Rebecca's Dream

By Rob Clarke

In nineteen sixty-four, if you didn't have money, lots of money, university was not for you. If you were the daughter of a struggling wheat farmer then things just went from bad to worse.  The bitter truth was that it mattered not you were a brilliant student, you are a girl and girls just don't get to be engineers, especially not at the cutting edge of the scientific world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beattock Books
• Release date: Jul 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223667490

Rob Clarke

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Cover photograph of grain silos at Litchfield Victoria

REBECCA’S DREAM

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Rob Clarke

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Beattock Books

Copyright Rob Clarke 2023

This book is sold with the understanding that the author is not offering specific personal advice to the reader. Although the author and illustrator have tried to make the information as accurate as possible, they accept no responsibility for any loss or risk, personal or otherwise, that happens as a consequence of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, stored, posted on the internet, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the written permission from the author of this book.

With the exception of historical references to people and places all characters in the book are fictional and any potential impact on individuals or organisations is unintended.

To my granddaughters, Amelia, Georgia and Emily, in the hope you all may achieve a full and worthwhile life.

The Lure of University

Next Thursday, we are having a visitor from Melbourne University; he will tell you lot what courses they will offer next year. Now, the headmaster went on, I’m not sure how many of you have considered taking your education further, which as you all know, will depend on your final exam results, but just in case you are, you have until next week to think of some good questions to ask. Don’t want him thinking he had wasted his time coming to Donald, do we. He looked around the small group; few country teenagers made it to year twelve. Most fell away at the end-of-year ten, leaving only those desiring more than a trade or farm life. Some had no idea — life after school a daunting concept.

Maybe one or two, he thought, leaving the class to return to the maths lesson.

It wasn’t just the lack of desire to continue education at a higher level; the fact was, the financial burden was more than most country families could bear. It was not just the tuition fees. Having to find accommodation

in Melbourne for three to six years was almost an impossible task, a degree the prerogative only of the well-to-do, and they didn’t live anywhere near Donald. Some scholarships were available, but these were few and much sought after.

Rebecca enjoyed high school, one of the first group to enter in nineteen sixty-two, the year after the school opened. She excelled in all areas, but it was in maths and physics where her exceptional intellect shone out, far outpacing the others in the class and many of the teaching staff.

To accommodate her thirst for knowledge, the principal had sought and fought to secure additional materials. When he could, he had commented to Rebecca's father how talented she was, hinting at a career in research. These conversations always ended up with money — and there they stopped.

To make the farm viable, her father, Tom, had mortgaged the property to the hilt to buy up adjoining land, and then, in consequence, additional expenditure on larger tractors and a new harvester.

Life on the land a vicious cycle of hard work, harvesting and hardship. The concept of a daughter at a university in Melbourne pushed into the background; it was all too hard.

She will be okay, Tom thought, when he had ever let the concept out of its incarceration.

October was not that hot, so they spent lunch on a bench under the large gum. The four girls in year twelve ate and talked together daily, boys considered only on weekends, if at all.

Rebecca was the only farm girl. Sally James, daughter of the local chemist, Judy Smith, taller than the others, was the third child of the town’s butcher and Heather Johnston, whose father ran the local tractor repair business.

"I think Dad would like me to become a chemist like him, but I’m not

sure; years of study just to fill prescriptions?" Sally was almost thinking out loud.

What about you, Rebecca? Heather asked. You are the school genius; do you dream of something else apart from here?

Rebecca finished her sandwich. Seems we are too poor for me to dream, too many bills to pay, too much work to be done. She stopped. The others looked at each other and then at her; it was not the answer they were expecting.

I’m going for a walk. This was Rebecca's way of ending most conversations when they became too personal or too hard to work through. Watching her walk off, her three class mates shared knowing looks. There were few secrets in a small country town; Rebecca's brilliant intellect was common knowledge, as was her family’s financial struggle.

It would be sad if she could not go to university. She is so smart, Heather mused.

But she rubs our noses in it, so maybe being stuck here would take her down a peg or two. Judy’s stinging addition to the conversation echoed one element of the school’s students, those happy enough just to roll along, fitting in with the status quo. To them, Rebecca was the tall poppy of Donald High School. Too smart, too remote, too different.

Lunch finished in an awkward silence.

Friday afternoon was physics, a highlight for Rebecca; but today, anything but. Just going through the motions, answering only when asked, her thoughts only on what the headmaster had said in the morning — university courses. She had always known she would leave the farm. The dry, dusty loneliness held nothing for her. Till now her dreams were vague, a longing she could not pin down. Perhaps it was the constant reminding her father gave her, how tough it was, how little spare money there was; perhaps that was the cork in the bottle. Throughout school it had not been relevant, but now, only a month away from leaving, the security it had

given her was evaporating.

The reality struck her on the way home on the bus. There was no other time. There would be no ‘Plan B.’ Between now and the end of the year, everything would be resolved. Now was the decision time. What was she going to do? She slumped in the back seat of the small bus as it bumped along the rough bitumen road between Donald and Litchfield.

She knew only too well the decision, try as she may, would not be just hers. The enormity of the situation was sinking in; she was transitioning from a high school star to — to what? To some super-intelligent farm hand, then to become a wife of a less intelligent farmer’s son, and then a mother to smart, medium and, well, other children. Doomed to rural servitude, her great mind a captive of rural society, a victim of Australia in the sixties.

On that slow bumpy Friday afternoon bus ride, she mused, Is this my time, is this my only time? Painful thoughts flooded through her mind.

Dinner was late, her father drove the combine till he could see no more. The weather was holding; the grain looked top quality; it had to be in the silos before rain came, and before the glut that would reduce the price per ton if it didn’t rain. This was the lottery of a grain farmer.

When he came to the table, Rebecca knew now was not the time to discuss anything, let alone the prospect of asking her family to tighten their belts even more just to allow her to move forward, move into another world, separate from the farm, to be an intellectual, something her loving parents just could not comprehend.

Perhaps over the weekend, she thought, when he could think of things outside of the farm and this year’s harvest.

Saturday morning came bright and sunny again, no rain to halt the harvest. Rebecca rose with the sun. She had to be up before her father left for the day, just catching him as he left the kitchen.

Can I help you with anything, Dad? she asked.

For all her life, she was his pride and joy, and in return, he was

everything to her.

I don’t think so, baby, but thanks. He gave her a hug and a kiss and headed out to the fields. It wasn’t just to be in his good books. Saturday in Litchfield was a drag. A little cleaning, a little helping in the kitchen, but Saturday seemed to be just the gap between Friday and Sunday.

At least Sunday was busy enough with church and the fellowship lunch that followed. It was that brief time in the week when they were all together as a family; no talk of work or harvests, or school, something she wished she could bring up.

Religion and farming go hand in hand. It is a poor farmer who doesn’t realise that the crop he plants will only develop, will only flourish with warmth and rain, and that at just the right time, and this all outside his control. God makes the rain, God grows the grain. God had been good this year, the harvest almost a record; the rain was holding off and the Grain Board estimates showed there could be some relief from the incessant calls to the bank and explanations to contractors why they would have to be patient for their payments; that alone would herald a good year.

Sunday mornings were always a little different. A slow rise, the family eating breakfast together, a long-held tradition, and then a steady showering and dressing before heading off to Donald for church. There were no churches in Litchfield, the Catholics the last to close their doors some years back.

The Jones’ were Presbyterian; perhaps that was where the puritanical streak for hard work came from. One that ran through Tom’s veins and surged in those of his eldest daughter.

The sun scorched weatherboard building held about eighty, but it was only ever full for weddings, baptisms and funerals. On most days, about forty faithful turned up for the ten-thirty service, children under ten leaving before the sermon; the Sunday school still having enough young ones to justify its existence. They had tried to change the meeting time to

early afternoon, but the three fans would not beat the still warmth of a country afternoon off, and the snoring interrupted the sermon, so ten- thirty it was. This was fine for her as they held a church family lunch following; sandwiches in the main, but now and again old Mrs. Harrison brought a Pavlova, Rebecca's weakness.

Solid in the faith, Rebecca was always attentive in the service. Today’s lesson was about Deborah and Barak. This famous judge in the Old Testament was a favourite of the girl. She often wondered why Barak had any part in the history as Deborah was the powerful leader, at least in Rebecca’s mind. A woman in a man’s world, a gifted leader empowered to restore Israel.

Lunch was a stand-up affair. While the old folk sat around the walls of the hall, the rest milled around the small trestle table or stood in small groups; it was a cheerful and uplifting time.

Always up for a little fun, Rebecca sidled up to Mr. Mc Rae, the preacher, as he left the table with a plate full of sandwiches.

If God raised Deborah to be the ruler of Israel, why is it that women don’t have equal rights today?

It was a simple enough question, but one loaded with political overtones.

Pastor McRae, at forty-five, had been the minister in Donald for about ten years. He had seen Rebecca develop from a child to a very intelligent, if strong-willed, young lady. He was also well aware of her probing questions concerning the faith.

With a soggy tomato sandwich chewed, he looked at her. Her eyes danced, waiting to see if he would rise to the bait.

It was a game they had played many times. He, the defender of orthodoxy, while she, the modern antagonist, probing, questioning, unwilling to settle for stogy Presbyterian dogma.

Well, the pastor started, Barak was in charge of the army, so would not that make him the proper leader?

Unlikely, replied Rebecca, the only reason he agreed to go to war was if she went with him. That can’t be the sign of a genuine leader, can it?

She had him, and he knew it. Round one to Rebecca.

Is she annoying you, Pastor? It was her mother. How many times have I told you not to be so pushy, Rebecca?

We are just having a chat, Mum.

You have a wonderful daughter, Mrs. Jones, one gifted with a keen mind and great perception. We always enjoy our discussions, Rev. McRae added, however, I see Mrs. Harrison beckoning. Please excuse me, Rebecca, until next time.

Of course Minister, she complied, but inside she was elated with him having to make a strategic retreat from the discussion’s front line.

Sunday afternoons were quiet on the farm. Rebecca’s parents sat outside under the shade of the verandah if it was not too hot; after twenty years of marriage, their bond was still strong.

It was Rebecca’s habit to walk after church. On returning home, she would change out of her Sunday dress and slip on jeans and a top and gravitate to the rail siding, there to meander up the tracks. In times past she could find odd lumps of coal that had fallen from the loco tender, but now, since the diesels, it was just black oil stains running down the centre of the rails.

Still, she liked to consider the silos, tall and majestic against the wide flat horizon. Even on a hot day, the solid concrete walls were cool to the touch. There was never anyone there, all the loads being completed by the end of Saturday; the next train would not be until tomorrow morning. Her tour of the siding and the silos took about an hour, but today, with the words of the headmaster central in her thoughts, it was over two hours before she arrived back at the house.

If Litchfield had one blessing, it was that no harm would ever come to

the children, apart from the odd snake, perhaps. These were dealt with, or just left to slither away unmolested.

Around four, Rebecca would help her mother prepare the roast — it was always a roast. Beef, pork or Lamb, but it was always a roast on Sunday. Roasts had the great versatility of not only being the main Sunday meal, but provided sandwich fillings for at least half of the week.

Before dinner, as the family sat around the kitchen table, her father would read from the Bible; often a psalm, and, after giving thanks, they consumed the meal in silence.

After the children cleaned up the dishes, Rebecca would help the smaller ones bath and prepare for bed.

Night in the Mallee is unlike anywhere else; no cars, no trucks, not even an animal; the darkness was like the silence, total.

Standing outside; enjoying the last of the weekend, Rebecca searched the heavens; stars so close you would think you could touch them, a fitting end for a day of rest and worship.

With a sigh, she made her way to her room and packed the books needed for tomorrow’s classes.

Will Thursday never come? she wondered. But when it does, what then?

Thursday

Morning Mr. Brown, she smiled at the bus driver.

Morning Rebecca. Another nice day to start the week. You only have another month of school to go now, don’t you?

Yes, and I wish I knew what would happen after that. The old bus driver noticed the uncertain tone in her voice. You will do just fine, Rebecca, just fine.

The bus ride from Litchfield to Donald took about half an hour, long enough though for Rebecca to look wistfully out of the window. Too early for a daydream, but even at eight in the morning it was warming up in the Mallee. Mile after mile of flat fields, some now just stubble after the harvest, some still standing tall, waiting for the header to strip the vital grain, signalling the end of the wheat season for one more year.

Squeaking brakes heralded their arrival at Donald High School. Have a great day Rebecca.

Thanks Mr. Brown, you too.

Dropping her bag off at her desk, Rebecca joined the others near the flagpole on the quadrangle for assembly.

Did you do anything interesting on the weekend, Becca? It was Sally Smith, standing beside her.

Just house stuff and Church yesterday. You?

I had to watch my brother play cricket Saturday afternoon; it appears he has a talent for that at least.

They both laughed. Sally’s brother was nice enough but never seemed to settle at anything, dropping out of high school after year ten and now worked for the baker delivering bread around Donald. They settled down while the flag was being raised and half-heartedly sang God Save the Queen; the start of another week.

The government classified a lot of country institutions as technical high schools rather than strictly academic. An acceptance that in rural areas, it was more important that you raised workers than thinkers. This often meant that they joined the classes to keep the numbers up, often pairing years ten and twelve when doing practical experiments in physics and chemistry.

Rebecca never minded having someone under her wing, as long as they were interested. If not, they were quickly shoved out of the way; Rebecca never suffered fools gladly. With only three weeks until the final exams for year twelve, it was a serious business, especially for those wanting something more.

Rebecca, with utter determination, focused on her work. Revisions of past exam papers were now an essential aspect of year twelve lessons. No teacher wanted any of his charges to fail.

Her mother, while not understanding her drive, allowed her daughter to do the minimum around the house. The little ones complained as they had to do the washing up after dinner while their sister went off to her room to study. Hanging over the house was a dark cloud of uncertainty; everyone

trying to push the obvious question into the background, yet all knew the day of reckoning was only weeks away. Whispered conversations between husband and wife were becoming more frequent; piercing looks and rolled eyes were now almost daily occurrences. Thankfully, Rebecca was oblivious to the exchanges. Only one thing filled her mind: the future.

Rebecca paced up and down at the bus stop; she was the only one from Litchfield who went to high school. The local primary school catered to her siblings, plus a few from the neighbouring farms.

Morning Rebecca, I hear there is a man from Melbourne University coming today.

Morning Mr. Brown, yes, I think I would like to go to university. Hopefully, today he will provide me with some answers; I have lots of questions.

The bus driver laughed as she took her seat. For years they had exchanged pleasantries morning and evening. He had watched her grow and mature into a beautiful young woman and now, in such a brief space of time, her world would turn upside down, the bird pushed from the nest; he hoped she could fly.

Rebecca was in no mood for chit-chat when she arrived. Her entire future bottled up inside her head. So many issues, so many questions she hoped would have answers provided in one brief interview, so much hanging on so short a time.

It was nearly eleven before the headmaster and the stranger from Melbourne walked into the classroom. The man was tall and thin, his brown tweed jacket a couple of sizes too large for his slender frame. As the headmaster introduced him, his eyes quietly scanned the faces of the students.

"Class, this is Mr. Gordon Thompson. He is the head of admissions for Melbourne University. He has kindly travelled north west to give you, the

aspiring, an overview of what it is like to be in university. Also, he will discuss the courses they will offer for next year’s intake. There will be time for questions later."

Polite clapping rippled around the room. Thank you, Headmaster. The stranger replied.

"What a fine group of students you all seem to be. It is my pleasure, and my role in the university, to go out looking for the brightest and the best, to encourage you to consider university as your next step, and I would love to see