My Place (33 page)

Anyway, before long, I was working my own farm as well as share-farming with Davy. Things were going real well for me. One day, Davy came up to me and said, ‘Listen Marble, you've got your farm in Mucka now, what about if you just stick to that and I give Bill Bradley a go. You know, the bloke that's working for Hull's. I'd like to sharefarm with him.'

I didn't know what to say. Davy was my friend. It wasn't that I was thinking about the extra money, it just seemed that Davy didn't want me with him any more, after so long together. Davy was standing there and I kept looking at the ground. In the end, I said, ‘All right Dave, if that's what you want to do. I can handle the lot myself, but if that's the way you want it, I can pull out and go home.'

That year, I put in my last crop with Davy. Bill and Mrs Bradley moved in with Davy while the crop was still growing.

Every Sunday, Mrs Bradley would come out and look over the crop. ‘Ooh, what a lovely crop, Marble,' she would say. She wasn't a bad woman.

One day, she said to Davy, ‘Mr Jones, look at them clouds up there, it looks like they could bring a hailstorm.'

‘You don't know what you're talking about, woman, we don't get no hailstorms round here,' said Davy.

That was Sunday morning. Ten o'clock Sunday night, the rain came, and the thunder and lightning, and the hail as well. The hail took the crop right off. There wasn't one head left, even the trees were stripped bare. They looked dead, standing there with no leaves on.

Davy heard the noise of the hail. It was pitch black outside apart from the lightning. He'd been sitting by the fire when it started, and when the hail came, he didn't even stop to put on a coat. Just lit up the lantern and rushed down to the crop. There he was in the pouring rain, running up and down, in and out, trying to see how many heads were left. All you could see was his lantern bobbing up and down. The lightning flashed once and I saw him. He was soaking wet and he couldn't believe it was really hailing.

I think God must have been looking after me. Something told me to get insured that year. I had never been insured before. I came out with my quarter and Dave got nothing.

Davy's bad luck continued. The next year, he put his own crop in, but forgot to seed with super and it died off. The following year, Bill Bradley put the crop in for him, but Davy was in the same position he was in before he joined up with me. He still had no team and had not bothered to buy one, so this meant he had to take off Hull's crop and Micky Farrell's before he could have the use of their team to take off his own crop. He only just made it.

If Davy had've stuck with me, I'd have had his crop off early on and my own as well. No one could work a team the way I could. It was me that gave him his start. I did all the work, he just stood back and collected the money.

By the time the thirties came round and the Depression hit, he wanted me back. I was married by then. I had responsibilities. Davy said, ‘You can bring your wife too, Arthur.'

I was going by my real name, now. I left Marble behind when I left Davy. Now I was Arthur Corunna, farmer of Mukinbudin.

***

After I left Davy in the twenties, some important things happened to me. In 1925, I went down to Perth. I'd heard that my little sister Daisy was living at Ivanhoe. Ivanhoe was a big house in Claremont on the banks of the Swan River. Daisy was a servant there, living with our father, Howden Drake-Brockman, and his second wife, Alice.

I was keen to see Daisy again. She was my sister, my family. I wanted my little sister Daisy to know she had a brother who was getting on in the world.

I hardly recognised her when I saw her. When they took me from Corunna Downs, she was only a baby, with real white blonde hair, and now, here she was, a grown woman, with black frizzy hair. She was small and pretty, like our mother, Annie. I was sure glad to see her.

When I first called in at Ivanhoe, Mrs Drake-Brockman was out. Later that day, she came home to find me sitting in the kitchen doorway, talking to Daisy, my legs stretched out onto the verandah. You see, I'd finally started to grow, I was a big man. I wasn't small no more.

After seeing Daisy again, I took to visiting her as often as I could. One year, I hired a buggy and pair for two shillings and took her to the Show. We thought we were real grand, travelling along in that thing. I took her to the races and on picnics, everywhere. Daisy loved the horses. Nothing she liked better than seeing those wonderful animals go for their lives round the track. We both loved horses.

Helen Bunda, our cousin, used to come, as well. She was in service with another white family. She did the most beautiful needlework. She was a clever woman with her hands.

I made friends with a chap in Perth, Mr McKenzie. He was a real nice man. He'd lend me his car so I could pick up the girls and take them on outings. I always returned his car safe and sound. He knew he could trust me.

Judith, June and Dick Drake-Brockman were only little then. I used to give them horsey rides when I was at Ivanhoe and scare
them by chasing them round the lawn. Daisy was their nursemaid.

On one of my visits to Ivanhoe, Alice Drake-Brockman gave me a little dog. She told me Foulkes-Taylor had given it to her when he bought Corunna Downs, but she didn't want it. I called him Pixie, after Dudley's son, that was his nickname. I took that little dog with me wherever I went. He was a good little dog. I've always had a tender spot for little creatures like that.

When I saw Daisy again in 1925, it was also the first time I'd seen Howden since I'd run away. I wondered what he'd say to me. I wondered if I'd be welcome. Mrs Drake-Brockman said I could sleep with Daisy in her room. When Howden came home, he came straight to Daisy's room. He knocked on the door and came in and shook me by the hand real hard. He hadn't changed. He looked older, more tired, but apart from that, he was just the same. I was a grown man too, now. We were both men. ‘I'm pleased to see you, Arthur,' he said. I didn't know what to say.

After that, whenever I stayed in Perth, I always slept in Daisy's room. At night, we had long talks, catching up on the news. I went and saw a lawyer and made a will, leaving all my earthly goods to Daisy. I wasn't married then. She was my only family.

Sometimes when I was in Perth, I'd ride on the electric trams. DING! DING! DING! they'd call out and then change back the other way. I wasn't going nowhere in particular, I just loved to listen to that noise.

I went on the trains, too. In those days, you could go form Merredin to Perth for seventeen shillings. From Kununoppin to Perth was the same. I loved riding on the trains. I felt like I was someone important, being able to get on, pay my fare and sit there like a king until I got off at the next stop.

***

In 1927 I got a letter from Howden. I hadn't seen Daisy for a while. I'd been busy on the farm. The letter asked if I'd like to have Daisy with me. It said they didn't want her no more and
they wondered if I could come and get her. Too right, I thought. Nothing I'd like better.

I went over and talked to one of my neighbours. He was a white man, but a good man, young and single. He was well off, too, and I knew he'd treat Daisy right. I asked him if he wanted a wife. He asked who I had in mind. I told him about Daisy and how pretty she was and how hard she worked and what a good wife she'd make. He said, ‘Arthur, any sister of yours is all right by me.' I knew I had him then. I didn't want Daisy just marrying anyone. I wanted someone I could trust, someone who would treat her real nice. She was my family. My little sister.

I finished what I had to do on the farm and was all set to go get Daisy when another letter arrived. It said they'd changed their minds and I couldn't have her after all. I was disappointed, so was the farmer next door.

In December 1927, I heard Daisy had had a baby girl. It was news to me. I wondered, then, if that was why they'd changed their minds. They must have found out she was pregnant. I'd have had her still. I wish she'd come to me, baby and all. I love kids.

Early in 1928, Howden died. He'd been a sick man for some time. Personally, I think he left his heart in Corunna. Howden saw Daisy's baby before he died. They called her Gladys. He held her in his arms and said, ‘She's very beautiful.' She was one of the most beautiful babies I'd ever seen.

Shortly before his death, Howden mailed me a whole pile of photos that had been taken on Corunna Downs. I guess Howden figured no one else would want old pictures. That was why he sent them to me. It was the only thing he ever gave me.

***

Apart from Daisy, the other thing I discovered in the twenties was boxing. Actually, boxing and wrestling. I was good at both, but I didn't know it till then. When I was a kid, old Fred Stream learned me a bit. He knew they were going to send me to the mission and
he reckoned if I didn't learn something I'd get a hiding.

I was a farmer, I wasn't trained for fighting, but one punch from me and I could flatten them. I used to know Riley. His son was a referee and he had a boxing and wrestling tent. He used to travel all round Perth and up the Nor'west.

Riley said, ‘If I trained you, I reckon you'd be middleweight champion of the world.' They always let me in the Show free because they knew I was a good fighter. I didn't want to be a boxer.

Whenever the Shows came round Nungarin, I'd put in for the boxing and wrestling. Sometimes, they were too scared to take me on. I remember one bloke took a long look at me and then said, ‘I'm not taking you on, mate. I seen a bloke look like you once before. He gave me a terrible time.' I missed out that year.

One year in the late twenties, the hotel manager from Mucka said, ‘Arthur, you want to take my beer on your truck into the Show and sell it for me?' I was one of the few men who had a truck in the district. I thought, why not? I loaded up the truck, threw a tarp over the grog and drove to Nungarin. I spent the night in the hotel there. Everything was booked up to the pub in Mucka, my board and tucker. I was a white man then, not black. It was a king's life.

Once inside the Show, I sold the beer from the truck, and all the time, I could hear these men, singing out, singing out. They were boxers and wrestlers and they were singing out for men to come and challenge them. When all the beer was sold, I thought, I'll have a go. I walked over, put my hand up and yelled, ‘Hey! Over here, I'll have a go!'

While I was standing there, a bloke came up to me and pushed me on the shoulder. He was one of the trainers. I'd seen him before. ‘You can't wrestle, mate,' he said. I just grabbed him, clothes and all. Lifted him up and dropped him. Pinned him to the dirt. ‘What do you think of yourself now, mate!' I said. ‘WHO can't wrestle??' He went for his life, dirt all over him. The men in the ring had seen what happened and they wouldn't take me on after that. I looked too tough.

There was a boxer I remember well, Jack Yakem. He was white and he fought in the Royal Show, everywhere. He lived for fighting. He used to stick out his chest and strut round the ring like a rooster round the hens and yell out, ‘My name's Jack Yakem! I CRACK'em, you STACK'em.' Everyone was scared of him. Anyway, he was the same weight as me and I thought, Arthur … have a go.

When they let me into the ring, the crowd was full round us, urging us on, calling out. They all wanted to see me get beat. Jack didn't waste no time. He started pummelling me in the ribs with his fists.

After a few minutes, I thought, I've had enough of this. I hit him fair over the earhole and dropped him right there. He went flying, flat to the ground. The crowd roared.

Anyhow, he got up and I dropped him again. Eleven times I dropped him, quick with my fists. He never knew when I was going to hit him! I'd drop him, then wait for him to get up, then drop him again!

I won that fight, but they never gave me any money. It was always the same. Later when I got home, I took my singlet off. I was black and blue all round my ribs where he'd pummelled me. I don't know what colour he was.

I was a hard nut to crack, when I was young. My life was full of sport.

***

When I was young, I had girls runnin' after me all the time. I was a good catch and they all wanted me. Trouble is, I was like my old grandfather, tender-hearted. I wouldn't go with any girl, because if I got her into trouble, I'd have to marry her. Other blokes were different. They'd take a girl out, get her into trouble and then let her go. Have another one and let them go. I ain't got no stock like that. I saw to it that I didn't. Only my own, what I'm going to have, that's how I am.

In the old days, you were nobody unless you were somebody important. And when they announced your engagement, they took your photo and everything and put it in the paper. I was worried about that. I thought to myself, when I get engaged, what can I say? Who could I say I was and who was my father? I decided I'd trick them all, if they ask me, I'd say, ‘Well my father is Mr Corunna from Corunna Downs Station.' That's what I would put in the paper and no one would know any better. No one would know about Howden and Annie and how they wasn't married white man's way. You see, they were very particular about such things in those days.

There were times when I could have protected myself through the name of Brockman, but I never did. Howden never gave me nothin'. I've only got one good father and he's in heaven. No matter which way the wind's blowin', he's there with you.

Before I married my wife, Adeline, she came to me and said, ‘Arthur, I've seen a fortune-teller and she told me I'm going to marry you. She also told me what your life will be like and that, one day, somebody will rob you of your farm.'

I said, ‘Nobody's goin' to rob me. They'll get this fist if they try!' I was gettin' on in years, about thirty-five, and I'd been thinkin' I should marry, but when Adeline said that, I thought, better not get married or I'll be losin' my farm.