When we find ’im, I tug at ’is overcoat ’cause I don’t know what to call ’im. Then he turns ’round and looks down at us. ’Is eyebrows close together and ngulya all wrinkled.
‘What do you want?’ he’d say real quick-way, like he’s busy.
‘Can we ’ave more money?’ I’d say in my sweetest minya voice.
I tilt my gugga sideways and screw up my face, sort of like a smile. I feel shame askin’ ’im but I gotta get more bunda to go on more rides and to play more games.
‘I’ve already given you money,’ he says.
Then, shakin’ ’is gugga and smilin’, he reaches into ’is pocket and pulls out a handful of coins, shillings and two-bob coins, if we lucky. Then he tells us not to come back again, and wait with Ada when we’re ready to go ’ome.
Back then I never noticed how he acted different-way to us ’round walbiya mooga ’cause I was too young, too busy havin’ fun. But since I bin lookin’ all the way ’round at ’im, I see other things too, like how things are different when we with Old Rod, to when we doin’ things with our Nyunga mob. With Old Rod ’round, us kids get growled to behave and we don’t talk our language much. When we with our own mob us kids can play ’round and do more things and we talk anyway we want, Kokatha wonga too. But we never go hungry when we with that old man. When we on the Mission, it’s different, sometimes our djuda mooga get real hungry from no food. That’s why I hide my minya stash of food in the fireplace.
When us Nyunga mooga go into town together it’s good fun, no one growls us ’bout what we wearin’, no one’s actin’ like they don’t know us or droppin’ us off in the bushes by the wanna. Even though families fight sometimes, us Nyunga mob stick together when we leave the Mission, we ’ave to, to look after each other. That’s what Papa says. He says it’s not safe to go walkin’ ’round on your own in town.
I think ’bout when us Nyunga mooga go into town together for work or on the ships or special times like the show or circus, we go on the back of the Mission truck. Wind blowin’ our gugga uru all over the place. People smilin’, jokin’ and laughin’. Everyone ’appy ’cause we don’t go to town much. We stuck on the Mission like nyarni mooga in the paddock. ‘Baah. Baah.’ So when we get to go out it’s real good fun.
Like the time when I was really minya and the Mission truck was waitin’ to take us somewhere special. Just before, Matron from the Children’s ’Ome give us second-hand clothes. Mumma Jenna spread them out on the kitchen table there. All us mob start goin’ through ’em then. Next minute, I see this deadly overcoat, checked one, with all green colours and black too. It’s real flash, no buttons but it’s got a belt that goes ’round the waist. I quick-way grab that overcoat and ’old it up to me.
‘It’s too big for you. That’ll fit Eva,’ Aunty Dorrie say, holdin’ ’er murra out.
‘No it don’t. It fits me better,’ I yell at her.
‘Come on now, Grace. It’s way too big for you,’ Aunty Dorrie says, comin’ over to grab it off me. I see from ’er face that she moogada with me, ’er one guru squish smaller than the other one and ’er lips point out and ’er voice is gettin’ louder too.
‘No. It’s mine.’ I run into the bedroom. ‘I’ll grow into it. Anyway, you just sayin’ that ’cause you want it for yourself,’ I yell out cheeky-way.
‘Gorn, it too small for me. You just a selfish minya wunyi.’
I slam the bedroom door and take my clothes off. Then I put my arms through the sleeves and do the belt up really tight-way in a big knot. I know no-one can take it off me ’cause I’m nigardi underneath and they’ll get in trouble from Papa and Mumma. I nyindi it’s too big, that the hem’s even touchin’ the ground and when I put my arms out I can’t see my murra mooga. But I don’t care. I’ve seen it first, so it’s my coat.
Even though it’s hot I walk ’round in it all day. Mostly so no-one can steal it from me but also so they can see me wearin’ it and get ngudgie for it, and want it for themself.
Later when Eva sees me she say, ‘That’s a nice coat. Where you get it from?’
I flick my ’air back snooty-way as I walk past her. ‘It my overcoat and you not gettin’ it.’
‘You can ’ave your stupid coat,’ she says. ‘I don’t want it but don’t be so cheeky.’ She goes to hit me but I cut it quick-way ’round the corner. No-one gonna get this coat off me, no-one. I’m a real stubborn minya wunyi. It might not fit me but no-one else’s gonna ’ave it.
That same day, the circus comes to town, and last-minute-way Superintendent get the truck ready to take us kids there. ’Cause I playin’ outside, I find out just when the truck’s ready to go. My skinny minya jinna goin’ flat-out-way inside.
‘Too late now, girl. Truck goin’ soon,’ Mumma Jenna say. ‘And you not even dressed. You just got that silly big coat on.’
‘Nooo,’ I scream and run into the bedroom.
I’m scratchin’ ’round for somethin’ clean to wear, but can’t find nothin’. No clean clothes anywhere. Then, I start to cry ’cause I’m gonna miss the damn circus and I can’t even find any clean duthu to wear under my coat. I still nigardi underneath.
Outside, the truck’s startin’ to go, leavin’ me behind. No way I’m gonna miss out on the circus.
‘I’m goin’ anyway, Mumma,’ I yell.
I run out the door after the truck. The dust flyin’ up everywhere makin’ it hard for me to see. Flat-out-way I’m runnin’ after it through the dust, screamin’ my head off with my overcoat flappin’ in the wind, yellin’ out for them to stop. Then they slow down to turn the corner and someone see me.
‘Wait,’ a voice yells out from the truck. ‘Wait, one more little girl comin’.’
That big truck stop then, and they pull me up onto the back.
When we get there not everyone got bunda to pay to go in, so some of the grown-ups pull the tent up at the back and we crawl underneath. Then other Nyunga mooga pull us up from the seats and then all of us can see the circus. I pop up just behind a little walaba girl so I follow her, maybe there’s a spare seat next to her. I can smell sawdust. Lookin’ out to the middle of the circus ring I see all the pretty colours under the big bright lights, then when I look back that little girl in front of me has gone. She disappear into thin air. I look ’round. Then I hear a cry under the planks of wood and look down. She’s there, on the munda. I can see ’er through the piece of wood I’m standin’ on, one of our Nyunga mob helpin’ ’er, pushin’ ’er back up. I giggle and grab ’er hand and help ’er. She wipe ’er face on ’er pretty pink cardigan sleeve and smile at me.
‘Lucky lion didn’t get you,’ I say, smilin’ back.
Her guru mooga get real big and a weak minya scream come out ’er mouth then. She turn ’round and walk real careful-way after that.
Then I see our mob at the back and go sit with ’em.
Oh, that circus deadly fun. All them men and women swingin’ from ropes and swings and doin’ fancy things way up in the air; them joobardi clowns with red noses and boogardi way too big for them. They make us kids fall over laughin’. The animals doin’ all them tricks. The pretty lady with all ’er sparkles ridin’ on the big horse. But us kids crack up laughin’ when that boonie do a big goona in the circus ring and that joobardi clown gotta get ’is shovel and scoop it up and ’nother joobardi clown squeezin’ ’is big red moolya like it’s the most boongada goona ever.
But my most favourite, that deadly minya Shetland Pony. That pony was so beautiful.
‘I want one of those. They so cute,’ I whisper quiet-way to myself.
So, I just can’t believe it when at the end the man with the flash moona on ’is head call out for the kids to ’ave a ride on a pony. Real quick-way I run over to line up but them bigger kids beat me and I way back in the line.
‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ I’m mumblin’ under my brea
th. ‘They takin’ for ages.’
I’m waitin’, waitin’, stompin’ my jinna on the ground. Things always take long time when you minya.
‘Come on,’ I yell out to one of the kids. ‘Don’t be a hog of that pony. I want a ride too, you know. We goin’ ’ome in a minute.’
‘Oh, shut up, Grace,’ yells ’Arold, one of the older cheeky boys, standin’ behind me. ‘Just ’cause you whitefella kid don’t mean you special. You just goona oona. Wait your bloody turn like the rest of us.’
My lip stick out then and my eyebrow go over my guru mooga starin’ at ’im. No-one can call me that name and get away with it. I swing my jinna long-way back, then swing it forward, kickin’ ’im in the leg.
‘Ouch!’ ’Arold yells out.
He go to hit me then, but Molly who standin’ behind ’im, grab ’is arm and pull it back real hard, nearly make ’im fall over.
‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size,’ she say, lookin’ at ’im right in the face.
’Arold look like he in pain, but goojarb.
Molly let go then, and he fall forward, grabbin’ ’is arm.
‘Yeah. That’ll teach you a lesson, pickin’ on a minya wunyi like me,’ I tell ’im, lookin’ at ’im moogada-way, screwin’ up my face and crossin’ my arms.
’Arold squint ’is guru mooga at me like he gonna try and hit me again but I know he won’t dare. Then I look at Molly and give ’er a big smile. Molly can be a real pain sometimes but this time she all right. That’s ’cause our family look out for each other.
At last my turn. The man ’elp me up and I swing my jinna over the pony. I try to hold my overcoat when I get on but then that pony take off runnin’ fast-way, and blow me down, if my overcoat didn’t start flyin’ up and down so everyone could see my goonanyigindi. I can’t hang on to my coat or I’d fall off. All the kids are screamin’ out and laughin’ and pointin’ at me, all them grown-ups too. At first I feel shame and curse ’em under my breath but after a while I don’t care. I just throw my gugga in the air and ride that minya pony like it’s mine.
When I get off the pony ’Arold say, ‘Grace, you got no shame flashin’ your jinjie for everyone to see.’
‘I don’t care,’ I say to ’im. ‘At least I’m not a scaredy-cat of girls, like you, big sook.’ I poke my tongue at ’im then.
When I turn ’round, all the Mission mob are laughin’ at me behind their murra mooga. I just straighten up my coat, flick my ’air over my shoulder and walk past them with my gugga held high. So what, I think, least I got a ride on my pony and I’m wearin’ the deadliest overcoat on the Mission.
Even though kids tease me sometimes and the Mission mob laughin’ at me that time we went to the circus, most times we go out we all get on all right. But it’s a different story when we in town ’round walbiya mob, different story altogether. That get me thinkin’ about Old Rod again. Them questions still swishin’ round and round, in my gugga all the time. It’s like Mumma on washin’ day with ’er stick stirrin’ and scrubbin’ blanketie in them old concrete tubs at the side of the house. Blanketie usually need washin’ cause I wet the bed again. I can’t ’elp it, goomboo just comes out when I’m ’sleep.
‘Grace, you goomboo minyi,’ my sisters growl me in the mornin’.
Make me shame when they wongan like that. I know Ada real moogada too. She don’t say nothin’ though, she just real rough-way doin’ things. She rip blanketie off the bed and throw it in the corner for washin’. Morning, the worst time in bed, all wet and cold with that stinkin’ stale smell of goomboo in your moolya.
Night-time in bed better, before we go ungu. My most favourite place in the whole world’s lyin’ in Mumma Jenna’s bed, snugglin’ into ’er soft mimmi, like old Mrs Dempsey. My second favourite place in the whole wide world is our bed with Ada and my sisters, night-time when the bed all dry and warm. Blanketie pulled up over our heads on those minyardu nights in winter. Squished together like sardines, it feel all warm and safe. I like it that way, all close-way, just Ada and us girls. Nothin’ can hurt us there in our bed. Not sticks or stones, or even names, ’cause that’s our special place, all squished in together safe-way like that.
After my sisters stop whingein’ and wrigglin’ and settle down for the night, it gets real quiet. That’s when I lie there and think ’bout things, everything that happened during the day. Sometimes I start thinkin’ ’bout Old Rod again. At Denial Bay, Eva said he not our father, but lotta things don’t make sense. Like why he ’elp us so much? And as far back as I can think in my gugga, he always bin there with us, not like Nyunga family, just always there in the background. I lie there quiet-way but it get real annoyin’ swishin’ round and round in my gugga like blanketie on washing day.
One night I decide I’m gonna ask Ada ’bout Old Rod when she fallin’ ’sleep the next night. She bin real nice to me lately, with my jinna still sore, waitin’ for Jumoo. I bin waitin’ long time for ’im. He must have lotta people he visitin’ to make ’em better. He like walbiya doctor, only he make people better Nyunga-way. My jinna still real sore but it feels bit better since Mumma Jenna rub nguggil on it all the time. Anyways I’m gonna try to get answers from Ada while she tired-way, ’cause usually she don’t wanna talk ’bout Old Rod.
Next day, I try to put ’er in good mood.
‘I’ll change baby’s nappy, Ada,’ I tell ’er real sweet-way, and grab my baby sister out ’er arms.
‘You right with your jinna, Grace. It’s still sore, indie?’
‘It feel minya bit better,’ I tell ’er, takin’ Lil-Lil from ’er.
‘You be careful with them safety pins there, Grace,’ Ada tell me.
‘Yeah, I’m ’right.’
I real careful-way push them pointy wada mooga through the nappy there. Then I walk slow-way outside with the fire bucket to empty last night’s ashes and fill it with hot coals from the fire in the backyard. Most of the time, grown-ups do this in case kids get burnt but I wanna help Ada so she gives me answers later. We always do the fire bucket this way when it’s cold at night. It keeps us real warm like them flash radiators walbiya mooga use.
That fire at the side of the house work real hard day time and sometimes at night-time too, if we got plenty of wood to keep it goin’. We use it to heat up billy tea, damper, gulda, malu and sometimes even wadu.
Later, that fire will be heatin’ up water buckets for Mumma, Ada and the aunties to do the washing. Them tubs the best place for hide-and-seek with blanketie pulled over you. But look out if Mumma or the other mothers find you there, you get big hidin’. Like that time the other week when I throw blanketie back and jump outa the tub.
‘Ahh!’ Mumma Jenna scream, jumpin’ back and grabbin’ ’er guddadu. ‘You nearly give me ’eart attack.’
‘It’s just me, Mumma. I’m playin’,’ I tell her.
Mumma grab the big stick to hit me but I too quick. I cut it flat-out-way to find ’nother hidin’ spot.
‘Don’t come back, you little rat. I could’ve poured boilin’ water over you,’ she screamed, real panic-way.
When they wash nappies, blanketie and our bultha, they put the hot water in them tubs with Rinso or Velvet soap all grated up. Then they get a big stick and stir it ’round and ’round, then flat-out-way scrub with washboard ’til everything real clean to hang on the clothes line that Papa put up at the back with two big sticks and fork stick to lift it off the ground. That’s outa bounds too, that clothes line. Mud pies and clean nappies don’t mix. You try that one, and you get good beltin’ with that big washin’ stick. I know that from first hand. It hurt like hell.
The fire buckets keep us warm at night, like Mumma’s damper in the ashes, all warm so butter would melt on us. Then we nice and warm ’til mornin’ even though old Jack Frost is out there. In the mornin’ we warm, unless goomboo in the bed, then we all wet and col
d. But we can get up and warm ourselves by the stove in the kitchen, ’cause Mumma Jenna always lights it up, first thing in the mornin’. When it’s cold, sometimes Uncle Murdi will let Yudu sleep on ’is bed to help keep ’em warm. But we don’t ’ave a booba, we just got each other.
Later that night, when we all cosy cuddlin’ up in bed under the blanketie, and my sisters ’ave stopped wrigglin’ ’round and started to go to sleep, I turn quiet-way to Ada. I know I can’t ask ’er straight-out-way ’bout Old Rod or she’ll growl me to go to sleep. So I ask ’er round-about-way question.
‘Ada,’ I whisper, and wait for ’er reply.
‘Mmm.’ She nearly ’sleep.
‘You know that place we use to camp, at back of that old Catholic church in town?’
She say nothin’. Maybe she’s sleepin’.
I think back to when I’m a minya wunyi and Ada and us kids in town camping on that munda behind that church on the edge of town. Sometimes our family camped there. It was a safe place to go in the ’olidays where no Mission walbiya mooga bothered us. We stayed in a wuthoo we made out of some iron and any tin we could find and branches and leaves from the trees, real cosy inside. Even if it’s windy outside we warm inside. It’s our special place. I feel real proud ’cause Old Rod came ’round and say, ‘This is for you, Ada, this land is yours and the girls’. I bought it from the Council so you’ve got somewhere safe to live in town. No-one can kick you off this place.’
‘Why Old Rod say that place ours?’ I askin’ ’er, a minya bit louder this time.
‘’Cause he bought it for us, that’s why.’
‘Why’d he do that?’
Mazin Grace Page 9