One Place

by Cara Shaw

  Nico was surprised, he wasn’t used to such directness, and the man’s accent was thick and difficult to understand.

  “Is that what Coralie told you?” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Mickey around his cigarette.

  Nico observed the man as they drove. He was heavyset and very solid. The hands on the wheel were worker’s hands, thick, calloused, and the tip of his ring finger was missing. He had what Nico had come to recognise as an Aboriginal nose – the Duradjuri nose he supposed. He looked into the side mirror surreptitiously, could he see a similarity to his own? He couldn’t tell. On Mickey’s face he definitely identified it as being the same as his great-grandfather’s, wide with a slight upward tilt. Mickey was also dark, with thick salt and pepper hair that had obviously once been black. Mickey coughed.

  “Starin’? Tryin’ to find out who you are?” he said peaceably.

  Nico was embarrassed and averted his gaze. He watched the low rolling hills of the Australian country landscape and the sharp bright blue sky as they drove.

  “My great-grandfather was Robert Dalton,” he said.

  Mickey glanced at him, “You’re lucky then. He was a good person. My great-grandfather knew him well, his name was Charley Pace.”

  Nico felt a zip of connection run through him, “Really?” he said, curious, ”How?”

  “Charley Pace was the karandajin of the Duradjuri people - our mob. That’s a spirit person – kind of like a priest, get it?” Mickey sped up a little.

  “Yes, I understand,” said Nico.

  “I’m one too. It gets passed down father to son, so that means I’ve got responsibilities. Whether I like it or not.” He muttered the last sentence.

  “So, you have things to do?” queried Nico.

  “Yep. I take care of the mens’ business in the area. Like I’m about to do now. You’ll see,” and they pulled into the cemetery car park.

  They got out and walked over to the gravesite where Gavin’s family and friends were, still stonily quiet, listening as the priest spoke over the grave. After the last prayer he stepped aside and nodded to Gavin’s parents, who stood next to the coffin to unfold a flag, Nico saw that it was black, red and yellow, and they laid it over the casket. He knew it was the Aboriginal flag, the emblem of these peoples’ independence and sovereignty, he had come across it while he had been researching Robbie Dalton. His name had been mentioned a few times on the internet as one of the few Indigenous soldiers from Australia who had served in World War One. He’d also read a little about the pitiful history of the Indigenous people of Australia and was quietly appalled. In the meantime Mickey must have changed, because he came around from the back of the crowd, painted up in white ochre and wearing a red lap-lap. He was tapping two boomerangs together and singing. He circled carefully around the grave, stopping occasionally to point one of the boomerangs to the sky. As he did this he sang. The group stood without speaking and some closed their eyes. Then Mickey put down the boomerangs and lifted a pile of smoking leaves that had been placed in a coolamon, and walked around amongst the people, who reached over to wave the smoke over their faces and bodies. Nico shivered, he was being affected by the ritual although he couldn’t say why. Gradually the mourners drifted away and after a while Charlie reappeared next to him, fully dressed.

  “Come on,” he said. “Time for a beer.”

  They drove back to Billington and parked outside The Globe Hotel, a traditional country pub that was typical of the area, wide verandas, high ceilings and an impressive curved bar that ran the length of the room. It was large, airy and cool, and Nico approved of the sensible use of space. He could imagine the place was a sought-after refuge during the hot dry summer.

  They sat at the bar and Mickey held up two fingers to the publican, who pulled a couple long cold beers from a tap and brought them over, foamy heads brimming, condensation on the icy cold glass.

  “Cheers,” said Mickey as he took a long swallow.

  Nico did the same and his eyes widened when he took his first deep sip of the cold bronze ale. It was simply, fantastic. Sour and sweet, ice cold with a charge that seemed to immediately restore his senses.

  “Been a long day aye. Find things out you didn’t know before?” said Mickey, downing his beer.

  “Some things,” said Nico and followed suit.

  “Not what you was expecting?” Mickey held up his fingers again, and two more beers were duly delivered.

  “Nothing at all,” said Nico honestly. “Even after I found out about Robbie Dalton, I didn’t understand that Aboriginal people were, or had been, so repressed,” he trailed off.

  Nico’s European sensibilities were struggling to come to terms with Australia, especially a small country town like Billington. There appeared to be two histories here, one indigenous, and the other a virtually new colonial history. It was confusing. In comparison to Italy, even the word historical was too loose a term to describe the unappealing hybrid buildings he saw around the town. They looked to have their architectural origins from a Northern European viewpoint, but the materials and adaptation were taken directly from the surroundings, and to him appeared adulterated and unnatural. He was used to structures that dated back to ancient times, when Rome was the centre of the world. The other history he could sense here was something to do with the Duradjuri, ancient and land focussed, and somehow it stirred his soul.

  “We are not a prosperous people, that’s for sure. The Duradjuri culture and identity is strong though. After settlement our ancestors fought hard to retain our land, but we were beaten in the end. Then later, our mob fought in other ways.” said Mickey.

  “Like Robert Dalton?” said Nico.

  “Yeah, you should be damn proud he was your relation. There are people alive today who wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” Mickey stood up. “I gotta get going. I’ll see you soon,” and he held out his hand.

  “Thanks for the beer,” said Nico.

  “No worries,” said Mickey over his shoulder as he left the pub.

  No worries thought Nico. The ubiquitous phrase that meant everything and nothing. Everyone in this country said it, from cab drivers to shop assistants – even the Prime Minister. He’d switched on the television in his bed and breakfast yesterday and watched as an interview with the nation’s leader was being aired. The reporter thanked him at the end, “No worries,” the Prime Minister had said. He didn’t get it. Why would he be worried in the first place? Maybe it was indicative of the whole nature of the people here. Everyone seemed so relaxed, casual, it intrigued him. He finished the beer and walked back to his accommodation. He realised he was whistling as he walked along, thinking about his great-grandfather and the pride that was beginning to build in him. Then it occurred to him that maybe this is probably what all Australian’s meant when they said ‘No worries’. After a couple of beers, he felt as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.

  The next morning his mobile rang, waking him from a deep sleep. His dreams had been vivid and in them he had been flying, propelled with great force across the land, looking directly downward, scanning the country as he flew. He could see game everywhere, native game. Kangaroos, emus, snakes. Wili-wagtails danced in front of him and he was laughing and spinning along with their small black and white bodies, immersed in the centre of the flock as if he too were a bird. He answered the phone.

  “It’s Coralie. I’m taking the day off. You want to go to the museum?” Nico had given her his mobile number on the way to the funeral.

  “Yeah, sure. How are you feeling today?” he asked, feeling buoyed by the sound of her voice.

  “Sad,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry bella,” he said.

  She told him she’d wait outside for him in an hour, and he went downstairs to eat. Coralie picked him up and she took him to the Billington Museum. They paid their fee then walked around looking at the exhibit
s. There was a whole section devoted to the history of the Duradjuri people where large photographic panels hung, accompanied by explanatory wall text. Nico couldn’t read English very well, but the photos were enough to fill him with dismay. They began with drawings and lithographs of the first Aborigines seen in the area by explorers and then settlers, who dominated the region over a very short period in the early 1800s. Nico could see purity in the faces and stance of the subjects, and noted the proud stare from the subject back to the camera or artist. Some were naked, others posed in what was obviously a faux ‘noble savage’ setting, intended he guessed, to give the photograph some context. Then gradually the pictures changed, and then there were rows of black men, linked together at the throat with chains and metal neck collars. In the same era, Europe was on the brink of an Industrial Revolution, and he found the social contrast between the countries morbidly stark. Then came other images labelled The Mission and The Black’s Camp.

  In these very dark people wore exceedingly English conservative clothing and stood formally before large mounds of rubbish.

  “What are these?” he asked Coralie, pointing to the rubbish heaps in the background behind the people.

  “Those are their homes,” she replied. Nico looked at her askance, and went on. He was impressed, the exhibition had been carefully curated, and the timelines designed to show the progression of black history in Billington and in relation to the rest of Australia. World contexts were cited to contrast with the poor development of the First People’s journey towards civil rights.

  “This is very good,” commented Nico to Coralie.

  “It’s fantastic,” she said. “The Duradjuri Corporation applied for a grant, and then hired an Aboriginal designer and historian to curate it,” she said proudly.

  Nico grinned at her. “You mean you applied for the grant,” he said.

  Coralie blushed. “Yeah, it was me I guess.”

  They turned a corner and Nico grabbed Coralie’s hand.

  “It’s him!” he exclaimed.

  They had arrived at the section that was devoted purely to Robbie Dalton and his portrait, taken after his arrival at Victoria Barracks, Sydney, attired in full dress uniform, had been enlarged and proudly hung on the museum wall. Next to it was the Aboriginal flag framed in the same timber as the portrait. Nico swallowed. This was it. This is what he was here for, to see his great-grandfather face to face and acknowledge him as his direct forebear.

  “I thought I’d surprise you,” said Coralie shyly, squeezing his hand.

  He turned to her, “Thank you,” he said, voice choked with emotion.

  They spent over two hours in the section about Robbie, and Coralie stood with Nico as he read every word, and examined every picture. He was deeply moved. His great-grandfather had been a champion among men. There were photographs of him teaching children to read, studying in the local library, making speeches to other Aboriginal people about civil rights. Then as the decades went by, there was Robbie again, greeting Prime Ministers, Premiers, and always, always first pouring a handful of soil into the other’s hand before shaking it, and then welcoming them to country.

  “What is ‘Welcome to Country’?” Nico asked Coralie.

  “Aboriginal people in Australia traditionally did not exist or live as one unified entity. Before settlement, the people were spread out across the entire continent, to survive they stayed in smaller groups so they could sustain themselves,” she replied.

  Nico was fascinated.

  “So, the set up was like a tribal system, except each had a different language and totem. Their responsibilities related directly to the land where they were raised. People still needed to travel, hunt or go where the spirit ancestors told them they should be,” Coralie had dreamy look on her face while she was speaking, Nico could tell that she loved this part of her culture. “Aboriginal people in general are very polite and they very rarely went to war – even if they did it was usually over a payback matter or women stealing.”

  “Women stealing?” said Nico.

  Coralie laughed. “Men are the same everywhere aren’t they? They see an attractive woman and if they want her, they go get her.” Nico, looking at her pretty face, concurred that she was probably right.

  “So when an Aboriginal person enters another tribe’s area, they wait until someone notices them and invites them in to their camp. That way the spirits are happy and people feel safe, and then the stranger is given a ‘Welcome to Country’ speech by an older person.”

  Nico could see that the old custom made sense, and it also gave him a direct insight into the reason why relations had disintegrated badly between the First People and the Europeans. A peaceful polite community would never have been able to compete with the divide and conquer culture that was the foundation of most societies in other countries. They walked over to a glass viewing box that held some of Robbie’s personal items. There was his wallet, birth certificate, and his old ration book. Alongside these objects was a watch – a good one. Nico leant close, it was beautifully made and obviously Swiss.

  “Would you like to look through Robbie’s wallet?” asked Coralie.

  “Sure,” said Nico. Coralie went to speak to the attendant and came back with the key to open the box. Robbie lifted out the watch, it was substantial and a quality piece. He kept it all those years he thought, Robbie must have picked it up when he was in France. Then he took the wallet, which was plain and functional. He went through it. There was his driver’s license, some money – decimal currency, of course, Robbie had died in 1980. A few business cards, his library card. Nico was thrilled to be handling a personal item that had belonged to his direct ancestor. Then at the back of the wallet was a slim pocket, and he drew out a photo. He had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Coralie had wandered off and was chatting with the attendant. He called out to her and she came over.

  “What is it?” she said.

  Robbie was standing very still, staring down at the photo.

  “Let me see,” said Coralie, and he handed it to her. She made a shocked sound; it was the same photo that Nico had in his possession – the one of little Roberto standing in front of his parents at the Pallegrini Estate in Avellino, Italy.

  At the pub Nico took a sip of the ice-cold beer that he was rapidly falling in love with. “Is this what every Australian does when they’re confronted with a problem?” Nico said.

  “Pretty much,” said Coralie. “Except any reason will do.”

  “That was quite a shock,” said Nico.

  “Yes it was,” said Coralie. “It was only Maria who could have sent that picture to Robbie.”

  “So he did know after all.” said Nico.

  “Yes,” said Coralie. “Sad isn’t it.”

  They ate their lunch in silence and Nico felt a terrible melancholy fall over him. The sense that he was powerless over the course of events that had affected his family was overwhelming, that choices had to be made according to the social prejudice of the times. In a flash of deep intuition Nico knew that this is exactly how all Aboriginal people must have felt all the time – completely powerless. The reality was that Robbie lost his son, and had never had the chance to meet the quixotic, clever man he had become. He knew they would have loved each other deeply – just as Roberto had loved Gianni, his father and at that moment he felt the tug of the bloodline between them all very keenly.

  After lunch Coralie suggested that they drive out to Murruma to see Sara Smith, a local Aboriginal elder who had a strong knowledge around many of the Duradjuri family trees. She quickly rang Sara to tell her they were coming by and then left a message for Mickey Pace to meet them there as well.

  “Might as well make it a proper yarn up,” she said to Nico, and laughed when he said, “Yarn?”

  The four of them sat in Sara’s tiny living room at Murruma, where the walls were covered in
Aboriginal art, sipping tea and eating biscuits. Sara, a plump white-haired lady, listened to Nico’s story about his connection with the Duradjuri people.

  “What do you think Aunty?” said Coralie. She had explained to Robbie earlier that they all called their elders Aunty and Uncle as a gesture of respect.

  “Let’s see,” said Sara. “Now Robbie Dalton was my father’s cousin, so that means you and me are fourth cousins once removed. You and me are related,” she smiled at him.

  “You don’t seem very surprised,” he said.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, “I got a knack for Duradjuri genealogy, so people come to me when they need to find out who they are; where they fit in. It’s always nice to welcome someone home.”

  “Thank you Aunty,” said Nico. “I guess I’m not the only one to come looking for my heritage?”

  “Oh yeah we get lots. It depends where they were stolen from, so if the person isn’t from here, I can give them a tip on where to go next,” she said with satisfaction. She took a sip of her tea, then smoothed out her bright floral dress.

  Nico was puzzled. “You said ‘stolen’? What is this?”

  Coralie, Mickey and Sara glanced at each other.

  “You don’t know?” said Mickey.

  “No,” said Nico with a growing sense of alarm. “Tell me.”

  Mickey sighed and Coralie looked at him sympathetically. “Ok. I think you know that Aboriginal people didn’t have any civil rights for a long time?” Nico nodded. “We actually didn’t get the vote until 1967. Up until that point, The Aboriginal Protection Board kept us under surveillance, they were the legal guardians of all Aboriginal people in Australia. Our people were forced to live on missions or reserves if you like. People couldn’t go anywhere without a travel ticket, get married without the permission from the local police. All sorts of things. We couldn’t get paid for work, own land, the list is endless really. Basically it was imprisonment. Then, I suppose because Aboriginal people lived in terrible poverty – mind there was no running water, and not much money for clothes or soap, the Aboriginal Protection Board said the children were better off being removed from their parents. Their reasoning was that these kids could get a proper education, then assimilate into white society. So they were taken away. It was always the light-coloured ones who went first. Put into homes, never allowed to speak language, forced into labour. Some showed up when they got out of the homes – looking for their families, their parents. Others were never heard of again, and many were very badly abused” Mickey took a drag on his cigarette. “A lot of damage was done.”