by Judy Nunn
Enid Williams didn’t lack intelligence. To the contrary she was a bridge player of championship standard, the one extra-curricular activity she allowed herself. In the meantime, she was an excellent cook, hostess, bookkeeper and mother. Like many of her ilk, Enid was a professional housewife, and very good at her job, as her husband fully appreciated. But Grahame Williams knew that Jessica’s quest of discovery would give her a much broader life.
He was right. Jessica thrived at university. She loved her studies and was an excellent student. And the more she learned of Aboriginal lore and culture, the more she found herself personally responding to her new-found knowledge. It was as if in unearthing the ancient mysteries of her people she was unearthing her true identity.
Through the university ‘hippie’ set who, in between anti-war protests and ban-the-bomb demonstrations, keenly affiliated themselves to minority groups with a cause, she discovered the newly formed Aboriginal Arts Society. A small self-funded group, the society worked out of a modest hall in West Perth where they exhibited Aboriginal crafts and paintings and performed ceremonial dances accompanied by the clapping sticks and the didgeridoo.
Most importantly for Jessica, the society was a meeting place. It was through the society that she discovered, not only Aborigines with a pride in their culture, but several like herself, deprived of their heritage, keen to discover their origins and their people.
Jessica Williams was a popular, pretty girl with a wicked throaty laugh and a delicious sense of humour. She made friends with ease, which was unusual in a student who so excelled academically. Most of those who topped their courses each year, as she did, were bookish types devoted to their studies. Jessica lived a gregarious existence and yet maintained a passion for her work, a balance which was enviable to many of her fellow students.
She completed her bachelor degree and applied to do an honours year, and in the summer of late 1971, upon the completion of her honours, she accompanied Catherine Berndt as a research assistant in the field.
Catherine’s field trip, tracing the myth of the Rainbow Serpent through the valleys and plateaus of the Murchison and Gascoyne Rivers, started out in the coastal region of mid-Western Australia, and it was here that Jessica finally found herself in the area of the Yamatji people. Her mother’s people.
After four years’ intensive academic study, Jessica felt an instant and personal sense of oneness with the land of her ancestors. Her mentor, Catherine Berndt, was furthermore an inspiration as, in their four wheel drive vehicle, they traced the routes of ancient campsites from one waterhole to another, Catherine pointing out the middens where piles of shells and refuse remained as evidence of meals shared possibly hundreds of years previously.
They spent several days at an Aboriginal mission near Gascoyne Junction and there Catherine, in her customary manner, joined in the women’s corroborees, and sat comfortably amongst them by the fireside ashes, playing with their children.
Jessica met with tribal elders who were initially a little wary of the pretty young white woman with the flame-coloured hair. What did she want of them? They quickly discovered that she knew a great deal of their culture and deeply respected it and, upon the further discovery that she was one of their own, they were generous in their recognition and acceptance. They showed her the sacred sites allowed to women, and she listened to their stories of the Dreaming which, coming from the mouths of the elders, took on a different perspective altogether to the essays of anthropologists and university tutorials. They discussed tribal culture with her, as much as was permitted to be discussed with a woman, and they showed her rock paintings which had existed for centuries.
The paintings were stark white and simple in design. Jessica knew from her studies that the inland Murchison people used white kaolin clay for their paintings, and she was familiar with the imprints of hands, and with the circular swirls of the water symbol. But there was one recurring design which puzzled her. Several of the paintings depicted an oval shape, within which was a mountain peak reaching towards a vibrant sun.
But there were no mountains in this region. Why would the Aborigines paint a mountain when there were none? Jessica discussed it with Catherine, who was equally mystified. Was it related to some story of the Rainbow Serpent myth about which they were unaware? But the elders assured them the picture was not related to the Rainbow Serpent. The paintings had been there for a very long time, they said. On their travels, particularly to the north-east desert region, around the campsites of the Oakover River, and even out to the hills and valleys of the Rudall River, the Yamatji had seen other drawings of such a symbol, but they knew nothing of its origins.
In one painting Jessica pointed out to Catherine the oval shape was hanging about the neck of a man. Was it some form of religious token? But then, as the two women agreed, the Aborigines did not wear religious tokens. Fascinated, Jessica took photographs of the oval object which appeared in the paintings. Dependent upon the results of her honours year, she intended to apply for a masters degree, in which event she would investigate the symbol further in the field trips she hoped to make during the following two years.
Aggie Marshall inadvertently changed the lives of Terence and Kit Galloway as well as her own when Kit returned home from university in late 1972.
He had come back to Darwin for most of his vacations over the past three years, but this time it wasn’t for a holiday. He’d completed his Bachelor of Arts degree, and an honours year to boot, and although he was set on a career as a journalist, he wasn’t sure where to start.
‘A mate of mine has contacts at the Adelaide Advertiser, and there’re no openings there,’ he complained to Aggie. ‘I could apply, but there doesn’t seem much point. I think my best bet’s to go to Melbourne or Sydney, and try for a job as a proofreader on one of the dailies.’
‘A proofreader!’ Aggie’s shaggy white eyebrows knitted into a scowl. ‘But you’ve majored in English literature! You’re an honours graduate! You’ve devoted four whole years of your life to …’
‘Oh Aggie,’ Kit laughed, she was as ferocious as ever once she got going, ‘no-one’s terribly impressed with a BA these days.’
‘Well they bloody well should be. And what’s wrong with Darwin?’
‘Eh?’
‘Why Sydney or Melbourne? Why not Darwin?’
Kit shrugged. ‘I suppose because everybody heads for the big smoke to make their name.’
‘What? As a proofreader?’ Aggie scoffed.
‘Only to begin with.’ She was being deliberately provocative, he knew it. Aggie’s inspirational tack was often aimed to provoke anger, but Kit refused to take the bait. ‘You have to start somewhere.’
‘And what’s wrong with the Northern Territory News?’ she demanded belligerently.
‘Nothing. But I’d probably have to start from the bottom there too.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘The astrology column!’ Kit searched the flinty eyes behind Jim Bowditch’s spectacles for a sign that the man was joking. ‘I don’t know anything about astrology.’
‘Who does?’ Jim shrugged. It was no joke. Jim Bowditch was good for a laugh during a heavy drinking session at the pub, but in working hours he was a busy man with little time for humour. ‘Just for a couple of weeks while Mathilda’s on holidays. She’s left you all her charts and stuff.’
They chatted for a while longer. Or rather Jim did, laying down the rules. Kit listened for the most part, overwhelmed by the tough little man’s energy. But then Jim Bowditch was famous throughout the Territory as a hard-nosed journalist of the no-nonsense variety. He worked with a bottle of Scotch on his desk, and wrote feature articles under the nom de plume ‘Silent Sam’, cutting a swathe through what he referred to as ‘bureaucratic stupidity’ and fearlessly tilting at windmills in his fight for human rights.
Finally, satisfied that he’d set the boy straight, Jim shook Kit’s hand. ‘Welcome to NTN,’ he said. ‘You start next week, Lisa’ll sho
w you around.
‘Thank you, Mr Bowditch.’
The attractive young front counter receptionist introduced Kit to the gang in the newsroom. Busy with their chattering typewriters and ubiquitous telephones, most looked up from their desks, gave him a cheery nod, said ‘welcome to NTN’ and returned to their work.
‘This is only half the gang,’ Lisa said, ‘the others are out, you’ll meet them next week, we’ve got a staff of fifteen in all.’ Then she showed him where the tea urn was, pointed out the small desk in the far corner of the newsroom which was to be his work station, and dumped a pile of charts and notebooks in his arms, presumably Mathilda’s notes.
‘Welcome to NTN,’ she said with a radiant smile, before disappearing through the doors to the reception counter.
‘What’s your star sign, Aggie?’ Kit asked as she ushered him expectantly into the lounge room. He’d promised he’d come straight around after his interview.
‘Aquarius,’ she said mystified, watching him open his briefcase and take out a notebook. ‘But from what I’ve heard I’m not at all typical and it’s a load of rubbish anyway, why do you ask?’
Kit flicked through the pages of the notebook. ‘Your ruler, Uranus, joins with Mercury which is the planet of the mind. Ah hah!’ he proclaimed, snapping the notebook closed. ‘I predict an interesting week for Aquarians.’
‘Stop mucking around, tell me what happened at the newspaper.’
‘I just did. You’re looking at your friendly new star-gazer.’
His expression was endearingly comical, and Aggie knew that she was expected to laugh, but she couldn’t. Deep down, she felt angry.
‘How dare he!’ she expostulated. ‘He promised me personally that he’d give you a chance.’ It wasn’t as if Jim Bowditch didn’t owe her a favour. She’d sided with him on many an issue and helped him cut through bureaucratic red tape on many an occasion. She’d thought they were good mates, the least he could do was give Kit a fair go. And it wasn’t as if the lad didn’t deserve it on his own merits, he had excellent qualifications. He was a war hero, for God’s sake, he’d be an asset to the paper. The more she thought about it the more Aggie’s anger mushroomed. ‘He gave me his word, damn him!’
‘Hey, take it easy.’ Kit made her sit in her favourite armchair, she was getting herself far too worked up, but he suddenly knew why. She’d obviously put herself on the line for him. Aggie unashamedly called in favours when she was working for her charitable causes, even gentle blackmail was not beyond her, but she never used her persuasive powers on a personal basis. Of course, it explained everything.
‘Jim Bowditch at NTN is very keen to see you,’ she’d said not long after their initial chat about his future.
‘What have you done, Aggie?’ He’d been suspicious to start with. Why would the famous Jim Bowditch, editor of the Northern Territory News, profess an interest in him?
‘Nothing, just a quick phone call.’ She’d been the picture of innocence. ‘He’s impressed with your credentials, he wants to give a local a chance, and you’re to ring for an appointment next week.’ An insouciant shrug. ‘Don’t go if you don’t want to. Entirely up to you.’
Now she was seething.
‘Stop blowing a gasket, everything’s all right,’ Kit said. She was incorrigible, he thought as he sat on the leather pouffe beside the armchair. It was just as well he hadn’t known she’d put pressure on Jim Bowditch or he would never have gone for the interview. ‘I’m only filling in on the astrology column for a fortnight.’
‘Oh?’ Aggie looked hopeful.
‘Yep. Then I go on to sport …’
‘But you don’t know a thing about sport.’
‘… and if I’m lucky I’ll score the movie review.’
‘Oh Kit!’
Aggie’s face was such a mask of horror that Kit could contain himself no longer. He burst out laughing. ‘It’s a fantastic job, Aggie, thank you. Whatever strings you pulled with Jim Bowditch, I’m really grateful.’ Her expression was still dubious and he felt the need to explain. ‘Every cadet starts off this way, and I’m on a one-year cadetship instead of the normal four.’ He leaned forward excitedly, his elbows on his knees, a gangly figure, boyish in his excitement. ‘And I can submit feature articles for consideration, Jim says, he told me to call him Jim. So long as I write them in my own time, he said.’
‘But that’s wonderful,’ Aggie replied. ‘That’s exactly what we wanted.’ Then she added hopefully, ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘So why did you give me such a shock? Astrology columns and all that.’
‘I wanted to see the look on your face,’ he grinned. ‘It was worth it.’
His grey eyes glowed with affection and gratitude. Perhaps even love, Aggie thought. She hoped so. If he only knew how much she loved him. Kit Galloway was the son she’d never had.
‘Thanks, Aggie.’ Kit enveloped her in an enthusiastic hug.
‘My pleasure,’ she said.
The large tin shed which formed the offices of the Northern Territory News was on the corner of Mitchell and Chapel Streets, not far from Aggie’s place, and it was decided that Kit would stay in her spare room whilst he lined up a flat nearby. He couldn’t afford a car, and his father’s house at Larrakeyah was not within easy walking distance of the offices.
‘Okay,’ Kit had agreed when Aggie insisted the arrangement was the only sensible solution. ‘It’ll only be for a few weeks.’
‘Take your time, there’s no rush.’ She would have been perfectly happy if he’d moved in for good.
Terence’s reaction to the entire situation had been enigmatic from the outset. ‘I thought you were going to apply for a job in one of the big cities,’ he’d said. He hadn’t anticipated Kit living with him permanently.
‘Aggie thinks I can get a much better offer right here.’
‘I see.’ When would Aggie Marshall stop interfering, Terence thought.
Kit turned down his father’s offer to supply a vehicle. ‘No thanks, Dad,’ he said, ‘If I get the job I’ll move into a flat where I can walk to work, and save up to buy a car of my own.’ Kit hoped his father wasn’t hurt by his refusal, but he felt an intense desire to assert his independence.
Relieved that the boy would not be living under his roof, Terence could afford to be magnanimous and he tried to insist upon setting Kit up in a flat. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he said. But Kit was adamant, he would accept no help. And far from respecting his desire for independence, Terence was irritated. He would have preferred to have been seen as the generous benefactor.
And now it appeared that Aggie Marshall was to be granted the privilege. It irked Terence to think of Kit staying with the woman who had brought about such a change in their lives. He’d cursed Aggie for the fact that the boy had decided to settle in Darwin in the first place, thereby disrupting the comfortable pattern of his own life, and now, perversely jealous, he cursed her further for being a champion to his son. Why couldn’t the woman mind her own bloody business!
‘For God’s sake, boy,’ he snarled, ‘why do you want to live with old Aggie Marshall when I could set you up in a decent flat?’
Kit hated it when his father was irritable, which seemed to be a lot of the time lately. And since when had he taken such a dislike to Aggie, whom he’d always professed to be a loyal friend? He’d said ‘old’ in such a disparaging way. Hell, Kit thought, Aggie’s only a few years older than you are. But he didn’t say it. ‘It’ll only be for a few weeks,’ he said instead, then he got out of his father’s way. Best to leave him alone when he was in one of his morose moods.
Kit was also secretly relieved to be moving out of the house at Larrakeyah. The fact that he appeared to be a source of irritation to his father was hurtful, but at least he knew the reason. It was because of Rose.
‘This is Rose,’ Terence had said when Kit had returned home for vacation a few years previously, ‘Fran’s niece, she’s going to be helping
around the house.’
Rose was a pretty girl. Petite, seemingly shy, and her English was very poor, Fran regularly translating for her as she stood, confused, brown eyes downcast. Kit felt sorry for her.
Privately, Terence had told Kit that of course he didn’t need extra staff, but the girl had been in dire straits and he’d given her a roof and a wage as a favour to Fran.
‘Fran’s been such a loyal employee,’ Terence had said. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
It seemed his father’s latest catch phrase, Kit now thought, but he’d naively believed him at the time, and he hadn’t realised that his father was having an affair with the girl until a full year later when, again home for vacation, he’d seen Terence sneaking into her little bedroom by the back stairs.
Kit had been shocked at the time. Not only shocked by his father’s deception but by the fact that Rose was barely twenty-three years old, the same age as he was himself. He’d tried not to sit in judgement, what right did he have to do so? His father was lonely. And he’d soon realised that Rose was not the innocent she had appeared to be. She’d quickly usurped her position in the house when Terence was not around. Kit observed her rudeness to her aunt, even as they spoke in their native tongue. And Fran appeared to accept Rose’s superiority. Then, when Terence came home, the game plan changed, Rose was servile and obeisant, and Fran was the efficient housekeeper she’d always been. In their own ways, both of them waited on their lord and master.
It was an unpleasant and duplicitous household. Couldn’t his father see that, Kit wondered. Then he realised that, not only could his father see it, he was perfectly happy with the women’s pecking order, it served his purpose.
Kit suddenly viewed his father through different eyes. He tried not to. He didn’t want to. His father was his hero, just as he’d been Malcolm’s hero. Terence Galloway, World War II fighter pilot, past owner of the renowned Bullalalla cattle station, now a powerful Darwin businessman. Throughout Kit’s life his father had always been highly respected. A man of morals, a man with a strict code of ethics which he had instilled in his sons.
