by Janeen Brian
“At least we got one wheel,” I said. “I’ll take it home and put it in the woodshed.”
“Yeah, all right. And take the timber too.” Gilbert grinned as he loaded me up.
“This is why we need a billycart,” I said, pretending to sink under the weight. “We’ll be able to start making it soon. Just three more wheels and some extra bits of wood. Da’s got wire and nails and stuff. See you tomorrow.”
“At the Tree.” Gilbert gave me the thumbs up and ran off towards his cottage.
Next day, the clouds cleared, but a cold wind sprang up. I jumped up and down on the spot, waiting beneath the huge eucalyptus tree. It was Gilbert’s and my special waiting place. An old neighbour of ours, Mrs Ellery, reckoned that when she first arrived at Moonta Mines, there’d been a lot of trees. Wattle, native pine, mallee and eucalypts. But they’d all been cut down. Some were used for building cottages, but most were used in the mines.
“Shoring the walls,” she’d explained, “or burned to make steam for the machines. But the big beauty that you call the Tree never felt the axe. It be an odd thing.”
“Why? Why was it left?” I’d asked.
“Maybe it be an important tree. Especially to the Aborigines who used to camp round here backalong. Maybe it still is.”
I was thinking about that when the wind drove itself harder, flipping my jacket and my fringe and scattering leaves about my feet.
“Hurry up, Gilbert,” I muttered, rubbing my arms. Gilbert often turned up late, mostly because he had to help with the other kids at home. Although his big sister, Lucy, worked cleaning people’s homes, there was still only enough money for one of the kids to go to school. And Gilbert was the eldest boy.
“Hey, Jack!”
At last.
Gilbert ran up, snapped my braces against my chest and took off down the track.
“You better look out,” I yelled and raced after him.
As soon as I caught up, I grabbed his cap and tossed it into the air.
“There!” I cried. “Revenge.”
Laughing, we strode along the track towards school. In the distance, the mines belched out smoke, thick and dark. From the machine sheds, workshops and engine house came the regular clanks and thumps, which I’d heard every day for as long as I could remember.
Usually, I took no notice, but that day, I found myself wondering about being down a mine in a way I’d never considered before. Gilbert would say I was being stupid. And he’d probably be right.
“I wish today was another holiday,” Gilbert said, breaking into my thoughts. “I betcha anything we’d find more wheels. Then we could make the cart.” He paused, lifted his cap and scratched his head. “I really don’t want to go to school. I’d rather do something else.”
“Suppose so. It was good yesterday, but we can do things on the weekend too.”
Gilbert turned to face me, eyes twinkling. “You like school, don’t you? And I know why. Because you’re in love!”
I stopped. “I am not. Who with?”
“Miss Goldsworthy. You go soppy when she speaks and you like what she writes in your books. You’re her pet.”
My cheeks burned, partly because it was true. I was in love with our teacher. Only I didn’t know Gilbert knew. Or even suspected. She was the only teacher I’d ever had, and the only one I’d ever want. She was kind and clever and funny.
“You’re an idiot, Gilbert,” I said, looking down and pretending to shoo away a fly.
“Does your mam know?”
“Know what? Stop talking in riddles.”
“Does your mam know that you like Miss Goldsworthy? She always wants to see what your ladylove’s written in your books.”
“Shut up, Gilbert.”
But that was true too. Sometimes I’d no sooner arrived home, than Mam would stop her baking, wipe her hands and ask to see my books, pointing out all the red ticks. I reckoned Mam thought school was like heaven with a blackboard. Sometimes she’d say things like “There be so much you can do when you be ed’cated, Jack,” or “You have fine hands, Jack, and a head full of brains. Keep learning, me handsome.”
Gilbert swung open the little picket gate that led into Miss Goldsworthy’s cottage. It was where she had her school.
“I wish we were already picky boys at the mines,” Gilbert said. “That’d be good.”
“We will be soon,” I said. “Another year and a half. When we’ve finished school.” I hoped that would shut him up. I didn’t want to talk about the mines any more.
Soon after, Miss Goldsworthy stood at the door and rang the bell. About thirty kids, big and little, followed her down the passage, with its rag rug mats and the side table with a large pot covered in mosaic bits of broken crockery. At the end of the passage, we turned left into our classroom and stood by our wooden desks, which were set out in rows. After we’d all said good morning, we sat down and got out our books and pens. The little kids down the front had slates to write on and rags to wipe them clean.
Gilbert, Henry, Samuel, Elizabeth and myself were the oldest, so we sat right at the back in the biggest desks. On the walls were maps, paintings, charts of songs and poems, pictures of animals and a long ruler with a hole in one end, hanging on a nail. Miss Goldsworthy’s desk was at the front. On it were piles of books and pens, and a small glass vase, which was usually filled with lavender. There were also little bottles of coloured ink. She used the red ink when she wrote comments in books.
Gilbert and I shared a desk with a wooden bench seat. That day, he fidgeted about as if he had ants in his pants. Instead of writing his spelling words, he fiddled with his pen and blotter and then ducked his head under the desk.
“I had real trouble carving a love heart for you and Miss Goldsworthy.”
I shot beneath the desk. “You did not! You haven’t!”
Gilbert sat up, grinning. “Nah. Not yet.”
“You’d better not,” I warned. “Or I’ll shove all your marbles down your throat. Especially the big ones.”
With a chuckle, Gilbert jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. I jabbed him back.
“Jack and Gilbert,” said Miss Goldsworthy, “please continue with your work quietly.”
We exchanged a quick secret grin then I wiped my pen against the inkwell that sat in a little hole at the top of the desk and went on writing.
After lunch, the only sound in the room was Miss Goldsworthy as she read softly to Minnie Luxton. Minnie was a big girl with fair wiry hair. She was as old as us, but she couldn’t do much except cut out pictures and colour in. Sometimes Elizabeth would read to her and other times Miss Goldsworthy would.
The wind still rattled the windows, but when a sharp knock came at the door, I sat up, startled as a rabbit.
Gilbert took one look at me and spluttered. “You should see your face.”
But his mouth dropped when he saw who was following Miss Goldsworthy into the classroom. It was Lucy, his eldest sister. She was more fidgety than Gilbert; her eyes were red and she kept rubbing her hands.
“Gilbert,” said Miss Goldsworthy. Her green dress swished softly as she walked towards him. “Please pack your things and go with your sister.” She paused and spoke more quietly, but of course I heard. “There’s been an accident at the mine. Your father … Your mother wants you at home.”
It was as if he’d been stung. Gilbert leaped from the desk, pushed his books and pens into the shelf beneath, grabbed his cap and tore out.
After that, I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get on with my work, but now it was me who seemed to have ants in my pants. My mind buzzed with questions and I had to stop myself from constantly glancing out the window. Every click of the second hand on the big school clock seemed louder than ever, thumping its message: you have to stay. You can’t find out what’s happened yet.
By the time we bid Miss Goldsworthy good afternoon, I felt as desperate to get out of that schoolroom as an animal to escape from a cage.
“Give the family my
best wishes, will you please, Jack?”
I nodded. Miss Goldsworthy knew where I was heading.
I raced with my cap in hand, thinking of what could’ve happened. A rockfall? Cave-in? A slip? Mr Oates was a big man with giant hands and thick fingers. How could anything happen to someone as huge as him?
I ran so fast along the tracks that when a pebble flicked into my boot, I ran on the side of my foot rather than stop and shake it out. I kept up this fast half-limp as I tore along the pathways between cottages. The wind had dropped and usually that was when you noticed the smells of all the goats penned up in people’s backyards, the smoke from everyone’s chimneys and the stink that comes from so many outside dunnies built close together. But today, wind or no wind, I wasn’t aware of anything except the direction to the Oates’s house. By the time I arrived, I had a stitch so bad, I had to lean over, my fist pushed hard against my ribs.
When I raised my eyes, I saw that the front door, which always sagged on its hinges, was ajar. From inside came the low sound of voices.
“Gilbert?” I called cautiously.
“Who is it?” I didn’t recognise the voice.
“It’s me, Jack Pollock.”
Suddenly, the door was opened and a mob of Gilbert’s brothers and sisters appeared. It was obvious by their faces they were in shock. My heart sank.
Had their da died?
Gilbert came to the door and pushed the kids to one side, then gestured with his head to come in. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to expect.
The door opened straight into the main room but, with the fading light of a winter’s afternoon and no lamps yet lit, it was hard to make out anything clearly.
Then I saw a shape on the wooden floor. It was moving. At that moment, Lucy looked up and I saw that she’d been scrubbing at something dark and red.
A terrible smell hung about the room. It was a bit like the stink of our dunny in summer, when thick swarms of flies buzzed around.
“Da’s over there,” said Gilbert, pulling my elbow so I’d turn towards the long wooden couch jammed against one wall.
My stomach leaped to my mouth, but I kept it shut so I wouldn’t cry out and make a fool of myself.
Mr Oates lay hunched on the couch, his eyes tightly closed. His clothes were ripped and covered in dust, but someone, maybe Lucy, had washed his cut and bruised face. One of his legs was bandaged with torn sheeting, but already dark patches had seeped into the cloth, like countries on a map.
Then I saw the other leg.
Mrs Oates, big in the belly, was kneeling, her hands pressing gaping flesh back against the leg bone. The bone itself was at a funny angle. I followed Gilbert to the couch and stood awkwardly, hands in my pockets, as he began to wrap more pieces of cloth around the leg.
“Can you help?” Gilbert’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“What do I have …?” I trailed off, already sickened by what I might be asked to do. I tried to keep from glancing at Mr Oates as I helped Gilbert with the cloth. At one point, however, Mr Oates gave a loud groan and our eyes met. The look of gratitude I saw there unnerved me. I gave a quick nod and turned back to what I was doing.
“That’s that,” Gilbert mumbled, once the bandaging was done.
“The splints now, Gilbert,” said his mam. “That’s what the men say when they carry your da home. Nice and tight to keep the leg straight. Straight as you can.”
“I know, Mam,” said Gilbert. “You told me before.”
“Well, I’m telling you again.”
Gilbert grunted and put two bits of timber either side of his da’s leg. “I wish Dr Hughes was here,” he muttered out the side of his mouth. “What if I get it wrong?”
I wiped my hands down the side of my britches, as if to wipe off any imaginary blood. “Where is he?”
“In Wallaroo, we think. For a week.”
I let out a small sigh, and then Gilbert and I tied more strips of cloth around the leg and the makeshift splints.
“Anything else?” I murmured.
Gilbert stood. “Nuh,” he said with a small shake of his head. “Thanks.”
“That’s all right. Bye, Mrs Oates. Mr Oates.”
Outside, I gasped at the fresh air and trudged along the worn tracks towards home. I wandered past stone cottages without a glance. But I knew what they were like: small, squat and whitewashed, like mushrooms after rain, with big chimneys at one end. Sometimes, fathers built on an extra room or two at the side, using the stones and mud from the area. I walked on, trailing my hand over one of the cottage fences made of branches tied together with wire.
My head swam with what I’d just seen. Mr Oates would’ve gone to work that morning just as usual. And now he was lying injured and in pain on the couch. Goodness knows when he’d be able to get back to work. Suddenly, I stopped. My mouth went dry. When Gilbert’s da was injured, he was working the seven-to-three shift in the mines.
So was my da!
My temples pounded and my feet flew from beneath me. I should’ve gone straight home after school. What if something had happened to my father as well? But surely Mam would’ve sent for me.
Wrestling with those thoughts, I opened the front gate then swung it shut, skidded around the corner of our house and sent Dorrie flying.
“Jack!” she screamed, clutching her rag doll, Marianne.
“Well, you were in the way.”
“You were, you mean.”
I stopped, hands on hips, breathing hard. “Is Da home? Is he all right?”
She shot me a wily glance and skipped along the winding path. “Maybe he is. And maybe he isn’t.”
“Oh!” I let out a groan of exasperation. Little sisters! Gilbert was right. One was more than enough.
Next thing, I heard the rattle and drag of a bolt being opened. I turned towards the dunny down the back, near the blue potato vine.
Da stepped out of the little wooden room and slid his braces back over his shoulders.
“Jack,” he said, walking across the yard.
I rushed up. “I’ve been to Gilbert’s, Da. I saw Mr Oates.”
Before we sat down on the bench by the rosemary bushes, I suddenly realised I was almost as tall as my da.
“He’s bad, poor man.” Da slid his hands into his pockets.
“Did you see it, Da? Did you see what happened at the mine?”
“They say the timber shoring gave way. But they won’t know for certain until the rubble is cleared.”
“So you weren’t there when it caved in?”
“No, lad. I be working on another level.”
Although I’d gone down the old shaft with Gilbert, it was hard to imagine different levels running beneath the ground. Perhaps they were like the tunnels in an ants’ nest.
“It’s lucky you weren’t there then, Da,” I said.
“Mebbe it was luck,” he answered, taking the clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, “but mebbe the knockers had something to do with it.”
When I was little, Mam and Da told me stories about the Cornish fairy-folk, the mischievous piskies, the terrible spriggans and others, but I couldn’t remember the knockers.
“The knockers live in the mines, Jack, and help keep them safe,” Da said. “But only if you leave them bits of pasty from your crib. Otherwise …” He gave a loud sigh and slow shake of his head.
“Otherwise, what?”
“Cave-ins. Other awful things.”
Hadn’t Mr Oates left enough pasty crumbs to make sure he was protected? I wondered. I stared at my boots. I wasn’t sure I believed in the knockers.
I left Da with his thoughts and pipe, and went into the kitchen.
Mam turned and stared at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Where’ve you been, Jack?”
“At the Oates’s.”
She let her hands rest in the floury mixture in the bowl on the table and shook her head. “I heard, Jack. It be a terrible business. And poor Mrs Oates, soon with another mouth to feed.”<
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I glanced at the mantelpiece above the stove. Set among the candles in their holders, a collection of spare yellow flypapers and the large mantel clock was an old, faded tobacco tin. It was where Mam kept the rest of Da’s wages, once she’d given him a coin or two for himself. What would happen if Da couldn’t work? Where would we get money to put in the tin? How would we buy food?
“What if Mr Oates can’t work, Mam? Doesn’t the mining company give out a mangle or something?”
Mam dumped the soft clump of dough on the floured table and shook her head again. “No, Jack. That be only if the husband’s killed in the mines. Then the widow uses the mangle to do other people’s laundry and earn money. Mrs Ellery had a mangle after her husband …” She must’ve seen the look on my face, for she stopped speaking, wiped a flyaway strand of hair off her face and went on kneading.
Shortly afterwards, she looked up and gazed at me in a gentle way, as if she wanted to hug me. Then the moment passed and she said briskly, “Tell that sister of yours to bring in more water.”
I was glad to get away. All that talk of accidents and death.
“And don’t let the door slam. Arthur’s sleeping.”
It was only as I stepped outside again that I realised Mam hadn’t asked to see what I’d done at school that day.
Chapter 4
I lay in bed, which was set against the wall, a small window down one end. My candle was out, but I rested there with my eyes open, gazing towards the square of stars. I had a lot to think about.
Everything seemed as if it’d been turned upside down. Questions buzzed about my head like bees round a water tank.
Did Mam and Da really believe knockers lived in the mines, able to commit dreadful deeds? I knew Da never whistled underground because Cornish miners believed that brought bad luck.
What would happen to Gilbert’s father? How would the family survive until he went back to work? Lucy earned a little money cleaning houses, but there were more people in that family than I had fingers on both hands.
And what about those strange feelings I’d had when I climbed down the shaft yesterday afternoon? So much had happened since, but I still remembered the frantic clutching at the timber shoring and rocks. The squirming feeling in my stomach. And I wasn’t imagining those shudders that shot from my fingers to my toes.
