Chapter 7 “Mumma A” And “Mumma B”

I had taught Sue some tricks—to beg, shake hands, and pretend to be

“deadfellow”—and Bett-Bett was wild with delight.

“My word, Missus!” she cried excitedly, “Sue plenty savey, him close up

whitefellow.” Then seizing her darling in her arms, she darted off to

the humpy to show her to the lubras, singing as she ran, “Sue plenty

savey; him savey, him savey!”

When they came back I was reading, and paid no attention to them.

After a while Bett-Bett said—

“What name, Missus?”

I looked up to see her staring very hard at me, with a puzzled look on

her face.

“What name, what?” I said, wondering what she meant.

She did not answer at once, but picked up a book, and held it so close

to her face that it almost touched her nose; then staring at it till her

eyes nearly jumped out of her head, she said—

“What name, likee this? likee this? likee this?”

I laughed at her and said—

“Bett-Bett, I hope I don’t look like that when I read,” for she looked

a fearful little object. But I saw what was puzzling her; she could

not understand why I sat looking so earnestly at little black marks on

paper.

I explained that books could talk like “paper yabbers,” as she called

letters—papers that “yabber,” or talk, you know.

Then I got a little ABC book, and some paper and pencils, and told her I

would teach her to read; but it was easier said than done.

We began with the capital letters. Bett-Bett repeated “A” after me, and

made it on paper, and then wanted to know what it was. Was it tucker, or

an animal, or somebody’s name?

I sat looking so earnestly at little black marks on paper. “What did the

mark say?” she asked. “What name him yabber, Missus, this one A?” were

the exact words she used.

You remember that on Goggle Eye’s letter-stick marks were cut, and that

every mark had a special meaning; so Bett-Bett was sure that “A” must be

the name of something.

I couldn’t explain it, so told her that when she knew all the names of

the letters, I would tell her what they meant, and we went on to B.

The sound reminded Bett-Bett of bees and honey. “Him sugar-bag,” she

said, grinning at her cleverness. Then she made it in the dust with her

toe, and told Sue— “Him talk sugar-bag, this one B.” Sue looked wise and

smelt it, and then offered to shake hands all round. And that was our

first day’s lesson.

Next day we learnt a few more letters, and capital “I” was christened

“This one eye,” as a smutty little finger tapped Bett-Bett’s eye.

A day or two afterwards “W” was noticed on ahead.

“Missus,” she cried, pointing to it, “I bin find bullocky.”

“What name?” I said, wondering what was coming now.

“Bullocky,” she repeated, nodding her head wisely at “W” and then “him

all day sitdown longa bullocky.”

Then I understood her. “W” was the letter of the station brand, and she

had seen it on the cattle and remembered it.

We plodded on day after day, and every day Bett-Bett gave me a hint that

she did not think much of lessons.

“Me knock up longa paper yabber, Missus; him silly fellow,” she kept

saying.

I took no notice of her remarks, but I think the only thing either of us

learnt was patience.

The capitals were bad enough, but when we began the little letters,

things got dreadfully mixed.

“Missus! this one no more ‘A’,” said Bett-Bett, worrying over small “a.”

I told her it was a little “a”; but she insisted that it wasn’t, and to

prove it showed me big “A,” and of course they were not a bit alike. To

try and make her understand a little better, I said that capital “A” was

the mother, and little “a” the baby. This pleased her very much,

“Me savey,” she said, pointing from one to the other.

“This one mumma; this one piccaninny.” Then she wanted to know the

baby’s name; what its mother called it. She said that piccaninnies

always had different names to their mummas.

Of course I didn’t know the baby’s name, and told her so. Very often

there was no answer to Bett-Bett’s questions; but somehow she always

made me feel that it was my fault, or my ignorance, that there wasn’t.

After this we said: “Mumma A and piccaninny belonga mumma A; mumma B and

piccaninny belonga mumma B, and so on to the very end of the alphabet,

till our tongues ached.

On the page Bett-Bett was learning from, every little letter was next

to its mother. Little “a” next mumma “A,” and little “b” next mumma

“B”; but in the reading lessons little letters were walking about by

themselves. One day she noticed this when she was looking through the

book.

“Look, Missus!” she cried, excitedly. “Piccaninny belonga mumma ‘A’ sit

down by meself.” Then she scolded the little letter dreadfully, “You

go home longa you mumma,” she said, in a loud, angry voice, shaking her

finger at it. But small “a” never moved; it just sat and looked at her,

and Bett-Bett told me it was “cheeky fellow longa me,” meaning it was

not at all afraid of her. “My word! you badfellow alright,” she went on,

scolding hard; “Debbil-debbil catch you dreckly.” As little “a” took no

notice of this awful threat, she turned back to tell “mumma A” about its

naughty piccaninny. There she found that the little letter had slipped

home, and was sitting quietly at its mother’s knee. She was so pleased

about it,

“Look, Missus,” she said, coming to show me; “him goodfellow now.”

“It’s a very good little letter,” I said, “and you’re a good little

lubra, and may go and help to water the garden.”

She gave a piercing, ear-splitting yell of delight, and called Sue; but

before she went asked me if the little “a” in my book was good.

I said “Yes,” and hoped I was telling the truth; as far as I knew, they

were good. I suppose Bett-Bett thought I spent hours sending naughty

piccaninnies home to their mummas. Almost before I knew that she and

Sue had gone, I heard shrieks from the vegetable garden, and yells of

“Missus! Missus!” and Biddy and Rosey came running through the open

gate. “What’s the matter now?” I said, as I went to meet them, for there

was always something fresh happening.

“Missus!” they panted, “Bett-Bett bin kill Rolly; him bin kill him longa

quart pot.”

I waited to hear no more, but ran as fast as I could to the garden,

with the lubras at my heels; hoping that Rolly was not really dead, but

perhaps only stunned.

The first thing I saw was Bett-Bett and Rolly quietly watering the

garden.

“You naughty lubras,” I said, turning sharply to Biddy and Rosey; “what

do you mean, telling such wicked stories? What name you all day gammon,

eh?” for I was very angry indeed with them; they had given me a terrible

fright.

To my surprise, they insisted that Bett-Bett had killed Rolly.

“Straightfellow, Missus,” they said earnestly; “Bett-Bett bin kill

Rolly alright.” Even Rolly herself said: “Bett-Bett bin kill me, Missus!

Straightfellow! Me no more talk gammon.”

But Bett-Bett herself said nothing; she kept on watering the garden,

with one eye on the Missus. I suppose she was thinking of the paint-pot.

“You silly things,” I said, feeling very puzzled, for they were in

deadly earnest. “Can’t you see that Rolly is not deadfellow?”

At this everybody shouted with laughter. At last they understood the

Missus and her anger.

“Me no more bin talk kill him deadfellow,” they screamed. “Me bin talk

kill him longa quart pot.”

So they had. I remembered now, and as usual it was my fault. Nobody but

the Missus ever seemed to do anything wrong. I should have understood

their funny “pidgin English” better. To “kill” only means to hit, or

prick, or thump; but to put some one actually to death is to “kill

deadfellow.” Only that morning Bett-Bett had said, when her needle

pricked her finger, “My word, Missus! neenel bin kill finger belonga

me.”

I called Bett-Bett, and asked her what she had been doing.

She said that when she got to the garden, she had found Rolly using her

favourite quart pot to sprinkle water with. She had asked for it, but

Rolly would not give it up, so she had hammered her with another to make

her. “Me bin long time kill him,” she said, but as Rolly wouldn’t give

in, Biddy and Rosey had run for me to stop the quarrel. Of course, when

they saw me coming Rolly had dropped the quart pot and Bett-Bett had

stopped “killing” her, and they had both gone on with the watering.

That was all. Such a fuss about nothing! I took the leaky old quart pot

from them, and sending them all back to their work, sat down under the

banana clump.

In five minutes they were shouting merrily and playing practical jokes

on one another; for with a blackfellow, as soon as a quarrel is over, it

is forgotten.

Watering the garden is something like washing-day —plenty of fun and

water, and very few clothes.

The fun began when Rosey went to fill her bucket. Judy and Biddy

caught her by the heels and sent her flying into the billabong. As she

scrambled out they ‘showered’ her from full buckets and quart pots,

and then ran screaming and spluttering up the banks. Rosey waited her

chance, and soon sent Biddy headlong into the pumpkin bed, with a bucket

of water after her. Judy screamed with delight at this, only to get

a full quart of water into her gaping, shouting mouth. Bett-Bett had

thrown it, but in her hurry to dodge the watermelon that Judy flung back

at her, tripped and sat down in her own bucket of water, and Rolly got

the watermelon in the middle of her back. It broke into a dozen pieces,

and of course that meant a wild scramble for the red, juicy fruit, and

then everybody sat down to enjoy it properly, and flipped the pips into

each other’s faces.

They played these pranks every night, and kept the water flying in

all directions; but as it always ended by falling somewhere among the

vegetables, the garden was a great success, for it was always well

watered. As I said before, a blackfellow sees no sense in working

when play will do as well. As I sat watching them, and expecting a

shower-bath every minute or two, Jimmy came along, whittling a bit of

stick.

“What name, Jimmy?” I asked.

“Yabber stick,” he answered shortly, and squatting down near me, cut

busily on.

“What name him talk?” I said, for that was the way to ask him what

message he was cutting.

Jimmy spat thoughtfully on the ground and looked wise, but said nothing;

and I saw I would have to flatter him a little before he would tell me

much. He dearly loved to be important, and generally had to be coaxed

and flattered a good deal.

“My word, Jimmy!” I said; “you plenty savey. Me no more savey yabber

stick.” This pleased him immensely, so I added, “I think you close up

savey white-fellow paper-yabber, Jimmy.”

He grinned from ear to ear with delight, and then taking the letter

stick in one hand, and pointing at it with his pipe, began to instruct

the poor ignorant Missus.

Jimmy looked very gay to-day. He had a small Union Jack flag hanging

from his belt like a little apron. His dilly-bag was decorated with

strips of red turkey twill and bunches of white feathers, and he had

tied a little mussel shell on to the end of every bobbing curl of his

head, and they danced and jingled as he talked.

“This one stick him yabber boomerang,” he began, pointing to a little

mark like a V drawn sideways— so <.

I looked carefully at it, and then Jimmy spat once or twice before he

explained that when that mark “sat down” on a “yabber stick,” it meant

you were being asked for the loan of a boomerang. Then he spat again,

and took a few pulls at his pipe, and looked very wise indeed.

“My word, Jimmy!” I murmured.

Jimmy grinned, and then showed me all sorts of marks which he drew in

the dirt with his finger. Signs for spears, food, wet season, people’s

names, white men, names of places, and many other things. He ended up

with “chewbac” and his own name. He was very particular that I should

remember “chewbac.” Then he showed me a letter he had just received

from Terrible Billy at Daly Waters. Jimmy’s lubra Nellie was his

mother-in-law, and this letter was to say that he was quite out of

hair-string, and would Nellie kindly cut her hair and send some. All

this was told in a winding line, twisting round and round the stick, and

a short stroke to end with, and then Nellie’s name, which read, “String

—long—hair—Nellie.” Then came some gossip—one thick ring which said

“walk-about,” and a mark which was Monkey’s name. Now “Monkey” was a

Willeroo, and always up to mischief; so it was very kind of Billy to

warn Jimmy that he was having a walk-about. Perhaps he was afraid that

Monkey might run off with his mother-in-law, hair and all.

Jimmy’s lecture was suddenly cut short by shrieks from the lubras of—

“Cheeky fellow snake sit down. Cheeky fellow snake, Missus.”

Jimmy ran to the cucumber bed, all his little shells bobbing and

jingling as he went, and quick as a flash caught the snake by the tail,

and broke its back by cracking it like a stock-whip, and then flinging

it from him. In case of accidents, the lubras and I had all scurried

in behind the bananas. It is just as wise to be out of the way when

poisonous snakes are flying through the air; for of course a “cheeky

fellow snake” means a poisonous one.

After a good look at the horrid creature, we all went back to the house,

leaving Jimmy to finish his letter. As we went, I saw that Bett-Bett was

carrying the snake on the end of a long stick.

“What name, Bett-Bett?” I asked.

“Me put him longa Nellie bed,” she answered, grinning and going down to

the humpy. Nellie was out, and Bett-Bett arranged the snake in a very

life-like position on her bluey. Of course in about an hour we heard

shrieks of “Cheeky fellow snake sit down longa Nellie bed.” The nigger

world flew to the rescue, and Nellie got unmercifully teased for being

frightened of a “deadfellow snake”; while Bett-Bett grinned secretly and

impishly.

Next morning Nellie brought me a “yabber stick” cut all over with

“chewbac” signs, and with Jimmy’s name at the bottom. I now understood

why he wanted me to remember this sign, for the letter read—“Jimmy wants

a big mob of tobacco.” I saw the old rascal grinning through the trees,

to see if I was understanding his joke. “Jimmy,” I said, calling him

up, “you’re the cutest, cleverest old nigger that ever was born, and you

ought to be King. You know exactly how to manage your Missus.”

Jimmy seemed to think this was a compliment, and chuckled as I threw him

a couple of sticks of “chew-bac.” He picked them up with his toes, and

passed them into his hands without bending his back. As he and Nellie

walked away, I saw that she had obeyed her son-in-law, and had cut her

hair.