Ten Doors Down

by Tickner, Robert;

  The Mabo decision in 1992 was recognised as one of the most important decisions of the High Court. It overturned what was called ‘the doctrine of terra nullius’ (land belonging to no one), and it recognised, for the first time in the history of our country, the concept of native title in those places where Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people were able to prove their continuing connection with the land, and where the land had not otherwise been legally transferred to the control of others, as in the case of freehold land. The challenge for the government was how to respond to this decision. One option was to leave it to hundreds of separate court cases to determine the existence of native title in specific cases. Alternatively, we could set up a specialist tribunal to determine if native title existed in such cases. The specialist tribunal was ultimately the chosen course.

  The government was also determined to protect the rights of Indigenous people that were newly recognised by the court, and to advance the rights of those Indigenous people who would not fall within the High Court decision. The battle lines were drawn, with the opposition led by conservative state governments (including some ALP governments) and the mining and pastoral industries, which were backed by allies in the Liberal and National parties in Canberra. This turmoil had already erupted by early January, as I was preparing for my reunion meeting with Maida.

  By contrast, my first two-and-a-half years in the portfolio had been a period of cross-party cooperation and a time of sweeping reform in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Affairs policy. As a backbench member, I had always worked hard to try to bring out the best in people and to work in a cross-party way wherever I could. I took this approach in my work chairing the Parliamentary Group of Amnesty International, and in chairing the Joint Standing Committee of Public Accounts where all the reports were unanimously adopted by members from all political parties. With this history and way of working, I was able to secure unanimous parliamentary support for legislation to initiate and formalise the process of reconciliation between Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities and the wider Australian community. The intention was to make this reconciliation process one of the core objectives of the nation as we moved towards the celebration of the centenary year in 2001, and indeed so it became. It was a landmark achievement for the parliament and for the country.

  The newly established Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission was allowed to progress its important work, and both the shadow minister for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander affairs, Michael Wooldridge (later health minister in the Howard government), and the opposition leader, John Hewson, worked cooperatively with me and the government to set up the Council for Aboriginal Reconciliation. People from all walks of life responded to my invitation to join the council, including some of the key opinion leaders in the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander community. Thanks to the efforts of Bob Hawke, Patrick Dodson accepted the invitation to chair the council. Sir Ronald Wilson became the deputy chair, and, following his death, Ian Viner, a former Fraser-government minister, took on that role. Even those who were usually seen as the warriors for the Indigenous cause but who weren’t on the council were won over to give the work of the council a chance. They were inspired that Pat Dodson had taken on the role of chair.

  The legislation to create the council set a three-fold agenda. Firstly, the council was to use the period in the lead-up to the centenary of Federation to educate the wider Australian community about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander history and culture. This included teaching the history of dispossession, which I’d always believed was fundamental to the country coming to terms honestly with its own history. From my own school history textbook, I had seen how desperately it was needed. Secondly, there was a high-level expression of intent in the legislation that the Commonwealth would seek an ongoing national commitment from governments at all levels to cooperate and to coordinate with the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission towards certain goals. These goals were to address Aboriginal disadvantage and aspirations in relation to land, housing, law and justice, cultural heritage, education, employment, health, infrastructure, economic development, and any other relevant matters in the decade leading to the centenary. Finally, the legislation made it clear that one of the potential outcomes of the process was a document of reconciliation, but the council was to keep open the potential final name or description of that document. (This was to overcome the historic resistance of the Coalition to the use of the word ‘treaty’.)

  By January 1993, when I reunited with Maida, my strategy was beginning to unravel because of events beyond my control. The mining and pastoral industries, some state premiers, and conservative broadcasters began to attack not only the Mabo decision, but, on occasion, the High Court itself. My intention in the lead-up to the election scheduled in early 1993 was to keep a lid on the more acrimonious debates about the Mabo decision, as I knew the public interest would not be served by the Coalition declaring war on Indigenous affairs. The Mabo debate, as it was euphemistically called, generated massive ongoing newspaper headlines, and was often the lead item on the nightly TV news. As minister for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander affairs, I was right at the heart of this combat zone, leaving precious little time to reflect on or take the important next steps in my and Maida’s adoption reunion, or even just to spend more time with Maida, as I wished to do. I was also very worried about the potential for my privacy to be invaded — or, even more importantly, for Maida’s privacy to be put at risk. The idea of some tabloid newspaper photographing my mother standing at her front gate in Merrylands and adding some salacious headline filled me with terror.

  Out of necessity, I limited the people I could confide in and seek solace and guidance from. On one occasion I did, however, choose to confide in someone I’d only just met, and it turned out to be a decision that would lead to yet another striking coincidence coming into play.

  In my work fighting for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander rights, I met with many diverse groups in the Australian community, including the leaders of the various churches and faiths. I found that, almost without exception, these leaders were strong supporters of the process of reconciliation, and also fully onside in the campaign to secure strong Australian government legislation to respond to the Mabo decision. Not long after my first reunion with Maida, I was invited to attend a dinner at a weekend retreat organised by the Australian Catholic Bishops Conference. I spoke to the bishops warmly and openly, and, as was my usual practice with such groups, took them into my confidence about the challenges that lay ahead. I felt very welcome at the event and very trusting that my briefing would be respected.

  After the dinner, I ended up falling into easy conversation with the highly respected Bishop William (Bill) Brennan, a leading Catholic social-justice advocate, who had spent a good chunk of his life working closely with Aboriginal people in western New South Wales. He had a warm and friendly manner, which inspired trust, and during our chat I felt the need to share with him my story about meeting my birth mother. Our reunion was ever-present in my mind at that time. Bill listened intently and was clearly deeply moved by my account of my meeting with Maida and what I told him of her life circumstances. I then told him about the incredible coincidence of Lansdowne Street: how my mother had lived only ten houses away from my adopted grandmother, whose house had been my second home during my childhood. When I mentioned Maida’s address, his mouth dropped open and he slumped back in his chair.

  ‘I’ve met your mother,’ he said. ‘My sister lives just a few houses away in Lansdowne Street, and they know each other well.’

  I asked him not to say anything to anyone, and he touched my hand in an act of reassurance and comfort. He readily understood just how fragile my mother was and that she had never told anyone in the street that she had given birth to a child so many years ago.

  I left the gathering soon afterwards and drove back to Stanwell Park, marvelling at the amazing way
my political life and my personal life had just intersected.

  Within a week of our first meeting, Maida and Greg drove to Stanwell Park for the first time and met Jack, Jade, and Jody. The house we lived in was modest, but set back and down from the road and surrounded by a prolific garden, most of which I had lovingly planted. We were all ready for their arrival and had prepared a lunch on the back deck among the tree tops.

  When they came to the door, we were there waiting, me holding Jack. Maida reached out and took him in her arms and nursed him for much of the time she was there. Her bountiful joy was a sight to behold; she was clearly drinking up every moment, and she treated Jack as precious cargo. I could see that Greg was very pleased to be there, too, and was taking it all in, in his own quiet way. The old phrase ‘still waters run deep’ was so true of Greg, and it was clear that he saw the deep significance of this event for my mother.

  Maida and Greg fitted into our household easily, and over time they came to meet a wider circle of our friends and acquaintances in the neighbourhood. At first, Maida was very nervous about meeting anyone, but gradually she became comfortable about being introduced as my mother. She was a regular visitor to Stanwell Park, often driving down from Merrylands on her own while I was away in Canberra and other places. Sometimes, we went for family walks in the nearby Royal National Park, with me carrying Jack on my back. Maida and Greg had become part of the family, as I’d promised they would.

  On election night — 13 March 1993 — my personal and political life came face to face in a very public way. I was returned as the member for Hughes, and my mother was photographed with the rest of our family at the victory celebration in my electorate office. The photograph appeared prominently in the St George and Sutherland Shire Leader, a major regional newspaper. Although Maida wasn’t identified by name, she was very recognisable in the photograph to anyone who knew her. I don’t think she’d realised that the photograph was likely to appear in a newspaper, and I should have warned her. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realised that things were still very precarious for her and didn’t fully appreciate her fragility.

  Following the election, I invited Maida to Canberra for the opening of the new parliament, and she agreed to come, but during the visit she was clearly torn with conflicting emotions. While she was proud of me and pleased to be with me and my family, she was also still petrified of coming out as my mother. My staff did their best to make her feel comfortable and welcome in my ministerial office and also at the opening events, including the official reception, held on the occasion of the opening of parliament. Di Hudson, in particular, was very kind to Maida and did her best to look after her, but it was all overwhelming for my mother — and who could blame her? In a little over three months she had come from 40-plus years of secrecy and sadness to attending an official reception with her newly reunited son in the new Parliament House in Canberra — an event where she was formally introduced to the prime minister, Paul Keating, and the governor-general of Australia, Bill Hayden. It was simply all too much.

  My mother fled to a private place, where I found her sobbing in the corner. I felt so bad. My intentions had been good — I’d wanted to share my public life with her — but I’d forgotten her extreme vulnerability and had expected too much. We took greater steps to look after her for her remaining time in Canberra, and I realised that I had to be a better son.

  By now, my mother’s family knew about her deep, dark secret and were becoming impatient to meet me. All roads seemed to lead to Orange, and I decided I needed to go there with Maida as soon as possible. But the first step was to meet my Aunty Cyn, Maida’s twin.

  My first meeting with Aunty Cyn is etched in my memory. I arrived with my mother at Cyn’s house in Wentworthville in western Sydney. It was a modest house, like Maida’s, and also like Maida’s, it held a lot of love. Cyn’s little bent frame rushed towards me, and she gave me a wholehearted hug and kiss. It was such a warm and effusive greeting I was almost bowled over.

  ‘Welcome back to the family,’ she said enthusiastically as she hugged me again and kissed me as if she’d known me all her life.

  ‘Great to be here,’ I said.

  She retorted with, ‘What took you so long?’

  I couldn’t help but think how lucky Maida had been to dodge this terrible polio bullet. By a wicked throw of the dice, Cyn had contracted polio as a young girl, and as a result had missed out on critical schooling. She’d worked as a cleaner for most of her life, which must have been excruciatingly painful and difficult for her at times, as she was severely bent over due to the polio. Later, she had lost her husband in tragic circumstances, far too early. Despite these events, Cyn had still lived a good life, as evidenced by all the family photographs around the house.

  She was so moved by my arrival back into my mother’s life that she looked at me with deferential awe, as if in the presence of a miracle. While I was embarrassed by this attention and played it down, I understood that she was just so pleased to see Maida experience this joy in her later life. Aunty Cyn was so deeply aware of my mother’s suffering that it had become etched into her own life and persona. As twin sisters, they had shared each other’s pain, and Aunty Cyn had been on that journey with my mother every step of the way.

  My cousins, Cyn’s daughter, Jenny, and her son, Daryl (from the Santa photograph), were there to meet me, too. As to be expected of cousins born of twins, we have some similar features and are all tall and dark-haired. Daryl has a very caring nature and has worked as a dedicated hospital support person for most of his life, while Jenny has been a nurse in both general and psychiatric hospitals, and has spent time living in the UK. She has a great sense of humour, and I partly recognised myself in her uninhibited and quirky eagerness to engage with people.

  We were now ready for the trip to Orange. My mother and I headed off one wintry day in late May of 1993. I met her brother Brian, who lived in Wellington, and his wife, Yvonne, and two cousins, Robert and Charlie. I also met her older sister, Lorraine, who lived in Orange with her husband, Jack. Lorraine and Jack had three children, who, like me, were eager to meet a new cousin. I felt immediately at ease with Gary, Julie, and Helen, and all my new-found family. They’d pre-empted this meeting by sending a card welcoming me to the family, with Helen adding a note that with my presence ‘the family is complete’. I was very touched.

  Jack and Lorraine hosted a family dinner that night, and as we all sat around their dining room, the surreal nature of the gathering caught up with me. I just couldn’t believe that I’d gone from having no biological family members to being surrounded by a room full of them. And all were happy to welcome me to the family as a long-lost nephew or cousin.

  Maida took me to see the house in Byng Street where she’d grown up, opposite which radio broadcaster John Laws had at some point lived, so the family confided to me. She also took great pride in showing me her childhood school, as well as where she’d worked in the town before leaving for Sydney to have me. My mother was very proud of her family’s long association with Orange, as now am I.

  After our trip to Orange, the next big step was to take Maida to Forster so she could better understand the life I had lived without her during those critical formative years. It was a trip we both wanted to happen, but it would not be easy. I was torn, because I deeply wanted to share my childhood memories with her, but I knew this was likely to be extremely painful, as she would be reminded of how much she had missed. I was also worried about how Maida would cope with the realisation that my mother Gwen and her could possibly finally meet. This would bring together the two women who had so shaped my life. Maida obliquely alluded to these challenges before we left, and I could sense from her clipped and truncated conversation that there was some tension in the air.

  Nevertheless, we set off, just the two of us, late one Friday in May of 1993. Driving through the night, my head was spinning with crazy thoughts. I just knew that at some stage during th
e four-hour drive, the conversation would turn to the question of my birth father. I had determinedly avoided the slightest hint at the subject since first meeting my mother several months ago, partly because Sandra had educated me well on the sensitivities of this issue, but also because by now I had a deeper understanding of my mother’s vulnerability. The truth is, asking about my father hadn’t been a priority for me; my focus at that time was very much on Maida’s wellbeing. But that’s not the same as saying that I was uninterested in who my father could be or whether he was still alive.

  I thought that around Newcastle might be the time to tentatively broach the subject in some oblique and general way, without in any way alarming my mother. But as it turned out, I didn’t have to ask. My mother initiated the critical conversation herself, saying out of the blue, ‘Would you like to know anything about your birth father?’

  Both the content of her question and the sudden way she said it made me think that this was something she’d been considering for a while.

  ‘Look, my focus is on you, and my absolute loyalty is with you, and it can be no other way. That’s the way I want it,’ I said, and kept driving.

  We were silent for a time, and then Maida said, ‘But you deserve to know, don’t you?’

  I just kept focusing on the road in front of me. The silence between us was unnerving, but I was determined not to push it until she was ready.