‘How do I-I-I look, girls?’ It was my best movie star pose yet – more Marilyn Monroe than Debbie Reynolds. I peered from beneath the large brim, looking for approval and encouragement from my adoring fans. Suddenly I froze in horror; my brown face turned ash-white. There, in the doorway, stood Miss Elder, her face sterner than ever. My audience scampered away into the other room and I was left to confront the furious Old Spinster alone. She inched closer to the bed, her hand poised and ready to strike, like a venomous snake. ‘Come here, you naughty girl!’
There was no time to take off the hat, drop the handbag or even dodge her attack – for an old girl, her reflexes were quick. She grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me off my floral stage. The brim of the oversized hat flopped as my feet hit the floor. I was swiftly pulled upright, dragged into the adjoining room and a leather strap appeared out of nowhere. She lifted up the back of my dress and started whacking me around the legs in front of my classmates.
I didn’t cry or show any emotion, pretending with all my might that it did not hurt. Under no circumstances would cheekiness be tolerated when living ‘under the Act’.
Tammy
Mum has always been able to laugh at herself – especially when she has gotten in some kind of trouble. We Murris – a traditional word meaning ‘The Aboriginal people who live in this part of Queensland’ – come from a long cultural tradition, forged over tens of thousands of years, of storytelling, entertaining and cheekiness. I grew up watching some of the best comic geniuses perform impromptu sets in my relatives’ backyards. We would take all that we learned back to our own home. There my brothers and I would playfully mock each other on a daily basis and Mum would join in the fun.
In retrospect, I can see that those skits may well have had a deeper purpose. It was more than just a source of entertainment and amusement to spice up a party or round off a barbeque. Humour provides an escape during times of hardship and despair. By having a good laugh at our misfortune, in some way we recognise that we have little control over the circumstances in which we have found ourselves. The ability to laugh at ourselves is also a way to remain grounded in times of success. It prevents us from becoming a ‘big noter’, or from losing perspective amid our own self-importance.
‘I suppose you gotta laugh,’ Mum would shrug whenever our second-hand car broke down and the bills rolled in. ‘There’s no point getting stressed out.’
Chapter 7
Lesley
A few weeks before Christmas 1962, my domestic-science training finished without any fanfare. There was no graduation ceremony or certificates to recognise the end of my education and training. To be honest, there wasn’t much to celebrate either. Completing the twelve months of instruction meant the white officials could now add my name to the list of women available for service. I had hardly turned sixteen. By the New Year, most of my classmates had already been sent away to work, so it was only a matter of time until I was made to leave too. I was anxious with uncertainty. I didn’t know where I’d be sent to work or when I’d start, and I was concerned there was little time left to help Granny.
With Sandra and Alex already gone from the house, I was now the one left with the responsibility of helping to raise the remaining seven children. Granny would’ve been in her eighties by then. How much longer could she keep going? While she’d once had a sturdy build, and the physical strength to rival a middle-aged man, her ageing body told of her growing frailty. By the time Ma and Pa had left, her walk had changed to a shuffle. The pace of her housework had slowed, while the little ones continued to play around her feet and the older kids ran out the door and off to school.
Granny was forever taking BEX powders and massaging Vicks VapoRub or Goanna Oil into her chest and joints, to ward off ailments that might prevent her from dealing with life’s chores. Neither she nor our family could afford for her to get sick. What would happen if, while I was away working, Granny couldn’t keep going? Or the superintendent thought she was too old to mother so many children? What would happen to our younger brothers and sisters? Would they be split up and put into dormitories because no one was left to look after them?
I wasn’t the only one who had these concerns. Other families in the Camp worried whether Granny could manage alone if I were to leave Cherbourg. But there seemed little anyone could do; Aboriginal labour was in short supply, and the government wanted every available man or woman as workers. Uncle Vincent Law was our family’s only hope.
Although we weren’t related, I’d come to know Uncle Vincent quite well because I was best friends with his daughter, Patsy. Granny always insisted we call him uncle out of respect. Even the white officials held him in high regard, having given him a job in the administration building. After learning they were planning to send me away to work, Uncle Vincent decided he could trade off his good reputation and approach the superintendent. He pointed out the odd jobs around the settlement that needed doing and argued my wage would help buy food for the family. The superintendent agreed to let me stay, but only until he figured out a better solution for what to do with our family. Then I’d have to leave.
Alex and I became the teenage breadwinners, helping Granny feed a household of nine. Alex worked locally as a domestic at the hospital earning £4.10 (about $9) a fortnight, while I earned £2 (about $4) a fortnight on the settlement. My main job was shop assistant to the white storekeeper, and I stocked shelves and served customers in the government retail store; however, I wasn’t authorised by the superintendent to handle the money. On the weekend I’d earn an extra 15/- (shillings) a fortnight (or $1.50) selling drinks and lollies at the movies shown in the hall.
I struggled to find the energy required to work during the day and then again at night, helping Granny with the children. Fortunately Mr Curran, the storekeeper, and Mr Adler, the cashier, were both kind and fair men who took pity on my family’s circumstances. They bought food for us when we ran out and allowed me to pay them back when I got paid; of course, it was an arrangement done on the quiet, behind the superintendent’s back. It always felt good going home with an unexpected box of groceries when the cupboards were bare.
‘Ah, that’s gonna be a nice change for us,’ Granny would sigh with relief as she’d sort through the tinned food and plan the meals for the rest of the week.
At the bottom of the box I’d hide, as a special treat for her, a packet of her favourite biscuits – Orange Slice. We didn’t show much emotion in our house, nor do I think many other families in the camp did; perhaps it was a consequence of living under the Act. But this was my way of telling my grandmother that I loved and appreciated her.
After working in the store for nearly twelve months, Mrs Doyle, one of the white officials, came in to purchase groceries. ‘Lesley, after you finish work this afternoon, come over and see me at the office,’ she directed.
For the rest of the day I kept wondering what the hell I’d done wrong. Perhaps they had found out about the ‘book up’ arrangement I had with Mr Adler? Maybe they thought I was stealing and didn’t actually pay him? As soon as Mr Curran closed the store, I timidly presented myself to Mrs Doyle. She was already waiting on the veranda for me. There was no idle chitchat or pleasantries; instead she got straight to the point.
‘You will be leaving Cherbourg in two weeks’ time.’
‘What!’
‘Pardon me,’ she sternly corrected, before continuing to inform me of my fate. ‘You will be working as a domestic servant on a property near the town of Condamine.’
I knew this was bound to happen – but so soon?
I was especially unhappy because of Pa – he had not long returned home from Fantome Island. Though he’d been in quarantine for five years and was now clear of leprosy, he didn’t look his usual vibrant self. In those years while Pa was away, the family, his family, had changed – his father-in-law had died, his oldest daughters were working away from the settlement, and his wife wa
s in quarantine for her own infectious disease. But the greatest change of all was the addition of a new family member he’d never met before: his own five-year-old son Frankie, born just weeks after Pa was taken away from us, and also his grandson Donald born a few months later.
I’m not convinced when Pa returned home he was completely healthy. I felt he looked older than his actual forty-odd years. Nonetheless, in the eyes of the superintendent, Pa’s return was the solution he was looking for. The family’s main income-earner had returned, so there was no longer a need for me to remain in Cherbourg. The white officials assumed my grandmother, now in her eighties, could cope with looking after the children by herself during the day, while Pa resumed his duties down at the sawmill. To the officials, I was of more value working as a maid on a rural property in western Queensland than helping Granny at home to care for seven children.
‘I’ll arrange for you to collect from the retail store a bath towel, toiletries and two dresses for you to wear while working,’ Mrs Doyle instructed. ‘And you must be examined by the doctor before you leave.’
‘Yes,’ I muttered. I preferred to look down at my dusty shoes than make eye contact with her. There was only one person I wanted to talk to.
‘Granny, Granny!’ I yelled as I raced home.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, while dicing meat for the evening’s stew. ‘I was getting worried you weren’t home yet.’
‘I-I-I’m – I’m being sent away to work,’ I panted. There was barely enough air left in my lungs to breathe, let alone speak.
She turned her head slightly to the side so I couldn’t make direct eye contact. I kept looking at her, waiting for a response, but there was nothing. This wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. Wasn’t Granny the matriarch, the protector of the family? For years she’d insisted our family remain together – to have all of us children squashed under the one roof was far better than lost to the outside world. But what about now that I was a teenager, couldn’t I remain squashed at home too?
I desperately wanted her to go down to the office to confront Mrs Doyle and insist I not leave. But Granny didn’t – she couldn’t, strong and competent as she was. Raising babies was one thing; stopping the officials sending me away was quite another. It’d never been within Granny’s power to help herself or her own children out of this horrible existence, so no amount of begging would prevent her grandchildren from being sent off as the latest batch of servants. She was resigned to the powerlessness in our lives. It seemed it was time I accepted that our lives were to be only as the government ordained.
Every night for the next two weeks I counted down the days until I was to be forced to leave my home and family. For the first time in my barely seventeen years, I’d be alone in the world out there – a world I had always been segregated from. I wanted to remain like my younger brothers and sisters sleeping in the bed next to me. To wake up every morning knowing I was safe, with our protective grandmother watching over us.
Granny shuffled into the bedroom, checking each of us was tucked snugly into bed. I wondered if she’d still be shuffling in like this by the time I was allowed to return home.
‘You’d better get some sleep now, got a big day,’ she whispered so as not to wake the others. She walked past the foot of the bed and gently tapped my leg. ‘You’ll be right.’
I wasn’t convinced. Her message of hope was at odds with the worried tone in her voice. I lay stiff in bed, overcome with fear. In the darkness I could see the tiny flickering glow from Granny’s pipe, as she sat on the edge of her bed in the corner of our room. I could hear her breath as she took her last puff for the night. In the past I would’ve been soothed by these familiar sights and sounds – but not this evening. I didn’t want to close my eyes and sleep. I didn’t want tomorrow, Thursday 13 February 1964, to arrive.
Chapter 8
Lesley
I left Cherbourg that February tightly clutching a tawny-coloured envelope Mrs Doyle had given me. The letters ‘O.H.M.S.’ were stamped across the top – I had no idea why my menial work should have anything to do with Her Majesty’s Service. It was a kind of passport, as it held documents, including the permit that allowed me to lawfully leave Cherbourg and work in the outside world. Without it, the police could detain and deport me back to Cherbourg, as if I were an illegal immigrant.
A part of me felt a coming of age. I was travelling by myself without Granny and Ma, or having to be escorted by a white official. I was now like my eldest sister, Honor, whom I’d always admired. Each time she returned home from working as a domestic servant she’d have nice clothes – or nicer ones than the standard ‘government issue’ we received on the settlement. I always wanted to be like her. To be in a position to help out Ma, Pa and Granny with food for the family and send home treats for our younger siblings. Now this was my turn to be just like her.
For an instant my daydreaming took me away from the rickety station, where I was waiting to board my train. But then the reality of what I was doing sunk in. I’d never been on the ‘outside’ by myself: would I be able to do it – and as well as Honor had? A part of me felt like a child – ignorant about what life was like away from home and terrified about living among people I did not know. The only existence I’d ever known was about to end; now I must live on the ‘outside’. I almost wished the white officials, my government-appointed protectors in Cherbourg, were there to protect me.
For someone who wasn’t worldly, my ten-hour journey seemed like I was travelling to a distant land. Earlier that morning I’d travelled to Murgon by taxi and then to the town of Dalby in another vehicle. It was here I waited for a train to take me to Miles, where I’d meet my boss. I remember picking up my suitcase and standing in line at the ticket office.
‘Yes,’ said the stationmaster, as I reached the front of the queue. He didn’t appear to be the talkative type, nor did I want him to ask me any questions – I was too nervous to respond. I hastily slipped the envelope across the counter and watched his face as he studied the documentation. I had no idea what was inside the envelope, as I’d never dared to open it to find out. The stationmaster must’ve been satisfied I had permission to be away from Cherbourg and he issued me with a one-way train ticket without giving me the third degree.
There was a waiting room at the train station but I kept on walking until I was past it. I knew areas like that were normally reserved for white people, even though there were no signs saying it. On the odd occasions I’d travelled ‘outside’ with Granny, we’d come to know where we were expected to sit. I could see out of the corner of my eye a couple of the passengers looking at me as I made my way towards the platform. They were munching on snacks they’d bought from a nearby cafe. I found a seat near the end of the platform and tried not to look back at them, but I couldn’t help it. I was envious of them for having something special to eat; all I had was a drink and a few pieces of fruit, and I’d already eaten half of it earlier.
Then I heard, clunk, clunk, clunk – the sound of the stationmaster’s hard leather soles on the concrete. It instinctively made me tense. I looked down and clutched my envelope more firmly. The footsteps got louder. Don’t stop, don’t stop, I silently begged, willing him to walk on. I hadn’t done anything wrong but the stationmaster was a whitefulla and held a position of authority. This, I was trained to believe, made him superior to me and I was at the mercy of his orders. I’d heard whispers throughout the Camp of bad things sometimes happening to blackfullas, especially young Aboriginal girls, on the ‘outside’ – but I wasn’t sure what it was that happened to them.
How far away from home I felt, and how vulnerable. Also how fearful, for I soon realised that the stationmaster was not heading for me at all, but just walking by to inspect the platform.
The train trip was long; it felt like I’d never get to where I was going, wherever that was. No one sat next to me or even offered a friendly smile as they walked dow
n the aisle. I avoided suspicious glares by staring out the window. Unfamiliar scenery flickered past as if it was a silent film, but I kept watching it to distract myself from feeling hungry.
Eventually the old diesel engine rolled into the rural town of Miles. When I stepped onto the platform, a middle-aged lady with a pleasant face came walking towards me, with a couple of small children in tow. She was my new boss, Mrs Wright, and she found it easy enough to pick me out – I was the only blackfulla that got off the train.
I was surprised to learn that Mrs Wright was a widow. She ran a sheep and wheat property by herself, with the help of her eldest son, Peter, and a jackaroo named Stephen. Just as I’d only ever thought of Aboriginal people as servants and unable to hold positions of authority, I had always assumed men were the only ones who could own farms and large properties.
Mrs Wright had five children. Her second-eldest son was away at boarding school in Brisbane. While running the property, she somehow found time to teach her three youngest children at home, using a correspondence program. In some strange way, Mrs Wright reminded me of Granny – a very strong woman who, as the matriarch of the family, worked hard to provide for them.
When we reached the turn-off to the property we drove along a dirt track for about a kilometre. Acres of wheat fields and sheep paddocks flanked the car until we arrived at the homestead. It was the first time I’d seen sheep grazing in paddocks up close. They were strange-looking creatures, with their ball of cotton wool-shaped bodies plonked on top of skinny matchstick legs, and the sight of them made me giggle.
It was late afternoon by the time we parked the car in the machinery shed at the homestead.
Not Just Black and White Page 5
