by Cara Shaw
Robbie spent the next six months’ bringing the camp back to order. It didn’t feel right to move back in with his mother, so he built his own basic hut to live in next to hers. When she finally came home that day she fell into his arms sobbing, and he could feel her bony form through her thin dress. The Duradjuri were starving. They had been living on rabbits and fish, potatoes and tomatoes – they had long ago run out of staples like flour, oats, golden syrup and beans. Some of the children – the darker ones who had been left behind by the Board, had swollen bellies and ear infections.
Robbie in comparison, looked completely different. He had been eating regularly since he had left Billington and not only had he filled out, he had grown as well. He was now six feet and his body was strong and hard. He also carried himself with great pride, and his speech had changed from being around the other soldiers so that his words and sentences now sounded fluid and clear. As soon as he was rested, he walked into Billington to the town grocery store to buy supplies. He entered and went straight up to the counter. The storeowner was about to say something to him when Robbie laid three one pound notes between them and said, “I’ve just come back from France and this is my pay. I need to buy a few things.”
The owner looked at Robbie who stood, tall and imposing in the small store, then at the notes and didn’t say another word. Times had been lean for him as well, and money was money. He filled up the carry baskets with flour, oats, vegetables and lamb; eucalyptus and ti-tree oil for the children’s noses and ears, and a host of other supplies that the camp desperately needed. He had brought three or four of the younger boys with him to carry it all back, and they skipped and chatted alongside him just as he had done with May all those years ago.
It took a while to put the camp right and gradually things improved. Word soon spread that Robbie had returned from the war, and he was rarely challenged when he went into to town to buy goods or visit the post office. Although, even Robbie knew where to draw the line to avoid trouble. It was still unacceptable for a black person to enter a public hotel or to receive equal pay for work, and he was careful not to cause any more disadvantage for his people. It was around this time that Robbie began a letter campaign that he would continue for the rest of life; to the Aboriginal Protection Board demanding the return of Duradjuri children to their parents; to the Government explaining that the lack of work and the pitiful living conditions at the settlement needed to be addressed. Robbie had found his voice and he wasn’t afraid to use it. His greatest inspiration was the novel that he had taken from the ship, The Tale of Two Cities, the story of the French Revolution where he learnt that the oppressed had fought and won the right to be equal, their victory bitterly contrasted against the pitiful living conditions of the London poor. Then came the time when he had to write the hardest letter of all – to Maria. He explained that she could not come to Australia and he told her the reasons why. He knew in his heart that it was impossible for him to go to Italy to be with her, because he could never leave the Duradjuri. It was the most painful letter he ever wrote, and when he didn’t receive a reply, he knew she had accepted his decision.
Ultimately, forty-five pounds was not very much when it came to supporting a group of forty people, and he soon gathered that he would have to sell his land settlement in order to get more money for his tribe. On the morning he decided, he walked into Billington heavy-hearted and disappointed, feeling that he had no other choice. He hadn’t told any of the camp where he was going or why, including his mother. Even though they had been embarrassed and humbled when Robbie offered to provide for them, the reality was that there was no other way the people could live reasonably without help. Since his return they had set up small vegetable patches and bought proper cooking equipment. They had resurrected their fishing routines with new nets, and stored sacks of flour and oats in one of the disused huts. They made sure that the bags sat well off the ground on pallets constructed from branches and pieces of scavenged timber to avoid rot and insects. Nearly all the children now had decent clothes, and Robbie had bought boxes of loose soap so that everyone could bathe regularly. As the health of the people improved, the men began to walk around the region asking for work, and at least two of the teenage girls had secured laundry work at local homesteads.
Robbie’s dream of making his own way using the land that he had nearly died for was rapidly fading away. Even if he were to make a start, he had used up his seed money on the Duradjuri, and leaving camp now would only send his mob back into the dire state in which he had found them. It was clear that selling was his only option – circumstances would not allow him to make use of his land in any other way.
He trudged into town and walked down the main street looking for a lawyer’s office. He reasoned that it would not be wise to go straight to an agent with his title until he had a letter of validation that vouched for the legality of his endowment. He stopped before a frosted window painted with gold letters that read Solicitor’s Office. The window was framed in a cherry-red wood, as was the shop door, which was highly polished and boasted a brass door knob. Robbie entered the office to find a sombre interior with yellow walls and several ornate chairs placed neatly together. A small bronze bell sat on a large skirted return outside another door, again made from heavy dark wood. Robbie rang the bell and sat down on one of the chairs to wait. He felt a sudden pang, perhaps triggered by the classical quality of his surroundings, and all at once he yearned to return to Europe, specifically France. He thought seriously about it for a moment. He could sell his land, leave Australia and collect Maria after travelling to Italy, and then they could buy a small farm somewhere in the provinces. He had continued reading in French while onboard the ship and he was now fluent. He could raise whatever he wanted; geese for pate, pigs, anything at all. Nobody seemed to care very much about his skin colour over there. Sometimes the French would look curiously at his skin and hair and say “Negre?” in an inquiring tone. He would simply answer “Oui,” and they would shrug and continue on with their conversation. It was all possible he thought, but it would mean leaving everyone behind and starting a new life. Morally he didn’t think he could do it. After a while the office door opened and an enormous man stepped into the waiting room. He was big and burly and in appearance was more like a rough shearer than a lawyer.
They both looked at each other in surprise, and the man finally said, “Can I help you?”
Robbie stood up, “My name is Robert Dalton. I require assistance over a legal matter.”
The large man looked him up and down, and then knitted his brow together in contestation. “I charge one pound an hour. Are you able to meet that fee?”
Robbie nearly laughed out loud; this was almost like negotiating a good price with one of the prostitutes in Calais, who always made sure that a customer was good for the money before providing a service. “Yes,” he said, acutely aware that the fee was exorbitant, and the fellow waved him through.
Robbie entered the office which was quite plain compared to the lobby. The walls were covered in shelves and stacked with law books; Robbie felt jealous. He had grown to love both reading and learning and reflected that if he had been born into a different way of life, he may have become a lawyer himself. He vowed that he would start visiting the local library and he would seriously resist if anyone tried to stop him.
The man eased his bulk into a generous chair and placed his hands on the desk. “I’m Arthur Bentley. What is it that you require?”
Robbie had already noticed that the man didn’t bother with common courtesy and saw that he was just as prejudiced against Aboriginal people as everyone else. Despite his attitude Robbie explained the situation and presented his title for Bentley look over.
The man barely glanced at the papers and with a steady gaze said, “Mr Dalton I believe your cause is of no use.”
“Why?” said Robbie astounded.
Bentley rose and pulled a leather-bound book from a she
lf and flicked to a page. “According to the Australian Constitution, the Australian Aboriginal is considered to be protected under the Native Flora and Fauna Act.”
An ill feeling overcame Robbie, “Meaning?” he said.
Bentley laid down the book and steepled his fingers, “It means that you are not legally a citizen; therefore, you are not legally entitled to this endowment. Nor are you able to sell it.”
Robbie sat back in the chair stunned. He had no idea that he was not an Australian citizen, then again, he had never voted and none of his people owned land. He couldn’t believe his own naivety, and certain that Bentley thought him a simple black fool, took a pound out of his wallet, placed it on the desk and departed without a word, leaving Bentley to stare mutely after him.
Robbie walked away from the office completely enraged. Not an Australian citizen; all the shit, everything he had been through was for nothing. The clothes he stood in were all he had; the homemade flour-sack shirt, his old army trousers, washed every third day to keep them clean. His army boots, which he kept supple by rubbing them with emu oil, were laced with string. He could feel the vein in his neck throbbing with anger. He pulled out his land settlement papers to look at them one more time. There was his name: Robert Dalton. Private. Australian Army. Discharged February 1919. Granted one acre in gratitude for Military Service to the Imperial Empire by HRM Queen Victoria. He screwed them up and threw them to the ground. Useless, meaningless. He felt the world closing in on him as he began the walk away from town and back to the camp. He would have to find work as soon as possible and take what he could get. There was nothing, absolutely nothing else he could do. He was gritting his teeth in fury when he heard a voice shouting his name.
“Robbie, Robbie!”
He turned and saw a figure running at him full pelt; when Robbie realised who it was he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Evan!” Robbie yelled, “Jesus Christ! Evan!”
Evan Chapman stood there on the footpath in Billington, hugging Robbie and slapping him on the back, both were overcome with emotion.
“Oh! Evan, mate – so good to see you!” Robbie exclaimed banging him on the back, “Let’s have a look at you…”
Evan grinned and held up his left arm where the hand had been amputated at the wrist, “Luckier than some! Oh Lord Robbie, if it wasn’t for you…”
Robbie patted him on the ruined arm, “I’m so sorry I had to go. I wanted to stay, I had to keep moving…you know how it was.”
“You did everything you could. It’s alright! I’m just so happy you made it,” said Evan, and he hugged him again.
Then Robbie stepped back, “What are you doing here Evan, passin’ through? What a coincidence.”
Evan was quiet for a moment, then it dawned on them both that they were standing right in the centre of Billington, and the people walking past them were looking away in revulsion; an Aboriginal man and a white man standing together talking, shaking hands.
Evan finally pulled himself together and said, “Robbie, I’m a Chapman – Evan Chapman. And I’m guessing that you live down at the camp. I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
They fell silent and stared at each other. The Chapman’s were the second biggest landholders in Billington after the Crane’s. At Amiens Robbie had only ever known Evan by his first name, it hadn’t occurred to either of them that they might be from the same town, even after they’d established that they were both Australian. When they’d met and teamed up, the pair had more pressing concerns than Robbie’s skin colour – and the main one was to stay alive. Robbie remembered the grief he had felt over Evan while on the ship, when he couldn’t be certain whether his friend had survived that terrible night.
Robbie grinned at him, “I’m glad you made it Ev. You heading home now?”
“Bugger that,” said Evan, “I’ll walk with you back to the camp.”
“You sure mate? There’ll be consequences, you know that,” said Robbie.
“Fine by me,” Evan said, and they walked out of the town, down the dusty leaf-strewn road to the Duradjuri settlement by the river, together again, just like they had never been apart.
Chapter Five
ONCE
Balin was moving through the scrub when he noticed a strange smell. He stopped and waited and eventually located the direction from which it came. He hesitated, then switched his attention over to tracking and hunting. This was his country. Every part of it was ingrained into his spiritual and physical being. As a mature and initiated man of his clan, every shift, every change in his immediate environment was obvious to him, even as he went about his daily duties and routines. This deep and subliminal connection had been passed down to him through generations of men just like him, and finely honed by the stories and songs taught to him by the elders of his clan as he was growing up.
He stepped carefully, unhurried, reserved. The odour was unknown to him and gave him a strong feeling of unease. His life and that of his clan’s was peaceful and happy, it was very unusual for unanticipated events to occur in his world. Balin glided along, body barely touching the surrounding bush, feet pressing lightly on the ground leaving virtually no trace of where he had just been. This was the way he always travelled, although on this night he was extra careful, so that none of the night creatures that were wandering about or hiding would be disturbed or agitated by his presence. The bush he moved through abutted onto a good-sized clearing, an area that Balin’s tribe had maintained for thousands of years. It was pristine and carefully monitored to sit in proper symbiotic balance with the changing seasons and the animal life in the region. There were many such clearings and corridors around Duradjuri country, park-like in appearance, scattered with trees, particularly when located next to creeks and rivers, where people could make camp and relax.
These spots were cultivated by the tribes through dutiful maintenance and Dreaming obligations. It was one of the myriad of ways that small family groups within the Duradjuri tribe, known as the people of the three rivers, assured an ongoing food supply throughout the seasons. Although the landscape seemed accidental, the work that lay behind the rolling grass hills was micro-managed and carefully planned. Balin was a custodian of his country and a mature man, he had spent hundreds of hours with his clan, learning, memorising, absorbing every detail that pertained to the intricacies of this land, and now something was different. He paused and hunkered down in a small clear space next to a tree and relaxed every part of his body. His hand moved through the soil beside him and he located some plump slender tubers that he pulled from the ground. He shook off the soil and thoughtfully bit into one. The sweet juice spurted into his mouth, and the wild vegetable was crunchy and refreshing.
He watched through the darkness as a figure moved purposefully around the clearing. Balin stared, this was like no man he had ever seen – and then he felt a sense of outrage creep through him. How dare this person intrude onto his country! With no formal introduction, without following the normal protocols of welcome and permission? He gripped his spear tensely, ready to fly at the interloper who could be planning a raid to steal their women. It was possible… then deciding to observe the stranger for a while, relaxed his grip.
As he watched he became quite baffled. Even if the stranger was here to steal women, he was not properly attired, nor was his skin painted in any of the neighbouring tribes’ patterns and colours that he would normally recognise – fertility symbols and spirit designs that would help a raider in his mission. He was not concealing himself, or behaving in a manner which indicated he had intentions of subterfuge and theft. The man was wearing coverings on both his body and feet so that no skin was visible. Balin glanced down at his own belts, made from kangaroo leather and hair, adorned with feathers and precious charms he had collected or been given over the years and which he occasionally used for trade. Recently he had entwined a few echidna quills in his hair and was pleased with the result. He noticed that some of
the younger women had been eyeing him and he knew it was because he had paid extra attention to his appearance. Balin continued to watch.
The man was fussing around his chosen spot like an old woman. Darting here and there to pick up stones and twigs and arranging them in a small circle on the ground. Was he building a totem of some kind? Then he realised what he was doing and nearly laughed out loud. It was a campfire! How silly! It was in entirely the wrong spot and once lit the smoke would blow directly into his face! The ground where he had placed it was damp and too flat, which meant it would expire in no time. Even a child knew where and how to set fire. After arranging an elaborate tree of sticks over the top, he hung what looked like a dilly bag from it, then the man sat down and watched the fire.
Balin was aghast – surely the dilly bag would simply burn away? No, it stayed strong and soon smoke rose from it. The man tipped a powder into it and then lifted the bag away from the fire with a stick. He blew on it a few times, and then sat down and drank straight from the lip, making sounds of pleasure as he did so. He then pushed dirt right up to the side of the fire, covered himself and lay down beside it. For a moment Balin envied him as the air was chilly and he too would have enjoyed some warmth. Instead of lighting his own campfire he chose to sit right down on the ground and draw his knees up to his chin. He decided he would stay until morning and see what the man did next.
He settled into a quiet state, body at rest and his mind completely lucid. With all the spiritual energy from his land whirling around him he felt some of his ancestral channels expand and visions and voices floated through him. He felt compelled to sing some of his tribe’s ancient songlines and repeated the verses inwardly instead, wary of waking the intruder. Eventually he lulled himself into a restful state, and in his mind’s eye was met with a vision of another man – not unlike himself in looks, and covered like the stranger who now camped on his country. This man was dark like him, and looked like some of his relatives in his own tribe. He was big – the tallest man he had ever seen. The man was speaking to him. This is our land. This is Duradjuri land, this place belongs to us. Balin couldn’t fathom why he kept saying this over and over. He looked deeply into his eyes and was shocked to see the scars of unbearable pain in them. Then Balin’s awareness shot away and the tall sad man disappeared into a speck. Balin regained his physical senses and understood that he had seen a relative, from where or when he couldn’t tell although he knew that his pain seemed to be an immense burden.