I close my eyes. I can see him sitting in his chair, half turned away from me, bathed in the sunlight that pours through the window behind him.
‘I’m going to miss you, Professor Young,’ I whisper. ‘I wish you knew what a difference you made to me.’
As I walk home, I can’t get my conversation with Professor Baxter out of my mind. The look of recognition on her face when she saw the book, the instinctive touch, has been perturbing me. She told me the book was important to Professor Young. But she was adamant that his daughter would not want it. Was Professor Young’s relationship with his daughter strained? She had been there at the memorial service today, sitting beside her mother. She looked sullen, angry and withdrawn. Why wouldn’t she be, having just lost her father?
What would happen, I wonder, if my father passed away at this moment? I have struggled lately to reconcile his advocacy for justice with his failings as a person, his unfaithfulness to my mother.
But there’s another side to him. The first time I had flown to Boston Mum told me he had stayed at the gate until he could no longer see the plane from the window of the viewing area. He’s always provided for me. He didn’t complain about the cost of my going back to study - and at an Ivy League university. He didn’t have to support me but he did, uncomplaining, proudly. Despite my scholarships there was a large shortfall and he happily covered that, and he pays my flights home and back whenever I want.
And though it was Professor Young who I had come to talk to about literature and its underlying themes, it was my father who had fostered my love of reading. He would read to me before I went to sleep. He would ask me to bring him the dictionary and I would have to close my eyes and open it to a page. He would then pick a word out, explain its meaning, and I’d have to make a sentence using it. So much of who I am - my politics, my sense of social justice, my identity - comes from him.
‘How was the service?’ Mum asks when I phone her that night.
‘It was lovely. There were lots of people. But … I guess I don’t really feel that he has gone yet.’
‘That’s only natural. And in a way he hasn’t really. You’ll always carry a part of him in your memories.’
‘I suppose so. We did have lots of great conversations. Not just about my thesis but all kinds of stuff. Even now I find I remember things he said, little observations about life.’
‘Then he’ll always be there with you.’
I find her words comforting. ‘Can I speak to Dad?’
There is a pause. ‘He’s not home, sweetheart.’ I sense a note of false cheerfulness in her voice.
‘Isn’t it about six in the morning?’
‘He’s away. At a conference. Something for work.’
The sight of Dad’s hand up the shirt of the young lawyer in his office flashes through my mind and with it comes a white-hot bolt of anger. I also see the ashen face of Professor Young’s daughter at the funeral and I can hear Professor Baxter’s certainty that she would not want one of her father’s most treasured possessions.
‘Mum, I’m coming home.’
‘Again? Don’t you think you should try to get your study back on track?’
‘No. I need to sort out some things first.’
20
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
‘The woman at the reception asked me to stop by on my way to Tony’s office. I mean, she said she wanted to see you. I mean, that you wanted to see me.’ Darren looked at Rachel beseechingly.
She laughed. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. I’d read something after you dropped by last time that made me think of you.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. It was this passage, by Fred Maynard.’ Rachel searched around the papers on her desk until she found the photocopied page.
‘Here it is. Read this. It was taken from a letter he wrote to the New South Wales Premier Jack Lang on 23 August 1927.’
Darren took the paper, hoping that Rachel did not notice the slight shake of his hand as he tried to concentrate on what he was reading.
I wish to make it perfectly clear, on behalf of our people, that we accept no condition of inferiority as compared with the European people. Two distinct civilisations are represented by the respective races. On one hand we have the civilisation of necessity and on the other the civilisation co-incident with a bounteous supply of all the requirements of the human race. That the European people by the arts of war destroyed our more ancient civilisation is freely admitted, and that by their vices and diseases our people have been decimated is also patent, but neither of these facts are evidence of superiority. Quite the contrary is the case …
‘I think it shows that terms like “invasion” are not new and that the concept of “sovereignty” is not a novel one,’ Rachel said.
Darren’s first reaction was the gleeful realisation that Rachel Miles had been thinking about him. He suppressed a grin and attempted to look serious.
Tony Harlowe found himself looking forward to his next visit with Darren. He enjoyed reminiscing about the old days, putting his own spin, his own interpretation, on key events. And he enjoyed having Darren for an audience.
‘You look flushed. Did you run here?’
At this Darren seemed to colour further. Tony smiled. This kid, he thought to himself, is still nervous about interviewing me. ‘Where’re we up to, son?’
Darren flicked through his notebook. ‘We were beginning to talk about the legacy of the Tent Embassy.’
‘Yes, well, let me emphasise that it’s important to see it not just as the catalyst for change but as a symbol of all the changes that occurred around that time. You see, by the time the Tent Embassy was set up, the Aboriginal Legal Service had already been started in Sydney. And the Medical Service too. The people who were around then, who started those services, took that fight, those principles about the need for empowerment, the need to do it ourselves, to the Tent Embassy.’
As Darren made frantic notes, Tony explained that there were over 500 different language groups and tribes with distinct and different needs. ‘But three things unite us as Aboriginal people. Our worldviews are similar, we all experience racism because we are Aboriginal and we all have a claim for our rights, especially to land. These are the things we have in common.’
‘So the Tent Embassy had a sort of unifying effect, created a national voice,’ Darren observed as he jotted in his notebook. After he finished writing, he asked, ‘Do you think that when some people today say “land rights didn’t work” they are wrong because we didn’t really have them?’
Tony explained it to the youngster. Just having schemes through which land can be granted doesn’t mean that it is easy to get it back. Governments - both federal and state or territory - fought very hard against the native title or land rights claims of Aboriginal people. And the claim process, he reminded Darren, is time consuming and expensive for Aboriginal communities.
There never had been, in Tony’s opinion, the right balance between allowing Aboriginal people to accumulate land as an asset and being able to use it for economic development where the community wants to. Native title gives a right to do things like hunt and fish or perform ceremonies in the way it was done traditionally, but that is hardly going to be a mechanism for Aboriginal people to join the real economy.
‘Underlying this is the fact that land rights were never thought of as a panacea. They were seen as only one part of the agenda to overcome Aboriginal disadvantage. Land grants were not going to work to solve poverty while there was no adequate funding for education and proper access to medical services. And the problem is, that despite the view held by many Australians that Aboriginal people are given too much money, that simply isn’t the case, and on these key areas - health, housing, education - governments continue to neglect us.’
Darren scribbled furiously to capture every word. So often he had heard the antagonistic slogan that ‘land rights haven’t worked’ and he always knew in his heart that this rhetoric was simplistic, he had just not been
able to say why. Tony had articulated exactly what Darren intuitively felt but had never been able to express. ‘So land rights were never, on their own, going to compensate for government neglect of basic services?’
Tony nodded. ‘Remember with land rights we aren’t asking for special treatment. This isn’t something for nothing. This is our traditional land. It was taken from us. We were used as slave labour on pastoral properties, were the backbone of the wealth made from farming on our traditional lands. We have no rights over minerals or other natural resources. Australia grows rich from mining and we are left as beggars in our own country. So it’s not really land rights. It’s land reparation. Land compensation.’
Tony paused to allow Darren to catch up. When his pen slowed, Darren reflected. ‘The legal system was very complicit in all of this.’
‘Very. That’s why you should think about going back to your studies. We need our own people to use the system so that it can be used to protect us, not to always defeat us. I’ve told you that before.’ The words reminded him of the conversations he’d had with Simone when she was in high school, when he was trying to guide her to take the opportunities he never had.
‘I know. I’ve been seriously thinking about it. But I want to get this finished first.’ Darren tapped his notebook.
‘I was proud when my daughter went to law school. Did you know she’s studying overseas now at Harvard, doing her doctorate?’
Darren nodded. Tony had managed to mention it in passing each time they had met.
‘Imagine that. And me just a boy from the mission. But that’s what we were fighting for back then. To give the next generation the opportunities that we never had. When I look at my daughter, I see the results of that struggle. I guess in the same way your parents must have been proud of you when you were first accepted into university?’
‘Well, I suppose my mother was. My father passed away when I was too young to really know him.’
‘How does your mother feel about you dropping out? Bet she’d be happy if you went back. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. But you seem like a bright young man and, to be honest, I see a bit of myself in you, how I was at your age.’
Darren was too overwhelmed by the comparison with Tony and the sensitive subject of his dropping out of university to answer.
Tony ended the uncomfortable pause. ‘Well, maybe they’re things to think about before we meet next time.’
Darren nodded. His mother would be happy if he went back to his studies. No doubt about that. But how would his brother react?
21
Darren Brown felt the rhythmic rattle of the train as he travelled home, past Parramatta to the outer western suburb of Mt Druitt. He flicked through his notebook but his thoughts kept coming back to the glow with which Tony Harlowe spoke of his daughter. Raw envy ate at him.
Since dropping out of university he had moved back to his mother’s place, the house he’d grown up in. With three of his seven brothers and sisters now out of home, the three-bedroom house was not as crowded as it had been when they were all under one roof. Back then, it was bursting at the seams, rowdy and raucous and there was no privacy.
His mother was on a pension. Money was scarce and, in this environment, resourcefulness was second nature and they made do with little. His father had died in an accident while working on the railway and Darren had no memory of him. He often wished he had a father - one who would watch him play football and congratulate him after the match, who would talk about him with the same pride that Tony Harlowe spoke about his daughter.
His mother had borne his four youngest siblings with two other men. Both had lived with them sporadically but through drinking or disinterest had never wanted to take on the role of father to Darren. Simon, his eldest brother, was the next best thing. He was charismatic, popular but always getting into trouble. He was very protective of his brothers and sisters but quick to anger if threatened and was easy to goad. He was always getting into fights and the local police came to know him by sight.
It was different in the school holidays when his mother would put him and his siblings on the train and send them to Brewarrina to stay with his grandmother. Baagii, they called her, using the old language. Dozens of cousins and a few uncles would fuss over him, take him fishing, out shooting kangaroo or to the local cricket matches. Baagii’s house was crowded with its rooms filled with glassware, photographs and porcelain. The ornate light fittings, dark wallpaper and coffee and tan patterned carpet made the rooms feel even more cramped but everything was always neat. He and his brothers and sisters would sleep in the two rooms, on the couch and lounge room floor, the back verandah and in the old abandoned caravan in the back yard.
These were chaotic times with gangs of children playing games, off to the riverbank or having some kind of adventure. Baagii required them to be home for breakfast and dinner but left them to their own resources in between, knowing the fear of her wrath would be enough to keep everyone on the straight and narrow.
But Darren always sought out her company in the evenings or would play cards with her in the late afternoons. She would tell him stories about her days as a young girl fruit picking with her family and living by the river.
‘Tell me the story of how you met my grandfather,’ he would ask.
‘Again, little Mudhay, my little possum?’
He would nod furiously. He never tired of hearing it.
‘Well, he came into town with the boxing tents. He used to work in them and people would pay to fight other men. Your dhaadhaa was the best fighter they had. He arrived in town on the eve of our big dance. Me and my friend Alice had been in Main Street buying some ribbon for our hair. He smiled at us as he walked past and we smiled back. He turned and came back to us and said “Hello, Ladies.” But we were shy, brought up right, and we wouldn’t tell him our names.
‘He asked around and Tommy Hall said, “One is Joan and the pretty one is Alice.” He said to them, “Well, you tell Alice that I want to dance with her at the dance tomorrow night. Tell her I want the first dance and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” Well, we got the message and Alice was all giggles and I was right surly as I liked him too, his being so handsome and all.
‘But Alice was my friend and I could hold no grudge against her. We spent a lot of time getting ready that night, doing our hair and putting on our dresses. I’d made mine and it was blue with little flowers on it. I know ’cause I still have it packed up in the closet. Well, we get to the dance and there he is, handsome as I remembered him, and he strode right over to us and put his hand out to me and said, “Alice, I believe you owe me this dance.” I was so surprised and so happy at the same time. I had to tell him my name was Joan and he said, “Tommy told me the pretty one was Alice and I thought he meant you. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” Well, I fell in love with him that night and we were married two months later on my eighteenth birthday.’
Darren loved hearing the way his grandmother laughed as she told the story. His grandfather had died before Darren was born from a heart attack while he was chopping wood. ‘He was a strong man with a big heart and we never knew it was a weak one,’ his grandmother would say.
There was a photograph of Darren’s grandfather that he loved to look at. Fresh-faced, dark-featured, dark shiny hair, in his boxing shorts, gloved hands pulled to his face.
The racism in Baagii’s town had startled him. Being called ‘coon’, not being served in the shops. Once, when he was walking back with two other boys, a car slowed down and the men in it called them ‘dirty little niggers’. ‘We’re going to hang you from a tree. Here, have a shower, you dirty little niggers,’ they had taunted. And then Darren felt the pelts of spit. He had been petrified but, after the men had spat at them, the car roared off.
He knew that the same prejudice existed in the city. The children at his school would call the Aboriginal kids like him ‘coon’, ‘nigger’ and ‘boong’. He knew that his mother often complained about
the way in which she had been treated by the bank, the shopkeepers and the welfare workers. She also said that if Darren’s father hadn’t been black, they wouldn’t have been so slack in making sure he was safe. ‘They always give the dangerous jobs to the blacks,’ she would say.
When he started high school, the form master, Mr Hestelowe, seemed to take an interest in him. One day towards the end of his first year he had taken Darren aside. ‘Why don’t you stick to your studies?’ he asked. ‘You get good marks when you apply yourself.’
Darren shrugged.
‘You never do your homework.’
‘I find it hard, sir.’
‘You need to apply yourself.’
Darren didn’t say that the house was overcrowded, there was no space for him to do homework and it was noisy. The younger kids always needed attention and Simon always had some scheme or adventure.
‘You could stay back at school and do it.’
‘Aw, then all my mates would laugh at me.’
‘Not cool, eh?’
Darren shook his head.
The next day, in assembly, Mr Hestelowe had called him out. ‘Darren Brown, report to my office at the end of the day. You’re on detention this afternoon.’
Darren was fuming. He’d done nothing wrong and there was Mr Hestelowe just yesterday acting as though he was concerned about him, but today he was falsely accusing him, making a fool of him in front of the whole school. He came to the office, full of rage, when the final bell rang.
‘Get your books out and do your homework.’
Darren would stay back after school and do his homework under the pretence he was in trouble. His marks improved.
‘I noticed in your English essay you wrote about the way your mother was treated in the store when it was assumed that she was a shoplifter because she was black,’ he once said.
‘It’s all racist and people get away with it.’
‘It is illegal to discriminate against people on the basis of their race when you are buying goods in a store. There are laws against it.’
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