A Sow's Ear: Virginia's Gift

By Geoffrey Gilbert

The first parts of the book looks into the life of Archie Mulley, who during his early years, befriends a part aboriginal boy. But their friendship is shattered by a tragic incident and they go their separate ways.

On the other hand, Virginia Moreton, a young country girl has moved to West Melbourne after her father inherited the family home. Her father, however, died and she was forced to work in a local factory to make ends meet.

Archie, with his wife Marilyn, took Virginia in after her attempt at taking a new direction is thwarted by prejudice and misguided relationships in the work place. The story follows Virginia's struggles to create a new life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Nov 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669832034

Geoffrey Gilbert

Geoffrey Gilbert was born in Stawell. He completed a Commerce degree at the University of Melbourne, and worked for several years for General Motors Holden before travelling overseas. He then began working in the Wine Industry where he became a CPA before moving back into the Automotive Parts Industry. He moved into Aged Care where I spent thirty years in Finance and Admissions. He is married to his wife Pam, and have two grown up sons Damian and Travis. After a life in figures, he took up the challenge of mastering words.

Book preview

A SOW’S

EAR

VIRGINIA’S GIFT

GEOFFREY GILBERT

Copyright © 2022 by Geoffrey Gilbert.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photo from Pixabay and Pexels.

Rev. date: 11/03/2022

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Part 1 Mates and the Spirits

Part 2 Mates Under Fire

Part 3 The Forgotten War

Part 4 Virginia

Chapter 1 Paddock Drive

Chapter 2 A New Beginning

Chapter 3 Miss Simpson, Gail, and A New Enemy

Chapter 4 Troy Jamieson and the Sales Statistics

Chapter 5 Archie, Marilyn, and The Play

Chapter 6 Virginia’s Faux Pas

Chapter 7 Restaurant, A Fancy Car, and An Unsuspecting Let-Down

Chapter 8 It All Goes Wrong

Chapter 9 Two People Gain Support

Chapter 10 Untimely Incident, Unlikely Assistance

Chapter 11 New Start

Chapter 12 Maureen, Shamus, and Bull

Chapter 13 The Parcel

Chapter 14 Music Store Rumble

Chapter 15 Johnno’s

Chapter 16 Virginia’s Past

Chapter 17 The Heist

Chapter 18 The Old Warehouse

Chapter 19 Late-Night Visit

Chapter 20 Next Morning

Chapter 21 Protest

Chapter 22 Virginia’s Secret

Chapter 23 A Glimpse of Paradise

Chapter 24 Virginia’s Tragedy

Chapter 25 Virginia and Bull

Chapter 26 Meeting Gail Again

Chapter 27 Virginia’s Trial Begins

Chapter 28 Day Two

Chapter 29 Day Three

Chapter 30 Reunion

Chapter 31 Monday Morning

Chapter 32 Last Day of the Trial

Chapter 33 The Waiting

Chapter 34 The Decision

Chapter 35 The Accident

Chapter 36 Her Last Resting Place

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

It was said of WWI that it was ‘the war to end all wars’, but it was only a prequel; worse was still to come, WW2. It touched every continent except Antarctica; loss of civilian life far exceeded those lost in combat. By December 1944, there were encouraging signs that it might be finally coming to an end.

Some soldiers were being demobbed, returning to Australia. However, once back on home soil, finding their own way home wasn’t easy unless they lived in a state capital or a large provincial city or town. The war had taken its toll on the infrastructure of the country, and transport services had been severely diminished, timetables not always regular. A group of soldiers piled onto the Overland at Spencer Street Station bound for Ballarat and destinations beyond through to its final stop in Adelaide, South Australia. The last of the group had some difficulty in boarding the train due to a gammy left leg.

For those who had returned, the hell, the soul destroying, and the suffering from war were over but never to be forgotten. For so many of those who came back, life would never be the same again. The war had left disabilities, both physical and mental, that would haunt them until the Grim Reaper arrived.

Goroke, named after the aboriginal name for the Australian magpie, was a small town in Western Victoria, its railway station a weatherboard structure. Three people stood on the isolated platform, watching a lady and a young boy struggle gamely across the paddock adjacent to the station. She seemed out of place for the environment, dressed in a fashionable short-sleeved dress which fell just below her knees, a white scarf, and a belt; her shoes matched the colour of her dress, although she was now covered in a blanket of fine dust. The boy, well attired in a now rather dusty sailor suit, gripped her hand tightly as they struggled into the wind which was now ripping up dust all around them; she had a round suitcase while he was also carrying a smaller and rectangular one.

Drought had etched its face on the Wimmera in the 1940s; the three people looked past the oncoming pair, seeing only a barren, dusty paddock virtually devoid of vegetation other than sporadic spindly gum trees, some of them nestled amongst broken branches which had fallen off from want of water. Away to the east was Horsham, being one of the towns in which the Wimmera River passed through. The river rose in the Great Dividing Range somewhere between Ararat and Avoca and then flowed north and west, at one stage forming the boundary of the Little Desert National Park till finally flowing into Lake Hindmarsh near Jeparit.

There was a passage of conversation between the two older people standing on the platform, remarking how nice it would be sitting on the banks of the river at Horsham, but little did they know that the Wimmera River had become a series of waterholes and would soon be dry if rains weren’t forthcoming. Along the fence line which separated the paddock from the railway line, sand dunes had been formed so that only the top wire and the tops of the post could be seen, all being the work of the hot summer winds whipping up the top soil, throwing it across the landscape with no care about where it landed. Away across the paddock, the buildings of the town were enveloped in dust, and the only ones that were readily distinguishable was the timber-framed Anglican church with one of its wooden buttresses visible along one side, while the sign of the Royal Mail Hotel stood out starkly in the dust.

Then in the distance came the piercing sound of a whistle; they looked east and saw the trail of smoke billowing into the sky, clear evidence that what they were waiting for would soon be arriving. They looked at one another with an air of expectation mixed with measures of joy, doubts, and misgivings. Their thoughts were interrupted by the lady and the boy bursting out from the station house onto the platform; she exclaimed, ‘Oh, I hope we aren’t too late for the train to Horsham!’

The man stepped forward from the trio, saying, ‘No, I believe it will be arriving shortly, but I’m not sure how long it will take before it heads back again.’

She smiled and then turned to acknowledge the other woman and the young girl beside her and replied, ‘Oh well, at least we didn’t miss it. We will just have to wait until it goes again. Anyhow, my name is Dora, and this is my son, Thomas.’

The man doffed his hat and replied, ‘I’m Reg, this is my sister-in-law Mary, and this charming young lady is my niece Virgie.’ He put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Are you all going to Horsham?’ Then she suddenly put her hand over her mouth and grabbed her son, covering his face with her dress as a gust of wind spewed, swirling dust through the station and across to the paddock opposite.

The other three were caught by surprise as dust swirled all around them, coughing and spluttering, trying to breathe, as well as endeavouring to prevent the dust from getting in their eyes. Mary was the first to find her voice and, although rather croaky, answered, ‘No, we are waiting for the train. My husband and Virgie’s father are home from the war.’

‘Oh, how wonderful for you both,’ Dora replied. ‘We are off to live with my brother and his wife in Horsham.’

‘And your husband?’

Dora’s eyes were suddenly opaque, filling with tears, her words at first indistinct; then as if by an injection of stoicism, she calmed herself and went on, ‘I’m so sorry. No, Larry won’t be joining us. He died building that bloody Burma Railway.’ She put her hand to her mouth, apologised, and then finished what she was about to say. ‘I heard that it was a terribly dreadful way to go, new start in Horsham for Tommy and me.’ She bowed down, patting him on the head.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mary replied.

‘That’s OK, you weren’t to know.’

‘Were you on the land?’

‘Yes, but with this goddam weather—oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I’m afraid the farm is practically useless. You see, we didn’t own it. We were leasing it.’ Silence descended on the small group standing on the lonely out-of-the-way railway station.

The steam locomotive began slowing as it started to roll into the station. Reg oddly remarked, ‘What else, eh, but the good old K class. You know they were very versatile, with greater traction on uphill grades than other steam locomotives.’ They all fell into silence again.

Suddenly, Virgie stepped over to the young boy, wrapping her arms around him, and said in a sweet, consoling tone, ‘I am so sorry about your father.’ Tears were running down her cheeks; she was almost 5 years old.

Suddenly, the train whistle sounded again; the locomotive drowned out whatever his reply was. Just as quickly, Virgie let go, returning to her mother. Dora took her son’s hand, bid them goodbye, and whispered a thank-you to Virginia as they disappeared back into the station, leaving the other three to await the arrival of the train at the platform.

The train consisted of a steam locomotive belching smoke and ash into the atmosphere, two railcars, and a mail van; it travelled as far as Goroke and then went back to Horsham via Natimuk. Freight trains that plied the same line went through to Carpolac, where grain would be loaded before they came back. As the three people waited for the train to come in, right on time, a red bus arrived to transport passengers to farther points in Western Victoria. The bus decamped several passengers who were there either to meet the train or join it on its journey back to Horsham.

Reg, who owned a business and drove the school bus at Jeparit, where he lived with his wife, remarked, ‘Well, I’ll be blowed, I’ve only seen one of those in a magazine for cryin’ out loud. Never thought there’d ever be one in Australia. That red bus is a Praga NDO built in Czechoslovakia before the beginning of the war, based on the Praga truck being a similar bonneted front engine vehicle. As you see, it has concertina doors both back and front for embarking and disembarking its passengers. You know, the body is made of iron and the roof constructed of wood and canvas.’

The train arrived at the platform, causing the three people to be swallowed up in white smoke and cinders which smarted, turning their eyes red as well as causing the young girl to cry out and cough incessantly as the locomotive crawled past; the two carriages came to rest in front of them. They gazed expectantly at the doors of the first carriage, but only three passengers disembarked, two elderly women and a man dressed in an officer’s uniform of the Royal Australian Navy.

‘He must have missed the train!’ Mary cried. ‘I’m sure the telegram said it was this one.’

Her thoughts were interrupted by Virgie crying out, ‘Hey, Mum!’ She was pointing at a soldier who had stepped down onto the platform from the far door of the second carriage. ‘Is that my dad?’

The threesome focused their attention on the man, taking in the scarecrow-type figure, the uniform hanging loosely as he limped toward them along the platform. At first, they didn’t recognise him mainly because of the weight he had lost; but also, he had a pronounced limp in his left leg, both gifts of a Japanese prison camp in Malaya, where he spent his last twelve months of the war before being set free by a prisoner swap.

As he came closer, Mary finally recognised the sunken features of her husband, Harry; at first, she couldn’t believe it was the happy-go-lucky man she had married with the devious smile and the flair to bring mirth to any party. Her memory flashed back to their wedding day, his handsome face still so boyish, laughing hysterically when he stuck a cricket down the back of one of the bridesmaid’s dresses. Oh, what a handsome couple they had made; they could see a long, happy, and contented future ahead. Goddam this stupid war!

With tears welling up in her eyes, she moved forward, throwing her arms around him; he felt like a bag of bones, but she forced every fibre in her body not to show her real feelings. She just said, ‘Oh, it is so good to have you home again, Harry.’

His gaunt face broke into a smile, emphasising his sunken cheeks. ‘Not as much as I feel.’

Mary turned, beckoning to Virgie to come to them. She tentatively sidled up to them, and her mother exclaimed, ‘Harry, this is your daughter, Virgie.’

There was a brief pause, and then a light came into his eyes. Kneeling down, he opened his arms, swallowing Virgie up in his embrace, tears running down his cheeks. He let go of his daughter, gazing at the other man who had come up to them.

‘Good god, great to have you back home again, Harry!’ Reg cried.

The returned soldier stood for a moment, taking in the other man; then his face erupted in a mass of creases, and he almost spluttered, ‘Crikey, brother Reg, you’re a flippin’ long way from home!’

Virginia watched the two men embrace, a father she had never known, an uncle who at times seemed ‘overly’ friendly. A dark cloud crossed her young mind and then vanished as it had come. She shuddered as if cold in the hot Mallee summer.

The four people made their way out of the station. Harry, Mary, and Virgie clung together as Reg went to retrieve the automobile. A couple of minutes later, a 1936 Chevrolet Standard sedan 216 Stovebolt Six green in colour with matching green wheels and a long chrome grille rolled up beside them. It was all covered in road dust.

Harry dumped his army swag in the boot and, favouring his good leg, climbed into the front seat, dragging his gammy leg with him, sitting next to the driver, while Mary and Virgie deposited themselves in the back, making themselves comfortable for the formidable journey ahead. Reg eased off the clutch, turning the car, and ventured out onto the road heading west. The mood in the car was rather sombre as they bumped their way along the unsealed surface. It was around an hour or so till they came to an intersecting road; he turned left, heading south to eventually join the highway near Edenhope.

Martin Place was often described as the ‘civic heart’ of Sydney, home to the major banking institutions, the GPO, and other offices as it ran between George and Macquarie Streets. When World War II ended in August 1945, it became a cauldron of jubilation. Thousands upon thousands of people began to pack the square; civilian men and women poured out of the banks, the GPO, and other offices. These were joined from the shops and other businesses on George and Macquarie Streets; in addition, there were servicemen from Allied countries, and it soon was engulfed by others from all over the CBD. And of course, as news leaked out, people began arriving from trams, trains, and buses from the suburbs, those quite near and others more distant.

Hundreds of young women wearing paper hats waved streamers of all colours; others waving the Union Jack or the Stars and Stripes were joined by young men. Their joy and laughter became contagious. Then through all the mayhem, an elderly man, his hat pushed back on his head, danced the Highland fling. As if catching, it seemed to encourage a group of young men and women, interspersed with Australian and British soldiers, who all began dancing the hokey-pokey.

Suddenly, the whole scene was taken over by a young man, his hat in his right hand, a look of almost ecstasy on his face, who danced across Martin Place through all the fallen streamers; others stopped what they were doing, clapped, and cheered him on. The significance of the moment had filled him with such rapture that the only way to express it was to let himself go, knowing that the most dreadful war in the history of mankind was over. An attractive Wren stood watching him while contemplating a memorial when a couple of young girls came up to her and asked, ‘Please, what is a cenotaph?’

She explained, ‘A cenotaph is a place meaning empty tomb and was set up to honour those whose bodies are elsewhere. This one in Martin Place has an inscription on the GPO face on the other side which reads, To our glorious dead. It was placed in what is seen as the centre of the city and was established for both formal and informal gatherings where people can honour those who paid the supreme sacrifice in the defence of our wonderful country.’

The two girls saluted and then replied in unison, ‘Thank you, Sailor.’ They both laughed and skipped away.

The Wren stood and watched them, so glad that their future was now bright before them and a little proud she had played a minor part in securing that future. She then stood watching those who had gathered on a much more solemn note, many having laid flowers; others just stood, perhaps to remember those fallen in their own families or just to give thanks to those who had given their lives, thus for many to rejoice in knowing that the bloodshed had ended.

Then came a huge cacophony of sound created by much shouting, cheering, and simple outpourings of laughter as they looked up to the top of one of the buildings, and hanging from the top was a dummy of Adolf Hitler, pertinently with a noose around his neck. And if to bring a touch of officialdom to the occasion, a RAAF Mosquito bomber swooped low over the city.

The Wran took leave of the cenotaph and made her way down Martin Place; minutes later, she passed through the door of the ladies’ lounge bar of the Australia Hotel. Finding a place at one of the tables, placing her cap on the table, she looked around at the elegant atmosphere with its curved bar adorned by a padded leather front and the tables decorated by starched white tablecloths. She was totally unaware she had been followed into the lounge by an army lieutenant who then joined her at the table, asking politely, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

She smiled and said, ‘It would be rather rude of me to say no, especially on such an auspicious occasion.’

‘Sure reckon you’re right there. You would have to be a real drag not to be happy today, especially I’m sure that both of us have been waiting a long time for this day.’ He smiled, and it brought up the dimples in his cheeks. ‘Now how about I buy you a celebratory drink? What would you like? Oh, by the way, my name’s Tom.’

During her service in the navy, she had never been one to drink very much, but she thought, What the hell, this is sure a day of celebration. ‘I’m Aggie, and yes, please make it a gin and tonic.’

It was all very pleasant talking about what they were doing before the war, family, friends, and life in general; they spent a little time on their wartime experiences. He spoke with much emotion that he had been in Tobruk, where many of his squad were lost, and then they were shipped back to join the Australian forces in the Pacific. He had been shot and then badly affected by malaria before his unit was shipped home. Toward the end, she sensed a deep bitterness in his voice which became rather melancholy.

‘I’m afraid’, she said, ‘my war wasn’t quite that colourful, although I was stationed at HMAS Melville in Darwin during the Japanese bombing raids, which were rather frightening at the time because we all wondered whether it was the prelude to them landing troops ashore.’

During their conversation, he had a couple of more glasses of beer and brought her another gin and tonic, which she accepted but with some trepidation as she was already feeling a bit heady from the first one, but she felt he needed a sympathetic ear. They sat for a while, watching the comings and goings of people saturated by an infectious disease called happiness, but Aggie seemed to sense that Tom was becoming more tense as quite a lot of the patrons had become rather noisy, still understandably so. It wasn’t every day that such a cruel war ended.

A group of four soldiers, all under the weather, came bursting through the door; they stood for a time rather unsteadily on their feet, surveying the patrons. Suddenly, they appeared to recognise someone and headed in their direction; they weaved their way through the crowded tables, arriving in front of them. One, with three stripes on each arm, stood swaying a little and then saluted and cried out, ‘Lieutenant Tom! Been lookin’ all over for ya, mate. Couldn’t remember what pub it was for Chris’ sake. Lucky some old geezer recalled seeing an army man follow a sheila in uniform come in ’ere, didn’t he, boys!’

One bearing just two stripes half-sniggered. ‘Sure as bloody hell we did. You know, I thought the old boy kinda thought he did. He looked half-pissed. Anyway, we made it, so when’s it goin’ down?’ He leered at Aggie.

The Wren officer spoke. ‘Do you know these men, Tom? They seem rather drunk and rather uncouth.’

‘It’s all right, Aggie, they’re from my platoon, just lettin’ off steam. I’ll look after them,’ he said with a note of command. He then rose from his chair, ordering the men to follow him. The corporal again looked lasciviously at the Wren, sticking out his tongue, and then traipsed off after the others. The lieutenant began speaking to the sergeant in a low tone; to all intents and purposes, he seemed to be issuing him with orders.

Five minutes later, the lieutenant returned to the table, made his excuses for the others, and then rose, only to return shortly afterward with two more drinks. ‘I didn’t want any more. Thanks, Tom,’ Aggie pleaded.

‘Oh, come on, Aggie, think what we have to celebrate. Don’t spoil it,’ he cajoled; a smile spread over his handsome face. ‘We’ll never have another time like today.’

The drink, the time, the occasion loosened up her tongue, and she spewed out facts about her childhood, her joining the service, some wartime escapades, and her hopes of a family later on in life. He reciprocated, but he was rather guarded in what he said, and as time went by, he seemed to become rather testy as if he was getting agitated about something. But the effect of the alcohol had dulled her senses, and she didn’t pick up on the change in his manner.

She was halfway through her fifth drink; the room had started to spin crazily around and around. She started to feel very woozy, and Tom’s face came in and out of focus. She almost knocked her drink over but just caught it in time. ‘Oops, sorry, Tom, but I think I’ve had too much. You see, I don’t usually drink very much.’

He reached across the table, taking hold of her hand. ‘That’s all right, Aggie, too much excitement to go with the drink. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept us drinking.’

‘Not your fault!’ she cried. ‘I mean, I guess you probably thought, as I was in the services, I would be used to having a few, but as I . . . as I, um—well, my, ah, well, growin’ up, I never had any, family very strict on that sort of thing.’ Her voice was becoming increasingly unsteady.

The lieutenant squeezed her hand and softly said, ‘I am staying here at the Australia. Maybe it might be a good idea if you come up to my room and have a rest just to clear your head. I can organise some coffee.’

They swayed to and fro through the tables, disappearing into the interior of the hotel, heading for the lifts. The lift came to a halt on the fourth floor, the criss-cross caged door opened, and they made their way along the corridor. She leant heavily against him, her perfume beginning to arouse him as they reached room 415. He held her up as he pushed open the door; she was too gone to realise he hadn’t unlocked the door. He then almost carried her across the room and laid her down on the sumptuous enormous bed.

Half-awake, she looked up at him, slurring her words. ‘Thank . . . thank you, my gallant soldier.’

Suddenly, the room erupted in jeering words; there was clapping and howling. She could only faintly make out the four faces of the other men, but she knew they were all in khaki uniforms; she also knew who they were. Then one of them said in a loud, drunken voice, ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ve paid up your debt. We’ll keep quiet about you abandoning your troops on the Bonis Peninsula during the actions on Bougainville when we were advancing on Buin. You can count on it. No one will hear anything about it from us, mate!’

The lieutenant, in a rather pathetic attempt at ablution, tried to give some reasons for his action and cried out, ‘Come on! You know what North Africa did to me. Then ending up in those stinkin’ jungles, an enemy you couldn’t always see, you all know the fear we had of being taken prisoner by those Jap bastards.’

‘Quit the sob stories, Lieutenant, sir. We’ve heard it all before.’ The corporal sneered. ‘You’ve carried out your mission. Now get the hell out of here. Me and the boys have got . . .’ He leered at the ‘captured’ Wren, virtually now helpless, lying on the huge bed with its ornamented headboard and bed end. There were carved wooden bedside tables, upon which sat matching patterned pottery bedside lights. White linen sheets and brocaded pillows adorned the bed, all sitting on a blue patterned Axminster carpet, none of which the now terrified naval officer was aware of or could appreciate. ‘We’ve got business with this stuck-up navy bitch.’

The lieutenant crossed to the door. Aggie cried out, her voice pathetically wavering through a mixture of paralytic fear and an excess of alcohol, ‘For god’s sake, you can’t leave me with these animals!’

He dropped his hands down by his side. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have any choice.’ He then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, closing it behind him. He stood for a moment, sick to the stomach for what he had done; he heard the lock of the door fasten. He quickly hurried down the corridor to the lift, trying to blot out what was going to happen behind the locked door.

It was the corporal who now seemed to be in charge. ‘Well, it’s time, boys, that this stuck-up Wren got a taste of some real men. I reckon I’ll go first, if that’s okay with you, Sarge. Then Bob, the kid, can go last, eh!’

The younger soldier wailed, ‘No, no, I’m not doing it! It’s not right. You can’t do this. You have to let her go. Haven’t we seen enough hatred and violence in the bloody war? It has to finish.’

The corporal pushed him hard in the chest; he staggered backward into the wall behind him, striking the back of his head, sliding down slowly to the floor. The corporal was on him in two strides, and as if by magic, a switchblade appeared in his hand. He knelt down, grabbing the younger man by the neck. He waved the blade in front of his face and snarled. ‘Just sit here and shut up, or I’ll make sure no Sheila will ever look at you again.’ He stood up and moved over to the side of the bed. ‘Now, honey, it’s your turn for some fun. We sure as hell have been waitin’ a bloody long time for this. Nothin’ personal, you know. You just happened to be the first one we spotted.’

He straddled the petrified Wren, grabbing her blouse; he ran the knife from the bottom to the top, and he then sliced though her undergarments, exposing her breasts. Dismounting, he stood up, closed the switchblade, and put it back in his pocket. Then turning, he pulled her skirt over her feet, throwing it at the young man, who sat with his eyes closed, his face in his hands.

Aggie tried to get up, but he swung a backhander, hitting her in the face. ‘Look, you bitch, you’re not goin’ anywhere until we say so.’ And at that, he tore her pantaloons off.

He could no longer wait; dropping his strides and underpants, he was on her like an animal. Aggie didn’t know how long it had all taken for the three soldiers to violate her. The pain, the shame. Her virginity was torn from her in a frenzy of carnal obscenities, never to know the joy of an intimate relationship born with love, care, and tender emotion.

She suddenly became aware that everything was quiet; she dared to hope as she lifted her head to look around the room, bursting into tears. The room was empty. Finally, she sat on the side of the bed, its sheets covered in blood. It was not the physical pain that was tearing her apart; it was the internal one. It was as if her very soul had been ripped from her body, beaten to a pulp, and then put back in again, leaving only revulsion, desolation, and despair. She sat among the carnage; a dreadful feeling of shame and guilt engulfed her. She found herself repeating over and over again, ‘I will get over it. I will get over it!’

Agnes had never been with a man before this, and she would never be with one again.

PART ONE

MATES AND THE SPIRITS

The Djab Wurrung people’s land lay on the volcanic plains of central Victoria, stretching from the Gariwerd (Grampians) in the west through to the Pyrenees in the east, dissected by the Wimmera and Hopkins Rivers. Historian Benjamin Wilkie wrote that Gariwerd is central to Djab Wurrung society and culture. The Djab Wurrung people believed at one time to have eleven bands making up their population; at the time of the arrival of the Europeans, there were forty-one clans, each having their own smaller tracts of land.

Natural resources were reliable, with permanent and semi-permanent settlements made up of substantial huts where the Djab Wurrung people practised effective land management, especially near creeks and streams. By the mid-nineteenth century, these had been abandoned; pastoralists who settled in the region saw abandoned mounds, some up to fifteen metres in diameter where huts once were.

Maj. Thomas Mitchell, a Scottish explorer who first explored this part of Victoria in the mid-1830s, wrote in his journal, ‘Two very substantial huts showed that even the natives had been attracted by the beauty of the land, and as the day was showery, I wished to return if possible, to pass the night there, for I began to learn that such huts, with a good fire between them, made comfortable quarters in bad weather.’

Wilkie wrote that aquaculture was significant to the Djab Wurrung people’s way of life; their knowledge of the seasons and their cycles underpinned their farming, hunting, and food cultivation. They, along with other indigenous groups in the western part of Victoria, were the first humans to practise aquaculture. Fish traps and weirs across rivers were common to the region. The pastoralist Charles Browning Hall wrote in 1853 that ‘about the Grampians [fish weirs] were numerous at the time of my residence, and had apparently been much more so, judging from the traces left by them in the swampy margins of the river’.

Historian Ian D. Clark noted, ‘During early Autumn there were large gatherings of up to 1,000 people for one to two months hosted at the Mount William swamp or at Lake Bolac for the annual eel migration. Near Mount William, an elaborate network of channels, weirs, eel traps and stone shelters had been constructed, indicative of a semi-permanent lifestyle in which eels were an important economic component for food and bartering.’

Significant to the Djab Wurrung was the deity or ancestral being Bunjil; one of the most significant aboriginal paintings in the area is at Bunjil’s shelter. The ancestors of the Djab Wurrung had occupied their lands for over 40,000 years, the oldest known occupation site, in Gariwerd, dating back 22,000 years. The discovery of fishing nets, the damning of streams, evidence of agriculture, and permanent structures were conclusive evidence that not all aboriginal people were nomads, having with great husbandry maintained the environment, so important to their spirit, culture, beliefs, and well-being.

It saddens one to think that the history of the original owners, the longest surviving civilisation on Earth stretching back over 40,000 years, was not embraced and taught in schools. If it had been, then we of recent generations would have been given greater understanding of their beliefs, cultures, and ways of life, thus gaining an appreciation of their skills, humanity, and sense of belonging, of the ways they protected and managed the environment. One can certainly understand why the original owner’s history from 1788 onward was never taught in schools, for it was indeed a period of unstinting inhumanity inflicted by the newcomers upon the ‘original Australians’.

It was late February 1924, that same year back on 30 January, the cabinet meeting of the federal government was first held in Canberra, but this had little or no interest to the two boys—one white, one black—heading away from their camp, which one of their fathers had erected next to the Panrock Creek Reservoir on the dusty Panrock Reservoir Road that joined the Western Highway near the Sisters Rocks. The road ran along the eastern side of the Black Range, being a series of sparsely wooded hills, formed mainly by granite rock that ran basically parallel to the highway from Stawell to Great Western.

Both boys were tall and well built for their age. The white boy’s face was dominated by a slightly crooked nose, and his chin jutted out from below, but it was an intelligent face with an earnest, caring look in his eyes. The darker boy was the product of a full-blood aboriginal man—a highly skilled stockman who had then put his hand to sheep shearing; was proud of his heritage, kind, and forthright; treated the earth and all that dwell there with respect; did what he believed to be right; and was a great protector of his family. His mother was what many would have said was the ‘salt of the earth’, the backbone of the family business, a stalwart of her community who would go out of her way to help anybody; of course, that was until she bought shame to her family and the community. She married an aboriginal man. He was a good-looking boy, and his brown eyes would simply sparkle in his rounded features. The pair was inseparable.

The Panrock Creek Reservoir sat in a basin at the foot of the southern end of the ranges; the road wound past it. They crossed the road heading up the range, skirting the reservoir, and conquered the steep climb to the top of the range. They halted to take a breath and then surveyed the surrounding countryside away to Ararat in the south, Stawell toward the north, east to Maryborough, and the Grampians in the west. The ranges ran roughly north and south; as you looked along them, the highest points were characterised by huge granite boulders.

They took a moment to take in what was ahead of them; their journey would take them up and over the ranges for several miles, making their way by climbing over as well as edging between granite blocks of numerous shapes and sizes, all interspersed with soil that had been deposited amongst them over thousands of years. Edging between the granite blocks was often hindered by the Xanthorrhoea plant.

The first time they encountered one, the white boy, the first one through, said, ‘Watch out for the leaves on that black boy. They can be sharp.’ He suddenly realised what he had said. ‘Jeez, mate, sorry, but that’s what we call them.’

His mate, whose name was Waru, replied, ‘Don’t worry. You whiteys reckon you made that name up, but it comes from the balga grass plant. You see, Arch’—he half-laughed—‘balga means black boy in our language.’

‘Well, shiver me timbers. Gosh, Waru, do ya know why they got called that?’ his mate answered, feeling a bit unsure.

Waru screwed up his broad face and then picked his teeth before answering, ‘Dad reckons that . . . that he was told that when burnt by bushfire, the long spiked flower looked like a black boy throwin’ a spear, but he reckoned there were other stories where it got its name from.’

The air was split by the raucous sound of laughter that cascaded through the bushland. Waru cried out, ‘Shut up, guuguubarra! What you know about it?’

Archie’s mouth dropped open; he cried out, ‘Gosh! Is that what your lot call a kookaburra?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Arch.’ His white teeth were stark against his handsome brown features. Guuguubarra sounds like he’s laughin’, don’t it?’

It had been a long climb from the camp up to the highest point; they scrambled down, finding themselves at the beginning of a long, wide valley—well, more like a basin really because it was more circular rather than elliptical.

Archie said, ‘How about we take a rest, Waru? I’m about knackered.’

Waru looked as if he had only just started but replied, ‘Good idea. Have a drink and some tucker, eh?’

They deposited themselves under the shade of a huge granite block, just one of which formed the rim of the basin. They each took a draught from the canteen, washing down some damper while gazing across the basin; a dried-up creek bed ran like a fissure through the middle. Set in the bank almost right in the middle was a misshapen ancient gum tree, though missing most of its boughs.

Other gum trees had grown where soil and moisture combined to enable them to take a foothold, and then nature took its course, while littered amongst them where larger versions of the balga grass plant, their trunks wider and higher than those they had encountered amongst the rocks. The large ones down in the basin had on their tops spiky green leaves which seemed to make a nest for the long black stem of the flower reaching up toward the sky.

Arch looked across at his mate, who was just finishing off his piece of damper, enquiring, ‘Did your dad grow up around here, Waru?’

‘Nah, Arch. From what I’ve heard, Mum say he grew up on an aboriginal mission on the Warangesda Station in NSW out near someplace called Darlington Point. That’s where he learnt to be a stockman.’

‘Your dad speaks English quite well. Did he go to school there too?’

‘Not sure think so. Think some church bloke might have taught the kids there, but they could have been sent to a school in that Darlington Point.’ His voice had dropped a little in volume.

‘Sorry, Waru. Don’t mean to pry if you don’t want to talk about it. Just that your father is a good bloke, certainly been good to me,’ Arch explained.

‘No worries, I reckon. Dad reckons you fair dinkum bunji. Means real good mate. It’s kinda funny, you see. Nobody ever asked me about my family before. Only person ever talked to me about family was Uncle Yarran. He’s Dad’s brother. He explain sometimes about spirit world as well,’ Waru said, a serious look coming over his face.

‘Did he grow up on the station as well?’

‘Uncle Yarran? Nah, he fair dinkum aboriginal man, lives with his mob. They roam throughout the land from Broken Hill into Queensland. His mob still lives off the land. I saw him in Broken Hill once when we went on the train.’ Waru smiled. ‘Gee, Arch, that was scary, but Mum was good. She’d been on trains before, told me they were safe.’

‘Did he and your dad get split up?’

‘Yeah, that what happened. Don’t know much about how it happened, heard somethin’ about Dad being taken away.’

‘Did your dad then spend most of his life at this station before you came down here?’

‘Nah, he learnt to ride there and work with cattle, but then he travelled all over the country, workin’ as a stockman.’

‘How did he meet your mum, or did she come from up that way to?’

They both sat still as a red-bellied black snake slithered by and disappeared amongst a cluster of rocks, which then caused a rabbit to come hurtling out, running madly across the floor of the basin, its white tail bobbing up and down as it ran. Arch yelled, ‘Crikey, mate! Nearly shit myself. Reckon the rabbit did too.’

Waru laughed. ‘Nah, Arch, just got stay still when cuddee around. They only have a go if you go at them.’

Archie looked at his mate and said, ‘I heard Dad telling Mr Mitchell a story about rabbits. Do you wanna hear it?’

‘Sure, why not?’ He smiled, a bit relieved from talking about family.

‘Well, apparently, there was this young boy going out to hunt rabbits on his own for the first time, and his uncle said to him, Be careful you don’t shoot any with a white tail. It’s bad luck.

‘Anyhow, the boy comes back later in the afternoon, and his father says, How did you go? Did you shoot many?

‘Nah, he said, they all had white tails!’

Waru giggled and said, ‘He not to smart, eh?’

‘Anyhow, what about your mum?’

Waru sat there for a while without answering as if he was deep in thought; his forehead folded up in wrinkles. Then he said, ‘Not really sure about all of it, but Mum was born in Quambatook, where she went to school. She must have been pretty clever ’cause she used to help the teacher with the younger kids.’

He paused for a minute before going on, ‘Mum’s dad was killed in some war in Africa. I think it was early in this century. Do you know the one I mean?’

‘I reckon, Waru. It must have been the Boer War. Australian soldiers went to South Africa to fight alongside British soldiers,’ Archie cried out. ‘But it was at the end of the last century, I think.’

‘Anyhow, she and her mum left this Quambatook place, went to live in Wilcannia which is in NSW because her mum’s sister lived there. She was a nurse in the hospital there.’

‘Is that where your dad met her?’

‘Yeah, some annual dance in Wilcannia. A couple of years later, they got married, and then I came along,’ Waru explained.

‘How come you ended up down here?’

‘We come down here cos Dad got shearing work around the Wimmera with a mate he went stock riding with, a white fella. He’d got sick of roamin’ round outback. Apparently, he was originally from Rainbow in the Mallee. After I got born, Dad tried to enlist in the army with his mate, but they wouldn’t take him.’ There came a bit of a croak in his voice. ‘Maybe it was a good thing cos his mate got killed at Galipole.’

Archie was going to correct him but thought better of it; he knew what Waru was talking about. He just said, ‘So you stayed, eh?’

‘Sort of. We moved around more when war was on ’cause Dad got plenty work as most men overseas,’ Waru went on; he liked talking with Arch because he listened to him and never picked him up on things or made fun of him. As he spoke, he kept thinking of an answer to the question that he was sure Arch would ask him.

‘Did you always go to school wherever you were staying?’

Waru thought, Nah, that’s not what I was thinkin’ of.

He responded, ‘Yes if one was handy. If not, Mum gave me lessons, mainly words and sums. Mum was keen for me to learn.’

‘Your mum has done a good job, Waru, and so have you,’ Arch complimented.

Waru didn’t say anything in return and thought, Maybe he isn’t goin’ to say anything. But then it came out just as he thought it would.

Archie stumbled on his words at first but then asked, ‘How did you go in each place? Did you get called names?’

Waru baulked at first and then said, ‘Funny, you know. At first I was okay. I guess they just thought I had brown skin ’cause I was always in the sun. Also, Mum always took me to school first.’

Waru explained in all seriousness, ‘But once they found out who my father was, very few wanted to know me then. We got called plenty of names you know, like coon, Abo, sometimes nigger, or boong.’

‘Did it upset your mum and dad?’

‘Well, Dad said he had become used to it. He reckoned that’s why he liked bein’ a stockman. Got treated near as an equal.’ Waru smiled for the first time in a while. ‘But I’m sure it still hurt him. I kind of learnt to live with it, but the worst thing was what they called Mum things like boong or nigger lover, white trash, and even much worse.’ But then he went quiet, blinking back the tears.

Then suddenly, he went on again, ‘You know, he didn’t get same pay as a white fella but got plenty o’ work, so we were OK.’ Waru squared his shoulders. ‘And Mum, she made good dresses, sold them to rich whiteys, got enough for us to buy an old miner’s cottage down near the racecourse when we came here.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, down near where they first found gold at Pleasant Creek,’ Archie claimed. ‘Your family has done OK, haven’t they? I remember you came about the same time as us around the start of year 5.’

Waru looked at his mate; he thought, Funny Arch is the only kid who remained a friend for more than a couple of months.

He then said, ‘What did you say your dad did, Arch?’

‘He’s the manager of the ESA Bank,’ he answered quite solemnly.

‘That’s right, I remember you tellin’ me. You live near the hospital, don’t ya?’

‘Yeah, we live in a house owned by the bank on Wimmera Street, sort of in the shadows of the hospital, down the road from the gasworks,’ Archie replied. ‘You’ve got a fair ol’ walk to school, mate.’ He changed the subject.

‘I suppose, but I cut up Griffiths Street past the brickworks, then through to road that runs past the school down to where all the dead people are put,’ Waru answered. ‘How do you get there, Arch? Is it a fair way as well?’

‘Yeah, it is, I guess. I cut down the street past the hospital, then through a track near the Electric Supply Company that goes around Cato Lake, then down a lane onto Barnes Street where 502 is,’ Archie said.

‘Five-oh-two, that our school, hey, Arch.’ Waru flashed a huge smile.

Arch gave him a hard pat on the shoulder, smirking. ‘Sure was, Waru, sure was. We used to play kick-to-kick footy, eh. You were a pretty good kick, I reckon.’

‘Good fun. Hurt a bit if you got knocked over.’

Arch went a bit serious, looking at his mate. ‘You copped more than your share of rough play. That gravel could sure cut into ya.’

‘You used to get it a bit yourself, reckon ’cause you friended me.’

The two boys—one white, one brown—half-smiled at each other and then punched each other, saying almost in unison, ‘Bloody good time, though, eh, mate!’

Waru exclaimed, ‘You know, some of my mob reckon footy came from Marngrook, a game where they kicked around a stitched possum skin for a football.’

They fell silent for a while, and then Archie said, ‘But not now, eh, you not going to school anymore?’

‘Nah, not clever enough, I reckon, just waitin’ till Dad can take a break, and then he takin’ me up to a station out near Hay in NSW to learn about cattle and sheep,’ Waru replied. ‘But you pretty clever, though, eh, Arch. You goin’ up to that high school. What street it on?’

‘It’s up on Patrick Street, not that far to walk now.’

‘That good, eh!’

Archie’s answer was rather solemn and heartfelt. ‘I guess, but I’m sure gunna miss you. You know I do already at school, plenty of them askin’ where my boong mate is.’

‘We been good, mates, eh, but sometimes right time to move on. Perhaps I come back see ya sometime.’ Waru smiled, hiding the hurt he felt. ‘We better get movin’, eh.’

They stood up and began trudging across the valley, causing a flock of white cockatoos to take flight, creating a white blanket flecked with yellow standing out against the clear blue sky, while the distinctive raucous cries of a murder of crows continued to accompany them on their journey.

High above, a wedge-tailed eagle was making lazy circles in the sky. ‘Gee, Arch, he big mullen up there looking for somethin’ to swoop on.’

‘Rabbits maybe’, replied Arch. Suddenly, two grey kangaroos bounded across in front of them, heading toward the northern side of the valley accompanied by two large flightless birds moving with an awkward gait, devouring the open space before disappearing between the rocks on the northern side.

Waru cried out, ‘Old woomben moving, eh, but old emu not far behind. Something upset them.’

Archie asked, ‘I guess woomben means kangaroo, but what about the emu? Is that also the aboriginal word for them?’

Waru stood quite still for a minute or so, pondering the question; he answered, ‘No, emu is not aboriginal word. There must be one, I guess, in some of the mobs, but Dad just always calls them emus.’

He continued, ‘I know they important in our life. They in dances. There is one in the stars in the sky, and they are found in other stories of how things got here.’

Magpies, currawongs, the odd rosella, or green parrot were seen in the trees as they trudged across the valley, but as they neared the western end of the valley, a flutter of bright multicoloured feathers attracted their eyes as a bird landed in the gnarled branches of a dead tree. ‘Wow!’ cried Archie. ‘A rainbow lorikeet, seen one in a bird book in the school library.’

Then the bush was invaded by one of its most joyous sounds, the sound of the kookaburra. Its timing seemed to be taking the mickey out of what Archie had said.

Waru jumped all around, pointing his arm at the tree where the sound came from, yelling, ‘Shut up, you old gahgun! He know these things! He smart fellow, go to school!’

All in all, it had been a marvellous hike, especially for Archie, listening to Waru pointing out other various items of fauna along the way. The Australian bush in 1924 was still abundant with native wildlife and other fauna.

The pair finally reached the western side of the ranges, making their way down the slopes, and sat down under a rock out of the late summer heat. One of the boys slipped a water canteen from his shoulder and passed it across to the other boy, saying, ‘Hey, Waru, I reckon we deserve a drink.’

The darker boy took the canteen and smiled, his sparkling white teeth contrasting to the colour of his skin. ‘Thirsty, eh, Arch. Thanks, bunji—nah, mate. That’s right eh!’ He took a swill and handed it back to his companion.

They gazed across at the Grampians which ran north and south, basically running parallel to the ranges, also taking in a large lake sparkling in the sun between them and the mountains. They could easily make out large areas where the original bush had been cleared and where sheep grazed and crops had been grown, the original landscape no longer in vogue. ‘What they call that lake, Arch?’ Waru asked. His father called him Waru because he had spent some time in Kalkadoon Country, where the word waru is used to describe the Milky Way, where the emu in the sky can be found.

‘I reckon, mate, it’s called Fyans because they damned Fyans Creek up to make a water supply for Ararat yonks ago now,’ Arch explained.

‘Too far to walk, eh. Swim would be good.’ Waru then exclaimed, ‘Why they call Gariwerd the Grampians, Arch?’

He explained, ‘Well, you see, some explorer called Mitchell came through here last century and named them after some mountains in his home country.’

‘What country, Arch?’

‘I reckon it was Scotland,’ came his answer. ‘It’s somewhere near England.’

‘You sure smart fella, Arch.’

The pair fell quiet and looked down at a rock where part of it seemed to resemble an elephant’s hide, but down underneath in a hollowed-out area, there were some white rock paintings, two of which were kangaroos, one a bit larger than the other. But the largest painting was an oval shape which looked like a shield or an open area with a path around it or maybe the shell of a tortoise. Still, they looked old and were a bit faded now. Archie said, ‘I reckon that must be Bunjil’s cave. I’ve heard my dad mention it.’

‘Nah, Arch, it’s not a cave, mate. It’s a shelter,’ Waru explained.

‘Crikey, mate!’ Archie exclaimed. ‘This Bunjil joker, was he pretty famous, eh!’

‘Well, Arch, I tell you about him.’ Waru stared hard at his companion. ‘Well, what I know anyway.’

‘Go ahead, Waru.’ Archie smiled, half-clapping his hands. ‘Sure like to hear about him,’ he said with much enthusiasm and genuine interest.

Waru began, ‘Bunjil was not an ordinary man. He was the Great Ancestor Spirit who built all the world around us—mountains, the plains, the forests, all the birds and animals—to live there in peace. He created the ranges of Gariwerd, what your people call the Grampians. He would turn himself into werpil, like an eagle, and fly over everything to see if it all working OK. Then at some time, he appointed these Bram brothers who were the sons of a frog called Druk, asking the brothers to finish what he started. They were to name all the creatures, create languages for all the mobs, and organise peace throughout the world. Bunjil’s work was done, and he rose into the sky and became a star. He is still up there, looking out for us, and is our protector, or at least that’s what Dad told me that his brother told him.’

‘Well, I’ll be blowed, Waru!’ Archie cried out. ‘That’s kinda like what’s in the Bible. Strange, eh!’

‘Maybe, eh, Arch.’ His face was concentrating on what his friend had said. ‘Don’t know really. Never read that Bible thing, but I know it have something to do with your churches, though Mum reads it sometimes and goes to church on some special spiritual meetings.’

‘Not to worry about it now. What about the Gari thing, whatever you called it? I mean, the Grampians,’ Arch asked his companion. ‘Are they kind of important to your people as well?’ Although Archie was only 12, he had always been unprejudiced toward Waru and his people but was well aware that so many didn’t share his empathy or respect, something he had taken up from his father.

‘It’s Gariwerd’, Waru answered, ‘very spiritual place for aboriginal people, especially the Djab Wurrung and Jardwadjali mobs, and very special place because of the Dreaming stories but also big source of food, water, and shelter. Dad says lots of rock art sites through the Gariwerd often mentioned in ancient stories. The Djab Wurrung people real good at farming the rivers. They set traps to catch fish and built weirs across the rivers, then speared the fish who got trapped behind the weirs. Dad reckons they be doing it for long, long time.

‘See, our ancestor spirits, they come out of the earth, sky up there, and the sea, but I ain’t never seen that, just heard about it. But all these went about creating things on the land and all things that live. Some could be transformed into animals or people. They got together with us people, giving us our languages and our laws, also how we should live together and look after one another.’

Archie couldn’t quite remember their full names but asked, ‘Real clever, eh, Waru. Is your tribe one of the Djab or Jardi people?’

Waru chuckled, and it was a warm and caring sound. ‘Nah, Arch, they’re called Djab Wurrung and Jardwadjali. They first people here, but Dad’s mob, they come from up in NSW around Broken Hill. His mob called the Wiljaali, and his brother is a kadaitcha, keeper of the spirits, a healer, prophet, and keeper of all our traditions. Dad says he told him once that we should never kill one another unless they do wrong by the laws given to us by the spirit people and have to be punished.’

‘So what about the Dreaming time?’ Arch asked with animated interest.

‘Well, Arch, don’t know for sure how it work.’ Waru screwed up his face; his dark brown eyes shone. ‘But I think the Dreamtime means everything go round in a circle, about things that lived in the past and still live today, and each thing keeps going, and it is all felt in the dances and ceremonies that each generation performs. From the Dreaming came the spirits that made us as people, and the things around us told us how to live and gave us our identity as people and how we are to know about everything around us and gave us our language.’

‘All sounds a bit spooky but pretty interesting, so your uncle very important bloke, eh, Waru.’

‘In the traditions of my people, he sure is,’ Waru said solemnly. ‘Dad reckons he bein’ looked after by his brother’s spiritual knowledge.’

The two boys fell silent, pondering over it, Waru mainly reflecting on the Dreamtime and other ancient mysteries while Archie was a bit overwhelmed by all of it;