by Karen Wyld
A week after the party invitations had been distributed, the words had become so thick that Pastor Thomas felt it his duty to do something. So that Sunday morning, the day of the party, his sermon skipped around the problem, using lyrical parables of acceptance, hinting at the brotherhood of man but not offering any real directives. There may have been some nodding of heads during that convoluted speech. Not in response to the words but rather the type of nod people do as they drift off for a short nap. A few of the women appeared to be attentive, which encouraged the Pastor, but they were just counting in their heads how many potatoes they would need to peel for Sunday dinner. If Brigid had been at church, she’d have known exactly to what and to whom the Pastor was referring.
When everyone had left the church of rusting tin, they stood just beyond the gate. The agitated townsfolk resumed talking, unconsciously kicking up dust. Small huddles glanced in the direction of the outsider who had started this most recent tribulation. Susie’s mother hadn’t even tried to understand how things were done around here. Her red-haired, freckled daughter by her side, she behaved as if completely unaware of what she’d done. Inviting those children to a birthday party. Well, that would never do. The trouble-maker talked with the pastor and his wife, her gloveless hand gently resting on her daughter’s head, as if she’d done nothing wrong. Poor little girl, some murmured, no one to teach her what is right and wrong. This is so typical of a newcomer, others observed, pleased for another chance to announce that this woman was not from around here. She was not one of them. It’s a wonder that no one has set her straight, commented others, alluding to the fact that obviously the man of that house had been neglectful in his manly duties. The huddles slowly broke up as people wandered home to either put on the roast or put up their feet.
As the townsfolk walked away from church, dispersing along dirt-encrusted streets, the mumbling continued until it became just a low rumble. So low that only a few could hear it. In the hut on the edge of town, Brigid heard the rumbling, mumbling voices. As it was a Sunday, she easily guessed the sound was coming from the church. She wondered what had been said to have caused this much upset. Victoria also heard the town’s discontent, and immediately knew its cause, as she’d heard similar rumblings at school that week.
Others heard it too, those who had held firm to their place on the fringe. The real locals, whose ancestors had been living off the land for many many generations before the arrival of these newcomers, had heard that rumble as it moved through the town. They didn’t need to hear some sermon to know what was what.
Before the sun had reached its midday peak, more had packed up camp. There was no doubt big trouble was coming. The flame that would never be extinguished had been refuelled by the townsfolk’s ignorance over a child’s birthday party. That flame’s name was hate. Neither water nor sand can put that fire out, so they headed further into the desert, to wait for it to burn its way through town. They knew it would eventually die down to a more manageable ember. And then they would return, to pick up their discarded tools and resume work on the rail line. They could wait for as long as this fire took to burn through town. They were experts at waiting.
Just as during the previous exodus, some chose not to leave their hard-won place. They chose not to listen to their Elders or to see the signs. Instead, they thought of the few coins granted at the end of many backbreaking days, minus work clothing, boots and flour. Instead, they invested faith in recent hazy human rights that had been bestowed upon them after noise was raised by some do-good white people in a faraway city. Those who chose to stay in town shook their heads as more relatives left, thinking back to that recent moment, which had been declared historic, when they’d finally been allowed to cast their votes for a game of musical chairs. They weren’t going to run any more. For they trusted the words of the city folk who’d driven shiny cars into the desert just to talk with them, bringing news of what they called a brand-new day: a time in which the practice of moving them off their Country and onto missions would be outlawed. And they had been urged to leave the memories of guns and heartache, land theft and headache, in the past. Desperate for change, they chose to believe a white-man myth and not the words of Elders. This time they were staying put. They had jobs. Even if they weren’t paid as much as the other workers. This was their land. Even if they had no white-way rights to land. This was home. And their children had finally been invited to a party in town.
Those who walked away shook their heads, as they knew that the colonisers were not done with their tricks. There was no substantial change. No truth-telling. They’d simply changed the flavour of that sugary snake oil they kept peddling. Those who had seen this all before prophesied a new stream of putrid winds from those concrete cities built on the coasts. That wind was headed towards this nowhere town on the gibber plains, to blow on the existing embers of hate. They knew it was best to be far away, somewhere else, by the time that wind arrived.
Brigid, too, didn’t need to be at church that day, listening to the sermon, to know what was being talked about in the streets afterwards. She had dropped a blackened pot in soapy dishwater, left the front door swinging in the wind, and walked towards the church. Looking further ahead, she noticed the departing people who were now dots in the desert. Brigid felt a strong urge to follow them but knew she couldn’t. Much as she had stood in silence against the disapproving looks the townsfolk had directed at her and the twins, she’d also sat in silence when they’d spoken nastily of those who lived on the periphery. Brigid had made no effort to form relationships with other targets of bigotry. And had declined invitations to visit the fringe camp on numerous occasions. Maggie and Victoria had not followed their mother’s lead, and were often outside the town perimeter playing with friends. And both girls had more than once stepped in at school, fists raised, when a sunburnt child yelled hateful words at their peers. Instead of extending a hand in friendship, Brigid had chosen a place in the centre. A place devoid of convictions. A nowhere place that provided her with no supports. A place most fitting for a potato. And so, Brigid could neither follow nor lead. Like other times when feeling confronted or conflicted, she could still run.
When she saw the huddles of gossipers outside the church, Brigid returned to the hut intending to pack their cases. When she got home, and saw Maggie all dressed in pink and joyful smiles, Brigid paused. Maybe I shouldn’t uproot the girls once more. Not when Maggie was so happy here. They could stay and see how things panned out. Perhaps it was just her imagination running wild. Brigid hadn’t noticed Victoria’s expression, for if she had their luggage would have been packed without any hesitation. Victoria hadn’t needed to walk through the town for confirmation. She’d smelt whiffs of smoke on the wind. Wildfire was on its way.
Despite these snippets of insight, at this moment, on this day, Brigid and Victoria tried to quieten the whispering warnings, and instead donned brave smiles for Maggie’s sake. When the time finally arrived, Brigid escorted her daughters to the party. As they walked down the street, Maggie was oblivious to the deepening rumbles around them. Brigid heard them and frowned, clasping her daughters’ hands more tightly. Victoria heard them too, and walked with a straightened back, chin held even higher than usual. This only increased the unrest, as townspeople saw it as a defiance that was not at all acceptable.
As the family walked to the party, they slowly became a manifestation of all that was bothering the uptight citizens of the town. It’s just not right, some said. Why does that woman have that lovely little girl? Where is her real mother? Her white mother. And other thoughts arising on the lips of the many who had long puzzled over this. That can’t be her child, surely. How shameful, raising those girls as if they were sisters, others voiced. Something needs to be done, before this gets worse, some said. One person knew just what to do, and scurried towards the police station.
At the party, all was not as it should be. Only a few of the invited guests had turned up. Susie, the birthday girl, didn’t seem to
mind. From across the road, busybodies saw her standing out the front of her house, happily surrounded by happy children. Children in all shades of black, with a red-haired girl in the middle. As Susie laughed with her guests, she did not see anything wrong with the company she kept. Her mother had raised her right. The tears that she fought to hide were for her other friends from school.
What a thing to have happened, such an outbreak of disease and deepest woes on the very day of her party. Fidgeting fathers had knocked on the door all morning. Measles, they had said. A sprained ankle. Her mother is not well, she needs some help today, said at least three fathers. A death in the family, down in the city, said others. While other children were simply not there, with no messenger provided. Well, none that Susie had heard from, for her mother wanted to protect her from what was being said. Her mother was still hurting from her husband’s I-told-you-so, as he stormed off to the hotel, leaving his wife to clean up this latest mess. That said, the children who were there seemed to be having a good time.
Like all good times, however, this one would soon come to an end. While the children sang brightly by the light of candles on a cake, black wings were rushing towards the town. Brigid had already wondered whether she had made the right decision letting her children go. She knew she’d made the wrong choice the moment she heard the rumbling of vehicles approaching town. Without pausing to put on her shoes, she rushed outside and ran towards Susie’s house. As Brigid ran, from the corner of her eye she noticed moving shadows. Figures walking between buildings unseen, creeping down the streets. Brigid moved faster, worrying that she’d be too late, that it would all be over by the time she got there. With those shadows ahead of her now, Brigid knew she was not the only one who’d heard a convoy approaching. Once they reached Susie’s house, these parents politely declined the offer of a slice of cake and quickly grabbed their children’s hands. When Brigid got to the front gate, they were already running towards the red plains.
Seeing her daughters, Brigid called out, ‘Victoria, Maggie. Come on.’
Maggie didn’t hear her, so Victoria grabbed her hand. ‘We need to go. Mum is here.’
‘No. Not yet. I want to cuddle the kitties some more,’ wailed Maggie.
Victoria dragged her sister towards the gate, where their mother waited with worry on her face. In silence, Brigid led her girls towards their house, all the while listening keenly. She pulled the girls into a sliver of shadows cast by the bank. They hid in that narrow laneway, watching and listening. It was from that vantage point they saw the strangers arrive, and the sergeant’s look of self-importance as he walked out of the police station to welcome the convoy. When the two sedans stopped, the dust fell from them, revealing glossy blackness. Arriving next was what appeared to be an ex-army truck. In dull grey paint, on the side of the truck was written: Good Shepherd Aborigine Children’s Mission.
The doors of the cars opened, revealing three suit-clad men and one woman. Like a fish in a tree, she was out of place standing in the dusty street, wearing a floral-print dress, city shoes and white satin gloves. And from the truck emerged a tall, thin man wearing a tall black hat. He removed the hat and shook the dust from it before taking in his surrounds. Raven-haired, with an elongated chin as sharp as a carrion-eater’s beak, and small, dark eyes, he scanned the street. Searching.
Brigid pulled her girls back into the shadows, and whispered in their ears, ‘Be still, be as quiet as a mouse.’
She shook her head at the imagery of little mice running from an elongated, sharp-taloned birdman. Then the air was pierced by shouts. Looking out to red dirt country, Brigid saw a small canvas-clad truck driving much too quickly, creating a cloud of dust. From within this red cloud came the shouting. Young voices, and old. The cloud dispersed, revealing two men alighting from the truck’s cabin. One grabbed a child and threw them roughly into the back of the truck. One man stayed in the truck, engine running, as the two chased after the children. Bringing one after another, to throw into the truck. Small arms and legs flailed everywhere, holding on to the sides of the opening in an attempt to avoid being put inside that canvas jail.
Brigid covered her children’s eyes so they did not see what was happening to their friends. She did not have enough hands to cover ears as well, so they heard every screaming child and every wailing parent. Children were prised from mothers’ arms, fathers were knocked out of the way, until the truck was full of writhing children. The white men got back in the cabin and drove towards town. Tear-streaked brown faces peered back at their parents.
While this was happening, the three suited men had ordered some nearby townsfolk to bring out a trestle table and chairs from the school. The tall man stayed beside his vehicle, black hat in his hands. The men in suits, along with the woman, sat down at the table. The canvas-covered truck stopped nearby, and three muscular men in overalls got out. One went to the back of the truck and randomly pulled out a child. The others kept an eye on the parents who had finally caught up to the truck.
A man surged forward and called out, ‘Polly!’
The child stopped wriggling, and said between sobs, ‘Daddy.’
The sergeant stepped into view and stood next to the three burly men. Hand on his government-issued gun, he shook his head at Polly’s father, who stopped, unable to do anything other than watch in disbelief. Kin stood beside him, and an older man reached out and placed an arm around his shoulders. Snippets of chattering drifted from front yards as clusters of townsfolk gathered. And eyes could be seen from more than one parlour window along the street. Polly was taken to where the men, and one woman, sat at the trestle table.
One man studied her. ‘She looks very small for her age.’
Polly’s father called out, ‘No, she’s tall for a five-year-old.’
The man said, ‘Looks small to me. Perhaps even malnourished. What do you think, Mrs Jones?’
The woman stared at Polly. ‘Obviously neglected, Mr Whyte.’
Mr Whyte, nodded. ‘Record that in the book, Smith. Polly…surname?’
Polly’s father answered, ‘Walsh.’
Mr Smith read out what he’d written: ‘Polly Walsh was removed from her family on this day, due to neglect.’
‘Put her back in the truck,’ ordered Whyte.
Her father rushed forward, trying to reach his daughter.
One of the overalled men held him back, while another carried the wriggling girl back to the truck. He then pulled out another child to bring before the well-dressed strangers.’
Whyte, who appeared to be in charge, said, ‘Pull up his sleeve.’
As the guards did this, Mrs Jones got up and walked towards the boy.
She grabbed the boy’s left arm. ‘Tut tut. There appear to be signs of abuse.’
The boy whispered, ‘Mosquito bites, ma’am.’
‘I doubt that. There is no need to cover for your parents.’
Whyte looked towards Pastor Thomas. ‘What’s this one’s name?’
His wife answered instead: ‘Sam Goodes, sir. And he’s a good boy, with caring parents. He often gets mosquito bites because he plays cricket on the pitch next to the town’s dam in the evenings.’
‘Have you recorded that name, Mr Smith? Good. You, take him back to the truck.’
One of the strong men did as they were told, then dragged back another child to stand before the formidable Mr Whyte. He and Mrs Jones kept making judgements, which Smith recorded in the large leather-clad book, until there were no more children to stand before the table. Eventually the parents stood in silence, accepting that there was nothing they could do. The sergeant had just stood there, hand still firmly on his gun, keeping his sight on them. There was no one who could stop this injustice. Not when the perpetrators were backed by the law of disorder.
As a shadow passed over him, the silent third man at the table quickly stood up.
‘Pastor Bertrand,’ he sputtered. ‘Please, take my seat. Would you like a glass of water?’
The man
who had been standing by his vehicle, watching intently, shook his head. Standing above everyone, he looked around. He then beckoned the sergeant with a wave of two fingers.
‘Where are they?
The sergeant frowned. ‘Who, Pastor?’
‘The girls I was contacted about. Twins, I believe. They’ve not been brought forward.’
‘Mrs Thomas,’ called the sergeant. ‘Have you seen…what are their blasted names…those girls?’
Mrs Thomas stepped forward, her husband hovering behind her. She looked up at Pastor Bertrand, and shivered. He had a discomforting presence. Mrs Thomas hoped the rumours she’d heard of him were not true.
Pastor Bertrand scowled. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Victoria and Margaret,’ answered Pastor Thomas, as he moved to stand beside his wife.
‘And they are where?’
‘Home, I suppose. Their mother doesn’t bring them to church.’
Pastor Bertrand reached for the large crucifix that rested on his chest. He closed his eyes, moving his lips in silence. He opened his eyes suddenly, and looked down the dusty road.
‘I will find them. They will be sent away, to join these other brats,’ he asserted, waving a hand towards the truck-full of sobbing children.
Mrs Jones and the three men stood up, and gathered the paperwork. With a quick farewell to Pastor Bertrand, they left. The canvas-covered truck and black cars pulled out of town, the sounds of distraught children becoming fainter and fainter. With looks of despair on their faces, and shoulders sagging in defeat, their parents walked back to their dwellings. Talk of petitioning the authorities, of tracking their children, would happen over the next few months, but for now they sat by their fires in silence. Slowly, the townspeople emerged from their homes. With mixed feelings. Some felt it was only right, as these children would now be given a real chance to prove themselves worthy. Others felt empathy for the bereaved parents. Regardless of these twinges of humanity, they still didn’t lend a hand to console the families. Instead, they remained compliant witnesses to the theft of a generation. Even if the shouts and tears had nipped at a few hearts, pricked their consciences, they did nothing. After all, it’s best for the children, really it is, mused mild-mannered mothers. Can’t have them running all around the countryside willy-nilly, stressed the menfolk. Hard work and a firm hand will enable those little ones to grow more god-fearing like us, and less like their faithless parents, muttered stony matrons. It’s the law, and the law must be served, stated the sergeant to his puzzled wife. Suffer little children to come unto me, muttered Pastor Bertrand, arms outstretched, as he watched the dust of departing vehicles.
