by David Vernon
Women’s voices float out to them in the heat, along with the smell of something cakey cooking in the wood oven.
“You ask,” Pearl said, pushing Dawny up the splintery steps, “You’re the cheeky one.”
Mrs Trainor, hearing their scuffling, appears. “You’re in luck girls, the scones are just out of the oven. Now if you go and wash your hands properly you can have one each.”
The Lifebuoy soap’s sharp sweet smell and the towel, fluffy and clean, is somehow exciting and, “Just like something from a fillum,” Pearl says, burying her face in it.
They take their scones back outside perching on the bottom step.
Dawny eats hers in a couple of hungry gulps, while Pearl takes mouse bites into the cloud of cream and jam, brushing the flies away that want to join in.
“Gee this is good unna?”
“Sure was,” agrees Dawny wistfully.
There are no more offers of food, so Pearl suggests, “Let’s go round the back.”
After reading for what seems like forever, I decide to ask Mum if Dad is coming soon and step outside where I notice Pearl and Dawny crouching in the scrub.
“Wanna play pets,” they ask me.
“Okay,” I smile, pleased. This is a game we’ve played before.
We start foraging around, concentrating. It is easy for us all to locate some broken window glass from the rubbish heap.
I also come across a red bottle top with a black swan on it, sourgrass flowers and a couple of golden scrunched foil milk bottle lids. The others have chips of coloured glass, yellow wattle, bits and pieces.
It’s good to choose a place where people won’t actually walk on our pets. We find a safe possie beneath a prickle bush and kneel down, each of us scooping out a small hollow in the warm earth. Next we arrange our treasures very carefully in there like little pictures. The glass is then set on top creating a tiny window and afterwards sand brushed over to hide the whole thing.
Finally we crouch over each other’s ‘pets’ and carefully rub enough of the soil away to reveal little glowing portholes into another world; somehow pristine and almost magical.
If we come back next weekend, I know there will be silvered globes of moisture forming like jewels clinging to the leaves and glass.
Feeling pretty good, we cover over the ‘pets’ again our fingers marking a tracery of squiggles and dots on top so only we can find them and with the sun soaking into our backs, sit around pleasantly wriggling our toes in the hot dry sand.
Suddenly foliage is crackling then crashing and we’re startled to see Dezzy racing through the scrub. He bounds up the stairs into the kitchen hollering, “Miz Renna, Wally’s on a rampage. E’s after Beryl!”
Pearl and Dawny leap up and shoot off through the bush calling back, “See ya,” as I dash, heart hammering, towards the kitchen.
Mum and the women bustle around, slamming the door and windows shut.
Dread silence, then thunderous banging shudders the door.
I press myself quivering with fear beside the cupboard in the corner, wishing I could fit inside its dark recess and fly far away.
An explosion against the wall at the front. Then at the back as Wally stomps around smashing a lump of wood on the asbestos sheeting till it cracks, cursing, yelling, “Get out ʼere now Beryl, ya stinkin’ bitch!”
It seems like hours, but eventually it’s quiet outside and Mrs Walker says she can see Wally through the window and he’s now heading back up the road.
Doors and windows open again.
Mum, exhilarated, lectures the women, “You’ve got to stop the drinking because as soon as it’s child endowment day, all your money goes on drink and Two-up, and this sort of thing will just keep happening and you people end up back ‘inside.’ Your brother Malcom is there nearly every time I visit the prison,” she says to Beryl.
“Malcom’s back ʼome now miz. E’s not all bad, e’s reformed.”
Mum goes on and on as they begin cleaning and washing up when Dezzy returns breathless to tell us, “Wally’s smashed Simpson with a brick’n ʼis face is ang’n orf and e’s guard’n the phone so we can’t ring the ambulance.”
“I’ve had enough I’m not putting up with this,” Mum announces and sets out with Dezzy behind her towards the big mob gathered at the end of the road.
I watch them head off from the window. I’m not going out there. My body has the shakes with the uncontrollable fear. However, my little brother and sister are tagging after Mum until Mrs Walker takes their hands, pulling them back down the road for me to look after.
At the end of the street Wally sways menacingly with a brick in his hand guarding the phone box. As Mum advances he lunges stumbling towards her, raising his arm up ready to strike. There is muttering and clamour from the throng as he gets closer.
She calls out loudly, “Put that brick down … immediately Wally. I’m going to ring an ambulance and I’ll ring the police too if you don’t get away from there now. You coward!”
He lurches angrily forward, arm on high ready to smash her.
“Fuckin white cunt!” he yells back.
“Coward!”
A sudden hush. People hold their breath, everyone staring as the crowd at the back parts letting Malcom step through. Coming silently up behind Wally, reaching around him he grabs the brick out of his hand.
The people relax, shoulders slump while Wally without a protest slopes off, cutting through the group towards the bush, head down.
Transfixed, trembling, watching the action out of the window I wish Dad would arrive soon to take us home. Longing for the moment when I will see him bumping down the road at last, in our old car, the grey Austin A40.
The facts:
This is a true story based on my childhood experiences. All names have been changed except my mother’s as she is deceased. She felt passionately about the appalling situation of the Aboriginal people and was deeply involved in social work. She said she thought she could change the world and was never frightened, sweeping her five children along with her into the turmoil. All these events happened and I have a memory that the incident with ‘Wally’ and the brick was reported in one of the West Australian papers at the time as Mum was often in the news.
Silda Trainor is a mother and artmaker who loves to write. Her true stories have appeared in various anthologies and she is currently polishing a memoir, Swimming to the Moon — her tale of living in the inner city and leaning towards the sea.
Baby Steps
— Alexis Hailstones
I hesitate at the doorway, my feet refusing to lift from the heavy wooden floor.
“It’s okay Mum, come on.” My daughter puts her arm around my shoulders and shepherds me across the threshold of the Great Hall. “No going back now!”
She’s right. It’s time. United by our tea-rose lapel pins and the rolled documents we’re clutching, we belong in this crowd. The tea rose — I will always remember — is the symbol of the day, and every floral blouse, freshly pressed business shirt, and crumpled tee-shirt in the room sports the same elegant pin. The words in the documents we hold will soon be given life. The Official Apology will be read aloud. Stay in control, old girl, I tell myself.
Weathered-looking women with sadness in their eyes surround me. Most have husbands and adult children close by, ready to provide kind words and reassuring touches. Some sit alone. But the choices of previous decades — and the lack of them — have thrown this tea-rose crowd together, shaping the present like waves hammering a coastline.
“How can words change the past anyway?” I ask my daughter.
She rolls her eyes and gives me an indulgent frown. “Mum, we talked about this. They might change how you feel about it.” She stops, leans towards me. “We had to come. I’m so proud of you for making it.”
Tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I’m here because this event is historic. I’m here because it might help douse the quiet anger burning inside me. But without Ellie’s insistence, I�
�d have thrown the invitation away.
I’m here, too, because one of these women might be my mother. My logical self tells me it’s unlikely, but something stronger and deeper within me murmurs There’s a chance. You never know. So I steal a glance at the woman near the stage. It could be her — the emerald green in her scarf is exactly a shade I’d wear. Or the woman leaning against the oak panelling, clutching the hand of the man next to her so tightly her whole body must ache. Her eyes are the same clear blue as Ellie’s. Maybe she’s the woman standing next to us, whispering to herself and dabbing the corner of her eye with a tissue. I scan her face, guess her age — yes, the right number of years. Searching faces is what I do, and others here are doing the same. We’ve perfected the art of silently assessing others to compare with ourselves — the shape of a nose, the colour of someone’s eyes, the way a person holds their hands. Lucky ones have found the missing pieces of their puzzle. Others are like the baby bird in the children’s story Are you my mother? Always searching, constantly asking the same question.
My mother’s always been missing, and part of me is missing with her. I know little about her, except that she was a teenager when I was born. I imagine the rest. She was Irish, I fancy, bequeathing me my freckled skin and fair hair. Those genetics cast me as the odd one out in my dark haired, olive-skinned, adoptive family. They found this amusing, but for me it was another reminder that I didn’t fit in. When my sister blew out the candles on her birthday cake, she’d wish for a Barbie doll, or a pony, announcing her desires to the whole family. I wished to find my mother, then refused to confess.
Years later, I’m still wishing. She’s vetoed contact with me, but time and this event might change her mind. You never know.
“There’s a spot here, Mum.” Ellie guides me to an empty seat, gives a quiet sigh of relief as she sits down. She startles, then smiles. “She’s kicking me,” she says, patting her rounded belly. I gaze at the growing basketball beneath her shirt, rippling with new life. My daughter’s daughter, a part of her and a part of me, will join us within weeks. This child will be surrounded by her biology, knowing her connections from her first breath to her last.
A woman squeezes past, side-stepping to reach a seat beyond me. “Sorry,” she mouths, as I turn my knees sideways to let her pass. Something about her is familiar. She sees me looking, gives me a wisp of a smile. Her earrings are a soft blush pink, holding the light as they dangle.
The chatter of the crowd stops at the whoosh of a finger tap-tapping on a microphone. The Premier strides onto the stage, flanked by women in sharp suits. On television, he speaks like a politician, smooth and detached. Today, he’s less mechanical, his papers shaking. Is it because of the mood here, or is he, too, affected by adoption? He looks up from his notes and surveys our expectant faces.
“Welcome to this very special day,” he says. “I speak to you on behalf of the people of this State.” The words of the Apology are simple but carefully crafted. Light and silky, they acknowledge the pain of separated mothers, children, fathers, siblings, family members and partners.
Is my own mother here? Is she listening? Is she hurting with us?
We acknowledge the wrongs inflicted by past forced adoption policies and practices in this State.
Dizziness overwhelms me. These are words I thought I’d never hear. They circle in my mind, unlock tension in my body, like rows of knitting slowly unravelling. Many faces look drained. Sobs from the audience punctuate the words.
The woman with the rose-pink earrings is listening intently, captivated by what she’s hearing. We exchange a glance. Tears threaten to fall from her light blue eyes. Her build is like mine — slight, with a softening waist that spills over the top of her patterned skirt. Don’t they say all girls end up like their mothers?
We acknowledge the shame, guilt and secrecy carried by many for too long in silence …
We’ve waited decades for these words. The powerful acknowledgement of something so wrong is a gift. Too much for some, sitting with their heads in their hands. I sense the woman looking at me. She drops her gaze as our eyes make contact.
You were denied a voice, dignity and care … the fulfilment of your pregnancy was turned into anguish …
My daughter squeezes my arm. “See Mum, we had to come,” she whispers. How did I end up with this astonishing young woman beside me? She knew what this would mean to me.
The woman’s glance moves from me back to the stage. Her blonde hair is dashed with grey. As she listens she twists a lock distractedly, looking into the distance. A white handkerchief pokes through the fingers of her other hand.
You have been heard, you are believed and you are not to blame …
As the Premier’s words finish, there is a moment of absolute stillness, until applause explodes across the Great Hall. I feel lighter, able to move forward, one small step at a time.
The woman stands. Her face is flushed, her eyes red, but she’s propelled by the force of the words. Anticipation floods through my body, my heart banging like a cannon. Surely this cannot be her, close enough for me to touch, after more than forty years? Whirlwinds of thoughts play inside my head. What happened before isn’t important. Nothing was easy. She only gave me up because she loved me. I understand.
“You must be my Cathy,” she says. Her arms are around me before I can say a word. She has a soft musky scent about her. I nod at my name, buried in her warmth.
“Born 1 July 1972, in Cowra, NSW,” she states.
My mouth won’t release a sound and she doesn’t see me shaking my head. I was born in another country town, in another year. My mother is taken away for a second time.
“Let me look at you,” she says, tears shining on her cheeks, hands on my shoulders. She speaks quickly, powerless to stop her banked-up words breaking free. “I never stopped thinking of you. You’ve been in my heart every minute. I was drugged when you were born and they wouldn’t let me hold you.”
What can I say to her?
It’s not a handkerchief she’s holding. “I made you these but they wouldn’t let you wear them.” She opens her hand to show a pair of booties, hand-knitted for a newborn with impossibly tiny feet, their once-snowy whiteness yellowed by years of handling. Ellie’s fingertip is instantly there, stroking the soft wool and the fraying satin ribbon that weaves between the stitches.
The woman looks at Ellie and then at me. She gasps. “They’re for this baby,” she says. “My great grandchild.”
The Premier’s last words remain in my head. To all those affected, we say sorry.
All I can think of is this woman. Nearly, but not quite, my mother.
The facts:
In the 1960s, a group of women began lobbying Government to acknowledge the wrongs of its forced adoption polices. In 2012, a Senate Committee Inquiry estimated that since the 1940s, up to 250,000 forced adoptions (many illegal) had caused significant ongoing effects for mothers, fathers and adoptees. The Inquiry recommended a National Apology, to identify and acknowledge affected people’s experiences. The Australian Government, all States and the A.C.T have since delivered public apologies.
‘May this apology help your heavy hearts be lighter today than yesterday,’ a Queensland Minister said. Those attending described the events as ‘monumental’.
Alexis Hailstones works in policy and legislation but writes whenever she can. She lives in Brisbane with her family. Alexis has previously been published in the Stringybark anthology, Behind the Wattles.
The Stringybark ‘Times Past’ Short Fiction Award 2013
Winner
Stew and Sinkers — Debra Booth
Second Place
Allawah Grove — Silda Trainor
Third Place
Baby Steps — Alexis Hailstones
Highly Commended
Strange Encounter — Jim Baker
The Sleeper Passer — Gary Barber
Bessell’s Creek — Jillian Brady
Ursa Major — Kerry Cameron
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br /> Motherlines — Melissa Coffey
Prelude to a Dream — Sophie Constable
The Trumpet Call — Peter Cooper
A Pure Soul — Kathryn Errey
Run for Your Life — Shannon Garner
Eleven Candles — Sharon Haste
Shadow Dancing — Pamela Janssen
In Search of Africa — Marie Therese Kay
A Proper Job — Pippa Kay
Woodsreef — Pippa Kay
An Alien Hand — Jenny Kingsford
Justice 1892 — Carmel Lillis
Crossed Out — Rosalind Moran
A Micro Moment of History — Judy O’Connor
Shoes at Oyster Bay — Judy O’Connor
My Ernest Decision — Kylie Orr
The Summer We Moved House — Janeen Samuel
The Fight — Peter Smallwood
Ted Trounson’s Kid — Frances Warren
The Paterson Boys — Kerry Lown Whalen
The Drift of the Jenny — Michael Wilkinson
The First Hangman — Michael Wilkinson
Impatient — Samantha Wilson
About the Judges
David Vernon is a full time writer and editor. While he is known for his non-fiction books about birth: Men at Birth, Having a Great Birth in Australia, Birth Stories and With Women, he has turned his hand to writing science articles for newspapers and magazines as well as scribbling the odd short story or two. He established the Stringybark Short Stories Awards in 2010 to promote short story writing. He is currently trying to write an Australian history book. He is the Deputy Chair and Treasurer of the ACT Writers Centre. David’s website is: www.davidvernon.net
Marguerite Perkins has a talent for choosing interesting but poorly paid work. This includes child birth preparation (she has ruined her vocal chords acting out labour sounds) birth support and work with people with disabilities or teaching. Story judging fits the pattern. She consumes novels and has begun to write blogs of her adventures with cancer and travel. She loves gardening, especially weeding and growing vegetables. If she had one magic wish, she’d use it to remember the words of songs and sing them tunefully. Marguerite has previously judged the Stringybark Humorous Short Fiction Award 2013.