‘I doubt he’ll inspect your bookshelves,’ said Mama dryly. ‘Just be discreet and don’t read novels on a Sunday afternoon, at least not where he can see you.’ She leaned down and whispered, ‘If there is anything too scandalous, hide it at the back of the linen cupboard. Your father never looks in there.’
Hannah looked at Mama speculatively. What books had been hidden in the linen cupboard at Lyrebird Creek?
Suddenly she thought of the dark-skinned young man at the farm and his unexpected insistence on learning poetry.
‘Can we have lots of poetry books?’ she asked.
‘Always,’ said Mama.
‘Mama . . .’ Hannah hesitated. Mama was finally talking to her as if she was an adult now. ‘No one has said anything about Mr Vandergeld. Does anyone else know he died?’
‘Captain Jacobs told the police, and the police have told your father that a boat has been out to the sandbank. There’s no sign of a body. No one has mentioned it because your father doesn’t think that young people, especially young girls, should be told about the . . . the harder things in life.’
‘But I was there when he died! Have his relatives been told?’
‘The police told your father there seem to be no relatives. It seems Vandergeld wasn’t even the poor man’s real name. He came to the ship from a hotel where he’d been staying under another name, and they know nothing of where he came from before that.’ Mama shook her head. ‘There can’t be a burial without a body, or even a memorial without a name.’
‘Oh.’ Hannah suddenly felt desperately sorry for Mr Vandergeld, even though she hadn’t liked him much. Now they would never know any more about him, nor the luggage he had valued so much he had lost his life for it.
‘There you are!’ yelled Angus as he ducked around a fat woman carrying a sack. ‘Mama, Mrs Zebediah is here. She’s got fish for sale!’
‘There’s lots of fish for sale here,’ said Hannah.
‘Not like hers. Come look!’
They shouldered their way through the crowd, laden baskets bumping.
‘Good morning, Mrs Zebediah,’ said Mama just as Angus pointed and said, ‘See!’
‘Don’t point. It’s rude,’ Mama said. She peered into the barrel by Mrs Zebediah’s trestle table. ‘My word! They’re still alive!’
‘The only way to keep fish fresh in this heat,’ said Mrs Zebediah.
She reached in with a net and expertly hauled out a fish for a woman in a too-bright blue dress and glass earrings. ‘That’ll be threepence, Annie.’ The woman handed over two pennies and a couple of halfpennies without replying.
Mrs Zebediah watched her go. ‘Annie and me used to be best friends,’ she said quietly. ‘They had the farm next to ours before Mr Harris bought it. Annie hasn’t spoken more than a dozen words to me at any one time for fifteen years.’
Since Jamie was born, speculated Hannah. Or maybe since Mrs Zebediah married his father.
Mama smiled brightly. ‘What a splendid way to preserve fish. Could you keep six aside for us? We’ll collect them as we leave.’ She reached into her reticule for a ten-shilling note.
‘Of course, Mrs Gilbert. I’ve got some of my butter here too.’ Mrs Zebediah pointed to another cask. ‘I sell cheeses too, in winter.’
‘And a pound of butter then. What are those?’ Mama gestured at a box of round brown things.
‘Bush nuts. They grow wild. Good for monkeys,’ Mrs Zebediah said to Angus, winking. ‘But you need a heavy rock to crush the shells. And these are breadfruit. You eat them baked, like a vegetable.’
Mama looked warily at the big misshapen fruit. ‘I think we have enough fruit already. Maybe next time. But we’ll try some bush nuts.’ She waited while Mrs Zebediah filled a bag made from old newspaper, then shook her head when the other woman offered her change. ‘We owe you for all the jars of jam we ate, and the scones too.’
Mrs Zebediah flushed. ‘But that was a pleasure! And the jam was home-grown, even the sugar, and the tea bushes too.’
‘It was a pleasure for me as well,’ Mama said, ‘and not just because we were so hungry. I’ve never had jam as good as yours. You won’t forget that school starts next Monday week, will you?’
‘Oh no. I’m making Jamie a new shirt. Smart as paint he’ll be. Does he need to bring anything else, Mrs Gilbert?’
‘Just his lunch and morning tea in a bag of some sort, so he can take his slate home to practise his letters, and books too later. He needs to enrol, of course, but I’ll write his name in the register for you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gilbert. I wouldn’t know how to go about doing that. Are you . . . are you really sure Jamie is allowed in school? Mr Andrews said . . .’ She hesitated.
‘I am sure Mr Andrews was a good teacher in his time,’ Mama said. ‘But things are changing. Every British citizen in the new Commonwealth of Australia has a right to go to school. That’s what we fought for at Federation.’ She smiled. ‘That and giving us women the vote. I’m sure that’s going to be one of the first laws made by the new parliament.’
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know who to vote for,’ admitted Mrs Zebediah. ‘Nor how to vote neither. Never even thought about things like that.’
‘Well, if someone wants your vote they’ll have to let you know what they stand for, and how you can vote for them. It’s going to be wonderful,’ said Mama enthusiastically. ‘A new century and a new country. A new parliament with laws made by every man and woman in Australia.’
‘If you say so,’ said Mrs Zebediah politely.
‘Mama, there’s a man selling sharks’ teeth down here!’ yelled Angus. ‘And he’s got a giant tortoise you can ride on for a penny!’
‘I’d better go,’ said Mama. ‘We’ll be back to collect the fish and nuts later. And I’ll keep an eye out for Jamie next Monday. It will be hard starting school so late, but lots of boys do, especially those who’ve had to work to help their families.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gilbert. And thank you. Thank you more than I can say.’
‘I should be thanking you,’ said Mama warmly. ‘A student who wants to learn is a treasure.’
Like me, thought Hannah as she followed Mama through the crowds and baskets to the tortoise. And this year all the new subjects for students who had passed their exam would be there for her, calculus and ancient history and Latin and Ancient Greek, because for some reason you needed to know an ancient language to go to university.
She’d meet girls her own age, too, and have someone to talk to again. Talking to your mother and brother didn’t really count.
The fruit and vegetables bounced in her basket as she gave a small skip of excitement.
CHAPTER 9
SCHOOL
The school’s textbooks had been stored in Papa’s study so the rats didn’t get at them over the holidays, along with big rolled cardboard containers that held maps to pin on the schoolhouse walls.
The whole family joined Papa to put up the maps in the schoolroom. The map of the British Empire on the wall at the front, with its vast pink areas the sun never set on, with a map of Australia showing its states and rivers and mountains underneath it. Other maps showing Europe and Britain adorned the side walls, while charts of the alphabet and times tables and numbers up to one thousand were pinned on the rear wall where the infants would study.
At last the first school day arrived. Hannah tied on her pinafore over her second-best white dress. She was glad the dress had short puffed sleeves so she didn’t need sleeve protectors to keep the fabric safe from ink-blots and other dirt. It was too hot for sleeve protectors. It was also too hot for a pinafore and buttoned boots, but Papa insisted his daughter should be a credit to him.
‘Are you ready yet?’ she called to Angus.
‘Yes.’ He appeared looking nervous, Monkey in his arms.
Hannah sighed. ‘You’ve got your boots on the wrong feet again. Sit!’
She grabbed the buttonhook, wrenched off Angus’s boots, put the right one on his right
foot and began to do up the buttons again. At least his boots were well polished. Papa had taught both of them to polish their own boots every night.
‘There,’ she said at last. ‘Remember, Monkey’s not allowed to go to school. You have to teach him what you learn when you come home every afternoon, just like Papa will teach you.’
Angus nodded, just as Mrs Murphy shouted, ‘Breakfast!’ and then must have remembered Mama’s request to sound the gong instead of yelling, as the boing sounded through the house.
Their full plates were already on the table as they filed into the room. Mrs Murphy stood at the end of the table, beaming at them.
‘Nothing like a good breakfast before a hard day’s work,’ she said. ‘This is a big day, isn’t it, Mr Gilbert? A new school, and everyone is saying you’ll make a grand schoolmaster—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Murphy,’ said Mama, glancing at the neat mounds of scrambled eggs on the plates, next to curled strips of congealing bacon each adorned with a sprig of parsley, and the grilled tomatoes that Papa wouldn’t eat and that must have come from the Harris Plantation House garden. ‘We have all we need. It looks lovely as always. But perhaps tomorrow, as I suggested, we might just have boiled eggs and toast?’
‘And I forgot your toast again! Aren’t I the silly one. I’ll go and get it in a flash, but as for boiled eggs, how can you tell if they’re good or not afore you crack them? I’d hate the schoolmaster to put his spoon into a rotten egg. I remember one time Mr Murphy—’
‘The toast?’ asked Mama pointedly.
Mrs Murphy left.
‘That woman has to go,’ said Papa, taking his seat at the head of the table.
‘She works well. And she’ll be gone every day now by the time you get home,’ said Mama. Then, as Papa looked unconvinced, ‘Mr Harris might be insulted if we let her go. After all, he pays her wages.’
Papa nodded, then said grace.
Hannah waited till Mama had picked up her fork before she began to eat too. Mrs Murphy’s food always looked better than it tasted. She had even made butter curls today, set in a small cut-glass dish in an unglazed pottery saucer of water to stop the butter melting in the heat, though thankfully the day was still fresh. There were glass dishes of jam and the prize-winning marmalade as well. A big teapot — though not a silver one, like the one Mama had been given for a wedding present, but was now at the bottom of Pirate’s Cove — sat on a trivet with another pot of hot water next to it, as well as glasses of milk for her and Angus.
‘Mama?’ Angus said.
‘Yes, Angus?’
‘Monkey doesn’t like bacon.’
‘Monkey needs to eat what’s put in front of him.’ Mama hesitated. ‘But maybe not today.’
Papa smiled and put his hand on Angus’s. ‘There’s no need to be nervous. You know your ABC, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Papa. A, B, C, D, E . . .’ He stopped.
Papa laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Hannah will be there to help you.’
Papa is happy to have his bigger school, thought Hannah, even if it isn’t the private school he’d have preferred. He’d spent the last few days going through Mr Andrews’ notes on each student and their exam marks. There’d be several others, like Jamie and Angus, who were beginning school today too. Excitement fizzed in her, though she suspected that she and Jamie were the only pupils who really longed for school today.
Hannah hadn’t even told Mama and Papa that one day she hoped to go to university — like Cousin Geoffrey, who was going to be a doctor, and Cousin Ted who loved Ancient Greek but said people at university could also study poetry and novels. Even Papa hadn’t gone to university. He’d done his teacher’s apprenticeship and the examinations, and come third in the whole state. But now women could go to university . . .
‘Are you ready, Hannah?’ Papa smiled down at her, his cane in one hand, his bag with his fountain pen and spare pencils and books in the other.
‘Yes, Papa.’
Angus took Hannah’s hand.
Mama bent and kissed them both, then kissed Papa too. She would come to the schoolhouse later, when Papa had the pupils settled.
Mrs Murphy bustled in with three brown paper bags. ‘Here’s your lunch now. I’ve made you corned beef and pickle sandwiches, and cold lamb and lettuce, and cheese and tomato, and a banana each and slices of my special fruit cake for morning tea.’
Hannah sighed, and took the paper bags. Mrs Murphy’s fruit cake looked like neatly sliced horse droppings and tasted like cardboard.
Down the stairs, through the orchard, their horse paddock, and then the school’s.
Two fat ponies and an elderly draught horse that looked as if six children could fit on its back already grazed there. The horses hardly glanced up as Hannah passed. This is routine for them, she thought. We are the only new ones here. Apart from the two small children starting school today, and Jamie of course.
Hannah smiled at the thought of Jamie. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was his smile, or the fact that he wanted to learn, just as she did, while most pupils couldn’t wait to get outside again. She imagined how he’d smile today, his first day at school; how he might smile at her if she helped him with his letters at lunchtime.
She took Angus’s hand again as they entered the school gates: imposing brick pillars on either side with a big sign on top saying Port Harris Central School. The wooden schoolhouse was large and square, with a single wide veranda out the front. It squatted on piers no higher than Hannah’s waist, with two water tanks alongside and a metal trough with a row of three taps for pupils to drink or wash. There were three honeysuckle-covered outhouses down the back, with neat signs that said Girls, Boys and Teacher.
The schoolyard had been worn to hard dirt by many feet, and had channels running through it, eroded by the rain. About a dozen girls of different ages were lined up for their turn at skipping over the long rope held by two bigger girls. Hannah could hear their chant as they sped up the rope — ‘Salt, pepper, vinegar, MUSTARD!!!’ — the rope going faster and faster till it caught the skipper’s ankles and it was the next girl’s turn. Four boys played marbles in the shade of the water tanks, while a mob of boys looked on. Both boys and girls looked curiously at the newcomers, and even more curiously at the man behind them.
Hannah flushed. Only one other girl wore a pinafore, and no one else wore shoes, much less buttoned boots and stockings. Mama should never have made her wear them! The girls here mostly wore tattered dresses that must once have belonged to their mothers, cut down to size; while the boys were in too-wide shorts cut from men’s long trousers that had gone at the knees, held up with leather belts.
None of the girls looked friendly either. But it would be easier tomorrow, Hannah told herself, when they realised that Papa didn’t make her and Angus favourites, and that she didn’t tell on anyone she overheard whispering in class. A schoolmaster’s daughter learned early not to be a telltale.
Telltale-tit
Your tongue shall be slit
And every little puppy dog
Will have a little bit.
She looked around, but there was no sign of Jamie in the playground. She hoped he wasn’t going to be late. Papa gave latecomers three chances. The third time they were late they got a whack with the cane, and then another whack for every minute they were late. Maybe Jamie and his mother had got the day wrong. But they had seen Mrs Zebediah at the market again on Saturday. She’d said Jamie would be here bright and early today.
Hannah hesitated, then, when no one came up to greet her, walked over to the skipping girls. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Hannah.’
One of the girls about her age, but bigger and taller with red hair and freckles, giggled. ‘You’re the schoolmaster’s daughter!’
Hannah nodded.
‘I suppose you think you’re good at everything.’
Hannah flushed. She was good at everything at school. She shrugged and shook her head, hoping this might please them.
‘My ma says your ma bought toilet paper from the stores!’
Hannah’s flush grew deeper. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Special paper just to wipe your bum?’
A girl with a bird’s nest of brown hair and a dirty hem to her skirt giggled. ‘Schoolmaster’s bum is too good for newspaper!’
‘No, of course not,’ began Hannah as more giggles erupted around her. She looked desperately for Angus. Were the boys teasing him too? But he was crouched happily, watching the game of marbles.
‘Shhh,’ said the red-haired girl suddenly.
Hannah turned to see Papa paused at the steps leading up to the schoolroom, cane now swinging in his hand. He lifted his whistle and blew.
Everyone in the schoolyard stood at attention, arms at their sides, legs together. Mr Andrews had taught them well, thought Hannah. Even Angus and the two little girls who were obviously new copied the others.
‘Pupils, line up!’ called Papa. ‘Hannah, stand on the right-hand side of the steps. Girls, line up behind Hannah.’
More giggles, though quieter this time. Hannah wished that Papa hadn’t singled her out.
‘Is William Johnson here? Excellent, you stand on the other side of the steps, lad. Boys, line up behind Johnson, youngest to the back.’ Papa gave Angus a gentle push into position.
‘I’m called Bill,’ said William Johnson, moving into place.
‘At my school every boy will be known by his surname, and every girl by her first name. Stand at ease!’
The students put their hands behind their backs and stood with legs apart.
Papa walked up and down the two rows, inspecting them. He looked impressive in his dark suit and tie, with his cane and black bowler hat and carefully trimmed moustache, and his gold pocket watch on its chain that luckily had survived the wreck.
Papa pointed the cane at the girl with bird’s nest hair. ‘Your name, girl?’
‘Mary Gibson.’
‘Mary Gibson, sir.’
‘M-mary Gibson, s-sir,’ she stammered.
‘Make sure your hair is properly brushed tomorrow, Mary. You, boy.’ Papa pointed the cane again. ‘What is your name?’
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