My Place (55 page)

You know, I've been thinkin' a lot 'bout this. People mustn't say the blackfella has never done anythin' good for this country. I knew this black woman, Tillie, she was a servant and she joined the Salvation Army. She led a real good life, helpin' her own people when she could. She made me feel bad for not goin' to church on Sunday night when she could take me. I didn't like
church. People there didn't understand what it was like for the natives.

I 'member the minister at Christ Church started up a sewing circle for all the native servants. We had to go down there and he'd give us a talk, then we'd sew. One time, he went on and on, tellin' us how we must save ourselves for marriage. It was very embarrassing, we couldn't look at him. Most of us had already been taken by white men. We felt really 'shamed.

One day, we were sittin' in the garden sewing when boys from Christ Church Grammar School came past. They laughed at us and called us awful names. Then, they threw pebbles at us. I never went back there, I was too 'shamed to say why.

Now Sal, this is just between you and me. I don't want Amber hearin' this, she's too young. You watch out for her after I'm gone. She's goin' to be very beautiful. All the men'll want her. Some men can't be trusted. They just mongrels. They get you down on the floor and they won't let you get up. Don't ever let a man do that to you. You watch out for Amber. You don't want her bein' treated like a black woman.

We had no protection when we was in service. I know a lot of native servants had kids to white men because they was forced. Makes you want to cry to think how black women have been treated in this country. It's a terrible thing. They'll pay one day for what they've done.

Aah, white people make you laugh the way they beat the native to teach him not to steal. What about their own kids? I seen white kids do worse than that and no one touches them. They say, he's sowin' his oats or that kid got the devil in him, but they not belted. Poor old blackfella do the same thing, they say you niggers don't know right from wrong and they whip you! I tell you, this is a white man's world.

The only one I had in Perth was Arthur. Now if I had've been livin' with my big brother Arthur, he'd have protected me. He was a strong man. I 'member I was standin' in the kitchen
cooking when I heard this knock. I turned around and there's this big native lookin' through the flywire.

‘Is that you, Daisy?' he said.

‘Who are you?' I asked.

‘Aah, you not Daisy,' he said. ‘She had real fair hair. Come on Mrs, you tell me where Daisy is.'

‘What you want her for?' I wasn't gunna let him in the door.

‘That's for me to know and you to find out,' he said. Aah, I thought, he's got tickets on himself.

‘You listen here,' I growled at him. ‘We don't like strange blackfellas hangin' round here. You better get goin' before the mistress comes home. She'll take a stick to you.' I was tryin' to frighten him, he was a big man.

‘Don't you go gettin' uppity with me, Mrs,' he said. ‘Thinkin' you're better just 'cause you work for white people. I got every right to be lookin' for my little sister Daisy. I want her to know she's got a brother who's gettin' on in the world.'

‘You Arthur?'

‘Now how did you come by my name, Mrs?'

‘You cheeky devil,' I said. I didn't want him out there clutterin' up the verandah.

‘What did you dye your hair for?' he asked. ‘You was the only one of us with blonde hair.'

Cheeky devil, he pulled my hair. Maybe he 'spected the colour to come off. Maybe he thought I put boot polish on my hair, I don't know. ‘By gee, you a devil!' I told him. I should have known he was my brother. I was fightin' with him, wasn't I?

It wasn't so bad after that. Arthur would come and take me out. Sometimes, he even took me in a car. Can you 'magine that? All us natives drivin' round Perth in a real car? Aah, he thought he was somebody, that Arthur. All the girls wanted him, then. He was the only blackfella they knew with a bit of money in his pocket. He was nice to them all, wasn't he cunning?

We always went to see the horses. We loved horses. One time, he took me to the Show. By gee, he was tough. He'd take on
anyone. I said to him, ‘Don't you get into no fights when you're out with me. It's not proper, I'll give you what for if you get silly.' You see, he loved showin' off, lived for it.

If he wouldn't settle down, I'd say, ‘You just a silly old blackfella.' He'd settle down quick smart after that. He didn't want any of those girls thinkin' he was old.

One day, he said to me, ‘Daisy, don't talk me to like that when we out. I'm your brother, you got to show me some respect.' Hmmph, the way he carried on you'd think he was a white man.

When he didn't come, I missed him. We always had a good laugh together. Sometimes, he was too busy puttin' crops in to bother with me. He was a hard worker, he did it all on his own.

When he couldn't come to see me, he'd write. I felt real important, gettin' a letter with my name on it. Trouble was, I couldn't read. I couldn't have nothin' private 'cause I always had to get someone to read it for me.

Aah, he was a clever man. We had fights all the time, but I was proud of that man.

***

I hadn't seen Arthur for a long time when I had Gladdie.

Before I had Gladdie, I was carryin' another child, but I wasn't allowed to keep it. That was the way of it, then. They took our children one way or another. I never told anyone that I was carryin' Gladdie.

Now how this all came about, that's my business. I'll only tell a little. Everyone knew who the father was, but they all pretended they didn't know. Aah, they knew, they knew. You didn't talk 'bout things then. You hid the truth.

Alice bought me a cane pram to wheel Gladdie in. She gave Gladdie a doll. I kept Gladdie with me in my room.

Howden died not long after she was born. When I came home from hospital, he said, ‘Bring her here, let me hold her.' He wanted to nurse Gladdie before he died.

After he died, I never had time for anything. I had Gladdie and the other children to look after. There were times when Gladdie ate so much she 'minded me of the little baby pigs runnin' round the station.

It was hard for me with her. Sometimes, she'd be cryin', cryin', and I couldn't go to her. I had too much work to do.

When Arthur saw her, he thought she was beautiful. I think he was jealous, he wanted her to belong to him.

Strange, isn't it, at one time I was goin' to live with Arthur. It was before I had Gladdie, they said they didn't want me any more. Then, they changed their minds. Arthur told me he had a real nice whitefella for me to marry. After Gladdie was born, Arthur wanted us both to go with him. I wasn't allowed to go anywhere. I had to have permission and they wouldn't let me go. I knew Arthur would be good to Gladdie, she had him by the heartstrings. When it came to little ones, that Arthur was tender-hearted.

When Gladdie was 'bout three years old, they took her from me. I'd been 'spectin' it. Alice told me Gladdie needed an education, so they put her in Parkerville Children's Home. What could I do? I was too frightened to say anythin'. I wanted to keep her with me, she was all I had, but they didn't want her there. Alice said she cost too much to feed, said I was ungrateful. She was wantin' me to give up my own flesh and blood and still be grateful. Aren't black people allowed to have feelin's?

I cried and cried when Alice took her away. Gladdie was too young to understand, she thought she was comin' back. She thought it was a picnic she was goin' on. I ran down to the wild bamboo near the river and I hid and cried and cried and cried. How can a mother lose a child like that? How could she do that to me? I thought of my poor old mother then, they took her Arthur from her, and then they took me. She was broken-hearted, God bless her.

When Gladdie was in Parkerville, I tried to get up there as often as I could, but it was a long way and I had no money. When I did
get paid, Alice was always takin' money out that she said I owed her. It was a hard life. I always got Gladdie something nice to eat when I went up. She loved food, I think she gets that from me.

Parkerville wasn't a bad place, there was plenty of kids for her to play with and there was bush everywhere. I knew she'd love the bush. I used to take her for a bit of a walk, show her the birds and animals like. She was always real glad to see me. I knew she didn't want to stay there, but what could I do? It wasn't like I had a place of my own. It wasn't like I had any say over my own life.

It was during the thirties that they told Gladdie I might die. My cousin Helen Bunda was real sick. They asked me to give blood for her. I said yes. She belonged to me, I had to give blood, but I was real scared.

You never know what doctors are goin' to do to you. The silly buggers, they lost the first lot of blood they took, so they took some more. I was so weak I couldn't lift my head. I was that weak. I think I turned white with all the blood they took from me.

Helen died and I heard the doctors say, ‘Doesn't matter, she was only a native.' Then, they looked at me and the nurse said, ‘I think this one's going too.' You see, they treat you just like an animal. Alice came and got me, she was very cross. She took me back to Ivanhoe and nursed me. She was a good bush nurse.

They brought Gladdie down from Parkerville to say goodbye to me. She looked real frightened when she saw me. I tricked all of them, I didn't die, after all. Pretty soon, I was up and doin' all the work again. That's the last time I give blood.

Helen had been a good old cousin. She was mean, though. She'd walk five miles to save a ha'penny. She was good with her hands. No one could sew the way she could. She'd had a hard life; work, work, work. They'd sent her to Moore River, I don't know if you ever heard of it, terrible place. She had three kids there and was made to leave them there and go back to service. I think all those kids died. It was a terrible place. No one wanted to go to Moore River, no fear. Poor old Bunda. I knew how she felt, it was the same with all of us.

When she died, I thought her things would come to me, I was her family. Turned out I got nothin', not a penny. The white family that she was workin' for got it all. They said she made a will leavin' it to them. Bunda didn't know nothin' 'bout will makin'. I don't think she could even write much. That family even come and asked me to give back the brooch she'd given me. The cheek of it. Bunda belonged to me, she'd given it me before she died and they come and asked for it back. ‘That brooch doesn't belong to you now, Daisy,' they said, ‘it's ours now, you got to hand it over.' I felt very bitter 'bout that. Right inside my heart, I felt bitter.

Arthur finally got married in the thirties and I lost track of him. The Depression was on and I knew he'd be havin' trouble makin' ends meet. It was just as well Gladdie and I hadn't gone with him. We'd be only two more mouths to feed. He worked real hard, did anythin' to put food on the table. I think he lost his farm in the Depression. Those white people at Mucka, they were always after his farm. Funny, isn't it, the white man's had land rights for years, and we not allowed to have any. Aah, this is a funny world.

Couple of times, Arthur saw Gladdie at Parkerville. He had a real soft spot for her. Then he got too busy with his own family to see her. I think she missed him. She loved visitors.

The thirties were hard for everyone. You never threw anythin' away, there was always someone who could use it. It broke my heart to see men standin' round for food. Not just black men, white ones too. If I knew someone who was hungry, I'd give them food. I gave away some of my clothes and shoes, whatever I could find. You can't be rotten to people when they in trouble, that's not the blackfella's way.

***

When Gladdie was 'bout fourteen, she left Parkerville. She'd been with me for holidays at Ivanhoe, and when I took her back, she
didn't want to stay. You see, she found out she was havin' this new House Mother and she was a cruel woman. Gladdie was real frightened. I said to them, ‘Can she come with me, she's almost grown up now.'

They asked Gladdie if she wanted to leave Parkerville and she said, ‘Too right!' She didn't want to be stayin' with a cruel woman.

I took her back to Ivanhoe with me. I thought she could stay in my room, but, after two days, Alice said, ‘Look Daisy, you can't keep her here. You'll have to find somewhere else for her to go.' I was real upset 'bout that.

They'd told me to leave before, reckoned they couldn't afford me. I had to go and work for Mrs Morgan. Then, a few years later, Alice begged me to come back. She said it was for good. That Ivanhoe was my home. I thought it would be Gladdie's too. Aah, you see, promises, promises. The promises of a wealthy family are worth nothin'.

I found a family to take Gladdie in. They was religious people and they often took girls in. I knew they'd be good to her. She was real upset, she couldn't understand why they didn't want her at Ivanhoe.

One day, the Hewitts, that was their name, they said they couldn't trust Gladdie no more. ‘She's been goin' to the pictures,' they said. ‘Pictures are a sin.' They said they didn't want her bein' a bad influence on the other kids. They packed her bags and said I had to take her.

I was livin' in my own place by then. Alice had kicked me out again. Aah, I was silly to believe her. She owed me back wages, got me to work for nothing, then kicked me out. I was just used up. I been workin' for that family all those years, right since I was a little child, and that's how I get treated. I left a good job to go back to Ivanhoe. I was silly. I should have known. When they didn't want Gladdie stayin' there, I should have known.