CHAPTER VII—­A HARD-BITTEN GANG

Joan took hold of the household with no uncertain grip, revolutionizing things till Sheldon hardly recognized the place.  For the first time the bungalow was clean and orderly.  No longer the house-boys loafed and did as little as they could; while the cook complained that “head belong him walk about too much,” from the strenuous course in cookery which she put him through.  Nor did Sheldon escape being roundly lectured for his laziness in eating nothing but tinned provisions.  She called him a muddler and a slouch, and other invidious names, for his slackness and his disregard of healthful food.

She sent her whale-boat down the coast twenty miles for limes and oranges, and wanted to know scathingly why said fruits had not long since been planted at Berande, while he was beneath contempt because there was no kitchen garden.  Mummy apples, which he had regarded as weeds, under her guidance appeared as appetizing breakfast fruit, and, at dinner, were metamorphosed into puddings that elicited his unqualified admiration.  Bananas, foraged from the bush, were served, cooked and raw, a dozen different ways, each one of which he declared was better than any other.  She or her sailors dynamited fish daily, while the Balesuna natives were paid tobacco for bringing in oysters from the mangrove swamps.  Her achievements with cocoanuts were a revelation.  She taught the cook how to make yeast from the milk, that, in turn, raised light and airy bread.  From the tip-top heart of the tree she concocted a delicious salad.  From the milk and the meat of the nut she made various sauces and dressings, sweet and sour, that were served, according to preparation, with dishes that ranged from fish to pudding.  She taught Sheldon the superiority of cocoanut cream over condensed cream, for use in coffee.  From the old and sprouting nuts she took the solid, spongy centres and turned them into salads.  Her forte seemed to be salads, and she astonished him with the deliciousness of a salad made from young bamboo shoots.  Wild tomatoes, which had gone to seed or been remorselessly hoed out from the beginning of Berande, were foraged for salads, soups, and sauces.  The chickens, which had always gone into the bush and hidden their eggs, were given laying-bins, and Joan went out herself to shoot wild duck and wild pigeons for the table.

“Not that I like to do this sort of work,” she explained, in reference to the cookery; “but because I can’t get away from Dad’s training.”

Among other things, she burned the pestilential hospital, quarrelled with Sheldon over the dead, and, in anger, set her own men to work building a new, and what she called a decent, hospital.  She robbed the windows of their lawn and muslin curtains, replacing them with gaudy calico from the trade-store, and made herself several gowns.  When she wrote out a list of goods and clothing for herself, to be sent down to Sydney by the first steamer, Sheldon wondered how long she had made up her mind to stay.