by Janeen Brian
The moment Mrs Oates spied Mam, she waddled heavily towards her, hand outstretched.
“Good morning, Mrs Pollock. Mr Pollock. I wanted to thank’ee, Mrs Pollock, for your good nature and help with my husband being so bad. I can’t tell you what it means to me. Gilbert and me come here today to say some extra prayers.”
“I hope you receive what you need then, Mrs Oates.”
“Thank’ee. It be a struggle, with the baby coming and all, but Gilbert will be at the picky-shed tomorrow, so that’ll help. But of course, you know that already, with Jack starting there as well.” She smiled in a friendly way.
I drew in a sharp breath and glanced at Mam. Her blue eyes flashed and her mouth quivered before she spoke.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Oates,” she said in a low, level tone. “I think you might be mistaken. There be no talk of Jack leaving school.”
I stood there, chewing my lip, hearing the words tumble from my mother’s mouth.
“Oh. But Gilbert did tell me.”
At that moment, the church bell rang, saving my skin. Everyone turned to file in. Ears burning and heart pounding, I followed my parents at a distance. Inside, I deliberately sat between Da and Dorrie and then stared ahead, gazing at the pulpit, the special pew at the front and the large pipe organ. Other people walked in, filling the church and the upstairs section. At last, came the tall man, straight-backed, with a flowing white beard.
“I bet that really is God,” said Dorrie.
“Dorrie,” I hissed. “I’ve told you before, it’s Captain Rodda. He’s in charge of the mines, so you’d better keep quiet.”
She wrinkled her nose at me and leaned out towards the aisle. “I want to see if my friend Ruthie’s here,” she murmured defiantly.
Now that the captain had arrived, the congregation was allowed to sit. Reverend Trevallyn stepped up to the pulpit and began the service. I didn’t hear a word. I stared past the stained-glass windows, wondering whether Captain Rodda might one day be my boss. However, when I remembered the look on my mother’s face, my shoulders drooped in despair.
At last, the service was over and I could escape outside. As soon as I saw Gilbert, I rushed over and stuck my nose close to his.
“Why’d you say anything to your mam about me leaving? My mam doesn’t know anything about the mines.”
“You should’ve told her then. How was I to know? Anyway, what are you so worried about?”
I ran my fingers through my hair.
“I’ll wait for you outside the mines tomorrow. All right?”
I raised the palms of my hands. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll try.”
“I have to go. Bye, Jack.”
“Bye, Gilbert.”
Somehow, sometime, I had to get Da to help me talk to Mam. But it seemed there was one problem after another. First there was lunch and then prayers in the parlour. Da read to us from the Bible, but I sat stiffly on one of the cedar chairs and let my eyes roam about the room. They flickered over dainty ornaments set out on the mantelpiece and on the bamboo wicker whatnot, Mam’s wedding bouquet in a glass dome and photographs of stern-looking people I’d never met.
Finally, Dorrie and I were allowed outside. Not to play. We weren’t allowed to play on a Sunday. Or make anything. Or do anything, really. Elizabeth Faull’s mam once told her if she caught Elizabeth sewing on a Sunday, she’d make her unpick it with her nose!
“When, Da?” I pleaded, having caught his attention by the back door.
“After tea. Your mam’s having a rest now.” And he patted his stomach, which I thought was an odd thing to do.
Tea came and went.
“Go to bed, Dorrie,” I said.
“You’re not the boss, Jack.”
“Go to bed, and tell Marianne a story.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “Why?”
“Will you go to bed if I tell you the Cornish story about horses?”
“Will you tell Marianne too?”
“Yes.” I sat on the edge of her bed and started.
“Once upon a time, there was a farmer who owned many horses. They were fine horses. They could gallop for hours on end and never tire. But one morning the farmer went into the field and there were his horses, exhausted. Heads low, hardly able to walk.
“ ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the farmer, because he loved his animals.
“The next morning it was the same and every morning after. The farmer was upset. He gave his horses extra food. He brushed and groomed them carefully. He spoke gently to them, and still they could barely raise a trot in the mornings.
“Then one night he decided to stay up all night and watch what happened.
“What he saw amazed him.
“A dozen piskies suddenly appeared and leaped on his horses. For hours they rode them first in one field and then in another. But in the third field they rode them around and around in a circle, and do you know what they left?”
“What?” said Dorrie, breathlessly.
“Fairy rings.”
Dorrie blew out her mouth and then smiled. “That was a good story. I liked that one. Marianne did too.”
“Good.”
I rushed back into the kitchen, heart pounding.
Both Mam and Da were in chairs at the table. Mam’s hands were clasped in front of her.
“Your da tells me you have something to talk to me about, Jack. Something to do with what Mrs Oates said at church.”
I glanced at Da. I thought he was going to tell Mam, but the expression on his face clearly showed he wasn’t.
I swallowed and stared at a knothole in the wooden table. “Well, it’s because of Mr Oates’s accident, and because Mrs Oates is …” It was too rude to say the word pregnant, so I didn’t say anything. “Anyway, Gilbert’s got a job at the mines, on the picky-table.”
“I see,” said Mam. “And will he go back to school when his da’s better and back at work? Or will that be that?”
I blinked. The thought had never occurred to me. Nor had Gilbert spoken about the possibility. Most kids who lived around Moonta Mines left Miss Goldsworthy’s at the end of Year Seven. The girls either stayed at home to help their mams, or looked after other people’s kids, or maybe cleaned houses, like Lucy. Some boys went into the mines, but others went to work on farms, or for a carpenter, or blacksmith. One kid was working at Mr Pascoe’s shop.
I shrugged.
“So that be Gilbert Oates,” said Mam, crisply. “Now what about Jack Pollock?”
Outside, the wind began to howl. I tried to ignore the rattling of a loose latch at the window. But Mam rose to fix it, pulling at the waist of her dress as she did.
When she’d returned to her seat, I looked at Da, who nodded for me to continue.
Mam caught the exchange and her eyes flashed. “Do you already know what this is about, Thomas? Am I the only one in Moonta Mines who doesn’t?”
“Jack and I have spoken, Cordelia,” replied Da, smoothing his moustache, “but only because Mrs Ellery was here yesterday and Jack was telling me about the mines and leaving school.”
It was as if Mam had been struck. Her mouth opened and two deep lines shot between her eyebrows.
“Jack? Leave school? What, now? I thought Mrs Oates and Gilbert were wrong. That they’d somehow misheard. Thomas, tell me this be a very stupid joke.”
“Cordelia, please–”
“Jack, what’ve you been saying?” Mam’s eyes narrowed. “Who said you could be leaving school? Who said you could just up and go off to the mines? Who said any of that?”
I was torn. Should I say it was Da, or not?
Mam guessed. “Did you say it be all right, Thomas?”
“I did, Cordelia. Only since Jack said it’s what he wanted and I saw it as a chance.”
“A chance!” Mam leaned forwards, hands clenched. “Jack be clever, Thomas. Think on that. He can read whole books and he deserves the best ed’cation we can give him.”
“I know, Cordelia, bu
t–”
“Yet, here you say, yes, leave school, just like that, without a word to me!” Mam stood and began to pace the room. I wished I could disappear.
“Sit down, Cordelia. Calm yourself.”
“I will not sit down, Thomas.”
“Then I’ll say my piece with you standing up.”
I continued to stare at the knothole, while words were batted back and forth above my head.
“When we left Camborne, Cordelia, we vowed to give our children the chance to do what they wanted. Something we never had. And–”
“Yes, and how do they get good jobs, Thomas, if they–”
“Hush, woman, and let me finish. Jack has a chance to choose. He is a good pupil, but if he’s going mining–”
“You’re going to say, if he’s going mining, he won’t need any more learning, aren’t you?”
“Yes, unless he aims to be a captain. But he’ll get more learning in the mines than by studying.”
“Thomas! How can you know what more there is to learn unless you have the opportunity?”
My throat felt as though it was full of dust, but I had to say something. I thought of the tobacco tin.
“I can give you my wages, Mam,” I said.
Mam turned to me and for a second her face softened. “It baint just the money, Jack.”
Deflated and defeated, I lowered my head and waited to see what would happen. What decision my parents would make.
Sometimes I’d watched leaves being flung about in a strong wind, with no direction of their own. Right at that moment, I felt as if I was one of those leaves.
“Cordelia,” Da went on, “I hear that Captain Rodda is thinking about setting up night classes for the boys at the mine.”
That was news to me.
“Who told you that?” Mam sat down, her voice wary.
“Colin Nancarrow.”
“Pphtt! Hearsay then.”
“By St Piran, woman!” cried Da, his voice rising. “If you be down on the miners, then you be down on me, and I won’t be having it. We Cornishmen are the finest miners in the world. We’re respected from Land’s End to America and here as well!”
Mam took a deep breath. “Thomas, mining is what you know and you be a good miner, but this is what I want to know. Do you agree to our boy starting on the picky-table, even if I don’t?”
The air seemed to vanish from the room. My fingers clutched the edge of the table.
“I do,” said Da. “Now I be going outside for a pipe. Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, Da,” I replied in a small voice.
I stood on wobbly legs and wished Mam would smile at me and say she was pleased that I’d soon be off working with my mate.
But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “I had be thinking for a long time, Jack, that mebbe you should stay on at Miss Goldsworthy’s, past Year Seven. Mebbe have extra lessons so you’d even be more ed’cated and get a good job.” She lowered her gaze and continued in an even voice. “You’ll go to school tomorrow, Jack, and tell Miss Goldsworthy you’re leaving. That be the right thing to do.”
Chapter 11
I didn’t know whether Gilbert waited for me outside the mines or not, next day, but I’d made a decision of my own. I’d take the note that Da had written, explaining to Miss Goldsworthy that I was leaving, and then head to the mines.
While Miss Goldsworthy read the note, I told Samuel and Henry what I was doing. The boys stared at me in bewilderment and Miss Goldsworthy seemed to take a long time to find her voice.
“Jack, after you’ve collected your books, will you please sit for a little while. I have some news, and since you’ve been a pupil of mine for six years, I’d like to share it with you as well.”
It felt strange, sitting alone at my desk, knowing I’d never sit in it again. Never see this room or this school again.
My stomach fluttered and I hurriedly switched my thoughts to Gilbert, so I wouldn’t change my mind and stay.
Miss Goldsworthy shifted her chair to the centre of the room and sat down.
“Children,” she said, “first of all we’re to say goodbye to Jack Pollock today. He’s starting at the picky-table at the mines. We will all miss you, Jack.”
“Jack!” cried Minnie Luxton. “Don’t go.”
“Minnie,” said Miss Goldsworthy, “why don’t you help us say three cheers for Jack?”
I sat there, not knowing which way to look.
“Now, some other news,” continued Miss Goldsworthy in her gentle voice. “Most of you know that I’ve not seen my parents for five years. However, they’ll soon be here in Moonta. They’ve sailed from England and will leave the ship at Port Augusta. Then they’ll make the rest of the journey by coach. It will be very exciting, and I will ask them to come and meet you all.”
I was happy for Miss Goldsworthy, but I was itching to get going.
“The other news is about school,” she continued, tapping her forefinger on her lip for a moment. “Although we have two other one-teacher schools in the area, the government has decided to build a large school by the mines. Work has already started. It will be run by the government and with government-trained teachers. Some of your parents may, of course, decide to send you there.”
A chorus of “Oh no, Miss Goldsworthy!” erupted in the room.
“We’ll see.” With a smile, she turned to me and held out her hand. Awkwardly, I rose and shook it.
“Goodbye, Jack. I hope we meet again.”
“Thank you, miss.” I halted, alarmed. “I still have your book, Gulliver’s–”
“Keep it. Keep learning, Jack.”
A few moments later, I was running towards the mines.
I was like a bird flying.
But as I drew closer to the mines, my footsteps slowed and I felt myself growing smaller against the sight of the tall chimney, buildings and engine house.
I was stupid. Why didn’t I wait until tomorrow? Then I could’ve gone with Gilbert. Now, not only did I have no idea of where to go or who to speak to, but I was suddenly knocked off balance by a rough boy with straw-coloured hair.
“Out the way!” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran past.
Shaken and irritated, I watched where he went. He leaped steps, two at a time, up to a building with dirty windows along one side.
Cautiously, I followed, taking the steps one at a time. All sorts of noises filled my ears: machines, men’s shouts, and horses’ whinnying. But there was another noise coming from inside the building. Thuds and thumps. Continually.
I knocked on the door. When no one answered, I opened it and was almost flung back by the clouds of dust and the clunking sounds of rocks being tossed into buckets or tubs.
I was in the picky-shed.
It was a gloomy room, though patches of light came from the cracked and broken windows. A long, large table took up most of the space. Down one end sat a couple of old men, the rest were grimy-faced boys. All were sitting at the table, sorting clumps of rock.
They turned to look at me, like one giant moving eye.
I wanted to run.
“Who might you be?” came a gruff voice. A short man, round like a barrel and with a bushy moustache, strode up from a small room off to one side.
“Er. I’m Jack Pollock.”
The man eyed me ferociously as if he was about to eat me, and then raised an eyebrow. “Pollock, you say? Thomas Pollock’s son?”
I swallowed with relief. “Yes. You told my friend, Gilbert Oates, I could start here, because my da–”
“Yes, yes. I know what I told him. And here’s a few more things I’ll be saying,” he said, checking his fob watch, “you start on time from now on. Turn up late and your wage is lighter. No larking about. No spitting. And make sure you know this is a favour. Look about and you’ll see there’s not much space for those that think they can come and go as they please.”
I kept nodding and shaking my head, trying to keep up with his remarks.
“Righ
t, well, go and get started while I put your name down in the books.
“Thank–”
“One more thing. I expect you to go down the mine soon and see what it’s like. That way you know what you’re in for if you stay on at the picky-shed. It be different for Gilbert, with John Oates being out of work, but your father’s got a job. So, I’ll let him know as well. I’ll not be messed about with. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you, Captai–”
“Captain Trelawney. You’ll remember it soon enough.”
Tentatively, I took a few steps, wondering if I’d ever get used to the noise and the dust when from somewhere came a hissing sound like a snake.
Alarmed, my eyes darted towards the floor.
“Over here!”
I looked up, searching, until I saw him.
“Gilbert.” I felt the air leave my chest.
“Shove up, boys,” I heard him say. “This is my mate, Jack.”
Gratefully, I squirmed in between Gilbert and a thin, cross-eyed boy called Robert.
The boy who’d knocked me aside earlier sat across the table from me. Gilbert whispered that his name was Bert and the other boys had already warned Gilbert to avoid him.
“Ya betta tell ya mate what to do,” muttered Bert, “otherwise he’ll be getting a wage for sitting on his bum.”
“See what I mean,” hissed Gilbert. Then he started to explain. “This rock, see it’s got no blue-green copper colour in it. That’s attle. Rubbish stuff. So toss it in that box.” He picked up another bit of ore. “Now this one’s got some colour. That’s alvins or dredge and goes here. That gets smelted.”
I stared, not understanding.
“It’s like melting the copper out of the rock. You know those big smelters at Wallaroo? The ore gets carted there on little rail trucks.”
I was amazed at what Gilbert had learned just in a morning.
“This kind of rock is the best. See the colour. That’s prill and it goes in that box. Got it?”
“Attle, alvins, prill.”
Bert clapped. “But what goes where?” he said in a smarmy voice.
“Too much talking,” came a shout from the room at the end. “Get on with your work.”
