The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Read online

  Mira Robertson is an award-winning screenwriter who has also published short fiction. She has written feature films, documentaries and short films; her feature-film credits include Only the Brave and Head On, co-written with director Ana Kokkinos. She has taught screenwriting at the University of Melbourne, RMIT and Victoria University, and currently teaches in the University of Melbourne’s Master of Arts and Cultural Management. She grew up in the western Wimmera and lives in Melbourne. The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean is her first novel.

  Published by Black Inc.,

  an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

  Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

  Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

  [email protected]

  www.blackincbooks.com

  Copyright © Mira Robertson 2018

  The right of Mira Robertson to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  9781863959728 (paperback)

  9781743820346 (ebook)

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publishers.

  Cover design by Jo Thomson

  Text design and typesetting by Marilyn de Castro

  For my mother

  (1927–2014)

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  1

  PASSENGERS MOVED ALONG THE PLATFORM, opening carriage doors and saying their goodbyes. Emily leaned out of the train window. She gave her father an especially pleading look.

  ‘There are snakes and spiders and I’m allergic to sheep. Please don’t make me go.’

  She knew it was hopeless – the train was due to leave at any moment – but she had to make one last attempt. If nothing else, she wanted her father to feel guilty for bundling her off against her will.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he replied, impervious to her tragic countenance. ‘No-one is allergic to sheep. Fresh air, sunshine and the splendours of nature. You’ve always enjoyed it.’

  But that was on her last visit, ages ago. She’d been thirteen then and knew no better.

  ‘I can’t go. Mummy needs me.’

  She wished she hadn’t said Mummy as it sounded immature, and now it was she who felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that it wasn’t about helping her mother at all, but the thought of spending weeks with ancient relatives in the middle of nowhere.

  Further up the platform, the stationmaster blew his whistle. Carriage doors slammed shut as her father reached out and patted her arm.

  ‘Send my love to your grandmother and the others,’ he said, ignoring her last words. ‘Make yourself useful and don’t be a burden. And don’t forget to collect your suitcase when you arrive at the station. As soon as things are back to normal, I’ll come for you.’

  When would that be? There were still five weeks to go before school began again; she could not possibly stay that long. But there was no time to ask – her father had already begun to hurry away. She leaned further out of the window, catching a glint of his clerical collar. Although there was no hope of a reprieve, she still longed for him to turn and give her one last wave, but he passed through the gate without looking back. Tears stung her eyes, and she had to blink twenty-three times to stop them. She hoped that the counting thing had not begun again; she was far too old for that sort of nonsense.

  It was a relief when nobody entered her compartment. She did not want strangers staring at her reddened eyes or asking dull questions in their attempts to make polite small talk. Nor, on the other hand, did she want the journey to be filled with interesting conversation. She was, after all, travelling against her will. Nevertheless, she was surprised to have the compartment on her own for there had been quite a crowd on the platform. Perhaps they were all in the second-class carriages.

  The train shunted forwards, causing her head to knock against the back of the seat. A headache began to throb, and she embraced the pain with the fervour of a martyr. See what you’ve done. It was a silent accusation to her father and she hoped that he felt it.

  When the train had left the city behind, she leaned out of the window again, feeling the air whip against her face. Once more tears leaked from her eyes, but this time it was only an effect of the wind. Her hair flew up, twisting and flapping as if it had a life of its own. She felt something stick to her cheek and discovered a fleck of sticky black soot. She closed the window and sat down.

  There were hours to go before the train reached her station. She thought about getting Middlemarch from her satchel in the overhead luggage rack. It was the perfect opportunity to make a start on the book, despite the disappointing reality that it was not Jane Eyre. Since that day at school when Dorothy had rapturously declared it to be the best book ever written, and Mr Rochester the most romantic hero of all time, she’d been desperate to read it. Dorothy hadn’t told her directly of course; she’d been addressing her friends, a group in which Emily, hovering nearby, was not included.

  Leading up to Christmas she’d made it quite clear to her parents: all she wanted was a copy of Jane Eyre. Seeing a book-shaped present under the Christmas tree – a sawn-off branch from a garden shrub that her mother had propped up in the corner of the living room and decorated with balls of cottonwool ‘snow’ – she’d been convinced it was the longed-for novel. But it was not to be. Worse still, the copy of Middlemarch did not even look new. She was sure it had come from her father’s study. He did not believe in unnecessary expenditure, especially with a war on and so many in need.

  At the third stop, a woman in a green dress entered her compartment. Emily knew the name of the station even though it was blocked out to confuse the Japs in the event of invasion. To date no such invasion had occurred, but she had heard Father on the telephone mentioning the possibility to his friend, the Very Reverend Eric Simons. Father was only a Reverend and although Emily had never asked him, it sounded like an inferior title. Talking to the Very Reverend, her father had muttered the words last line of defence. They had an ominous ring.

  ‘Would you mind closing the door, dear?’ the Green Dress asked her. ‘I’m susceptible to draughts.’

  She rose to shut the door, feeling rather put upon as it was the Green Dress who had failed to close it properly in the first place. She murmured the word susceptible to herself, feeling the s’s slither on her tongue. Her fellow traveller caught her eye and smiled, but Emily looked away, determined to remain aloof.

  Barely a minute passed before the woman spoke again. ‘Would you like one, dear?’ she said, holding out a large square tin. ‘Lovely cor
ned beef and pickle. Awfully tasty.’

  They did sound tempting, particularly as she’d forgotten to take the sandwiches her mother had made for her. Father had been calling out from the car. They were going to be late. In any case, her mother’s sandwiches were often unreliable, spoiled by incompatible fillings like jam and gherkin. But how could she accept the awfully tasty corned beef and pickle when she was travelling under protest? It would undermine her suffering.

  Half an hour later, as they approached another station, the woman packed away the tin and prepared to get off. How Emily wished she could change her mind. All she could think of was sinking her teeth into the fresh white bread, her tastebuds tingling with the mustardy sharpness of the pickle and the saltiness of the corned beef. But after rejecting the initial offer of sustenance, she didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  Hoist with your own petard, her mother would have said, as the sandwiches departed.

  There was nothing left to do but try to begin Middlemarch. Putting off the moment once again, she gazed out of the window and watched a tractor trundle across a paddock. A horse took fright near the fence line and bolted along beside the train briefly until it was left behind. Two boys hung off a gate, waving. Then the paddocks ended and bush took over. Gum trees with their drooping leaves, and flashes of red from the bottlebrushes. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the wheels, the train rushing onwards, delivering her to her fate.

  George Eliot’s masterpiece remained unopened in her satchel when the train pulled up at a small country station some hours later. Emily was the only one to get off, and she had scarcely stepped down onto the platform before the whistle blew and the stationmaster waved the all clear. The station name, Garnook, had not been blocked out, a sign, she thought despondently, that not even the Japs wanted to invade such a remote spot.

  She collected her suitcase from the surly stationmaster who soon decamped to his office, leaving her alone on the platform. Had they forgotten she was coming? she wondered, feeling like Anne of Green Gables – except that Anne was a mere child of eleven, whereas she was fourteen. It was an annoying comparison, and she wished she hadn’t made it. Perhaps they were waiting for her outside in Uncle Cec’s black Packard. Of course, that was it, and with a feeling of relief, she picked up her case and hurried out of the station.

  There was no sign of the black Packard. Heat haze shimmered in the distance; there was not a soul about. Fresh air, sunshine and the splendours of nature had never felt more desolate. Even worse was the recognition that, while not wanting to visit was one thing, not to be wanted was another altogether.

  Perched on her suitcase, she was beginning to feel panicky. Mount Prospect farm was ten miles away. ‘We don’t say farm, Emily,’ she heard Grandmother correct her. ‘The word is property. Or station. We are not farmers, we are pastoralists.’ Grandmother was a stickler for doing and saying things correctly. There was nothing more important than keeping up standards. Putting on airs and graces more like it, her mother would say sarcastically.

  She thought about going in search of the morose stationmaster but noticed, some distance away, a cloud of dust rising into the air. A few minutes later, the black Packard crunched to a halt beside her. Uncle Cec waved through the dusty windscreen, and she waved back, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The car door opened and he got out.

  ‘By Jove,’ he said, ‘you must be Emily.’

  ‘You must be Uncle Cec,’ she replied, aware this was his little joke, and kissed him on the cheek, while attempting to avoid his nose, which was enormous. He was no oil painting and also quite ancient, being Grandmother’s bachelor brother and sixty-two.

  He did not apologise for being late. Instead he picked up her suitcase and put it in the boot of the car. ‘Rightio,’ he said, ‘we’d better get a wriggle on.’

  The afternoon sun was just beginning its slow descent towards the horizon as they drove along the gravel road towards Mount Prospect – the property, not the mount, which was fifty miles away. Her mother thought it was a cheek, calling the property Mount Prospect when its namesake was so far away. Why not Rabbit Flat, or Vue de Swamp? she’d say. Emily knew how much it offended her father. She never wanted to hurt his feelings and always tried not to giggle.

  ‘Good joke, eh.’

  Uncle Cec’s voice came as a shock, alerting her to the fact that she must have laughed out loud.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing really,’ she said, feeling flustered. To divert him from enquiring further she tried to think of something to say. ‘Gosh, I suppose it’s been hot.’

  ‘Too right,’ Uncle Cec said. ‘Cool change should be here in a few hours.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He pointed at the roadside trees. ‘Wind’s moving round to the south.’

  She looked at the flapping leaves, feeling uncomfortably responsible for keeping up the conversation, and began to chatter on about the weather. ‘Of course it’s summer, so it’s not unusual. Being hot, I mean. If it was cold, that would be unusual. Although sometimes it can be quite cold.’ The words poured out until she saw that Uncle Cec was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as if accompanying a tune only he could hear. He was not listening to her, and how could she blame him? She subsided into an embarrassed silence.

  After a while Uncle Cec began to talk about a mare called Rivette who was a champion of the turf. Now it was her turn to stop listening, and she abandoned herself once more to the satisfactions of self-righteous misery. Oh, cruel fate, to be sent so far from home. Thus absorbed, the time passed quite quickly and it did not seem long before they turned in through the Mount Prospect gates. A short time later they pulled up on the circular driveway at the front of the homestead.

  Grandmother stepped out from the shade of the verandah to greet them. ‘At last. I was nearly going to send out a search party.’

  It was what she always said, and she offered her cheek for a kiss. It was soft and white like Della’s scone dough, and Emily just had time to wonder whether Della was still the cook when Cousin Eunice appeared. It was always like that: first Grandmother, and then Eunice a step or two behind, a tall skinny shadow who had the annoying habit of echoing Grandmother’s words.

  ‘There you are at last,’ Eunice said, on cue.

  Emily felt the scratchy peck of dry lips on her cheek and tried not to flinch. According to Della, Eunice had arrived at Mount Prospect twenty-two years ago to help Grandmother with the birth of her last baby. ‘Course, after Lydia was born, she never left. Had a sob story about nowhere to go. Penniless, they reckon,’ Della had said with a certain relish. It was hard to imagine Eunice as the willowy young bridesmaid who Emily had spotted in Grandmother’s wedding photograph – the one on the mantelpiece in her father’s study.

  Grandmother told Uncle Cec to take the suitcase to the white room. Emily watched him set off around the verandah. He was wearing outdoor boots, which meant he was not allowed inside.

  ‘Come along, my dear.’ Grandmother ushered her into the entry hall and, with Eunice bringing up the rear, they made their way to the other end of the house.

  On entering the white room, Emily saw that nothing had changed since her last visit. Everything was still white, including the chest of drawers and the dressing table. A white bedspread covered the single bed.

  She plopped down on the bed feeling weak from hunger and thirst. Uncle Cec arrived at the French doors, delivered the suitcase and departed again. Outside the white room, a punching bag hung from a rafter on the verandah. She remembered how William – her father’s younger brother – and his friend Harry were always dancing around it, jabbing with their boxing gloves. In her memories, William’s chest was pearly white, his arms burned brown from working in the sun. Now he was stuck in a hospital in Brisbane with no-one to visit him.

  What had happened to him? Her father had been so vague: ‘Wounded in action.’ Yes, but what exactly did that mean? He’d been in hospital for months. At first in Port Moresby and then in Bris
bane. Father refused to speak about it except to say that she was not to worry, everything would be alright. She knew her father; there was no point in pressing him. But if it was alright, why couldn’t he tell her what had happened? She wondered how she would feel if it was her little brother. But that was absurd; unlike Father, she didn’t have a brother.

  ‘Emily?’

  She looked up to see both Grandmother and Eunice peering at her.

  ‘Goodness me, someone’s away with the fairies,’ Grandmother said. ‘You must be starving. Let’s go and find you something to eat.’

  Emily stood up and allowed herself to be shooed from the room and along the various passageways, with Grandmother and Eunice nipping at her heels. They reached the kitchen where she expected to see Della the cook and her assistant, Florrie, but they were not there. A glass of milk and a plate of oatmeal biscuits had been laid out for her on the table. She’d been hoping for a cup of tea. Had they forgotten she was no longer a child?

  ‘Plenty of time to unpack once you’ve had afternoon tea,’ Grandmother said.

  ‘Plenty of time to settle in,’ Eunice added, before they both departed.

  After drinking the glass of milk and eating the oatmeal biscuits, Emily returned to the white room to unpack. She opened her suitcase and picked up the dress that lay on top. Holding it up, a hot blush rushed up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Thank goodness she was alone, the only witness to the pink gingham monstrosity with its lace collar and puffed sleeves. How could her mother have chosen it? But she knew anything was possible when her mother was on a high. Sometimes it meant cleaning the house from top to bottom. Or abandoning housework altogether in order to campaign on behalf of the orphans of the world and the rights of merchant seamen. Or, as in the case of the dress in question, arriving home from the city in a taxi with too many parcels.

  ‘I’ve bought you a present from that divine little shop in the city,’ her mother had said. Ripping off the tissue paper, she lifted it up, and Emily had tried to smile while her heart sank, Dorothy’s merciless laughter already ringing in her ears.