One Place

by Cara Shaw

  After the troops disembarked from the ship at Sydney Harbour they were transferred to Victoria Barracks, Paddington for debriefing and discharge. They were taken up Oxford Street in wide drays that were pulled along by huge Clydesdales, and spent the week listening to lectures about discretion and the value of silence. As the war had only just ended they were all advised to be careful not to mention the locations where they had fought, the artillery used, even the names of their commanding officers. They were also told that women and children were too delicate to hear about any atrocities they had witnessed, and not to alarm them by repeating stories about the realities of war. They were each given a medical examination and a fresh uniform. Then they signed their discharge papers and received their pay, which arrived in small yellow envelopes with their name and rank inscribed on the front. Robbie opened his to find, that after deductions and penalties, his pay came to nearly forty-five pounds and he gulped in shock. He sealed the envelope up again and tucked it securely inside his tunic.

  He was waiting in the hot courtyard of the barracks smoking and chatting with some of the other men when a corporal entered the yard and called his name. Robbie stubbed out his cigarette and went over to him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The corporal told him he was wanted at the bursar’s office and hurried off. Robbie made his way over to the small room that was just off the quadrangle. He entered and presented himself to the bursar, saluted and waited, wondering why he was there.

  The bursar looked up, “Private Robert Dalton?”

  “Yes,” said Robbie.

  “Papers?” he asked.

  Robbie handed him his discharge papers that had been signed earlier by the captain.

  The bursar looked them over and handed them back, then picked up another set of papers, “Sign here,” he said brusquely.

  Robbie hesitated, “What am I signing?” he asked.

  “These are your land settlement papers. Because of your place of birth, you fall under the land allotment for that region. Sign.” Robbie was flabbergasted and took the pen from the bursar’s hand and wrote down his name.

  “Thank you,” he said in low voice; he couldn’t believe it.

  The bursar looked up. “Dismissed,’” he said tiredly. “Oh, and good luck.”

  After farewelling the other men, Robbie left the Victoria Barracks in a good mood. He walked down Oxford Street whistling a tune and slapping his pocket that held his land settlement papers. He felt smart in his uniform that had just been freshly laundered, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder, tipping his slouch hat jauntily to the side. After six cold weeks on the ship and one week’s debriefing locked in the barracks, being outside in the warm sun felt comforting, and after a mild morning the day was heating up rapidly. He was making plans as he strode along, for him and Maria. As soon as he got back to the camp he would write her a letter, telling her about the settlement and make arrangements for her passage to Australia. Meanwhile he would use his savings to build them a cottage and turn his block into a small market garden like the Choo’s, maybe even run a few sheep and pigs. He pictured her in their little kitchen, preparing his dinner while he washed up from a day’s work and he flushed with pleasure. All in good time he thought, he wanted to make sure that everything was perfect before he brought Maria home. Today he had to think about getting home to Billington, and assumed that once he got to Central Station there would be trains heading out to Cranston, the station closest to his home town.

  His stomach growled insistently. Food he thought; I’ll need something for the train. He spotted a grocer on the other side of the street and crossed the road to get to the little shop. Strange he thought, Sydney is so different to Calais. There everything looked more interesting and exotic. Here all the shop windows were shadowed by heavy awnings to keep out the hot Australian sun. Robbie had developed a taste for coffee when he was overseas and although it was expensive, the wonderful taste and sense of wellbeing afterwards was always well worth the price.

  He was thinking about the crisp flaky croissants he usually ordered with his latte, and despaired that he would ever have anything like that again now that he was back in Australia. He strolled through the open door of the shop and walked straight up to a long broad counter where there stood a girl in a white blouse and black pinafore, her hair pinned neatly in a bun. She glanced up at him as he came in and he grinned at her.

  “Excuse moi Mademoiselle, je voudrais… oh, sorry love!” Robbie was used to ordering in French. The girl stared at him and said nothing.

  “I’ve just come back in! You ask for everything in French overseas.” he chuckled

  Robbie didn’t notice as the girl continued to stare.

  “Righto, I’ll take a loaf of bread, some apples and a big bar of chocolate. Throw in a paper and we’ll be right aye?”

  He dug around in his pocket for a few shillings, and when he looked up he saw that the girl had gone dead white and was frozen to the spot.

  Robbie was alarmed,“You alright love? You look like you’re about to faint.”

  While he was talking the girl lifted a shaking hand to point at him and screamed. Robbie jumped back in shock. In response an older man, clearly the shopkeeper came rushing out from the back and when he saw Robbie he stopped in his tracks. The girl screamed again and began to sob. Robbie couldn’t for the life of him work out what was going on, and looked behind him to see if a robber or a madman had come into the store after him, and saw no one. The shopkeeper ran to the counter and leaned over it.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here!” he yelled.

  Robbie was stunned, “I came in to buy some food, I have a train to catch…”

  The shopkeeper slammed both hands on the counter, his face puce with rage and hissed, with spittle flying, “Get out of my shop now! You filthy piece of black shit! I’ll call the police!!”

  He then turned to comfort the girl who was still sobbing hysterically. Robbie put up his hands and backed slowly out of the store and stood on the dusty path outside shaking with shock. Robbie had made a huge and very stupid mistake – in his excitement he had forgotten, forgotten it all. He had been away at war for two and half years fighting for his country, he had eaten and drunk in foreign cafes and he had slept with his fair share of women. The money in his pocket belonged to him and because of his hard-earned experiences he now knew what kind of a man he was – and what he was capable of. But he had overlooked one crucial fact – he was black and not only that, he was an Aboriginal man in a country where he had no rights. No rights at all.

  He looked around him as if he’d just awoken from a euphoric dream, the sunny Sydney street he had been strolling along so confidently now appeared to him to be vast and menacing. He looked at his watch, which he had picked up for next to nothing at a pawnshop in Marseilles; twelve. He guessed it would take him another forty minutes or so to walk to Central Station. He continued on cautiously, instinctively alert, now realising that people walking near him would, after registering his blackness move away or cross the street. He was careful not to make eye contact with anyone, and by the time he reached the train station his anxiety was at fever pitch. He walked up the wide timber stairs to the platform, and looked at the gate numbers that hung above the entrances to the various platforms. The place was busy and the people, preoccupied with reaching their destinations didn’t notice him so much. He saw an arrival and departure board hanging from the ceiling and went over to check when the next train left for Cranston. Six o’clock; inwardly he groaned, he would have to wait at the station for another six hours and if the reaction towards him at the grocery store was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be able to purchase any food.

  While he was standing there trying to think of a plan, he heard a low voice behind him say, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing jackey?”

  Robbie spun around and came face to face with
a policeman, who stared at him with a look of disgust on his face.

  Robbie paused for a moment, then he looked the man in the eye and replied, “I’m just catching a train mate,” and he spread his feet apart slightly, ready to defend himself if necessary.

  The policeman looked him up and down, “Where did you get that clobber you’ve got on? Who did you roll you black bastard?” and gripping his baton lunged towards Robbie.

  It took everything he had not to take a step back and instead he set his chin stubbornly forward and said, “I am an Australian soldier. I’ve just been discharged from the army and I’m about to catch a train to my home town.” He hoisted the kit bag a little higher on his shoulder and stared the man straight in the face, rage coursing through him like grass fire.

  “Bull. Shit.” said the policeman,” You’re coming with me,” and he took hold of Robbie’s arm in a painful vice like grip. Robbie refused to move.

  “Get your dirty hands off me,” he growled in a low and menacing voice and the policemen, startled, took his hand away.

  Robbie was detained at the station office while the policeman and the stationmaster tried to find out why an Aboriginal man was walking around Central Station in full military uniform. He showed them his tags and his discharge papers; and still disbelieving, were convinced that he had assaulted and robbed a returning soldier, taking his uniform and belongings. Robbie refused to back down, and in the end told them to ring his captain at the barracks to vouch for him. All three of them waited in the stuffy office, glaring at each other until the captain arrived.

  “Now you’re in for it you black bugger,” snarled the policeman, and the stationmaster nodded in agreement.

  When the captain came through the office door, Robbie immediately stood to attention and saluted. The captain saluted back and told him to stand at ease, which he did. The policeman and stationmaster stared in disbelief.

  “I’m Captain Preston. What’s going on here?” he said.

  The policeman quickly explained that he had found Robbie loitering and had detained him under suspicion of assault and theft, and that he was claiming to be an Australian soldier. The stationmaster stood next to him, arms crossed nodding in agreement.

  The captain waited for a moment and then said, “Private Dalton was discharged from Victoria Barracks this morning, I signed the papers myself. Good day,” then he turned and left the office, Robbie picked up his bag and followed him out.

  The captain did not acknowledge him, and continued on his way down the platform to the vehicle that was waiting for him outside the station. Robbie watched him walk away and suddenly everything was crystal clear to him. He was on his own, Preston had only come to the office to verify his identity and to follow procedure – that was all. Even to his captain Robbie was a black, and being Aboriginal meant you were less than nothing. To Robbie the greatest joke of all was that this was happening to him in his own country, the place where he was born, and that a prisoner of war would have received better treatment than he.

  The train journey was long and tedious, and Robbie spent most of the time alone reading his novel. If people entered his carriage they quickly noted that he was Aboriginal and left just as swiftly. Finally he gave in to his hunger and went down to the dining car to order three plates of sandwiches and two glasses of milk. An embarrassed waitress brought him the sandwiches in a paper bag and a full bottle of unopened milk. As she passed them to him she in a low tone, “I’ve been told to tell you that you can’t eat it in here,” and held her handout for payment.

  Robbie, emotionally shattered and utterly exhausted by the events of the day didn’t bother to argue, gave her the money and returned to his seat.

  The train pulled into Cranston at around midnight, and Robbie alighted carrying his kit bag. The platform was empty as no other passengers had come off the train. Robbie stood there completely alone and a sad feeling overwhelmed him. His future didn’t seem as bright and promising as it had when he left the Barracks that morning, and for the first time since returning home he wasn’t confident about what he might find at the camp. He realised now that his upbringing had been quite sheltered, and overt attacks against his race and colour had not occurred around him very often when he was growing up as he was kept mostly away from whites. His difference and his mobs’ had been indicated to him by their fringe-dwelling life and separateness. The Aboriginal people in his town already knew that they had no rights and lived according to that unspoken edict, but Robbie as an innocent youngster, had not been wholly aware of the true implications of this fact.

  Now as a returned soldier, living within this social stratum was now completely unacceptable to Robbie. His experiences during the war had irrevocably shifted his viewpoint. Robbie’s horizons had been broadened and his sense of self had developed into that of a resilient man, who knew profoundly the extent of his own power and strength. For the rest of his life, that position would never change.

  He sat down on a station bench to change his socks and lace his boots. He estimated that the walk from Cranston Station to Billington would take him around ten hours, and he couldn’t afford to suffer through a fresh set of blisters by the time he got to camp. He set off, and settled into the rhythmic march that he had been taught in training, his only company the occasional hooting of a powerful owl and the evening breeze that whispered through the tops of the gum trees.

  It was around eleven when he reached the camp and as he trudged tiredly down the well-worn path into the familiar grove, he observed that the trail seemed smaller. The trees still stood in the majestic colonnade that he had missed so acutely while abroad. These organic forms were a powerful reminder of his heritage, and he knew that if he looked carefully, he would find ancient and greatly spiritual Duradjuri carvings on the trunks hidden deep in the bush. He was looking forward to seeing his mother, anticipating her surprise, as there had been no way of letting her know that he was coming home. He stepped into the compound and stopped in shock.

  What he saw in no way correlated with the recollection he had of his childhood home. He was sixteen when he had left the grove, and now nearing twenty saw everything with a new perspective. The huts that he had grown up in now looked to him like little more than piles of rubbish, layers of hessian and bark and the loose bits of tin lashed together with rope. Outside the huts lay debris, bones, broken tools and pots and pans. The whole camp was dusty, and he recognised the smell that hung around insidiously as raw sewage – which he knew for certain had not been there before. There was no one about, and when he entered further into his old camp, he saw what appeared to be a pile of dirty blankets next to the remains of a smoking campfire. He stepped closer and a pair of milky blue eyes stared blankly up at him.

  “Who there?” a voice growled.

  “Dilly?” whispered Robbie in shock.

  “Yeah? What you bloody want aye? What you doin’ ere?” the old man rasped.

  Robbie crouched down and wrinkled his nose at the man’s odour. “Dilly, it’s me. It’s Robbie. I’ve come home,” and deep emotion rose heavily in his chest.

  Dilly lifted his head. “Robbie! Oh my… you come home. We all thought you’d gone for good!”

  Robbie sat down next to him in the dirt. “I would never do that Dil. I’m back now.”

  Dilly grunted. “Well you might want to get going again, there’s nothing here for you. Nothing,” and he coughed thickly.

  It took a while for Robbie to comprehend what had happened while he had been away. Dilly explained that not long after Robbie had left the Aboriginal Protection Board had paid the camp a visit. Shocked at what they perceived to be the appalling living conditions the people were in, they went away and returned with blankets, flour and clothing. They also brought what they called colour cards with them. These were a series of cards that were painted in different shades of brown and they held them up next to each of the children. The ones who matched up
to the lightest brown were packed up into big black sulkies and taken away, while the mothers were left behind at the camp screaming and sobbing for their children. Robbie was outraged. Dilly then told him that because all the whites had gone to war, no one in the camp could get any work, and for the last two and a half years they had survived by hunting and growing vegetables. After a while some of the people had developed persistent coughs and then eventually died, Dilly wasn’t sure why. But they had to drag the bodies on pallets to the church yard left them there to be buried. Everyone was out now hunting or looking for for food. Robbie was devastated, the living conditions of the Duradjuri people had deteriorated into a pitiful state while he had been at war, and obviously a few had contracted and died of tuberculosis, a disease he had seen many times while he was abroad. He couldn’t understand who the Aboriginal Protection Board were, or why they had the right to kidnap children.

  “What about Mum Dilly?” Robbie asked anxiously.

  “She alright Robbie. Walter never came back but. Dunno where he ended up. Will she ever be pleased to see you!” said Dilly.

  “I’ll go and put my things in the hut and get changed,” said Robbie.

  “Wait,” said Dilly ,“take me back to my hut first, I need to sleep.”

  “Why do you want me to do that?” said Robbie confused, “It’s just over there, where it’s always been,” and as the words came out of his mouth, he understood, to his dismay, that Dilly was blind.