Book 2
Peggy Muldune 1922-1940
The Thunderstorms
It was late afternoon, the humidity was making the conditions most unbearable.
“Isolated thunderstorms, that’s what it said on the hospital wireless last night,” said Phyliss as she gazed expectantly towards the north, beyond the gorges and breakaway country—as if she was willing the rolling clouds to move faster and empty their contents on this arid thirsty town.
The two friends could hear the thunder clouds rumbling in the distance. “The storm might get here about suppertime,” predicted Phyliss hopefully.
“Yes, might be suppertime, he come,” agreed Lucy, nine months pregnant and extremely uncomfortable and restless. She was seated on a single bed in the bough shed. Phyliss and Jack Donaldson’s eighteen month old son Michael John lay asleep on the bed opposite.
“You alright Lucy?” asked her friend with a slightly worried expression on her face. “Can’t you rest today? You know what Matron O’Neil and Dr Callahan said, ‘Get plenty of rest.’”
It was impossible to relax. Even the black iron stones across the flats were shimmering in the heat, making it worse by reflecting the midsummer heat.
“I’ll be glad when the sun goes down,” sighed Phyliss. “At least it will be a little bit cooler for us.”
Lucy said nothing but nodded in agreement. She was absolutely sick of her condition. Big and fat. Can’t walk around much. Never mind, she thought to herself—soon be over—everything. The prospect pleased her greatly. Not long now, she smiled softly.
About 5:00 in the afternoon there was a loud clap of thunder followed by flashes of lightning. Excitement and peals of laughter came from the houses behind them, accompanied by shouts of expectancy, “Yore, yore!”
The two friends had spent months cutting out and sewing a layette for the baby. There was still plenty of calico left to make more matinee jackets and nappies as the baby grew and developed.
Raindrops on the roof? The women pricked up their ears. Then it came down, the heavy, powerful torrents of rain came to give them relief. The frightening loud, unusual noise had woken Michael John who began howling in fear. His mother picked him up and tried to pacify her frightened son.
“Phyliss, my baby, he coming now,” said Lucy.
“Oh, my God,” blurted the panic-stricken friend, holding her own child closer to her chest. “You take Michael John, while I go over the road and get Clarry Pincher,” said Phyliss as she raced out into the storm.
“Lucy’s ready to go to the hospital, will you take her?” Phyliss was dripping wet but that was the least of her worries right now.
“Clarry’s car was one of those square things—olden day cars. Worth a lot of money nowadays,” informed Jack.
“He took us to the Kingsley Hospital and dropped us off then drove to the railway yards to tell Mick,” said Phyliss.
Phyliss stayed with her friend until Matron O’Neil and Dr Callahan came into the labour ward, then she went in search of her husband the hospital gardener. The couple drove home in their brown run-about.
Water was everywhere, like a large lake—the creeks were filled to overflowing. What a lovely sight—most welcome indeed. The sight of it made the locals feel cooler.
The Donaldsons had an early supper then sat in the bough shed to watch the storm and wait for news of the birth of baby Muldune.
“Your grandfather came home about one o’clock in the morning looking like a drowned rat. His black hair was straight and dripping wet,” said Jack.
“He had the biggest grin on his face. Yeah the biggest I ever saw.”
“It’s a girl! It’s a girl! We’re calling her Margaret Bridgid Muldune, Margaret after Maggie O’Neil and Bridgid after me mam,” he said excitedly.
She weighed 6lb 5oz and she was beautiful, the proud father told them. The resemblance was remarkable. He was perfectly satisfied that Peggy—that was what he called her—was the most wonderful gift in the whole wide world. He doted on her from her birth and continued to dote on his only child throughout the following years.
The Tragedy
Despite her mixed parentage, Peggy did not feel different from other children. She was certainly a fortunate child, never subjected to racial discrimination or prejudice. She attended the normal state school when other Aboriginal children were denied access. She completed six primary levels and two secondary grades, and did exceptionally well in all grades. It was widely acknowledged that the coaching and the extra tutoring from her godparents, Dr John Callahan and his wife, Matron Margaret Callahan (nee O’Neil) had been largely responsible for the high standard produced by the only half-caste pupil at the Kingsley Government School.
Everything was going perfectly wonderfully for this pretty teenager with long straight black hair and large green eyes, features inherited from her Irish father.
Matron Callahan discussed the future prospects for Peggy with her parents: nursing training at the Royal Perth Hospital, she suggested. Peggy would stay with the Callahans in South Perth. Lucy objected strongly. She didn’t mind her working as a ward’s maid or a nurse’s assistant at the Kingsley Hospital. But send her away to Perth—definitely not.
It was a week after Peggy’s fourteenth birthday that the tragedy struck the Muldune family. An accident at the railway yards cut Mick Muldune’s life short. They said it was a freak accident, the concrete pipes had rolled off the back of a truck and on to him and crushed his ribcage and stomach. He died on the way to the hospital. The pipes narrowly missed two other men. They said they yelled out for him to “Look out”, but he never heard them. He went quickly to his tragic end.
Michael Patrick Joseph Muldune, known affectionately as the “Irishman” or “Mad” Mick, was laid to rest in the Kingsley Cemetery. Many mourners like Jack Donaldson, his best friend and best man, stood mute, tears coursing unashamedly down their cheeks.
Jack was silently remembering the Muldunes’ wedding day, fifteen years ago. Lucy dressed in a pink linen two-piece suit, white blouse and hat while Phyliss her matron-of-honour in an identical pale blue suit. Jack and Mick were dressed in dark navy pin-striped suits and white shirts—but no ties. “We joked about that, the Irishman and me. We never owned a tie. The Irishman promised he would buy one and wear it at the funeral—whoever went first. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore at his wedding, on his wedding day—but with a brand new black tie.”
A nudge from Phyliss bought him back to earth abruptly.
“Bye my Irish friend, I’ll remember you always,” sobbed this tall sunburnt half-caste Aboriginal man, before turning away to walk back towards his ute. They said that Mick Muldune stood for justice, honesty and fair play.
His widow Lucy and daughter did not leave Kingsley immediately. There were other formalities to be taken care of—according to Aboriginal custom. All Mick’s personal possessions were taken out to the backyard by female relations and burnt, nothing was saved except three beautiful crochet rugs—these were rescued by Peggy herself. All personal papers, records gone. The house itself was smoked out with Lucy and Peggy and other close relatives inside—a cleansing ritual, leaving nothing familiar for the spirit of her husband to find and cling to. He will find his own resting place—his own waterhole as it were.
Mt Dunbar Station Revisited
Lucy and Peggy settled into station life quietly and comfortably. Nothing had changed, the routine remained the same, unchanged since the establishment of the pastoral station in the early 1900s.
Peggy became the companion to Patricia Forbes, the “boss’s” fourteen year old daughter. She was glad too. She didn’t have to live in the “camp”, the “Native Camp” across the creek where over a hundred Aboriginal people lived. Their homes were built of cast off sheets of iron, one-roomed with a bough shed of wire netting on two sides and on the roof. There was no running water. Water was carried in four-gallon drums from a tap fifty yards away.
The people at the camp suffered as a
result of the unhygienic conditions. The poor nutrition and the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables in their diet contributed to complaints such as malnutrition, chest infections, trachoma, and infected ears.
The usual weekly station rations for the camp contained: 3 bags of flour, 2 bags of sugar, 6 packets of tea, 4 tins of jam, 2 tins of golden syrup, 2 tins of treacle, 4 tins of milk, 2 tins of curry powder, 4 packets of rice, 6 plugs of tobacco, pieces of salted beef, and occasionally fresh beef. To supplement this station-introduced food, the people camped out every weekend and lived on traditional “bush tucker” cooked in the traditional way. This was one thing Peggy enjoyed, going out with the old people to forage for minyara (wild onion) and kulyu (wild yams).
She liked the winter days here. The clear bright warm, sort of lazy, days. This is the time when the honey flowers are out. These bunches of golden yellow flowers are collected from the desert oaks. The nectar from these flowers is shaken into the palms of the hands or soaked in a bucket of water to make a sweet refreshing drink.
All the game caught was cooked in hot ashes. Peggy agreed that this was the only way “bush tucker” should be cooked and eaten. She really looked forward to the weekends—if only for the chance to camp out under the stars. The night sky seemed brighter somehow, and the stars bigger. This was certainly the part of Aboriginal culture she enjoyed the most.
One thing she could not understand. “Why do the old people keep all those dogs?” she asked her mother. Some were alright, but a few of them were the mangiest dogs she ever saw.
“The old people always had a lot of dogs. They tell them if anyone, you know, stranger fullahs, come close to camp,” explained Lucy.
“They tell the old people if ‘dgingarbil’, feather foot man, come too close,” said Lucy. “Dginagarbil are mans who chase and kill people who break Mardu Law. They move nighttime in the dark.”
In the summer months Patricia and Peggy rode to the various windmills around the property to swim in the windmill tanks or the small pools in the surrounding creeks. The girls were inseparable.
During the milder weather when the wild flowers were in full bloom the pair packed picnic lunches and rode to different locations each time so that Peggy could enjoy the seasonal changes.
Lucy was justly proud of her seventeen year old daughter. She had grown into a beautiful woman, reminding her so much of Mick. Only yesterday she had a very private talk with “the missus” and asked her to act as matchmaker to find a suitable husband for Peggy.
“I don’t want a Mardu (fullblood) boy to marry with my daughter,” said Lucy, her voice barely audible, fearing others may overhear her conversation with Mrs Forbes. Everyone, including Dr and Matron Callahan, Mal and Anne Forbes, convinced Lucy that her beautiful intelligent daughter deserved much better, by their standards obviously. Lucy’s own marriage had been both enriching and fulfilling and she imagined and hoped for the same for her only daughter, Peggy.
“I want Muda, Muda (half-caste) boy—same as my girl—you know, one read and write, or a good Wudgebella (white man)—not Mardu,” she added quietly.
Mrs Forbes promised to help. Mrs Forbes was in regular contact with women on neighbouring stations who could have suitable half-caste station hands working on their properties. She would begin by contacting other stations and making discreet inquiries over the pedal set (wireless/radio).
Lucy’s Auntie Minda, a bad tempered old lady, admonished her for letting “the missus” try to make Peggy into a Wudgebella Wandi (white girl).
“You bring ’em back to camp. This place here,” she said, pounding the ground with her warda (digging stick) for emphasis, “and sit down (stay) here.”
Her high pitched, loud, rasping voice was heard all over the camp. This is another custom. Individuals are encouraged to exercise this right. This prevents any spreading of malicious gossip. There is no room for secretiveness in a traditional Aboriginal community. Meetings are called where everyone attends, either to listen and learn or to participate, whatever the case may be.
“We don’t want Peggy to go ’nother way (with strangers to a strange land or place) and lose ’em for good (go away and not return), ” said Auntie Minda.
Unaware of the concern she had caused down at the camp, Peggy had ridden out with Patricia towards the old copper mine to the windmill to meet Colin Morgan, the station’s white overseer, and his black offsider, Danny (Dinnywarra) Atkinson. The clay pans were still filled with water and all around them, especially under the mulga trees, the normally red earth was covered in a carpet of pink, white, yellow and mauve flowers.
“This is what makes station life so special,” said Patricia proudly. “The wide open spaces, the stony ridges and the dry red dusty plains.
“For months all you see is the burnt looking country. Then after a good rainfall, it changes into this,” stretching her arms.
“I can’t imagine living anywhere else! When I was away at boarding school in Perth I really missed this place.”
A few miles south, Auntie Minda’s husband Jimbo was out boundary riding, searching for and rounding up stray cattle and driving them closer to the nearest windmill. As he approached the windmill he spotted smoke rising from the creek. This gladdened his heart. He hadn’t had a decent feed for a couple of days—fresh beef and damper washed down with hot sweet tea will go well, he thought. With visions of food he spurred his mount faster.
But when Jimbo reached the creekbed, he didn’t like what he saw. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was not as he supposed, the two girls picnicking nearby, for what he saw was a trysting place for young lovers. Patricia Forbes, the boss’s daughter, was seated on a blanket in the shade of a big river gum, very close to Colin Morgan. A little further to the right were Danny and Peggy. A Burungu and a Garimara. Alarmed at this sight before him and of the dangerous position those two young people had placed themselves in, he shook his head in disbelief.
“That’s wrong way, this can’t be. Not right, not right,” he said.
What was Peggy thinking of. There was no excuse, she knew the consequences for breaking rules—especially becoming involved with a man of the wrong skin. This was a serious offence. Since her thirteenth birthday she was said to have been endowed with wisdom beyond her years, so she was well aware that this rendezvous, and more importantly the chance of discovery, meant physical punishment for both of them.
So what made her disregard and flout the “Law”? Was it just the love of adventure or was it just sheer youthful abandonment that got the better of her discretion and good judgment? I think not. I think Peggy was a romantic who was passionately in love with Danny even though he was a Burungu, and she was simply enjoying the youthful pleasures of love and excitement.
Jimbo rode on—unseen by the young lovers who were obviously far more interested in each other than their beautiful surroundings—to pass this information on to Lucy.
Lucy was absolutely furious. “Why did my girl have to shame me like this!” She clenched and unclenched her fists and threw her hands up in the air with despair. “Why? Why?” She watched and simmered all afternoon.
“That Danny, he’s the one. He’s the big trouble maker.” She went on in this vein for the rest of the day, blaming Danny for seducing her beloved and only daughter.
Patricia and Peggy arrived home unaware that their picnic had created an incident that was about to erupt like a volcano with effects just as far reaching.
The girls showered and changed into cool looking shorts and blouses, then sat relaxing on the verandah. A few seconds later, their peace and quietness was shattered. A very irate and fuming Lucy stormed on to the verandah and grabbed her daughter by her long black hair and dragged the screaming, frightened girl outside, then proceeded to beat her across the back and shoulders with a long warda (digging stick), the same one she would use on Peggy’s lover.
“Mum! Dad!” screamed Patricia in fear and alarm for her companion, “Come quickly, Lucy’s gone mad!”
Mal F
orbes grappled with Lucy who seemed at this moment to be transformed into an extremely strong mad woman. He removed the offensive weapon and calmly asked for an explanation for this unusual display of violence.
Yes, quite out of character for Lucy, thought Anne Forbes. This must be serious. She led Lucy out to the shadehouse and waited for her to settle down and control herself. Lucy then explained quietly what had happened. Mrs Forbes said confidently, “I agree Peggy should be taken from the influences of the native (fullblood) men. She’s too good for the likes of them.” She helpfully suggested that Peggy be sent to the Moore River Native Settlement, north of Perth, where all the half-caste children and young people were trained and educated in skills that would be useful to them when they entered the wider community.
“There would be a better selection of young men, more suitable for a girl like Peggy,” said Mrs Forbes.
But once again Lucy’s hopes and desire to control her daughter’s destiny were thwarted. For during those brief encounters Peggy shared with her lover, a spiritual affection between the two was born; an affinity which lasted till her death. No other love could replace that.
Patricia finally pacified her friend, then went out to the shadehouse to speak to her mother. Mrs Forbes and Lucy were seated in the coolest spot, talking softly and rationally now. Not realising the seriousness of the situation, Patricia pleaded and begged them not to send Peggy away. Her tearful pleadings fell on deaf ears, for the decision had been made.
Lucy rose from the chair and walked sadly towards the door.
“Send ’em Peggy down to my camp, I can watch ’em all the time. Can’t run around,” asked Lucy.
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