Despite her mixed parentage, Peggy did not feel different from other children. She was certainly a fortunate child, never subjected to racial discrimination or prejudice. She attended the normal state school when other Aboriginal children were denied access. She completed six primary levels and two secondary grades, and did exceptionally well in all grades. It was widely acknowledged that the coaching and the extra tutoring from her godparents, Dr John Callahan and his wife, Matron Margaret Callahan (nee O’Neil) had been largely responsible for the high standard produced by the only half-caste pupil at the Kingsley Government School.
Everything was going perfectly wonderfully for this pretty teenager with long straight black hair and large green eyes, features inherited from her Irish father.
Matron Callahan discussed the future prospects for Peggy with her parents: nursing training at the Royal Perth Hospital, she suggested. Peggy would stay with the Callahans in South Perth. Lucy objected strongly. She didn’t mind her working as a ward’s maid or a nurse’s assistant at the Kingsley Hospital. But send her away to Perth—definitely not.
It was a week after Peggy’s fourteenth birthday that the tragedy struck the Muldune family. An accident at the railway yards cut Mick Muldune’s life short. They said it was a freak accident, the concrete pipes had rolled off the back of a truck and on to him and crushed his ribcage and stomach. He died on the way to the hospital. The pipes narrowly missed two other men. They said they yelled out for him to “Look out”, but he never heard them. He went quickly to his tragic end.
Michael Patrick Joseph Muldune, known affectionately as the “Irishman” or “Mad” Mick, was laid to rest in the Kingsley Cemetery. Many mourners like Jack Donaldson, his best friend and best man, stood mute, tears coursing unashamedly down their cheeks.
Jack was silently remembering the Muldunes’ wedding day, fifteen years ago. Lucy dressed in a pink linen two-piece suit, white blouse and hat while Phyliss her matron-of-honour in an identical pale blue suit. Jack and Mick were dressed in dark navy pin-striped suits and white shirts—but no ties. “We joked about that, the Irishman and me. We never owned a tie. The Irishman promised he would buy one and wear it at the funeral—whoever went first. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore at his wedding, on his wedding day—but with a brand new black tie.”
A nudge from Phyliss bought him back to earth abruptly.
“Bye my Irish friend, I’ll remember you always,” sobbed this tall sunburnt half-caste Aboriginal man, before turning away to walk back towards his ute. They said that Mick Muldune stood for justice, honesty and fair play.
His widow Lucy and daughter did not leave Kingsley immediately. There were other formalities to be taken care of—according to Aboriginal custom. All Mick’s personal possessions were taken out to the backyard by female relations and burnt, nothing was saved except three beautiful crochet rugs—these were rescued by Peggy herself. All personal papers, records gone. The house itself was smoked out with Lucy and Peggy and other close relatives inside—a cleansing ritual, leaving nothing familiar for the spirit of her husband to find and cling to. He will find his own resting place—his own waterhole as it were.