What Lies Buried

by John Bishop

  * The government had declared that key employees of some businesses essential to the war effort were not to be accepted for service in the armed forces. The origin of the term “reserved” is not covered by this assignment.

  Note: This interview will be cross-referenced to other transcripts including Mr Edward Vaughan’s account of the sale of Weatherlee by Emily Blake (née Johnson) in 1945.

  Norman Bryson’s assignment had been separated from others, and placed in a file marked: Weatherlee. Caroline leafed through the other papers in the file. To her dismay, among them was a carbon copy of a letter she had seen before. Thirty years on, its effect was still disturbing. Unless Max and his researchers already knew its origins, her fears about misleading sources were confirmed. Closing the file, she contemplated a confrontation; it seemed increasingly unavoidable. For the time being, she would say nothing. At some stage, she would have to raise the matter. Now, however, she needed to go to the bathroom. She took a deep breath and put the file down.

  Searching for Closure

  Tuesday 11th September 1990

  When Max returned to the family room he was pleased to see the evidence that Caroline had started reading. If they could immerse her in snippets from the history, they might weaken the defences she’d erected. After a quick peek at the folder on the couch, he sat at the desk, took out a notebook, and began to write:

  CB 11.9.90 (1st meeting)

  Reacted as soon as I mentioned biography. Blunt “There must be no...”

  Concerned hist might be rev’st.

  Worried about father as source of info.

  Doesn’t like being touched?? Stiff with Judith. This was tactile family.

  Check tape—Emily’s big warm cuggles.

  Did something happen to C?

  Max leant back and contemplated the possibilities. In the thirteen years from the time her mother disappeared until she, herself, left Banabrook, Caroline had made all the hardest of life’s transitions—none more difficult than adolescence. Had Rachel been a confusing role model? Perhaps there had been traumatic events other than Emily’s disappearance. Hearing somebody coming, he closed his notebook and returned it to the drawer. Judith entered and plonked herself down on an arm of the couch.

  ‘Where is she?’ Max asked.

  ‘In the loo, I think. Probably washing her hands of anything to do with Daddy except his money. It’s unnatural. She ignored him for thirty years. Now she’s here, lusting for loot and determined to sell. We have to know what happened between them. But when you think she’s about to open up—she retreats again.’

  ‘At least we’ve got her reading some of the history. I was hoping to prompt some sort of revelation by getting her to listen to some of the tapes. Total rejection!’

  ‘I think she might have changed her mind.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘She seems to feel a need to check on what he’s told us.’

  ‘Then let’s encourage her to start listening. First, you have calls to make. If Jim’s not up to it, we’ll have to sing unaccompanied again. He won’t deal with anybody but you on this one.’

  Emitting an angry grunt, Judith got up and left. A brief exchange of words from the hallway alerted Max to Caroline’s return. As she entered, he rose and crossed to the sideboard.

  ‘How are you holding up? You must have left home early.’

  ‘Four-thirty, I think. I did stop at a roadhouse for breakfast. And don’t tell me I was lucky to find one. I noticed they got more dilapidated the closer I came to Arajinna.’

  ‘I believe you’ve decided to listen to the tapes.’

  ‘That news travelled fast!’ The momentary flash of irritation was unmistakable. ‘I’d like to know what ground they cover. Time is a problem though. When does Tony arrive?’

  ‘We’re planning to have lunch early so I can collect him from Calway Junction at two. I guess we’ll be back here about half past three. I’m sure Judith’s got plenty to keep her busy, so you could do some listening while I’m away.’

  ‘Sounds fine.’

  ‘Meanwhile you might help me with something. I’ve been thinking of playing an extract at the end of the eulogy. Usually, I ask the congregation to spend a while with their private thoughts, and I’ve noticed people looking intently at the coffin as though trying to conjure the departed in their imagination. Playing a tape of his voice might give them something more evocative to work on.’

  ‘Are you asking if I approve?’

  ‘I thought something to bring his family into the picture. Perhaps this.’ Without waiting for her agreement, he started the recording.

  This room was the hub of our family life. Sometimes Caroline would lie over there in front of the fire and I’d read to her until she fell asleep. Then I’d carry her to bed. Emily would have put a hot water bottle between the sheets and I’d make sure Caroline’s feet were in the warm patch before I tucked her in. They fill your heart at times like that. I was particular about what I read because I remembered being scared silly by Grimm’s Fairy Tales myself. I’ve never understood why parents read that stuff to kids. I read her things like Winnie the Pooh and–

  At first Caroline seemed mesmerised by the voice, then she crossed to the recorder and stabbed the button with her finger. She and Max were uncomfortably close, but her question was quiet and controlled.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I thought I’d explained.’

  ‘That’s not an extract you’d play at a funeral. And don’t tell me the real bit was coming up soon, because I won’t believe you.’

  ‘Okay. The truth is I’d hoped when you heard him talking about you—about good times—it might prompt you to tell us why you left.’

  ‘Why are you so obsessed about my past? Daddy’s biography is one thing, but my past is mine. It’s not your business.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Judith has spent her entire life wondering what happened to her half-sister. Wondering why you didn’t communicate with your father—her father.’

  ‘Did she love him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why would she want to jeopardise her memory of him now?’

  ‘Do you think it likely?’

  ‘Why can’t you just accept that it’s my business?’

  ‘For a start, because you want to sell her heritage.’

  ‘I’ve told her why.’

  ‘All you’ve told her is your interests come first.’

  ‘It would have to be sold some time. You can’t take a saw and cut it down the middle.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be a problem in some families.’

  ‘But it is. It’s why eldest sons used to inherit the lot; bloody unfair but a way of keeping it all together. It wasn’t a problem for my parents. Mother had no siblings to fight over Weatherlee. Father was the sole survivor of the Blakes. It’s different for Judith and me.’

  ‘At least you could tell her why Banabrook doesn’t matter to you.’

  ‘Even if that were true, it wouldn’t be the issue. I didn’t come here to open old sores. I need—what’s the trendy word these days—closure? I have to bury the past.’

  ‘You can’t. Sooner or later the earth gives up its secrets.’

  ‘What the earth gives up is evidence. Historians speculate about what it means.’

  Her look left him in no doubt which historian she had in mind. She turned away as if to end the discussion but Max was not ready to let go.

  ‘Earlier you suggested the history we’re compiling might be revisionist.’

  ‘I didn’t mean intentionally.’

  ‘But you hint we should be careful about our sources, and you have doubts about what’s on the tapes. I’m sure you can understand what a problem that is for me. There’s no possibility of this project petering out. It has a life of its own. The kids at school tell me they’re “turned on”. So, if you want it to be accurate, you’ll have to help.’

  ‘It’s the biography I’m bothered about.’

  ‘Wh
y?’

  ‘I can’t stop you writing a history. I can probably even help you with some aspects of it. So can Tony.’

  ‘You’ve kept in touch with him?’

  ‘Tony? Yes, intermittently. His father turned his back on Banabrook and the Blake heritage long before I did.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Oh yes. Interested?’

  ‘I should tell you I have met Tony. I made a trip to Sydney when I realised he was the oldest surviving Blake.’

  ‘How much do you know about Alfred’s arrival here? Maud? Alured? The origins of the art collection?’

  ‘Not as much as we’d like. There are lots of gaps. We do have the story of Alfred and the large black beetle.’

  ‘Now that I haven’t heard. But, with the help of Tony and his father, I was able to find out some things about the early years.’

  ‘You researched the genealogy? Blake genealogy?’

  ‘There were reasons. Not sentimental ones.’

  ‘More mysteries?’

  ‘I’m not trying to be provocative. But I’d happily swap my information for an agreement to drop the biography.’

  ‘A trade off?’

  ‘Call it what you will.’

  ‘You do realise your being a senator has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I would hope not.’

  ‘That his daughter has been touted as the first woman prime minister would obviously be mentioned—but this is not about you.’

  ‘I hadn’t suggested it was.’

  ‘What if I were to tell you I felt an obligation to write the biography.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When I first floated the idea, your father was reluctant to give the nod to an authorised work.’ He saw Caroline’s head tilt; he could almost hear an ah-ha! ‘I didn’t think it was because he had anything to hide. I thought it was humility.’

  Caroline appeared to be on the verge of a response, but shook her head as though at a loss to understand.

  Max said, ‘I convinced him of the value of the biography to the community.’

  ‘Value to the community?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There are some matters I’d rather not talk about without Judith present. But it was me who got him to embrace the project and to see hope in it. To shelve it now, when he can’t have any further input, would be unthinkable.’

  ‘So where’s that leave me?’

  ‘I can only use information from sources willing to provide it. You keep hinting you know things. But you won’t reveal anything, so I have to work with what I’ve got. Where facts can’t be verified I will say so. But it is fact that Walter had a wife Emily and a daughter Caroline. Histories and biographies often contain unanswered questions. Sometimes they prompt others to undertake further research. There’s always somebody out there looking for a topic for a Ph.D thesis.’

  ‘Or some young piranha in the press gallery who sees the possibility of making a name as an investigative journalist.’

  ‘No matter how I frame the passages about Walter’s daughter, it will be obvious the two of you had become alienated. You’ve already acknowledged how closely politicians are watched. All I can offer you is the opportunity to provide input that might pre-empt some of the questions.’

  ‘My god Max, you should have been the politician. What you’ve said is totally defendable, but carries all the force of blackmail.’

  ‘I wish I felt flattered.’

  ‘Now I have no option but to tell you where I stand.’

  ‘I should get Judith.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you! At least not until you’ve heard what I have to say.’

  Max hesitated, uncertain, then nodded his agreement.

  In The Glow Of A Lantern

  Saturday 20th January 1945

  Walter strode up the slope—spade in one hand, lantern in the other—leaning against the strong northerly, which had blown all day. He entered the family room from the verandah. Rachel was at the window. She did not turn.

  ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘At the end of the stables.’

  ‘I could see the glow of the lamp. For some, it is a symbol of life.’ She continued to stare into the darkness.

  ‘You wanted to be the one to fill it in.’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned, and he could see she was holding something.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The necklace.’ She looked at the object in her hands. ‘Anna. I always liked the name.’ Looking up, she reached out to touch his cheek. ‘Don’t worry, dear Walter. It will be buried too. I felt a need to look at it. Now, the box.’

  Walter went to the desk. He picked up a small cash box and took it to her. She put the necklace inside. Slowly she removed the scarf from around her neck and draped it over the back of a chair—her movements slow and deliberate, like a strange strip tease. It added to this illusion when she pulled her dress aside revealing the cleavage where the cloth bag nestled between her breasts. She took the cord and slipped the bag from her neck, showing it to him before dropping it into the box.

  ‘That makes the set complete.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t bury memories.’

  ‘But you can make a new start.’

  ‘By disposing of the evidence? So simple, yes?’

  ‘I think you owe this much to me.’

  ‘You want me to be your cause. But first you have to clean me up.’

  ‘I took you as you were. When you arrived here I took you as you were.’

  A smile. A nod. She moved to the desk and retrieved a document.

  ‘And this is what? Insurance?’

  ‘How did you–?’

  ‘I... what is the word?... rifled?’

  ‘You went through my desk?’

  ‘I thought “rifled” was the word, but “went though” is a sufficient betrayal, yes? Like a report to the Immigration Department?’ She threw the document onto the desk.

  ‘It was only a draft. It was never sent. I wrote it before...’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before I was sure.’

  ‘Before you looked into my soul and saw the glow of goodness that excuses everything.’

  ‘I knew you were no danger to others—to Kalawonta. That was my only responsibility. Everything else is between us.’

  ‘It is dangerous to think you know anybody. The heart tells the eyes to ignore what they see.’

  He stepped to the desk, picked up the document, and tore it to pieces. ‘I never wanted to be a Justice of the Peace. I started a report when you arrived because I thought I might need to cover myself. I thought Adderley or some other bastard might try to stir up trouble.’

  ‘Nothing has changed. They still might.’

  ‘I no longer care.’

  He felt her arms slide around his waist and the gentle weight of her head as she rested it on his back.

  ‘Dear Walter,’ she said. ‘You were not brought up to this. You were born to privilege and riches. Thoreau’s quietly desperate have a different morality. I’m a survivor who takes what she can when she can. Where did you leave the spade?’

  She released her hold on him; he turned to face her. ‘On the porch. The hurricane lamp is there too.’

  ‘What is the English? Out of sight out of mind? It is a lie Walter. Only from the minds of madmen are memories or guilt ever erased.’

  She put her fingers to her lips and touched them to his. Then she took the cash box and left the room. Walter watched as she appeared around the side of the house and started down the slope, dress blowing in the wind. Soon the light from the lamp was all he could see. His hand dropped to the back of the chair. He picked the scarf up, held it to his face, breathed her scents.

  A reflection appeared in the window. Emily was coming along the hallway. Quickly replacing the scarf, he turned to face her. ‘I thought you were staying for the card night.’

  ‘We were late finishing our round. The wind was murder. I’
m knackered.’

  ‘I was about to make some tea.’

  ‘There’s a light out there.’

  ‘It’s Rachel. She went to look at the stars I think.’

  ‘You’re kidding? In this wind? Well I’m going to soak in a bath. You can bring me my tea.’

  As she turned she looked at the scarf, then at Walter.

  ‘Jeff says it’s rumoured you’re after the fuel agency.’

  ‘Where’d he get that idea?’

  ‘Stephen, I think.’

  ‘There was talk some months ago that the agency might change hands.’ Even as he said it, he knew the comment sounded contrived and evasive.

  ‘I thought Uncle Bert had it sewn up for the duration.’

  ‘Who can guess the duration of a war?’

  ‘A licence to print money, Jeff says. And it wasn’t advertised for tender.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve got time after my bath. Jeff seems to think it’s important.’

  ‘Jeff is on a fishing expedition.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Government contracts are confidential and he knows it.’

  Emily’s hand dropped to the back of the chair and Rachel’s scarf. She looked out of the window again. ‘It’s not the vantage point I’d have chosen to view the stars.’ Frowning, she swung around and said, ‘Me bath. You tea.’ She headed for the doorway, where she stopped. Without turning, she added, ‘Stephen’s been putting it out that you’re misusing your position as a JP. I need to know what’s going on. And don’t say Montagues and Capulets; I have a feeling this is different.’ Then she was gone.

  Down by the stables he could see the lamp but no movement. It would have taken Rachel only a minute or two to finish the burial and fill in the hole. Later he’d rake leaves over it—as a temporary measure, until he could do something more permanent. He imagined Rachel sitting on the bench in the dark. What would she be thinking? And Emily wanted to know about the fuel agency. What lie would he tell her about that? There was still no confirmation. What if the authorities hadn’t bought the story? He’d been warned there might be consequences. The Johnsons were bad men to cross.

  A Hint of Blackmail

  Tuesday 11th September 1990

  Max was finding it hard not to break the silence. Nevertheless, having brought Caroline to the brink of a disclosure, he was determined to be quiet until she was ready to begin. He was relieved when he heard her gently clear her throat.

  ‘When I was seven, my mother disappeared. I’m sure my father must have given me some explanation, but I’d become used to being a good girl when mummy wasn’t feeling well, so I probably assumed it was one of those times. After a week or two I must have sensed she wasn’t coming back. As time passed, my father became increasingly important to me. I adjusted to having only one parent, as children do if they’re lucky... if they’re loved.’ A reflective pause. ‘Rachel could be a bit scary when she thought I’d been naughty, but she never lifted a hand against me, and I knew I was safe with her. I can’t tell you exactly what I felt when she married my father, certainly not anger.’ Another pause. Max sensed a reluctance to continue. When she did, the tone was clipped and tense. ‘It was thirteen years before I learnt why my mother had left home. There’d been things I’d wondered about, but nothing to make me suspect the truth. When all the pieces came together, they showed my father in a sinister light. It was devastating. For so many years he’d been my rock. Now I could no longer trust him.’ Another pause. ‘I felt I had three choices: I could continue living at Banabrook and pretend nothing had changed; I could confront him—God knows where that would have led; or I could leave home. He was away at the wool sales. One day Rachel had to take Judith for a medical check. It was the opportunity I needed; I cleared out.’

  ‘Without leaving a note.’

  ‘I didn’t think until too late. It all just happened. I telephoned Rachel from Calway Junction.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I told her not to come looking for me—that father would know why.’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘It wasn’t something he’d be likely to disclose. Now, do you want me to finish my story?’

  ‘Please. I shouldn’t have interrupted.’

  ‘When I got to Sydney I sold my car and took the train south. After all those years at Harwood, I thought I’d feel more at home in Melbourne. On the first Sunday I walked to the Botanic Gardens, a favourite place for quiet times and thinking. I decided not to dwell on the past, but to focus on the future. My father’s behaviour was for him to live with. I saw no benefit in trying to expose him. That still holds. I can live with my own knowledge of events but I couldn’t live with a false biography. If you publish, I’ll break my silence. I imagine it might be shattering for Judith and possibly for others. A history of the early years of Kalawonta could omit any reference to what he did. A biography of Walter Blake would be a sham without it.’

  ‘Do you intend to tell me the nature of this sinister information?’

  ‘Only if you force my hand. And I wouldn’t tell you anything before telling Judith.’

  ‘I’ve read some of your views on freedom of speech.’

  ‘You’ve researched me quite thoroughly haven’t you.’

  ‘What you said earlier, about blackmail, makes me wonder how to reconcile your public position on freedom of speech with this emotional pressure to prevent my exercising it.’

  ‘I haven’t suggested you aren’t free to say or write what you like. And I haven’t suggested my response to a false biography would be legal action. All I’ve said is I’ll put the record straight, whatever the consequences. The real point is that you have no right to demand information. This isn’t a political issue. It’s not something I’m representing in parliament after offering myself for election. It’s personal. It’s private.’

  Max was surprised how clear he felt about his response. ‘I doubt whether there’s anything Judith knows that she would feel must be kept a secret from you, in the long run. On the other hand, you harbour secrets you won’t reveal unless the biography displeases you. You won’t tell us what false information you think we have, but you hint at something bad about your father. If I know Judith, I think she’d rather hear any dirty secrets, and come to terms with them, than wonder what it is she doesn’t know. That said, what happens will be her call. You and I will have to wait and see.’

  There was a pause as both took stock. It was Caroline who broke the silence. ‘So what do we do now? Sit here and glare at each other.’

  Max’s spontaneous smile must have affected Caroline because she put a hand quickly to her mouth. He looked at the coffin and it occurred to him to tell her he thought Walter would have approved their laughing together. Instead, he turned back to her and said, ‘I wish we could have met in different circumstances. I think we might have got along very well.’

  ‘Tell me about Alfred and the large black beetle.’

  ‘We’re using the story at the beginning of the history. It’s here somewhere.’ He went to the desk and picked up the thickest of the folders. ‘The drafts aren’t in order but we’ve decided on black beetle for chapter one so it should be near the top. I’ll go and see what’s keeping Judith.’

  ‘And prime her for what’s to come?’

  ‘No! We’ll have to get back to this discussion sometime. But there are other things we need to attend to first.’ This time they both looked at the coffin. Then Max added, ‘Make yourself at home. You could do some tape browsing.’

  Working title: Kalawonta - A History of the Shire

  First Draft

  by

  Maxwell Kingsley

  and

  students of Arajinna High School

  Copyright 1990 - Shire of Kalawonta

  Introduction - An Absence Of Collisions

  Whilst many areas of New South Wales have names marking the massacre of Aboriginal people, no evidence has been found in t
he Kalawonta district of what the colonial powers euphemistically called collisions.1

  We know much about areas such as Waterloo Creek and Myall Creek, often from documents originally prepared for trials or enquiries. Happily, Kalawonta appears to have had no mass deaths, no visits by gung-ho mounted police, and no gruesome reports. As a result, we know less about this district and must frequently qualify our statements to indicate they are guesses or suppositions rather than established facts. Our research team keeps digging, however, and we hope this publication might cause new sources to come forward and fill in some of the gaps.

  To honour the traditions and wishes of the Aboriginal people who lived or moved through Kalawonta Shire before the arrival of the first Europeans, we have not presumed to tell their story. Perhaps one day they will do so. They have a rich store of wonderful Dreamtime legends, which are not as well known as those of some other language groups. We have talked much with the elders who speak for the indigenous community hereabouts. They have approved what we say about the relations of their forebears with the enigmatic Alfred Blake and his descendants. They have strong oral traditions and the stories passed down to them support what facts we have been able to establish from written sources.2

  1. The term collisions, as a euphemism for conflicts between European settlers and indigenous people, appears frequently in correspondence between British Government authorities and the Colonial Secretary’s Office. In a letter dated 10 December 1839 James Stephen, Under-Secretary for Colonies, wrote: ‘The tendency of these collisions with the Blacks is unhappily too clear for doubt.’ (See bibliography, Colonial Secretary, Correspondence Received.)

  2. Amble, Some Early Europeans, pp 24-31. Stinson, The Good And The Bad, pp 95-101. Uber, We Came We Saw p 52. Alfred Blake is referred to by all of these authors. Stinson, in particular, suggests an unusual bond between Blake and the Aborigines in the Kalawonta area.