by Cara Shaw
Robbie, who had been told earlier that day about what was going to take place, had come down to the pool to wait and watch. He leaned against the pool fence, arms stretched up high, fingers laced through the metallic diamonds, a half smile on his face as he watched the children splash around in the pool with an elated Charlie Perkins, who threw a couple of them into the air while they squealed. All the Duradjuri kids knew how to swim; they spent most of their free time jumping into the Dale River from rocks or ropes. The hard-chlorinated water felt different to them, and they knew that by being in the pool with Charlie, they were breaking some silent rule, intrinsically sensing that all the adults – their parents, their relatives, their whole mob wanted them to do this. So, they did – with huge joy. Some people in the town pelted them with eggs while Mr Perkins paid their pool entry, which they were happy to wash off by jumping in the big public pool, where not a single one of them had ever been before. Evan wandered over to Robbie who stood, still, peaceful, and laid his shortened arm across his old friend’s shoulders. They were both sixty-five now, not quite old men, although a greater age wasn’t far away. Evan’s hair was white and thin, his once golden skin creased with sun and wear, crystal eyes faded.
He smiled broadly at Robbie and said, “I reckon today’s a pretty good day aye Dalton.”
Robbie turned to his old mate, eyes misting, “Reckon you’re right.”
He was proud as punch of the young activist, and just as of proud of the children and their parents’ who had stood up for their beliefs. They had trusted enough to let the children lead the symbolic process of washing away discrimination by the simple innocence of a child’s laugh. That day, the world in Billington shifted just a little, once again through the sheer determination of one individual. Room was made for new paths to be made and walked upon, and the future of the Aboriginal people in Billington was altered forever.
Today, even with this muddled history behind them the Aboriginal community didn’t fare too badly in Billington, although conditions remained hardly ideal. Aboriginal people were still tightly united and took a strong political stance over their welfare, and constantly lobbied for health services, decent legal representation and land ownership. The deeper problem lay in the clear fact that the Aboriginal people, disenfranchised from their land and civil rights over two hundred years earlier, had no material legacy to draw on – undermined by years of low wages or unemployment, although unionism had taken care of some equality issues in the workplace. The generational damage ran deep, and even though voting rights were granted in 1967, a mere fifty years was not enough to bring the fringe-dwelling community onto an even playing field. Elders who were now in their seventies still lived everyday with the shame that had been laden upon them as they were growing up, and suffered because of the obstacles that were placed in their way when trying to earn some security. Never allowed an education, they were proud to see their children and grandchildren going to school and on to university, ambitions that were impossible to imagine 1n a small country town in the 1950s. The overt racial division had disappeared over time, and was replaced with simple dislike and even grudging respect, usually for the steady stream of sports heroes that shot out into the wider world from Aboriginal families.
But in the present, besides the old problem of alcohol abuse inherent in the overall community, a new scourge now undermined the town – drugs, primarily a highly addictive amphetamine known as ice. Cheap to make and easy to distribute, the drug was freely used by people who often felt the weight of hopelessness and lack of direction.
Coralie Chapman walked into the office and sighed at the pile of papers that sat on her desk, landline and mobile shrilling simultaneously. She looked down at the take-away coffee in her hand; what I need is a smoke she thought. She walked through office to the back door, unlocked it and sat on the little bench seat that was pushed up against the wall. She put down her coffee and pulled out her cigarettes. As she lit up, the sun rose higher and the spot where she was sitting began to warm up. Years ago, someone had thoughtfully placed the bench there so workers could relax in the sun while on their break. What’s it all for, she thought as she drew heavily on her cigarette, balking at the amount of work that she would have to attack that day. She had been with the Duradjuri Corporation for nearly ten years now, belting out land claims and applying for grants year after year, not to mention all the pro-bono work she did for her mob. Occasionally some land cases came through; in fact, the Corporation had a minor win just last year, albeit a hollow victory all round. After five years of establishing a continual family line for a cultural claim regarding a local traditional site, The Land and Environment Court had decided, in their infinite wisdom to grant custodianship – not ownership she thought bitterly, of the site. A win for pride and on paper though of no real use for capital gain or ongoing legacy for Aboriginal people. What a joke. She butted out her smoke in the sand tray and wandered back into the office.
Coralie sat down with a sigh. Today wasn’t the best day to reflect on the meaning of her life – she had a funeral to attend that afternoon and she needed to have all her emotional resources at hand. Coralie’s nephew Gavin had overdosed the week before on ice, the nasty toxic drug that had drilled into the youth culture of the town – white and black. Usually open minded, Coralie couldn’t relate to the rage-inducing drug that was endemic in the local scene. She remembered clearly smoking a lot of pot with her mates when she was a teenager, usually on the common, howling with laughter and playing stoned games. But by the time she had finished university she had lost interest and moved on with her career. Career she thought wryly, if it could be called that. This new drug was different – a modern drug. The easy conviviality of sharing a joint with friends was long gone. Ice was injected, snorted or smoked. Squabbles arose constantly over who had what and how much. Violent fights erupted as people entered into psychotic blackouts that always ended badly – with people being maimed, killed or even dying from heart attacks; the drug frying the user from the inside out. And now Gavin, her sister’s son, had fallen victim to it, another death in the growing toll of young Aboriginal men who were not making it past twenty-five.
She swallowed down a sob. This wouldn’t do – she had to stay strong today for Anne Marie, who had been prostrate with grief since the moment she had found out about Gavin. She would work this morning and drive out to Murruma to help with the preparations for the funeral which was to take place at the Anglican Church, the one their mother had attended. Coralie never had much time for faith, although she accepted that it did see her Mum through some hard times. At around midday while she was talking on the phone, a dark-haired man wandered into the office; there was something vaguely familiar about him but she couldn’t pick it – although she knew he definitely wasn’t from around here. He stood waiting patiently until she hung up.
“Yeah, can I help you?” she was brusque. The man was looking around her office, he was dressed nicely in a pair of designer jeans and a finely made shirt.
“I’m looking for all of the Aboriginal people,” his English was heavily accented.
“All of them?” she smiled, he had a nice face, and she noticed that the side of his cheek was quite indented.
“Yes. I think I am related to some of them. I want to find out more.”
Coralie was intrigued, “I don’t know how likely that is. This is the Duradjuri Corporation though, probably a good place to start.”
He stared at her for a moment. “You are an Aboriginal person?” he said it with a kind of wonder.
She had to laugh at his seriousness. “Yes, I am. I am a proud Duradjuri warrior woman,” she teased.
“Your eyes are blue,” he trailed off.
“My great-grandfather was Australian, he was married to my mother who was Aboriginal,” she explained.
“I see,” said the man. “My great-grandfather was Aboriginal, he was from here.”
“What was his n
ame?” said Coralie, curious. “Robert Dalton,” Nico replied.
“Robbie Dalton!” said Coralie, shocked. He was Billington’s most famous Aboriginal person and to her knowledge had never had children.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
The man held out his hand, “I am Nico Pallegrini. I come from Italy.’’
Coralie stood up and went around the desk to take his hand, “Coralie Chapman. I’m from this place.”
“This place?” he looked around confused.
“No! I mean, I’m from Billington.”
“Okay, okay, the same as Robert Dalton. Perhaps you are related?” he added hopefully.
“No, he was a close family friend though.”
He stood in her office looking a little lost and she felt sorry for him. “Look. I have a funeral to attend, it’s my nephew.”
“I am so sorry, I’ll go,” and he made to leave.
A sudden rush of feeling ran through her and she sensed that he should stay. “No wait Nico, you can come with me. If you want to see Aboriginal people this is your chance. And if you really are Robbie Dalton’s relative, you’re probably meant to be there anyway.” She began to pack up.
“This wasn’t what I was expecting,” he said. “Under such sad circumstances.”
He watched her as she moved around the desk. Her hair was short and curly, and she had a heart-shaped face with a turned-up nose. Her skin was dark, not unlike his, and freckly. He found himself liking her instantly.
“There’s always a sad circumstance in Billington,” said Coralie bluntly. “We’re used to it.”
While they were driving out to Murruma in Coralie’s car, Nico told her more of his story and his experiences with Aldo and Sophia at their hotel in Avellino; he avoided mentioning his operation.
“So you knew Roberto was Aboriginal just by looking at his photo?” Coralie was amazed.
“I have it here, do you want to see?” he took the photo from his wallet. Coralie pulled up to the side of the empty Murrama Road and let the car idle for a moment to look at the old photograph. At that age, Roberto Pallegrini could have been any one of the Duradjuri kids from Murruma.
“Wow, he’s dark,” she commented.
“That’s what everyone says,” said Nico. “I didn’t know he was Aboriginal at first, that took a bit of research obviously, but just by looking at him it’s apparent that he’s of black ancestry.”
“I’ll say,” said Coralie. “And I’ll tell you something else Nico, you’ll see that face over and over again today at the funeral. The Duradjuri gene’s pretty strong.”
They drove through Murruma, a one road town that was lined with houses on either side. Nico’s professional aesthetic was challenged, as there appeared to be no context to the urban design at all. For instance on one block stood a ramshackle weatherboard home with a corrugated iron roof, front yard overgrown with weeds and thorny bushes, and then right next to that was a new project home with a stencilled concrete drive, neatly planted along the sides with buxus. Nico also could not fathom why there was no kerbing, just an asphalt road abutting the dirt edges and no proper drainage. And the children – they were everywhere, their wildness and easy manner would be unknown in Italy he thought. He noticed that Coralie drove very slowly while the kids weaved around the car on bikes or skateboards. Others simply ran alongside the car shouting and making faces, and he saw that they were all different colours from light caramel, chocolate, even white. Coralie parked the car outside a plain-looking house that had a tidy front garden, an old-fashioned diamond wire steel fence and a matching gate.
“This is my sister’s house,” she said. “Wait here, I’ll be back shortly,” and she walked up the path and through the front door. While they’d been driving Coralie told Nico about Gavin, her nephew. He was the oldest of her sister’s children and by all accounts not a bad boy. He was sports mad and had performed adequately in school and after he’d finished was looking around for an apprenticeship. In fact, he had been thinking about going into the mines, where there was full training and career progression with excellent pay to match.
“What happened?” asked Nico.
“Ice,” replied Coralie through gritted teeth.
Nico had heard about the drug that was making its way around Europe. He knew that it had become a social scourge in America, and now it looked as if the same was happening in Australia.
“There’s just not enough for these kids to do. They think community programs are uncool. They start buying backyard ice and then get addicted to it. It makes them psychotic and after a while they can’t make sense of anything,” said Coralie.
Nico had heard this before about the drug, and until now hadn’t any first-hand experience with it.
Coralie was both angry and sad. Kids from country towns all over the place were clamouring for it and getting addicted, and Gavin, with time on his hands after finishing school had begun to use it for fun. In a matter of weeks he had become an addict, and had even attacked his mother when she tried to stop him from going out to buy a hit. He couldn’t leave it alone and the family pleaded with him to get off it. Then one morning they found him lying in the backyard – he’d died during the night. The autopsy showed that he’d had a heart attack, the ice exacerbating a pre-existing heart condition they didn’t even know he’d had. The whole community was shattered. Coralie wondered if Gavin’s death was going to act as a wake-up call to the other kids who were using. She hoped so. Things couldn’t go on like this. Murruma was losing its sense of community, and people weren’t banding together the way they had in the past because of the defeating nature of the drug.
The local hall had shut down due to lack of repair, and the Community Action Group were still petitioning for streetlights. The drug seemed to suck the life out of everyone, as if it were there primarily to undermine all the progress that the small community had fought for. Parents were grieving for their children or their nephews and nieces.
Young lives were being cut short by a malicious and dangerous drug that robbed people of their dignity and common sense. Now it was Gavin’s turn, and another funeral for Murruma. It wasn’t fair to lose the young people of their mob in this way when there was a wealth of opportunity available to all of them now, and so many of the younger generation were beginning to fly.
Coralie came out of the house and got into the car. “Anne-Marie’s nearly ready,” she said sadly. “Her husband’s taking her to the church. We’ll meet her there.”
They drove for another ten minutes or so to a church just outside Billington, a relatively modern structure with a narrowly pitched roof and long rectangular windows. A brick cross had been marked out on the red masonry. There were cars and people everywhere, Nico was amazed. He estimated there must have been about two hundred, all parking and making their way into the church. Most of the attendees were Aboriginal, and there was a younger group whom he guessed must have been Gavin’s friends, some smoking cigarettes, waiting near the church doors. Coralie told him she would meet him later and went to join her sister. He watched her walk away and then Nico took the opportunity to hang back and observe. How different these people were to his countrymen and also to the white Australians he had encountered on his journey here. The more senior members were carefully and soberly dressed, and the younger generation wore fashion conscious clothes and carried their phones with them. Not many wore black. A stony silence hung in the crowd – this would never have happened at a funeral in Italy, where people wailed in grief and held each other while talking loudly. No, these people walked erect and quietly and didn’t utter a word. He paused while they filed in and then stood at the back of the church. A poster sized photo of Gavin hung above the coffin and Nico could see he was a nice looking, robust young man, and as Coralie had said his features were distinctly Duradjuri as were most of the other faces he saw in the mixed crowd. No wonder nobody paid much attent
ion to him, with his dark olive skin and curly black hair he melded in easily with the mourners.
They all sat, and then rose again when a priest approached the altar. First he asked that they sing the Lord Is My Shepherd, and then motioned to them to sit. He talked about Gavin and his family, the huge potential the young man had and the importance of his life to the community. Nico was moved and he could hear some people crying softly. Then the priest stopped as if he were not sure what to say next, then he looked directly at the young group of people who were sitting on the pews to the side.
“I pray that this will never happen again. To lose one of our youngest, our finest in this misguided way is a tragedy to the community. To our Lord I ask, don’t let Gavin’s loss be in vain.” He asked the congregation to pray, and then it was over.
Nico watched with a hard lump in his throat as the pallbearers took Gavin’s coffin away and then with the others, he exited the church. As the mourners poured out the doors, Coralie approached him, she was with a man, dark in complexion like everyone else and sturdy in build.
Her face was swollen from crying and he was holding her arm. “Nico, this is Mickey Pace. I’ve told him who you are, he’ll take you out to the cemetery. I’ll see you later,” and she left them to find her sister.
Nico felt an incredibly strong desire to go with her, but followed Mickey instead. Emotions were swirling within him and he felt heavy, almost ill with the terrible energy that had settled over the crowd. The funeral was the saddest thing he had ever seen, and he felt unaccountably angry at the futility and waste of the young man’s death.
Chapter Twelve
Mickey took Nico to his car, a Toyota that had seen better days, they got in and Mickey lit up a smoke.
“Lookin’ for relatives are ya mate?” and he reversed roughly onto the road that lead to the cemetery.