Читать книгу Fox - Bill Robertson - Страница 15

Abruptly, Connors pushed back into the booth, white faced. ‘Would you mind if we left now? I need some air.’ As she paid the bill she glanced at Fox and said, ‘Don’t argue. Let’s walk down to the beach.’ They strolled slowly, not speaking, Connors unsettled.

‘What you said in there made me realise just how hard it’s going to be to change things. Your story is not only wretched, but horribly dispiriting for what I’m trying to do now. You are remarkable. Do you …?’ She stopped, an amalgam of sadness, softness and profound understanding washing over her face. ‘Remarkable,’ she said softly.

Fox, unused to praise felt a warm glow. ‘Well, I always planned goin’ back to Mum. After Lucy died, that’s what kept me goin’.’ His tone was subdued, thoughtful.

Walking through Centennial Park they again lapsed into silence – memories of the previous night haunting. On the sand, Connors shucked her sandals, stuffed them in her bag and walked in the warm frothy water.

Pensively, she said, ‘I don’t know how you survived those years and I had no idea it was that bad. Yes, I knew the policy was, to use your words, crap! I knew it was discriminatory. I knew it was harsh. But I didn’t know it was so malicious, so calculated, so violent or … so … bloody horrible! It cannot continue like this. It just can’t! Why don’t you work to change things? Maybe even work with me?’

‘What, ya mean like bein’ out there? Like Gary Foley over east? Nah, that’s not for me. Coulda got involved at Noonkanbah but chose not too. I’m happy helpin’ others individually but I’m not into big causes. Too many politics, too much about power, too much back-stabbing. Not even our mob can get it right. Sure, there’s lots of agreement, but when it comes down to it, the old power thing always rears its ugly ’ead, ’specially where money’s involved. Nope. Up ’ere I work in the open, I enjoy the gardens, I’ve got special knowledge about the country, the plants, the birds and the animals – I know how it all fits together. I’ve even got respect. I like it ’ere. Don’t get me wrong Caroline. I agree with you only, it’s not me. Sorry.’

She smiled. ‘You’ve got so much going for you. I don’t know what sort of education you got in that maelstrom you experienced, but you’re smart, you’re resourceful and from where I stand, tenacious. You could do good things for Aboriginals without getting involved in a major cause.’ Her deep brown eyes danced with the smile on her face.

Her expansive mood touched Fox. Yeah, she is a good person.

‘What did you ’ave in mind?’ he asked, piqued by her interest.

‘Well, as I said, you’ve got some great skills – they would bring credit to anyone. But, being Aboriginal, the bonus could be even greater. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll still be tough. But … I think that’s what you respond to. Helping others is what you’re good at.’ She paused and reflected a moment then, in a rush, ‘You could join the army, become a Police Aid in the Territory, or a copper in one of the eastern states. You could even be a social worker.’

Fox roared with laughter. ‘You didn’t think about that one Caroline! Brigitte Murphy was a social worker. Mullett hung out with social workers and neither of ’em did us any good. You said so yourself.’

‘I know,’ she said with a rueful grin. ‘Speaking of Mullett – even though he’s dead – because of what I do now, I decided to look into his background. There’s a lot to tell about him. Curiously, there are even parallels between his life and yours.’

‘Bullshit! He was just a rotten, twisted, pommy bastard. There was nothing about his life similar to Lucy’s or mine!’ Disgust laced Fox’s voice.

‘Try this on for size then. What do you know about the Fairbridge boys and Pinjarra?’

Fox shrugged and shook his head.

‘Quick history lesson.’ Connors’ face was animated. ‘Back in 1618 the first child labourers from London were sent to Virginia. These kids were vagrants, today’s street kids if you like. The subtext was they would help build a new nation, live in the fresh air, develop and grow and leave the slums behind. In truth however, they slaved for their very existence while their removal emptied London’s streets of riff-raff. In January 1620, England’s Privy Council approved the dispersal of unmanageable and delinquent children – against their will – to the Virginia Company in the Americas. It was the formal beginning of England’s colonial child migration. The racket lasted 150 years as children were forcibly sent to populate and develop the British Empire. Kingsley Fairbridge, a mover and shaker of his day, was one of the first to use the plan in Australia. He got land at Pinjarra, south of Perth, in 1911. By then of course, the kidnapping was outlawed, but plenty of others were involved: the churches, Thomas Barnardo and William Booth of Salvation Army fame. Fairbridge’s idea was to create farm schools where children could be placed with colonial farmers. The theory was sound, but reality ignored the violence and exploitation that came with it. The farmers were strict, canings were frequent, privileges were withheld and, you guessed it, sexual abuse was common. For some kids it was so bad they killed themselves. Mullett, the bastard child of a fifteen-year-old Birmingham prostitute was sent to Pinjarra at the age of twelve in 1921. I’ve spoken to a couple of men who were there with him. They said he was small, shy and, back then, an appealing little boy. He was a favourite of the supervisors and apparently endured systematic sexual abuse. We know now that behaviour patterns like this can repeat and manifest in the adult life of former victims. It seems that’s what happened to Mullett.’

Fox was stunned. Never had he imagined that Mullett too might have been a victim. Motionless, he stood staring far out to sea – glassy eyed, unseeing, breathing shallowly. Eventually, in a voice thick with emotion he said, ‘I’m sorry for the child but revile the man ... ’e grew up, ’e ’ad choices, ’e knew right from wrong. ’e’d been through it, ’e was weak ... ’e deserved what ’e got.’

The mood between them was sombre. Connors resumed walking along the shoreline, Fox lingered. After several minutes he jogged up to her.

‘That was a real shock,’ he said, ‘Mullett is finished for me but never forgotten. Tell me more about what you think I could be doing instead of messing round in horse shit.’

Connors turned, smiling gently, accommodating his need to change a painful subject. Companionably, she took his arm and they continued walking.

‘I accept what you say about working at the Botanical Gardens. I understand why you like it. But I think you have a lot to offer by way of example. What you said just now about Mullett is right – he did have choice. He chose his way and, under very similar influences, you made your choice. And look at you – poles apart. That says heaps about you and it could motivate others. Through lived experience you can show that rising above the heap is possible, that adversity doesn’t automatically mean a life of booze and crime and wife bashing or dependence on government hand outs. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like it. The army for you boyo. Just imagine: training, opportunity – there’s enormous job variety in the army – travel, combat, responsibility. And, while I stand to be corrected, as far as I know, there aren’t too many Aboriginals in the army these days. It’d be really good for you. Think about it.’