Book 1

Lucy Muldune 1904-1965

Looking For Lucy

The first flush of dawn was appearing in the eastern sky as I entered the cemetery gates. It was heralded by a chorus of birds chirping and twittering as they darted in and out of the grey green spindly mulga trees and clumps of acacia bushes and spinifex grass, pausing only to feed on unsuspecting insects and spiders.

It felt strange and quiet walking alone through a graveyard at dawn. The only other sounds to be heard at that hour in the morning were the crunch crunching of my sandalled feet on the gravelled road and the buzzing of the scores of bush flies that seemed to appear from nowhere and attach themselves on to any warm blooded living thing that moved from daylight to dusk.

As I approached the graves of my grandparents, Lucy and “Mad” Mick Muldune, daybreak was creeping stealthily across the dry red rugged land, the pinkish golden hues of sunrise forecasting yet another scorching day. As I bent down to place the bouquets of red, white and pink carnations on their graves, I tried to imagine what they were like and wondered how an Irishman, a bogside lad born a few miles north of the County of Derry, met and married a fullblooded Mandjildjara speaking Aboriginal girl from the remote desert region along the Canning Stock Route in Western Australia. And why did Michael Patrick Joseph Muldune leave the lush green meadows of Ireland to travel thousands of kilometres across the other side of the world to settle in Kingsley, which must be without a doubt the most arid and certainly the most remote gold mining town in Western Australia. The landscape and the environment contrasted so vastly that it could have been located on another planet.

It didn’t matter how deeply I pondered, it was impossible to imagine or even conjure up images and draw sketches of a couple I knew only by name.

That will all change by this evening when I hope to have a full mental picture of them and how they lived. Their headstones are the only tangible evidence I have of their existence. So you see my visit to the graveyard is not a whimsical gesture of a lost soul, nor is it the action of an impulsive insomniac. It is rather a ritualistic performance in a sense, a celebration of a new day; a new beginning. It makes sense to me somehow that my grandparents’ final resting place should be the appropriate location to resume my search to establish my true identity. Because their history is my heritage.

My earlier attempts to trace my roots failed dismally simply because I lacked the knowledge and understanding of Aboriginal culture and traditional “Law”. My first mistake was that, being a European-oriented Aborigine, I used the most common approach and from a non-Aboriginal point of view. Naturally, I failed to achieve satisfactory results. Nevertheless, I persisted questioning, but the answers were unchanged. “Your Nanna finished (died) ’long time, your Pop too.” Or “Your Pop good Wudgebella (white man) not like some. He look after your Nanna prop’ly. Not use ’em and chuck ’em ’way.”

In my ignorance and naivety I expected answers immediately. I expected and assumed that my family would disclose any information and recall any anecdotes and incidents, and be happy to share them with me. I was totally mistaken. Being a family member did not entitle me to any special considerations or privileges.

When I arrived at the Jigalong Aboriginal Community where my grandmother’s family came from, approximately 150 kilometres north of Kingsley, I wanted to know and learn everything about my grandparents. However, things didn’t go the way I planned. I realised immediately that Jigalong—like other traditionally-oriented communities—had certain codes of social behaviour and social conduct, and more importantly, a belief system that was handed down by super beings of the Dreamtime and commonly referred to as the “Law”.

This “Law” includes all religious practices (rites and rituals) and taboos. Members of these communities believe that it is imperative to practise and preserve the “Law”. Amongst those taboos is one concerning the aftermath of the death of a family member of the community. When this occurs the name of the deceased must never be used again. Even those having the same sounding name can no longer be called by that name. Persons having the same name as that person are addressed or referred to as “gurnmanu” which simply means “What’s his/her name” or “the person who has the same name as the dead one”. It is believed that the spirits of the dead become resentful and dangerous so it is customary, at the end of the funeral service, for an elder who knew the deceased well, to say something like “You are dead now, so don’t follow us back to the camp. You go straight to your waterhole and leave us alone.”

Confused, bewildered, and disappointed, I decided to shelve the project and return home to Geraldton. There was still hope from another source. I needed to find my grandparents’ friends, Jack and Phyliss Donaldson. I was confident that I would find them some day, somewhere, somehow.

Well that day has come. At long last I shall be meeting them for the first time here in Kingsley. I can hardly contain my excitement, because I have so many questions to ask them. Questions that have been concealed in my heart for so many years. I want to know about my grandparents’ dreams, their aspirations, their hopes, fears and despair. But most of all I am looking forward to travelling back in time—a journey into the past where lie all the answers. The Donaldsons have the golden key that will unlock all the doors and windows to reveal memories, some vivid, others dim and sketchy reflections. This is one day I shall never forget.