The Schoolmaster's Daughter

by Jackie French

  ‘Tiger Thompson, sir.’

  ‘Are you any good at cricket, Thompson?’

  The boy grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Sports afternoon is every Friday, but I hope to see every boy for half an hour of cricket practice Tuesday and Thursday lunchtimes. Now, who will raise the flags up the pole?’

  Two boys shot up their hands. Papa nodded.

  It was always boys who raised the flags, thought Hannah slightly resentfully, just as it was always boys who rang the bell for lunchtime and end of school.

  The boys pounded up the steps to a small room that had been enclosed at the corner of the veranda. They returned each carrying a flag and ran over to the flagpole in the centre of the schoolyard.

  ‘School, attention!’ ordered Papa.

  The students stood to attention again, Angus and the other little ones slightly slower than the rest. The British Empire’s flag rose first. Papa saluted. The pupils copied him.

  Papa began to sing the anthem. The students joined in.

  ‘God save our gracious King,

  Long live our noble King,

  God save our King.

  Send him victorious . . .’

  The New South Wales flag rose up the pole as the last lines of the national anthem died away, fluttering blue, red, white and gold with the British flag in the corner. One day soon there would be a new flag for all of Australia, but an Australian flag hadn’t been chosen yet.

  Papa held his salute till both flags twitched in the breeze, then called, ‘Stand at ease!’

  Each pupil stood legs apart again, their hands behind their backs.

  ‘Quick march!’

  Hannah flushed once more as she led the way up the schoolhouse steps. It was embarrassing having to march in front of girls who knew the school so much better than she did.

  Someone giggled behind her. A boy yelled. Hannah turned, wondering why they were laughing at her now, but instead they were all staring at Jamie.

  He stood tall and straight by the entrance, dressed in much-mended, cleaned and ironed moleskin trousers and a new blue serge shirt, then moved uncertainly to the end of the boys’ line behind Angus. Both lines dissolved as the students turned to gaze at him, whispering and laughing.

  ‘Hey, the darkie’s wearing shoes!’ the boy called Tiger yelled.

  Jamie kept his eyes carefully on the ground, but Hannah saw him clench his fists.

  ‘Thinks he’s Mr Harris, he does, what fell in the molasses,’ shouted another boy. ‘Hey, blackie, did you fall in the molasses?’

  ‘Attention!’ called Papa firmly. ‘Everyone back in line again. The first pupil who speaks gets three cuts of the cane. You, boy!’ Papa looked at Jamie. ‘What’s your name?’

  Jamie did not look up. ‘Jamie Zebediah, sir.’

  ‘There is no Jamie Zebediah enrolled at this school,’ said Papa.

  But Mama told him the name of the farm woman who was so kind to us, thought Hannah, and about her son who so wanted to come to school. Papa must remember the name Zebediah. Angus had chattered about Mrs Zebediah’s scones when Mrs Murphy had served them lumps like cricket balls. And Hannah had put Jamie’s name in the enrolment book herself.

  Jamie looked straight at Papa now. ‘I haven’t been to school before, sir,’ he said. ‘That may be why my name isn’t there.’

  Hannah stepped forward. ‘I . . . I wrote his name in the book myself, sir.’ The schoolmaster’s daughter never called him ‘Papa’ in class. She didn’t add that she had heard Mama tell Papa about the new pupil, a farm boy who had been so kind to them after the shipwreck.

  ‘Then you had no right to do so. This boy is too old to begin school,’ said Papa curtly. ‘You are dismissed, boy. Off you go. Back to work with you!’

  Hannah stared at Papa. She suddenly realised that perhaps Mama had not mentioned one thing about the new pupil — the colour of his skin. Why? Because Mama thought it didn’t matter? Or perhaps because she knew it did matter, Hannah realised, especially if Mr Harris and the school board had refused to let Jamie attend school before, and would forbid it if Papa mentioned the possibility to them now. Mama must have believed that Papa wouldn’t turn Jamie away if he was actually here. Mama never lied to Papa, but Hannah was discovering she didn’t tell him everything either.

  Jamie lifted his chin. ‘I want to learn to read, sir.’

  Papa’s voice was not unkind. ‘You would be far better employed learning what you need for your own station in life.’ He stood waiting for Jamie to leave, then, when he made no move to do so, added more sternly, ‘I said you are dismissed.’

  ‘But Mrs Gilbert said I could go to school, sir,’ said Jamie desperately.

  Papa said nothing for a moment. At last he said, ‘I am schoolmaster here, not my wife. Do you understand the word “dismissed”, boy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then go.’ Papa turned to the giggling pupils. ‘The rest of you, quick march into class! And if I hear a peep from any of you, you’ll be writing lines all through lunchtime.’

  The students quietened.

  Hannah risked a quick look behind. Jamie stood by the school gate, his expression impossible to read. He didn’t follow the line of boys as they marched up the stairs, but nor did he turn away. Hannah tried to catch his eye but he was still staring at Papa.

  She hurried to get her line caught up with the boys. And then they were inside, scattering to their desks. Hannah looked back. But Jamie was gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE TEACHING APPRENTICE

  Everyone seemed to know where they were going to sit. Even the new young pupils had been told by others to take the desks at the back with the other Infants, behind the Middles. Hannah sat at the front where students who had passed their primary exam always sat.

  Papa called the roll and marked everyone present, then marched up and down in front of the desks in the big airy schoolroom, introducing himself and his family, and explaining why education was so important.

  ‘We stand at the dawn of a new century, a new country, a new Commonwealth parliament that will pass new laws, not just for a single state but for the whole country. You, boy, looking out the window — eyes front! Every one of you in this room, if you pay attention, has the chance to rise to the highest office in the land.

  ‘I will hear each of you reading later this morning,’ he told the Middles. They were all girls, except for a boy with a stye on his eye and toenails that looked like they’d never been clipped. ‘In the meantime I want you to read chapter one of the red book and answer the questions at the end, on your slate not on the book. Is that understood. Yes?’

  A hand had shot up. It was the bird’s nest hair girl.

  ‘Printing or running writing, sir?’

  ‘That depends, Mary.’ Papa never forgot a student’s name. ‘Do you want to go back and print with the Infants or stay in the Middles?’

  ‘Er, Middles, sir.’

  ‘Then you have your answer.’ Papa peered into the nearest inkwell. ‘This ink is a disgrace. Who are the ink monitors?’

  Two boys gingerly put up their hands.

  ‘When was this ink mixed?’

  ‘Last term, sir. But no one told us we were ink monitors this term, sir.’

  ‘Do you wish to be monitors?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Hannah suppressed a grin. Ink monitors got time out of class to clean the inkwells and mix the ink.

  ‘Very well, but I want these inkwells cleaned and filled with fresh ink tomorrow morning. Now, Johnson, McIntyre, Girandelli, as each of you has passed the exams you will be with me while we investigate the mysteries of algebra. Yes, Hannah, what is it?’

  Hannah put her hand down. ‘I . . . I’m going to do algebra too, sir.’

  For a moment Papa looked genuinely surprised. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because . . .’ She stopped. She would seem like a goodie-goodie if she said that she just wanted to learn algebra. Everyone wo
uld giggle even more. She said instead, ‘Because learning algebra comes after the primary exams, sir.’

  ‘And you have passed all the exams you need,’ said Papa patiently. ‘Algebra and Latin and subjects like that will never be of use to you.’

  Suddenly Hannah realised that the girls she’d thought were her age were still in the Middles, which meant they hadn’t done their primary exams yet. All the top group were boys. There hadn’t been a girl in the top group at the school at Lyrebird Creek either, but that was just because Tessa was needed at home and Helen had a job at the bakery and . . .

  Because they are girls, she realised. Most boys left school at twelve too, but every one of the girls she’d known had done so.

  ‘Now you can help to teach the Infants,’ said Papa gently. ‘Remember, today is just the alphabet.’ He smiled at the younger pupils. ‘Let’s see if you can recite the whole alphabet for Miss Gilbert by the end of today.’ He bent down and winked at them. ‘I think maybe Mrs Gilbert has a bullseye in her big jar for anyone who can say their ABC by the end of the week.’

  Hannah didn’t move. She remembered Papa telling Angus she’d be there to help him. But she hadn’t realised she was expected to teach him, and the others too. Back in Lyrebird Creek, Anne McIntosh had taught the Infants in return for a shilling a week and the chance to gain enough experience to one day become a teacher herself if she passed the teaching exams. But there was no Anne McIntosh here. Only Hannah Gilbert, who was so stupid she hadn’t realised that Papa’s remarks about her ‘helping’ had meant he expected her to be an assistant teacher now.

  She wanted to yell, ‘I want to learn, not teach! I want to know about algebra and Latin!’ Instead she simply stood there.

  Papa’s puzzlement was turning to irritation. ‘Hannah . . .’

  You didn’t argue with the schoolmaster, not unless you wanted to feel the cane.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hannah said quickly. She turned and walked to the back of the classroom, ignoring the stares and even more giggles.

  She sat facing the row of youngest children. Seven little girls with scrubbed faces and hair ribbons, a small boy with a dribbly nose and scabbed knees, and Angus. Nice children, serious and obedient — today at least, till they knew more about the new schoolmaster and how often he’d use the cane. Would it be ten cuts on the hand for whispering in class, or only three? Would he cane the back of the legs for untidy work or looking out of the window?

  But no matter how nice they were Hannah didn’t want to be here. If she ever taught something it would be poetry, or novels, or maybe history . . .

  ‘Who knows their alphabet?’ she began, making sure her voice didn’t tremble. ‘Well, let’s begin with the first few letters: A, B, C, D. Now you try it,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  ‘A, B, C, D,’ the children parroted.

  ‘Very good! And the next bit is E, F, G.’

  She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t! At the front of the schoolroom, Papa drew an equation on the blackboard. Algebra! She forced her gaze away from it.

  ‘Now let’s put them together. A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . .’

  ***

  The bubs managed to recite the alphabet all the way through, though Hannah doubted they’d remember it tomorrow. She was about to hunt in the cupboards for the slates and slate pencils to show them how to write a big and small letter ‘A’ when Mama appeared.

  She was wearing her grey frock that didn’t show chalk marks, a small hat and the veil she wore for teaching that was long only on the scarred side of her face, so the students could see her expression on the other side.

  Everyone stared, not just at the veil.

  ‘Has no one taught you to stand up when a lady enters?’ barked Papa.

  Chairs scraped. Hannah and Angus stood too. Hannah tensed, ready to grab Angus if he ran to Mama, but already he was used to this new world.

  Mama smiled. ‘Good morning, class. I’m Mrs Gilbert.’

  The girls curtseyed. The boys bowed. ‘Good morning, Mrs Gilbert,’ they chorused.

  ‘I’ll be teaching sewing this morning,’ Mama said. ‘So if we could have all the girls on this side with me, and boys on the other with Mr Gilbert.’ Mama stopped and looked at Hannah, then at the three boys sitting next to the blackboard with their arithmetic books on their desks. ‘Excuse me, schoolmaster, but why is Hannah sitting at the back?’

  Once again Papa looked puzzled. ‘She is teaching the Infants, of course.’

  ‘But she topped the exams! Surely you don’t expect her to simply . . .’ Mama’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Topped the exam!’ chanted the red-headed girl softly, making it sound like a song. ‘Hannah, Hannah, topped the exam — ah!’

  Papa didn’t notice. ‘I think this is best discussed at home, Mrs Gilbert,’ he said quickly. ‘Now if . . . Oh, for—’

  He broke off from whatever he was going to say. A gentleman never swore, and certainly never in front of a lady.

  Hannah just had time to see a dark face vanish from the window as Papa strode outside. There was a sharp cry of pain, then Papa appeared again, holding Jamie Zebediah by his ear.

  ‘What are you doing still hanging around here, boy?’

  ‘I was just listening to the girl teaching the alphabet, sir.’

  ‘Or maybe you were helping yourself to the lunches in the schoolbags — was that it? I should call the constable.’

  ‘No, sir. Please, sir.’

  ‘Excuse me, schoolmaster.’ There was a note in Mama’s voice Hannah had never heard before. ‘I told this young man he would be welcome at this school. Don’t you remember my mentioning him?’

  ‘I remember. It seems, however, that you forgot to tell me the most important thing about him.’

  ‘You mean the colour of his skin?’ demanded Mama. ‘There were Aboriginal students in the school at the farm when we first met. You raised no objection to that.’

  Papa looked in annoyance at the rapt faces of the pupils. Even the girls had forgotten to giggle.

  ‘The situation is quite different here,’ he said quietly. ‘Those children’s fathers were your father’s stockmen, and the school was on his property.’

  ‘I don’t see why matters should be different here.’

  ‘I must think of the families that support this school,’ said Papa with dignity. ‘How many of them would want their children to share a school with a . . .’ His voice trailed away at Mama’s expression.

  ‘So you won’t teach him?’

  ‘I am sure the school board would not allow it.’ Papa turned back to Jamie. ‘I am sorry if my wife misled you, but your presence here is clearly impossible. Once again, I must ask you to leave the school premises and not come back. Do you understand, boy?’

  He’s not a boy, he’s a young man, older than me, thought Hannah.

  ‘Bet my dog understands more than he does,’ said someone in a loud whisper. ‘Woof woof.’

  ‘Burnt toast!’ called someone else.

  Laughter rippled across the classroom.

  Papa took the cane from the back of the door and swished it gently through the air. ‘The next person who makes a noise will get twenty cuts. Anyone else who thinks this is amusing may leave too. Now, girls to the left for the sewing class—’

  ‘Jamie, please don’t leave just yet,’ said Mama coolly. ‘Girls, stay where you are too. I’m sorry, schoolmaster. I seem to have lost my taste for teaching sewing.’

  Papa stared at her as if she had grown a second head.

  Mama gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘After all, I’m not a real teacher, am I? I get no salary. I have passed no examinations. No school inspector judges my work or will object if I’m not here. Hannah, you will also come with me, please.’

  ‘But, Mama—’

  ‘You’ve passed your primary exams. The law says you have done all the schooling you need. There is obviously nothing more for you here.’ Mama’s words were bitter. ‘Jamie, please come with me too.’

>   Mama swept out, her buttoned boots clicking on the wooden floor. Jamie gave Papa an uncertain look and followed her.

  Hannah patted Angus quickly on the shoulder. ‘You stay here,’ she whispered.

  ‘But I want to come with you!’

  ‘There’ll be games with the other boys at lunchtime.’

  She patted him again and, ignoring the stares, followed her mother out of the schoolroom.

  CHAPTER 11

  REVOLT

  Mama didn’t speak as they crossed the paddocks. Suddenly Hannah realised Mama was angry, so angry her nails pressed into her white fists.

  She opened the garden gate, waited for Hannah and Jamie to pass through, then shut it with a clang. She marched up the steps.

  Mrs Murphy paused as she wrung out the mop over the veranda. ‘Mrs Gilbert! I didn’t expect you to be back till after school. I chopped up some lovely kidneys for you if you want to make steak and kidney pudding for dinner, and I can have the kettle boiling in a trice. And there’s Friday’s jam drops that are still fresh, I’m sure—’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Murphy, but I don’t need tea. We will be in the study till lunchtime. Is there something you can get us for lunch? For three of us, if you don’t mind.’

  Mrs Murphy stared at Jamie. ‘Give him lunch, Mrs Gilbert? Me? Him eating lunch inside? But he’s . . .’ For once words failed her.

  ‘His name is Jamie Zebediah, Mrs Murphy.’ Mama took off her veiled hat, and hung it on the hat rack by the door.

  ‘I know who he is,’ said Mrs Murphy, in possibly the shortest sentence of her life.

  ‘Good. If you have any objection you may hand in your notice.’

  ‘I . . . I mean . . . what does Mr Harris say?’ stammered Mrs Murphy.

  ‘I have no idea what Mr Harris says, nor do I care. While I live here this is my home and I am the mistress of it, not Mr Harris. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind giving him lunch if he sits on the back steps, Mrs Gilbert. I don’t know how things is done where you come from, but—’

  ‘You will do as I say, or you will leave,’ said Mama coolly.