Sister Kathleen leaned over to me and took my hand, ‘You’ve lived with that all your life, Mary? I can’t believe that anyone could behave that way. That was murder what your father did.’
She paused to draw breath, then asked, ‘Did your mother really believe that stuff about the witch?’
‘Oh, Sister, but of course she did. We all did. We still do.’
I told her all my sleep problems dated from this violent event and that I began to have terrifying nightmares where I would wake each night and feel a heavy weight on my chest. As I struggled to see what caused it I spied a stunted goblin type monster sitting on me – the changeling perhaps. Even when it moved from my chest to the corner of the bedroom I was totally paralysed with fear.
Sister Kathleen didn’t know what to say at first. She shook her head in disbelief and walked around the verandah adjusting her cap. Then she said, ‘I’ve heard about this type of nightmare but I never knew people really had them. I thought they only happened in books. I just don’t know what to say, but I won’t be able to sleep now. Mary, I know you are a good storyteller, but I know you didn’t make this up. I’m sorry, I have to go now, and it’s my day off tomorrow. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
She led me back to my room and gave me a reassuring pat on my arm before leaving me.
6
A few evenings later, Sister Kathleen called by before going on night duty. She found me sitting in my room knitting the tiny baby clothes that kept me busy. She drew up the spare chair, ‘Seeing you with those tiny booties, Mary, reminds me that we haven’t spoken about the baby in your family, your youngest sister, Bertha. Can you tell me about her? I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I am curious to know what she was like. They say she was a very pretty girl.’
‘You’d best sit down and make yourself comfortable while I think a moment or two how best to tell you about her.’ And soon I began.
When Pauline and I first shared the three-quarter iron bedstead, Bertha, being the youngest, slept in Mother’s room on a makeshift bed. The situation changed when I went to work in Adelaide.
Bertha was a thorn in my side from the time she was born when I was ten-and-a-half years old. Father insisted she be named after Mother, Johanne Elizabeth, but she was always called Bertha. Pauline was the eldest, twelve-and-a-half years of age at that time. After me there followed a tribe of four brothers ranging from nine down to two years of age. There was no chance to catch one’s breath or have a moment of peace with the work they made for Pauline and me. They were demanding, always hungry, grubby and naughty. From the time Mother thought we were capable, Pauline and I were placed in charge of looking after them. Although it was hard work, Mother was fair in her expectations of us. But this all changed with the arrival of Bertha.
Bertha was completely different to August and Willy who were different again from the older brothers, Frederick and Heinrich. And she was nothing like Pauline or me. She was the odd one in the family, a real spitfire who liked having fun by playing tricks or teasing her brothers to get her own back for terrifying her. Her fiery temper matched Father’s and my own. Being the baby of the family, she was treated as one and got away with murder. When I returned from Adelaide I spoke to her in English, while speaking to Mother and Father in a mixture of German and Wendish. She wanted to be a schoolteacher when she left school so it was important for her to speak English fluently. I helped her where possible. My two years in Adelaide had greatly improved my spoken English, but I still couldn’t read or write very well. Bertha was the smartest, too big and cocky for her own boots in our family. She took the most risks and regularly tested Father’s authority.
When she was born after a crop of grubby boys, Mother drooled over her new baby love. Until Bertha’s arrival, Pauline as first born and first daughter, was Mother’s favourite. I couldn’t help feeling jealous. Yet Pauline, who had more reason than me to feel jealous of the newest baby, was long-suffering and never complained. Pauline had room in her heart for all of us and if she felt the new baby had now become Mother’s favourite, she never showed it. If anything, she added to the spoiling of Bertha and loved her like her own. But I never did.
Speaking of Bertha brought back so many mixed thoughts. ‘It is so difficult to speak about her. You have no idea how much trouble she caused in the family. Although she was my sister, I can’t say I showed her sisterly love.’
Sister Kathleen asked gently, ‘Would you like to call it a night? I can see you are tired.’
‘No, it’s all right. I want to continue as I need to cleanse myself of these memories. I’ve carried it around for far too long.
When we should have been at school, Mother often kept Pauline and me at home to help with the never-ending laundry, cleaning, patching of worn-out clothes and preparation of food. Apart from this, we ran round after the boys changing their clothes, wiping their dirty faces and hands and feeding them. They were like naughty puppies.
As if this wasn’t enough, Bertha was different. She grew up spoilt, disobedient and sneaky. If she cried she was nursed, if not by Mother, certainly by Pauline. When she demanded food, she was fed there and then. Whatever she wanted, she was given. While the rest of us were familiar with the sting of Mother’s hand or Father’s flicking whip for minor crimes, Bertha did not suffer these punishments. And while Mother spent hours besotted by the cute baby, we were given more chores. Whereas we whacked the boys if they misbehaved, smacking Bertha risked a clout from Mother, who reminded us, ‘I’ve told you before, I’ll deal with Bertha.’
Nothing was straightforward with Bertha. Pauline knew how to manage her, but I didn’t. She interfered in the brief amount of time I could have to myself. When I tried to sneak away for a lone walk along the nearby lane towards the creek, Mother would know and before I had walked far I’d hear her shouting, ‘If you’re going for a walk, take Bertha with you.’
I’d reply, ‘Do I have too? It’s not fair. I just want to get away from her so I can be on my own for a while.’ I’d grumble with disbelief and irritation, but it was pointless disobeying for if I did so, I’d be forbidden to take a walk. Then she’d skip and run about me as we headed down the track, and chatter, chatter, chatter. All I wanted was a few minutes of peace now and again, but this was difficult when Bertha demanded my attention.
Apart from looking after the brothers or Bertha, we were given specific chores from an early age, and Father ensured we completed them. I looked after the pigs and the two cows while Pauline was responsible for the poultry and most of the cooking. Life on our farm was one of hard work and dreary routine. Father made sure we were never idle. We livened our existences any way we could and visitors were seen as a welcome diversion. However, not all were welcomed by Father.
And so I began the story of Mr Khan, the Afghan hawker.
7
Father never liked hawkers or travelling salesmen calling in at the farm. We believed this was because he was ashamed of our poor state. We looked forward to these colourful visitors because they distracted us from the gruelling and tedious farm chores and the feeling of isolation. Mother liked these visitors too and sometimes bought a comb, a new pair of scissors, cloth, ribbons or some miracle potion such as Sea Foam, a pink mixture that we were told cured anything and everything. The hawkers brought colourful wares for us to see and showed little knick-knacks and baubles that women liked, especially women so far from city shops. As the hawkers declared themselves fortune tellers as well, this was an added treat when Father was well away. We were eager to know what the future held in store for us. In our dull lives, they gave us hope by telling us our fortunes.
These travellers called often until Father suddenly took exception to one of the Afghan hawkers. Because of the heat and dust in summertime, and the long journeys between stops, Mother always offered a traveller a cool drink of water or some morsel that might be available. But one such day Father had cross words with Mr Khan, one of the hawkers, because Father believed he had been overly familiar wi
th Pauline. Father saw their behaviour as flirting, and flirting as loose and immoral behaviour, especially if one of his own daughters was involved.
Mr Khan was tall and handsome, with sea-green eyes, and he cut a romantic figure in his flowing white robes, saffron turban and long black waistcoat. It was difficult to know how old he was for his black beard hid most of his face. From his white teeth and the slight crow’s-foot wrinkles around his smiling eyes, I thought he must be only in his early thirties, an ideal age for Pauline. My eyes often lingered on him too, and when our eyes met, I was charmed.
We had become friendly with Mr Khan over a period of time, a man not only cannily informed but so charming. He would display lovely cloth, pointing out how it matched our eyes or our hair. One time he held red ribbon up to my hair, and I was left wondering what he meant when he called me a butterfly and put his hands together to copy the actions of the flitting creature. Mother put her hand to her mouth and gave me a worried look. I thought it an innocent comment and laughed. I asked him, ‘Mr Khan, whom will I marry?’
Shaking his head he responded, as he always did, ‘Sorry, Missy, I cannot tell you.’ I noticed he couldn’t answer my sisters’ questions on this most important topic either. This was the one and only piece of information we were really interested in. Yet he never answered.
On the day Mr Khan was brazenly flirting with Pauline while showing her pretty ribbons, he had forgotten to tie up his hungry horse which wandered, complete with cart, into one of the barns where our meagre hay supplies were stored. It was there that father found the hungry animal tucking in for a feed and removed the horse by grabbing the reins and pressing down on the bit. Mr Khan was run off the farm at gunpoint. We were dismayed at Father’s violent outburst. We couldn’t understand his behaviour. Mother explained, ‘Your father is worried that the hawker will take Pauline away. He remembers what happened to his mother.’
Mr Khan’s visit that day didn’t end the matter for Father continued to curse and shout at him whenever they met on the road. Not long after, Frederick was returning from Sedan one afternoon when he saw Father and the Afghan feuding on the track leading to the farm. Father blocked Mr Khan’s way and was trying to force him to turn back by aiming a shotgun at him. When Frederick arrived, Father retracted the terrible weapon and the hawker turned back. Father shouted after him, ‘Keep away from my womenfolk, or else.’
Four weeks later, about the time we next expected him to visit, Mr Khan was found dead with a fractured skull on the roadside near Sedan. It was decided at the inquest that he must have fallen from his wagon, there was no other explanation for the blow to his head. The weal on his arm and across his face, however, couldn’t be explained. But we all knew Father was fond of using his whip.
When we heard of Mr Khan’s death we were horrified and Pauline wept uncontrollably. I was rather surprised at this outpouring of sorrow and it made me suspicious something else had been going on. Mother kept telling the distraught Pauline to pull herself together, telling her, ‘My girl, he was only a hawker and you didn’t really know him, a foreigner, not even a Christian.’
Such remarks failed to comfort Pauline. She would fly out of the door and into the paddock where she sobbed all the louder. Mother never told Father the reason why Pauline was always crying, she kept inventing other excuses such as her favourite lamb dying. We talked of Mr Khan’s death between ourselves for months afterwards, but whenever Father was present we remained silent. We wondered why he refused to discuss the death. After all, Father was always free with his opinions and advice, yet when Mr Khan was concerned, Father remained silent.
Frederick also had his suspicions, telling us, ‘I know Father has something to do with this.’
Mother was shocked, ‘How can you accuse your father of such a terrible crime?’
‘Mother, you weren’t there that day. When I came across them on the roadway, Father was pointing the gun right in Mr Khan’s face and shouting at him to keep away from his daughters. Mr Khan just sat there bravely, refusing to defend himself, or budge.’
‘But that doesn’t prove anything,’ Mother answered.
‘Father threatened to thrash him. What are we to believe? And rumours abound at the pub.’
Startled, Mother asked, ‘Since when have you been going to the pub?’
‘I don’t, my friends go there and they told me. They’ve been asking me questions about Father. They all know that he treats us harshly and sometimes whips us. And Mr Khan had unexplained whip welts on him.’
‘Surely not, son? Who is spreading such wicked rumours about what goes on in this house? What business is it of theirs?’
‘I’m sure no one is at all interested what goes on here normally, but when such things as unexplained deaths happen in this sleepy district, people will question anybody to get the answers they want. Look, I plan to leave here when I find a position on a cattle station up north. I’m not willing to put up with his whip and temper any longer. And if I can’t find a situation soon, I’ll go and live with Grandpa at Eden Valley. They’ve told me I can go there any time.’
Mother put her hand to her mouth and gasped with dismay when Frederick reminded her that family matters such as Father’s brutality were discussed, just as was everyone else’s business in Towitta and Sedan.
For weeks after Mr Khan’s death, Father was edgy and barely spoke, not even to Mother. Surely Father wouldn’t be so stupid as to murder an innocent hawker. The inquest findings declared it a tragic accident, but each night after we went to bed we would discuss it as a murder, for that’s what we believed it to be.
Pauline was more affected by his death than the rest of us. It seemed to trigger off some deep-held fears about our own situation, of our isolation on a dusty farm. Each day she spoke of her wish to be rescued by some young man passing through, someone like Mr Khan. She was older than me and her chances of marriage were slipping away, as were Mother’s when she married Father. After Mr Khan’s suspicious death, our storytelling included new tales of Arabian sheiks riding frisky white Arab stallions who rescued fair maidens from imprisonment. We shared our fantasies about Mr Khan, that he was really a sheik. Pauline told me she should have run away with him when she had the chance.
Not long after, Pauline fell sick with tuberculosis. During her fevers she fantasised about what could have been between her and the handsome Afghan. The doctor told Mother that such fantasies were part of the condition. He also told us she could have fits and have unusually strong feelings towards men.
Pauline made sure we did not forget Mr Khan, and she convinced us about Father’s involvement in his death. Despite the chronic illness that made Pauline weak, she found the energy to be a good hater of Father. She blocked him from her life by avoiding him and never talking with him unless it was necessary. Mother was the natural buffer between us and Father. She soothed many blazing outbursts of blame and criticism.
At this point Sister Kathleen said she didn’t want to hear any more of the story that evening for she was upset about the handsome and innocent Mr Khan. When I said I had more to tell her about Father and his violence she said she didn’t want to hear any more for now, she needed time think about what I’d told her. It was nearly a week before she came to see me again. I hadn’t seen her around the hospital and I thought maybe she was avoiding me, but she told me she had been ill for several days. She also told me she couldn’t stop thinking about my family having to live with Father’s violence, and that the story about the charming Mr Khan had so upset her that it made her cry as though she’d known him herself.
‘Honestly, Mary, I think if I’d been there, I’d have taken the shotgun to your father myself.’
‘I can tell you, there was never a day I didn’t have those feelings. But you think these things, you never carry them out.’
8
When we sat down to talk, I asked if she felt strong enough to listen to more of the story that followed Mr Khan’s death, for she was still clearly upset by what
I had told her.
‘Of course I want to hear the story, all of it. When I went home last week I felt very sad about the Afghan hawker you spoke about and it took days to get over it. But I am ready.’
I was curious, ‘Where is home exactly?’
‘I go home to Angaston on the train when I have several days off together. That’s where my mother and father live. My father used to be a publican there, but since he’s retired, they live on the edge of the town where they raise poultry and a few animals.’
‘When you went home, did you tell them about me?’
‘Not Father, but I did tell Mother when we were alone. After you told me about Mr Khan I had to talk about it. I was very upset about that, Mary.’
‘I wish you hadn’t but I understand your need to share this sad story. What does she think about you knowing me?’
‘She told me to be careful.’
We looked at each other and laughed.
The Noon Lady of Towitta Page 5
