Caprice

“This is a very beautifully written novel. The story begins dramatically and holds reader interests throughout, carried forward by an intelligent and questioning narrative voice.”

“So realistically and simply written that I have to keep reminding myself that it is fiction.”

“There is much that is very painful in the reading of
Caprice.
Yet there is also a tremendous sense of hope and love underlying it all.”

“I was hooked into the story ... I'm already eagerly awaiting her next novel.”

In the life of an Aboriginal woman, no one is more important than her mother when she is young, her daughters when she is old.

Book 1

The first flush of dawn was appearing in the eastern sky as I entered the cemetery gates. It was heralded by a chorus of birds chirping and twittering as they darted in and out of the grey green spindly mulga trees and clumps of acacia bushes and spinifex grass, pausing only to feed on unsuspecting insects and spiders.

It felt strange and quiet walking alone through a graveyard at dawn. The only other sounds to be heard at that hour in the morning were the crunch crunching of my sandalled feet on the gravelled road and the buzzing of the scores of bush flies that seemed to appear from nowhere and attach themselves on to any warm blooded living thing that moved from daylight to dusk.

As I approached the graves of my grandparents, Lucy and “Mad” Mick Muldune, daybreak was creeping stealthily across the dry red rugged land, the pinkish golden hues of sunrise forecasting yet another scorching day. As I bent down to place the bouquets of red, white and pink carnations on their graves, I tried to imagine what they were like and wondered how an Irishman, a bogside lad born a few miles north of the County of Derry, met and married a fullblooded Mandjildjara speaking Aboriginal girl from the remote desert region along the Canning Stock Route in Western Australia. And why did Michael Patrick Joseph
Muldune leave the lush green meadows of Ireland to travel thousands of kilometres across the other side of the world to settle in Kingsley, which must be without a doubt the most arid and certainly the most remote gold mining town in Western Australia. The landscape and the environment contrasted so vastly that it could have been located on another planet.

It didn't matter how deeply I pondered, it was impossible to imagine or even conjure up images and draw sketches of a couple I knew only by name.

That will all change by this evening when I hope to have a full mental picture of them and how they lived. Their headstones are the only tangible evidence I have of their existence. So you see my visit to the graveyard is not a whimsical gesture of a lost soul, nor is it the action of an impulsive insomniac. It is rather a ritualistic performance in a sense, a celebration of a new day; a new beginning. It makes sense to me somehow that my grandparents' final resting place should be the appropriate location to resume my search to establish my true identity. Because their history is my heritage.

My earlier attempts to trace my roots failed dismally simply because I lacked the knowledge and understanding of Aboriginal culture and traditional “Law”. My first mistake was that, being a European-oriented Aborigine, I used the most common approach and from a non-Aboriginal point of view. Naturally, I failed to achieve satisfactory results. Nevertheless, I persisted questioning, but the answers were unchanged. “Your Nanna finished (died) 'long time, your Pop too.” Or “Your Pop good Wudgebella (white man) not like some. He look after your Nanna prop'ly. Not use 'em and chuck 'em 'way.”

In my ignorance and naivety I expected answers
immediately. I expected and assumed that my family would disclose any information and recall any anecdotes and incidents, and be happy to share them with me. I was totally mistaken. Being a family member did not entitle me to any special considerations or privileges.

When I arrived at the Jigalong Aboriginal Community where my grandmother's family came from, approximately 150 kilometres north of Kingsley, I wanted to know and learn everything about my grandparents. However, things didn't go the way I planned. I realised immediately that Jigalong—like other traditionally-oriented communities—had certain codes of social behaviour and social conduct, and more importantly, a belief system that was handed down by super beings of the Dreamtime and commonly referred to as the “Law”.

This “Law” includes all religious practices (rites and rituals) and taboos. Members of these communities believe that it is imperative to practise and preserve the “Law”. Amongst those taboos is one concerning the aftermath of the death of a family member of the community. When this occurs the name of the deceased must never be used again. Even those having the same sounding name can no longer be called by that name. Persons having the same name as that person are addressed or referred to as “gurnmanu” which simply means “What's his/her name” or “the person who has the same name as the dead one”. It is believed that the spirits of the dead become resentful and dangerous so it is customary, at the end of the funeral service, for an elder who knew the deceased well, to say something like “You are dead now, so don't follow us back to the camp. You go straight to your waterhole and leave us alone.”

Confused, bewildered, and disappointed, I decided to shelve the project and return home to Geraldton. There was still hope from another source. I needed to find my
grandparents' friends, Jack and Phyliss Donaldson. I was confident that I would find them some day, somewhere, somehow.

Well that day has come. At long last I shall be meeting them for the first time here in Kingsley. I can hardly contain my excitement, because I have so many questions to ask them. Questions that have been concealed in my heart for so many years. I want to know about my grandparents' dreams, their aspirations, their hopes, fears and despair. But most of all I am looking forward to travelling back in time—a journey into the past where lie all the answers. The Donaldsons have the golden key that will unlock all the doors and windows to reveal memories, some vivid, others dim and sketchy reflections. This is one day I shall never forget.

I wondered what Michael Muldune's first impressions of Kingsley were, this desolate arid town, population 200-300 fluctuating from time to time. Surely it must have been an impossible place for any white man to settle in. Many preferred to live in the cities or the coastal towns.

In the summer the temperature is between 35°C and 40°C in the shade, the humidity making conditions unbearable. Whirlwinds or willy-willys, those twisting columns of spinifex, red dust and scraps of paper, are seen frequently as they blow through the town.

Dust storms are frequent at certain times of the year. The unwary stranger may look up and see brown and red clouds and mistake them for rain—that is until it comes closer. You certainly know you've been in a sandstorm—it's an experience you'll never forget. These sandstorms have been compared to mini sandstorms of the Sahara Desert.

There's a big panic on when it is sighted. The whole town comes alive and becomes a hive of activity; neighbours warn each other to be prepared for the worst. In a few hours the town will appear to be deserted—the whole population of Kingsley will remain indoors until the storm passes, then the cleaning up operation begins.

The average rainfall is normally between 12mm and
15mm and is often uncertain and erratic. Violent thunderstorms are exciting at the onset when the heavy downpour reaches the town. It comes down in torrents. The parched dry land is transformed into a muddy brown red lake in a matter of hours. The creek beds around the town fill to overflowing, spilling their contents across the stony flats. The joyous shouts of excited children echo all over the town as they play in the muddy creeks.

The town of Kingsley was founded by an early explorer named Martin Kingsley in the early 1800s. The Kingsley ranges run north to northwest of the town. In the foreground is the largest creek with the growth of large shady gum trees, some acacia shrubs and spinifex grasses. To the south are dry stony plains, known as gibber plains that reflect the shimmering heat in the hot dry summer months.

The vivid sunsets behind the Kingsley ranges are one of its best features, the brilliant red, oranges, pinks, browns and mauves are something you don't see in the cities and towns in the south of the state.

It was these features and the rugged environment that attracted Mick Muldune, the bogside lad born in a village steeped in tradition and superstition. He was adamant when told of earlier explorers' attempts to introduce the flora and fauna of Europe to this remote part of Western Australia: “You can't change this country with its rugged, tough landscape and make it into the green fields and meadows of Europe,” he said. “You have to learn to adapt and live with it, like I have,” he told all newcomers to this town, and being an Irishman these were issues he could relate to. He came from a country where bluebells grew thick in the woods of beech, pine, oak, hazel and ash; where hillocks were covered in yellow gorse bushes. His people had a history that went back centuries. From his ancestors he inherited a stubbornness and an
unwillingness to be subordinate to colonists who tried to force the original inhabitants to change their lifestyle by destroying their language and culture, then condemning them and persecuting them for being different.

When “Mad” Mick Muldune arrived in Kingsley he had no special skills but he had a willingness to learn and to do any kind of work available. He wasn't afraid of hard work. So the first thing he did after alighting from the “Old Rattler”, the weekly goods train, was to go down to the Kingsley Arms Hotel and enquire after work prospects. “The best place in town to wait. You're sure to find something,” the railway workers had assured him.

When he reached the hotel, he met a young man—a lean half-caste seated on the bench outside. This wiry lad was dressed like a local, in white riding breeches, check shirt, high boots and a brown felt hat covering his black curly hair. Mick suddenly felt out of place and uncomfortable in his city clothes—the grey suit, shoes and battered suitcase containing all his worldly goods.

Mick introduced himself to this young stranger and explained his intentions and his reason for being there.

“The same here, I am Jack Donaldson. What sort of work are you looking for?” the young man asked Mick.

“Anything, I'll try anything,” Mick replied.

Jack informed Mick that he was waiting to catch the mail truck driven by Bob Brown every fortnight from Kingsley right up to Mitchell's Crossing 600 miles north, calling in on all pastoral stations, or their turnoffs at least, on the way.

“Come with me,” suggested Jack, “you never know, we might find something. There's always someone wanting workers, somewhere. You'll need a proper swag though,”
he added, bending down to touch his own for emphasis, “Like this, see.”

Fifteen minutes later Mick had a swag—a blanket roll consisting of a light coconut hair mattress, two unbleached calico sheets, and two bush rugs all rolled up in a canvas ground sheet and tied tightly with binder twine.