Jacqueline called me a couple of weeks later, wanting to meet up with me when I was next in town. ‘I’ve got something that may be of interest to you,’ she said.
‘I’m coming down on Friday,’ I replied, ‘so let’s meet then.’ I had no trip planned. But her words were enticing and I was prepared to travel to Brisbane as soon as I could, especially to see her.
We met at our usual outdoor coffee shop, around the corner and slightly down the hill from her building. Jacqueline arrived with a lever-arch folder filled with papers. ‘This is for you,’ she said, plonking the folder on the table, the weight of the paperwork making it rock back and forth.
I opened it up. Inside were copies of all the government’s financial records she could find that related specifically to me. Many of them I’d already found, but there was one document in particular I’d never seen.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, pointing to a photocopy of a small ledger book. On the cover of the book was written my name. It was the record of transactions for my government-controlled savings account, with the rolling balance.
‘It’s your passbook,’ explained Jacqueline. ‘Every Aboriginal worker after 1966 was supposed to have been issued with one by the superintendent.’
I was surprised. Despite all my research over the previous eight years, trawling through archives and files in every major library and research institution in the state, I’d never seen a passbook – let alone my own. I didn’t even know they existed.
I’d always thought it suspicious that the financial documents I needed most for my case could not be found. The usual explanation I got from government officials was that my records, somehow, ‘didn’t exist any more’. Blame would swiftly be apportioned to previous governments, for not taking care of the financial records relating to Aboriginal workers’ savings and wages.
My financial passbook might not have ever been found – or at least its whereabouts known by me – had it not been for Kerrie Tim’s authorisation for Jacqueline to scour the entire department. I’m told it was found, among a bundle of other passbooks belonging to Aboriginal people, inside an office safe that had belonged to the former director of Native Affairs. This explains why I hadn’t come across my passbook when I requested to view my government file – sometime earlier it had been removed and put into the director’s safe.
My lawyers at Caxton Community Legal Centre were astonished when I showed them the document. Although it was only a photocopy of my original passbook, it was nonetheless the type of evidence I needed to strengthen my case. Kerrie and Jacqueline had helped me find it, even though they were representatives of the government that was the ‘respondent’ to my legal claim. But they weren’t thinking as lawyers; they’d understood that the records would help me to answer questions about my life, and the system that had controlled me.
Chapter 40
Lesley
‘What does justice mean to you?’ Kerrie Tim asked during one of our thought-provoking conversations over a cup of tea in her office.
‘In the early days, my campaign was originally about me, and about getting the money I was owed. After I understood the scale of the issue – how the scheme operated across multiple generations of Aboriginal workers and the amount of money involved – my motives changed. It moved beyond money; in fact, I’ve spent far more money fighting for the cause than what I am actually owed,’ I explained, as I stirred milk into the strong brew.
‘Sugar?’ Kerrie asked, handing me a porcelain bowl.
‘Just one, thanks,’ I said, hardly pausing. ‘Before I started researching, none of our mob talked much about their experiences, except quietly among ourselves. We didn’t tell our own children and we certainly didn’t share our stories with the public. Our memories were too painful, and anyway we feared not being believed. This has meant that, for over a century, not only were our wages stolen but also the contribution that Aboriginal workers made to the agricultural and pastoral industries has not been recognised. All of those who worked should be given credit for their efforts, not just those of us who can afford the time and get the resources to take legal action.
‘So, to answer your question, Kerrie,’ I said, putting my teacup down and shifting forward to look into her eyes, ‘my idea of justice is simply that our legacy as Aboriginal workers is recognised and not forgotten. And how can that happen if the wages and savings due to them were never paid?’
That is the justice I had always hoped for – that a public inquiry could expose the great injustice of our stolen wages. Then, just maybe, the government would want to do the right thing and make an offer directly to the people, without us having to fight it out in court.
It took a while before Kerrie spoke. She looked briefly at her family photos to the right of my shoulder.
‘I’m going to be completely honest with you, Aunty,’ she said firmly, but with heaviness in her voice. ‘This state government is preparing to fight you in court. While this is happening, they won’t be considering justice for others in the Aboriginal community. As long as your case is before the court, you will be the government’s priority in the matter.’
I appreciated Kerrie’s frankness. It reminded me of what I was up against – the might of the government and all of its resources – and the wider issues. I’d already realised that, if the government were preoccupied with my case, then my case could delay the process for other Indigenous people to receive some sort of ‘out of court’ compensation – while sparing them the need to individually sue the Queensland Government, as I had done. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want to risk any more old people dying without receiving recognition for their early years of work.
‘So, are you willing to settle out of court with the Queensland Government?’ Kerrie asked.
*
I’d never really considered settling with the government as an option. I thought only that I could win or lose the battle in court.
‘Even if I did settle,’ I reasoned at home later with Tammy, ‘what on earth could the government actually give me that would make me happy and undo the past?’
‘That’s such a hard question, isn’t it?’ she agreed.
This wasn’t the response I’d been expecting. In the past I could always count on Tammy and her brothers to help me figure out life’s tough decisions.
Tammy
I sensed Mum wanted me (and my brothers, for that matter) to help make the decision for her – as to whether she should continue with her legal case against the government or settle out of court. But I wasn’t going to do it this time. And maybe not any more. Far too often, I felt, she had leaned on her children to help her with decisions. We had happily obliged, like ‘protectors’ of our poor, hapless, widowed mother. We’d done this (well, at least I had) seeing her as a victim of life’s cruel and often unfair circumstances.
I had wanted to do my bit to rescue her from them, to alleviate some of the pain. It had started when I was a zealous five year old on the bean patch, tearing past my mother, stripping everything off the bushes ahead of her, including the leaves and shoots. Back then I’d felt if I picked a bucketful it would be one less bucket she had to fill. Then she’d be happy and we could go home. Many of my clearest childhood memories are of seeing Mum hurt or consumed with worry – it’s little wonder I grew up with an overwhelming desire to protect her.
By seeing Mum as a defenceless victim and treating her as though she was one, I can see, in retrospect, we might have made her think she was one. How could she be confident of her own skills and judgement if she was always reliant on others to help with decision-making? I’d come to realise that Mum’s constant asking of my advice and opinion over the years not only reflected how she saw herself, but also indicated how I subconsciously viewed her.
I didn’t mean it to turn out like this, and it’s hard for me to admit, but my absolute love for Mum had evolved throughout my childhood,
to the point where I wanted to protect her from any further heartbreak.
Had fate not destined her to be my parent, my teenage self would surely have seen her as ‘a role model’ – being the intelligent, tenacious and witty woman she is. Instead, I’d looked outside of our family for remarkable women whose success I could imitate. Yet all along, the best role model I could ever have had was right in front of me at home.
For eight years Mum had held on to her dream of obtaining justice for Aboriginal workers, and not once given it up, despite bouts of self-doubt when obstacles appeared in her way. Yet, as disillusioned and exhausted as she might sometimes have been, she somehow found the strength to keep fighting, when so many others around her had long given up. Yet I saw her as vulnerable, ‘in need of my protection’. Was I, then, much different from the patronising officials of the Protection Act era?
Mum looked at me from across the room with concern in her eyes. I could see her wondering why it was taking me so long to dish out advice, when in the past I’d been so liberal and forthright in the sharing of my opinions. But this was her decision – and a chance for her to be confident in her own decision-making. And it was my chance to let her go – to make her own decisions and live life on her own terms, without being answerable to anyone – as she had once done for me.
What Mum needed from me, and those closest to her, was our love and support, not our protection.
Lesley
Tammy said, ‘It’s a decision only you can make. At best, all I can do is give you some ideas to think about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, at university, while studying mediation and alternative dispute-resolution techniques, I was taught that parties shouldn’t make a decision from the perspective of whether the offer will make you happy but rather whether you can live with the decision. So, in your case, whatever the government were to give you in settlement, I guess it can’t really make you happy, because the painful memories of humiliation can’t be erased at any price.’
‘You’ve got a point,’ I agreed.
‘Then the question you should ask yourself,’ Tammy continued, ‘is whether you can live with the decision to settle out of court and to not continue your wider campaign?’
For almost a decade I’d obsessed about getting back my stolen wages – from digging around dusty archives and attending community meetings, to waylaying politicians at the doors of Parliament House. My battle against the Queensland Government had given me purpose and direction, helped me gain confidence, taken all my resources and, indeed, become part of my identity. But I could see now that, as long as I continued this battle against the government, my mind would remain stuck in the past. The crux of my campaign was about righting the wrongs of yesteryear. I realised that what I now needed most, in addition to obtaining justice and recognition for Aboriginal workers, was to put the past to bed. I needed ‘closure’.
What could bring that?
When I first started out with the campaign, the issue was initially about money. Back then I thought that receiving my unpaid wages and savings would make my life and that of my children better. Along the way, I started remembering what I wanted most when I lived ‘under the Act’. Take, for instance, the night when I slept outside in a storage shed and a fencing contractor stood over my bed. What I’d wanted from Mr and Mrs Brodie was to be safe from any further harm. And when I was forced to eat my meals outside on the veranda, while my boss and his family ate theirs inside at the table, it wasn’t money I wanted but to be treated with dignity and respect.
Growing up in the Camp at Cherbourg, I remember being envious of the white officials’ children – not because of their race or skin colour, I just wanted the same opportunities. Equal opportunities. Opportunities to be equal. Therefore a court decision, even if in my favour, wasn’t going to make up for those lost opportunities or for indignities from my past.
I decided I would settle out of court with the Queensland Government – but, as part of that settlement, I would ask for something money could never buy – a personal and formal apology. That is what I needed most from the Queensland Government. I needed to know that the government acknowledged the distress, hurt and humiliation I suffered, while living and working under its Aboriginal Protection Act. A personal apology would mean that the government had finally realised their laws and policies had human consequences. We weren’t just ‘inmates’, a certain ‘breed’, or simply numbers in a file. The Aboriginal Protection Act had controlled the lives of human beings, and I was one of the many who’d suffered because of its inhumane consequences.
In the world of the lawyers every word of the apology needed to be scrutinised, checked and re-checked. Drafts were flicked back and forth between my lawyers and the government’s before the final wording was agreed to, at a meeting in July 1999.
Kerrie Tim asked me to join her at the head of the board table for a special presentation. The lawyers and government officials peered down the length of the chestnut-coloured table, nervous and unsure what was happening. In their experience, settlement negotiations usually didn’t involve presentations and smiles.
‘I would like us all to reflect not only on what we are doing here today, but on the significance of our actions,’ Kerrie said, addressing both teams of lawyers and advisors. ‘We are all playing an important part in supporting Lesley to take the first step towards reconciling a sad and horrific period in her life.’
I was moved to see that these government officials were finally acknowledging the personal consequences of past government policies and laws. The army of suits nodded their heads, agreeing that this hadn’t been just another government deal, but rather a ceremony to mark a significant moment of mutual understanding. Kerrie then turned to me.
‘I know I speak for everyone else in this room when I say how in awe I am of your grace and dignity throughout your campaign and the settlement process. In return for the incredible trust and good faith you have placed in us, on behalf of the Queensland Government I would like to present you with this small, but symbolic gift.’
In my hands she placed a tawny-coloured envelope, just like one the white officials issued me with when I was first sent away to work at Condamine and which contained my work agreement and official documentation. As I opened the envelope, a musky scent wafted out. I reached in and drew out a passbook – my original government-issued passbook.
‘It’s your property. It belongs to you,’ Kerrie said.
On the front cover was my name, handwritten, I suppose, by a white official once employed to protect us. The cursive swirls were reminiscent of a bygone era, when even names as plain as mine could look fancy and elegant. Inside, on the age-weary pages, dates were recorded, prompting memories of decades earlier, both good and bad.
The battalion of suits shifted in their leather seats, waiting to hear my response. But I couldn’t speak, not yet. Moments passed, and someone else broke the silence.
My fingers caressed the passbook’s cover, before slipping it back inside the envelope. I felt ready to bring an end to my longstanding legal battle. I was ready to move on with my life.
On Friday 27 August 1999, I signed the deed of settlement. There were a dozen or so people sitting around the board table watching me and, like so many other times before, my heart pounded. Two of my sisters, Sandra and Alex, were with me and I felt no need to hide behind them. I wasn’t frightened or intimidated by the suited officials and lawyers in the room. Nor did I have those nagging self-doubts that had shadowed me most of my life; I did not question my worthiness to sit at the head of the minister’s board table.
This was my day.
The sideboard was laden with an elegant floral arrangement, silver platters of food and jugs of iced water and juice, government monogrammed cutlery and fine, bone china teacups. I was touched by the department’s effort in arranging this celebratory luncheon.
Through the
windows of the minister’s boardroom on the eighteenth floor, the city skyline stretched away. I could look down on Parliament House – the birthplace of the Aboriginal Protection Act. Across the river, although I couldn’t see it, was Musgrave Park – the long-held meeting place for Aboriginal people. It seemed a lifetime ago when I used to visit the park, to seek out the company of other Aboriginal girls working in Brisbane as domestic servants. Back then, sitting on the ground beneath the trees with them, it was one of the few places in the city where I didn’t feel isolated.
Now I felt just as safe and content as I did then, seated at a table inside a government building among lawyers, senior officials and some of my own mob. There was no one present whom I feared, or felt inferior to, despite the differences in our race, class and occupations. The fact that blackfullas and whitefullas, government officials and members of my mob, were all seated together around the same table symbolised just how much had changed in my life. There was no hint of the segregation I was used to while growing up ‘under the Act’ on Cherbourg – with blackfullas living on one side of the road and white folk on the other.
My journey to the minister’s boardroom and to a settlement deal was one that had involved other people, many of whom were proudly seated with me. Each represented different chapters of my life – my older sisters, Willie’s sister Lyn, family friends, my lawyers and, of course, my three children.
Dan, Rodney and Tammy stood behind me as I signed the settlement deed. I wanted them to be my witnesses as they were the ones who’d always been there to support me. From the muddy slopes of the bean patch to the dusty archives of government, my children were by my side. They had seen me grow from a person who was meek and timid to one who had the confidence to stand up for what she believed in, and to take on the government.
The next day, Saturday 28 August 1999, the following words appeared prominently in The Australian and Queensland’s Courier-Mail:
Not Just Black and White Page 28
