Chapter 18

Lesley

January 1984 was not only the start of a new calendar year; it was also when the bills mounted up again. The money Willie was owed for the work he did the previous year was coming through in dribs and drabs – a little bit this week, then nothing for a couple of weeks after that. There wasn’t much contract work around for him and it’d be months before the beans were ready for me to go picking again. The reality of our circumstances hit us, and the holiday spirit crumpled like used wrapping paper.

We were in dire straits. It was a battle simply to exist. There was no bloody way, though, that I was going to give up on my family, or watch my husband sink further into despair. I couldn’t do nothing. I was going to find a job. I wasn’t going to give up until I did.

While volunteering in the boys’ classrooms, I’d noticed that some of the parents of the Aboriginal students were waiting outside the school gates – just as I once had. I walked over and began to chat with them – the same way Dan’s grade-four teacher, Mrs Wilson, had done earlier for me when she peered out of the classroom window and noticed I was too intimidated to come closer. Having previously worked in remote Aboriginal communities, Mrs Wilson understood our cultural practices and social problems. She put me at ease so I felt comfortable to enter the school’s boundaries.

Now, other Aboriginal parents were asking me questions, like how their children were going at school, and what their teachers were like? If there were problems, they’d also ask me to talk to the teachers on their behalf. It dawned on me that there was a need for someone to help Aboriginal parents to engage with the school. To do what Mrs Wilson had done for me, but on a much larger scale. I realised that that someone, who could help other Aboriginal families, could be me. I was going to create a job out of what I was already informally doing. I was going to be an ‘Aboriginal School Liaison Officer’, or some other flash title.

When I was next at the school I made it my business to see the principal, Mr Baker. I was still plagued by my usual insecurities of approaching someone in authority, but I was desperate. I didn’t care about rejection. I just had to make him see that there was a need for him to employ me.

‘I’ve … um-m … noticed that th-th-there are a number of Aboriginal students at the school,’ I said anxiously, a hint of my stutter returning.

‘I-I-I was thinking that there might be a need for someone like me to work as a sort of “go-between” person … to work between the teachers and parents of Aboriginal students.’

I had the principal’s attention and he appeared interested in what I was saying, so I continued.

‘You see the Aboriginal parents are nervous about talking with you and the teachers. Th-th-they’ve got lots of questions they want to ask about how their children are going. Maybe then, I was wondering … um … that I could be a go-between – linking Aboriginal families with the school. The parents know me and will tell me their problems; I can then help the teachers to understand their issues.’

It didn’t take Mr Baker long to answer.

‘That sounds like a great idea. It makes sense having someone like you, Lesley, working at the school. But there aren’t many Aboriginal students at this school, so as to justify the Education Department creating a full-time position. Why don’t you ask around at the other schools in the local area and see if you can get support from the other principals? Then you could offer to provide this type of support to all of the schools in the district.’

I couldn’t believe he liked the idea! While he didn’t offer me a job on the spot, at least he gave me an idea about how I could go about making my case to the Education Department for a job. I had hope and I knew I was on the right track. But then the enormity of the task set in.

Tammy

Did you think you’d be given a job just like that from Mr Baker – with no approval from the Education Department or funding for the position?

Lesley

I suppose I did. To be honest I didn’t give it any thought. I had no idea about government processes or which department was responsible for the school and employing staff. I’d always thought that the principal was in charge of everything – like Mr Crawford, the principal who had been at the Cherbourg Settlement School.

Tammy

So how on earth did you pitch your proposal to the Queensland Government, if you did not have much knowledge of how government works? Most people probably wouldn’t have known who to send the proposal to.

Lesley

I didn’t have a clue either, about what to do. So I asked around town until I was put in contact with a lady by the name of Carol Browning. She was known around the Gympie region as someone who had experience writing applications and getting funding from the government for worthy projects. I was out of my depth and knew nothing about the politics, so I must confess I just gave Carol the information and she did all the work. She wrote the submission to the Education Department and I merely tagged along with her to a meeting with our local member of parliament, Len Stephan, to lobby his support.

A couple of months passed and my hopes were dashed. The minister of education at that time rejected the plan. He said that I was not qualified and had no experience to liaise with Aboriginal parents - whatever that means. Nonetheless, I was gutted. There was no job. There was no money. Willie wasn’t getting any better. It was the last throw of the dice and it didn’t land our way.

The problems at home were now so bad that I had to keep busy. When Willie wasn’t away working, he was at home spending too much time drinking. He no longer resembled the happy-go-lucky person I once knew, the man I had fallen in love with. I needed to distract myself so I didn’t lose hope for the sake of the children. There wasn’t much in my life to look forward to other than volunteering at the school. It was irrelevant that I didn’t have formal qualifications to act as a liaison officer, because many of the Aboriginal parents felt I already was – they still kept asking me to help them and their children. This wasn’t paying the rent but at least it was helping Aboriginal kids to get an education; and it kept me strong.

Sometime in March 1984 Mr Baker asked to see me. I had no idea what it was about.

‘Lesley, come in and take a seat,’ the principal said, ushering me into his office. There wasn’t much chitchat; he got straight down to business.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you were proposing. Even though there are only small numbers of Aboriginal students, it’s still important that we have someone like yourself as a contact person to help the school liaise with the Aboriginal parents.’

‘I-I-I don’t think you heard the news,’ I interrupted. ‘The government has knocked back my application. Th-th-they said I wasn’t qualified and didn’t have the experience.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about the state government,’ dismissed Mr Baker. ‘Now I have been making my own enquiries with the federal government and I’ve just received word that they have approved funding for a twelve-month traineeship as a teacher’s aide. I’ve been impressed by all of the voluntary work you’ve been doing here at the school, so I would like to offer you the position.’

The proposal came as a shock and made me feel disorientated and weak. For the previous eighteen months my body had been fuelled by adrenaline and ravaged by the stress of providing for our family and now …

‘Thank you,’ I said before pausing, trying to think of a way to show him my gratitude. I couldn’t believe that a person like this, who barely knew me, was willing to give me such a chance. My family had come close, so close, to losing it all … and now maybe we could find a way to slowly claw ourselves out of this deep black hole of despair and start living a better life.

Although the traineeship was only for twelve months, I was determined to show Mr Baker that I was worth taking a chance on.

‘I’m gonna give it my all,’ I promised.

‘I know you will,’ the principal smiled.

*

I started work on 26 April 1984, but the job didn’t end our troubles, as I’d hoped. It took the federal government many months to process the paperwork for my job. The whole idea behind securing the position was so we could rely on a regular income to cover the lag between when Willie did his contract work and when he was actually paid for it, but without the bureaucratic tick of approval, I couldn’t get paid. Still, I kept working, even putting in overtime, taking library books home to cover at night and on weekends – Willie sometimes even helped me with the covering.

‘Why can’t people just friggin’ pay us for the work we’ve done!’ Willie would shake his head in frustration each time he’d sort the mail and see that a cheque still hadn’t arrived.

The school’s Parents & Citizens Association (P&C) started lending me small amounts of money, as did Willie’s parents and his great-grandmother GG. Kind as these gestures were, they didn’t amount to enough for a family of five to live on. All we wanted was the pay we were entitled to for our work, not handouts.

As the months dragged on, Willie started to lose interest in the things he’d once enjoyed doing. Not even riding the horses and visiting family seemed to bring him as much joy as it used to. Instead, he preferred to spend hours alone at night, sitting in the dark outside on the veranda listening to Slim Dusty and Charley Pride tapes, with only the little ‘Four-X’ man on the beer label for company. Before this, I’d never given up hope. But I was starting to find it hard to remain positive for both Willie and me.

Then, unexpectedly, six cheques, totalling $1700, arrived in the mail. It was my long-awaited wages, which I deposited into our joint account. This was it! Finally having the money, I believed, would fix everything. The bills could be paid. The pressure would finally be off my husband’s shoulders and we could return to being the happy family we used to be. I couldn’t wait until Willie arrived home to show him. He’d be happy, perhaps ecstatic, like me.

The joy left as swiftly as it came when we realised that the truck’s annual registration, which was overdue, would take up most of what was left after the bills were paid. My efforts to help ease the pressure were too little, too late. Late one mid November evening, after I’d put the children to bed, I walked into the kitchen and saw Willie sitting at the table. In his hand he held a blue pen and, for a moment, he was hesitant to write. To his side was a three-day-old local newspaper opened at the classified advertisements section. I watched him discreetly as I cleaned the dishes. He’d gaze at the newspaper then sink his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. His entire body reeked of despair. After a while he scrawled a letter on a blank page and asked if I could neatly re-write it for him. I dried my hands and sat down next to him.

Nervously, I picked up the paper. In response to an advertisement that someone had placed looking to buy horses, Willie was offering to sell three of ours. Oh, not Paddy – the kids’ favourite brown and white pony! My heart sank. Both Willie and I knew the kids would be devastated that their pony would have to be sold. I felt guilty even at the thought of it. The kids had gone without so much; they’d had to pick beans instead of playing, to overhear angry arguments between their parents, to see their father withdraw ever more into his gloom. Lego and their Paddy had been their escape, and now their favourite horse was to be taken away from them.

My husband’s eyes were glassy and bloodshot, tormented by having to make such a decision. In his depressed mind, Willie blamed himself for it, feeling he was the sole cause of all our ongoing misery.

In the early hours of the next morning, 14 November 1984, I discovered my husband’s body. He had taken his own life.

I learned later on, that not long before that awful night, his mother had tried to reassure him, when he told her, ‘Les and the kids are better off without me. I’m holding them back … they deserve a better life.’