by Sally Morgan
***
I must have been ’bout fourteen or fifteen when they took me from Corunna. First day in Perth, I had to tidy the garden, pick up leaves and sweep the verandahs. Later on, I used an old scythe to cut the grass. All the time, I kept wonderin’ when they were goin’ to send me to school. I saw some white kids goin’ to school, but not me. I never asked them why they didn’t send me, I was too ’shamed.
Funny how I was the only half-caste they took with them from Corunna. Drake-Brockmans left the others and took me. Maybe Howden took me ’cause I was his daughter, I don’t know. I kept thinkin’ of my poor old mother and how she thought I was gettin’ educated. I wanted to tell her what had happened. I wanted to tell her all I was doin’ was workin’. I wasn’t gettin’ no education. How could I tell her, I couldn’t write. And I had no one to write for me.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been in Perth. I’d been there before with the first wife, Nell. Now I was with the second wife, Alice. Nell had died. When I’d been there before, I’d had to look after Jack and Betty, they were the children. I was only a kid myself. I was ’bout ten and Jack was ’bout six, I can’t remember how old Betty was. We was all kids, but I had to do the work.
Aah, she was a hard woman. She was hard on her own kids, too. She bossed Howden around. He didn’t step out of line with Nell around. She was a suspicious type of woman. I don’t think many people liked her. When I was in Perth with her, she didn’t even give me a place to sleep. I had to find my own place. There was a big, empty truck on the verandah of the house we were stayin’ in, I climbed in there at night. At least, it kept me out of the wind.
You see, I went to Perth with Nell, and I came back. My mother would be thinkin’ I’d come back this time too. She’d be thinkin’ it was like before, but it wasn’t. They just wanted me to work.
We moved into Ivanhoe, a big house on the banks of the Swan River in Claremont. I was lookin’ after children again, there was Jack and Betty, Judy, June and Dick. I was supposed to be their nanny. You know, like they have in England. I had to play with them, dress them, feed and then put them to bed at night. I had other chores to do as well. I never blamed the children, it wasn’t their fault I had to work so hard. I felt sorry for them.
At night, I used to lie in bed and think ’bout my people. I could see their camp fire and their faces. I could see my mother’s face and Lily’s. I really missed them. I cried myself to sleep every night. Sometimes, in my dreams, I’d hear them wailing. ‘Talahue! Talahue!’, and I’d wake up, calling, ‘Mum!’ Mum!’ You see, I needed my people, they made me feel important. I belonged to them. I thought ’bout the animals too. The kangaroos and birds. And of course, there was Lily. I wondered if she had a new boyfriend. I missed her, I missed all of them.
Alice kept tellin’ me, ‘We’re family now, Daisy.’
Thing is, they wasn’t my family. Oh, I knew the children loved me, but they wasn’t my family. They were white, they’d grow up and go to school one day. I was black, I was a servant. How can they be your family?
The only friend I had then was Queenie’s mother, Mrs Quigley. She was housekeeping for the Cruikshanks in Claremont. I used to sneak over and visit her whenever I could. She understood the North, she knew how hard it was for me. She never said much, but I knew she understood. I never stayed with her long, I was worried they’d notice I was missing. And, of course, you had times in those days when you had to be in. The blackfella couldn’t live his own life then.
Aah, Queenie’s mother was a kind woman. She told a real good story. Sometimes, she’d tell me something funny to cheer me up.
I did all the work at Ivanhoe. The cleaning, the washing, the ironing. There wasn’t nothing I didn’t do. From when I got up in the morning till when went to sleep at night, I worked. That’s all I did really, work and sleep.
By jingoes, washing was hard work in those days. The old laundry was about twenty yards from the house and the troughs were always filled with dirty washing. They’d throw everything down from the balcony onto the grass, I’d collect it up, take it to the laundry and wash it. Sometimes, I thought I’d never finish stokin’ up that copper, washin’ this and washin’ that. Course, everything was starched in those days. Sheets, pillowcases, serviettes, tablecloths, they was all starched. I even hard to iron the sheets. Isn’t that silly, you only goin’ to lay on them.
The house had to be spotless. I scrubbed, dusted and polished. There was the floors, the staircase, the ballroom. It all had to be done.
Soon, I was the cook, too. Mind you, I was a good cook. I didn’t cook no rubbish. Aah, white people, they got some funny tastes. Fussy, fussy, aaah, they fussy. I ’member I had to serve the toast on a silver tray. I had to crush the edges of each triangle with a knife. Course, you never left the crusts on sandwiches, that was bad manners. Funny, isn’t it? I mean, it’s all bread, after all.
I had my dinner in the kitchen. I never ate with the family. When they rang the bell, I knew they wanted me. After dinner, I’d clear up, wash up, dry up and put it all away. Then, next morning, it’d start all over again. You see, it’s no use them sayin’ I was one of the family, ’cause I wasn’t. I was their servant.
I ’member they used to have real fancy morning and afternoon teas. The family would sit on the lawn under a big, shady umbrellas. I’d bring out the food and serve them. You know, I saw a picture like that on television. It was in England, they were all sittin’ outside in their fancy clothes with servants waitin’ on them. I thought, well fancy that, that’s what I used to do. They must have that silly business in quite a few countries.
I ’member the beautiful cups and saucers. They were very fine, you thought they’d break with you just lookin’ at them. Ooh, I loved them. Some of them were so fine, they were like a seashell, you could see through them. I only ever had a tin mug. I promised myself one day I would have a nice cup and saucer. That’s why, whenever my grandchildren said, ‘What do you want for your birthday?’ I always told them a cup and saucer.
In those days, the Drake-Brockmans were real upper class. They had money and people listened to them. Aah, the parties they had. I never seen such parties. The ladies’ dresses were pretty and fancy. I always thought of my mother when I saw their dresses. How she would have loved one.
***
I never liked Perth much then. I was too scared. I was shy, too. I couldn’t talk to strangers. People looked at you funny ’cause you were black. I kept my eyes down. Maybe some of those white people thought the cat got my tongue, I don’t know. I’m not sayin’ they was all bad. Some of them was nice. You get nice people anywhere. Trouble is, you get the other ones as well. ’Cause you’re black, they treat you like dirt. You see, in those days, we was owned, like a cow or a horse. I even heard some people say we not the same as whites. That’s not true, we all God’s children.
Course, when the white people wanted something, they didn’t pretend you wasn’t there, they ’spected you to come runnin’ quick smart. That’s all I did sometimes, run in and out. Someone was always ringin’ that damn bell.
I’m ’shamed of myself, now. I feel ’shamed for some of the things I done. I wanted to be white, you see. I’d lie in bed at night and think if God could make me white, it’d be the best thing. Then I could get on in the world, make somethin’ of myself. Fancy, me thinkin’ that. What was wrong with my own people?
In those days, it was considered a privilege for a white man to want you, but if you had children, you weren’t allowed to keep them. You was only allowed to keep the black ones. They took the white ones off you ’cause you weren’t considered fit to raise a child with white blood.
I tell you, it made a wedge between the people. Some of the black men felt real low, and some of the native girls with a bit of white in them wouldn’t look at a black man. There I was, stuck in the middle. Too black for the whites and too white for the blacks.
I ’member when more native girls came into Perth as servants, they all looked to Nell
ie and me. Nellie worked for the Courthope family, they were good to her. The other native girls thought we were better than them because we had some white in us.
It was a big thing if you could get a white man to marry you. A lot of native people who were light passed themselves off as white then. You couldn’t blame them, it was very hard to live as a native. One of my friends married a Slav. I think that’s how you call it. He was a foreigner, anyway. She came to say goodbye to me and Nellie. We was all cryin’. She’d promised her husband never to talk or mix with any natives again. We didn’t blame her, we understood. He wouldn’t have married her otherwise.
Nellie was from Lyndon Station, she was the daughter of the station manager, Mr Hack, but he never owned her. The Courthope family got her from Mogumber to be a servant in their house. Nellie was lucky, because she got treated kindly. She worked very hard like me, but they was good to her. She had a lovely room.
Aah, she was a laugh, that Nellie. She always wanted to be white. All those baths in that hydrogen peroxide and dyin’ her hair red. Sometimes, she’d forget to take those baths and then she’d go black again.
You know, I’ve been thinkin’ a lot ’bout this. People mustn’t say the blackfella has never done anythin’ good for this country. I knew this black woman, Tillie, she was a servant and she joined the Salvation Army. She led a real good life, helpin’ her own people when she could. She made me feel bad for not goin’ to church on Sunday night when she could take me. I didn’t like church. People there didn’t understand what it was like for the natives.
I ’member the minister at Christ Church started up a sewing circle for all the native servants. We had to go down there and he’d give us a talk, then we’d sew. One time, he went on and on, tellin’ us how we must save ourselves for marriage. It was very embarrassing, we couldn’t look at him. Most of us had already been taken by white men. We felt really ’shamed.
One day, we were sittin’ in the garden sewing when boys from Christ Church Grammar School came past. They laughed at us and called us awful names. Then, they threw pebbles at us. I never went back there, I was too ’shamed to say why.
Now Sal, this is just between you and me. I don’t want Amber hearin’ this, she’s too young. You watch out for her after I’m gone. She’s goin’ to be very beautiful. All the men’ll want her. Some men can’t be trusted. They just mongrels. They get you down on the floor and they won’t let you get up. Don’t ever let a man do that to you. You watch out for Amber. You don’t want her bein’ treated like a black woman.
We had no protection when we was in service. I know a lot of native servants had kids to white men because they was forced. Makes you want to cry to think how black women have been treated in this country. It’s a terrible thing. They’ll pay one day for what they’ve done.
Aah, white people make you laugh the way they beat the native to teach him not to steal. What about their own kids? I seen white kids do worse than that and no one touches them. They say, he’s sowin’ his oats or that kid got the devil in him, but they not belted. Poor old blackfella do the same thing, they say you niggers don’t know right from wrong and they whip you! I tell you, this is a white man’s world.
The only one I had in Perth was Arthur. Now if I had’ve been livin’ with my big brother Arthur, he’d have protected me. He was a strong man. I ’member I was standin’ in the kitchen cooking when I heard this knock. I turned around and there’s this big native lookin’ through the flywire.
‘Is that you, Daisy?’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘Aah, you not Daisy,’ he said. ‘She had real fair hair. Come on Mrs, you tell me where Daisy is.’
‘What you want her for?’ I wasn’t gunna let him in the door.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he said. Aah, I thought, he’s got tickets on himself.
‘You listen here,’ I growled at him. ‘We don’t like strange blackfellas hangin’ round here. You better get goin’ before the mistress comes home. She’ll take a stick to you.’ I was tryin’ to frighten him, he was a big man.
‘Don’t you go gettin’ uppity with me, Mrs,’ he said. ‘Thinkin’ you’re better just ’cause you work for white people. I got every right to be lookin’ for my little sister Daisy. I want her to know she’s got a brother who’s gettin’ on in the world.’
‘You Arthur?’
‘Now how did you come by my name, Mrs?’
‘You cheeky devil,’ I said. I didn’t want him out there clutterin’ up the verandah.
‘What did you dye your hair for?’ he asked. ‘You was the only one of us with blonde hair.’
Cheeky devil, he pulled my hair. Maybe he ’spected the colour to come off. Maybe he thought I put boot polish on my hair, I don’t know. ‘By gee, you a devil!’ I told him. I should have known he was my brother. I was fightin’ with him, wasn’t I?
It wasn’t so bad after that. Arthur would come and take me out. Sometimes, he even took me in a car. Can you ’magine that? All us natives drivin’ round Perth in a real car? Aah, he thought he was somebody, that Arthur. All the girls wanted him, then. He was the only blackfella they knew with a bit of money in his pocket. He was nice to them all, wasn’t he cunning?
We always went to see the horses. We loved horses. One time, he took me to the Show. By gee, he was tough. He’d take on anyone. I said to him, ‘Don’t you get into no fights when you’re out with me. It’s not proper, I’ll give you what for if you get silly.’ You see, he loved showin’ off, lived for it.
If he wouldn’t settle down, I’d say, ‘You just a silly old blackfella.’ He’d settle down quick smart after that. He didn’t want any of those girls thinkin’ he was old.
One day, he said to me, ‘Daisy, don’t talk me to like that when we out. I’m your brother, you got to show me some respect.’ Hmmph, the way he carried on you’d think he was a white man.
When he didn’t come, I missed him. We always had a good laugh together. Sometimes, he was too busy puttin’ crops in to bother with me. He was a hard worker, he did it all on his own.
When he couldn’t come to see me, he’d write. I felt real important, gettin’ a letter with my name on it. Trouble was, I couldn’t read. I couldn’t have nothin’ private ’cause I always had to get someone to read it for me.
Aah, he was a clever man. We had fights all the time, but I was proud of that man.
***
I hadn’t seen Arthur for a long time when I had Gladdie.
Before I had Gladdie, I was carryin’ another child, but I wasn’t allowed to keep it. That was the way of it, then. They took our children one way or another. I never told anyone that I was carryin’ Gladdie.
Now how this all came about, that’s my business. I’ll only tell a little. Everyone knew who the father was, but they all pretended they didn’t know. Aah, they knew, they knew. You didn’t talk ’bout things then. You hid the truth.
Alice bought me a cane pram to wheel Gladdie in. She gave Gladdie a doll. I kept Gladdie with me in my room.
Howden died not long after she was born. When I came home from hospital, he said, ‘Bring her here, let me hold her.’ He wanted to nurse Gladdie before he died.
After he died, I never had time for anything. I had Gladdie and the other children to look after. There were times when Gladdie ate so much she ’minded me of the little baby pigs runnin’ round the station.
It was hard for me with her. Sometimes, she’d be cryin’, cryin’, and I couldn’t go to her. I had too much work to do.
When Arthur saw her, he thought she was beautiful. I think he was jealous, he wanted her to belong to him.
Strange, isn’t it, at one time I was goin’ to live with Arthur. It was before I had Gladdie, they said they didn’t want me any more. Then, they changed their minds. Arthur told me he had a real nice whitefella for me to marry. After Gladdie was born, Arthur wanted us both to go with him. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. I had to have permission and the
y wouldn’t let me go. I knew Arthur would be good to Gladdie, she had him by the heartstrings. When it came to little ones, that Arthur was tender-hearted.
When Gladdie was ’bout three years old, they took her from me. I’d been ’spectin’ it. Alice told me Gladdie needed an education, so they put her in Parkerville Children’s Home. What could I do? I was too frightened to say anythin’. I wanted to keep her with me, she was all I had, but they didn’t want her there. Alice said she cost too much to feed, said I was ungrateful. She was wantin’ me to give up my own flesh and blood and still be grateful. Aren’t black people allowed to have feelin’s?
I cried and cried when Alice took her away. Gladdie was too young to understand, she thought she was comin’ back. She thought it was a picnic she was goin’ on. I ran down to the wild bamboo near the river and I hid and cried and cried and cried. How can a mother lose a child like that? How could she do that to me? I thought of my poor old mother then, they took her Arthur from her, and then they took me. She was broken-hearted, God bless her.
When Gladdie was in Parkerville, I tried to get up there as often as I could, but it was a long way and I had no money. When I did get paid, Alice was always takin’ money out that she said I owed her. It was a hard life. I always got Gladdie something nice to eat when I went up. She loved food, I think she gets that from me.
Parkerville wasn’t a bad place, there was plenty of kids for her to play with and there was bush everywhere. I knew she’d love the bush. I used to take her for a bit of a walk, show her the birds and animals like. She was always real glad to see me. I knew she didn’t want to stay there, but what could I do? It wasn’t like I had a place of my own. It wasn’t like I had any say over my own life.
It was during the thirties that they told Gladdie I might die. My cousin Helen Bunda was real sick. They asked me to give blood for her. I said yes. She belonged to me, I had to give blood, but I was real scared.
