Gifts of the Peramangk

by Dean Mayes

  Agatha closed her eyes and listened as Virginia negotiated the lofty composition. Soon, they were lost in the sound of the violin, the accompaniment of the orchestra, the grandeur of the music.

  Out in the field in front of the homestead, a lone tractor paused. Its driver, one of the older farm hands, heard the music drift across the pasture and he stopped, resting his hands on the steering wheel for a moment to enjoy the music. He smiled, knowing that Virginia was playing once again and he was thankful to hear her music.

  The senior horseman, riding along the perimeter fence on his stallion, also heard the music and he pulled his mount up so that he too, could listen. He smiled broadly, patting the side of the stallion’s neck. After those long weeks without it, hearing the violin now was like a tonic.

  After several minutes, something caught his eye away to the west. Looking up and adjusting his hat, the horseman looked out towards the road leading away from the farm and saw a plume of dust rising in the near distance. A vehicle was approaching. Squinting in the brightness of the sun, he cocked his head to one side, curious as to who it might be.

  As the vehicle drew closer and he recognised its familiar shape, his curiosity melded into confusion. The utility was coming hard and trailing behind it was a motor bike.

  Simon lifted his head from the floor where he lay in the parlour and tilted it, his ears flickering at a newly arriving sound that only he could hear at this moment. Agatha remained transported by Virginia’s performance—so much so, that neither she, nor Virginia heard the sound of the engine, or the sound of tyres skidding on the dusty ground of the compound, or the car door slamming shut loudly.

  Mrs. Finchner jumped in her seat and sent her tea cup spinning across the table at the bellowing voice of the Pastoralist as he stormed up the steps and burst through the kitchen door.

  “AGATHA!”

  He didn’t acknowledge his housekeeper or her assistant as he barged through the kitchen, nearly knocking Mrs. Finchner from her chair. His eyes were filled with a satanic rage. Veins bulged on the sides of his neck. His nostrils flared—as though the music from the parlour was the most evil thing he had ever heard.

  Mrs. Finchner could barely collect herself as she slowly realised what was happening. Her tea cup continued its inexorable roll across the table towards the edge where it fell, shattering into dozens of pieces on the tiled kitchen floor.

  “Oh, Jesus, no,” she heaved, exchanging a panicked look at Marjorie.

  The Pastoralist stormed down the hallway towards the parlour, his footfalls on the boards now overpowering the music from the gramophone. Simon was on his feet now, quivering with alertness and looking towards the door while Agatha and Virginia exchanged looks of blind fear with one another.

  Neither one was able to react when the door to the parlour exploded inward and the Pastoralist swept into the room, his fury tightening his features.

  Paralysed where she stood, Virginia looked up into the eyes of the Pastoralist. Her jaw fell open and her arms dropped to her sides, releasing their grip on the violin and bow which clattered noisily to the floor. Time slowed to a crawl and all of the sounds around her became muffled and distant in her ears.

  He lunged forward, his hand reaching out towards Virginia, while the disembodied echo of a dog’s barking and yelp and a woman’s shrieks barely penetrated her consciousness. She just stood there, waiting for all the terrible things to come.

  The hand of the Pastoralist closed around her throat like a vice and before she knew it, he’d lifted her off the floor with a single muscular arm that fairly bulged as she grabbed impotently onto it with her own two hands. Her eyes went wide with panic, feeling the air to her lungs dissipate and her throat began spasming in a futile response to his crushing grip.

  As she struggled, Virginia’s consciousness began to tilt sideways. She sensed Agatha nearby who had sprung to her feet and pushed past the stand on which the gramophone sat, knocking it over as she made for her husband, her arms outstretched, her distant screams reverberating through Virginia’s soupy mind.

  “Noooo!”

  Virginia blinked in terror as the Pastoralist lashed out with his free arm and landed a closed fist into the side of Agatha’s cheek which wheeled her around like a top and sent her sprawling.

  The Pastoralist glared into Virginia’s unfocused eyes and released his grip just slightly.

  “What do you think you’re doing in my house, you little slut!”

  Virginia shook her head in panic, trying to work her jaw to utter something—anything—in response. But she couldn’t.

  He whirled around on his heel with Virginia’s comparatively small frame still in his vice-like grip and stormed past Mrs. Finchner and Marjorie.

  Agatha fumbled about on the floor, trying to overcome the stinging pain in her cheek as well as the sense of dread that cut through her. Forcing herself to think, she scrambled to her feet and staggered after her husband. Mrs. Finchner rushed to her side and made a vain effort to support her, but Agatha slapped her away, crashing through the doorway in desperate pursuit.

  The Pastoralist had thrown open the front door of the homestead and was now out on the verandah with Virginia struggling with less and less effort in his grip.

  “I’ll give you one more chance to answer me!!” he screamed into her ear, his lips mere inches from the side of her head. “What did you think you were doing? You’re not a part of this place! You’re not even a human being! YOU ARE NOTHING!”

  Her consciousness was slipping and the cruel tirade barely reached her. Through Virginia’s mind, the sound of her own heartbeat thumped like a church bell. Her vision blurred. Flashes of darkness erupted across her field of view.

  And out of the corner of her eyes, she could just make out the blurry figures of Agatha, Mrs. Finchner and Marjorie bursting out onto the verandah, arms outstretched in desperation, screaming in disembodied unison.

  The Pastoralist was unmoved.

  There was no point in answering him, no point in defending herself. That which Virginia had always feared—the discovery of her gift by the Pastoralist—had finally come to pass.

  Deep down, she knew it always would. Her eyes flicked to her left and she saw, standing there at the foot of the verandah with his hands in his pockets, the young farm-hand who had sodomised her so many times, a bitter and sardonic grin on his face. And in that last terrible moment the only thing Virginia could do was to smile at the irony of it.

  The Pastoralist’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the expression on the Aborigine’s face and his white hot rage surged. He leaned back and flung Virginia from his grip directly at the verandah post in front of him, upon which hung a hurricane lantern. She crashed, face first into the post, shattering the glass of the lantern and sending glittering shards flying in every direction.

  Virginia vaguely sensed glass slicing through the delicate skin of her left cheek, puncturing through her left eye and feeling warm liquid pouring down over her face. Virginia’s last thought, as she finally succumbed to the darkness, was the strange observation that she felt no pain.

  Agatha Penschey’s horror was absolute.

  She watched Virginia crumple to the deck of the verandah. She saw blood spatter on the timber of the verandah post and she saw the shattered lantern pitch from its hook and clatter to the deck several feet away. Agatha fell to her knees and cried out in anguish, while Mrs. Finchner placed a hand on her shoulder, lifting her other hand to her mouth in shock. Even the young farm hand, at the bottom of the stairs, lost his self satisfied grin and just stared dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what he’d just witnessed.

  “Get this piece of shit off my property!” the Pastoralist bellowed, shaking the farm hand out of his stupor. The boy looked up, then back at Virginia’s inert form, unsure of what to do.

  “NOW!” thundered the Pastoralist, before turning to face Mrs. Finchner and his grief stricken wife. Without hesitating he started forward. “Get its things. I want it off my lan
d in five minutes.”

  His last sentence struck Agatha and choked off her wracking sobs. She struggled to her feet and wiped at her eyes.

  “Wha…what do you mean?! You can’t send her away. Look at her!”

  The Pastoralist was unmoved.

  “That thing is mine! I own it…I can do what I want with it!”

  He stepped forward, preparing to stride off the verandah when Agatha threw herself at him.

  “You can’t do this!!” she screamed, clawing at his chest with her hands.

  The Pastoralist simply grabbed Agatha’s wrists and flung them away.

  “This has got nothing to do with you, woman. You meddled in things you shouldn’t have. These blacks aren’t people—they’re bloody animals.”

  Realising that the farm hand still hadn’t moved from where he stood, the Pastoralist shoved an angry finger at him.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?! Get her in the truck before I shoot you!”

  Without another word, the Pastoralist turned and walked off the verandah.

  By this time, the commotion had drawn the attention of the workmen from the tractor in the field in front of the homestead and they approached the homestead now, their expressions bearing a collective shock.

  Agatha rushed to Virginia’s side and dropped down, scared to turn her or place her hands upon her. Her tears flowed freely, seeing Virginia’s ruined face. A mighty shard of glass protruded from her left eye socket and the socket itself was a mess of congealed blood and a jelly like substance.

  Mrs. Finchner crouched beside her and stifled an urge to gasp.

  “Agatha—let’s get her to the hospital in town. She needs that eye seen to as soon as possible. I’ll get Bob to take her in.”

  “What about Ver…?”

  “Don’t you worry about him,” Mrs. Finchner cut in immediately. “I’ll deal with him. Let’s just get Virginia to a doctor as soon as possible.”

  Agatha managed a simple nod and Mrs. Finchner immediately looked up and down to the driver of the tractor.

  “Bob. Bring the truck around right away. We have to get the child to the hospital.”

  The young farm hand was about to protest but was cut short when Mrs. Finchner suddenly sprang to her feet and stormed down the steps of the homestead toward him.

  She didn’t speak. Instead, she swung her arm with all the power she could muster and struck him in the jaw, knocking him out cold.

  Virginia lay in the tray of the utility, her head cradled in Marjorie’s lap, a makeshift bandage now covering her head.

  Her head throbbed and the pain from her eye made her feel so sick that she could barely move or speak so she stayed as still as she could.

  The truck was idling and she was aware of people milling about but Marjorie kept Virginia’s attention focused on her as she gently stroked her hair and whispered softly to her, words of encouragement that were shaken by her own tears and grief for her friend.

  “Everything will be alright, Ginnie. Just hang in there, okay,” Marjorie said over and over, her voice shaking uncontrollably.

  The driver, Bob, eventually turned from the group behind the truck and walked toward the tray nodding at Marjorie.

  “Is she all set?” he asked with an awkward empathy in his voice.

  Marjorie nodded.

  Nodding, Bob climbed into the cabin and turned the key. The engine of the truck turned over and spluttered to life. Virginia remained still in Marjorie’s lap as the vibration settled back as the truck began to idle.

  Over the sound of the idling engine, Marjorie heard a voice from the homestead and she looked up to see Mrs. Penschey running down the steps toward the truck, waving her arms and shouting. Marjorie noted with some confusion that she held an object in her hands.

  Agatha crossed the path and climbed up into the tray of the truck falling to her knees and gently scooping up Virginia’s limp form in her arms. Tears streamed down her face as she wiped a few strands of hair away from Virginia’s good eye.

  “Can you hear me, Ginnie?” Agatha stammered, her voice choking with emotion.

  Virginia managed to nod.

  “I’m sorry, my child. I am so, so sorry.”

  Marjorie bit her lip as she felt the warm moisture of her own tears stain her cheeks and she sat back to allow Agatha to cradle Virginia more gently.

  “I promise you, Virginia,” Agatha continued. “I will find your people. I will find them and return you to them. I promise.”

  Virginia began to cry softly as she acknowledged Agatha silently.

  Then she felt a familiar bulk being pressed into her hand and she looked down to see the violin case—Agatha Penschey’s violin case—laying there. She began to protest, but Agatha pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head—No.

  “Remember this, Ginnie,” Agatha whispered through her tears. “You are from the Peramangk—that is your country. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. They are a proud people. Remember!”

  Virginia opened her eye and looked up at Agatha with an intensity that struck her like a bolt of lightning.

  “Come now,” Mrs Finchner urged, appearing beside Agatha and placing a hand on her shoulder. “They have to go.”

  Agatha nodded and leaned down, planting a final kiss onto Virginia’s forehead.

  She stepped back and climbed down from the truck. Virginia closed her eye again and allowed herself to drift as she clutched the violin case close to her. Marjorie held her once more and continued stroking her forehead softly.

  The truck jerked forward and began rolling toward the front gate of the farm and in that moment, grief overwhelmed Virginia and she sobbed silently. From behind the stone out house that had been Virginia’s only refuge, a limping Simon appeared and sprinted across the compound, barking as loudly as he could. He leaped across the cattle grate at the entrance to the farm and took off after the truck as it accelerated away, chasing it for several hundred yards until it disappeared over a rise and out of view.

  The dog skidded to a stop in the middle of the dusty track and sat on his haunches, whimpering as he watched the dust trail from the truck slowly shrink in the distance.

  His ears pricked forward, Simon lifted his head and let out a long mournful howl that carried over the meadow.

  Watching the truck go, Agatha too succumbed once more and sobbed and sobbed as Mrs. Finchner held her close in a vain effort to comfort her.

  For the second time in her life, Virginia Crammond felt herself being pulled away from everything she had come to know and in that moment of grief, the realisation dawned upon her that she would never, ever see this place again.

  Chapter 23

  1964

  Dark grey skies. Steadily falling rain. Drab concrete paths lead to and fro with wisps of steam that rose from their surfaces. It was warm despite the rain—a November shower that came almost unexpectedly and saturated the earth…

  …And the orphanage.

  Imposing red brick walls rose out of the earth toward the sky to stand watchful, oppressive. They were silent overseers of those who visited and left the building to which those walls belonged. To any outsider, the orphanage was merely a large, grand building nestled in leafy park lands, adjacent to a main road that fairly bustled with traffic.

  To anyone intimately familiar with the goings on inside this place, the orphanage was something else entirely.

  The rain had sent everyone scurrying indoors. The gardens outside the main building of the orphanage were empty. The arches on either side of the main entrance were vacant. It was almost as if the place were abandoned.

  And then…

  A slight figure appeared in the window of one the large doors at the entrance to the building. Those doors opened slowly allowing the person to step out into the rain.

  In the shadow of the great building, she appeared tiny as she stepped forward onto the steps, then darted sideways to seek shelter under the verandah. Lifting a hand, the young woman shielded her eyes which
were concealed behind a pair of large sunglasses. She prepared to brave the weather, spying a bus shelter beyond the front gate but hesitated as the rain became heavier. She decided to wait, drawing up the collar of her raincoat and taking off her hat.

  With no sign that the rain was going to stop any time, the young woman set down her single small suitcase and waited.

  Reaching into the pocket of her rain coat, Virginia Crammond felt for the small flat bulk of the booklet there and took it out. Thumbing her exemption certificate open, she moved aside a piece of paper containing the address of a nearby boarding house, then looked down upon the small black and white photograph of herself. Her details, including her name and status as a half caste Aborigine had been typed next to it.

  21 years old.

  Virginia had reached the age where, by law, she was required to be released from the orphanage. She was no longer a ward of the state, nor was she a subject of the Aborigines Protectorate Office.

  For all intents and purposes, Virginia Crammond was now considered an adult. But she had yet to understand what that meant.

  All they’d told her was that she was required to carry her certificate with her at all times and produce it whenever she was instructed to do so. Without it, Virginia would not be able to seek employment, travel freely about the city or even enter certain buildings. Though it granted her privileges, the card felt like a noose around her neck.

  She shook her head slowly and returned the certificate to her pocket.

  Looking down at her suitcase, Virginia decided to sit for a moment and watch the driving rain as its noise rose in intensity.

  Lifting her hand, she removed her sunglasses and set them down in her lap. A mighty scar traversed the socket of her ruined left eye from forehead to cheek, crossing over the eyelid itself which was now fixed in a permanently closed position. With her thumb and fore finger, Virginia massaged a knot of tension from her brow and looked out across the forecourt toward the street beyond.