Bush School Read online

  Praise for Bush School

  ‘O’Brien’s beautiful memoir Bush School takes us back to a time when students said ‘good-oh’ and teachers were well-respected within their communities. We watch as O’Brien becomes a teacher; placing the children and their learning at the centre of his work whilst courageously navigating the isolated life of a remote town during the early sixties. O’Brien’s story is told with great integrity. He explores the unique challenges and opportunities faced by small schools as well as delving into the grand endeavour that is “teaching”. Bush School reminds us that teaching is an act of service and that teachers—then and now—are indispensable.’

  —Gabbie Stroud, author of Teacher

  ‘So many wonderful books, plays and films centre upon the importance of a dedicated and inspiring teacher in the lives of the very young. The reason is simple. Such teachers, and they are indeed rare, have a lifetime influence upon their pupils. I believe Peter O’Brien is such a teacher. Given Bush School chronicles the earliest days of Peter’s teaching career, it’s also interesting to note his memoir has “a coming of age” aspect. A coming of age for Peter himself as he discovers so much about who he is in the remote community to which he’s been assigned. Delightfully composed, Bush School has many voices. There is the evocation of a bygone era; there is historical and sociological comment; there is a strong sense of humanity; and above all, there is charm and warmth on every page.’

  —Judy Nunn, author of Khaki Town

  First published in 2020

  Copyright © 2020 Peter O’Brien

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100

  Email:[email protected]

  Web:www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76087 680 7

  eISBN 978 1 76087 487 2

  Maps by Mika Tabata

  Internal design by Bookhouse

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Christabella Designs

  Cover photographs: Weabonga Public School, circa 1925; sky ©Shutterstock

  For the children of the Bush School,

  all my Balmain Teachers’ College peers,

  Patricia and Sean

  Bush School is a memoir and the people, places and events recounted in it are all from sixty years ago. It is the result of the author’s memory of that long-gone past and, as with all memoirs, it may not reflect the way others remember those times and places. All names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals.

  Contents

  People of the Story

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  People of the Story

  School people

  The Baulderstone family: Will in Grade Four and Gary in Grade Three. They had a dad, Max, and a mum, June. The family lived on the edge of the village in the old Baulderstone family home, inherited by Max.

  Allan Flood: the Inspector of Schools for the Armidale Region.

  The Mason family: Jack in Grade Five and Steve in Grade Two. They came from a village home, which had the post office on a section of glassed-in veranda. They had a single mum, Sue, and a grandfather, Tim Bourke, whose home it was and who resided with them. Jack and Steve’s dad had separated from their mum and was living elsewhere; he did not come to see his children.

  The O’Callaghan family: Tom in Grade Eight and Debbie in Grade Five. They came from a sheep property just out of the village on the Limbri Road. They had a single dad—a widower, Cyril—and a large extended family.

  The O’Callaghan family: Mike in Grade Four, Phil in Grade Three and Charlie in Grade One. They had a dad, Lawrie, and a mum, Jill. The family lived in the village.

  Note that the two O’Callaghan families were related. Lawrie was the eldest son of Cyril O’Callaghan, so Lawrie was the oldest of Tom and Debbie’s many brothers, and Tom and Debbie were the aunt and uncle to Lawrie’s boys Mike, Phil and Charlie.

  The Teegan family: Lindie in Grade Five and Susie in Grade Two. They came from a sheep property some ten miles out of the village on the back road to Ingelba. They had a dad, Vic, and a mum, Jan. Their older sister, Wendy, was away at boarding school.

  The Thomas family: Vickie in Grade Five, Mark in Grade Four and Carol in Grade Two. They had a dad, Dan, and a mum, Molly, and the family lived in a village home.

  The Wallace family: Joe in Grade Four and Jimmy in Grade One. They had a dad, Tony, and a mum, Marie. The family lived on a sheep-grazing property about ten miles from the village along the Limbri Road and beyond the Williamsons’ property.

  The Whitworth Family: Rick in Grade Four and Robbie in Grade Three. They a dad, Bill, and a mum, Monica, and the family lived in the village in the old police station.

  Others

  The Bucklands: Perc and his sister Ethel, septuagenarian pensioners. They lived in a compound of three huts on a village site of about two acres, overlooking the school.

  Bon Knox: Bon was the mail-car contractor who delivered post and small items from Tamworth to the village every Friday. He also ran a carriage service so provided transport, for a fee, to anyone needing to travel along his mail route.

  The Watermains: Allan and Claudine lived on their grazing property on the Limbri Road about seven miles past Barry White’s place and nine miles or so beyond the Williamsons’ homestead. Allan and Claudine had no children.

  Barry White: a local grazier on the Limbri Road, a few miles beyond the Williamsons. He had never married.

  The Williamson family: George, an elderly widower dad; his four adult daughters, Barbara, Elizabeth, Margaret and Joan; and his adult son, Paul. The Williamsons ran a sheep property some three miles from the village along the Limbri Road. George and Paul lived on the property at all times, and occasionally one of the adult daughters also lived at home to assist in caring for their dad.

  1

  ‘Here we go,’ I said to myself. ‘Can I do this?’ The hardest test of my short life was about to hit me. ‘Lord, I hope it’s calm, that we all survive and there’s a soft landing.’

  At last the academic year was to begin, a week later than normal. On this first day, I had arrived very early at the little bush school. By just after seven o’clock I had opened up and, not knowing for certain what to prepare on our blackboard, had created a simple chalk picture of this tiny, remote village, Weabonga, with its one-room school on a rise in the centre. By laying chalk sticks on their side, I’d produced wide sweeps of colour in each stroke. Children were pictured playing in
the yard, and a teacher was leaning over the veranda rail, apparently welcoming them. I was hoping this vivid board would encourage the children to talk easily together and interact confidently with me.

  At around eight-thirty parents began arriving, accompanied by subdued kids. I took details for each student, adding them to the official roll. Needing to know as much as I could, I gathered facts about every child. In Armidale my inspector would be waiting for me to call with student numbers, hoping I would vindicate his decision to appoint me in charge and allow a reopening of the school a week late.

  Pupils from eight families had come to enrol: at least two from each home, while some families enrolled three. Eighteen pupils, thirteen boys and five girls in six grades: now I knew what I faced. Our oldest was a thirteen-year-old lad—‘nearly fourteen, Sir’—and the youngest a five-year-old boy. Much kinship was reported: sets of brothers, a set of sisters, and two brother–sister groups. There were cousins and an aunt and uncle. Twelve of the kids came from five homes in the village and six from properties outside its borders. No child had to travel more than ten miles, but the two families furthest from the school would have to transport their children to and fro each day; all the others could walk easily enough.

  When the parents left, saying their goodbyes, I stood on the veranda ready to invite the children to join me in the schoolroom. But, where were they? Not one was anywhere near the entryway. As I searched for the children, the words of an aged, farm-reared aunt came to mind. Upon hearing of my appointment to a remote country school, she had given some spontaneous advice. ‘Bush children run and hide at the sight of strangers. Give them time and be gentle. You’ll do all right if you keep that in mind. Never rush them.’ This had made me smile, although I had accepted that the words were probably wise.

  The children were scattered about the yard and well towards the fences. Boys were with boys under the four huge pines on the furthest boundary, and girls with girls down near the school gate, below the path and its long lines of clipped privet hedge on either side. Not wanting to shout the first words they would hear from me—gentle, be gentle—I walked nearer to each group and quietly asked them to join me inside. Then I sat at my desk and waited.

  The oldest lad, the thirteen-year-old, came in first a few minutes later. ‘Tom,’ he said as he walked in determinedly. He struck me as relatively mature, solid and sensible, and he talked with me in a quiet but confident manner. I didn’t want to rush to judgement but I was really pleased with this first meeting. We discussed his family and the schoolwork for which he might need my assistance. Being a post-primary student, he would be doing his lessons by correspondence.

  Tom’s sister, Debbie, a few years younger, was next to join us. A little more diffident than Tom, she seemed a sturdy, sensible girl and said she was in Grade Five.

  Soon after, Vickie and Lindie, about the same age as Debbie, sidled in. Holding hands, they smiled a little; whether that was to break any tension they were feeling or simply through shyness, I wasn’t concerned—I was just happy they were smiling.

  Then two younger girls hopped up the stairs and skipped into the room. I read their smiles as genuine, a breakout of a delight to be here. I smiled back, hoping to reinforce their interest in school. By now I was losing track of names. Of course, they’d been listed in the register with their parents’ help, and I decided I’d worry about them a little later by preparing a small cheat sheet to which I could refer if memory failed. For now, I just wanted the kids to feel welcome and of interest to me.

  The six children in the room commenced chatting, tentatively but with an increasing ease. After another ten minutes or so, all twelve younger boys arrived in one group—perhaps they’d given each other courage. They pushed forward and rolled into the room as an entangled ball, with arms around each other’s shoulders in solidarity.

  Now all the children were here, they sat comfortably as one group, regardless of age. They chose where to sit, on the floor or on chairs, and chatted freely. I indicated I’d like to know about their lives, their families, their pets, their favourite things—indeed, about anything and everything of importance to them. I asked them to use their first names when commencing to speak. ‘I really want to get to know you well, and I’ll need your help at first with names. Is that all right?’

  Nods came from all around the room, so we began our conversation.

  Tom, the teenager, reported, ‘I spent most of December and January helping two of my older brothers fence around our biggest paddock. It’s always called Finn’s paddock, about five hundred acres all up. The ute couldn’t be driven right around it ’cause it’s real hilly and rocky, so we had to cart a big lot of wire and posts in by hand. It was as hard as billyo and as hot as Hades but we just got on with it and helped each other. Me brothers taught me lots about fencing. It was beaut.’

  Will, one of the younger boys, started off with another story. ‘Yeah, when it got real hot in December we talked our dads into building us a bit of a dam on the creek. A bit of a swimming hole for us kids.’

  Rick added, ‘It took a few days of asking and reminding, and finally our dads said for us to stop badgering them and they might do it.’

  Gary called out, ‘We all shouted, “Hooray, you beauty!”’

  Will came back in with, ‘Our dads said, “Righty-ho. We’ll give it a go.”’

  ‘So some families got together and worked out what to do.’

  ‘Mr Baulderstone, Will’s dad, said to find a spot where a tree had already come down from a flood, so we picked just the place on the creek below Mark’s house.’

  ‘By jings it was fun. We got lots of rocks from around the creek and piled them at the end of the little waterhole against the tree stump.’

  It became clear that most of the children, at least all those from the village, had been involved in this community project, and many had something to say.

  ‘It took us a couple of days. We had to take a spell every now and then but.’

  And Jack called out, ‘We didn’t do too bad. Within half a mo’ of putting the first rocks in place water started to back up.’

  Another reported, ‘Mike and me tried to carry a real big rock. We almost went cross-eyed, and our dads told us not to be such mutton-heads. They said to let them finish it off. They showed us what to do but, and with all of us trying we dropped it in the best spot.’

  ‘We made a sort of fence in the water against the rocks. Mr Mason said it was a palishade or somethin’. It looked good-oh,’ was a small boy’s contribution.

  They went on, all eager now to be involved but still mindful of taking turns.

  ‘Our dads took a smoko every little bit, and it seemed to take a terrible lot of time. But we had a good pool after a couple a’ days.’

  ‘When it was ready enough the dads said it’d do. They told us never to be dumb clucks around water, never to be silly coots.’ ‘All the pops said we had to be real careful around the creek. They said if they found us playing up and being silly near the water they’d tan our hides for us, and stop the swimmin’.’

  ‘Mr Whitworth said we mustn’t chuck away our chance for fun by doin’ anything dangerous. We knew what he meant so.’

  ‘All holidays we mucked about around the pool and made up heaps of games and competitions. Rick could stay under longer than anyone.’

  ‘Jack was first to swim sort of properly, and he made up a mad game where he picked us into water polo teams. Jack said it was just like the Melbourne Olympics. We all said he was a bit of a silly-billy. We all joined in but.’

  A smaller girl—Carol, I remembered—spoke up for the first time. ‘My mum thanked all the dads who helped. Mum said the men had been nice to the kids.’

  We also heard of some individual activities.

  Vickie, one of the three older girls, reported, ‘My mum and me made many candles. Mum showed me how to melt down mutton fat. We added a string for a wick and nice-smelling things so when the candle burnt it had a sweet perfume. My
mum and me went through the bush behind our house and gathered lemon myrtle leaves to boil up for their oils to scent our candles.’

  Her brother, Mark, added, ‘I never noticed any smells, but the candles lit up the house nice and lively at night.’

  We heard of lads who’d been taught how to safely set a rabbit trap; of lasses who’d commenced to use dress patterns for sewing their own clothes; of boys who spent lots of time each day working with and helping their dads; of girls who were encouraged to join with their mums in cooking for the family. The kids told of caring for poddies, of digging and weeding in the family gardens, of feeding and looking after chooks.

  They didn’t gush: everything was said with care and thought, and a sense that they took my invitation to chat responsibly. They were slow, but never ponderous and never staid—there was a liveliness and vitality about them all. They were respectful to each other, all listening quietly as the others spoke. Any statement from one would prompt lines from the others. And they were just as respectful to me. I had invited them; they would respond seriously and treat my request sensibly.

  This all gave me a different feeling to what I’d experienced with the boys and girls at Kegworth Public School in Leichhardt, Sydney, my only previous school, where I had spent my first two years as a teacher. Those city kids had been quick-witted, intending to entertain as much as to explain, while these Weabonga children were guileless, with an appealing innocence, their openness and honesty a little disarming. At Kegworth, the children had told me much but wrapped the important revelations in a tall tale or distraction. Here, I heard of life exactly as it was; there was no attempt to paper over reality.

  As I listened, a memory came to me of talking with several mums at the Kegworth school gate after the final bell. We’d made a pact that I would believe about a third of what I heard from the children about life at home, while the mothers would believe about the same fraction when the children talked about school. That rule couldn’t apply here in Weabonga, where I detected nothing but unvarnished truth from the eighteen pupils yarning with me. I did find the openness that first day unexpected and very appealing.