The Fibro School by the Swamp

“TEACHER-IN-CHARGE—Maria River via Kempsey. Second Class Rail Warrant Attached.” Yes, this was all the information thought necessary for me to begin my teaching career in some far-flung corner of the Department of Education empire. Well, I knew roughly where Kempsey was, and having been a member of Section 7, the small school section at Newcastle Teachers’ College, and digested the combined wisdom of our lecturers who obviously knew all about these places (had any of them ever been in a small school?), I packed a very large suitcase, a tennis racquet and a portable radio and caught the Kempsey Mail for the long and arduous journey to my first appointment. It was late January 1951.

Bleary-eyed and tired, I disembarked in the early morning at Kempsey station and spying a paper shop nearby I enquired as to how I could reach Maria River, only to be told, “Never ’eard of it—try the taxi drivers.” This I did, feeling ridiculous dragging this huge suitcase, racquet and radio. This proved almost as fruitless until, nearing the end of the taxi line, one driver, very short in stature, said, with a half-smile (or was it a grimace?) “Yeah, mate, I’ll take ya there on the condition that if I can’t go no further, I’ll have ta leave ya there. It’ll cost ya thirty bob.”

Elation followed by deflation! What did he mean— “I’ll have ta leave ya there”? I looked at his cab—not only a Ford similar to Jack Murray’s, winner of the Redex trial in later years, but also the same colour, grey. I struggled to load the suitcase into the boot, much to his amusement (God only knows what he thought of the racquet and radio), and off we went out of the town onto a dirt road for sixteen miles before turning onto another road with a strange surface; it seemed to be made of logs. Upon enquiring, I was told it was a “corduroy” road. Why? “Because the old road was always bloodywell washin’ away.” Soon the logs were no longer visible, replaced by murky water about three inches deep. Now the phrase “I’ll have ta leave ya there” came to mind and I wondered how long he’d go before this eventuated, and what then?

No sooner had these thoughts crossed my mind than he said, “That looks like it.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. This was a school—my school. There, behind a sadly leaning wire fence it stood—a building of sorts, made of fibro, dirty grey up to halfway, which I realised later was the height of the last flood. Most of the windows were broken. It stood in a field of paspalum grass at least three feet high, and further away were two smaller leaning structures which I guessed must be “the dunnies” or cesspits about which we’d heard in lectures. (I can still remember Dr Kelly, the health lecturer, blushing as she described them to Section 7.)

“’Sfar as I go, mate. I’ll help ya with yer gear,” he said, getting out of the door. As I went to do the same I realised he had on rubber boots and I had on shoes, which I quickly took off, tied the laces and hung them round my neck, put my socks in my pockets, and helped my “mate” carry my goods to a higher piece of ground out of the water. “That’ll be thirty bob, mate,” and so saying he was back in the cab, executed a seven-point turn, complete with waves that threatened my gear with inundation, and set off down the road with a wave and “Good luck, mate!”

In retrospect it all seems quite unreal. Here I am standing in front of this “building”, shoes around my neck and my “gear” nearby, waiting for something to happen, without another building or person in sight and my only human contact disappearing down the road leaving his wash behind him. “My God,” I thought. “Is this worth an extra quid each pay?” My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of sloshing feet. Through the field of paspalum a man approached, attired in singlet and shorts, and with no preamble enquired laconically, “You the new teacher?”

I replied, “Yes, I am and could you—” Before I could go on he said, “You’ll be stayin’ at the Benders’. ’Old on. I’ll get the motor.” He turned and made off in the same direction from which he had materialised.

There was nothing to do but wait and see what would happen. At least someone lived here and I had made contact. Wearily I perched on my suitcase and waited. (I couldn’t remember anything like this in college lectures.) About ten minutes later came the sound of sloshing feet again and my saviour reappeared with a small outboard motor over his shoulder, and with a terse “Follow me” he headed to the other side of the road and into what looked like a small swamp.

“Careful of the snakes,” he turned to say, and did I detect a note of mirth in the warning? But I did as he bid, imagining what I would do if a snake did appear; burdened with my luggage there was not a thing I could do except drop my suitcase on it and hope for the best. Eventually, we traversed the swamp and arrived on raised land which turned out to be the bank of a river.

By now, I felt as if there could be no more surprises in store for me to top what had already happened. I thought how damned stupid I was to have opted for small-school training.

Tied to the bank was a small boat which seemed to me would not accommodate my suitcase, let alone two adults. But he said, “Hop in,” which I did, and with a bit of careful arranging we were soon shipshape. He gave a couple of tugs on the starter rope, the engine fired, and we were off. For about fifteen minutes the small boat weaved in and out of trees growing in shallow parts of the river, and at other times we crossed broad parts of the river, clearly the “Maree”.

THE ENGINE NOTE subsided and I observed ahead a small landing and four kids, obviously excited, jumping up and down nearby. “This is it,” he said. (It was still “he” because, as yet, he had not introduced himself.) We pulled into the landing, where we were eagerly helped by the older kids to unload. Before I could express my thanks he had turned his boat and was off the way he had come, so I shouted a belated thanks. He gave a desultory wave above his head without a backward glance and disappeared round a bend in the river.

The kids had taken my suitcase and goods and were heading towards a house about fifty yards away, and as the ground seemed dry, and wanting to appear decent, I quickly washed my feet in the river, pulled my shoes on, sans socks, rolled down my trousers, and set off after them. As far as I could see, this was to be my home for the rest of the year.

I crested a slight rise to see the two eldest children, a boy and a girl, fighting for custody of the suitcase (they seemed to carry it far more easily than I) as they approached the house. Arriving there, I was greeted by Mrs Bender, a weatherworn woman with a kindly face who ushered me inside to my “room” and apologised for its sparseness. Sparse indeed it was: a bed, a rudimentary dressing table, a wardrobe. There was lino on the floor, the walls were unpainted fibro, and the roof was unlined. Home sweet home! Washing was provided by a dish outside on a stand, and “bath night” was on Saturday in a big tub in front of the fire—teacher first!

This structure was an addition to the main house and was part of a short outside verandah. Needless to say, the toilet was the typical “thunderbox” cesspit “up the back yard”. In the winter the moisture from my breath condensed on the ceiling of my bedroom where it turned to frost; as the sun came up it melted and fell on my bed—a quick way of getting me up.

It was a dairy farm and these people, I would say, barely made a living and worked very hard every day. Sam, Mr Bender, was a man of very few words. Breakfast every day was porridge; lunch, bread and corned beef. The evening meal was corned beef, turnip, potato and cabbage. Once during the year Sam shot some wild ducks and for a while we had a change of diet, but when one morning I awoke to a breakfast of duck giblet soup I longed for corned beef again.

The next day was the beginning of school and with three of the four kids we set off on our mile walk to the river bank. The open fields and bush were very green and seemed to be abundant, with many kangaroos. We reached the river bank and there, moored to a stout stump, was our means of transport, a small wooden boat. We embarked, and it seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the teacher did the rowing while the kids enjoyed the ride, pointing out dead trees in the river to avoid. After about half a mile we pulled into a familiar place, the point where the day before I had gone downstream with “the outboard motor man”.

We traversed the swamp. I had on a pair of Sam’s rubber boots. Rubber boots became part of my life for the rest of that year. Gathered in front of the school was my flock, seventeen kids of various ages and sizes from kindergarten to sixth class, most of them staring shyly at the new teacher. Upon opening the building, more surprises. It was completely unlined, and over the years swallows had nested in the roof and consequently the walls, ceiling, floor and desks were liberally coated with bird lime. My chair had no back, and what books there were in the cupboard were well chewed by rats that had left piles of droppings. Thankfully, in the porch a cupboard did contain all the Departmental readers (even the rats wouldn’t eat them), and there were sound charts on the wall.

On inspecting the grounds I found to my dismay that both cesspits were overflowing (this, no doubt, accounted for the lush paspalum). Despite my frequent letters, no one would accept a contract to dig new ones. Solution: staggered recesses for girls and boys “up the paddock” until the ground dried out and the cesspits became usable once again.

The school was situated on about three acres of land and fronted the “main road”. About nineteen window panes were broken, there were two big leaks in the roof, and once again no one wanted to fix them. It was at this point in my teaching career that I learnt a very important word which cropped up time and again for many years: improvise.

About recess time there was the blast of a horn. It was the life-saver of all isolated small-school teachers— the milk truck, the only link I had with the town of Kempsey. The driver used to take my pay cheque, do all my shopping, bring school supplies, and even change library books.

A little later I found the records of the defunct Parents’ and Citizens’ Association: they had a cash balance of some twenty-six pounds, with which I was able to get the milk truck driver to get the glass and putty for the windows and Bostik to fix the roof—which I had to repair myself. I don’t think our college lecturer, “Wally”, covered that activity in Crafts.

SO BEGAN my first appointment. I didn’t get away until Easter when Sam, in his horse and sulky, practically swam me out. We had had torrential rain for three days and I couldn’t get to school as the river was in flood. I was hoping the school would get washed away, but no such luck. I got back home to Gosford and bought a motorbike, which enabled me to get into town quite often, which I’m sure kept me from going barmy and enabled me occasionally to meet a couple of my college mates teaching in the area.

By the time I arrived back after Easter the waters had subsided and the river was back to its normal flow. On arriving at school (still standing, with the grass growing more abundantly than ever) I was greeted by someone who turned out to be the District Inspector. On inspecting my roll-book he remarked on three days not marked. I explained to him that the river was in flood and even though I could swim reasonably well, trying to swim a swollen river was not in my charter of duties. He then went into a lengthy deliberation on “through hail, through fire, through flood, the teacher should report for duty”, and went on to tell me to “improvise with my toilets”, as he could get no one to do the job. My opinion of inspectors was not enhanced that day.

The road to town was horrific. A fellow ex-member of Section 7, Col Delore, teaching further up near Bowraville, thought the road to his school was worse, but upon trying mine one weekend he changed his mind. On that road later that year the frame of my bike broke and only the crash bars kept the engine from falling off.

And so the year passed, with the floods in April and bushfires in November. The kids were no trouble and, thankfully, none of them suffered any bites from snakes, sixteen of which were spotted or dispatched during the year. I saw very few parents, but they did rally for a school picnic at the end of the year.

The next year I was transferred to Wittitrin on the other side of Kempsey. The school was marooned for a week by flood, and subsequently closed through lack of numbers. I spent some time at Lower Creek, followed by a year teaching in an open shed at Kempsey East. I suppose Griff Duncan, the college principal, would have called it “character building”, but I have another name for it.

About fifteen years ago I took a nostalgic trip with my wife, seeking these small schools. They had all disappeared. The Departmental publication Government Schools of New South Wales 1848–2003 tells me that Maria River closed in December 1954, Wittitrin in December 1953, and Lower Creek in December 1960. Of the 1450 one-teacher schools which existed in 1950 only 122 remained.

Ron Cox was a member of the initial (1949) intake of students at Newcastle Teachers’ College. He and his wife have organised several reunions of the “pioneer session”, the latest being in 2007.