My Place

by Sally Morgan

  I walked out into the back garden of the hospital. Clarrie was still asleep on his old iron bed, he loved sleeping outdoors. All the chooks were perched along his body, I tried to move quietly so as not to wake him. He must have sensed someone was there, because he suddenly leapt up and threw his grey blanket off, the chooks leapt into the air, squawking and carrying on. ‘Sorry, Clarrie,’ I said. ‘I’m just getting some eggs.’ He grunted, pulled the rug back over himself and went back to sleep.

  I couldn’t help laughing. I cooked myself up a big batch of eggs with lots of toast and a steaming hot cup of tea, then I walked back into the ward and said, ‘Look what I’m having for breakfast.’ It was on after that, all the mothers wanted eggs too. Elsie was very cross with me.

  We never had ladies who came around and cleaned the wards, Matron said they cost too much money. She let Bob, her Alsatian dog, patrol the wards instead. Any papers or books left on the floor were quickly whisked away by his large mouth and taken out the back.

  He never touched your slippers, so I think he knew what his duties were. He kept the cats out too. Elsie was always encouraging the cats in. She fed them bits of our dinner while she was cooking it. They jumped all over the kitchen table trying to see what Elsie was cooking, she’d toss them bits and pieces from her pots.

  As soon as Bob smelt dinner cooking, he’d tear into the kitchen, because he knew Elsie would have the cats in there. We waited for it every night, Elsie would start swearing and hitting Bob, the cats would shriek and claw and knock all sorts of china over in the ensuing fight. The whole fracas only last a few minutes. Once the cats were outside again, Bob would come and stand at the top of the ward and growl, as if daring us to drop one thing on his nice clean floor.

  When Saturday morning came around, Elsie told us all there’d be no dinner until three o’clock in the afternoon.

  ‘But we’ll be starving by then,’ I said.

  ‘You can have a late morning tea,’ she informed us and left. I followed her into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘Why will lunch be so late?’

  ‘Betting day,’ she said, ‘we’ll all be too busy picking our horses to bother with you lot. No babies born here on Saturdays.’

  Sure enough, the wireless blared away all morning, Clarrie’s old yellow Chev flashed back and forth past the window on its way to the SP bookie at Como Hotel. At three o’clock Elsie served us lunch. She really outdid herself. It was a big roast dinner with a wonderful pudding and a large cream sponge for afternoon tea. Elsie told us she had had a good win.

  I was still very yellow, so Matron decided I needed a blood transfusion. She hired a nurse to come and sit with me and I lay reading while the blood dripped slowly into my vein.

  Suddenly, I began to feel really ill. I looked at the nurse and said, ‘I think I’m going to die.’ She stuck a thermometer in my mouth. When she pulled it out, she said, ‘Good God, one hundred and four!’

  She pulled the tubes from my arm and blood spurted out all over the sheets. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Guess you were incompatible with that lot!’

  The next day, they brought David back from PMH. It was wonderful to be able to cuddle and feed him like the other mothers. After a couple of days, I was well enough to go home, besides, I was missing the children and I knew Mum would have a lot to cope with.

  ***

  When David was very small, Mum’s brother Arthur and his wife, Adeline, and their children popped in to visit us. It was the first time I had seen Arthur in years and years. Mum and I were terribly excited.

  Bill was lying down at the time, I went in and asked him to come out and meet them. ‘Come and meet Arthur and his family,’ I said, ‘you’ll like them.’

  ‘I don’t want to meet them,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to know them.’

  I was really hurt, I knew if they had been white, he would have come out straightaway. Bill was a strange man, he wasn’t prejudiced against other racial groups, just Aboriginals.

  He never liked us having our people to the house. We had to cut ourselves off. I think it was his upbringing. A friend called Jean White used to come and stay with us; sometimes, he never minded her, because she was very light. Jean could pass for anything.

  Bill had spent a lot of his childhood in country towns. I think that moulded his attitudes to Aboriginal people. Down South, Aboriginals were really looked down on. Bill would have been brought up with that.

  Bill went back into hospital and I began my regular visits to him again. I always took Sally, she was the eldest and, sometimes, I’d take Billy and Jill as well.

  Each time I visited him, I noticed some familiar faces missing, as well as new ones that had been admitted.

  I always sensed when someone had taken their own life, there was a depression about the ward and not the usual cheery greeting for the kids. Bill would be silent. I never stayed long on those days. Bill didn’t want visitors then, neither did the other men, they all just wanted to be there with each other. I think probably many of them had also thought of taking their own lives. I felt very sad on these occasions and very uncertain. The kids knew there was something wrong, but they didn’t understand.

  Also, the doctors used to experiment with various drugs and treatments, and this would result in marked emotional and personality changes. They’d ask the men to volunteer for new forms of therapy. Bill had shock treatment quite a lot and all sorts of other things done to him, but nothing helped.

  I suppose many people must wonder why on earth I didn’t just take the kids and leave. Well, I nearly did, on several occasions, but Bill always threatened me. He said if I left him, he’d make sure the children were taken off me. He said, ‘Nobody will let someone like you bring up kids and you know it. I’m the one that’ll get custody, I’ll give them to my parents.’

  I knew what he meant. I always had a sinking feeling in my stomach when he said that. Aboriginal women weren’t allowed to keep children fathered by a white man. He was right, I couldn’t take the chance of losing them, I had to stay and try to cope somehow. They were all I had.

  One year Bill was in hospital for nearly twelve months. That was the year I began attending spiritualist meetings.

  Mrs Davies was in charge of these meetings, she was a wonderful person, very good and kind. I liked her as soon as I met her and she took to me too. She told me I had a wonderful aura and that I could help people if I wanted to.

  I used to do healing with the hands. Sometimes, a person would be healed mentally, sometimes spiritually, sometimes physically. I would feel a power come into me, it would build up in my hands and then flow from me to whoever I touched. The power comes from God, it’s a very positive thing. It’s pure love, love for people. I love people, I’m interested in all kinds of people. I think that’s why God gave me that gift. He loves people too.

  I gave it up after a while because it left me too exhausted, and, although I wanted to help others, I had my own family to think of. Also, some wealthy women used to come to these meetings and they’d make a big deal out of me, offer me presents and money. I hated that, it was so superficial. It’s wrong to accept money for doing something like that.

  In April 1959, my daughter Helen was born.

  Even though he was sick at the time, Bill managed to drive me to hospital. He looked so ill, it made me sad. I told him not to visit me, just to ring, I knew it’d be too much for him otherwise. He started crying, he felt useless, like he was no good to any of us. That bloody war, I thought. I kissed his cheek and patted his hand. I tried to convey the message that I understood, that I didn’t blame him. I knew Helen would be my last child.

  New Year’s Eve 1960 was one I’ve never forgotten. I awoke suddenly, feeling frightened. There was a light in the corner of the bedroom, it was the spirit of Christ. I’d never seen Him in the spirit form before, His arms were outstretched as though He’d come for someone. I screamed and told Him to go away, I knew I was looking at death. I knew I wouldn’t have Bill much lon
ger, that was what He’d come to tell me. I was too scared to sleep at night after that, wondering when it was going to happen.

  One night in October, ten months later, Bill came into the lounge room where I was sitting by myself. I found I needed small moments alone to renew my strength and I only usually got these times after the children were well and truly asleep.

  ‘I feel odd, Glad,’ he said. ‘I can’t get warm. I feel as though I’m not really here, it’s like I’m fading away.’ I jumped up and felt him, he was cold. I felt his spirit had left his body.

  I knew then he was going to die. God was preparing me by giving us this time alone together.

  Bill sat down and we talked into the early hours of the morning. It was strange, it was suddenly as though he was his old self, as though he’d been released from something. We talked about the children and we laughed. Bill said he hadn’t felt so good in a long time. He said he knew tomorrow would be a new beginning for all of us.

  In the morning, I wondered whether I should ring his mother and tell her Bill was going to die. I decided not to, I knew she’d think I was crazy. I couldn’t tell anyone.

  Bill was in such a good mood at breakfast that he kept Billy home from school, so he and David and Billy could all have a game of footy together.

  I left for work.

  A neighbour rang me at twelve that day to tell me Bill had died. I was shocked. I went home immediately, but couldn’t pull myself together, I walked around in a daze. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Mainwaring, a neighbour, I don’t know what I would have done. She told the children about their father. I don’t know if they understood or not. It’s hard enough for an adult to understand death.

  Later that night I went out to Bill’s room. It seemed so empty. I noticed suddenly that his bottle of medicine was empty, I felt sick. I knew deep down he’d never take his own life, but it still worried me. I’d had it drummed into me at Parkerville that such people went straight to hell. I didn’t want him to go to hell, I started to cry, I felt so depressed.

  I begged Gold to tell me where he’d gone, I had to know. I just couldn’t go on, not knowing. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I was surrounded by light. I could see Bill standing in a garden near a tree, he looked confused. Then I saw Jesus, in a long, white robe, beckon to him. There were other people there, sitting on the lawn, all of them listening to what Jesus said. He spoke to Bill and suddenly Bill wasn’t lost any more, he was happy. He joined the others on the lawn. When that vision finished, I was surrounded by a glow of pure love, I was so happy. I knew Bill was all right.

  If it hadn’t been for that vision, I’d never have coped with Bill’s funeral. Bill’s mother didn’t attend, she disagreed with the cremation, even though it was what Bill had always said he wanted.

  Every time a friend came and spoke to me at the funeral, they’d give me a small sip of brandy. The undertaker kept giving me sips of brandy too. I felt as though I was floating, I didn’t normally drink. Someone pressed some smelling salts into my hand, I sniffed them and nearly passed out, they were very strong. When I got home, Mum put me to bed. The following morning I had a splitting headache.

  ***

  A fortnight after Bill’s death, I went back to work. I had a lot of bills to pay.

  We were given a Legatee who was a real godsend. He was able to get my insurance policy paid out and that covered a lot of our debts. He applied for a war pension and was granted it. Actually, if I hadn’t been so desperate, I would have refused it. I felt the whole department had been so mean to Bill. They’d done nothing for him while he was alive. Why did someone have to die before they recognised the seriousness of the problem?

  Although I still grieved for Bill, I felt as though a load had been lifted from my shoulders. I was much more relaxed. I didn’t have to worry about money and the children could make as much noise as they liked. I let them run, screaming, through the house day and night, I felt they needed it. I often had them all in bed with me, poor little kids, they needed all the love they could get.

  They had a lot to cope with, the kids at school were asking questions and the teachers were talking about them. Sally had told me she’d overheard two of the teachers talking and it had made her angry. ‘Who do they think they are?’ she asked me. ‘We don’t want their pity. Don’t they understand it’s better he’s gone?’ She’d been close to her father, but she also knew what he was like. In some ways, they were similar, they were both rebels.

  Bill had only been dead a short time when a Welfare lady came out to visit us. I was really frightened because I thought if she realised we were Aboriginal, she might have the children taken away. We only had two bedrooms and a sleepout and there were five children, as well as Mum and me.

  This woman turned out to be a real bitch. She asked me all sorts of questions and walked through our house with her nose in the air like a real snob. She asked where we all slept, and when I told her Helen slept with me, she was absolutely furious. She said, ‘You are to get that child out of your bed, we will not stand for that. You work something else out, the children aren’t to be in the same room as you. I’ll come back and check to make sure you’ve got another bed.’

  I never told her we often all slept together, or that I was still breastfeeding Helen. I just agreed with everything she said. I didn’t want her to have any excuse to take the children off me.

  It was after the visit from the Welfare lady that Mum and I decided we would definitely never tell the children they were Aboriginal. We were both convinced they would have a bad time otherwise. Also, if word got out, another Welfare person might come and take them away. That would have killed us both.

  Mum said she didn’t want the children growing up with people looking down on them. I understood what she meant. Aboriginals were treated the lowest of the low. It was like they were the race on earth that had nothing to offer.

  When I was little, Mum had always pinched my nose and said, ‘Pull your nose, Gladdie, pull it hard. You don’t want to end up with a big nose like mine.’ She was always pulling the kids’ noses too. She wanted them to grow up to look like white people.

  I suppose, looking back now, it seems awful that we deprived them of that heritage, but we thought we were doing the right thing at the time. With Bill gone, we now had some hope of a future and I knew he would want the children to get on in the world.

  I took on any job that was going. I wasn’t afraid to work. Sometimes, I had four jobs on the go. I forced myself to learn how to drive, even though I was petrified of the thought of actually going on the road. I knew I would need that independence and it meant I could take the children on outings. They hadn’t had much up until then.

  After I’d managed to pay off all the extra debts, our lives really began to change. I never had to worry about where the next meal was coming from now, and I could buy the kids lollies and fruit, sometimes, we even went to the pictures.

  I also found that, now we were on our own, I worried less about Mum. She would always have a home with me, and there was enough money for all of us to get by on. Best of all, she had her own family now. All her life, she’d had to mother other people’s children, now she had her own flesh and blood. I hoped that would make up for some of her past.

  When the opportunity to buy my own florist business came up, I grabbed it. I had always wanted to be my own boss. My old friend Lois gave me a loan, she knew I would pay her back. I soon had that shop on its feet and doing twice as well as when the previous owners had it. It gave me a new independence and something to be proud of. Also, it gave us the extra money we needed to get us through the children’s teenage years.

  I’m very proud of my children and the way they turned out.

  I feel embarrassed now to think that, once, I wanted to be white. As a child I even hoped a white family would adopt me, a rich one, of course. I’ve changed since those days.

  I’m still a coward. When a stranger asks me what nationality I am,

  I sometim
es say a Heinz variety. I feel bad when I do that. It’s because there are still times when I’m scared inside, scared to say who I really am.

  But, at least I’ve made a start. And I hope my children will feel proud of the spiritual background from which they’ve sprung. If we all keep saying we’re proud to be Aboriginal, then maybe other Australians will see that we are a people to be proud of. I suppose every mother wants her children to achieve greatness, or, at least, one of them. All I want my children to do is pass their Aboriginal heritage on.

  I suppose, in hundreds of years’ time, there won’t be any black Aboriginals left. Our colour dies out; as we mix with other races we’ll lose some of the physical characteristics that distinguish us now. I like to think that, no matter what we become, our spiritual tie with the land and the other unique qualities we possess will somehow weave their way through to future generations of Australians. I mean, this is our land, after all, surely we’ve got something to offer.

  It hasn’t been an easy task, baring my soul. I’d rather have kept hidden things which have now seen the light of day. But, like everything else in my life, I knew I had to do it. I find I’m embarrassed sometimes by what I have told, but I know I cannot retract what has been written, it’s no longer mine.

  The only way I can explain it is by one of my favourite rules, which I haven’t always followed. Let me pass this way but once and do what good I can. I shall not pass this way again. Maybe someone else is walking a road that’s like mine.

  _____________

  *Sister Kate — an Anglican nun who set up a home for part-Aboriginal children in the 1930s. Initially, children were sent to her by the Western Australian government authority responsible for Aborigines. Sister Kate’s remains today as a hostel and support organisation for Aboriginal families.

  Something serious

  It took several months to work through Mum’s story and, during that time, many tears were shed. We became very close.

  Although she’d finally shared her story with me, she still couldn’t bring herself to tell my brothers and sisters. Consequently, I found myself communicating it to them in bits and pieces as it seemed appropriate. It was, and still is, upsetting for us all. We’d lived in a cocoon of sorts for so long that we all found it difficult to come to terms with the experiences Mum had been through.