Mother of Ten
MOTHER OF TEN
By JB Rowley
(This book is the sequel to
Whisper My Secret
.)
Copyright © 2013 JB ROWLEY
Cover
design by: Char Adlesperger
Published by Potoroo Press 2013
P.O. Box 235
Albert Park, Victoria, Australia.
JB’s Blog:
http://jbthewriter.wordpress.com/
Please note: This ebook uses
British English. Readers who are used to American English might notice a
difference in the spelling of some words.
This book is licensed for
your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the
hard work of this author.
Thank you to:
Anita Marshall and Judi
Hillyear for their generous editorial support with
Mother of Ten.
Friends who helped me with research and memories.
Members of my family who
helped me with my research and memories, with special thanks to my Dopper
siblings, Kenny, Valerie, Allan, and their families.
The courageous Australians
who told their stories for the public record: mothers who were separated from
their children and people who, as children, were separated from their families
and placed in out-of-home ‘care’.
All those who read
Whisper
My Secret
and all those who supported
Whisper My Secret
in other
ways.
To the members of the Friday
Writers’ Group and the Writers’ Lunch Group for their invaluable feedback
during the writing of
Mother of Ten
and just for being ‘on my team’.
This book is dedicated to all mothers who have had to suffer
the pain of forced separation from children and all children who have had to
grow up without knowing their mothers.
Preface
In
this second and final part of my mother’s memoir I have tried to give a fuller
picture of her life and, at the request of readers, the lives of her first
three children. On occasion, I have used quotes from other mothers who suffered
a similar trauma to try to give you a stronger sense of what my mother might
have experienced. Likewise, to supplement the stories of my half-siblings I
have used quotes from other Australians who lived through similar childhoods.
Note
: When I wrote
Whisper
My Secret
I used real names for some people and false names for others. I
have since been persuaded that pseudonyms are not necessary. However, changing
the names from the pseudonyms to real names in
Mother of Ten
would
create confusion for those who have read
Whisper My Secret
so I have
arrived at a compromise. In most cases I have continued to use the false names
used in
Whisper My Secret
. In such instances I have adopted the
following strategy: when the pseudonym is first mentioned in
Mother of Ten
I have also given the real name in brackets but thereafter continued to use the
pseudonym. Furthermore, real names for all those who have been given a
pseudonym
are included at the end of the book.
Where
I have judged it would create minimal or no confusion to readers I have changed
the false names used in
Whisper My Secret
to real names in
Mother of
Ten
.
They
are as follows:
Billy
(George & Myrtle’s 1st child) has been
changed to his real name:
Bobby
.
Tommy
(George & Myrtle’s 2nd child) has been
changed to his real name:
Maxie
.
Thomas Andrew Webb
(Myrtle’s
adoptive father) has been changed to his real name:
James Jacob Webb
A
glossary and a bibliography are also provided at the end of the book.
One
day when I was around five years old I detonated with unexpected ferocity in
response to the persistent teasing and aggravation of my two older brothers. I
picked up a bastard file and thrust it violently at eight-year-old Maxie. The
sharp end pierced the palm of his hand and ran through to the other side. Blood
spurted into the air. Maxie’s wail shattered the silence of the bush.
“Mu…um!
She stabbed me. She stabbed me.”
That
was bound to get Mum’s attention - and it did. She dropped the tea towel she
had been holding into the cement tub that served as a kitchen sink and rushed
out onto the veranda.
Bobby
had both eyes fixed on the blood streaming from his younger brother’s hand.
“Mum.
June killed Maxie’s hand,” he said, eager to be the first with the news.
Mum
ran over to us. Maxie’s cries increased in volume at her approach. I stood with
legs apart and arms hanging by my sides. As far as I was concerned, my actions
had been completely justified; my brother could cry his eyes out for all I
cared.
Maxie
took a few faltering steps toward Mum. “She stabbed me, Mum. She stabbed me.”
He
held his bleeding palm up for her inspection. Bobby reached down and picked up
the bastard file, its sharp point red with blood.
“With
this, Mum. She threw this at him,” he said.
Mum
remained calm. Though the sight of the blood no doubt filled her with panic, she
had a mother’s experience of children’s injuries and knew they often looked
worse than they actually were. Just the same, she acted swiftly to get Maxie to
the doctor.
Her
eyes scanned the empty green paddocks next door. Nonchalant sheep rested in the
shade of large gum trees growing along the fence line. In the distance, the
curved corrugated roof of the shearing shed was visible but the shed stood
empty and silent. It was Saturday so there was no one there—no one to help her.
Mum
was on her own with us kids because my father had been away for a few days. He
and the other sleeper cutters often had to camp out in the bush in order to get
the trees felled and hewn into railway sleepers. We all missed him when he was
away and Mum and Dad hated being apart but there was no other choice. With each
new child it had become increasingly difficult to make ends meet. Paying cheap
rent to live in the caretaker’s cottage attached to the sheep farm in exchange
for keeping an eye on the farm cut down on expenses considerably, but it also
meant living several miles from town in virtual isolation. Our closest
neighbours were at a dairy just over a kilometre away.
“Bobby,”
said Mum. “Run down to the road. Quickly! Stop the first car you see.”
Bobby
did not move. His fascination with his brother’s bleeding hand held him rigid.
“Run!”
The
tone of Mum’s voice in that single word was enough to break the spell. Bobby
ran. His bare feet trampled the grass as he cut across the paddock, his long
lanky legs propelling him towards the highway turned so fast they looked like
cartwheels.
We
lived on the corner of Duggans Road and Bonang Highway, around five kilometres
north of the township of Orbost in Victoria. Duggans Road was just a dirt track
and Bonang Highway was a single lane gravel road. The so called highway
continued across the state border into the Snowy Mountains in New South Wales
(NSW) after meandering through old growth forest areas where Australia’s last
bushranger, The Snowy River Bandit, roamed before being arrested near Orbost in
December 1940.
When
my father was away, Mum had no vehicle and no way of contacting him. In
emergencies like the one I had created this day, she simply had to manage as
best she could. Hailing a passing motorist was as natural for us as lifting up
a phone to dial an emergency number is in today’s world.
“Mu..um,”
cried Maxie. His hazel eyes looked up at her imploringly. Rivulets of tears had
created pink streaks of clean skin on his dirty face. “My hand hurts.”
Yanking
off her apron, Mum squatted in front of Maxie and gently wrapped his bleeding
hand in it.
“We’ll
get you to the hospital. You’ll be all right.”
She
rose and urged Maxie forward with an arm across his shoulders. With her other
hand she pulled me along as well and hurriedly shepherded us down to the gate
and along the dirt track. Maxie’s cries had subsided but, to keep Mum’s
attention focused on him, he emitted plaintive distress signals as we hurried
along.
When
we reached the highway, Bobby was standing in the middle of the road peering
into the distance, turning his head occasionally to scan the road in the
opposite direction.
“Nothin’s
comin’,” he said. He looked at his brother. “Maxie’ll die, won’t he, Mum?” His
tone was one of excited anticipation.
“Don’t
be silly. He’s not going to die.”
Mum
looked at Maxie’s hand. Blood had seeped through the blue gingham apron
creating an ominous large red patch.
“There’s
nothin’ comin’, Mum,” said Bobby again. “Nobody’s gonna come today.” The hint of
satisfaction in his voice revealed that he was relishing the drama this bad
news would add to the situation. He stood with his hands at chest level and a
thumb behind each of the braces that held up his grey shorts. His large ears,
exposed by Dad’s amateur hair cutting skills, made him look even younger than
ten. Despite this, he exuded an air of authority as he often did when, as the
eldest child, he felt the need to assume the role of head of the family in his
father’s absence. Mum’s brow creased with worry as she listened for the sound
of a vehicle.
Between
Orbost and Duggans Road, the Bonang Highway was bordered on the western side
with farm paddocks and on the other side with bushland. People travelling
through to NSW used the road and the locals used it to get to the rubbish tip
which was just a couple of kilometres past our home. At the weekends people
drove, walked or rode their bicycles out to ‘the tip’. If they saw Mum in our
yard, they would wave to her as they passed. Mum would respond with a cheerful
answering wave. Sometimes that was the closest interaction she got with anyone
outside the family for weeks. In fact, seeing other people was such a novelty
that we would all wave energetically at passers-by.
This
particular day being a Saturday Mum must have felt sure someone would be along
fairly soon on their way to the tip. The minutes ticked by but we heard only
the bush and the silence of distance.
Somewhere
a kookaburra cackled. “Koo koo koo ka ka ka koo koo koo.”
Kookaburras
were common where we lived and they often came right up to the house and sat on
the verandah rail. Our cottage was set back from the road. Between the house
and the highway stood the chook house on one side and the ‘wood heap’ on the
other. Beyond that was the orchard. Well, perhaps calling it an orchard is
being a little grandiose. It was just a corner of the yard where several
healthy fruit trees grew. Apple, plum and apricot trees contrasted with the gum
trees that surrounded the property. Behind the house was a hayshed, a tool shed
and a wash house. In one corner stood the dunny, camouflaged and kept cool
inside by the canopy of a huge apple tree. I had been startled out of my wits
on several occasions by the sound of one of the big green apples dropping on
the roof of the dunny while I was occupied inside.
Time
dragged by. The sharp shriek of a cockatoo cut through the bush. We waited.
Finally we heard it—the far off rumbling of a car engine.
“Somethin’s
comin’ Mum. I can hear a car,” said Bobby.
It
would be some time before the vehicle arrived. Sounds travel long distances in
the bush so that we could hear a car even when it was still miles away. Mum
pulled Maxie closer while we waited.
“We’ll
have you to the hospital in no time. The doctors’ll fix you up and give you a
big white bandage for your hand.”
“It
hurts, Mum.”
“I
know, love, but you must be brave. When your father comes home, I’ll be able to
tell him how brave you’ve been.”
“I
am being brave.” Maxie rearranged his face in an effort to look heroic. “It doesn’t
hurt that much, Mum.”
After
a few seconds another thought occurred to Maxie. “Will I still have the bandage
on when I go back to school, Mum?”
“Perhaps.”
A
smile brightened Maxie’s teary face as he considered the possibility of showing
his school mates his fully bandaged hand. I could almost hear him. “I nearly
lost my hand on the holidays, I did. My sister tried to murder me.” His trauma
was already evolving into an adventure he could use to impress his friends.
In
the centre of the road, Bobby was waving his arms in criss-cross fashion to
alert the driver of the oncoming vehicle. It was coming from the town but we
knew whoever it was would turn around and take us back into the hospital; that
was the country way. Bobby stayed in position until the car drew close and
began to slow down, stepping to the side of the road as the grey Holden come to
a halt.
Tom,
the driver of the car, turned out to be someone who knew my father. In a small
community it is not unusual to discover that a randomly hailed motorist is an
acquaintance, a friend or even a relative.
Bobby
gave Tom the news bulletin: “My sister tried to kill my brother.”
Maxie
thrust his bloodied, wrapped hand under Tom’s nose. I remained sullen and
silent; sure I had been justified on the grounds of self-defence.
“That
looks like a serious war wound, young fella,” said Tom. “You’d better hold your
hand upright to stop the blood running away.”
After
helping us all into the car, Tom drove down to the house so that my mother
could collect the twins who were sleeping in their shared cot. Then, with Bobby
and Maxie oozing importance in the front passenger seat and the rest of us
squashed into the back, we headed into town.
At
the hospital, the doctor assured my mother that Maxie’s injury was not as serious
as it looked but needed ‘a few stitches and a bandage’.