by David Vernon
“Ma’am, you’ll want to read …”
“I want nothing.”
“You’ll want to hear this.”
“I’m deaf to words.” She shook her head. “No more. I say. No more.”
“Ma’am, he’s written about you.”
“He had no interest in me. He left his family and God behind a long time ago and God let the desert boil his brain.”
Mary was not to be deterred. She felt emboldened by what she had read. “They have enclosed a copy of the letter he dictated to Mr King as he was dying.”
“I don’t want to hear.” Hessie’s voice choked on the words then, in a hiss of anger, she gasped, “Very well, if you must. Read it to me Mary. Remind me of this curse of a brother.”
“Ma’am, he changed his mind at the end. He bids you farewell and says that, ‘When leaving Melbourne I foolishly made over what I left behind to a young lady with whom I have only a slight acquaintance. I hope you will not take ill of me. I was wrong…’” Mary skimmed over the next part and continued… “‘I hereby cancel the bequest or will I left in Melbourne, and leave all I possess to my sister Hessie Burke.’ Ma’am, he calls you his ‘dearest Hessie’. He has given you…”
“He has given me nothing. There is no money. His possessions will be no more than a worn pipe and clothes that are little more than rags.”
Mary let the letter fall to the table. She had seen a figure pass the window. Mr Enright would be at the door in a moment. She had made no decision. She was hobbled by a woman who could not see into the distance. She, Mary O’Grady would never be able to roam free if she stayed here.
She tensed herself for the knock on the door but heard Hessie’s voice first, a voice which was little more than a whisper. “He has given me something, Mary; he has given me a place, a tiny place, but a place. I will be a fact in a history book. These words you have read to me will attest to his foolishness.” She sat even straighter. “But it will also show that on the edge of life and death he did the most remarkable thing Robert O’Hara Burke ever did. He saw himself for the headstrong, idealistic dreamer he was.”
“Oh, Ma’am, Mr Enright is coming. I need to tell you …He will be asking …”
“I know. He’ll be seeking your answer to a proposal of marriage.”
“Yes, he will and…” The next words came in a rush, “He’ll also be asking me to go to the colonies with him. He is fired up with the idea of this new land that Mr Burke, Mr Wills and Mr King have opened up. We will take up land, he says. We will farm sheep.”
“Another dreamer.”
“The world needs dreamers, Ma’am. I, too, will be part of that dream and…”
Hessie finished her sentence in a voice now measured and resigned, “… not the sister left behind.”
The knock on the door broke the silence that settled in the wake of these words. Hessie reached out and refolded the letter, and replaced it in the envelope. There would be time later to reflect on those words — I leave all I possess to my sister Hessie Burke — the words that said Hessie Burke mattered, just a little.
“You should answer the door, my dear. I’ll speak to your young man and I ask only one thing.”
“Yes.”
“Mary, when you leave me, take the teapot with you.”
Historical note: I recently visited The Dig Tree. “To My Sister, Hessie Burke” is based on the letter Burke dictated to King as he was dying in which he leaves his possessions to his sister. It made me think of what it must be like to be the sibling of a famous person, play only a minor role in their exploits and rarely receive a mention in biographies.
Beverley Lello writes: I have always enjoyed working with words and retirement has given me the opportunity to write. We live on a bush block on the edge of Yackandandah, and country town life and travelling are both inspirations for my writing. Several theatre companies have performed my short plays and I have recently been a finalist in the Short + Sweet festivals in Canberra and Melbourne. She has had two short stories published in Stringybark anthologies, The Umbrella’s Shade and Between Heaven and Hell and she was successful in winning the Albury City Short Story Competition in 2011.
Bush Hero
— Dianne Bates
We’re heading bush on the mission bus, a rainy day, when someone shouts, “Tell us about that kangaroo you killed last week, Cleve.”
I tell how I downed the old man roo with my new boomerang and how great the meat tasted, cooked on the campfire. “It was a bloody giant!” I boast.
Just then the bus slides way across the track — so scary — hurling us about before it lands with a thud in deep mud. Morris hits the pedal. Wheels spin. He hits the pedal again. The wheels spin so much, smoke bellows everywhere. Now the bus is stuck — like super glue, up to the axle. We are stuck, all fourteen of us, in the outback, in country far from home.
Morris is known for being the coolest dude. But now it’s clear he’s scared. For ages he’s been trying to make radio contact with the folk back at the station. No luck.
He calls me over. “Cleve,” he says, “we’re in the biggest possible mess here.” I nod. I’m 16 and the oldest kid out of all us fellas. I know we’re in big trouble.
“I need you to be my right-hand man,” Morris says with a wink.
Before long the two of us get everyone carting dead wood into a huge pile. The wood’s wet but we’re fire experts. We make smoke. Boy, do we make smoke! More than one million campfires I reckon.
“Someone must surely see the smoke and come rescue us,” says Eddie.
That fire puffs like mad for hours. In the outback you can hear for miles. But even though we all have super hearing, none of us hears a vehicle coming to rescue us.
“There’s only thing for it, Cleve,” Morris says to me. “We haven’t any food and we’re lost. No-one knows we’re missing. I want you to walk back to Norseman. And get help.”
I choose my best mates to be in the search party: Paul, Len, Kenny, Max and Eddie. Morris’s staying with the girls and the younger boys. It’s the best idea.
The Six Survivors — that’s what we call ourselves. We are Nyoongar boys. Since we were little fellas we know lots: we know how to find bush tucker, how to track and how to use the sun to find our way. And we are brave, the bravest. We won’t fail. We’ll save Morris and the rest of our mob.
We’ve never been in this bush before and we don’t know our way home. But we know the sun. I’m the boys’ leader, but the sun leads me.
“This way!” I point. My tribe follows me.
We walk for what seems like forever. The ground’s covered with rocks and pebbles. Branches slap our faces. Now it’s hot; steamy after the rain. Flies feed on our skin. They bomb our eyes; try to get into our mouths. No-one complains. We keep tramping. On and on.
Late afternoon, we stop, tired and hungry. But together — as a team — we make a fire. We search for berries and witchetty grubs and find some. Not many, but enough for a feed. We drink water from our bottles. Soon it’s dark. Our backpacks make good pillow as we lie on the ground and try to sleep. Around us are bush sounds. An owl hoots. A screech bird screeches. Things slither and creep. We’re not scared: we’re used to the outdoors.
“Who made that smell?” Kenny asks.
We all sniff the air. What a pong!
“It was Max!” says Paul.
Max says it wasn’t him. He blames Paul. Paul blames Eddie. We all blame one another. I know whose smell it is. But I’m not dobbing on myself.
We tell one another farting stories. And stories about girls. Big lies, every one of those girl stories. But it gives us lots of laughs.
After a while we’re quiet. And soon we’re all asleep.
The rain wakes me. It’s a good eye-opener. A cheap way of washing. That’s what I tell my men.
Even though we’re hungry, we don’t worry about food. We know that others are relying on us, so we have a drink and set off again, into the bush, walking in rain. It’s only a show
er really. Later the sun comes out, really bright. It’s doing a great job being our guide.
We’re moving east, just as Morris told us to, not talking much. But then Max stubs his toe.
“Don’t be a baby,” I tell him when he complains.
“Have a look,” Max says.
I do. And it’s bad. Blood. Lots of it. And his toenail’s hanging half off.
“Stiff,” I say. “Deal with it.”
The others look at one another. I can see they don’t like me being super-tough. I do feel sorry for Max. I know he’s not a whinger. But we have a man’s job here. And I won’t let any of my men slow us down, not for anything less than major injury.
All day we walk, only pausing to drink or take a leak. I think of hamburgers with cheese and chips. Mountains of them. Hot. With tomato sauce. Then I think of Morris. Brave, kind Morris. I can’t let him down. I can’t let down Joel or Sally or Roz or any of the other kids. Or their parents.
I start singing. The other boys join in. We love this song. It’s full of dirty words. We would never sing it in front of adults. It’s strictly a boys-only song. When we sing it, it makes us feel less tired.
“I reckon we must have walked fifty k’s.” Len pulls off his boots. What a pong! We give him heaps.
“It smells worse than Kenny’s…” Len doesn’t finish the sentence. We all crack up, but not Kenny. It’s an old story. Once Kenny left a message in the bush and someone trod on it, walked it back to camp. The old fellas tracked where it came from. They found Kenny’s toilet pile. Lazy bugger hadn’t covered it. Ever since then we laugh about Kenny’s left-overs.
“It’s not funny!” screams Kenny. He always goes ballistic when we laugh at him like this.
We’re in good spirits as we make camp for the night. I take my boomerang and go for a walk. Towards dark is the best time for hunting. It’s when many animals come out to feed. I’m not a good hunter. Yet. But today I have luck. As I creep without a sound, I see movement. I stop. Watch. See nothing. More movement. Where is it?
Ah! There! It’s small and grey. A marsupial rat, about five metres away. I try to recall all I know. Watch. Wait. Be patient. Line up your eye and your tool. Raise your arm. Slowly. Very slowly. Keeping watching. Never take your eyes off the animal.
I do all of this. The rat stands still, looking about, twitching its nose. I hurl my boomerang. Through the air it whizzes. Zap! It strikes its target! I whoop with joy. Run over to the rat. Hooray! I’ve got tonight’s dinner.
“You’re a legend, man!” shouts Kenny. The boys — except for Max who carries a grudge — all slap my back. We roast the rat in the fire’s coals. Later I ask Max would he like me to bathe his toe. He nods and I can tell he’s forgiven me.
Another night. The ground is pebbly so we lay down bark strips, but it’s still not easy to get a good night’s sleep. I prefer my own bed at home — soft, comfy, with a pillow, the telly burbling in the background.
Nobody grumbles about lack of sleep. About the pebbles. But we all yawn and yawn next morning. I feel as though I could sleep for another ten hours.
Now we’re walking into country we know, country our elders have shown us.
As we tramp, we call out.
“There’s the tree where Aunty Martha found the wild bee hive!”
“The ant nest Anthony fell onto. Bit his bum lots and lots!”
“There’s where we made a gunyah and camped for two days.”
We forget we’re tired and footsore. Whooping, we run like emus across land we’ve known all our lives.
Before long people hear us and see us racing towards them. There’s Uncle Bob, the oldest man in our mob. And Skulls. And Kanga. And Aunty Mabel. Oh, there’s my mum! I’m so happy to see her. If I wasn’t a man, I’d cry. Eddie, the big sook, is crying, hugging Mum like she’s a bear and he’s her baby. I run to Uncle Bob.
“Where’s the rest of the mob?” he asks.
“In the bush. Bus stuck in mud.” I pant. “We walked for three days. Slept out two nights.”
Someone drives a truck over, takes us to the local café and orders up big for us hungry heroes. I gobble three hamburgers and a pile of chips smothered in sauce, just what I dreamed of.
Uncle Bob organises a search party. Mum and the aunties make sandwiches. Before long we’re ready.
“I know you’re tired, Cleve,” Uncle Bob says, “But the job’s not done till they’re all back here, safe and sound.”
“I know.” I feel as though I could sleep forever, but I need my wits about me. All the way home, like a good bushman, I’ve remembered landmarks.
Paul comes with me and the gang as we back-track. In the Land Rover, what took us boys days now takes only hours.
When we’re close, Uncle Bill hoots the horn again and again. We stop. No reply. We drive more. Hoot some more. Stop and listen.
“I can hear them!” I shout.
Guided by the bus’ horn, we find Morris and the rest of the kids.
What a lot of cry-babies! Not Morris, of course, but the girls.
“We thought we’d be here forever,” sobs Sally.
“Didn’t you trust us boys?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. Then she does the most amazing thing — she hugs me. And kisses me! I nearly fall over I’m so shocked. Everyone sees, of course, and boy, do I cop heaps!
“Cleve’s got a girl-friend!” pipes up Roz. She and the other kids chant this all the way back to Norseman. I pretend to fall asleep. And before long I do.
What wakes me is sound — cars and truck horns blaring, people cheering. Parents nearly topple the rescue vehicle to get to their kids, and the bus, which the Rover has pulled out of the mud.
“Cleve Geradi!” It’s Mr Austin from the newspaper calling me. He’s pointing a camera at me; a light flashes in my face. I hate to think what I look like. And I bet I pong. I wonder if Sally noticed.
“You’ll be on the front page this week, son,” Mr Austin says.
Just then Ms Smyth, the town mayor, bustles up. “Oh, Mr Austin,” she says. “Please take a photo of me and this amazing young man.” She puts her arm around me — yuck! And another light flashes in my eyes.
“I’ll see that you get a medal for your amazing heroism,” Ms Smyth promises.
I don’t want a medal. I want a sleep. Mum comes up and shoos everyone away. “I’m taking the hero home,” she says.
Watch out bed, here I come!
Historical note: This story is based on a real life young hero. In April 1977, sixteen-year-old Cleve Geradi led rescuers to a party of stranded people in the harsh outback of Western Australia. Cleve had left Norseman with twelve other children and an adult on a bush tucker search. On their return journey, their vehicle became bogged. The party lit a fire in an effort to draw the attention of rescuers, but no one saw it. They had no food and seemed hopelessly stranded. Cleve led a party of six younger boys to find help. They hiked 60 kilometres through dense bush, using the sun as a compass. When finally found, 180 kilometres south of Kalgoorlie, Cleve led the rescuers back to the rest of their party. Cleve’s brave actions saved not only his own life, but also the lives of his twelve other lost friends.
Dianne (Di) Bates is a well-known, award-winning children's author with over 100 titles published. She has worked at many jobs, including schools’ performer, teacher, and editor of state and national children's magazines. Di lives with her YA author husband, Bill Condon, near Wollongong NSW. Their website is www.enterprisingwords.com
The Woman at the Back of the Room
— JB Rowley
In the auditorium packed with women eager to celebrate the historic occasion one woman in a high-collared dress, her dark hair swept up in a style more functional than fashionable, sat unnoticed in the back row.
It is September 1902. Golden wattles hint at a bright new dawn; spring rains generate hope that the drought might soon be over; and the world’s greatest opera singer, Australia’s Dame Nellie Melba, has returned home for a tr
iumphant concert season. The women who pack the hall of the School of Arts in Sydney are there to celebrate something more important than the start of a new season: more significant than the breaking of the drought, more momentous even than the world-wide success of their compatriot. They are there to rejoice in the blossoming of a new world for women.
“It has taken years of struggle,” said one speaker from the platform at the front of the hall, “but the Commonwealth Franchise Act has finally granted us what should have been our right from the beginning: the right to vote.”
The crowd cheered and applauded. The speaker continued.
“The Act also gives women the right to stand for election to the Federal Parliament, making Australian women the first in the world to be able to do so.”
More enthusiastic applause and cheering almost drowned out her final words. The exhilaration of the occasion rippled through the hall but the woman sitting at the back of the room seemed detached from the excitement. Her dark eyes reflected signs of disappointment. Her mouth was set in a firm line of dissatisfaction.
She glared at the official podium overcrowded with special guests and politicians, as well as office bearers from the Womanhood Suffrage League. Why hadn’t she been invited to be up there? She had worked harder for this day than any of those people on the podium.
The woman’s disappointment took her back to a time when she had first experienced such profound disenchantment.
She was thirteen years old again, standing on the dirt floor of the slab hut in Mudgee that had been home for her, her numerous siblings and her parents.
Mr Allpass, her teacher, had suggested that when she turned fourteen she could train as a pupil teacher. Wanting very much to take up this opportunity, she had waited impatiently for her parents to sign the necessary papers but they had not done so. She could not understand why her mother was opposed to the idea.