Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  CHAPTER 4

  Spirit Breeze

  One day in the mid-1960s, my parents, brothers and I were taking a lunch break from fishing in Melville Bay. We rested on the golden beach under the canopy of a huge casuarina tree. The billy gently simmered, and the breeze carried the aroma of a seafood buffet grilling on the coals.

  Fifty metres or so from our tree, stood an identical casuarina. Its branches shaded some mysterious-looking objects that had come from the sea and now circled the tree trunk. This was a sacred site. None of us dared enter it.

  Some weeks earlier, a group of Aboriginal people had been hunting along the waterfront at Melville Bay. An old, thin man with unruly grey hair and a waist-length white beard stepped forward from his clan, beckoning with his spears for Dad to go forward and meet him. Dad jumped up and walked towards the old fella. I sat totally transfixed, thinking, my God, the Aboriginal man is going to spear my dad. They stood looking at each other, there was some pointing, and some discussion, and then the old man said, ‘This tree belongs to my family, my people.’

  He pointed to the other tree. ‘But this tree we give to you and your family.’

  A magnificent gift to bestow on our family, this tree gave us a lot of pleasure over the years. It shaded us; we could fish from under it as the sea water lapped the surrounding ground. Thirty metres away was Macassar’s Soak, from where we drew water for our billy tea. A beautiful tree, given by an honourable old man.

  I often wonder if our tree still stands at Melville Bay and how the freshwater soak is going. Or has it all been destroyed with the development of the bauxite deposit? Some months after we received the old man’s gift, I was sitting waist-deep in water at Melville Bay, just below the tree, minding two little girls, Pascal and Nicky, whose mother was having a cup of tea with mine in the shade. Their father was the mining company’s mechanic.

  There had been a cyclone in the area just three days earlier, and the sea was stirred-up and muddy looking. I saw no harm just sitting in the shallow water with the girls.

  Young Nicky moved to slightly deeper water and my immediate reaction was to reach out to her. Suddenly I felt a terrible burning sensation in my right breast. In seconds it felt as if someone had hold of my chest and was squeezing the air out of my body in the worst possible way. Soon my mother was calling my name in the distance. The pain was so severe no answer would come: sharp, rolling, terrible pains. Next thing I remember being rushed 35 kilometres over the rugged dirt track to the mission hospital. I felt as if I had left the family behind. No pain anymore, just floating. Everything seemed shapeless – no features, just a calm floating feeling, which was pretty strange considering the state of Dad’s Land Rover.

  The Aboriginal elders camped for three days and nights around the little mission hospital. They refused to move until they had sung me back to life. The minister at the mission, Reverend Fall, held church services night and day, and on the third evening I woke to the sound of an old Aboriginal woman’s voice singing in her language, and a sea of black faces peering through the louvres at me. Being stung by a marine stinger, the deadly Irukandji jellyfish, was the most terrible experience of my young life – it was certainly the most excruciating pain I’d ever suffered. Hard to believe the creature is half the size of a fingernail. It had got into my swimming costume as I’d adjusted the shoulder strap when I’d been reaching out for one of the children. I was lucky to have been taken to the hospital so soon; the jellyfish sting can have long-term effects on the nervous system, but I was given injections early enough to avert any lasting damage. Mum suffered so much for me she was also put into the hospital, covered in a terrible nerve rash.

  Our stores were supplied to Gove by two ration ships, the Wyburn and the Alanga. The ships sailed from Brisbane, dropping supplies at Roper River, then powering on to us at Melville Bay. If we were lucky this happened every three months. It generated lots of excitement.

  I remember one occasion when Dad had spent the entire day ferrying equipment from the ship to shore by barge. That evening, he was invited to dine with the ration ship’s captain and crew. Since there were no women on board, my mother, brothers and I chose to remain at camp. It was a pitch-black night, with barely a star. Dad had just returned to the dock where he’d parked the Land Rover when he heard some angry Aboriginal voices directed at him.

  ‘White bastards, you’re no good, any of you.’

  He pulled the crank handle out from under the seat and walked towards the group of men who had gathered around a pile of 44-gallon drums.

  He had never heard such slurs before, as he had only ever treated the Aboriginal people with respect, and they him. The Yirrkala people called him ‘Mr Snow’ to show their respect.

  ‘What did you say?’ he challenged.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Snow? Sorry, sorry, didn’t know it was you.’

  At this time, Aborigines had virtually no rights. In 1949, the year I was born, our Commonwealth Electoral Act was amended to grant indigenous people a vote, but only if they were entitled to in their particular State or if they had completed military service. In 1962 the Electoral Act was amended again, this time to grant all Aborigines their right to vote, but it was illegal to encourage them to enrol. Dad understood their rage. He learned that some of the sailors had come ashore looking for women and were supplying alcohol, then unavailable to the Aboriginal population. It was also illegal to bring alcohol into Arnhem Land.

  He sympathised with them and let the matter drop. That incident was the only time I ever remember the Aborigines speaking up against white fellas, and I think they were embarrassed and wanted to put the whole episode behind them as quickly as possible.

  Another time, the reverend of Yirrkala Mission upset us by publicly flogging two young Aboriginal boys for pinching watermelons. This horrifying abuse didn’t sit too well with Dad. In fact, it provoked him to retaliate. He and Bruce jumped on our little motorbike and tore down the dirt track to the mission watermelon patch. They clambered under the fence, pinched two large ripe watermelons and brought them home. My father no doubt wanted to give the reverend an opportunity to flog him. That would have been a sight, the gentle man of God and the tough, hard Territory man!

  I believe there were somewhere between 300 and 350 reserves, or ‘ration camps’ as I got to call them in later years, set up by the government around Australia. With the support of the Christian associations and churches they were later known as missions. Prior to the 1950s, when Aborigines were dragged into these places in chains, they had no basic rights, were losing custody of their own children and had no freedom of movement. In the 1960s, flogging a child for pinching a watermelon seemed a bit much to me!

  If we had patronised the church at the mission, the association probably would have been better between us. With Dad caretaking the undeveloped bauxite lease at that time, in the missionaries’ eyes we were probably intruders. The Aboriginal people seemed reasonably happy, healthy and content, and education was available, although the children would have preferred to run free, to fish and swim their days away.

  I loved my life in Arnhem Land. We were free of most of life’s restrictions. We didn’t have a lot, but didn’t need much. I was the only girl among four fishing-crazy brothers. Mum and I enjoyed our walks along the beach together, collecting seashells or coral that had washed up on the high-tide mark. Once Mum guided me as I painstakingly tried to sew myself a new dress; I found I needed an unaccustomed patience for this new experience. Once we left Gove, I decided that buying them was the way to go.

  One day back at camp, we found a gaunt-looking Aboriginal girl of about 18 cowering in the trees surrounding our homestead. She was covered in dust and her hair was a matted mess. Her thin body was covered by a dirty cloth. She seemed unable to make much more than the odd grunting sound and certainly didn’t know any English. I was happy to meet her – she was another girl, after all.

  My parents guessed she had walked alone from Blue Mud Bay, in fear of her life. We n
ever found out why, but it must have been a tribal matter – she was probably running from a spearing. Traditional law was harsh and unforgiving, but we had no right to go in and directly challenge it. I beckoned for her to follow me to the showers, where Mother had laid out a towel and some of my old clothes for her. I turned the shower on and gestured for her to step in. Then I turned my back on her and sat in the doorway.

  By the time she’d finished, Mum had produced a tray with billy tea, buffalo steaks and damper. The girl was hungry – I’d never seen anyone tear at food like she did. She was also terrified; I could feel the fear vibrating from her.

  She was forever looking over her shoulder, her sorrowful dark eyes wide with anxiety. Wherever I walked she shadowed me, a foot behind me day and night. My bed was a wartime camp stretcher and the girl would sleep under it on a thin mattress Mother had given her. She stuck to me like glue.

  We lived like this for several weeks until my parents thought she should move on. Her fear was infectious and by now I was searching the plateau as well, looking for the man who was after her. At times I would forget she was behind me and she would bump into me, frightening us both. I was disappointed that we were unable to communicate. I may have been able to help her. She was so young and yet so fearful and sad.

  My parents decided that the game must end and took her to Yirrkala Mission for her own safety. I still think of this girl and wonder about her. I hope she was safe at the mission, and looked after by the women.

  The mining company Nabalco had by now taken over the bauxite leases from Gominco. Dad wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be part of the new mining operation. He loved the Arnhem Land bush the way it was. Then one day he made a decision.

  The spirit breeze carried the word that Mr Snow and his family were leaving Gove. We were honoured with a special visit from the elder, Mawwellen. He approached my father, his hands outstretched, and said, ‘This is my land, don’t you peoples go.’ He continued this mantra in his broken English, searching my father’s face with his milky eyes.

  ‘I give you this land,’ he added, dramatically. But it was time to leave Gove. Our beautiful peaceful camp on the plateau was slowly becoming a hive of activity as interest in the bauxite grew.

  CHAPTER 5

  Broome Time

  I was 18 years old, skinny, with a mane of long blonde hair, blue eyes, still a virgin, and came from the bush side of the tracks. In no time at all the invitations started to roll in. Broome could come alive after sunset when the people seemed to segregate into varying groups – the pearling masters, the golf club, the abattoir workers, and the imported Malay and Japanese pearl divers. The pastoralists were just another group. They hit the town in a flurry of drinking and partying, and the new chums like us hung on the verge until the town realised we weren’t aliens. We all created our own entertainment and friendships. During the day people went about their business as usual and Broome’s quaint little China Town became the busy commercial centre.

  After spending four years – more or less all of my teenage years – in Arnhem Land, Broome seemed all movement: people, vehicles. I was used to the idea of nothing on the road but Dad’s Land Rover and our Willy’s jeep. Before leaving Gove, a kind-hearted visiting policeman had just passed me on my driver’s licence test after I backed into the homestead’s only power pole. I wondered if I’d ever be able to drive in Broome, where there were an awful lot of power poles. I lacked confidence and found it difficult to mix. Any ambition I had for my life seemed to have gone out the window when I’d let go of my hairdressing apprenticeship, and then failed to get an air-hostess position I had applied for with MacRobertson Miller Airlines three months before leaving Arnhem Land.

  ‘We would like to employ you, but you’re still twelve months too young,’ was the answer. They required that hostesses be a minimum 19 years old. I briefly considered putting my age up a year, and my life might have taken a very different course if I had.

  The move from Gove to Broome suited my brothers. Not only did they always have each other and me, but being a group of boys they seemed to draw mates from everywhere. School became a challenge for Bruce, Darryl and Michael, but Eric thrived on it – he was the brain among us.

  Kennedy and Son of Broome, the store with everything (it’s still standing today), were looking for a shop assistant for their drapery department. I applied for the position and obtained the job, seeing a chance of becoming more independent. Old Mr Kennedy would pick up all his staff up each morning from home, take us to work, and then deliver us back home at midday for the two-hour siesta. In the afternoon, he would repeat his staff taxi service all over again.

  Working helped build my self-esteem considerably. I met many wonderful people, and some were of the Broome male kind. I soon realised that it took guts for a man to come up to the drapery counter in a country store, where everyone knew everyone and everyone’s business as well. I met a tough but good-looking head stockman who very nearly broke me in. He tried to convince me that 99 per cent of women ‘did it’ before they were married. My head was clearer than his at this point, and I explained that I was the 1 per cent who didn’t.

  Another man, a lovable larrikin and good-looking guy, persuaded me to go out with him. He hadn’t been back in Broome long; he held a position in the local bank and had a reputation with the girls. Sadly we never made the first date together, as he was killed in a road accident the night before.

  Some time later, an American from Wyoming walked up to the counter in Kennedy’s Store and said, ‘Lady, I’m going to take you to dinner tonight at Ma Kim’s Café in China Town.’ It was more of a demand than a question.

  Looking back, God only knows why the hell I got tied up with Chuck. But I suppose he was rather handsome, with green laughing eyes and a head of thick blond curly hair. He was happy-go-lucky and a larrikin to boot. He and his father managed Anna Plains Station for Art Linkletter, another American. Chuck was a lot more experienced in life than I was, and a hell of a lot smoother than most men. In no time he had me under his spell.

  I found it a bit odd that his father was always out to dinner with us. I would often catch his father’s dark eyes boring into me. Why is he always out with us, and why is he staring at me? I wondered. He gave me the creeps. About three months later, his son proposed. ‘Marry me,’ he said in that same demanding way. I must have said ‘Yes,’ but I don’t really remember. Marriage had never entered my mind, with Chuck or anyone else. But I was becoming curious about sex, and had made my mind up not to sleep around to experience it. I believed I should be married before I did.

  Chuck said that if I did not marry him he would kidnap me and run off. Maybe this was his way of saying that he loved me. I arrived home from work one Friday afternoon to find Chuck having a drink with my father on the back veranda. I stopped in my stride and looked searchingly at them both. Chuck told me we were getting married in June. I didn’t have the guts to say no. Everyone seemed excited by the idea, wedding plans were being made, and a beautiful bridal gown was flown from Perth for me to try on.

  Both of my parents were sure that this wedding was what I wanted, that I was in love with this Yank. They were happy for me and forged ahead with the wedding plans. But I felt numb to it all. I was still a virgin. I was curious and confused, scared and anxious, but instead of getting emotional I felt distanced from what was going on around me. Chuck would visit me briefly when he came in from the station, then go off and party. Rumours were soon coming back to me of his sleeping around. Two days before I was to be married, I broke down at work and cried my eyes out to a much older lady friend. I told her that I felt Chuck was still a stranger, that I didn’t really know him and I didn’t wish to marry him and was frightened of the mess I was in.

  I couldn’t say anything to my parents. My father is a big man, whose attitude at times could be offhand and arrogant, and I was frightened of the explosion my reversal could bring. It was only in my late twenties that Dad and I began to communicate reasonabl
y well.

  Still my parents’ child, not really an independent adult yet, I drifted into marriage. I didn’t feel mature enough to stand up and stop the event, which had gathered its own momentum. This was also the era where the man of the house was the boss. If I’d said to Mum that I couldn’t go ahead, I’d have been creating major problems for her. It was all a big misunderstanding, now that I look back on it: Mum and Dad later revealed that they had doubts of their own, but they, in their way, were as caught up in the unstoppable process as I was.

  Dad arranged to open the rambling Continental Hotel to one and all. Family and friends had flown in from Darwin and Perth along with Dad’s father, Grandpa Wallis, from London. My Grandpa Bond from Fresh Water Rapid Creek had died of cancer while we were in Arnhem Land, so Grandma Bond came alone. I was pleased that Grandfather Wallis had made the long trip over, as we only ever got to see him every couple of years for a week or two. He was my pen-pal and had encouraged me to keep diaries. It was a shame that I couldn’t confide to him my fear of what I was about to do.

  My bridal gown had cost a fortune, and was encrusted with pearls and crystals. Either Mills & Boon romance novels were full of lies – or was I expecting too much? Maybe this confused, frightened feeling of wanting to bolt back to the bush was how it always was before marriage, and maybe it would get a whole lot better afterwards?

  The day arrived. I don’t remember putting on the beautiful gown, but I must have, otherwise I would have been naked . . . but I do remember trying to muster the courage to go to my parents and say I couldn’t and didn’t want to go through with this. But it had gone too far, and yet again I was afraid to upset all the plans.

  I remember standing in the little white Church of Annunciation in Broome and wondering if I could announce that I had changed my mind. I glanced towards the door, and wondered if I could run away in my gown. As it turned out, I simply didn’t have the courage and went ahead with the farcical event. After the marriage vows, we arrived at the Continental Hotel which overlooked beautiful Roebuck Bay in Broome, my new husband escorting me to the wedding table. I had just turned 19, and not a single drop of alcohol had ever passed my lips. I knew very little about this bloke. In fact I didn’t even know how old he was! He seemed a lot older than me.