Beneath the Southern Cross (4 page)

Much as Thomas wanted to blame his daughter-in-law for the hurt his son had done him, he knew that Richard was equally at fault. Richard was too easily dictated to, by both society and his
wife—which were much the same thing, Thomas thought grimly. To him, Mary typified the ignorance and bigotry of the British middle class.

Richard Kendall's denial of his family name had been one of the cruellest blows Thomas had ever been dealt. Crueller than his banishment from his mother country, for he had paid for his crime and embraced his new life. But to what crime did he owe his son's denial?

‘Kendle sounds the same, Father,' Richard had said, ‘so we are not really
changing
the name as such, merely the spelling. You cannot expect us to emblazon a convict name in gilt lettering on the sides of our coaches, it is simply not good business.' Richard misinterpreted his father's silence as misunderstanding. ‘The coach service from Sydney Town to Parramatta is becoming famous,' he continued. ‘Surely you must admit we need a name which can be respected.'

Nothing more was said on the subject, but it broke Thomas's heart.

Anne tried to soften the blow. ‘Richard loves you dearly, Thomas; he intends no hurt.' And when Thomas refused to be mollified, she continued in her characteristically direct fashion. ‘As his mother I should perhaps not say it, but Richard is a weak man. He always has been. He does not have your strength, my love, neither yours nor Matthew's. It is why I have always approved of his marriage; it is why I insisted you sign over the coach business and some of the Parramatta lands to him.' By now she had Thomas's undivided attention; in fact, his jaw was agape.

‘Much as you may dislike Mary and much as we may both disagree with her views,' Anne continued, ‘she is a strong young woman and Richard needs such strength. He's a superficial man with little depth of character, and I do not believe for one moment that he would survive with a weak wife.'

Thomas had finally found his voice. ‘You always told me he was sensitive.'

‘Yes, that is what I told you.' She had given him one of her impish smiles and kissed him. ‘So do not let the weakness of his actions break your heart, my love, for that is all they are, the actions of a weak man. Forgive him.'

Try as he might, however, Thomas had not been able to find it
in himself to forgive Richard, and from that day on he had seen his son through different eyes.

The old man and his grandsons left the mudflats of Woolloomooloo Bay behind them and started to climb the Darlinghurst Hill. The windmills which lined the Darlinghurst Ridge were picturesque, contributing to the description of Sydney as a town of windmills. Some of wood, some of stone, some operated manually, some mechanically, the windmills endlessly churned out the flour for a colony chronically short of adequate supplies.

As they walked, Thomas wondered whether young James was weak like his father. If so, how long would it take before self-consciousness became affectation, before social decree outweighed matters of principle? Not long, Thomas thought, living under the same roof as that woman. Well, today young James Kendle would learn a thing or two, the old man would make thoroughly sure of that.

Upon reaching Rushcutters Bay, Thomas led his grandsons beside the small stream which ran down to the harbour until it was lost in the swamp of rushes beside the bay. It was here, towards the eastern end of the cove, that Wolawara and his family lived in their hut amongst the reeds and spinneys.

They were at the edge of the clearing, twenty yards or so from the hut, when they were distracted by a rustling noise in a clump of nearby bushes. As they turned to investigate, a man leapt out at them with such swiftness and aggression that James gave an involuntary cry of alarm. Instinct told him to run, but Thomas and William were standing their ground, so the boy stifled his fear and edged closer to his grandfather instead.

The man rolled his eyes and, in the blackness of his face, the whites of his pupils shone with a madness that terrified James. Twice he sprang towards them, emitting a growl from the back of his throat like an animal intimidating its prey.

Thomas appeared unmoved and William, after a nervous glance at his grandfather, continued to stand his ground. James's feet were rooted to the spot; he doubted whether he could have run if he'd tried.

The man changed his tactics. Slowly he started to prance about them, knees bent, arms extended, palms upward, in a clumsy, uncoordinated dance. He was mumbling now, although the words
were incoherent. And his manner was no longer aggressive, his eyes no longer mad. In his ragged shirt and breeches, and stinking of rum, he was in fact a pitiful figure.

‘Massa, gim me rum. Rummerry good.'

The fear in James subsided. So this was Wolawara, he thought with a surge of disappointment. His mother had been right after all. Grandfather Thomas's native friend was no more than a drunken beggar.

‘Good day, Yenerah,' Thomas said, although he made no move to give the man money.

The Aborigine did not heed the greeting, continuing to importune with his parody of a dance. ‘Rummake me drunk like a gemmen. Rummerry good.'

‘
Wuruwuru
!' The voice, with an angry edge, was one of authority, and the drunken man turned to face the figure which had appeared at the door of the hut. They all did. An imposing Aboriginal man in a red soldier's coat stood before them. In his middle sixties, grey-bearded and stern, he was not a big man, either in height or build, but there was a command about him which was impressive.

‘
Wuruwuru
!' he repeated. ‘
Dadadadadadadada
!'

The drunken man stared back for a second, then turned his gaze to the ground. He scuffed his bare feet in the dirt for a moment or so. ‘
Yanu, yanu
,' he muttered, before shuffling pathetically off into the bushes.

There was silence as they all watched him go.

‘Stay here,' Thomas muttered to the boys, then he walked up to the hut and offered his hand to the man in the red coat.

‘Wolawara,
gamaradu
,' he said. The two men shook hands.

‘
Ngandu
, Thomas,' Wolawara said, ‘
Ngandu
,' and there was an infinite sadness in his voice.

‘No harm is done,' Thomas replied. ‘
Gamarada, gay, gay
.'

James watched, awestruck. ‘Grandpa Thomas is speaking his language,' he whispered to William. Never before had James heard a white man talk to a native in anything other than New South Wales pidgin English. ‘I've never seen anyone do that before.'

‘And you never will again,' William replied quietly with obvious pride. ‘It is the native tongue of the Gadigal people, a clan of the Dharug, Grandpa told meso.'

Ignoring the boys, the two men squatted on the ground beside the hut.

‘We must stay here until we are asked to join them,' William instructed. ‘And you are to tell no-one that Grandpa Thomas speaks their tongue, James. No-one. Only Hannah and I know, and now that he has let you into the secret, you must never breathe a word.'

James nodded, still staring, eyes like saucers, at his grandfather squatting in the dirt with Wolawara.

Thomas had been dismayed to witness the degradation of his old friend's son. Yenerah was Wolawara's only remaining boy, his other two having died of the smallpox many years previously.

It must be breaking the man's heart, Thomas thought; but recognising Wolawara's shame, he did not pursue the subject.

‘I have not come to you for sometime, Wolawara, but when I dream you are there.'

‘When I dream you are there, Thomas.'

The men conversed in a mixture of pidgin and Dharug. These days it was rare for even Wolawara himself to converse purely in the native tongue of the Gadigal people. The language was dying out and, to his shame, much as he encouraged them, his own grandchildren spoke little Dharug.

‘Wiriwa, she is well?' Thomas asked.

Wolawara nodded. ‘Wiriwa, come!' he called to his wife. ‘Thomas our friend is here.'

Wiriwa appeared at the door of the hut. She was dressed in a white cotton garment and carried an infant on one hip, her latest grandchild. She had known Thomas was there and had been waiting for her husband's call.

‘
Gumal
, Wiriwa,' Thomas said. He smiled his greeting but did not rise.

Wiriwa smiled in return and nodded shyly before sitting on the ground at the opposite side of the entrance to the hut. She remained silently rocking her sleeping grandchild in her arms, pleased that she had been called into the presence of the men.

Thomas leaned forward and fingered the tattered lapel of Wolawara's coat. ‘You have a jacket of fire,' he said. It was a personal observation and they both knew it. Wolawara had always loved the colours of fire. In Thomas's mind an image flashed briefly. The
image of an excited young Aborigine with his new headband of yellow and red. ‘
Guwiyang
,' the young man was saying. ‘
Guwiyang
.'

Wolawara, pleased by the comment and proud of his new attire, explained that his daughter, who now served a military man's family, had brought home several articles of the soldier's old uniforms.

‘And from his wife, dresses. Dresses white like the summer clouds for Wiriwa,' he added.

Wiriwa touched the lace yoke of her dress, which in actuality was a nightgown, and smiled back.

Emboldened by the fact that his grandmother and baby brother had been called to the company of the men, a ten-year-old boy had crept to the door of the hut. He had intended waiting until he too was called, but he had noticed William and James standing patiently at the edge of the clearing and couldn't resist.

Turumbah knew better than to run to the boys and make their acquaintance. His grandfather's rules regarding the meeting of menfolk were strict. But Turumbah also knew that he was his grandfather's favourite and that, if he pretended a patience he didn't have, his grandfather would eventually give in. He sidled out the door.

William and James watched as the boy crept up behind Wolawara. He was dressed in baggy trousers cut off above the knee and held up at the waist by twine from which hung several implements. He stood just behind his grandfather and gave them both a cheeky grin, but William nudged James, warning him not to react.

Fully aware of his grandson's presence, Wolawara continued his discussion with Thomas.

‘Wiriwa holds my new grandson,' he boasted proudly and Wiriwa nodded once more, acknowledging the child as if he were her own. ‘Four grandsons I now have. And three granddaughters.'

Thomas's eyes flickered to Turumbah who was shuffling in the sand behind his grandfather. The two men exchanged a smile.

‘Two of my grandsons are now grown to manhood,' Wolawara continued. ‘The fourth, I am not sure where he might be. Shall I call for him, Thomas?'

Thomas appeared to deliberate for a moment before agreeing. ‘Yes. Call for him, Wolawara.'

Wolawara turned and pretended surprise as he bumped into the bare knees of his grandson.

‘Ah, Turumbah. You remember our friend Thomas?' Turumbah nodded, but his eyes kept darting towards William and James. Particularly young James whose hat was becoming more fascinating by the second.

‘Five years it has been,' Thomas said. ‘You were a boy when last we met, Turumbah, now you are nearly a man.'

The boy shuffled about impatiently. When would the formalities be over? When could he play? He wanted to talk to the boy with the hat.

‘These are your grandsons.' Wolawara indicated William and James. ‘One I have not met.' It was the first time Wolawara had acknowledged the presence of the boys standing immobile at the edge of the clearing. ‘They have fine manners,' he said approvingly, then glanced up at Turumbah. Turumbah, however, appeared not to have heard the admonishment, he was too busy grinning at the boys.

‘May I greet your grandsons?' Wolawara asked.

‘They would be honoured,' Thomas replied, and beckoned the boys to come forward.

After formal greetings were made in pidgin English and after much shaking of hands, it was finally time for Turumbah's introduction.

‘Turumbah, this is Grandson William, and this is Grandson James,' Thomas said.

‘Gran'sun William, Gran'sun James,' Turumbah repeated. There was more shaking of hands, and the boys were told they could go and play. Turumbah let out a whoop of excitement and started to skip about, until a sharp word of command from Wiriwa stopped him in his tracks.

All heads turned to her, it was the first time she had spoken. Her eyes met Wolawara's. She held his glance for a second or two until he nodded, then she returned her attention to the baby who had awoken at the sound of her voice.

‘You are not to swim, Turumbah,' Wolawara commanded. The boy was about to argue back, but his grandfather continued, ‘You have been sick, your grandmother says you are not to swim.' It was obvious that, for all her apparent compliance, it was Wiriwa's
word that was law when it came to the health of the children.

Turumbah did not appear too upset. Instead, he grabbed James by the hand and dragged him in the opposite direction of the water. ‘Gran'sun James come. Come, Gran'sun James.'

James was unaccustomed to such boisterous familiarity, but there was something so cheeky and likeable about Turumbah that it seemed pointless to resist. William followed after them with a regretful glance over his shoulder. He had hoped that he might be invited to join the men, but they were once more in deep conversation and took no note of the boys' departure.

‘It was the …' Wolawara was saying, searching for the word, ‘… the croup. Deep in his chest. Another white man's sickness.'

Talk of Turumbah's recent illness led Wolawara to discuss the plight of his people. He lowered his voice so that even Wiriwa might not hear but, intuitively, she knew what her husband was saying. Wolawara told Thomas that he should not have stayed so long, that he should have left Eora many years ago, as so many of his clan had. He should have fled inland to escape the white man's drink and disease.