The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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“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