by Sally Morgan
My little cupboard wasn’t bare for long, I became a hoarder. I loved collecting silver paper from Easter eggs. Sometimes, the big kids would give me some and I would sit for hours, trying to get the creases out. Then I’d stack them gently in an old chocolate box. I collected anything the older children were willing to part with, I wasn’t fussy. I loved hair ribbons, sometimes one of the older girls would help me get dressed and they’d tie a ribbon in my hair to make me look pretty. I was so pleased. I’d show off to the kids who didn’t have one.
I had nightmares at George Turner. I’d never had them in Babyland. Maybe it was the big bed, it was very high off the ground and when I was in it, it felt very empty. Also, I wasn’t used to sleeping on the verandah. There were all sorts of noises that frightened me. The old canvas blinds would creak against their rope moorings, the nightbirds called to one another, and you often heard the wings of some large bird flapping past.
My bed was the last one on the verandah, next to the blind that divided the girls’ section from the boys’. There was a large window just near my bed, I’d look through the window and see only darkness and eerie shadows.
Sometimes, I’d awake in the night with a heavy weight on my chest and my mouth would be all dry inside. I was sure there was someone sitting on the end of my bed. I’d lie under the blankets, too scared to move or breathe. I thought, if I lay still enough they might go away. I hoped that, because I was only little and didn’t take up much room, they might think the bed was empty. When I awoke in the morning, I’d look straight to the end of my bed to see if anyone was there. There was never anyone.
As I grew older, that fear disappeared. Maybe because I started to learn about Jesus. When I felt really scared, I’d look over the verandah to the tall gum tree nearby, and I’d see him there, watching me. I felt very protected. Sometimes, when I was sad, a light would shine suddenly inside of me and make me happy. I knew it was God.
Apart from these experiences, the thing that helped me most was the music I used to hear at night. As I grew older, I realised it was Aboriginal music, like some blackfellas were having a corroboree just for me. It was very beautiful music. I only heard it at night when I was feeling depressed. After I’d heard it, I knew I could go to sleep. It was that same feeling of protection.
I suppose it was healthy, sleeping on the verandah like that, but on wintry nights when there was lightning and thunder, and the rain poured in, it was really scary. Of course they pulled down the blinds all the way round to give us some shelter, but it was still frightening. I was sure one night I’d be struck by lightning. If it got too wet, we were allowed to drag our mattresses inside and sleep on the floor.
There were many times when I felt very lost. I knew I wasn’t a baby any more. I knew I had to look after myself, now.
One day, after I’d been at George Turner for about a year, some of the older girls asked me if I’d like to go for a walk. It was really lovely in the bush. When I got tired, they took turns in giving me piggyback rides.
We walked deep into the bush on the far side of the Home. Sometimes we’d disturb wallabies resting in the shade of the red gums. They’d hop a short distance away, they weren’t upset by our presence, but their soft grey ears would twitch, making sure we didn’t get too close.
‘Let’s head for the cemetery,’ one of the kids suggested.
‘What’s that?’ I asked Enid, who was giving me a piggyback.
‘It’s where they put you when you die,’ she replied, ‘there’s lot of babies buried there.’ She’d been there often. Apparently, all the kids liked going there. They told me they liked to read the names printed on the crosses. Sometimes, there’d only be a first name, like Rosie, with the age printed underneath.
Just as we were nearing the cemetery, I said to Enid, ‘I thought you went to heaven with Jesus when you died.’
‘You do,’ she replied. ‘We’re here now, down you go.’ She eased me off her back and onto the ground.
I gazed at the little graves scattered here and there amongst the low clumps of red and pink bush. Then I followed Enid as she went from grave to grave, reading the names. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘see this one, it’s that little friend of yours, the one you had in Babyland, Iris, three years ten months.’
I gazed in shock at the little mound of earth beneath the small, white cross. Enid moved on, reading out the names of more babies as she went. I stood staring at Iris’s grave. I suddenly realised that that was why she hadn’t come back to Babyland, she’d died.
I picked up some buttercups and placed them on the top of the grave, like I always did when I found a dead bird in the bush and buried it. I tried to hide my tears from the others, but they noticed and starting chanting, ‘Look at the sookie bubba!’ Enid heard them and shouted, ‘Leave her alone!’ Then she ran back to me and picked me up. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘your friend is happy in heaven.’
***
We had the same routine every morning at Parkerville. They woke us early by ringing a bell. The air was always cold and you never felt like getting up.
You made your bed, got dressed and swept down the verandahs. After that, it was time for breakfast. There was a large table inside the dining room in the house, with long stools that slotted underneath, so they could be kept out of sight when not in use.
During winter, we always had a big open fire going, it got very cold in the hills. I remember, at night, we would hate leaving the fire to go out to our beds on the verandahs, they were so cold and draughty. I always tried to hide behind a chair, hoping Miss Moore wouldn’t notice me. That way, I could huddle next to the fire all night. It was a trick that never worked, she always dragged me out and sent me off with the others.
Every morning the boys got the wood for the stove in the kitchen and the older girls cooked the porridge. I never liked breakfast much, it was the weevils, they’d be there every morning, staring at me from my bowl of porridge. I covered them as much as I could with milk and sugar. Sometimes, I closed my eyes as they went into my mouth. I hated the thought of them being inside me. I’d love to have been able to forgo the porridge, but I was always too hungry to allow myself that luxury. Apart from a slice of bread and dripping, the porridge was all we got.
After breakfast, we cleaned up and then went to morning church before school.
At lunchtime, we all lined up and marched to the big dininghall. Lunch was usually hot, like a stew. The meat sometimes smelt bad, especially in summer.
After school, we were allowed one slice of bread and dripping before going to afternoon church. Tea was usually cold meat and salad, and, if we were lucky, jelly and custard.
Every Friday night we had pictures. They were old silent movies and we really loved them. Often, the films were quite heart-rending tales about gypsies stealing a child from a family. Of course, by the end of the film, they’d all be reunited. I really identified with those films. We all did. I always thought of myself as the stolen child. In fact, I lived the part so wholeheartedly that it took me ages to come back to reality after the film had finished. We all loved any films about families. Pictures like that touched something deep inside us. It was every kid’s secret wish to have a family of their own. But it was never something we talked about openly. During the week, we usually played the movies in our games.
One of the most terrible punishments they could inflict on us at the Home was depriving us of our Friday night picture.
The first thing we did on Saturday mornings was line up for a dose of Epsom salts. It was revolting. After that, it was clean-up time. We washed the kitchen floor, wiped down the stove and cleaned out the bath with a mixture of charcoal and cooking salt. The job I hated most was cleaning the table we ate breakfast on. It was covered in white pigskin and it showed every mark, we had to really scrub it to get it clean.
Our dining room in the house was really large. Actually, it was really a dining and sitting room. We had our big tab
le at one end and there was a small table and chair at the other, where the House Mother sat and had her breakfast. We all envied Miss Moore, because she had real butter on her toast and plenty of scalded cream.
When it came to work, the boys had it real easy. The nuns considered looking after the house women’s work. They still had that old-fashioned way of thinking. The boys never even helped with the floors. Though I didn’t mind that, I loved polishing the floor.
They gave us large tins of yellow polish which was made at the Home, it was very thick. We’d tie old woollen jumpers to our feet, slop huge lumps of wax on the floor, and then zoom all over the place. It was better than roller-skating. We often banged into one another as well as the wall. Miss Moore only came in and checked on us if someone started crying. No matter how bad you hurt yourself, you never cried, otherwise everyone got punished.
It didn’t pay to upset Miss Moore because she had a terrible temper, and when she got angry she could inflict terrible beatings.
The House Mothers never did any work, their job was to supervise. After we’d finish the house, we’d all march over to the laundry to wash our clothes. They had ladies in to do the linen, but we had to look after our own things.
My favourite time at the Home was Saturday afternoons. Once we’d finished our work, we were allowed to do as we pleased. If it was too cold for swimming, we’d go hunting for food.
I was always hungry. I was like Pooh Bear, I couldn’t get enough to eat. My stomach used to rumble all the time. We loved to eat the wild cranberries that grew in the bush, they were sweet and juicy. Year after year, we went to the same bushes, they were always laden. Trouble was, the goannas liked them, too. You could be eating from one side, and a goanna from the other, you never knew until you met in the middle. I don’t know who got the biggest fright.
At the back of the dining room was a shed using for storing apples and root vegetables. The door was always locked, but there was a small window that we could easily climb through. We’d pinch some apples and potatoes and then nick off into the bush to our special tree, where we liked to play Mothers and Fathers.
It was a big, old red gum. It was dead and the trunk was split, so it was like a big room inside. We hid tins and bits of broken china that looked pretty. It was a very happy place. We’d light a fire with a thick piece of glass we kept hidden. We’d shine it onto a dry gum leaf and, before long, the wisp of smoke would start to rise. We’d throw the potatoes on. When we thought they were ready, we’d haul them from the ashes by poking a long stick through them. Sometimes, we’d burn our tongues, because our mouths would be watering too much to wait. Often, the centre of the potatoes was raw, but we didn’t care.
The best feed we had was gilgies. They were plentiful in the small pools and creeks around the Home. We caught them with a piece of old meat begged from the kitchen, and tied to a piece of string. It took only a few seconds after you’d dropped the string into the water to catch a gilgie. When we’d caught nine or ten, we’d boil them up in an old tin. They were the best feed of all.
Most of my happiest times were spent alone in the bush, watching the birds and animals. If you sat very quiet, they didn’t notice you were there. There were rabbits, wallabies, goannas, lizards, even the tiny insects were interesting. I had such respect for their little lives that I’d feel terrible if I even trod on an ant. We’d come across all sorts of snakes; green ones, brown, black. We used to pick the green ones up and flick them. I wouldn’t pick them up now. We never touched the black or brown ones, if we came across those, we just walked away. Sometimes, the older boys used to kill the really big black snakes.
One day when I was on my own, I found some fieldmice under a rock near a honeysuckle vine. I often went to that vine, because the flowers were sweet to suck. It was almost as good as having a lolly. I thought the baby fieldmice were wonderful, they were pink and bald and very small. I decided it was a secret I’d keep to myself in case anyone harmed them.
As I sat looking at them, some boys suddenly appeared out of the bush nearby. When they saw what I was looking at, they ran over and pulled the mice out and held them high in the air, laughing and taunting me. They threw them to some kookaburras, who gobbled them up. I was really upset. I broke up the nest in the hope that the mother would never have babies again. I often checked under the vine after that, but there were never any mice.
I had a crying tree in the bush. It was down near the creek, an old twisted peppermint tree. The limbs curved over to make a seat and its weeping leaves almost covered me completely. You didn’t cry in front of anyone at the Home, it wasn’t done. You had to find yourself a crying place. A lot of the kids cried in their beds every night, but it wasn’t the same as having some place quiet to go where you could make as much noise as you liked.
I’d sit for hours under that peppermint tree, watching the water gurgle over the rocks and listening to the birds. After a while, the peace of that place would reach inside of me and I wouldn’t feel sad any more. Instead, I’d start counting the numerous rainbow-coloured dragonflies that skimmed across the surface of the water. After that, I’d fall asleep. When I finally did walk back to the Home, I felt very content.
Saturday night was spent getting our clothes ready for church on Sunday. We ironed everything with those heavy flatirons you heated up on the stove. It was hard work, especially if you were little. Our clothes were always starched and ironed. We had to iron and iron until not one crease showed, it took ages.
I remember one night, I went racing into the kitchen just as Miss Moore was coming through the door with a red-hot iron. It hit straight into my arm. I must have passed out, because when I woke up, I was in the Home Hospital with my arm all bandaged up and the Matron sitting beside me.
They’d got the old doctor who serviced the Mundaring district to come and look at me. He only came to the Home in emergencies. When he took the bandage off my arm, all I could see was raw meat, the skin had gone.
The kept me in hospital for four days. I was very lonely, no one else was sick. I think they felt sorry for me, because they let me sit out on the verandah with my arm in a sling. The other kids would sneak over and talk to me. The hospital was out of bounds, so they had to crawl through the big field of green peas opposite. I used to get cross with them because they used to take so long to crawl through that field. I knew they were all lying on their backs, eating the peas, and had forgotten about me.
I was lucky that I didn’t get seriously ill too often. You didn’t get on very well at Parkerville if you had something wrong with you and you couldn’t take care of yourself. All the weaker kids got stood over, older kids picked on them. There were a lot of kids at the Home that were crippled with polio. I felt sorry for them. And you had to be dying not to go to school. If you stopped home, they gave you a dose of salts or castor oil. It cured everything, in those days.
One of the lowest points of my childhood was the time they took me to Princess Margaret Hospital to remove my tonsils. I was so frightened. I was all alone and I thought I was going to die.
I had to wear a nightie with the back all open. Everything smelt of carbolic soap, even the sheets. I hated that smell. They put me in a high iron bed and hardly anyone spoke to me. It was like being in a morgue.
I was very sick after the operation. I had no one to talk to, I cried and cried. I couldn’t understand why my mother hadn’t been to visit me, I thought perhaps they hadn’t told her I was sick. She told me later that she couldn’t get time off work and she couldn’t come at night because of the curfew, which prevented Aboriginal people travelling after dark.
It was hard for her then, and hard for me too. Even when I was sick, I belonged to the Native Welfare Department. I wasn’t even allowed to have the comfort of my own mother.
But just after this, something happened that really cheered me up. My Uncle Arthur visited. He’d come to see me once before at Parkerville when I was only very small. The memory I had of him was only dim, but it was i
mportant. I did love him and I knew he loved me. I also knew that if he could have taken me from there, he would. He was very important to me. He reminded me of my mother and home. Sometimes, I used to think that if he and Mum could live together, then I’d have a family. It wasn’t to be.
He came and saw me once more after that, then never again. He was too busy trying to make a living for himself and his own family.
On Sunday afternoons, visitors were allowed to come. We used to wait and wait, we knew it was a long, uphill walk from the station, and we never knew whether someone was coming for us or not. That was the worst part. You hoped right up to the very last minute. I used to think, well, Mum will be here soon, I’ll just wait a little bit longer. She’ll be cross if she doesn’t see me standing here, waiting for her. I remember some years when I only saw her twice at the Home.
If no one came, you put on a brave face and didn’t cry. You pretended you didn’t care, you just shrugged your shoulders and walked away. If one of your friends got visitors, you’d be so jealous. Of course, if you saw someone coming over the hill for you, you’d get so excited you’d just run.
A lot of kids at Parkerville had parents. Some had mothers, some had fathers. You’d do anything for kids like that, because you always hoped that they might ask you to come along and share their visitors.
It was hardest for the Aboriginal kids. We didn’t have anyone. Some of the kids there had been taken from families that lived hundreds of miles away. It was too far for anyone to come and see them. And anyway, Aboriginal people had to get permits to travel. Sometimes, they wouldn’t give them a permit. They didn’t care that they wanted to see their kids.
Each time Mum came and saw me, she always had a bit of paper with her that said she was allowed to travel. A policeman could stop her any time and ask to look at that paper, if she didn’t have it on her, she was in big trouble.
