Mazin Grace
Page 4
I know where I fit in my family until I come to that place where my father should be. It’s like one big riddle, mix my head up, and I can’t work it out. Who’s my mummatja? Sometimes, people ask me that, they say, ‘Who’s your father?’
I say, ‘I don’t know.’
‘What, you illegitimate?’ they say.
I don’t know what that big word means, so I don’t say nothin’.
‘You must be bastard-kid then,’ they say.
Then, I start kickin’ and punchin’ or swearin’ at ’em, ’cause I don’t like ’em callin’ me that nasty word. I don’t know what that means either, but I know it’s not a nice word.
Who’s who?
Who’s my mumma? I used to ask myself that. I know that now. Ada’s my mumma and I got lots of other mothers too – all Ada’s sisters. Mumma Jenna’s not really my mumma, she my granny. I nyindi that too, now. I got lotsa other grannies – grandmothers and grandfathers, too. Papa Neddy say that’s Nyunga-way to ’ave big families, that’s how we look after each other. He sit me on ’is lap and say, ‘Girl, you a child of God and you got lotsa mothers and fathers that care for you. You don’t need nothin’ else but God’s grace and you already got that too, with a name to prove it.’
‘But Papa, who’s my father?’
‘Quiet now, Grace. Your father is the Lord God in Heaven.’
4
Secret-pretty-things
All the work finished on Williams’ farm and the next week we back in our minya cottage on the Mission. In the mornin’, us kids wake up and gotta get ready for school. Ada usually feeds the minya ones, Sarah and Lil-Lil, while Mumma and Molly get feed ready for Eva, me, Polly, Joshy, Mona and all the other kids, if we got food. This week we ’ave ’cause all the grown-ups bin workin’ on the farm.
‘Get up, go wash your face and ’ave breakfast,’ Ada tell us.
We don’t need to get dressed ’cause we already wearin’ clothes from yesterday. Us bigger girls get up one after the other, rubbin’ our guru mooga tired-way, go over to the corner of the kitchen to the wash bowl with Velvet soap on the side there, and we give our face a splash or two. In the mornin’ the water’s always see-through but by night-time it’s a brown colour. Everyone use that same bowl to wash in, kids and grown-ups. We don’t ’ave a flash bath tub like Superintendent and the other walbiya mob on the Mission.
Other than a tin one that the grown-ups use to clean the wadu mooga, we just got this one minya bowl and cloth and Velvet soap. Ada tell me ’bout the bath tubs she’s seen cleanin’ walbiya houses. Sometimes, I wonder what it’d be like to lie in a big bath of warm water with lotsa fancy smellin’ soap and bubbles and stretch out. I s’pose I’d ’ave to be careful not to drown. Then, after we wash our face, we eat breakfast, if we got mai – piece of damper or Mumma’s bread with drippin’, or jam if we lucky. If we don’t ’ave any mai we just go to school with our minya djudas growlin’ hungry-way.
When it’s time to go to school my sisters and brothers cut it out the door but I always stay behind. Sometimes, I sit on the bed in the kitchen where Molly squished my head that time when that ugly old Sister McFlarety come snoopin’.
Once all the kids gone, Mumma say, ‘Come on, girl. Get to school too, now.’
‘No. Not yet, Mumma,’ I always say in my sweet voice. ‘I just wanna listen to this song on the radio first.’
Papa’s radio sittin’ on the kitchen table there in front of me, with the music comin’ out of its big material mouth. The buttons look like minya guru mooga lookin’ back at me and even the top looks like an old-fashioned moona comin’ down over its yuree. I love listenin’ to the music hour, Yours for the Askin’, with that tjilbi with the flashy soundin’ voice. I always laugh when I imagine ’is voice belongin’ to Papa’s radio. As if Papa’s old radio would talk like that if it had a voice. It would most probably use Kokatha wonga, like us.
I love that radio program so much ’cause anyone can write a letter and request their favourite song like, ‘Jimmy Crack Corn’ and ‘Danny Boy’. Lotsa deadly songs like that. I reckon even I could make a request if I had envelope and stamp. But where am I gonna get enough bunda to buy those wada mooga? Superintendent must ’ave them things ’cause he probably writes to welfare and tell them when to come and check on us. Us kids don’t like Superintendent, we call ’im cheeky name, ‘Tjidpa’ behind ’is back. But he not gonna let me use ’is writin’ things, ’specially if I’m meant to be at school.
Can you imagine it?
Knock. Knock.
Superintendent opens ’is office door, looks down at me, moves ’is guru wada on ’is moolya and ’is ngulya goes all wrinkly.
‘Grace. What are you doing here? You should be at school.’
‘Yes, Mr Tjidpa, I mean, Superintendent, Sir. But I wish to use your desk for a moment so I can write a letter, and ah . . . one-of-ya stamps too, if you please, Sir.’
’Is face’d go all red then, and he’d huff and puff like that big bad wolf in them stories at school. ‘What?’ he’d yell real confused-way. ‘Get to school, now.’
‘I’m talkin’ ’bout Yours for the Askin’, Sir’, and ‘Jimmy Crack Corn’.’
Ha. Ha. Nahh. I’m only ngoonji bula. Tjidpa’d give me a good floggin’ and yank me to school by my yuree. But sometimes it’s good fun thinkin’ ’bout what I might say to ’im.
Sometimes, someone requests my favourite song, then I put my yuree to the radio and listen close-way with my guru mooga closed and sing along real loud. I learn them songs by heart and sing with Uncle Murdi when he play ’is guitar. Uncle Murdi reckons I can hold a tune. I s’pose that means how I can sing a song over and over, without stoppin’, like I do on the way to school after I listen to Yours for the Askin’.
It’s like that music carry me up, up and away into ’nother place. It feels so good that I don’t wanna come back ’cause if I do I know I gotta go to school and face Teacher and Headmaster who will be real moogada with me for gettin’ to school late. But sooner or later I know I gotta come back down again from that nice feelin’. So when the program finishes, I run off out the door. The other kids have left long time ago ’cause they don’t wanna get the strap for being late.
Even though I try to sneak into class real quiet-way it never works. And sure enough, Teacher not too ’appy when I get to school late again.
‘Grace Oldman,’ she screeches. ‘Come here now.’ ’Er voice sounds like a garnga. ‘Why are you late?’
I shrug my shoulders ’cause one of them Commandments say, ‘Thou shalt not lie.’ So if I don’t say nothin’ I’m not lying and I’m not breakin’ God’s rules. She point ’er finger to the other classroom and send me next door, where Headmaster teachin’ the older kids.
Headmaster goes to ’is desk and take that dumb strap outa the drawer and walk back to me. Stupid boy called ’Arold sitting at the back of the class with a big smile on ’is ugly wah. If Headmaster’s not lookin’ I screw my face up at ’Arold when I turn ’round.
I hold out my murra. It’s shakin’ but not as much as Headmaster. I can tell he don’t like givin’ me the strap, I think it hurts ’im more than me. He always looks real sad when he see me, like ’is wrinkly face is sayin’, ‘Oh, no Grace, not again. This is going to be very painful, for me. You know that, don’t you?’
Then I feel sorry for ’im, ’til he whack me.
It hurts like hell but it’s worth it. I’d get the strap on my murra with all of Headmaster’s strength any day if I can listen to Yours for the Askin’, if I can sing and go flyin’ off to that special place. It’s the deadliest thing ever ’cause I don’t ’ave to worry about nothin’ when I’m there.
When I meet Dee-Dee Doe in the playground at lunch time we go play on the swings.
‘Hey, Dee-Dee Doe what ya doin?’ I yell out to ’er when I see ’er.
‘I know lots. What about you?’
‘I know I know you.’
We both laugh.
‘What don’t you know, Dee-Dee Doe?’ I jooju ingin as I swing.
‘I don’t know? How long’s a piece of string?’
She laughs more and I laugh too but then I think ’bout what I don’t know.
‘Dee-Dee,’ I say, slowing down my swing.
‘What Grace?’ she ask, slowin’ down hers too, lookin’ at me with ’er big brown eyes.
‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Yeah, course I can. You know I can, Gracie, ’specially for you.’ She put her jinna down on the munda and ’er swing twists ’round.
‘Do you know who my dad is?’
‘Your dad is Papa Neddy, your mum, Mumma Jenna, indie?’
‘No, Dee-Dee, they our grannies. My mumma’s Ada.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right.’ Dee-Dee hits the front of ’er gugga with ’er murra. ‘Aunty Ada your mumma.’
‘So who’s my mummatja, Dee-Dee, do you know?’
The swing stops now and Dee-Dee is leaning right over to me. ‘No,’ she says in a loud whisper. ‘Tell me, Gracie. Tell me who.’
‘Well, Dee-Dee Doe, to tell you the truth, I don’t know either and that’s the big secret that everyone’s bin keepin’ from me – and I wanna know.’
‘Well, that’s a pretty big secret,’ says Dee-Dee with her murra on her chin like she thinkin’ real hard ’bout it.
‘Yeah, and I’m gonna work it out like Teacher’s riddles.’
‘Oh, Gracie, that’s a deadly idea.’ Dee-Dee jumps off the swing and starts dancin’ round. Then she stops in front of me and takes in a big breath, claspin’ her hands in front of her. ‘I can keep a secret, can I ’elp you?’
‘I don’t know, I reckon I gotta look for clues at ’ome mostly but maybe you can keep your guru mooga open for me too.’
‘Oh, yes. Gracie, I will, I will. But if you find out first can you tell me?’
‘Dee-Dee Doe, if I find out you’ll be the first one to know.’
She hugs me then and we go off to play in the sandpit.
I know ’bout keepin’ secrets ’cause I share them with some of my sisters and friends. It’s our ‘secret-pretty-things’ that no-one knows ’bout, only us girls – me, Eva, Polly, Mona, Dee-Dee Doe, Dora Clare and sometimes other girls. Dora Clare’s mumma’s Hetty Clare. Dora’s real nice when she plays with me even though ’er mumma curses our family all the time. We play nice-way at school together and even deadlier when we at ’ome out back or in the scrub near our cottage. We play other things together too, like makin’ minya dollies with Mumma’s wooden pegs. We paint sad or smiley face and bunch up old material from rags, tie them around their necks to make sweet minya bultha mooga for them. We make them look real pretty, them dollies.
‘Look, she’s nigardi.’ Dee-Dee Doe giggles ’bout ’er peg dolly with dots for eyes, crooked smile and no clothes on.
We all laugh.
‘Quick then, Dee-Dee,’ I tell her, ‘you better put bultha on ’er before Pastor see ’er nigardi and she get in trouble.’
We all giggle again at the thought of us goin’ to church on Sunday with Dee-Dee’s nigardi dolly and Pastor yellin’ from up the front to the church, ‘Peg Dolly, you sinner. Put clothes on now.’
Sometimes, we play House.
‘I’m the mumma,’ I say, ‘and Dora, you the daughter.’
On some days we argue ’til we decide to take turns. Then we play Doctors and Nurses. We always ’ave good fun playin’ together.
Sometimes, in the evenin’, especially when the jindu duthbin, all the kids in our family go down to the tennis courts by the school and play brandy and ‘Who’s Afraid of Mr Wolf’? It’s deadly fun on those nights ’cause everyone playin’ together. No one sayin’, ‘You can’t play with us, you whitefella kid.’ That’s ’cause we all family and we all look after each other. When kids be mean like that I just try to stick to my sisters and brothers and friends, people I feel safe with, so I don’t get teased. My older sisters and brothers always tell me not to worry ’bout them idiots, ’cause they don’t know any better.
My very special friends and sisters Eva, Polly, Dee-Dee, Dora, Ruby Downs, Janie Burns and sometimes others, we play together and share our secret-pretty-things. We don’t share them with just anyone, only our very close friends that we trust. We make treasures together and bury them in secret places. They special. We dig a hole and put in pretty coloured paper, pieces of different coloured glass and maybe special rocks or leaves, things that mean something to us. Then, when we ready to go we cover the ’ole over again. We might put minya stone or branch on top so we know where it is. That’s our special hidin’ place that no-one else knows ’bout. When we ready to go we spit on our murra and shake, our spit oath that means we won’t tell a soul ’bout our secret. When we come back later lookin’ for our secret-pretty-things, we real careful-way sweep away the munda. Yeah, sure ’nough, our treasure will still be there. We feel real important when we see it’s safe, ’cause no-one in the whole wide world knows ’bout our minya secret, only us. Not those nasty kids that call me names and make me feel wild, or sad or hateful. Not them adults that say mean things about our family. Not the Mission workers like Teacher, and especially not those walbiya mooga in town who pretend we’re not there, or whisper ’bout us rude-way when we go past.
It’s deadly to play with our secret-pretty-things ’cause they make me feel real good, strong inside myself, like I can put all the special things about me in that minya hole and in the munda and no-one can touch them. No-one can hurt me either ’cause only me and my sisters and friends know ’bout where that special place is and no-one gonna dig it up and make fun of it, or wreck it.
Today me and Dee-Dee Doe gonna bury our little special secret in the munda. We get some leaves, stones and a pretty dead butterfly, put them together and dig a hole in the sandpit and bury them. Then we spit oath to keep our secret to ourselves, and smile and nod ’cause when I work out who’s my mummatja Dee-Dee Doe will be the first one to know.
5
Lookin’ for answers
When you tryin’ to work out a riddle that Teacher writes up on the blackboard, you gotta look at it all the way ’round and ask lotta questions ’til you get an answer that fits. Sometimes you get to a dead end. That means you can’t go that way any more, and you gotta go back and look for ’nother way to go, ’nother question to ask or ’nother way of lookin’ at it. Best place to start is right there, at the beginnin’. When I look back to the start, I see Ada.
So when I get ’ome from school one day I look for Ada, and see ’er out the back takin’ the washin’ off the line with Molly. I go up to ’er and ask ’er straight-out-way, ‘Ada, who my mummatja?’
‘Grace, don’t be such a cheeky minya wunyi, talkin’ to me like that.’
‘I just wanna know who he is,’ I yell.
She slap me then, and tell me to mind my own business. I run ’round the side of the ’ouse, ’cause I don’t want Molly to see me cryin’.
‘I know who your father is,’ Molly says to me as she comes ’round the corner after me.
I turn ’way and sly-way wipe my tears.
‘Your mummatja Mr Dempsey, that’s why you had mimmi from ’is wife when you guling, and that’s why he pay you to work with ’im pullin’ up weeds.’
I look up, thinkin’ ’bout what Molly’s sayin’. Could it be true?
Molly wongan more. ‘You really their daughter . . .’
I look at Molly. She sounds like she’s tellin’ the truth.
‘. . . but they couldn’t stand to live with you ’caus
e you such a nuisance, so they gave you ’way.’
My ngulya screws up then.
Molly smiles and bursts out laughin’. ‘Nah, only tellin’ lies.’
I’m gonna kick ’er real ’ard in the shins. But she puts her hand out and says, ‘Nah, nah, only ngoonji bula. I’ll tell you for real who your father is, listen now.’
I listen again. Molly could know ’cause she’s older than us kids and she gets to hear a lot ’bout what the adults are doin’.
‘Your father that walbiya from town there, who goes out to work on the farm.’
I’m tryin’ to think which one, lotta men, walbiya and Nyunga go out there workin’ at reapin’ and shearin’ time. I lift my gugga up, askin’ ’er for more information.
‘You know that real skinny one?’
I shake my head.
‘. . . with the real ugly face. Can’t you see the resemblance, Grace? Go look in the mirror.’ She laughin’ again.
This time I had it with Molly I run up and grab ’er arm and bite it hard as I can.
‘Ah, you little cow.’ She screamin’ and start hittin’ me on the head.
I make sure I make a big mark on her arm before I let go. That’ll teach ’er, teasin’ me and tellin’ lies like that. Then I cut it ’round the front of the cottage to get away from ’er. As I walk ’long the path I see minya weeds startin’ to grow out of the munda. I kick ’em as I go past. Then, I think ’bout everyone I asked and how no-one wanna tell me. Who can I ask next?
No good askin’ Ada any more, she just growl me and give me floggin’ for bein’ cheeky. Molly’s no ’elp, she just tells lies to laugh at me, she like makin’ me moogada. Papa Neddy and Mumma Jenna probably know but they won’t tell me. I could ask aunties or uncles, but they probably just do same as Mumma and Papa. Who else can I ask? I think ’bout all the places we go and people we see. Then it comes to me. The car came to our hut on the farm, last week, so it’s probably one of them workers on the farm and Old Rod probably knows who was drivin’ that car. When I see Old Rod next time, I’ll ask ’im. He knows all ’is workers and he probably knows who’s Ada’s gu mudgie, too. Next time I see ’im I’m gonna ask, ‘Old Rod, do you know who my father is?’