10. An Albany Childhood –  part 2.

                       

Then let us pray that come it may,
as come it will for a’ that …

That man to man the warls o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that       

 

My parents were drawn to Albany, on the south coast of Western Australia. With its stunning scenery and pristine beaches, it reminded them of home. The town beach was Middleton where we kids spent half our lives in the summertime. It had waves for bodysurfing, a pontoon to swim out to and a jetty to dive from (I don’t think you can do that now – the water seems to have become more shallow). The fine white sand, in places, covered in seashells squeaked when you walked on it. We could rock-hop all the way around to the harbour or walk in the other direction to Emu Point. I don’t remember any shops in those days.

Middleton Beach

At primary school, for a myriad of reasons my self-esteem was low. I thought myself ugly as well as stupid. Confirmation of my lack of brains came once a month after class tests when my results were usually amongst the lowest in the class. Classroom seating was according to our test results. Top marks gained you a seat at the back of the classroom while results like mine saw you seated at the very front. My youngest sister Laurain was born at the end of my sixth year. Mum and Dad were too preoccupied to notice that I was struggling. They both believed that I was doing well and I hid my shame from them by burning my test book in the school incinerator when I couldn’t ignore requests for my parent’s signature any longer. When Laurain was born, as was usual in those days, Mum was in the maternity hospital for about three weeks. I was kept at home to manage the household. Helen was only four years old and not yet at school and my Grandmother Christina, who walked over from her cottage each day had to be watched as her anxiety disorder was beginning to make her unreliable. One of Mum’s friends helped out with a casserole or two, but I cooked and shopped and did my best to keep the place clean. I remember appreciating for the first time that there was a skill in washing a floor as I struggled to soak up a flood of water with the stringy, grey mop. My last year of primary school was darkly coloured by my mother’s depressive moods, which had been increasing with the birth of each child. There was never any doubt that she loved us but she struggled with the limited and isolated life of a stay-at-home-mum I was heartbroken to be told that now that I was eleven I was too old for childish games with my friends after school and was expected to be home to help with the housework. After tea, as we called the evening meal, I escaped into my back bedroom and into books, but never school books.

On the side of Mount Melville, which faced away from the harbour was what my father called a disgrace. The reserve was a piece of land still heavily wooded. I don’t know any white person who ever went there. It was where the Aboriginal people lived. For my friends and I, Mount Melville was a favourite place to explore. On our rambles through the bush we glimpsed tents. It looked miserable. Albany could be so bone-chillingly cold. But I was flat-out trying to fit in as the child of migrants, or New Australians as we were called and I gave very little thought to the  Aboriginal people. I was only confronted with my own snobbery and racism when I was about ten or eleven. Dad had bought a car, a second-hand Ford Prefect. He was so proud of it.

Owning a house and a car was something my parents wouldn’t have dreamed about in Scotland. What Dad had, he shared. Every time we went to town, whenever we passed the reserve, if there were any people waiting for a bus or walking to town, he stopped to offer a lift. The reserve’s most famous residents were a couple who were seemingly inseparable and also the butt of some of the town’s jokes. They probably weren’t very old, younger than I am now but they seemed alien and ancient in their old army greatcoats and beanies pulled down on their furrowed brows. My father seemed to love this couple and showed his interest without patronizing in any way but I was mortified when he picked them up. I shrank as far down into the cracked leather seats as I could and hoped to hell that none of my friends would see me as they chatted all the way to town. Now when I think back on those times I am so proud and full of love for my father who didn’t just talk about socialism and equality. He lived it.

At primary school, I only knew two Aboriginal children, both boys, and if memory serves me, unreachably shy. Because of my parents, one of those boys (now an elder) and his family remain in contact to this day, but now I find myself wondering what his childhood was like. Mine was weird enough with several teachers that were mentally cruel, physically abusive and one exploding into frequent psychotic episodes that included chasing his (probably autistic) son around the class, over desks and out the door brandishing a long thin cane and bellowing like an enraged bull. When we were only seven, one headmaster came at regular intervals into our grade two class. The whole class would freeze including our sweet little teacher Miss Stutley. We all knew what would happen next. He always found a pretext to pick out one of the boys, who then was put over his knee with his pants pulled down and spanked on his bare bottom. Nobody ever talked about this. Corporal punishment, usually six cuts of the cane on the hand was accepted as normal, even boasted about by the older children. It was as if there was a conspiracy of silence about something we sensed was wrong.

A turning point in my life came in the last year of primary school. David Booth was a surprise – a teacher who showed an interest in me, especially my art. He made me begin to believe in myself. At the end of the year, the whole of Grade 7 was tested, but this was a test of a different kind. It measured intelligence, and when the results came out I was put into the top class for high school. From that moment on, I gained confidence and a belief in myself, and school became more than just an escape from home.

Later Dad used to say:

“You girls can do anything you want in life. Anything a man can do, you can do as a woman.”

I felt very secure in my father’s belief in me. I had no idea that society might think of me as lacking because I was female. When I eventually did sense the injustice that was perpetrated on my sex I began to understand Dad’s stance with Aboriginal people. He didn’t believe, like many of his Australian workmates that to be white and male was supreme. He saw the injustice of the treatment of people of a different colour, race (he had no time for creed) and gender, and I think he feared for his four girls.

Circa 1960: Mary and John McCaughan with Christine, Eilean, Helen and Laurain