Caprice (8 page)

As the years rolled by, things got worse, his attitude towards me changed drastically. I found myself contending with unfair condemnation, cursing and swearing, using descriptions and vile names I never heard in my entire life.

I had to endure barbed remarks which were just as painful as physical violence. These attacks came at regular intervals. There were insulting accusations implying that I had slept with every man I had any kind of contact with.

My mother-in-law Sara Jane's behaviour was no better. She was a vicious and vindictive woman. I never understood why I was singled out as her victim to humiliate and intimidate. Perhaps it was my Christian upbringing that was my downfall. “Respect your elders,” we were taught—even when they didn't deserve it. My attitude must have been interpreted as meekness, and I was a person “to be set upon”. “Condone their follies, forgive their faults.” It was easy to be rhetorical and sit in judgment from afar but what was I meant to do, suffer humiliation “until death do us part”?

No way. If I am to be restored to a strong individual, a woman in my own right, I need to grab with both hands the separation that is offered. There is no hope of reconciliation. I know now he is incapable of remaining devoted to me, I must accept that and pick up the pieces, care for and love my children and start a new life. I have resolved never to get involved with anyone again, though I still have the unconscious desire to be appreciated and loved.

Holding steadfast to my Christian beliefs almost ruined my life. I was fast becoming a neurotic woman addicted
to Valium. I was rescued from this fate by some strong and practical advice from my dearest friend and matron-of-honour at my wedding, Jane Walters.

“Go back to study. Do something different,” she advised.

I took her advice and enrolled at the Geraldton Technical College and faced the most difficult challenge of my life. For a middle-aged woman whose formal education never passed the primary stage, this task was daunting.

Two years later I applied and was accepted as a student with the Aboriginal Bridging Course at the Western Australian Institute of Technology. Kent couldn't resist the temptation. He just had to call in just as we were about to leave for Perth. “You'll never make it. You're too dumb,” he said.

Midway through the course I was almost convinced that he was right. But I wasn't giving him the pleasure of saying “I told you so”. I may have lacked confidence at times but not stamina, persistence and determination.

And so with my friend David Larsen's support and encouragement I took advantage of the means of study and I was able to complete the Aboriginal Bridging Course successfully.

My first contact with David Larsen was at the official welcoming ceremony for the incoming students. Regular interaction and socialisation between the tertiary and the ABC students on the campus brought us together often. I felt comfortable with this quiet, sensitive caring man. He wasn't as handsome as Kent Williamson. He was average looking, fair haired, tall and slender, but he had other qualities that I admired in a man. He was the grandson of a Danish sojourner from Copenhagen. Father of three grown-up children, he was divorced from his wife because life with him was “dull and boring”. His interests were
reading, films and fishing. At that stage in my life I was convinced that I had become frigid and unable to share an intimate relationship. I was content to leave things as they were, sharing friendship and companionship.

It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon and the heat was unbearable, so still and sweltering. The Fremantle Doctor was late coming in as usual. I had planned to sleep through it, but my three boisterous grandsons decided otherwise. There was only one place left where I could relax and reflect on events and incidents of the past year, and that was the bathroom.

So for the next twenty minutes I soaked in a tepid bath undisturbed.

Three years ago the chances of furthering my education were so remote that even doing a course at a TAFE college seemed highly unlikely. Yet here I am on this hot November afternoon preparing for a very special evening—the graduation ceremony of the Aboriginal Bridging Course students 1981 at the Western Australian Institute of Technology. There are eighteen graduates, sixteen women and only two men; the females outnumber the males once again. This is a statement in itself and one that should dispel the myth that has persisted throughout the decades that women are merely “breeders, feeders and follow the leaders”. We see ourselves as strivers and survivors. Our contribution not only to Aboriginal society but to the wider community is well documented. Women hold prominent positions and are attaining increasingly important roles
in administration at all levels in welfare, education, business and the arts.

There are a few students like myself still suffering low self-esteem and the effects of traumatic experiences. A couple of students who have had little or no contact with Aboriginal people were going through an identity crisis. Thankfully, all these problems have been overcome and adjustments made by the end of the course. I readily adjusted to city life but found it extremely difficult being a fulltime mature-aged student on a tertiary campus. But persistence and determination paid off in the long run. All the study and hard work had come to fruition, and I want to look my best this evening.

Later as I sat at my dresser the reflection in the mirror showed a fairly attractive woman with careworn lines around the eyes and greying around the temples. A grandmother of forty-one years, this woman with dark neatly trimmed hair brushed up into a flattering style. It was normally straight, thick and lacked lustre. But today it was glossy and seemed to make my dark eyes look brighter. Later when my daughter Vicki completed the facial makeup, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. She nodded, satisfied with the results, “Mum you look different, beautiful in fact. A little bit of makeup, a bit of colour here and there, especially mauves and blues really suits you, you should wear it often.”

I was flattered. I have never worn makeup before. My Christian principles disallowed and discouraged with adages such as “A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a lady what she aint.”

When David Larsen, my companion and escort, called to pick me up, I could see that he approved of my new image—my glamorous, flattering appearance

“Gee, Kate you look lovely,” he said.

I am glad I chose to wear the mauve and white suit
with matching white shoes. I felt all bubbly and beautiful as we drove to the campus at Bentley.

The day that I strived for these past three years had finally arrived. And as I took my place in the second row with my fellow graduates, the class of '81, I became acutely aware of the ambience—an atmosphere filled with nervous anticipation and excitement that seemed to permeate the entire length and breadth of the Hollis Theatre.

However, my nervousness and anxiety quickly disappeared as I stepped on to the podium to receive a handshake and a certificate from the dean of the faculty of education.

This ceremony may have been regarded by a few as just another graduation ceremony: a presentation of rhetorics and concluding with the usual congratulatory speeches, followed by a vote of thanks and an invitation to share refreshments at the main cafeteria. But to me the ceremony signified something special. It meant that I had reached yet another goal in my life—a personal achievement worth sharing with an audience—one that I had doubted I would ever attain. Seated amongst the audience, sharing this special moment with me were my four very proud children, their spouses and my five grandchildren.

Firstly there was my eldest child Kevin James, 21, a plant operator with Carnarvon Shire Council, and his attractive wife Helen and their two sons Richard, 3, and Paul, 1.

Next to them were my daughter Vicki, 19, clerk/typist with the Department of Social Security, Cannington, her husband Marty Harris, trainee welfare assistant at a juvenile centre, and their sons Peter, 5, and Shane, 4.

Marise my youngest daughter came down from Port Hedland with her handsome husband Johnny Morgan and my only and beautiful granddaughter Jasmine, 3. At
17 Marise still looked too young to be a mother—just a baby herself.

Kent, the baby of the family, a sixteen-year-old apprenticed motor mechanic, intended joining his father and uncles on the Main Roads Board (Murchinson Area) when he qualified.

With the formalities over, the refreshments devoured and enjoyed, everything was going perfectly. There were more congratulatory hugs and kisses from fellow students, family and friends. But my highest accolade came from my eldest son Kevin James who waved and yelled before disappearing around the corner, “Well done Mother duck, we're all proud of you.” I was proud of me too, the only grandmother in the class.

That evening was still mine, as my friend David cheerfully reminded me. Next on the agenda was a celebration party at Dulcie Miller's home in Como. Dulcie was a second year social work student—the same year as my friend David—and she was the most helpful and popular person on campus. Many of us benefited from her support and informative discussions.

David and I didn't go directly to Como but drove to South Perth to the foreshore and sat on the edge of the river's cool grassy banks.

“I brought a bottle of champagne but forgot to bring two glasses,” he said apologetically. “But I hope you don't mind using this.” He handed me a small plastic bottle of orange juice.

Mind, I didn't mind at all—unromantic though it may seem. Starting off with an orange juice, followed by an orange and champagne cocktail and ending with champagne. It sounded perfectly wonderful to me.

Some time later David took the empties and deposited them into the nearest rubbish bin. I walked and stood on the edge of the foreshore and gazed wistfully across
the river to the brightly lit city with its scores of twinkling lights and colourful neon signs that seem to enhance the beauty and the brilliance of our night-time capital city. I listened to the humming and the throbbing of the city itself, and watched the twin head lights of the moving traffic; going to and fro; in and out; full of purpose, either going home or going out.

This beautiful view was reflected in the river's edge on the opposite side. Though now the twinkling lights seemed to be multiplied many times to become streaks of brilliance and colour. The transformation was magical. The normally murky brown Swan River seemed to be momentarily transformed into a huge mirror. In the darkness the ripples and the low swell lapped against the shoreline, breaking and rejoining in an endless movement, never stopping, never still.

A cool breeze came wafting across the waters, giving me a pleasant feeling that was purely euphoric.

This entire evening's proceedings were a little hazy—except for three words that kept echoing in my brain, “Passed with distinction”. And at that moment I realised the full impact of those words. I actually made it. You hear that, Kent Williamson, “Passed with distinction”. It felt so good I wrapped my arms around myself, as pride and self-satisfaction began to swell within my breast. A most gratifying feeling indeed.

I was so engrossed in my own thoughts that I didn't hear David approaching until he put his arms around me and kissed my cheek. “Beautiful, eh,” he said. I nodded in agreement and turned towards him and embraced and kissed him. But this time, however, it was different. I felt an old familiar emotion stirring within me; a sensation I thought was dead, gone forever, when all this time it was just lying dormant waiting for the right moment.

Well that special moment has come. Winter is over.
Spring is here. My spirits soar higher. I am alive! I am vibrant! I am Caprice, a Stockman's Daughter.

Since 1988 with the establishment of the David Unaipon competition, which discovers new Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander writers, UQP has built up an international reputation as the largest publisher of books by Indigenous authors in Australia. UQP's Black Australian Writing series evolved out of the Unaipon Award and today includes Indigenous-authored books ranging from novels, poetry, and life stories to nonfiction, and young adult fiction. Through the combined expertise of our authors, cultural advisors and specialist staff, UQP continues its commitment to Indigenous writing as a valued contribution to the literature of a nation.

A fictional account of one woman's journey to find her family and heritage,
Caprice
is Doris Pilkington Garimara's first book. Set in the towns, pastoral stations and orphanage-styled institutions of Western Australia, this story brings together three generations of Mardu women. The narrator Kate begins her journey with the story of her grandmother Lucy, a domestic servant, then traces the short and tragic life of her mother Peggy.

This book is the basis of the internationally released film ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence'. Based on her mother Molly's life story, Doris Pilkington Garimara's narrative tells of three young girls' remarkable journey home across the length of Western Australia.

Powerful and sinister, this is the second book by the brilliant Murri writer whose comedy novel
Bitin' Back
(2001) won the David Unaipon Award and was shortlisted in the 2002 South Australian Premier's Award for Fiction. Cleven's facility with noir is every bit as biting as her wit.
Her Sister's Eye
is a haunting descent into the tragedies of lives both black and white in a small town community with a legacy of shame.

This is a rollicking comedy novel that blends in nimbly the realities of small town prejudice and racial intolerance. When football-playing Nevil awakens one morning determined to don a frock and “eyeshada” to better understand the late novelist Jean Rhys, his mother's idle days at the bingo hall are ended forever. Neither fist fights at the Two Dogs Pub, bare knuckle boxing in the back paddock, Booty's pig dogs or a police siege can slow the countdown on this human time bomb.

An award-winning story of family, community and tradition on Victoria's Framlingham Aboriginal Mission.
The Mish
is a charming, humorous memoir of times past, about growing up on western Victoria's Framlingham Aboriginal Station in the 1950s and '60s. Robert Lowe's family came to the Mission of their own volition at a time when mixed race marriages were better supported by the Aboriginal community than by the white community. A celebration of the resilient and unified extended family.