Mother and Daughter

by Fremantle Press

Overview

Sally Morgan’s My Place is an Australian classic. Since first publication in 1987, My Place has sold more than half a million copies in Australia, been translated and read all over the world, and been reprinted dozens of times. Sally’s rich, zesty and moving work is perhaps the best-loved biography of Aboriginal Australia ever written. My Place for Young Readers is an abridged edition, especially adapted for younger readers, that retains all the charm and power of the original. Mother and Daughter follows the lives of Daisy and Gladys Corunna, Sally’s grandmother and mother.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781925162561
Publisher:	Fremantle Press
Publication date:	12/01/2014
Series:	My Place for Junior Readers
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	142
File size:	2 MB
Age Range:	9 Years

Read an Excerpt

Mother and Daughter

The Story of Daisy and Gladys Corunna

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By Sally Morgan, Barbara Ker Wilson

Fremantle Press

Copyright © 1990 Sally Morgan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-925162-56-1

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CHAPTER 1

SOMEONE LIKE ME

I was fifteen when I first realised that my family was Aboriginal. Until then, I had believed I was Indian, for that was what my mother and Nan, my grandmother, had always said. I was the eldest of five children. My father died when I was nine years old, and my mother was left to bring us up. Nan, my grandmother, lived with us as well. Helen, my youngest sister, was only eighteen months when my father died. My other sister was Jill, and I had two brothers, David and Billy.

Our home was a rented house in a working-class suburb of Perth. We had a warm, loving family, all very close to one another.

I shall never forget the day I came home from school to find Nan sitting at the kitchen table, crying. I froze in the doorway. I'd never seen her cry before.

'Nan ... what's wrong?' I asked.

She lifted up one arm and thumped her clenched fist hard on the table. 'You kids don't want me, you want a white grandmother. I'm black! Do you hear, black, black, black!' With that, she pushed back her chair and hurried to her room. I never did find out what had upset her so. I think it was all to do with us growing up and not being little kids any longer.

I remember how I continued to stand in the doorway. I could feel the strap of my heavy school-bag cutting into my shoulder, but I was too stunned to remove it

For the first time in my fifteen years, I was conscious of Nan's colouring. She was right, she wasn't white. Well, I thought logically, if she wasn't white, then neither were we. What did that make us, what did that make me? I had never thought of myself as being black before.

I was very excited by my new heritage, and ever since that day I had been trying to find out more about our family. My mother wouldn't openly admit the fact that we were part-Aboriginal until I was at University — and then the truth slipped out by accident in the middle of a conversation one day. Since then, she'd become as eager as I was to find out about our people.

After I married, I still saw my family nearly every day. There were such strong bonds between us it was impossible for me not to want to see them. Just as well Paul, my husband, was the uncomplaining sort! Though in fact he fitted into our family very well. I had married Paul Morgan in 1971, while I was at University. Paul was a teacher. He had spent his childhood in the north-west of Western Australia — his parents were missionaries. When he was thirteen, they had moved to Perth to start a hostel for mission children who came to the city to attend high school. At that time, Paul spoke only pidgin English; he'd had a hard time adjusting to his new life at first. We now had three children. Our daughter, Ambelin, was born in 1975 and we had two sons — Blaze, born in 1977, and Zeke, born five years later.

In 1979 I had decided to write a book about our family history. My mother was very willing to help me, but my grandmother had always been very secretive about her past. She absolutely refused to talk about it. I knew I couldn't expect any help from her. I had already recorded the reminiscences of Nan's brother, my Great-uncle Arthur Corunna. He completed his story just before he died. I knew that he had a premonition he was about to go. He said at the end of his story: 'To live to ninety, that's an achievement ... Now my life is nearly over, I'm lookin' forward to heaven ... I look back on my life and think how lucky I am ... I got Daisy's granddaughter [Daisy was my grandmother's name] writing my story. It should be someone in the family. It's fittin'. I want everyone to read it. Arthur Corunna's story! You see, it's important because then maybe they'll understand how hard it's been for the blackfella to live the way he wants. I'm part of history, that's how I look on it ...'

It was a wonderful story, and it made Mum and me determined to continue to find out as much as we could about the family.

In 1982, when Zeke was only six weeks old, Mum, Paul and I and our children set off to visit Corunna Downs, Nan and Arthur's birthplace. They had both been taken away from their people when they were children and placed in a mission. Back in the early years of this century, that was what happened to hundreds of half-caste children. Neither Arthur nor, it seems, Daisy ever saw their Aboriginal mother, Annie Padewani, again. Nan was not really sure who her white father was, though Arthur was positive she was his full sister, and that they both had the same father, Howden Drake-Brockman, the owner of Corunna Downs Station at that time. Later, Howden had married a white woman, and Nan became nursemaid to his daughter Judy. There were still quite close links between the rake-Brockmans and our family. Nan and Judy were always friends, and I had asked Aunty Judy what she could tell me about the old days. But Howden had sold Corunna Downs when she was still quite small, and the family, together with Nan, had moved to a big house called Ivanhoe at Claremont, on the banks of the Swan River. So Judy Drake-Brockman was not able to tell me very much.

My mother did not really know who her father was, either. Nan had always refused to discuss the matter with her. Mum believed he may have been an Englishman, Jack Grime, who was a close friend of Howden Drake-Brockman, and lived at Ivanhoe.

During our visit to Corunna, we had discovered which tribal groups we belonged to. My mother, Gladys, was Panaka; I was Burungu; and Paul was Malinga. What had begun as a tentative search for knowledge grew into a spiritual and emotional pilgrimage. We now had an Aboriginal consciousness and were proud of it. By the time we left we had so much to think about, and much to come to terms with. And, as a result of what we had learned, we had more insight into Nan's bitterness, her refusal to talk about the past. More than anything we wanted her to change, to be proud of what she was. We had seen so much of her and ourselves in the wonderful people we'd met. We belonged to our Aboriginal heritage, now. We had found our place.

When we arrived back in Perth, Nan was really pleased to see us, and so was Beryl, a friend of Mum's who had been looking after her. Nan had gone through all the money Mum had left her and had had Beryl on the go non-stop, running up to the shop for chocolate biscuits and putting bets on the TAB.

We rounded up the rest of the family the following day and insisted on showing the video we had made of our trip. 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, she said, 'Fancy, all those old buildings still being there, I didn't think there'd be anything left.'

Mum told Nan what all the old boys had said about Lily, her and Arthur's full-blood half-sister. We had learned what a wonderful woman she had been, how caring towards the old people. Nan smiled. '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 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 Nan how Annie, her mother, and a lot of the other older ones from Corunna Downs had died at Shaw River. 'She had Lily with her,' Mum said. '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.'

They still alive?' Nan asked in disbelief.

'Yes.'

Nan just shook her head. 'I'm going to bed,' she muttered.

Mum cried herself to sleep that night.

A few weeks later, I tackled Nan about being able to speak two languages. We had discovered that when Nan was at Corunna, she must have spoken two similar languages, Balgoo and Naml. I had once heard my Great-uncle Arthur and Nan speaking together in their own language, but Nan had been very annoyed about it. She was still unwilling to discuss the subject. 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.

'Do you reckon Jack Grime really is your father?' I asked Mum one day when we were alone together.

'Oh, I don't know, Sally.' Mum sighed.

'Aunty Judy said you're the image of Jack Grime. 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 have to mean they're related.

'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 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,' I said. 'You don't look anything like him. There's no resemblance at all.'

'He doesn't look like any of you kids, either, does he?'

'Naah,' I agreed. 'Hang on a tick, 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. '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.'

'He couldn't be your father 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. Nearly all my life, I've desperately wanted to know who my father was, but now, I couldn't care less. Why should I bother with whoever it was? They never bothered with me.'

'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 a lot to answer for.'

'Yes, I know, but I think now I'm better off without all that business. 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 neither.'

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 when we were at Corunna talking to old Jack, he told us he'd met someone called Daisy in 1923, a half-caste girl. He said she was pregnant. Do you 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. But if it was her ... 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. 'She won't tell me.'

'You mustn't give up! What does your gut feeling tell you?'

'Oh Sally, you're like a 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.'

'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, you talk as though we'll find her one day, but it's impossible. We don't even have a name!'

'Nothing's impossible.'

'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?' Mum had never told me everything about her early life. I knew that she had been sent to a children's home when she was little, but that was about all.

'You mean for your 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 been like for someone like me.' Then she said: 'Who knows? Perhaps my sister will read it.'

CHAPTER 2

GLADYS CORUNNA'S STORY

(1931-1983)

Parkerville

I have no memory of being taken from my mother and placed in Parkerville Children's Home, but all my life I've carried a mental picture of a little fat kid about three or four years old. She's sitting on the verandah of Babyland Nursery, her nose is running and she's crying. I think that was me when they first took me there.

Parkerville was a beautiful place run by Church of England nuns. Set in the hills of the Darling Ranges, it was surrounded by bush and small streams. In spring, there were wildflowers of every colour and hundreds of varieties of birds. Each morning I awoke to hear kookaburras laughing and the maggies warbling.

Parkerville was my home from 1931, when I was three. I was only sent back to my mother at Ivanhoe three times a year, for the holidays.

There were two sections at the Home. The older children's section and Babyland Nursery. Babyland was really just a cottage surrounded by verandahs. Inside was a kitchen with a large wood stove, some small tables and chairs and high chairs for the really little ones. There was only one dormitory, filled with lots of little iron beds. They were very neat and tidy in Babyland. You were only allowed to play inside on real wintry days. Normally, they made us all sit out on the verandahs. That was so you didn't mess up the rooms once they'd been cleaned.

Every morning, the older girls came over to bathe us. We were always cold from the night before because we still all wet our beds. I dreaded bathtime because of the carbolic soap and the hard scrubbing brushes. The House Mother used to stand in the doorway and say, 'Scrub 'em clean, girls.' We'd cry, those brushes really hurt. Our crying always seemed to satisfy her, she'd leave then. As soon as she left, the girls would throw the brushes away and let us play.

Our clothes were kept in a big cupboard and the girls dressed us in whatever fitted.

I guess that was one of the few times when I was lucky to be black, because the older Aboriginal girls always gave us black babies an extra kiss and cuddle. You see, even though we weren't related, there were strong ties between us black kids. The older white girls never seemed to care about anyone, and our House Mothers weren't like real mothers, they just bossed us around, they never gave you a kiss or a cuddle.

Every morning, I'd sit on the verandah with my friend Iris. She had very white skin and her freckles stood out as though they'd been daubed on with a paintbrush. The older girls called her Chalky, because she was so pale. She always seemed to be unhappy, she had an awful cough and her feet were blue. We didn't have shoes. She loved to sit close to me. We'd play games with the toys that were scattered over the verandah. If we walked around, she liked to hold my hand. We always stuck together; if there were two of you, the others didn't pick on you so much.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Mother and Daughter by Sally Morgan, Barbara Ker Wilson. Copyright © 1990 Sally Morgan. Excerpted by permission of Fremantle Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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