by Kim Scott
So, for a time we were all working on that old house. The two old men told me I was doing fine, and what I should do next. I don’t believe their hearts were in it, just then, but they encouraged me for my own sake, I suppose. They thought I seemed interested in the job.
In fact, I felt very insecure. I didn’t know who to trust. After all, I remembered what my father had told me of Uncle Will, how he had kept right away from even his own mother.
I knew that I had been uplifted. I knew I’d been ill. But what about these old men, how did they see themselves, how did they see me? And how could they be so, so ... So kind to Ern. So kind. They knew how he was, surely. I could not bring myself to tell them what I knew about him.
So what was it made me, with a mortar in one hand and a small trowel in the other, tremble so? I hoped it was only fatigue.
I kept telling myself that I had been given another chance, and that I too had to seize every opportunity. The way it was, I had nothing. This place still seemed strange to me. My grandfather had reassured me, told me he knew me, told me my place. I knew, already, the bullshit of that.
He’d be all right. He was comfortable enough. Plenty to drink. Books. Radio. He was gunna die soon.
But what about those other two old fellas? And me?
From up on the verandah I could see the sea. I saw the swell rippling right to left on the horizon, continuing its way around the planet. Closer in I saw how the headland to my right caught it, and swung it around to break on the island.
Each time I turned from the slow, irregular, and fragmentary exposure of the wall’s rigid pattern of blocks, I would see a white blossom appear at the right-hand tip of the island, as if from that thin line where sea met sky met land. All day, blooming and dying, blooming and dying.
I turned to it more and more often, eventually letting my tools fall and resigning myself to the rise and fall of that distant rhythm. I was thinking of what I was learning about my family.
I was feeling light-headed, of course, and so made a little commentary of what I was doing, and what I intended doing, and that seemed to settle me. But as I turned the corner of the house a gust of wind blew me against the wall. My head bumped the eaves, and then I was beside the roof and heading ... well, further up. Who knows where?
The cuff of my trousers caught on the guttering, and there I was; uplifted and spread out to the wind, which whistled through me, and in and out of orifices, singing some spiteful tune.
I could not concentrate on any sort of story, no narrative. My trousers ripped a little more.
Desperately I tried to get some words flowing through my head. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I gotta I gotta gotta I must must must I will will will oh will will Uncle Will what he had said and my father and what I guessed, remembered, imagined?
I got a hand to the guttering.
I was worried that someone might see. An embarrassment, such an abuse of reason. I was a freak.
I worked my way, hand over hand, around the guttering to the other side of the house where I found some shelter, from the wind at least. In relative quiet, and safe from such a buffeting I began to ease myself to the ground.
But suddenly, there I was again, spread out against the sky like a banner.
Uncle Will came hobbling as fast as he was able in response to my cries for help. He stiffly ascended the ladder, reached out his hand...
And then he was suddenly up in the air with me, with the guttering in one hand, and a kite-like me in the other.
Uncle Jack’s turn. And for some reason, which I could not comprehend at the time, he was able to get hold of Will, and was both weighty and strong enough to pull the two of us in like spent fish.
Will’s eyes were wide. ‘I thought that had all stopped,’ he said. ‘It’s a long time since I...’
They suggested I remain inside the house.
‘You can write? That helps?’ They looked at one another quizzically. I would have to return to writing. It apparently helped knot and tie me down. Even now, writing, my hands stay easily at the keyboard and I loop my legs to settle in the chair.
If I am to be so light, well, so be it. But let me at least learn how to adopt a certain weightiness of manner, and not always approach things with levity.
I am serious when I complain of the time it took to develop these small calluses on the tops of my toes so I might hook them under the sill and hover at the window, watching that island and how the sun and the wind shifts, and the sea’s coat changes.
I remained there, throbbing.
I had listened to my grandfather roar.
Now it was the voices of these other two old men, and Uncle Jack, tapping me on the chest (as, more and more, others would later do). ‘You feel it in your heart? Say it like you feel it.’
in white and black
The central clause in the 1936 Act was the definition of persons to be deemed ‘natives’ within the meaning of the Act. It embraced a wide range of Aborigines of part descent in the south who had been exempt from the 1905 Act. Briefly, it included all persons of the full and part descent, regardless of their lifestyle, with the following exceptions: all ‘quadroons’ over the age of twenty-one unless classified as ‘native’ by special magisterial order ... and persons of less than ‘quadroon’ descent born before 31 January 1936. They were prohibited by law from associating with ‘natives’ regardless of the nature of their relationship.
Proclaimed April 27 1937
(Haebich, 1988, p 349)
It was Ern’s ambition to have the first white man in the family line. And he was almost quickly successful, because Topsy gave birth on 30 January 1936 to a child, Ellen. Unfortunately, from Ern’s point of view, Ellen—though legally white, was not a male. Consequently, Ern —a stickler for detail, and a very rigorous man—felt somewhat cheated. And to Ern’s mind, my father, born a couple of years later, would never have the unequivocal legal status of a white man, even if Ern could control how he was raised, who he associated with, what he thought and might become...
The 1936 legislation was the result of yet another Royal Commission, and Ern had followed the reports closely, nodding sagely as he read of Chief Protector Neville and others expounding their views on The Native Problem and its Solution.
There was a problem, experts agreed, with those people of Aboriginal descent who are half-castes in blood, but who claim they do not come under the Act, yet they consort with the natives. They run with the hares, and hunt with the hounds and no one can stop them ... Time after time, knowing we have no legal power in the matter, we take action because we know it to be absolutely necessary.
These words could almost have been Ern’s own, and although he had agreed that it would be best that the new legislation applied to all people of Aboriginal descent—no matter to what degree, or what their lifestyle—he nevertheless was disappointed.
He needed a son.
No one need ever know how the law defined his future son. And there were other ways for him to continue his good work.
As it turned out his son, my father, Tommy had only been born a matter of months when Ern was distracted from his grand plans by a world war, and went off to defend his home country.
Tommy was a healthy baby, but the girl, Ellen, had become a disturbingly pale and sickly child.
some tiny inlet
Soldiers came limping back throughout the war years, and Will Coolman came limping back to Gebalup and Wirlup Haven with some companions. His friends were not Nyoongars. Once again, they were men who were a bit dead inside. They flirted with Topsy, when she and her children went to Harriette’s camp outside of Wirlup Haven. Watching from the jetty there you would see them walking along the beach from town, and then quite suddenly disappear.
Tommy had only just started walking.
Harriette continued to tell her old story of what the cry of the curlews meant. Remember, she would say, hold yourself proud. You are as good as anyone, better.
Two Nyoongar women, and sometimes a t
hird or fourth who had made their way to visit Harriette, once again welcomed even these maimed men; one with a leg missing, another an arm, most with an absence of love or sense.
In the mornings the women fished from the reef, the shore, the jetty. The kids crushed and scattered shellfish for bait. Sometimes the shellfish were the tucker; abalone, mussels, periwinkles plucked from the rocks and prised, with a pin, from their boiled black shells.
The kids glistened with the sun and the ocean. Some were always dark-skinned; some—like the toddler Tommy and his sister, Ellen—merely had, um ... a propensity to tan. They all swam, had to learn early. One of the cripples grabbed toddler Tommy with a lone arm and threw him from the jetty. Topsy, fully clothed, leapt in and swam him to shore.
The men laughed at her. Observed how her clothes clung.
The men went to the pub in the afternoons. The publican, first time, questioned Will—not for himself, you understand, but because there was a law, and a policeman in Gebalup. There was a law, yes, about Aborigines and drinking. The men bullied him until he relented. But, he told them, the less he knew about those women the better thankyou very much.
They lit a fire around the corner of the beach; sang. There was sherry from the pub.
Three or so free years Topsy spent with her Aunty Harriette. Jack Chatalong—who had no interest in going to such a war—saw more of them, and some of Harriette’s long-lost daughters, with their white men also away, came to visit Harriette.
Harriette’s camp was among the few peppermint trees behind the dunes around the beach from Wirlup Haven. Tommy swam, walked the reefs, ate of the sea’s abundance.
His sister was inclined to cling to their mother.
Watch toddler Tommy and Jack walking around the beach. A small blond boy, the thin man ... disappear. A tiny inlet tucked out of the winds, and in among the dunes there was home.
Dolphins waved from the sea. Salmon traced the coast, the wind calmed, the ocean flexed with distant storms.
Topsy moved back to Gebalup when those storms came to stay, because Ern had returned. He trembled, and clenched his jaw more than ever.
hazel eyes!
‘They had some good ideas, those Nazis,’ Ern said. ‘But they went a bit far.’
‘You should think yourself lucky,’ he told Topsy, after he had asked Harriette not to vist. ‘Some towns...’ he began, but he did not need to go into the details of how Nyoongars were treated, the power of the legislation.
Tommy had hazel eyes, and Ern—who had not seen the boy since he was a baby—looked into them as if they were desert waterholes from which he could drink. ‘My own father had hazel eyes,’ he said, as if assured that his own heritage would continue.
Three of them—mother and children—stayed in the house all day.
It’s true, it’s true I’m sure, thought Ern. You will never know them from white children.
He asked his dear to keep her face powdered when she must go out.
Ern took the children to a photographer. Topsy wore gloves, the powder was thick on her face. She was still very young, very thin, and moved with the precise steps of a bird.
‘Stay in the car,’ said Ern. And he carried the children away.
Flash!
Flash!
Ern thanked the photographer, and returned to where Topsy was waiting.
He handed her the children. ‘I'll be back,’ and walked briskly away.
The photographer looked up, politely querying his customer’s return.
‘I'd like ... that is, I've seen photographs with the colour in them, like a painting. Can you do that?’
‘Certainly sir. I can colour them, subtly, with a brush.’
The photographer showed Ern some examples.
‘You see, said the photographer, ‘the cheeks, the eyes, the hair and clothing. But, I’m afraid. It would be helpful if you could bring the children so that I may take some notes. It’s busy today, and I’ve had several children already. My memory...’
‘The boy has hazel eyes, you would’ve noticed. Their hair is fair. Rather like that.’
Ern pointed at one of the photographs.
‘Rosy cheeks?’ the photographer queried, sizing up the situation.
‘Yes, a lovely effect.’ The photographer complimented Ern’s taste.
‘Lovely children. Very like you in looks, sir, if I may put my opinion. And the clothing, sir?’
‘The boy in blue, of course. The girl, in pink, or perhaps in white, her ribbon was pink.’
The photographs sat proudly upon the small mantelpiece. The children, playing with their warmly laughing mother in the gloomy house, liked to look at them. They wanted to share their father’s excitement. This was who they were, he said. What they had become.
In fact, it was what Ellen remained. In the few weeks since the photographs had arrived she had sickened, and been put to bed. The doctor could not provide a confident diagnosis, and suggested hot and cold baths, various medicines and unguents, compresses and vapours. When she suddenly died he was astounded.
At least, thought Ern, it was not my son, not the boy.
The boy that was saved to beget me. The hazel eyes which I closed for the very last time.
mirrors
Our policy is to send them out into the white community, and if the girl comes back pregnant our rule is to keep her for two years. The child is then taken away from the mother and sometimes never sees her again. Thus these children grow up as whites, knowing nothing of their environment. At the expiration of the period of two years the mother goes back into service. So that it really doesn’t matter if she has half a dozen children.
(A O Neville)
Yet again I stood in a doorway, listening, trying to understand.
Or rather, what I mean to say is that the child, my father, Tommy Scat, stood in the doorway and listened to Ern dealing with Topsy, his mother.
At Tommy’s back the maid moved through the house; sweeping, billowing sheets, patting pillows. His mother usually moved with them, but right now Ern was shouting into her face.
Ern poured bleach into the hot water, placed his hand on the top of Topsy’s head and pushed her under. Her glistening belly stood out from the water like an island, and little rivulets ran down it.
Tommy knew that Ern liked to hug all the maids, to help them pat the pillows and turn back the blankets. Every so often, Ern took a maid to the railway station and changed her for another one.
Grim Ern, tight-lipped and frowning. Ern at his books, in his shed, Ern drinking in the evenings, Ern’s footsteps going to the enclosed part of the verandah where the newest maid slept.
Could Ern possibly have believed that his was a selfless task? That he did not think of himself, or if he did it was only insofar as he was helping these other people become more like himself? He wanted to remake us in his own image, uplifting us to that.
So many of us have considered ourselves in my grandfather’s various mirrors, trying to see what Ern and his others see. Perhaps Harriette also, since she could read and write, but perhaps never enough to become contaminated by it.
Yes, reading about ourselves can be just like looking in such a mirror.
The mirror, that mirror mirror...
Who’s the fairest of them all? Well, it was me. Obviously. Though my father, Tommy, was fair also. Ern discarded all the others. And only he and I remained to see, with appropriate rigour, his experiment through to the end.
But could I trust any mirror?
Floating through the house towards the room with its window and mirror, I revised my work so far. How heavy I was with words, with notes quotations journals yearbooks newspaper cuttings archives scribbles. The squeezings from my grandfather’s hand. How burdened I felt with all this, and yet I drifted and floated.
And now Uncle Will and Uncle Jack were back, talking again.
I had studied the mirror, familiarised myself with the selves revealed there, and seen myself teasingly revealed as I descended, feet f
irst. I have seen my feet as prehensile. I have seen a foot nuzzling its partner’s ankle, and my body weight balanced on a single stem like some wading bird frozen with concentration.
I saw how I shimmered, just like the aliens do on the television, and although a variety of images were shown, they were all of a kind.
I turned away, turned away from the mirror. I turned my back, showed my black hole, that last aureole of my colour, my black insides. To think this lured grandfather! I had repeatedly taken him inside me, in different ways, and it was always easy, like a joke, but it terrified him now because he understood what it meant that he shrivelled while he remained there.
My births took longer, were different; not something he could discard and forget. I gave birth to all these words; these boasts. Grandfather, they spew you out. Me and you both, transformed too.
You see, some things insist. Some things persist. Your plan needed more than a few generations.
But then, I know in some cases it succeeded, within my very own blood line.
It is hard to know what to think.
Ern’s mentor wrote:
Their thought processes must necessarily be in English where their own tongue is forgotten, and as their English is restricted their thinking lacks cohesion, is slow and often leads to incorrect assumptions ... He must not be rushed, he is not a quick thinker, and you on your part must seek to find out what he really wants, which is often very difficult.
Did Ern return to such words when I cut and made him sting? When I poked and prodded him in return?
We were lucky, both of us, that my uncles returned.
I am not the only one to have used a mirror.
Uncle Jack told me how he used to have one hung up in the boughshed he and Harriette shared among the peppermint trees, not long after the war years. He told me he even used to pinch his nostrils together. He would wet his hair, and flatten it with the palm of his hand.
