Season of Hate (25 page)

1965 was also the same year I finished High School and the year we got our first television – one of only the first half a dozen in town at the time.

On the Friday and Saturday nights when there weren't any pictures showing in town, Dad would get an extension cord and with assistance, mount the television on a box out on the front verandah. All the neighbours including the local Aborigines and their children would sit on the verandah or on the lawn or scattered throughout the jacaranda tree and watch it for hours, eating sweets and potato chips and chatting between shows. Along with all our teenage mates, including Johnny, Binda, Penny and some other girls, Doug and I would take up position on our platform, lying flat out with our heads resting in our hands on pillows as we watched the flickering images.

The 1967 Referendum had provided the Federal Government with a clear mandate to implement policies to benefit Aborigines. The setting up of the Council for Aboriginal Affairs later was to gain full ministerial recognition as the Department of Aboriginal Affairs. Prime Minister Whitlam in 1975 handed over the title deeds to part of their traditional Northern Territory lands to the Gurindji people and later Acts would pave the way for traditional ownership of land to be judged in Court. For us and Dad especially it seemed we were at last moving in the right direction. Something had to change.

Many blackfellas and a lot of whitefellas are watching closely the progress of Eddie Mabo's case before the High Court over native title to their land. He began proceedings in 1982 but now in 1985 there is still no decision coming from the High Court. I won't contemplate it, but with this length of time in the proceedings, some feel it may never be resolved.

It angered and frustrated me that even with all the small advances, there was little tangible difference to their lives. There appeared to be a more alarming number of these lost souls, young and old, just drifting through life than in my childhood, but more importantly, their conditions seemed to have worsened.

Reduced to such conditions it is hard to hold on to any sense of dignity, but like a small flame that refuses to be extinguished, the greater majority did and still do.

Why as a nation do we seem unable or unwilling to redress this situation? Widespread changes to white people's attitudes in small towns like ours appear to be a long way off. Johnny, Pindari and their families, and a few other lucky Aborigines' begrudged acceptance by the town's white population, was an exception few others experienced. As I moved on through town this welling of emotion would not subside. I felt sorrow for what I saw and anger at my own uselessness to make a difference.

There were more cars on the road now as the town had grown, but driven slower than those in Sydney, for here there was still no real rush even after all these years. Shop facades and names had changed. Mr Green and his wife had both passed away and there were new more tolerant owners of his store. Kells' Butchery was still family operated. Likewise, Shen Chang and his wife were now running his father's Golden Sea restaurant, and Eleni's children now operated The Parthenon milk bar.

A new coat of paint and contrasting lettering spelling out 'School of Arts' was the only change to the building that for a few pence on a Saturday afternoon transported us to other worlds. Though now, blacks were long ago allowed to watch the pictures side by side with the whites in comfort.

The shopping area had expanded along with the growth of housing in town. There were now two motels and a library as well. Traffic lights had been installed at the intersection of the Main and Railway streets rail crossing.

With the help of the Symonds, but using his own money saved over all those years, Johnny had bought the blacksmith shop from a retiring Mr Horan ten years ago. JOHNNY AUGUST BLACKSMITH, with Pindari as his assistant was doing good business, but with the ratio of the number of horses to cars dropping, not as well as it had done in Mr Horan's day. But country people still needed a farrier and a blacksmith to forge bits and pieces of metal for any number of farm applications.

'Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree-ee …' That was it, the round we sang in the choir. It came floating back as I peered through the old classroom windows and recalled the smell of overripe banana forgotten at the bottom of school satchels hanging on pegs before me. The school, 'cept for a couple of new demountable classrooms had remained the same. There's where I mixed up ink and there I'm hiding a sandwich in the school bin for Johnny.

They say we look back on our childhoods and remember only the happy times. I find that not always to be true. The sad and serious events also have a place in determining who we are, who we've become – all part of becoming an adult. Love, happiness, rejection, pain, forgiveness, acceptance and death; all part of life's cycle.

And so the gut wrenching loss of Doug at twenty five behind the wheel of a speeding car in the early hours of the morning had lessened also. It was outweighed by the happy memories of growing up together and the times I spent with him as an adult on holidays from Sydney on the wheat farm he managed.

We were more than brothers and confidants. As twins we shared that unique telepathic bond that only someone who has a twin could understand. It's funny, but the thing I miss the most about the loss of Doug, even after all these years, is that there is no one beside me to finish off my thoughts, or me, their's. Those times when our minds were working as one and each completed or repeated part of the other's sentences. At times, we intuitively knew exactly what the other was thinking and feeling, even when miles apart. His loss was like being cleaved in two. There were times I wished I was more like him, more spontaneous and reckless. Yet when I look at Harry and Charlie, I'm grateful I wasn't.

At Doug's funeral Johnny stood side by side with Dad and me. At the graveside Johnny put his arm around my shoulder and gripped me tightly. It helped me through the sadness of the day. It was at that moment our deep friendship changed into more of a brotherly love – my big black brother, Johnny.

Now the pain of losing Dad to cancer, I know will recede in time as well. There will be the memories of his black depression of course, but I'll cherish the good times and the love that flowed so freely from him. Love, that emotion that sustains all life. For a world without love, is like a farm without rain. His influence on my life and the town's will always remain. His voice is in my head echoing through time as clear as the day we visited the old Reserve.

"I made a promise when I became a doctor, to help anyone in need of medical help, be they black, white or brindle."

The day of Dad's funeral was a still summer's day with not even a flutter in the jacaranda's canopy. People came from miles around; rich, poor, black, white and brindle. So many people in attendance, it was standing room only in the church. The rest spilt out into the car park. Even those so old or sick that they should have stayed at home, made the effort to pay their respects. The white townspeople sat in the pews and the Aboriginal community stood around the side walls and the back of the church. I met no opposition from the new Father Tomas, when I asked that Johnny, Binda and Pindari be allowed to sit with Penny and me. Johnny and Pindari had already assisted the funeral parlour director and me as the pallbearers for Dad's coffin.

Though only some were Catholic, all the Aboriginal women wore scarves or hats or bits of material on their heads as a mark of respect. They were all there to see their 'white father' off.

It was stifling inside the church even with the stained glass windows pushed right out. Only one of the three ceiling fans was working. The hot air was churned by its limp wobble. You could feel the perspiration running down your back and underarms. Everyone was using the Order of Service with Dad's photo on the front to fan themselves.

As the service progressed, the emotion that poured from the Aboriginal women through their soft wailing was extremely moving yet comforting. So heartfelt was their sorrow it was as if they had lost a close relative, not just their doctor.

Penny's dad in his eulogy spoke of Dad as, "A man with more kindness and conscience than any man I have ever known". We decided on an open coffin at the urging of a delegation of elders from the wider Aboriginal community. They wanted to see Dad for one last time. After the white people had quietly viewed the body, the Aborigines in an orderly procession filed pass the coffin; men, women and children, some visibly distressed.

The wording of the epitaph on his headstone I worked out with Johnny. We both felt it summed Dad up. It simply read: 'He cared'.

At the wake many strangers came up to me, shook my hand and usually relayed an anecdote about Dad.

"Balls bigger than a mallee bull's, the way he kept on at the Mayor an' the Shire Council – wearin' 'em down 'til we got us our own proper sports field, not some rough field carved out of the scrub, an' the community swimmin' pool for
all
of us to use. Not ta mention the school bus, so's even blackfellas like us livin' outta town, could get our kids ta school," one Aboriginal farm worker had to say as he pumped my hand vigorously in a handshake.

"I just wanted to say that your dad was an exceptional human being," another old patient needed to convey. Dad would have winced at receiving those sorts of compliments. He just truly believed that all men were equal in the sight of God and deserved to be treated as such. Those patients who came to see him and could afford it, paid. Those who couldn't didn't, but they all got the same attention and care.

He had one exception. He would not accept any monetary payment from the Aboriginal community. If offered, he would graciously decline. A hug or a handshake was a sufficient substitute for his fee. For those who insisted, like Aunty Maisy, Dad would make up some chore or other around the house for them to do in lieu of payment. Consequently, we had the best kept lawns and gardens in town, and more rabbit stews, casseroles and pies then I could count.

Up until a few months before his death he continued to visit the various camps around the district dispensing medicine and handing out food and water, blankets, clothing or whatever else was needed.

Needless to say, Dad didn't die a rich man, but a happy, respected and much loved member of the community. One who made a difference to so many people's lives. How many of us will be able to say the same of ourselves when our time comes?