‘Papa is holding an afternoon tea and a supper party tomorrow to celebrate his return,’ Grace told the others during one such game. Their father had been absent for many months on an expedition, his third, into the uncharted hinterland of the colony. While they were not privy to all the details, the family were under no delusions about the dangers of exploring such savage country. They were always grateful to have Papa safely home again.
‘He’s inviting the Finches and Bradleys,’ announced Grace. ‘And Mrs Palmer is coming too!’ She tapped her wooden ball lightly but it overshot and clanged on the outside of the iron hoop.
The news of the impending party was music to Isobel’s sisters’ ears. Nothing pleased the Macleod girls more than a lazy Sunday afternoon after church with Emily, Florence and Beatrice Finch and the Bradley girls, Emma, Hannah and Alexandra. If the day was cool, they would play battledore and shuttlecock or quoits out on the grass, or, if the sun was hot, hold tea parties with egg sandwiches and wedges of cake in the shade of the peppermint willow. And there was always tadpole and butterfly hunting down at the ponds or simply playing fetch with Livy, Tacitus, Dante and Petrarch, the Macleods’ cocker spaniels.
Mrs Palmer was a most welcome guest too. She was the family’s oldest friend. Widowed and childless, she had become very fond of the Macleod children and rarely visited without some homemade token of her affection. With no grandmothers to coddle them (they were both back in Scotland), the children looked on Mrs Palmer as a much-loved substitute.
‘I hope we have dances after supper!’ said Alice. At age fourteen, she was the eldest daughter and the undisputed beauty of the family (‘Must be a changeling,’ joked the Major, squinting self-critically in the mirror). She was beginning to take an interest in the male of the species and already had her eye out for a young gentleman of means. She insisted that he must also be of sterling stock (British born); her prejudice against currency gents, no matter how well-heeled, grieved the hearts of young native-born men in general and Aloysius, Dr Finch’s eldest boy, in particular. She saw no future with such gentlemen—not a future she wanted to be a part of, anyway. Her destiny lay back in England.
While she still loved her sisters dearly, their childish world of dollhouses and tea sets, flower-pressing and decoupage, had begun to lose its appeal for grown-up Alice.
‘Are you going to be cruel and haughty again with poor Aloysius?’ teased Grace, adding insult to injury by knocking Alice’s croquet ball sideways. ‘You can’t turn him down for every dance!’
Alice pretended to be outraged. ‘I am never cruel, as you well know. I have made my feelings for him very clear. I have none.’
She swung her mallet. Clack! Grace’s ball went spinning off towards the edge of the lawn while Alice’s sailed through the next hoop. Anna and Isobel giggled.
‘Upsy-daisy!’ cried four-year-old Isobel, clapping her hands. ‘My turn!’
‘You know the mallet is too heavy for you!’ admonished Alice. But Isobel was never one to be easily discouraged. She thrust her hands forward with a defiant jut of her jaw. ‘Go on, let her have a go,’ said Grace, her champion, winning a big smile from her little sister.
With both fists wrapped around the mallet handle, Isobel managed a good swing and sent her ball rolling across the grass at a respectable clip. It stopped less than an inch from the hoop. Anna threw her arms in the air in triumph. ‘Knock ’em for six!’ she screeched.
Her sisters had grown accustomed to Anna’s oddness. Even so, they were in the habit of hushing her whenever she became overexcited in the company of others. She may have only been nine but Anna had an alarmingly loud voice; her expostulations had the force of pistol-shots and startled people with much the same effect.
With Alice spending more time with her head stuck in slim volumes of Romantic poetry and mooning over portraits of Lord Byron, twelve-year-old Grace had become the natural leader of the younger girls. It was she who organised shell-collecting and rock-pool expeditions along Coogee beach when the family ventured forth for a seaside picnic. It was she who decided who should play Guinevere or Miranda or Rosamund in one of their schoolroom costume pageants. It was she who taught both younger girls how to sit properly on Pegasus, their white pony, for a gentle trot along the coach road to Captain Bradley’s house.
Anna and Isobel worshipped Grace, their stern but kind older sister who always knew exactly what needed to be done. While Alice’s appearance was generally agreed to be angelic (milk-white skin, copper tresses, jade green eyes), the darker-hued Grace was not so blessed in profile and complexion but already had the cool and alluring hauteur of a young princess. Grace knew she would have to wait her turn until Alice was betrothed before she could even hope to draw the attention of any man who came to visit Grangemouth. And anyway, it was the natural order of things that the eldest should find a suitable match first.
Grangemouth’s frequent parties were among its happiest and most memorable occasions. Though the Major’s reputation in the wider world was for gruffness, pride and choler, anyone who knew him intimately thought such perceptions unfair. It was true he insisted on being the authority on many topics and had a low tolerance for stupidity, but that was far from the whole story. He also had a sense of humour, even making jokes at his own expense. He loved to paint and sketch, was an energetic dancer, could scrape out a tune or two on a fiddle, wrote and translated poetry in his spare time, and deeply loved his wife and children. All these qualities were on abundant display at his private parties, especially those he held to celebrate his homecoming after long absences.
‘Welcome, welcome, one and all.’ Angus was in a magnanimous mood the next day as he ushered his guests into the coolness of the sandstone portico, well-shaded at this hour of the mid-afternoon. While the worst of the midday glare had abated, the Major declared that ‘Apollo’s chariot still blazed fiercely, speeding westward’. The cold bottles of fizz and jugs of lemonade sweated while the blowflies turned their attention to the plates of jam tarts and cakes. Grangemouth’s staff were on hand to shoo these intruders away and administer to the company’s needs.
‘It is good to see you, Angus,’ said Dr Finch with a warm handshake. ‘You appear remarkably well.’ Months in the saddle on tight rations and in the unrelenting blast of desert sun had made Angus wiry and fit, his face and arms bronzed to a deep tan. Finch recognised that far-off look in the Major’s eyes, habituated to focusing on the horizon when taking readings or keeping watch for early signs of trouble.
They were joined by Captain Bradley, who greeted Angus with a brotherly clap on the shoulder. ‘Welcome home, Major. Good expedition?’
‘I am pleased to report, gentlemen, that the Governor and the Executive Council regard my expedition as an unqualified success,’ said Angus, allowing himself a moment of gratification. ‘For good reason. As we pushed further south, we came into such fertile, well-watered grazing land, I called the region “Australia Felix”. My bullock tracks have already left a path for thousands of pastoralists and farmers to follow.’
The three men retired to the study to inspect some fossils the Major had found on his adventures. Meanwhile the girls amused themselves with croquet and quoits followed by a concert in the gazebo. Winnie, who looked more serene than her children could ever remember, sat with Mrs Finch, Mrs Bradley and Mrs Palmer in the shade of the portico playing euchre and Black Lady and taking tea. The boys, James and Henry Bradley, Aloysius Finch, and Richard, Joseph and William Macleod, played several overs on the green followed by games of tag and hide-and-seek down near the ponds.
The shadows of the tallowwoods lengthened as ‘Apollo’s chariot’ made its rapid descent into the west, tongues of fire licking the opalescent sky. The cocker spaniels, silly with the attention of so many children, never flagged in their excitable romping and barking. On the portico and in the drawing room, the lamps were lit with the usual fluttering of moth wings at the glass. A generous supper of cold cuts, jellies, fruit flans and mince pies was served i
ndoors followed by dancing in the ballroom.
But the evening was so lovely that the guests drifted outdoors again to linger in the cool air and watch the stars winking into brightness in the gathering dusk. As the heat lifted, the garden breathed out its perfumes of gardenia and mock orange and pulsed with the insistent nocturne of cricket and frog music. In the gravelled square that enclosed the fountain the servants had built a small bonfire, well clear of the house, around which the adults and children now formed a circle, mesmerised by the spectacle of sparks leaping and vanishing in the dark.
It had been a perfect day, thought little Isobel. She grinned at her gaggle of friends as they sipped their steaming cups of cocoa and studied the sky for the five bright points of the Southern Cross. And then, to everyone’s surprise, they heard a landau come clattering up the driveway.
‘More guests?’ asked Isobel, a little put out at having this lovely reverie interrupted.
The Major strode across the drive to greet the carriage as it pulled up near the front steps. It seemed these late arrivals were expected. Out stepped Dr Nicholson, another of Angus’s most trusted friends, followed by the Assistant Surveyor, Mr Stapylton. Last of all alighted a little girl.
An Aborigine.
The Major welcomed the doctor and his assistant surveyor before bending down and shaking hands with the small black girl, who stood staring at the bonfire and the assembly of people. The Major seemed to know her and she him. He spoke a few words and she looked up into his face and smiled.
What on earth is going on, thought Isobel.
With his arm placed protectively around her shoulders, the Major gently ushered the girl into the circle of firelight, the whole company staring in bewilderment. Isobel could see flames dancing in her large brown eyes.
‘Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce Ballandella.’
Chapter 7
BALLANDELLA
DECEMBER 1838 TO NOVEMBER 1839
Like the fossils he had shown his guests in the study, it turned out that Ballandella was another souvenir from the Major’s expedition. By the light of the bonfire, Isobel and her brothers and sisters studied this exotic curiosity closely.
Ballandella was a good head taller than Isobel, though (as she was to find out later) the same age as herself. Her face was dark and glossy and, to Isobel’s fancy, could have been carved from walnut. Her hair, as black as soot, sprung wildly in all directions, like wool that had just been carded and washed. Her eyes, dark-brown pupils in startling white irises, darted about like those of a frightened pup. She had full pink lips in contrast to her black face and her teeth flashed as white as chalk. Her legs were very long and skinny, as were her arms, but she appeared athletic and strong despite standing awkwardly, her right foot turned out at a strange angle. She had been dressed in a plain cotton frock with a shawl (no bonnet or stockings and no shoes!) and it was obvious she felt ill at ease in these unfamiliar vestments. To Isobel this remarkable specimen of the native race seemed as skittish as a lizard, overwhelmed by the sight of the gardens, the house and the company, all eyes fixed on her.
Who could blame her?
The Major called Winnie over. While everyone else was still speechless with shock, Winnie seemed perfectly at ease with this sudden appearance of an Aboriginal girl in their midst. It was clear the Major had informed his wife of the little girl’s visit.
‘Winnie, my dear, can you ask Mrs G. to take Ballandella upstairs and get her bathed and put to bed? She’s had a long trip from Windsor.’ He turned to the little girl again. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ Winnie took the child by the hand and guided her indoors.
Stepping into the ring of firelight again and surrounded by a circle of eager faces, the Major began to tell his rapt audience the story of Ballandella. As the bonfire crackled and popped, releasing its stream of sparks towards the stars, the night felt enchanted as Isobel listened to her father speak of a world beyond her powers to imagine.
‘It happened in the seventh week of my explorations along the darling River down to the Murrumbidgee. despite my usual precaution of taking a native interpreter to help negotiate our safe passage through unknown country, we encountered many threatening signs from the Barkindji tribe and feared for our safety.
‘While I was resting at a friendly camp further south, I found time to make a sketch of a young native woman and her daughter, sitting on her shoulders. Their names were Turandurey, a widow, and her little girl, Ballandella. An old man sitting at the campfire with us persuaded the widow to join me as my guide. I was used to such offers as local tribesmen were often anxious to pass us onto the next tribal territory as quickly as possible.’
A few quiet chortles and nods from the adult men in the company acknowledged the common sense of such a strategy among the savages of the hinterland.
‘It turned out that Turandurey, a Wiradjuri woman, knew the country well, especially where to find water, and spoke Jitajita, Wiradjuri and Muthi-Muthi. The party then pushed south again and made excellent progress, coming into such verdant and well-watered country that I declared it “Australia Felix”, a future boon for pastoralists and settlers.
‘But luck was against us,’ the Major continued. ‘during a difficult river crossing, little Ballandella took a tumble from one of our drays and her right thigh was crushed by its heavy wheels. Riding up, I found her mother in great distress, wailing piteously with her head prostrate in the dust. I made Dr Drysdale set the thighbone immediately, but because it was broken very near the socket it was soon clear the girl would be permanently crippled. Every care was taken of the poor infant that circumstances would allow. She bore the pain with admirable patience though only four years old.’
Sighs of sympathy could be heard escaping the lips of those listening. In the firelight Isobel thought she saw a tear spill down the cheek of the soft-hearted Mrs Palmer. The Major acknowledged his audience’s empathy with a nod and continued his story.
‘This crippling injury was no doubt the reason that the girl’s mother, upon the return of the expedition to her home country weeks later, asked me to take care of her daughter. I had certainly always been willing to take an Aboriginal child back with me to Sydney with the intention of seeing what might be the effect of education upon one of the race. I suspect Turandurey understood how much more her sex was respected by civilised men than savages. I believe that it was with such sentiments that she committed her child to my charge.’
The Major’s voice swelled grandiloquently towards the conclusion of his narrative. ‘My intention is that Ballandella will live here with us as one of my family and will be given every opportunity and benefit that a British education can afford a young woman. I hope in this way to be able to determine the natural capacity of the native to acquire the customs and values of our society, which may prove a salvation to the race in future.’
The Macleod girls looked at each other in amazement. An Aboriginal girl was coming to live with them! What an adventure, thought Isobel. At last, a part of her father’s distant world, the lofty male domain of map-making, politics and exploration, had come floating down into their quiet domestic sphere. If Major Macleod had any doubts (which he rarely did) about how his scheme would be received by his family, they were quickly dismissed as his children crowded round to ask more questions. They had all been raised to have inquisitive minds, after all. Isobel went to bed that night excited and nervous about meeting the mysterious girl who slept (in the bed or on the floor?) in the room next door.
Within days it was clear that all the Macleod women were utterly entranced with the novel creature in their midst and glad to help Father with his ‘experiment’. There were so few blacks around Sydney Town these days that this girl from an inland tribe was sure to remain a source of great curiosity to their neighbours for some time.
To Isobel’s surprise, the child expressed little grief at the dramatic alteration in her circumstances. Instead, she showed a remarkable willingness to fit into this alien world of g
ardens, servants, family prayers and formal dinners. The Major had already noted in his expedition journal the alacrity with which Ballandella chose whitefella jam and bread over her usual fare of snake and goanna, and had mastered a handful of English words: ‘dog’, ‘sun’, ‘eat’, ‘water’, ‘knife’. The Major had high hopes for his ‘experiment’. He even talked of writing up the results as a short treatise on The Education of the Native Tribes of the Colony of New South Wales for the Purposes of Their Improvement and Peaceful Integration to be submitted (with a word in the right ear) to be read to the Royal Society in London.
Under the patient tuition of the governess (and, at different times, encouragement and guidance from Anna, Grace and Isobel), Ballandella soon acquired some social graces as well as an intimate acquaintance with the bath, the Bible and the embroidery needle. Within weeks she knew how to curtsy, smile graciously, tie a bonnet, put gloves on, and sit still for minutes at a time. With her frizzy locks combed straight, her shiny face scrubbed clean and her skinny limbs shrouded in stockings, crinoline, cotton and muslin, the native girl began to achieve a credible impersonation of a young Christian woman.
The Major noted with interest that her biggest strides forward were in the acquisition of English: spoken, written and even (to his great astonishment and even greater gratification) reading. In his view, this pointed to a God-given intelligence in the girl and not just a facile ability to ape the behaviour of her betters. Within three months, Ballandella was conducting short conversations. To mark this milestone, the Major asked her to join them at a dinner party with the Finches and Bradleys, at which she said grace perfectly and was praised for her table manners and skill with a knife and fork. Winnie and the Major were more than satisfied with Ballandella’s progress and their daughters also rejoiced in her transformation.
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