Beneath the Southern Cross (9 page)

On the Saturday night, around the large family dining table which Matthew himself had lovingly constructed and which was his pride and joy, the forbidden conversation was broached. Over a shoulder of beef with Yorkshire pudding, a mountain of baked vegetables and a large jug of gravy, Matthew and Emily attempted to bring up the subject of Thomas and the rift in the family. As Richard had warned them, it was to no avail.

‘Beef,' Mary exclaimed at the first mention of her father-in-law, ‘I am most impressed, how did you come by such a handsome shoulder of beef? It is surely one of the most expensive commodities in the colony.' Mary flashed a warning glance in Richard's direction. She had expected such an attempt from Emily and Matthew—despite the fact that they had been warned—both of them were socially gauche in Mary's opinion, and Richard had promised, under threat of an unpleasant scene, to come to her rescue.

‘Matthew has an excellent arrangement with Godfrey Streatham, the storekeeper,' Richard proffered quickly—a scene was the last thing he wanted—you know, Streatham and Son, the family retailers.'

‘I most surely do.' Mary forgot that her query had been by way of distraction. ‘Streatham and Son.' Her attention was caught in an instant. ‘They have recently extended their business, I believe. They have advanced from the sale of basic commodities and barter transactions to the import of quality goods. Drapery and furnishings in particular. Did Leyland Harvey not tell you this, Richard?'

‘Yes my dear,' Richard said with some relief, the immediate danger averted, ‘you were quite right, imported quality goods are the way of tomorrow.'

‘But the beef is not imported, Mary,' it was Emily, as usual ignoring the danger of the situation, ‘it is top quality Blaxland beef, and was exchanged for several boxes of vegetables as fine as these
you see upon this table, and we deliberately ordered a full shoulder hoping that perhaps we might invite Thomas to partake …'

Even Matthew flashed a warning, it was a bit late to invite Thomas now, his look said. But Emily had imbibed a little too much of the rough red wine which Mary and Richard had brought from their neighbours' new vineyard at Parramatta.

‘… it is only a twenty-minute walk to Pitt Row,' she insisted, ignoring the warning, ‘William could be back with the old man within the hour …'

‘And Mary could be gone within the hour, my darling.' Matthew leaned across the table, grasped her hand and grinned. The only way out was to make a joke of it, he thought, sensing that Mary was about to spring to her feet. ‘I am sure father will be happy with cold cuts tomorrow.'

‘Grandpa Thomas is very fond of cold beef.' Under the table, Hannah kicked out at her brother William's foot, ‘especially with mother's home-made horseradish sauce.' Having spent a fussy and interminable afternoon shopping with her aunt, Hannah would have welcomed a scene. ‘Perhaps we could call upon him tomorrow, the whole family. We could lunch together.'

Hannah had never forgotten that day in Grandpa Thomas's front parlour when Aunt Mary had dropped all pretences and screamed like a banshee. Not that Hannah had approved of the reasons—what matter if cousin James was a little tattered and bleeding—but she had developed a new-found respect for her aunt's passion. In Hannah's opinion, all people should be passionate, whether right or wrong. Hannah intended to spend her entire life being passionate about everything.

Unfortunately Hannah's foot had missed its mark and Mary's ankle caught the blow. ‘Yes, it is an excellent horseradish, Emily,' she said to her sister-in-law. ‘May I?' As Richard hurriedly passed the bowl of sauce to his wife, Mary glared at her niece. The girl was rebellious beyond endurance.

Hannah, realising she had kicked the wrong person, awaited her aunt's accusation and her father's command to leave the table. But no accusation was made.

‘You must give me the recipe, I insist.' Mary was determined there would be no scene, and Hannah, having met her aunt's withering glare with a bold return, was forced to look away. She was
not yet a match for her Aunt Mary, but one day she would be. One day Hannah Kendall would be a match for anyone.

It was late Sunday afternoon when the family returned to Parramatta, and James, seated beside Phoebe in the rear seat of the carriage, did not see Turumbah as they turned from the dirt road through the open gates of the property, then up the winding track to the sandstone house. He and his sister had both been nodding off, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the steady clip-clop of the two-in-hand.

‘I will not have this, Richard,' Mary said as she noticed the Aboriginal boy squatting beside the entrance to the harnessing yard. ‘You must have words with the natives. They have not encroached upon our property to date and they are not to start now.'

As the carriage drew to a halt, Mary gave an imperious wave. ‘Away with you, boy!'

Turumbah rose to his feet, and James looked about drowsily to see what was causing the commotion.

‘Gran'sun James!' Turumbah stood, waving the hat like a flag, as he always did, and James watched in horror. ‘Gran'sun James! I wait!'

Turumbah had been waiting for hours. When his friend James had not been at their meeting place by the mangroves, he had crept closer and closer to the grand house. Even the servants had not been there to shoo him away. And the big carriage and horses had gone. Turumbah had settled down to wait. At the sight of his friend, he had forgotten all the rules and begun jumping up and down, waving his precious hat as if his life depended on it.

Mary recognised the hat in an instant. As her husband helped her from the carriage and turned away to tend the horses, she whipped the offending article from the boy's hands. ‘Where did you get this?' She dared not look at her son, for already she knew the truth.

Turumbah was startled. He was not by nature a nervous boy, but the sudden action caught him unawares. He edged away, wary, uncertain.

James had jumped down from the carriage, Phoebe beside him.

‘I said where did you get this?' Mary wielded the bedraggled felt hat over the boy's head as if it were a cat-o'-nine tails and she were about to beat the life out of him with it.

It was then that young James Kendle did the boldest thing he had ever done, probably the boldest thing he would ever do in his entire life. He stepped forward and stood beside Turumbah.

‘I gave it to him, Mother. As a gift. His name is Turumbah.'

Turumbah's uncertainty vanished in an instant. ‘Gift,' he said. ‘Turumbah, gift.' He grasped James's hand. ‘Gran'sun James
bud-jerry
fellow. Turumbah friend.'

There was a long pause. Phoebe watched, frightened by her mother's anger; Richard stopped tending the horses, at a loss as to what to do, and James stared at the ground, unable to meet his mother's eyes. Only Turumbah seemed unaffected. He grinned at Mary, grinned at James, shuffled his feet and, apart from wishing that the missus would give him back his hat, felt perfectly happy.

‘Turumbah?' Mary queried, and the edge had gone from her voice. The boy nodded. ‘Here is your hat.' She handed it to him and he grabbed it eagerly. ‘Go home now, go home.'

Turumbah nodded, waved and was gone in an instant, hoping that no-one would tell his grandfather he had been caught out of bounds.

‘I do not blame you, James, I blame your grandfather.' Mary glanced briefly at Richard who made no comment. ‘We will say no more about it.'

But Mary was angry. Very angry. For months now she had regretted the scene she had caused that day in Thomas's front parlour. She had lost her dignity, made a fool of herself. But the discovery of the hat changed everything. The boy had not merely been playing in the bush with his cousin, he had spent the entire day in the company of black heathens. Encouraged, furthermore, by his own grandfather to give away a valuable possession!

Mary felt sick with the anger which churned in the very pit of her stomach. The old man had treated her like a ranting, foolish woman that day, all the while knowing that her rage had been entirely justified. Dear God in heaven, what good Christian mother would not lose control under such circumstances? And now, with the natives living at her very doorstep, Thomas's reprehensible act had resulted in a friendship between her only son and one of the heathen children.

The following day Mary's rage had so deepened that she nearly
broke her vow of silence. She paced the floor of the drawing room, on the verge of demanding that Richard take her to town that very morning so that she could tell Thomas Kendall that he could keep his inheritance and she would keep his grandchildren. She would tell him …

‘There is a black woman at the front door, ma'am.' It was Peg, a basket of washing under her arm, tapping at the side windows of the drawing room. ‘She has a boy with her. I told her to begone but she wants to see the mistress of the house. She speaks very proper for a native.'

‘Very well, Peg. Tell her to go around to the back.'

A woman whom Mary judged to be in her thirties stood at the back door, the boy with the felt hat by her side.

‘I am Murrumuru, missus,' she said.

Mary nodded and silently looked her up and down. The woman's skin was jet black and her ebony hair coarse and wiry, but Mary could not help observing that she was handsome in her own way, there was a bearing about her. Furthermore, she seemed respectable for a native; her skirt and blouse were clean and she wore slippers, which although worn and thin had once been fine.

‘He say sorry,' she said, nudging the boy who twisted the hat self-consciously in his hands. ‘We catch him come big house. Elders angry.' She nudged Turumbah again. ‘Say sorry.'

Turumbah had cursed his indiscretion time and again during the night. He had been so excited at the return of his hat and the kindness in the missus's voice when she had simply told him to go home that he had forgotten to sneak back into the camp through the mangroves. He had not been clever. Now his mother insisted that he say sorry to the missus. His mother was always telling him to say ‘sorry', or ‘thank you', or ‘please'. She was very proud of the English she had been taught by the military man's wife whom she had served in Sydney Town.

‘Sorry, missus,' the boy mumbled.

Aware that Peg had come around to the back of the house, put down the washing basket and was watching the proceedings, possibly awaiting orders to shoo the intruders away, Mary decided to be gracious.

‘Turumbah,' she leaned down to the boy, ‘do you go to school?'
The boy looked up, first at Mary, then at his mother. ‘Do you go to the mission school?' Mary repeated.

‘I take him, missus,' Murrumuru said, proud that the missus knew her son's name. She didn't add that she had taken Turumbah to the mission school on only one occasion, that he'd refused to stay, and that she had given up on the exercise. Murrumuru had her reasons for wanting to impress the missus. ‘Learn quick. Boy clever.'

‘That is good,' Mary replied, not believing the woman.

‘You need servant?' Murrumuru took the plunge. It was the reason she had dragged Turumbah to the big house in the first place. She had been wishing to make contact for quite sometime, despite Wolawara's objections. To be a slave to the white people was not the plan, her father had insisted. It was not the reason Thomas Kendall had given them the land beside his clanspeople.

But during her two years in service, despite the hard toil involved, Murrumuru had adapted to household life. She missed the English food and the regular presents Lieutenant Hookway's wife gave her, the cast-off garments, hats and shoes. Not only for herself but for her children and her family. Her father had been proud of his red soldier's coat; why, then, should he be so adamant about returning to the old ways? It was a much harder life. Murrumuru could make it so much easier for all of them. And she would be given money too. Very little, it was true, but they could buy white man's things with money. It was better than begging in the streets as her brother Yenerah was doing once again, though she dared not tell their father.

Murrumuru took a deep breath and clearly enunciated her very best phrase, the one Missus Hookway had taught her when she had reluctantly resigned from service. ‘I seek employment, missus,' she said.

Her announcement was met with silence, and Murrumuru hoped she hadn't offended the Missus who was staring at her, transfixed. ‘I work good. Servant two year for army man. Lieutenant Hookway,' she announced with pride.

The woman was a godsend, Mary thought. In Murrumuru, she saw with instant clarity the solution to her dilemma. Thomas Kendall would be appalled to discover that one of his precious Wolawara's kin was in servitude to her rather than living a free life. And to keep a black servant was perfectly respectable, so long
as the black servant could be taught to adhere to British standards of dress and decorum, which this woman obviously could. Furthermore, to convert a black servant was considered a positive triumph, the action of a truly Christian person. And that was exactly what Mary would do.

‘Murru …?' she queried.

‘Murrumuru,' the woman answered quickly. ‘I am Murrumuru.'

‘Yes. Murrumuru. A pretty name.' She would insist the woman's child attend the mission school regularly, and the two of them would accompany Mary to church on Sundays. Mary would be seen to be a caring and civilising influence upon the family of her servant. Perhaps, in time, she could Christianise others amongst the clan. It was certainly her duty to try.

She would play Thomas Kendall at his own game. The old devil professed an understanding and a caring for the Aboriginal people. What had he done for them? Given them a parcel of marshy, nonproductive land so they could return to their heathen ways. Mary would do far more. So long as they abided by her rules. For any who sent their children to school, she would provide food; to any who attended church, she would give cast-off clothes; to any who showed an inclination to utilise the land, she would provide basic gardening implements.