My career route to appointment as teacher-in-charge at Weabonga had been straightforward, following a long-established trajectory for male teachers. After spending 1956 and ’57 in training at Balmain Teachers’ College, I’d received my first appointment.
When the department’s official letter arrived in mid-January 1958, my anxiety soared. Not having heard of Kegworth, I assumed it to be a one-teacher country school. I felt strongly that I was quite unprepared to take on such a challenge, having never taught a Kindergarten, Grade One or Grade Two class. I felt a real lack of knowledge and expertise in assisting beginner readers, which I would surely need in a small country school, and I wasn’t sure if I could lead, manage and teach the mixture of ages and grades that I might find there. I was too raw, too inexperienced and too likely to get things wrong—and the country pupils and families couldn’t regain a lost year if I proved inept. I just wasn’t ready for the responsibility.
When I contacted the Department of Education to learn the location, I was told, ‘Kegworth is easy to find, just a few hundred yards off Parramatta Road in Leichhardt.’
‘Really, it’s in Sydney?’
‘Sure is. How lucky are you? Could’ve been Woop Woop on your first appointment.’
My experiences in those first two years of teaching were to bear out the saying ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
Kegworth had many drawbacks—poor supervision, poor leadership models, little professional stimulus or discussion, and no assistance with educational or schooling matters—but I developed in many important ways. I found I was able to work easily with children, and that they were cooperative and seemed to enjoy working with me. I came to understand the importance for my own teaching of thorough preparation. I learnt that kids love creative activities. In taking charge of the school sport and music programs, I came to know the hundred or more primary kids, and I enjoyed that aspect of the role.
I was soon pleased to speak with Kegworth parents about their children, and I felt I could do so as a professional, explaining the class programs, the educational aims for their child and how the youngster was progressing. I felt comfortable suggesting what the parents might do to support their child’s educational development. I looked forward to working more closely with parents in future appointments.
Kegworth allowed me to form a good idea of what I wanted to achieve in my career. And although still lacking certainty, I came to believe I’d be able to assist and lead any primary class I was asked to teach.
Because of the bonding arrangements that young student teachers signed to receive financial support in our training, we were required to spend at least two years in a country school at some time in our careers. So I wasn’t surprised when, towards the end of my second year as a teacher, I received a departmental posting as teacher-in-charge of Guy Fawkes Primary School, a one-teacher school in the New England area of New South Wales. I knew I still had a lot to learn, but I believed I could now handle a small bush school.
Much of my new-found confidence was due to the nature of the Kegworth kids. I was going to miss them. As a group, they were chirpy and funny; they tried jokes and quips, and laughed vigorously at any attempts at humour from fellow students or from me. They were extremely amenable and would happily engage with me in whatever learning activity I offered them.
Those cheerful city kids had allowed me glimpses of alternative approaches to teaching. I’d noted their excitement and heightened engagement when we were able to include ideas and topics they’d suggested, so I’d determined to expand children’s decision-making in my next school.
Our year ended with the annual school concert at Leichhardt Town Hall for which I’d prepared the primary combined choir to sing ‘The Little Drummer Boy’. Both the pupils and their parents loved the song, and I was proud of the children and pleased for their success.
I wasn’t on fire about the Guy Fawkes appointment. While teaching at Kegworth I had remained living with my parents, so the sudden shift to the remote countryside was a wrench, even though by then I was more than ready to move out of the family home. Another reason for my reluctance to leave was the friendship I’d formed with a delightful young lady, Patricia—I would certainly miss her.
Patricia had impressed me powerfully when she’d accepted my invitation to the Kegworth school’s concert. I was intrigued that a young, single woman had chosen to come along with me, having no other connection to the event. I was charmed when she told me how much she’d enjoyed the carols from the choir.
Our friendship had come about in a meeting at Surryville, a large public dance hall on City Road. At such events the ritual of the last dance was well understood. During the evening, a young man would ask one of his dance partners for the final dance of the night, booking this in advance. If the young lady accepted, both knew she was also accepting that the man would accompany her home. From such beginnings, longer-term friendships could bloom.
One evening I had escorted Patricia to her home, chatting on the way. She was charming, witty, easy to talk to and quite a beauty—I had struck the last-dance jackpot. As we’d said goodbye at her front door, we had arranged to see each other again a week or so later. Having enjoyed that outing, we commenced meeting up once a fortnight or so.
To take up my appointment at Guy Fawkes in January 1960, I had to rely on public transport, the norm for most young teachers taking up country appointments. A few days before the start of term one, I travelled on the Brisbane Mail, an overnight train from Sydney, alighting at Armidale early the next morning. An all-day journey in the mail car east from the Armidale Post Office delivered me to Guy Fawkes, on top of the Great Dividing Range.
The village was situated in visually stunning country. Traffic passed regularly through Guy Fawkes along the main road down to Grafton, so although distant from Sydney it didn’t feel too isolated. As a site to begin my country schoolmaster career, it looked full of promise. I was struck by the friendliness of the family with whom I was to live and enjoyed the comforts of their well-furnished and properly equipped homestead.
So, I was disappointed when only six children turned up for enrolment. I told the small band of presenting parents that I’d need to speak with my inspector and take his direction. When I rang, he ordered me to return to Armidale as soon as practicable.
My very brief meeting with the Guy Fawkes families had set firmly in my mind that school education was extremely important in a small rural setting. Until then, I’d had next to no appreciation of the importance of bush schools. The bush wasn’t alien to me: I had holidayed for short periods as a boy at Dunedoo and Tenterfield, and as teenager at Miandetta, outside Nyngan. Like many city youngsters at the time, I had access through my family to country properties of relatives and friends. But I hadn’t spent any time learning about the realities of remote country communities. Now, as a city boy rapidly turning into a country teacher, I made my way back into town thinking deeply about the vital role of one-teacher schooling for children and their families. I was ready to give it my best shot—but where was this shot to be fired?
I’d expected the Inspector, Mr Flood, to be an old fuddyduddy, so I was surprised to find him a warm, pleasant and supportive chap, aged in his mid-forties. However, I was still in awe of this august person who held the power to sustain or restrain my hoped-for career. Fortunately he was caring and respectful. I listened intently as he outlined the educational needs of the communities in his inspectorate. He asked that I consider three locations, all needing an immediate teacher-in-charge appointment: Wards Mistake, a second location that I don’t remember, and Weabonga. Where I would like to teach?
About Weabonga, he said, ‘This is a location much in my mind. It’s my most remote school, and the local people have been very actively advocating for a teaching appointment.’ He added, ‘I agree with them—of course their school should be reopened. All children, especially the most isolated, deserve an opportunity for schooling. But my hands have been tied. I had no teacher to send until you turned up so fortuitously.’
He told me more about the Weabonga kids. ‘The school has been closed at times because of the difficulty in staffing. There have been several interruptions. Continuity in schooling for the Weabonga children has been hampered by teachers resigning after only a short time. In addition, my last few visits have me concerned about the children’s progress, and I’m keen to place a teacher there who’ll stay for a reasonable period and gradually return their achievements to reasonable levels. I do worry about Weabonga.’
What I knew of Wards Mistake was that it took its name from a notorious nineteenth-century bushranger who’d roamed the countryside under the pseudonym of Captain Thunderbolt. I surely wasn’t going to repeat this mistake, so that town was dismissed.
The second school must have seemed bland and unexciting, as I’ve never been able to recall its name.
Then I turned to the third. My assessment of Weabonga was that it really needed a missionary rather than a teacher. But it was quite clear which option Mr Flood wished me to accept, so my response was partly formulated to gain his appreciation. Perhaps this was a bit cringingly obsequious, but I was young enough to think the most appropriate reaction was to agree with an authority figure and to sublimate my sense of what was best for me.
‘I’m happy to teach at any one of them but would like to go where I’m most needed.’
His relief was obvious: Weabonga it was.
That day we parted as a very pleased inspector and, I thought, a young teacher perhaps owed something for his amenability.
I stayed the night in an Armidale boarding house with a friend from my National Service days in the Sydney University Regiment, and it was a relief to spend time with him. This brief respite helped me get ready to move on to Weabonga.
As I fell asleep my mind ranged over many matters, including some consideration of Patricia. Her grandfather, with whom she lived, considered himself responsible for her welfare and took this role very seriously. When I’d commenced taking her on outings, Grandfather had insisted on meeting me.
His second question was, ‘What’s your employment, young man?’
‘I’m a schoolteacher,’ I replied, and immediately he appeared more welcoming.
‘Well, that’s good,’ he said. ‘And where might you take Patricia when you go out?’
I weighed my response. ‘Probably the Ashfield CYO Saturday dance at the town hall.’
This mention of the Catholic Youth Organisation had him beaming.
Clearly, young men who didn’t pass his assessment couldn’t take his granddaughter out a second time.
Grandfather maintained a close interest and patrolled our comings and goings. Whenever I returned my friend to her home, no matter the hour, Grandfather would allow us a short time alone on the veranda. After about ten to fifteen minutes, the front door would open, the outside light come on, and Grandfather would be at the door waiting to make sure Patricia got safely inside. On at least one occasion he called out, ‘Time to come in, Miss Muffet.’
It was no wonder that other young men had given up interest in Patricia. When I appeared, the scene was clear. That suited me fine.
Having met the grandparents and having heard something of their history, I admired them both. Grandfather had become secretary to the Bourke branch of the Australian Workers Union just after the turn of the century when he was but sixteen. In 1917 he had stood for election on an anti-conscription platform for Labor in Armidale; he was unsuccessful but by less than a thousand votes in a fiercely conservative seat. Delivery of white feathers to his letterbox by anonymous donors hadn’t deterred him, and Grandma had backed him all the way. She had converted to Catholicism to marry him against the wishes of her sternly Presbyterian family, who owned a huge sheep-grazing property near Bourke. And the couple had sent three sons to the Second World War, with one spending years as a prisoner of the Japanese on the Burma Railway, suffering through Hellfire Pass.
In viewing the great love and esteem that my friend had for her grandfather, I was easily reconciled to his way of showing concern for his granddaughter. Grandfather and I had much in common: my own concerns for Patricia’s welfare were growing to match his. We were on the same side.