My Place

by Sally Morgan

  You never know what doctors are goin’ to do to you. The silly buggers, they lost the first lot of blood they took, so they took some more. I was so weak I couldn’t lift my head. I was that weak. I think I turned white with all the blood they took from me.

  Helen died and I heard the doctors say, ‘Doesn’t matter, she was only a native.’ Then, they looked at me and the nurse said, ‘I think this one’s going too.’ You see, they treat you just like an animal. Alice came and got me, she was very cross. She took me back to Ivanhoe and nursed me. She was a good bush nurse.

  They brought Gladdie down from Parkerville to say goodbye to me. She looked real frightened when she saw me. I tricked all of them, I didn’t die, after all. Pretty soon, I was up and doin’ all the work again. That’s the last time I give blood.

  Helen had been a good old cousin. She was mean, though. She’d walk five miles to save a ha’penny. She was good with her hands. No one could sew the way she could. She’d had a hard life; work, work, work. They’d sent her to Moore River, I don’t know if you ever heard of it, terrible place. She had three kids there and was made to leave them there and go back to service. I think all those kids died. It was a terrible place. No one wanted to go to Moore River, no fear. Poor old Bunda. I knew how she felt, it was the same with all of us.

  When she died, I thought her things would come to me, I was her family. Turned out I got nothin’, not a penny. The white family that she was workin’ for got it all. They said she made a will leavin’ it to them. Bunda didn’t know nothin’ ’bout will makin’. I don’t think she could even write much. That family even come and asked me to give back the brooch she’d given me. The cheek of it. Bunda belonged to me, she’d given it me before she died and they come and asked for it back. ‘That brooch doesn’t belong to you now, Daisy,’ they said, ‘it’s ours now, you got to hand it over.’ I felt very bitter ’bout that. Right inside my heart, I felt bitter.

  Arthur finally got married in the thirties and I lost track of him. The Depression was on and I knew he’d be havin’ trouble makin’ ends meet. It was just as well Gladdie and I hadn’t gone with him. We’d be only two more mouths to feed. He worked real hard, did anythin’ to put food on the table. I think he lost his farm in the Depression. Those white people at Mucka, they were always after his farm. Funny, isn’t it, the white man’s had land rights for years, and we not allowed to have any. Aah, this is a funny world.

  Couple of times, Arthur saw Gladdie at Parkerville. He had a real soft spot for her. Then he got too busy with his own family to see her. I think she missed him. She loved visitors.

  The thirties were hard for everyone. You never threw anythin’ away, there was always someone who could use it. It broke my heart to see men standin’ round for food. Not just black men, white ones too. If I knew someone who was hungry, I’d give them food. I gave away some of my clothes and shoes, whatever I could find. You can’t be rotten to people when they in trouble, that’s not the blackfella’s way.

  ***

  When Gladdie was ’bout fourteen, she left Parkerville. She’d been with me for holidays at Ivanhoe, and when I took her back, she didn’t want to stay. You see, she found out she was havin’ this new House Mother and she was a cruel woman. Gladdie was real frightened. I said to them, ‘Can she come with me, she’s almost grown up now.’

  They asked Gladdie if she wanted to leave Parkerville and she said, ‘Too right!’ She didn’t want to be stayin’ with a cruel woman.

  I took her back to Ivanhoe with me. I thought she could stay in my room, but, after two days, Alice said, ‘Look Daisy, you can’t keep her here. You’ll have to find somewhere else for her to go.’ I was real upset ’bout that.

  They’d told me to leave before, reckoned they couldn’t afford me. I had to go and work for Mrs Morgan. Then, a few years later, Alice begged me to come back. She said it was for good. That Ivanhoe was my home. I thought it would be Gladdie’s too. Aah, you see, promises, promises. The promises of a wealthy family are worth nothin’.

  I found a family to take Gladdie in. They was religious people and they often took girls in. I knew they’d be good to her. She was real upset, she couldn’t understand why they didn’t want her at Ivanhoe.

  One day, the Hewitts, that was their name, they said they couldn’t trust Gladdie no more. ‘She’s been goin’ to the pictures,’ they said. ‘Pictures are a sin.’ They said they didn’t want her bein’ a bad influence on the other kids. They packed her bags and said I had to take her.

  I was livin’ in my own place by then. Alice had kicked me out again. Aah, I was silly to believe her. She owed me back wages, got me to work for nothing, then kicked me out. I was just used up. I been workin’ for that family all those years, right since I was a little child, and that’s how I get treated. I left a good job to go back to Ivanhoe. I was silly. I should have known. When they didn’t want Gladdie stayin’ there, I should have known.

  I reckon they wasted their money, it was all that high livin’. Everyone thought they was real important. Hmmph, I never seen any of their money. Howden, he promised Arthur and me money. He said he’d leave us some. Haa, that’s how you get treated by rich people, real rotten. I think they get greedy, they live for the money. All Alice ever gave me was a couple of odds and ends and an old broom. After all those years, that was all I got. I hear now when you leave a job, you get a gold watch. That’s better than a broom.

  I ’member there was this beautiful picture of Fremantle that Alice had. She was sendin’ a lot of stuff to auction houses then. You see, they was goin’ to live in Sydney. I asked if I could have that picture, but they said it was goin’ to auction. There was some other pictures I asked for, but they had a big bonfire and burnt them. God will make them pay, they was religious pictures.

  I thought, well, I got wages now, I’ll buy my own things. Some people you’re better off without.

  My new job was a cook in a restaurant. All the soldiers and sailors loved to come in, because we served good tucker and I gave them plenty. I never cook rubbish. By gee, they could eat. They all wanted second helpings. I felt sorry for them. Some of them were only kids. Goin’ to war like that, it’s not right.

  I shared a house with a good woman. She liked Gladdie, she was good to her. Gladdie and I was livin’ together for the first time. She was makin’ new friends and so was I. Pretty soon, I was goin’ to the trots and other places. I really loved the horses. I’m like Arthur, I got a tender spot for all God’s creatures.

  Gladdie left school and Alice got her a job as a florist. They didn’t want to take her, because she was a native. They were pleased they took her in the end, because everyone loved Gladdie.

  Now you’d be thinkin’ that, after all those years apart, we’d get on real good. Well, we didn’t. Gladdie liked to do things her way and I liked to do things my way. We was fightin’ and fightin’. By jingoes, we had some rows.

  Gladdie was silly in those days, always wantin’ to know her future. She didn’t know what she was meddlin’ with. You leave the spirits alone. You mess with them, you get burnt. She had her palm read, her tea-leaves read, I don’t know what she didn’t get read. I never went with her to any of these fortune-tellers. They give you a funny feeling inside. Blackfella know all ’bout spirits. We brought up with them. That’s where the white man’s stupid. He only believes what he can see. He needs to get educated. He’s only livin’ half a life.

  Gladdie didn’t like some of my friends and I didn’t like some of hers. Now maybe she was right ’bout some of my friends and maybe she wasn’t, but I think it’s true that you don’t get many real true friends in life. There’s not many that’ll stand by you in trouble. They the rare ones. Gladdie was always tellin’ me I was too suspicious. She said I didn’t trust her. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was the men I didn’t trust. Gladdie was innocent. She knew nothin’ ’bout life. She didn’t know what could happen.

  One day, she just went off and got married. She was only twenty-one. I s’p
ose she didn’t tell me because she knew I didn’t like Bill. He was a drinker. I never liked men who were drinkers. What was she goin’ and gettin’ married for, anyway? She should have been home, lookin’ after her mother.

  Well, there’s no use cryin’ over spilt milk. What’s done is done. They got a State Housing place in Mulberry Farm, that’s near Beaconsfield. It wasn’t a bad little place. I used to visit them, take them a bit of meat. There were some poor families there. Sometimes, I gave them meat too. I don’t ’member anyone sayin’ thank you. Still, you can’t let people go hungry.

  ***

  Pretty soon, I was havin’ grandchildren. You was the first, Sally, but you was so sick. Jilly wasn’t like you, she was real healthy and she wasn’t naughty. We never had to play with Jilly in the middle of the night.

  I felt real sorry for Gladdie. She didn’t realise how bad Bill was when she married him. He kept disappearing. She was worried sick. She never knew where he was. It was the grog, you see. The grog got the better of him. I’m not sayin’ he was a bad man. He had a hard time during the war.

  When Gladdie was carrying Billy, she got polio. There wasn’t one family in Mulberry Farm that wasn’t touched with polio. It was a terrible thing. I was worried you kids might get sick too. That’s when I moved in. Gladdie couldn’t walk, she was stuck in bed. There was no one to look after you and Jilly. Bill didn’t like me there. He was so jealous. He wanted Gladdie to himself. What could she do? She needed someone to mind the kids. He was no good around the house.

  Now, I tell you something, Sal, this is a sacred thing, so I better speak quiet. I helped your mother with that polio. You see, our family’s always had powers that way. I don’t want to say no more. Some things I’m tellin’ you ’cause I won’t be here much longer. That’s something you should know.

  Gladdie and Bill was offered a house in Manning. It was made from bricks and bigger than the one we was livin’ in. Billy was a baby then, and Gladdie was over the polio. I liked the new place. There was bush everywhere. You couldn’t see nothin’ but bush, and it was near the river. Aah, the birds and the wildlife, it was wonderful. Trouble was, it stank at night. We was near the swamp. That night air was bad for you, Sally. It made you sick. You should have been up North, you’re no good in the cold.

  Now, this is something I’ve told no one. You mightn’t believe me. ’Member when we first moved there? Couple of nights, you came out on the back verandah and found Gladdie and me sittin’ there, ’member we made you go away? You was always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, we was listenin’ to music. It was the blackfellas playin’ their didgeridoos and singin’ and laughin’ down in the swamp. Your mother could hear it. I said to her one night, ‘I’m goin’ down there and tell those natives off. Who do they think they are, wakin’ all the white people up.’ That’s when Gladdie told me. She said, ‘Don’t go down there, Mum, there’s no one there, only bush.’ You see, we was hearin’ the people from long ago. Our people who used to live here before the white man came. Funny, they stopped playin’ after your father died. I think now they was protectin’ us. Fancy, eh? Those dear, old people. You see, the blackfella knows all ’bout spirits.

  It was hard for us with Bill. He couldn’t get away from the grog. We had no money. Grog’s a curse. I’m glad you didn’t marry a drinkin’ man. I ’member when Bill used to see all those little red devils sittin’ on the end of his bed. He kept beggin’ me to take them away. I don’t think he should have been takin’ that medicine and drinkin’ too. It made him worse. Aah, doctors don’t know nothin’. They kept sendin’ him home. He needed help. Gladdie and I couldn’t help him.

  There was rows all the time with Bill. You know all ’bout that, so I’ll say no more. Just between you and me, Bill’s parents didn’t like natives. They said things ’bout Gladdie behind her back. They said she wasn’t good enough for Bill. They blamed her for his troubles. It wasn’t her fault, she was doin’ the best she could.

  ’Member we used to keep you kids out the way? We didn’t want to upset him. Any little thing upset him. We was frightened of what he might do.

  I never told anyone this, but you was close to your father, you knew what he was like. I never even told your mother. I just kept it to myself. When Gladdie wasn’t around, Bill used to call me a bloody nigger. I know he had a bad time in the war, but he shouldn’t have called me that. No one should call anyone a bloody nigger. I kept quiet ’bout that ’cause I didn’t want to cause trouble, but it hurt me real bad to hear him say that.

  I was glad when he got real sick. It meant he couldn’t touch Gladdie no more.

  We was lucky we had those old people protectin’ us. Bill could have killed us all.

  One time, he asked me to hide the axe. It was the voices he used to hear. They kept tellin’ him to kill us all, even you little ones. Bill said to me, ‘Dais, hide the axe tonight. They want me to kill you all again and I’m afraid I’ll do it.’

  He wasn’t a bad man, he was just very sick. Sometimes, he’d put himself in hospital. Sometimes, he’d keep himself awake all night, just pacing up and down, up and down. He really had to fight hard not to kill us. You see, there was part of him that was real good.

  When he died, I’d been expectin’ it. I had that feelin’ inside he might be goin’ soon. I think Gladdie knew too. We didn’t talk ’bout it. You didn’t talk ’bout things like that.

  Course, you know little David found the body. Poor little bloke, he was only ’bout two then. He thought Bill was asleep, he kept tryin’ to wake him up.

  David and you are a lot alike, Sal. He wasn’t naughty like you, mind, but you both got a feel for the spiritual side of things. I ’member you played on your own a lot. Course, you wasn’t on your own, was you? The angels was with you. Your mother was like that, and me, too, I s’pose. You see, you never know what’s gunna get passed down. Our people was strong in the spirit.

  I think Bill knew he was goin’ to die. He made his peace. He knew where he was goin’. ’Member he played footy with Billy and David? Aah, it was a sad time. If it hadn’t been for the grog and the war, he’d have been a different man. A good man.

  Bill’s parents were mongrels after he died. They didn’t help Gladdie. They wasn’t interested in you kids. We had no money, nothin’ left to sell. We didn’t know what we was goin’ to do, we was desperate. Gladdie wrote to the Drake-Brockmans in Sydney to see if they could give us a loan. They said they was broke too.

  Lois was good to your mother, then. She gave us some money. Frank Potter was good to us. Turned out his heart was as big as his belly.

  We was worried ’bout you kids, then. We thought the government might come and get you. They didn’t like people like us rearin’ kids with white blood in them. Seems like no one took account of the black blood. You belonged to us, Bill’s family didn’t want you. You kids loved the bush, you got things passed down to you from Gladdie and me. Things that you only got ’cause we was black.

  I tried to stay out the way after Bill died. Gladdie could pass for anythin’. You only had to look at me to see I was a native. We had to be careful. ‘Tell them they’re Indian,’ I told her. ‘You don’t want them havin’ a bad time.’

  Your mother got work and pretty soon, we had food on the table, good food. Bill drank money and we ate it.

  There was men interested in Gladdie, she was a beautiful woman. She didn’t want no one. All she wanted was you kids. Good men are rare in this world.

  ***

  Well, Sal, that’s all I’m gunna tell ya. My brain’s no good, it’s gone rotten. I don’t want to talk no more. I got my secrets, I’ll take them to the grave. Some things, I can’t talk ’bout. Not even to you, my grand daughter. They for me to know. They not for you or your mother to know.

  I’m glad I won’t be here in body when you finish that book. I’m glad I’m goin’. You a stirrer, you gunna have a lot of talkin’ to do. I can’t stick up for myself, you see. It’s better you do it. Look out for your mo
ther, she’s like me.

  Aah, you’ve always been naughty. I’m not frightened for you any more, Sal, you’ll be protected. I think maybe this is a good thing you’re doin’. I didn’t want you to do it, mind. But I think, now, maybe it’s a good thing. Could be it’s time to tell. Time to tell what it’s been like in this country.

  I want you grandchildren to make something of yourselves. You all got brains. One of you could be like Mr Hawke, Prime Minister, one day. I hope you’ll never be ’shamed of me. When you see them old fellas sittin’ in the dirt, remember that was me, once.

  Aah, I’m tired of this world, now. I want to get on to the next one. I’m afraid I’ll go before I’m ready, can you understand that? God’s got a spot up there for me, I dunno what it’s like, but it’s a spot. Probably a bit of bush, eh? What do you think? Old Arthur’ll be waitin’ for me. We can have a good old fight. I bet he’s causin’ trouble up there.

  I feel real tired now, Sal, the fight’s gone out o’ me. I got no strength left.

  Now you asked me ’bout the future. That’s a hard question. I got no education, how can I answer a question like that? You think I’m a fortune-teller, eh?

  But I’ll tell you what I’m wonderin’. I’m wonderin’ if they’ll give the blackfellas land. If it’s the one thing I’ve learnt in this world it’s this, you can’t trust the government. They’ll give the blackfellas the dirt and the mining companies’ll get the gold. That’s the way of it.

  I don’t like this word Land Rights, people are gettin’ upset ’bout it. I dunno what this word means. I’ve heard it on the news.

  You know what I think? The government and the white man must own up to their mistakes. There’s been a lot of coverin’ up. Maybe they want us all to die off so no one’ll talk. No use you goin’ on at me, Sal, you can’t blame us old ones for not wantin’ to talk. We too scared.

  Well, I’m hopin’ things will change one day. At least, we not owned any more. I was owned by the Drake-Brockmans and the government and anyone who wanted to pay five shillings a year to Mr Neville to have me. Not much, is it? I know it’s hard for you, Sal, hard for you to understand. You different to me. I been scared all my life, too scared to speak out. Maybe if you’d have had my life, you’d be scared, too.