When we arrived back in Perth, Nan was really pleased to see us, and so was Beryl. Nan had gone through all the money Mum had left her and had had Beryl on the go nonstop, running up to the shop for chocolate biscuits and putting bets on the TAB.
‘I knew you’d all be safe,’ Nan said when she saw us. ‘I been praying the cyclones wouldn’t get you.’
We rounded up the rest of the family the following day and insisted on showing the video we had made of our trip. Much to our dismay, the film turned out to be pretty mediocre. It suffered from the faults common to most home movies. Lack of focus, zooming too quickly and panning too slowly.
Throughout the filming of Corunna, I watched Nan. She was taking a keen interest in the old buildings.
‘There’s the old date palm,’ she said. ‘That used to be the garden down there. That’s the old homestead, that part over there, that’s where they had the kitchen.’
When it was all over, Nan said, ‘Fancy, all those old buildings still being there, I didn’t think there’d be anything left. What about the tank machine, Sally?’
‘Yep! But the manager had tied it up so it couldn’t be used. He was worried one of his kids might stick their fingers in it.’
‘Ooh yes, it’d be dangerous.’
Mum told Nan what all the old boys had said about Lily. Nan laughed and laughed. ‘Ooh yes,’ she chuckled, ‘that was Lily, all right. She was the sort of person you couldn’t help liking, she had a good heart, did Lily.’ I was amazed, Nan had never talked about Lily like that before.
Over the next few days, Mum talked at length with Nan about the different people we had met. Nan feigned disinterest, but we knew it was just a bluff. She was desperately interested in everything we had to say, but she didn’t want to let her feelings show. In many ways, she was a very private person.
One night when they were alone, Mum told her how Annie and a lot of the other older ones from Corunna Downs had died at Shaw River. ‘She had Lily,’ Mum said. ‘She devoted herself to the old ones. Annie wasn’t alone when she died, she had some of her people with her.’ Nan nodded. There were tears in her eyes. Her lips were set.
‘Do any of them remember me?’ she asked wistfully.
‘They all do,’ Mum said, ‘they all remember you. Do you remember Topsy and another woman called Nancy? They said they lived with you and Annie on Corunna.’
Nan looked shocked. ‘They still alive?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘Yes.’
Nan just shook her head. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she muttered. Mum laid down and cried herself to sleep.
A few weeks later, I tackled Nan about being able to speak two languages, she was unwilling to discuss the subject. When I told her about the different skin groups, she said crossly, ‘I know all that, I’m not stupid.’ She wouldn’t be drawn further. There’d been a slight change, a softening, but she was still unwilling to share the personal details of her life with us.
When Mum and I got together, we couldn’t help reminiscing about our trip.
‘Well, we found out one thing,’ said Mum, ‘Maltese Sam definitely wasn’t Nan’s father.’
‘That’s right. Though it doesn’t necessarily mean Howden was either.’
‘No, I know. Probably, we’ll never really know who fathered her.’
‘Do you reckon Jack Grime really is your father?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Sally,’ Mum sighed. ‘When I was little, I always thought Howden was my father, isn’t that silly?’
‘Howden? Why did you think that?’
‘I suppose because he was Judy and June and Dick’s father. I guess because I was little and didn’t understand. I assumed he was my father too. You know how it is when you’re a kid.’
‘Yeah, I could see how you might think that. You were all living there at Ivanhoe.’
‘Yes.’
‘Aunty Judy said you’re the image of Jack Grime, though, that’d be some sort of proof, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, people can look like one another, but it doesn’t mean they’re related.’
‘Yeah. Hey, I know. I’ve got a photo of Jack, a big one, why don’t we look at it, see if you do look alike?’
‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘Go on! We’ll hold it up to the big mirror in my room, you can put your head next to it and we’ll see if you do look like him.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Mum giggled, ‘why not?’
Within minutes, Mum and I and the photo were all facing the large mirrors in the doors of my wardrobe.
‘Well, that was a dead loss. You don’t look anything like him, even taking into account the fact that you’ve put on weight. There’s no resemblance there at all.’
‘He doesn’t look like any of you kids, either, does he?’
‘Naah,’ I agreed. ‘Hang on a tick and I’ll get another picture.’ I returned quickly. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘face the mirror.’
Mum fronted up to the mirror and tried not to laugh. She felt silly.
Suddenly, I held up a photograph of Howden as a young man next to her face. We both fell into silence.
‘My God,’ I whispered. ‘Give him black, curly hair and a big bust and he’s the spitting image of you!’
Mum was shocked. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Why haven’t I ever noticed this before, I’ve seen that picture hundreds of times.’
‘I suppose it never occurred to you,’ I replied.
‘You don’t think it’s possible he was my father?’
‘Anything’s possible. But he couldn’t be yours as well as Nan’s. You know, features can skip a generation. Say he was Nan’s father, well you could have inherited those looks from that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Sally,’ Mum sighed. ‘It’s such a puzzle. You know, for nearly all my life, I’ve desperately wanted to know who my father was, now, I couldn’t care less. Why should I bother with whoever it was, they never bothered with me.’
‘But that’s been the recent history of Aboriginal people all along, Mum. Kids running around, not knowing who fathered them. Those early pioneers, they’ve got a lot to answer for.’
‘Yes, I know, I know, but I think now I’m better off without all that business. All those wonderful people up North, they all claimed me. Well, that’s all I want. That’s enough, you see. I don’t want to belong to anyone else.’
‘Me either.’
We walked back to the lounge room. After a few seconds’ silence, Mum said, ‘Sal …?’
‘What?’
‘Aw … nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘I hate it when you do that. Come on, out with it.’
‘We-ell … You know the Daisy that Jack said he’d met? You don’t think that could have been Nanna?’
‘Dunno. I asked her the other day if she’d ever been back North, but she just got mad with me.’
‘It might have been her,’ Mum said tentatively, ‘Alice did tell you she’d gone back once.’
‘But if it was her, it was in 1923 and she would have been pregnant. Mum … do you think you might have a brother or sister somewhere?’
She nodded.
‘But surely Nan would have told you?’
‘Not if she wasn’t allowed to keep it.’
‘This is terrible.’ I eyed her keenly. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’
Mum composed herself, then said, ‘The other night when I was in bed, I had this sort of flashback to when I was little, I’d been pestering Nanna, asking her why I didn’t have a brother or a sister, when she put her arms around me and whispered quietly, “You have a sister.” Then she held me really tight. When she let me go, I saw she was crying.’
I couldn’t say anything. We both sat in silence. Finally, Mum said, ‘I’m going to ask her.’
A few days later, Mum broached the subject with Nan, only to be met with anger and abuse. Nan locked herself in her room, saying, ‘Let the past be.’
‘I’ll never know now,’ Mum told me later. ‘If she won’t tell me, I’ll never know.’
‘You mustn’t give up! What does your gut feeling tell you?’
‘Oh Sally, you and your gut feelings, you’re like a bloody detective. How do I know my gut feeling isn’t pure imagination?’
‘What does it tell you?’ I persisted.
She sighed. ‘It tells me I’ve got a sister. I’ve had that feeling all my life, from when I was very small, that I had a sister somewhere. If only I could find her.’
‘Then I believe what you feel is true.’
Mum laughed. ‘You’re a romantic.’
‘Crap! Be logical, she could still be alive, if she was born in 1923, she’d be in her sixties, now. Also, if Nan had her up North, she could have been brought up by the people round there or a white family could have adopted her.’
‘Sally, we don’t even have a name. It’s impossible! You talk like we’ll find her one day, but it’s impossible.’
‘Nothing’s impossible.’
‘Could you talk to Nan?’
‘Yeah, but she won’t tell me anything. I’ll let her cool down a bit first.’
‘There’s been so much sadness in my life,’ Mum said, ‘I don’t think I can take any more.’
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘You mean for that book?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well …’ she hesitated for a moment. Then, with sudden determination, she said, ‘Why shouldn’t I? If I stay silent like Nanna, it’s like saying everything’s all right. People should know what it’s like for someone like me.’
I smiled at her.
‘Perhaps my sister will read it.’