My Place (37 page)

‘She married Big Eadie from Corunna Downs, but there were no children,' added Doris.

‘You know, if your grandmother was Daisy, then her grandmother must have been Old Fanny,' said Aunty Katy. ‘I'm in my seventies somewhere, but I can remember her, just faintly. She was short, with a very round face, and had a habit of wearing a large handkerchief on her head with knots tied all the way around.'

I smiled. Mum just sat there. It was all too much.

Just then, the rest of the family arrived. Trixie, Amy and May. We shook hands, then sat around and had a good yarn. In the process, we learnt that Nan's Aboriginal stepfather had been called Old Chinaman and that he had indeed been a tribal elder on Corunna and had maintained this position of power until the day he died. Also, Annie had had a sister called Dodger, who had married, but never had any children. We also learnt that Albert had been a real trickster, even in his old age.

We all laughed and laughed as funny stories about Albert's pranks kept coming, one after the other. By the end of the afternoon, we felt we knew Albert nearly as well as them.

Just as the sun was setting, Doris said, ‘You fellas should go and see Happy Jack. He knew Lily well. She worked for his family for many years. He lives down near Marble Bar pool.'

We were anxious to learn as much as we could, so we took Doris' advice and headed off in search of Happy Jack.

One look at Jack's place and it was obvious that he was an excellent mechanic. His block was strewn with many mechanical bits and pieces, as well as half-a-dozen landrovers that he was in the process of fixing.

We explained who we were and showed him some old photos Arthur had given us of the early days. At first, he didn't seem to take in what we were saying, but when it finally dawned on him who we were, he was very moved.

‘I just can't believe it,' he exclaimed, ‘after all these years.'

‘I know you don't know us, Jack,' I said, ‘but it would mean so much to us if you could tell us about Lily, we know very little and we would like to be able to tell Daisy about her when we go home.'

‘I'm happy to tell you anything I know,' he said as we settled ourselves around his kitchen table. ‘She was a wonderful woman. A wonderful, wonderful woman. She worked for my family for many years. You know, she's only been dead the better part of fifteen years, what a pity she couldn't have met you all.'

‘We wish we'd come sooner,' I replied. ‘Doris told us so many of the old ones have died in recent years.'

‘That's right. And that Corunna mob, there was some very good people amongst that mob. They were all what you'd call strong characters, and that's by anyone's standard, white or black. Now, my family, we started off most of the tin mining in this area. We would go through and strip the country, and all that old Corunna mob would come behind and yandy
*
off the leftovers. I
think they did well out of it. We were happy for them to have whatever they found, because they were the people tribally belonging to that area. It was like an unwritten agreement between them and us. Now and then, others would try and muscle in, but we wouldn't have any of that, it belonged to that mob only. We let them come in and carry on straight behind the bulldozers. It gave them a living. We were very careful about sacred sites and burial grounds too, not like some others I could mention. The old men knew this. Sometimes, they would walk up to us and say, ‘One of our people is buried there.' So we would bulldoze around it and leave the area intact.

‘Now Lilla, that's what a lot of us called her, not Lily, Lilla. She was a great friend of my mother's. She worked in the house and was a wonderful cook. Later when I married, she helped look after my kids too. She had a fantastic sense of humour. You could have a joke with her and she'd laugh her head off. All the descendants of that mob are interlocked now, they're all related around here, I can't work it out. It's worse than my own family. What's Daisy like, is she fairly short?'

‘Yes.'

‘Yes, Lilla was like that. Though mind you, in her later years, she became a fairly heavy woman, must have been good pasture she was on. She was wonderful to the old people, even though she was old herself, she worked really hard looking after them. We used to call her The Angel. She was what you'd call a Black Nightingale, really, and I mean that in a dedicated way. Some of those old ones at Old Shaw camp couldn't move off their mattresses, they were crippled. That didn't worry Lilla, she'd heave them off and heave them back on again. If she got into trouble, she'd come and see one of our family, because she knew we were on the radio and could get the Flying Doctor in. You see what I mean, she was a beautiful old woman, a very gentle woman, and when she died, I felt very sad, because I felt a thing was lost from amongst the people then.

‘Is there anyone else we could talk to who might help us?' I
asked after a few minutes silence. I was amazed at how steady my voice seemed. All I wanted to do was cry, but my voice sounded so firm and steady, like it belonged to someone else.

‘Yes,' replied Jack thoughtfully. ‘You should go to the Reserve and see Topsy and Old Nancy. Nancy is well into her nineties and Topsy well into her eighties. I think I remember them saying they were on Corunna very early in the piece, they might know your grandmother, they were great friends of Lilla's. The only thing is, they only speak the language, you'd have to get someone to interpret.'

‘Thanks very much,' I said. ‘You don't know what this means to us.' We all had tears in our eyes then. While Jack had been speaking of Lilla, it was as though we'd all been transported back into the past. As though we'd seen her and talked to her. Lily was a real person to us now. Just like Albert was.

‘Jack,' I said as we left, ‘would you mind if I put what you told me in a book?'

‘You put in what you like. I'm very proud to have known her. I'm extremely proud to have known that woman. The way she conducted herself, the way she looked after her own people was wonderful. Your family has missed knowing a wonderful woman.'

‘Thanks,' I whispered.

We drove back to the caravan park in silence. Even the children were quiet. We unpacked the van and set up our things for tea. Once again, tea came out of a tin. I don't think we'd have cared what we ate. We wouldn't have tasted it. Mum and I couldn't help thinking of all the things we'd learnt about our family. Our family was something to feel proud of. It made us feel good inside, and sad. Later that night, Mum and I sat under the stars, talking.

‘I wish I'd known them,' Mum sighed.

‘Me too.'

‘You seem a bit depressed.'

‘I am.'

‘What about.'

‘Dunno.' That wasn't true. I did know and Mum knew it. It was just that I needed a few minutes to collect my thoughts so I could explain without breaking down. Finally, I said, ‘It's Lilla, I feel very close to her in the spirit. I feel deprived.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Deprived of being able to help her. We could have helped her with those old people. I feel all churned up that she did all that on her own. She never had children, we could have been her children. I mean, when you put together what everyone's said, she was obviously working hard all day and then going out to camp and looking after the old ones, feeding them …' My voice trailed off. Mum never said anything.

I tossed and turned that night. The feelings I had about Lilla ran very deep, like someone had scored my soul with a knife. Too deep to cry. Finally, I turned to my old standby, ‘Where is she now?' I asked. ‘Where are Lilla and Annie and Rosie and Old Fanny? Where are the women in my family, are they all right? I wish I'd been able to help.' Suddenly, it was as if a window in heaven had been opened and I saw a group of Aboriginal women standing together. They were all looking at me. I knew instinctively it was them. Three adults and a child. Why, that's Rosie, I thought. And then the tears came. As I cried, a voice gently said, ‘Stop worrying, they're with me now.' Within minutes, I was asleep.

The following morning, I awoke refreshed and eager to tackle the Reserve. The deep pain inside of me was slowly fading. It would be a long time before it was completely gone. I never told Mum what I'd seen. I couldn't.

I was, therefore, rather surprised when she took me aside and said quietly, ‘What happened to you last night?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Last night, something important happened to you. You were asleep, or at least I thought you were, then suddenly, I saw you standing with a group of Aboriginal women. I think there were
three of them and a child. I knew you were trying to tell me something, something important, but I didn't know what.'

‘Oh Mum,' I sobbed, ‘it was them!' Her face crumpled. She knew who I meant.

‘They're all right, Mum, they're happy.' she just nodding her head. Then she covered her face with her hands and walked silently away.

By lunchtime, we'd pulled ourselves together sufficiently to be able to tackle the Reserve. We'd asked an Aboriginal woman called Gladys Lee if she would come and interpret for us. Jack had recommended her, as she worked with the old people through the recently established Pipunya centre. She was very happy to do so.

Armed with our old photos, we went from house to house on the Reserve, asking about Lilla. We drew a blank every time. I couldn't understand it.

Finally, we reached the last house. We stepped up onto the small verandah and Gladys showed the photos to two old ladies and then asked about Lilla. No, they didn't know her. Suddenly, I twigged from Gladys speaking that these two ladies were Topsy and Old Nancy. I asked Gladys to show them the photos again.

Topsy took a closer look. Suddenly, she smiled, pointed to a figure in the photos and said, ‘Topsy Denmark.' Old Nancy took more of an interest then. After a few minutes, she pointed to the middle figure and said, ‘Dr Gillespie.'

‘That's right!' I said excitedly to Gladys. I pointed to the photo containing Nanna as a young girl and got them to look at it carefully. Suddenly, there was rapid talking in Balgoo. I couldn't understand a word, but I knew there was excitement in the air. Topsy and Nancy were now very anxious about the whole thing.

Finally, Gladys turned to me with tears in her eyes and said, ‘If I had have known Daisy's sister was Wonguynon, there would have been no problem.'

‘Who's Wonguynon?' I asked.

‘That's Lilla's Aboriginal name. We only know her by
Wonguynon. I loved her, she looked after me when I was very small. I used to run away to her and she'd give me lollies and look after me until my parents came. She was related to my father. I am your relation, too.'

Topsy and Nancy began to cry. Soon, we were all hugging. Gladys and I had tears in our eyes, but we managed not to break down. Topsy and Nancy pored over all the photos I had, chuckling and laughing and shaking their heads. They explained, through Gladys, that they had been on Corunna when Nan had been taken. They'd all cried then, because they were all very close.

‘They lived as one family unit in those days,' Gladys explained. ‘They lived as a family group with Daisy and Lily and Annie. This makes them very close to you. They are your family. Daisy was sister to them. They call her sister, they loved her as a sister.'

By this time we were all just managing to hold ourselves together. I tried not to look at Gladys as she explained things, because I was trying to keep a tight lid on my emotions. It wasn't that I would have minded crying, it was just that I knew if I began, I wouldn't be able to stop. It was the only way to cope.

Later, we retraced our steps back down through the Reserve, stopping at each house in turn and asking about Wonguynon. It was totally different now, open arms, and open hearts. By the time we reached the other end of the Reserve, we'd been hugged and patted and cried over, and told not to forget and to come back.

An old full-blood lady whispered to me, ‘You don't know what it means, no one comes back. You don't know what it means that you, with light skin, want to own us.'

We had lumps in our throats the size of tomatoes. I wanted desperately to tell her how much it meant to us that they would own us. My mouth wouldn't open. I just hugged her and tried not to sob.

We were all so grateful to Gladys for the kind way she helped us through. Without her, we wouldn't have been able to understand a word. Our lives had been enriched in the past few days. We wondered if we could contain any more.

The following day, we decided to go to Corunna Downs station. Doris offered to come with us, as she knew the manager out there. Also, she was worried we might take the wrong track and get lost.

The track to Corunna was very rough. Apparently, it was the worst it had been for years. After an hour of violently jerking up and down, we rounded a bend and Doris said quickly, ‘There's the homestead.'

When we reached the main house, Trevor, the manager, welcomed us with a nice hot cup of tea and some biscuits. We explained why we were there and he happily showed us over the house. To our surprise and delight, it was the same one Nan and Arthur had known in their day. We saw where the old kitchen had been, the date palm Nan had talked about, and, further over in one of the back sheds, the tank machine in which Albert had lost his fingers. I suppose these would be items of no interest to most people, but to us, they were terribly important. It was concrete evidence that what Arthur had told us and what Nan had mentioned were all true.

There were no Aboriginal people on Corunna now. It seemed sad, somehow. Mum and I sat down on part of the old fence and looked across to the distant horizon. We were both trying to imagine what it would have been like for the people in the old days. Soft, blue hills completely surrounded the station. They seemed to us mystical and magical. We easily imagined Nan, Arthur, Rosie, Lily and Albert, sitting exactly as we were now, looking off into the horizon at the end of the day. Dreaming, thinking.