A young white jackaroo called Robert also worked on the property and slept in a room near the stables. He was quiet and kept to himself and, as with most males, I was wary of him but he never caused me any harm.
Unlike Mrs Wright at Condamine, who needed me to look after the house because she physically ran the property, I’m not sure what Mrs Brodie did all day. Her husband, Michael, looked after the cattle, while I took care of the children and did the housework. From six o’clock each morning until 8.30 at night, I worked non-stop – cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing and supervising the youngest girl while her older siblings were at school. If there were still any hours left in the day, I’d head outside and do yard work.
The family ate their meals in the dining room while Robert and I ate ours on the back veranda. I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t join them at the table. Maybe they just wanted some family time but it didn’t feel right sitting outside, looking at them through the door. Without needing to be told, I knew there were strict rules about being inside the house.
Entry was limited to when I was working. I was allowed to go inside to have a bath, but only after everyone else had bathed – and even then, I had to clean the tub the next morning, before anyone else in the family could use it. Robert and I were not allowed to go inside to use the toilet. Instead, Mrs Brodie directed me to the ‘thunder box’ or outside toilet, fifty metres away from the house, down near the stables. There was no sewerage system to remove the waste. Instead, a pile of sawdust lay nearby to sprinkle into the pit, to try and conceal the smell after you’d ‘finished your business’. But the rotting waste was putrid, and it was scary wandering down the backyard alone in the pitch-black night without a light. Rats and gosh knows what other creatures could be heard scurrying around in the deep pit, a couple of metres below my bare bottom.
Sometimes my cheekiness got the better of me. Whenever I was left at home while the family went away, I’d sneak inside the house to help myself to their toilet. The luxury of having soft toilet paper and not the strips of newspaper down at the thunder box was too hard to resist. But I could never enjoy the experience because I was terrified someone would swing open the door and catch me propped up in the act. I imagined the trouble I’d be in.
Had the superintendent ever punished someone for committing the offence of using an employer’s toilet? I wasn’t game to find out, and took great care to never get caught.
Tammy
Some of Mum’s grandchildren are cheeky little characters – now I know where they inherited that!
Lesley
Spring was shearing and lambing season. Cynthia’s boss, Owen Brodie, contracted a team of eight men to shear his sheep the following year – 1965. In addition to wages, Mr Brodie also offered his shearers food and accommodation as part of their contract. But Owen had a problem: he couldn’t find a cook.
Although I was employed by Michael Brodie to work as a domestic servant on his property, I was told to help Cynthia with the cooking while Owen’s wife and children temporarily moved out and stayed at his brother’s house. At least this arrangement – to go to Owen’s house – got me out of the dreadful shed and, for the next couple of weeks, I had Cynthia’s company. However, it meant we now had two full-time jobs – the domestic work at Owen’s house as well as catering for the whole team of shearers.
The only way Cynthia and I managed the workload was by starting at four o’clock in the morning and working non-stop until ten at night. We cooked three hearty meals a day, for all nine men, including Owen. Our dishes had to provide the workers with enough sustenance to keep them working throughout the day. We were also expected to bake fresh cakes for morning and afternoon tea, and serve dessert after every evening meal. By the time we’d crawl into bed, Cynthia and I were physically and mentally drained. Our arms and shoulders ached from stirring and lifting the large metal pots filled with stews or boiled vegetables, and our knees were calloused from kneeling to wash floors and the bathtub.
Being a shearers’ cook was a bloody hard job. Years later I found out that that’s why the Aboriginal Protection Act set the weekly pay rate for Aboriginal cooks ‘cooking for European males’ at double the amount of the usual domestic’s wage – incidentally, the pay rate was significantly less if the meals were cooked for black workers and not whitefullas. But we didn’t get an increase in our pay for the extra work we did. Our reward from the boss for working both jobs was simply a ticket to see a movie at the local picture theatre and something to eat.
By now my teenage body ached like an old woman suffering from arthritis, so the big screen and the glamour of Hollywood had lost its sparkle. I can’t remember the name of the movie we saw and I didn’t care about the plot, the characters or the beautiful dresses they wore. Instead, I thought about the children of the white officials back home, and wondered if they would ever have to work as servants like we had to. I resented the life I was forced to live … no, in fact, I hated it. Weekday or weekend, healthy or sick – it made no friggin’ difference. I was expected to work every damn day. And the days seemed to stretch ahead of me forever, with no end in sight.
Only when the family was asleep did I have any control over my time. I loved to read, although I wasn’t good at it. Yet the more I read the easier it became. There wasn’t much to choose from – mainly comics and teenage romance magazines called True Confessions, handed down to me from my older sisters and cousins. Reading provided me with an escape from the never-ending grind of chores. As the words flowed off the pages and formed pictures in my mind, I’d imagine visiting the faraway places where the characters lived. I would read until my eyes were as tired as my body, and then fall asleep dreaming – about a life I could choose.
One night I was asleep in the shed, when I awoke to the sound of the door creaking. At first I thought it was a nightmare, until I saw a large shadowy figure prising open the door. My makeshift barricade of the bag of sugar and golf bag began to slide across the floor and in the moonlight I caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face as he staggered inside. It was Basil – the fencing contractor.
Ever since he had been hired a month before I had instinctively sensed danger. Each night I would purposely fuss around in the kitchen to avoid eating my meals next to him on the veranda. Even at a distance, I didn’t feel safe. Sometimes I’d catch his eyes, stalking me like he was some kind of starved animal. Now he was here, inside the storage shed, peering down at me in my bed.
Basil edged closer, blocking my escape. His body swayed uneasily and his breath reeked of alcohol. He grabbed my arm hard, to pin me down against the bed. My survival instincts kicked in and urged me to fight back. I swung my other arm wildly in the air – trying unsuccessfully to hit him in the face. When he moved I managed to wriggle free from his painful grip. Before he could grab hold of me again, I shoved him backwards with all my might. He stumbled to regain his balance – my chance to bolt out the door.
‘Help!’ I screamed, running towards the house.
Mr Brodie switched on his bedside lamp and its light guided me towards their bedroom.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mrs Brodie asked, reaching for her dressing gown.
‘B-B-Basil came into my room.’
My boss and his wife looked at one another and I was worried that they didn’t believe me. Then Mr Brodie grabbed his coat and thundered off along the veranda, in search of the offender.
‘Well I suppose for the rest of the night, you should sleep in the spare bedroom,’ Mrs Brodie offered. She started gathering fresh linen to take there.
‘No! I-I-I’m not sleeping there,’ I insisted, pointing to the spare bedroom. ‘It’s near the back door and Basil might come back to get me.’
I was incensed she’d made me sleep away from the main house in the first place, when there was a guest bedroom available. I knew it was wrong to put a young girl out to sleep in a storage shed that couldn’t be locked when there wer
e casual labourers around. I had no idea then that, in fact, the law required female domestics to be accommodated beneath the same roof as their employer.
‘Well, where on earth are you going to sleep?’ Mrs Brodie asked.
‘In your room, with you.’
Mrs Brodie stared at me – perhaps imagining me sleeping, cuddled up between her and her husband in their marital bed. And to be honest, not even I had thought through the sleeping arrangements in the master bedroom. All I wanted was to be safe, and in their room with them was the safest place I could be, except at home with Granny.
‘Okay then,’ she agreed reluctantly, and dragged a mattress onto the floor, placing it at the foot of their bed.
I’m not sure how Mr and Mrs Brodie slept that night, but for the first time since arriving at the property I slept soundly. It was the best sleep I had had in a long time. However, it wasn’t to last. The next night, I was back outside in the unlocked shed, while the guest bedroom continued to remain vacant.
The following day while going about my chores, Mr Brodie approached me. It came as no surprise as I expected him to question me about the previous night’s incident. Perhaps even accuse me of encouraging it; but I was wrong to assume.
‘Lesley, you’re not to worry about Basil bothering you again,’ he reassured me. ‘He’ll no longer be working here.’
Tammy
That is such an awful experience – fancy putting a teenage girl outside in a shed like that, when there was a spare bedroom in the house. Did you ever see it used by guests?
Lesley
Only once, when Mrs Brodie’s mother came for a week-long visit. Other than that, it was vacant for the rest of the time. Knowing that I wasn’t good enough to sleep under the same roof as my boss really affected me. I became obsessed with checking the door and window at night. In addition to my makeshift barricade of golf clubs and bag of sugar propped against the door, I’d push matchsticks around the edge of the curtains so no one could peep through the gaps. I was paranoid that someone could be standing outside, waiting to come inside and hurt me while I was asleep. I would check them when I went to bed, only to recheck an hour later, and an hour again after that. Over and over again, my ritual continued, until I was too tired to get up out of bed and do it again.
For a while after that night, I deliberately tried to make myself insignificant; I stopped taking pride in my appearance. I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. I thought by making myself invisible, I could protect myself. Yet dressing down didn’t stop men from making crude remarks.
Once, Cynthia and I were invited to accompany the two Brodie families to the local Taroom show and we met up with other Aboriginal girls working in the region. Not all of the men, but some, would look at us the same way as Basil did – except this time it was done on the sly, behind the backs of their wives and children. They’d politely tip their hats when local white girls of our age walked past, and then turn to leer at us black ones. Seeing how some of the other Aboriginal domestics reacted, I suspected they had had a similar experience to mine. They didn’t say anything, and nor did they have to – I just knew.
As a domestic servant I’d come to have more degrading experiences, which over the years I’ve tried hard to forget. One memory, though, I can never forget. It resulted in me having a baby – when I was still only a very young woman. The baby was taken away after its birth and put up for adoption, without me having a chance to even hold it in my arms. Even now, after all these years, it is still too upsetting to discuss.
It was, however, through these experiences that I started to understand what people in the camp were talking about when they spoke of ‘bad things’ happening to Aboriginal girls working on the outside, and they also explained why some returned home to Cherbourg pregnant, to have fairer-skinned babies who didn’t look like their other children. I often wonder how many whitefullas today know that their fathers have an Aboriginal child?
*
As the Brodie children prepared for Christmas in 1965, the fourteen months of my work contract was coming to an end. Mrs Brodie appeared at the doorway of the shed.
‘Lesley, can we have a word with you for a minute?’
I packed the last of my belongings into my brown suitcase and then followed her outside. I stood in front of my boss and his wife, nervously fiddling with the skirt of my dress.
‘Mr Brodie wanted you to have this,’ she said, handing me a parcel. I looked at him, surprised by the gesture. I’d worked hard but didn’t expect a gift.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ Mrs Brodie encouraged. There was, on this last day, a warmth in her voice that I wished I’d heard months earlier. Maybe it had always been there but had been buried too deep beneath the conventions of our relationship: white lady-of-the-house and black domestic.
Under a layer of wrapping and tucked inside a small box was a gold-plated watch. I looked at it, too flabbergasted to say anything. Eventually Mr Brodie’s voice broke the silence.
‘Thank you for working here, Lesley.’ He reached over and took my hand. My handshake was limp and weak, as my body remained in shock.
‘You’ve done a good job,’ he nodded.
Mrs Brodie then handed me an envelope containing almost a dozen one-pound notes – the ‘pocket money’ she’d saved for me. Again I was lost for words, and could only gaze at the watch and wad of cash.
‘Come on, Lesley, we’d better get going; otherwise you’ll miss the train,’ she directed, leading me to the car.
The station wagon pulled away from the house and made its way along the dirt road. I looked back one last time to see what I was leaving behind. The children and Mr Brodie waved goodbye and the storage shed faded into the distance, along with its dark and lonely memories. What mattered most, was that I was going home to my family in Cherbourg.
The train trip passed quickly as I shuffled the green notes in my hand and inspected every detail of my new watch. The sun shone through the window and glinted on the gold band. It reminded me of glittering water on summery afternoons, fishing with Ma down at the creek. Thinking of all that I’d missed, I felt more homesick on my way home than I had when I’d first left almost two years earlier.
As soon as I arrived in Murgon I made a beeline for the local fruit shop and blew half of my pocket money buying bags of plums, apricots and rockmelon – all Granny’s favourites. I thought of the years that had passed since our parents, grandparents and all of us kids were squashed together under one roof. A lot had happened since those days when we were all together as a family. For every Christmas, over the previous five years, at least one of our parents was missing. The holiday season always had a tinge of emptiness, no matter how hard Granny and we older ones tried to make it special for our little brothers and sisters. But not this year. In addition to Granny, both Ma and Pa were out of hospital and at home to celebrate with us.
The joyfulness of Christmas had finally returned to our little cottage in the Camp. And for that, we deserved to celebrate with something more than just rations.
II
Happiness and Heartbreak
‘My life at this point seemed perfect … Women’s Weekly perfect.’
Chapter 10
Lesley
I’d only been home for about a month to spend Christmas and celebrate my nineteenth birthday with my family before the white officials considered it long enough. As usual they’d taken it upon themselves to negotiate on my behalf, without my knowledge, another work agreement. I knew it was pointless complaining or demanding better work conditions; in the past it had never gotten me anywhere, other than a threat of imprisonment.
As the new year of 1966 began, I repacked my suitcase with the same clothes I’d taken to Condamine and Taroom and boarded the train, without resistance. This time, I was headed south to the ‘big smoke’ of Brisbane, the bustling state capital. As I left Cherb
ourg I doubted I’d return again during the year. At best, if the white officials and my new employer approved, I could be home for a visit next Christmas, but I wondered if Granny would make it until then. In the months I’d been away at Taroom, I noticed her body had succumbed to weariness. Time, it seemed, had caught up with our ailing matriarch.
The years of raising ten children alone, while Ma and Pa were in hospital, had taken its toll. Granny’s once glorious crown of thick hair was starting to thin in some places. Her sturdy frame had also weakened and, for the first time in her eighty-or-so, possibly even ninety years, she looked fragile. Once that body of hers had been able to lug a sack full of goods up the hill from the ration shed and into our kitchen. But with her daughter and son-in-law back at home and recovered from their illnesses, Granny was free of the full responsibility and constant worry that came with caring for so many children. She could finally have some rest and take it easy, until her spirit was ready to leave her ageing body.
As the train clanked along the steel track, onward to Brisbane and further away from home, I closed my eyes and wished hard for Granny to remain with us for a few more Christmases yet. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like without her and her wisdom.
As usual I knew nothing about my working arrangements – other than the name of my boss, a ‘Mrs Reid’, who lived somewhere in ‘East Brisbane’. With so little information, all I could do was pray she’d treat me with kindness and then hopefully things would be okay. But there was no time to settle in. Within weeks of starting work, Mrs Reid’s circumstances changed and she couldn’t continue with the agreement. The government wasn’t keen to let me sit idle when there was such a demand from the city’s elite to accessorise their homes with servants. As soon as I was laid off a new boss was found – a Mrs Roberts. I was told I was to start working for her at once. And so, in March 1966, I was whisked across to the other side of Brisbane, amid the well-to-do suburbs of Clayfield, Ascot and Hamilton.
Not Just Black and White Page 7
