Warrigal's Way

by Warrigal Anderson

  “You two looked pretty chummy,” John said, giving me a sly grin. “Yeah, she was telling me she seen your mum on the way to work, drunk as usual, holding up her favourite parking meter.”

  “Geez, I hope she hasn’t spent all her pension. Never know when I’ll need a loan.” He didn’t turn a hair. “And you’ll have to be a bloody sight nicer than that for me to give you a knock-down to Jenny. What will my missus say if she finds out I introduced her mate to a fortune-hunting rat-bag like you,” he crowed.

  “Bugger off, I’m going over your head. I’m gunna ring your lovely wife and invite her to dinner with me and Jenny, and you’re gunna have to clean up your act if you want to come, laddie boy. So you can start with this.” I handed him my pot.

  “Ha! I knew the first time I seen you—I said, here’s trouble.” John laughed as he headed for the bar.

  “We can use my expense account, the company can stand it. Give Lyn a ring and tell her Jenny’s coming with me.” I grinned. John laughed out loud. He and I were always having verbal shots at each other, and trying to go one up all the time and he thought I was having him on about Jenny.

  Dinner that night was great, and after she’d led me a merry dance for the next ten months we decided to get married. I ran headlong into the biggest heap of official bullshit you could imagine. The registrar could not handle the fact that although I was as white as him I had no birth certificate. How could this be? I looked him straight in the eye and told him. “My mother was an Aboriginal and in 1948 when I was born, officially Aboriginals didn’t exist, so there was no way under white law Mum could register me. The old man could have, but he was a hopeless drunk, and it might of upset his wog relations in Denmark if they’d found out he’d had a half-caste kid.”

  So Jenny and I just gave the system the big “A” and did the hippie thing and lived together. Married life meant change. I went to work with Goldsworthy mining up at the mine workshops. I didn’t want to be floating around the bush with a wife, going off and leaving her on her own. At least in this job we’re together.

  Jenny got a job in Poons Canteen and we set up house in a sixteen-foot caravan we bought. We also bought a short wheelbase four-by-four Toyota to pull it. Once or twice a month, if we were lucky, our shift change fell on the same weekend and we had three days off, more or less. We knocked off at 8 o’clock on Friday morning and started again at midnight on Sunday. It was great. We spent a lot of time fossicking for gemstones around Marble Bar and Bamboo Creek areas. It got us away from the minesite and was interesting.

  One morning when we were out fossicking I caught my Goddess looking wan and throwing up. She was really crook and I broke camp and raced her back to the medical centre, and sat for three lifetimes in the waiting room while she was checked over by the medic.

  “How did you go?” I asked her.

  She was smiling and gave me smug looks. “How are you at changing nappies and getting out of bed at all hours?”

  “You’re pregnant?” I said. (It doesn’t take me too long to catch on!)

  “We’ve wasted our time if I’m not.” She was glowing. I didn’t know how I felt about being a dad. My emotions were a bit scrambled. I really wanted us to have this baby, but I was in a bit of a panic. I might have got out of the clutches of the Department, but I was frightened they would come some day and take our baby. I hid my fears from Jenny, but I couldn’t get it out of my mind and I was slowly falling to bits thinking about it. So on the next change of shift we went down to Port Hedland and stayed with John and Lyn. I was hoping to meet Scotty, an Aboriginal man I had worked with at Bob’s. I wanted reassurance that the government wouldn’t come and take my kid away, with me having to stand like Mum and just watch. I knew I couldn’t do that. I would want to kill someone before they took my kid.

  John and I went down to the Pier Hotel. I was getting myself into a real state and John was giving me funny looks.

  “Geez mate, you got a load on your mind? It’s sticking out like the arse end of a semi-trailer. What’s wrong?”

  I thought about telling him, but didn’t know if he would understand. Just then Scotty came in. I called him over to our table and went and got three more beers. Sitting comfortably, I poured out my fears to him. He was about fifty and had a family and was like a dad to me. He picked up his beer, took a sip and looked at me. “You’re getting into a state for nothing. They don’t do that any more. Too much public outcry. They gave it away a couple of years ago, so rest easy, they not gunna take your kid. You know you’re going to have to get Jenny to register the baby. You’re like me, you don’t exist. Now drink your beer and it’s my shout. We’ll wet the baby’s head a bit before time.”

  These were the words I wanted to hear. I felt on top of the world. But I thought I’d still ring Jim, Bob’s JP mate, and make sure. Which I did after tea, and he confirmed what Scotty had told me. So now I could really get on with life.

  Seven and a half months later our daughter Sharon was born, in the middle of the night, of course, amid panic, and after what seemed like hours waiting at the hospital. We entered into a strange new world of early morning feeds, blinking your eyes open at two am, warming a bottle and sitting half asleep while she drank it and burping her after it, then settling her down again. We shared the honours, through the gripe, temperatures, teething, nappy rashes and prickly heat. It was real zombie time, as half the time we were on automatic.

  When Sharon was about two years old Jenny and I decided to take her down to Moe in Gippsland to show her off to Jenny’s parents. They had arrived from Fielding in New Zealand about six months earlier and they hadn’t yet met Sharon or me.

  Jenny then wanted to show me New Zealand. So we decided to head off to the land of the Kiwi for a working holiday and to meet the rest of Jenny’s relations who were still in New Zealand. (That seemed to me to be about half the Maori population.)

  We left Sydney on our big adventure amid waves and tears. Actually the more I thought about going to the land of the Kiwi the more I was a fan for it, the biggest bonus was I could live without constantly looking over my shoulder or I was pretty sure I could. I didn’t think the Department had any pull in NZ. Jeez eh? Just to strut down the street like you owned it, funny most people don’t know what a priceless thing freedom is and simply take it for granted. I listened to the hum of the engines and a feeling of intense excitement hit me, now I understood beyond doubt why this new bloke of Mum’s had taken her over there, a complete new life. I hoped I would run into her, that would make my life.

  24

  Visiting the Shakey Isles

  We flew into Auckland on a cold, wet Wednesday. All the way across the Tasman it had been bright and sunny as the plane flew above the clouds. But when we sighted the coast it was overcast and the pilot’s weather forecast was for sixteen degrees and raining. He was right. It was freezing. Crikey, I didn’t want to get on the plane in Sydney, until my missus shamed me into it, and now I didn’t want to get off. It felt like the Antarctic.

  We went aboard a bus that was going to the terminal in town, where at least it was warm. We ended up on the footpath outside the terminal down by the waterfront surrounded by our gear and blue with the cold. I left the Goddess guarding the gear with chattering teeth while I went on a mission for coats or jerseys one inch thick. Every second shop was a ladies shop which only seemed to sell thin underwear, but after searching every doorway for what seemed like miles, I finally found an Army Surplus store. I got a Navy pea jacket for myself and a pure wool coat for Jenny for a laughable price. I got a cab back to the depot, just in time to give Jenny the kiss of life. We asked a cabby to take us to a decent motel, and we ended up in Mission Bay, a few miles around the harbour from town, and one of the prettiest places you would ever want to see. The units were heated, and compared to Sydney the price was a steal.

  After we had thawed out and eaten, Jenny and I looked in the car section of the newspaper for a set of wheels. It was incredible. Cars that vanished from
Australia twenty years ago were priced as if they were Rolls Royces. I thought we’d had a windfall when we changed our money, picking up twenty cents on every dollar, but things were obviously dearer in New Zealand. Every time we saw something in the paper that looked decent it turned out to be a junk heap—the result of Kiwi tinkering. Most of them were right stuff-ups. I reckon the first car we bought was the taxi we used to look at the junk—he loved us.

  Westfield Meatworks were advertising for mutton butchers, so I asked Jenny if she would mind looking for a car, while I saw if I could get a start out at the gate. She was agreeable, as long as I didn’t go crook about what she got.

  I went to see Keith, the manager of the motel, to find out the best way of getting out to the meatworks. He told me it was easy. “Just catch any bus to the depot in town, and the ARA Transport run a bus to the works. Leave here about half past six and the bus will get you there around seven or a quarter past.”

  “Thanks mate. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. How are you going with getting a car?”

  “Just about given up. Geez, we’ve seen some junk.”

  “Look, call in and see Barney. He’s got the shop on the corner. He told me his brother-in-law wants to sell his wife’s car because it’s getting too dear to run two.”

  I went back up to the unit and told Jenny, and she said she’d have a look at it tomorrow.

  As Keith had said, it was easy to get to to the works. At the personnel office nothing was new—same questions and answers as at home—and I scored a job on number two chain, flanking. The work was easy—more boring than hard—and the butchers were like those at any works, a good bunch of blokes. I had a small Maori feller called Ian on one side, and another Maori called Ted on the other side. Ted was a big happy bloke and he and Ian took me under their wing and showed me the canteen, the locker rooms, the showers. We chattered away about Australia, and particularly Melbourne as they had both done a season at Angliss’ in Footscray. They wanted to know what the rest of the country was like, as they were both going back to do the season in Queensland. I asked them lots of questions about what to see in Enzed. They told me about so many places that I thought we were going to have to be there for the rest of our lives to see them all.

  We knocked off at about half past three and I went down to the store and handed in the gear, then went to the pay office and collected thirty-eight dollars sixty. I thought that was great. The bus ride home was interesting and I admired the driver’s skill in threading this huge bus through the traffic. He was a big happy Samoan feller. Coconuts, Ted called him. Ted said that the Samoans and the Maori didn’t really get on, but he seemed a nice enough bloke to me.

  Jenny was in the unit when I got there.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said. “Did you look at the car or not?”

  She laughed out loud. “Yep!”

  “Yep what? Yep you bought it or yep you didn’t.”

  “Yep I bought it. Guess how much?”

  “Give me a break. Tell me what we’ve got first, then I’ll guess.”

  “Well, it’s a 1952 Humber in spot condition, full rego and full up-to-date warrant of fitness, and its name is the Blue Streak. Way out, eh?”

  “And you want me to guess? Well, I reckon about ten dollars twenty-five!”

  She threw a pillow off the sofa at me in mock anger.

  “Hang on. I’ll just look in on Sharon, and I’ll show you the car.” We walked over to the parking bays directly opposite the unit. As Jenny had said, it was a king—well-preserved, no dings or scratches, excellent paint and bodywork, everything worked and the inside trim was in mint condition. It was about medium size, bigger than a Morris and just smaller than a Holden. It had a four-speed gear box, but Jenny said that first gear is a crawler, you know, for steep hills or dragging a trailer.

  “It drives as sweet as a nut, and handles like a Mercedes Benz,” said Jenny. “I took it for a run up the Bay this afternoon and it’s no problem in the traffic. I’ll take you out to the meatworks in the morning. Now come on, how much?”

  “Kiwi car, Kiwi prices, I reckon about four or five hundred as it’s in real good nick.”

  Jenny looked at me, her eyes shining. “They asked me to make an offer, I offered a hundred dollars, and they said ‘done’.” She laughed. “Is that alright?”

  “Jesus, girl, you excelled yourself. You are now the official family car buyer,” I said, grinning happily. (She was also a much better driver than me—she had more patience and could handle the traffic better.)

  “I took it out to the testing station in Grey Lynn before I paid the money, and it went through with flying colours,” Jenny told me as we went back to the unit. We had no idea why it was so cheap, but it was a little ripper. When I wasn’t working we had a look around Auckland. It was a pretty place and reminded me of Sydney, with the main business area built on the harbour, the main street leading down to the wharves and ferries, and the suburbs spread around the bays of one of the prettiest harbours you could see. It was a boatie’s paradise—no wonder the Kiwis are good yachties.

  I got about three weeks work at the meatworks and then we decided to move on. My wages had paid for the rent and the car, with a bit left over, so we thought we’d head north as Jenny reckoned that was the warmest part. It was pleasant driving along, the heater going and the motor humming like a contented bee.

  Jenny was driving and I was holding Sharon on my knee, or trying to. Have you ever tried to hold a restless toddler? She was like a greased eel.

  We decided to drive straight through to Whangarei, the capital of the province of North Auckland, and the birthplace of the country, and of half the famous All Blacks rugby union players, according to Jenny. The countryside consisted of farms and lush rainforest that swept right down to the beach in places and was really hilly.

  Whangarei surprised me with its size. It was quite large and ranged from flat land down by the wharf to gullies that spread up over hill tops. We went to a suburb called Tiki Punga, overlooking the city, where Jenny had relatives. We stayed a couple of days at her Auntie Kahu’s place and met every Maori for miles, and virtually had to sneak away, otherwise we would still be there.

  We had a week in Whangarie and then headed back through Auckland. Jenny drove, and as I sat in the passenger seat watching the people and the countryside go by, I had the silly idea that I might see Mum. I knew in my mind I was just dreaming, but at least I was in the same country as she was, and you never know. After seeing how big Auckland was I wasn’t going to hold my breath. But an impossible dream couldn’t hurt.

  After an overnighter in Auckland we set off again. We ended up in Rotorua, Jenny had been there before but she wanted me to see it for myself. About ten miles out of the place, there was this awful smell I thought all the rotten eggs in the world had emigrated to this place. The stink was incredible. Even Sharon was saying “Poo” and holding her nose.

  “Stop here,” Jenny said. We were on a straight stretch of road with scrub on either side, and there was steam coming out of the gutter on the side of the road. “Carry Sharon, love. Don’t let her run around here. And come and have a look at this.”

  We walked over to the side of the road and I saw an incredible sight. Just a short distance away was a pool of boiling mud, which was fizzing and popping, and alongside it was a pool of water that Jenny said was so hot you could cook a meal in it.

  Jenny told me that a lot of the houses in the area had these hot pools in their back yards, and the Maori women cooked the vegies in wire baskets in the pools. They also used the steam vents for heat in the houses in winter. They just got a plumber to hook it up and Bob’s your uncle.

  We hired a van in the caravan park in Rotorua and had a good look round the place. We did the tourist route to Whaka, an area which, as well as having all these pools of boiling water and mud, had this huge geyser, which went twenty or thirty feet in the air when it went off, about once an hour. There were Maori guides t
o show the tourists around, and there were a bunch of kids on the bank of a creek who dived for ten-or twenty-cent pieces thrown from the bridge over the creek. They didn’t miss many either.

  We went out to Rotomahana, and took a boat trip over a lake to see the sunken village. You peer down into the water, and there are all these old Maori buildings that look just as they did when they were on dry land. They say the village sank during an earthquake. (New Zealand is the home of ripper earthquakes, and I thought, one shake and I’m off home! Even the locals called them the Shakey Isles.) We also discovered little bath houses scattered all around the place and they were bliss on a cold Kiwi night.

  We left Rotorua for Taupo and drove for what seemed like endless hours through pine forest. The people at a garage we filled up at told us it was the biggest pine plantation in the world. It would have been a big pull of course, I just nodded my head and looked wise.

  We bolted down the road to Wellington at the breakneck speed of forty miles an hour, the old Humber going like a bolt of blue lightning.

  We passed snow-capped mountains that looked as cold as a camping trip to Cooma with no tent and one blanket in the middle of July. As soon as I saw them my blood started to freeze and my foot on the throttle got heavier. Wow! Forty-five, now we’re humming.

  We went through Palmerston North and the smaller towns to the south like a paper bag on a windy day, and reached Wellington at about seven in the morning.

  We found a handy shop doorway to lean the Humber against as we had decided to risk a walk. Going up the street, with Sharon between us holding our hands, looking for a restaurant or somewhere to have breakfast, I noticed a row of hitching rails.

  “This must be Tamworth’s sister town,” I said to Jenny.

  “Don’t be silly. They’re not for tying up horses,” she said.

  “Well, what else could they be?”

  She just gave me her real wise look. As luck would have it, up the road came a Kiwi cop. He had a coal scuttle on his head and looked like Noddy’s mate. I asked him what the hitching rails were for. He told me a story that you’d get the Darwin yarn-spinner of the year award for if you told it at home.