My Place (50 page)

Although I still grieved for Bill, I felt as though a load had been lifted from my shoulders. I was much more relaxed. I didn't have to worry about money and the children could make as much noise as they liked. I let them run, screaming, through the house day and night, I felt they needed it. I often had them all in bed with me, poor little kids, they needed all the love they could get.

They had a lot to cope with, the kids at school were asking questions and the teachers were talking about them. Sally had told me she'd overheard two of the teachers talking and it had made her angry. ‘Who do they think they are?' she asked me. ‘We don't want their pity. Don't they understand it's better he's gone?' She'd been close to her father, but she also knew what he was like. In some ways, they were similar, they were both rebels.

Bill had only been dead a short time when a Welfare lady came out to visit us. I was really frightened because I thought if she realised we were Aboriginal, she might have the children taken away. We only had two bedrooms and a sleepout and there were five children, as well as Mum and me.

This woman turned out to be a real bitch. She asked me all sorts of questions and walked through our house with her nose in the air like a real snob. She asked where we all slept, and when I
told her Helen slept with me, she was absolutely furious. She said, ‘You are to get that child out of your bed, we will not stand for that. You work something else out, the children aren't to be in the same room as you. I'll come back and check to make sure you've got another bed.'

I never told her we often all slept together, or that I was still breastfeeding Helen. I just agreed with everything she said. I didn't want her to have any excuse to take the children off me.

It was after the visit from the Welfare lady that Mum and I decided we would definitely never tell the children they were Aboriginal. We were both convinced they would have a bad time otherwise. Also, if word got out, another Welfare person might come and take them away. That would have killed us both.

Mum said she didn't want the children growing up with people looking down on them. I understood what she meant. Aboriginals were treated the lowest of the low. It was like they were the race on earth that had nothing to offer.

When I was little, Mum had always pinched my nose and said, ‘Pull your nose, Gladdie, pull it hard. You don't want to end up with a big nose like mine.' She was always pulling the kids' noses too. She wanted them to grow up to look like white people.

I suppose, looking back now, it seems awful that we deprived them of that heritage, but we thought we were doing the right thing at the time. With Bill gone, we now had some hope of a future and I knew he would want the children to get on in the world.

I took on any job that was going. I wasn't afraid to work. Sometimes, I had four jobs on the go. I forced myself to learn how to drive, even though I was petrified of the thought of actually going on the road. I knew I would need that independence and it meant I could take the children on outings. They hadn't had much up until then.

After I'd managed to pay off all the extra debts, our lives really
began to change. I never had to worry about where the next meal was coming from now, and I could buy the kids lollies and fruit, sometimes, we even went to the pictures.

I also found that, now we were on our own, I worried less about Mum. She would always have a home with me, and there was enough money for all of us to get by on. Best of all, she had her own family now. All her life, she'd had to mother other people's children, now she had her own flesh and blood. I hoped that would make up for some of her past.

When the opportunity to buy my own florist business came up, I grabbed it. I had always wanted to be my own boss. My old friend Lois gave me a loan, she knew I would pay her back. I soon had that shop on its feet and doing twice as well as when the previous owners had it. It gave me a new independence and something to be proud of. Also, it gave us the extra money we needed to get us through the children's teenage years.

I'm very proud of my children and the way they turned out.

I feel embarrassed now to think that, once, I wanted to be white. As a child I even hoped a white family would adopt me, a rich one, of course. I've changed since those days.

I'm still a coward. When a stranger asks me what nationality I am,

I sometimes say a Heinz variety. I feel bad when I do that. It's because there are still times when I'm scared inside, scared to say who I really am.

But, at least I've made a start. And I hope my children will feel proud of the spiritual background from which they've sprung. If we all keep saying we're proud to be Aboriginal, then maybe other Australians will see that we are a people to be proud of. I suppose every mother wants her children to achieve greatness, or, at least, one of them. All I want my children to do is pass their Aboriginal heritage on.

I suppose, in hundreds of years' time, there won't be any black Aboriginals left. Our colour dies out; as we mix with other races
we'll lose some of the physical characteristics that distinguish us now. I like to think that, no matter what we become, our spiritual tie with the land and the other unique qualities we possess will somehow weave their way through to future generations of Australians. I mean, this is our land, after all, surely we've got something to offer.

It hasn't been an easy task, baring my soul. I'd rather have kept hidden things which have now seen the light of day. But, like everything else in my life, I knew I had to do it. I find I'm embarrassed sometimes by what I have told, but I know I cannot retract what has been written, it's no longer mine.

The only way I can explain it is by one of my favourite rules, which I haven't always followed. Let me pass this way but once and do what good I can. I shall not pass this way again. Maybe someone else is walking a road that's like mine.

_____________

*
Sister Kate
— an Anglican nun who set up a home for part-Aboriginal children in the 1930s. Initially, children were sent to her by the Western Australian government authority responsible for Aborigines. Sister Kate's remains today as a hostel and support organisation for Aboriginal families.

It took several months to work through Mum's story and, during that time, many tears were shed. We became very close.

Although she'd finally shared her story with me, she still couldn't bring herself to tell my brothers and sisters. Consequently, I found myself communicating it to them in bits and pieces as it seemed appropriate. It was, and still is, upsetting for us all. We'd lived in a cocoon of sorts for so long that we all found it difficult to come to terms with the experiences Mum had been through.

By the beginning of June 1983, Nan's health wasn't too good.

‘You've got to take her to the doctor,' I told Mum one day. ‘She's not well.'

‘You know how she hates doctors.'

‘But what if it's something serious? You'll just have to force her to go.'

Mum took Nan to see our local doctor a few days later. They sent Nan for a chest X-ray, which revealed that one of her lungs had collapsed.

When Mum phoned through the news to me, I said gently, ‘I think you should prepare yourself, Mum. I'm not trying to make a big deal out of this, but I think it will be serious.'

‘You mean you think she might die?'

‘Yes.'

‘You don't know what you're talking about, Sally! It's only a collapsed lung, they can fix that!'

‘But they have to find out what caused the collapse, don't they?'

‘Well … yes. She has to go into hospital in two day's time for tests.'

The night before Nan was due to go into hospital, she stayed at my place. Mum had arranged weeks before to baby-sit some of her other grandchildren and it was an arrangement she couldn't break.

I made Nan a cup of tea and we sat in the lounge room to talk.

‘I'd like you to listen to a story, Nan, it's only a couple of pages. Is it okay if I read it to you?'

‘Oooh, yes. I like a good story.'

‘You tell me if you like it.'

‘All right.'

I read her the section on Arthur's boxing days. When I stopped, she said, ‘That's a wonderful story, a really good one. I did enjoy it, where did you get such a story from?'

‘This is what I've been writing, Nan,' I grinned. ‘That's Arthur's story.'

‘No! I can't believe it! That's Arthur's story?'

‘Yep!'

‘I didn't know he had a good story like that. You got to keep that story safe. Read me some more.'

I read a little more, and then we began to talk about the old days and life on Corunna Downs Station. For some reason, Nan was keen to talk. As she went on and on, her breath began to come in shorter and shorter gasps. Her words tumbled out one over the other, as if her tongue couldn't say them quickly enough.

When I could see that she was very tired, I said, ‘Would you like to lie down for a while now?'

‘Yes, I think I will,' she sighed. ‘I feel tired now.'

Our lounge suite was a real oldie, it was low to the floor, so I had to haul Nan up.

‘You got to get me a better seat,' she complained.

‘I know, I'll bring one over from Mum's.'

I took Nan into my bedroom and she climbed into the double bed.

‘Gladdie won't be here till late,' she muttered.

‘You can sleep till she comes. Do you want another cuppa?'

‘No thanks. I think I'll just lie here.'

‘Okay, I'm going to put the kids to bed. If you want anything, sing out.'

After I'd settled the children down, I walked quietly past Nan's bedroom door. I expected her to be asleep, but she wasn't.

‘Sally,' she called. ‘Come here.'

‘What is it?

‘I want to tell you more about the station,' she smiled. I nearly stopped her, she could hardly breathe, but how could I tell her not to talk when it had taken a lifetime for her to get to this point?

I listened quietly as she spoke about wild ducks and birds, the blue hills and all the fruit that grew along the creek. Her eyes had a faraway look and her face was very soft. I kept smiling at her because she was smiling at me, but inside, I wanted to cry. I'd seen that look before, on Arthur's face. I knew she was going to die. Nan finally settled down and closed her eyes. I tucked her in again.

‘Hmmmn, this is a really good rug,' she said sleepily. ‘Where did you get such a rug?'

‘Mum gave it to me,' I muttered. And, turning off her light, I walked back into the kitchen.

‘She's going to die, Paul,' I said sadly.

‘Aah, you're just worried because she's going into hospital tomorrow,' he replied in that pragmatic way of his. ‘Once she's had her lung fixed and the cataracts taken off her eyes, she'll be fine.'

‘It's more than that. I've seen that look before, on Arthur's face. They become all soft. They start to talk about things they've hidden for years.'

Mum arrived a couple of hours later to take Nan home. She
helped Nan down our front verandah steps, but, halfway down, Nan stopped, then she turned and said, ‘Kiss me, Sally, you might not see me again.'

I kissed her cheek.

I walked with them to the car, the air was cold and damp. Usually, I waved goodbye from the porch, but tonight I felt compelled to walk with Nan as far as possible.

As Mum started up the engine, Nan unwound her window and handed me a black and red vinyl pencil case.

‘Keep this,' she said.

‘What are you giving Sally?' Mum asked.

‘Nothing. Just something for the kids.' There was a twinkle in her eye. I knew there was money inside.

When I visited Nan in hospital the following evening, she was very bright. Mum had been there on and off all day.

‘Hi, Nan,' I said as I walked up to her bed. ‘How are they treating you?'

‘The nurses are lovely. And that old lady next to me, she's gone now, but she ordered my tea and showed me where the toilet was.'

‘Aah, you've been spoilt!'

‘She was a lovely old lady, she's gone home now, what a lovely person she was,' Nan grimaced. She always did that when she spoke about how lovely someone was.

‘How's the tucker?'

‘Very good,' she replied, as if surprised. ‘They gave me meat and casserole and a soup and a lovely caramel sweet.' Pausing in her description, she turned to Mum and said, ‘Gladdie, do you remember I used to make a sweet like that?'

‘Yes, that's right,' Mum replied. She looked tired.

‘One of the good old recipes, eh?' I commented.

‘Yes, and very nice.'

‘Well, I'm glad they're treating you right, Nan. I brought some more of Arthur's story to read. Do you want to listen, or are you too tired?'

‘Read it!'

‘You sure you're not too tired?'

‘No.' She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back against the pillows, waiting for me to begin. It was a long chapter, so I only read her half. As I read, Nan oohed and aahed in the appropriate places.

‘I'll read you the rest tomorrow night,' I said.

‘That's a good idea.'

‘You look tired, do you want to sleep now?'

‘I'd better. They're putting that thing down my throat tomorrow.'

‘I know, that's why you need a good sleep, you want to be strong for tomorrow.'

‘You won't feel anything,' Mum reassured her. ‘They give you some medicine so you don't feel it go down.'

‘Yes, you told me before.'

‘I'll see you tomorrow, Nan,' I said. ‘I've still got that pencil case you gave me.'

She smiled. ‘Those old papers in it will come in handy,' she chuckled. Nan was speaking in code. She never liked Mum to know how much money she'd given anyone.