Ironbark (22 page)

Mi-duvel! My arm's supposed to be injured!
She ran back inside the hut to tie it in a sling.

In George Hobson's sitting room Keziah combined Romani guile with Saranna's sedate middle-class manners. She was desperate to gain the approval of the employer who had hired Saranna sight unseen via a Sydney Town clergyman.

To her consternation she discovered that she must face
three
employers. George Hobson explained that his partner, Joseph Bloom, would soon join them. The third was their neighbour Gilbert Evans, the largest landowner in Ironbark who, Hobson explained, was miles away inspecting his boundary fence near Bolthole Valley.

Polly brought them a tea tray. Keziah's mouth watered at the sight and smell of the pyramid of scones, blackberry jam and clotted cream. She reminded herself she was now a middle-class girl who would never appear too eager to eat and she must keep her pinkie finger curled as Saranna did when holding a teacup.

The ritual pouring of tea gave her a moment of respite to study her employer.

George Hobson looked different from her first impression of him in his nightshirt. A florid, bewhiskered man, his barrel chest resembled that of a kookaburra as it strained the buttons of his Harris tweed
jacket and waistcoat – unseasonable English winter clothes worn with pride. Polly said he was decent so Keziah took his pomposity in her stride.

‘We, the triumvirate, are determined to educate our children. My Georgie and Donald are five and six. Gilbert Evans Junior is seven. We're building a little schoolhouse for them.'

Keziah smiled in relief.
Three small boys only need the alphabet, songs and stories – I can manage that on my ear!

She utilised the gift that was second nature to her when telling fortunes and absorbed the unspoken message in the tone of Hobson's voice and gestures. He was clearly a self-made Cornishman who had had minimal education and wanted better for his sons. Both he and Evans were widowers. Hobson boasted that Evans was a successful grazier, a lay preacher in Bolthole Valley and a man highly respected by the county's police officers.

‘Gilbert Evans is known for keeping his finger on the pulse,' he said.

Keziah did not doubt this suggested the man was a police informer. No matter how far you travelled in the world there were always ‘respected' men eager to send other men to gaol – for a fee.

When Hobson's partner, Joseph Bloom, joined them, Keziah was instantly on guard. This man would be difficult to read. He was clearly well educated, probably younger than his beard implied. As he listened he rested the fingertips of his fine hands together in the shape of a steeple. When he spoke, his fluent English had a formal German accent she recognised from hearing Prussian officers speak.

‘My lifelong interest is education. I endorse Rousseau's ideas, which many consider radical. Education should not be a privilege but available to rich and poor, master and servant.'

Keziah nodded, but instinct warned her she must tread carefully in this man's presence.

Mindful that she was new to the colony, Bloom explained that he
was of one mind with Governor Bourke's proposal to set up a national system of education on the Irish model, which favoured no single religion.

‘It is a tragedy Sir Richard Bourke felt impelled to resign as governor. I believe his plan will eventuate in time but when?' he shrugged. ‘Meanwhile we must do what is possible. George and I are hopeful that the number of your pupils will grow over time.'

Keziah's smile hid her anxiety. Was there enough time for
her
to learn to write fluently?

George Hobson was gruffly apologetic. ‘The schoolhouse is shy of a roof. And the teacher's cottage is also unfinished. Griggs's hut is at your disposal until then.'

‘Thank you but no. I wouldn't want to put anyone out. I assure you I'm happy to live in a tent.'
Oh dear, would the very proper Saranna have said that?

‘Our assigned carpenters are mending the twenty-mile boundary fence. Cattle duffers stole our best herd.' He turned to his partner. ‘Bolters grow bolder by the hour, eh Joseph?'

Joseph Bloom translated for Keziah's benefit. ‘Escapees who take up arms are known as bushrangers.'

Keziah promptly replaced her teacup on the table to mask her reaction.
Imagine their horror if they discovered their respected new schoolmistress is married to a bushranger.

Hobson stood up. ‘No doubt you'd welcome a tour of inspection? Would you prefer to ride?'

Mindful she'd be given a lady's side-saddle which she'd never ridden before and which would make it difficult to camouflage her condition, Keziah smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you, but after months at sea I just love to walk.'

In dramatic contrast to the deluge of rain she'd encountered the day before at the Shamrock and Thistle Inn, this land was so dry the eddying dust soon covered their boots. Hobson pointed out a dam that had
shrunk to a muddy puddle surrounded by cracked earth that looked like a red-brown patchwork quilt. Wilted bulrushes marked the dam's original perimeter.

‘Last summer that dam was overflowing. Mad country this!' barked Hobson.

Joseph Bloom said prophetically, ‘He causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall.'

Keziah was reminded of the Romani belief that rain was God's blood.

She noted three tethered ponies in the school paddock and decided they belonged to her three small pupils. How difficult could teaching them be?

Hobson pointed to the brass school bell, the bell rope swinging in the wind.

‘We also ring this as a warning when bushrangers are sighted on the horizon.'

Keziah tried to assume an expression of polite interest but her stomach was churning. She prayed this bell would never be rung at the sight of Gem – who'd be the target of all their weapons.

The one-room schoolhouse was fronted by the apron of a veranda. To Keziah the schoolhouse looked absurd in isolation, like a cast-off from one of the rows of terrace houses in Sydney Town. Built of raw timber, the unglazed windows were open to the elements, the roof a skeletal frame, but the stone chimney appeared to be the sturdy relic of some older building.

Hobson anticipated Keziah's response to the chimney. ‘You'll need a fire in winter as our seasons are wildly unpredictable. Often cold at night even in high summer.'

Through the half-open doorway Keziah could see a blackboard and teacher's desk. A jar filled with bush flowers surprised her. A far greater shock awaited her as she stepped inside. Keziah stood face to face with a score of wide-eyed, nervous children.

Hobson introduced her and the students responded with a singsong chorus, ‘Good morning, Miss Plews.'

‘No doubt you will want to begin at once,' Hobson said. Prompted by Joseph Bloom's polite bow, Hobson quickly bowed and then both took their leave.

‘What a lovely surprise!' Keziah tried to sound genuine as she threw her arms wide in a gesture that embraced all the children. She needed to
dukker
very fast indeed.

The children were clearly as anxious as she was, so she bent to their eye level and held out her hand to each in turn as they introduced themselves. Most were boys. Four brothers were lined up in diminishing height beside their big sister. Ten-year-old Winnie Collins was the first product off an Irish family's assembly line of Collins boys with curly carrot tops and freckles.

All the pupils were barefoot and wore hand-me-downs except for the Hobson and Evans boys. Georgie and Donald were miniature Cornish replicas of their father. Wearing their Sunday best suits and polished shoes they bowed with military precision.

Gilbert Evans Junior was so shifty-eyed Keziah suspected he would run tattletales to his father to report the first mistake she made. She knew she had to keep her eye on
him
.

Three girls stood in line, their dresses shabby but their faces scrubbed pink. Each shielded small siblings behind their skirts. But could Keziah expect trouble from two other older lads who stood apart?

Harry Stubbs had a belligerent jaw – perhaps a necessary defence against his patched trousers of hessian sacking with the name of a brand of billy tea stamped on one leg.

The tallest was the shepherd boy who had given Keziah directions the previous night. He stammered when he introduced himself as Big Bruce MacAlister. It seemed that he hadn't had a haircut or new clothes in years and he looked more like a scarecrow than a boy. His smile allowed Keziah an inner sigh of relief.
He's all of twelve and could
probably read rings around me but I can see in his eyes he's my ally.

‘What a fine bunch of Currency Lads and Lasses you are! I promise I'll soon learn all your names. Till then please be patient with me.'

The children exchanged startled glances. Little Davey Collins piped up to big sister Winnie, ‘When's the dragon lady gunna knock us into shape, Sis?'

Keziah bit her lip to prevent a smile. No wonder they were all so wary of her. Ironbark parents must have put the fear of God into their offspring about their new teacher.

She squatted down to Davey's eye level and tucked stray curls behind his ears.

‘All you children are in perfect shape already. You've nothing to fear. We'll all learn from each other. And because I am a newcomer to your most beautiful country I need to learn many things from you! I'm counting on you all to help me.'

Half the class fell instantly in love with her, the other half were only minutes behind.

Keziah exclaimed over a box full of apples and pears beside her desk. ‘What a generous gift! Would one of you lads kindly share them out?'

She smiled at Harry Stubbs, a tough leader if ever there was one, as he rationed out the fruit.

‘As you see my arm is still healing, so I can't write on the blackboard yet.'

Big Bruce sprang to his feet. ‘I can do it for you, Miss!'

Keziah was afraid someone might volunteer. ‘What a very
kind
offer, Bruce, and one I will gladly accept a little later. First I'm going to tell you a story.'

They chomped on the fruit, eyes glued to her face.

‘I know how it begins,' Keziah added, ‘but I'll need your help to finish it. May I borrow your names for the characters?'

The children all nodded eagerly.

Through the unglazed window Keziah could see small shadows
between the trees, as sensitive as half-wild animals. She sensed other children were gauging the response to the dreaded dragon lady so she pretended not to see them until they wished to be seen. She moved her class outdoors to sit cross-legged on the grass to hear her story.

At midday Polly brought freshly baked loaves of bread and a giant ball of cheese for Keziah to share with the hungry children. Polly must have known none of the children had brought food to school and Keziah guessed that some of the farmers would be struggling to survive in the drought.

Her Romani
guedlo
folk story was a gently disguised moral tale about kindness to animals. She held her audience spellbound, enacting the characters with different voices. Breaking off at a dramatic point, she promised to continue it tomorrow. Indoors. Two brave ‘shadows' had crept closer to listen. She knew her class would be full tomorrow.

• • •

Overnight the bush grapevine attracted pupils from surrounding farms. Whole families rode to school bareback on a single pony, the smallest child clinging on for dear life at the rear. Some brought the weekly ‘threepenny bit' to supplement Keziah's salary. Others came empty-handed but boxes of eggs, fruit and vegetables regularly awaited her on the school veranda; farmers' produce in lieu of the fee. She made sure no child was ever embarrassed.

Keziah altered her Romani tale to take in Australian elements, including local bushrangers. The children knew all their names and aliases and regarded most as heroes. She tried to make the question closest to her heart sound casual.

‘Have you ever heard of a Gypsy bushranger?'

Several voices answered in unison. ‘What's a Gypsy, Miss?'

Keziah sighed. ‘Never mind. They're most interesting people but I'll explain another day.' She resumed her story. ‘Now what do you think Harry the Wombat did next?'

• • •

The first tussle Keziah faced was over her temporary accommodation. Griggs was furious that Hobson had evicted him from his own hut. Although Keziah took an instant dislike to the overseer she did not want to make an enemy of him. She assured George Hobson she'd prefer to live in a calico tent close to the schoolteacher's cottage so she could supervise the final details of its completion.

In her little schoolhouse over the next few weeks Keziah discovered the joys of teaching, despite her anxiety about the triumvirate's planned formal visit to the school. No date had been set. They could arrive unannounced at any time.

At night in her calico tent Keziah studied frantically, her arm magically healed each sundown. She practised her writing on a slate, aware she had little time to surpass Big Bruce's writing skills. He'd been a great help, always ready to assist the younger children with their alphabet.

But he'd been absent for a week. Today she'd found out the reason. Farmer MacAlister was dead. No more time for school for Big Bruce.

Keziah felt a pang of sorrow on both counts; the loss of Bruce's father and the end of her brightest pupil's education. Tomorrow she would call on the Widow MacAlister after school.

• • •

Keziah carried a bowl of stew as she hurried towards the dilapidated farm where Big Bruce had herded his sheep the night of her ar-rival in Ironbark. Was it only five weeks ago?

Her whole life revolved around this odd little backwoods village with its mixture of Currency farmers and settlers from every corner of the British Isles, plus one German. She had scant time to concentrate on anything except holding down her role as schoolteacher but it was a blessing because she must now bide her time before resuming her search for Gem. He was jealous enough at the best of times. She could hardly confront him with this growing bulge in her belly. In another three months that bump would push its way out into the world.
What then? She closed her mind to the question that had no answer.