She was far too young to think of marriage . . . yet Juliet had only been thirteen. Hannah had read Romeo and Juliet only last week, out of boredom at first, but then the words and tragedy had claimed her, the two families not allowing them to love.
The whole world would be against her and Jamie, and their children too.
She held out her hand to him. For the second time he took it in his. They sat there on the hot tough grass as the night went on around them: the crickets singing, the frogs yelling in the water; neither of them moving, feeling the warmth of each other’s skin. Both knowing they were too young for this. That ‘this’ was impossible.
At last Jamie spoke. His voice cracked as he said, ‘I don’t think I should come here any more.’
‘No,’ whispered Hannah. Because every time she saw Jamie, she would become more certain she could never be happy with anyone whose mind didn’t soar sometimes like hers. Someone who could sit silent on the sand and watch the whales; someone who dreamed of lands beyond the thin blue line between the sea and sky.
He leaned forward and lightly kissed her cheek. He scrambled to his feet. Then he was gone, silent on bare feet. A shadow among shadows.
She sat there, wondering which shadow might be his, till she knew that none of them were, and none would ever be again.
Then she stood and brushed the grass from her dress and went inside.
CHAPTER 30
THE END OF TERM
Clouds gathered like purple boulders all afternoon the day of the Christmas concert, but no wind blew and no rain spoiled the concert. Every pupil sang, the chapters were read, the audience cheered, and the pupils bowed and curtseyed, as Mama had taught them.
The audience clapped Papa as well, and then Mama when she stood up from the piano, wearing her wide straw hat with the veil pulled down over her scar.
‘Three cheers for the best schoolmaster in New South Wales!’ yelled someone. ‘Hip hooray! Hip hooray! Hip hooray!’
Families clustered around with gifts: plates of shortbread and cigars for Papa, and posies for Mama. Hannah slipped away, over the paddocks and through the orchard.
She had thought Jamie might have watched the concert from the windows. But why should he? He hadn’t longed for school itself, only what he could learn there, the keys to all the knowledge written in the world. And now he had them. There was no need to risk ridicule or even assault by coming here today.
Except to see me, she thought. But if Jamie wouldn’t come to talk with her by starlight, he wouldn’t hide on the school veranda to glimpse her in daylight.
She was tired, she realised, as she climbed the back stairs. Not physically tired, but as if her mind was too weary to keep going. Tired of teaching Infants. There was nothing to look forward to these holidays. It had been weeks — no, months — since she had even tried to write a poem. The words in her head seemed as dull and heavy as the air of Port Harris.
Maybe if Mama had never taken her out of school it would have been different. Maybe she’d have been satisfied in a small town like this because she was part of it, as she had been at Lyrebird Creek. Maybe if she had never met Jamie she’d have giggled about boys with the other girls, and never thought of love for years. She wanted more than a small life now. But the same life stretched before her year after year: teaching Infants over and over unless she married and let her life be determined by her husband’s wishes and career. If she had never met Jamie she might never have confessed she wanted to be a poet. Perhaps she would have forgotten that as well. Not now.
The house was silent: no clang of pots, or Mrs Murphy muttering when the boiler doesn’t light. The kitchen was empty, but a vast pie sat cooling under a flyscreen.
Hannah walked down the corridor past Mama and Papa’s room, then stopped. A suitcase sat open on the floor, filled with Mama’s dresses. Hannah opened the wardrobe, but Papa’s suits, his flannel jacket and his cricket whites still hung there, with his best hat in its box.
She looked around and saw a suitcase outside Angus’s door, with Monkey sitting on the top. She lifted it and realised it was full. She ran to her own room.
Her books weren’t in the shelves, though the ones that had been there when they arrived were still in place. Her clothes were gone too, except for a light coat and another hat laid out on the bed.
There was still no sign of Mrs Murphy. Mama must have given her the afternoon off. Why?
Hannah sat on her bed and tried to think. But only one explanation made sense.
Suddenly she heard Mama’s boots on the steps, followed by Angus’s clatter and then Papa’s more measured footsteps.
Hannah came out of her room just as Papa went into their bedroom to take off his good frockcoat. She heard his footsteps stop as he, too, saw the suitcase. Then they began again, out to the parlour where Mama now sat in the armchair by the whatnot that still held the stuffed owl Mr Harris’s housekeeper had decided was a suitable decoration almost a year ago.
‘Eliza?’ Papa rarely used Mama’s first name in public, even in front of Hannah and Angus. He called her ‘your mother’. Even the few letters he had addressed to her that Hannah had read began ‘Dear Miss Ferndale’ or later ‘My dear Wife’.
Papa looked at Hannah standing motionless in the corridor, and then at Angus, who had already found himself a giant hunk of bread and cheese in the kitchen.
Papa spoke with extreme calm. ‘Children, would you mind checking the schoolroom windows are all shut? There may be a storm.’
‘No,’ said Mama wearily. ‘The windows at the school are all closed. Hannah and Angus need to hear this.’
‘I am not sure—’ began Papa.
‘But I am,’ said Mama. ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’ She took off the straw hat she had worn all day, then slowly and deliberately ripped the veil from it. She met Papa’s eyes. ‘That is the last time I will wear a veil on my hat. The last time I hide who I am.’
‘You are not yourself—’
‘I am very much myself. Or, rather, I am going to find out who I am. You said months ago that if I was not cut out for a schoolmaster’s wife I should not have married you. You were right. My only excuse is that I knew too little of the world.’
Mama drew some papers out of her reticule and handed one of them to Papa. It was a letter, unopened. Papa looked at it, then at Mama.
‘I know what’s in it,’ Mama said quietly.
Papa ripped the envelope open. Hannah hadn’t realised till then how angry he was. She had never seen him rip an envelope instead of calmly going to his study for a letter opener.
‘It’s an offer of a position as assistant housemaster at Ringworth Grammar School,’ said Mama, still in that tired voice. ‘I presume you think Ringworth Grammar is a worthy school?’
‘Of course,’ said Papa. He seemed more puzzled than angry now. ‘It’s one of the best in Australia.’
Mama nodded. ‘I’m glad you think so. You expected me to use my family connections to get you a position in a prestigious school. I didn’t because . . . because it would be humiliating, and because I thought our family was happy already, as we were at Lyrebird Creek. But we stopped being happy. So once I was in Sydney I began asking all my family, all my old friends, if they knew of a position for you. Mr Abbot, the present housemaster, wishes to retire in a couple of years, so you will be well positioned to take his place. The rest is up to you.’
Papa shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have found it humiliating. It is a wife’s duty to help her husband’s career. But . . . but thank you.’
‘We’re going to Ringworth?’ demanded Hannah.
‘No,’ said Mama, not looking at either Hannah or Angus, nor at Papa. She gazed out the door towards the port, as if already imagining herself far away. ‘You and Angus and I are going to live in Sydney.’
‘What?’ Papa looked up from the letter. ‘I will not allow it.’ His tone hardened. ‘No court in the land will stop a man having custody of his children. You can be very sure too that I will
never sue for divorce.’
‘Nor would I,’ said Mama. ‘A divorce would ruin your career and blight our children’s lives. As would your taking me to court to force the children to live with you. Instead we’ll say that Hannah and Angus and I are going to Sydney for the children’s education, so they can attend the best day schools and so Hannah can enter suitable society.’
Suitable, thought Hannah, as Mama refused to meet her eyes. That meant people who didn’t have dark skin. Down in Sydney Mama would introduce Hannah to the society of rich men, of soldiers or doctors or lawyers or merchants. Hannah knew it was likely she’d find friends there too: intelligent young women and men who were as fascinated by ideas as she was. Mama was doing her best for her. Yet somehow Hannah felt as betrayed as Papa seemed to have been.
Papa’s look was half-angry, half-pleading, as if they were back in the surf and a wave was washing him away. ‘What will the school think if my family is not with me?’
‘I told you. They will think that we are in Sydney so the children can study subjects that Ringworth and its sister school don’t offer. The accommodation is for a single man,’ added Mama. ‘You will stay with the Abbots.’
‘And when the Abbots leave and I become housemaster and have a house of my own? I presume you still won’t join me?’
‘The children will be settled in other schools by then,’ said Mama gently. ‘But of course you will visit us in Sydney for the school holidays, and we will visit you at Ringworth, for sports day perhaps and speech night, to show the school community you have a family. There’s no question of scandal or divorce. We’ll simply be living our own lives.’
‘You have planned it well,’ said Papa hollowly. ‘If I refuse to let you go then I lose the job at Ringworth. I either lose my wife and family or my job.’ His face sparked with sudden anger. ‘These are my children you are talking about. My son and daughter!’
Mama shook her head. ‘Hannah and Angus and I are going to Sydney whether you go to Ringworth or not. Do you really think you could care for them by yourself?’ She looked at Hannah and Angus. ‘I found a house to buy when I was in Sydney. The sale went through a month ago. It’s small, but it overlooks the harbour with a wonderful sloping garden with sandstone ledges. The ferry is within walking distance, and is near good schools for both of you.’
‘A woman can’t buy a house without the permission of her husband!’ spluttered Papa.
‘She can if she has her own money and a brother who will act as her guarantor,’ said Mama. ‘The children and I will board the Grafton Princess tonight and sail with the tide early tomorrow.’
‘Tonight!’ said Hannah. ‘But . . .’ She had to say goodbye to Jamie and Mrs Zebediah, tell them she’d write to them. She couldn’t bear not to see Jamie one last time. But there would be no time to reach the farm before dark.
She had to say farewell to her father too. It would be months perhaps before she saw him again. She wanted to run to him, hold him, tell him she loved him.
But she did not want the life he’d planned for her. She did not want the life he expected her to live: a single-page life, not the many-bookcases-full life that she dreamed of having.
‘Excuse me,’ said Papa abruptly.
He left, his face set. Hannah heard the door to his study shut. Papa would not want them to see him cry.
Angus was bewildered, his bread and cheese still in his hand. ‘I don’t want a new house. I want to stay here with Papa!’
Mama kneeled beside him. Hannah could hear the strain in her voice as she said, ‘But Hannah and I have to go to Sydney. You’ll see Papa often.’
‘I don’t want to go to Sydney again! I want to stay here with my friends!’
‘But Papa isn’t staying here either. You won’t be in hospital this time, or at Uncle Ron’s. We’ll have Christmas at Ferndale too! Remember how we got the biggest tree ever last Christmas? And when we’re living in Sydney you’ll go to a bigger school with even more friends. You can learn to sail and have a sailing boat of your own.’
‘I . . .’ began Angus, torn.
‘And a bicycle. You can bicycle to school. You’d better go and make sure Monkey is ready to leave,’ said Mama, still in that strange voice that sounded as if she had used up all her emotions.
Angus nodded, not sure of anything, but glad to get away.
Hannah waited till his door too was shut, then said, ‘You can’t bribe me like you can Angus. I don’t want a sailing boat or a bicycle.’
‘No,’ said Mama. ‘You don’t know what you want. And you won’t find out if we stay in Port Harris, or another small town like it. That was . . . that was my problem too, all those years ago. I had only known Ferndale, and dreams that came from books, and when I saw your father I thought the dreams had been made real.’
‘You don’t love him any more?’
Mama was silent. At last she said, ‘I don’t think I ever knew him. I saw a man who taught Aboriginal pupils as well as white, a man who talked to a girl about astronomy and didn’t seem to notice her scar. I didn’t know that he did those things because my father owned the schoolhouse and paid his salary. I made a man in my imagination and thought it was Papa. That’s my fault, not your papa’s.’
‘Didn’t you ever love him?’ asked Hannah in a small voice.
‘Yes,’ said Mama softly. ‘I loved him. Never think you weren’t born of love. He’s a good man — a very good man. He’s a good teacher too. A brilliant one. I was not mistaken there. Your father genuinely loves his job, and his pupils, every one of them. He’s given as much care to a rat-catcher’s child as he will to the sons of the squatters at Ringworth. Nor is he the only man who doesn’t see that we are a new nation now, one where women will finally take their place. This trouble is my fault as much as his, or even more. I think perhaps I am not made for marriage.’
Hannah stared. It was the most shocking thing she had ever heard Mama say. Surely every woman was made for marriage, though some were not lucky enough to find a husband.
‘How long have you been planning this?’ she asked, remembering all the letters Mama had written. ‘Not just since you went to Sydney.’
‘Since your father expected you to teach the Infants instead of going on with your own schooling. At first I just thought that if I could find him a position in a larger town, at a school with more than one teacher, you’d have more opportunities. But then I realised that your father is a man of the last century, and I wanted — hoped — that my daughter would become a woman of this new one.’
‘But why keep it so secret?’
‘Children belong to their father, not their mother,’ said Mama wearily. ‘If I had warned your father that I meant to leave he would have had time to apply for custody of you and Angus. I’d never have been allowed even to see you. But this way your father has a position he will find fulfilling, and one he would almost certainly lose if he were to cause a scandal by suing me for custody of you and Angus. His only other option at the moment is to stay here and have Mrs Murphy care for you.’
‘Mrs Murphy!’
‘If he’d had more time — if I had given him more time — he might have been able to advertise for a more suitable housekeeper, or even organise a house for you and Angus to live in with a housekeeper near Ringworth. Hannah, I had to keep this secret if I wanted to keep you, to give you the wider life you need.’ Mama looked at the watch pinned to her dress. ‘We need to leave for the ship in an hour. You should say goodbye to your father.’
‘But we can’t just leave like this!’
‘We have to,’ said Mama gently. ‘Staying here would mean arguments and anger, and either your father or I might say something . . . hard to forgive. For your sake, for your father’s sake, we need to be civil, so we are able to visit your father and he may visit us. Papa will have to go to Ringworth soon too, to meet the other masters, to study the syllabus there. You and Angus and I need to get settled in Sydney, and get you ready for your schools next year.’
/> ‘But what about Jamie?’ cried Hannah. ‘What if they pass the law and make him leave Australia? What will happen to him, and to Mrs Zebediah? We can’t abandon them now!’
‘I haven’t forgotten them. If the worst happens — if the law says that even someone born here has to leave — then your grandfather has arranged for Jamie to get a job on a friend’s property down in Victoria. No one will be looking for Islanders down there.’
Nor will I ever be likely to meet up with Jamie again if he goes to live and work in Victoria, thought Hannah. Mama would make sure of that.
‘How will he get there?’ she asked. ‘The newspapers say the law could be passed soon.’
‘Uncle Ron’s friend has arranged for Jamie to be taken on as a deckhand as far as Melbourne. I’ve written a letter to Mrs Zebediah. I’ll post it on the way to the ship. I . . . I’ve ordered her some books of Australian poetry too. I’ll send them to her from Sydney. I’ll keep in touch with her and do my best to make sure she’s all right, Hannah.’
Mama had thought of everything. And maybe it was even right. But how could something that was right hurt so much?
‘You’ll like our new house,’ Mama said. ‘It’s not right in the city. There’s a tiny beach just down the hill, and bush too. You’ve loved your holidays in Sydney. This will be even better. You can spend hours in bookshops, actually looking at the books before you buy them, join the library, go to concerts, tennis parties, lectures at the museum. I’ve enrolled you in a wonderful school. You’ll have women teachers who love what they are teaching and love students who want to learn. They’ll give you all you need to go to university, if that’s what you want.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hannah quietly.
‘You’ll make friends there, Hannah. Girls like yourself. You’ll meet women who don’t feel that just being a woman is their destiny, but that they can be anything they choose to be. This is for you even more than it is for me.’
Hannah could see that was true. She nodded. Mama would never understand that Port Harris’s prejudice and ignorance had made her understand the world in a way she would have never seen in Lyrebird Creek. It had given her poems a soul. It had given her friendship, and Mrs Zebediah. It had given her Jamie. Nowhere else in the world could have given her Jamie.
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