by Janeen Brian
“Yes. I … It’s different from Miss Goldsworthy’s.” I forced myself to give a smile, which I hoped Mrs Ellery would take as all being well. “But I’d better go now.”
On the way home, there was a long uncomfortable silence.
I was concerned as to what Elsie might’ve told Mrs Ellery. But I also felt bad about rushing off that first afternoon and being mean when she’d only been trying to help.
“You know how Mr Skinner thinks purple is the devil’s colour?” I began hesitantly, my eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Yes.” She shifted Arthur from one hip to another.
“Well, that’s what all the caning is about.”
“What? Purple!”
I wasn’t sure if she was making a joke or not.
“No,” I said.
“You mean he thinks the left hand is sinful. Like the devil’s hand.”
“Yes. He thinks he’s helping by making me change to my right, but he’s not.”
There was a pause. “It must hurt.” Her voice was gentle.
It hurt more than I could say. It hurt deeper than marks on my hand. It hurt because now I hated school and wanted to leave again. But how could I? If I left, Da might lose his patience, forget about Charlie and send me down the mines for all the trouble I’d caused. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the thought.
When we arrived at home, I said, “Will you be able to find your way back?” I took Arthur, who cried and still tried to cling to Elsie.
“Yes,” she said. Half-turning, she added, “If I get lost, I’ll just climb the big tree over there.” There was a smile on her face. “I can see everything from up there. Bye.”
Later, her words took root. She’d known all along it was me who’d seen her upside down in the Tree that day. It was me who’d blushed, not her. But maybe, because she hadn’t made a big deal about it, she mightn’t be the kind of girl who’d be a tattletale either.
I don’t know if anyone slept that night. Dorrie coughed and wheezed, Mam got up to give her medicine and Arthur bawled, disturbed.
In the morning, I eased myself onto my elbows. My head felt as if it was stuffed with straw.
In the kitchen, Mam was rushing about, trying to get wood in the stove and the fire burning strong enough for the porridge to cook. Her hair, usually neatly pinned back in a bun, hung limply about her face. Red-eyed, she puffed and sighed with every movement.
From the bedroom came the sound of Dorrie’s relentless cough.
“You should take Dorrie to a proper doctor,” I said crossly.
Mam grunted loudly. “No, I shouldn’t, Mr Smartypants. I never have and why would I be starting now?” She dished out the porridge. When some slopped over the edge of the pot, she made a click with her tongue and grabbed a cloth to wipe it up.
“But Mrs Ellery–”
“I’m not saying doctors aren’t clever with their studying,” Mam burst in, “but so is Mrs Ellery, though she don’t have special certificates to say so. She learned what she knows from all the Cornish remedies, come down through generations. Now, eat up and get yourself off to school before your grumpy old mam gives you a big slobbery kiss.”
That’s what I liked about Mam. She could always make me laugh. But I wasn’t being honest with her about school. How could I? It niggled at me, like a rat gnawing at my innards.
I set off. I could still hear Dorrie from outside. Perhaps I should’ve said goodbye to her.
My thoughts were soon consumed with what Mam had said about Mrs Ellery’s remedies. Mam swore by them. Da said nothing, but went along with them, like the time one winter when he had chilblains. They were so bad, he had muttered that he’d rather have no feet than the pain.
Mrs Ellery told him to pee in a chamber-pot and soak his sore, swollen toes in it. Da reckoned it helped, but by then he had a new pair of warm boots.
Once Mam had to sleep with a stocking from her left leg around her neck to soothe her sore throat. And when I had a nosebleed, Mam was told to drop a key down the back of my shirt. The bleeding stopped, but I figured it would’ve anyway.
Maybe Mam preferred Mrs Ellery’s help because she didn’t want to pay for a doctor. If I’d stayed a picky boy, I thought ruefully, we would’ve had extra money for things like doctors and new britches.
I was near the Tree. I watched the leaves drift downwards, spiralling gently to the ground. Then, from nowhere, a willie wagtail appeared, leaping and bouncing about, singing his song. I was sure it was the same bird as the one I saw the other day.
“Hello, old fella,” I said. “I hope you have a good day and you catch lots of tasty bugs and beetles.”
I trudged the last part of the way towards school.
My hand wasn’t healing quickly enough. With nothing changing at school, I knew that soon Mam and Da would notice the red cuts and scars. I was relieved that they hadn’t up to now. Perhaps they’d been too busy to say anything. Or maybe they thought it was just me being a kid and getting scratched from playing about.
Whatever, it was becoming painful to milk Gertie and chop wood.
I could think of only one thing to do.
Chapter 26
The hessian sack was heavier than I wanted. But it was hard to know what to leave behind. My treasure tin was a must, as was my one and only book, the letter I was writing to Gilbert and my writing materials. Mam would be mad that I took my best Sunday britches and shirt, even though they were tight. As well, I tossed in a scrap of soap from the tin basin and a couple of buns from the cupboard.
I stared at the letter I’d just written. It was to Mam and Da and in it I’d explained the reason I was leaving. I’d said I needed to find Gilbert and find out what was going on. Why he hadn’t written. I didn’t tell them the other part of the reason. That had more to do with school, and this time I’d made a promise to myself that I vowed to keep. I didn’t think beyond the letter. I didn’t know whether Gilbert would come back with me. Or whether I’d stay in Adelaide and get a job with him. I just knew I had to go.
I folded the letter and slipped it under my pillow.
I was in my new room now and it still smelled of plaster and whitewash. I glanced out the window. No moon. That’d make it tough to see, but I didn’t dare take a lantern. It would be too easy to spot, a light dancing in the night. I hoped I’d be able to find my way through the familiar tracks to Moonta and from there to the Adelaide Road.
I knew I had to stay awake until Da was home from his shift at the mines. So when I heard the clunk of boots being kicked off and the scrape and wheeze of the back door, I sighed with relief. Another ten minutes or more and he’d be in bed, and soon after, hopefully, fast asleep.
Dorrie coughed and Arthur cried. I lay rigid, eyes staring towards the ceiling, while Mam attended to them, with muffled, shushing sounds and clinks of bottles and spoons.
I hardly breathed, listening for other sounds. I was so on edge that when the window rattled in the wind, I almost shot out of my britches. I was lying on my bed, the sack alongside me. I was dressed, with my boots on, ready to go. I caught the glimmer of lamplight, which meant Mam was still up. I daren’t close my eyes and risk falling asleep. For a while, I stretched my lids wide with my forefinger and thumb, but it made my eyes dry and sore.
So I sat up and tried to recall the whole story of Gulliver’s Travels. Soon, I remember thinking halfway through the story, soon. Soon, I’d get up, heave the sack over my shoulder and tiptoe away from school and all the canings.
The next thing I knew, it was morning.
No!
I grabbed the sack. I wanted to hurl it through the window. I wanted to scream at the sunshine that was already spilling over the ledge and across my bed. I wanted to disappear.
The sack was now a useless thing. I let it fall onto the bed, and watched a few of the contents spill out onto the patchwork quilt. My head swam with anger and disappointment. I lifted the pillow and was about to tear up the letter when another thought struck me.
/> Why not take the Adelaide Road now? In daylight? Frantically, I worked out a new plan. The lies came thick and fast.
“This?” I said to Mam, casually holding up the closed sack. “Oh, it’s just a few things to show at school. My treasure tin and …”
Wearily, Mam nodded, a jumble of stained cloths and Dorrie’s damp nightgowns jammed under her arms. “You be leaving early, Jack,” she commented.
I shrugged.
“Got everything? Have a good day, me handsome.”
“I will, Mam. Bye.”
I halted and then stuck my head around the doorway to the other bedroom. “Bye, Dorrie,” I said.
She raised her head. “Bye.” It was barely a whisper.
“You’ll get better,” I said gallantly, knowing I wouldn’t be there to see it. She closed her eyes, the fingers of one hand groping for Marianne.
I strode out into the yard, with everything I needed for school and more.
“Gertie,” I said, scratching her forehead. “I’ll come back. No more running away, eh? Promise?”
“Maaaa-aaaa.”
“Good girl.”
I strode around the side of the cottage, past the clump of red geraniums by the front gate and stepped through the gateway.
I’d done it.
I took the back tracks because I had time. And there was less chance of running into Elsie who might be heading to school.
The day was bright blue and, with a smile on my face, I searched the skies and bushes for the willie wagtail. I would’ve liked his company for a little while.
I gazed around at the cluster of cottages set out all higgledy-piggledy, each chimney puffing smoke, ready for a new day. Thicker, darker smoke rose from the mines in the distance, and I remembered the smell and dust of the picky-shed. I remembered Robert. Kind, hard-working Robert, quiet with his own thoughts.
King Mountain watched me walk away from it all.
No one in Moonta Town noticed me. The morning had business to attend to. Horses pulling carts or carriages walked along the main street, the animals occasionally leaving behind mounds of steaming manure. Shopkeepers in white aprons whisked their verandahs clean of dust and dog droppings. And a couple of women strolled across the road, nodding and chatting, their parasols held high.
No one called out, “Hey! Jack Pollock. What are you doing here in Moonta? Shouldn’t you be on your way to school?”
I strode on, cap pulled low, past hotels and shops. And on past houses and further on until I was striding alongside dried paddocks. Sheep gathered in small groups beneath the shade of a bush or a straggly mallee. A shepherd ambled nearby, a long stick in one hand.
I started to whistle.
I was on my way. According to the signpost, Adelaide was 103 miles away. I’d never been to a city before.
Ahead of me stretched a meandering road. Even at this hour it shimmered in the distance. To me it was like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Once I got to the end, I’d be in Adelaide and then I’d see my mate. I’d decided I would get a job and I’d even work in the drapers if it meant being with Gilbert. If that didn’t work out, then I’d think of something else. I swished a pale yellow stalk, whistling into the clear, warm air and feeling the firmness of each footstep upon the hardened earth.
“Jack!”
I halted, turned my head in horror.
Someone was running and waving.
“Jack! Wait! Wait for me.”
My first instinct was to speed up, to run. I kept walking fast, breathing hard in my chest.
“Wait! I’ve been calling out to you.”
It was Elsie Polkinghorne.
Chapter 27
I’d never been grabbed so firmly by the shoulder. Gilbert and I had fun wrestling matches, like all the Cornish men I knew. And I’d had a jostle with Willie Ryan, but Elsie took hold of my shoulder and wrenched me round.
“Stop!” she cried.
Angrily, I pulled away. The swag swung wildly and caused me to stumble. Which made me crosser.
“What are you doing following me?” I yelled.
“You mean, what are you doing? Why aren’t you going to school?”
I faced her. “I’m minding my own business. How about you do the same? What are you doing here anyway? How about you go to school if you’re so concerned?” A fleck of spit flew from my mouth and I turned to walk off again.
“Jack. Don’t.”
I quickened my pace.
“Jack, you’re running away, aren’t you?”
I said nothing.
“Where are you going?”
Gritting my teeth, I stormed off, eyes fixed on the wavy, gleaming road far, far away. Suddenly, a pebble whizzed past and lobbed on the road ahead.
“Stupid,” I muttered and kept walking. But then another stone skimmed past and another and another.
“I’ll keep throwing till you stop!” she shouted. “And if you don’t stop, then I reckon you’re weak.”
I turned hard against the sun, glaring. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Elsie put her hands on her hips. “You stopped. So are you weak or not?”
“Weak about what?” It sounded lamer than I’d intended. More like a whimper.
“Jack,” she said. “Don’t be scared of Mr Skinner.”
“Ha!” I exploded. “Ha!” And shoved my right hand under her nose. “See this?”
“I know, remember. I saw. But, Jack, have you ever tried using your right hand to do anything else?”
Who was she to question? I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want her to meddle, to interfere, to hold me up. But she’d come after me. Why?
“Well? Have you?”
“No! I always use my left hand. Satisfied?”
“Then practise with your right.”
I gave a scornful grunt. “I think you’ve seen my writing.”
“I’m not talking about writing, Jack. I’m talking about doing something else, you know, so you can practise using your right hand until it becomes stronger.”
“Like in about ten years! Anyway, you can go now. I’ve made plans.”
Elsie strode in front of me and stood, arms crossed. “Where are you running to?”
“Adelaide,” I said tersely. “If you must know.”
“What! Do you know how far that is? We walked from Burra and that was tough enough, with a family, a cart and with food.” She stared pointedly at my meagre sack.
“I’ll get lifts,” I said, having just thought of it.
“Then what?”
She was worse than my mother. I decided to get it all out in the open. Otherwise, she’d hang around like a homeless dog. I put my sack on the ground and stood with my hands in pockets, legs apart.
“Then I’ll ask around Adelaide and find my mate, Gilbert. Someone will know where the family lives. Next I’ll get a job and–”
Elsie’s face creased. Her mouth opened wide, as if aghast. “You must be joking, Jack Pollock, if you think you’re going to find Gilbert that way. Adelaide’s a city. You’re going to need an address.” Her voice softened. “You will, Jack. It’s too big. There are thousands of people there. Do your mam and da know what’s going on at school?”
“No.” My breath stopped short in my chest. “And you’d better not say anything either.”
“I’d tell my mam if there was something wrong.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me. I’m going.”
“Look, what if I suggest something? If it doesn’t work, you go back to your plan.” I rolled my eyes and folded my arms. “Do you throw stones?” she asked.
“ ’Course I do.” Was that her suggestion?
“Why don’t you practise throwing stones with your right hand for a while?”
“Throwing stones will help me write? That’s stupid.”
“It might give your fingers and hand more control. So you can use them better.”
“I don’t think so.” I reached down to pick up my sack.
/>
“I dare you.”
I stopped. That’s what I used to say to Gilbert.
“To do what?”
“To throw ten stones with your right hand. I’ll throw ten with my left and we’ll see who’s worse than the other.” Her laugh was friendly and the early sun glinted on her hair.
“Ten?”
“Come on.” Already, she was racing around, picking up stones from the side of the road. Not any old stones, I noticed, flat-edged, slim ones that’d skim better through the air.
“I’ll start,” she said with a grin. “That way, I’ll be the first to make an idiot of myself. Wait, we need a target. That stubby bush over there.”
She threw, laughing after each throw. “Hopeless,” she said, still grinning. “I usually throw with my right hand. Now you.”
I threw. Nine stones missed the target by a long way but, to my surprise, the last one landed in the bush.
“You did it,” cried Elsie.
“It was a lucky throw.”
“All right, ten more. See if we both get luckier with a bit more practice.”
And, I had to admit, we did.
“There,” said Elsie, “doesn’t that prove it?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You know what my da used to say?”
I pricked up my ears at the word, used. Didn’t she have a father?
“He’d say if you wanted something, firstly you had to want it badly enough. Then you had to practise.”
“So what’ve you had to practise?” I countered.
“Being able to talk about him after he died,” she said.
The day was growing warmer. I raised my cap and wiped the sweat from my brow. My heart thumped in my chest. I knew I had to say something, do something. But I was scared.
“If we keep practising throwing stones, Jack, I reckon your right hand will get stronger. That’ll help your writing and then that schoolmaster will have to leave you alone. What do you think?”
I thought about Gilbert and Adelaide. Was my plan so flawed? So far-fetched? Was Elsie right? With no address would I be able to find where the Oates lived? But if I agreed to Elsie’s plan and it didn’t work, what then?
