmania. The Melbourne Zoo sent out an expedition to capture a Bunyip in 1890, but they returned empty handed.
Michelle Williams has just tentatively begun a writing career from her home in Lancaster, UK, having taken the plunge and quit her job at a farming insurance company to write full time, thanks to the support of her partner, Russ. She writes under the watchful and critical eyes of two iguanas and a chipmunk called Chesney who suffers from insanity.
The Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award 2011
Winner
Marngrook by Sean Quentin Lee
Second Place
Footsteps in the Dark by Elsie Johnstone
Third Place
The Woman at the Back of the Room by JB Rowley
Highly Commended
Encounter — Laurence de B Anderson
Donald Charles at Ziza — Anne Atkinson
Badu Boys Rule! — Dianne Bates