by Fiona Doyle
‘Oh, where are those days?’ says Nana today, a woman who has seen and done so much. Now her eyes have softened with time and memories.
She picks up Sheridan Nyrlotte, her fourth-generation grandchild, and placing her on her lap, strokes her soft, curly, sand-coloured hair. ‘My sister,’ she whispers, in a tone that describes only great pleasure at the sight of her first great-grandchild, as she thinks of the past.
Nana holding Sheridan Nyrlotte, her fourth-generation grandchild, Aurukun community, 1992.
CHAPTER FOUR
Life on the mission continued on as normal but it was not always perfect. If someone needed urgent medical attention, they were sent to Thursday Island hospital, away from family and familiar territory. Often too, people were sent away as punishment. Whether it was for a hospital visit or because of punishment, being away from family and home was very frightening for many people.
Nana told me of another time she was sent to Thursday Island hospital. Nana and Grandad had had a peaceful day fishing at Munthing. Nana remembers that she was feeling particularly good about everything. She had been well for some time and had been enjoying her independence again. After their fishing trip, they were just relaxing around the house, when they suddenly heard the old DC3 plane arriving. In those days it was an exciting time when a plane or boat arrived from outside. It was an event in itself, to run and greet the new arrivals. This particular plane had come from Normanton. Nana remembers that she was so excited about this plane arriving that she rushed out to the airstrip to witness the unloading of the mail and supplies. That night she felt ill once more and was rushed to Thursday Island hospital, this time by cargo boat. Some relatives, old Tick Tick Dick and Violet, accompanied her. The first night Nana was in hospital, all she could think of was getting out of there. She ran away, not really knowing where she was going or why, although she knew that she was in no condition to be running around. Two islander nurses (one of them being the kindly Martha Zamiak who now lives at Napranum and has been a resident for as long as I can remember) went out looking for Nana and found her. Nana describes feeling so bad that there was no point in feeling goodness. She could feel only badness in her bones and body. She had no understanding of what she was going through or why.
She knew nothing but misery. This illness cost Nana two and a half years of her life in that hospital and five more months at Waiban on Thursday Island. That was two and a half years away from her home, her relatives and her daughter, Annie. I am unclear as to why Nana was hospitalised; she could only tell me that she was ‘no good’.
Nana talked about the nurses at the hospital:
The nurses at Thursday Island weren’t bad but they weren’t very nice either. Some were good and some were bad. I noticed that they were nicer to their own kind; not to us Aboriginals. They did things for us that was done with a bad look on their faces ... you know, like they didn’t really care much for us.
I remember if I myself or even some of the other Aboriginal people that were in there asked for a glass of water or something, they would gammon [pretend] they never heard us or they were deaf or something or they would say things like ‘get up and do it yourself’, you know ... that sort of behaviour. One time one nurse even complained about getting me a bedpan that I really needed. I could not get up and walk to the toilet at all. I would not have been in that place at all if I could do things for myself.
Nana was obviously very ill during this time and she is very honest about the type of person she had become during the illness. She treated almost everyone who met her, especially the nurses, badly. She would scream at them, curse and swear at them, and make threats; anything to drive people away. When asked why she did this, Nana reckons it was because she felt so bad about herself that she wanted to hurt others as well. She said she felt as if she was going insane in that hospital. She said that whenever the nurses arrived to do their daily checks, she would start cursing them.
One night in Waiban she had an experience that she believes was a sign for her to change her ways.
Nana remembers lying in her bed when she was woken up ever so gently by someone or something. She recalls that she saw wings, great big angelic wings, one covering her feet and legs from the bottom up and the other covering her head and upper part of her body. She clearly saw angels standing there, one at her feet and the other at her head, as if protecting her. She could see the doorway to her room behind the angel at her feet and there on the floor lay a man, as if dead. She believed that the man had been sent on a mission to do away with her, that the nurses were so fed up with her verbal abuse that they had hired the man to curse her. However, for some reason, God had kept her safe from him and whatever power had accompanied him that night was no match for the Lord himself. God had kept this woman, who had clearly not been in her right mind, from harm. He had a plan for her and the plan of her enemies was not a part of His plan for her. The man had fallen down at the sight of these angels. Nana recalls how she slowly began to get well, knowing that He was indeed watching over her.
Nana remembers several close ‘brushes’ with the Lord. Once a scorpion had bitten her when my mother was about three years old. Nana remembers a lot of pain and the next minute she was running along some green grass by this river. She remember scoming to a bridge and desiring so much to cross it to the other side, but as she tried to, she somehow could not, as if there was an invisible wall stopping her. She could see a man standing at the end of the bridge on the other side, looking straight ahead. She remembers him as large and strong, with a shining face. She could see on the other side people walking back and forth, happily singing and laughing. She saw her mother there and her two sisters who had died as teenagers. They saw her too and started calling out her name, ‘Jean ... Jean’, and beckoned her to cross over. They seemed so happy to see her. She remembers looking around and noticing people who were also playing some sort of musical instrument, and the music ... I remember the look on Nana’s face when she talks of the music. It is as if she loses herself in the memory of it, although it happened so long ago. Recalling this experience to me gets her very excited every time. She told me that the sound of the music was unlike anything she had heard before or since:
It was proper sweet one, my grand-daughter ... proper sweet one. Jesus, him there, he walking around with all the people and in the middle of them people, Father; he there sitting on his throne, but I can’t really see him, only his glory everywhere.
Nana says that sweet Jesus himself looked after her and she woke up on the ground where she had fallen in front of her house at the waterfront. Everyone had gathered around her crying and wailing for her, as she had died for a short while. She told everyone to stop crying, got up and dusted the dirt from her clothes and went inside the house.
The other major experience she had with the Saviour was when she found herself walking up a ladder that just kept going up and up. She remembers climbing the ladder and then suddenly hearing a voice telling her that her time had not yet come and that she had too much to do yet and that she had things to see. She had looked up and seen a throne with someone sitting on it, who she could not see, only the Glory radiating from it. She also saw Jesus again, standing on the right of the one who sat on the throne.
I do not doubt for a second that Nana has had all these experiences. She speaks about them so casually. She tries to explain how green the grass was up there and how blue the sky was, and simply how beautiful everything was, as she saw it that day. She was not at all familiar with the sound she heard in that place she believes to be Heaven. She had heard nothing like it before, nor anything remotely similar since that day. My Spirit receives that yarn and I know she went there. He will call her back one day.
My grandparents spent some time living at Somerset on the tip of Cape York as a result of Nana spitting on a senior officer of Native Affairs at Thursday Island.
Nana and Grandad were both on Thursday Island as a form of punishment resulting once more from a misdemeanour commi
tted at Weipa. Grandad had fired a shotgun in the air over rumours regarding his and Nana’s commitment to each other. This story is touchy business and I will not endeavour to continue any further down this track. Let’s just say that Grandad had to cool down and both of them were directed to Thursday Island for an indefinite stay by the Superintendent. Nana appeared to enjoy her stay on Thursday Island. She remembers the enjoyable process of shopping on the Island.
‘I loved buying the materials, my girl. All fast colours they were. Bold bright colours with big huge hibiscus flowers. So beautiful they were.’
‘What’d ya do with that material, Nana?’ I questioned.
‘Well, I sewed and made lovely dresses for myself, girl. Also for your mother and other families too. I was a good seamstress in those days. Don’t think your grandmother was stupid,’ she whispered, almost rubbing noses with me to ensure I heard that last comment clear and well. There were also other relatives at Thursday Island who kept Nana and Grandad busy and contented.
Even then Nana had a reputation for ensuring things were being done in a fair way for her people. She kept a constant eye on those older relatives who were away from their own homes and country, making sure they were being treated with respect and fairness.
Therefore, an incident with an Islander head cook came as no surprise, really. Apparently Nana was late for one of her meals, which resulted in the grumpy cook attacking her verbally. Nana retaliated in language just as strong. The cook then grabbed hold of a whip and proceeded to whip Nana as if she was an animal.
As the whip was in the air, Nana grabbed it. Still holding onto her weapon, the woman was dragged along the ground right up to her opponent. The cook was the one who ended up receiving the whipping, until Nana was grabbed by an Islander policeman and carried away.
‘Get your stupid hands off me. Just tell me where to go and I will do it. I’m not a criminal or stupid,’ Nana said, as she pulled herself free from the grip of the policeman. Nana remembers that as she was whipping her opponent she could hear the words ‘can ah, can muk woon ah’. These were words from the Wikmunkan language that Nana grew up with. They meant ‘that’s enough, just leave it now’ and after looking around she realised they were spoken by a white policeman who was on duty. He had served in Aurukun years before and obviously had learnt the language. He had recognised Nana and decided to communicate the best way he knew.
In the ‘office’, Nana was given ‘a good talking to’ about her behaviour by the department officer. She felt that his ‘white fella preaching’, was not a fair or neutral position. She needed to respond, and the best way she could, without actually having to use words, was to take the risk. So she spat on him. Naturally that made things worse.
The department officer obviously thought it would be a good idea to send both Nana and Roy away for a while. So further punishment followed with six months in Cowal Creek, an Aboriginal community on the tip of Cape York, awaiting further instruction, and then the six remaining months at Somerset.
Nana mentions how Somerset was more like an excellent holiday retreat than a punishment stay. All they had to do was clean out the vacant house that stood there and hunt to feed themselves, and they were set. During this time, Grandad made spears from kwombranh, a floating wood from Hibiscus tiliaceus, which was used to make fishing spears and grew down at the beach. Oysters were plentiful and so were wallabies and wild pigs in the bush. Mangoes were plentiful in season around the house. Life was still good.
One day Grandad cut his foot badly on an oyster bed and was practically bed-ridden, unable to do the main hunting for meat. Nana had to fend for both of them. On a horse, equipped with a shotgun, she rode off in search of meat. The horse came with the house and the shotgun was given to my grandparents by the Department to assist them in fending for themselves. After a while she came across a wallaby. There it was standing upright in the distance, obviously sensing another’s presence nearby. Nana got the gun ready. With only one bullet, she had to make this shot count or that would be the end of meat for supper. She took careful aim and slowly pulled the trigger. The bullet went straight into the forehead—dinner fell to the ground with a big flop. Nana hung the carcass up on a nearby tree, skinned and cleaned it, packed it on the horse, then rode back home to a very impressed husband.
While at Somerset Nana and Roy frequently had visits from relatives who were passing by on their way to somewhere else. A group of men from Aurukun popped in once, after their boat pulled up at the Jardine. They were employed looking for trochus shells. They stopped to get some water and ended up staying for a while, yarning together and sharing a meal, before they headed off again. Nana said it was always good to hear from your mob and receive visits.
I remember as a young child hearing the story about the ghost of Old Man Jardine. Nana had been fast asleep, when she had heard Grandad talking to someone. Knowing that no one else was around for Grandad to be having a conversation with, Nana was curious to find out more about the situation. She heard the words ‘Look out! He gonna jump right over. Look out, he gonna jump right over’. To this day, Nana does not understand what that meant. When she opened her eyes to have a look, she could see the ghost of a man known only as Old Jardine looking in the direction of Grandfather and saying something to him. She screamed as loudly as she could, and his ghost disappeared, leaving Grandad angry and frustrated. Whatever it was that this spirit was trying to tell Grandad was now a mystery. Grandad told Nana that the spirit had been talking about a treasure of some sort and tried to show him a map of how to locate it. Naturally, we could only but wonder about this particular experience.
My grandfather (Uluchngoon, also known as Twangul), whose Anglo name was Roy George, passed away in April 1979. I was ten years old. Nana was with him on the day he went and she later told me that he had called out my name as his spirit left his body. He had always called me Fay rather than Fiona, and as he quietly slipped away that was the last word on his lips. I remember that day. He was just lying there as if the last bit of hope had oozed from his body and his spirit. He was also a funny colour, sort of pale by comparison to his usual dark skin.
Grandad was fifty-eight-years old when he died. Cause of death was carcinoma of the lungs and TB. For most of his life he was a strong person, hard-working and physically active. Developing Hodgkin’s disease during his service years in World War II, suffering the after-effects of a near-fatal accident sometime in the mid-1970s and then sliding into subtle alcoholism left my grandfather frail and inactive.
I don’t fully remember the lead-up to that day at the hospital, but I do recall the family crowding around Grandad as he lay weak on his bed. In the next room was an uncle of mine, a stepson of Grandad’s brother, Willy George. I remember occasionally popping in to see Uncle Elton Hammond and then back to Grandad’s room. I remember the reverend and the doctor taking Nana aside and speaking to her. I was then whisked away by another uncle, Ronnie Ngallametta, who at that time would have been one of the very few relatives who owned a vehicle, a Toyota Landcruiser trayback.
Grandad’s breathing was slow and laborious. Nana did not look at me. No one did. I don’t even remember where my mother or my sisters were. I somehow knew in my belly that my daddy’s old man was about to go somewhere. I also knew that he was going away for a long, long time.
Looking back now I realise that the staff at the hospital were giving us a chance to say goodbye, when they called members of the family in to gather. Although most family members left early, Nana stayed back. My grandmother, over the years, has only reluctantly and very briefly talked about Grandad. She has never really spoken about his death. I wonder just how deeply she was affected by his leaving. She refuses to talk about that day that his spirit left. When I do make mention of that day she sidesteps the topic and reminisces instead about what a great dancer or hunter he was.
Later that day, my grandparent’s yard slowly filled with relatives who began to mourn loudly from a hundred metres away from the house, a
s they slowly approached it. The wailing and crying, in an eerie ‘song-like’ fashion, got louder and louder as the place filled with the men, women and children who loved him. I remember my ears began to ring and I did not like the way this sound made me feel inside. I ran into what was my grandfather’s room, threw myself on his bed and quietly wept in solitude.
I had been extremely close to my grandfather, as he was the nearest thing to a father-figure I had. I referred to him as ‘Daddy Old Man’. I knew my real father by name but had never met him. He, on the other hand, had seen me wrapped in a blanket as a newborn, when my mother took me to him. Mum said my father barely looked in my direction. That is when Grandad appeared and took me in, as if I was his own.
Grandad was a hard-working man in his day, in traditional chores and hunting practices as well as the labour required by the white man. In return for this labour, rations in the form of sugar, tea and flour were supplied. Often the jobs available to black folk required the men to leave their homes and families and they reaped very little from their hard work.
My grandfather possessed a quiet but strong spirit and I now recognise that same spirit in my mother: good-natured and almost timid in appearance and body language. I clearly remember my grandfather’s black hands as he sat cross-legged on country, stripping the juicy flesh of goanna or earth-cooked brolga, ibis or wallaby, feeding it into my mouth. I would sit silently beside him, observing his techniques, waiting to be included in the process.
My grandfather had a strong sense of identity—of who he was. His placing on country flowed naturally, so why, I now wonder, did he turn to alcohol? He welcomed it like a long-lost lover, kept it close like a dear friend until he was drowning in it. It was not that he was gripped by alcoholism in a loud, obvious sense; rather, it slowly but surely seeped into every part of his body until his spirit was so suffocated by its effects that it could not breathe any more.