by Alison Booth
For an instant Ilona wondered if this was why Eileen had agreed to accompany her, an opportunity to hear the new, and reputedly charismatic, Reverend Cannadine from the Anglican Church providing the land for the proposed housing. That had to be him sitting on the platform, and he was certainly very handsome, in a large red-faced sort of way, although his dog-collar appeared to be several sizes too small and was probably chafing his neck.
Soon after they’d settled themselves in their seats, the Reverend Cannadine got to his feet. There was applause followed by a brief round of heckling, which he ignored as he held aloft what looked to be a large flat board about three feet square and covered in a cloth.
‘I have something to show you,’ he said. ‘Something that will interest you all greatly, as it has me. Something that I found attached to the street sign next to our land.’
With a flourish, he removed the cloth and held up the sign for all to see. BOONG BOULEVARDE was written in foot-high letters and underneath was an enlarged photograph of a drunken Aboriginal man sprawled on the pavement.
Ilona held her breath; whose side was this man on?
‘That’s right,’ a man in the audience shouted. ‘They’re a bunch of bloody no-hopers and we don’t want them as our neighbours.’
‘We have our Aboriginal brothers and sisters in the audience,’ the rector said, his face flushing a deeper red. ‘Let us do them the courtesy of not abusing them.’
All heads now turned to peer at the group of Aborigines sitting towards the back of the hall. Ilona scanned their faces. None of them looked like Tommy or Molly Hunter, but it was hard to see everyone in the hall from this far forward.
The Reverend Cannadine took advantage of this moment to put down the sign before continuing. ‘Now permit me to explain why this notice saddened me so deeply when I found it last night. Permit me to explain why I felt compelled to show it to you today. Why would I want to do this? Because the sign is a symbol. It’s a symbol of all that is wrong with race relations in Burford. And indeed not just in Burford but in Australia. When white men came to this country, they took away from the original Australians all opportunities to live as equals in this glorious land of ours.’ His voice was loud and deep, and reverberated through the hall. ‘If our consciences are to be cleansed of this dreadful shame, we must make a start right here in Burford. Through this shocking human delineation that we have created, this needless separation of black from white, we are condemning a part of the human race to a life of physical, social and mental humiliation. Achieving equality for Aboriginal people in Burford is one way of purging our consciences of our shameful history.
‘The story of the Aborigines’ dispossession is an unjust story. Aboriginal people are human beings like us and yet we haven’t treated them so. They’re our equals in every respect, and yet we haven’t treated them equally. We had the opportunity at Federation and yet we didn’t take it. Once this unjust history is recognised, it will surely be possible for us all to move on to express our deep regret about their shameful treatment.’
At this point there was loud clapping from some sections of the audience, and boos and hisses from others. ‘Such a wonderful speaker,’ Eileen whispered, her eyes bright.
‘It’s the Abos’ fault that they’re segregated,’ a man in the audience yelled out. ‘They simply don’t want to integrate.’
‘We won’t give them the opportunity, that’s why!’ Ilona shouted, on her feet without even thinking about it. ‘And that’s what this housing proposal is about, giving them an opportunity.’
‘I don’t want a mob of drunks on the other side of my fence,’ someone else called out.
‘Why not let us have the sort of houses we want, where we want them?’ cried a white-haired Aboriginal man whom Ilona hadn’t noticed until now, although he was sitting in the front row.
‘You will be consulted,’ said the Reverend Cannadine soothingly.
A man from a few rows back now called out, ‘The Abos don’t want houses anyway. All they want is a sheet of corrugated iron and a few poles, preferably on someone else’s good farming land.’
‘Not true,’ shouted the white-haired Aboriginal man.
‘And they’re drunk half the time,’ someone else bellowed.
The rector now held up both his hands to quell the rising sound in the hall. When the noise had subsided, he continued. ‘No one raises questions about the morality of a white householder who comes home inebriated. No one debates if a white householder should invite his brother or sister to stay. No one asks whether or not white families should be allowed to become our neighbours. Why are we treating our black brethren so differently? It is surely the responsibility of the Burford community to take the initiative in reversing our shameful treatment of the original inhabitants of this great land. And it is surely our responsibility to do it now. Yes, there is a potential conflict right here in Burford. A potential conflict between racial equality and traditional attitudes that assume the inferiority of the Aboriginal people. But this is a conflict that we can choose to avoid. Indeed, we must choose right now to move beyond such conflict. We must do this not only to unravel our past unjust treatment, but we must also avoid harming Australia’s reputation as a fair-minded people.’
There was a murmuring from the audience. More heckling might have followed, had not a photographer dashed down the aisle. The Reverend Cannadine again elevated the sign, BOONG BOULEVARDE. The camera flashed and an image was created that, by the next day, would be on the front page of both the Burford Advertiser and the Canberra Times.
On the way out of the hall, Ilona signed up to become involved in the campaign for housing Aboriginal people in Burford. That the campaign would run for years rather than months, she could not have guessed. Eileen hung back from volunteering, although she did manage to shake the hand of the Reverend Cannadine. She’d experienced a conversion to the Reverend rather than to the Aboriginal cause, Ilona decided in slight irritation. Her trouble was that she had no passion to make the world a better place.
While Eileen and the Reverend Cannadine were chatting, Ilona approached some Aborigines standing on the lawn nearby. She didn’t recognise anyone from the camp she’d visited but she did want to talk to the elderly man who’d spoken at the meeting. Engaged in an animated conversation, he didn’t at first notice her standing near him. The journalist from the Canberra Times had no compunction in interrupting the conversation, however, and Ilona stepped back a few paces until he’d taken several photographs.
Afterwards the elderly man beckoned Ilona over.
‘You made a really good point just now,’ she said, ‘about building the sort of houses you want where you want them. That hadn’t occurred to me before, but you’re quite right.’
‘We certainly need somewhere to live, but we’d like to choose where.’
‘And you need to be consulted about the housing designs.’
‘We do but I don’t think we’ve got to that stage yet,’ the man said. ‘The church will be lucky to get planning permission and they won’t get it if we’re visibly involved. That’s the way things work around here.’
After some more discussion about the project, Ilona introduced herself.
‘I know who you are,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m Jack Wheeler.’
So he knows I’m not from Welfare, she thought, and he may even know whom I’m looking for. After taking a deep breath, she asked him if he knew the whereabouts of Tommy and Molly Hunter and their family.
‘Saw them just a few months ago,’ he said slowly. ‘Haven’t seen them recently though. Last I heard they’d gone to a property near Bogong. There’s a station owner there who wanted some labour.Are you wanting pickers for your crops?’
‘No. We’re only grazing at Ferndale.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I need to get some news to the Hunte
rs. Do you know the name of that property?’
‘Numbugga Flats. It’s out the back of Bogong.’
‘The back of Bogong. That’s up in the mountains, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. You have to take the main road and turn off before Bogong.’
‘If you see them, do please let them know I’m looking for them. But I think I might take a drive to Numbugga Flats.’
Ilona and Eileen were silent on the drive back to Jingera. This week I shall go to Bogong and find the Hunters, Ilona thought, and perhaps take Peter with me. After mentally packing a picnic hamper, and negotiating a few more miles, Ilona began to think about what sort of housing might suit the Aborigines who were being moved on from the camp outside Burford.
These were people who were used to sitting comfortably on the ground, she thought; people who didn’t necessarily need chairs and tables and other paraphernalia. Why should they be rehoused in neat Australian suburban bungalows and not consulted about the type of design that would suit their needs? Maybe this would be something they could raise with the Reverend Cannadine before the next meeting. Maybe someone like Jack Wheeler could liaise with an architect to design houses whose walls could be propped open in good weather and shut when it rained or was cold. Or at least houses with wide verandahs, not like those double- or triple-fronted monstrosities that people were building these days. That new development opposite the cemetery in Jingera was a perfect example of how not to build houses.
After dropping Eileen at the Cadwalladers’ cottage, Ilona couldn’t find anywhere to leave the car in the square in Jingera. The parking area at the back of the hotel was only half full, so she left the Armstrong there. She called into the butcher’s shop first. There was a run of customers in front of her, including a woman who’d said she’d come all the way from Bermagui. She bought ten pounds of George’s special sausages to freeze: the pork and sage, the lamb and rosemary, and the beef and mixed herbs. For a moment Ilona wondered if she might miss out on her own favourites, the pork and sage, but George got more from out the back. By the time she’d bought a few things at the general store and collected the post and a package of books, some thirty minutes had elapsed. If she hadn’t decided to put the parcel into the car boot rather than the back seat, she might not have seen the graffiti at once. But there it was, in bright red letters plastered over the back of the car: ABO LOVER.
She glanced around. No one in sight. Perhaps someone was watching her from the pub, but no, that wasn’t possible. It had no windows overlooking the car park. She felt slightly sick, hating the thought that someone in Jingera felt such animosity towards the Aborigines, and to her for having associated with them. Was it because she’d attended the Burford meeting? Or was it because she’d been looking for the Hunters?
Perhaps the paint was only poster colour and would be easy to wipe off. She put down the parcel. After pulling out the cloth she kept in the side pocket of the car, she wet it with water from a hosepipe at the edge of the lawn bordering the parking area. She gently rubbed at the first letter. It wasn’t going to come off. The paint must be oil-based, though how it could have dried so quickly was anyone’s guess.
Now it occurred to her that the words couldn’t have been painted onto the car in Jingera, but in Burford while they were in the meeting. Yes, that must have been it. Someone at the meeting had seen where her sympathies lay and painted the sign on the car afterwards. The Armstrong was the only one of its kind in the area, and she would be easily identifiable as its driver.
When she arrived home, Peter said, ‘I don’t care about the car so much, or the bigotry of whoever painted those letters on it. But you might be in danger.’
‘Of course I’m not in danger,’ she said, laughing although she didn’t really feel like it.
‘I can get that paint off anyway,’ said Peter, ‘with a bit of white spirit and then my fingernail. It might leave a few scratches but we won’t let that worry us. I’d put money on this being ordinary house paint. That’s nowhere near as hard as car duco that’s baked on.’
‘No, don’t bother,’ Ilona said. ‘Leave it as it is. It’s a badge of honour.’
‘Or a badge of courage.’
‘Now this has happened perhaps I won’t be so anxious about making a tiny ding in the paintwork,’ she said. ‘I should be able to park by ear.’
‘By touch, perhaps,’ he said, and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘But I’ll clean it off anyway.’
As she exchanged her high heels for the pair of flats she’d left just inside the kitchen door, she pondered over what had happened. It seemed that everywhere there was prejudice. Although Ferndale was like a safe haven, with a fence all around it, it was only because Peter’s family had been rich enough and lucky enough to buy it years ago, and had bequeathed it to Peter, that they were able to live here. Yet now she started to wonder if it really belonged to them.
‘Did you see the Hunters?’ Peter said.
‘No. But I spoke to someone who knows where they are. They’re at Numbugga Flats.’
‘Up in the mountains? I don’t like you driving up there on your own, not in an old car like ours. I’ll come with you.’
‘Good, I thought you might. I’ll pack a hamper and we’ll have a picnic.’
‘I’m a bit surprised they’d go that far though. This is their country, after all. Why would they leave it?’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ Ilona said. ‘I can’t wait to see their faces when they hear about Jervis Bay and the chance of seeing Lorna again so soon. They’ll be really excited. Then the only thing for me to worry about will be how much time they can take off work and how to get them all up there.’
Chapter 23
Last afternoon of the summer holidays, at least for those kids at state schools. As the bus swung into the square in Jingera, Zidra saw Sally waiting outside the post office. Even though Sally must have heard the bus chugging down the road – there was no other traffic around – she kept her back turned. After getting off the bus, Zidra saw who was claiming all of her friend’s attention: Jim was standing just inside the post office door.
‘They’re coming canoeing with us,’ Sally said, smirking at Zidra as if she’d just won something. ‘Jim and Eric both.’
Zidra put her beach bag on the pavement. Jim nodded at her, unsmiling. Not even a hello, you might almost think he was sorry to see her turn up on this final afternoon of the holidays. She herself wasn’t at all keen on going out on the lagoon with him and Eric. Instead of a leisurely paddle upstream, there’d be flirting and showing off, and anyway she’d decided she didn’t want to see Eric again. It was too late though; here he was looming up next to Jim and goodness gracious, how he’d changed colour! Between those coppery freckles his skin was now burnt red and that golden aura had completely gone.
Skin-deep allure was just that, so superficial that a small change in colour could tilt her over that margin between attraction and indifference. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him, but rather that the desire to touch him had completely vanished.
‘Hi babe,’ he said in a fake American accent, as he picked up her beach bag. ‘What have you got in here? Pretty heavy, isn’t it, for an afternoon’s boating?’
‘Some books,’ she said, trying to take the bag from him. Their hands touched for a moment too long. While she let his hand rest against hers, it was only because she didn’t want to relinquish the bag. Yet still she couldn’t prevent a blush suffusing her neck and face. When he let go she almost fell backwards. ‘Just some books Jim lent me,’ she said, pulling them out of the bag: Eyeless in Gaza, and a book on fossils that she’d struggled through. ‘I was planning to drop them into his house before Sally and I went canoeing.’
‘I’ll take them,’ Jim said. ‘I’ll meet you all at Hairy Harry’s.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Sally said. ‘You two can get the canoes.’
Zidra found Sally’s peremptory tone and her departure with Jim far more exasperating than being left alone with Eric. It was Zidra who had the special friendship with Jim that went back years. Sally had only met him at the start of the holidays, and it wasn’t fair that she could so easily displace Zidra in his affections.
Shocked at the antipathy she felt at that moment for Sally, Zidra used her sandaled foot to destroy a small weed that had the temerity to grow between the pavement and the brick wall of the post office. Intent on this task, she didn’t at first hear what Eric was saying, and he had to repeat it.
‘Back to Sydney tomorrow, Zid. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. We’re doing the Leaving Certificate this year as well as training for the Head of the River. So it’s going to be a lot of work.’
‘What’s the Head of the River?’
‘The Regatta on the Nepean River. Hasn’t Jim mentioned it? We’re both in the eights.’
She told Eric that she never listened to Jim when he talked about sport and that she only skimmed through those paragraphs in his letters. Jim knew this, of course, she’d told him often, but still he persisted. Though now she came to think about it, perhaps there had been something about rowing and the Regatta in several of his letters. ‘I expect it’s very important,’ she concluded, with a touch of sarcasm. ‘Team building and all that.’
Eric chose not to notice her dismissive tone, and she was glad of it. He wasn’t too bad, she decided, now that she no longer found him attractive in that disturbing sense. At this moment he picked up her bag again. Still unwilling to admit to his courtesy, she might have tussled with him if she hadn’t suspected this was what he wanted. Instead she laughed. ‘Sure, you can carry it. You can paddle too. Good training for the Head of the River. Maybe we can go right up towards Burford.’ Now she knew that travelling with Eric was inescapable, she began to feel quite pleased at the way the afternoon was shaping up. ‘We could take the canoe with the double-sided paddle,’ she said.
