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by Bruce Pascoe


  Australians will have to do the hard yards themselves. A parliament that includes lawyers can draft legislation; they just can’t imagine what has to be drafted. We might allow the politicians to think our plan is their idea – sometimes it’s the only way to make them concentrate – but we have to formulate that idea, and it has to be done after long consultation with Aboriginal Australia. Real talk, equal talk, not reconciliation or a Recognise or Close the Gap formulated on the assumption of inadequacy, but a true conversation about what has been lost and what gained, and how that has forged the schizophrenic national psychology.

  We have to read Sturt, Mitchell, Warburton, Giles and Gregory, and we have to try to quell the triumphal urge while we read; we have to try to read beyond the daring and hardship of the explorers and the vast riches they discovered; we have to read for the cultural economy of Aboriginal Australia that they witnessed and described.

  We also have to restore the sections in Lieutenant Grey’s journal where he speaks about Aboriginal housing, irrigation, agriculture and road-making, because when the journal was edited for publication those were the only items left out. Maybe that’s the job of a university that doesn’t want to be satisfied with a Kinder Surprise for being twenty-third in the world at something; maybe there’s a university that wants to investigate the roots of the oldest civilisation on earth, the civilisation that invented bread, society, language and the ability to live as 350 neighbouring nations without land war – not without rancour, for that is the human condition, but without a lust for power, without religious war, without slaves, without poverty, but with a profound sense of responsibility for the health of Mother Earth for more than 100,000 years.

  This is not a noble savage sentiment, it is the iron-clad rigour gained from reading the true history of the country. I think Australia is capable of this rigour. I think we must absorb the pain and weariness such rigour will demand of us.

  Temper democratic, bias Australian.

  LAMENT FOR THREE HANDS

  for the last three hands at Big Yango

  We were both married to other people. Now we’re not. She’s got this kid. Looks at me as if I’m not his father. True. I’m not. Can’t be helped. That’s how it is.

  She looks at me as if I’m not her husband. Correct. But that’s not my fault either. We’re living together. The way it works out. She looks about the new joint as if she’s lived in better places.

  She doesn’t say anything. Looks after the place: keeps it clean, cooks, keeps the kid quiet. Brings it in to bed with her though, when it cries.

  Not a bad kid. Not saying that. Not at all. But my guts are twisted up with its sorrow. And hers. And I’ve already got my own. None of us would have chosen this. None of us.

  But that’s how it is. So I’m sitting out the front frigging around with a stick, just stripping the bark off it. Nothing particular in mind. Looking out over the valley. Thinking.

  It’s a million-dollar view. Grassy flats beside the winding river, forest climbing the mountain behind it. Beautiful. Anyone would say so, but we’re not from here. The previous owner’s pet bird is dancing around in front of me. Chitter, chitter, chitter, sweet, sweet, sweet. Yes, yes, I know, we’re strangers. No, I have no idea where your mates are. Although I could guess. But how’s that going to help?

  Meat and potatoes cooking. Smells alright. Nothing wrong with her cooking. And she brought me a drink. Handed it to me. Said nothing. But looked at me as if to say, I’m trying. We all are. Even the kid. Washed the potatoes. Didn’t have to be asked. Put ’em in the oven. Helped his mother do the meat. He’s having a go. No doubt about it. Just can’t bring himself to look at me. Much. Better off without the much.

  She’s younger than my first wife. Happens a lot, I suppose. And there’s no doubt that she’s prettier. Well, the old girl was getting on fifty-five. The breasts, you know what I mean. Not cheeky, not pouting, not thumbing their noses at you like this one’s. And the old girl’s bum, you know what I mean. But I’d have her back tomorrow. Except it can’t be.

  Oh, I’ve fucked this one. Too right, and even though her heart wasn’t in it, it was good. You know what I mean, a young woman’s body. The hardness, the springiness of the waist, those firm little tits nudging at you, like possums giving cheek. Oh, I enjoyed it alright. And I’m not ashamed. It’s how it is. Now.

  But, yes, I’d take the old girl back, slack belly and droopy tits notwithstanding. She used to run her hands all over me, if she felt like it. She’d even take a grip of me, take things into her own hands, so to speak. And when we were into it her hands would roam over my back and neck … but this one, her hands are still. Just waiting. For it to be over.

  Chitter, chitter, chitter, sweet, sweet, sweet. Yes, yes, I know. Grown man crying. Yes, he’s a sorry stage of proceedings indeed.

  A quarkel-doo, kool parkle-dark, koo-dool poo-keep. Bloody friar bird, clown prince with a buckled nose. Of course I know all their names, know their stories too – well, we’re country people after all. Still no reason to laugh at me.

  Those birds should be our comfort, our balm, we should be reassured to hear them, but all they’re saying is, you’re not from here, you’re not from here, I want the lady who fed me crumbs.

  Well, it’s not my fault, I can tell you, living in someone else’s place. Sleeping in their bed, cooking in their oven. Not our bloody fault. None of us.

  We sit together and eat, but she serves me first, gives me the best bits, the leg and breast; the kid gets the wings and ribcage. Still nice what they have, but she’s making sure she does it right. To please me. I appreciate that. I really do. A tiny comfort.

  Neither she nor the kid says anything, don’t meet my eye. I finish my meal, wipe my hands. Look at them.

  Alright, I know what you’re thinking, I know you wouldn’t have chosen this. Me. But that’s how it is, we’re stuck with each other and we’ll have to make the best of it. This,’ and I indicated the room where we sat, ‘this is as good as I can do. I wish we could be in the old place, but … things have changed. You know, you – look, none of us wanted this but … but I’m telling you this is the best I can do for us. What I’m saying is we’ll have to make the best of it. If I could find us a better place I would, but look … I mean, we’ve got the river, the hills, it’s not bad. Not as good as the last place but … I think we should make the best of it.’

  The boy has his head down, pretending to be engrossed in getting meat off the wing. At least he is eating again.

  I stare at her and she looks at me askance. I indicate the boy with a jut of my chin. Her eyes understand.

  ‘I think we should see if we can … just make the best of it … try and make it a home, make it ours.’ I look around the place again, see how stark it is. ‘Don’t think I’m proud this is the best I can do. I’m not. And don’t think I’m not feeling … just … what I’m saying is, what alternative is there?’

  They say nothing. They aren’t rude or anything, they just can’t get their spirits up. And I can’t blame them.

  But that’s what I’ll do, tomorrow I’ll bring home something really nice to eat. There’s enough potatoes and salad vegetables in the previous tenant’s garden. They’d obviously put a lot of work in. Sorry they’re not here to see the fruits of their labour. I can see they loved their fruit and veggies. I won’t change anything, the way they’ve organised it. Wonder how long they were here.

  When I get up next morning, nothing much has changed. But she does look at me – doesn’t smile, but it is like, Sorry, I can’t help it. I know that. But I am grateful for that look. Small mercies.

  Bugger it. That look lifts my heart enough just enough to think, Bugger it, I’ll go fishing.

  There is a corner where the river does a big turn hard up against a dark, flat wall of rock. Maidenhair ferns cascade off the terraces where the rock is flawed and fissured. Nice spot for a bit of a quiet fish.

  I wish … now, now, what did I tell myself about thinking lik
e that. It’s over and she’s not coming back. This is now, and besides, there’s fish.

  These scrub worms are just fantastic bait. Look, he’s picked it up, feeling it, ready, ready, careful. There he goes, off like a shot, let him go a bit, let him swallow it, hold, hold, hold, steady, got him, big bastard … Oh, this will do it, surely, bring a smile … But really, maybe even the biggest perch I’ve ever caught may not be enough. Still, we’ll see.

  I look at the fish in my hands. A grand animal. The undershot jaw giving it the look of a real hunter, a sharp shooter of the pool.

  I put him in the basket and throw another bait in, knowing I probably won’t get another fish out of this hole. Lean back against the rock feeling the cool shade on my face. Doze a bit. Think about her. Getting home. Trying to make it up to her. And the boy. Not his fault.

  I wake up and a platypus is drifting in the middle of the pool. Looking at me. Well, in my direction, anyway. Short-sighted little bastard. Something else to tell them about.

  And when I get back, the oven is ready and she has the barbeque prepared for the fish. Her confidence pleases me. I try to catch her eye. Not biting.

  It is a terrific meal. She gets the coals just right. The skin of the perch blisters away from the perfectly white, juicy flesh. It heartens me. If we keep doing this for a while, we’ll … you know, just kept going …

  ‘I know,’ I saw as she is cleaning up after dinner, ‘let’s paint the house. Together. Brighten it up a bit.’

  They look at me. Waiting.

  ‘It’ll be good, make it ours.’

  They just look at me. Waiting.

  So I get up and grind some pigment and mix it with water. ‘Here,’ I saw to the boy, ‘come on, you first. Put your hand like this.’

  Dutifully, and I’ll have to say it, sorrowfully, he puts his hand against the wall and I scoop some ochre yellow, put a portion in my mouth and stencil around his hand.

  ‘See, look at that,’ I say, ‘that’s fantastic.’ This cheeriness is killing me. Specially with a mouthful of ochre.

  I put my own hand against the wall and spray it with colour.

  ‘Now you,’ I say, as brightly as I can manage, and try to smile at her, but even to me it feels like the creak of a girth strap.

  She puts her hand against the wall but averts her face, looking neither at me nor at her hand.

  I hold her wrist as I spray the ochre. When I come to the gap between the first and little fingers I think I feel a sort of spasm in her arm, but I hold it and complete the job. Keep hanging on to her hand, holding it there to make a good impression. Such a young hand to have two missing fingers. For the two dead husbands lost in the war.

  I rinsed my mouth but never let go of her wrist.

  ‘There,’ I said, ‘chez nous.’

  ANDREW BOLT’S DISAPPOINTMENT

  My friends, take a breath, lean across the table and assume the tone of Richard Dawkins explaining dinosaurs to intelligently designed Christians.

  The people here believe that in my promotion of Aboriginal achievement I’m simply being loyal to family or wanting to take a belligerent stance on our country’s identity and history. Houses, crops, agriculture, sewing! Their frustration is benign, their love for me is no less, but they think I’ve gone too far this time. Writers are supposed to be mad, and they are to be coddled for it like raving aunts. They are supposed to be heretical, but they are not supposed to defy everything we were taught about Aborigines. They must not be encouraged to refute the national story.

  We each sit there, against the backs of our chairs, a little disappointed with the other’s company. Perhaps this is too strong. Disconcerted might be the better word. We are looking at each other across a gulf of incomprehension. We are concerned that one of us is a liar and the other a denier.

  I am one of Andrew Bolt’s disappointments. I didn’t know I had offended him until a friend sent me a copy of the column in which I was pilloried by Bolt for deciding to be black. People expected me to be outraged, but my inclination was to wish I could have a yarn with Bolt over a beer. Except he doesn’t drink beer, I was told, just good red wine. Sad, the impasse we have just because histamines play havoc with my arthritis.

  I can see Bolt’s point, and the frustration of many Australians when pale people identify with an Aboriginal heritage. The people he attacked for this crime, however, had an unfortunate thing in common: their credentials were impeccable. Any good reporter could pick up the phone and talk to their mothers about their Aboriginality until the chooks went to roost.

  If I had been part of the group who took Bolt to court for impugning their heritage, he would have had a field day. My mother’s dead, and even if she had been alive she knew precious little about her family background. He would have found that my cousin had discovered the woman we thought was our Aboriginal ancestor was, in fact, born in England.

  Having got that far, I hope he would have delved deeper and found that both my mother’s and father’s families had an Aboriginal connection. I was amazed to find that the families knew each other in Tasmania years before my father met my mother at a Melbourne Baptist church.

  But was it an accident? The two families lived close to each other in Melbourne, in the same street in Tassie, and had Aboriginal neighbours in both places. Aborigines signed as witnesses to their weddings, and various members of the families went back and forth across Bass Strait to marry into the other family, including some first cousins.

  I’m sure Bolt would find this fascinating. It mirrors the turbulence of postcolonial Australia and explains why so many Australian families have a black connection. Why should I deny them? I would plead. They fascinate me. The very nature of their survival is heroism in a cardigan. My great-grandfather died two streets from where I lived and I never heard anyone in my family mention his name. His mother had a traditional Aboriginal name. Aren’t you intrigued by that, Andrew?

  I’m not saying people whispered ancient secrets in my ear or passed on sacred knowledge; what I was told amounts to a bald analysis of Australian history and society, and the injunction to watch and listen to the land, to respect the fact that we do not command the earth. I’d like to explain to Bolt that my mother told me the same thing, and I’m not sure if that is Aboriginal thought or just her general modest decency.

  My insight into Aboriginal Australia is as abbreviated as my heritage has allowed. It is as if I have been led at night to a hill overlooking country I have never seen. I am blindfolded, but at dawn the cloth is removed and I am asked to open my eyes for one second – any longer and I will be killed – and then asked to describe that country.

  An impression is what you would get in that second. Detail? Very little. You would be left with a feeling of the country’s nature and for the rest of your life you would be searching the span of a second’s memory. An impression: a shallow base from which to lecture others; a humble heritage. Humility was always valued in our family, beyond wealth or influence, and you don’t shake those legacies easily.

  I had to learn my Aboriginal history and I had to learn Aboriginal etiquette by making mistakes. It has not been a painless journey, filled with the excitement of acceptance and inculcation into the mysteries of a secret society.

  I reckon Bolt and I would have a terrific yarn. He came from Holland as a child and was an outsider too. I reckon I’d be fascinated by his childhood, how he coped as an alien. But I’d be impatient to tell him how I was perplexed by my father’s mild acceptance of my discoveries. I’m sure Bolt would want the same question answered that I do: why had no one but a rogue uncle spoken of this before?

  Obviously someone, or several people, had been covering tracks, but my father’s affirming nod to me after I’d spoken about our Aboriginality on ABC Radio hit me for six. I’d left him listening to the radio in my Volkswagen as Terry Lane and I did the live-to-air. Terry had a way of getting guests to confide. That’s journalism, Andrew!

  I walked down the old ABC stairs expecting to
have the best blue with my father since he saw me on the news during the Vietnam moratoriums. But no – just the mild nod, and after that we were closer than we’d ever been. I treasure a photo from that era in which he’s nursing my son, with my dog asleep on his feet. He’s doing the accounts for Australian Short Story, a magazine venture he could never imagine would succeed. But he did lend me $10,000 to prop it up.

  He only told me one story, and I’ve written it word for word in my novel Earth. It’s almost the only thing we know of that past. After uncovering the lattice of our Tasmanian days I have a few more questions to ask him. Like, how much did you know, Dad? Perhaps you and me and Andrew could sit together: me with my Boag’s, Andrew with his superior red, and you with your Lan-Choo because you and Mum were still saving the labels for the full dinner set.

  Dad’s gone, but I could talk to Bolt easily and without the least rancour because I think it’s reasonable for Australia to know if people of pale skin identifying as Aboriginal are fair dinkum. No one likes an imposter. Of course, we should extend the same rigour to the Irish, Jews and Christians.

  What I’d like to say to Bolty – because surely we’d be on nickname terms by then – Bolty, I’d say, why didn’t you ring their mothers? Are you crook on them because they identify as Aboriginal or because they’re successful Aboriginals?

  Australia could be confident in leaving the matter of identity to the Aboriginal community, because it is far more rigorous in its assessment, and conducts it simply by utilising two quaint scientific tools: genealogy and the telephone.

  Many Australians are curious about Aborigines; some, like Andrew Bolt, are alarmed, and some with solid Christo-socialist credentials get agitated at my kitchen table and lean their arms upon it and implore, at a more intimate, more insistent distance: houses, crops, agriculture, sewing? I’ve gone too far; I’ve exaggerated in my desire to defend the race. They understand defending the beleaguered – many do it on a professional basis – but they like to think that, true to their professions of law, welfare or education, they never depart from the realm of fact.

 

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