‘Good morning, Mrs Appleyard,’ chorused the curtseying half-circle drawn up before the hall door.
‘Are we all present, Mademoiselle? Good. Well, young ladies, we are indeed fortunate in the weather for our picnic to Hanging Rock. I have instructed Mademoiselle that as the day is likely to be warm, you may remove your gloves after the drag has passed through Woodend. You will partake of luncheon at the Picnic Grounds near the Rock. Once again let me remind you that the Rock itself is extremely dangerous and you are therefore forbidden to engage in any tomboy foolishness in the matter of exploration, even on the lower slopes. It is, however, a geological marvel on which you will be required to write a brief essay on Monday morning. I also wish to remind you that the vicinity is renowned for its venomous snakes and poisonous ants of various species. I think that is all. Have a pleasant day and try to behave yourselves in a manner to bring credit to the College. I shall expect you back, Miss McCraw and Mademoiselle, at about eight o’clock for a light supper.’
The covered drag from Hussey’s Livery stables at Lower Macedon, drawn by five splendid bay horses, was already drawn up at the College gates with Mr Hussey on the box. Mr Hussey had personally driven ‘The College’ on all important occasions ever since the grand opening day when the parents had come up by train from Melbourne to drink champagne on the lawns. With his kindly shrewd blue eyes and cheeks perpetually blooming like the Mount Macedon rose gardens, he was a prime favourite with everyone in the district; even Mrs Appleyard called him her ‘good man’ and enjoyed graciously inviting him into her study for a glass of sherry . . .
‘Steady there Sailor . . . Woa Duchess . . . Belmonte, I’ll give you such a lathering . . .’ The five well-trained horses were actually standing like statues, but it was all part of the fun; Mr Hussey like all good coachmen having a nice sense of style and timing. ‘Mind your gloves on the wheel Miss McCraw, it’s dusty . . .’ He had long ago given up attempting to teach this basic truth to lady passengers about to enter one of his cabs. At last everyone was seated to the satisfaction of special friends and enemies and the two governesses. The three senior girls, Miranda, Irma and Marion Quade, inseparable companions, were allotted the coveted box seat in front beside the driver, an arrangement with which Mr Hussey was well pleased. Nice high-spirited girls, all three of ’em . . .
‘Thank you Mr Hussey – you may go now,’ Miss McCraw ordered somewhere from the rear, suddenly aware of non-mathematical responsibilities and in full command.
They were off; the College already out of sight except for the tower through the trees as they bowled along the level Melbourne-Bendigo road, vibrating with particles of fine red dust. ‘Get up Sailor, you lazy brute . . . Prince, Belmonte, get back in your collars . . .’ For the first mile or two the scenery was familiar through the daily perambulation of the College crocodile. The passengers knew only too well, without bothering to look out, how the scraggy stringy bark forest lined the road on either side, now and then opening out onto a lighter patch of cleared land. The Comptons’ whitewashed cottage whose sprawling quince trees supplied the College with jellies and jams, the clump of wayside willows at which the governess in charge would invariably call a halt and head for home. It was the same in Longman’s Highroads of History, where the class were forever turning back for recapitulation at the death of King George the Fourth before starting off again with Edward the Third next term . . . Now the willows in rich summer green were gaily passed and a sense of adventure ahead took over as heads began to peer through the buttoned tarpaulin flaps of the drag. The road took a slight turn, there was a fresher green amongst the dun coloured foliage and now and then a stand of blue-black pines, a glimpse of Mount Macedon tufted as usual with fluffy white clouds above the southern slopes, where the romantic summer villas hinted at far off adult delights.
At Appleyard College SILENCE WAS GOLDEN, written up in the corridors and often imposed. There was a delicious freedom about the swift steady motion of the drag and even in the warm dusty air blowing up in their faces that set the passengers chirping and chattering like budgerigars.
On the box seat, the three senior girls perched beside Mr Hussey were talking in blissful inconsequence of dreams, embroidery, warts, fireworks, the coming Easter Vacation. Mr Hussey, who spent a large part of his working day in listening to miscellaneous conversation, kept his eyes on the road ahead and said nothing.
‘Mr Hussey,’ said Miranda, ‘did you know today is Saint Valentine’s Day?’
‘Well, Miss Miranda, I can’t say I did. Don’t know much about Saints. What’s this one’s particular job?’
‘Mam’selle says he’s the Patron Saint of Lovers,’ Irma explained. ‘He’s a darling – sends people gorgeous cards with tinsel and real lace – have a caramel?’
‘Not while I’m driving, thanks all the same.’ At last Mr Hussey had a conversational innings. He had been to the Races last Saturday and seen a horse belonging to Irma’s father come in first. ‘What was the name of the horse and the distance?’ Marion Quade wanted to know. She wasn’t specially interested in horses but liked to store up snippets of useful information, like her late Father, an eminent Q.C.
Edith Horton, hating to be left out of anything and anxious to show off her ribbons, now leaned forward over Miranda’s shoulder to ask why Mr Hussey called his big brown horse Duchess? Mr Hussey, who had his favourites amongst the passengers, was uncommunicative. ‘Comes to that, Miss, why are you called Edith?’
‘Because Edith is my Grandmother’s name,’ she said primly. ‘Only horses don’t have grandmothers like we do.’
‘Oh don’t they just!’ Mr Hussey turned his square shoulders away from the silly child.
The morning grew steadily hotter. The sun bore down on the shiny black roof of the drag, now covered with fine red dust that seeped through the loosely buttoned curtains into eyes and hair. ‘And this we do for pleasure,’ Greta McCraw muttered from the shadows, ‘so that we may shortly be at the mercy of venomous snakes and poisonous ants . . . how foolish can human creatures be!’ Useless, too, to open the book in her satchel with all this schoolgirl chatter in one’s ears.
The road to Hanging Rock turns sharply away to the right a little way out of the township of Woodend. Here Mr Hussey pulled up outside the leading hotel to rest and water his horses before starting on the last lap of the drive. Already the heat inside the vehicle was oppressive and there was a wholesale peeling off of the obligatory gloves. ‘Can’t we take our hats off too. Mam’selle?’ asked Irma whose ink-black curls were flowing out in a warm tide under the brim of her stiff school sailor. Mademoiselle smiled and looked across at Miss McCraw, sitting opposite, awake and vertical, but with closed eyes, two puce kid hands locked together on her lap. ‘Certainly not. Because we are on an excursion, there is no necessity to look like a wagon load of gypsies.’ And re-entered the world of pure uncluttered reason.
The rhythmic beat of the horses’ hooves combined with the close air of the drag was making them drowsy. As it was still only eleven o’clock, with plenty of time in which to reach the picnic grounds for lunch, the governesses conferred and Mr Hussey was requested to let down the steps of the drag at a suitable spot off the road. In the shade of an old white gum the zinc-lined wicker basket that kept the milk and lemonade deliciously cool was taken out and unpacked, hats were removed without further comment and biscuits handed round.
‘It’s a long time since I tasted this stuff,’ said Mr Hussey sipping at his lemonade. ‘I don’t take any hard liquor though, when I’ve got a big day on my hands like this.’