Lessons In Loving (7 page)

Edna paused, literally out of breath from her latest burst of priceless information. Kate aimed a smile at her that said: I'm very, very interested.

‘Then Tom took over running the house.' Edna's eyes glowed. ‘He's been a proper lord and master ever since. But he asked me to come over now and again. Keep an eye on things. So one morning a week I comes up from my place. Do the housekeeping, the washing, the sewing. The sewing room, it has a proper sewing machine and all.'

So there was a sewing room? What other hidden delights might the Big House hold in store for Kate?

‘And I buys the groceries and such from the grocer at Croydon Creek,' Edna continued, revived by her tea. ‘Then I brings 'em here, puts ‘em in the cupboards. Top up the supplies.'

‘But Edna. You said you were getting a little old to keep working so hard,' Kate said. She must hear more about the little wife who, it seemed, would take over when Edna retired.

‘Yes. Well, a couple of years ago, Tom told me he wanted a wife. Said his ma had told him to go to England and find a nice girl.' Edna turned, looked over the land that ran to the horizon. ‘So that's what Tom did. He found this proper English lady. Can't remember her name, but he keeps her picture beside his bed. Pretty enough girl, I s'pose. But she has that stuck-up English look to her. Dunno how she'll get along if she comes to live in these parts.' Edna stopped. Had she come to the end of her tale? She looked up at Kate. Now her tears were flowing unashamed.

‘Tom tells me he brought you up from Sydney.' Edna struggled to stop her tears. ‘To teach him how to talk proper. So the English lady won't laugh at him.' She paused again. A jumble of emotions flickered round her teary eyes. ‘It's all my fault. I taught Tom to talk like me. What else could I do? I mothered him all them years. I couldn't have no children of my own. And now I wants the best for him. Like any mother wants for her children. And Kate, I'm worried. Worried he's fallen for that English lady. Worried she'll come out to these parts and find she don't like it. Don't wanna see my Tom get hurt. He had enough of that when his mother died.'

‘Well then … Are there perhaps one or two nice local girls? From what I've heard of country life, local boys often marry local girls.'

‘Mmm. They talked Tom into going to dances and such when he were round sixteen. He went once or twice, then stopped. I asked him why he didn't keep it up. All he said was “They don't like me, Edna”. And he never went again. For a while there, he turned into a bit of a hermit. Perhaps he was getting over that awful school. The bullying and all. But when he settled back into Kenilworth, he soon blossomed. Now he's always taking the train back and forth to Sydney, organising for the wool to be sold, getting the bits and pieces the workers need, the things he needs to run the place. And he's great friends with the high-ups in Croydon Creek. The doctor, the lawyer, the co-op manager. Has dinner with 'em lots.'

Edna paused, stared at the horizon yet again. Kate saw a mix of guilt and sadness flicker in her eyes. Did she think she'd told Kate a little too much? Had she broken a promise to Tom not to tell of those painful years to anyone?

‘More tea?' Kate asked. ‘I've neglected you, Edna.'

‘No, dear. I'd best get to my work.' Edna inched her body out of the chair. ‘Would you mind taking that heavy box to the kitchen? And not a word to Tom about what I told you.'

A few hours later, Kate waved goodbye to Edna and returned to the study where she'd spent her day. From now on her teaching must take account of the pain that had shaped the life of the little orphan boy who'd been raised over much of his formative years by the near-illiterate cleaning lady.

***

Tom walked into the study on the stroke of four, washed and changed. Kate watched as he took a seat at the desk in front of the blackboard she'd found in a shed.

‘I've made a list of words and phrases you might like to read,' she said. ‘Words we use in everyday speech.' She sat opposite him at a round table. The whole room—she hesitated to call it a study—was now properly furnished for her new job. ‘And today's Number One naughty word is
them
,' Kate continued. ‘As in “them chairs over there”. What
should
we say?'

Tom grinned as she spoke. ‘How about
those
chairs?' ‘I sorta knew that,' he said. ‘Sorta by instinct. But it's the way people talk round these parts. And I kinda got into the habit. Over a lifetime.'

‘If you know that, why do you persist?'

‘Yeah, why do I?'

Kate had slipped into teacher mode as easily as she slipped into a pair of comfy slippers.

‘Remember why you're sitting here now, Tom. In this shiny new study.' She smiled. ‘And why I'm here. As you told me, you're going to polish your act. Faint heart never won fair lady, Tom.' She paused. ‘When Laetitia's ship docks in Sydney, you'll escort her to your coach, and whisk her off to balls, soirees, delicious dinners at the fancy restaurants established for the gentry. Then, moonlight walks in the park. Holding hands, looking up at the stars. How does that sound, Prince Charming?'

‘Yeah, but—'

‘No buts. You told me you enjoy a challenge. You can do it.' Why had the tough, capable man with the honed, fit body suddenly become a shy little boy? An hour before, she'd watched him ride into the stables, then head for the house. She must stop thinking about how his wet body might look as he bathed. It was enough that now he wore clean clothes and oozed the aroma of a freshly scrubbed male.

‘It seems we'll have to work on your feelings, Tom,' she said. ‘If we don't address them, you'll be driving your wagon with the brakes on every time you sit in this room.'

‘Yeah. You're right. Reckon I need a beer.'

‘No beer till we've put in our first hour.'

‘You're a real schoolma'am.'

‘Yes. It happens to be my job, remember. Now, your feelings. Tell me once again, why are we both here, in this room?'

‘Because I want to speak proper. Get Laetitia to notice me. To like me. Respect me. Love me?'

‘Good. Now how is that going to come about?'

‘Well, if she sees me as a bloke she could like, could maybe want to marry, then—'

‘Thank you for your honesty. And what will be different next time you meet the beautiful Laetitia?'

‘I'll talk proper. I'll sound civilised. I'll be interesting company. She won't be ashamed of me if we go walking together. When we meet her Establishment friends.'

‘Good. Let's get started. Those clangers you drop as you talk. We must get you into the habit of speaking the King's English, rather than—'

‘Rather than bush talk? That's what we call it round these parts.'

‘Here.' She handed him some sheets of paper bearing strings of words down the left of each page, with an inch of blank space between each word. ‘Some notes I've made for you. In about one minute, you will take the first step in your education, Mr Fortescue. I want you to write the correct version of each word in the space below it. Let's start at the top of page one.'

***

Over the next few days, Kate locked in their routine. Tom appeared at the study each afternoon around four, washed, scrubbed, and eager to learn. In no time, Kate noticed his everyday talk take a turn for the better. On Sunday morning, Kate and Tom shared breakfast in the old summerhouse. Earlier that week he'd suggested they meet for a leisurely time together on Sunday mornings.

‘You can be a schoolma'am six days a week, Miss Courtney, then my friend Kate on Sundays,' he'd said after his Saturday lesson. ‘We've both earned a day off by then, I'd reckon.' She'd nodded, smiled, wondering with a mixture of happiness and nerves what being his ‘friend' might entail. As they finished the delicious scrambled eggs he'd made, Kate led with the opening line she'd planned.

‘Edna told me about your mother. It seems she was a very loving mother to you. I'd like you to tell me more about her. Do you have any reminders of her?'

‘Well, yeah. There's her room, her books. Her grave. It's up there, behind that clump of trees.' He pointed. ‘Every now and again I go up and tidy it,' he said shyly. ‘Usually on a Sunday. I put a few flowers on it. Would you like to come? It's only five minutes away.'

‘Thank you,' Kate said. ‘I'm so pleased you asked. I'll fetch my walking boots. Should I pick some roses? I've noticed some delightful blooms in the garden lately.'

‘Thanks. I'd like your help.' He stacked the breakfast dishes onto a tray and made for the kitchen as Kate headed for her cottage.

Would she see yet another side to the amiable, too-handsome man who lived most of his lonely life in his dusty working outfit? In this remote place, miles from the nearest neighbour, Tom's mother would have been everything to him. He'd been denied school friendships, the sharing of toys, the rough-and-tumble play that shaped most children's early years. Instead, he'd have been lonely, shy, wrapped in cotton wool by a mother probably ashamed of her little boy's awkwardness with words.

Five minutes later, Tom met her on the verandah, bucket of water in one hand, scrubbing brush in the other.

‘This way.' He led Kate on a narrow path across the hill behind the house. They passed a spill of weathered granite boulders, then headed for a clump of eucalypts. When he reached a lone rock that stood conspicuous on the otherwise smooth, gently sloping hillside, he stopped, looked down at a horizontal slab of polished black granite.

Kate peeped over his shoulder and read the etched words:

‘She liked to sit here, rest her back against this boulder, take in the quiet,' Tom murmured, almost to himself. ‘Sometimes she'd hold me on her knee, sing a little song into my ear.' As Kate stood lost in the quiet strength of the epitaph's message, she watched Tom clean the slab, discard dead flowers from a marble vase, and replace them with the fresh roses. Then it was as if he fell into a trance.

For minutes he stood quiet. Was he remembering a special time with the mother who'd been everything to him before she died? Perhaps he'd decided, in the simple ways children's minds work, to keep loving her, remembering her. Obeying her, even. Was he now obeying his mother's dying wish by wooing a woman she'd have approved of? A woman she'd have chosen for him?

He looked away. Now he seemed to flow into the friendly silence of the nearby hills. She imagined him talking to his mother, taking in her every word from the times she'd reached for his hand as she lay in hospital during those last sad weeks of her life. He'd have gritted his teeth at her hand's coldness, its withered grey look, and listened to her whisperings. They flowed into Kate's mind as if the dead woman stood beside her, whispering to her son.

‘I want you to bury me at Kenilworth, Tom. Up near that big lonely boulder, where you and I sat after our walks. The view from there is so beautiful. The essence of Kenilworth. I shouldn't want a big ugly tombstone, Tom. Just something simple. Something that blends with Nature. Have the stonemason carve my epitaph on the boulder. Some words that you make up. To tell your children, your grandchildren, how things were for you and me.'

‘There,' Tom said as he picked up brush and bucket. His voice returned to its usual matter-of-fact tone. ‘She liked things to be tidy.' He stood for a moment, still, respectful, looking down at the slab of dark rock. Kate held her breath. This was a sacred moment for Tom. She mustn't intrude.

He looked up from the grave into Kate's face. She couldn't recall a time when he'd seemed so at peace. His eyes told her it was time to go.

‘I love the epitaph, Tom,' she said. ‘Who composed it?'

‘I did. Who else?'

‘I've seen another side of you.' Kate wanted to tell him she sensed at least a little of the emotion that must surely fill his mind when he made these visits. Clearly, he wanted to preserve his memories of the mother who'd loved him more than anyone else in his life. ‘You must have really loved your mother. Sorely missed her when she died.'

‘Yeah. Now let's head back,' he said, voice calm, businesslike. ‘It don't do for a bloke to get too sad.' Kate watched him from the corner of her eye. Had that flick of his wrist across his face wiped away a disobedient tear?

As they walked home across the hillside, the quiet enfolded her. It was as if the two of them had become part of the great sweep of hills and valleys and plains that spread below them—silent, still, but alive, breathing, aware. When they reached the Big House, he'd transform to the busy, organised man with a vast property to run. But now, for a few moments, he was the son who'd loved his mother, who would never forget her.

‘I'll just walk by the stables,' Tom said as they headed home. See if there's enough hay.' As they closed on the old wooden building, a friendly neigh greeted them. Tarquin, the horse Tom rode day to day, poked his head through the open top half of the door to his stall. He whinnied again, evidently happy to see his master. Tom walked over and rubbed his nose. That must be the way the two greeted each other each morning, Kate decided. The two creatures—man and horse—were obviously good friends.

‘Wish I owned a horse,' she murmured as she followed Tom to the stall door. ‘I'd love to have a friend like that.'

‘You can,' Tom answered. ‘I must ask the other horses first. If they agree, we'll see what can be arranged.' She studied his face, took in its serious look. ‘Say, for next weekend?'