<< Go Back

Down by the Water

By Jo-Anne Berthelsen

Order Now!

Chapter One
‘Meggie—me come too!’`
‘Not this time, Jimbo. Besides, I think Mummy’s going to visit Aunty June today. Then you can play with Bobbie. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘No, me want Meggie.’
Margaret Porter listened to her little brother’s anguished pleas with a sinking feeling. It was the way he used his pet name for her that so often melted her heart. But today she wanted to disappear down to the creek and paint uninterrupted for a few hours. Today, she wanted to think about so many things all by herself. Today she wanted to dream big dreams. Today, 10th August 1908, she wanted to reach for the sky.
She stood hesitant in the doorway for a moment longer, her easel tucked under her arm. Then Isobel appeared as if from nowhere, picked Jimbo up, hugged him close and tickled him.
‘Aw, come on, Jimbo—you love me too, don’t you?’
His cries turn to delicious giggles, as Isobel’s face burrowed into his neck.
‘It’s okay, Meg. You go—I’ll look after him,’ she told her with a smile and a quick tilt of her head in the direction of the door. ‘We’ll have such fun together, won’t we, Jimbo?’
She was so grateful for Isobel’s understanding. She mouthed her thanks, picked up her art equipment, together with some food she had grabbed from the kitchen, and hurried along the hall. Then, adjusting her easel under her arm, she bounded down the front steps as fast as she could.
Feeling a little guilty, she set out for her favourite spot along the creek. There were precious few places to explore around Helidon, on foot at least. But she loved Lockyer Creek and the way it kept changing in so many infinitesimal ways, widening almost to a river as it meandered through their area, before flowing on towards Gatton and, after much twisting and turning, into the Brisbane River and Moreton Bay. She could always find some different aspect to paint along its banks.
She had forgotten her hat, so was grateful when she reached the shade of the huge, old gumtrees, weeping willows and she-oaks that grew along the water’s edge. Yes, there was the perfect, grassy spot to stand her easel and set out her paints and brushes. With a sigh of ecstasy, she raised her arms to the sky and stretched, before getting down to work.
Yet how could painting ever be work for her? It always brought her such joy and freedom ... and something more she could not quite put into words. It had to do with that creative force that welled up from somewhere deep within whenever she painted. Was this God’s Spirit, as Sister Mary Margaret used to tell her? She did not know—and anyway, she could not envisage God knowing or caring about an insignificant, eighteen-year-old country girl like her. Perhaps when she was older, she would work it all out.
Right now, as she looked around, she knew what she wanted to paint. The bright light filtering through the leaves and shimmering on the surface of the water seemed to beg her to try a new technique she had wanted to explore for ages. After sketching her scene oh so lightly, she began choosing the smoky greens, soft tans and deep golden tones she needed and mixing them with care. Then she painted until her arms ached and her stomach rumbled.
She laid down her brush, wiped her hands on her skirt and took stock of her work. Sister Mary Margaret would have found something encouraging to say about her efforts. Then, in her gentle way, she would have shown her some little trick that added so much more depth to her painting. But Sister was no longer at the convent—and neither was she. It was almost two years since she had finished her schooling and said goodbye to Sister Mary Margaret. Two years during which so much had happened, yet so little too.
‘Such a gifted artist!’ the little nun would often tell her in her soft, Irish voice. ‘One day, you’ll make us all proud. But … perhaps some more colour here, do you think? Just a tiny bit. We don’t want to spoil it. Perfect—well done, Meg.’
She chose a spot nearer the creek to sit and eat the biscuits and fruit she had grabbed as she escaped—that would have to do until dinnertime. Soon, snippets from her conversations the previous evening with her brother and then Isobel popped into her mind. William was so sure where he was heading, while Isobel seemed quite content to leave the future in God’s hands. Yet what did she, Margaret May Porter, want out of life? After two years of helping her mother at home, painting and keeping up her piano practice, she was still no clearer about her future.
She took off her boots, stretched out on her back and stared entranced at the leaves above her, as they formed ever-changing patterns against the clear, blue sky. Maybe she could talk her parents into letting her stay with Aunty Betty next year and take art lessons in Brisbane. Maybe ...
Her mind wandered as she watched a few wispy clouds wending their way towards the horizon. Her mother was always telling her she had her head in the clouds too much. But the future her family envisaged for her seemed so boring. … Oh, her eyelids felt so heavy. Perhaps she could close them for a little while ...
It was the screeching of the cockatoos that woke her in the end. She had been dreaming—a disturbing dream in which she had seen a beautiful rainbow lorikeet in a cage, flapping its wings and struggling desperately to escape. Then the bird had turned into Sister Mary Margaret—but even Sister Mary Margaret could not open the cage. She had rushed to help her old teacher, but could not reach her, however hard she tried.
She scrambled to her feet, her heart thumping. It must be well after three. She was angry with herself for falling asleep—she had stayed up far too late, talking with Will and Isobel. Then she had lain awake for ages, thinking over so many things. Well, no point in wasting time chastising herself now—she needed to focus on her painting. Yet as she did, something Isobel had mentioned the previous night kept coming to mind.
‘God will sort it out, I know,’ her friend had said, when they had tried to imagine where they might be in a few years.
Some of Will’s comments had made her think too. It was different for boys, of course. One day, Will would be the breadwinner for his own family, whereas, according to her parents, she would soon have a husband and children to care for. She wanted that too—but not for a while yet. There were so many other exciting things to do before saying yes to anyone.
She needed to head home, but as the sun began to sink behind the mountain range to the north and bathe the sky in a beautiful, pale pink and orange glow, she stood still, entranced. What wonderful, subtle colours—but how hard it was to do them justice in her paintings!
With reluctance, she made her way along the creek and up the hill towards home. Now she could see her mother standing on their wide front veranda and gazing in her direction. And there was Isobel too, wiping her hands on her apron as she ran down to open the gate.
‘Here, let me take your easel. Oh, look at those marks on your dress! You get yourself in more of a mess than I do, Meggie.’
Apart from Jimbo, Isobel Davidson was the only person allowed to call her that. She had valued Isobel’s friendship ever since the day she had come to work for them, even though they were so different. Isobel was calm and capable, whereas she herself was always being told how dreamy and impractical she was.
‘You don’t have to help me, Isobel. You’ve got enough to do, looking after Jimbo and getting dinner,’ she objected now, as Isobel wrestled the easel from her. ‘But thanks—you’re a good friend.’
They reached the front steps where her mother stood frowning down at her.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I lost track of the time. Then the sunset was so wonderful. Did you see it? Look over there—the colours are still beautiful.’
‘Margaret, I have far more important things to do than stand here gazing at the sky. And look at you—you’d better tidy yourself up before your father gets home. You’ve had your own way for far too long. We’ll talk about it all again tonight.’
Feeling a little chastened, she headed for her room and glanced in the mirror. Yes, she did look rather dishevelled. Her long, wavy, auburn hair was windswept, having escaped in places from the bright ribbon she had hastily tied around it. And on one cheek, there was a smudge of orange paint. She rubbed it off and set about brushing her hair in long, smooth strokes, just as her mother had taught her. Large, grey eyes stared back at her from the mirror—eyes she was grateful to have inherited from her mother, along with her dark eyebrows. She ran her hand over her smooth skin where the smudge of paint had been and smiled at her reflection, touching the dimple that emerged in the exact same spot. But even as she did, she could hear her old school principal primly warning her class about the perils of vanity.
‘It’s most unbecoming for a young lady to check her face in a mirror, girls, as I see many of you doing so often. You need to concentrate on more important things such as your studies. Remember, God’s much more concerned with the inside than the outside.’
As she gave her hair a final tweak and headed for the kitchen, she wondered what her father’s response to the impending discussion about her future would be. At least he seemed in a jovial mood as he joined them at the dinner table. She knew the quarry business was doing well, especially since they had won the contract for the new cathedral in Brisbane. He often talked about it all with pride and it seemed tonight would be no exception.
‘Looks like this cathedral order’s going to be an even better deal than those government contracts we won soon after we were married, Pearl. Not that we’ve done too badly in between either—in more ways than one,’ he chuckled, as he glanced around at them all with obvious pride.
For once, all seven of them were together, with Will home from Sydney for the August holidays. Tonight, Jimbo—her mother was the only one who insisted on calling him James—was perched on a cushion on a normal chair, having at last become too big for his highchair at almost three. He looked such a dear little man tonight, with his blond curls and rosy cheeks. As for Caroline and Harriet whispering together next to him, they were pretty enough, she supposed, with their brown hair drawn back in plaits. She hated it when Caroline treated her younger sister with disdain and fought with her, but tonight, they seemed on friendly enough terms, as they kept glancing at Will and giggling.
‘What are you two finding so funny?’ her mother asked in a stern voice. ‘This isn’t the time or place for silly games.’
‘We’re not playing games, Mum. We just know something about Will,’ Caroline announced with triumph.
‘What would you girls know?’ Will scoffed.
‘We found this outside your bedroom and ... we read it,’ Caroline told him, as she produced a crumpled piece of notepaper.
‘It’s a love letter,’ Harriet giggled.
Will’s face turned bright red.
‘What? That’s a private note to me—how dare you read it! Why didn’t you give it back straight away?’
‘You weren’t here—you’d gone riding,’ they chorussed.
‘That’s enough, girls,’ their father broke in. ‘Give it back to Will now. And Will’s right. If that letter’s his property, you shouldn’t have read it. Both of you apologise this instant—and not another word until you’ve finished your dinner.’
It was hard to tell whose face was the reddest then—Will’s or Caroline’s or Harriet’s. Later, when the younger ones were in bed, she would ask Will about it all. He would tell her—they had always been great friends. But she knew her father would be curious too and want to tease Will himself. Perhaps with luck, Will’s letter might even deflect any impending discussion about her own future.
Her sisters mumbled their apologies, with sulky looks that did not bode well for Will in the coming days. But at that point, her mother steered the conversation in the very direction she had been dreading.
‘I think we need to talk about Margaret’s future this evening and not William’s,’ she announced with steely determination. ‘We’ve let her do as she pleases for far too long now, Tom. She needs more discipline in her life—she’s forever wandering off painting somewhere and forgetting the time.’
She knew what her father would say even before he opened his mouth.
‘I told you we should have bundled her off to secondary school in Toowoomba, Pearl, rather than let her stay on at the convent. You got your way about sending her there rather than to the state school with Will, but I’m sure boarding school would have been good for her once she was older, just as it was for Will. Maybe then she would’ve headed to university like Will too.’
‘Or perhaps she could have tried out for that teachers’ college in Sydney at least,’ her mother sighed. ‘She was really a pupil-teacher by the time she finished at the convent anyway, from what Sister Mary Margaret told me. And I have to admit she’s good with young children—James follows her everywhere. But all she wants to do is paint or draw or play the piano. I know these are worthwhile accomplishments, but she needs to take more interest in practical things too, Tom, and be more disciplined in general. If you could have seen how she looked when she came home this evening ...’
Meg hated it when her parents talked about her as if she were not there—it was time she interrupted them.
‘I wouldn’t have been happy at boarding school, away from you all,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘And I’ve never wanted to go to university—or teacher’s college. Besides, if I hadn’t have stayed on at the convent, I would have missed out on everything Sister Mary Margaret taught me.’
‘I’m sure the teachers in Toowoomba would have helped you as much as any nun could,’ her father responded.
‘Maybe. But Sister Mary Margaret understood how I feel about painting—and we were the best of friends.’
‘Well, I doubt she has time to paint now at that orphanage in Brisbane where she was sent. Anyway, your mother’s right, Meg. I like your pictures—and I enjoy hearing you play the piano. But you do need to learn more about cooking and sewing and the like. Soon there’ll be a whole line of young lads asking me for your hand in marriage. And once that happens, you won’t have time to run around the countryside painting or play the piano whenever you like. Look how busy your mother is, even with Isobel’s help. That’ll be you one day soon, Meg, mark my words.’
She laughed, despite herself.
‘Oh Dad, I don’t plan to get married for ages. Besides, there’s no one around here I’d want as a husband. Certainly not Roy Davies or Leo Marshall—or even Harry Scott from Rosewood. And they wouldn’t want to marry me either. I know they think I’m a bit too ... well, just a bit much somehow. But I don’t care—they’re all so boring. All they ever talk about is horses and cows and ...’
But her father was having none of it.
‘You wait and see, my girl. You’re a beautiful young woman—you could have anyone you like. And that’s all the more reason I should have insisted we send you off to boarding school. At least then you might have mixed with girls from some of the better families, perhaps even from the big properties out west. I’m sure quite a few of them would have had eligible older brothers. But what do you say, Will? What about your university friends? Would any of them suit your sister?’
But before Will could answer, her mother interrupted.
‘Let’s leave this discussion until later, Tom, when we can perhaps be a little more serious. It’s way past James’s bedtime—and Caroline and Harriet have had a big day too. Please take the dishes to the kitchen, Margaret, while Isobel helps me with James and the girls.’
As Meg began piling up the plates with a sigh, her father gave her a sly wink. He was a man’s man who worked with men day in and day out at his quarry business, yet he could also be gentle and sensitive. She was well aware how much he loved them all. But she also knew he would always bow to her mother’s wishes in family matters—which meant that, right now, she did not want to talk about her future even with him.
It would be so much easier if she knew what she wanted to do with her life. For the hundredth time, she wished she could still talk with Sister Margaret Mary at the convent. Will would always listen, but in a few days, he needed to head back to Sydney for another term. Besides, he was a man, with so many more choices open to him. How could she expect him to understand? Of course, there was Isobel, who always seemed so content, despite what her family had been through. She could always talk to Isobel.
At that point, her father interrupted her reverie.
‘Come on, Meg, hurry up and take these things to the kitchen, like your mother asked, instead of daydreaming. Then you and Will and I can have a little chat on the veranda.’
To her relief, Will ended up first in the firing line.
‘So, been holding out on us, have you? What’s this about a girl in Sydney?’ her father said, as he reached across to where Will was sprawled and poked him in the ribs.
The colour rushed to Will’s cheeks, but he managed to sound casual enough.
‘Oh, she’s just a girl I met last term, Dad. She’s actually Harry Scott’s sister—she was down visiting him at one stage. We aren’t keeping company or anything like that though.’
‘Well, just remember what you’re in Sydney for, son. I need you to get that engineering degree so you can come alongside me in the business. Now if you were a boy, Meg, I could probably find ways for you to help me right now, since your mother thinks you need to do a few more practical things.’
She knew he was teasing but, for once, his words hurt.
‘Look, I didn’t mean that—I take it all back,’ he said more gently when she stayed silent. ‘What would I do without my beautiful, accomplished, eldest daughter? … Truth is, I envy the way you’re able to paint and play the piano to your heart’s content right now. I used to wish I could do such things myself, believe it or not, although I’d never have been half as good as you. I’m proud of you, Meg—but I agree with your mother. It’s time to settle down, dear, and learn a few more practical, homemaking skills. As I said, before you know it, some young man will sweep you off your feet and whisk you away. Then you’ll wish you’d listened to us.’
Just then, her mother joined them. It was clear she had overheard his words but was eager to add more of her own.
‘I hope you’ve been listening to your father, Margaret. From next week, I expect to see much more attention paid to other things besides your painting and your music—and much more self-discipline too.’
‘But I have to keep painting. And I need to practise the piano too. Mrs Watson’s on the social committee now and she’s asked me to play at the next dance. Anyway, Mum, you don’t seem to have time to teach me things like sewing or knitting or ...’
At that point, Will almost fell out of his chair laughing.
‘You knitting, Meg? I can’t imagine it. I’d hate to be the one trying to teach you, that’s for sure.’
‘It’s no laughing matter, William,’ her mother cut in. ‘But you’re right, Margaret—I don’t have time to be forever fixing up all the mistakes you make because you don’t listen to my instructions in the first place. Maybe Isobel would have more patience with you, seeing you’re such bosom friends.’
She decided to give in—or at least pretend to. Nothing would be gained by arguing with her mother anyway. She had learnt that only too well in the last few months in particular.
‘I know I can be annoying, Mum, when I’m not interested in learning something. Even Sister Mary Margaret used to tell me that. “You want to run before you can walk, Margaret”, she often said, when I’d get tired of practising the same thing over and over. But I promise I’ll ask Isobel to teach me—maybe I can mind Jimbo for her in exchange.’
To her relief, her parents let it rest there and the conversation turned to how Will’s studies could help their quarry business. She stifled a yawn—she found such talk boring, so decided to excuse herself and go to her room.
She curled up on her bed and tried to read, but could not seem to concentrate. Her eyes strayed to her easel standing in the corner and, in the end, she could not resist placing her half-finished painting on it and moving the nearby lamp closer. Something was still not quite right with it. Well, she would have to wait until daylight to try to fix it. She could never do justice to the subtle interplay of light and shade she had wanted to incorporate into the scene if she tried now.
With a sigh, she flopped on the bed again and stared at the ceiling. What was the matter with her? She hated to admit it, but her mother was right—she had little interest in anything much except art and music. One day often seemed to merge into the next as she floated along, doing whatever she felt like doing.
Soon she heard footsteps in the hallway and poked her head out of her room.
‘Isobel, is Jimbo asleep? Can we chat for a while?’
‘Let me check on the girls, but I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ Isobel whispered back.
She sighed with relief. However weary Isobel was, she always listened and tried to understand.
‘I’m so glad you’re here—sometimes I wonder what I’d do without you around,’ she burst out when Isobel returned. ‘You save me from so many scrapes with Mum. And you’re always doing nice things for me, like setting my easel up here ready.’
‘I don’t mind—I like to help you. You’re my friend, Meggie, after all.’
Isobel sank into the comfortable, old armchair nearby, while she herself sat cross-legged on the bed. At first, she continued brushing her hair the way her mother insisted she do every night. But soon she threw her brush down and stretched out full-length again.
‘Isobel, I know I should learn more about housekeeping and how to manage a family, like Mum says. But I want to do so many other things before I settle down. I love painting and I love my music. And it’d be fun to see a bit of the world too, although I imagine I’d get homesick. One day I’ll get married and have a family, I suppose—but not yet. Besides, all the boys around here are so boring.’
Isobel leaned forward, her big, brown eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘So … does that mean you won’t bother going to the dance this weekend?’
‘No, of course not, silly. Besides, I’m playing the piano for some of the dances in a couple of weeks to give Mrs Watson a break, so I need to see how she manages everything. Anyway, you never know who’ll turn up. Even Will said he might go—he reckons he’s too busy for parties and dances in Sydney.’
They sat in silence then for a few moments.
‘It must be nice for you to have Will home again. He seems so much more grown up,’ Isobel said at last, as she glanced down and toyed with the end of her long, dark plait, her heart-shaped face half hidden in shadow.
Isobel’s manner spoke volumes. At once, she was alert, but she decided to keep her thoughts to herself.
‘Could you come to the dance too, Isobel?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure your parents will want to go, so I’ll stay and mind Jimbo and the girls. Anyway, I can’t dance very well.’
‘I’ll teach you—and you could teach me sewing and knitting, Isobel. Mum doesn’t want to and you’re so clever with your hands. Anyway, I’d rather learn from you—you’re much more patient. I could take care of Jimbo for you in exchange. What do you think?’
‘I think you could do anything you put your mind to, Meggie. You’re so clever and creative. But you need to want to learn things, otherwise you’ll give up. Still, you never know—perhaps you’ll meet some dashing, new beau at this next dance who’ll inspire you to learn all you can quick smart about being a model housewife.’
‘Huh, I don’t think that’s likely. … You know, maybe I should become a teacher or, better still, a nurse—even though I hate the sight of blood. That way, I might meet a handsome, young doctor around the General Hospital somewhere. But Isobel, don’t you ever feel restless and wish you had a more exciting life? Wouldn’t you like to be a famous artist or actress—or somebody rich and important, with hundreds of dresses to choose from?’
‘Oh, you and your dreaming, Meggie. Even if I did, I know that’s not going to happen in real life. But one day, I do want to help others—perhaps look after sick children or work with poor families and teach them about God or...’
‘Well, all I can say is you’re much more noble than I am. Don’t you ever think of yourself and what you want to do?’
‘But that is what I want to do. Of course, I’d like to get married and have children one day, but I know God will work out something just right for me when the time comes.’
‘That’s the sort of thing Sister Mary Margaret used to say. Maybe you could become a nun.’
‘Not if I want to get married and have children, silly.’
They fell silent again then, each lost in thought. Several times, she noticed Isobel open her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. She wanted to ask her about it, but thought better of it in the end. There were things about Isobel she would never understand, including her strong faith in God, which had survived even her minister father’s death when she was only twelve. If her own father died, she was sure she would never get over it—and she would certainly question God about it. Yet there was a serenity about Isobel she could not help but admire and she was hard-working and loyal and patient too. Oh, why couldn’t she be more like that herself?
Eventually, Isobel broke the silence.
‘Meggie, have you ever asked God what you should do with your life?’
The question was so gentle and tentative that she bit her tongue to curb the strong response she had been about to give. She was not religious, but she did not want to hurt Isobel, especially when she saw her friend’s earnest expression. Yet she had to be honest—and she was sure Isobel knew what she would say anyway.
‘That’d be a last resort for me,’ she said in the end, trying to keep her tone light. ‘After all, God might ask me to give up my painting and forget about having any fun in life. But that reminds me, Isobel ... I think you should come to the dance on Saturday night. You work so hard—you deserve to have some fun. I’ll ask Mum if you can. And I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t I ask Will to practise some of the dances with you tomorrow? I could play for you both—I want to run through some of the music anyway. Then you wouldn’t be able to use that old excuse about being no good at dancing.’
Isobel blushed rosy-red and scrambled out of her chair.
‘No, please don’t bother Will. I’m sure we’ll all have enough to do tomorrow, without wasting time teaching me how to dance. … Anyway, I’d better go and let you get some sleep—we can talk more another time. And I need to get to bed too. But I’d be happy to help you with your sewing and knitting whenever you’re ready.’
Yet the next day, there was no time for Isobel’s dancing lesson—or for sewing or knitting either. At far too early an hour, she discovered her parents had other plans in mind when Caroline and Harriet raced in and ripped the covers off her.
‘I got here first—I won!’ Caroline yelled. ‘Meg, wake up.’
‘No, I did!’ an indignant Harriet yelled back. ‘That’s not fair—you started before Mum even finished saying we could leave the table.’
‘Go away,’ she groaned. ‘I’m not getting up yet.’
‘But you have to,’ the girls chorused. ‘Mum wants to talk to you right now.’
‘Oh, go away!’ she shouted.
‘You’ll be in big trouble, Meg,’ Caroline gloated, as she headed for the door to be the first to tell their mother, with Harriet hot on her heels.
She knew sleep would elude her, even if she had been able to ignore her mother’s footsteps in the hallway and the sharp rap on her door that followed.
‘As if I don’t have enough to do without running after you, Margaret. Your father and I talked more last night after you took yourself off so rudely and we want to sort things out with you before he leaves. I’ll give you five minutes to get dressed and be at the breakfast table. And make sure you look at least a little respectable.’
It was unwise to argue with her mother when she used that tone of voice and her father would be impatient to get to work too. She scrambled out of bed, put on the first dress she could find and hastily brushed her hair. Then, with only seconds to spare, she made it to the table and flopped down.
‘Please take that mutinous look off your face, Meg,’ her father began. ‘Your mother and I have discussed your future and you’ll need to start moving, if you’re going to head to your aunt and uncle’s next week. That way, Will can make sure you get to Brisbane safely and save me a trip.’
She rubbed her eyes and wondered what on earth he was talking about. She loved her aunt and uncle, although she always found it hard to believe Aunty Betty was her father’s sister. While he was tall and large and never worried about what he wore, Aunty Betty was small and dainty and loved all the latest fashions. If she could stay with Uncle Harold and her for a while, she might learn more about fashion herself—and she might meet some interesting people at the social events Aunty Betty often went to as well.
In the midst of all her tumbled thoughts, she realised her mother was talking to her.
‘I’m not sure I’m entirely happy with the idea, but we’ve decided to ask your aunt and uncle if they’ll have you stay with them for the coming term. However, this is not so you can waste your time flitting from one social event to the next, Margaret. Your father thinks you should have some professional art lessons, but I’d like you to learn all you can from your aunt about sewing and housekeeping in general. Of course, she can afford to employ others to do such things, but she knows a lot herself too—and I’d expect you to grasp this opportunity with both hands. If your father’s prepared to pay for art lessons, then you need to do your part and learn everything Betty can teach you. And, needless to say, she’s more up-to-date with the latest fashions than I am too.’
‘This is your chance, Meg,’ her father interrupted, as if fearful her mother would say too much. ‘You remember how I told you I always wished I could learn to paint and play the piano? Instead, I had to work—and work hard. We’ve sent Will to university and we would’ve done the same for you or paid for you to train as a teacher or a nurse, but you didn’t want that. But I think it’s only fair you’re given the chance to have good art lessons, before some lucky fellow marries you and carries you off. When I get to the office, I’ll phone Betty and ask her and also find out about art courses. Betty may be able to arrange some piano lessons for you with her girls’ old teacher too, which would be good.’
His face was red and his eyes seemed suspiciously bright. Her heart went out to him—she knew by the way he refused to look in her mother’s direction that he must have argued her case long into the night.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she whispered, holding back her own tears and giving him a hug. ‘I’ll try my best—at everything.’
‘That’s my beautiful, big daughter,’ he murmured, then joked to hide his embarrassment. ‘I hope all those lessons won’t be a waste of money though. Chances are, as well as the local boys, I’ll soon have a line-up of handsome, young Brisbane suitors knocking at my door.’
After he left, she tried to pull herself together and listen to her mother.
‘I don’t want to sound begrudging, Margaret, but I have to say you’re very fortunate to be given this opportunity. I hope you value it as you ought to and help your aunt however you can. We used to be great friends when I was around your age and go to lots of social events together—we loved dressing in the latest fashion. But all that ended, of course, when I married your father and moved here. Then I had little time for such things, in between learning to manage a household and looking after you, then William and the others. Anyway, there’s no time to sit here talking about all that. William wants to catch up with a friend in Brisbane next Tuesday, so that leaves only a few days for you to decide what to take with you to Betty’s.’
‘But ... but I promised to play at the dance here in a couple of weeks to help Mrs Watson out. And I’ll miss Jimbo’s birthday as well.’
‘That can’t be helped. Mrs Watson will have to find someone else. And James isn’t old enough yet to care whether you’re here or not on his birthday. Now go and start sorting your things and packing—and try to be sensible about it all, Margaret.’
Over the next few days, her emotions soared and plummeted. She was grateful when Aunty Betty agreed to have her stay—she loved their beautiful, big home in Hamilton, not far from the river. But she was even more grateful when her father managed to enrol her in an art course at the Technical College in the city. She found it hard to believe that the world-renowned London artist, Godfrey Rivers, would be her main tutor. Yet she hated the thought of leaving home too. She would miss Jimbo and Isobel so much—and her parents and sisters as well. And she would miss her favourite haunts down by the creek where she loved to paint. Still, she could always come home for a visit—and there would be beautiful spots along the Brisbane River near college where she could sit and paint.
It was hard to decide what to take, but Isobel was good at packing and so calm and methodical about it all. The days flew by, yet she was still determined to make it to the Saturday night dance and say goodbye to everyone face to face.
‘You look beautiful, Meggie,’ Isobel told her when she was ready at last. ‘All the boys will want to dance with you tonight, for sure.’
‘I wish you were coming too. I feel guilty leaving you here, but I’ll tell you all about it on Monday. I hope you have a good day tomorrow—and thanks for everything.’
She gave her hair one final brush and swished her skirts around in front of the mirror, just as Will poked his head in to tell her to hurry up. Despite being a little distracted, she did not miss seeing Isobel blush and turn away. More than ever, she wished Isobel could have come with them. On top of that, she knew Isobel would spend most of her day off helping out at Sunday School and church, then entertaining her brothers and sisters while her mother had a rest. With a sigh, she picked up her evening bag and gave her a quick hug, before hurrying after Will.
They soon reached the School of Arts in the centre of town. Judging by the number of buggies already lined up outside, she was sure she would have plenty of partners—and she was right. In fact, she barely had time to greet her friends before someone claimed her for the first dance. After that, she whirled her way through several more in quick succession, including the Boston Two-Step and a lively barn dance, before being asked to stand up for the Jolly Miller. To her relief, the initial waltz was soon over and it was time to move onto a new partner—she had only agreed to dance with Leo Mullens because she knew she would not have to put up with him for long. But as the next waltz began, she found herself gazing up into the face of a tall stranger. He smiled down at her and clasped her hand firmly in his.
‘Hello—I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Richard McPherson, the new teacher at Rosewood.’
 

Order Now!

<< Go Back