My Place

by Sally Morgan

  Some of the people there had pet pigs. They sold two to Fred Stream. Before we reached Corunna Downs, he knocked one on the head and cooked it in the ashes. I reckoned he was cruel, to eat a little pig like that! I couldn’t look at him and I couldn’t eat it. I kept thinking, fancy killing such a little pig. He was only a baby.

  The next day, we came to a freshwater well and stopped to water the team. There were goats runnin’ all over the place. Big ones, little ones, young ones, old ones. Fred Stream watched all these goats, then he said, ‘You want a goat?’ I said, ‘NO!’ I didn’t want him to catch and kill no baby goat. Anyhow, he rounded up a kid and a billy and when we got to Corunna Downs, we let them go. I don’t know what happened to them. I couldn’t take a little baby goat away from his mother. I’m funny like that. I take after my old grandfather, I’m tender-hearted. I don’t believe in stealing anything from its mother.

  I remember one time when I was very small, it must have been Christmas, because there was so much food on the table on the verandah. All kinds of food laid out on this big table. I kept thinking to myself, I should eat more, I should eat more. I should finish it off. I knew I wasn’t goin’ to see food like that again for a long time. I just kept lookin’ at all that food, thinkin’ what a shame it was to go away and leave it. Even though my belly was already aching, I made myself eat more. A while later, I brought it all up. My belly was swollen and I just couldn’t keep it in! You know, it must have been Christmas, because I was all dressed up in a shirt and pants that day.

  There were always corroborees at Corunna. You needed special permission to watch them. We used to go with Howden. I hadn’t been put through the Law by then, because I was still too young. That happens when you are fourteen or fifteen. I didn’t want to go through the Law. I used to say, ‘Don’t let them do that to me, Mum.’ I didn’t want to be cut this way and that. For the real black ones, it was compulsory. I was half-caste, so I could be exempted. The women were just marked on the chest. Just one mark, here in the middle. That was their ceremony.

  In those days, the women were given to you when you were only a baby. They had Old Dinah picked out for me. She used to help in the garden. She’s dead and gone now, probably still waitin’ for me in heaven. She was old enough to be my mother. I suppose, later, I could have had Helen Bunda for my wife. She was half-caste too, and very clever with her hands. Her mother was Nellie, or Moodgjera. Her father was a bullock driver.

  There was some wonderful wildlife on Corunna Downs. There was one little bird, he was a jay or a squeaker, he’d sing out three times and then the rains would come. He was never wrong. While he was there, there was always a good feed, but when he was gone, drought! When the little frogs sang out, we knew it was going to rain. They were lovely colours, white and brown with black spots. They were all different, there wasn’t one the same. They used to get into the cooler and we’d have to clean it out. They was all natural animals. Wonderful creatures. There were no insecticides then to kill the birds. That’s why the blackfellas want their own land, with no white man messin’ about destroyin’ it.

  All the people round there, we all belonged to each other. We were the tribe that made the station. The Drake-Brockmans didn’t make it on their own. There were only a few white men there, ones that fixed the pumps and sank wells by contract. The blackfellas did the rest.

  I remember seein’ native people all chained up around the neck and hands, walkin’ behind a policeman. They often passed the station that way. I used to think, what have they done to be treated like that. Made me want to cry, just watchin’. Sometimes, we’d hear about white men goin’ shooting blackfellas for sport, just like we was some kind of animal. We’d all get scared then. We didn’t want that to happen to us. Aah, things was hard for the blackfellas in those days.

  One day, I’d like to go back to Corunna Downs, see what improvements there are. I believe it was used for a military base during the war. When I was there, Brockmans built a hump and stuck a flagpole in it. Whenever any visitors came, they raised the Union Jack.

  Aah, I always wish I’d never left there. It was my home. Sometimes, I wish I’d been born black as the ace of spades, then they’d never have took me. They only took half-castes. They took Albert and they took me and Katie, our friend. She was put in Parkerville. She had a big doll with her when she went, Albert had me. Others went, too. I was about eleven or twelve.

  When I left, Lily cried and cried. She was only little, but she ran away and hid, no one could find her. I was her favourite. She was full blood, real black, so they didn’t want to take her. Daisy was only a baby, she didn’t know what was goin’ on.

  They told my mother and the others we’d be back soon. We wouldn’t be gone for long, they said. People were callin’, ‘Bring us back a shirt, bring us this, bring us that.’ They didn’t realise they wouldn’t be seein’ us no more. I thought they wanted us educated so we could help run the station some day, I was wrong.

  When they came to get me, I clung to my mother and tried to sing* them. I wanted them to die. I was too young. I didn’t know how to sing them properly. I cried and cried, calling to my mother, ‘I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go!’ She was my favourite. I loved her. I called ‘I want to stop with you, I want to stop with you!’ I never saw her again.

  ***

  When we left Corunna Downs to come to the Swan Native and Half-Caste Mission, we had to travel through Marble Bar and then to Port Hedland. We caught the ship, the Ballara; me, my brother Albert, Pixie and Dudley Drake-Brockman. Albert and I travelled steerage. Sometimes, I’d sneak out and head towards the front end of the boat to see what was going on. Dudley Drake-Brockman would always catch me and shout, ‘Get back to where you belong!’

  It was a fine day when we arrived in Fremantle. We were taken straight to the mission, it was situated near the banks of the Swan River in Guildford.

  The first thing they did was christen us. Canon Burton and Sophie McKintosh, I think she was the matron, were our godparents. We were christened Corunna, they didn’t give us our father’s name. That’s when I got the same of Arthur. Albert had always been called Albert and he stayed that way.

  For a long time, I was very worried about my mother. She had always been good to me. She loved me. Albert didn’t seem to mind so much. I think he was too frightened to mind anything. You see, we couldn’t understand why they’d taken us away. We weren’t their family. The mission wasn’t anyone’s family. They called us inmates then, all us kids, we were all inmates, just like a prison.

  We soon found out that there were bullies at the mission. I suppose you get them everywhere. There was one that wanted to try us out. I was worried about Albert. I knew he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. He was bigger than me, older than me, yet I knew they could belt him up and tie him in knots. I had to take his part. I’d tackle whoever was beating up Albert and finish them off. They never tackled me again and they learnt not to touch Albert, because he was my brother.

  There was one bully there, he had everyone bluffed except me. He’d throw stones at me, call me names, but he’d never tackle me. When it came to knuckles, I got my fist in first.

  I was different to Albert. I was made different. I could fall off a horse, do anything and there was never nothing damaged or broken, even if I landed on a rock. I’m like rubber, you can bounce me anywhere. Albert wasn’t like that. He used to get sick a lot. I cried for him when he was sick. He was my brother.

  One man that worked on the mission, Mr Ferguson, he said about Albert and me, ‘These boys have been well brought up. They say thank you for everything.’ We even said thank you when they gave us a hiding.

  They soon learnt I could work at the mission, I was reliable. They could give me a job and I’d do it, no matter what. I had ten hurricane lamps to clean. I cleaned the glasses, then filled them with kero. I was the mailman and the milkman too. I delivered milk and eggs to Mr and Mrs Anderson in Guildford. Then I’d continue on to Thompson’s
place, that was just over the railway line, they bought our milk too. There were lots of people who bought things from the mission. I was the only one who was allowed to collect mail from the Midland post office. They sent me because I was the fastest walker.

  If Matron needed any medicine, she sent me. She’d give me a letter to take to the chemist. Webb was his name. One time while I was waiting in the chemist shop, a lady started talking to me, she was waiting too. She told me what she was there for and what was wrong with her. There was this wrong with her and that wrong with her. She had so many things wrong with her I was amazed she was still alive. All this time she was talking, she was drinking lemonade. It was a real hot day. She told me all her troubles and I just sat there and listened and looked at her lemonade. She didn’t even offer me one drop.

  After Albert and me had been there a while, the mission was visited by a man called Governor Bedford. He was an Englishman, a grey-headed thing. After his visit, the darker kids were separated from the lighter kids. He didn’t like us being together.

  Before the Governor’s visit, they built a building close to the bridge and near the brickyard. It looked like an ark to us, so we all called it Noah’s Ark. We all thought that was fitting, because we was all in there together, white ones, black ones. We liked sharing that ark. Governor Bedford didn’t like it one bit. He separated us all out. The light-coloured ones had to go where the girls were and the girls were moved to the west side of the mission.

  Funny thing was, they put Freddy Lockyer in with the white kids. He had fair hair and fair skin, but really, he was a white blackfella. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay with us blackies, he belonged to us, but they made him go. I said to him, ‘You’re not black enough to stay with us, you have to go.’ I felt sorry for him. He was really one of us.

  There was always a boundary between the girls and the boys. They had to sit one way and we had to sit the other. Apart from when we played, you had to follow the boundary and stick to your side. When the girls were older, they were put into service as housegirls and maids for anyone who wanted one. Once the boys reached adolescence, they were completely separated from the girls and put in a nearby orphanage. I suppose they were worried we might chase them.

  After a while, the bigger boys started running away to Moora. They were brought back, but if they ran away a second time, the mission people would try and find work for them with the farmers up there. They were all well taught by then. I was still there when nearly all the older boys from the orphanage had run away. The only one left was Pinjarra Frank.

  Bob Coulson was another man who worked on the mission. He was a good man with a hammer. I used to watch him. If he saw any cats sneakin’ around the chicken house, he’d corner them and hit them on the head with a hammer. A cat only had to look at him and he was a goner.

  Coulson wasn’t a big man, but he had a nose like a devil. He used to be a soldier and he often showed us his bayonet. He was full of bluff. I think he was afraid the blackfellas might tackle him one day, that’s why he kept on showing us his bayonet. He always wore his shirt sleeves rolled up, ready for action.

  Corunji was Coulson’s dog. He was a nice old dog. We used to give him a slice of bread now and then. One day, we were going into Guildford on deliveries and Corunji followed us. We had to cross the railway line, and when a train came, old Corunji started running and barking and chasing the engine. He must have slipped, because his foot went under the wheel and his leg was cut off. We were all crying. ‘Corunji, Corunji. Poor old Corunji!’ We ran all the way back to the mission to tell Coulson what had happened. He got on his bike and cycled back to the railway line, we all followed. Poor old Corunji was still lyin’ there, just lookin’ at us as if to say, ‘Can’t you help me?’ Coulson got off his bike, walked over to Corunji, put his hand over his snout, pulled out his hammer and hit him over the head. Then, he got on his bike and cycled back to the mission. He just left him lyin’ there. He did that to his own dog. Like I said, he was a good man with a hammer. I couldn’t help thinking if he’d do that to his own dog, he might do that to me one day. When he wasn’t looking, I kept an eye on him. I didn’t trust him after that.

  Coulson had three children of his own. He told us once he used to beat his own son with a stick wrapped round the end with barbed wire. His daughters were called Mabel and Audrey. His wife was an olden-day lady. At least, that’s how I remember her. There was nothing pretty about her. She was just a plain sort of Englishwoman. We didn’t have much to do with her. All she did was look after her house and keep an eye on the girls. Apart from that, she didn’t stick her big nose anywhere. I don’t think she was very loving to her kids. They were always coming around and talking to us.

  When I was in my fourth year at the mission, Coulson caught me and some other boys outside the mission boundaries. We were playing in a public picnic area near the river. It was a popular spot and we were hoping to find some money that people might have dropped. When he found us, he was real mad. He ordered us back to our dormitory, he said he was going to give us a beating. You can imagine how scared we all were. He was so angry, we’d never seen him that angry, we were frightened of what he might do to us.

  We didn’t go back to the dormitory, we ran all the way to Midland, to the police station. You see, the police were called Protectors of Aborigines in those days, so we thought we might get some protection from them. We all ran inside the station and told the policeman what Coulson was going to do to us. We thought he might help us, we were only kids. He listened to what we had to say, then he said, ‘Get back to the mission! It’s none of my business what happens to you!’ We didn’t know what to do.

  As we came out of the station, Coulson came riding down the road on his bike. He spotted us, rounded us up and walked us back to the mission.

  By this time, he was just about boiling over. He shoved us all in a dormitory, locked the door and told us to strip off. Then, when we were naked, he raced around the dormitory like a madman, beating us with a long cane over the head and body. He didn’t care where he hit us, he just beat us and beat us till we bled. There was bits of blood everywhere. We were all crying, some of the boys were screaming, ‘No more, no more. No more, master!’ He liked you to call him master.

  I was the only one that didn’t cry out. He came over and grabbed me and said, ‘Arthur, I’ve never had to beat you before, but BY GOD I’m going to give it to you now!’ He beat me and he beat me, but I wouldn’t cry for him. He beat me harder and harder, my thighs were running with blood and I still wouldn’t cry for him. He was very, very angry, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of making me cry.

  After that, I decided that when my wounds were better and I could walk again, I would run away. Albert could stay there if he wanted to, but I didn’t want to be skinned and belted around. I’m real old now and I can still show you the scars from that beating. My wounds took a long time to heal. I was in a bad way.

  I think Coulson felt guilty for beating me so hard because, later, he took me for a train ride to visit his sister and her husband. They had a butcher’s shop. It made no difference to me, I still didn’t trust him. I was glad that I hadn’t cried for him. I was pleased that when I ran away, I’d be rid of him.

  Pinjarra Frank and Tommy decided to come with me. I wanted Albert to come too, but he was too frightened. He thought that, if we ran away and we got caught, Coulson might beat him the way he’d beaten me.

  We told all the mission kids we intended to head towards Geraldton. Other boys had run away in that direction, so it would make our story seem likely. We didn’t tell anyone we really planned to head towards the Goldfields. It was a good plan because, that way, if any of our friends were asked questions, they didn’t have to lie. We’d told them all just to say what we said.

  We did run away. I must have been about fifteen or sixteen, then.

  Coulson didn’t stay at the mission long after that. He was sacked. I guess the Anglican mob that ran the mission be
gan to realise that all the boys have been running away because of the way Coulson had been treating them. Maybe the other kids told them what Coulson had done to me.

  I was sorry to leave Albert behind. After I left, he had no one to protect him and he got sick again. They sent him to hospital. Then Howden came down and took him back to Corunna Downs. Dudley was dead by then. As far as I know, Albert worked there until it was sold to Foulkes-Taylor. Then Albert went to Dr Gillespie’s station, Hillside. A lot of people went to Hillside. They knew that Foulkes-Taylor was a hard man.

  I heard people was looking for me, I heard Howden was looking for me, but I was gone. I didn’t want to be found. And I wasn’t having anything more to do with school.

  ***

  A lot of things happened to me after I left the mission. First off, we had to cross over the railway line, we knew that. We walked and walked until we came to this big tunnel going over the line, we were amazed, we’d never seen it before. We all peered down, the inside got darker and darker and there was a tiny little opening at the end. Pretty soon, a train came past, it went straight into that tunnel, we all called out, ‘STOP, STOP!’ but it went straight in anyway and came out the other end with no trouble at all. We all thought a long time about that.

  We walked for a long time after we crossed the railway line, we were very careful not to be seen. Finally, we got to Parkerville and camped in the bush there for a rest. Suddenly, a man appeared out of nowhere. ‘What are you boys doing here?’ he growled. We jumped up, scared out of our wits. We told him our story and showed him the scars on our legs. We only had shorts on so you could easily see them. He felt sorry for us. ‘Stay where you are, boys,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you something to help you on your way.’ He came back with some bread and dripping and a box of matches, so we could light a fire at night and keep warm.