It was the most beautiful veranda Hannah had ever seen, almost as wide as their entire house back at Lyrebird Creek, with the same polished wood as inside. White fragrant flowers clambered along its carved railings. The long breakfast table was set with white damask, just like the dinner table at Ferndale, with a hibiscus flower at each place setting. Silver salvers sat on the sideboard behind the table, some with cold food and others keeping their contents hot on spirit lamps.
Catherine bobbed a curtsey to Mr Harris, who was sitting at the head of the table, reading a newspaper. He put it down as Hannah came out.
‘Good morning, Mr Harris.’ Hannah dropped him a small curtsey too, as Catherine vanished inside again.
‘No need for that, my dear. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent.’ He waved at the sideboard. ‘We help ourselves at breakfast. Tea, coffee or more orange juice?’
‘I’d like juice, please, Mr Harris.’
She wasn’t allowed to drink tea or coffee yet — yesterday had been an exception, and even then it had been more milk than tea. Nor had she ever chosen her own breakfast before: even at Ferndale or the hotel in Sydney, Mama had selected her food for her.
The first salver held porridge. At home they always began the day with porridge but Hannah was glad not to in this heat, for the air already felt almost too heavy to breathe. She lifted the other lids. Scrambled eggs, devilled kidneys, bacon, fish in what looked like a curried white sauce, a cold ham, and a vast cold pie that seemed to be made of several kinds of meat with jelly in between. She decided to try the pie.
She had just cut a wedge of it when Mama and Papa appeared. Papa looked sunburnt, and had scratches on his face and hands, but his sea-wrinkled suit had vanished. Hannah guessed that Mr Harris must have lent him some clothes, as Papa wore the same kind of pale trousers and matching jacket. Mama’s pale yellow dress looked slightly too long and too loose, held in place by a belt, but it was trimmed with what looked like real lace, not factory-made, and she’d fastened a matching lace veil over a straw hat.
Mr Harris stood up at Mama’s appearance, and held out her chair for her just as Angus barrelled out of the French doors. He wore a smaller version of Mr Harris’s and Papa’s clothes.
‘Papa! We went on a tiny train! Except it didn’t have a steam engine or any seats and two men pushed and pulled it and they said I should be a train driver when I grow up!’
‘I think your father may expect you to be something better than a train driver, young man,’ said Mr Harris, amused.
Hannah wondered if Mama had told Papa that she had been right and Captain Jacobs wrong — there had been a farm and a creek nearby, and no need to trek through the undergrowth or risk dying of thirst. But Papa looked contented, so Mama had probably let him assume that the foremen had somehow seen the women in the cove from one of the plantation hills.
‘Mr Harris, it is so kind of you to do all this for us,’ said Mama, accepting a cup of coffee from him. ‘No, Angus, sit next to me please, not way down there.’
‘Nonsense. I’m grateful for the company. No one will visit here in midsummer — everyone in society heads down to Tasmania or up to the mountains. Even my wife is at our house at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains.’ Mr Harris turned to Papa. ‘I hope you have everything you need, sir.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Papa smiled. ‘There is even a telescope on the veranda outside our room.’
‘Ah, that’s my son’s. He is off at Oxford at the moment, though how much studying he is doing I don’t know. Please, do make use of it — I know from your letter of application that you are interested in astronomy. Now help yourself to breakfast. I’ve arranged a picnic for you today so you can see some of the country.’
‘But there is so much to do before we settle in,’ protested Mama. ‘We can’t possibly impose—’
‘A pleasure to do it, Mrs Gilbert! It gets lonely up here in the hot season with only shopkeepers and servants to talk to. Mrs Frogmore will make sure the schoolmaster’s house is properly set up with linen and . . .’ Mr Harris waved his hand vaguely, obviously unsure what else a household needed. ‘And whatever else you lost aboard that ship. A terrible thing, being stranded like that. You must have been terrified.’
‘It was not pleasant,’ Mama admitted.
‘We had to go in a little boat and Monkey got wet,’ Angus informed him. ‘But Monkey was brave.’
‘I’m sure you were a brave lad too. You’ll want to wire your relatives down south, Mrs Gilbert, to let them know you’ve arrived safely.’ Mr Harris preened his moustache complacently. ‘I managed to get Port Harris connected to the telegraph line ten years ago now. You can get a message to someone in Sydney in an hour or two.’
‘I only wish people could be sent by telegraph,’ said Mama feelingly.
She stood, and peered into the breakfast salvers, finally choosing the curried fish for herself and scrambled eggs for Angus and Monkey. Papa had already helped himself to eggs and bacon.
‘I believe I have met your father at the Australia Club, Mrs Gilbert,’ continued Mr Harris, dabbing his whiskers with a napkin as Mama sat at the table again.
Papa stiffened slightly as he buttered his toast. He hadn’t been invited to join the exclusive Australia Club, despite his father-in-law’s membership. Hannah wondered suddenly if Mr Harris had asked them to stay here because he knew Grandpa, not because Papa was the schoolmaster. She realised Papa might be thinking the same thing.
Mama smiled. ‘My father always stays at the Club when in Sydney, unless my mother accompanies him. I think perhaps it is time that women had a club too. Use your fork properly,’ she added to Angus.
Mr Harris laughed. ‘A women’s club! What an idea. You’re surely not a suffragist, Mrs Gilbert?’
Papa gave Mama a warning look.
Mama gave another smile, a careful one this time. ‘We are a new nation now, after all, Mr Harris.’
Mr Harris laughed again, as if Mama could not possibly be serious. ‘A lot of fuss about nothing. Thank goodness my wife doesn’t go in for that nonsense.’ Seemingly unaware he might have given offence, he shook his head. ‘Would you mind ringing the bell for more toast, Mrs Gilbert? It is impossible to get trained servants to work up here. My wife has an arrangement with a Dublin orphanage, but the girls are always leaving to get married just as they become useful. Ah, Catherine, fresh toast, please, and more coffee. Unless you would prefer tea, Mrs Gilbert?’
‘Tea, thank you,’ said Mama.
‘China or Indian, ma’am?’ asked Catherine, with a small curtsey.
‘Indian, please, and strong. You have the most wonderful view here, Mr Harris.’
Mama was obviously trying to repair any damage she’d done to Papa’s reputation by advocating a club for women.
Mr Harris gazed with satisfaction at the vast fields of sugar cane below his gardens, the long sheds with thatched roofs that Hannah assumed were storehouses, and the single-storeyed cottages where those who worked on the plantation must live. ‘Most of it was jungle till I came here, half a century ago. It is a fine thing to tame a land and own as far as the eye can see.’
Except you don’t own the town and port, or not all of it, thought Hannah. And Mr Harris certainly didn’t own the sea. But it was still an impressive empire to look out at every morning.
Suddenly Angus pointed upwards into the rafters of the veranda. ‘Mama, look! A snake!’
Hannah froze. It was the biggest snake she had ever seen, patterned a bit like a tiger snake, the most savage of all the snakes back at Lyrebird Creek. It peered down at them all curiously, its head waving from side to side, its forked tongue flickering in and out.
Papa stood, his eyes fixed on the great reptile. ‘Hannah, Angus, Eliza, move slowly into the house, please. Mr Harris, have you a firearm? Or even a sharp spade?’
But Mr Harris was laughing again. ‘I’ve firearms in plenty, and a machete will do you more good than a sharp spade.
But that’s just Joe Blake. He’s a carpet snake, wouldn’t hurt a fly. The carpet snakes eat the rats and mice — we get too many of both of those in the cane fields. I wouldn’t want to leave a baby near a snake that size — I’ve known one take a possum — but they’re not poisonous. See, he’s off already.’
‘Are there many snakes here?’ asked Hannah, watching the giant coils vanish through the rafters again and trying not to sound frightened.
Mr Harris looked at her, still amused. ‘Probably about as many as you were used to in your last place. If it’s a green file snake or big and patterned like Joe you needn’t worry. Some people even keep carpet snakes as pets.’
‘Mama, can we have a pet snake?’ asked Angus eagerly.
‘No, Angus,’ said Mama.
Mr Harris smiled. ‘I’ll ask the servants to make sure our picnic spot today is snake free.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble for us, Mr Harris,’ Mama said. ‘I noticed you have a splendid library.’
‘We must do better than a fusty library to entertain our new schoolmaster and his lovely wife.’
‘What can be better than a library?’ asked Mama, slightly too sweetly.
‘My dear,’ murmured Papa.
Mama smiled brightly. ‘A picnic sounds lovely, Mr Harris. Especially without snakes. You take a great interest in the school and its staff?’
‘Of course. I had the school built — oh, it must be twenty years ago now — and the schoolmaster’s house too. A good half of the pupils come from families on my plantation or sugar refinery, or the house servants. The Education Department of course appoints the teacher, but they are kind enough to ask my opinion. You play the piano, don’t you Mrs Gilbert?’
‘My wife teaches any girl who wishes to learn music,’ said Papa. ‘As well as sewing and other womanly arts. Angus, if you’ve finished you may leave the table.’
‘There’s a play room with a rocking horse!’ Angus informed him, racing back inside.
‘Ah yes, I remember you mentioned Mrs Gilbert’s skills in your application,’ said Mr Harris. ‘As soon as your father-in-law mentioned your name in the Club I knew you’d be the man for our school here. I’m hoping to triple the acreage under sugar in the next two years, Mr Gilbert. I’ve got the boys clearing the land already. That will mean expanding the mill too, and the port. You may think I’ve only offered you a one-teacher school, but the way the town is growing you’ll have three or more teachers under you in five years. We’ll need to double the size of the school at least by the end of next year.’
Papa looked suddenly much happier. ‘It would be good to see the town progress so splendidly,’ he said cautiously.
‘And your career too, eh, Mr Gilbert?’ Mr Harris laughed, and clapped Papa on the back. ‘Not that you’ll find any young geniuses at Port Harris. Make sure they know their three Rs, a bit of “reading, writing and arithmetic”, and stand up when a lady enters the room. That’s all the education the boys need up here.’ He looked at Papa appraisingly. ‘Do you hunt, Mr Gilbert?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Pity. We’ll have some good chinwags though, I have no doubt.’ He turned to Mama. ‘You’ll have no shortage of good company here in the cooler months, Mrs Gilbert. Visitors from England, down south, or out from India. My wife even brings an orchestra up from Sydney for the dances, though there’s a pianist down in the port who plays for us after dinner sometimes.’
‘I’d be glad to play for your guests, Mr Harris,’ said Mama.
Mr Harris looked shocked. ‘I wouldn’t expect your father’s daughter to play for company!’
Hannah had finished her pie. It hadn’t tasted as interesting as it had looked. Now, she had a feeling the adults were going to do what adults mostly did, which was sit and talk indefinitely.
She pushed her chair back. ‘May I be excused too, please?’
Mama nodded permission.
Hannah looked at Mr Harris. ‘May I visit your library, sir? I’ll make sure my hands are clean.’
‘Of course. Not that you’ll find much of interest. All the books for youngsters are boys’ books — for my son and his friends, you know.’
It sounded exactly like the kind of library Hannah would like, with no books titled A Good Girl’s Guide to everything from cookery to prayers. There might even be books like Lord Byron’s poetry, which was supposed to be scandalous but instead seemed beautiful and rather sad, with lines like We’ll go no more a roving, so late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. That poem had made her want to go roving by moonlight, which might possibly be why good girls weren’t supposed to read it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said to Mr Harris and gave another quick curtsey, just as a good girl should. And Papa smiled at her, proud of his well-mannered daughter.
CHAPTER 7
THE SCHOOLMASTER’S HOUSE
It took only four days for Mrs Frogmore and her legion of Irish maids to furnish the schoolmaster’s house with the finest of linen and Royal Doulton crockery, and to replace the pieces of furniture and other household goods that had sunk with the ship. The furniture came from the Harris Plantation House attics, put aside only because Mrs Harris liked to redecorate her northern house every few years. Mr Harris refused to let Mama help, or Papa pay for anything, even though Papa had wired down to Sydney to have money sent for them to the Port Harris branch of the Bank of New South Wales. Mama had also wired Grandma to let her and Grandpa know they had arrived safely, and to ask her to send catalogues from Sydney as soon as possible so they could replace whatever else they needed.
Hannah had tried to glimpse the house they were to live in every time they drove down on the way to the town or picnics by the river, but it was on a side road and impossible to see. Mama had wanted to see inside the house that would be their new home, too, but Mr Harris had laughed and said, ‘Let Mrs Frogmore surprise you, my dear.’ Papa had given Mama one of his looks and she hadn’t asked again.
But this morning, at breakfast, as he was tucking into his ham and cheese omelette, Mr Harris finally told them that Mrs Frogmore and her maids were taking the family’s borrowed possessions down to the house.
Mama blinked. ‘Now?’ she asked.
‘This very minute. Don’t you worry about packing and unpacking. You can just walk in the door and everything will be done,’ said Mr Harris. ‘I’ll drive you down there myself.’
‘You have been so kind,’ said Mama, for the thousandth time since they’d arrived, forcing a smile.
Hannah knew Mama would have preferred to arrange things herself. Even when they visited Ferndale they always unpacked their own clothes. But it was impossible to refuse Mr Harris’s generosity.
The automobile purred down the plantation driveway under the line of palm trees and hibiscus bushes. A group of dark-skinned men dressed in ragged trousers and blue shirts with machetes in their hands stopped to stare till the white overseer yelled at them to get a move on.
Mr Harris shook his head. ‘The men get slower every year. Only thing that gets them going is a touch of the whip.’
‘You are joking, surely?’ replied Mama.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Harris, winking at Papa. ‘Ah, this is where the Murphys live.’
Hannah looked as they passed a small house on stilts, its paint peeling and no garden beyond a couple of trees.
‘Poor old Murphy was in an accident at the mill. I let him have the house, and arranged for his wife to be housekeeper for the previous schoolmaster and his wife. She’ll come each day except Sunday to clean and cook for you now, and take away your washing each week too. You won’t want the steam of the copper heating your house in midsummer.’
‘You are far too kind,’ said Mama tightly, as the ugliest dog Hannah had ever seen, with a squashed-in face and barrel body barked at them from the Murphys’ garden till a man’s voice from inside the house yelled, ‘Hush!’
The automobile pulled up outside t
he schoolmaster’s house and Papa opened the door for Mama. Angus scrambled out of the back seat and Hannah followed, staring at the house in front of them. All this was for them!
The house was at least six times as large as their old house. It stood on high wooden stilts, with wide verandas like the Harris mansion. It had a white-painted fence, and two round flowerbeds on either side of a neatly raked wide gravel path. The usual orchard stood behind the house, though many of the fruit trees looked unfamiliar, and then a paddock where a smoky-grey horse munched the grass. The building she could glimpse through the trees must be the school.
‘It’s so . . . big,’ she said.
‘Nothing but the best for the Port Harris schoolmaster,’ said Mr Harris complacently. ‘New desks in the schoolhouse too, with two inkwells in each, black ink and red ink, and I’ve replaced the blackboards. You’ll have over sixty students this year.’
‘You are to be congratulated on your interest, Mr Harris,’ said Mama grimly.
Hannah suspected even Papa was a little tired of being told all that Mr Harris had done for the school.
Mr Harris tipped his hat to Mama. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in now, Mrs Gilbert. Just send a message up to the house if there is anything at all you need. I’ll meet you at the schoolhouse tomorrow at nine o’clock, Mr Gilbert, and we’ll see what you think. You should find it well stocked with all the slates, maps and books you might need.’ He grinned. ‘And a good pair of canes, of course. Wouldn’t be a proper schoolhouse without a pair of canes to keep the ruffians in line.’
‘You are extremely good, sir,’ said Papa, more warmly than Mama had. He offered his arm to Mama. ‘Shall we?’
Angus and Hannah ran ahead, up seventeen steps onto the veranda, then in the front door, which was standing open to catch the breeze. There was the usual peculiar carved wooden window without glass above the door — Mrs Frogmore had told Hannah they were to help the house cool down at night. That was also the reason so many houses were up on stilts, even though they looked funny, as if each was perched on four skinny legs.
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