by Sally Morgan
That was the last straw as far as Arthur was concerned. Nan’s comments had hit close to home and she knew it. He’d told her about a part of his land that he kept uncleared so the wildlife could prosper in peace, now she was using this confidence against him.
‘I’m tellin’ you nothin’ no more,’ he said. ‘We’ll ignore her. Tell her to go, Glad,’ he added to Mum. ‘We don’t want her in here. She’s been with whitefellas too long!’
‘Now, Nanna,’ Mum said in her Let’s Be Reasonable voice. ‘Arthur is your only brother, whenever he comes, you pick a fight with him. You’re both getting old, it’s time you made up. He doesn’t want to listen to your complaints all the time.’
Nan was determined to remain perverse. ‘And we don’t want to hear his stories either,’ she said forcefully. ‘He goes over and over the same old thing. He wasn’t the only one hard done by.’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ Mum replied, ‘but at least he’ll talk about it. You won’t tell us anything. Whenever we ask you about the past, you get nasty. We’re your family, we’ve got a right to know.’
‘Glad, you’re always goin’ on about the past. You and Arthur are a good pair, you don’t know what a secret is.’
‘It’s not a matter of secrets, Nan,’ Mum reasoned. ‘You seem to be ashamed of your past, I don’t know why. All my life, you’ve never told me anything, never let me belong to anyone. All my life, I’ve wanted a family, you won’t even tell me about my own grandmother. You go away and let Arthur talk, at least he tells me something.’
Nan opened her mouth to reply, but Arthur cut her off with, ‘If you don’t go, Daisy, I’ll tell them your Aboriginal name.’
Nan was furious. ‘You wouldn’t!’ she fumed.
‘Too right I will,’ said Arthur. Nan knew when she was beaten, she stormed off.
‘What is it?’ both Mum and I asked excitedly after she’d gone.
‘No, I can’t tell you,’ he said, ‘it’s not as if I wouldn’t like to, but Daisy should tell you herself. There’s a lot she could tell you, she knows more about some of our people than I do.’
‘But she won’t talk, Arthur,’ Mum replied. ‘Sometimes, I think she thinks she’s white. She’s ashamed of her family.’
‘Aah, she’s bin with whitefellas too long. They make her feel ’shamed, that’s what white people do to you. Why should we be ’shamed, we bin here longer than them. You don’t see the black man diggin’ up the land, scarrin’ it. The white man got no sense.’
I sat and listened to many conversations between Mum and Arthur after that. Whenever he turned up for a visit, Mum would ring me at home and say, ‘He’s here!’ and I would go rushing over.
On one such afternoon, I wandered out to the backyard to find Nan and Arthur under a gum tree, jabbering away in what sounded to me like a foreign language. I sat down very quietly on the steps and listened. I prayed they wouldn’t see me.
After a few minutes, Nan said, ‘My eyes aren’t that bad, Sally. I can see you there, spyin’ on us.’
‘I’m not spying,’ I defended myself. ‘Keep talking, don’t let me stop you.’
‘We’re not talkin’ no more,’ Nan said. ‘You hear that, Arthur, no more!’
Just then, Mum came out with a tray full of afternoon tea. After she’d given them their tea and cake, I followed her inside.
‘Mum,’ I said excitedly, ‘did you hear them? They were talking in their own language!’
‘What, Nanna too?’
‘Yep! And not just a few words, she was jabbering away like she always talked like that. I wouldn’t have thought she’d remember after all these years.’
‘Sally, are you sure you’re not making this up?’
‘No! Honestly Mum, I heard them!’
‘But it must be years since she used her own language. Fancy, her remembering it all this time.’
‘It’s a ray of hope, Mum,’ I said. ‘She could have easily forgotten it, a language needs to be used to be remembered. It must mean it was important to her. She might turn into a proud blackfella yet.’
‘Don’t you ever give up?’
‘Where there’s life, there’s hope, Mum.’
Over the following weeks, whenever I saw Nan, I’d bring up the topic of her language. She was very defensive at first and would lose her temper with me, but, after a while, she gradually came around. One day she said, ‘Hey, Sally, you know what goombo is?’
‘No, what,’ I grinned.
‘Wee-wee.’
Nan chuckled and walked off.
She told me many words after that, but I could never get her to say a sentence for me. It would be a long time before I would learn to be content with the little she was willing to give.
Where there’s a will
‘I’m going to write a book.’ It was the beginning of 1979, a good time for resolutions.
Mum looked shocked. ‘Another new scheme, eh?’ she asked sarcastically. She was used to my wild ideas.
‘Not just a scheme this time, Mum,’ I said determinedly. ‘This time, I’m really going to do it.’
‘Is it going to be a children’s book?’
‘Nope. A book about our family history.’
‘You can’t write a book about our family,’ she spluttered, ‘you don’t know anything!’
‘Aah, but I’m going to find out, aren’t I?’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, some way.’
‘Well, don’t expect any help from Nan, you know what an old bugger she is. It’s only since Arthur’s been visiting that she’s let a few things drop.’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Mum,’ I replied light-heartedly. ‘I’ve got plenty of will.’
‘Oh Sally,’ she groaned. ‘I wish you wouldn’t start on these new ideas. You get everyone all fired up and then you don’t carry through. Well, I’m not going to worry about you writing a book. You’ll soon lose interest.’
‘Wanna bet?’
Mum took me more seriously the following week when I brought a typewriter and started to type. As she watched my jerky two-finger effort she said, ‘It’ll take you a lifetime to do a page at that rate.’
‘No, it won’t. I’m going to teach myself how to type, it’s just practice. I’ll get quicker.’
‘What are you typing, anyway?’
‘I’m putting down what I know. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Then I’m going to try and fill in what I don’t know, and I expect you to help me.’
‘I can’t help you. I don’t know anything.’
‘You only THINK you don’t know anything. I’m sure if you searched those hidden recesses of your mind you’d come up with something.’
‘It’s no use counting on me, Sally.’
‘You’re as bad as Nan, sometimes! You’ve got to help me, you’re my mother, it’s your duty.’
‘No need to be so dramatic. You know I’d help you if I could.’
‘But you can help me, Mum. You’ve spent all your life with Nan. You must be able to tell me something about her. What seems unimportant to you could be a really good lead for me. For example, how come Nan and Judy are so close?’
‘I’ve already told you, Nan was Judy’s nursemaid. Judy was quite sick as a child. I suppose that drew them closer together.’
‘How come Nan was their nursemaid and not someone else?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I told you Nan came from the station that Judy’s father owned.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said slowly. ‘You know, I think I’ll go and talk to Judy. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. There, you see, you’ve given me a lead already!’
‘Goodness, I don’t think that’s much of a lead. Judy won’t tell you anything, her and Nan love secrets.’
‘No harm in trying.’
‘What are you going to ask her?’
‘Oh, I’ll ask her about the station and why they chose Nan to come down to Perth. I’ll ask her about Ivanhoe too.’ Ivanhoe
was a grand old house in Claremont situated on the banks of the Swan River, where Nan had spent much of her working life.
‘I went to Battye Library the other day, Mum.’
‘What for?’
‘It’s a history library. Western Australian history. I wanted to read up about Aborigines.’
‘Oh,’ Mum said keenly, ‘did you find out anything interesting?’
‘I sure did. I found out there was a lot to be ashamed of.’
‘You mean we should feel ashamed?’
‘No, I mean Australia should.’
Mum sat down. ‘Tell me what you read.’
‘Well, when Nan was younger, Aborigines were considered subnormal and not capable of being educated the way whites were. You know, the pastoral industry was built on the back of slave labour. Aboriginal people were forced to work, if they didn’t, the station owners called the police in. I always thought Australia was different to America, Mum, but we had slavery here too. The people might not have been sold on the blocks like the American Negroes were, but they were owned, just the same.’
‘I know,’ Mum said. There were tears in her eyes. ‘They were treated just awful. I know Nan …’ She stopped. ‘I better get going, Sal, I’ve got to go to work early tomorrow.’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘It’s nothing, Sally, nothing. You make a mountain out of a molehill.’
‘No Mum, you make molehills out of mountains.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it now. Maybe later. You’ll have to give me time. If you want my help, you’ll have to give me time.’
I could see Mum was quite upset.
‘Okay, I’ll give you all the time you want, as long as you help me.’
‘I’ll try,’ she sighed, then added, ‘You seem determined to do this.’
‘I am.’
‘I’m not sure it’s a wise thing. You don’t know who you might offend, you go barging in, you’ve got no tact. You might find yourself in deep water.’
‘I can swim.’
‘If you want to talk to Judy, it’ll only upset Nan. She’s getting older, when she finds out you want to write a book, she’ll be really upset, and she’ll make my life hell. Can’t you just leave the past buried? It won’t hurt anyone then.’
‘Mum,’ I reasoned, ‘it’s already hurt people. It’s hurt you and me and Nan, all of us. I mean, for years, I’ve been telling people I’m Indian! I have a right to know my own history. Come to think of it, you’ve never gotten around to telling me why you lied to us about that. About being Indian.’
‘Oh, let’s not go into that, I’ve had enough for one night.’ Mum rose quickly to her feet. ‘See Judy if you like, but don’t upset Nan.’
‘You want to come with me when I see her?’
‘No.’
‘Just thought I’d ask. Hey, I meant to tell you. I got a copy of your birth certificate the other day.’
Mum sat down just as quickly. ‘How did you do that? I didn’t know you could do that.’
‘It’s easy. You just apply to the Registrar General’s Office. I said I wanted it for the purposes of family history. I tried to get Nan’s and Arthur’s, but they didn’t have one. Hardly any Aboriginal people had birth certificates in those days.’
‘Sally …’ Mum said tentatively, ‘who did they say my father was? Was that on the certificate?’
‘There was just a blank there, Mum, I’m sorry.’
‘Just a blank?’ Mum muttered slowly. ‘Just a blank. That’s awful, like nobody owns me.’
I hadn’t anticipated Mum being so cut up about it. I felt awful. She’d known all her life that Nan had never married.
‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ I said gently. ‘I got your certificate because I thought it might give me some leads, but it didn’t. Except that you were born in King Edward Memorial Hospital. That’s unusual, because I wouldn’t have thought they’d have let Aboriginal women in there in those days.’
‘Is that where I was born?’
‘Yep. You sure were.’
‘Well, at least you’ve found out something, Sally.’
‘You’ve asked Nan who your father was, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe Judy would know.’
‘She probably does,’ Mum sighed, ‘but she won’t tell. I asked her once and she just kept saying, “It’s in the blood”, whatever that means.’
‘I bet you never asked her straight out. You beat round the bush too much. Why don’t you corner her and say, “Judy, I want to know who my father is and I’m not leaving here till I find out.”’
Mum grinned. ‘I couldn’t do that, I’m not brave enough. Anyway, he couldn’t have cared less about me or he would have contacted me by now. And when Nan needed help, there was no one. He can’t be much of a man.’
‘You know, Mum, just on a logical basis, it must be someone who mixed with the mob at Ivanhoe in Claremont.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah. It makes sense. Did any single blokes ever stay there?’
‘No. Jack Grime lived there for years, but it wouldn’t have been him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was high up in the social circle, an English gentleman. His brother’s son is one of the Queen’s vets now.’
‘Oooh, perhaps you’d better buy a corgi!’
Mum laughed.
A few days later, I rang Aunty Judy. I explained that I was writing a book about Nan and Arthur and I thought she might be able to help me. We agreed that I would come down for lunch and she said she could tell me who Nan’s father was. I was surprised. I had expected to encounter opposition. Perhaps I wanted to encounter opposition, it fired my sense of injustice. I felt really excited after our talk on the telephone. Would I really discover who my great-grandfather was? If I was lucky, I might even find out about my grandfather as well. I was so filled with optimism I leapt up and down three times and gave God the thumbs up sign.
My day for lunch at Aunty Judy’s dawned, and was too beautiful a day for me to fail. Mum had agreed to drop me in Cottesloe, where Judy was now living, and mind the children while we had our talk.
‘Can’t I come, Mum?’ Amber wailed as we pulled up out the front of Judy’s house.
‘Sorry, Amber,’ I replied, ‘this is private.’ I leapt from the car, all vim and vigour. ‘Wish me luck, Mum.’
During lunch, we chatted about diet, health foods and the impurities in most brands of ice-cream, then Aunty Judy said, ‘You know, I think I have some old photos of your mother you might be interested in. I’ll have to dig them out.’
‘Oh great! I’d really appreciate that.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know about the station, but it’s not a lot. You know, a relative of ours published a book a while ago and they got all their facts wrong, so you better make sure you get yours right.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to print anything that’s not true.’
After lunch, we retired to the more comfortable chairs in the lounge room.
‘Now, dear,’ Aunty Judy said, ‘what would you like to know?’
‘Well, first of all, I’d like to know who Nan’s father was and also a bit about what her life was like when she was at Ivanhoe.’
‘Well, that’s no problem. My mother told me that Nan’s father was a mystery man. He was a chap they called Maltese Sam and he used to be cook on Corunna Downs. He was supposed to have come from a wealthy Maltese family, I think he could have been the younger son, a ne’er-do-well. My mother said that he always used to tell them that, one day, he was going back to Malta to claim his inheritance. The trouble was he was a drinker. He’d save money for the trip and then he’d go on a binge and have to start all over again. He used to talk to my father, Howden, a lot. He was proud Nanna was his little girl.’
‘Did he ever come and visit Nan when she was at Ivanhoe?’
‘Yes
, I think he did, once. But he was drunk, apparently, and wanted to take Nanna away with him. Nan was frightened, she didn’t want to go, so my mother said to him, you go back to Malta and put things right. When you’ve claimed your inheritance, you can have Daisy. We never saw him again. I don’t know what happened to him. Nan didn’t want to go with him, we were her family by then.’
‘Did you meet Maltese Sam?’
‘Oh, goodness, no. I was only a child. My mother told me the story.’
‘How old was Nan when she came down to Perth?’
‘About fifteen or sixteen.’
‘And what were her duties at Ivanhoe.’
‘She looked after us children.’
‘Aunty Judy, do you know who Mum’s father is?’
‘Your mother knows who her father is.’
‘No, she doesn’t. She wants to know and Nan won’t tell her.’
‘I’m sure I told your mother at one time who her father was.’
‘She doesn’t know and she’d really like to. It’s very important to her.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I should tell you. You never know about these things.’
‘Mum wanted me to ask you.’
Aunty Judy paused and looked at me silently for a few seconds. Then she said slowly, ‘All right, everybody knows who her father was, it was Jack Grime. Everyone always said that Gladdie’s the image of him.’
‘Jack Grime? And Mum takes after him, does she?’
‘Like two peas in a pod.’
‘Who was Jack Grime?’
‘He was an Englishman, an engineer, very, very clever. He lived with us at Ivanhoe, he was a friend of my father’s. He was very fond of your mother. When she was working as a florist, he’d call in and see her. We could always tell when he’d been to see Gladdie, he’d have a certain look on his face. He’d say, “I’ve been to see Gladdie” and we’d just nod.’
‘Did he ever marry and have other children?’
‘No. He was a very handsome man, but he never married and, as far as I know, there were no other children. He spent the rest of his life living in Sydney, he was about eighty-six when he died.’
‘Eighty-six? Well, that couldn’t have been that long ago, then? If he was so fond of Mum, you’d think he’d have left her something in his will. Not necessarily money, just a token to say he owned her. After all, she was his only child.’
