Chapter 15

Tammy

So by the end of 1971, life was pretty good for you?

Lesley

It was. I remember thinking, ‘Wow – I’ve got that Women’s Weekly lifestyle.’ Ever since I first flicked through a copy of that magazine, lying about at Andrée’s house, I’d fantasised about having such a life – a life just like the women who had their pictures in the magazine. They all had big happy smiles on their faces, as they posed in their suburban houses, wearing their beautiful clothes and gushing to the interviewer about their menfolk. I thought all women living ‘on the outside’ dreamed of having this lifestyle, too. And it did seem as though even I had it now. I lived in the glamorous house, although I didn’t own it; and I wore the fancy clothes, even though they were often borrowed. And to top it off I now had the man – one that I, too, could gush about.

He was my Willie and I was his ‘Lello’. My life at this point seemed perfect … Women’s Weekly perfect.

I may have been five years older than Willie, but he was far more worldly than me, despite being only in his early twenties. At age fifteen, Willie had left home to work as a stockman on a large property near Longreach in western Queensland. Then in the late 1960s, not long after turning eighteen, he enlisted with the army and was based in Malaysia for a year or two. When he joined the armed forces he was, like many young men of this age group, in search of adventure.

I’m not sure what happened to Willie while serving in the army. Whatever it was, he wasn’t able to leave the experience behind him – even after he was discharged. In the 1970s there wasn’t the support available for servicemen as there is today. Sometimes Willie felt he only had himself and his ex-army mate Steve ‘Pado’ Paterson to help him heal his scarred spirit. Perhaps a trained professional could have been of some help, but as his wife, loving though I was, I didn’t understand what he was going through. Nonetheless, he must’ve found some coping strategies that worked for him, because he somehow managed to hold it all together, for a while at least. I suppose when we met he was looking for someone who could provide him with stability in his personal life. I was a homely kind of girl, who had a stable job and really wasn’t into the partying scene.

On the other hand, I was looking for someone I didn’t have to explain myself to, and who could take care of me in the world outside of Cherbourg, and outside the protective cocoon spun by Andrée. Willie may not have been Aboriginal, but he knew my family and showed a keen interest to learn about our culture. So in spite of our differences, we suited each other.

Willie and I had been going out for about seven months when we decided to move in and start our lives together. In his typical no-fuss Willie style there was no romantic proposal like I’d read about, just a ‘How ’bout we move in together, Lello?’ followed later by a ‘We better get married, hey?’

‘Oh yeah,’ I nodded, in much the same way I would’ve if he’d asked me if I wanted to go to the movies or head down to the shops. Getting married was no big deal to me. The way I saw it, ‘marriage’ was a formality at yet another government office (the Registry Office), and involved more paperwork – and I’d had a lifetime of being used to that. But what excited me was the idea of making a commitment with someone forever and having our own little place together, where we might be able to have control over our own lives. In our own home, we’d have our own routines; we could go about our day on our own, cook what we wanted, and not have to ask anyone’s permission.

For days, Willie sifted through the newspapers looking for a place we could rent. He found a small flat in the suburb of Newmarket that was within our budget and suited our needs. It was a private rental and he arranged an inspection with the owner for later that morning.

‘This is it, Lello; we’re gonna have our own little place – just you and me!’

‘I know. I can’t wait!’ I’d never been this excited about life before. I rested my head on his shoulder and admired the houses and gardens from the back seat of the taxi as we drove towards Newmarket for our inspection. Willie then draped his arm around my shoulders and gently pulled me close. I could feel the muscles in his arm through the long-sleeved cotton shirt. We had both made a real effort and took extra care when dressing that morning. Willie looked handsome and I scrubbed up pretty good, too. I’d even borrowed an outfit from Andrée so I could look my best.

When we reached the address Willie paid the fare, and was out on the footpath with the keenness of a puppy. I strolled behind, looking at the neighbourhood, fantasising about how our new life would play out. I stopped at the foot of the steps that led up to a high-set wooden building. Willie was already on the landing talking with the landlord.

‘G’day mate,’ I overheard him say. ‘I spoke to you on the phone early this morning about the vacant flat. You said it was still available.’ The landlord accepted Willie’s offer of a handshake and smiled.

‘I’ve-a-been-a-waiting for you.’ The words rolled off his tongue, wrapped in a thick Mediterranean accent.

I didn’t want to interrupt the men while they discussed business, so I remained at the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly the landlord noticed that I was there.

‘Is-a-she with you?’ The landlord’s tone and body language changed. He appeared wary now of his prospective tenant. No longer friendly and relaxed, the man seemed stiff and guarded.

‘Umm yeah …’ Willie was confused too, not seeing the obvious.

‘Well-a-this-a-flat is taken.’ The landlord then turned on his heels and walked away inside.

‘Wha …’

Bang. The door slammed shut in Willie’s face, cutting him off mid-sentence. He stared at the wooden door in front of him, too shocked to move. I didn’t bother climbing the stairs. I was not surprised any more by racism, but I’d never seen a white person discriminated against before. I didn’t know what to do or how to comfort him.

I may’ve been the blackfulla in the relationship, but Willie copped his share of discrimination too. I had come to expect this type of treatment, but it was quite new to Willie. He was the one refused service at a bar, because he was with ‘them’. He was the one who overheard the racist jokes being told at work or in the pub, and would then get into fights, for sticking up for ‘those black coons’. Willie also heard the whispers and saw the sideways looks, whenever we went, as a couple, to the army barracks for functions. We’d always move to the other side of the room and join his close circle of friends so ‘those other bastards’ didn’t ruin my evening. Then for the whole night Willie would go out of his way to make sure I was okay – as if my feelings were more important than his – but deep down inside, I knew it shattered him.

Others in my family were used to racism. My brother Claude had also been in the army and served overseas in the Vietnam War. But when he returned home to Australia he was denied entry into the local Returned Services League club, and couldn’t share a drink with his comrades at the bar there. Willie wasn’t used to it. And it really hurt him.

I started blaming myself for our setbacks; after all, my being Aboriginal was the reason why some people treated us badly. Willie kept reassuring me that it wasn’t my fault, instead blaming himself for not doing more to get our own place. He said he wished he’d stood up and fought the racist rather than walking away in defeat. When I think about it now, I’m sure his decision that we should move to the countryside had something to do with him wanting to escape experiences such as these in the city.

Throughout the course of our relationship and then marriage, Willie looked for any opportunity to escape to Cherbourg. It was one of those few places where he felt he could be himself and we could be a couple without being subjected to the judgement of others. Willie got on well with all of my family, especially Pa.

‘Ah, you’re my favourite son-in-law,’ Pa would say each time we’d visit, Willie bringing him a couple of bottles of beer as a gift.

‘Knock off, Mully,’ Ma would growl. ‘You say that to all your sons-in-law who bring you a packet of cigarettes or a bottle of grog!’ Pa would shake his head.

‘I can’t help it that I’ve got good sons-in-law.’

To my family, our mixed-race relationship wasn’t an issue – in fact they were used to it, given that my stepfather, Pa Mace, was also white. And so it followed that Willie was welcomed as part of our mob. Still, it did take him a while to get used to some aspects of Cherbourg. Ironically, it wasn’t the sort of reverse discrimination that he, as a white man, may have experienced from blackfullas; instead, it was the conduct of the white officials that upset him. As long as he was within Cherbourg’s boundaries with me, his movements were restricted and monitored just like the rest of us.

Tammy

Although my father died when I was quite young, I do have a few cherished memories of him. Some of the clearest of these do relate to our Aboriginality. And now that I know about the fall-out that came from Dad’s bi-racial marriage to Mum, and his experiences with racism, these particular childhood memories of mine take on a much deeper meaning.

In 1983 I would’ve been about four or five. I remember sitting on the front veranda and watching Dad painting. My grandma had bought him a paint set to distract him from his depression.

‘Who’s that, Daddy?’ I asked, as he moved the fine paintbrush delicately in his hand. For a minute or two there was no answer. His eyes were transfixed on the detail. More time passed, before he edged closer and then carefully added a few small strokes.

‘Hah,’ he breathed out, satisfied with his work. ‘That man, Sarsee [his nickname for me – I don’t have a clue why], is an Aboriginal. That’s what you are. You’re an Aboriginal, like him.’

I looked hard at the black man positioned prominently in the foreground of my father’s painting, trying to find any trace of similarities in our faces. The man had a beard and jet-black hair; I didn’t. Clearly I needed to know more and so Dad sat down on top of our toy box and picked up a small brown book about Aboriginal art he kept beside his paints. He signalled for me to come over, and I curled up in his lap.

I looked at the photographs on the page and listened as he told me about Aboriginal art. His voice was warm and soothing and it comforted me like my favourite patchwork quilt. I recall looking out towards the winter sunset, noticing for the first time how pretty the sky looked lit by the sun’s glow. It may have had something to do with how happy and peaceful I felt at that moment, sitting there on my father’s lap. A small seed of understanding had been planted in me – the idea that this art was somehow of me, of us. That it was something to embrace and be proud of.

Naturally, as a small child, concepts of identity – of being Aboriginal – had not yet become part of my vocabulary or mindset; rather, being Aboriginal was simply the texture woven into our ordinary lives.

Once when we were on a trip to Cherbourg to visit my grandparents, Mum and Dad spotted an echidna waddling across the road, ever so slowly.

‘Stop, Willie!’ Mum insisted, and Dad pulled the car over.

‘What, you think Ma and Pa would want it?’ he queried.

‘Oh yeah, and Sandra too, she loves a good feed of porci [echidna].’

Before I knew it, they’d both jumped out of the car and somehow managed to pick up the prickly native without being spiked by its quills. And then stuffed it in the boot, alongside the rest of our luggage.

As we drove off, I remember crying and not wanting to sit on the back seat of the car – because I thought the echidna’s quills would go straight through the upholstery and prick into my bum. And Dad, being Dad, gave in and let me sit up front alongside him and Mum.