Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  I was told that, at this time the federal government’s White Australia Policy still existed, in some form, until it was progressively dismantled in 1973. The aim of the policy was to try to keep Australia ‘white’ by denying entry to non-English-speaking migrants. The policy favoured migrants from Britain so as to retain the country’s British character, and made it difficult for people from other ethnic backgrounds to migrate and become Australian citizens. This helps explain why many in the mainstream community, especially the older set, had strong views about anyone who didn’t quite fit the white Australian mould.

  Even African-American soldiers from the United States during the Second World War had difficulty entering the country. As thousands of US personnel arrived to set up temporary outposts, the Advisory War Council to the Australian prime minister decided that no black American troops would be accepted in Australia as it could affect ‘the maintenance of the White Australia Policy in the post-war settlement’. Prime Minister John Curtin relented and eventually allowed African-American soldiers to enter the country, along with the rest of their troop. But the black soldiers’ movements weren’t without restrictions. Those based in Brisbane had boundaries and night curfews similar to local blackfullas.

  Tammy

  What do you mean by boundaries? Were there boundaries in the city for blackfullas?

  Lesley

  Yes, this was especially so during the 1940s. During the day, Aboriginal people were allowed into Brisbane’s central business district but at nightfall a city curfew was imposed, so that any blackfullas caught walking the streets after dark were questioned by the police. I was told that the northern boundary was near Boundary Street, which runs through the inner-city suburb of Spring Hill. Then across the river on the other side of the city was the southern border of the curfew area.

  Tammy

  Wow, it’s so hard to imagine that such blatant discrimination on the basis of colour alone was accepted just like that. I didn’t know any of this.

  Lesley

  Not many people do. I didn’t even know myself until my birth mother – your grandmother, Nana Mace – warned me when I first arrived in Brisbane to work. I would sometimes go and visit her on my days off. I felt I could learn something from her – those old people had a wealth of knowledge, built up from their own life experiences as well as learning from their Elders when they were young themselves.

  Tammy

  When did the police stop enforcing the boundaries?

  Lesley

  I’m not sure if there was ever an official announcement from the government, declaring the boundaries ‘open’. Instead, over time, perhaps by the early 1970s, the boundaries were enforced less by the authorities; but certainly when I arrived in Brisbane in 1966, there were places in the city where we knew we couldn’t go.

  Police detectives from the Special Branch unit monitored the movements of blackfullas. Our nickname for them was ‘The Demons’ or ‘Ds’. They’d cruise the streets in the Black Maria, an unmarked black van, spying on us as we went about our business inside the city’s perimeters. We always had to be on our best behaviour, for The Demons were never far away. Although the Ds wore plain clothes rather than police uniforms, blackfullas picked them out a mile away: they all wore the same black felt hat. Nana Mace and the other old people told me to look out for the hats. Nothing much got past those old folk. They knew how to survive and make the most out of life in the outside world.

  The roads still bear the name Boundary Street today. There are some activists in the community who want to rename them but I prefer the names remain. Each day that I cross over Boundary Street on my way into the city for work, I’m reminded of ‘how far my family has come’.

  By 1969, Andrée’s marriage had deteriorated and she faced the emotional upheaval of divorce. More than ever she appreciated our time together, particularly when the children were at school. She’d use this time, while we went about our chores, to confide in me about her life’s worries. I knew nothing about these kinds of matters, other than what I’d read in gossip magazines, and wasn’t equipped to dish out any advice. So the best I could do was listen and be a trusted confidante as we went about polishing the silverware.

  After her divorce was finalised, she met and married Mr Corrie, a well-known stockbroker who also lived in the area. With his teenage children away at boarding school and no longer living at home, Andrée and her children moved into Mr Corrie’s empty residence. It had four bedrooms and three bathrooms, spread out over as many levels. Although Mr Corrie had his own staff and housekeeper to look after the property, the bride-to-be insisted that I was to move in with the family too.

  Set on a large private estate and hidden from street view, the property was specially designed for both indoor and outdoor entertaining, and the newlyweds hosted shindigs and cocktail parties every so often. In the backyard was a large bar area, alongside a 25-metre swimming pool. This was in addition to a second, much smaller pool, which had a decorative waterwheel – more of a showpiece than actually having a useful purpose.

  Inside the house, the doors were fitted with crystal knobs, while chandeliers hung elegantly from the ceilings in the formal living rooms. Although the copper-plated hand basins in the bathrooms were gorgeous to look at, Andrée and I would discover just what a nuisance they were to look after.

  I got the sense that Mr Corrie had different political beliefs from Andrée – not that he spoke about politics in much detail in front of me. Sure he was courteous and friendly towards me, but the warmth wasn’t the same as his wife’s. Whenever I was alone with him, I was always more careful not to forget what my role was at the house. I understood Mr Corrie had friends in very high places, both in business and government. Sometimes they would visit him at the house and I’d be quick to make myself scarce. Although I didn’t know their names, there were a few people I thought I recognised. They looked like the kind of men Nana Mace had warned me about – the ones who wore black felt hats and drove around the city’s streets monitoring the movements of blackfullas. I’m almost certain they were The Demons, the dreaded undercover police detectives. I was shocked to discover only recently with the publication of the book Three Crooked Kings by Matthew Condon that there were connections between some of these men and Brisbane’s underworld. At that time, though, I didn’t know any of this. Yet I sensed the need to always remain on guard, and stick close to Andrée both outside and inside the house.

  In July 1971, the South African Rugby Union Team – the ‘Springboks’ – embarked on a six-week tour of Australia, which was highly controversial because of strong opposition in Australia against the apartheid regime in South Africa, with protestors and picketers turning out in their masses to demonstrate. The Premier of Queensland, Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen, wanted none of this when the tour arrived in his state and so declared a month-long ‘State of Emergency’. This gave police a raft of powers to prevent protestors from disrupting the Springboks’ game against Australia in Brisbane.

  I’m not sure how it came about, but Mr Corrie agreed to host a cocktail party for the South African players. Perhaps this was because it was to be held at a private and secluded residence and the thought was that there would not be protestors. Many of the young eligible women from local well-to-do families attended the party. It was no surprise that I was the only black face in the room. Andrée might not have had a lot of say about the hosting of the party, but if it was to be held in her home there were some things she wasn’t going to compromise on, such as not including me.

  A newspaper photographer was invited to attend the event, to take pictures of guests mingling with the South African players. When he asked if he could take my picture too, like he’d taken of the socialite women, it caused a scene among some of the partygoers. Some objected to the idea of a black ‘maid’ being photographed with members of the all-white South African Rugby Union Team.

  Outside, police wer
e lurking in case the anti-apartheid protestors tried to stop the party. I was terrified they’d be called inside because my presence was causing trouble. While the photographer was talking to those who objected to my photo being taken, I used it as a chance to sneak off to my room, before it was noticed I’d gone. I learned later that Andrée had told them, ‘Lesley is not the maid at this party, she is a guest.’

  I’m not surprised Andrée said something like this. Since the day I’d arrived more than five years before, she’d always looked past the differences in our race and skin colour. Whereas some people might campaign for social change through street marches and protests, and others use their education or influence to bring about change through our laws, Andrée’s approach was through personal action. By simply treating others decently, she made a real difference, and left her mark on me and in the world.

  Chapter 14

  Lesley

  At Andrée’s urging, I made contact with a number of the girls I knew from Cherbourg who were also working as domestics in Brisbane – Jan, Edna, Gloria, Euriel and my childhood best friend Patsy. And, because of the strong cultural and family ties that exist between the people of Cherbourg and those living in the central Queensland Aboriginal settlement of Worrabinda, my friends and I expanded our circle to include girls we knew from up north – Pearl, Laurel (Coy), Coral (Nanny), Lorraine, Dianne and Joan. We were all in the same situation. Aboriginal. Servants. And a long way from home. But, together, in the safety of our numbers, there was a shared confidence and sense of security. We’d meet up at the local coffee lounges any chance we could. Other times we’d spend a quiet night in together – usually at Andrée’s place. It was no surprise that my dear boss-come-friend was adored just as much by my Aboriginal friends.

  In August 1971, I took the youngest of Andrée’s children to the Royal Brisbane Exhibition – or as the locals call it, the ‘Ekka’. After spending the day together, going on rides and buying show bags to send home to my siblings in Cherbourg, I returned later that evening with my friend Coy. While walking past the rides and vendors in Sideshow Alley, we’d occasionally see a familiar black face stick out among the crowd.

  ‘Your brother Donny is here,’ different blackfullas would report. A little further on, I’d receive another status update on my brother’s movements: ‘He’s over at the wood-chopping arena, talking to some fulla.’

  I love the black grapevine. Although not always one hundred per cent accurate, it was the fastest and cheapest form of communication we had going at the time – our equivalent of text messaging and Facebook.

  Based on the fresh intelligence from my sources, I wandered over to Donny’s last-known sighting. Through the crowd I could see my brother; and on this occasion the Murri grapevine’s information proved to be reliable – Donny was indeed ‘talking to some fulla’.

  ‘Who’s that good sort over there?’ my friend Coy nudged me in the ribs with an over-eager elbow as we walked closer.

  ‘That’s my brother!’ I hissed with the protectiveness of an older sister.

  ‘Who? That fair-skin fulla – is he your brother?’

  ‘No, Donny’s the one with black hair and dark skin. I don’t know who that other guy is.’

  ‘Well by the way he’s looking at you I thought you knew him,’ Coy teased.

  ‘Knock off!’ I giggled, but conscious the handsome stranger was making eyes in my direction.

  ‘Hi Donny!’ I said wrapping my arms around my brother. ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘I’m working in Brisbane now,’ he answered with a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ve been down here for a couple of weeks.’

  As he spoke, I sneaked another glance at his friend. He was even more handsome close up, with his athletic build, brown wavy hair and olive skin. The attraction was strong and obvious enough for Donny to introduce us.

  ‘This is Willie. We went to school together in Murgon.’

  ‘My real name is Colin, Colin Williams, but all my mates call me Willie,’ my brother’s friend added. I noticed the corners of his mouth curled, hinting at a shy cheeky smile. Butterflies fluttered somewhere near my heart.

  Willie explained that he grew up not far from Cherbourg in a small village called the Gallangowan Forestry Reserve, where his father was the senior ranger. It was then I learned that, despite his olive complexion and dark features, he wasn’t Aboriginal. This made me even more intrigued. Here was a white man hanging out in an area at the Ekka referred to as the ‘Blacks’ Bar’ – the place where Aboriginals were known to drink – rather than socialising with the other whitefullas in their known watering hole, the Cattlemen’s Bar, over on the other side of Sideshow Alley.

  How did this good sort come to be here with Donny? My brother was five years younger than me and, by the time Donny’s age group started high school, the government’s segregation policies had changed. From 1964 Aboriginal students from Cherbourg had been allowed to attend high school in Murgon with the local white kids. That policy change came too late for me, as by then I was already working in Condamine as a domestic servant. But Donny and Willie had remained friends from those school days.

  ‘I used to follow your brothers’ footy games and cricket matches around town,’ Willie said. ‘Those Malone boys were good players,’ he added, stroking Donny’s ego. My brother chuckled in agreement.

  ‘That’s right! Just like our dad, Champ Malone.’

  While the boys reminisced about my family’s sporting prowess, Willie kept looking at me. Each time, his eyes caught mine just that little bit longer. And I got lost in his gaze. But there was someone else looking too – my friend – who waited patiently for her introduction.

  ‘O-o-h and this is my friend Coy,’ I added hastily, embarrassed that I’d been swept up and distracted by Willie’s good looks.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Willie greeted. ‘Can I buy you girls a drink?’

  ‘A lemonade, thanks,’ Coy answered with little hesitation.

  Willie looked at me, waiting for my drink order. The attention from his almond-brown eyes made me blush.

  ‘Oh, umm, I-I-I’ll have one too, please.’

  ‘So Willie, where do you work?’ Coy asked, moving closer towards him to hear his voice over the noise. The barman handed us our drinks and I smiled to myself while sipping the lemonade. I’d always admired Coy’s confidence; she really wasn’t intimidated by anyone and was far more relaxed in situations like this than I was. Out of all of our friends, she and I were the only ones who weren’t married or with partners. My shyness and occasional stutter always made it that bit harder for me to strike up a conversation with new people, especially fine-looking ones of the opposite sex.

  ‘I’m in the army and am stationed over at the Enoggerra Army Barracks,’ he said. ‘Do you girls work?’

  ‘I work at a nursing home,’ Coy offered, smitten by the handsome stranger. I was just as smitten, but doubted he’d feel the same way about me when I had such strong competition. Willie listened as Coy began telling him about herself. Predicting my own defeat, I turned to Donny to talk about how the family back home were going. There was much to catch up on. Ma and Pa were getting on in age. I was concerned to hear Pa had had an accident while working at the sawmill. A piece of timber had partially blinded his eye, and because of this he had retired. Our brother Claude had a few months earlier returned home from fighting for Australia in the Vietnam War.

  ‘What about you, Lesley?’ I spun around, surprised to see Willie looking at me. ‘Do you work?’ he prompted.

  ‘I-I-I work for a family at Clayfield … you know, looking after kids and helping with the housework … that sort of thing.’ My voice trailed off, embarrassed by the attention. I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to let Coy do all the talking.

  We finished our drinks and the four of us wandered down Sideshow Alley looking at amusement rides to go on. Willie walked up alo
ngside me and started talking but I worried that Coy might think I was trying to cut her out on purpose. She didn’t seem to mind, though, as she and Donny had already paired up in conversation.

  Around strangers I wasn’t much of a talker, but with Willie it was easy to become absorbed in conversation – even if it was not about anything in particular. Even the screams and loud music from Sideshow Alley couldn’t distract us. With him nothing else seemed to matter; it all faded into the distance. Even my nervous stutter disappeared. There was no need for me to be anxious or timid with this man even though I’d just met him. Willie’s presence seemed reassuringly familiar and it made me feel safe.

  Some time passed before we realised that Donny and Coy were no longer walking behind us. Willie immediately went into protective mode, scanning the crowd with the training of an army scout, for any sign of my friend and brother. But they were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘How were you planning on getting home tonight?’

  ‘Coy and I were going to share a taxi back to my place.’

  ‘Well I can’t let you travel alone at this time of night. Let me escort you home,’ Willie suggested, and we made our way to the taxi rank. I was grateful for the company, as I’d had some bad experiences in the past when I’d been out on my own. As the taxi turned into my street, it slowed down to look for the house.

  ‘Just here thanks, driver,’ I instructed. ‘The driveway’s on the left.’

  Willie gave me a strange look. He could see no sign of a house; just a long, curved, slate driveway nestled among the trees. Together we walked up the driveway, and I could sense his curiosity. It was dark and shadowy, revealing little about the house until we reached the end of the path.

  Andrée had left on the outside lights for me before she went to bed. The lamps shone brightly, illuminating the manicured gardens and the multi-storey house in all its glory. I could see Willie was trying to remain unfazed by the sight. But his eyes had the same surprised look I had become used to seeing by now from others and my family who’d visited me. His eyes darted around in awe and he struggled to fill the silence.