Mazin Grace

by Dylan Coleman

  Old Rod takes us out with him checkin’ the paddocks again. He tells us he’s goin’ to Adelaide in a couple of days to see his lawyer. Later, Eva and me both wonder if it’s the same thing he’s been talkin’ to us about that day on the Mission, when he cried in his car.

  ‘Promise me you’ll look after my girls while I’m away?’ Old Rod says to Dave and Aunty Mim before he leaves on the plane.

  They nod, give their word that they will. Maybe Old Rod said that ’cause he knew God had other plans for him.

  The next day us kids are playin’ cricket in the backyard of our cottage when Aunty Mim comes ’round the corner, with a hankie wipin’ her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong, Aunty Mim?’ I ask, Eva close behind me.

  Aunty Mim puts her arms out to us and hugs us.

  ‘It’s Old Rod,’ she says. ‘He’s passed away.’

  ‘What? How?’ Eva asks.

  I back away from them, not wanting to believe what she’s sayin’.

  ‘Heart attack at his sister’s place in Adelaide.’

  I run into our bedroom and throw myself on the bed next to Ada who is cryin’ into the blanketie.

  ‘Why?’ I ask Ada. ‘Why Old Rod? He was a good man to us.’

  But Ada just start cryin’ more. Soon Eva and all our minya sisters cuddled ’round cryin’. Our minya bed is wet with tears again, this time for Old Rod.

  After Papa died it left such an empty feelin’ inside me that I think life can’t get any worse. But I’m wrong, it’s just the beginnin’. It starts all over again with Old Rod passin’ away. And just like when Papa died, all I can see in front of me is a big, gapin’ hole, but this time, it’s cavin’ in on top of me, just like the rabbity gudle mooga when we go to catch a feed. But now I’m the rabbity backed into the corner, suffocatin’ in misery, and the only thing keepin’ me from givin’ in is my minya sisters.

  I just can’t believe Old Rod is dead. It’s all wrong, nothin’ makes sense. It’s just before reapin’ season and his crops are almost ready to harvest.

  I’m sure God’s still punishin’ me, by takin’ Old Rod away. And I feel punished all the more when Old Rod’s family doesn’t bring him back home to be buried. Instead, they have his funeral in Adelaide. We don’t even get to say goodbye. It would’ve been too embarrassing for Old Rod’s family and friends, for all those walbiya mooga, to have his black mudgie and gidjida mooga there at his funeral. Even if we could’ve gone, it would’ve brought too much shame on them to see us there, to remind them that a lotta their walbiya men act in these sorts of sinful ways with our Nyunga women all the time, even the married ones. Then they go to church on Sunday and pretend they’re Christian. Maybe that’s why Old Rod’s family had his funeral in Adelaide. To hide the truth about him and Ada. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter, Old Rod was gone for good and no Nyunga magic was gonna help him look after us, protect us, ever again. From now on we’re well and truly on our own. I’m almost twelve now but he’ll never see me grow up. Where Old Rod went after he died I don’t know. I just hope it’s heaven. Maybe walbiya heaven, ’cause Old Rod wasn’t Nyunga like us.

  It’s real confusin’ for me. On one hand, walbiya mob ignore us. We aren’t considered a part of Old Rod’s life so we aren’t included in the mournin’, not able to grieve over him proper-way. We don’t even have a grave to visit. Old Rod just disappears out of our lives forever. Poof! Just like that. It’s like we’re invisible, too, just like when Sister pulled the cover over Papa’s grey face before they took him to that cold minya room ’til his funeral. We’re covered the same way, blanketie pulled over, like we’re empty shells of a body. My insides are cold, hollow, empty and they feel all broken up, like they fallin’ to pieces. There’s this really bad pain inside like when that doctor put me to sleep and cut my djuda open to take my appendix out. But this pain’s worse, it’s hurtin’ all over inside me.

  Nothin’ to ease the pain either, no Nyunga mooga on the Mission shake hands with us the way they usually do to show respect when a loved one dies. At first, I can’t understand it, ’cause when word comes to us that Old Rod is jinga in Adelaide, I think everyone will come over to our minya cottage and shake our murra mooga and bring food, like they always do, respectful-way, when someone jinga. But no-one comes. No-one. Not one person comes to show their respect. Are we that much of a shame job to both Nyunga mooga and walbiya mooga, Ada the adulterer and her bastard kids? My head feels mixed up and a real moogada feelin’ comin’ up from my djuda. I feel shame for who I am, bein’ born a bastard kid. And like Papa and Old Rod now, I just want to be dead.

  Later, when us kids stop cryin’ ’nough to go outside, them nasty kids on the Mission spit at us and tease us.

  ‘Goojarb, you stinkin’ whitefella kids. Serve yourself right,’ they say.

  As if it’s our fault that Old Rod died and that we were born bastard kids, like we had some choice in it. They just seem real happy that Old Rod’s dead, like it’s somethin’ they looked forward to and now it’s time to celebrate, like Christmas or holidays at Denial Bay.

  ‘You a proper bastard kid now that you got no father. Ha, ha,’ ’Arold and some other kids laugh.

  I just stare back at them, like I’m lookin’ outa dead guru mooga. The taunts feel like they’ll never stop until I’m numb all over. After a while they’re all I think about. I want to lash out but my shame holds me back. I hate myself for who I am, some dirty, not quite Nyunga not quite walaba girl who doesn’t fit in anywhere. And now that Old Rod, the fella who looks out for us, has gone, I don’t feel safe. Sometimes I’m so numb inside I feel like I’m fadin’ into nothin’, almost invisible. Other times it feels like I’m the animals that the butchers hang upside down, my insides hangin’ loose. Maybe this is what I deserve.

  Ada is too sad from Old Rod’s dyin’ to help us kids. She hears what the mean kids are sayin’, but she doesn’t say nothin’ to stick up for us. She stands there with her mouth shut tight, just lookin’ straight ahead, like she got no voice.

  Of course Mumma is there but now it’s a real struggle for all of us without the extra food that Old Rod use to provide.

  ‘Hey! Williams’ pigs, who’s gonna feed you now?’ the kids call out, and other nasty things like that.

  I feel too gutted to fight with them like I would’ve when I was younger. I hate them as much as I hate myself, for being who I am, for being who Old Rod and Ada made me. Every nasty word that is thrown just pulls me down further. I feel like I’m fallin’ into a place inside myself that I keep from everyone around me. It’s no longer a hidden treasure chest of secret-pretty-things that makes me feel nice, it’s now cold, damp and hollow, and sickness seeps out of me. The weepin’ sores on my wrist are proof of this. As the scabs grow bigger and weep more, I feel like they’re draining out from my insides, that the brown crusty skin and pussy, weepin’ stuff that oozes out is ’cause I can’t keep it from festerin’ inside me any longer.

  Stabbin’ hunger pains now come as often as a feed used to, ’cause soon after Old Rod dies, his son Dave takes over the farm, and the five pounds a week goin’ into the Mission shop that Old Rod paid for Ada and us girls to eat, stops too. Dave says he has to cancel it ’cause the farm is in debt. But I know it’s always that way before the harvest, ’cause that’s what Old Rod always told us. All the farmers have to borrow money from the bank for seed and petrol and other stuff, and then he pays them back after the reapin’, with plenty to spare to keep the farm goin’ for the rest of the year. And Old Rod said that with a big farm like his he had to borrow more money, but that meant he could make more money too.

  With that extra money he would let Ada buy us pretty minya dresses with matching shoes from Mona Tareen’s Frock Salon, too. I remember when I asked him why he bought us these nice things, he threw his head back, laughed and said he’d reaped one of the biggest crops in the district and could
afford to buy us somethin’ a little bit special.

  The way he said it was like he could have bought us a million dresses if he wanted to, but I was so happy just to have one. It was so pretty and I felt like the most special minya girl in the whole world.

  After Old Rod dies, there are no more trips to the frock salon, no more food freely flowin’ from the store. Ada seems too sad to notice or care. When she stops cryin’ enough to leave the house she’s never home. She just takes off and only comes home sometimes. It’s like, after all these years of telling us kids, ‘If it wasn’t for you girls, I’d have my freedom,’ now she has it, not because she doesn’t have us girls to look after, but because Old Rod is no longer ’round to keep her close to us and him.

  Soon after, Eva’s getting ready to leave for Adelaide to go to a Lutheran college for high school, like some kids who do well enough at the Mission school. Eva’s packin’ her bags in the bedroom, our minya sisters all ’round her askin’ questions.

  ‘Where you goin’, Sissy,’ Lil-Lil’s askin’ for the fourth time.

  ‘I told you, Lil-Lil, I’m goin’ to the big city to go to college.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Me too,’ says Sarah quiet-way, crawlin’ over the bed to get closer, not wantin’ to miss out.

  Jane and Maddy are playin’ on the floor near the door.

  ‘No, you can’t, you gotta wait ’til you’re older.’

  ‘But I’m gonna miss you, Sissy,’ Sarah starts to cry.

  Eva reaches over and gives her a big hug. Lil-Lil leans over and snuggles into Eva. ‘You wait and see. Before you know it I’ll be back for ’olidays.’

  Mumma calls from the kitchen, ‘Eva, your lift’s ’ere.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see you then, Grace,’ Eva says.

  I stay sittin’ at the end of the bed with my back to her, lookin’ at the wall.

  ‘See you,’ I say moogada-way, lookin’ over my shoulder.

  I’m so jealous of Eva gettin’ to leave this hole of a place. I want to go with her, but I have to stay and go through another year of hell.

  She shrugs, picks up her bag and walks into the kitchen, our minya sisters tag behind grabbin’ onto her dress. I stretch out and kick the bedroom door hard, then throw myself on our bed and cry. I hear the car drive away and my minya sisters are cryin’ too. I already hate my life and now Eva who helps with lookin’ after our minya sisters is gone. I’ll have to look out for them by myself while I’m still goin’ to school to make sure I get good enough marks to join Eva when my time comes.

  As the school year starts, Ada comes home for a while and I’m real pleased to see her.

  ‘Look, Grace,’ she says smilin’, ‘I’ve brought fruit and some meat ’ere for you to eat.’

  I smile back, it’s so good to fill my djuda and see my minya sisters eatin’.

  ‘Mumma, Mumma. This real nice mai,’ they say, cuddlin’ into Ada.

  ‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ I say grateful, but I wonder where she got the food from this time, and how long ’til she’s gone again.

  After about a week the food runs out and Ada’s off again and I have to decide what to do, stay home to look after my minya sisters or go to school. It’s hard to stay away from school ’cause I’d get in the biggest trouble from Teacher and Headmaster, and even from Granny Alfie, Mumma Jenna’s brother, ’cause if he sees us kids runnin’ ’round the Mission, he’ll growl us too and send us to school. And it’s hard to stay home, even though I worry about my minya sisters the whole time I’m at school.

  Some days I sit in the classroom and strain my neck lookin’ out the window for Jane and Maddy. Are they all right, I’m always thinkin’ when I can’t see them, instead of doin’ my schoolwork.

  ‘Grace, will you keep to the task at hand.’

  Teacher’s screechy voice pulls me back to the schoolwork on my desk. I go back to my arithmetic, sly-way peekin’ a look every now and then ’til I see my minya sisters playin’ with each other, safe, and I sigh with relief and go back to my work. But in the back of my head I’m always thinkin’ what will happen to them after I leave? Will they be safe?

  Some days, I feel too shame to go to school ’cause the sores on my wrists are gettin’ worse. They’ve got so bad that I always accidentally knock them and the pain is awful. I can’t even hold my pencil to write, so I just nurse my hands in my lap and my dress gets all sticky with blood and weepy pus. I’m moogada with Ada for leavin’ us all the time, with my minya sisters screamin’ in hunger and me not bein’ able to do nothin’ about it. I know she goes to get food for us and when she comes back we have a good feed, and even though it’s so good to see my little sisters eatin’ ’til their minya djuda mooga are full I know Ada will be gone again when we run outa food. I just wish she could stay.

  One evenin’, when Ada has been away for a few days, she turns up with a Nyunga man and brings him into our room. I’m so moogada. How dare she bring this stranger into our bedroom with my minya sisters. This is our special place. How can she do that?

  Ada tries to push us over to make room for her and this man to lie down next to us in our bed. As my minya sisters wriggle over, I jump outa bed and start yellin’ at that fella. Doesn’t she know this bed is our bed, always has been. Nobody but me, Ada and my little sisters sleep in this bed. She must’ve forgotten. This is my safe place and no-one but us is supposed to sleep in it.

  ‘No friggin’ way. You get outa here, now. This not your place.’

  Ada’s so angry she tells me to shut up and tries to hit me. But I dodge her. The man puts his hands in the air, tryin’ to calm me down.

  ‘Hey,’ he says over the top of our screamin’ voices. ‘I don’t mean no harm.’ The whites of his eyes are flashin’ in the dim light.

  Ada and me stop arguin’ then.

  The man carefully lowers his hands, picks up his suitcase in one, and a blanketie in the other. ‘You can have these, if you like.’ He looks down at his hands and pushes his gifts towards me. ‘It’s a real deadly suitcase, this one.’

  ‘I don’t want your stupid case, I want you to get outa here,’ I yell. ‘This here bed’s for me and my sisters, not some ugly idiot like you.’

  Ada goes for me again. ‘Why, you cheeky minya . . .’

  But before she gets to me I run over to the corner of the room, pick up a brick that we use to keep the door open, and throw it real hard-way at the man, hittin’ him in the arm.

  ‘Ahh,’ he yells and falls back, droppin’ his suitcase. Then scurryin’ like a crab to his feet, he grabs his case, throws his blanketie over his shoulder and runs out the front door of our cottage. Ada flies at me again but Aunty Dorrie runs in and stops her by grabbin’ hold of me. She tells her sister, ‘Don’t you hit her, Ada.’

  Ada runs out after her mudgie, cursin’ me at the top of her voice, but she doesn’t come back that night. I won’t let her, not with him anyway.

  My little sisters are cryin’ when I climb back into bed to comfort them, tellin’ them, ‘There’s no way I’m gonna let anythin’ happen to you girls. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what, even if it means throwin’ a big brick at ugly Nyunga mooga tryin’ to climb into our bed with us.’

  Jane laughs then. ‘You got ’im a good one too, Grace.’

  ‘Yeah, I did, indie,’ I say with a big smile on my face.

  We all giggle then and snuggle up together under our blanketie to go back to sleep. I don’t know where Ada is that night but for the first time I don’t care. As long as my sisters are safe that’s all that matters. But what if Ada brings him back again? I feel like I want to run away. The only place I can think of that’s safe is the farm. I’m big enough to run there by myself in the dark too, like we did lots of times before with Ada. But I can’t go without my minya sisters and I can’t drag them all that way. I lie in bed cryin’
quiet-way under my breath so my minya sisters won’t hear. I’ve won the fight with Ada, but our bed feels empty without her. I stay awake into the early hours of the mornin’, lyin’ there listenin’, scared that Ada might bring that stranger back. There’s no way I’m gonna let that happen. No bloody way.

  Some days that follow, especially Christmas and Easter, are like our water tanks in summer: low, hollow, almost empty. Old Rod never comes to visit to give us food or presents or to pick us up to take us to town or home to his farm for chicory and toast and to play us music while we snuggle in between comfy clean sheets. Now, with only the Mission rations to feed us, and child endowment once a month, and an occasional feed from Ada when she decides to come ’ome, which isn’t very often, we’re close to starvin’ all the time. In the past, at different times we went hungry, but now it’s a way of life. I feel like my djuda will ache a gudle into itself and I’ll be walkin’ round the Mission with the wind blowin’ through it. But my hunger I can cope with. It’s hearin’ my minya sisters cryin’ out for food that guts me.

  One day it gets really bad because food’s short for everybody for days and there’s no spare food in the house to go ’round. I just snap. I start yellin’ and goin’ off my head at Ada even though she isn’t even there.

  My aunties try to calm me down but I’m goin’ crazy. I just wish Mumma was here. She’s gone to stay somewhere else for a while but I’m not sure where. I come home one day from school and she was gone.