by Alison Booth
She went into the hallway and looked at her reflection in the mirror. A wreck of a face, no wonder Miss Neville thought she seemed ill. Bags under her eyes, unwashed skin, hair a mess. No comb in her pocket or in the drawer so she fingered her hair into shape, powdered her nose, lipsticked her mouth and smudged a bit of lipstick onto her cheeks. A long time ago she’d looked like a painted doll and that was why Bill had loved her, but now she was a raddled old barmaid past her prime. Baring her teeth in an attempt at a smile, she saw smudged lipstick on them.
Once more she wondered if she should tell someone, but who? There was nothing Miss Neville could do except warn the schoolchildren not to talk to strange men, and she did that already, Cherry knew. Anyway Bill was hardly strange; he would be known to most of them. She could tell Mr Davies, the policeman, but there was no reason for him to believe her. The photos would have to be produced as evidence and that seemed far too dangerous. Bill would deny it, maybe even say they’d been planted. No, she couldn’t do that. An icy coldness gripped her and her head began to spin. Slowly she went into the bathroom and splashed her face and neck with water.
Perhaps she should confront Bill with this. Tell him she’d seen the pictures when she was cleaning his office. She wasn’t supposed to go in there, but that didn’t matter. She would tell him that she knew and they would have a row and then she’d leave him, but her pulses began to race again at this thought. He was a big man and she was frightened of him. She was afraid of what he might do. And where would she go if she left him? Although she’d often dreamt of running off with Miss Neville to Sydney, they’d never actually spoken of this. Maybe Miss Neville didn’t want to commit to her, and she certainly wouldn’t once she knew about Bill. Anyway she’d have to apply for a transfer to move away from here and that would take time.
Cherry gripped the edge of the washbasin. Suppose she applied for a divorce. She’d have to give a reason and then all of this would have to come out in the courts. Bill would twist things around, he was clever with words, and popular. He would say it was her fault and that she wasn’t a proper wife to him. Everyone would believe him and she’d be publicly humiliated. At this, her face flushed as if she were already in the dock. Turning on the cold tap, she splashed more water over her face and felt it trickle slowly down her neck and dampen her dress.
The simple reality was that she had no money of her own and couldn’t afford a lawyer to defend herself. It was all wrong; it was Bill who should be doing the defending and not her. Now hot tears trickled down her face but she brushed them away. She couldn’t afford to be blinded by self-pity. She had to stay calm.
It was obvious that she couldn’t tell anyone yet. It was far too dangerous. No one must know. She’d have to watch him all the time, or as much as she could. When he was serving in the bar there wasn’t much he could get up to.
It wouldn’t be long before she’d wonder if she’d made the right decision, and she would revisit this time and time again.
Jim woke up suddenly; alert mind, clear head. Morning already and it was such a special day. Sydney, here I come and I’d better get dressed fast. The striking of the hall clock must have been what woke him up but it was still chiming, far more than six strikes, and there was moonlight visible around the edges of the blind. Back to sleep then, ready for the drive to Burford bright and early tomorrow. There Dad would put him on the express bus to Bomaderry Station and once on that bus he’d be on his own all day until meeting up with the Nevilles at Central Railway Station.
It would be impossible to get back to sleep with Andy making such a terrible racket, each inhalation followed by an irritating click from the back of his throat. And the room felt so hot and airless, and his throat so dry. After quietly opening the bedroom door, he tiptoed into the hall. Now he heard his mother’s angry voice, coming from the lounge room. He stood quite still. Her anger induced a sensation in his chest that was like panic, and his stomach tightened and turned. Then he heard his father’s low voice, speaking calmly as he always did when Mum was angry. She began to talk more loudly, so loudly that Jim could hear every word, even though the lounge-room door was closed.
‘I don’t want Jim going to Sydney. I’ve told you that again and again but you never listen.’
Jim caught his breath. Surely Mum wasn’t going to stop him now. He couldn’t bear it if she did. Everything was packed and waiting at the back door, except for his toothbrush.
‘Of course I listen, Eileen.’ Dad was saying each word unusually clearly and slowly. ‘I listened to you very carefully and I heard you agree in the end. Anyway, it’s far too late to call it off, it would be plain rude. Anyone’d think you’d be pleased the boy might have a chance to go to a top school. You’re always saying how fantastic Sydney was when you were growing up there.’
‘I agree it’s too late to cancel.’ Mum had given in and Jim sighed with relief. Then she added, ‘But there’s just going to be this one trip to Sydney, George, and that’s it. Never again. This trip is going to be Jim’s taste of Sydney education and then it’s off to Burford High next year. It just wouldn’t be fair to Andy to split the boys up. Or to me.’
In the hallway Jim grinned, barely noticing that Mum was thinking of fairness to Andy and her, and not to him. She wasn’t going to cancel the trip and he’d have his three days away. The outcome of the exam didn’t bother him. He didn’t expect to get a scholarship; he just wanted this one chance to see a bit of the world on his own. After that, Burford High next year would be just fine with him.
He got a drink of water from the bathroom and crept back to bed. There were no sounds coming from the lounge room now, although his parents were still in there. After shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him, he tiptoed across to Andy’s bed. The irritating clicking had stopped although Andy was still breathing loudly through his open mouth. Jim was tempted to roll him onto his side but changed his mind. Andy hadn’t said anything much about the Sydney trip and Jim wondered what he thought of it. Nothing at all, probably. His tight circle of friends insulated him from whatever else might be going on.
It was too hot to crawl under the sheets so Jim sprawled on top. Sleep was out of the question, he was far too excited. Then he remembered no more until the following morning, when Dad’s touch on his shoulder told him it was time to get up.
From his seat on the bus, Jim watched the trunks of the eucalyptus trees flash by. Tall and straight, dappled white and grey. Between the trees nothing but the slanting rays of early morning sunlight illuminating dark clumps of what he knew to be cycads. A species that had been around even before the dinosaurs, Miss Neville had told him, and was still thriving here between the eucalypts.
On and on the bus went. Through tall forests, past dairy farms, down the main streets of little towns built on rivers, over timber bridges that rattled under their weight. Then at last the bus stopped at the Shoalhaven River and there was the Sydney train waiting at Bomaderry Station. By then he’d eaten all the sandwiches Mum had made for him the night before, and the fruit. There was just time to buy two meat pies from the baker’s near the station and then he was on the train. Even now, after travelling for so many hours, he wasn’t bored. There was so much to see, so much to think about. He needed to think, otherwise he couldn’t absorb what he was seeing. The most trivial thing might have a meaning. Even a random thing could be interpreted if you knew how; he’d seen that in the statistics book he’d chanced on in the library.
While he was pondering this, the train was passing through more trees, trees that allowed you to see right through them to the shape of the land behind. To the bare bones of the landscape, to the folds and ledges of some coloured rock that he supposed was sandstone. Then at last they were on the outskirts of Sydney, proceeding more slowly now, as if they were too early, although they’d been travelling all day and the sun was sinking fast. Past the backyards of houses, first fibro houses, then older brick houses. Mile after mile of them, backing onto the railway line; and now there
were many railway lines running parallel with their own. He could look into the backs of endless rows of terraced houses, with tiny backyards mostly filled with rubbish or paved over with concrete. No room for chookyards here, and only occasionally a touch of green.
As the train approached the terminus he became more and more anxious. Everything could go wrong. What if he and the Nevilles didn’t recognise one another? What would happen to him then, an eleven-year-old boy wandering around Central Station? Pickpockets, Mum had said, just before he left that morning. Not that he had much in his pockets that could be picked. Watch out for pickpockets, she’d said, get in the right carriage, and don’t talk to strange men. There were strange men everywhere, he could see them crowding onto the platform as they passed through Redfern Station and there was only one stop more to go before they were at Central.
The week before Miss Neville had shown him a photograph of her brother and his wife. The brother was tall with smooth dark hair and his sister’s sharpish features, but his expression wasn’t as stern. Perhaps that was because he’d been photographed with Mrs Neville. She radiated goodwill, you could see it even in the photograph; the beaming face and the skin around the eyes crinkled up with laughter.
But how would he recognise Mr Neville if he’d changed from the photo Miss Neville had shown him? Maybe he’d had his hair cut like Jim’s, or possibly even lost all his hair altogether. Jim hadn’t thought to ask Miss Neville how long ago the photo had been taken. His stomach churned with anxiety and he began to regret scoffing down those two meat pies that were sitting like lumps of lead in his gut, although he’d eaten them hours ago. Mum and Dad were mad to let him go off like this, to stay with two complete strangers. The Nevilles could be murderers for all they knew. He had hardly any money in his pockets to pay for a hotel room if they didn’t turn up, or if he couldn’t find them. Perhaps he should have been wearing a red carnation in his buttonhole, or maybe carrying flowers to give Mrs Neville, like the old lady who’d got on the train at Wollongong with a bunch of roses.
With a heavy sigh he stood up on the seat to retrieve the suitcase from the luggage rack. From the case he removed the Jingera school blazer and struggled into it just as the train pulled into Central Railway Station. After a tussle, he managed to slide open the window. Craning out, he found himself peering straight into the eyes of a facsimile of Miss Neville.
‘Jim Cadwallader,’ the man said, laughing. ‘Exactly as Pat described and in the right compartment too!’
Jim got out of the carriage and the Nevilles each shook his hand. Mrs Neville was shorter and rounder than she’d looked in the photograph, but every bit as good-natured. A small battle ensued as to who should assume responsibility for the suitcase, which Jim lost. As they passed through the ticket barrier he was distracted by the great arch of the station and the hall through which the Nevilles were leading him. Forgetting about his shyness he burst forth with a series of questions about the history of the station. The Nevilles spoke as if they were one person: if one paused for breath the other continued effortlessly, only slightly shifting from the original theme. Thus railways led naturally to sheep and sheep to industry and industry to soap. By the time they were at Rushcutters Bay, Mrs Neville was talking about showers, and before long he’d been fed and shunted into their bathroom. There he showered and soon after, although it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, he fell into the deepest of sleeps in the Nevilles’ spare bedroom.
‘Time to get up, Jim,’ said Mr Neville, knocking on Jim’s door, when it seemed to Jim that he had only just fallen asleep. ‘We’ll have a spot of breakfast before we head off to Vaucluse.’
He dressed quickly. Mrs Neville prepared a large breakfast of bacon and eggs, although she’d quite understand, she said, if he didn’t want to eat it. She herself had never been able to eat anything before an exam, but Mr Neville was quite the reverse, he was always hungry.
Afterwards Mr Neville drove Jim through hilly streets. Everywhere seemed so crowded. Houses jostled against each other, people jostled against one another. It was a relief to reach the space of Rose Bay with its low wall at the edge of the road and beyond, a marina where yachts were moored, their rigging clinking in the breeze like iceblocks in a glass of water. A flying boat came down to land on the bay, but Mr Neville refused to stop the car to look at it, he said they’d be late.
Stambroke College was a collection of sandstone buildings set in neatly clipped gardens and surrounded by more playing fields than Jim had ever seen before. Mr Neville led him through a quadrangle to a lawn where a lot of boys were standing about. Wide steps led to a modern brick building in which the examination was to be held. Some of the boys were wearing Stambroke uniform, grey blazers with blue and white piping, and striped ties in the same colours; and an air of confidence, Jim thought. They were boys from the preparatory school, hoping to get a scholarship to the senior school, Mr Neville told him before he left.
The uniform was too smart and Jim’s own clothes seemed so shabby. Not that he cared that much about the clothes; it was the boys’ confidence that made him uncomfortable. He’d never win a scholarship here. These boys would be much too clever.
‘Where are you from?’
Jim turned. A freckled boy with wavy blond hair, and dressed in the Stambroke uniform, was standing right behind him. ‘Jingera,’ he said. His voice came out hoarse and he coughed to disguise his nervousness.
‘That on the North Shore?’
‘No. Down south, on the coast.’
‘Lucky you. I love the beach. You live on a property?’
‘In a property. In a house.’
The boy laughed. ‘You’re not a cocky?’
‘No.’ A moment later Jim realised what the boy meant. Cockies were people on the land. People who made a living from the land, like cockatoos.
‘Do you live in town?’
‘Yes.’ Jim was growing tired of all the questions although he liked the friendliness he felt in the boy. ‘Where are you from?’
Men in suits now opened the doors to the building and ushered the boys inside.
‘Walgett,’ the boy said, as they climbed the steps. ‘That’s way out north-west. All we eat there is mutton. That’s why I’m a boarder here; I need the vegetables.’
The hall was full of desks on which papers were neatly arranged. Jim and the boy took their seats in the row closest to the windows. Once seated, Jim avoided looking at anyone. Instead he stared out of the open window while waiting for the signal to begin. Outside a few older boys in blazers and boaters wandered across the lawn towards some trees, beyond which the harbour glittered. Gazing at the winking blue water, he breathed deeply, feeling almost dizzy with the smell of summer. Of sun on grass and the scent of some flower that was new to him, pungent and sickly sweet at the same time.
Then they were told to begin, and he forgot everything else as he buried himself in a world of numbers and of problem-solving, of comprehension and of general knowledge. The time danced by and before he knew it he’d finished and the papers had been collected. Then he was filled with the excitement that he always felt after losing himself in that way. It was as if he’d left his own body behind and gone somewhere else, and when he came back again he felt liberated by the experience.
The boy he’d met earlier was waiting for him outside the exam room. ‘What did you reckon?’ he said.
‘Really hard.’ Jim wasn’t going to admit that he’d enjoyed it. ‘And you?’
‘Terrible. I only sat it because I had to. Where are you staying?’
‘With the Nevilles.’
‘Not the teacher?’
‘Yes, there he is.’
‘Time for me to go then.’ The boy grinned. ‘Hope to see you again.’
He slouched off, hands deep in pockets, with the walk Jim had noticed many of the Stambroke boys affecting. As Jim strolled back to the car with Mr Neville he tried out the Stambroke Walk. It felt funny. Probably required months of practising.
‘What
do you think of the school?’ Mr Neville said.
‘Terrific grounds.’ These and the exam room were all Jim had been able to take in, and he was starting to feel so very tired.
‘They are. Boys who come here are really lucky. I’d better warn you, though, that the exam is very competitive. Didn’t want to say that earlier as I didn’t want to make you nervous beforehand. So don’t get your hopes up too high.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not banking on it.’ Jim had already put behind him all thoughts of winning the scholarship.
But on the journey back to Jingera he had plenty of time to think about Sydney. After the exam, the Nevilles had taken him on a ferry ride from Circular Quay to Valencia Street Wharf and back again, the best way to see the harbour, Mrs Neville claimed – she’d grown up in Balmain. The ferry went under the Harbour Bridge, the coathanger, Mr Neville called it, with the great stone pylons at each end that weren’t there to hold it up but were simply decoration. ‘They’re redundant,’ Mrs Neville said, laughing. ‘As are so many things in life.’ Then past Luna Park with its colourful face that was the entrance grinning over the water. Past a row of piers extending like fingers into the harbour. On to various stops whose names he could no longer remember, apart from Long Nose Point, you’d never forget a name like that. In the evening the Nevilles had taken him to see a George Bernard Shaw play in the city. They’d hoped it wouldn’t be too dull for him, but he’d loved it. The language, the drama, the way you could be sitting there in the audience between the Nevilles knowing it was all make-believe but at the same time be moved by what you saw on stage. ‘Suspension of disbelief,’ Mr Neville had explained on the way back to Rushcutters Bay afterwards.
Jim wondered what it would be like having Mr Neville as a teacher. Inspiring probably, he was so enthusiastic about everything. While Miss Neville didn’t have that enthusiasm, he knew she was a good teacher. ‘How she manages to teach all those different age groups in one classroom I just can’t understand,’ Mrs Neville had said. ‘Originally we thought she’d only stop in Jingera for a couple of years but then she decided to stay on. Likes it there, evidently.’
