Not Just Black and White

by Lesley Williams

  My body was tired. Emotionally I was drained. There was next to nothing in my purse. Each afternoon when I came home from work all I wanted to do was sleep. It was exhausting trying to juggle everything on my own, accepting money from family and dodging people’s prying questions. I just wanted to be left alone so I could try and deal with all that was happening in my life. I’d snuggle down into my pillow and start drifting off to sleep. On one such night I could hear the soft footsteps of my six-year-old daughter walking down the hallway and then stopping beside my bed. A mother’s instinct told me she needed to talk – to ask me one of those really uncomfortable and honest questions which only a child can ask.

  ‘Mummy, does this mean I’m almost an orphan?’

  Tammy

  In just one single night my life and that of my brothers had disappeared – we went to bed, only to be woken a matter of hours later with the life we had once known gone … vanished … never to be experienced again.

  Our father died. Then we moved out of our home and into our grandparents’ place, never to sleep in our bedrooms again. The bulk of our toys were boxed away and it all became too difficult to reach them so we could play with them. Although I understood, even at such a young age, why we no longer could keep our beloved pets, it didn’t lessen the heartache.

  We had lost our dad. We had lost our home. We had lost our pets.

  Before, my brothers and I had had two parents; now we only had one. I thought my father’s death meant I was ‘almost an orphan’. With so much already lost, what I feared most was to lose the other centre of our lives: our mother.

  Lesley

  It then dawned on me: there was some truth in the words of my six year old. Without me, the kids would be orphaned. I was all that stood in the way of them being without parents. I had to pull myself together and not be ashamed of how Willie died. The fact I had to accept was that he was dead but I was alive. And my children needed me.

  I thought of how, when I was around the same age, my childhood had also been torn apart when, after Ma and Pa were gone and poor old Grandfather had died, Granny was the only one left to keep the remaining family together. It was Granny who my siblings and I had depended upon. Like me, Granny was a widow; but she didn’t mope around the house complaining about the life fate handed her. Instead, she got up each day and worked, while caring for nine grandchildren and later a great grandchild as well. At the time she was in her seventies, whereas I was not yet forty. Surely I, as a woman nearly half her age, could raise three kids by myself. I owed it to my children to be there for them, just like Granny had been there for me and my siblings.

  My little daughter was still standing beside my bed, waiting for me to answer. Her little legs stuck out from beneath the hem of her nightdress, the same way mine used to. I’d forgotten how tiny and fragile she was. No six-year-old child should have to worry about becoming an orphan.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?’ I said pulling her close. A lump formed in my throat and I tried hard to continue speaking in a strong, reassuring voice without it breaking. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m going to be with you and your brothers for a very long time.’

  Chapter 20

  Tammy

  With so much uncertainty and disruption in my life, I looked forward to any opportunity to go over to my nine-year-old cousin Pip Williams’ place. It seemed all the adults around me were paralysed by grief and sadness. The brightness and cheeriness of life, as I knew it, was temporarily snuffed out. In Pip’s presence I could play and be normal, without feeling confused about death and how I should act. Do I always have to be sad? And is it wrong to sometimes laugh and smile?

  My six-year-old self didn’t know the answers. And even now as an adult, it’s hard to know what is right. It was only when I was outside in my cousin’s chook pen, among her Bantam roosters and Silkie chickens, that I felt we could just be ourselves and continue to play the games we used to, before my father – and her fun-loving uncle – died. It wouldn’t be until it was time to pack up and go back home to my new house that I was reminded again of how much my life had changed, and how much was lost.

  *

  At our father’s funeral someone placed a consoling arm around my eldest brother. ‘You’re the man of the house now. You’re gonna have to help your mother look after your little brother and sister.’ Dan politely nodded, in spite of the weight of expectation bearing down on his shoulders. It was a well-meaning but foolish comment to make, thrusting the worries of adulthood into the mind of a grief-stricken eleven-year-old boy, and in the process elevating his role in our reduced family of four. The five-year age gap between us instantly appeared far greater.

  Dan was not our dad, nor did he pretend to be; but neither did he remain simply a big brother. Instead, my pre-teenage sibling became an occasional father-like figure, helping Mum as her lieutenant to run the house and keep it in good order. Mum ran a tight regime, scheduled around a weekly cycle of chores and homework, with weekend sports thrown in to keep us out of trouble.

  ‘C’mon you fullas – I need you to help me,’ she would say, before directing me to do the dusting, Rodney to wash up, Dan to vacuum and help take the clothes off the line. The house had to be Pine O Cleen fresh and tidy. Toys had to be packed away the instant you finished playing; dirty clothes straight off your back, bypassing the floor and into the laundry basket. No afternoon cartoons or backyard games with the neighbours until homework was completed and chores done – always in that order. For a home that housed children it was unnaturally tidy.

  Lesley

  Fear is hard to forget. It haunts you, not only in your nightmares. For all but the twelve years I was married my life was controlled or monitored by the government. My childhood revolved around house inspections, medical examinations and school inspections – with the threat of the dormitory lurking nearby, like some sort of bogeyman, if we didn’t pass muster. Fingernails clean. Clothes washed and neatly ironed. Hair nit-free. House tidy. It was how I was raised and how I was raising my own.

  With only the small wage from my part-time traineeship and some child endowment money to live on, Grandma Williams suggested I contact the Department of Family Services to see if I was eligible for some sort of war widow’s or veterans’ pension, given Willie’s military service. Two young social workers, Richard Arkin and his offsider Alex McDonald, helped me to fill out the forms. They tried their best to make me feel at ease, telling me of other Aboriginal families they knew in the region. Richard would even visit me at home for a coffee and a chat, hoping I’d be more relaxed away from the stuffy office environment. It worked, a little, and I soon realised that behind his thick bushranger beard, he wasn’t as scary as I’d first thought.

  Despite their efforts and best intentions I still saw them as white officials – government bosses – people who might take my children away. For no reason other than fear, I was too paranoid to trust them. Were Alex and Richard coming around to check on the house and see if the kids were being fed? Or had they really just called in for a friendly chat because they were in the neighbourhood?

  I did my best to cope with the pressure, and when I wasn’t coping, I did my best to pretend I was. Weekdays were a juggling act between work and volunteering, followed by weekends darting all over town, dropping children off and picking them up after playing sport. Sunday was house-cleaning day, a trip to the rubbish dump and a visit to the cemetery with Willie’s mother, finished off with seven vegies and a roast, which supplied cold meat for the rest of the week.

  I was a mother of three, trying to make up for no father, and that rarely left time for me to be Lesley. I’d crawl into bed and convince myself that ‘it had to be done’ – the personal sacrifices were worth it – before life’s merry-go-round started off on another weekly spin of work and school activities.

  Tammy

  I didn’t realise, Mum, how young you were when yo
u were widowed – thirty-seven years old. Coincidently, that’s the same age I am today. Didn’t you ever get lonely being by yourself and not having a partner? Surely it would’ve been so much easier if you’d had someone to share the burden with.

  Lesley

  Yeah, it was lonely just after your dad died. But after awhile I got used to it. I kept myself busy being the best mum I could be – it was my priority – and in the end, I didn’t have time to be lonely. Sure it was hard, but I never felt I needed another partner to help me raise my children. After all, dear old Granny was able to look after my siblings and me, by herself, after Grandfather died.

  My kids had only one parent now, so it was up to me, alone, to be a good model for them. If I expected my children to have a good work ethic, then I had to be a hard worker. If I wanted them to do their homework – to study every night and wake up refreshed for school – then I couldn’t spend the night on the town. I couldn’t go out playing bingo or the bloody pokie machines and risk the money we needed for school camps or books. This was our chance to pick up the broken pieces of our old lives and create a better life, just as Willie had once wished for.

  Then overnight, it seemed, the boys had a sudden growth spurt and were forever hungry. They ate everything in the cupboard, and just about every bloody thing in sight! They grew so fast that the hemline of Dan’s jeans were creeping towards his shins and Rodney’s toes burrowed holes to escape out of his too-small shoes. Even driving back and forth to Cherbourg to visit family was difficult – the boys’ lanky bodies struggled to sit comfortably in our two-door Mini Minor. We definitely needed a larger and more reliable car, but I baulked at the idea of getting back into debt. I knew nothing about cars. Willie had always taken care of those sorts of things. He arranged for the Mini to be serviced and paid the registration. Without him I was left to figure all that out for myself.

  After visiting the local car dealers, I felt comforted by the friendly customer service that’s often typical in country towns. Many of the salesmen knew I was recently widowed and offered me deals to help me out. On their advice, I settled on a second-hand 1981 lime-green Gemini, and affectionately christened her ‘Gem-Gem’. Some time later, I decided to clean the car. Grass and bits of mud from the kids’ shoes were splattered all over the upholstery. As I vacuumed the carpet in the boot, it lifted with the suction from the vacuum. To my horror, under the mats I could see half the friggin’ boot was missing! The rusted undercarriage looked like brittle honeycomb after someone had taken a bite.

  It didn’t take long for the rust to spread to other areas of the car; with the exhaust pipe and back doors next to go. Then the indicator stick broke and the fuel gauge was faulty, showing empty even when the tank was half-full. And as if that wasn’t enough, the engine blew up just after I’d fixed the radiator. So much for the car salesmen looking after me and giving me a good deal – the bastards were only interested in making a quick buck and looking after themselves. In the end, it turned out they’d sold me a car that was a lime-green lemon.

  Tammy

  That car was notorious for breaking down, with something always going haywire and needing fixing. The only thing we could rely on was that it would be sure to break down. Once, for the third time in less than a fortnight, we were waiting by the side of the road in Gympie for help. And it was the third time Grandfather Williams came to rescue us with a jerry can. On the last two occasions we had run out of petrol thanks to the faulty fuel gauge, so chances were it was bound to happen again.

  ‘When are we going to get a new car?’ I remember snapping impatiently, while waiting. My stomach rumbled for the dinner that now seemed a long way off.

  ‘Why. Are you ashamed to drive around in Gem-Gem?’ Mum hit back, tiring of my ten-year-old attitude.

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘It’s just getting ridiculous – breaking down all the time. Can’t we have a car that we can actually drive around in, that works?’

  ‘Don’t you think I’d get a better car if I had a better-paying job that could afford it?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Tammy, why do you think some people can afford flash cars?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shrugged, wishing Mum would stop talking. I felt bad for sounding spoilt, when I had never been spoilt.

  ‘They’ve got flash cars because they’ve got flash jobs to pay for them … so if you don’t want to live like this for the rest of your life, then do something about it. Finish your education. Get a good job. Then you can get that flash car.’

  Her words hit me harder than any slap could. I sat in sulky silence as cars drove past, and waited for the faithful glow of my grandfather’s headlights to come rescue us.

  ‘Tid-Tid,’ Mum soothed, calling me by my nickname, ‘that’s all I want for you and your brothers – to have a better life and make something of yourselves, not to bloody struggle all the time like we’re doing. Scraping together a living and just getting by each day is not a life: it’s just an existence.’

  Chapter 21

  Tammy

  As a stubborn and strong-willed eleven year old I set myself a goal: I was not going to be a troublemaker. This vow was made not because of a desire to be good or well behaved, but as an act of rebellion. I was determined to allay my mother’s concerns that I would be the one in the family to cause her additional grief. The day I made this decision we were in the main street of Gympie.

  Like most country towns, the main shopping strip, Mary Street, was a hub of activity on a Saturday, when many townsfolk did their shopping, paid the bills and caught up with friends, all before trading ceased at noon. Teenagers hung out at the Fiveways Cafe before heading off to the cinema, while younger children waited outside the boutiques, bored, as their mothers sifted through racks searching for a bargain. Further down the street, rock classics from decades earlier blared from one of several pubs, as a couple of men gazed out of the windows, beers in hand, watching life pass by. And in the shade at the Memorial Park Gates, gentle old men sat, reminiscing with friends while their wives bought fabric from the nearby dressmaking store.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Williams,’ they’d say, tipping their hats as Mum and I walked past – a polite and now rare gesture from a bygone era. ‘Hot enough for ya?’

  Mum was starting to become known in the community through her work at the school and involvement in the different sporting clubs we belonged to. So, from past experience, I knew shopping with Mum didn’t always go to plan. A quick I-won’t-be-long-I’ve-just-got-to-pop-into-town-and-buy-a-few-groceries trip often turned into an expedition lasting several hours. Not that she was that into shopping; rather, she was too friendly, and knew many people.

  ‘Hi, Lesley,’ a voice called as Mum hurried to finish her errands. Walking towards us was a middle-aged woman in a floral skirt and matching blouse.

  ‘Oh, God, what’s this lady’s name?’ Mum whispered, hoping I could give her a clue. ‘Hello!’ Mum smiled broadly at the lady as if a long-lost friend. ‘How’s the family?’

  I marvelled at Mum’s ability to relate to people, even when she didn’t have any idea who they were. She’d skilfully ask questions until their answers revealed their identity.

  ‘All right, I suppose,’ grumbled the lady. ‘Considering I have teenage children.’ Mum laughed, but the woman hadn’t meant to be funny.

  After some talk and a bit of detective work on my mother’s part, she finally recalled meeting the lady at the local high school. As I could see that the two would be yapping for a while, I looked for something to occupy my impatient mind. I wandered away, but still within range to eavesdrop: a notorious childhood habit of mine.

  ‘Go away, big ears! Stop listening to adult conversations,’ Mum would often say before shooing me off. This time, against the purr of cars, I heard the woman recounting the troubles of her teenage children.

  ‘Don’t you have problems like this?’ she asked Mum
.

  Mum hesitated before replying. I wondered what on earth she was thinking. Were we so bad that it left our mother speechless?

  ‘Umm, my kids haven’t given me much trouble at all,’ she answered, genuinely trying to recall a time when my brothers or I had caused her a serious problem. ‘I suppose I’ve been lucky.’

  My chest puffed out in pride to know that we were not a problem or a burden to our mother.

  ‘Well, how old is she?’ the lady asked, glancing in my direction.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Ah! She’s still young,’ the lady scoffed. ‘Wait till she grows up and the hormones hit – my teenage daughter gives me more grief than my son ever did.’

  I glared at the floral-print lady with daggers in my eyes. Why, I thought, would I want to make my mother’s life any harder – when she was doing all that she could to take care of my brothers and me?

  At that moment I resolved I would never be a difficult teenage daughter, like other girls. My unconventional rebellion had begun.

  Lesley

  I have always dreaded the thought of my children getting mixed up in the seedy world of drugs, alcohol and crime. I wouldn’t have had a clue how to deal with that problem. When I was growing up there were rarely any drugs around, and not a lot of alcohol. But as the government restrictions relaxed and we, Aboriginals, were free to mix with the broader community, I witnessed the devastating effects of both on my mob. These became the cause of arguments, punch-ups, and neglect of both Elders and children. Then, in the heart of my own home, I was to see the bottle offer Willie not consolation but despair; destroying him in the end.

  While the children were still young I made the conscious decision to be vigilant and take some preventative action. By keeping them occupied with a steady routine of chores, sport and homework, as well as having a good circle of friends, I hoped they’d be too busy to go looking for any sort of trouble.