‘That’s Peter and Stephen,’ Mrs Wright said, pointing to two young men working near the harvesting tractors. I looked over and they politely nodded their heads and continued working. My stomach didn’t knot the way it did whenever Old Murphy was around; somehow I knew these young men wouldn’t hurt me. ‘Now, come this way, Lesley,’ directed Mrs Wright. ‘Let me show you the house and take you to your room.’
My own room? I hadn’t really given much thought to where I would be sleeping. I watched my boss turn the knob and slowly open the bedroom door.
‘You can put your clothes in there,’ she said pointing to the wardrobe and dressing table.
It was a nice room. The pink chenille bedspread matched the nylon curtains. I felt special to have my own bed and a place to put away neatly the few items of clothing I owned. I walked over to the bed and gently touched the bedspread. I pressed my fingertips into the soft mattress – so different from the coconut-fibre mattress I’d slept on all my life.
The long day was starting to come to an end. As the rest of the house retired, I lay down in bed and listened. Not a familiar sound – not one. No children climbing into the bed next to me, and no shuffling footsteps as Granny locked up the house before going to sleep. Not even the sound of a barking dog, which the settlement was rarely without. I remember thinking how the absence of familiar noises was such a horribly lonely sound.
While I was growing up, it’d never been normal for camp people like me to be invited inside a white person’s home; yet I was now expected to make this place – which felt so ‘out of bounds’ – my home. My entire life and training under the Act – all those rules, the domestic-science classes – might’ve taught me how to be an obedient servant, but not how to live in the world alongside those I’d be serving. Everything in Mrs Wright’s home was different – much bigger and brighter than at home. Of course, electricity was available here both day and night. There was a telephone, a vacuum cleaner and even a car, although I can’t remember there being a television. But the best thing by far was the plumbing.
I discovered I could bathe in the privacy of a bathroom. And because the kitchen had a sink and downpipe, unlike the plastic dish and the outside tap and open drain near the kitchen door we used to wash up in at home, even cleaning the dishes was a novelty. As exciting as all of these wonderful mod cons were, they somewhat overwhelmed me, making it even more obvious that I was a stranger in a strange place, away from the familiarity and the simpleness of life in the Camp.
A typical day started between six o’clock and 6.30 in the morning. Once breakfast was over, I cleared the table and washed up while the men went outside to start work. I wasn’t told when I might stop, or whether I had any time off. Instead, I worked all day every day. I was expected to make the beds, clean the bathtub and hand basin, sweep and mop the floors, wash and iron everyone’s clothes, and dust and polish the furniture. Every day was essentially the same as the previous day. Chores and more chores were obediently completed in silence. As time wore on, the repetitiveness of each day became mind numbing.
I had no idea how long I was expected to stay there, but after only a month or two, I still missed home terribly and felt I had to find a way to get back. But how could I do that without getting into trouble? I didn’t have a clue there was an employment agreement between Mrs Wright and the government. Indeed, I didn’t even know how much I was supposed to be paid. These details were negotiated without me, or even without Ma, Pa and Granny involved. I didn’t think to ask Mrs Wright any questions about my employment; in fact, I barely spoke to her. She was my boss and I only ever spoke to her when I was asked a question. This was how I’d been brought up and I didn’t know any other way. In my mind, it would’ve been disrespectful to initiate a conversation with her, especially about money.
I’d been working solidly for over six months when Mrs Wright told me a letter had arrived for me. Immediately I was concerned it might’ve been bad news from home. Perhaps Granny had taken ill or there had been an accident of some sort? I tore open the envelope: it was a letter from my best friend Patsy.
‘We are all looking forward to the Cherbourg Show and debutante ball,’ she wrote. ‘Will you be coming home to make your debut?’
I’d always wanted to be a debutante – a colonial custom revived by the white officials on Cherbourg, to recognise the ‘coming out’ of young women into society. This was one of only a few chances we had on the settlement to get dolled up and I didn’t want to miss out. More importantly, I saw the debutante ball as a legitimate way of heading back home without getting into trouble (and preferably not returning).
After putting it off for a couple of days, I plucked up enough courage to approach Mrs Wright. I worried she’d see through my scheming.
‘Ha hum,’ I cleared my throat. ‘Th-th-the – the – letter …’ – my nervous stammer forced me to start again. ‘Th-th-the letter I got the other day was from my friend Patsy. She reminded me about the debutante ball back home in Cherbourg in September.’ I stalled and didn’t know what else to say but Mrs Wright stopped what she was doing and looked at me. Her eyes were kind – I hadn’t noticed that before – and it encouraged me and made it easier to ask if I could go home for the ball.
To my surprise, she thought it was a lovely idea – but, of course, she assumed I’d only be away for a week or two before returning. Within days of our conversation Mrs Wright contacted the officials in Cherbourg to make the arrangements. She then took it upon herself to ring department stores in Brisbane and ask for catalogues to be sent to me so I could pick out a dress.
I couldn’t believe my plan had actually worked. Now I had something to look forward to. When the catalogues arrived I immediately stopped work, as did Mrs Wright. We were like two excited teenagers, sprawling the fashion catalogues across the dining room table and flicking through the pages, comparing styles, colours and fabric.
‘Oh, Lesley, look at this!’ Mrs Wright exclaimed.
I peered over her shoulder. I hadn’t been this close to her before.
‘A tiara and necklace would set off your whole outfit,’ she said.
I gazed at the sparkling jewellery on the woman in the picture – could that ever be me? Didn’t princesses and movie stars wear crowns and tiaras? How on earth could I afford to buy that, even if the jewels were just diamantes?
‘While you have been working for me, Lesley, you were entitled to receive pocket money each week. I haven’t been giving it to you because we have not gone anywhere for you to spend it,’ Mrs Wright explained. ‘So you should have enough from your pocket money and wages to afford the tiara and necklace, and to buy another dress.’
This was the first time I’d learned I was entitled to money. I discovered much later (many years later) that the documents in the envelope I carried with me to Mrs Wright’s home stipulated my work conditions in a letter to my employer and a work agreement, and there was also a pocket money book. A standard clause in all of the Aboriginal work agreements was that a small portion of our wages was to be retained by our boss and given to us each week, as pocket money. The rest of our money was to be sent back to Cherbourg, and held in trust by the white officials. I hadn’t received regular amounts of pocket money from Mrs Wright; rather, she only gave me a small amount of money on the odd occasion I accompanied her into town – enough to buy toiletries. Looking back now, though, I really respect Mrs Wright for being honest with me. A deceitful person wouldn’t have told me and would have kept the money for themselves; I would’ve been none the wiser.
‘Come on, buy the tiara,’ she encouraged. ‘You are going to a ball after all.’
I could barely conceal my guilt. Why did she have to be so kind to me when I was plotting to use the debutante ball as a way to leave her employment?
The cost of my dress and accessories was put on Mrs Wright’s account and the invoice was then sent to Cherbourg, so it could be deducted fr
om the wages held in my saving account. Because I had no idea how much money I was earning, the whole transaction was completed without me. I didn’t even know how much my outfit cost. Eventually the postman delivered the long-awaited package to me. My face lit up as I opened the box and pulled back the tissue paper. And there it was – my beautiful debutante gown! Immediately I tried it on.
My long jet-black hair and dark complexion set off the ice-white satin material. Despite its simplicity, the dress made me feel pretty for the first time; and I felt grown up too. To complete my outfit I had a bouquet of silk flowers, gloves and high heels. As I clip-clopped around, I wondered how the bloody hell I was going to walk in them, let alone dance.
Mrs Wright fixed the tiara in place and I pulled the satin gloves onto my work-worn hands. The transformation was complete. She led me into her bedroom to use her mirror. I almost cried when I saw the reflection. It was me, but not really me, if you know what I mean. In this glamorous outfit, I looked like someone special. I thought of the leading ladies I’d seen in the films shown during picture night at the Cherbourg welfare hall, and I wondered if I looked like one of them. Perhaps Audrey Hepburn in the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s – but without the long black cigarette holder and real diamonds. I turned to see what Mrs Wright thought.
‘You look beautiful.’
I blushed at the compliment. I don’t ever remember being told I was beautiful before then, let alone by a whitefulla.
By the time I arrived back in Cherbourg the other debutante belles had already snapped up most of the eligible young Aboriginal men. So my sister Alex arranged for her fiancé, William Clevens, to partner me. There was a week of dance rehearsals and barely enough time to undertake a crash course in etiquette – how to use the cutlery and how to curtsey to the white officials, and all of that flash stuff. The superintendent even gave us permission to travel into Murgon to have our hair shampooed and styled at the local hairdressers for the first time. Then it was off to the ball.
Tammy
There’s a beautiful black-and-white portrait photograph of you, Mum, dressed in your gown and tiara for that ball. As a small child of about four or five, I loved looking at that photo because I thought you were once a princess and lived in a castle. I’d search your cupboards and drawers, when you weren’t in the bedroom, looking for any sign of your royal gowns and jewels.
When I couldn’t find them, at first I was disappointed. Then when I thought about it some more, I felt special. Perhaps you had given away your princess lifestyle in order to become our mother?
Lesley
Go away, you’re making me shame. I look bloody awful in the photo.
Tammy
No, you’re gorgeous. I especially like the little pout of your lips and sultry look at the camera.
Lesley
Stop mocking me. The bloody photographer only took one photo and I blinked. I wasn’t ready for it. This was a big moment for all of the debutantes and their partners. For most of us, it was our first and only opportunity to attend the same function as the superintendent, the bigwigs from head office, the white officials and the local councillors from nearby towns in the district: we had to be on our very best behaviour.
The highlight of the ball was when each debutante was presented on stage to the official party. On this occasion, it was the minister responsible for education and Aboriginal and Islander affairs, the Honourable Jack Pizzey, who later became the premier, and his wife. It truly felt like royalty was in town! He was, after all, the person at the time ultimately responsible for the care, protection and control of every Aboriginal ‘inmate’ living ‘under the Act’ – and that included me.
My hands trembled when it was my turn to walk up onto the stage. I was worried that I might trip on the hem of my dress and embarrass myself in front of so many important and powerful people, and of course I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Granny and the rest of my family in the audience.
I was met on stage by the ball’s ‘Matron of Honour’, Aunty Beryl Watson, a respected Aboriginal woman from the settlement. It was her role to introduce each of the debutantes to the minister.
‘Hello Lesley,’ Minister Pizzey greeted me, extending his hand.
‘Hello,’ I shyly replied. I placed my gloved hand inside his and curtsied as Mrs Pizzey looked on and smiled warmly.
‘You look lovely, dear,’ she whispered as I walked past her to exit the stage.
The rest of the evening was spent dancing. First, the debutantes and their partners took to the floor, then they were joined by members of the Cherbourg community, while the dignitaries remained seated and looked on. I missed a few steps in the Pride of Erin and was a little off beat for the waltz, but no one other than my dance partner, William, noticed. We shared a giggle and went on, enjoying the rest of the ball.
The evening of my formal debut was a dream come true. For that one night I felt like an elegant young woman and forgot about the hardships in my life, the long hours of domestic labour and our controlled existence. But by the following Friday, I’d well and truly come back to reality. The settlement’s rules and laws were strictly enforced; and life reverted back to how it always was. It started with a knock at our door.
I wasn’t at all surprised to see one of the settlement police standing outside. He’d come to escort me down to the superintendent’s office. I’d stayed too long in Cherbourg with my family; I should’ve returned to Condamine by now. I may have schemed a way to get back home, but I hadn’t thought of how to stay.
Although Mrs Wright was pleasant and I had few complaints about how she treated me, I was adamant about not going back. I hated being alone and away from my family. The white officials were furious at me for breaching my work agreement, which I discovered was for twelve months, and I expected to be locked up in gaol for disobedience. Perhaps the only reason I wasn’t was because there was another demand for my labour, which the white officials needed urgently to fill. It seemed that my services as a maid could be more useful than languishing in the settlement’s gaol.
‘I’m sending you to another property. This time it’s at Taroom, about 350 kilometres west of Cherbourg,’ Mrs Doyle briskly explained. ‘There are two ladies – in fact, they’re sisters-in-law – who live on adjoining properties and they are looking for two girls, one to work on each property.’
I couldn’t believe my luck! Although I still wasn’t happy about leaving again for a place so far from home, this time I wouldn’t be alone: there’d be another girl with me.
‘This time, you better stay there until the end of your agreement,’ she scolded. ‘Or else!’
Chapter 9
Lesley
Cynthia might’ve been a few years younger than me but she was good company on the train to Taroom. We chatted all day, clutching our official envelopes in our hands, until we arrived at Wandoan, the nearest station. Upon arrival, we reverted back to the quiet and obedient servants that we were expected to be. Unlike my last train trip – terrified and travelling alone – I felt somewhat confident, or at least made out I was for Cynthia’s sake. In her I saw the fear I’d felt nine months earlier, when I had been sent to work far from home for the first time.
Cynthia’s new boss, Mrs Thelma Brodie, met us on the platform. She and her husband, Owen, raised sheep on their property. On an adjoining parcel of land lived my boss, Michael Brodie, Owen’s brother, and his wife Grace. They ran a large cattle station. Although the brothers and their wives might have technically been ‘neighbours’, the size of the properties meant they lived over a kilometre apart. My hopes of having Cynthia as company were dashed when I realised the distances involved. Nor would I have much contact with people other than the family, as the property was more than half an hour’s drive from Taroom. In fact, the family purchased their food in bulk, to sustain them for at least a month until they next travelled into town to shop.
&n
bsp; When I arrived at the house, Mrs Brodie gestured for me to put my suitcase down in the yard. Then she guided me through the home, pointing out all the features. It was a typical wooden farmhouse, much like Mrs Wright’s place at Condamine, with four bedrooms and a single bathroom. My boss and his wife slept in the master bedroom and their three little girls slept in the other two rooms. This meant there was a lovely fourth bedroom for guests, which I thought I could easily settle into and make my own. But Mrs Brodie had another idea.
‘I’ll now take you to your room,’ she instructed, leading me away from the spare bedroom and out the back door to pick up my brown suitcase. I silently panicked as we walked across the yard and past the clothesline. Well, where the hell was my bedroom? Mrs Brodie stopped at the door of the shed, where the family stored their food supplies.
‘And this is where you will be sleeping,’ she said, as she motioned for me to step inside and then left me alone to unpack.
I stared at the food stores stacked loosely in piles about half a metre high. Other than a bed, wardrobe and a chest of drawers tucked away in the corner, my new bedroom’s decor included a bag of sugar, piles of tinned food, dozens of toilet rolls and a golf bag. I longed for the pink chenille bedspread and matching curtains of my room back at Condamine. I wanted to be anywhere but here, forced to live in a storage shed. I was too distraught to do anything. I couldn’t even open my case.
A lump formed in my throat and tears started to pool. I went to close the door for privacy before they spilled over onto my cheeks. It was then I noticed there was no way to lock the shed’s wooden door. I was to sleep out in the storage shed, and anyone could help themselves to what was in there!
‘Lesley, will you be much longer? It’s time to start cooking dinner,’ yelled Mrs Brodie from over in the main house.
From the instant I met Mrs Brodie, her manner was, to put it mildly, uppity. I was under no illusion what my role was: to attend to her needs and those of her family. Although she didn’t treat me cruelly, she wasn’t warm towards me either. On the other hand, Mr Brodie seemed like a decent man, although I didn’t have much to do with him. He was away all day, working in the paddocks.
Not Just Black and White Page 6
