by Sally Morgan
When Mum had finished waving goodbye to Arthur, she went in search of Nan. ‘I’m fed up,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re the one that picks the fights, you’re jealous. He’s your own brother.’
‘He shouldn’t have said that to me,’ Nan replied in a grumbly sort of way. ‘I can’t help it if I can’t read or write.’ Nan looked sad and Mum was lost for words. It wasn’t until then that anyone realised how deeply she felt about the whole thing.
‘Lots of people can’t read or write,’ Mum said gently, ‘white people, too. It’s not important. It doesn’t make you any better than anyone else.’
‘Yes, it does,’ Nan muttered, ‘I always wanted to learn. Oh, go away, Gladdie, leave me in peace.’ We all avoided mentioning anything to do with reading or writing after that, we didn’t want Nan to think we were looking down on her.
The next time I saw Arthur, he asked me to tell him about the book I was writing.
‘I want to write the history of my own family,’ I told him.
‘What do you want to do that for?’
‘Well, there’s almost nothing written from a personal point of view about Aboriginal people. All our history is about the white man. No one knows what it was like for us. A lot of our history has been lost, people have been too frightened to say anything. There’s a lot of our history we can’t even get at, Arthur. There are all sorts of files about Aboriginals that go way back, and the government won’t release them. You take the old police files, they’re not even controlled by Battye Library, they’re controlled by the police. And they don’t like letting them out, because there are so many instances of police abusing their power when they were supposed to be Protectors of Aborigines that it’s not funny! I mean, our own government had terrible policies for Aboriginal people. Thousands of families in Australia were destroyed by the government policy of taking children away. None of that happened to white people. I know Nan doesn’t agree with what I’m doing. She thinks I’m trying to make trouble, but I’m not. I just want to try to tell a little bit of the other side of the story.’
Arthur was silent for a few seconds, then he said thoughtfully, ‘Daisy doesn’t agree, I know that. I think she’s been brainwashed. I tell you how I look at it, it’s part of our history, like. And everyone’s interested in history. Do you think you could put my story in that book of yours?’
‘Oh Arthur, I’d love to!’
‘Then we got a deal. You got that tape-recorder of yours? We’ll use that. You just listen to what I got to say, if you want to ask questions, you stop me. Now, some things I might tell you, I don’t want in the book, is that all right?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. I won’t put anything in you don’t want me to.’
‘Before we start, there’s something else. I don’t want my story mixed up with the Drake-Brockmans’.’ If you’re goin’ to write their story as well, I’ll have none of it. Let them write their own story.’
‘Agreed.’
It took three months or more to record Arthur’s story. We went over and over the same incidents and, each time, he added a little more detail. He had a fantastic memory. Sometimes when he spoke, it was like he was actually reliving what had happened. We became very close. There were times when I worried that I was working him too hard, but, if I slacked off, he’d say, ‘We haven’t finished yet, you know.’ He was always worried about my cassette recorder. I had to check it each time to make sure it was working. ‘You don’t want to miss nothin’,’ he’d remind me. ‘Those batteries get low.’ Even if the batteries were new, I still had to check.
One night, after I’d spent a long session with Arthur, I fell into bed, exhausted. That night, I had a dream. I knew he was going to die.
‘What’s wrong?’ Paul asked me the following morning when I burst into tears over my cornflakes.
‘It’s Arthur,’ I sobbed, ‘he’s going to die.’
‘Aw, Sal,’ Paul said, ‘what makes you think something like that.’
‘I dreamt about it last night.’
‘Just because he’s old doesn’t mean he’s about to die.’
‘He is. I know he is.’
‘You and your intuition, you’ve been wrong before.’
‘Not about this. I think he knows he’s going, that’s why he wants to get his story done.’
‘Well, if he is, there’s nothing you can do about it. The best thing is to finish his story, seeing it means so much to him.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Later that day, I rang Mum.
‘Mum, it’s about Arthur.’
‘Oh yes. What’s up?’
‘I don’t know how to say this, Mum.’
‘What’s wrong??’
‘I had a dream last night. He’s going to die soon. We’ve got to get his story finished.’
‘Oh Sally, Arthur’s not going to die, the doctors have only just given him a clean bill of health.’
‘No Mum, I’m very sure about this.’
‘Are you sure your dream wasn’t about Nan? She’s the one that hasn’t been feeling well.’
‘No, Mum. It’s the old boy. And you know how keen he is about his story. We’ve got to drop everything and spend as much time as we can with him. Paul said he’ll mind the kids. You’ll have to take me over to see him.’
‘I wish you’d gotten your licence when you were younger.’
‘I’ll get it one day. Anyway, it gives you something to do.’
‘I’m always running you around places.’
‘Your life would be dull without me, Mum.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Sally … do you think he knows?’
‘Yes. You watch his face the next time he talks, it’s got a sort of glow about it, like maybe he can see something we can’t. A glimpse of heaven, maybe. It’s like he’s not really here anymore.’
‘It’s funny you saying that. I noticed the other night he was different. He’s still the same old Arthur, but changed somehow.’
‘Yeah …’ I could tell by the tone of Mum’s voice that if we pursued this conversation any further, we’d both start crying.
So it was that I spent the next few weeks nonstop recording everything I could. When we finished, we were both pleased.
‘We’ve done it,’ Arthur laughed. ‘We’ve done it! I got no more story to tell now.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘We’ve actually finished.’
‘I got a good story, eh?’
‘You sure have.’
‘You think people will read that?’
‘Of course they will, and they’ll love it. If they don’t, they’ve got no heart.’
‘Now, if only you could get Daisy to talk.’
‘I don’t think she ever will, Arthur.’
‘Aah, She’s too set in her ways. She’s funny about secrets. She doesn’t understand history.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll keep hoping.’
‘What you gunna do now, you gunna type that all up?’
‘Yep. I’ll finish typing all the cassettes. Then I’ll put it all together, because we’ve got bits and pieces all over the place.’
‘Aah, I been wantin’ to get this done all my life. Different people, they say, “Arthur, we’ll write your story”, but none of them come back to see me. Aah, I’m better off without them. It’s better your own flesh and blood writes something like that.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right. You know I’m going to Sydney, don’t you?’
‘I heard about that. What you goin’ over there for?’
‘I want to meet Alice Drake-Brockman, she’s still alive, you know. I thought I’d ask her about her old days and who Mum’s father is.’
‘You think she’ll remember me?’
‘I think so.’
‘Say hello to her for me.’
‘I will. I’m only going for a week, when I get back, we can talk some more.’
‘Too right. ’Cause you know I’m going back to Mucka, don’t you?’
‘
No. I thought you were going to stay in Perth a bit longer.’
‘I got a yearning for that place. My own home, my land. I been away too long. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyway, I told you my story. You’ll look after it, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I will.’ I couldn’t say any more. I had a lump in my throat. I knew he wanted to die on his own land.
Links with the past
‘Are you sure it’s wise, going to Sydney now, Sally? Why don’t you want till after the baby’s born?’ It was now 1982 and I was six months pregnant with my third child.
‘It’s too important to wait, Mum. Alice is in her nineties, how do I know she’ll be alive in three months’ time?’
‘Yes, but you know all that trouble you had when you were carrying Blaze, you nearly lost him.’
‘I’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry.’
The following week, I flew to Sydney and then caught the bus to Wollongong. Aunty June, Judy’s sister, and her husband, Angus, met me at the bus station. I felt very nervous. The last time I’d seen them, I was a child, now I was a woman with a mission.
I could not have had two kinder hosts. They did everything to make me feel at home. We swapped many funny yarns and stories about home.
Alice Drake-Brockman was in a nearby nursing home. She was ninety-three and in the best of health. Aunty June took me to the home and explained who I was and why I was there.
‘You look a lot like your mother,’ Alice said, ‘now tell me, how is Daisy?’
‘She’s fine, getting old, though. Her eyesight isn’t too good.’
‘It’s been years since I’ve seen her.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So you want to know a bit about Corunna, eh?’
‘Yes, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’
‘Ooh no, go ahead.’
‘Can you tell me who Nan’s father might have been, Alice?’
‘Oh yes. Your great-grandfather was a Maltese, I think he came from a wealthy family, but was the younger son. He was always saying he must go back and right his affairs in the old country. He had good blood in him, but he never got past the nearest pub. One time, I think he managed to get as far as Carnarvon, but then he spent all his money and had to come back again.’
‘Did you ever meet Nan’s mother?’
‘Oh yes! She was a born designer. On the hard ground, she’d cut out dresses, leg-o’-mutton sleeves and all. She could design anything. I didn’t get to know her well, because I left the station, and, when I left, I took Daisy with me. Annie had said to me shortly before, “Take her with you, mistress, I don’t want my daughter to grow up and marry a native, take her with you.” It was at her request that I took Daisy. Of course, what I was doing was illegal, you weren’t supposed to bring natives into Perth. The magistrate said, “I can’t give you permission to take her, because that’s against the law, but the captain can’t refuse her passage.” She was fourteen years of age when she came with me and terrified of the sea, she’d never even seen a boat, living inland all those years. I became a well-known authority on native affairs after that. I was quoted in the Herald. I said, “Make a test case out of me.” When I was prosecuted, they said, “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?” My husband stood up and said, “Guilty M’Lord.” They asked us our reasons and I told them her own mother had said, “Don’t leave my daughter here, take her with you”. I brought other native girls in after that. I’d train them, then find friends who wanted one, I provided quite a few.’
‘What was Corunna Downs Station like then?’
‘Well, I can’t tell you a lot about that, because I was only there once. After my husband sold Corunna, he bought Towera, that was about nine hundred miles away. When my husband was on Corunna, all the squatters were asked to send boys down to school, I suppose that was when Albert and Arthur went down. Albert came back to work at Corunna, but Arthur ran away. He had ambitions of his own. Corunna Downs was named by my husband. There is a poem, “Corunna”. He was reading a book at the time with the natives, and in it was a poem about Corunna, I think it was in Spain, so he named the station after that. When I went to Corunna, there were about forty natives working for us. Every Sunday night, we’d roll the piano out and onto the verandah, it’d be cold, so we’d have a big log fire out in the open. The natives would sit around and we’d have a church service and a singsong. The natives just loved it. They lived for it. At nine o’clock, we’d stop. Then, they’d all be given cocoa and hot buns. That was their life. The natives never liked to work. You had to work with them if you wanted them to work. They always wanted to go walkabout. They couldn’t stand the tedium of the same job. We used to change their jobs. Daisy always had that tendency. She’d get tired of one job, so I’d say, “Come on, let’s chuck the housework”, and we’d go shopping.’
‘Did Nan ever see her mother again?’
‘Yes. I sent her back for a holiday with Howden. I said, “Take her back for a holiday, let her see her mother.” She went back by boat. She saw them and she was happy, but, by then, we’d become her family.’
‘What were her duties at Ivanhoe?’
‘Oh, housework, that sort of thing. She was always good with Granny, she’d just come quietly and take her shoes off after lunch when it was time for her to have her afternoon sleep. She was simply devoted. No white trained nurse had better experience. She grew up loving us and we were her family, there were no servants. It was just family life. She couldn’t read a clock, but she knew the time better than any of us. She knew everybody’s handwriting that came to the place.’
‘Why did she leave Ivanhoe?’
‘Why? The police came and took Daisy from me. She was manpowered during the war. No one could have any home help, I wasn’t allowed to have her. She was a wonderful cook. Later, she rented a little house near the Ocean Beach Hotel. I gave her quite a lot of furniture, brooms and things, that I could do without. That’s how she supplied herself.’
‘Can you tell me who my mother’s father might have been?’
‘No. I couldn’t tell you. He must have been white, maybe a station hand. When Daisy was pregnant, I was absolutely ignorant. My husband said to me one night, “I think you’d better get up, Daisy seems to be in pain.” She slept in a room just off ours, it was his dressing-room, we turned it into a room for Daisy. She was groaning and I said, “What’s up, Daisy?”. She said, “I don’t know, mistress, but I think I’m going to have a baby.” I hadn’t any idea. She was wearing loose dresses. I called Betty, she was about sixteen at the time. I said, “Betty, had you any idea?” “Yes, of course I had, Mum,” she said. Well, I was absolutely ignorant, so I rushed over in the car to the hospital, knowing that Nurse Hedges would be there. I told her and she said, “Look, don’t wait to get permission. Go home and pack for her and get her to the midwifery hospital. They won’t be able to refuse her.” So I went and packed a suitcase and took her to the hospital. The baby was born a few hours later, but who the father was, we never found out. Gladys was always a beautiful girl. She went to Parkerville, we took her there. That was a home run by the Church of England sisters, it was a charity home for the ones that had no parents, we sent Gladys there. She grew up with just as nice manners as anybody could wish. Later, when she was grown up, I said to the florist in Claremont, “Will you take this girl?” They said, “No, we wouldn’t. We couldn’t take a native, because you know they’re forbidden.” I said, “Will you take her on trial for me, I just can’t bear to think of her becoming a servant somewhere.” So they took her on trial to please me, and they kept her as one of the family. She looked like a lovely Grecian girl. She never looked back. You see, she was so well brought up by those Church of England sisters. It was only through my being an old scholar that I was able to get her in. It was very hard to get her in.’
When Alice finished talking, I felt a little stunned. All my life, I’d been under the impression that Mum had liv
ed with Nan at Ivanhoe. It was a shock for me to discover that she’d been placed in a children’s home. Why hadn’t she told us? I decided I would ask her as soon as I got back.
‘Well, it’s been very interesting talking to you,’ I smiled. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you over the years. Can I come and see you again some other time?’
‘Any time you like, dear.’
I spoke with Alice again after that, and she told me a little more about Corunna and the early days. I was pleased I’d made the trip, even though I hadn’t come up with a great deal of new information.
In talking to Alice, it dawned on me how different Australian society must have been in those days. There would have been a strong English tradition amongst the upper classes. I could understand the effects these attitudes could have had on someone like Nan. She must have felt terribly out of place. At the same time, I was aware that it would be unfair of me to judge Alice’s attitudes from my standpoint in the nineteen eighties.
On my return from Sydney, Mum met me at the airport. ‘What did you find out?’ was her first eager question.
‘Quite a lot,’ I replied. ‘I’m really glad I went. I never found out anything startling, but I think sometimes you learn more from what people don’t tell you than from what they do.’
On the way home in the car, I described my trip in detail to Mum. I never mentioned her being in Parkerville Children’s Home. I wasn’t sure how to tackle her about that.
The following day, I left with Paul and the children to spend two weeks at Lancelin, a small fishing town north of Perth. It was the first real holiday we’d had for a long time. When I returned to Perth, I felt refreshed and ready to tackle Mum.
On my first day back, I popped round to visit Jill. Jill was living in Subiaco, sharing a house with Helen, and was still working in Mum’s florist shop. I was quietly sipping a cup of coffee when she suddenly said, ‘Oh goodness, I forgot! You don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
She shrugged her shoulders in a helpless kind of way. ‘It’s Arthur,’ she said. ‘He’s dead. He died a few days ago. He went home to Mukinbudin and, apparently, he just had a heart attack and died virtually straightaway.’
