Grace Beside Me

by Sue McPherson

  As soon as Nan and Pop hear her frenzied cry, all battle stations are manned and ready for action. Depending on how severe the encounter is, a small sherry is poured ready to help with Mrs M’s battered nerves. Someone makes a pot of tea while another walks across the road to Mrs M’s house where they will, hopefully, find the offender and try to place it someplace more suitable. Meanwhile Mrs M sits at our kitchen table sipping tea with a wet face washer on her forehead, telling all who will listen how big, ugly and dangerous the multiple-legged intruder was. That is what normally happens – last Tuesday afternoon was different.

  As told by the lady herself, Mrs M was busily cross-stitching a cushion. Unknown to her, a stick insect made its way up the lounge chair where it stood swaying back and forth, riding an imaginary wave. She saw it and started screaming and pulling at her hair and the bobby pins, jumping up and down, legs real high. Now, Mrs M insists she was touched by a miracle, a gift straight from the heavens. While she was jumping around checking her scalp, a photo of Mr M crashed to the floor. This is enough to startle Mrs M out of her frenzy. She looked to the ground and the photo is turned upwards. There’s Mr M not looking happy and content, but a little cross … or so she says. Anyway, Mrs M knew right then she must stop this silliness once and for all.

  You won’t believe this part: she grabbed a New Idea and put it beside the stick insect, which slowly rode the next wave in and landed right on the intended site. Then she calmly picked up the magazine, plus the stick insect, and walked through the house, down the stairs, out the gate and over the road to our place.

  Mrs M walked as if she was going to receive a medal from the Queen. Pop stood still, his mouth open. Nan, just as surprised, suggested I run and find a brandy for Pop and herself. I poured a small sherry for Mrs M, too.

  Mrs M faced her fear head-on that day and history was made, it was a great breakthrough. After that Pop reckoned old Mrs M deserved a reward, so next time Nan and I were down at the newsagents we bought her a scratchie. You wouldn’t believe it, she won $150, just like that. Mrs M insisted on giving $75 to Nan and Pop. With the rest she bought a book on insects.

  Sorry Day

  M rs M’s win with insects was pretty bloody big but Nan’s win from the Australian government will actually be written in the history books.

  A childhood full of abuse and sadness sits raw and close to Nan’s spirit and, crazy as it sounds, it all comes down to a government policy.

  Around the time of Federation, during the early 1900s, Australian governments brought in laws that made it legal to steal Indigenous children from their families. In New South Wales, the law was called the Aborigines Protection Act of 1909. It said it was OK to remove kids that were not ‘full blood’. So they reckon more than 100,000 kids were ripped away from their families and taken to goverment, religious or charity homes. But imagine how many mums and dads, aunties and uncles and grandparents would also have been affected, all the way down the line.

  In these homes the kids were educated, white man’s way, and all connections to culture, including language, were cut. These kids would later be known as the Stolen Generation.

  Like I said before, the last couple of weeks have been full on.The Apology, on Wednesday 13 February 2008, brought with it many emotions – sadness, anger and happiness were all in the room when Kevin Rudd, the new Prime Minister of Australia, made a speech to the Stolen Generation and their families.This was a long time coming.

  For many years people, especially Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, had wanted the government to acknowledge these past wrongs and to show some respect by saying sorry, instead of pretending it never happened. After beating little Johnny Howard in the 2007 elections, Kevin Rudd made it clear that the newly elected government was going to say sorry and we were very happy with Rudd’s decision.

  Nan and her three sisters, God bless ’em, were all part of the Stolen Generation. Nan doesn’t like talking about her past but over the years bits and pieces have come out and now I have some idea what she went through. Normally I can speak to Nan about anything but this is a subject even I don’t like pushing. I know Nan still hurts.

  You could tell there was change coming because Nan started to do funny things around the house, like putting the salt and pepper in the fridge and sending mail to Aunty Nora in Sydney without putting a stamp on the envelope. The most recent stuff-up was when she overfilled the kitchen sink, soap suds and water spilling down the cupboard to the floor like when you make a spider. Pop was also a bit different; he spent a lot of time fixing things. He fixed a stool, two dining-room chairs, the kitchen drawer and the spice-bottle holder. Thinking and fixing, that’s what he did.

  Nan got a letter in the mail, inviting her down to Canberra for the big day. She thought about it and decided not to go but to stay with us so we could watch it together as a family.

  The night before and the following morning the phone just wouldn’t stop ringing. Nan and Pop’s relos and friends from way back rang for ‘catch up’ and to send blessings through for the Sorry speech.

  On that same day at school, Mr Sidebottom our history teacher gave his lesson on the Stolen Generation, the speech and the implications, or fallout, from it. Mr Sidebottom, which is his real name by the way, seemed to have a decent grasp of the topic. Unfortunately, Catherine Turnbull didn’t. Catherine comes from ‘old money’, as Nan puts it. Nan worked for Catherine’s grandparents years ago in their big house out on their property, Bangarry Station. Catherine Turnbull is a total pain in the arse. She will listen to other girls talk about saving up for a special piece of clothing and then by that same weekend her mother will have bought it for her. My friend Tui reckons she is unscrupulous. I’m not sure about that, all I know is she gives me the shits.

  Anyway, we were all in class in deep conversation about the past when Catherine says, ‘Well my family and I believe all of this nonsense with the so-called Stolen Generation is a waste of time and money. Surely Mr Rudd has better things to do, like looking after the people on the land.’

  I let her have it. So did Mr Sidebottom. I think it was the first time I saw real emotion in his face. Looking back I guess Mr Sidebottom understood Indigenous issues better than I first thought.

  Getting back to our family and the speech, well – it was a big day. Nan and Pop said I could have the day off school, or at least the morning. At about nine o’clock we listened to Mr Rudd’s speech. Even Puss chose to watch on Nan’s lap, purring and looking at the telly. Throughout the speech we sniffed and wiped tears away, even Pop. I don’t know if Nan heard everything because she was quietly sobbing through most of it, reaching up every now and then to blow her nose. We saw Aunties Nora, Nell and Mindy in the public gallery. They looked just as sad as Nan. After the speech the three of us stood up and clapped like everyone on telly. We were happy and sad all at the same time. It was great for Nan, you could see the weight of abuse, loneliness, hurt, and shame was lifting.

  Nan continued to wipe away tears but her face transformed into something special. I guess you could call it some type of rebirth. I love Nan to bits and feel honoured to have shared this special time with her and Pop.

  While Pop made a pot of tea, Nan, Puss and I continued to listen to Dr Nelson, the leader of the Liberal Party. Nan had little to say after his speech. I guess her body language said it all. She started shifting in her seat and the sighing, deep breathing and constant rubbing of her arms were all signs that things were not going well for Dr Nelson.

  The Liberals started off half all right I thought, but then Dr Nelson started to change. It was just like meeting the calm before the storm.

  Many of the mob on telly turned their backs to him when he was speaking and to be perfectly honest I don’t blame them.

  Before we knew it Dr Nelson was talking about sexual abuse cases in the Northern Territory. For the life of me, I don’t understand why he would bring this up at a time like this. It really took something away from what Mr Rudd had said and gave Sor
ry Day a bitter feel. At one stage I think Dr Nelson was moved by things that happened back then, when Nan was a little girl. He seemed to be finding it hard to read about a family taken away while visiting the post office. But I’m sorry to say this was short-lived. Sobbing, I reached for another of Pop’s man-sized hankies. My chest was heavy and uncomfortable almost to the point of hurting. I couldn’t help but think of Mum. What would she have done in that situation? I felt heat rising from my chest up to my face. Surely she would have fought for me, surely?

  ‘You listen now, Fuzzy, young Kevie Rudd, he understands.’ That was all Nan had to say. Dr Nelson and his colleagues chose not to acknowledge the significance of saying sorry to people like my Nan and Aunties Nora, Nell and Mindy. Catherine Turnbull, her family and Dr Nelson have a lot to learn.

  Afterwards, Nan walked into the garden. I could see her picking caterpillars off a cabbage leaf. Pop had planted cabbages in the veggie patch down along the back fence but this cabbage grew by itself, right in the middle of a bed of roses, proud as a candle on a cake. Nan didn’t have the heart to transport it to the veggie patch. Nan will always find strength when she seeks a quiet piece of wonderful, in her garden.

  Two days after the speeches, Aunties Nora, Nell and Mindy came to our place for ‘big talk’. Many years ago their own grandfather and father spoke the same words whenever there was a need for serious discussion. Generally when Nan, Pop and the Aunts come together for ‘big talk’ many pots of tea are made and drunk in between rich and sometimes heated conversations. We always enjoy having the Aunts in the house. It’s just like having three Nans. At times Pop seeks quiet in the shed but generally he loves having everyone together. He likes to see Nan happy, we all do.

  Throughout the week the Aunts told us about their time in Canberra. Like us they thought that words used by the Liberals were better left unspoken; mind you, Aunt Nell said it different to that. Like Nan, Aunt Nell is more than capable of using some very choice language when needed and, unlike Nan, Aunt Nell’s timing works to perfection, choosing only to use these words if I am out of the room or when she thinks I am listening to the telly or music. Obviously, I have very big ears.

  I had my iPod plugged in and my earphones in place. Just as Aretha hit the last note and the last song finished, I heard Aunt Nell.

  ‘Sis, I’m tellin’ you now, that so-called Dr Nelson is a low-lyin’ uppity mongrel. It was goin’ to be a special day for us mob but them Liberals went and buggered that up. They weren’t focused on the right bloody issue. It’s like bakin’ old Aunty Marg’s plonky Christmas cake, you gotta focus on the task at hand. That way you don’t bugger it up. And if you do, you may as well throw it out to the dogs, ’cause no other bugga is gonna eat it. That Dr Nelson and them Liberals, that’s what they did to us and now we’re a stinkin’ dog’s dinner. Thank the Lord ’imself young Kevie did a good job. Now if ’e just concentrates on keepin’ the fuckin’ interest rates down ’e might just do all right.’

  That’s my Aunt Nell in full glory. She’s a very strong and passionate lady. Especially when she thinks I’m occupied and can’t hear her.

  New Kid on the Block

  By Monday our house was back to normal. The rest of the week muddled along like most others, excepting of course the fight in our street and making friends with the new girl at school.

  Matilda Grace, that’s the name of the new girl. Before coming here she went to a private school in Sydney somewhere. She seems all right. She loves R’n’B like the rest of us in our group, she does her work in class, her hair is clean and she seems to know lots about boys, men and sex. I guess she’s a good person to have around in that respect, us girls can listen and learn.

  Matilda has an older brother and, let me tell you, he is so hot, even Amanda Manning’s older sister, Freya, reckons she could show him a thing or two. Freya has left school, she just turned eighteen. She is having an affair with the local copper, Sergeant Rose. Everybody knows about it, even his wife. Freya tells her sister all the time, ‘Amanda, I’m not going out with other men, I am saving myself for Sergeant Rose.’ So as you can see, if Freya is keen, this new guy must be hot.

  Matilda’s brother has long blond hair cut in that clumsy type of surfie look. He has a face that looks mature, strong and chiselled. He has great skin, no pimples, and is tanned. This guy is surfer-hot with a body to match. He has a sixpack and a strong upper body. We all know this because we saw it when he was swimming down at the river the other day. His name is Brian. Christy, a stupid girl in my maths class, reckons it’s a very romantic name. I’m asking myself, how in the hell did she work that one out?

  Regardless of how romantic his name is, the lad is delicious. Brian now has a following of more than one hundred horny females, all eager to perve and fantasise over him being their boyfriend.

  The other day we were all standing around at the tuckshop checking him out while he was in deep conversation with our English teacher Mrs Long. When they were finished talking, Brian turned around to find all six girls staring and drooling over him. Even though I’m quite dark I’ll tell you now I turned the colour of Nan’s Sunday hat, the red one she wears to church when she thinks Father John needs to see her. It’s so in your face, even Dad reckons it stands out like stretch marks on a black man’s butt. We all just ran away like primary school girls.

  Brian seems to be quite the model student, not just another idiot like the guys in my year. Not only does he look good, he has a brain as well. He obviously has a few problems with English though because Mrs Long and him were going over work again this week in the classroom during lunch. Brian is in year twelve so no doubt his work would be difficult.

  Domestic

  One night, I’d just finished hanging up from talking to Dad, when there was this huge scream coming from out on the street. Nan didn’t hear it at first, because she’s deaf. Well, half the time the cheeky old bugger uses what they call selective hearing. I know because I read about it in the seniors’ magazine I found on the bench. If Nan doesn’t want to answer a question she just makes out she can’t hear. Pop reckons she’s rude when she does that, I reckon she is pretty clever. I tried to do it a couple of times but it didn’t work.

  So, once we all heard that scream, we ran outside to see what was going on and Bruiser Buchanan from down the street is laying into his missus just outside their house, just down from us. At least three times a year someone will have to call the cops because of Bruiser. Trudy, Bruiser’s wife, can usually give as good as she gets but today it seems a bit one-sided. Bruiser definitely has the edge.

  ‘You useless bitch, when I come home after work and walk into that bloody house I expect my dinner on the table.’ He tried to hit her in the face again but, fortunately, in his drunken mess he doesn’t connect. ‘You’re an ugly excuse for a woman, look at you; up the duff again, the more kids you ’ave the uglier you get. I oughta piss you off. Go an’ look after ya mangy kids somewhere else … prob’ly not mine anyhow.’ Bruiser is in his own testosterone heaven, determined to inflict pain and hurt on a family who run to his every command. The guy’s a loser.

  Bruiser has a temper like Dunlop, the dog owned by a guy called Lefty who lives down near the corner. As soon as you go near Lefty’s to say hello, Dunlop flies at the fence, teeth bared and ready to eat you. He won’t even let you rest your hands on the gate. ‘Mad as a bloody meat axe,’ Nan says. Now that’s funny because my friend Mandy, her dad is a butcher and he uses a meat axe. I’ve had a good look at that axe but I can’t see anything mad about it.

  So Bruiser is making poor old Trudy’s life hell out on the street for all to see while their five kids gather on the verandah crying and screaming, waiting for the violence to stop. As indicated by Bruiser’s last insult, poor Trudy is pregnant again and this is why she doesn’t hit back. She loves all her children and, just for the record, they all have Bruiser’s features. All five of them, poor things.

  Nan grabs her heavy frying pan and we all run down the stre
et, Pop’s up front because he can still run fast, then me and finally Nan bringing up the rear.

  I go and cuddle the kids. Pop runs straight for Bruiser and lifts him up in a bear hug so he can’t do any more damage. Even though Pop is old he is still capable of lifting bales of hay onto the back of a truck and he hates it when men hit their wives. Pop throws him onto the ground near the front fence and yells, ‘Bruiser, sit there and shut up, you goin’ nowhere!’ Nan and the frying pan in her right hand are ready for action but she doesn’t need to use it this time. Trudy has a blood nose and a few cuts and bruises on her face. Pop waits with Bruiser; the flash of lights and the piercing sound of the siren tell us the police and ambulance have arrived.

  Trudy is looked after and sent to hospital, Bruiser is looked after and sent to lock-up. Pop, Nan and I stay with the kids until Grandma and Grandpa Buchanan come over to make things better.

  Visit From the Mayor

  Today is Wednesday. I look at my watch as I walk down the path leading to our house. It’s been a long day at school and I’m over assignments, exams and stupid deadlines, and I’m over teachers. Nothing in particular happened today for me to feel this way. It’s just one of those days when you can’t be bothered.

  There is a new Toyota Land Cruiser parked out the front, a visitor. As I walk through the gate, up the stairs and turn the knob to the front door I hear voices coming from the kitchen. I breathe in the smells of wood polish and the sweetness of home-baked banana cake. I say hello to Puss as I walk through to see Nan and Pop. Mr Ridgeway, the town Mayor, is visiting.