Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 30 May 1974
Switchboard for Gibber’s Creek Museum
The 1920s switchboard that has connected so many thousands of calls in the Gibber’s Creek district will be donated to the Gibber’s Creek Museum. ‘They were good days,’ said the last switchboard operator, Mrs Shirley Glens. ‘If there was a flood, you’d just ring everyone along the river to make sure they were okay. I think people liked hearing a friendly voice when they picked up the phone. This STD system just isn’t the same.’
Miss Elaine Murchison, photographer at the Gazette, remembers when she went to a dance with a boy who became ‘a little too fresh’ on the way home. ‘It was about eleven o’clock at night. I walked and walked till I found a telephone box and phoned Dad, but there was no answer — Dad always slept like a log. Mrs Glens in the switchboard told me to stay where I was. She came and picked me up and took me to her place and gave me hot cocoa and kept ringing Dad till he finally woke up. You won’t find an automatic exchange that gives you cocoa.’
JED
Michael was just putting his boots back on when Jed arrived at Drinkwater, walking today using the shortcut across the river bends.
‘I smell gravy. Just had breakfast?’ Nancy’s idea of breakfast was packet cereal. Michael had grown up with Drinkwater’s eggs and a couple of chops or lamb’s fry, with tomato or fried bubble and squeak, followed by stewed fruit and toast. It was amazing how often Michael needed to check on the ewes first thing in the morning and ‘just stop at the homestead for breakfast’.
These days, Jed suspected, the excuse was ‘I’ll just check in on Mum’. Nor was it really an excuse.
Michael nodded. ‘There’re some leftover potato cakes and mushrooms.’
‘I’ll snaffle them then.’ Anita grew up in Czechoslovakia. Her potatoes cakes had grated onion and garlic in them, and her stewed mushrooms were inspired by memories of treasures gathered in her apron under misty forests, before the clang and tragedies of World War II brought her to Australia.
‘Jed, I’m worried about Mum. She won’t see a doctor. Not as a patient anyway.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jed.
‘Nothing specifically. But at her age she needs regular checkups. Blood pressure, stuff like that. Could you have a word with her too?’
‘Of course.’ Though if Matilda had refused Michael’s coaxing — and probably Nancy’s, Matron Clancy’s and Dr McAlpine’s — she was unlikely to change her mind.
‘Thanks.’ He gave her a brief hug, then clattered down the stairs.
She found Matilda drinking a last cup of tea in the dining room, Maxi looking suspiciously satisfied under the table. How many lamb-chop tails had she eaten?
‘Good morning,’ said Jed.
‘Good morning to you too. And no, I do not need to see a doctor.’
Jed pulled out a chair. ‘Why not? Just so Michael worries less.’
‘Because he might worry even more. When you get to my age, doctors suddenly feel they have the right to tell your relatives about every ingrown toenail.’
‘Do you have an ingrown toenail?’
‘Of course not. I’ve never needed a doctor in my life.’
‘You didn’t even have a doctor when you had Michael and Jim?’
Matilda smiled. ‘I said I hadn’t needed one. Nancy’s grandmother did all that was necessary. The doctor mostly stayed out in the hall, drinking tea with Tommy, who needed him far more than me.’
‘Matilda, darling, what would a doctor find now?’
‘That I am old, and my heart is wearing out.’
Jed forced her voice to be matter-of-fact. ‘It’s had a lot to love.’
‘Love keeps your heart going, it doesn’t wear it out. Time does that.’
‘Doctors can help hearts that are wearing out. Tablets for high blood pressure, or cholesterol.’
‘No. This is between me and death. I’ll die when I want to, and where I want to. I don’t want doctors interfering.’
‘Are you afraid they’ll force you into a nursing home?’
‘Of course not.’ The glint in Matilda’s eye could have cut granite. ‘But once all that kind of thing begins you find yourself with a nurse “just in case”, and a doctor calling in once a week “just in case”. I want to live my last as I choose, with those I love. Which includes you, and my ghosts, and my land.’
‘I . . . I love you too. You’ve shown me who I can be, more than anyone else.’ Did Matilda mean what she said, that she could die ‘when’ she chose? Or was it a slip of the tongue?
Matilda’s tongue never slipped. And if she wanted Jed to know more, she’d tell her.
She found Matilda regarding her, faintly amused. ‘Time for school, child?’
‘Ready when you are, old woman.’
‘That’s what Tommy used to call me.’ Matilda reached for her stick. ‘Go to Anita,’ she told Maxi. And then, ‘I’ll get my walking shoes.’
It was a morning like so many mornings now, before the day’s fatigue wore Matilda’s energy away. Two women walking along the river bank, one young, in a 1930s tweed jacket over her flared jeans and Blundstone boots, the older in a skirt of almost the same tweed, a silk blouse, stockings that somehow never seemed to snag on thorn-bush branches, and elegant lace-up shoes.
Matilda leaned on her stick and accepted Jed’s hand at her elbow on the rough bits. The river sang of endless water, and the land glowed with autumn colours, richer now summer’s white light no longer dazzled.
At last they sat on a large fallen log, while lizards peered out of its hollows, reassured by their stillness, and went about whatever social lives lizards had, darting for insects or at each other, and Matilda talked about the Sampsons, her great-uncles, aunts, the Aboriginal family that had been so much a part of establishing the Drinkwater empire, but that Matilda had never known were related to her till after old Drinkwater’s death.
‘Old Drinkwater and his sons and workmen shot them,’ said Matilda, forgetting she had told Jed this several times before. It was a scar deeply etched, thought Jed. ‘Hunted my family like kangaroos, except for those who did the work of three men but were paid only rations.’
‘How many did they kill?’ asked Jed softly.
‘I never knew. Couldn’t ask the Sampsons. I’m on the white side of the fence, not the black. That’s how I was brought up, how the world always treated me, including Auntie Love. The things she showed me belonged to the land. These days I wonder how much she didn’t teach me, this white great-granddaughter of hers.
‘There weren’t many black faces around here when I arrived in the nineties: I do know that. Only the Sampson family. I know that others had been taken to reservations down the coast. Not allowed to leave without permission, not allowed to see a relative who looked white without permission either. I asked once, and was refused. I think they were afraid I’d cause trouble.’ She shrugged. ‘They were probably right. I found out later that if they had jobs, their wages were supposed to go to protected government accounts. But the money just vanished into general revenue, with not even an accounting of how much they were owed.’
‘Did they tell you that?’
A headshake. ‘I read it in The Australian. I didn’t even know enough to ask the right questions back then. I subdivided Drinkwater when I found out the Sampsons were my father’s family, gave Mr Sampson and his sons the land between here and Overflow.’
‘That was generous.’
‘No. Deeply selfish. What about the others who had been taken away from here? It had been all their land. Part of me knows it still is. But I was so pleased with myself back then for doing it.’
‘Only part of you?’
Matilda smiled. ‘The other part thinks, you worked for this land. You and your great-grandfather turned it from bush into farmland. I’m proud that Drinkwater could feed part of our army in two world wars and a few small ones, instead of maybe fifty people. Aboriginal Australians will never get their lost wages,’ she added. ‘The government pays its debts to people with white skins, but not black.’
‘Maybe that will change with this government?’
Matilda shook her head. ‘It’s a state government matter, not federal. What government can afford to pay out millions of dollars to people who are well nigh invisible? Billions of dollars, maybe. We are talking a hundred years of lost wages, plus interest. The whites would vote out any government that tried to repay it.’
‘So Louise Sampson who works at River View is your what?’
‘First cousin three times removed,’ said Matilda crisply. ‘Your Sam is named after her,’ she added.
‘Sam? How?’
‘He’s never told you? Maybe he doesn’t know. Moura Creek flooded and Blue couldn’t get to hospital when the baby decided to arrive. Of course Joseph is a doctor, but he’d spent the last three years in a prisoner-of-war camp. He’d never delivered a baby without an experienced midwife to help. And then Louise just walked over the ridge to help. Somehow she’d known it was Blue’s time. She wasn’t a qualified midwife — she’d wanted to study nursing, but no hospital would accept her as a trainee. But she’d helped at a lot of births. And everything was fine and they called the baby Sampson.’
‘I assumed he was Samuel.’
‘Just as long as you don’t become a Delilah,’ said Matilda dryly.
Jed was silent. Delilah had taken Samson’s strength in the Old Testament by cutting his hair while he slept. If she urged Sam away from the fulfilment of his work at Nimbin, would she be doing the same to him?
‘It will work out,’ said Matilda gently. ‘When you add time to problems, they usually do work out.’
‘What if Sam meets someone else up there?’
‘You’ve told him you love him? Miss him?’
Jed nodded.
‘Good girl. Then if he goes with someone else, you are better off without him. But he won’t. Good stock, the McAlpines. When they give their hearts, it’s forever. And they breed true.’
‘And Felicity?’
‘A McAlpine to the core. Nicholas is lucky to have her. And he’d better start showing that he knows it, or he’ll lose her.’
‘Matilda, what would you have done if I’d gone to live with Nicholas five years ago? He asked me to.’
‘Exactly what we did do,’ said Matilda calmly, leaning back against her tree. ‘Made sure you didn’t have to live with him just to make it easier to go to university. Offered Nicholas a place to stay where he could find out who he had become, and who he wished to be.’
‘You mean you . . . you engineered his leaving me?’
‘No. We made sure you both had choices. And you both took them.’
Jed was silent.
‘Don’t sulk, child.’
‘I’m not. I don’t know whether to thank you or duck you in the river.’
‘Don’t do either,’ said Matilda briskly. ‘This is my favourite blouse. And it’s dry clean only. Of course we interfered. We love you.’
She said it so simply that Jed smiled. ‘I don’t think I ever realised I could be loved!’
‘You are loved by many people. And your life will have more to love and be loved too.’
‘Well, I love you too, old dragon. I should have said that before today.’
Matilda stood, leaning on her stick. ‘True. And I am going back to have a nap, before we drown in sentiment. I’ll walk by myself, if you don’t mind. I’d like to walk with memories for a while. There is nothing wrong in giving those you love more choices,’ she added. ‘It’s only wrong if you try to blackmail or coax them into making the choice you prefer.’ She offered her powdered cheek to kiss. ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
It was a small plea, as well as a question. Matilda’s life had shrunk in the last year.
‘Of course,’ said Jed gently. ‘Can we have a nice romantic story tomorrow? Like what happened when you and Tommy met again?’
‘The sun picked up its skirts and danced, and every gum tree sang. And that is all you need to know about it. Good night, Delilah. Or rather, good afternoon.’
‘Sleep well, dragon.’
Jed watched her go, making sure she was steady enough to manage the rough ground. But although the old woman walked slowly, her footsteps were true. Jed glanced at her watch, then headed to the billabong to take the shortcut back to Dribble. This was one of Scarlett’s therapy afternoons after school. Jed would meet her at the café.
They had both carefully avoided the subject of the Chosen, though Scarlett had been to see The Great Gatsby with Mark, and he had come to dinner afterwards at Dribble. He had looked pale and said little, gazing at Scarlett with what might possibly have been adoration, which bothered Jed a little, though not as much as it would have if Scarlett had looked at him the same way. It would have been a boring meal if Scarlett hadn’t chattered about how gorgeous Mia Farrow had been and how all the problems could have been sorted by some good psychotherapy but then there’d have been no book, or movie . . .
Jed could head down to help at River View, or find Michael and see if he wanted a hand. Or be entirely selfish and open the new package of books that had arrived the day before and spend a delicious few hours reading and eating yesterday’s roast chook and frozen grapes with her fingers.
Books and indulgence, she decided, peering into the letterbox, an old milk can that was long enough to protect parcels too. No parcels today, just a rates notice and a postcard.
She knew the writing. Jed found her hand trembling as she reached inside.
Dear Idiot,
I miss you too. I miss seeing you wear your purple silk camisole and 1920s bloomers, but mostly I just miss you. Will be home for a visit soon.
Love, always,
Sam
As love letters went, thought Jed, it was . . . the best. The absolute best ever written. She held it to her cheek for a moment before she went inside to answer it.