Both she and her son could read now, even if they hesitated and had to sound out words, and they could write, too, in the neat round hand of the copybooks. Mama gave them poems they’d find exciting, like ‘The Man from Snowy River’ or ‘Clancy of the Overflow’. Mama said that the new nation of Australia should celebrate its own poems and learn its own history. It was an odd idea — there were no Australian poems in the school textbooks, and no history after Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson crossed the Blue Mountains. Mama knew how to find Australian poems, but the only history she knew were the stories from her mother, or grandmother, stories of a family, not a nation.
Sometimes Hannah tried writing her own poems for them to read, ones that seemed right to recite in a schoolroom.
Reading helps to make you smart
And understand each other’s heart.
But when all is said and done,
We all read because it’s fun.
Or:
The kookaburra lives in a book on the shelf,
But the bird in the book is not really itself.
It’s wrapped and it’s bounded by paper and glue,
It never has flown in the coverless blue.
‘That’s very clever, Miss Gilbert,’ Mrs Zebediah said politely when Hannah read them out.
But Jamie didn’t say anything, which Hannah knew meant he didn’t think they were very good. And he was right. She didn’t even bother to recite the one that began:
It’s a small life here in the sugar cane,
Where it grows and it’s slashed again and again.
But I open a book and then I can see
A world that is vast and waiting for me.
Not only was it not good poetry, it was insulting to Port Harris and those who lived there. But it was true too.
Port Harris was boring, boring, boring, except for the things she could never talk about — like the lessons with Mama where she could ask questions about anything, and Mrs Zebediah’s lemon and coconut tarts and banana pie; and Jamie, who didn’t think that Hannah was odd because he was odd as well.
***
At last the books arrived from Sydney. They were unloaded from the ship, then carted up to the house by the baker as they were too heavy for the postman and his bicycle. Somehow, the books Hannah had marked, and many of Mama’s, weren’t in the box they opened as a family that night. But when Hannah arrived at the Zebediahs’ farm the next morning she found the books already there, in the fruit-box bookcase, along with more empty exercise books.
It was a joy to read as much as she wanted again and not be reduced to the advertisements in the newspaper. She re-read Jane Eyre first; somehow that book helped make even loneliness bearable, for Jane had been lonely too. Every time Hannah felt isolated she would think, Jane would understand.
There were new books too: Little Women, with a character, Jo, who wanted to be a writer just as Hannah did, even though she was a young woman; and The Water-Babies, which Papa approved of and Hannah found boring; and the plays of Mr Bernard Shaw, which Hannah had to read at the farm as Papa did not approve of Mr Shaw at all.
She had a feeling Papa might not approve of Mr Lawson’s poems either, if he had read all of them, as some spoke of things nice young women shouldn’t know about, like the grim and starving faces in the street.
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
That want is here a stranger, and that misery’s unknown
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street . . .
The words were so powerful Hannah suspected they would whisper to her all her life.
Mr Lawson’s poems were even better than his stories that Grandma had sent her, which told of hardship in the bush — the kind Hannah had seen a little of at Lyrebird Creek, which a ‘good girl’ was supposed to ignore. Mr Lawson seemed to be like Mama’s friends in Sydney, Hannah thought, the friends Papa had been glad Mama had to leave behind, who thought it was a woman’s duty to see the hardships of the world and try to change them, instead of ignoring them in a ladylike manner, or giving an afternoon tea to raise money for ‘unfortunates’.
‘Which book would you like to try first, Mrs Zebediah?’ asked Mama, as they sat in the cool of the dairy.
Mrs Zebediah shook her head, bewildered. ‘I never knew there was so many books in the world. You choose for me, Mrs Gilbert.’
Mama picked a small volume of collected poems out of the bookcase. ‘How about this one? There’s a lovely poem by Robbie Burns in it — he was a Scots poet.
‘So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.’
‘That is lovely,’ whispered Mrs Zebediah when Mama had finished reciting. ‘I wish my Zebediah could have heard it. I wish I’d had the words to tell him I’d love him till the seas go dry.’
Will anyone ever love me like that, thought Hannah. Probably not, if men didn’t like women who knew too much and talked about things they weren’t supposed to. Even Papa didn’t seem to like Mama much now, even though they were polite to each other, and talked to other people as a couple.
I’m lonely, Hannah realised. I have books for friends. Books were good friends. They were always there for you in good times or bad, or when you couldn’t sleep, or needed stories to sweep away bad dreams. Books were more interesting than the conversations she overheard from girls her age. But Hannah still longed for a friend who was a person too.
CHAPTER 16
A NEW NATION
‘It’s voting day!’ Angus raced along the front veranda yelling the news to a mob of lorikeets quarrelling in the orchard, to Smokey, and to Boodle who had escaped again and was lifting his leg on the gatepost.
‘Hush! Come and get ready,’ said Hannah.
It was Friday, a school day, but Papa had declared it a holiday to celebrate the first election of the Federation of Australia. Grandma had sent Hannah a new dress for the occasion, with some red, white and blue ribbons for her plaits and straw hat, just like the colours of the Empire’s flag. The dress had long sleeves and was going to be hot, because March up here was no cooler than January, but it was so pretty she didn’t mind.
‘I am ready!’ said Angus.
‘No, you’re not.’
His shirt was buttoned wrongly and his hair stuck up like a cockatoo’s crest. Hannah kneeled and did the buttons again, then dabbed hair oil onto a comb to tame his hair.
‘There’s going to be fireworks,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen fireworks! Have you, Hannah?’
‘Yes, at the New Year’s Eve party last year. You went to sleep before they started.’
‘Well, I’m a big boy now.’ He turned a somersault. Hannah was relieved to see that the oil kept his hair in place. ‘All us boys are going to do gymnastics.’
‘I know,’ said Hannah dryly.
Angus had talked about nothing else for weeks, except how Gwen kept tangling the ribbons in the girls’ maypole dance. Hannah had hoped Papa might ask her to be part of the dance — she had led it back at Lyrebird Creek — but he hadn’t even mentioned it.
‘Ready?’ Mama appeared, pulling on her gloves. She wore a new white linen dress, and the ribbons on her hat were red, white and blue too. They dangled over her white gauze veil.
‘Ready!’ yelled Angus, doing another somersault just as Mr Harris drew up in his automobile to take them into town. Papa was already there, helping to supervise Mr Harris’s men putting up the streamers across the street.
‘Beautiful as always, Mrs Gilbert,’ Mr Harris said, lifting his hat then opening the passenger door for her.
‘Thank you, Mr Harris. It’s so kind of you to collect us,’ said Mama in her most charming tone. She had complained to Hannah last week that she was going to buy a cockatoo at the market and teach it to say ‘Thank you, Mr Harris’ so she didn’t have to say it herself
a hundred times a week.
Hannah and Angus climbed into the back seat.
‘Who are you going to vote for, Mr Harris?’ demanded Angus.
‘Shh,’ said Hannah. ‘Remember, we don’t ask that.’
Mr Harris laughed, making his white sideburns quiver. ‘I’m voting for the best man for the job. And here we are.’
The automobile pulled up outside the town hall. A crowd had collected there to watch the voting — women as well as men, though of course women could not vote yet.
Papa came over to open the door for Mama. He wore his best suit and top hat.
‘Thank you for the ride, Mr Harris,’ Mama said again.
Hannah grinned at the thought of a white cockatoo on her shoulder, saying, ‘Thank you, Mr Harris, thank you, Mr Harris, thank you, Mr Harris, thank you, Mr Harris . . .’
‘I hope those students of yours put on a good show, Mr Gilbert,’ said Mr Harris.
‘I am sure you will be delighted with it, sir,’ said Papa, lifting his hat politely.
Mama, Hannah and Angus waited outside the courthouse for Papa to vote as the parade gathered in the street. First came the Port Harris Bushfire Brass Band, — it seemed a large number of trombone players and trumpeters had settled in or near Port Harris. Then the fire truck, pulled by its two big draught horses, and then the lifeboat, carried by its crew. The schoolboys came next, carrying dumbbells which they lifted and lowered in time with the music, followed by the schoolgirls, each in a white pinafore that Mama had made and waving white paper parasols donated by Mr Harris. Then every automobile in the district, all five of them, with Mr Harris’s the biggest and most impressive, and Roger Makepiece’s homemade pedal-powered vehicle the smallest.
The band played ‘God Save the King’, a bit wobbly at first. Every man took off his hat and held it to his chest as the crowd sang the anthem. The band began to march, still playing: ‘The British Grenadiers’, ‘Men of Harlech’ and ‘Greensleeves’, and then back to ‘The British Grenadiers’. The crowd cheered wildly at the fire truck and lifeboat, and clapped and laughed at the boys and girls as their dumbbells moved up and down and their parasols swayed back and forth in time to the music.
The march ended at the marketplace, where trestle tables had been set up holding urns of boiling water and giant teapots, jugs of fruit cup, teacups and glasses, and currant buns, as well as plate after plate of buttered white bread quickly turning stale in the heat. A dozen sheep turned on spits above fires carefully tended by Mr Harris’s foremen.
Angus ran off to join the gymnastics display, the first event of the day. The boys performed enthusiastically even if they were not quite synchronised, and received great applause.
To Hannah’s secret disappointment the maypole girls performed perfectly: the yellow, red, pink and blue ribbons twining in and out while the band played ‘Country Gardens’.
Families put down blankets, or just sprawled on the grass with picnic baskets or sacks of food. Mama had contributed a giant cake — or rather eight cakes joined together — filled with cream and iced over the joins, with Federation 1901 on it, big enough for every pupil to have a slice. The students gathered, ate, chattered and departed to their families and friends, all managing not to speak to Hannah or even look at her, this southerner who thought she was so much better than them that she deserved a special education all of her own.
Angus grabbed some of the first slices of lamb between two slices of bread, and munched them as they all walked back home. But ladies did not eat in the street, nor would Papa. Instead they had a brief lunch of sandwiches at home — Mrs Murphy had the day off too — then lay down to rest before the party at the Harris Plantation House that night.
This time Mr Harris sent a driver to fetch them. Angus sat on Papa’s knee in the back, while Mama sat in front in her best dress of violet silk, with her pearls, and pearl and diamond earrings. The dress was low-cut, like all adult women’s evening frocks, but had a small insert of lace at one side to hide Mama’s scar, matching the veil pinned to her upswept hair.
The orchestra played and the adults danced. They were nearly all guests up from Sydney or visiting from England or South Africa. Even Mrs Harris had come to Port Harris for the event, and would stay for the cooler winter months. Hannah wasn’t sure which of the elegant women she was, and neither Mrs Frogmore nor Catherine nor any of the maids she knew were around to ask. Tonight white-jacketed waiters served the guests.
Angus haunted the buffet, eating so many vol-au-vents and meringues that Hannah was sure he’d be sick. She stayed out on the veranda, drinking pineapple punch and watching the lights of Port Harris. There were picnic fires as well as the lantern- and candle-lit houses, and the ship’s lights reflected on the river, with the moon shining down, brighter than them all, and finally fireworks. The guests wandered out holding champagne glasses and laughing and chatting. Angus wriggled in next to Hannah at the railing, and gasped at the great big rockets with their stars and the spinning Catherine wheels.
Faint cheers floated up from the crowd at the river, and Mr Harris waved his hand in acknowledgement, even though it was too far away for anyone down there to see him.
Voting day was over. At last we are truly a nation, thought Hannah. But despite the cheers and fireworks everything felt just the same.
CHAPTER 17
ANGUS!
‘Tonsillitis,’ said Dr Weaver, peering down Angus’s throat.
Hannah stared from the doorway. Angus had complained of a sore throat this morning, but by lunchtime he was feverish, and Mama had sent Hannah for the doctor, and then to the school to tell Papa. The first president of the United States, George Washington, had died of tonsillitis — the bad form of it, called quinsy, when the infection ulcerated.
Mama and Dr Weaver moved out of Angus’s room into the hallway, next to Hannah and Papa, so Angus wouldn’t hear them talking.
‘It’s not quinsy, is it?’ Mama asked worriedly from behind her veil — she had put her hat on before the doctor arrived.
Dr Weaver hesitated. He was old, with white hair and beard, but Mr Harris had said he was as good a doctor as you’d find north of Sydney. ‘No sign of any ulceration yet, but I don’t like his fever. He’s not had this before?’
‘No,’ said Papa.
‘And he’s been otherwise healthy?’
‘Very healthy,’ said Mama, gazing back into Angus’s room.
Angus’s eyes were shut and he seemed to be dozing, but he muttered too.
‘Then he should be up and about in a couple of weeks with good nursing,’ Dr Weaver said, though he sounded uncertain. ‘I can give you something to ease the pain and fever, but it’s mostly a matter of keeping him cool and rested.’
‘I read about an operation,’ said Mama tentatively.
Papa looked at her with irritation. ‘I am sure Dr Weaver doesn’t need suggestions.’
But Dr Weaver was already nodding. ‘You’re right, Mrs Gilbert — an operation to remove the tonsils is best. But I’ve never done surgery like that, nor would any doctor want to attempt it on their own. I didn’t mention it because you’d need to take the lad down to Sydney.’
‘Do you think we should, sir?’ asked Papa.
‘I’m sorry, I simply can’t say. I can tell you though that if you do decide to take him to Sydney, it’s best to do it now, before he gets worse. It’s a two-day journey, even assuming there’s a ship leaving tonight or tomorrow and it doesn’t plan to call in at other ports. Brisbane is closer, of course, but I doubt you’d find an experienced surgeon there.’
‘Not a ship,’ said Mama quickly, then added, ‘I’m sorry. Our arrival here was . . . unfortunate. And ships are so often delayed by weather, or the need to wait for cargo.’
‘There is the train,’ said Dr Weaver. ‘It’s a good six-hour ride to get to the nearest railway station, but if you could get on tonight’s train you’d be in Sydney by late tomorrow. I could wire a colleague there.’
‘You really t
hink this is advisable?’ Papa asked. ‘I confess I don’t like the idea of an operation.’
‘I can only say that if he were my son, I would take him to Sydney. He may recover perfectly well with no surgery needed — he probably will. But the surgery is said to be quick and recovery good.’ Dr Weaver hesitated, then added, ‘If the boy does go downhill it will be fast.’
‘I see,’ said Papa. ‘Hannah, would you mind getting us all a cup of tea? You make it, please, not Mrs Murphy.’
‘Yes, Papa.’ It was obvious that they wanted to discuss this without her listening.
She walked down to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove just as Mrs Murphy came up from scrubbing the bathroom.
‘What’s the doctor say?’ she asked, changing her cleaning apron for her kitchen one.
‘Tonsillitis.’
‘Oh my, that’s bad.’ Mrs Murphy sat suddenly on one of the kitchen chairs, truly upset. ‘The poor little boy. That’s what my Jimmy died of. He were only two years old, and I never had another one, his birth not being easy and that.’
‘Mrs Murphy, I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible for you and Mr Murphy.’
‘Murphy didn’t care, Jimmy not being his and all.’ Mrs Murphy suddenly realised what she was saying. She stood up, her knees creaking. ‘I’ll make the little boy one of my custards. That’ll go down soft. He’s a good strong lad. I . . . I’m sure he’ll pull through.’
Mama appeared at the doorway. She looked like she wanted to cry, but couldn’t yet.
‘Mrs Murphy, Hannah; Mr Gilbert is going to see if Mr Harris will lend us his automobile and driver to meet the daily mail train on its way down to Sydney. The car will be faster and much more comfortable for Angus than a horse and cart.’
‘We’re really going?’ cried Hannah.
‘Just me and Angus,’ said Mama. ‘Whether surgery is necessary or not, it will be several weeks before Angus should travel again. Papa can’t be away that long. I need you to stay here to do everything that’s needed.’
The Schoolmaster's Daughter Page 13
