by Sally Rippin
But here is my amazing news. Guess what Zio got me? A typewriter! A real one. Can you believe it? It is the most wonderful thing I have ever owned. It fits perfectly on my desk in my new room and I already know I am going to write the best stories on it. Alfred asks me every time I see him when I’m going to write a new story for him to send to the Age. I will soon. I just have to find one. But I know they are out there. Pa said you just have to keep your eyes and ears wide open.
Zio said I had to use the typewriter to write him letters, too, now that he has moved up to Mildura. He is earning so much money fruit picking! You should have seen the new stove he bought for Nonna and Ma! He was in the best mood ever because his wife will be arriving in three weeks. I can’t wait to meet her at Easter.
Everyone is happy in our new home. Especially Ma. And Pa is very happy that I passed all my exams. I may have only got 65% in Maths, but I got 98% in English! Julia did, too! She is coming over tomorrow to help me decorate my new room. We’ve seen each other almost every day since school broke up. She still has a crush on Pierino, but he has a new girlfriend now. I’m glad. That would be kind of weird having your best friend dating your oldest brother! I haven’t ever seen John Ian Wing again though. Sometimes I wish I could tell Julia all about him, but a promise is a promise. Maybe one day in the future people will find out what an amazing thing he did.
This year was a hard one in some ways but also an amazing one. I learned so much from all the people around me. Thanks to Sister Rosemary I have learned all about being calm and clever. Pa taught me to stand up for what’s right and I learned from John that it isn’t important to shine as long as you are doing something you believe in. I learned from meeting Stella Davis that if you have to be unkind or hurt your friends to become famous, then it’s never really worth it. And Sarah and Mary taught me that I can make my own choices about who I have as friends. Lastly, but most importantly of all, I learned from Julia that there are so many joys in life, but true friendship is the most wonderful of them all. And I can’t imagine a truer friend than Julia.
It’s hard to believe it will be 1957 in only a few days. I can’t wait for the school year to begin. Next year is going to be brilliant, I just know it. I have a new best friend, a big new house with my very own bedroom – AND – I will be a teenager!
Yours,
Lina Gattuso (aged 12¾)
My parents are from Adelaide. Soon after they married, my father’s job took them to Darwin, where I was born. Throughout my childhood we moved country almost every two years, but my parents made sure they came back to Australia for the birth of my two younger sisters. It was very important to them that despite having spent much of our childhood overseas, we were still able to call ourselves Australian.
Since then, I’ve spent most of my adult life in Melbourne and my three sons were born here. Even though my older boys are half-French and my youngest is half-Italian, they consider themselves Australian. Not so much the blond-haired, surf-boarding Australian that we often see on postcards, but more a product of the rich multicultural mix that makes up this big country. To me, that is the Australian Girl I most identify with.
I was born and grew up in Italy, a beautiful country to visit, but also a difficult country to live in for new generations.
In 2006, I packed up my suitcase and I left Italy with the man I love. We bet on Australia. I didn’t know much about Australia before coming – I was just looking for new opportunities, I guess.
And I liked it right from the beginning! Australian people are resourceful, open-minded and always with a smile on their faces. I think all Australians keep in their blood a bit of the pioneer heritage, regardless of their own birthplace.
Here I began a new life and now I’m doing what I always dreamed of: I illustrate stories. Here is the place where I’d like to live and to grow up my children, in a country that doesn’t fear the future.
AUSTRALIAN women have been working as journalists and editors since the 1880s, though in the early years, they often had to use men’s names to have their work published.
Many famous female Australian writers, like Ruth Park and Ethel Turner, started off their careers writing and editing pages, columns or publications for women. Mary Gilmore, whose face is on the ten-dollar note, used her regular newspaper column to talk about socialism and feminism, and Louisa Lawson (the mother of poet Henry Lawson) wrote about how women should be allowed to vote. Caroline Chisholm and Vida Goldstein were also newspaper writers as well as social activists who wanted more rights and opportunities for women.
While Stella Davis is a made-up character, Lina’s story is set in a time when female journalists were just starting to join newspapers as proper reporters like Stella. A young woman called Betty Osborn covered the 1956 Melbourne Olympics for the Argus when she was only 21 years old. In 1954, Margaret Jones started working at the Herald, where she eventually became a Washington correspondent – the paper’s first female overseas reporter. (Before then, it was thought that covering international events was too dangerous a job for women.) And Catherine Martin started as a specialist medical reporter at the West Australian in 1957.
Nowadays women report on everything from cricket and football to overseas wars and in 2006, for the first time ever, there were more women than men working as journalists in Australia.
The Age Building, Melbourne
The Olympic torch relay went right through the centre of Melbourne and past The Age building, which used to be on Collins Street.
Here’s a sneak peek at Meet Grace
IT must be the longest day this winter, Grace thought, and all I’ve found are a few bits of coal and a piece of rope.
Grace waded towards the riverbank, wiggling her toes into the mud, feeling for anything that had washed in with the tide or fallen from a boat or barge to put in her kettle. That was her job as a mudlark – to search the bottom of the Thames for things to sell. She shivered.
A dirty fog hung over the water, draping everything in grey. The other mudlarks looked like shadows as they waded through the river. Grace felt the water cold against her legs – the tide was on its way in and her dress floated around her like a tent. She knew that soon she would have to get out of the river, but her kettle was only half full.
‘Please let there be something more,’ she said to herself, her teeth chattering, ‘some copper nails or a piece of driftwood.’
Grace looked across the river at a forest of masts. It was the same view she saw every day. Sails of every size billowed beneath the winter clouds. Barges filled with coal and iron held anchor, ready to be unloaded on the shore. Longboats cut slowly through the water carrying fruit and meat to distant parts of London, and busy workboats ferried people up and down the river.
Ouch! Grace gasped when she felt a sharp pain in the bottom of her foot. She bent down and searched around in the mud until she touched something that felt like metal – cold and smooth. She pulled it up. Grace wiped it clean with a corner of her dress and turned it over in her hand, unable to believe it was real. It was an iron hammer, with no rust on its head, and no chips in its sturdy wooden handle. It was the most valuable thing she had ever found – worth as much on the street as a silver watch, she was sure.
‘A hammer – a fine hammer,’ she whispered. ‘Uncle Ord will be so pleased.’
‘Oi! What you find?’ Someone shouted at Grace and she quickly dropped her hands beneath the water.
A figure waded towards her through the fog. It was Joe Bean. He was no older than Grace, but he was the leader of a gang of mudlarks that lived under Blackfriar’s Bridge. Grace had always been good at staying out of their way; she kept her head down so she wouldn’t be noticed, or she worked in the parts of the river where Joe and his boys didn’t often go. They were thieves, and they didn’t think twice about stealing from the barges and from the other mudlarks who worked on their own. If any of the mudlarks ever had money from things they’d sold, Joe Bean would try to take it from them. And Grace knew t
hat if he saw the hammer, he would snatch it from her and take it straight to the marine shop to sell for himself.
‘I got nothing!’ Grace shouted back.
‘I saw something in your hand just then – something shiny. Give me a look what you got!’
Grace’s heart pounded; she couldn’t let Joe see her prize. With a hammer like this to sell, maybe Uncle Ord would be happy with her, instead of angry. He would be proud that she was clever enough to find something so valuable. They could keep the coal Grace had found and light a fire in the hearth – she imagined warming her numb toes and heating up a cinnamon bun on the end of a toasting fork. There’d be enough food for a week!
Grace waded into the shallows, but Joe Bean was close now. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Don’t make me call the boys to look you over.’
Grace shook her head, too nervous to speak. She held the hammer with one hand behind her back. She had never stood up to Joe Bean before, but then she had never found anything as precious as a hammer.
Joe moved towards her. ‘Show me!’
‘No.’ Grace’s voice quavered.
Joe grabbed her arm and tried to pull it from behind her back. Grace fell back into the river, dropping her kettle into the mud. Water splashed up around them as they struggled.
‘No!’ she shouted.
Joe Bean had his hand on the hammer. It was slipping from her grasp. Grace gritted her teeth and with all her strength, she wrenched it from him. Joe fell back into the water and Grace held the hammer high over him.
‘I said no, Joe Bean! The hammer is mine! You go away and leave me alone!’ Her voice trembled as Joe crawled like a crab through the mud, his eyes wide with surprise. The sharp iron claws on the hammer’s head glinted.
Grace picked up her kettle and ran, knocking straight into a group of sailors clambering out of a rowboat onto shore.
‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ one of them said. ‘A handful of rags like you?’ She could smell whiskey on his breath.
The other sailors laughed at her.
Grace picked herself up and pushed her way past. When she turned around, Joe Bean was lost in the crowd somewhere behind them. Grace hurried higher onto the shore where the crowd thickened, pushing past mudlarks and boatmen, coal whippers, and costermongers selling dried fish and oysters. She breathed a sigh of relief, shoving her way through groups of people waiting for workboats and others lining up to buy fresh fish from the colliers to sell at the market.
Grace gripped the hammer tight and headed home, slowly now and limping. Her foot stung against the cold cobblestones as she dodged the open drains of sewage and the piles of garbage that lined the narrow crowded streets. She stopped to inspect her wound. The cut wasn’t deep – only bloody.
Grace shivered. It was when she got out of the water that she most felt the cold. The wind cut straight through her. It doesn’t matter this time, though, she thought. I’m safe from Joe Bean and I still have my hammer.
In Chatham Square a line of fishmongers stood at a long scaling table. They ran their knives down the backs of freshly caught fish, cutting out the guts and tossing them to the ground, staining the cobblestones a purplish red. The smell of fish filled the air. The women sang as they worked, their arms moving in time to the rhythm of their song.
Grace stopped to listen. She liked singing, never mind who was doing it; sailors or fishmongers or butchers selling ham hocks, even her drunken uncle and his sailor friends. The only thing Uncle Ord had ever told her about her mother was that she liked to sing. I wish I could remember the songs, Grace often thought. I wish I could remember her voice.
Grace kept walking, humming the fish-mongers’ tune. She had never known her father, and her mother had died when she was very small. When Grace tried to remember her mother, she could recall the feeling of warm arms around her; but the memory wasn’t enough to keep her alive without a roof over her head in the long cold winters. Uncle Ord always reminded her of that. ‘You’re lucky to have me, Grace! You’d be on the street without your uncle to take care of things. You are an orphan after all!’ He said the word as though it were a curse word – the very worst thing you could be.
Uncle Ord had lost his wife and his only son to an illness called consumption, and he missed them a lot. He’d lost his sister too – Grace’s mother – and that was how he got stuck with Grace. She knew that every day, just by being alive, she reminded him that his son was not.
Grace climbed the steps that ran up by Blackfriar’s Bridge and crossed into Water Lane, hobbling to keep weight off her foot. Her wet skirt slapped against her legs, stinging her skin. The fog was in the streets too, hanging like low-slung spider webs. Crowds of people pushing carts ready for the night markets were coming down in the opposite direction.
Two of the girls who lived next door came running up behind Grace, giggling together. Grace pressed back against the stone wall as they shoved their noisy way past her. She wished she had a sister, or a friend to share things with. It never mattered how hungry they were, or how cold, the girls were always playing and laughing with each other.
Ma Honeywell, their mother, stopped when she saw Grace and gave her cheek a playful pinch. She had eleven children, most of them girls, though she could never find half of them.
‘Hello, luv,’ she said, smiling. ‘How was business today?’
Ma Honeywell always asked the same question, only today Grace could give her a different answer. ‘Good,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Very good! My uncle will be happy!’
‘That’d be a sight for sore eyes. You better get home, luv, and give him what you got!’ Ma Honeywell patted Grace’s arm, then turned and walked on. She was on her way to the alehouse, where she would drink so much gin that later she wouldn’t remember who Grace was at all.
Grace continued up the steps, imagining what it would be like when Uncle Ord saw the hammer. ‘Well done, Grace,’ he would say. She could almost feel the heat from the fire and taste the toasted cinnamon bun.
‘Uncle Ord!’ she called, as she pushed in the door of their lodgings.
Her uncle was sitting in his chair in front of the empty hearth with his sore leg up on the table.
Uncle Ord used to be a sailor until his leg was caught in a loop of rope that lifted him into the air and snapped his knee-bone. ‘I was hanging upside down like a side of ham in a butcher’s shop!’ he told Johnny Dugs, the rag shop man. Uncle Ord and Johnny Dugs laughed as if it were a joke, but Grace knew that it was not. Uncle Ord couldn’t be a sailor after that. He wasn’t good for anything, he said, but ‘selling the rubbish from the bottom of that stinking river.’
Grace tipped out the contents of her kettle. Wet coal tumbled across the table beside Uncle Ord’s leg. Without turning around to look at her, he growled, ‘Is that all?’
Grace carefully placed the hammer on the table beside the coal. Uncle Ord picked it up and swung around to her, his eyes hard.
‘Where’d you find this?’ he snarled. ‘You little thief!’
Grace jumped back. ‘I never stole it. I stood on it,’ she stammered.
She lifted her foot to show him the cut. But Uncle Ord didn’t look, he smacked his hand down onto the table, making Grace jump.
‘You bring the runners to this house and they put me in chains, I’ll kill you!’
‘I never stole it, Uncle!’ Grace protested, but she could tell he wasn’t listening. ‘I never stole nothing! It was Joe Bean tried to steal from me. There won’t be no runners coming for you.’
Uncle Ord stroked the sharp claws of the hammer with his tobacco-stained fingers.
‘They hanged a boy smaller than you down at the Newgate gallows yesterday. He stole a pair of boots worth a lot less than this here hammer. He was so small they had to weigh him down with stones so he’d drop right when he stepped off the platform.’
Grace shuddered. She had never wanted to see a hanging, but most people didn’t feel that way – they flocked to see an execution as if it were a circus show
. Even her uncle’s stories frightened her.
‘Please, Uncle, I found the hammer in the river, I swear.’ Grace could feel her eyes welling with tears. She wiped them away; if Uncle Ord saw her cry he would curse her and say she was a useless girl.
‘A thief and a liar,’ he said. ‘Get out of my sight and give me some peace.’
Grace went back out the front door and sat on the step.
Uncle Ord isn’t proud of me for finding the hammer, she thought. He’s angry at me for bringing something so valuable home.
For the first time, Grace realised that it didn’t matter what she brought her uncle – she could carry half a barge into the house – it wouldn’t make him happy. Nothing Grace found in the river could bring back his son, or fix his sore leg and make him a sailor again.
Grace picked at the mud drying on her knees and ankles. She should have let Joe Bean take the hammer – what difference did it make? When it was time for her to get back in the mud tomorrow she knew she would have to face Joe Bean and he would be very angry. She wouldn’t have the hammer and she wouldn’t have any money for him either. And the other boys from the gang were sure to be with him this time.
Grace sighed. She tore off a strip from the hem of her dress and, using it as a rag, she cleaned the dirt from her wound. She tied the rag tightly around her foot to make a bandage.
‘There now,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to Fleet Street and see the horses.’ Just thinking about horses helped Grace forget her troubles.
Here’s a sneak peek at Meet Letty
THE coachman dumped the old chest in the street. Letty’s heart felt as if it was being jolted around too. The chest held all her sister’s things, and so many dreams. It was going to Australia.
