Somewhere around the Corner (11 page)

It was too hot to stay in the tent, with the flies buzzing like tiny engines. He got up and dressed as quietly as he could, so as not to wake Marge, still sleeping on the pile of blankets. She looked so peaceful, the lines of strain softened from her face. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed herself like she had last night? It must be a year or more since they’d danced together.

Mr Henderson put his hand over the ashes. They were stone cold. He’d have to start the fire again before they could have breakfast, but what did it matter, there was all the time in the world. Nothing to do but get more wood, or haul the water, or pan for gold and hope somehow for a miracle, a gleam of colour in his pan.

He reached over to the woodpile. That’s one thing about this place, there was plenty of wood if you were
cold, and plenty of rabbits if you were hungry, if you liked eating rabbit. He never had. But you got used to it, just like you got used to living in a tent, and the loss of all the life you’d known.

The wood was damp from the dew, but there was dry wood further down the pile. Mr Henderson pushed it with his foot before he took a piece, careful of snakes and spiders. Red-bellied blacks loved woodpiles. He remembered the first one they’d seen, about fifteen years ago now. They’d been married a year and he’d been a headmaster for two. It was their first holiday together, unless you counted their honeymoon in the mountains.

Camping had been fun then, the washing in cold water in the creek, Marge giggling when a bowerbird stole the soap, cooking on an open fire, the bright flames licking at the air. It was all fun, even when the black snake crawled out from behind the log they’d been sitting on and Marge had screamed, then laughed, because the snake was obviously much more scared of them. Camping was fun when you knew you had a house to go back to, a proper stove, a bathroom, good gas lights, a job where people looked up to you, security and money in the bank.

The job went first, and then the house. The house went with the job. Then their savings, gradually eaten
away, until they knew that if they kept paying rent the money would be gone and they’d have nothing. Then the bank had shut. So they had come here. He’d thought he could make a bit fossicking, but the gold wasn’t there. He supposed they were better off than most. At least they had the tent and the right equipment…if only they had hope as well.

Hope seemed very far away, so far it seemed he’d never find it again.

A child yelled in the distance. One of the O’Reilly kids, or that new girl, Bubba, the one that thought she came from far away. From somewhere around the corner.

What
would
it be like to have another world around the corner, one that you could just step into if things got bad? Mr Henderson smiled to himself. He thought about walking around the corner of the track down to town, and there would be a school where Dulcie’s washhouse was now. There’d be desks inside and ink wells, and the ink monitor busy filling them up before the lessons started.

There’d be slates for the young ones that squeaked when they wrote on them, and the grey dust would stain their fingers as they learnt their letters and their sums. There’d be a blackboard and a desk out front, and he’d keep his favourite books inside and read to
them on sleepy afternoons or when it was too wet to go outside; all the books he’d loved when he was young that he could share with them.

That was the joy of teaching, knowing you opened up new worlds for the kids. All they had to do was reach out and grab it, just take those first few steps around the corner.

He could almost see it, that school. The kids would be lined up at the door, elbowing each other to get in first, as though it really mattered. He could almost hear their footsteps as they marched inside, tramp tramp tramp.

Mr Henderson opened his eyes. They weren’t children’s steps, they were the steps of an adult. He saw O’Reilly from up the creek heading through the clearing. Mr Henderson looked up and tried to pretend he hadn’t been dreaming.

‘Morning.’

Dad nodded. He stood uncertainly, wondering where to start, rubbing his great hands together.

‘Sit down.’

Dad pulled up an old kero tin, padded with sacking and sat.

‘You’ll think I’m crazy,’ he began slowly, ‘but I got this idea. It seemed to come from nowhere, but once it took hold—’

‘What idea?’ asked Mr Henderson.

‘About a school.’

‘There isn’t any school in Poverty Gully.’ Mr Henderson’s voice was hard.

‘I know there’s not a school. It breaks my heart to see the kids sometimes, no learning, no future. All they know is what they can see here. It’s just not good enough.’

Mr Henderson didn’t meet his eyes. ‘They can go up to town. There’s a school there. A good school.’

‘Two hours away if you’ve got a horse, or the money to board your kids, and no-one here’s got money like that.’ Dad broke off. ‘I reckon I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.’

‘No,’ said Mr Henderson shortly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Marge slip through the tent flaps. She just stood there, not joining in.

‘So I was thinking, why can’t we start a school?’ Dad held up his hand. ‘No, don’t say anything yet. I know we don’t have a proper building. But I went down to Dulcie’s—you know, Dulcie at the dairy farm. Well, she’s got an old washhouse. It’s not much but it’s got a proper floor and everything, and it’s got a kitchen at the back of it. It used to be the old kitchen before they built the main house. It’s even got the old stove in it.

‘Well, I know it’s not much now, but we could mend the roof and clean it up a bit.’

Mr Henderson was looking at him strangely. Dad rushed on. ‘Well, I reckon we could make a pretty good school there if we tried.’

Mr Henderson’s face was expressionless. Dad spoke more quietly now, trying to convince. ‘I know we can’t pay you proper wages—struth, most of us can’t pay you anything at all—but we’ll give what we can. We’ll all chip in with vegies, rabbits, or whatever. You spend your time with our kids and we’ll do what we can for you.’

Dad stopped in the face of Mr Henderson’s silence. He stood up. ‘I should have known it was too much to ask,’ he said gruffly. ‘A bloke like you would want a proper school. That’s what you’re waiting for, I know.’

‘No, wait.’ Mr Henderson grabbed his arm. ‘You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Marge, stick the billy on will you?’

Dad looked at him, hope in his eyes. ‘I know it wouldn’t be a proper school—’

‘Why not?’ Mr Henderson ran his hands through his hair. ‘Why not make it a proper school? What else do we need? We’ve got the kids, we’ve got the building and I’m a damn good teacher, if I do say so myself. We’ll make it a proper school.’

‘But—’

‘We’ll write to the Department of Education. There’s a scheme—I can’t remember what it’s called. If the parents provide board and lodging and a building, the government will give you a subsidy. It’s not much, but it’d probably pay for books, and slates.’ Mr Henderson slammed his fist into his hand. ‘Even if they won’t it doesn’t matter. We’ll write on flipping paperbark if we have to.’ He turned to Marge. ‘What do you think?’

There were tears in Marge’s eyes, happy tears. ‘I think we should go and see that washhouse.’

‘Not a washhouse,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘From now on it’s the Poverty Gully School. No, not Poverty Gully—just the Gully School. There’ll be nothing poor about the education the kids get at this school.’

‘We’ll hold a meeting,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll call everyone in the valley together. We’ll get this thing organised. We’ll…’

Mr Henderson suddenly seemed to come down to earth. ‘What if the valley people don’t want a school? I haven’t taught for over two years now. What if they don’t want someone from a susso camp teaching their kids?’

Marge touched his shoulder. ‘You hold your meeting,’ she told him. ‘We’ll convince them
somehow.’ She laughed, high and happy, a younger, more excited sound than he’d heard from her in years. ‘Then someone’s going to have to break the news to the kids.’

It was strange to see the hall filled with chairs, thought Barbara, not bare like it was for dancing. It looked different tonight. It felt different too: of expectation as thick as treacle, not the laughter of Friday night as the valley let its strain and worry fly out the door with the music of Gully Jack’s fiddle.

Dance or meeting, though, the trestles at the back were still set up for supper, as though nothing could take place in the hall without cups of tea and plates of scones with apple jelly, and pikelets with quince jam.

Dad wore his best trousers, hauled out of the tea chest and draped over a bush until the smell of mothballs faded. Dad and Mr Henderson had argued over who was going to address the meeting first. They’d decided on Dad to begin with and Mr Henderson second. Ma and Marge Henderson had taken their husbands’ trousers down to Dulcie’s to use
the iron. Mr Henderson even wore a coat and tie, the coat slightly shiny, but still good. You could smell the mothballs right down in the front seats.

‘He looks like a teacher. Doesn’t he?’ Young Jim whispered to Barbara. She nodded. ‘He wouldn’t be bad, though,’ she said, remembering the way he’d shown her how to waltz. ‘I mean, he seems to like kids.’

‘We must be mad,’ said Elaine gloomily. ‘I mean, who wants to go to blooming school anyway?’ She shifted Thellie on her lap. ‘Now you sit still, hear me or I’ll have to take you outside and I’ll miss Dad’s speech.’

‘You know, it’s funny,’ Young Jim spoke seriously. ‘It’s not like I
want
to go to school. It’s just that I don’t like not being able to go.’

Elaine tidied Thellie’s hair. ‘It’s almost like I’m scared of school,’ she said quietly. ‘I mean I’d sort of accepted it, that I couldn’t get my Leaving or even my Intermediate, that I’d just be like Ma, getting married and having kids. But now there’s a chance of school again—and you find all your dreams come flooding in, as though I can choose what I want—and it’s sort of frightening.’

Thellie wriggled again. ‘Can’t you sit still?’ demanded Elaine. ‘It’s like having a bag of lizards on my lap.’

‘Here, pass her over,’ said Barbara. ‘I’ll hold her for a bit.’

Thellie held her arms out immediately.

‘Tell me a story,’ she ordered.

‘I can’t. Dad’s going to talk in a minute. Look at all the people coming in instead.’

‘I wonder what they’re thinking,’ whispered Elaine. ‘It’ll break Dad’s heart if they don’t want the school.’

‘I think it’ll hurt Mr Henderson worse,’ said Young Jim sombrely. ‘I mean, it’d be like they don’t think he’s a real teacher, just because he’s a susso and lives in Poverty Gully.’

‘But he is a real teacher,’ objected Elaine. ‘He’s been a headmaster and everything.’

Young Jim looked at her.

‘You haven’t been up in Sydney lately,’ he said. ‘You should hear people talk about the sussos there. Like you don’t exist once you’re in a susso camp. People just want to shut their eyes, pretend it’s your fault if you’ve lost your job. I tell you, it’s real crook.’

Elaine sighed. ‘Shut him up, someone. He’d talk the leg off an iron pot if you gave him half a chance.’

‘A bloke can express an opinion, can’t he?’ demanded Young Jim.

‘Go tell the gum trees,’ advised Elaine. ‘Look, there’s still people coming. I didn’t know there were so many families in the valley.’

The hall was slowly filling up with families from all along the valley who’d seen the notices down at the pub, or in the store, or up on Sergeant Ryan’s notice board.

They were strangers’ faces; men with thin legs and large hands, and eyes that were used to measuring from one end of a paddock to another; women with lipstick on, in their Sunday best. The footpath in front of the hall was filled with carts and battered vehicles and the whinnies of tethered horses. These people were the small farmers of the valley, burdened with low prices, the weight of last year’s drought and the worry of the next; the farm workers; the eucy cutters, still carrying the sharp hot scent of eucalyptus oil from their stills; rabbit trappers; old Nicholson from the store, hard to recognise without his long white apron; and blonde Anna from the pub—they said she could tell if a man was going to swear ten seconds before he did and would quell him with one look.

Sergeant Ryan sat up the front with Dulcie, who had one eye on the water as it simmered above its kero burner.

‘Where’s Gully Jack?’ whispered Barbara.

‘Huh. Catch him spending a good Saturday
afternoon indoors. Anyway, why should he care about the school?’

‘I don’t know.’ Barbara felt suddenly forlorn. ‘I thought he might care because of us.’

‘Shush, Dad’s going to speak.’

Dad stood on the raised platform at the front, under the photo of the King. He hitched his pants up nervously. He caught Ma’s eye and seemed to gain confidence enough to speak.

‘Uh, well, good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,’ Dad began. ‘I reckon you all know we’re here because we don’t have a school in the valley, and some of us think it’s about time there was one.’

‘There’s never been a school in the valley.’ It was old Nicholson’s voice from the middle of the hall. ‘Don’t see why there has to be one now.’

There were murmurs of agreement around him. Mr Nicholson folded his arms belligerently and stared at Dad, as though affronted that a bloke from Poverty Gully would dare to use the stage.

Dad hitched his trousers up again. ‘He needs to take his belt in another notch,’ whispered Young Jim. ‘Or maybe get some braces. He’s got thinner since he last wore those.’

‘I don’t reckon it matters if there’s been a school here before or not,’ said Dad more firmly. ‘What
matters is we’ve got kids here who need schooling, and we’ve got a teacher who’s prepared to give it to them. I reckon most of you know George Henderson here, or all you from up the gully do anyway. But for those that don’t, he was the headmaster at Hastings River for eight years till they closed it down, and a teacher for donkey’s years before that. I reckon we couldn’t have a better bloke to teach our kids. Anyway, here he is.’

Dad sat down to a burst of clapping, led by his family and taken up gradually by others. Mr Henderson gazed around the hall, and loosened his tie.

‘He looks nervous,’ muttered Barbara.

‘He can’t be nervous,’ whispered Elaine. ‘He’s a teacher. He must be used to talking to people.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Henderson began formally, ‘and residents of the valley.’ Then he stopped dead, and cleared his throat. A fly buzzed slowly from one end of the stage to the other and settled on the dusty window.

‘Well, go on!’ called someone from down below.

‘I…’ Mr Henderson’s voice seemed to be stuck. He looked helplessly at Dad.

‘Never saw a teacher stuck for words before.’ It was old man Nicholson’s voice again.

‘He’s not a real teacher,’ muttered someone else’s voice. ‘He’s just one of the sussos down Poverty Gully. You can’t tell me that if he was a proper teacher he’d be living with that lot down there.’

‘Hey! Give the bloke a chance.’ Sergeant Ryan rose from his seat. He gazed down at the crowd as though they were a mob of kids caught stealing apples, then turned back to the front. He nodded to Mr Henderson, as though to say, ‘Keep going’.

Mr Henderson was silent. He gazed out at the hall. It was as though the last remark had dragged all the words out of him. Barbara gazed up at him, willing him to speak.

‘Go on,’ whispered Young Jim urgently.

‘You can do it, Mr Henderson,’ muttered Elaine.

Mr Henderson caught their eyes. He blinked, and then smiled. Suddenly it was as though he was speaking for them, not for himself. He looked out at the audience again, and it was as though he was in the middle of his speech, not at the beginning.

‘Some of you may question my qualifications as a teacher,’ he said. ‘Well, you’ve every right, seeing where I am now. But it was no fault of mine that led me to Poverty Gully, just as it was no fault of any of the other men and women who live around me. It’s the times we live in that brought us here. And if there was any one
thing that any of us might have done that might have changed the course of our lives…well, any failures we’ve made shouldn’t be passed on to the children.

‘The children in this valley don’t have a school. That means that any future they may have is limited by their lack of education.’

Mr Nicholson snorted, his voice just audible. ‘Your education hasn’t got you very far, has it?’

Mr Henderson looked at him steadily. ‘At least my education gave me the power to choose. A week ago I’d have said I’d made the wrong choices, choices that landed me in a tent in a susso camp. Now I’m not so sure. Because if I can help the kids in this valley get an education, if I can give them the power to choose what they want in their lives, if I can open up the world just a little for them, then I’ll know I’ve made the right choices all along.’

‘But how can we have a school?’ This voice was bewildered, not antagonistic. ‘We don’t have a schoolhouse.’

Dad got up again, his trousers settling around his hips. ‘We don’t need to worry about a schoolhouse. Dulcie here has said we can use her washhouse. Yeah, I know it doesn’t look much at the moment, but patch it up a bit, give it a coat of whitewash and I bet we wouldn’t call the King our uncle.’

‘Who’s going to pay for it?’ It was Nicholson’s voice again. The question was taken up around the hall.

‘Yeah, who’s going to pay for it?’

‘Where’s the money coming from?’

‘It’s the old story all over again,’ yelled Mr Nicholson. ‘Them that has are supposed to pay for them who hasn’t. I worked for my money. I don’t see why I should give one brass penny of it to an out-of-work layabout who claims to be a blooming teacher.’ There were mutters around the room, some approving, some dismayed. Dad hitched his trousers up again. Someone giggled.

‘As for paying the teacher, George here says that maybe the government’ll let us have some money. Even if they don’t he’s willing to give it a burl. He’ll work for nothing just to give our kids a chance.’

‘Well, what do you want if you don’t want money?’ someone called.

‘All we need is people to help—to fix up the school and to find a place for the Hendersons to live. I had in mind that each of us’d give what we could, even if it’s just a couple of rabbits for the pot.’

Mr Henderson looked out over the audience again. ‘What we really want,’ he said, ‘is for you to send us your children. That’s what makes a school, the children in it.’

The crowd was silent. It was as if they were waiting for someone else to digest the idea and tell them what to do. Mr Nicholson cleared his throat in the middle of the room. ‘I reckon it’s up to the government to give us a school. That’s their job. That’s what we elect them for.’

‘Well they haven’t, have they?’ said Dad mildly. He frowned, as though trying to put his thoughts into words. ‘Those blokes in Sydney are relying on us for their salaries, but instead of them doing what we want, they’re doing us down instead. I reckon there’s nothing more important than a decent education for our kids. Why should they have to take the crumbs the government throws out to them? I reckon if we want a thing, it’s up to us to get it’

Mr Nicholson stood up slowly. He looked Dad up and down. ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not sending my kids to be taught by a bloke from a susso camp, with a mob of susso urchins in a washhouse.’ He looked around the audience for support.

The crowd was quiet. It was impossible to know if they agreed. You could hear the flies bumping at the windows of the hall and the urn hissing down the back. Dad looked helplessly at Mr Henderson.
Barbara felt embarrassment shrink her as she sat. Susso urchins, that’s all they were.

‘Now you just hold it there one minute.’ The voice came from the back of the hall. Barbara looked up. It was Gully Jack, leaning against the door jamb. He looked like he hadn’t shaved since Friday’s dance. He looked like he’d just come from digging in his gully. His shirt hung open where the buttons were gone. The late afternoon sun gleamed behind him, so it was hard to see the expression on his face.

‘You just listen to me a minute, Bertie Nicholson. It’s all right for you, ain’t it, with all your kiddies boarding up in town. They’ll get their education, won’t they? And how can you afford to send them there? Because of selling rations to the sussos you’re so fond of! Where would you be if it weren’t for them, I’d like to know? And everyone else who has to buy the maggot-ridden corned beef in your flamin’ store.’

‘My corned beef has never had maggots in it,’ spluttered Mr Nicholson.

Gully Jack looked him up and down. ‘Nah,’ he agreed. ‘The only maggots are in your head. And you know why? Because you can’t see that these kids need a chance. That’s all you can give anyone in this life. Just a chance. And your fat mouth is taking theirs away.’

Gully Jack looked at the crowd in the hall, craning their necks to look at him. ‘Well, what’ll it be? Are you going to give these kids a chance or not?’

The crowd was still silent. Mr Nicholson sat down again. He muttered to the men on either side, too low to hear. The silence deepened. Barbara felt her palms grow wet.

Gully Jack stroked his hairy chin pugnaciously. ‘Well, is anyone going to speak up or not?’

‘I’ll give the whitewash.’ The voice seemed surprised that it had spoken. ‘I mean, I know it’s not much. I’ll help paint it on too if you can wait till I get the potatoes up.’

‘How about roofing iron? Last time I saw that old washhouse it looked like it’d spring a leak any moment. I reckon we’ve got some left over from the big shed.’

‘How about chairs?’

‘I can give you half a sheep a week.’

‘…a load of wood a week.’ That was one of the eucy cutters. ‘Struth, they’ll need it in the winter there.’

The crowd had woken up now, as though they’d found their feet on the right path and were tearing along it. The offers came from all around the room.

‘There’s a spare bed up in Olive’s room. Would the Hendersons like to use that.’

‘If you don’t mind eating bunny…’

Barbara felt tears hot in her eyes, but they were tears of happiness. Young Jim took her hand and held it tight. Elaine was crying too, and trying to sniff without being heard. Ma’s face was like the sun had come out behind a cloud and Dad was ecstatic.