by Peter McAra
The day she arrived, Kate had stolen occasional furtive looks in Tom’s direction. She’d liked his gentlemanly features, his tall, lean frame. Now, as he innocently displayed his perfect body, she smiled. She’d landed herself a rather handsome employer. After breakfast, she’d head for the study, try to lift her thoughts above male flesh. That could be difficult.
Tom climbed onto the wagon tray and stood holding the stack of posts steady as the driver flicked the reins and the wagon lumbered away.
A few minutes later, as Kate headed to the study to begin her preparation for the evening session, she heard a horse pull up outside. She looked down from the verandah to see an ancient sulky stopped near the hitching rail. An elderly woman, dressed in grey pinafore and dusty boots, slowly eased herself out of the sulky, then collected a bucket and some rags from its boot. She must be Edna Stubbs, the cleaning lady.
‘Hullo,’ Kate called from the verandah. ‘You must be the famous Edna.’
‘Dunno about famous,’ the woman said as she took rheumaticky steps towards the stairs. ‘And you must be Kate.’
‘Yes. Can I help you with anything?’
‘Thank you, love. Got a big box of groceries in the sulky’s boot. Real heavy. My poor old knees. They hurt a treat if I carries heavy loads upstairs.’
‘I’d love to help. Perhaps you’d like to wait on the verandah while I collect the box? I’d enjoy a talk.’
‘Thanks m’ dear.’ The woman inched up the steps, then flopped into a cane chair, puffing. Kate found the box of groceries and carried it up the stairs. The old woman still hadn’t recovered her breath.
‘I’ll fetch you a cup of tea,’ Kate offered. This would very likely create the opportunity for a peaceful chat. Perhaps Edna would share some interesting bits and pieces from Tom’s childhood. Kate excused herself and returned in five minutes with a laden tray. She set the verandah table with teacups, milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits she’d discovered in a bottom drawer. Then she poured Edna’s tea and sat beside her.
Edna claimed her teacup, took a biscuit, and leaned back in her chair. ‘Thank you, love.’ She took a long sip from her brimming cup. ‘It’s all getting a bit much, this cleaning for Tom. But there’s nobody else round these parts can do it. So I’ll muddle on for a year or two more. Till he gets himself a nice little wife.’
‘You’ve heard about Tom’s plans to marry?’
‘Yes, love. He tells me all that stuff. I’m pretty much a mother to him, you know.’
‘So you’re the lady who cared for him after his mother died?’ Kate paused, hoping to lead Edna into some useful reminiscences.
‘Oh, yes. Poor little fella.’ Edna looked away, as if the memory might bring tears she’d want to hide. ‘I remember the day he came back from the hospital in Sydney. After he’d said goodbye to poor Eleanor. She’d suffered for years. One thing after another, from when she first arrived at Kenilworth. Then she died. Poor little Tom. My heart went out to him. When he came home I could see he was real sad. Just eight, he was. Trying to be a little man. Trying not to cry.’
Edna sniffed, wiped her eyes.
In that moment, Kate knew that the elderly woman had loved Tom. Still loved him. She looked away, took a sip of her tea, while Edna composed herself.
‘Martin, he was Tom’s dad. He’s dead now, o’ course. He took me aside. Asked me if I’d take care of Tom for a bit.’
Kate wanted to know more about the subject close to her heart before Edna moved on to other things. But by now the elderly woman was powering on with a full head of steam. Where would it end?
‘Perhaps you might tell me about Tom’s schooling,’ Kate said. ‘It could help me plan his lessons.’
‘Schooling?’ Edna laughed—a throaty, coughing wheeze. ‘A few weeks after poor Eleanor’d passed on, Martin comes up to me, all serious. “Edna,” he says. “Reckon you could teach Tom his lessons? Like his mother did? All you gotta do is sit down with him and take him through his books.”
‘So I looked a bit puzzled. I didn’t have much schooling meself. What with living in these parts and all. And me the eighth of eleven kids. My father worked as a rouseabout on one of the big properties round these parts. My ma cooked for the working men. Anyway, Martin knew all that, but he didn’t seem to mind.
‘“Tom loves you, Edna,” Martin says to me when we sits down to talk about it. “Eleanor reckons every time you come to clean, he follows you round like a puppy.”
‘Which were true, Kate,’ Edna confirmed. ‘“But hold hard, Mr Fortescue,” I said. “I don’t know much about readin’ and writin’.”’
The picture forming in Kate’s mind took on new depth with every word that flowed from the wheezing old woman’s lips. She must keep Edna talking. To keep up the flow, she beamed an encouraging smile at her.
Edna continued. ‘Then he said, “You’re the only one round these parts as could take care of him, Edna. I’m always coming and going. Travelling to Perth or Melbourne or wherever. I’ll make it worth your while. How about you live here for a bit? So’s you’re a mother to him.”’
Kate stole another sideways look at Edna. Was that a tinge of guilt in her eyes?
‘So I took the job,’ she continued. ‘Moved my stuff in to one of them rooms upstairs, and took over as Tom’s mum. It didn’t bother me that I had to leave my old place for a while. My old man Bill had died not long before. He worked on the roads. Then he got hit by a fall of rock. Sad, it was. We lived in the roadman’s cottage. Just an old shack. They built ’em for the roadmen back then because it was a long way from town. And there I was, a widow, with nowheres to go. So Martin’s offer suited me pretty good.’
Kate saw the lonely little boy clinging to his surrogate mother’s skirts like a lost duckling swimming close to a stray duck. He would have been sad, bewildered, and very alone. And the warmth from Edna’s motherly heart would have flowed out to him.
Edna lowered her empty teacup onto the saucer with a suggestive clink. Kate took the hint, refilled it, watched as Edna took a long slow drink.
‘Mmm. All this remembering. Makes a girl a bit weepy.’ Edna sniffed, rubbed her eyes.
‘So you taught Tom his reading and writing?’ Kate asked, seizing her opportunity to get a word in edgeways.
‘Yeah. I just worked him through his correspondence school lessons.’
‘How long did that go on for?’
‘Till he was twelve. Four years. Then Martin sent Tom to a fancy boarding school. Over in Armidale.’ She pointed to the hills. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, love … them lessons was getting a bit hard for me. I had to skip the tricky bits.’
‘But when Tom went to boarding school, how did he find life there?’
‘Poor Tom. Every time he came home for the school holidays, he’d tell me things. Like he was bullied, laughed at, teased, left by himself. No friends. Reckon the teachers gave up on him early on. They told him he had this thing. Something wrong in his brain. Learning something or other.’
‘Learning difficulties?’
‘That’s right. You know about it?’
‘Indeed. We were told of it at teachers’ college. Some children are quite bright, but they stumble over things other children take for granted. Certain bits and pieces of reading, spelling, arithmetic. Many get over it as they grow.’
‘Yes, dear. The doctors told us that. But the teachers at that terrible school. Real nasty, they were. I shouldn’t be surprised if—’ Edna stopped.
Kate picked up the thread. ‘One of my college teachers told us he had learning difficulties when he was at school. But when he began university, everything gelled for him. Now he’s rather famous in his field. Australian literature.’
Edna picked up her story. ‘Anyways, what with that thing in his brain, and the bullying and everything, it must have been years of hell for the poor little tacker. He loved it when he came home for the holidays. He’d ride his horse, help with the shearing, fencing. He got to be pretty good
on the plough. Made more dams. You can never have too many dams round these parts. The droughts, they can be cruel. Anyway, Tom told me later that he always wanted to run away from that school.’ A tear ran down Edna’s cheek. She wiped it with her napkin, took a long sip of tea.
Kate bit her lip to block her own tears.
‘So the minute he could run away, he did.’ Edna wasn’t about to stop telling what may well have been her life story as much as Tom’s. ‘He turned fourteen, and came back to Kenilworth. I could tell he was real pleased to be outa that awful place at last. So he worked with the men on the property. After a while he started to manage Kenilworth. The business manager in Croydon Creek, he helped, o’ course. Did all the paperwork. And Tom got to be pretty darn good pretty quick. Year after year after year, the money just poured in. O’ course, the good wool prices helped. But Tom turned out to be a real good manager. Way better than his father.’
Edna paused, literally out of breath from her latest burst of priceless information. Kate aimed a smile at her that said: I’m very, very interested.
‘Then Tom took over running the house.’ Edna’s eyes glowed. ‘He’s been a proper lord and master ever since. But he asked me to come over now and again. Keep an eye on things. So one morning a week I comes up from my place. Do the housekeeping, the washing, the sewing. The sewing room, it has a proper sewing machine and all.’
So there was a sewing room? What other hidden delights might the Big House hold in store for Kate?
‘And I buys the groceries and such from the grocer at Croydon Creek,’ Edna continued, revived by her tea. ‘Then I brings ’em here, puts ‘em in the cupboards. Top up the supplies.’
‘But Edna. You said you were getting a little old to keep working so hard,’ Kate said. She must hear more about the little wife who, it seemed, would take over when Edna retired.
‘Yes. Well, a couple of years ago, Tom told me he wanted a wife. Said his ma had told him to go to England and find a nice girl.’ Edna turned, looked over the land that ran to the horizon. ‘So that’s what Tom did. He found this proper English lady. Can’t remember her name, but he keeps her picture beside his bed. Pretty enough girl, I s’pose. But she has that stuck-up English look to her. Dunno how she’ll get along if she comes to live in these parts.’ Edna stopped. Had she come to the end of her tale? She looked up at Kate. Now her tears were flowing unashamed.
‘Tom tells me he brought you up from Sydney.’ Edna struggled to stop her tears. ‘To teach him how to talk proper. So the English lady won’t laugh at him.’ She paused again. A jumble of emotions flickered round her teary eyes. ‘It’s all my fault. I taught Tom to talk like me. What else could I do? I mothered him all them years. I couldn’t have no children of my own. And now I wants the best for him. Like any mother wants for her children. And Kate, I’m worried. Worried he’s fallen for that English lady. Worried she’ll come out to these parts and find she don’t like it. Don’t wanna see my Tom get hurt. He had enough of that when his mother died.’
‘Well then … Are there perhaps one or two nice local girls? From what I’ve heard of country life, local boys often marry local girls.’
‘Mmm. They talked Tom into going to dances and such when he were round sixteen. He went once or twice, then stopped. I asked him why he didn’t keep it up. All he said was “They don’t like me, Edna”. And he never went again. For a while there, he turned into a bit of a hermit. Perhaps he was getting over that awful school. The bullying and all. But when he settled back into Kenilworth, he soon blossomed. Now he’s always taking the train back and forth to Sydney, organising for the wool to be sold, getting the bits and pieces the workers need, the things he needs to run the place. And he’s great friends with the high-ups in Croydon Creek. The doctor, the lawyer, the co-op manager. Has dinner with ’em lots.’
Edna paused, stared at the horizon yet again. Kate saw a mix of guilt and sadness flicker in her eyes. Did she think she’d told Kate a little too much? Had she broken a promise to Tom not to tell of those painful years to anyone?
‘More tea?’ Kate asked. ‘I’ve neglected you, Edna.’
‘No, dear. I’d best get to my work.’ Edna inched her body out of the chair. ‘Would you mind taking that heavy box to the kitchen? And not a word to Tom about what I told you.’
A few hours later, Kate waved goodbye to Edna and returned to the study where she’d spent her day. From now on her teaching must take account of the pain that had shaped the life of the little orphan boy who’d been raised over much of his formative years by the near-illiterate cleaning lady.
***
Tom walked into the study on the stroke of four, washed and changed. Kate watched as he took a seat at the desk in front of the blackboard she’d found in a shed.
‘I’ve made a list of words and phrases you might like to read,’ she said. ‘Words we use in everyday speech.’ She sat opposite him at a round table. The whole room—she hesitated to call it a study—was now properly furnished for her new job. ‘And today’s Number One naughty word is them,’ Kate continued. ‘As in “them chairs over there”. What should we say?’
Tom grinned as she spoke. ‘How about those chairs?’ ‘I sorta knew that,’ he said. ‘Sorta by instinct. But it’s the way people talk round these parts. And I kinda got into the habit. Over a lifetime.’
‘If you know that, why do you persist?’
‘Yeah, why do I?’
Kate had slipped into teacher mode as easily as she slipped into a pair of comfy slippers.
‘Remember why you’re sitting here now, Tom. In this shiny new study.’ She smiled. ‘And why I’m here. As you told me, you’re going to polish your act. Faint heart never won fair lady, Tom.’ She paused. ‘When Laetitia’s ship docks in Sydney, you’ll escort her to your coach, and whisk her off to balls, soirees, delicious dinners at the fancy restaurants established for the gentry. Then, moonlight walks in the park. Holding hands, looking up at the stars. How does that sound, Prince Charming?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘No buts. You told me you enjoy a challenge. You can do it.’ Why had the tough, capable man with the honed, fit body suddenly become a shy little boy? An hour before, she’d watched him ride into the stables, then head for the house. She must stop thinking about how his wet body might look as he bathed. It was enough that now he wore clean clothes and oozed the aroma of a freshly scrubbed male.
‘It seems we’ll have to work on your feelings, Tom,’ she said. ‘If we don’t address them, you’ll be driving your wagon with the brakes on every time you sit in this room.’
‘Yeah. You’re right. Reckon I need a beer.’
‘No beer till we’ve put in our first hour.’
‘You’re a real schoolma’am.’
‘Yes. It happens to be my job, remember. Now, your feelings. Tell me once again, why are we both here, in this room?’
‘Because I want to speak proper. Get Laetitia to notice me. To like me. Respect me. Love me?’
‘Good. Now how is that going to come about?’
‘Well, if she sees me as a bloke she could like, could maybe want to marry, then—’
‘Thank you for your honesty. And what will be different next time you meet the beautiful Laetitia?’
‘I’ll talk proper. I’ll sound civilised. I’ll be interesting company. She won’t be ashamed of me if we go walking together. When we meet her Establishment friends.’
‘Good. Let’s get started. Those clangers you drop as you talk. We must get you into the habit of speaking the King’s English, rather than—’
‘Rather than bush talk? That’s what we call it round these parts.’
‘Here.’ She handed him some sheets of paper bearing strings of words down the left of each page, with an inch of blank space between each word. ‘Some notes I’ve made for you. In about one minute, you will take the first step in your education, Mr Fortescue. I want you to write the correct version of each word in the space below it. Let’s start at th
e top of page one.’
***
Over the next few days, Kate locked in their routine. Tom appeared at the study each afternoon around four, washed, scrubbed, and eager to learn. In no time, Kate noticed his everyday talk take a turn for the better. On Sunday morning, Kate and Tom shared breakfast in the old summerhouse. Earlier that week he’d suggested they meet for a leisurely time together on Sunday mornings.
‘You can be a schoolma’am six days a week, Miss Courtney, then my friend Kate on Sundays,’ he’d said after his Saturday lesson. ‘We’ve both earned a day off by then, I’d reckon.’ She’d nodded, smiled, wondering with a mixture of happiness and nerves what being his ‘friend’ might entail. As they finished the delicious scrambled eggs he’d made, Kate led with the opening line she’d planned.
‘Edna told me about your mother. It seems she was a very loving mother to you. I’d like you to tell me more about her. Do you have any reminders of her?’
‘Well, yeah. There’s her room, her books. Her grave. It’s up there, behind that clump of trees.’ He pointed. ‘Every now and again I go up and tidy it,’ he said shyly. ‘Usually on a Sunday. I put a few flowers on it. Would you like to come? It’s only five minutes away.’
‘Thank you,’ Kate said. ‘I’m so pleased you asked. I’ll fetch my walking boots. Should I pick some roses? I’ve noticed some delightful blooms in the garden lately.’
‘Thanks. I’d like your help.’ He stacked the breakfast dishes onto a tray and made for the kitchen as Kate headed for her cottage.
Would she see yet another side to the amiable, too-handsome man who lived most of his lonely life in his dusty working outfit? In this remote place, miles from the nearest neighbour, Tom’s mother would have been everything to him. He’d been denied school friendships, the sharing of toys, the rough-and-tumble play that shaped most children’s early years. Instead, he’d have been lonely, shy, wrapped in cotton wool by a mother probably ashamed of her little boy’s awkwardness with words.
