My Place

by Sally Morgan

  By the time we were three or four miles out of Nungarin, McQuarie pulled up behind us in a buggy, ‘Hey, Marble,’ he said, ‘I want you to drive me to Hines Hill, and the bailiff wants a boy to help round up stock.’

  ‘Righto,’ I said. I told my friends I would meet them later.

  After I got back from Hines Hill, I rounded up the stock. They were no trouble. I had a bad time with my old pony. She wanted to stop with me. She didn’t want to go in the corral with the others. I thought McQuarie might say, ‘Take her, Marble, she’s your horse,’ but he didn’t. I nearly cried when I saw her go.

  After that, the bailiff said, ‘You want another job?’

  ‘Too right,’ I said. ‘I got no job.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I want you to shepherd the sheep near the pub till we’re ready to truck ’em.’

  While I was minding the sheep, a man came up and spoke to me.

  ‘When you finished working for that bailiff, how about coming and working for me? I’ll give you ten bob a week plus board.’

  ‘That’s all right by me!’ I said. It was the most I ever been offered.

  After they trucked the sheep, the bailiff gave me thirty shillings. That was more than I expected. I picked up my swag and went over and saw Dick McQuarie.

  ‘Dick,’ I said, ‘how much you want for that old bike of yours?’

  ‘My old bike? Well, let me see, about thirty bob would do.’

  I gave him my thirty bob and wheeled the bike across the railway line to Hancock’s place. A local had imported the bike years ago from England and sold it to Dick. It had no tyres or tubes. I didn’t mind. I had a bike and I was looking forward to my new job.

  ***

  From 1913 to 1916, I worked for Hancock. In all that time I got no pay, only my tucker, and I worked damn hard. I never saw that ten bob a week he promised me. Most of the time I was there, I was freezing cold. We just lived in an old bough shed. There was no proper place to sleep and, in winter, the wind cut right through you. There was no getting away from it, no matter where you sat. I used to get old gallon tins and fill them with hot water, tie bags around them, then strap them to my feet. My feet felt the cold the most. Like ice, they were. I never had shoes. The tins gave some relief. I tell you, it’s hard to keep warm in an open bough shed.

  Most of my working time was spent clearing the land, seeding and cropping. It was hard work, but I was used to it. In between times, I made mud bricks for a hut with a chimney and fireplace. I used to tread the mud with my bare feet, and when a stick tickled my foot, I’d pull it out. If I didn’t, the brick would crack. The bricks started to mount up. We dug out a hole inside to throw out the heat. Winter came and we’d used all the bricks, so we slept in the cellar. It sure was warmer than that shed. I felt like a king that winter.

  While I was at Hancock’s, I managed to get tyres and tubes for my bike. I fixed that bike up real good, oiled it and kept it nice. In my spare time I’d ride around all over the countryside, wherever my legs would take me, round and round they’d go, pushing those pedals to goodness knows where. I never planned on going anywhere in particular. I just liked riding round, looking at the land and the bush. It was what you’d call my entertainment. I met lots of different people when I was out. Most of them was friendly. ‘Gidday,’ they’d say, or ‘Mornin’.’ Course, you got some that weren’t interested in talkin’ to you, but I never let them worry me. I loved that bike, it made me feel real grand.

  It was during my time at Hancock’s that I met up with a Welshman named Davy Jones. He was working on the Trans Line, out on the Nullarbor Plain, and now and then he came to Nungarin to check on his land. It was at the time when Lord Kitchener had ordered all the States to be linked by railway line, in case of war. That way, they could help each other.

  While Davy was working the Trans Line, the Land Department was trying to forfeit his land in Nungarin. That’s why he visited Hancock so much. Davy couldn’t write then, so he’d get Hancock to write letters for him. Excuses and reasons about why he was away and how he’d be working the land once the Trans Line was finished.

  He didn’t just talk to Hancock, he talked to me, as well. He seemed real friendly. More like a white blackfella, really. Sometimes when the three of us were together, I’d show off. I wasn’t big, but I was strong and good with an axe. I’d say to Hancock and Davy, ‘I’ll drop this big tree with my axe before you even get back to camp.’ Camp was about twenty feet away. They’d laugh and walk off, but I always did it. I wasn’t afraid of work.

  Towards the end of three years with Hancock, I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere. The hut was built by then, but I was still just getting me tucker, no money. I wasn’t going nowhere. ‘Hancock,’ I said to him one day, ‘how about paying me that money you owe me?’ He went real quiet and looked at me. The year was 1916, it was the middle of winter and there was a flood on. After a while, he said, ‘Marble, you clear that forty acres of land I been wantin’ cleared and I’ll give you twelve pounds, no more, no less!’

  Now he’d tried to get all sorts of people to clear that land. Nobody could do it. It was covered with big logs and stumps, and with the flood on, it was worth more like one hundred pounds, not twelve pounds! Trouble was, I knew he had me and he knew too. Where could I go, I had no money, no home. ‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’ll clear the land for you, as long as you pay me. For three years, I been working for you, breaking my back and you never paid me yet. I got no choice, I got to stick with you or I got nothing.’

  I don’t think he believed I’d clear the land. He thought he’d have me there three more years, doing his work for him, building his house. He didn’t know me. I worked from three hours before sunrise till sunset, clearing and burning. During that time, the flood got worse and the railway line was nearly washed away. Every day, I was soaking wet. My feet were like blocks of ice. Sometimes, the rain drove down so hard I couldn’t see in front of me, but I kept going. I wasn’t going to give up, it was my only way out. The job took me three weeks. I cleared that land by myself when no other man would, or could.

  I showed Hancock the land, then asked him for my money. He couldn’t believe I’d done it. He thought he’d beaten me. He didn’t give me the money right away, but he kept me waiting, waiting, hoping I’d forget about it. He knew I’d leave as soon as he gave me the money. I kept asking him for my pay. In the end, he went to Perth and got the money from the bank. Then, he took out fifteen shillings a week board for the three weeks it had taken me to clear the land.

  Despite the flood, 1916 was a good year for most farmers. There’d been drought earlier on, and maize, lucerne and crushed fodder had been imported from Argentina. There was none to be had around Northam. We couldn’t get any from New South Wales either.

  When Micky Farrell heard I’d left Hancock, he offered me work carting two hundred tons of chaff for twenty-five shillings a week. There were two wagons and a steam cutter and fifteen men on the job, but only me doing the carting. I wasn’t afraid to work. The work with Micky only lasted two weeks. After that, I was looking for work again. Mr Williams gave me a job harvesting. I got two pounds a week for that. When that job wound up, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I just hoped something would turn up. That was when I met up with Davy Jones again. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while. He told me he’d finished working on the Trans Line.

  ‘Marble,’ he said, ‘why don’t you come sharefarming with me. You buy the horses and harness and come and work my land with me.’

  ‘All right, Dave,’ I said, ‘that suits me fine.’ I had nothing else to do. I bought the horses and the harness and teamed up with Davy Jones.

  He would’ve been stuck if he hadn’t got me. He was a failure. He’d tried cropping his land before, but left it too late. He spent all his time putting in crops for Micky Farrell and Mr Lochlan to earn some money, but by the time he was free to put in his own crop, the season was just about at an end. Of course, the hot weather came. The crop only rose six i
nches before it was burnt off and that was the end of that.

  When I started with Davy, I put in two hundred acres with my team. They were a good team, hard-working animals. As hard as me. I bought their feed and watered them and looked after them real well. That year, we had the best crops in the district. One paddock gave ten bags to the acre, the other seven bags. The lowest yield we got was eighteen bushels to the acre. From then on, we never looked back. All our crops were bumpers, right through till 1923.

  Davy Jones became Mr Davy Jones of the Nungarin district. He was independent now. He didn’t have to work for no one. When he was working on the Trans Line, he had a tiny little purse he kept with him in camp. It had all his money in it. Now, he was banking with Lloyds of London. He had money in his pockets and I had money in mine, but not as much. It was his land, but I did all the work. The only thing I owned was the team. My share after harvest was one quarter, Davy got the rest.

  I saved all my money, never spent a penny. Pretty soon, I had enough to buy a farm. I bought a nice little farm in Mukinbudin.

  I’ll never forget Mucka when I first saw it, there was nothing there. A few houses now and then, but nothing more. Later, I had the first truck there and I used to cart water for the townspeople from ten miles out. They didn’t even have a pub till years later.

  My name was good right through the district. Everyone knew I was a good worker. Later, I had six men working for me, clearing my land. I paid them out of a cheque book. I was the only farmer in the area to have a cheque book. All the other farmers were mortgaged to the bank, they had no say in their crop. They were all jealous of me, a black man, doing better than what they were. When I first bought the farm, they all made fun of me. ‘Where are you going to get stock from?’ they’d call. ‘What would you know about farming?’ they’d yell. They thought I knew nothin’. I proved them wrong.

  Anyway, before long, I was working my own farm as well as share-farming with Davy. Things were going real well for me. One day, Davy came up to me and said, ‘Listen Marble, you’ve got your farm in Mucka now, what about if you just stick to that and I give Bill Bradley a go. You know, the bloke that’s working for Hull’s. I’d like to sharefarm with him.’

  I didn’t know what to say. Davy was my friend. It wasn’t that I was thinking about the extra money, it just seemed that Davy didn’t want me with him any more, after so long together. Davy was standing there and I kept looking at the ground. In the end, I said, ‘All right Dave, if that’s what you want to do. I can handle the lot myself, but if that’s the way you want it, I can pull out and go home.’

  That year, I put in my last crop with Davy. Bill and Mrs Bradley moved in with Davy while the crop was still growing.

  Every Sunday, Mrs Bradley would come out and look over the crop. ‘Ooh, what a lovely crop, Marble,’ she would say. She wasn’t a bad woman.

  One day, she said to Davy, ‘Mr Jones, look at them clouds up there, it looks like they could bring a hailstorm.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, woman, we don’t get no hailstorms round here,’ said Davy.

  That was Sunday morning. Ten o’clock Sunday night, the rain came, and the thunder and lightning, and the hail as well. The hail took the crop right off. There wasn’t one head left, even the trees were stripped bare. They looked dead, standing there with no leaves on.

  Davy heard the noise of the hail. It was pitch black outside apart from the lightning. He’d been sitting by the fire when it started, and when the hail came, he didn’t even stop to put on a coat. Just lit up the lantern and rushed down to the crop. There he was in the pouring rain, running up and down, in and out, trying to see how many heads were left. All you could see was his lantern bobbing up and down. The lightning flashed once and I saw him. He was soaking wet and he couldn’t believe it was really hailing.

  I think God must have been looking after me. Something told me to get insured that year. I had never been insured before. I came out with my quarter and Dave got nothing.

  Davy’s bad luck continued. The next year, he put his own crop in, but forgot to seed with super and it died off. The following year, Bill Bradley put the crop in for him, but Davy was in the same position he was in before he joined up with me. He still had no team and had not bothered to buy one, so this meant he had to take off Hull’s crop and Micky Farrell’s before he could have the use of their team to take off his own crop. He only just made it.

  If Davy had’ve stuck with me, I’d have had his crop off early on and my own as well. No one could work a team the way I could. It was me that gave him his start. I did all the work, he just stood back and collected the money.

  By the time the thirties came round and the Depression hit, he wanted me back. I was married by then. I had responsibilities. Davy said, ‘You can bring your wife too, Arthur.’

  I was going by my real name, now. I left Marble behind when I left Davy. Now I was Arthur Corunna, farmer of Mukinbudin.

  ***

  After I left Davy in the twenties, some important things happened to me. In 1925, I went down to Perth. I’d heard that my little sister Daisy was living at Ivanhoe. Ivanhoe was a big house in Claremont on the banks of the Swan River. Daisy was a servant there, living with our father, Howden Drake-Brockman, and his second wife, Alice.

  I was keen to see Daisy again. She was my sister, my family. I wanted my little sister Daisy to know she had a brother who was getting on in the world.

  I hardly recognised her when I saw her. When they took me from Corunna Downs, she was only a baby, with real white blonde hair, and now, here she was, a grown woman, with black frizzy hair. She was small and pretty, like our mother, Annie. I was sure glad to see her.

  When I first called in at Ivanhoe, Mrs Drake-Brockman was out. Later that day, she came home to find me sitting in the kitchen doorway, talking to Daisy, my legs stretched out onto the verandah. You see, I’d finally started to grow, I was a big man. I wasn’t small no more.

  After seeing Daisy again, I took to visiting her as often as I could. One year, I hired a buggy and pair for two shillings and took her to the Show. We thought we were real grand, travelling along in that thing. I took her to the races and on picnics, everywhere. Daisy loved the horses. Nothing she liked better than seeing those wonderful animals go for their lives round the track. We both loved horses.

  Helen Bunda, our cousin, used to come, as well. She was in service with another white family. She did the most beautiful needlework. She was a clever woman with her hands.

  I made friends with a chap in Perth, Mr McKenzie. He was a real nice man. He’d lend me his car so I could pick up the girls and take them on outings. I always returned his car safe and sound. He knew he could trust me.

  Judith, June and Dick Drake-Brockman were only little then. I used to give them horsey rides when I was at Ivanhoe and scare them by chasing them round the lawn. Daisy was their nursemaid.

  On one of my visits to Ivanhoe, Alice Drake-Brockman gave me a little dog. She told me Foulkes-Taylor had given it to her when he bought Corunna Downs, but she didn’t want it. I called him Pixie, after Dudley’s son, that was his nickname. I took that little dog with me wherever I went. He was a good little dog. I’ve always had a tender spot for little creatures like that.

  When I saw Daisy again in 1925, it was also the first time I’d seen Howden since I’d run away. I wondered what he’d say to me. I wondered if I’d be welcome. Mrs Drake-Brockman said I could sleep with Daisy in her room. When Howden came home, he came straight to Daisy’s room. He knocked on the door and came in and shook me by the hand real hard. He hadn’t changed. He looked older, more tired, but apart from that, he was just the same. I was a grown man too, now. We were both men. ‘I’m pleased to see you, Arthur,’ he said. I didn’t know what to say.

  After that, whenever I stayed in Perth, I always slept in Daisy’s room. At night, we had long talks, catching up on the news. I went and saw a lawyer and made a will, leaving all my earthly goods to Daisy. I w
asn’t married then. She was my only family.

  Sometimes when I was in Perth, I’d ride on the electric trams. DING! DING! DING! they’d call out and then change back the other way. I wasn’t going nowhere in particular, I just loved to listen to that noise.

  I went on the trains, too. In those days, you could go form Merredin to Perth for seventeen shillings. From Kununoppin to Perth was the same. I loved riding on the trains. I felt like I was someone important, being able to get on, pay my fare and sit there like a king until I got off at the next stop.

  ***

  In 1927 I got a letter from Howden. I hadn’t seen Daisy for a while. I’d been busy on the farm. The letter asked if I’d like to have Daisy with me. It said they didn’t want her no more and they wondered if I could come and get her. Too right, I thought. Nothing I’d like better.

  I went over and talked to one of my neighbours. He was a white man, but a good man, young and single. He was well off, too, and I knew he’d treat Daisy right. I asked him if he wanted a wife. He asked who I had in mind. I told him about Daisy and how pretty she was and how hard she worked and what a good wife she’d make. He said, ‘Arthur, any sister of yours is all right by me.’ I knew I had him then. I didn’t want Daisy just marrying anyone. I wanted someone I could trust, someone who would treat her real nice. She was my family. My little sister.

  I finished what I had to do on the farm and was all set to go get Daisy when another letter arrived. It said they’d changed their minds and I couldn’t have her after all. I was disappointed, so was the farmer next door.

  In December 1927, I heard Daisy had had a baby girl. It was news to me. I wondered, then, if that was why they’d changed their minds. They must have found out she was pregnant. I’d have had her still. I wish she’d come to me, baby and all. I love kids.

  Early in 1928, Howden died. He’d been a sick man for some time. Personally, I think he left his heart in Corunna. Howden saw Daisy’s baby before he died. They called her Gladys. He held her in his arms and said, ‘She’s very beautiful.’ She was one of the most beautiful babies I’d ever seen.