Remembered By Heart: An Anthology of Indigenous Writing (9 page)

‘Well,' Dad said when he saw me. ‘Where were you?'

‘Oh Dad don't touch me! I saw Mum and I got a fright and ran out.'

Luckily he understood about spirits so everything was all right. In Dad's family whenever anyone died his dead mother came and knocked on the window to let them know someone close had gone. Every time he saw his mother knock on the window he knew another member of the family had gone, so he understood what had happened to me.

In fact, after Mum died he used to go down to the backyard with a lantern every night after tea to talk to her. When he returned he'd say, ‘I've just been talking to your mother and she is worried about you kids because she
doesn't think I can look after you.' We would look at him as if he was a bit funny, then we'd go into the bedroom and bounce up and down on the beds and throw pillows at each other and say, ‘Dad is going mad, the old man is going mad.'

Then there was our old dog Dale, he was as bad as Dad because he really missed Mum. Our place was one house down from the corner and Dale used to wait up there in the long grass for her to come home from work. The only time he would plod down the road was to get something to eat, then he would plod back up again and sit in this little nest he'd made and wait. So there were the two of them, the dog on the corner waiting for Mum and Dad down the backyard talking to Mum about us kids every evening. This went on for three months, until finally Dad came back one night and said, ‘That's it, your mother is gone now. She's happy that I can look after you kids, so now she's gone.' He didn't go down the backyard with the lantern any more and the dog came back from waiting at the corner.

Things settled down then, but there was always a big gap in my life from losing Mum so young. She was only in her early forties when she died. There was another gap too, from not knowing who her people were. Poor old Mum never even knew her family name and she never had the chance to touch base with her people while she was still on this earth. It breaks my heart to think about it, but everything worked out later.

After Mum died I learned to stand alone. I had one older brother and one younger brother and I was expected to take over the complete running of the household. Dad worked at the gasworks and his clothes got very gritty; there was no washing machine so I had to learn in a hurry how to do things well. It was hard, but it stood me in good stead for later life. I learned to be self-reliant and self-disciplined. I learned other things too. With Dad you had to think before you put up any of your ideas, otherwise they'd just be wiped away. So I learned to think a lot and to listen to what others were saying before I spoke up.

One day I was making watery stew when a kid from down the street said to me. ‘What are ya doing?'

‘Just making stew for tea,' I told him.

‘Why don't ya put some flour and water in it to make it thick?'

‘Why don't you?' I replied.

So he did. He made a stew and it was just like Mum used to make. I learned a valuable lesson from that. When someone knows what they're talking about, listen.

Abridged from
Speaking from the Heart
edited by Sally Morgan, Tjalaminu Mia and Blaze Kwaymullina, 2007.

When I was a young girl my grandparents teach me everything. That's why I know all the bush plants, but they only teach me the important plants, they never teach me about all the other shrubs, only the name and if it has flowers and things like that. They say, ‘Don't teach that one, that's just the shrubs, that's just the plant and thing, not good for anything else.'

When I first going with them I used to worry. I was frightened of them because they growl too much. You got to get used to them, nobody else around. Nothing I could do, when Mum and Dad say you staying with the grandparents, you stay, whether you crying or not. You stay! My cousins, sisters and brothers never used to be left with the old grandparents, only me. Mum and Dad say to me, ‘You stay. That's where you learn. You stay right here.' If I still want
to run and chase Mum and Dad when they leaving, they get off and give me a hiding and send me back. So I couldn't do nothing, I had to learn.

My grandparents reckoned I was the chosen one for them, to learn all these things, because I was the first grandchild. I went through all that, like you go to high school, you know. I never been to school, but they teaching me proper. They got to give you mark for it just like you going to high school. They give me top mark because I know everything about the bush and everything. That's only my knowledge, to learn all them things. I have that special skill.

My name, my Aborigine name, is Ngamingu; I was born at Rocklea Station, in the station just at the back, on 12 February 1942. I was the first child. Then was Nicholas, my sister Doris (Minga) and Colin. My dad passed away after that and Mum remarried. Then she had Kevin, Brian and Aquinas. Nicholas and Doris were born at Cobor, outstation from Rocklea, Colin was born on Kooline Station. Kevin, Brian and Aquinas were born in Onslow Hospital.

My dad's name was Cookie; Cook, they called him. His Aborigine name is Kurubungu. He was born in Hamersley Station. My son Rodney named after him now. My mum's name is Dora. Her Aborigine name is Mithakunti; she was born in Mithakunti – Sandy Creek, they call it. My mother and my grandparents are from Rocklea. My stepdad's name is Dan, Danny Gilba.

Mum was Kurrama, my dad Panyjima, and I follow
the Yinawangka way. I never followed the two parents; I followed the grandfather, Yinawangka. I don't know how that comes about. I was the oldest and the grandparents teach me all the culture things and I have to follow my grandparents. My grandmother was Kurrama. I should have followed the grandmother, but too late now. I speak a mixture of Panyjima and Kurrama, but not Yinawangka. We never used to speak Yinawangka and now Yinawangka is nearly all gone.

Some of my growing up was on Rocklea Station and some on Juna Downs Station. We was up and down to Juna Downs, because my father was a horse breaker and he used to break in horses on every station. Juna Downs was the place he used to stay most of the time; just come back to Rocklea to visit all the family, my grandmothers and everyone. We used to come visit only on the holiday; in those days they call holidays pink eye. We travel by horse, horseback riding, or sometimes in a cart, horse and cart. Those days they used to have their own horses, packhorses.

Good life, growing up in the bush – free, nice and wild. Horseback riding all the time. We had no cars anyway; they only had few cars around those days. Dad taught us how to ride. Falling off the horse, that's nothing. Get on again, because we have to – Dad tell us to get on again. We used to go riding all the time when there was two of us. Brother Nick would ride with Dad and I used to ride behind Mum on her horse. We used to go everywhere. Take a packhorse,
go dogging in the back country, catch a fish, whatever you want. A good free life.

When Mum start having the other one – sister we lost now, Doris – we never used to go anywhere any more. Dad reckoned three is too many to go around everywhere. He left Mum and us in Cobor with Auntie Alice and Uncle Jack Smith while he went dogging and working on the stations nearby.

We went down to Mulga Downs Station with Dad and all the old people there used to give us some dry bread, save it for us in a white bag. No time to cook when we moving, just chew on that dry bread, or soak him in the tea to soften him up.

Sometimes when we were camping, Mum used to make some Johnny cakes. Is like a damper, just cook it on top on the coals. You mix it like a damper, but is a quick one. You just chuck it on the coals and turn him over again. All on top.

No sweets; we don't know sweets, don't know lollies. Only time we have a lolly was when we come back to Rocklea with Dad, maybe come back to do some breaking in horses or come in for the rations. The station owner, Walter Smith, every time he see us coming he used to line us up and ask who want a lolly. He had them big long hard-boiled lollies you used to get in the old days, all colours. You got to hit it with a rock, break it. Brother Nick and cousin what we lost, Des Smith, we used to fight over it, and Des used to say, ‘Well we got to share it.' He'd go and get a rock and break it all up and give us little bit each.

We used to be on the move all the time, but when we in Juna Downs we set – good, you know, time to play around. We never used to have toys, nothing to play with, just us, play one with other one. We used to play around with big horses. Dad used to break them in quiet for us. If Mum and Dad sleeping it off after dinner we used to get on that horse and go. We jump on him bareback, no bridle, because that horse was so quiet. We used to pull his mane down when we want him to come down, then jump all over him. He was a very old white horse, a mare, call him Ladybird. Doesn't matter that we small; we used to jump on that horse to go around hunting, go around gathering the bush tucker, get all the wild fruits and things, then come back.

We used to bring a live lizard back and chuck it on Mum when she was asleep. She used to scream and chase us away. We were really good with a rock to get a goanna or anything. Hit him on the head, cook him. Come back and surprise Mum and Dad, tell them, ‘We got something to eat.'

They used to ask us, ‘Where you fellas got that?'

‘Out there in the bush, where else?'

We never know to talk English then, we used to talk our own language.

When I was an early age we got back to Rocklea and Dad went to one of the stations. He was getting sick then. He had ulcers in his stomach and every camp we used to go he used to dig a little hole and spit blood into that hole. One time he got up and got really angry with himself and we went and get this bush medicine,
yajiri
(native mustard).
Boil that up in the pot and drink it while it's hot. Just how you drinking hot tea, just enough to be drinkable, drink it down while it's hot. That fix him right up, finish, never spat blood again.

Long way after, we all moved down to Onslow because Dad was getting sicker. We stayed in town, where Bindi Bindi is now, in a tent. No house there then, just a little bush and a big tree. There was a little well there for water, not far from the hospital. Everybody used to come in there, washing and everything. Put a bucket down with a rope, get the water.

Dad went to Port Hedland Hospital on the doctor plane and Mum didn't know what to do. My sister was just a baby, sitting up, and Mum thought, Oh well, no one going to feed us. She sat down and talked to us kids: ‘We got no more Dad here – we have to earn our own living now.' It was hard because we used to the bush, we not used to living in town. No Aborigine people were there when we went down to Onslow. Dad had a couple of Malay friends, the Ahmats; they used to run the bakery there. I worked in the bakery. I might have been about ten years old. Not used to living in town and didn't know work, you know.

Mrs Ahmat give me a job greasing the bread tins and sweeping out the bakery and watering all the trees. Nick was little bit smaller than me and he went to work in the butcher shop. He used to go out with old Jack Whittaker the butcher man, shaking along the road in the little sulky. His job was cleaning the blocks, so he could bring some meat home for us. I used to bring home bread, Nick some
meat. Didn't get wages; they give me bread and clothing. Mrs Ahmat used to sew some clothes for me – silky, with puffed up sleeves and tie a belt behind. We don't know what nice clothes is, because in the old days we only used to have those little things like a little strap coming down in front. Mum would find a job cleaning the house for white ladies, washing and ironing and things. She worked that way. My sister would go with her, sit out on the verandah waiting for Mum to finish work; if she tired, Mum would put her to sleep.

We stayed in Onslow about four or five months and my uncle, Jack Smith, come then. He know his brother gone to Port Hedland. I think Dad got in touch with him somehow and told him to go and look for the family belong to him. Jack Smith was a kangaroo shooter then, all around Rocklea and Cobor. He come down to Onslow there and he was buying a new truck, ordered a Morris truck coming in the boat. Come down there and pick us up then.

He find a job for Mum in Ashburton Downs Station. Mum was cooking there; she was a good cook. Me and Nick had to work at the station, and that's where we really, really learnt to work. It was tougher than where we start in Onslow. Nick used to work in the yard gardening, like a yardman, watering lawn and everything. That station had a lot of dogs and he used to take all the dogs for a walk. Old lady on the station had ten dogs in a kennel.

That old lady, white lady, used to be really rough. Her name was Olga, Mrs Kelly. Used to grab us, whip us in the
corner with them little bamboo sticks. Used to whip me if I'm not doing any job, or if I don't listen sometimes. I lived in the station because I had to get up early, and not far for me to get up, have a shower and go to work; just there. I had a room, toilet, bathroom, like a little cottage. Sometimes my grandmother sleep there with me, when she want to. Mum used to come to work early from their camp not far away.

I was in the station more than the other kids and sometimes I get carried away and want to talk and play with these kids, my mates. They singing out, ‘We going down the creek swimming', or something like that. I can't do that, I have to stay and work. Only on a Sunday I used to go. Lot of those old people that are here now, my aunties, they never used to work. I used to say to other young girls going along, ‘Why me, only me?' Other young girls used to come and tell Mum they want a dinner; they cut the lunch, get a drink and everything, then go down the creek swimming all day. I used to hate it, I want to go too, but I can't – must stay and work.

I was the one with the little white cap on and big white apron and them big long dresses. You got to have shoes on all the time, got to be clean to come to work. I was the house girl cleaning and polishing the wooden floor. You got to go down on your knees – no mop those days. You got to shine it up and nearly see your face in it. If you don't do that, you got to go back and do it again. Old white woman used to give us a hiding if we don't do the job. Scrub it first, then run the polish over, then rub the polish off. Really
hard! My knee used to be finished. Had to clean the silver, set the table up and things like that. Got to be spotless for that woman.