Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

  After a series of examinations and tests, the specialists at Christies verified the authenticity of Hannah’s journal. Finding proof of Thomas’s transfer of land to the Gadigal people proved a little more difficult, the original records of deed and title having been destroyed, along with land occupancy records from the beginning of the colony, in the Garden Palace fire of 1883.

  A search for the solicitors who had handled the conveyancing also proved fruitless. WR Patterson and Son had long ceased to exist, fading into obscurity during World War I. Rob refused to give up, however. If needs be, he would go into battle with nothing but Hannah’s journal, though he was sure there would be records somewhere. There had to be.

  He found them in the Westpac archives. Extracts from the original document initialled by Thomas and a surveyor’s plans with measurements to the inch. WR Patterson and Son had been verythorough. There was even a note, written by Thomas Kendall himself.

  His was no neat copperplate hand like that of his granddaughter. His was the clumsy hand of a self-taught man, but his message was concise and to the point.

  I have no doubt that, upon my death, my daughter-in-law, Mary Kendle, will attempt to reclaim Wolawara’s land as her own. Should she, or her offspring, make any such attempt, either to run stock on the aforesaid land, or to construct any form of building upon it, she is to be prevented at all costs.

  Rob visited Parramatta to discover that the area mapped out in the surveyor’s report was preserved as public parkland. Further enquiries disclosed that the vacant land had been used for so long as a common walkway that the council had finally converted it into a public park.

  All that was left to do now was to convince the government to open its own investigation into the rights of the Gadigal tribe to the lands given them by Thomas Kendall.

  It took Rob Farinelli five years, for the issue was delicate. The country was in turmoil over the granting of native land rights, some suggesting that if this case succeeded, there would be nothing to stop claims to suburban backyards.

  Rob patiently argued that this was not an indigenous land rights claim at all, but the simple return of property to its legally documented owners. He curbed his anger and frustration as he did so. He wanted to scream, ‘If this was a white person’s claim, there’d be no question of ownership, would there?’ but he didn’t, it would serve no purpose. Perhaps he had at last learned the value of diplomacy.

  With reluctance, the government finally agreed to an investigation. In the lengthy course of the proceedings, the Black Town case was cited as a precedent for refusing the claim.

  In 1920, the land at Black Town which had been originally granted by Governor Macquarie to the members of the Dharruk tribe was taken over by the Aboriginal Protection Board and the descendants of the grantees evicted. Many years later, it was decided that the grantees had abandoned their rights by moving off the land.

  Rob turned the case to his advantage. The Dharruk descendants had been forcibly removed, he said, and by the Aboriginal ‘Protection’ Board, the same board which had systematically taken children from their parents to be raised by white families, more often than not as unpaid workers.

  It was 1998 and the issue of the ‘stolen generation’ was inflaming the nation. Should the Australian government make an official apology to the thousands of Aborigines who had been taken from their families in the 1950s and 60s? Children, now adults, who had been cheated not only of filial love, but of their culture and their very identity? Many believed an apology was essential.

  But such inhumanity was practised long before the 50s and 60s, Rob argued. ‘Well over a hundred years earlier,’ he said, ‘Aboriginal families were being torn apart by the do-gooders of white society. What better way to make some gesture of reparation than to grant the Gadigal people the land which is legally theirs?’

  A year later, the government took action. The eyes of the world being upon Sydney, host city to the 2000 Olympics, a humane gesture to the country’s indigenous people was considered politically advantageous. And in the spring of 1999, Thomas Kendall’s land at Parramatta was finally restored to its rightful owners.

  Kitty Farinelli stood beside her son as the assembled company awaited the arrival of the Premier of New South Wales and the commencement of the formal ceremony. A marquee had been erected in the park, and waiters were handing around trays of champagne. People chatted in groups, eminent faces smiled for television cameras, and journalists and photographers roamed amongst the crowd. Ranging down the gentle slope of the hill were rows of chairs facing a platform and podium, beside which was a cloth-covered commemorative plaque which the premier would unveil after his speech.

  Kitty looked about her. With the exception of several footpaths and the odd bench here and there, the land had been left very much in its original state.

  Two magpies warbled from a nearby sugar-scented gum; galahs exchanged larrikin screeches as they flew overhead, and from distant trees came the cackle of kookaburras proclaiming their territory. It was a glorious day, the river at the bottom of the hill sparkling in the clear spring sunlight.

  Beneath a Moreton Bay fig squatted four Aboriginal boys, no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. Three of them tapped their sticks in unison to the steady, pulsating rhythm of the didgeridoo played by the fourth member of their team. They were to give an exhibition of tribal dance after the ceremony. Not far from the boys, the two Gadigal elders, representatives of their people, stood in silence, every now and then nodding their heads to the beat of the music.

  If she ignored the marquee, Kitty thought, and the crowd of guests and the press and the officials … If she blocked her ears to the social chat and the clink of champagne glasses … If she watched the boys and the elders and concentrated on the birds and the pulse of the didgeridoo … Could it perhaps have been like this in Wolawara’s time?

  She looked at Rob. He too was watching the boys and listening to their music, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Farinelli.’ A young female reporter broke into their respective thoughts. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, could we have a picture of you with the Gadigal elders?’

  Kitty watched the two old men’s faces break into smiles as they posed with Rob, one on each side, arms linked, patting him on the back, calling him brother.

  She wandered down to sit on a chair in the very front row. Rob would be seated in one of the official chairs beside the podium, facing the audience during the ceremony, and Kitty wanted to be sure she didn’t miss a thing.

  Several minutes later Rob joined her. The television cameras, the photographers and press were now concentrating their attention on the arrival of the guests of honour, two Aboriginal athletes who were to represent Australia in the forthcoming Olympics. Rob had approved the marketing company’s choice. In fact he had approved the whole marketing hype. If the government wished to advertise its good work with a media bunfight, then fine, it all helped the cause. He himself had tracked down and invited the Gadigal elders, but the addition of the athletes he’d found an excellent idea. Bound to ensure even more coverage. Rob was learning. So long as you were batting for the right team, he’d decided, what was wrong with using all the tricks? They worked.

  The press had already had a field day with the story. The government’s official handover of the land to the Gadigal people had been a major news item for months. It was discussed by television panels, lauded by newspaper editors and argued by diehards who insisted it created a dangerous precedent.

  ‘You’re responsible for all this, Rob,’ Kitty murmured, as the government vehicles pulled up at the top of the hill and the premier’s party alighted. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ If only Arturo could be here with them. He’d been dead a whole five years now, although it never seemed it. ‘And your father would have been proud,’ she added, ‘very very proud.’ Fearing the onset of tears, she added briskly, ‘Of course he knew that you’d win. From the moment you took up the fight he said that you’d
win.’

  ‘I know,’ Rob smiled. ‘He told me.’

  Kitty studied her son’s face. She could see the young Arturo in his eyes. ‘You’ve changed the world, Rob,’ she said in all seriousness. ‘Just as your father always wanted to. Just as I wanted to myself.’

  As Rob returned her gaze he could hear his father’s voice. ‘It is young men like you who can bring about change,’ Arturo had said. ‘Strong, resilient young men. Someone once said that same thing to me, very many years ago. And now, when I look at you and the work that you do, I know that such young men exist, and that such change is possible. You will win, Roberto.’

  Rob put his arms around Kitty. ‘If I’ve changed the world, Mum,’ he said, holding her tight for a moment, ‘then it’s because of you and Arturo Farinelli.’

  That was it, Kitty gave up trying to play tough. What was the point? Besides, old women were allowed a sentimental tear, weren’t they?

  She found it easy to control her emotions throughout the ceremony, however. There were three speakers, including the premier, and Rob Farinelli’s name was mentioned just once, and then only in passing. It appeared you didn’t get any thanks for changing the world, Kitty thought crossly.

  Just before the unveiling of the commemorative plaque, she caught Rob’s eye and, from the knowing smile and the slight shake of his head, she knew she’d been scowling through the whole proceedings. And now that she was old, she looked so ferocious when she scowled. But what the hell, they should have paid credit where credit was due; they should have thanked her son from the very bottom of their hearts.

  Kitty gave a defiant shrug back, and Rob nearly laughed out loud. God, but his mother was a terror.

  Young Jarrod, future Olympian and just seventeen years old, found the whole ceremony rather overwhelming. He’d found it overwhelming from the moment he’d arrived. He wasn’t accustomed to all this attention, so he’d stuck close to Cathy’s side. Cathy Freeman was his hero. But then Cathy Freeman was everybody’s hero. She’d been world champion and knew how to handle this sort of stuff.

  Realising he was unnerved, Cathy had given him a smile and a wink. ‘You’ll get used to it, Jarrod,’ she’d whispered, ‘don’t you worry.’

  ‘I dunno, do you reckon?’ he’d said nervously, ‘It’s all a bit much.’

  ‘You have to get used to it, mate.’ Her smile was still warm, still friendly, but he could tell she was serious. ‘All of this is good for us. Good for our people.’

  Jarrod had thought a little after she said that. He was just an athlete, he’d never expected to become a symbol to his people. He wondered whether, after the Olympic Games, they’d expect him to be a spokesperson like Cathy. Pretty scary.

  During the ceremony, when the attention was no longer focused upon them, Jarrod relaxed. He even got a bit bored by the speeches. He and Cathy were seated with the official party to the side of the podium, facing the audience, and instead of concentrating dutifully upon the speakers, Jarrod allowed his mind to wander.

  He turned his head and gazed at the willow tree drooping over the riverbank. But he wasn’t really seeing it. He was seeing the Olympic Stadium. In a few months now it’d be the year 2000, the year of the Sydney Olympics. And he’d be there. In that stadium. Running the two hundred metres with the best of them. And he’d win a medal, he’d told his dad he would. He’d be a hero too, just like Cathy Freeman. He’d be a hero to his people.

  Cathy dug her elbow into young Jarrod’s side. The premier had just been introduced and yet still Jarrod took no notice, craning his head in the opposite direction as he had for the past five minutes.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jarrod murmured.

  The premier was going on about the Gadigal people. ‘My mob’s Gadigal,’ Jarrod whispered proudly. He hadn’t really thought about it before. It meant a lot to his dad, he knew, but it hadn’t meant much to him, his mob being Gadigal. It did now though. It felt good.

  When the speeches were over, Jarrod and Cathy posed beside the bronze commemorative plaque with the premier and the elders, then with the officials and the television personalities, and it was a full half hour or so before, together, they stood back and read the actual words on the plaque.

  ‘THIS PARKLAND BELONGS TO THE GADIGAL PEOPLE. GIVEN THEM BY THOMAS KENDALL IN THE YEAR 1831, IT SHALL FOREVER REMAIN THEIR PROPERTY.’

  ‘Gadigal people,’ Jarrod said with pride. ‘My people. I own part of this park.’ He read the sign again. Then ‘Hey, Cathy, look at that,’ he said loudly, ‘Thomas Kendall. I’ve got the samename.’

  Cathy laughed. Jarrod was an engaging kid. ‘Hardly, mate, it’s not spelt the same.’

  ‘Sounds the same though,’ he said. ‘Sounds exactly the same.’

  If only he’d known. But no-one did. No-one would ever know that Jarrod Kendle carried the blood of both Wolawara, elder of the Gadigal tribe, and Thomas Kendall, the warrener from Norwich.

  Read on for an extract of

  Elianne

  Available November 2013

  CHAPTER ONE

  1964

  Some people didn’t like the smell. Some people found it overly rich and cloying, some even used the term ‘sickly’. But they were strangers, visitors from the city.

  There had always been visitors to the mill. Overseas dignitaries, politicians, even the odd prime minister had enjoyed the lavish garden parties and general hospitality f on offer at Elianne. At times there might be dozens of them, strolling about the grounds of The Big House, or lolling in the wicker chairs on its broad verandahs and upper balconies, while the more active opted for tennis and bowls on the grass courts and greens.

  In earlier times, before dirt tracks became accessible roads, and before motor vehicles were the ready form of transport, guests would stay for days on end. The arduous trip by horse and carriage demanded its reward, and Elianne had much to offer – not least of which was the mandatory trip to the nearby mill. The intrepid would climb to the lofty heights of the lookout tower and drink in the panorama of cane fields, stretching like a vast green ocean to the horizon while those without a head for heights would be taken on a tour of the massive metal complex with its varying levels and intricate steel walkways, its giant vats and machines and eighty-foot-high ceiling, and they would marvel at the magnitude of its scope and industry.

  During the crushing season, from mid-year until December, the cacophony of heavy machinery was overwhelming as the mill’s giant rollers and presses smashed and mashed and ground the cane through every stage of its transition to raw sugar. Nothing was wasted. The fibre that was left from the crushing was burnt in the furnaces to generate steam power; the mud filtered from the cane through the presses was returned to the field as fertiliser; and after the painstakingly long crystallisation process, the molasses residue was mixed in with the stock feed or sent to the distillery for the making of rum. The whole exercise was highly efficient as men and machines went about their tasks with precise teamwork.

  The mill was a busy, buzzy place during the crushing season, like a beehive where each worker knew precisely the purpose he served. The men took pride in the fact they were Elianne workers. They thrived on the noise and the industry and the smell of the mill, the very smell that some of those from the city professed to find ‘sickly’.

  Kate and her brothers loved the smell of the sugar mill. They found the toffee-scented air heady and intoxicating. It was the smell they’d grown up with, all three of them. It was the smell of home.

  I’ve missed it, Kate thought, breathing in the richness as she wandered through the cathedral-like metal maze, where the giant mechanical monsters now sat eerily silent. Even during the slack season the smell is here, she thought, it’s always here. It’s been here for as long as I can remember.

  She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the mill and the plantation over the past year. She’d been too distracted. Her life had undergone such a radical change. She remembered how she’d anticipated with relish every homecoming from boarding s
chool in Brisbane. Every end-of-term holiday, every long weekend had seen her eagerly embrace the familiarity of her childhood. The cane fields shimmering in the heat; the smell of the mill and the easy friendship of the workers, so many of whom were like family; the horse races with her brothers along dusty dirt roads; swimming in the dam and the way, knees clutched to chests, they ‘bombed’ each other off the end of the jetty; tin canoes and excursions up and down the river; laden mango trees climbed to see who could shake down the most fruit; and on and on it went, the list was endless.

  But this homecoming was different. Something had changed. After a year at university, this homecoming had taken her by surprise. It was more intense, more meaningful. The past seemed more precious than ever, as if she were somehow threatened with its loss. Perhaps it’s because I’m different, she thought. Perhaps it is I who has changed, and things will never be the same again. The notion was disturbing, even a little sad, but also strangely exciting.

  Although the mill appeared deserted, Kate was aware she was not alone. The gentle clink of tinkering could be heard as here and there mechanics cleaned and serviced the machinery. But the delicacy of the sounds only served to highlight the stillness. At least it seemed so to Kate. She loved the mill most of all during the slack season when it lay dormant, quietly exhaling its treacly breath, biding its time before the next crushing frenzy.

  ‘Buongiorno, Kate. Welcome home.’

  The voice that jolted her from her reverie came from behind the massive filter press nearby; it belonged to Luigi Fiorelli. He rose to reveal himself, burly, grease stained and good natured as always.

  ‘Is good to see you,’ he said with a huge grin and a wave of the grimy rag he held in his hand.

  ‘Good to see you too, Luigi.’ She smiled and returned the salute.

  ‘How you like it down South, eh? You have good time down there?’ His tone was highly sceptical. During his eighteen years in the southern cane fields of Queensland, Luigi had travelled no farther than Bundaberg, on the other side of the river just fifteen miles from Elianne. He hadn’t even made the trip to Brisbane, which, although two hundred and forty road miles to the south, was easily accessible by both rail and road. He didn’t like big cities, he said, which was perhaps an odd remark from one who’d been brought up in the backstreets of Naples. But then his brothers, also Neapolitan by birth, were of exactly the same mind. The Fiorellis stuck to their farms and to Elianne, never travelling any further afield than Bundaberg. Why bother, they would say, and many felt the same way. Bundaberg, affectionately known to all as Bundy, had been successfully servicing the area for nigh on a hundred years.