by Di Morrissey
‘Sad, terribly sad. For my mother especially, who never knew the truth and must have always blamed herself for his death because she pushed him so much about moving to Sydney. And she obviously never asked any questions about the circumstances of his accident.’ Lara sighed. ‘And I feel angry. That you’re the only person left who knows the truth about my father being misjudged all these years.’
Phyllis nodded and took another sip of her drink and tucked the handkerchief in a pocket of her smart red jacket. ‘Well, I’ll make sure the rest of the family know. But really, dear, as time has gone on, it will be lovely to set the record straight,’ sighed Phyllis.
‘The rest of the family? You mean your daughter? And my daughter too of course.’ Lara wondered if this might be an opportunity to remind Phyllis how much knowing about one’s family meant. She thought of Barbara, Phyllis’s first child from the brief relationship she had before she married Cyril and which she never talked about. ‘It means a lot to know one’s family history. Good and bad. It’s not a matter of passing judgment or criticising people for something that happened at a different time. It’s just needing to know the truth.’
Lara waited for this to sink in, but Phyllis let it pass. She had no idea that Lara knew the story of her daughter and she showed no flicker or any pang of guilt or hidden knowledge but sailed on with the conversation. Wily old bird, thought Lara. But then she suddenly fully understood what Phyllis was implying.
‘Not just our children. The rest of the Richards clan,’ explained Phyllis. ‘Kevin and Keith, sadly passed on now, but each had five children, so they’re your cousins. They all have kids as well. You’ve got dozens of cousins and relatives scattered here and there, Lara, dear.’
‘Where are they?’ She’d been so focused on her father she hadn’t given his family much thought. ‘Do they know about me?’
Phyllis hesitated. ‘To be truthful, I’m not sure. Keith and Kevin knew about Elizabeth’s pregnancy. I think it hurt my mother very much that she never got to see you.’
‘My grandmother, I suppose,’ said Lara, thinking back to the feisty and protective Emily. Sudden flashes of her grandmother’s pursed lips and comments like, ‘We don’t talk about that, dear. Some things are best forgotten,’ came to mind.
‘I doubt the boys’ children know about you. Would you like to meet them? I’m in touch with most of them. Sometimes Patrick and Kev Junior and the girls pop in to see me when they’re up this way. They take me out to see Mum and Dad. They’re buried together out at the coast where they retired. Old Sand cemetery,’ she added in explanation as Lara looked confused.
‘I hadn’t really considered the possibility of finding a whole family network when I started on this journey,’ said Lara. ‘I need time to think about this. They might not want to know me anyway as the families didn’t get on.’
‘Nonsense. They don’t care about the old days. You have every right to look them up. You’ll like them. And they’ll love you. And your daughter, I’m sure. She’s got loads of second cousins too.’ Phyllis patted Lara’s hand. ‘You talk it over with your daughter. Shall we order lunch?’
‘It’s your call, Mum,’ said Dani after hearing the story from Lara. ‘I’m happy to meet them but we’re all busy with our own lives and maybe some lost relative turning up is only of passing interest. We probably haven’t anything in common even if their kids are my age.’ But seeing Lara’s expression of some longing, she said more gently. ‘But their parents, the children of Clem’s brothers, maybe you should contact them. They might have some good stories about their Uncle Clem.’
‘I’ll see,’ said Lara. ‘We have enough going on at present. Barney wants us to go over to Chesterfield early tomorrow morning. Really early, and have breakfast, and he’ll take the kids to school.’
‘You mean like sunrise? What for?’
‘A little ceremony with Max. Just to acknowledge what Barney’s found out about his family,’ said Lara.
‘Maybe that’s what you need to do, Mum. Have a little ceremony,’ suggested Dani. She gave her mother a hug. ‘Let’s finish tidying up your grandfather’s grave. You can tell Poppy about Clem.’
‘Carter has found the most beautiful piece of wood in the forest. Like a sculpture. I’m going to ask him if he’ll cement it next to Poppy’s grave.’ Lara got up feeling better. ‘I’ll see you at Chesterfield tomorrow morning.’
As Dani and a sleepy Tim drove along the dirt road from The Vale on Monday morning, a delicate mist was clinging to the damp grass of the hillsides, the creek was just a silvery band glimpsed through wraith like trails of chiffon or tulle, thought Dani. Some paddocks smelled sweetly of ploughed earth. The first birdcalls echoed across the valley.
How comfortable she felt here. She woke each morning with images and ideas sparking in her mind and grabbed her cup of tea and hurried into the studio. How different to waking and dreading going into the office that had been her life for so long.
She was doing more things with Tim. He loved what he considered his independence, living part time in town with his grandmother, having his own circle of friends and activities. But The Vale was home. ‘Home,’ he told Dani, ‘is where my pony is.’ Even though he didn’t own the pony, Jason had made him feel that Blackie belonged to him and allowed him to now keep it at The Vale.
Because of Tim’s enthusiasm, his father Jeff had agreed to come and see Tim compete in his next riding event. Dani suggested Jeff stay at The Vale with Tim while she took a trip to Sydney. A hit of city life and friends wouldn’t go astray. Lara wanted her to check on the state of her house and garden. And Dani still had some unanswered questions about the fate of Isabella.
Lara too was out early. She drove through the sleeping town, over the old railway bridge, towards Riverwood. In the pre-dawn morning stillness gum trees arched proudly over fences and the road, layers of bark protectively hugging their silky trunks. Such dignity, she thought, taking in the variety of tranquil green curtains. In the very early light they seemed almost delicate. Yet they weather storms, they hold tight, remaining rooted in the land that nurtures them. It seemed to Lara that if only one’s life, one’s family, could be assured of such belonging – open to the sky, the elements, other creatures, bending and surviving harsh conditions but always reaching up upwards.
The mist had lifted from the dewy grass and the clouds had risen to the top of the ridges. Lara recalled so vividly the dripping leaves and damp air of that grey morning on the mountain. She wondered if she’d ever see Thommo again. She did not plan to go to the strange mountain village any time soon. Dani had said she might go up there with Jason as he’d given money to the locals to help improve the odd little house that was the music hang-out for the young people. It was a nice gesture though Jason claimed it was just to say thanks for helping them out on that scary night.
What good friends they had in this community, how full and happy was her life here, as was that of her daughter and grandson. Lara loved her home in Sydney but it couldn’t offer what she had here. And when the Clerks came back to Cricklewood from their round-Australia trip, where would she stay?
Maybe she should look into buying a little holiday cottage here in the valley, mused Lara. Jason’s villas and homes in the linked villages would do extremely well, she thought, perhaps she should buy one.
She passed a farmer driving fresh produce into town and they exchanged friendly waves. Soon she drove over the hill into Riverwood, the majestic river that wound through the valley as breathtaking as ever.
As she went down the driveway to Chesterfield, Ratso raced out to bark a welcome. Max was standing on the verandah with Len and Julian in their school uniforms. Toby and Tabatha hurried across the lawn as Lara pulled up.
‘C’mon, Lara, we have to do this before the sunrise,’ they called.
She followed them around to the front of the main house where Max’s wife Sarah, Barney and Helen, Angela and Tony, Dani, Tim and Jolly were gathered by the old flagpole on the lawn.
Barney gave her a hug as Max and his two children followed.
‘Thanks for coming, Lara. This is just a little flag ceremony but I wanted you guys to be here.’
Lara looked at the folded flag ready to be raised. ‘The Aboriginal flag! Barney, how lovely,’ she exclaimed.
They stood in a circle and watched Max, carrying his didgeridoo, move next to Barney at the flagpole.
Max gazed across the lawn to the river, the floodplain, the paddocks and hills in the pearly light where the gold of the sun was beginning to show. In his soft and gentle voice he began: ‘This land has seen my people gather here for millennia. To hunt and feast, to sing and for ceremony. It has always been a bountiful place, a beautiful place, though it has seen its share of sadness too. It is a land rich in Dreaming. Ancient spirits of the earth creator live here and we are privileged to be custodians of this heritage. The old people have gone, but for those of us who’ve returned it makes my heart glad to see the land being cared for and respected by Barney, and Helen.’ He paused and smiled at Barney and held out his hand. ‘Welcome home, brother. There are ancient memories here, hold them safe.’
Barney, tears in his eyes, gave Max a brief embrace. Turning to the flagpole Barney took the ropes in his hand and said solemnly, ‘I will respect this place, this country, the people who first knew this valley. From my people, to my people.’ He touched his heart and then gestured towards his grandchildren, Toby and Tabatha.
Max lowered his head to the didgeridoo. The haunting sound wailed across the valley, as beautiful as birdsong, as powerful as a waterfall, a sad call to memory, a throbbing promise to the future.
Slowly Barney raised the black, red and gold flag, as Angela proudly beat a rhythm with two clapsticks she’d brought with her. Everyone joined hands and they all had tears in their eyes. The dogs sat quietly, perhaps respecting the presence of beings and creatures they could sense and feel but could not see.
At the top of the flagpole a breeze, as if freed by the first light of dawn, blew the flag out full and strong. They all gazed up at the triumphantly waving flag as the final notes of the ancient instrument rolled over the river.
Suddenly Ratso took off after a wild rabbit and the spell was broken. Hands wiped away tears and Lara and Dani gave Barney a hug.
‘Breakfast on the verandah,’ announced Helen. ‘Then kids to school!’
Cedartown, 1954
Emily took the strand of white carved ivory beads from the little green jar, its lid topped by the figure of a clown, which sat on her dressing table. She clasped them round her neck to dress up her simple button-through, flowered cotton dress. Despite the heat she wore nylons, a girdle and white shoes with a solid small heel and straw hat. Picking up her handbag she went out onto the back verandah.
‘I’ll be off then, Harold.’
‘Righto, love.’ He put down the spade and went to the back steps, took off his gardening hat and gave her a kiss. Say hello to the ladies for me.’
‘I’ll do that. All of them,’ she chuckled.
Emily went to the front gate where Mrs Glossop from the CWA was waiting in her car. They drove out of town towards Hungerford then veered along the old road to Planters Field. The scattering of fringe dwellers’ homes looked so temporary – yet it had been this way for years. The Aboriginal mission settlement, known as the black’s camp, was considered an eyesore, largely ignored by the whites of the region. The white manager and his wife were unable to improve conditions because of the lack of funds.
Some months before at a Country Women’s Association meeting in Cedartown a light-skinned Aboriginal woman from Planters Field was introduced as Margaret James. She stood up and asked the ladies if they could help her get something going for the women and kids at the settlement. She surprised the members with her request and also by the fact that she was so well spoken and, as they commented over a cup of tea afterwards, seemed to be ‘just like one of us’.
‘Why not bake some cakes and sell them at our fete to raise some money for your community?’ was one suggestion.
Margaret James stared at the well-meaning lady. ‘We have no stoves in our houses, which is why we have to cook over an open hearth fire or use a camp oven,’ she explained.
‘Your homes have no stoves!’ The ladies were shocked. And so a small group made improving the lot of the families at Planters Field a priority. Emily was one of the first to join the little committee.
‘And you know, Harold, most of their little houses are very clean and tidy,’ said Emily to her husband after her first visit.
Every three weeks Emily and the other volunteers visited the community where they met with Margaret James who gathered together the other women to listen to the wisdom of the white ladies. How to clean sores, treat simple wounds, make wholesome meals, bathe babies.
Emily hoped they were making some inroads, despite the lack of facilities. Over time Margaret, with her deeply wrinkled olive skin, and Emily, still proud of her fair English complexion, became friends.
Emily told her, ‘I always believed England was home. Until I took my two little girls back for a trip after coming here as a bride. Back there, I started to miss things. The birds, raucous and loud, not like the sweet trills of English birds. The bush. Our town. And I realised this was my home. So when I had a chance to do this . . . I thought I should,’ she finished lamely, unable to put into words her deep and confused feelings. Emily had begun to understand more clearly just how much misery and deprivation these families faced, rejected by the whites and struggling to survive.
‘Most of the old ways are gone, Mrs Williams,’ sighed Margaret James. ‘I worry about our kids’ future. Not many opportunities for them in the white man’s world.’
‘What happened to your family?’ asked Emily tentatively. She hadn’t thought it polite to enquire about her friend’s personal life.
‘Before I married Russell James I was raised in a mission. I had a brother but we were sent to different schools and I’ve lost touch with him. He was sent out west somewhere. But I went back to the orphanage and I managed to find out where my family came from. So I came back here. My great-grandfather was a white man who took up with a black girl. She was murdered with her baby. Their boy was my grandfather. My mother died when I was quite young and one day the Protection Board officer came round and nabbed me, took me away in a truck and I never saw my family again. But now, at least, I know their story.’
‘My goodness,’ said Emily. ‘So your family has always been in this district?’
‘Yes, indeed. Their name was Holmes. Grandad was called Kelly. There’s a creek named for him. But it’s a bad spirit place.’ Margaret turned away. ‘People in this town don’t know what the proper story, proper history is round here.’
It was never mentioned again, but some nights, sitting by the fire at Cricklewood, Emily and Harold occasionally discussed the great divide between the people of their town: those from the wealthier families who saw themselves as the social elite, the middle class, the poor and the occasionally glimpsed people from the blacks’ camp.
‘Do you ever think things will change? That people will realise we’re really all God’s children under the sun?’ mused Emily. ‘Next time little Lara comes for holidays I’m going to take her out there to meet Mrs James. She’s a very interesting lady. And she knows some legends and stories from her people. I’m sure Lara would enjoy hearing them.’
‘You do that, dear,’ said Harold, proud of his English rose who’d bloomed and flourished so strongly in this tough Australian sun.
Lara
Late each morning Lara settled on the front verandah at Cricklewood with her pot of tea and either a book or the newspaper. More often than not she simply sat there, sipping her tea, enjoying the sun and the breeze that came from the river.
This morning, after the moving flag-raising ceremony at Chesterfield, the newspaper lay unopened as she watched the postie putt-putt her way down the road on her motor scooter. She stopped outside C
ricklewood and Lara walked to the gate where they exchanged chit chat about the weather, and the fish she’d caught on the weekend. She then shuffled the letters in her hand and gave Lara three.
‘One from the Clerks. WA postmark, they are getting around, aren’t they,’ said the postie.
‘Yes, a big trip. I’ll be a bit sorry when they get back here. I might have to find a place of my own to buy,’ said Lara.
‘I’ll keep my eyes open for you then, Lara. I get to hear what’s what around here. Hooroo, see you soon.’ She continued down the street as Lara returned to the verandah thinking the postie probably did know everyone’s business and might well hear of a house for sale.
She tore open the Clerks’ letter, posted from Broome. Kristian Clerk had written in part:
We are still enjoying our journey, what a magnificent country this is. It would take several big trips to see it all. Which we well may do in the coming years. I hope all is well back there, Dick asks if the orange trees are bearing well. Now, we wanted you to know that there has been a change in our plans for the future. Dick’s mother has died in Holland and left us her house. We are considering moving back there to live to be near family and to come out to Australia and travel perhaps each year or so. Which means we would, sadly, have to sell Cricklewood.
There is no rush, but if we do, Dick thought, because of your family attachment, you might be interested or your daughter might want to buy it. Think it over and let us know. I have attached the rest of our itinerary . . .
Lara’s hand started to shake as she looked around her at the old red bricks warming in the sun that her grandfather had helped put in place. Her grandparents’ hands were everywhere about this house and garden. Her mother had grown up here, as had Lara. It held so many memories. The thought of having the house back in the family was wonderful.
