Few days later, Old Rod turn up in ’is car and toot the horn out the front of our minya cottage. He’s walkin’ towards the boot when I run out flat-out-way knockin’ over Eva, Polly, Adrian and Sarah as I go. Dust flyin’ up ’round me as I skid to a stop, grabbin’ onto ’is jacket to stop me fallin’ over as he opens the back of the car.
‘Whoa! Slow down, girl,’ he says in a happy voice.
I tiptoein’, tryin’ to see what he’s bring for Papa and us. He got box of food by the looks, and pretty coloured ribbons in ’is pocket for us girls. I’ll ’ave to find a fork later to comb the knots outa my ’air so I can tie them on.
He don’t stay for long. After he talk with Papa ’bout more work comin’ up on the farm, he start to walk back to ’is car. I know he’s goin’ but I feel too shame to ask ’im straight-out-way if he know who my father might be. He gets into ’is car then, and I get real moogada with myself for bein’ scaredy-cat, so last-minute-way, I run up to ’is car.
A big wide smile go over ’is face and deep laugh come outa ’is mouth. Reminds me of lyin’ in the sun, listenin’ to the waves at Denial Bay, waves that swallow me up and spit me out, and I come up laughin’. Old Rod makes people feel like that.
‘Why you be nice to us, bring us things?’ I blurt out.
‘Because you’re a nice little girl, your Papa Neddy’s a good man, and your family gives me a lot of help on my farm,’ he say, messin’ up my ’air makin’ it more tangly.
Then he drives off.
That’s not the answer I want. But then, joobardi-way I didn’t ask the right question. Now what? I come to a dead end again. I go back into the kitchen to look for fork to comb out my knots but I can’t find one, so I go to my secret hidin’ place in the fireplace and put my ribbons there for later.
Some nights, mostly on weekends or ’olidays, Uncle Murdi play ’is guitar round the campfire outside of our cottage. Sometimes, when I’m sittin’ next to ’im and my sisters and Ada, we all snuggle together. Ada stroking Lil-Lil’s ’air and givin’ ’er mimmi and we all singin’ along to the music. But sometimes Uncle Murdi plays just for me to sing along. Other times I pick up ’is guitar and try to play it for myself so I can sing.
‘Put that guitar down now, Grace. You’ll break it,’ Ada growls me.
‘Leave the girl be,’ Uncle Murdi tell her. ‘She can carry a tune, maybe she play the guitar too, one day.’
I muck ’round with the strings, but my murra’s too small to fit all the way ’round the end of the guitar.
It’s deadly fun when more people from the Mission come and sit ’round the campfire like Uncle Deanie and Aunty Annie Campbell (they my godparents, and they live next door with Georgina and Desmond Clare), Uncle Wingard and Aunty Maria and Aunty Dotti (they our next-door neighbours on the other side). They come over and join us and we all sing ’round the campfire and the grown-ups yarnin’ and tellin’ funny stories from long time ago, all of us laughin’.
Behind our ’ouses, that neighbour livin’ there’s a mean old lady, Hetty Clare, Desmond’s sister, Dora’s mumma. Even though they brother and sister they real different from each other. Hetty real mean, and Desmond real nice fella. Hetty never comes over, only to yell nasty things to us and cause fights when she goes too far. Mumma Jenna gets ’er crowbar out then and slams it into the munda. That means she’s had enough of Hetty Clare’s big mouth and she’s gonna use it if that old woman don’t shut up. Hetty Clare usually shut ’er big mouth then, turn around and go back inside ’er ’ouse. She do that ’cause Mumma’s given ’er a floggin’ lotsa times before, mostly when she talk real cheeky-way about Mumma’s children, Ada and the others, sayin’ words that us kids get a floggin’ for if we said ’em. But when she see Mumma’s crowbar then she shut up real quick-way.
Nyunga-way when weena mooga fight, sometimes they rip their clothes off. It don’t happen that way at the Mission but when it does I get real scared and run away and hide somewhere safe ’cause I nyindi someone’s gonna get hurt. After they finish fightin’ it’s all over, everythin’ goes quiet till next time. Everyone gets on with their lives then. But sometimes people fight when they gubbydja. Papa says too much gubby is walbiya-way too, and it mixes everythin’ up wrong-way, makes us lose our way.
Papa say we got Nyunga-way of doin’ things, real strong way ’cause our Old People handed it down to us and it’s more powerful than walbiya laws. When someone does somethin’ wrong in walbiya law they get locked up in jail. It might be long time before they’re let out and when they get out people might still be angry with each other. But Nyunga-way, if you do somethin’ wrong you might get spear in your leg, you might get sick or you might even die, but it’s over quick-way. After a fight, it’s all sorted out, sometimes by gudji, ’cause they got their punishment.
But that old Hetty Clare just don’t seem to learn. I reckon she must be jealous like what Ada say: ‘Them mob just tease and be mean to you kids ’cause they jealous of how we get work and mai from the farm.’
Next to Hetty Clare’s ’ouse lives Granny Laura Dean, she Papa Neddy’s sister. She live behind our ’ouse, where the strong wind blows from. Papa’s always tellin’ us kids, ‘You be nice to that old woman, now.’ And he send us over ’er place with kuka and damper. Granny Laura’s real nice to us kids too. Poor old lady havin’ to live next door to mean old Hetty Clare. But Hetty Clare wouldn’t wanna pick on Granny Laura ’cause she’d cop it from Papa.
I think Hetty Clare must like gettin’ a floggin’, the way she always carryin’ on.
‘You Oldmans think you so good,’ she scream like an old witch at us one day. ‘You all nothin’ but . . .’ (lotsa words I can’t say – too rude). She screamin’ at all of us.
Ohhh, she so gonna get ’nother floggin’ from Granny Jenna. I’m wonderin’ where to hide before Granny gets ’er crowbar out.
Kids at school can be mean like Hetty Clare too.
‘You stinkin’ white kid,’ they yell at me. ‘Smelly white-arse,’ and other filthy names like that. Sometimes, they real mean to us kids that are a minya bit fairer.
‘Can I play that game with you?’ I ask some kids with a ball that they hittin’ up against the school wall or playin’ rounders.
‘No, whitefella’s kid.’ They spit at me real mean-way. ‘Why would we wanna play with you? Now, go ’way and let us be, you white arse’ole.’
Some days I fight them, other times I just put my gugga down and walk off and go an’ play by myself on the jungle gym or find my sisters or brothers or friends that will play with me. When kids wongan to me like that, it makes me feel real shame and sad. What’s wrong with me? Why they so mean like that and call me them names? I never be mean to them. But then I tell myself, no you don’t wanna be like them arse’oles. They call me ‘whitefella kid’ cause I’m fairer than them. I hate the colour of my skin. I hate being different. Why aren’t I like them?
But Old Rod’s always tellin’ me and my sisters we’re different from them other kids on the Mission too. He squats down like the big old giant Papa talks about in our old Kokatha stories, grabs my arms with his frypan hands, looks me right in the guru and says, ‘You different from them kids on the Mission. You remember that. You different from them.’ His voice booming like big malu tail hittin’ the munda, goin’ full-pelt. Like he’s tryin’ to hammer it into me, or really wants me to understand what he’s tellin’ me. When he talks like that my djuda goes all squirmy like maggots in stinkin’ burru and I feel funny-way, ’cause I know I’m not different from them other kids, not the way he thinks we are. My skin’s only a minya bit fairer, that’s all. That’s when I start thinkin’, he’s different from us, Old Rod. That old man doesn’t really understand our ways but he cares. He’s always lookin’ out for me and my sisters.
Why did God make me different from them other kids? If Old Rod sayin’ I’m different he must know why. W
hen I see ’im maybe I can ask ’im why he tells me I’m different from other Nyunga kids? But what if he growl me like Ada and Mumma?
Old Rod treat us Nyunga mooga real well, looks after us real good. He come to the Mission and give us food. Sometimes he takes me and my sisters in the bush with ’im and give us good feed of fruit until our minya djuda mooga full to burstin’.
‘Eat,’ he tell us. ‘Eat as much as you can because I know you’re going to ’ave to share this food with the rest of your family when you get home.’
Then he take us ’ome with the rest of the fruit. He brings lots of different things sometimes: vegies, eggs, rabbity, malu. Papa real pleased with ’im sharin’ ’is food like that. That’s real Nyunga-way. But sometimes he buy bultha for us to wear too. In summer time and in winter time, Ada goes into the shop in town and gets clothes for us kids. Old Rod tell ’er, ‘Tell Mrs Tareen to put it on my account, no questions asked.’
One day when I was little, Ada picked out a pretty minya dress and matchin’ shoes for me and Eva at Mona Tareen’s Frock Salon. After, Old Rod picked us up near the beach where he always dropped us off just outa town; we always wait there for ’im to pick us up. This day, I jumped into ’is car and real proud-way showed ’im my dress.
‘How come you buy dresses for us?’ I asked real shy but excited-way, smoothin’ out the yellow flowery material, imaginin’ I’m wearin’ it there and then.
He threw ’is head back and laughed. ‘I’ve just reaped one of the biggest crops in the district, so I think I can afford to buy you pretty girls something a little bit special.’
The way he wongan, it was like he could ’ave bought us a million dresses if he wanted to, but I was so ’appy just to ’ave that one. It was so pretty and I felt like the most special minya wunyi in the whole world.
Could Old Rod be my mummatja? No way. He’s a tjilbi, he must be nearly Papa Neddy’s age. Like he said before, he treats us nice-way ’cause he’s real pleased that Papa Neddy and ’is kids ’elpin’ him on ’is farm to reap lots of crops and that’s why he’s got soft spot for Ada and us kids too, ’cause we Papa Neddy’s mob.
Looks like I’ve come to ’nother dead end. Tryin’ to work out this riddle’s sendin’ me joobardi, goin’ ’round and ’round in my gugga, ’til my djuda feels real funny-way.
So, I don’t think about it for a while and just go on doin’ what I always do: go to school with my sisters and brothers, fight the cheeky kids who be mean to me, play with my friends, and try to stay outa trouble with my ‘cheeky minya mouth’, as Ada and Molly call it. But Christmas is comin’ up soon and that’s a real deadly time on the Mission.
6
Ngoonji bula: God, Jesus and Father Christmas
The days seem to drag on like years while we waitin’ for the last day of school to come. Dee-Dee and me countin’ on our murra mooga, as the days go by.
‘Nine days to go, Grace,’ Dee-Dee say.
‘Yeah,’ I say, pointin’ at her fingers, ‘nine days to go.’
Then a few days later say, ‘Seven days to go, Dee-Dee.’
We take in turns like that ’til it one more sleep. Then that next mornin’ we wake up on the last day of school for the year.
‘Yippee.’ Me and Dee-Dee jumpin’ on our old bed with our murra mooga closed like we gonna punch each other. ‘No days to go. No days to go,’ we laughin’.
All the kids jump on the bed to join in. Mumma and Ada growl us then, to stop breakin’ the bed and get ready for school.
We all cleanin’ up the school yesterday and this mornin’ and then it’s recess. When I look back, I can see I learnt lotta things at school this year – readin’, writin’ and mental maths but now I can put it all away and just play, play, play. I’m sittin’ on one end of the seesaw and Dee-Dee Doe’s on the other end. We the same size so the seesaw goes just right. Dee-Dee pushes me up into the air and I can see all the kids playin’ ’appy-way in the playground. Them mean kids playin’ with the ball against the wall. I stick my tongue out at them even though they can’t see me. From way up here on the seesaw I can see others on the slippery dip, jungle gym and swings, playin’ marbles, skippin’. There’s Polly. She just come off the maypole and spinnin’ round dizzy-way, then she falls over.
‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’ I move my lips in Polly’s direction and Dee-Dee starts laughin’, too.
Polly sees us, and she come over to pull us off the seesaw. But me and Dee-Dee go up and down when she comes for us, so we always up off the ground when she gets to us. Polly’s runnin’ ’round the seesaw tryin’ to grab us. We all laughin’. We so ’appy ’cause it’s the last day of school. Seesaw go down on my side and Polly cut it ’round and trick us. She grab me and drag me off and Dee-Dee goes BANG on the munda and hurts ’er jinjie. We all roll on the ground laughin.’ No point fightin’ even though Dee-Dee’s jinjie’s real sore, ’cause tomorrow’s the ’olidays and I can sleep in and listen to Yours for the Askin’, all the way through without gettin’ in trouble. But most of all ’olidays mean Christmas and campin’ down the beach. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day’s the best days in the whole year. Even the kids from the Children’s ’Ome get to go and stay with their family. Well most of ’em, anyway. Us kids lucky we get to stay ’ome all the time.
’Olidays are good fun, we play all day and come ’ome when jindu duthbin, and if we lucky Mumma got big feed waitin’ for us. Sometimes, walbiya workers come to Mission to fix up buildings and some of them want us kids to sing for them. One day us gidjida mooga playin’ over in the pepper tree near the Children’s ’Ome and they call us over. We all go to the walbiya workers there and some of the kids sing their minya hearts out. But not me. I’m too shame even though I sing real deadly. Then they throw money at us. Some of the kids pick the money up and go to the shop and buy lollies. But not me. I don’t want their bunda, even if I could buy sultana cake or lollies.
‘Go on, take the money,’ they tell me. ‘You can have it if you want.’
But I stand there, shakin’ my head. I don’t want to take their bunda. I’m too imbarda.
Time’s flyin’ by real quick-way and we so excited ’cause soon it’s the day before Christmas. After a big day of playin’ we all clean and dressed up nice-way for church in the night. It’s a special church tonight ’specially for us kids and all the grown-ups that’re gonna be there too, and it’ll be packed. There’s a big Christmas tree in the church and one in the hall. ’Cause me and some other kids are readin’ the Bible, we get to sit up the front on chairs. I feel real important sittin’ up there and hope them cheeky kids are havin’ a good look and see that I bin picked to read and not them. My murra mooga’s shakin’ and my jinna’s swingin’ under the chair ’cause I’m real nervous. It’s a bit scary up there in front of everyone. I might forget my words then everyone’s gonna laugh at me.
Pastor reads from the Bible, tells us about Mary and Joseph and that donkey who took them to Bethlehem where Jesus was born in a minya shed like Old Rod’s cow shed, I reckon. I like that story ’cause Jesus gets presents from wise fellas who follow that star in the sky to find ’im. We got stars we follow too. Our stars are our Old People, our Seven Sisters and the big giant man that chases ’em. Papa Neddy, Mumma Jenna and Ada, and the aunties and uncles take the horse and cart outback and we clean our rockholes. They our Seven Sisters too. Our Old People are in the sky, in the waterholes and on the ground, they everywhere, just like God and Jesus. But Pastor tells us we only allowed to worship God and nobody else. But we know them Old People, they look after us and we look after them too. Us kids watch Papa Neddy and Mumma Jenna and the others pull out sticks and dead animals with big branches, ’til them rockholes are clean again. Just like Jesus died and washed us clean from our sins like Pastor talks ’bout in the Bible. How he wash ’em ’way, I don’t know. Maybe he use soap and water and a big tub, like when Mumma Jenna, Ada and the Aunties wash a
ll our clothes. Lookin’ after our rockholes means we keep real healthy and strong, too. That’s what the Old People teach Papa Neddy and our other Grannies and we watch ’em and learn too.
After church the kids get minya bags of lollies, gingerbread biscuits and nuts. They real yummy and us kids all go joobardi. Everyone go over to the Children’s ’Ome, then. All the parents of the kids in the ’Ome get invited there, too. It’s real good to see all the kids with their family, they real ’appy. All us kids jumpin’ up and down real excited-way when we go inside ’cause we gonna get clothes from the big table and presents from under the tree.
Dee-Dee Doe look at me, ’er guru mooga wide open like they gonna pop outa her head.
‘Ooh, Grace. Look. Father Christmas bin give us kids presents.’
I look over to the biggest mob of presents, all wrapped up. I’m smilin’ now, and lookin’ round the kindy, it’s real bright and pretty with all the streamers and biggest mob of balloons hangin’ from ’em.
All the kids goin’, ‘Ooh! Ahhh!’
I start runnin’ real fast-way on the spot and Dee-Dee’s got ’er murra mooga pushed together like she’s gonna pray but ’er guru mooga still nearly poppin’ out and she jumpin’ up and down next to me.
‘Mmm,’ I say.
I stand still then and cross my murra mooga. I’m worried ’cause Father Christmas don’t give nothin’ to naughty kids. Mumma, Ada and Molly reckon I’m naughty sometimes, ’specially with my filthy minya mouth.
Mazin Grace Page 5