Religion was not an easy concept for me to accept because of the many anomalies it presented, such as God being the father of Jesus. If Joseph was the father as well where he did fit in? And who was the Holy Ghost – as a ghost he would have had to have been a human once. And how did Jesus walk on water or had the witnesses to this phenomenon been drinking too much of the wine that he’d cleverly changed from water? When I asked Sister about all these things she would tell me that I had to have faith but somehow it just never worked for me.
The end of the school year was always an exciting time when we made Christmas decorations and did our school plays, but my favourite event was the poster competition. Each kid would draw a poster that celebrated the birth of Jesus. The winning class entry got a big box of Maltesers to share and the overall winner got a Bible. Neither prize particularly excited me but the thought of showing off my drawing talents got me all fired up as I was convinced that I would win. We were allowed to take our pieces of cardboard home for the weekend to work on them. Julie had the best set of colouring pencils so I made sure that I didn’t get her upset so I could use the vast range of colours she had at her disposal. I had decided I would give my prize to our mother, as anything I could do to curry favour with her had to be a good thing.
On the Monday morning we lined up in our class groups and Father who was the judge walked along looking at them with a grave expression. As he and a nun got closer to me I had a massive attack of butterflies in my stomach. When I got too excited I would throw up which pissed our mother off, especially if I did it on my clothes before a party. But I held the contents of my stomach in and then they reached me and I stood there proudly waiting for their verdict. Father and the nun looked at each other for a few moments and then at me. For a hundredth of a second I took that pause as a yes, I’d won, but then Sister’s eyes clouded over and her mouth crinkled into an ugly shape and hard words like ‘bold’ and ‘wicked’ came flying out like stones being thrown into my face. I was ordered to stand at the front and show everyone my poster with ‘Happy Birthday Jesus’ written in lovely red letters across the top and balloons and streamers and piles of presents with bows. There was a birthday cake with candles and food and drinks. From my position at the front I could see everyone else’s posters – nativity scenes and wise men on camels and proud Marys and Josephs looking at their newborn son. It was unfortunate that there was no room for imagination in this stuffy school but still I went home that day thinking that mine was the best poster.
8.
Our mother was constantly angry and it was tiresome creeping around on eggshells for fear of upsetting her. I think there must have been something deep inside her that had been broken like her spirit or her courage or her heart, and she didn’t know how to fix it. But visiting Uncle George in the Flinders Ranges was something the whole family looked forward to, even her. Uncle George had a property somewhere near Hawker and although it’s probably only a few hours west of Adelaide, in those days it seemed like it took all day to get there. He looked like a typical bushie with his work-worn hands and sweat-stained hat with holes in it, and his place was a big old rectangular stone homestead with wide cool verandas. It had been built on a stony hillside with more of the hillside rising up behind, dotted with tall gum trees so that it got afternoon shade. The rooms opened off onto the veranda on one side and a hallway that ran all the way down the middle of the house. The kitchen had a big cast-iron wood stove that burnt all year round, but it had large doors and windows that caught the breeze in the summer and kept the heat away from the rest of the house. In winter when the kitchen was closed up it was snug and cosy and this was where Julie and I had our bath in a tin tub with water that had been heated on the stove. The rooms had stone fireplaces in them and the one in the lounge room was big enough for me to stand inside, the lintel was a slab of red gum. The floors were made of flagstones and the veranda posts were silvery-grey tree trunks with knots that hadn’t been smoothed out. It was a beautiful house. This is where Aubrey lived as well and he looked happy there which was a change to how he’d looked at home. Since being there he had learnt to drive and shoot which impressed me no end, and he knew about the stars as well and showed me where to find the Southern Cross.
I loved spotlighting because it was mysterious and exciting. At home Julie and I were never allowed out after dark without our parents but on the property things were different. I got to see the moon and nocturnal creatures like possums and owls, and I got to stand in the back of the truck with the wind in my face while I held on to the side, searching the bush for eyes reflecting in the light. Whether we were on twisty bits or straight road, Uncle George drove flat-out while I clung on with delirious and reckless joy. The only crappy part was knowing that the sole purpose of going out was to shoot roos for the dogs’ meat. The roos’ bodies were stuck in the back with me and Aubrey or whoever else was there. Any rabbits and foxes were shot as well and left to rot where they fell, apart from a few rabbits that were brought back for the pot.
Everyone seemed really happy here, our father left me alone and our mother would sit on the veranda and crotchet or do her tatting, which left Julie and me in peace to go and play in the bush around the homestead. We were constantly warned about snakes but as keen as I was to find one, it never happened. Maybe it was because I was looking in the wrong places or maybe they weren’t in such abundance as everyone thought they were.
One day Aubrey took us out the back and lifted up a piece of corrugated iron. I was hoping to see a snake but underneath was a lizard that looked like a blue tongue with scales of orange and black. It didn’t seem to mind the intrusion and I held it while it sat there quietly in my hands, then we let it go and watched it plod across the back grass and into the bush.
The bush was dry and dusty and always beautiful especially at dawn or sunset, and the rivers were filled with massive red gums in the dry riverbeds. We learnt from Uncle George that big underground rivers watered the trees and they ran all the way through the Flinders Ranges. Sometimes we’d go down to the riverbed for a picnic in the shade of the ancient trees and stay there until the air cooled, then we’d pack up and head home to bed. I would fall asleep to the call of the mopokes hooting in the gums behind the homestead or dingoes howling in the distance. It was magic.
When it rained the river would fill in a matter of hours and run like crazy. Julie and I would make boats out of newspapers and watch them sailing away on the currents. Over the next few days the river would slow then gradually dry up until there were big pools left in the bends where the current had carved out the sand and gravel. I would sneak down early when the sun was coming up to watch the birds flying in for their morning drink and bath and to listen to them chattering, and again in the late afternoons. Eventually the water would evaporate and they’d disappear until next time.
One of Uncle George’s acquaintances had a property nearby. It had working horses for rounding up sheep and checking the fence lines but there was also a black Shetland pony with a cream-coloured foal that we kids would ride in the paddock next to the stone cottage where the workers lived. Opposite the cottage was the tack shed which smelt of Neatsfoot oil and hay and was where I learnt to rub the saddles and bridles with dubbin after I’d finished riding. Sometimes I’d help oil the stock saddles that the blokes used and they taught me about things like surcingles and martingales. One bloke knew how to make stock whips and saddles and he was a perfectionist, if the tree of the saddle he was making didn’t feel right then he’d start again from scratch. There was a round yard for lunging and breaking horses and this was where they were shod. I would help by passing nails or horseshoes or clippers for trimming the hoof, though when I think about it now I must have been more of a nuisance than a help.
There were early-morning rides when the frost crunched under hoof and the sun rose on a frozen landscape that looked like it was covered in snow. When I would warm one hand at a time by sticking it under the saddle blanket while I held the reins w
ith the other, and while our breath, horses and humans alike, would billow out in big clouds of mist. These were the mornings when, if we were quiet, we’d surprise a fox taking an early-morning walk, or a mob of kangaroos grazing. And when we got back there’d be porridge and cups of tea to warm us up.
There was another house on Uncle George’s property where we sometimes stayed as well. This one wasn’t as old or as interesting as the homestead on the hill but its bathroom was spectacular. In the centre of the room was a massive bath which along with the whole room was tiled like an ancient Greek bathhouse. There were dolphins and people and the mosaics were all tiled by hand like an old fresco. When the days were hot Julie and I would fill the bath and float around, it was heaven.
One day we heard Dinky barking out the back and when we investigated, it was a brown snake. Aubrey was sent to dispatch it with a shovel. ‘Shall I kill it?’ he kept saying with a big grin on his face as he stood there shovel poised while the snake lay coiled and watching him. I wanted it left alive and screamed out ‘No!’ at the same instant as Aubrey brought down the blade of the shovel and sliced the snake in two. Later that day we were out the back again watching an enormous flock of galahs settling in the gum trees. This time Aubrey grabbed the double-barrelled shotgun, took a pot shot and ended up on his arse from the recoil while we all laughed. The flock took off in one huge screeching mass and for a few moments blended into the mauve and pink of the setting sun. It was a breathtaking sight.
Once while we were out driving around we found a little joey sitting alone in the scrub. Uncle George explained that when the mothers are being chased they sometimes leave their joeys under a bush and come back for them later. The little ones weigh them down and that way if the mother gets caught the joey still might have a chance to survive. There was no sign of this one’s mum and he was too small to fend for himself so after Julie and I kicked up a fuss to keep him, we took him back to the homestead and fed him milk on a spoon with a pinch of salt to stop him getting diarrhoea. We gave him a pillowcase to sleep in and then headed back home where the vet gave us some bottles, teats and formula to feed him. Joey grew into a fine little kangaroo but when he jumped the fence one day and scared the shit out of the neighbour the decision was made to take him to a wildlife park. When we visited him at his new home a bit later on Julie and I were furious to find out that the park had changed his name from Joey to Peter. But even worse was that he didn’t recognise us anymore and he refused to come when we called. I tried to console myself with the fact that he had some mates to hang out with now and it wouldn’t have been much of a life in our backyard anyway.
9.
Although I had memories of black people, if there was one thing that I didn’t ever get to see as a little kid it was other black people. There were none in our neighbourhood or at our church and I didn’t see any when we were driving around in the car. So you can imagine my surprise when we lobbed up to a barbecue one evening and there were families sitting there with black kids. Aboriginal ones. We gaped stupidly at each other like we’d just seen an alien while the grown-ups shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. After we ate we were instructed to play together while the white kids like Julie were told to play as well, somewhere else. So off they went and we sat there still gawping at each other. Some looked beseechingly at their parents to be rescued while others like me just kept our eyes averted and our senses on high alert. I don’t know if our parents were expecting us to get up and have a corrobboree or something but none of us were particularly comfortable about being forced together.
My ears pricked up when I heard our mother telling the other parents how a while back she had organised for me to be ‘sent back’ because I was destructive and had tantrums, but after taking me to a child psychologist I’d calmed down so she’d changed her mind. This opened the floodgates and unkind things about my fellow sufferers were said as well, while whoever was being so rudely discussed winced and lowered their eyes to the grass in shame. I don’t know if the parents thought we were impervious to insults or what but every now and then one of our torturers would give us a bright look and urge us to speak to each other before launching into more whining about their kid’s problems.
We eyed each other off but no one wanted to make the first move until finally one kid gave in and said hello to the person next to him. The kid grunted back and went on intently looking at his fingers pulling out blades of grass like it was the most important thing in the world to do, and that was the end of that exchange.
Then a priest came over and squatted down with us and asked our names. There were a few mumbled responses but the rest including me remained silent. I know he was trying to break the ice and be jolly but it didn’t work with me. His eyebrows looked like two caterpillars squashed on his face and there was something creepy about him. I ignored him. When he saw he was making no impression on us he got up and went back to the parents.
After he left I checked out what my parents were up to. She was deep in conversation while he was sitting moodily observing the goings-on with a beer in his hand. I shiftily checked out the kids beside me who like me were probably wondering what they’d done to deserve this, then got up and headed for the swings. I’d had enough of sitting there like an idiot. I heard her calling and telling me to come back and sit down but I pretended I didn’t hear. I knew I was going to cop it anyway when I got home so I just kept going. There was a white kid already on the swing and when he realised my intent he dived off and bolted. From the look in his eyes I don’t think it was his choice to have a black sibling in the family because he seemed pretty scared of me.
I had to suffer through a few more of these barbecues and by the fourth one we kids were actually speaking to each other but there was never the feeling of kinship that our parents obviously wanted us to have just because we all had black skin. I bet they thought we spoke the same language and were just one big tribe.
Then to my horror the family on the corner got a black kid as well and our mother wasted no time in dragging Julie and me along to meet him. I knew the parents from previous visits and they were uptight scary old farts with grown-up kids who would visit occasionally with their own kids. I think our mother must have talked them into getting ‘one’ as well and she was all smiles when they introduced us to a solid little boy who looked around my age.
The poor kid had only been there a week and he sat morosely on the couch hunched up like a little old man. His hair had been brylcreemed with a stiff parting and combed neatly to one side just like his new male parent, and his skin was all glossy and black. His clothes were still stiff and new and on his feet were a pair of smart black shoes and white socks. I secretly sympathised with him as I knew only too well what it felt like. Then as expected we got sent outside to play but when this boy got up off the couch he hobbled like his feet were blistered and sore and his face was scrunched up in pain. Once outside he started to cry. Julie and I didn’t know what to do. I told him to take off his shoes but he shook his head. He just stood there with tears dripping off his chin so I threw myself to the ground and made faces and acted the fool. After a bit more clowning around he finally laughed and then we went and played on the swing set. He was actually a really nice kid and when his family brought him to the next ‘barbecue’ we hung out together. Then one day I realised we hadn’t been to see him for a while and when I asked our mother why, she told me that they’d sent him back because he was too much trouble. Poor little thing. I wonder what happened to his own real family and how would they have felt to know that their boy was ‘too much trouble’. I hope he ended up with someone who loved him.
10.
Our mother came from a family of eight or nine brothers and sisters and when I was about eight her youngest brother Arthur decided to migrate to Australia. When he was walking across the tarmac our mother got real excited which was something that I had never seen her do before. She was like a little kid and I was more interested in her carrying on than watching our uncle’s pr
ogress to the terminal.
Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea Page 6
