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Carole had seen the impact Patricia's passing had on Bob. It was she who had noticed the bump in Daisy's stomach at the funeral, nudging Bob. Carole had shared his disgust at the way in which Daisy had moved in, taking Patricia's husband and her house and enjoying the spoils of the restaurant Patricia had helped Pasquale build. Unlike Bob, Carole did not despise Pasquale. She felt pity for him. It was Patricia's children she felt sorry for, sent off to boarding school while Daisy set about redecorating her new home. Carole struggled to explain the situation to Candice and Kingsley, why it was they did not see their cousins now.

Carole obtained her real estate licence and started to earn a good income. She was honest and approachable, and buyers and sellers, landlords and tenants respected her. She enjoyed the renewed independence of having her own income and making her own decisions about how things should be done in the house. The more she regained her ability to do things her own way, the more she liked it. It was two years since Bob had left, since she could not face getting out of bed because of her despair at his leaving. Now, she had to admit, there was a part of her that was happier with him gone, even though a bigger part of her missed him every morning she woke up and he was not there.

Bob wished that he had asked Patricia what she knew, what conversations she may have had with their mother that could unlock the secret of who they were. Bob had never forgotten his father's response to his question about their dark hair and eyes, the question about what they were: “You are as white as anyone else.”

He was reluctant to make contact with Daisy after cutting her out of his life when she became pregnant to Pasquale. But the more he thought about what information she might have, the more he wanted to call her.

She was frosty about the subject. “I don't know why you want to open that one. It would be best if we left it alone.”

So like her,
he thought as he replaced the receiver. Daisy had said nothing of Pasquale or the children. She had spoken as though it were a usual thing that Bob should call her to ask about their family history; yet it had been twelve years, since he had last raised the topic with her, just after Patricia's funeral. He shook his head.

Bob's next step was to call his father. The last time he'd seen him was their encounter in Strawberry Hills, when Bob still worked for the post office. Bob spent an afternoon looking through phone books, but there was no listing for a 'G. Brecht', not in Lithgow or anywhere else. He decided to try a different course.

Bob had applied for his parents' marriage certificate. It stated that his mother was born at Dungalear Station in 1905 and that her maiden name was 'Boney'. He could find no birth certificate for her. He then applied for his mother's death certificate. It noted her place of birth as Walgett, and the year of her birth as 1904.

He began to look at maps of all of the pastoral leases. Dungalear Station sounded like a farm property. He looked on maps around the town of Walgett, to see if he could find the connection. As he searched, he was trying to make sense of what he knew. Somehow he had always known that he was Aboriginal, knew it just as the children in his class at school had known it, even though his mother had never told him and his father would not reveal it.

He began to search the Mitchell library for histories of Walgett and any mention of a Dungalear Station. He'd taken a small studio flat in Liverpool Street in Surry Hills, but he spent so many hours in the quiet book-lined caverns of the library that he began to recognise the faces of other regulars, obsessed with solving mysteries of their own.

His break came not from the books but from a conversation with another man similarly haunting the library's halls.

“Writing a PhD?” he asked Bob.

“No — it's the beard, isn't it?” Bob laughed, rubbing his stubble. “Actually, I'm not really sure what I'm looking for.”

“Makes it kind of hard, doesn't it?”

Bob found he was talking to an historian, Peter Read, who was writing a book on what he called 'the Stolen Generation'. Peter told him about the Aborigines Welfare Board and how they removed children from their families and regulated the lives of Aboriginal people across New South Wales. There were documents, he explained, in the government archives of the Board's activities. “A lot of their documents have been destroyed, but you may find something in there.”

Bob had few clues when he went to the NSW Archives. Dungalear Station and Walgett. 1904 or 1905. Boney. He began searching every year from 1903 for a trace of Elizabeth Boney from Dungalear Station. After two-and-a-half months of filling out request forms and waiting for copies of old documents to arrive, he unrolled a scroll to see a certificate from the Aborigines Protection Board that showed an Elizabeth Boney had been removed from Dungalear Station. Date of birth was listed as 26 June 1904. 'Removed at Girl's Own Request.' The certificate also listed one brother, Sonny Boney. Lines on paper, like a map, all pointing the way home.

28

1982

B
OB PULLED UP OUTSIDE the neat weatherboard house in Walgett. There was a wire fence and gate and a path that led straight to the front door. Bob could feel his heart pumping as he took the two steps up to the front porch, opened the screen door and knocked. He heard a dog bark and the sound of footsteps. The door clicked open. Standing before him was an Aboriginal woman with short dark hair and curls around her face. She looked at Bob, arched one eyebrow and waited for him to explain himself.

Bob began, “I am looking for a Sonny Boney.”

“You are, are you? And who might you be?”

“Well, I think I am his nephew. My mother was Elizabeth Boney, his sister. That is, if I have the right Sonny Boney.”

Bob had been expecting some sign of delight, some recognition or an invitation into the house. Instead he was met with silence. He started to feel his stomach tighten.

“Why didn't you come knocking on this door three months ago?” the woman demanded. “He was looking for his sister his whole life. His whole life. You are three months too late.”

Bob felt weakness wash over him and tears pricking his eyes. He was about to turn and head back to the sanctuary of his car when a tall, dark man came to the door.

“You'll have to excuse Mum,” he started.

“I don't need anyone making excuses for me, Henry. Not here in my own home.” With that the woman retreated into the house.

“She took Dad's passing rather hard. I'm Henry. Henry Boney. And if you're who you say you are, well, that'd make us cousins.”

“I'm Bob Brecht.”

“Well, I reckon, since your reception here hasn't been so jovial, we should adjourn to the Royal and you can shout your cousin a drink.” Henry slapped Bob on the back as he walked towards Bob's car.

Bob was counting the number of drinks he'd been buying for Henry. He wouldn't normally pay for so many rounds without getting one in return. The news of Sonny's death had been a disappointment, but he was elated to have found a connection, to find part of what he was looking for.

“It was true what Mum said. Dad was looking for his sister his whole life. My eldest sister is called Eliza after her. He was a quiet man, my Dad — not like Mum. Well, you've seen her.” Henry shot Bob a wink. “He used to tell us some funny ones. When Mum ran out of bread, he's say it didn't matter 'cause he only ate toast.

“They met when he moved down to Narromine in the thirties. There was no mission there, see, so he lived by the riverbank with a mob of them, Mum included. Worked in the orchards and the wheatfields. Did some cotton picking too, when they got the irrigation. But he moved back here when he married Mum. She's a Morgan from Brewarrina. They were married in '44, yeah, that's right, '44. Story goes that when he arrived in town he saw this woman giving the shopkeeper what-for for overcharging on their food. Apparently it was love at first sight for Dad. They didn't spend a night apart the whole time they were together. Here's me with my third missus and I'm younger than you by the looks of it. But they seemed to mate for good back in those days.” He paused, looking into his beer.

“Mum was always fired up. She's on the Housing Board and works up at the Medical Service. She was one of them fighting to get the Foundation up and running. Her latest thing is to get a bus for the school. No one takes on my Mum.” He grinned. “I'm always apologising for her.”

Bob could believe that no one would take her on. He wouldn't.

“Loved his music though, my Dad. All that old American stuff — Bessie Smith, Billie Holliday, Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles. Loved it. Mum used to scoff at him and make him listen to it in his shed. But she'd take him cups of tea and chocolate slices. Used to pretend that she wouldn't let him in the house to play that depressing music. But she really wanted to give him time alone with his thoughts. She's tough, but she loved him. Hasn't thrown a thing of his away since he died. Plays those records now herself. Puts them on in the shed and goes into the house to do her work so it seems like he's down there listening to his music, waiting for a cup of tea. She's sweet really, our Mum.”

Bob arched his eyebrows at Henry.

“No. Really she is, Cuz,” Henry continued. Bob felt the warmth of the term 'Cuz' swim over him.

“Look, come 'round tomorrow and talk to her. I'll have a word to her tonight and make sure she's smoothed over. Just don't expect her to apologise,” Henry added with a laugh.

Bob knocked again on Marilyn Boney's door. The morning air was cool but hinted at the searing heat that would follow in the next few hours.

“Alright, I heard you,” Marilyn muttered from behind the door as she opened it. She held the door open, sweeping her hand towards the back of the house, directing Bob through.

“Sit down,” she said, and he pulled out a chair at a blue laminated table in a spotless blue kitchen. She slammed a cup of tea with milk in it before him. Bob was too nervous to tell her he preferred it black.

“Well, what do you want to know?” she asked. But before he could answer, she continued, “He was the most decent man I ever met, I can tell you that. Not like those ones around here who drink too much and hit their women and kids 'round. Always worked hard to provide for us.

“We had the six kids,” she continued, turning her wedding band. “Sonny always thought that if you had six kids, even if bad things happened to them, chances were you'd be left with at least one. That might sound a bit pessimistic but that's how it was when we were younger. Between the Welfare and the sickness.”

Her eyes turned from her hands to look into Bob's eyes.

“You wouldn't know how tough it was for blacks out here in those days. During the war, there was work around, men like your uncle could leave the reserves and work for real wages. As soon as it was over, they were pushed back to the margins — shearing, branding, fencing. He even tried opal mining for a while. Didn't like handling the stones. The old people always told us not to touch them. But he would always put food on this table.” She tapped the laminated surface with her finger, making the whole thing shake. “Even if it was possum. I hate possum. Tastes like gum tree. He remembered the old ways, but our kids weren't much interested in learning them. What do they care about being able to find water in the roots of gum trees when the riverbed is dry. They just get a bottle of it from the store.”

“And the missions. I grew up at Narromine where there was no mission. My parents moved us there from Brewarrina for that reason. You can't imagine the conditions people had to live in. They kept anybody off the mission who started trouble and 'trouble' was just complaining about the conditions. And if you lived there, the stores sold everything at inflated prices and the managers kept all the money. Did things like keep two docket books to rip off the little money the blacks living there had. They were dreadful places — frequent fights, too much alcohol even though there wasn't supposed to be grog there.”

Bob heard the front door open and footsteps in the hall.

“You took your time gettin' back,” Marilyn said to Henry as he entered the kitchen.

“Can I have a cup of tea, Mum?”

“Get it yourself. I'm not the housemaid.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Want another one?” he asked Bob. Bob shook his head. As Henry busied himself with the kettle, Marilyn turned her attention back to Bob.

“Many white folks didn't like having blacks in the town. Always needed us to work for 'em but didn't want to live with us. You don't know what it was like back then. There was violence in the street and curfews to control us, especially the men. It was an offence to be drunk if you were black, and we were arrested whether we'd been drinking or not. I've seen men handcuffed and beaten with batons for no other reason than that they were black. Beaten until they died.

“When the Welfare Board was shut down, they just wouldn't rent houses to us. Here in this town there was a Whites Only toilet and they would never let our kids in the swimming pool. Separate church services, separate playgrounds at the public school, separate seating in the picture show. Wouldn't let us inside the hospitals either — put us on the back verandah.

“But Sonny wasn't one to complain. Not like most of this mob, sit on their bum, do nothing and expect it all to happen for 'em. He kept his sense of humour. He told me once that he didn't want to leave his eyes to science 'cause he couldn't read too good… so they wouldn't be no good to anyone.”

Henry chuckled. “Yeah, Dad would say a thing like that.”

Marilyn shot him a look to let him know who was telling the story. “And he was a smart man, too. Intelligent. We weren't given the education back then. Not given the opportunities our kids were.” She levelled a stare at Henry. “But we both believed that we had the same rights as everyone else. Sonny wasn't like me. He wasn't involved with the medical service and the legal service. But he'd worked hard all his life and he knew what was fair and what wasn't. He used to read a lot about what was going on. He used to read anything he could about Aboriginal people looking for their rights. 'We do not ask for charity, we ask for justice,' he'd say.

“You wouldn't know where that came from. It was something that Jack Patton and William Ferguson wrote. He liked that. Always believed that if we had citizenship rights, everything else would follow — you know, equal wages and equal education opportunities.”

“Dad was always saying 'It's not charity, it's justice',” Henry added.

“You should have spent more time listening to him,” Marilyn snapped. “Stop interrupting and go out and mow that lawn before the sun gets too hot. When I'm finished here, you can take your cousin over to see Granny.”

Henry left the kitchen through the back door. Marilyn returned her attention to Bob.

“We were both here when the Freedom Riders came through. Got a picture of me with Charles Perkins. You should have seen the reception they got.” Marilyn started laughing. “I don't know what those white kids were thinking when they hopped a bus to come here. Met with hostility, tomatoes and eggs. Punched and heckled. Got the wind up the white folks who thought they were just snotty-nosed uni students coming from Sydney to stir up trouble on issues they knew nothing about. But,” she added more seriously, “it meant a lot to your uncle to know that people outside of here cared how we was being treated.

“I never had much time for those other uni types who came out here. They'd sit down and take our stories. Give the old men wine and cigarettes. Then piss on off back to the city, publish their papers and never give anything back to the people here. Old Reggie Green used to just make up stories so he could keep gettin' drunk. I tell my kids they should get an education. Help us keep our own stories. Not give them to anyone else. Especially not people who don't put anything back into our community.”

Bob could see the tears welling in her eyes. He stared at his cold milky tea. “Do you mind if I look at some of the pictures you have in the hall?”

Marilyn waved him in that direction. He walked through the lounge room to the hallway where the papered walls were covered in photographs — weddings, debuts, family portraits and a younger Henry dressed in a football jersey, arms folded across his chest, chin jutting towards the camera, eyes sparkling.

Marilyn walked into the hallway and, after quickly dabbing her eye, said, “Yep. Six children and nine grandchildren. Be hard on 'em this Christmas with their Pop gone.

“He missed your mother every day, he did. You could see it in his eyes, the sadness.” She was looking at the photographs as Bob glanced sideways at her. She seemed softer now.

She turned to Bob and tilted her head. “You know, he told me once that he sometimes felt that she was within his reach, that sometimes he could swear she was standing behind him, and only by turning around to face the thin air could he prove himself wrong. He wasn't a superstitious man but he told me she used to visit him in his dreams.”

Marilyn was quiet for a moment. Then she snapped, breaking her own thoughts, “That's why you should've knocked on our door three months ago.”

Henry kept telling Bob that they should go to see Granny. After Marilyn made them a lunch of curried-egg sandwiches and more milky tea, Henry walked Bob the three blocks to Granny's little house. The afternoon summer sun beat down on them. Bob waved flies away as they walked. “You'd think they'd be too hot to bother,” Bob said.

Henry smiled. After a pause he looked at Bob. “How was Mum?” he asked.

“I got a good picture of what my uncle, your father, would have been like. I'm sorry I didn't know him. He sounds like he was quite a character.”

“He was. He was gentle, but a hard worker. Real patient and honest. I don't know how someone could go through all that Dad did and not end up bitter and angry. Not that he was happy about it. But I don't know how I would do it. Things aren't fair in this town but it's much better now than it was when Mum and Dad were growing up. This town hides a lot of hate.”

Bob looked at him. “Your mother told me about the segregation and the violence against blacks.”

Henry stopped walking and looked at Bob. “I'll tell you how deep it goes. If you walk out to Temperance Creek — I'll take you there tomorrow — there's a tree there called Butcher's Tree. In this country, there are very few places to hide — everything is open. Dad said that as a kid he had seen the skeletons, bones and teeth, all sizes, like they were just waiting to be found. Skeletons lying over each other. And he could see the lead musket balls in the trunk.”

Granny was sitting in the shade of her porch when they arrived. Her house was the last in the street. Beyond it the road turned to dirt and the grass was long. She looked at Bob as the men approached and Henry spoke.