Barra Creek Page 8

  ‘Are they looking forward to it?’ asked Sally.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if they are or aren’t. That’s how it is.’ He looked over at her. ‘Unless you reckon you could teach them all they need to know?’

  Sally didn’t know how to take the comment or his tone of voice so she brushed it aside. ‘I went to boarding school for a while. It was a very valuable experience,’ she said, noncommittally.

  By evening she was exhausted. Lorna made it clear that they dressed for dinner. While it wasn’t formal attire, everyone had cleaned up, brushed up and changed into fresh clothes. John kept to his uniform of snowy white Chesty Bond T-shirts and shorts but switched from boots to leather sandals. Lorna had changed into a cotton dress, the boys had their hair combed and wore clean shorts and shirts. The three adults sat in the living area and John poured them all a shot of Inner Circle rum with a glass of water on the side. Neither of the Monroes diluted theirs.

  ‘It’s a good thirst quencher,’ John said. ‘We carry it instead of water when we’re out all day.’ Sally didn’t believe him. Later, she learned he meant it.

  When dinner was served, they went to the dining table. The boys were seated at their own table, tucking into their meal. John and Lorna discussed the plans for the following day, jobs to be done, news about men, dogs, cattle, and the mess around the blacks’ camp.

  Afterwards Lorna went out to the garden. It was twilight and the sprinklers were turned off and she walked around inspecting plants and making a list of chores for the men to do the next day. John sat on the verandah with a cigarette and a glass of rum, and Sally was expected to spend time entertaining the boys before they got ready for bed.

  She sat on one of the spare beds near where the boys’ stretcher beds were lined up and talked to Tommy and Marty about their interests, how they entertained themselves and what subjects they liked or were best at in school.

  Ian wandered away and the two younger boys began regaling her with tall stories that she listened to with some amusement before saying, ‘Now you don’t expect me to believe all those stories.’

  ‘They’re true!’ exclaimed Marty.

  ‘Well then, next time you have to write a composition, I’ll be expecting a really exciting story of wrestling a crocodile big enough to eat a horse,’ she said.

  Lorna appeared and said firmly, ‘Boys, Miss Mitchell has had a long day travelling. Tonight you get yourselves to bed and no rough-housing. School at nine o’clock sharp in the morning. Now say goodnight, please.’

  She turned to Sally and said gently, ‘I can see you’re ready to drop. Have an early night.’

  ‘Thanks, I am very tired. I hope I wake up early.’

  Lorna smiled. ‘Oh you will. Goodnight.’

  The governess’ room was a hotbox. Sally pulled open the drawer where she’d put her night clothes and underwear. As she reached in for a nightie, geckos raced from her clothes, one jumping on her arm. She leapt back, uttering a small cry and heard a muffled giggle and the boys’ bare feet padding away from her door.

  ‘Little monsters,’ she muttered.

  She lay on top of the bed in her nightdress in the stifling little room, watching the sticky-footed geckos run up the wooden wall and onto the flyscreen across the window. It was certainly different from where she’d come from. She closed her eyes, too tired to think any more about the myriad impressions of the past few days.

  Chapter Four

  Barra Creek, Gulf Country, Queensland

  IN THE COOL PRE-DAWN hours Sally managed to fall asleep after a fretful night perspiring in the hot little room, dreaming of Sean. But no sooner had she relaxed than she was jolted awake, not realising where she was or what was happening. It was sunrise, and a clanging sound was reverberating through every nerve in her body. Iron striking a large bell, then shouting. It was John Monroe.

  ‘Get up, you lazy black bitches. Rise and shine, shake a leg.’ Clang, clang clang.

  Sally fell back on the pillow. Holy mackerel, was this the usual alarm clock?

  Apparently so. Monroe could be heard in the kitchen, stoking the fuel stove, banging the metal hotplates and the oven door. Sally lay there wondering whether to get up and see to the boys, or wait till she was summoned. She had almost dropped back to sleep when there was a loud knock on her door and Monroe stuck his head inside. ‘How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Milky please. No sugar.’

  She was sitting on the side of the bed, her hair brushed, when he appeared holding a mug of tea.

  ‘How’d you sleep?’

  ‘Not bad, but I’m not used to the heat at night.’

  ‘This is nothing. Wait till the Wet. Now, fried eggs, tomatoes, toast and baked beans. Sound all right?’

  ‘Er, yes. Fine. Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.’

  ‘When you’re ready rustle up those boys and send them in to wash. Breakfast will be ready soon.’

  When she emerged, showered and dressed in a simple cotton sundress, no make-up or shoes, and headed towards the kitchen, she passed Ian walking gingerly, carefully carrying a cup of tea.

  ‘Morning, Ian. Is that for you?’

  ‘No. It’s for my mother. She likes to have tea in bed. She’s not too good in the mornings, says she feels sick.’

  ‘Oh dear. Where are Tommy and Martin?’

  ‘In bed.’

  Sally found the two boys buried beneath a sheet on their beds. It was cooler on the verandah, and the breeze came through the flyscreen carrying the scent of flowers from the dewy garden. She looked at the other empty beds and decided she’d sleep out here too. She tickled the boys, who grunted and flung protesting arms and legs at her.

  ‘We’re too big for that,’ said Tommy.

  She spotted some books by Tommy’s bed. ‘I’m glad you like reading.’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Why don’t you take it in turns to make up a story and tell it to each other every night?’

  Marty was enthusiastic. Sally could see the idea appealed to the younger boys. She looked at her watch. ‘Off you go. Breakfast is nearly ready. And then school.’

  John was at the dining table buttering a piece of toast and listening to the chatter from the wireless. ‘Morning news,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, what’s been going on in the world? I feel out of touch,’ said Sally, reaching for the teapot in its crocheted cosy. Her hands stilled as she realised the talk on the wireless was local, between all the stations.

  ‘Heard there’s a new governess at Barra Creek. Over.’

  ‘Yeah, wonder how long this one will last. Over.’

  ‘I saw her at Twin Rivers. Good sort. Big tits –’

  ‘John, turn that rubbish off, we don’t want to listen to that.’ Lorna appeared in the doorway in her dressing-gown, holding her cup.

  Sally poured her tea as John turned to another frequency where cattle movements were being discussed. She was busting to hear the ‘rubbish’ but kept her eyes down. The boys giggled.

  They walked over to the schoolhouse and the boys sat down at their desks, pulled out their work and showed Sally where they were up to. She had briefly studied the curriculum and saw how the lessons were organised. Each week the boys’ work was sent off in the mail to correspondence-school teachers, corrected, commented on and returned. Sally was surprised at the boys’ behaviour in the schoolroom. Gone was the chivvying, teasing, baiting and challenge to her authority. School work had to be done, they knew they needed to be at a certain standard before going to boarding school. There was friendly rivalry among students from other stations when they talked on the wireless about their achievements.

  An hour passed and Ian looked up at her. ‘You’d better get the other kids up here or Mum will be mad.’

  Sally went and looked down towards the camp. ‘You can’t go down there,’ advised Tommy.

  ‘You boys stay here. I’ll go and ask Lizzie from the kitchen to fetch them. Get on with your work.’

  Lizzie and two young women were
working in the outdoor dining area kneading great mounds of dough. Bread was baked every day, huge high white loaves that were sliced for the house and included, unsliced, in the camp’s rations. When Sally asked her where the other children were, Lizzie just stared at her.

  ‘You know, kids from camp. Boys, girls.’ She made a gesture with her hands showing their height.

  Lizzie’s face cleared. ‘Big fella piccaninny. Longa readin’, talk ’em up proper way . . .’

  ‘Sally. I’ll deal with this.’ Lorna came in from the main kitchen. ‘You are not to speak pidgin. They understand plain English well enough.’ To Lizzie she said, ‘Send those camp kids up to school, quick smart.’

  Looking sulky, Lizzie, who seemed to be in her thirties, dusted her floury hands on her apron and stomped off.

  ‘There’s a pile of clothes on a table in the laundry for the kids to change into. Make sure they wash themselves down properly,’ said Lorna.

  Sally collected the shorts, dresses and shirts and returned to the schoolhouse and piled them on a bench near the hose attached to the water tank. She could hear shouting and squeals as skinny children appeared from all directions, racing each other to school. She supervised the washing process, recognising the little girl who’d been at the airstrip. She was only about five years old and she attached herself to Sally’s side with a proprietary smile.

  By the time they were settled at desks with drawing paper and coloured pencils it was morning-tea time. Lizzie appeared at the schoolhouse with a tray of Anzac biscuits.

  ‘Missus say go down for johns,’ she said to Sally, then began handing out biscuits to the local children. The Monroe boys ran towards the house and Sally followed.

  Morning tea was set out on the dining table. There was a large pot of tea, fresh scones on silver plates, jam and tinned cream, and flowered cups and saucers. John and Lorna helped themselves as the boys took their scones to their table where orange cordial was poured into tall glasses. Fifteen minutes later, the boys carried their plates and glasses to the kitchen and escaped outside.

  ‘What are you doing after smoko?’ Lorna asked John.

  ‘I’ve been telling that mob down at the camp that it’s time to clean up and make a new camp. The gundies can stay but not the rest of it. They never learn. It’s a bloody disgrace.’

  ‘It always is, dear,’ said Lorna, gathering the tea things. ‘I hope you gave them plenty of warning.’

  John stomped from the room. ‘Fat lot of good that does.’

  ‘What’s a gundi, Lorna?’ said Sally. The Monroes had asked her to call them by their names.

  ‘It’s what they live in. Corrugated iron on a cement slab. Two rooms with a lean-to verandah. There’s a tap on the outside at one end of the verandah, and a communal lavatory and shower. Most of the old people still seem to prefer gunyahs – bough shelters or a sheet of iron propped up to keep the sun off them when they’re sitting or sleeping on the ground. They live, sleep and eat around the campfire and leave the mess there. It’s filthy.’

  Sally excused herself and went back to the schoolhouse and settled her charges. While the Monroe boys tackled their arithmetic, she asked the older black children to show her how well they could read or write. It was a dismal response.

  ‘They just draw pictures, Miss,’ said Tommy.

  Sally went through the supply cupboard and found some picture story books. ‘Do you fellows mind if I read these kids a story? You keep doing those sums.’

  The boys shrugged. ‘They’re baby stories,’ said Ian.

  Sally gathered the group of kids from the camp into a corner, sat down and began to softly read a story about a lost frog, holding up the book to show them the illustrations. The children were fascinated, their eyes wide as they listened. They giggled when Sally put on different voices, and jumped up to point at things in the illustrations. Sally glanced back to check on the boys and saw Marty leaning around his chair, following the story. When he caught her looking at him, he bent down, pretending to pick something up off the floor. Sally decided she’d try reading them a story that night.

  It was three o’clock, and the boys were out playing while Sally helped the other children back into their camp clothes. They skipped away as she washed her hands and headed in for afternoon tea on the verandah with the Monroes. It was fruit cake this time. She came to learn that scones and biscuits were served for morning tea, and fruit cake or pikelets in the afternoon. Lunch had been substantial too. At least she wouldn’t go hungry.

  Lorna was taking a nap. Sally had just come out of the kitchen when she heard screams. Shrieks and howls ripped through the torpid air, followed by the sound of tin and iron being crushed, and the low growl of an engine.

  ‘What on earth?’

  She heard the boys yelling and the old truck revving up. ‘What’s going on? Where are you going?’ she asked as she ran outside.

  Ian was behind the wheel, the other boys were standing in the tray holding onto the roof of the cabin. ‘Dad’s clearing out the camp.’

  ‘What? Wait for me.’ Sally pulled herself into the passenger seat, then Ian crashed the gear stick and set off over the paddock.

  As the truck bounced over the mounds and ruts, they passed a line of trees and suddenly came upon a scene that shocked Sally. John Monroe was driving a big tractor with a grader blade attached in front and was roaring through the rough tin and bark shelters of the blacks’ camp. Dogs and children were running in circles, there were cooking pots, cans of food, clothes, piles of rubbish, broken branches, flattened tin and unidentifiable objects crumpled and tossed aside by the rattling old tractor.

  The women were wailing, flailing their arms, clutching babies and trailing possessions. Some old men stood silently to one side. They’d seen it before, as had the others. But despite the notice to relocate the camp, they never did. It was a ritual repeated every couple of months when the boss decided the stench and mess had got out of hand.

  ‘Heck. What’s going on? The poor buggers,’ exclaimed Sally.

  ‘Mum says it stinks and it’s unhealthy, so Dad cleans it up. They always like their new place better.’

  ‘I bet they go over to the trees by the river,’ said Tommy. Marty didn’t say anything but wasn’t enjoying the spectacle the way his older brothers were.

  ‘I don’t want to watch this. Let’s go back,’ said Sally.

  The boys protested vehemently. ‘Dad lets us watch it. Sometimes we ride on the tractor.’

  Sally jumped out of the truck. ‘Well, I’m not staying. I’ll walk back.’

  She trudged through the afternoon sun, disturbed by the brutishness of the exercise. Beneath the booming joviality John Monroe had a very tough side to him, she decided. On the other hand, the camp was squalid. She’d seen and smelled it, even at a distance. It puzzled her that the women could work in the house under the fussy eye of Lorna Monroe and yet were happy to lead their own lives amidst the incredible filth that was part whiteman’s trash of flour tins, rice sacks, bottles and cardboard boxes and part their own discarded half-eaten food, the chewed carcass of a wallaby the dogs hadn’t finished, tools, hunting spears and digging sticks, dilly bags and dishes. She supposed it was all replaceable but the invasiveness of Monroe’s actions troubled her.

  Later, she saw Lorna alone, arranging a vase of silk flowers on a side table.

  ‘The boys took me down to where John was clearing up the blacks’ camp this afternoon.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘They weren’t prepared for it. It seemed so . . . sudden. I mean the whole lot was just turned over and almost buried,’ said Sally.

  ‘That’s the idea. When it gets to that point, we have to do something about it before we all get sick. By tomorrow they’ll have set up a new camp. At the last minute they’ll have saved their hunting gear, coolamons, bits and pieces. Or else they’ll make new ones. The lubras will be up here for new dresses. And no matter how much warning we give them, it makes no difference. I sometimes thin
k they like to make a song and dance about it all. Now, how did you find the boys today?’

  Sally dropped the subject of the camp. ‘They’re very good in school. Really seem to want to learn.’

  ‘They know their father will skin them alive if their marks aren’t good when it’s time to go away to school. He expects them to do well. And that means sports too.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not much help there,’ said Sally. ‘I was a bit disappointed that the big kids from the camp can’t read or write at all.’

  ‘Don’t worry too much. They just need to show up and keep out of mischief. They’ll figure out how to sign their name eventually, I suppose.’

  Changing for dinner Sally found a dead snake amongst her shoes. She bit her tongue, determined not to squeal. She could tell the instant she clapped eyes on the way it was draped through her gold sandals that it was dead. She’d never seen a snake before and was thankful this one was quite small. She had no idea what type it was, so she steeled herself, swept it into a dustpan and carried it out onto the verandah and left it on Ian’s pillow. Being the oldest she figured he was the ringleader in their anti-governess campaign. While there she turned down the pristine white covers on the adjoining bed and left her book and dressing-gown on it.

  None of the boys mentioned the snake, but Marty couldn’t resist giving her a sly grin as she sent them off to get ready for dinner.

  Sally and Lorna had pre-dinner drinks on their own. John was nowhere to be seen and Lorna looked slightly distracted. When the boys came into the dining room, Sally asked her, ‘Shall we wait for dinner? Or should I eat with the boys?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Good idea. John is still down at the machinery shed. I’ll wait for him.’

  Sally carried her plate to the boys’ table and pulled out a chair. They looked at her in surprise but went on eating. She noticed they had starched linen napkins on their laps and held their knives and forks in the prescribed manner. Lorna was a stickler for doing things the right way. As if to challenge Sally, Tommy leaned one elbow on the table, and Martin picked up a piece of meat in his fingers. Ian sent his peas and carrots spilling off his plate. Then Tommy knocked over his drink, splashing Milo over the white tablecloth. Martin giggled.