‘It was a hard life. And then there were the sheep to watch. No fences, of course, only a shepherd. I told you about shepherds. They lived wild, often without even a shack to call home, just a bit of canvas for a tent. In the meantime the blacks were spearing the sheep, or just as likely the shepherds. Nothing you could do if they did — no police, no hospitals, no one to help. A man had to look after himself.’
The old man rested his hand briefly on the dark figures gathered in the lower corner of the painting.
‘That’s independence for you. It means hard work and self-reliance. And that’s how Australia began. It took those men years and a lot of them died, but slowly they built up their stations. Built better houses. Built stockyards and shearing sheds, brought their wives and children up from down south. It was the end of the earth, but they made it work somehow.’
He had turned to the other wall and was frowning at the men in their red coats, with dogs at their feet and the misty castle floating in the background.
‘And that’s when, and only when, the government finally took some interest. If people are making money somewhere, the government always wants to know. The Darling Downs were officially placed under colonial jurisdiction. And from that moment on, the rights of people up here started getting stripped away. Suddenly they owe the government money for the land they’ve settled. They’ve got to sign leases, pay rent, go through all the red tape. Suddenly there’re laws about what they can and can’t do with their properties. And more people come up. Agents and civil servants and shopkeepers and schoolteachers and priests and all sorts of fools who think they want to be farmers. And all these people want land of their own, so the government starts taking it off those that got there first and did all the hard work.’
The old man gazed intently into the depths of the painting, and then seemed to relent slightly. He turned away, back to the printing machine.
‘All right, maybe it was always going to happen, they could hardly keep it all to themselves. But those first men, the ones who did it all — can you imagine what sort of nerve it took? There aren’t people like that any more. We’re a weaker lot now. We sit in our suburbs and do what we’re told and wait for the government to make us happy. And that’s not good enough.’
He took hold of the handle of the printing machine and turned it just once. The machine clanked, the drum rolled, and a single printed sheet slipped into a tray at the front. The old man lifted the paper, inspected it carefully.
‘So this is my newsletter, my own way of trying to stop things getting worse. Twelve issues a year, and this is our twelfth year running.’ He glanced at William. ‘One day I should get a computer. This Mimeograph is as old as the hills. Still, it should never be too easy. Otherwise every idiot would be doing it.’
He was cranking the handle steadily now, and the smell of ink was pungent. A stream of pages was emerging. ‘It’s a big job. We have three hundred and sixty-odd full members in the League, mostly from Queensland, but from the rest of the country too. Most newsletters run five or six pages long, so that’s at least two thousand pages. It’s more actually, because I always print five hundred copies of each issue. I take the leftovers with me when I travel and leave them in shops, pubs, wherever. We’re always recruiting. Not a cheap business either.’
‘Is it a club?’ William asked.
His uncle shook his head. ‘It’s a league of concerned citizens. People who are worried about what’s happening to this country. I’m the president, and there’s a central committee that meets four times a year. I’m the editor of the newsletter too. Members send in their own articles sometimes, but mostly it’s all written by me. That’s where I’ve been the last two weeks, travelling around Queensland to see what’s happening, talking to people, researching stuff in Brisbane. These are grim days. Dangerous things are in the wind.’ He took up a printed sheet from one of the piles across the table.‘See — we’re getting ready.’
It was a map, hand-drawn and rough, but William could see that it showed the Kuran Plains, and gave directions on how to reach Kuran Station. There was even an inset which depicted the village and the House. Arrows pointed the way along the driveway, leading past the House and onwards into the heart of the station. A black square had been marked there and labelled ‘Campgrounds’. William stared at it, confused. He hadn’t seen any campgrounds during their drive.
The old man said, ‘We’re having a rally in about a month. I expect we’ll get a couple of hundred people. It’ll be held over a weekend. People can bring their tents and vans and camp out.’
‘A rally? What for?’
‘That’s what this edition is all about.’ He lifted another sheet from one of the piles.‘Here’s the front page.’
In the wake of the Mabo judgment, the federal government is currently drawing up plans for sweeping Native Title legislation which it plans to introduce before the end of the year. This will alienate land to the black minority, and affect us all directly! It is vital that we meet to formulate an action plan and ensure our voices are heard before it’s too late. As president, I am happy to offer my own property as a meeting ground, and a date has been set for…
The article went on, talking about the federal government and about legislation and the prime minister, Mr Keating. There were many words William didn’t understand.
‘It’s all right,’ the old man said.‘I’ll explain it all in time. Now, do you think you can crank this handle while I get going on the envelopes and addresses?’
William nodded. He set his hand to the handle and began to turn. It wasn’t hard, and freshly printed pages slid into the tray, one by one.
His uncle patted him on the shoulder.‘Just keep going till the paper runs out. Five hundred copies. Call me if they start to smudge too badly.’
William cranked and watched the pages stack up. So this was what his uncle did, this was his secret work. He felt vaguely let down. The old man had said that something dangerous was happening, but it actually seemed rather dull. And yet maybe that was what being an adult was all about. It was important, in any case, that he did what his uncle asked. Then he remembered the rally. Two hundred people, and camping up in the hills. At least that sounded interesting. Maybe he would get to sleep in a tent.
His eyes settled on the page he was printing. Under the words ‘Our Charter’ was a series of statements.
We reject the monarchy and the two-party system of parliament.
We reject the United Nations and any other body that seeks to limit Australian sovereignty.
We reject government interference with basic individual rights.
We reject excessive immigration and the dilution of traditional Australian culture.
We reject excessive control of Australian resources by foreigners.
We reject special and preferential treatment of elite minorities.
We reject the alienation of Australian soil to elite minorities.
We believe in a republican and proudly independent Australia.
We believe that all Australians are equal and should be treated as such.
We believe in an Australia run by all Australians for the benefit of all Australians.
We believe that the rights of the individual cannot be interfered with.
We believe in the inherent value of Australian culture and traditions.
We believe in One Flag.
In One People.
One Nation.
William blinked and looked up. His uncle was watching him from behind the desk.
The old man smiled. ‘Not bad, hey?’
Chapter Seventeen
IT TOOK WILLIAM AND HIS UNCLE THE REST OF THAT DAY AND most of the next to assemble the newsletters. First the pages had to be stapled together. William went back and forth along the separate piles, gathering up the sheets. Then each newsletter had to be folded and inserted into an envelope, and finally the envelopes had to be stamped and addressed. That was his uncle’s job. The old man had pulled a large black l
edger from the desk drawer. Laboriously running his finger down the pages, he found the address of each member, then wrote it out by hand. It was slow work, but William enjoyed it. On the second day the weather grew cool again, so the fire was lit, and it felt good to be shut away in the big dark office, with bright flames burning. To William’s delight, Mrs Griffith even brought in his lunch on a tray, next to his uncle’s. The housekeeper shot him a foul look, but for once he wasn’t afraid of her. He felt warm, secure and useful.
His disappointment over the old man’s secret work had long since faded. The newsletter was an impressive piece of work, and his uncle was the president of an organisation with hundreds of members. A few hundred didn’t sound much, but after all the stapling and folding, William appreciated just how many people that really was. And it was a serious business — amazing to think that his uncle was battling something as large and powerful as the entire Australian government.
‘But what is Native Title?’ he asked at one stage. It seemed to be the central issue, but nowhere in the newsletter was it fully explained.
‘A disaster,’ the old man replied, head buried in the ledger. But when he saw that William was waiting in puzzled silence, he put down his pen. ‘The truth is, at this stage, no one has a clue what Native Title is. That’s the problem. The government is still drafting the legislation. But all indications are that it will be terrible for people like us.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ His uncle leant back in his chair, sucking his lips at the vastness of the question. ‘Well, one of the things it means is that someone like me won’t have a say any more about what happens on my own property. It’s already pretty bad. Right now I can’t do things like clear trees or build a dam without the government wanting to know about it. Native Title would make it even harder. But that’s not all. The worst of it is that I might not even own the land any more. Not outright. Other people could come along and say they owned it as well. People who haven’t had anything to do with the place for centuries. And I wouldn’t be able to do a thing without their say-so.’ He leant forward again. ‘There are lots of aspects to it and you’ll hear all sorts of rubbish about this and that, but don’t fall for it. Deep down, it’s purely a question of property rights.’
William wasn’t sure what property rights might be, but the idea that someone else could claim his uncle’s station, that seemed disturbing. Especially now.
‘What people?’ he asked.
‘Minorities. Elites. Activists.’ The old man regarded William’s confusion for a moment, then sighed.‘Aborigines, of course. Who else would it be?’
William got back to work. Aborigines? He thought of deserts, and dark-skinned figures with spears, but he had never met a black person. There weren’t any even in Powell, as far as he knew, so it was hard to see what connection they might have with Kuran Station. Then he remembered what the men in the national park had said about marks on bunya pines, and about the clearings on the hilltops. But that was long ago, surely.
The big radio that sat in a corner was kept switched on, and they listened to it as they worked. The old man preferred news broadcasts or talkback shows. Most of it was of no interest to William — wars overseas, or peace talks, or stories about the economy and the unemployment rate — but he took cues from his uncle, paying attention to the items that induced angry mutterings or nods of approval. These reports were mostly about rural issues. Between the drought, and low prices for grain and livestock, and high interest rates, it seemed that things were bad everywhere.
But the old man’s deeper rages were reserved for the reports that dealt directly with the government. William learnt quickly that his uncle hated the prime minister, Mr Keating. That was no surprise. Mr Keating had won the federal election held earlier in the year, and William knew that this was considered an awful thing in the Powell district. Nobody liked the prime minister. But his uncle didn’t seem to like the opposition leader, Dr Hewson, either. That did surprise William, for there was no one else from whom to choose, was there?
Late on the second day his uncle tuned to a station that was actually playing a live broadcast of parliament sitting in Canberra. It had an empty, echoing sound over the radio, and seemed very dull, but the old man rocked testily back and forth in his chair as the politicians declaimed.
William ventured the question:‘Who did you vote for?’
‘I didn’t vote.’
‘I thought everyone had to.’
‘That’s the law, but to hell with them. They can’t make me choose sides.’ The old man lifted a copy of his newsletter. ‘I’m on my own side.’
‘But…’
‘But what?’
William let it drop. He could sense displeasure threatening in the old man. He went back to sorting the pages. He was down to the last few. But his uncle continued watching him, and then reached out a hand to switch off the radio.
‘Don’t ever be too impressed by the authorities, Will. Politicians, police, the courts, the councils. I know they sound big and important, and they’ll try to make you do all sorts of things throughout your life. But it’s all just noise. You have to make your own decisions in the end.’
William nodded dutifully.
‘Don’t you nod at me!’
Startled, William glanced up. The grandfather figure of the last two days had vanished in an instant. The prophet of the shooting stars sat there, glaring coldly.
‘You have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about! What have you been thinking? That one day I’ll just hand all of this over to you, and that’ll be that?’
‘No…’
‘You’d better believe I won’t!’
William looked away, shocked.
But his uncle rose angrily to his feet.‘Now you listen. No one handed me anything. I should’ve had this property sixty years ago. Instead I had to fight my whole life to get it. But you know what? It’s better that way. Because things like this station can’t just be given to you. You have to earn them, like I did.’
The old man strode across the office. He came to the fireplace and, grabbing the rusty iron bar that served as a poker, jabbed at the logs.
‘Governments! I used to vote, yes, and all they ever did was make up laws that got in my way. Whitlam was the one who started it — I watched that man give away money to any fool who asked for it. Suddenly it was okay not to work, the government would pay you anyway. They’d pay you to waste your time at university. They’d pay you to smoke drugs and march on the streets, they’d pay you to rip your own country apart. And they laughed at idiots like me. They hated us. Even though all the time we were the ones footing the bill.’
The flames leapt up, so that William saw his uncle as a dark shape before the fire, surrounded by ruin and rubbish, the rage rising in his voice with the flames.
‘We threw Whitlam out and Fraser came in — but nothing changed. No one gave a damn about you unless you were waving a placard. You had to be a migrant, or black, or homosexual. But God help you if you were a normal Australian, let alone a farmer like me. We used to be the backbone of this country. But not to those people. To them, we were the biggest problem. We were fascists. We were destroying the environment. We had to be controlled. Fraser went and Hawke came in, and things just kept getting worse. That’s when I gave up voting. Why bother? Parties, politicians — they’re all exactly the same.’
The firewood was sparking and spitting, and the old man stamped at the embers on the floor.
‘They don’t even like the way people like me talk any more. You can’t say a thing without someone calling you racist or sexist or some other sort of bigot. No one cares that farms are going broke right across the country, that people are dying of misery out here. You have to speak nicely, lie nicely, that’s all that matters. Now we’ve got Keating, and he’s the worst yet. If he gets his way, rural Australia is finished forever. So yes, I’ll fight him and his Native Title. No one is taking one square inch of my land away. I’ve kept this stat
ion alive despite everything the world has thrown at me. And I did it alone.’
The old man turned from the fire at last, the iron bar still gripped in his hand.
‘And you! You spend a few weeks here and you think all you have to do is wait for me to die! Well, it won’t be like that. You have to earn the right. You haven’t earnt anything. So don’t you ever nod at me like that!’
William didn’t move. The flames crackled and writhed, but everything, the fire and the room and the shape of his uncle, was blurred by the tears in his eyes. He’d been doing his best, to help, to grow up. What had he done that was so wrong?
‘Don’t cry, for Christ’s sake.’ The old man dropped the iron bar, took a few random steps about the room, stopped again. He waved a hand at the desk. ‘Look. Just finish off those newsletters. And clean up some of this mess. I’ll address the rest of the envelopes tomorrow.’
He turned towards the door, hesitated. ‘You have to understand. Nothing is easy … and I can’t leave this station to someone who’ll just give up when things get too hard.’
And with that he was gone.
William blinked away his tears. He sniffed, then unfolded himself, remembering the handful of pages he carried. He took them to the stapler, and then numbly worked his way through the last few copies of the newsletter, stapling and folding and sliding them into the envelopes. He didn’t feel useful any more. He felt cold, even with the fire bright behind him.
The work was done. William looked about the office, littered with crumpled papers and torn envelopes and scraps from the sheets of stamps. He gathered them up and placed them in a bin behind the desk. All he wanted to do now was creep back to his wing of the House and hide in his bedroom. But then he saw that one of the desk drawers was open. Something gleamed in there, amidst piles of old cheque books and ink pads. It was a large keyring. William stared. It held half a dozen keys. In his mind was a picture of the door on the landing of the central staircase, the door that led to the second storey. And the doors on the other staircases, at either end of the House. Locked doors. Without even thinking, he lifted the ring out, slowly, so as not to jangle it.
The White Earth Page 13