by Judy Nunn
‘We are kin.’ She said it louder thistime. The words were out and she felt bolder now. ‘My name is Milly,’ she looked directly into Anne’s eyes. ‘Milly Kendle.’
Anne felt a shock of outrage. It was a blasphemous thing for the woman to have said. Outrageous. Unbelievable. Preposterous.
Milly could see the shock and incredulity; she hadn’t wanted to tell anyone but the old man. ‘Please, missus, please let me see him. Old Mr James is the only one who will know. He is the only one who can help me.’ There were tears in her eyes. She tried to fight them back, not wanting to lose control.
‘What exactly is it you want from him?’ Anne managed to ask.
‘They are going to take my babies.’ Milly couldn’t help it, there was no stemming the tears now. ‘They say I can’t look after my babies.’ She sniffed and wiped at her face with her cloth handbag. ‘The Protection Board isgoing to take my two babies. They are going to take them far away and change their names and put them with a white family and I’ll never see them again.’
Milly wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand, the tears under control now. ‘If I show the Protection Board that I can look after my babies, then they’ll let them stay with me on the reservation.’
‘So it is money you’re after.’ Anne’s voice was hard and cold. Charles had been right, she thought.
The missus was going to send her away, Milly knew it. She was very calm now. ‘My father’s name was Jackie Kendle,’ she said. ‘His mother was called Murrumuru and his father was called Richard Kendle.’
At the mention of her grandfather’s name, Anne felt a fresh sense of shock. But it was the shock of plausibility. How could the woman know of Richard Kendle? How could she invent such a preposterous lie? At the sametime Anne recognised that the woman was not an Aborigine of full blood, her skin was too light, her features too European. It was suddenly imperative to Anne that she find out the truth.
‘Come with me,’ she said.
Inside the house, Milly stood on the huge Persian carpet, feeling it plush beneath the thin, worn soles of her shoes, and stared up at the moulded ceiling high above, the gleaming crystal chandelier hanging from its centre. She had never dreamed a house could be so grand. There were gold-framed paintings on the walls, and a statue in the corner, and a massive fireplace set intiles with a carved wooden mantelpiece over the top. And a piano. Milly had never seen a piano, not a real one, only a picture of one in the newspaper.
Anne beckoned Milly to follow her up the grand staircase. It was as well Amy and Susan were at the dressmaker for a final wedding gown fitting, she thought. Her eyes darted to Charles’s study which led off from the downstairs sitting room. The door was ajar and she prayed that he wouldn’t appear.
When they reached upstairs she breathed a sigh of relief. But as she walked along the landing to her father’s bedroom, she was startled by a voice behind her.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Anne turned, as did Milly, to confront Mrs Marett, who had stepped out from one of the bedrooms. ‘May I be of any assistance?’
‘Thank you no, Mrs Marett.’ Anne could see the censure in the housekeeper’s eyes.
‘My father has a visitor,’ Anne replied as boldly as she could. ‘We will be brief, and you do not need to informmy brother, I shall do so myself.’
‘Very good, ma’am.’
Anne ushered Milly into the bedroom.
It was a large room, with French windows which, if opened, would have permitted the grandest view from the balcony across Woolloomooloo Bay to the city skyline. But the windows were not open now, the red velvet drapes were drawn and the room was gloomy. So gloomy that Milly barely noticed the person asleep in the four-poster bed to her right.
Anne crossed to the windows and drew open the heavy curtains. Mrs Marett would have closed them, she thought with irritation. She had asked the woman not to do so, but then Charles’s housekeeper never listened to a word she said. She opened the French windows, and the afternoon sun shone through the lace curtains.
James stirred from his drowsiness. ‘Anne?’ he murmured.
‘Yes, Father, I’m here. And you have a visitor. Come along now, let’s sit you up.’ She took the spare pillows from the cupboard and propped them behind him, then she poured water from the jug into the porcelain bowl on the marble washstand beside the bed and bathed his face with a flannel. ‘Pull the chair to the bed where he can see you,’ she instructed Milly.
Milly did as she was told and then sat wondering what to do next. The old man looked so frail.
‘Tell him everything, exactly as you told me,’ Anne said, squeezing the flannel dry and draping it over the side of the basin.
‘My name is Milly, sir,’ she said.
‘Milly, that’s nice.’ The voice was frail too. Everything about the old man was frail, from the waxlike skin of his thin, thin face, to the fragile claw of his hand which rested gently on the bedcover. ‘A visitor,’ James said, ‘we don’t have many visitors, do we, Anne? How very pleasant.’
‘That’s right, Father, and Milly has something to tell you. Something which is very important, so you must listen carefully.’ She sat on the bed and took the clawlike fingers in her hand. ‘Go on,’ she said to Milly, ‘everything, just as you told me.’
Milly took a deep breath. ‘My name is Milly, sir. Milly Kendle. And my father was Jackie Kendle—’
‘Kendle,’ the old man interrupted, smiling delightedly, ‘Kendle, that is my name.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘That is our name, Anne, Milly shares our name. Is that not extraordinary?’
Milly halted, confused.
‘Go on,’ Anne said.
‘Jackie Kendle’s mother was called Murrumuru. And his father was called Richard Kendle.’
‘Richard Kendle.’ James seemed even more delighted. ‘My father’s name, extraordinary, quite extraordinary.’ His voice quivered with excitement, he would start to ramble any minute now, Anne thought. ‘How charming you should visitus. Will the tea be long, Anne? How charming, I do so like having visitors, although visitors are few and far between these days, are they not, Anne?’
‘Yes, Father, we have few visitors, but Milly is trying to tell you that she is more than a visitor. She believes she is a Kendle, you see.’
‘A Kendle? Well, yes, she is, she is. She says she is.’ James smiled, it was nice to have a visitor. Someone other than Anne. Albeita native. Nice to have a visitor.
‘No, Father, she is telling you that she iskin, or so she believes.’
‘Kin?’ James looked bewildered. ‘Kin?’
‘Yes, Father. She believes that she isfamily.’
‘But how can she be family?’ He looked from Milly to Anne, then back to Milly. ‘How can she be family? She is black.’
‘Yes. And she is saying that Grandfather Richard sired a child by an Aboriginal woman, a woman called Murrumuru.’ The baldness of the statement sounded brutal, but she needed to shock him, to keep his concentration focused.
‘Murrumuru … Murrumuru …’ James murmured the name, savouring the sound. Vaguely he remembered it from somewhere. ‘Murrumuru. Murrumuru.’ It reminded him of the gentle, haunting sounds the black men made through their long wooden pipes. Murrumuru. Suddenly he remembered. Of course. Murrumuru cooked eels. At Parramatta, in the camp beside the river, he had watched her cook eels. She was the mother of his friend. The boy to whom he had given his hat. What was the boy’s name?
‘You remember Murrumuru do you, Father?’ The old man was nodding as he murmured the name. He nodded again and Anne knew she must be direct, there was no time to spare, soon he would disappear once more into histwilight world. ‘Did Murrumuru bear achild by Richard Kendle?’ she asked firmly.
Turumbah, that was the boy’s name, James recalled. Turumbah. Turumbah and Gran’sun James, they had been such friends. Turumbah had taught him to swim. Ah, those were the days. The days of freedom, secret and forbidden. The freedom of swimming naked and alone amongst the mangroves. The old
man smiled at the memory.
‘Please try and concentrate, Father. Did Murrumuru and Richard Kendle have a child? Please, Father. Try.’
Anne was gently and methodically squeezing his hand, James realised. She only did that when she wanted him to concentrate. James tried. He tried hard. He would do anything for Anne.
‘Murrumuru and Richard Kendle,’ he whispered.
‘Yes, Father, well done. Murrumuru and Richard Kendle, did they have a child?’
James shook his head. What an outrageous remark, how could Anne suggest such a thing? His own father and the black housemaid! For James recalled now that Murrumuru had been a servant in their house.
‘But could they have done so, Father, would it have been possible?’ Anne was persistent, she would not let him drift away. ‘Could she have been his mistress?’
Suddenly the memories flooded in. A kaleidoscope of images. How old would he have been—fifteen? sixteen?—when he and Phoebe had noticed a rift between their parents. It had been around that time that Murrumuru had left the household. ‘I prefer white servants,’ had been his mother’s only explanation. Most vivid in the myriad of pictures which tumbled through James’s brain was the face of Grandfather Thomas, head upon the pillow of his deathbed, begging for an answer. ‘What did I do to your mother, James? How did Iruin her marriage? Why has she condemned me?’ It had been Thomas Kendall who had brought Wolawara and his clan to Parramatta. It had been Thomas Kendall who had given them the land. And, of course, it had been Thomas Kendall whom Mary had blamed for the ruin of her marriage.
Everything was falling into place. James fought to retain his concentration, but was tiring from the effort. It all made sense now. Shocking sense, most certainly, but …
‘How unlike you, Anne, to be so cruel.’
Anne and Milly had both been so focused upon the old man, they had failed to hear the door open. Anne wondered how long her brother had been standing there.
‘Stop torturing the man, let him be.’ Charles crossed to the bed and disengaged Anne’s hand from her father’s. ‘You must not squeeze his fingers so, he is very fragile. You of all people should know that.’
Anne rose guiltily from the bed and Charles took her place, stroking James’s brow, crooning to him gently. ‘Rest now, Father, rest.’
‘So much to remember, Charles.’ The old man was agitated. ‘So much to remember.’
‘Sssh, there, there. You must not distress yourself. Relax, Father, relax.’
The softness of his son’s voice and the gentle touch of his fingers were soothing. James closed his eyes. He had been somewhere peaceful only moments ago. Where, he wondered. Ah yes, that was it. Swimming. Naked. Alone in his magic land beneath the silent canopy of mangroves, his toes trailing in the softness of the mud, the gentle suction of the water caressing his body …
‘That’s it, Father, relax …’ Charles’s steel-grey eyes belied his soothing tone. Even as he stroked his father’s brow, he glared hate at Milly who sat frozen on the edge of the chair.
As soon as Charles sensed that his father’s mind had slipped away, he dropped all pretence. He rose from the bed and addressed Milly, quietly but with such menace that she dared not move.
‘My housekeeper iswaiting for you on the landing, she will see you out the servants’ entrance, and you will never show your face here again, do you understand me?’
It was not only Milly who was frightened. Anne had seen Charles like this before, and it always terrified her. But something deep inside lent her strength. ‘Charles, we must know the truth,’ Anne heard herself protest, amazed at her own boldness. ‘It is important for us all.’
‘We know the truth, Anne.’ His eyes did not leave Milly’s. ‘The truth isthis woman wants money, is that not so?’
Milly nodded, petrified but desperate. ‘Yes, sir, for my babies.’
‘Exactly,’ he mocked her with his scorn, ‘for your babies.’
‘It is true, Charles,’ Anne insisted, ‘everything she says—’
‘Anne, my dear,’ he turned to his sister and spoke reassuringly, albeit with an air of condescension, ‘I am sympathetic to this woman’s plight, you must believe me, and Mrs Marett will give her money, I have instructed her to do so.’ He smiled his assurance. ‘Now we must let the poor creature go, we have terrified her quite enough.’ To Milly: ‘You may go.’ It was an order.
Milly slid from her chair and sidled out through the door as quickly as she could.
‘Charles, I don’t know how much you heard but—’
‘I heard quite enough, my dear, and you must trust me in my judgement.’ He stepped close to her and took her face in his hands. She felt like a mouse in a trap. ‘Iam the head of this family, am I not?’ She nodded, but her glance flickered nervously towards the door. ‘The woman will be recompensed, have no fear.’ His eyes were boring into her.
‘You must obey me, Anne,’ he said with infinite tenderness, ‘I have your best interests at heart.’ Her face locked between his hands, her eyes locked to his, there was nothing she could do but stand, paralysed, feeling the warmth of his breath as he bent to her. ‘You must always remember that, my dear.’ And he kissed her softly upon the lips. ‘Always,’ he whispered as their mouths parted. Then he left her there, standing at her father’s bedside, frozen, shocked into submission.
Milly did not receive any recompense. These were not Mrs Marett’s orders. Terrified, she was bundled out the servants’ entrance and told never to return.
Six months later her children were taken from her. She never saw them again.
Tis the hope of something better than the present or the past—
Tis the wish for something better—strong within us to the last.
Tis the longing for redemption as our ruined souls descend;
Tis the hope of something better that will save us in the end.
As the commercial depression of 1892 spilled over into 1893, the voice of Henry Lawson, the boy from Grenfell, urged his fellow countrymen to be strong. No longer were they second-rate Europeans; he told them through his pen, they were Australians and should be proud of it.
For many it was difficult though. As yet more banks crashed and more companies became insolvent, as yet more rock-solid businessmen filed bankruptcy petitions in the courts and more pillars of society were charged with fraud, pride was a luxury many could ill afford. Particularly the burgeoning numbers of unemployed who, in the streets of Melbourne and Sydney, staged demonstrations to draw attention to their plight.
On Sunday 19 November, Paddy O’Shea and a number of his mates joined the three hundred strong who were gathered at the Queen Victoria statue in the centre of Sydney. The crowd milled for an hour or so, gathering forces before the march to the Centennial Hall, and the babble grew bitter as men voiced their opinions on the cause of the economic ruin.
The public service was overmanned, somesaid. The government departments were so clogged with red tape that public works were at a standstill. Others said it was the politicians getting fat on the taxpayers’ money whilst families starved. Some said the depression was caused by flash speculation. Others maintained it was a punishment for the folly of excessive overseas borrowing. Everyone had an opinion, and by the time the march set off, the voice of disillusionment was vociferous and loud.
Paddy was amongst those at the head of the procession, behind the leader, who carried a huge wooden cross, nailed to which was the effigy of a man with the wounds of Christ smeared in red paint upon it. Above the head was a placard on which was written ‘Humanity crucified’.
As the procession started to march off, some of the bystanders voiced their outrage at the blasphemy, whilst others, sympathetic to the victims of the crisis, shouted their approval. But the bickering posed no threat of violence and, aside from a brief scuffle with police, the demonstration progressed peacefully to Centennial Hall. There voices were raised in protest and, at the culmination of the proceedings, the Reverend Bavin assured the gathering th
at God was sympathetic to their predicament, and to remember always that God loved them.
For Paddy it was not enough. God’s love had done little for him, he thought. Like many, Paddy was angry. Very angry. The latest bitter pill he’d had to swallow had not been one of his own making.
He had not been responsible for the closure of the Standard Bank of Australia. And whilst many banks had closed, only to reopen again once order had been restored, the Standard Bank of Australia had not been one of them. It had closed its doors for good, it had gone forever, and with it had gone Paddy’s money. His and Dotty’s nest egg, their security for the future. And Paddy was powerless to do anything about it.
But he would not stand by and see young Daniel, ten years of age, taken from school, deprived of an education because he, Paddy O’Shea, could not buy books for his son. He would not stand by and see his beautiful eighteen-year-old daughter, Kathleen, dressed in rags. And, above all, he would not stand by and see his loyal wife grow thinner and more worn with each day, fretting, scraping together the pennies to feed her family.
Paddy was going to take matters into his own hands. He had a plan.
Paddy would not listen to any more empty promises of God’s love. He would commit a crime, and he knew exactly who was to be hisvictim. Charles Kendle. He had made the choice several months previously. The day he’d bumped into Charles’s sister, Anne Goodlet.
Every so often Paddy would walk up the hill from the pub to look at his mother’s cottage. Just for old time’s sake. On this particular day, huddled against a lamp post, the collar of his work shirt turned up against the light drizzle of rain, he watched as a neat woman, tucked beneath an umbrella, opened the gate. She stepped up onto the porch, shook out the umbrella and set it down to dry. It was then, as she took the front-door key from her purse, that Paddy realised, to his surprise, who the woman was.
He called her name. ‘Anne! Anne Goodlet!’
She turned, and he crossed to the gate. ‘Paddy O’Shea?’ she queried.