Roundabout at Bangalow Read online

  The world of her mother is quite different. This is the Grandma who later taught us our prayers and dosed us with sulphur and treacle at The Channon. Her world is one of evangelical Christianity, of the Temperance Union, of no-smoking-or-drinking, of save-your-money. She and her non-conformist friends hold their meetings in bare little country halls with tin roofs where the Moody and Sankey hymns are beaten out on untuned pianos. There are occasional visits from an evangelist, smooth-shaven and eloquent, but bloodless in comparison with the real men at home. These women, and they are almost invariably women, are searching for something spiritual above and beyond their poverty-stricken lives, something that will make them feel special. This is why they reject the Church of England for, as the official and universal religion in Australia, it is often only a label, or a social obligation.

  In a later era non-conformists would find what they sought in Buddhism, Hare Krishna, psychoanalysis, re-birthing or a commune at Nimbin, but for now the sects are the only choice apart from the established churches. So they are dipped as adults, wound in sheets and immersed in the nearest creek, and thus set apart, their status that of the chosen of the Lord. At home this is a world of poverty and making-do. My grandmother, with four small children, runs up on her pedal sewing machine a dozen pairs of men’s pyjamas a week for a store in Lismore (they supply the material). For this she is paid three shillings and sixpence. Her world is loving and she suffers long, but I am never able to enter into it, possibly because I’ve not yet accepted the Lord or, when I begin to have a career, because I am guilty of what she sees as worldly ambition.

  Each family has its legends, and two of this family’s are tragic. The blacksmith, my grandfather, is the son of a young Catholic farmer, Michael Browne, who is struck by lightning while ploughing the river flats with his two horses; horses, it is said, attract the lightning. All I have of this event are two newspaper clippings from the Clarence & Richmond Examiner and memories of a childhood where every thunder storm is treated as an imminent disaster, where women and children hurry to hide the knives and scissors and cover the mirrors (for all of these were said to attract lightning). There are also stories of fireballs which have passed right through certain houses, sometimes hovering a while to increase the terror. Because of this the doors and windows are always carefully locked during a storm. Curtains are drawn and the family cowers anxiously in the semi-darkness until the storm passes. The clippings read as follows, but it is impossible to reproduce in typeface the impact of the original yellowed slips of paper, hoarded for a hundred and twenty years.

  The Clarence & Richmond Examiner

  Tuesday 30 November 1880

  ULMARRA, Monday, 7 p.m.

  KILLED BY LIGHTNING — We regret to learn that during the thunderstorm which passed over the town to the eastward yesterday afternoon, the lightning struck Mr Michael Browne, farmer (son of Mr Thomas Browne, of the Exchange Hotel, Ulmarra), killing him on the spot. The sad and brief particulars will be found in our telegraphic columns.

  The Clarence & Richmond Examiner

  Saturday 4 December 1880

  CORONER’S INQUIRY — On Tuesday last the Coroner (Mr A. Lard-ner) and a jury of twelve held an inquiry at the Post Office Hotel, Ulmarra, into the cause of the death of Michael Browne (who, as reported in our last issue, had been struck by lightning on the previous day). Thomas Browne, farmer, brother of the deceased, deposed that on the previous afternoon deceased was ploughing with a pair of horses, and he (witness) was planting; about 3 o’clock a thunderstorm, which had been threatening all the afternoon, came so close that we determined to go home; I unyoked my team, and let them go on the headland; on proceeding through the high corn towards the deceased, and when about 70 yards from him, I received a shock of electricity which knocked me down; on recovering I tried to make homewards, but perceiving the two horses lying insensible, I called for my brother to assist me with them; on getting close to the horses found my brother lying insensible, with his legs under the off horse; all his clothes were torn off him, except part of his shirt and his boots off his feet; he appeared to be quite dead; one of the horses was also dead; I called for assistance, but owing to the storm no one heard me; I then carried the body to the house; have examined the body very carefully; the only injuries to be seen is a mark on the left forehead about as large as a threepenny bit, and a discolouration on the left side of the chest and neck; there is a small hole in the brim of his hat in a position corresponding with the mark on the forehead; his right boot is ripped up; the left boot cannot be found; deceased was in his 33rd year, and was always healthy. Constable Edwards deposed to examining the body, and his evidence was corroborative as to the appearance of the injuries on deceased. The jury returned a verdict in accordance with the evidence.

  I try to imagine the town of Ulmarra in 1880. Henry Kendall described it as it was in the 1870s: the dark swell of the Clarence River three-quarters of a mile wide; the paddlewheel steamers battling against the rush of the water, beating their way into the wharf to load their sugar and maize, the self-important little town behind the levee bank. This is the Big River of the Aborigines, and it drains an area nearly equal to the whole of England. Kendall likens it to the Mississippi; without the negroes, he says, but with the same over-lush and decaying vegetation, the same stench of flood mud. Behind the town the flood plain stretches back some four miles to Tucabia and Glenugie Peak, interrupted only by the rise on which the cemetery sits and where Michael Browne is hastily buried, for it is November and the corpse won’t keep. The debris of the last flood rots into the earth and enriches it with vegetable corruption. The swamps and marshland are purple with water-hyacinth and thronged with waterbirds. Every possible inch is ploughed and planted with maize (corn), for this is undoubtedly the richest soil in Australia, so rich according to Kendall that a man may dig through seventeen feet of black soil before he comes to clay; and it is a very rare occurrence to find a stone above that point.

  I can imagine the young ploughman guiding the heavy mould-board plough through the dark soil, proud of his strength and the straightness of his furrows. The heat beats down on him and stains the backs of the sweating horses. The heavy silken earth curls behind the plough and all manner of birds from ibis to seagulls wheel and swoop for the pickings. The thunder circles and rumbles like distant gunfire, the air is electric, and the first heavy drops fall. The decision to give up is reluctantly taken. The season is late, the early corn already seven foot high; its rusty tassels split the green sheath around each cob and spill out into the hot air. If the storm brings rain the ground will be unworkable. There is a blinding flash. A hundred million volts tear a path from earth to sky and back. For a fraction of a second the ploughman is incandescent, every molecule in his body galvanised. Then he’s flung aside.

  The storm recedes from ground which is awash, and the ants and blowflies gather. The sun comes out, the naked corpse has been lugged away, the shreds of clothing gathered and the hullabaloo dies down. The birds return to their pickings, but what becomes of the woman, only twenty-three years old and left with two small children, one of them my grandfather, and another on the way? She doesn’t rate a mention in either newspaper report, although the important father of the deceased (who owns the Exchange Hotel) and the brother are featured. The unofficial text is horrifying and it comes to me suddenly that my story is full of mothers abandoned either on purpose or by accident and, worst of all, left to give birth to a child whose father is absent or dead. I don’t know how my great-grandmother manages, whether she casts herself on the goodwill of relatives, or whether she consumes her life away in the bitterness of poverty, for at this time there is no social security. An event like this can ruin a family for generations, and this one does — not only financially. From then on its members cherish a deep resentment, a sense of cosmic injustice and, at the same time, a strange pride at having been singled out for such a startling stroke of heavenly malice.

  The second family tragedy takes place in Li
smore in 1919. The characters are those of melodrama: a vicious aunt, two innocent children. My mother’s aunt is Amy Browne, the eldest child of the lightning-struck Michael Browne, and she teaches school in Lismore. Her brother the blacksmith and his family now live in nearby Goolmangar. She is well known for her strictness, even cruelty, in the classroom. This is not only my mother’s account, it’s confirmed for me more than fifty years later by a woman who had been her pupil and still resents her injustices. Amy Browne is a typical example of the sense of grievance carried down in this family, and her demands lead to the second family tragedy. As my mother tells the story, and she returns to it often, her aunt refuses to live alone, insisting that one of the blacksmith’s little girls should always stay with her for company. The children take turns but my mother, although she is the eldest, always avoids her turn if she can; she has an aversion to this aunt, in fact she hates her. On this occasion it’s her turn but she flatly refuses to go. Her father lectures her on selfishness but finally gives in, giving her sister half a crown to take her place. That decision, as it turns out, is a death sentence for the sister.

  In 1919 there is an epidemic of what is called Spanish ’flu throughout Australia and the world. This disease kills more worldwide than did the Great War. It is highly infectious, can kill within hours, and leaves behind it a trail of grotesque and blackened corpses. In Lismore the hospitals are full and the pavilion at the showground is commandeered as a plaguehouse for the sick and dying. My grandparents rush from one bedroom to another, from his sister to their daughter, in absolute horror, and can do nothing to save either of them. Among the many deaths in Lismore at the time, these two stand out as particularly hideous, as shown by yet another clipping, eighty years old, entitled Two Sad Deaths.

  The Northern Star (Lismore)

  8 July 1919

  TWO SAD DEATHS

  The community received quite a shock yesterday when it became known that Miss Amy Theresa Browne (of Conway-street) and her niece had succumbed to acute attacks of pneumonic influenza. Miss Browne, who was 41 years of age last month, and was assistant teacher in the boys’ department of the Lismore District School, complained of a headache on Friday evening, but beyond this knowledge appeared quite well and in good spirits. On Saturday she developed symptoms of influenza, which gradually grew worse till 9 o’clock on Sunday evening, when she passed away … Although of a quiet and retiring disposition, deceased made herself a universal favourite with both staff and children, the principal speaking highly of her character and her worth as a teacher, and one who will be greatly missed. Deceased leaves one brother (Mr Louis Browne, of Goolmangar) and one sister (Mrs T. Carlton, of Boorie Creek). The late Miss Browne was conscious till the last, and died in the arms of her sister-in-law.

  Her brother’s child, Maisie, aged 10 years and 7 months, second daughter of Mr L. Browne, of Goolmangar, who had been living with her aunt for the past six years, also developed influenza symptoms on Friday night and passed away at 11 o’clock on Sunday night, two hours after the death of her aunt.

  The funerals took place yesterday, to the Church of England portion of the cemetery, and it was pathetic indeed to witness both coffins being lowered into the grave at the one time. The burial service was read by the Rev. A. R. Ebbs, who said they had gathered at the graveside to witness one of the saddest missions which had ever come into their lives in the death of those they were laying to rest … It was difficult to express one’s self at such times; they did not question God’s dealings, but would find behind them all He was ever a God of love. The occasion spoke to them with deep solemnity, warning them to be ready for the call, as their one and biggest need was to be ready for the summons, thereby entering, when it came, into the presence of the Master, as he believed the faithful would.

  Leaving aside a few inaccuracies and the pious way that the parson turns two hideous deaths into a call for readiness to face the God of love, I must ask where my mother is in this picture. She places the death of her sister and in particular the way in which it is broken to her as the crucial event in her life, the cause of her terrible nervous instability. I hear this story told repeatedly to psychiatrists in later life as she has one breakdown after another.

  It seems that at first she is not told of her sister’s death, only her aunt’s. I dare say, knowing her nature and her love for her sister, that her parents decide to break the news in person. When the adults return from the funeral, she asks where her sister is, only to be told that she too has died and has already been buried. The loss, compounded by the fact that she was told in this way, leads to a complete breakdown, a hysterical fit which, she says, lasts for two days during which she is quite uncontrollable and her parents have to put aside their own grief and take care of her. I doubt whether any manner of telling would have led to a better outcome, for surely the point is that she had refused to go, through wilful obstinacy; her sister had taken her place and had died for it. I wonder whether anyone reminded her of this, or indeed needed to remind her. Consider the position of the father too. He had paid his daughter half a crown to go to her death. The guilt and complicity shared by the father and daughter, and the resentment, each of the other’s part in it, creates an enduring bond between the two, a bond that is, to say the least, ambiguous.

  This event occurs when my mother is twelve. I have little record of her adolescence apart from her school reports from Lismore High School, and a carefully posed photo taken on a country verandah when she is about sixteen. At first glance this photograph appears completely normal, one of thousands taken of girls at that time and at that age. It shows her as dark, pretty, with the latest chic twenties bob. She tells me that she has defied her father, has gone to Lismore, had her hair cut and has come home with her thick black plaits in her handbag. She is dressed in flapper mode, in a flat-chested, long-waisted dress with a serrated hemline (crochet? lace?) and a long string of ivory beads. Nevertheless there is something about the photograph that is disturbing: behind the look-at-me-now self-consciousness, there is the sense of a tentative and unfinished personality: vulnerable and open to hurt yet, at the same time, obstinate and defiant.

  She learned to type and got a job as a clerk, went to dances in all the villages around — Goolmangar, Nimbin, Keerrong, The Channon — stayed up late and got into trouble for it, played tennis and took up photography, and constructed a primitive darkroom with blankets in the bathroom. She took amateurish pictures of her first boyfriend, of the people she worked for and of her father, and developed them within cutouts of hearts, spades and diamonds. Like another young person later in my story she began to buy her own books and the first two — Longfellow’s poems and Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure — are significant. Thomas Hardy’s heroine Sue Bridehead — idealistic, perverse and doomed — could well have been a pattern for my mother. Soon her family moved to Bangalow and she got a job in the post office at Billinudgel and met my father.

  His name is Joseph

  He is the fifth child and fourth son of my Granny, the old lady of the garden described in the first chapter, and her Irish husband. He was named Joseph for his grandfather in Ireland and Oliver for the famous shipwright in Coraki, Oliver Jones, his great-uncle. His name is entered fifth in the big family Bible that rests on the cedar sideboard in the dining room, between the Staffordshire dogs. He grows up on a farm that is being hacked out of the rainforest by his father, helped by Hindu labourers. He becomes the favourite of one of these, who calls him Tolya, a nickname that sticks in his family. He and his brothers play cruel jokes on the Hindus, tricking them into carrying parcels of meat (unclean!). They defecate in the ashes which the Hindus will rake over with bare hands early in the morning to make their johnnycakes — Unclean! Unclean! He tramps the country roads with his brothers, a team of them; he whistles, perfects bird calls and collects the speckled eggs from the nests for the collection which all country boys had in those days. He makes strong and accurate shanghais from forked sticks and strips of rubber, and ow
ns a sharp and many-tongued pocket knife for these and other tasks. He shoots every butcherbird he sees, for they are cruel and kill the smaller birds, the wrens and finches. He is an accurate shot; the sharp pebble flies straight, smashes the ribcage and crushes the heart. The butcherbird drops, blood dribbling from its mouth, to stiffen in the sun.

  He goes twice each Sunday, on sufferance, with his mother to the little Church of England at Keerrong, closes his eyes and pretends to pray. His father had been dead since he was eight years old and his mother has given the intricate carved cedar pulpit to the church in his memory. The teacher boards with his mother. She is Miss Freda Kneipp; she comes from Tenterfield and must be respected. His Aunty Florrie comes to stay. She is his mother’s younger sister and is deaf and dumb. She lives in a Home at a place called Morriset. She is a frail little woman in a cheap cotton frock who makes strange guttural sounds and talks with her hands. Her only possessions are a collection of small and cheap china animals which she carries everywhere with her and compulsively arranges on tables, windowsills, or any flat surface. His mother explains that Florence fell into a copper of boiling water when she was an infant, and this accounts for her disability. When his mother is not looking he and his brothers pull horrible faces at her and cruelly mimic her guttural gasps and sign language.