by Di Morrissey
‘That’s the mighty Norman River, we can follow her all the way inland. Normanton is your nearest town when you’re not cut off in the Wet. Barra Creek is a tributary off from near where it rises. Still a helluva big river.’
‘What’s down there?’ Sally peered at the vegetation radiating from the snaking grey river.
‘Big ugly saltwater crocodiles. Wild pigs. Birds. Stray cattle, horses, buffaloes, a few Aborigines. And barramundi, the best eating fish in the world.’
He angled the plane towards the east, circling over patchy russet earth sprinkled with trees and small hills. They were descending. She could make out dots of cattle.
‘Are we getting close?’
‘I’ll fly you over the homestead.’
‘I don’t see any buildings.’
‘It’s four hundred square miles. So it’s easy to lose a couple of buildings in it.’
She could see fences, shining pools of dams, cleared land, small clumps of trees.
‘There’s your new home, Sally.’ He banked and she caught the glint of tin roofs, then saw vehicles parked around buildings, sheds, the paraphernalia of a station nestled on a bend of the river. Donny did a circle leaving the homestead behind them. ‘The strip is three miles down the track. It’s a bit of a hike from the house but it’ll never get flooded. Do they know you’re coming today?’
‘Of course. The agent said they’d meet me.’ Sally looked down at her clothes and flicked some dust off her skirt, more a mental preparation than tidying.
Donny gave her a quick smile. ‘Last chance. We can buzz straight over ’em and head south.’
‘Not on your life.’
‘Right.’ He concentrated on levelling the little aircraft as a windsock and bulldozed length of red dirt in the flattest stretch of land near the homestead marked the landing strip.
The plane slowed to a halt and Donny muttered to himself as he got down from the pilot’s seat. As Sally gathered herself to get out she heard him shouting, ‘Where boss, where boys? Why you mob here?’
He came round to help Sally step down, leading her past the struts of the wing. ‘Seems the welcome committee has had a bit of a problem.’
Sally walked around the rear of the plane as Donny opened the hatch and pulled out her suitcase, the mail bag and some parcels. There was no car, no adult, no friendly white face. Instead she was confronted with a knot of Aboriginal children, two boys about seven and eleven wearing sagging shorts tied around their skinny frames with rope. A little girl of about six was holding the hand of an even younger girl. Faded dresses hung from their coathanger shoulders. All had dusty hair, bare feet and running noses attracting flies. They stood by a large wooden wheelbarrow.
Donny walked over and threw the mail into the wheelbarrow and turned back to look at Sally, who was standing dumbstruck next to the plane. They all stared at her in silence and she glanced down at her shoes: patent-leather pumps with sensible heels. In her mind she redressed herself: suspenders and nylon stockings, petticoat, pleated navy Sportscraft skirt, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, over her arm was her Fletcher Jones plaid jacket and, of course, she wore her single strand of pearls and pearl earrings. No wonder the kids were looking at her like she was from outer space.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Where’re the Monroes?’
Donny gestured to the older boy who looked down and mumbled, ‘Truck bust.’
‘Means you’ll have to hoof it, Sal.’ Donny picked up her suitcase and hoisted it into the wheelbarrow. He avoided her eyes.
‘Righto.’ She made a shooing gesture at the children and the boys took a handle each and began pushing the barrow. The girls trailed behind, sneaking glances at Sally.
She held out her hand. ‘Thanks, Donny. I’ll be seeing you then.’
‘In a week. Remember what I said.’ He pulled his hat further down over his eyes. ‘So long, Sally.’
She gave a wave and set off after the weaving wheelbarrow, her heels scuffing through the thick dust and gravelly stones. She concentrated on walking as straight as she could. Miss Allen, who’d taught her deportment, would have been proud of her. She heard the plane rev up and taxi but she didn’t look back. Three miles to the homestead, Donny had said. A slow anger began to boil in her but she tried to calm herself and consider all the possible reasons why she hadn’t been met. She heard the plane circle and Donny swooped above her. She looked up and felt her anger melt as Donny waggled the wings.
She waited for the girls to catch up and tried to talk to them. Between their titters and sucking on fingers she got their names, but found them hard to understand. The boys were competing with each other to push their side of the wheelbarrow harder than the other. Inevitably it tipped over, spilling everything onto the ground. At first the boys were horrorstruck and quickly looked at Sally, waiting for her to shout at them. Instead she burst out laughing at the incongruity of the whole scene. In a rush of relief the children laughed too and together they repacked the wheelbarrow.
Sally lifted the younger girl, surprised at how light and frail she was, and sat her on top of her suitcase as the boys set off again.
They’d walked about a mile when they heard the sound of an engine. A truck drove towards them in a swathe of dust. Three young boys were in the cabin, the head of the one driving hardly coming above the steering wheel. He looked about twelve. A nine-year-old hung out the window and a seven-year-old was sandwiched between them. The boy leaning out the passenger side called cheekily, ‘Hey lady, want a lift?’
So these were her new charges. ‘Get out of that truck and get down here.’ Sally spoke loudly and firmly. Surprised but with cocky grins the boys got out of the truck. ‘You’re late. Don’t you ever keep me waiting again. Do you understand? Now unload that wheelbarrow immediately.’
The boys looked sheepish. They hadn’t expected this reaction. ‘Couldn’t help it. The truck blew up and Dad’s out with the Land Rover. We’re here, aren’t we?’
She watched them throw, with unnecessary force, her suitcase and the mail into the tray of the truck. ‘Now come here and introduce yourselves properly. You’re Ian, I suppose.’ She turned to the oldest boy.
‘Yeah. And that’s Tommy and that’s Martin.’
‘Take your hat off when you speak to a lady and shake hands. You boys don’t know much, do you?’
Insulted, the boys whipped off their hats and extended their hands for her to shake one by one.
‘You know who I am, Sally Mitchell, your new governess.’
‘Howdo, Miss Mitchell,’ they mumbled, but Sally could see the resentment and hostility lurking in their eyes. They’d declared war on her even before they’d met her.
She smiled. ‘I hear you fellows have quite a reputation. Four governesses in the past eighteen months, eh? Well, I’m the fifth and last. I’m not going anywhere, so get used to the idea.’ She swung herself into the truck. Ian got back behind the wheel and the others climbed in the back. ‘We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I hope we can be friends and get along,’ Sally added.
Ian’s foot barely reached the foot pedals and he let the clutch out suddenly, making the truck lurch forward. Sally took no notice. They rode in silence to the homestead, with Sally’s show of bravado fading. She was hot, tired, stiff, thirsty and very aware of the challenge these boys presented. Just get through today, she told herself. One day at a time.
The homestead came into view screened by greenery, water sprinklers marking the boundary between rust dirt and emerald lawn. The mist spraying over the garden made the scene seem a quivering mirage. The house looked cool and comfortable in comparison with the harsh surrounds, but it was hardly architecturally challenging. The garden was lovely in a wildly tropical way compared to the elegant formality of her mother’s gardens at Ashford Lodge.
At the gate – saplings wired together – separating the house garden from the patchy unwatered ground, leaned a tall man, nonchalantly smoking a roll-your-own and watchi
ng their progress. He came to the truck as Ian stopped and yanked on the handbrake. He opened the door and helped Sally down.
‘Sorry about the delay in meeting you. These things happen.’ He eyed her and smiled, showing strong white teeth in his tanned face. ‘You don’t seem any the worse for wear.’ He pulled off his high-crowned felt hat and shook her hand. ‘John Monroe.’
‘Sally Mitchell. Well, I mightn’t look worn on the outside, Mr Monroe, but I am on the inside,’ she answered. ‘It’s been a long trip.’
‘Come inside. Lorna has lunch ready. I’ll get your bag.’ He lifted out her suitcase and led the way to the house. He was tall, six foot three at least, thought Sally. Late forties, must weigh a good sixteen stone. Thick pepper-and-salt hair. He wore riding boots, long khaki army shorts and a spotless snow-white T-shirt.
Sally’s first impressions of the house were that it was smothered by vines and creepers, extending even to the corrugated-iron roof, and outer walls of flyscreen enclosed a wide verandah that ran around a partitioned central living area. All along the verandah were rows of beds. The floor was concrete, covered in round seagrass mats. John led her to one end of the verandah where a small room had been partitioned off. In it was a single bed which, like all the others, was merely a canvas stretcher covered with a horsehair mattress, white sheets and cotton cover. There was also a chest of drawers and a small table. He laid the suitcase on her bed.
‘Governess’ quarters. You share the house with the family. Living room, dining room through there.’
Sally looked in to the living room and saw wrought-iron furniture covered in bold black and white stripes, and the same in the dining room, which had a long glass-topped table. A smaller table, obviously where the children ate, was at one side. In the open-plan living area were chairs, small tables, and a long table with the wireless and a vase of large artificial roses.
John Monroe waved his hand in the other direction. ‘Bathroom across there, next to Lorna’s room. Toilet’s outside. Settle in and see you in the dining room.’
She heard him shout at the boys and there was the sound of boots thudding along the verandah. The bathroom was basic, with a shower and bath. She peeped around the partition to look at the screened area where there was a double bed hung with a mosquito net and a baby’s cot against the wall. She noticed the sides of the cot were covered in flyscreen, making it more like a small cage. There was a wardrobe and a dressing table with a mirror. It was spartan, clean and neat.
Sally went back through the empty dining room and, hearing voices, walked into a huge kitchen filled with two tables, a long one in the centre of the room and a large one against the wall piled with ironing. The boys were settling themselves at the centre table, which could seat twelve or more, with two white men who looked like station hands. She glanced around, seeing a door, which she later learned led to a storage room that was kept locked, and a window that opened to the outside with a small counter ledge under it like a shop. This was where the station blacks came every day for rations, and to buy extra supplies or tobacco, men’s shirts, cotton dresses and clothes for the children. A lubra was working at a kitchen bench adding powdered mustard to some egg mayonnaise. The men at the table half rose from their seats and nodded at Sally.
‘She’s the new governess,’ Ian said to them.
One of the men was about to speak but began buttering a slab of bread as the back door opened and Lorna Monroe, followed by a young black woman, came in. Lorna looked completely different from what Sally had imagined. She had the immediate impression that this woman would be at home at Ashford Lodge, there was a straightness, a primness to her bearing, and she looked starched, pressed and unflustered. She wore a cotton blouse tucked into a neat skirt with white sandals. She seemed surprised to find Sally in the kitchen.
‘My goodness, my apologies. Has John abandoned you?’ She took Sally’s hand. ‘Lorna Monroe. It’s lovely to have you with us. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. There was a little problem with a couple of the girls in the laundry. Now, come along, you boys aren’t allowed to eat out here, our lunch is ready in the dining room. Lunch is informal but dinner is a ritual with us,’ she added. ‘One should maintain standards no matter where you are, I believe.’
John Monroe came in and they sat at the dining table. Sally was gently probed about her life, her family, her friends, what she liked to read, and why she had applied for the job.
Her smooth answers faltered slightly. ‘I wanted to travel and everyone goes to England. I wanted to see a place that was different and really experience it. Staying in one spot for a long time seemed the ideal way. And I love the wide open spaces, horses, outdoor life.’
John Monroe had a booming voice. ‘There’s all that here at Barra Creek, and not much else.’ He gave a hearty laugh.
‘It can be a challenge,’ said his wife, looking at Sally.
‘I’m up for a challenge,’ Sally said, with more emphasis than she felt.
Monroe roared in appreciation. ‘Good for you. Don’t let those rascal boys get the better of you.’
‘John, please,’ admonished Lorna. ‘What say we briefly run through the daily routine?’ She motioned to the lubra hovering in the doorway. ‘Take away the plates please, Betsy. And bring in the fruit.’
The kitchen girl glanced at Sally as she took her plate and Sally gave her a hesitant smile.
‘Betsy works in the kitchen with several other lubras – Lizzie, Pansy, Mattie. There are four girls who rotate and do the housecleaning and laundry. Generally there are half a dozen of them at a time around the house. They’re slow and need supervision. We also have a few old fellows who do the garden,’ explained Lorna, watching the girl balance the plates. ‘They’re well looked after. They’re fed from the kitchen here, get their homestead rations every day – salt beef, bread, tea, flour, sugar. Plus they have whatever bush tucker they hunt and dig up.’
‘Do they eat fruit, vegetables?’ asked Sally.
‘They don’t like them. Sometimes they eat bananas from the garden.’
‘Did all the salad come from the garden?’ After two days of greasy cafe food Sally had enjoyed the meal of lettuce, tomato, cucumber, tinned beetroot and pickled onions, with slices of corned beef.
‘Lorna’s very proud of her kitchen garden,’ said John. ‘And we have some fruit trees, of course. We kill and salt our own beef. There are a few sheep about for mutton. Chickens, a milker, fish, bush tucker. You ever eaten crocodile?’
‘Not really. I prefer them as handbags.’
He roared again. ‘I like you, Sally. A sense of humour will get you through a lot of sticky situations.’
Lorna frowned. ‘John, no one eats crocodile. Don’t lead her on. And let’s hope we don’t have to deal with any sticky situations. Now, about the boys’ routine.’
Lorna talked while they ate fresh fruit salad complemented with tinned peaches, then John excused himself, rolled a cigarette and went into the kitchen. Later Lorna took Sally around the house and garden, and showed her where everything was kept. They visited the schoolroom and Sally learned that she’d have several black children in the class as well as the Monroe boys.
‘That way we get a government grant,’ explained Lorna bluntly. ‘Teach them about hygiene and whatever else you can manage.’
Sally considered the schoolroom barely more than basic – a slab of concrete, four corner posts supporting a corrugated-iron roof with walls of fly screen. Outside there was a pit toilet with a bit of hessian to screen it, and a tap and hose. ‘The black children must wash themselves down before they can go inside, and change into clean clothes that you’ll bring over from the laundry each morning. Then they change into their old clothes to go back to their camp when they leave in the afternoon,’ Lorna said. She looked at Sally, still in her good skirt, blouse and heels. ‘Why don’t you change and freshen up? I hope you have appropriate clothes?’
‘I have enough for the time being. I’ll ask my mother to send m
y riding things over.’
‘You ride?’ Lorna raised an eyebrow. ‘That will be nice for the boys. I don’t of course. But I believe there are some quiet horses about the place.’
Sally bit her tongue. ‘I’d love a shower. Is there a problem with water supply?’
They headed back towards the house. ‘Not at all. We pump from the river when we have fresh water. It can be salty in the dry, but we have rain tanks for drinking water.’
‘Can we swim in the river?’
‘I don’t. There’s a swimming spot the children use. I would be careful, though.’ She grimaced and Sally decided she’d leave the swimming for the time being.
Refreshed from her shower and wearing cotton slacks and a shirt, Sally drove with John Monroe around the immediate vicinity of the homestead to see the stockyards, past the single men’s quarters, the machinery sheds, and the meat room where their meat was butchered and hung for salting. ‘No freezers up here, the four big fridges in the kitchen are kerosene,’ Monroe explained.
He waved towards a clump of small trees. ‘That’s the blacks’ camp. Maybe fifty people living there all up. Some of them are good stockmen, others are lazy bastards. There are too many lubras around the place. They cause hell when the stock camps come in from mustering.’
They headed through thicker, lush vegetation to the river, which Sally found quite beautiful.
‘It’s very wide,’ she said. ‘Must be a hundred yards across.’
‘It’s down at the moment. In the Wet she can be double that and very fast. We have a boat moored at a landing down thataways a bit to get over when we have to. It’s a long ride around. Do you like fishing? There’s good barra in season.’
‘Hence the name?’
‘Clever. Looks like the boys have a bright teacher.’
‘I consider my job more supervising than actually teaching,’ said Sally carefully. She didn’t have a clue about teaching.
‘You teach ’em to mind their Ps and Qs. Ian’s off to boarding school when he’s old enough. We’ll probably send Tom to board at the prep school as well.’
