Читать книгу The Widows of Broome - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 10

Activities Day

Firstly because the children so enthusiastically asked him to go, and secondly because the opportunity would provide a clearer picture of the people of Broome, Bony decided to give the afternoon of this Saturday to visiting Cave Hill College. At the last moment, Inspector Walters found he could not spare the time; and so, dressed for the occasion in a light-grey suit with soft felt hat to match, Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, Master of Arts and Master of Himself, drove the inspector’s private car with Mrs. Walters beside him and the children in the back seat.

“I do hope you will enjoy it,” she told him. “Most of the people will be friendly but some won’t. If you stick by me I’ll manage to catalogue them.”

Mrs. Walters looked her best and was happy knowing that she did. They passed Mr. Dickenson, who rose from the public seat beneath a shady gum to bow and wave in acknowledgement of the children’s greeting.

“The majority of the townsfolk will be there, I assume,” Bony said.

“Nearly everyone, and a lot of people will be in from the stations out-back. It’s quite a function, you know.”

They left their car with many others parked outside the school grounds. Bony was pleasurably surprised by the size and architecture of the main building standing beyond well-kept lawns. Built of warm brown stone in early Colonial style, it faced the ocean from its superior elevation and yet subtracted nothing from the hacienda style of the French Catholic Mission farther along the coast.

With Bony on one side and her children on the other, Mrs. Walters passed through the iron-pillared gateway and sauntered along the main drive, talking vivaciously and entirely satisfied. The main school building of two storeys had its every large window protected by an iron shutter, now raised and providing protection against the sunlight.

The lawn fronting the building was gay with colour: men in tropical white and wearing sun-helmets, women in bright dresses and many having coloured parasols, and here and there masters wearing their black gowns and, much more numerous, the boys in light-grey suits and caps of black-and-white rings. From the roof of the school flags flew from four tall white poles. Cave Hill College was en fête to receive parents and friends.

Mr. Sylvester Rose, Princes College, Aberdeen, B.A., Adelaide University M.A., and several honorary degrees, welcomed the guests. He detached himself from a group of ladies and came forward to greet Mrs. Walters. He carried his mortarboard under his arm, and his gown swung out behind his sturdy figure. Nearing sixty years of age, he moved with the virility of a man much younger. His face was square, and his hair barely tinged with grey. The hazel eyes were large and alert, and the forehead was broad and high.

“Welcome, Mrs. Walters, welcome!” he said, his voice carefully modulated. “So glad you have come to our Activities Day. And such a fine day, too. Your husband ... I do not see him.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Rose, he was detained at the last moment. He was looking forward to coming, too. Please meet an old friend of my sister, Mr. Knapp.”

“How d’you do, sir.”

“Well, thank you. And you, sir?”

“I am always well,” stated Mr. Rose. “You are indeed welcome. We hope to show you the hand-work done by our boys. Come along now and find seats. In a few minutes we are ... not gunner, Keith ... we are going to serve afternoon tea. Good-afternoon, Miss Nanette.”

“Good-afternoon, sir,” replied Nanette with creditable poise.

Mr. Rose begged to be excused to greet other arrivals, and a woman hurried forward with smiling face.

“Hullo, Esther! So glad you’ve come. I’ve been hoping you would. You look well.”

Bony was presented to Mrs. Merle Simmonds, and informed that Mrs. Simmonds and her husband lived on a pastoral property named Tallinbah, eighty miles out of town. Then he was being introduced to her husband, a large man who appeared very tough until he smiled and warmly shook hands. Simmonds knew where to find vacant chairs, and he kissed Nanette and told Keith he hoped the “arvo” would soon be served.

It was all bustle and colour to cram a large canvas with interest for Bony, whose knowledge of the psychology of men and women was deeper than exteriors. Here on this brilliant lawn beneath the pure sky, here among these chattering people might be the man who experienced hellish ecstasy when his hands gripped a woman’s throat. Fine feathers do not make fine birds.

It was a passing thought, for against this background Bony was quite happy. Simmonds knew Brisbane. Simmonds had been at St. Peter’s, Adelaide. Simmonds had carried his swag in Queensland looking for work. Simmonds flew his own aircraft. Simmonds was natural. Bony liked him. He liked Mrs. Simmonds, too. She and Mrs. Walters made a good pair. And when he was presented to three young Simmondses, he liked one of them and held judgment on two.

Without warning, he was being formally presented to Mrs. Sayers. This afternoon she was arrayed in porcelain blue, and her hair was slightly more auburn than it had been at their first meeting in the police station office. Without doubt, her dressmaker was more successful in cut than in influencing her clients in their choice of colour.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Knapp,” trilled Mrs. Sayers. “Didn’t have much of a chance the other day.” Bony gave his inimitable bow, and offered his most charming smile. “How are you keeping?”

“I have no cause for complaint, now, Mrs. Sayers,” he murmured. “When accepting Esther’s invitation, I had no idea I would meet so many beautiful women in Broome.” For a tenth of a second, her brown eyes hardened with suspicion, but seeing no guile, she accepted the bold compliment.

“You must come and have tea with me before you leave, Mr. Knapp. You, too, Esther. You bring Mr. Knapp, and don’t disappoint me.” She almost giggled. “Heavens! I haven’t talked to anyone sensibly for ages.”

Mrs. Sayers floated away, and Mrs. Simmonds chattered to Mrs. Walters. Simmonds spoke of his old school, and Bony mentioned the Brisbane High School and the University whilst thinking that Mrs. Sayers might not be so superficial as she wished the world to believe. She was a widow. She was still attractive. Her name was on the list of The Widows of Broome.

A youthful master entered the circle. He was obviously keen on his work. He accepted Bony with interest. Another master came, one much older, lean and stooped. He did his best to conceal how bored he was with the show. Teaching had got him, had sucked him like a vampire, and there was not much left for the profession to drain from him.

“What’s he like in school?” Bony softly asked Keith. The boy scowled and said that “Old Stinks” was “a swine” in handing out lines.

“Not like Old Bilge,” conspired Bony.

A grin replaced the scowl.

“What is that master’s name?” Bony asked, indicating a large-framed, florid man talking to a smaller man of serious mien.

“He’s Mr. Percival,” whispered Keith. Slipping a hand across his mouth to prevent the outburst of laughter, he added: “We call him Happy. ’Cos he never smiles. Always creepin’ and sneakin’ around to report to Old Bilge.”

Five minutes later Bony was shaking hands with Mr. Raymond Percival, M.A., Ph.D. Mr. Percival seemed to tower above him, and his grip was almost painful. His dark eyes would have bored into Bony’s mind had not Bony been on guard, and, Bony decided, no juvenile culprit would long withstand their probing. Following the swift examination, Mr. Percival’s reaction became negative.

Despite the conversational handicap, Bony continued to sum up the people gathered on the lawn. All the “best” people were there. It was easy to separate the goats of Broome from the sheep of the Interior. Some of the men eyed him with interest; others with contemptuous hostility. Bony thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Boys appeared wheeling rubber-tyred trolleys bearing tea-urns, multi-tiered cakes and mounds of delicacies. Each trolley was in charge of a boy wearing a chef’s cap, and his assistants served the tea whilst the “chef” cut and served the cake. They displayed tremendous élan in the task of waiting on the guests.

“He’s a wonderful man, really,” someone was saying. “Matron told me that all he thinks about is his boys. Puts himself out no end to gain their confidence and be a father to them.”

“Wonder he never married,” another woman said. “Should have done, you know, and had boys of his own. Quite presentable, too, in addition to his position. Can’t say I’m wildly enthusiastic about him, although Fred thinks the world of him. Says he’s the best headmaster the school could possibly have.”

“Percival must have felt the thump when Rose was appointed over him,” observed a man. “Not a pill I’d like to take.”

“Poor Mr. Percival. And such a brilliant man, too. How are your boys getting along?”

“Very well. Socially the boys are well trained here, don’t you think? The masters might supervise their washing more strictly. I noticed that our Tom’s neck is perfectly disgraceful, and I’m sure he hasn’t scrubbed his teeth for a month.”

“It’s funny you should mention that,” a new voice broke in. “My husband complained that our boys never wash their necks. It seems that it’s not done! They merely step through the shower from one side to the other.”

Bony regarded Keith. He was polished like a lord’s door handle, but then he was a day boy and came under his father’s inspection. Abruptly the hum of conversation died away and, glancing round, Bony observed that the headmaster had mounted one of the garden seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, in his best Assembly manner. “I propose that we proceed to Sayers Hall, where the work of the boys is now on display. It has been judged by Mr. Marshall Gallagher and Mrs. Sayers, to whom is due our united thanks.” Soft hand-clapping. “We, the staff and boys of Cave Hill College, wish to express our deep appreciation of your continued interest in our activities, and we trust that the result of this year’s labours will please you, and further we promise that we will endeavour to do even better next year.

“Much of the basic material to which our boys have applied their creative gifts has been brought in by the aborigines as an expression of their gratitude for the boys’ discarded clothing, which is carefully collected and distributed among the several missions. You will agree that boys do grow. Often I regret that they grow up too quickly, and it does seem that before we can reach candid understanding of our small problems, they are of age to leave us. But our boys never lose their affection for their school nor we our affection for them. Again, on behalf of the staff and my boys, I thank you.”

Bravo! mentally applauded Bony. Quite a natural little speech despite the old school tie touch, and with the small crowd he entered the school and so came to Sayers Hall.

On benches, tables and desks were arrayed the exhibits, and they were well worth inspection. There were cigarette boxes, needlework boxes, ink-stands and pen racks of polished mulga wood. Larger work-boxes were studded with the extraordinary variety of shells gathered from the reefs. Boab-tree nuts were carved and painted with commendable skill, and paper-weights of all shapes and sizes were carved from the rainbow stone which has the appearance of chocolate cake layered with cream. There were emu eggs of light green and of dark green cut to reveal the deeper pure white shell in designs and figures of the aborigines’ legends. Stencil work, carpentry, and leather work were well represented, and many of the coloured drawings and mosaic work must surely have satisfied the arts master.

“What happens to the exhibits ... eventually?” Bony asked a heavy man in white drill.

The gentleman stared with expressionless eyes deep-set in a pasty face ... and turned away. The curtain dropped instantly before Bony’s eyes, but the smile entered them again when Mrs. Simmonds hastened to explain that all the exhibits were sent to Perth shops, and the money received was paid into the mission funds. Thanking her, Bony nonchalantly regarded the man’s large hands, maintaining his gaze until the gentleman thrust them into the side pockets of his white tunic.

The boys came into the hall and mixed with their parents, Keith excitedly leading his mother and sister to see his exhibit, which had gained a class B certificate. A few minutes later, Mr. Percival stood on the platform to speak, and his speech, if slightly pedantic, was given with a voice more pleasing than that of his chief. He called upon Mrs. Sayers to present the prizes, and Bony wondered how it was that Mrs. Sayers was given so much importance.

The prize-giving accomplished, and the lady receiving an ovation following her speech, the usual votes of thanks were proposed and seconded, and what Bony decided was a very pleasant interlude drew to a close.

“Quite a good show,” remarked Bill Simmonds when they were again on the lawn.

“I thought the general level of the exhibits very high,” Bony agreed. “I’m glad I came.”

“It’s always worth while, you know. We’ve come in every year, since the school was built. A great acquisition to the North-West.”

“It must be. When was it built?”

“Eighteen years ago. Someone got the idea that Broome has a wonderful climate for growing boys. Then it was remembered that the expense of sending children down to Perth was too heavy as well as the worry of their welfare on the way down and home again at the end of term. A private company was formed, and a hundred thousand pounds was subscribed in no time ... almost half of it by Mrs. Sayers. She backed a gold mine. She generally does.”

“There was no difficulty in staffing the school?”

“At first, yes. Percival was appointed the headmaster, but somehow he didn’t quite suit and he was superseded by Rose. It made him a little sour. He’s Rugby and Cambridge. Rose didn’t go through a public school. But Rose is a born organiser, and he understands boys. Not a bad sort, Old Bilge.”

“I understand Percival is known as Happy,” remarked Bony.

“That’s so,” Simmonds chuckled. “Can’t beat the kids for burrowing under surfaces. They didn’t like Percival, but he’s a damn good schoolmaster all the same. Now don’t forget, if you should ever pass Tallinbah without calling in, I’ll be after you with a shot-gun.”

As he drove Mrs. Walters and the children back to the police station, Bony thanked her profusely for a most entertaining afternoon.