Down the Road to Gundagai

by Jackie French

  Miss Matilda came into the room. She looked tired, but love shone from her eyes as she bent down to kiss her husband on the forehead. She looked back up at Blue. ‘And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong … That’s all it takes, enough people like my father who keep trying to make things better. There’s no scab labour at Gibber’s Creek or Drinkwater. We’ll get through this Depression, and we’ll do it by standing together. Now, my darling,’ she added to her husband, ‘it’s lunchtime. Mah is back. The dining room, or a tray in here?’

  Mr Thompson looked from his wife to Blue, then back again. ‘The dining room,’ he said. ‘All in the dining room together.’

  Chapter 32

  Lunch was sheep, as usual, but sheep transmuted by an expert, a rib roast boned and stuffed with breadcrumbs, lemon and herbs, a thin sliver of meat around the stuffing, served with fresh lettuce, slightly wilted from the heat, radish roses, quartered tomatoes, thin rounds of orange and a moulded beetroot ring.

  It was luxury to have salad again; and it was home-like to sit at a table, so much so that she felt a pang of guilt, with Madame lying so still and ill above them, as though by enjoying this so much she was insulting the life the old woman had created for the Magnifico family.

  And yet, she remembered, Madame herself had said, ‘You are lucky you are not real circus.’ Madame would understand.

  Mah helped herself to more beetroot. ‘There’s peach betty for dessert. Mrs Mutton showed me how to make it. We worked out a way to make squished flies in an oven too. It’s easier than making them in a pan.’

  ‘I hesitate to ask,’ Mr Thompson ate with one hand only, the food already cut up for him, ‘but exactly why are you squashing flies in my kitchen?’

  Mah grinned. ‘They’re biscuits. Good ones. They’ve got a layer of currants and dates, ginger sometimes too. They last forever, even in summer. Mrs Mutton will bring them in with the tea.’

  ‘I’ll reserve judgement till I eat one then. I offered to show Miss Laurence the factory this afternoon. Would you like to join us, Miss Malloy?’

  Miss Matilda looked at her husband sharply and then at Blue. A smile twitched, and was gone.

  ‘Yes, please. But call me Mah.’

  ‘And I’m Blue,’ said Blue. ‘Definitely not Bluebell.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mr Thompson swallowed the last of his meat with evident enjoyment.

  ‘Because it makes me sound like a small wilted flower.’

  ‘I should make a gallant rejoinder to that, but my wife might object.’

  Miss Matilda laid her hand on his useless one. ‘Make all the gallant remarks you like.’ Her body seemed straighter, as though whatever weight she had carried had suddenly been lifted. ‘Enjoy the factory,’ she added to Blue. ‘Excuse me if I don’t come. I had enough of factories when I was young to last me all my life.’

  It was hard to think of this woman ever working in the slums of Sydney. She looked as though she had grown from a seed under one of the big red gums near the river and had put down roots that coiled deep into the soil. But perhaps you didn’t have to be born on a patch of country to put down roots there, thought Blue.

  Mrs Mutton brought in the pudding.

  Mr McAlpine brought the car around, not his own green one, but the one that Miss Matilda had driven. Mr Thompson clumped down to it, managing to hold his stick in his semi-paralysed hand, dragging his useless leg. He paused by the car and looked down to the river. ‘The elephant,’ he said abruptly. ‘I know it sounds crazy, but it seems to be, er, signalling to you.’

  Blue grinned as Sheba plodded up to the edge of her paddock, her ears back. ‘I don’t know if she was signalling or smelling us. She smells with her trunk, Madame said, and she hears better than she sees. I think she wants company. Or carrots.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you like to meet her?’

  The right corner of Mr Thompson’s mouth lifted. ‘I’ve never been introduced to an elephant before. Would you do the honours?’

  The four of them walked slowly down towards Sheba’s paddock. The elephant waited by the fence, her trunk still up, and gave a small sharp cry.

  Mr Thompson looked from Blue to Mah. ‘Either of you speak elephant?’ Andy McAlpine grinned.

  ‘I think,’ said Mah, ‘that she’s saying she’s lonely and dreadfully neglected. She’s used to having everyone around her.’

  ‘And now she only has sheep.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with sheep,’ said Andy, as Mr Thompson doffed his hat politely to Sheba.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Sheba.’

  ‘She’s the Queen of Sheba actually,’ said Blue.

  ‘Ah, we are entertaining royalty then. How grand. Your majesty, then.’

  Sheba gave a small huff. Her trunk reached out slowly enough for Mr Thompson to check his instinctive step backwards. He stood still as Sheba touched his neck gently and then his arm. ‘By Jove, I think she’s trying to shake hands with me.’

  ‘Or steal your watch,’ said Blue, then wished she hadn’t spoken. Confessing that they had an elephant pickpocket could confirm all Mr Thompson’s prejudices about circus people. But instead he laughed.

  ‘We might get her one of her own for Christmas. What’s that blue thing in the tussocks? Over there by the rock.’

  ‘Her teddy bear.’

  ‘I … see …’ Mr Thompson’s lips twitched again. He spoke directly to Sheba. ‘I promise I’ll visit you after dinner, your majesty. With carrots.’

  Sheba trumpeted at them as they walked slowly back to the car.

  The factory was smaller than Blue had expected. It seemed that while wireless sets were big, the actual wireless components were small. Her father’s factories included those big smelly sheds Fred remembered from his days in the industry, where hides were cured and trimmed and treated, as well as the factory itself and the warehouses.

  This factory stood on its own small branch line of the railway. It seemed to be made of slabs of concrete, not wood or bricks. Inside, each wall was plastered and painted white. The benches were shiny stainless steel. Men and some women in white overalls and white scarf-like hats sat on high stools, each performing a single small process with the wireless components, then placing them on the conveyor belts that ran beside the benches. In a separate shed, cabinet makers made the polished wooden structures the electrical part would sit in.

  ‘Anything like your father’s?’ asked Mr Thompson, as they watched a man expertly plane she-oak wood to exactly the right width.

  Blue watched the wood curls drop onto the concrete. ‘A bit. Conveyor belts and the storage areas and the offices, of course. I suppose those are much the same in every factory.’

  ‘By no means. Too many still have dirt floors. I’ve seen some places where the employees work sixteen-hour days and sleep under their benches. Many products are still made by piece labour.’

  He saw that neither Blue nor Mah understood the term. ‘The women — and they are usually women — do the work at home, sewing shirts or packing chocolates or even making wireless sets. They’re paid by the piece, not by the hour. It sounds fair enough, but it usually isn’t. They can find they’re working for tuppence an hour. But it doesn’t have to be like that. And, as you can see, it isn’t here.’

  The man who had been planing the wood smiled, then looked down at his work again. Everyone they had passed this afternoon had smiled and greeted them, been introduced. Blue had the feeling the employees were relieved as well as glad to see the owner on the premises again.

  ‘So a factory is more efficient than piecework.’ Mah gestured at the conveyor belts.

  ‘For most things, but it needs more capital to set it up. More importantly, you can keep an eye on quality in a factory, especially with something like wireless sets.’

  ‘Or boots, I suppose,’ said Blue slowly.

  ‘Your father’s factories can probably make cheaper boots than a cobbler because the factories can buy the raw material, like hides, in bulk. The mo
re you buy, the cheaper the price. A cobbler has to do everything himself. It might take him days to make a pair of boots, even longer to sell them.’

  ‘Mr Thompson.’ Again she spoke impulsively. ‘Could you teach me all this? How to run a factory?’

  ‘No. I can teach you how to own a factory though, and choose good men to run it. I’m the ideas man here, not the manager. But my dear, I really do doubt that you will be allowed to be involved in Laurence’s Shoes. You’ll have to abide by the terms of your grandfather’s trust.’

  ‘I know. But I’d still like to know more.’

  He nodded approvingly. ‘If you like, I’ll arrange for you to spend time with the manager here and the chief accountant. They can explain better than I can about the day-to-day business. Don’t worry,’ he added dryly. ‘They’re used to dealing with my wife too. They won’t have any reservations about explaining procedures to a girl. But I’m …’ He stopped as a young man approached. ‘Yes, Wilkins?’

  ‘Boss? We’ve had an enquiry from the British War Office about a possible tender. Didn’t want to bother you with it at home, but while you’re here …’

  ‘A new tender? Wonderful. If you young ladies will excuse me? Feel free to look around.’

  ‘Of course. Please, what’s a tender?’ asked Blue.

  ‘If the government wants an item, they ask various companies to see who is interested in supplying it, and how much they’d charge and when they could deliver it.’

  ‘They choose the cheapest?’ Mr Thompson was seriously underestimating his role in his company, she thought. Or maybe he was rediscovering it.

  ‘Only if there’s a dunderhead in charge, as there too often is. A sensible man goes for quality. Not necessarily the cheapest, but the best value for money. You get what you pay for, and expect to pay for what you get. But when a company has a confirmed order they can keep the prices down, as you know the whole order will be paid for.’

  ‘No need to advertise and persuade people to buy it,’ said Blue slowly.

  ‘Got it in one. Almost no distribution costs too. I won’t be long.’ Mr Thompson limped away.

  Blue and Mah walked slowly from room to room. ‘It’s too quiet,’ said Mah, looking at the men focused on their tasks. ‘I’d have music playing.’

  ‘They mightn’t concentrate if everyone was singing.’

  ‘Not the sort of music you sing to. Listening music, like the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”. Well, maybe not that one, but you know what I mean.’ Mah glanced at her. ‘You didn’t go to your dad’s factories much?’

  ‘No. Mum didn’t either, except for the Christmas party. It was men’s business.’

  ‘Your business now.’

  ‘Unless Uncle Herbert has sold them.’ Suddenly, deeply, she hoped he hadn’t. Once she had expected her life to be like her mother’s, school and then a year abroad, parties and balls and marriage, family and working for charities and good causes — the sort of work that was combined with lunch in a new hat, with time for shopping afterwards and afternoon tea, flower arranging and tennis parties.

  But not now. Boots are real, she thought. People need boots. And wireless sets too. Boots and wirelesses matter to the world. Good, compassionate managers mean well-run factories. Well-run factories mean good jobs. Good jobs mean families are fed.

  This would have been her world, if she hadn’t been a girl, or a world very like it. If he’d got to her age, Willy would have known all about tenders. She wondered if Dad had taken him along to see the hide suppliers at Cape Town, even though he was so little, while Mum had gone shopping.

  But it was impossible to feel jealous of poor Willy. She hadn’t actually been forbidden this world. Perhaps, if she had expressed any interest, Dad might have included her in it, or at least introduced her to its edges. In her former life, women had only worked out of desperation, poor women, widows, deserted wives, those with feckless husbands. A well-bred woman might not even know how much her husband earned, or had inherited; would almost never handle money, but charge their purchases to their husband’s account; would never under any circumstances ask a friend how much something had cost. One didn’t — simply didn’t — talk money, or politics or religion. That was for men, in their clubs, or on golf courses, or once the ladies had left the room.

  Mah watched the steady flow of the conveyor belt. ‘I suppose you could make biscuits in a factory too. If you bought the flour and stuff in big lots, they’d be cheaper than people could make at home. A sack of flour costs as much as a one-pound bag. And these days lots of women can’t afford cooks any more, but they don’t know how to make a good biscuit themselves.’

  ‘Like squished flies?’

  Mah nodded. ‘It’s a bit like the circus here, isn’t it?’ She hunted for the words when she saw Blue didn’t understand. ‘Everyone doing one small part, all of them different, then it all comes together in a wireless, or the Galah.’

  ‘And Mr Thompson is the ringmaster?’

  ‘No. That manager is the ringmaster. Mr Thompson’s more like Madame.’

  Blue hoped that Laurence’s Shoes had a manager with vision. But she would have to wait for Mr Cummins to arrive to find out more.

  Suddenly domestic life in a cottage with Mah and Sheba felt limited, even with the far horizon of the plains around them. She wanted more than tennis parties, flower arranging, new clothes, planning holidays then arranging the photographs. She wanted to do something. Not nursing, or teaching, or other women’s jobs.

  Could there be any chance at all to live a life like Dad’s? No, not Dad’s, but more like Mr Thompson’s, the ideas man, or Miss Matilda’s, not just forging her way in a man’s world, but making the men around her accept her on her terms, shoes with frivolous bows and all.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mah. ‘I want to see how they pack the wireless sets up so they don’t get broken.’

  Chapter 33

  There was still no change to Madame’s condition the next day, nor had Sergeant Patterson any news about Ephraim and Ebenezer, or the progress of the investigation in Melbourne. Blue and Mah visited Sheba for a while, petting her and feeding her apples, then left her to the company of the sheep.

  Miss Matilda found Blue sitting in Madame’s room, reading another of Flinty Mack’s books. They were good, the characters not just people but animals and the land itself, the mountains that were the country Joseph had grown up in. Nurse Blamey knitted on the other side of the bed, one of an endless succession of brown socks.

  ‘Busy?’ asked Miss Matilda ironically.

  Blue looked up from her book. Beside her, Madame slept again, a natural sleep, her face white, her eyes sunk. Blue shook her head. ‘Nurse won’t let me help feed her.’

  Nurse Blamey looked up from her knitting. ‘Too much danger the patient might choke, as you know, Mrs Thompson.’ Madame could swallow, if a spoon with soup or water was put in her mouth. Nurse Blamey had explained that this was a good sign — it not only meant that Madame could swallow the liquid and food needed to keep her alive, but showed that parts of her brain still functioned.

  ‘Care to come for a drive? You might even be useful,’ said Miss Matilda.

  ‘Can Mah come too?’

  ‘If she wants to. But I think you’ll find she and Mrs Mutton are working on something involving toffeed almonds, chocolate and six layers of extreme richness for dinner tonight.’ She smiled. ‘Mrs Mutton is enjoying cooking for a household again. It’s been too quiet since the boys went back to school. Don’t wear white,’ she added. ‘It might be dusty today. And wear a hat with a broad brim and veil to keep off the sun.’

  ‘Mum used to say that.’

  ‘I suppose it’s something that all mothers say to their daughters. Life is more interesting out of the drawing room, but a woman still needs to guard her complexion, unless she wants to look like a leather boot by the time she’s thirty. No offence to your father’s boots intended. My old friend and teacher used to tell me that if a hat isn’t wide enough t
o keep off the flies, it won’t keep off the sun either. “If you’ve flies in your eyes, then the sun’s on your face and the wrinkles gathering like the flies.”’

  Blue laughed. ‘I’ll get my hat. And the veil.’

  Mah looked happy being in a kitchen again, and even happier to be there in the role of guest, not housemaid, with a kitchen maid to do the washing-up. It seemed that at Drinkwater no one cared about the shape of your eyes or the colour of your skin. She didn’t want to go with Blue and Miss Matilda, though she thanked them for the invitation. She was back deep in chocolate cream before they’d even made it out of the kitchen.

  Blue pinned the veil onto her hat and regarded herself in the mirror. The blue dress hung in simple folds down to her knees, hiding both her scars and the garters that held up her stockings. The hat looked new, pale straw with a small bunch of white silk roses on a blue ribbon.

  She wondered what Fred would say if he could see her now. Pretty as a princess, she thought.

  For the first time she wondered if he’d taken any of the money Madame kept in her chest. Probably, she thought, but like Mrs Olsen he would only have taken a little. It would be hard for a man without a job in times like these. But Fred was strong. He’d learned a lot in his time with the circus, not just putting up tents and keeping the machinery going, but how to charm too. She suspected that Fred would do all right for himself.

  She slipped on another pair of new shoes, black this time (black goes with everything, Miss Matilda had said), and shuffled downstairs.

  Miss Matilda surveyed her as she came down the stairs into the hall. ‘Very nice indeed. Joseph will be impressed. He’s coming down tomorrow,’ she added.

  Blue tried to stifle the lurch of excitement. ‘He told me. He and his brother are very close,’ she added.

  ‘Not as close as all that,’ said Miss Matilda dryly. ‘He usually goes home to Rock Farm for his holidays. He did come here more often after Tommy was taken ill. But I suspect he’s coming for quite a different reason now.’