Somewhere around the Corner

by Jackie French

  Thellie giggled.

  ‘And no brats to wash, either,’ added Elaine, giving Thellie’s hair a tweak. ‘You come here, brat, and I’ll clean your face for you. You could grow potatoes in it. What would you have, Jim?’

  Young Jim ran his hands through his pale hair. ‘Dunno,’ he said shortly. ‘What’s the use of dreaming?’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ said Elaine. ‘Just imagine we could walk round the corner. Where would you go?’

  Young Jim glanced at her. He seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’d be changing the world,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s what I’d be doing. I’d be out there fighting with Jack Lang and all the rest of them. I’d be finding out why some people have so much and others don’t have blankets on their beds. But I’d need an education for that. I’d need to know about things.’

  ‘Garn. All you need’s your soapbox,’ said Elaine. ‘Then you could climb up on it and yack away all you want to.’

  Young Jim opened his mouth to argue.

  ‘I’d have a hairyplane,’ Thellie interrupted, bouncing up and down.

  ‘You mean an aeroplane, you silly bandicoot,’ said Elaine.

  ‘That’s what I said, a big one just like Bubba had, and I’d have lots of ice-creams.’

  ‘I’d have four thousand sausages,’ said Joey.

  ‘You’d be sick!’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. I’d have chops for breakfast every morning, too.’

  The hessian doorflap opened and Ma came out slowly, tying back her hair and straightening her dress.

  ‘What would you have, Ma?’ demanded Elaine.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ma’s voice was still sleepy.

  ‘We’re pretending we could all go round corners like Bubba did. I want a whole room of books and Jim wants to change the world—or at least make speeches to everyone in it—and Thellie wants aeroplanes.’

  ‘I’d have a house.’ Ma spoke dreamily, as though she didn’t know what she was saying. ‘A house with a real roof on it and a kitchen with a stove, and a school for all of you…a good school so you could get a decent education…’ She saw Dad’s face and broke off. ‘And if wishes were fishes we’d all be rich. All I really want’s a cuppa. Is there water in the billy, love? That bread smells good.’

  Dad poured her a cup of tea without speaking. Elaine glanced at his hard-set face, at Ma’s careful lack of expression.

  ‘Come on,’ she said to Barbara. ‘Let’s take the dishes and the littl’uns down the creek, and get the lot of them clean. You coming, Jim?’

  Young Jim nodded without speaking. They walked down the track in silence.

  chapter fifteen

  Dad and Mr Henderson

  Dad watched them as they disappeared down the track. His kids—his wonderful strong kids—stuck here in the bush without a chance, without a future, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Maybe it was the letdown from the dance, maybe it was Bubba’s stories, making you think the world might be different one day, just around the corner. Dad didn’t know. All he knew was he couldn’t settle, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stand to see Ma’s face, so resolutely cheerful. He was too restless even to go and water the tomatoes, though they needed it. The poor things would be wilting in this sun, the lettuces too.

  Ma looked up. She was crocheting one of her rugs again, bright strips of rag that would be a hearthrug, or a kitchen mat when Johnny Halloran sold it in town. But Johnny Halloran had broken his leg, Dad remembered. There’d be no more trips to town for weeks maybe.

  ‘Settle down,’ suggested Ma, trying to sound normal. ‘Why don’t you put the billy on. We’ll have a cuppa on our ownsome before the mob comes back to annoy us.’

  Dad shook his head, but he stirred up the fire anyway. He scooped a billy of water out of the kero tin in the shade. The billy sizzled in the hot ashes. Elaine’s voice rose from down by the creek, calling the little ones to order. A child laughed, and called something back.

  ‘Listen to them.’ Dad’s voice was harsh.

  Ma looked up from her stitching. ‘They’re healthy. They’re happy. They’ve got a roof over their heads and full bellies. There are others a lot worse off.’

  ‘They should be at school. They should be making something of themselves.’

  ‘Things’ll get better.’ Ma’s voice was as comforting as she could make it, with just a hint of fear below.

  ‘Yeah, the good times are just around the corner.’ Dad smiled grimly. ‘That’s what the newspapers say, isn’t it.’ That’s what Bubba said happened to her. She’d just stepped somewhere around the corner. He knew what would be around the corner if he had his way—a better world—one that had a future for his kids. A school, teachers; he could see it so clearly he could almost taste it.

  Teachers…

  The shadows seemed to shiver slightly. Dad looked up, startled. The sun must have come out from behind a cloud, but there weren’t any clouds today.

  Ma was looking at him strangely. ‘What is it?’

  Dad brought his fist down so hard the table rattled on its stones. ‘Struth, I’ve been flaming blind! Blind as a bat in the midday flaming sun! We’ve got a flaming teacher!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Old Henderson! He’s a teacher isn’t he? I bet his wife could teach as well.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing.’ Dad surged to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ma started to run after him.

  ‘I’m going to start a flaming school. That’s where I’m going.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘If I’m late for lunch you lot start without me. Tell the kids I’ve gone for a little walk—just a stroll around the flaming corner!’

  chapter sixteen

  Mr Henderson

  It was too hot to stay in the tent, with the flies buzzing like tiny engines. He got up and dressed as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Marge, still sleeping on the pile of blankets. She looked so peaceful, the lines of strain softened from her face. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed herself like she had last night? It must be a year or more since they’d danced together.

  Mr Henderson put his hand over the ashes. They were stone cold. He’d have to start the fire again before they could have breakfast, but what did it matter, there was all the time in the world. Nothing to do but get more wood, or haul the water, or pan for gold and hope somehow for a miracle, a gleam of colour in his pan.

  He reached over to the woodpile. That’s one thing about this place, there was plenty of wood if you were cold, and plenty of rabbits if you were hungry, if you liked eating rabbit. He never had. But you got used to it, just like you got used to living in a tent, and the loss of all the life you’d known.

  The wood was damp from the dew, but there was dry wood further down the pile. Mr Henderson pushed it with his foot before he took a piece, careful of snakes and spiders. Red-bellied blacks loved woodpiles. He remembered the first one they’d seen, about fifteen years ago now. They’d been married a year and he’d been a headmaster for two. It was their first holiday together, unless you counted their honeymoon in the mountains.

  Camping had been fun then, the washing in cold water in the creek, Marge giggling when a bowerbird stole the soap, cooking on an open fire, the bright flames licking at the air. It was all fun, even when the black snake crawled out from behind the log they’d been sitting on and Marge had screamed, then laughed, because the snake was obviously much more scared of them. Camping was fun when you knew you had a house to go back to, a proper stove, a bathroom, good gas lights, a job where people looked up to you, security and money in the bank.

  The job went first, and then the house. The house went with the job. Then their savings, gradually eaten away, until they knew that if they kept paying rent the money would be gone and they’d have nothing. Then the bank had shut. So they had come here. He’d thought he could make a bit fossicking, but the gold wasn’t there. He supposed they were better off than most. At least they had the tent and th
e right equipment…if only they had hope as well.

  Hope seemed very far away, so far it seemed he’d never find it again.

  A child yelled in the distance. One of the O’Reilly kids, or that new girl, Bubba, the one that thought she came from far away. From somewhere around the corner.

  What would it be like to have another world around the corner, one that you could just step into if things got bad? Mr Henderson smiled to himself. He thought about walking around the corner of the track down to town, and there would be a school where Dulcie’s washhouse was now. There’d be desks inside and ink wells, and the ink monitor busy filling them up before the lessons started.

  There’d be slates for the young ones that squeaked when they wrote on them, and the grey dust would stain their fingers as they learnt their letters and their sums. There’d be a blackboard and a desk out front, and he’d keep his favourite books inside and read to them on sleepy afternoons or when it was too wet to go outside; all the books he’d loved when he was young that he could share with them.

  That was the joy of teaching, knowing you opened up new worlds for the kids. All they had to do was reach out and grab it, just take those first few steps around the corner.

  He could almost see it, that school. The kids would be lined up at the door, elbowing each other to get in first, as though it really mattered. He could almost hear their footsteps as they marched inside, tramp tramp tramp.

  Mr Henderson opened his eyes. They weren’t children’s steps, they were the steps of an adult. He saw O’Reilly from up the creek heading through the clearing. Mr Henderson looked up and tried to pretend he hadn’t been dreaming.

  ‘Morning.’

  Dad nodded. He stood uncertainly, wondering where to start, rubbing his great hands together.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Dad pulled up an old kero tin, padded with sacking and sat.

  ‘You’ll think I’m crazy,’ he began slowly, ‘but I got this idea. It seemed to come from nowhere, but once it took hold—’

  ‘What idea?’ asked Mr Henderson.

  ‘About a school.’

  ‘There isn’t any school in Poverty Gully.’ Mr Henderson’s voice was hard.

  ‘I know there’s not a school. It breaks my heart to see the kids sometimes, no learning, no future. All they know is what they can see here. It’s just not good enough.’

  Mr Henderson didn’t meet his eyes. ‘They can go up to town. There’s a school there. A good school.’

  ‘Two hours away if you’ve got a horse, or the money to board your kids, and no-one here’s got money like that.’ Dad broke off. ‘I reckon I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Henderson shortly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Marge slip through the tent flaps. She just stood there, not joining in.

  ‘So I was thinking, why can’t we start a school?’ Dad held up his hand. ‘No, don’t say anything yet. I know we don’t have a proper building. But I went down to Dulcie’s—you know, Dulcie at the dairy farm. Well, she’s got an old washhouse. It’s not much but it’s got a proper floor and everything, and it’s got a kitchen at the back of it. It used to be the old kitchen before they built the main house. It’s even got the old stove in it.

  ‘Well, I know it’s not much now, but we could mend the roof and clean it up a bit.’

  Mr Henderson was looking at him strangely. Dad rushed on. ‘Well, I reckon we could make a pretty good school there if we tried.’

  Mr Henderson’s face was expressionless. Dad spoke more quietly now, trying to convince. ‘I know we can’t pay you proper wages—struth, most of us can’t pay you anything at all—but we’ll give what we can. We’ll all chip in with vegies, rabbits, or whatever. You spend your time with our kids and we’ll do what we can for you.’

  Dad stopped in the face of Mr Henderson’s silence. He stood up. ‘I should have known it was too much to ask,’ he said gruffly. ‘A bloke like you would want a proper school. That’s what you’re waiting for, I know.’

  ‘No, wait.’ Mr Henderson grabbed his arm. ‘You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Marge, stick the billy on will you?’

  Dad looked at him, hope in his eyes. ‘I know it wouldn’t be a proper school—’

  ‘Why not?’ Mr Henderson ran his hands through his hair. ‘Why not make it a proper school? What else do we need? We’ve got the kids, we’ve got the building and I’m a damn good teacher, if I do say so myself. We’ll make it a proper school.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’ll write to the Department of Education. There’s a scheme—I can’t remember what it’s called. If the parents provide board and lodging and a building, the government will give you a subsidy. It’s not much, but it’d probably pay for books, and slates.’ Mr Henderson slammed his fist into his hand. ‘Even if they won’t it doesn’t matter. We’ll write on flipping paperbark if we have to.’ He turned to Marge. ‘What do you think?’

  There were tears in Marge’s eyes, happy tears. ‘I think we should go and see that washhouse.’

  ‘Not a washhouse,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘From now on it’s the Poverty Gully School. No, not Poverty Gully—just the Gully School. There’ll be nothing poor about the education the kids get at this school.’

  ‘We’ll hold a meeting,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll call everyone in the valley together. We’ll get this thing organised. We’ll…’

  Mr Henderson suddenly seemed to come down to earth. ‘What if the valley people don’t want a school? I haven’t taught for over two years now. What if they don’t want someone from a susso camp teaching their kids?’

  Marge touched his shoulder. ‘You hold your meeting,’ she told him. ‘We’ll convince them somehow.’ She laughed, high and happy, a younger, more excited sound than he’d heard from her in years. ‘Then someone’s going to have to break the news to the kids.’

  chapter seventeen

  Meeting

  It was strange to see the hall filled with chairs, thought Barbara, not bare like it was for dancing. It looked different tonight. It felt different too: of expectation as thick as treacle, not the laughter of Friday night as the valley let its strain and worry fly out the door with the music of Gully Jack’s fiddle.

  Dance or meeting, though, the trestles at the back were still set up for supper, as though nothing could take place in the hall without cups of tea and plates of scones with apple jelly, and pikelets with quince jam.

  Dad wore his best trousers, hauled out of the tea chest and draped over a bush until the smell of mothballs faded. Dad and Mr Henderson had argued over who was going to address the meeting first. They’d decided on Dad to begin with and Mr Henderson second. Ma and Marge Henderson had taken their husbands’ trousers down to Dulcie’s to use the iron. Mr Henderson even wore a coat and tie, the coat slightly shiny, but still good. You could smell the mothballs right down in the front seats.

  ‘He looks like a teacher. Doesn’t he?’ Young Jim whispered to Barbara. She nodded. ‘He wouldn’t be bad, though,’ she said, remembering the way he’d shown her how to waltz. ‘I mean, he seems to like kids.’

  ‘We must be mad,’ said Elaine gloomily. ‘I mean, who wants to go to blooming school anyway?’ She shifted Thellie on her lap. ‘Now you sit still, hear me or I’ll have to take you outside and I’ll miss Dad’s speech.’

  ‘You know, it’s funny,’ Young Jim spoke seriously. ‘It’s not like I want to go to school. It’s just that I don’t like not being able to go.’

  Elaine tidied Thellie’s hair. ‘It’s almost like I’m scared of school,’ she said quietly. ‘I mean I’d sort of accepted it, that I couldn’t get my Leaving or even my Intermediate, that I’d just be like Ma, getting married and having kids. But now there’s a chance of school again—and you find all your dreams come flooding in, as though I can choose what I want—and it’s sort of frightening.’

  Thellie wriggled again. ‘Can’t you sit still?’ demanded Elaine. ‘It’s like having a bag
of lizards on my lap.’

  ‘Here, pass her over,’ said Barbara. ‘I’ll hold her for a bit.’

  Thellie held her arms out immediately.

  ‘Tell me a story,’ she ordered.

  ‘I can’t. Dad’s going to talk in a minute. Look at all the people coming in instead.’

  ‘I wonder what they’re thinking,’ whispered Elaine. ‘It’ll break Dad’s heart if they don’t want the school.’

  ‘I think it’ll hurt Mr Henderson worse,’ said Young Jim sombrely. ‘I mean, it’d be like they don’t think he’s a real teacher, just because he’s a susso and lives in Poverty Gully.’

  ‘But he is a real teacher,’ objected Elaine. ‘He’s been a headmaster and everything.’

  Young Jim looked at her.

  ‘You haven’t been up in Sydney lately,’ he said. ‘You should hear people talk about the sussos there. Like you don’t exist once you’re in a susso camp. People just want to shut their eyes, pretend it’s your fault if you’ve lost your job. I tell you, it’s real crook.’

  Elaine sighed. ‘Shut him up, someone. He’d talk the leg off an iron pot if you gave him half a chance.’

  ‘A bloke can express an opinion, can’t he?’ demanded Young Jim.

  ‘Go tell the gum trees,’ advised Elaine. ‘Look, there’s still people coming. I didn’t know there were so many families in the valley.’

  The hall was slowly filling up with families from all along the valley who’d seen the notices down at the pub, or in the store, or up on Sergeant Ryan’s notice board.

  They were strangers’ faces; men with thin legs and large hands, and eyes that were used to measuring from one end of a paddock to another; women with lipstick on, in their Sunday best. The footpath in front of the hall was filled with carts and battered vehicles and the whinnies of tethered horses. These people were the small farmers of the valley, burdened with low prices, the weight of last year’s drought and the worry of the next; the farm workers; the eucy cutters, still carrying the sharp hot scent of eucalyptus oil from their stills; rabbit trappers; old Nicholson from the store, hard to recognise without his long white apron; and blonde Anna from the pub—they said she could tell if a man was going to swear ten seconds before he did and would quell him with one look.