Authors: Margaret Tanner
“I'm starving,” he complained.
“I think you invited us so we would feed you.”
“That wasn't the reason, was it, Jim?” Fiona always took things so literally.
“Of course not, Mrs. Morrison, Miss Jo is teasing me.”
“Jim for the last time, if you keep putting Miss in front of my name, I'll start calling you Mr. Talbot.”
He laughed. “All right, Jo it is.”
He ate with the hungry enthusiasm of a schoolboy, and kept Jo laughing with his funny stories. The Kilvains and the Griffiths sat some distance away, but she somehow knew they watched with disapproval. She didn’t care.
No sign of Luke Campton. Surely that wasn’t a twinge of disappointment? She shook her head to clear it of such nonsense.
Later, the three of them wandered around the various tents. It was rather like a fair, with even a shooting gallery. Jo scored three bulls eyes out of four shots, and several male watchers clapped. She enjoyed herself so much she forgot that her actions would not be considered ladylike.
Jim left them about fifteen minutes before the race commenced.
“Let's get a good position, Fiona. The finishing line is over there, that's why this is a good spot, even if we can't see the start of the race because of the trees.”
People took up various vantage points, the most popular being near the finishing line, but as the gentry positioned themselves there, Jo deemed it wiser to stay away.
***
Luke strolled toward the finishing line. He had declined to act as one of the judges today for the main event. A good crowd was in attendance, so he should cover expenses but he didn’t mind putting in a few pounds to make up any shortfall. The event, started twenty-five years ago by his father, had become a Campton tradition, and unfortunately, for the past ten years Jack Mulvaney’s horses had won. The man was an uncouth bastard, but he certainly knew his horse flesh.
Surely that wasn’t Jo Saunders. He looked again. Yes, by God, he would recognize that wonderful hair from a mile away. How the hell did she get in? He strode towards the two women standing apart from every one else.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He stared at Jo.
The laughter in her eyes faded when she saw him, like a candle being snuffed out, leaving only a dark emptiness. He had been too hasty in his condemnation of Jo. Tim’s death had been a tragic accident, but at the time he had been maddened with grief, prepared to blame everyone because of his brother’s demise. Later, when he calmed down, he wanted to apologize, but the longer he left it the harder it became. He couldn’t remember when he last apologized to anyone.
“Oh, Mr. Campton, jolly crowd you have here, such a perfect day too.” Jo’s words could have been the usual platitudes, but the tone of her delivery set his teeth on edge, banished all thought of apology.
“How did the likes of you gain entry to my race meeting?” he growled, secretly ashamed of his boorish behavior.
“Mr. Talbot brought…”
“Fiona!” Jo's interruption came too late.
“Jim Talbot invited you?”
“Yes.”
Jo tossed her head in a defiant gesture, and the rays of the sun captured in her wonderful hair turned it into a flaming halo. God, what a beauty.
“It is all right, Mr. Campton,” Fiona stammered. “I mean…”
“Of course it's all right, Fiona, we came as Jim's guests. The race has started.”
She swung away from him. Damn it, why should he care if Jim Talbot showed interest in Jo Saunders? But he did care, the thought of another man touching her, was like acid corroding the walls of his stomach. Hell, he had never been jealous in his whole life and it infuriated him to think he had succumbed to her beauty. He had met plenty of beautiful women over the years, but none of them had affected him like Jo. He wanted her with such desperation it shocked him to his core. Scared the hell out of him. Had he asked her to be his wife instead of his mistress would she have accepted?
“Come on, Jim.” Jo jigged up and down. “Come on, Jim. Oh, Fiona he's ahead. What a horse.”
His back rigid and inwardly seething, Luke strode away.
“He's won, Fiona! Jim did it.”
As Luke strode towards the finishing line he saw Jo hurrying in the same direction.
“Congratulations, Jim, fine race.” Luke shook his hand.
“Thanks, I told you I'd collect the prize, didn't I, Campton?”
“Yes. I've half a dozen mares I'd like the stallion to serve.” He purposely raised his voice so a scowling Jack Mulvaney would hear him.
As he turned to go back to his guests, Mulvaney’s snarl had him swinging around.
“You stupid, incompetent little bastard, I told you to use the whip.”
“I did, Mr. Mulvaney.”
“A couple of bloody taps on the backside. I told you to use the whip, to flog him from the start, and not ease up until you were over the finishing line.” He gave the jockey several slaps across the back of the head.
“Enough!” Luke put his hand on the jockey’s shoulder. “Leave the boy alone. You were beaten by a better horse.”
“Go to hell, Campton.” Mulvaney stomped off.
“Here, lad.” Luke pulled a pound note out of his pocket. “Take this, and keep away from Mulvaney until he cools down.”
“Thank you Mr. Campton. I didn’t want to whip the horse because I knew he couldn’t win.”
The jockey scuttled off and Luke fumed. Jack Mulvaney was a brutal oaf who didn’t deserve to own good racehorses. A year in jail for starving Scottish immigrants on one of his hell ships was totally inadequate. He should have got bloody life. Probably would have if some of the other immigrants had stepped forward and supported Fergus Campbell’s accusations.
Jo eased her way through the milling throng of well wishers. “You ran a superb race, Jim.”
“Thanks, you were my good luck charm.” Fiona came up to stand beside them. “You too, of course, Mrs. Morrison,” he tacked on gallantly.
Now the main event had been run, Jo's interest in the festivities waned. When he suggested they leave because he wanted to get the stallion home, she agreed, and they set off immediately.
“I had a wonderful time, thank you, Jim.” On arrival home he escorted them to their front yard but declined to come inside.
“May I call on you again, Jo?”
“Yes I hope you will. Goodbye.” A handsome young man, obviously well brought up and with impeccable manners, should fire the blood in any young woman’s veins, so why not her? She railed against fate for thrusting Luke Campton into her life.
***
As a temporary measure, Jo decided to hold her school in one of their empty storerooms. It wasn’t a large area, but the initial enrolment stood at ten, so it would suffice. The church donated three church pews, to help with the lack of seating. She worked arduously to clean the place up until it looked quite presentable.
Payment would be whatever families could afford. Children would provide their own slates. Something would have to be done about getting some writing books. Desks would be a necessity later on, too. Hopefully some of the wealthier people might send their children along, so they could collect enough money to buy equipment.
“Don't get your hopes up too much,” Flora had warned. “It's a strange, divided community here. It might take some time for people to send their children along.”
Ever the optimist, she ignored Flora’s warning. Of course people would allow their children to attend. A couple of well-to-do families in town had already expressed some interest and it should not take long for word to spread.
Jo rose early on opening day to get the chores out of the way. All she could do now was to wait for the first pupils to arrive. Because these children had never attended school before, the hours would be from ten until two, which would also give youngsters time to help their parents before and after school.
Right on ten, the Kirkman children arrived: Sam, Ethel and Will, followed almost immediately by two little girls who were driven up by an old man in the rough garb of a stock hand. He let them off, asked what time they would be dismissed, then without speaking further, touched his hat and drove away.
These two, Ella and Virginia Carson, were six-year old twins. They chattered non stop to Jo, who in less than five minutes learned their family was new to the district. Their father worked for Luke Campton, and they lived on Kangaroo Gully in one of the workmen's cottages. What would the big boss make of this? Mrs. Carson had obviously not been happy with the arrangements he had made for the schooling of his employees’ children.
Several more children arrived on horseback from neighboring properties. None of them could read or write. It broke her heart to see ten year olds struggling with their ABCs. Men like Luke Campton had a lot to answer for. Of course, it suited them for a poor man's children to remain illiterate--easier to exploit them that way.
Already another plan seethed inside her head. Why not hold classes for adults who could not read? Perhaps they could attend in the evenings after work.
They partook of lunch under the willow trees lining one section of the creek. She smiled at the antics of the little Carson twins. They were like a mischievous pair of monkeys, yet when they did manage to sit still, they looked angelic with their big blue eyes and golden curls, each wearing a pretty pale blue frock, covered with a white pinafore.
Eleven year old Sam Kirkman produced a ball and they commenced a throwing game, then Jo took them on a nature walk. One of the children found a hyacinth orchid, its pink flowers a striking contrast to its dark red stems.
Brightly colored butterflies caught their attention next. These children who lived on the land, worked on it in most cases, had never stopped to admire the beauty around them. Even if she taught them nothing else, it was well worthwhile. They gathered flat, shiny river pebbles so they could paint designs on them later.
Back in the classroom, they discussed their findings. Even if they could not put down in writing what they saw, the children easily expressed themselves verbally.
After she dismissed school, she tidied up. A cupboard would be handy to store their things in, and perhaps William would make some pegs for their coats and hats.
Fiona, carrying Lucy, traipsed down to the school.
“I had eleven pupils.” Jo did a little dance. “Henri and Jacques Johnson were the only ones from town, though.”
“Well, it’s rather a long way.”
“I know. I've got to get something closer, but where? If Campton and his cronies weren't so miserable they could build us a school. We'd only have to raise half the money, the government supplies the rest.”
“I thought I heard somewhere that Luke Campton had bought a block of land for a school. Maybe I was mistaken.” Fiona pushed a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear. “Come back to the house now, I've finished baking, we can have some tea.”
***
The second day saw the same children returning with one extra. Benny arrived about an hour after the others.
“Howdy, Jo.”
“Good morning, Benny.” All but the smallest children were taller than him. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Want to read and write.”
He had a childish, singsong voice and she wondered, whether apart from his obvious dwarfism, if he could be slightly retarded.
“Well,” she hesitated.
He pulled out a penny from his pocket and went to give it to her.
“No, it's not the money, Benny. It's just… Of course you can come.”
He beamed happily and sat down next to Jacques.
“Only come till lunchtime then have to work.”
“All right, Benny.”
***
Over the next few days Jo observed Benny. Although illiterate and slow at grasping things initially, he seemed to have a retentive memory. Each day he drove himself over in a small cart that Henri said his father had made.
The others treated him as one of their own. How pathetic, to see him playing hopscotch with the children. A surprising thing came to her notice by accident. She had watched him scribbling away on a few occasions without realizing what he was doing. Sam Kirkman accidentally knocked a piece of paper to the ground where it fluttered almost at her feet, and she discovered Benny had a natural gift for drawing.
“This is very good.” She picked up the head and shoulders portrait of herself. “Do you often draw people like this?”
“Sometimes, if I like them.”
“Do you have more of these at home?”
“Nah.” He laughed. “Use them to light my fire.”
“Oh, what a shame, you must keep them and show them to me. Do you only draw in charcoal?”
“Yes.”
Loud shrieks from Myra Kilvain interrupted them.
“Good heavens, Myra, what is it?”
“Jacques pulled my hair.”
“Did not, I wouldn't want to touch your old hair anyway.”