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Tales of Tasmania
By Mary Helen Farr Balboa Press
Copyright © 2015 Mary Helen Farr
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-2926-4
CHAPTER 1
1947
The one hundred year old oak tree stretched its huge branches every which way, shading the school yard from the piercing, summer sun. The children were out for lunch and sat or played with their friends in various places dotted around the playground. Dorothy sat in the dust with legs splayed in-front of her, picking at her scabby knee. Her friend Margaret looked away in disgust, as droplets of blood trickled down to stain Dorothy's sock.
The school stood back from Mackenzie's Lane, a winding track that veered off from the Main Street of the small town of Moses. Built from local timber, the school was a hotch-potch of rooms and verandas that had grown like Topsy since it opened as one class-room, in the late eighteen hundreds. Now fifty years later, it had grown to accommodate the increasing population. The nearest school was at Mole Creek, some distance along the railway track.
"I'll swap you a cheese sandwich for your jam one, Dot," Margaret told her friend. "Mum's put pickle in it again. She knows I hate it."
"Yeah alright, here," Dorothy answered, handing hers over. "It's only plum though."
"I know, but I love the tinned jam. Mum never, ever buys it. She says it's lazy to buy things when you can make them yourself."
Dorothy didn't take offence. It was an accepted fact that her mother was lazy. And that her family were as poor as church mice. Dorothy's dad enjoyed a drink or two – or three – which quickly ate into the pittance of income he made doing all sorts of odd jobs in the district. It didn't leave much over for her mum, who was pregnant again with baby number six and there were already two tiny ones buried in the Catholic Church grave-yard. Dorothy was just grateful there was enough bread for school sandwiches today.
"Hey, Maggie," a small voice called.
Looking up, Margaret stared at the upside down face of her brother Mark as he swung in the branches above them. "What now, Mark?" she asked him. Mark was three years younger than her and was in second grade. He was small for his age and wasn't boisterous like the other lads. Consequently he rarely got to play football or cricket with them. He did like marbles, but often he preferred to hover around his sister, or read his library book in a quiet corner of the school yard. "You'd better come down before you fall on your head! Then you'd be more stupid than you are now." For some reason Dorothy thought this was hilarious and rolled in the dust, laughing.
"Am not stupid, Maggie, I'll tell Mum on you. I won't fall........" Mark didn't finish the sentence as he plummeted to earth and lay there for some time.
"Get up, Mark," Margaret pleaded, as after a while she realized there was something wrong. "Mark, come on, get up." She pulled on his shirt trying to get him to his feet but Mark lay on, staring vacantly at the dirt in-front of him. "Please, Mark!" she cried, alarm making her voice shrill. "Dot, run in quick and get Mrs. Morcombe."
Dorothy shot across the playground and disappeared through the side door of the school. A moment later she re-appeared with Mrs. Morcombe the Principal, who waddled as quickly as her stumpy little legs would allow. With a great deal of puffing she managed to lower herself down next to Mark, who was now making strange, gurgling noises. "Dorothy," Mrs. Morcombe said, her tone quiet but urgent, "run over to Miss Bloom's and bring her back with her medical bag. Have you got that dear?"
"Yes, Mrs. Morcombe, Miss Bloom, medical bag." Dorothy continued to stand there, entranced by the noises emanating from poor Mark's throat.
"Dorothy!" Mrs. Morcombe shouted. "Go now, for goodness sake, girl!"
"Yes, Mrs. Morcombe," Dorothy whimpered, then set off at a gallop. She shot out of the school gates and across the lane to a weatherboard house that stood back from its edge, surrounded by long grass and the odd sad tree.
Miss Bloom certainly didn't live up to her name. Nothing much bloomed in her garden and frankly she didn't care. She had other things to do with her days. She was the local area nurse and spent most of her time riding around the country side on her big, black bicycle, her brown leather bag balanced in the wire basket on the handlebars. Home visits were vital to all those living in the district, as the nearest doctor was over twenty miles away in the large town of Deloraine. The only way to see Doctor Taylor was to drive there – if and when scarce petrol was available. The other was to catch the train when it pulled a passenger carriage, and that only happened once a week.
Fortune smiled upon Mark this day, as Miss Bloom was at home. She bustled her way across the lane followed by Dorothy, who was keen to get back to the scene of the accident. She didn't want to miss out on anything, as she knew her mother would want every detail of this drama told to her when she got home.
The school ground was abuzz with children trying to get a look. The School Monitor Gracie – who was said to be a trifle slow – was trying to herd them out of the way, a task that was becoming increasingly distressing for her. She knew if she didn't get it right Mrs. Morcombe would be very cross and make her cry, and worst of all wet her pants. Most of the time the children did what she asked, but the thrill of the moment had them all ignoring her entirely. What was she to do?
Miss Bloom immediately took control, sweeping Mrs. Morcombe and Margaret to one side as she summed up the situation. "Get him on his side," she ordered Margaret, and tried to loosen Mark's tie. When she couldn't do that, she pulled an enormous pair of scissors from her bag. A collective gasp emanated from the now enthralled children. What was Miss Bloom going to do with them? Wasn't this exciting? In her quest to get closer to the action, little Sally Alders tripped and fell under the feet of big James Harrison, who stepped on her and fell sideways into Joe Crabtree and so it went on, until a pile of children lay strewn around the accident scene. "For goodness sake all of you," Miss Bloom cried, "get out of the way, Mark needs air not a crowd of silly little children falling all over him!"
Her words had the right effect and the group backed off. The scissors cut through the tie just in time, as Mark's face had taken on a nasty purple colour. Miss Bloom immediately sat Mark up and slapped him on the back. General ooh's and aah's were heard from the children who had crowded in again. "Come on, Mark, there's a good lad," Miss Bloom shouted, slapping him probably more than she need, but she was now caught up in the theatrics of the event.
A loud sucking in of air was heard and Mark looked around him, wide eyed and confused. "Where am I?" he asked.
"Don't be such a dope, Mark," Margaret told him. "You know where you are. You didn't half give us all a scare you dummy. Mum 'll be furious with you, causing all this palaver."
"Steady on there, Margaret," Mrs. Morecombe chastised. "Mark's confused. He's had a nasty fall and we need to get him into the sick bay. Then I'll send someone round to get your Mother eh? That'll cheer you up, Mark, won't it?"
Mark didn't think it would. He'd more than likely get a clip around the ear for causing such a ruckus. He smiled wanly and tried to stand, but fell back as a sickening dizziness overcame him. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I'll try again."
"No you won't, my boy," Miss Bloom told him and with one deft move, she picked him up. With his legs swinging to and fro over her strong arms, he was carried ignominiously off to the sick bay.
Shortly after, Mark and Margaret's mother Mrs. Olive Watts, hurried through the school gates. All was quiet in the playground, as the children were back in class. She bolted through the front door and headed for the sick bay. She could hear Mark wailing before she got to the room, and fear rose in her throat. Pushing the door open she found Mark lying on his back, crying that he wanted to get up and go home.
Gracie sat by his side trying to placate him, but to no avail. She was having a bad day today, no-one would take any notice of her and here she was again, trying to adhere to Mrs. Morcombe's wishes. "Please, Mark, lie still or you'll get me into trouble and I don't want to be smacked again. Please be quiet," she said as loudly as she dared, so that he would hear her.
"But, Gracie, I wanna go home," he cried again, then stopped dead as he saw him mum. His mouth shut tight and he pulled the grey blanket up to his chin. "Mum, you're here," he said, stating the obvious.
"Yes I am, Mark, and where's Mrs. Morecombe, and Miss Bloom?"
"They're trying to get hold of the doctor, Mrs. Watts," Gracie said, standing and performing a small curtsey. "I'm being the nurse for now," she smiled proudly.
"That's nice, Gracie, but you're not making much of a job of it are you? Mark, shut up."
Gracie burst into tears. She'd had more than enough for one day. She decided to go home then and there, so flounced out of the room, up the corridor and out of the building. She always tried her best, but it was never good enough and every-one treated her like an idiot. Am I? she wondered as she fled along the path that led to her house. How would I know anyway? she thought insightfully, I've never been any different, and every-one says I'm stupid – so I must be. Poor Gracie.
"Now what've you been playing at, my boy?" Olive was asking Mark as Mrs. Morcombe entered the room.
"Ah, Mrs. Watts, you're here but where is that stupid girl? Oh she'll be the death of me. Give her some responsibility and she ruins it every time."
"She went home, Mrs. Morcombe," Mark announced, "and I want to as well. Can I, Mum?"
Olive looked questioningly at Mrs. Morcombe. "We will wait for Miss Bloom's decision, Mark," she said, then turned to Olive. "We think falling out of the tree onto his head has caused some concussion, Mrs. Watts. In which case he will need to be monitored for a while. Are you able to do that at home?"
"Don't see why not. If I can take Maggie with me when we go, we can take it in turns to watch him. My Allan won't be home from work until late tonight. They're still cutting hay." Allan worked on his brother's dairy farm and was flat out from dawn until dusk during summer. He would appear dirty and weary at sunset, then eat and fall into bed. All household responsibilities and more, were left to Olive during this time.
Miss Bloom bustled in. "I finally caught up with Doctor Taylor. He said it's probably concussion." Mrs. Morcombe nodded knowingly at Olive. "You can take him home, Mrs. Watts, but watch out for any vomiting or signs of unconsciousness – and keep him awake for as long as you can," Miss Bloom explained. Olive shuddered. "If you are concerned, send Margaret around for me immediately, is that clear?"
"Yes, of course. Here, sit up, Mark and we'll get ready to go." As Olive helped her son to sit, she gasped in horror at the dark red mark that stretched around his neck. "Mark, what on earth were you doing? And where's your tie?"
Margaret was more than happy to get out of school early. She trotted along beside her mother, chatting away ten to the dozen. She had explained what Mark had been doing, and he was now getting a lecture as they walked along the Main Street. He wasn't feeling at all well and wanted badly to lie down and sleep.
"Well you can't, that's the last thing Miss Bloom said you should do," his Mother curtly told him. "Now hold my hand and hurry up. When you're home you can rest in Dad's chair." She coughed in embarrassment. It wasn't often that she gave her children such treats.
"Oh boy, Mum, really?" No-one was allowed to use dad's chair. It was the most comfortable chair in the whole world. His dad spent hours sleeping in it after work and on the weekends he sat in it to listen to the wireless. What a treat!
They walked past the garage with the Caltex petrol bowser in-front, then the General Store where Mr. Burns the owner stood, his hands tucked behind his apron as he chatted to Mr. Caldwell. "Afternoon, Mrs. Watts. Where's the fire?" he chuckled, alluding to the brisk pace the little family were going at.
"Afternoon, Mr. Burns. No fire, just need to get home that's all." She had such a grim look on her face that Mr. Burns thought twice about saying any more. However, Mr. Caldwell didn't.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Watts, children. Hey, Mark, you're looking a bit peaky. Everything alright there?" he smiled innocently.
"He's fine, Mr. Caldwell. Just a little mishap in the playground. Come along, Mark," and she tugged at his arm, almost spinning him off his feet. A cloud of dust rose up as he scuffed his school-shoes into the edge of the bitumen where the road gave out.
"Yes, I'm fine, Mr. Caldwell," Mark called, turning around as they all trotted past. "Hurt my head though, I dived......."
Olive yanked his arm again. "That's enough, Mark, they'll all find out soon enough courtesy of the bush telegraph," she mumbled. "Maggie, run ahead and put the kettle on there's a dear. What I need now is a hot cuppa and a quiet sit down."
Mr. Caldwell took his hat off and scratched his ear. "Yon Olive is in a bit of a state. Not like her I'm sure. Wonder what's up?" Squinting against the sun, he surveyed the scenery.
Burt Caldwell had lived on the outskirts of Moses nearly all his life, some fifty years or maybe more? He'd given up counting. He arrived with his parents, to the dairy farm they bought off some old codger who had moved to his daughter's in Deloraine. It was terribly run down, but with much family effort it was soon brought back from the brink. When his parents died Burt inherited it. He never married, but his sister didn't either and still kept house for him while he worked all hours.
She had given him a scare back in nineteen-thirteen when she fell in love with a local boy. They would have married, but the bloke went off to war and never came back - lucky for Burt as callous as that thought was! He had never told anyone that's how he viewed it, but it stopped him from worrying about marriage. Where was the need for female company, he figured, when his sister did everything a wife could do, and without the pressure of getting all lovey-dovey? Oh, he'd sown his wild oats through the years, but all that romance stuff was a load of codswallop as far as he was concerned. It paid off too, because without the need to placate a little woman, he could concentrate on the farm. He had the best dairy cows in the district and his bulls won prizes at every Launceston and local Agricultural Show around.
Yes he knew he had it made, but all the same Kathleen did get cross when he was late home, like now. He pulled himself up to his full height of five foot six and put his hat back on. "Best be getting on then Robbie, but I need a packet of fags first."
As they turned to enter the shop, a train whistle startled the birds out of the trees that lined the railway track. Across the road and up a bit, the railway Siding stood. A rough shed lent shade and shelter to the locals who used the passenger carriage once a week. There were no creature comforts, and no station master either, but the service was a blessing to the people of Moses. "There's the one-thirty heading for Mole Creek. Wonder who's driving today?" Burt took great delight in following the trains here-about. He knew the make and number of them all and enjoyed chatting to the drivers and indeed any railway workmen he came across. He romantically thought that if farming wasn't in his blood, train-driving would have been the job for him.
Burt followed Robbie through the fly-screen door. The accumulated smell of seventy years of groceries hung in the air. Robbie went behind the wooden counter and brought down a packet of Craven 'A's from the shelf. Burt's favourite brand. "Matches?" he enquired.
"Yup."
"Anything else?"
"Nope. Kathleen sorts all that out."
Robbie nodded, knowing full well that Burt did nothing to help on the domestic side what so-ever. He felt for Kathleen, who gave Burt the care many a man envied. "You've got an angel in her you know, Burt. If you raffled her, you'd make a fortune!" he chortled.
"Well as may be, Robbie, she still has her failings," Burt replied.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Tales of Tasmania by Mary Helen Farr. Copyright © 2015 Mary Helen Farr. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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