Even with that lanced boil of a comet blotting the sky, it was too fine a day for tethering us to a classroom. With his bum leg healing, Aiden was the only one bouncing about the boat aching to enter Paradise. Ned loved spending his day off in Smithson’s Billiards. He didn’t want to hear a word about ditching off. That left me, the two Hobsons, the blacksmith’s daughter, and Ryan to stew in our juices.
To everyone’s delight, Kayle trailed along beside the boat, but she lost interest when we didn’t stop and play. For the last indignity of the trip, I watched Figgie and his mates fishing off the barrier. They held their catch in the air and waved from their canoes. All I could muster was a weak hand gesture as we sped to our doom.
Although Etta Hobson found an empty bottle of spirits stuck in the bushes, the old Charyn House seemed no worse from its extended hours of weekend venery. I took the bottle and flung it off the property. The boys gathered in a remote part of the yard while we nestled near the doors. Both camps were too busy eyeing their own pack to show much interest in their foreign counterparts. It reminded me of the way the orca pod had its leaders and its followers.
I stood off from the rest of the girls with my Hobsons. Etta was four years younger than me and Benjamin was a year less than she. The three of us looked as out of place as whaleboats in the desert. With the wind picking up, I flipped Eli’s cap around as I had done during the hunt. As the yard filled, everyone else seemed to know one another. Etta had her arms wrapped around a lunch pail that contained all three of our noontimes.
There was a flutter of whispers in the huddle of chirping chickens before one girl left the flock and inched her way toward us.
“Are you the American girl?” she sheepishly asked.
“No, I ain’t,” I said, arms folded across my chest. “We’re from Dawson Station across the bay.”
“Oh,” said the girl, uncertainly. “Would you like to join us?”
“Good onya,” I said, pulling my Hobsons along with me through a steady breeze.
I was about to introduce us when a horse’s whinny turned everybody around. A white gig pulled up. The mare strained and bucked as it came to a halt.
The driver jumped down.
“Hello, everyone,” she said, with a dimpled smile. “I hope I’m not late.”
A blast of cold wind yanked the straw bonnet off her head and lifted it into the trees. Laughter rattled through the yard as the young woman stomped her foot.
“You there, tall one in the boots,” she snapped, “fetch my hat.”
“Fetch it yourself,” I said, spitting on the ground.
The group of girls moved away from me like sheep from a wolf.
“Do fetch it immediately,” she demanded again. “Please, you can reach it easily.”
The matron began ringing a hand bell and showed the Hobsons to her door. The girl stared indignantly up at the branches, hands on her hips as the rest of us filed into a large parlor. A movable blackboard stood in front of the room directly under the smirking portrait of Captain Mordecai Charyn. The stories I heard about him won’t reach the ears in any classroom.
All the others knew the routine. They pulled their desks away from the walls and arranged them in rows. Since there were more than twenty of us, we had to double up at desks. I sought out the girl who’d invited us into their group.
“G’day to you. I’m Annabelle,” she said. “That’s with two Ls and one bell.”
“Well, bonzer to you, mate,” I said, grabbing her hand for a good shake.
“There will be no complaining about desks or seating,” a male voice declared from the back of the room. “In my day, we stood during lessons and were better for it. I dare say the empire is better for it.”
Mr. Xavier Willis Davenport was a thin man with a sharp pointed moustache and round spectacles. He liked to walk in and out of our rows, tapping a long wooden pointing stick on the tops of our desks. He used it deftly to skim the cap off my head. It twirled on the point and fell in my lap as he announced it was improper to wear any haberdashery inside. Every boy whipped a cap from his brow and stuffed it in his back pocket. He took attendance. There were Andersons, Albrights, and Browns, but I shot up in my seat when he said, “Miss Arizona Bittermen.”
The Yank sat by herself with no desk but announced a new one was coming.
I looked outside through the open window where everyone piled apples and snacks on the sill. Bittermen. I wondered if she had been the one in the red carriage that nearly killed me at the cricket match. My blood boiled listening to Mr. Davenport drone on about English kings. When my dunny time came, I laughed walking past the bonnet up in the tree.
It gave me an idea.
We practiced elocution by reading famous lines from Shakespeare, trying to keep our minds off lunch. Ryan rose with a hungry look in his eyes.
“My horse, my horse,” he cried in anguish, “my kingdom—”
“It’s a horse!” shouted Annabelle with two Ls jumping up and pointing wildly.
The gig’s mare poked her head in the window, wearing the most adorable straw bonnet. She proceeded to devour all the apples and food lining the windowsill. Half the class screamed. The other half laughed. The horse stuck its head inside and whinnied, showing its teeth. Miss Bittermen near fainted from the humiliation.
Mr. Davenport snapped his pointing stick in two trying to restore order. In the next room the youngsters rushed out the double front doors to see what was happening. That allowed the mare to step inside. Desks toppled, books fell, the blackboard collapsed. The horse looked more at ease in front of the class than our teacher did.
Everyone pinched up against the walls as Mr. Davenport demanded to know who owned that animal. Ever the Englishman, he enlisted three boys to help subdue the bonneted beast. Perhaps suffering from stage fright, the poor confused animal simply let all her inhibitions go. The result was quite a hefty deposit upon pages once dedicated to the bloodlines of kings. As the stench reached us, everyone ran from the building. The kindly old woman from the other room threw her apron over her head and led the race out.
With classes called for the day, we headed to the village square to eat our noonday.
“That was the most fun ever,” cried an excited Benjamin Hobson. “I love going to school.”
All over town we ran into scattered classmates. Word spread that Mr. Davenport was roaming the streets of Paradise with his broken stick looking for one of the boys to blame. One lad said Mr. Davenport planned to make a public exhibition of the culprit.
I ought to march right up to Mr. Davenport, I thought, and tell him that a girl can cause just as much trouble as a boy and do a better job of it. Served some lad right to take the blame along with all the misplaced glory. They wouldn’t be the first innocents hung out to dry in this territory and they wouldn’t be the last. Besides, ’fessing up only serves the curious onlookers. In The Getting of Wisdom, Laura tells a few lies and everything worked out for her so far.
A wide placard in the middle of the square drew a large crowd. Together again, Aiden and Benjamin dragged me to see it.
“Look, Savannah,” urged Benjamin pulling me along, “it’s a jumps race right here in Paradise.”
So, it was. Anyone with a horse could enter if they hit their kick for £15. A first-place purse of £65 is what got the crowd buzzing. Whoever sketched the horse on the placard didn’t do a very good job of it. The body was too thick, the legs too short and thin.
“That’s good oil, you lads,” I said, grabbing both their chins with a wink.
We couldn’t get any closer to the sign so I took my three musketeers and headed to the pond. They ran onto the footbridge to watch the model sailboats. I decided to check in with Mr. Brown about my latest bridge drawings when the white gig galloped by.
The carriage overflowed with girls from class, including Anna one bell
. Look what the bunyip dragged in, I thought. As the carriage pulled to a stop, I approached with my hands clasped behind my back.
“I’m sorry, there doesn’t appear to be any room in here for you,” said Arizona, holding the reins as she leaned out toward me.
Her dark hair shimmered like midnight waves and her eyes were as blue as Antarctic ice. She already had that cleft mark in her chin that certain women yearn for.
“I’m not going in the same direction you are,” I said, starting for the pond.
“Pity. Mr. Davenport is so headstrong on finding the perpetrator of that mischief,” said Arizona, gripping the reins tighter. “I told him not to worry, the hat was expensive but meaningless; perhaps it should have only been worn by a horse. I couldn’t think of a single student who would dare allow a horse to disrupt a classroom with such antics. Can you, Miss Dawson?”
“I never pay no mind to yesterday’s heavy weather,” I said, petting the mare’s long nose. “I just deal with what is.”
“Well, I hope we meet on more equal footing the next time,” said Arizona, leaning out to offer her hand.
“We’re more equal than you think,” I said, jumping up on a broken carriage step.
We stared at one another face to face. Her dark eyebrows cracked up and down like circus whips. “And I thought this school might be boring,” Arizona said, snapping the reins before I had a chance to jump off.
“Try a size nine hat. It’ll fit the mare better,” I whispered in her ear as I leapt off.
The gig bucked and roiled as it bolted away to screams and laughter. I stood on the foot walk, searching for Aiden and my Hobsons. The pond bridge was empty and the toy boats were gone. Maybe I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I didn’t think the horse would eat all those lunches or break into our classroom to do his business. On the other hand, I heard one of the gents on the bridge say it was a prank worthy of Ned Kelly.
Waiting on the shad for Ned, we six students decided to keep the day’s events to ourselves. It was ours to cherish; besides, adults never understood these sorts of things. As we left the harbor, I looked for that roaming horse again. Instead I spotted a girl in a white gig at the end of Wharf Row watching our every move. This Arizona was every bit the predator as any shark, eel, or ray I’d ever run into. I asked Ned, “What’s the best way to get a ship through an unexpected squall?”
“Why, ya luff,” he said, surprised I asked. “Flatten yer sails, get before the wind, and slice through it. You ride out a storm. If you head into it, you’ll be swept under every time. You ought to know that.”
Deep down I did, but I let the day get the better of me. There were many ways to manage a storm; bluster and attacking headwinds wasn’t among them.
21.
The comet still gnawed at us from above, picking upon frayed nerves. It gave us a good excuse for anything that went unexplained. I waited around a corner and socked one of the lads in the kisser for making fun of Aiden, even though his limp was almost gone. The boy never knew what hit him. I locked Annabelle with two Ls in the dunny for, well, having that extra L.
The explanations always led back to the comet.
Arizona and I went at it at least twice a day. Every little tick or personality quirk we discovered gave us a chance to torment each other. It was a sporting game. Mr. Davenport continued his inquiries about the horse incident. Sooner or later someone was going to point the bone at me. I wondered why Arizona didn’t just give me up. Best as I could figure, she didn’t want me to know how much the whole horse and hat ordeal got to her.
It got to me.
At first I hesitated to light all three candles in the widow’s walk, worried this wasn’t a downright calamity. One person’s catastrophe can be another’s routine day. With all the events swirling around me, Figgie knew I was like a marionette in the wind. He was as good as anyone at helping me straighten the strings. Yet hard as I tried, I always ended up in the same jumbled place.
I didn’t have to wait long before I saw him in the yard. I scampered downstairs with Humphrey, Scud, and Quilp in tow. If people were more like cats or orcas, my life would have been a lot simpler. I worried too that not seeing Figgie as much these days might have changed things between us. They didn’t. He was the same bloke.
Fair dinkum all the way.
He sat with his legs crossed and his eyebrows furrowed, listening to my school tales.
“What is the point of this classroom?” he asked. “When it was my time to hunt, I didn’t sit in a hut talking about it. I joined Warrain and the others.”
“Well,” I said, “it ain’t my job to defend Western Civilization. I figure you learn a bunch of things so it gives you something to talk about when you’re a grown-up and there’s no fun to be had anymore.”
Figgie laughed and clapped his hands. Once again he held up a mirror for me to look at myself. And once again, I realized how seriously I was taking everything.
“Okay, Savannah,” he said, touching my arm. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind.”
I spilled on Arizona Bittermen, the Goody-Two-shoes who had everyone fooled. She was a sugar-sweet she-devil with an acid tongue and a shark’s smile who always got her way with Mr. Davenport.
“Every morning she buys fresh-baked cookies for the whole class,” I said, pacing about, “and she leaves me the biggest one.”
“I can see how that would be upsetting,” said Figgie sincerely as he rubbed Humphrey’s belly.
“When she gives me the cookie she whispers, ‘You need this more than the others,’” I exclaimed.
“Oh,” said Figgie, petting two cats.
“Don’t you see,” I said, slapping hands on my hips. “I’m the waif, the ugly skinny girl who needs fattening up.”
That was only half of it. In just a few days, she had Ryan and the rest of the boys eating out of her hand. They took turns watching her gig, helping her out of the carriage, and carrying her books. Annabelle did Arizona’s homework while all the other girls just begged to be near her.
Figgie looked confused, as if he’d just turned down the wrong path in the woods.
“Uncle warned me that girls can become complicated at this age,” he said, petting the cats before he left.
“We were always complicated, you just never noticed!” I shouted, as he disappeared into the woods.
The next morning before school, Papa handed me a small ivory envelope with a red seal. “I picked this up from the post the other day in Paradise,” he said. “Looks like a note from one of your cobbers.”
“What friends?” I said, opening it. “Those schoolgirls are the last ones I’d expect to…Oh no, it can’t be.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Papa, sitting up straight.
“Bittermen wants to have us for dinner,” I cried.
Papa took the note from my hand, glared at it, and muttered a few phrases in Gaelic that would have made Captain Charyn blush.
“Can’t we say we’re busy?” I said.
“He’d find another date,” said Papa, slapping the note in his hand, “and like a herd dog he’ll sense our fear and know he’s on top.”
“You mean—”
“Always meet a bully head on,” Papa said, “or you’ll be dealing with him your whole life.”
I dreaded having to go back to school, knowing I had to face that viper Arizona with a we’re-so-delighted-you’re-coming smile.
Papa ran off to Abe’s with the note so fast his cap flew off. “Find something fancy that’ll put that outfit you wore to the cricket match to shame!” he shouted.
Less planning went into the Siege of Khartoum.
The Bittermen Wars had begun.
Knowing what was at stake, I ’fessed up to Papa about the hat and the horse. This was the second time I ever saw him belly laugh at something.
The dinner tab
le would be our battlefield.
Momma-girl dyed one of Papa’s worn-out linen suits black so it looked near brand new. He borrowed a four-in-hand tie from Warrain, who liked to fancy it up more than we realized. Papa painted his scuffed-up brown boots black to look shiny.
I imagined it was back to Dilly’s for me, but Papa had another idea. One that had more to do with finance than fashion, I suspected.
In the village square, the shopkeepers and storefronts seemed different from our last visit. The owners waved less and their shelves were sparser. The baker, who’d given us free cookies just two weeks earlier, chased me from the sweet aromas of his window. The trawlers were empty and the pubs were full. No fish, no food, no barter, no money. Some jawed that prices were too high and the new government money was no good. Others pointed at the comet, claiming it was to blame for their woes.
We visited an old friend of Papa’s on the waterfront. She wore a glittery dress and ran a hotel for young women. She had plenty of dresses left behind by lodgers that would suit me fine.
Well, she took one look at me and after a big hug said she had just the right outfit. It was a green and white drapey thing with an open back. I tried it on and glanced at myself in the full-length mirror.
It made me feel like those Greek statues in those fancy magazine ads. All I needed was a harp.
“Saints alive,” Papa said when I walked into the waiting room. He jumped out of his chair, wringing his hat in his hands.
If it was good enough for Papa, it was good enough for me.
On the day before our big dinner, I told the Hobsons to wait for me at the shad. I stayed as the classroom emptied out. The longer this intrigue about the horse in the school hung out on the line, the more power Arizona had over me.
I approached Mr. Davenport busy at his desk where the scent of horse still lingered. The slightest inhale made my overture even more precarious.
“Mr. Davenport,” I said in a steady flat voice, “there is something you ought to know.”
The Whaler's Daughter Page 15
