Flock Read online

  Ellen van Neerven is an award-winning writer of Mununjali Yugambeh (South East Queensland) and Dutch heritage. Ellen’s first book, Heat and Light, was the recipient of the David Unaipon Award, the Dobbie Literary Award and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards Indigenous Writers Prize. They have written two poetry collections: Comfort Food, which was shortlisted for the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards Kenneth Slessor Prize; and Throat, which was shortlisted for the Queensland Literary Awards and the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Ellen van Neerven

  Cloud Busting

  Tara June Winch

  Waltzing Matilda

  Herb Wharton

  Shadows on the Wall

  Archie Weller

  The Release

  Samuel Wagan Watson

  Each City

  Ellen van Neerven

  Rodeo Girl

  Michael Torres

  Honey

  Adam Thompson

  The Healing Tree

  Jared Thomas

  Wildflower Girl

  Alf Taylor

  Galah

  Melanie Saward

  River Story

  Mykaela Saunders

  Stepmother

  SJ Norman

  Wait for Me

  Jasmin McGaughey

  Split

  Cassie Lynch

  Dreamers

  Melissa Lucashenko

  Forbidden Fruit

  Jeanine Leane

  The Golden Wedding Anniversary

  Gayle Kennedy

  Born, Still

  Jane Harrison

  Frank Slim

  Tony Birch

  Moama

  Bryan Andy

  Notes on sources

  About the cover artist

  Introduction

  As I write, the brush turkey is making a nest outside the window, scratching the earth, gathering leaves, to the beat of my typing. I kneel on the lounge to look through the window and I don’t see the bird, because it’s underneath me. I don’t see the bird, but I hear the bird.

  I am writing on unceded Yagera and Turrbal dhagan. I acknowledge the First Nations of all of the contributors in this book, including my own Yugambeh Nation. This collection’s stories are organised by author, in descending alphabetical order. There are nineteen stories by nineteen writers plus a story of mine, as an offering.

  All the stories gathered in Flock have been previously published or presented. The span of publication ranges from 1996 to 2021: twenty-five years, though the roots of these First Nations stories span generations, this book being part of a much bigger conversation. Many collections have come before this one, too many to mention. Many a gathering of stories has occurred on this continent since time immemorial. We owe a great deal to our literary Elders who have come before us.

  For me the title perfectly fits the collection. Contributor Bryan Andy called it the ‘most affirming title ever’, when I first emailed him about this book. The title is, in part, inspired by Flock contributor Jeanine Leane’s tribute to our beloved Kuracca Kerry Reed-Gilbert who we lost in 2019. Jeanine’s obituary, published in Overland magazine, goes as follows:

  Like the kuracca, that is a sentinel bird – always watching over the rest of the mob, Aunty Kerry nurtured, encouraged and inspired a generation of writers.

  I am reminded of how Aunty KRG brought us together under the banner of the First Nations Australian Writers Network, of which she was a co-founder and the inaugural chair. In August 2018, in what was to be her last year as FNAWN chairperson, Aunty convened a large diverse gathering of First Nations writers in Canberra from all states and territories.

  Jeanine’s tribute continues:

  On the morning that she passed, a mob of kuracca flew in, dipping low in a thick cloud over her old home, calling her passing across the sky, taking her spirit home. Vale Kuracca, Aunty Kerry Reed-Gilbert, as you fly high and safe on the journey back to your Dreaming. Under your wings is the strength of us as Black writers.

  When I hear the distinctive sharp yelp-caw sound of the kuracca (sulphur-crested cockatoo in the Wiradjuri language, geira in mine) flying overhead, I see Aunty watching over us. I know she would have been incredibly proud of this collection.

  A painting by Kukula Mcdonald features on the cover of this book. I’ve been wearing Kukula Mcdonald’s Red-Tailed Black Cockatoo print on a black T-shirt for many years now. Mum bought it for me as a present from Papunya when she was living in Alice Springs and I loved it from the moment I saw it. Admittedly, the tee is a bit tight on me compared to what it used to be, but I still wear it often. The brushstrokes and colours on the solid black material are often remarked upon, particularly by mob.

  Kukala’s artwork immediately came to mind when we started to think about covers for this book and what the book represents. I am thrilled we can feature Kukula’s mob of redtails on the cover; for me, it symbolises what this book is about. We all have our own pair of beautiful wings, but we fly together in formation. Together we are stronger. We flock together.

  The process of choosing the works for this collection took several months. Yasmin Smith was an incredible editorial assistant. And my mum, Maria van Neerven-Currie, was an important sounding board. The stories come from single-authored short story collections as well as literary journals and previous anthologies. Archie Weller’s story was first published in the important Australian Short Stories, a journal started up by Bruce Pascoe and Lyn Harwood. Jeanine Leane’s story was published in a special cross-cultural 2014 edition of Māori literary journal Ora Nui, edited by Anton Black and Aunty Kerry Reed-Gilbert. The opening story, ‘Cloud Busting’, comes from Tara June Winch’s groundbreaking debut, Swallow the Air (2006), which won the David Unaipon Award and launched her career. The final story, Bryan Andy’s ‘Moama’, was performed at the Bogong Moth Storytelling night at the Blak & Bright Festival directed by Jane Harrison in 2019.

  The writers in this collection are well-known and award-winning, as well as emerging and new. Their stories span generations, geographies and genres. Some are touching, some gritty, some funny, many are all three. Some contributors write from autobiographical experiences, others do not. Short stories are a specific type of writing that requires precision of language and the right mix of narrative elements. A good short story will have been laboured over by the writer and is a gift to the reader. We have selected a diverse range of stories that showcase the art of a good short story, as well as being strong monuments to First Nations pasts, presents and futures.

  Cloud Busting

  Tara June Winch

  Tara June Winch is a Wiradjuri writer based in France. She has written essays, short fiction and memoir for Vogue, Vice, McSweeneys and various other publications. Her first novel, Swallow the Air, won the 2006 David Unaipon Award and was followed by a collection of stories, After the Carnage. She won the 2020 Miles Franklin Literary Award for her 2019 novel, The Yield.

  We go cloud busting, Billy and me, down at the beach, belly up to the big sky. We make rainbows that pour out from our heads, squinting our eyes into the gathering. Fairy-flossed pincushion clouds explode. We hold each other’s hand; squeeze really hard to build up the biggest brightest rainbow and Bang! Shoot it up to the sky, bursting cloud suds that scatter, escaping into the air alive.

  We toss our bodies off the eelgrass-covered dunes and race down to the shore where seaweed beads trace the waterline. Little bronze teardrops – we bust them too. Bubble-wrapped pennies.

  We collect pipis, squirming our heels into the shallow water, digging deeper unde
r the sandy foam. Reaching down for our prize, we find lantern shells, cockles, and sometimes periwinkles, bleached white. We snatch them up, filling our pockets. We find shark egg capsules like dried-out leather corkscrews and cuttlebones and sand snail skeletons, and branches, petrified to stone. We find sherbet-coloured coral clumps, sponge tentacles and sea mats, and bluebottles – we bust them with a stick. We find weed-ringlet doll wigs and strings of brown pearls; I wear them as bracelets. We get drunk on the salt air and laughter. We dance, wiggling our bottoms from the dunes’ height. We crash into the surf, we swim, we dive, and we tumble. We empty our lungs and weigh ourselves cross-legged to the seabed. There we have tea parties underwater. Quickly, before we swim up for mouthfuls of air.

  I’m not scared of the ocean, that doesn’t come until later. When we’re kids we have no fear – it gets sucked out in the rips. We swim with the current, like breeding turtles and hidden jellyfish, as we drift out onto the shore.

  We climb the dunes again, covered in sticky sand and sea gifts. We ride home and string up dry sea urchins at our window. We break open our pipis and Mum places each half under the grill or fries them in the saucepan, with onion and tomatoes. We empty our pockets and line the seashells along the windowsill. Mum starts on about the saucepans; she wants to tell us stories even though we know most of them off by heart, over and over, every detail. The saucepans, she says, the best bloody saucepans.

  Billy and me sit at the window, watching Mum while she fries and begins. I’m still busting clouds through the kitchen pane, as they pass over the roof guttering and burst quietly in my rainbow.

  ‘It was Goulburn, 1967,’ Mum would begin.

  ‘Where’s that?’ we’d say.

  ‘Somewhere far away, a Goulburn that doesn’t exist anymore,’ she’d answer and carry on with her story.

  Anyway, Goulburn, ’67. All my brothers and sisters had been put into missions by then, except Fred who went and lived with my mother’s sister. And me, I was with my mother, probably cos my skin’s real dark, see – but that’s another story, you don’t need to know that. So old Mum and me were sent to Goulburn from the river, to live in these little flats. Tiny things, flatettes or something. Mum was working for a real nice family, at the house cooking and cleaning; they were so nice to Mum. I would go to work with her, used to sit outside and play and wait for her to finish.

  When we came home Mum would throw her feet up on the balcony rail, roll off her stockings and smoke her cigarettes in the sun. Maybe chat with the other women, but most of them were messed up, climbing those walls, trying to forget. It wasn’t a good time for the women, losing their children.

  Anyway, all the women folk were sitting up there this hot afternoon when down on the path arrived this white man, all suited up. Mum called down to him – I don’t know why, she didn’t know him. I remember she said, ‘Hey there, mister, what you got there?’

  A box was tucked under his arm. He looked up at us all and smiled. He come dashing up the stairwell and out onto our balcony. I think he would’ve been the only white person to ever step up there. He was smooth. ‘Good afternoon to you, ladies, I am carrying in this box the best saucepans in the land.’

  Mum drew back on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the tin. ‘Give us a look then.’

  The suit opened up the box and arranged the saucepans on the balcony, the sun making the steel shine and twinkle. They were magical. All the women whooped and whooed. The saucepans really were perfect. Five different size pans and a Dutch oven, for cakes. Strong, black, grooved handles on the sides and the lids, the real deal.

  ‘How much?’ Mum said, getting straight to the point.

  The suit started up then on his big speech: Rena Ware, 18/10, only the best, and this and that, lifetime guarantee, all that sort of stuff.

  The women started laughing. They knew what the punchline was going to be: nothing that they could afford, ever. Their laughter cascaded over the balcony rails as they followed each other back into the shade of their rooms.

  ‘Steady on there, Alice, you got a little one to feed there too!’ they said, seeing Mum entranced, watching his mouth move and the sun bouncing off the pans.

  He told her the price, something ridiculous, and Mum didn’t even flinch. She lit up another fag, puffed away. I think he was surprised, maybe relieved she didn’t throw him out. He rounded up his speech, and Mum just sat there as he packed up the saucepans.

  ‘You not gunna let me buy ’em then?’ Mum said, blowing smoke over our heads.

  ‘Would you like to, Miss?’

  ‘Of course I bloody do. Wouldna sat here waiting for you to finish if I didn’t!’

  Mum told him then that she couldn’t afford it, but she wanted them. So they made a deal. Samuel, the travelling salesman, would come by once a month, when money would arrive from the family, and take a payment each time.

  Mum worked extra hours from then on, sometimes taking home the ironing, hoping to get a little more from the lady of the house. And she did, just enough. And Samuel would come round and chat with Mum and the other ladies and bring sweets for me. He and Mum would be chatting and drinking tea in the lounge until it got dark outside. They were friends after all that time.

  Three years and seven months it took her. When Samuel came round on his last visit, with a box under his arm, just like the first time, Mum smiled big. He came into the flat and placed the box on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Open it,’ he said to Mum, and smiled down at me and winked.

  Mum pressed her hands along the sides of her uniform then folded open the flaps and lifted out each saucepan, weighing it in her hands, squinting over at Samuel, puzzled. With each lid she took off, her tears gathered and fell.

  ‘What is it, what is it?’ I was saying as I pulled a chair up against the bench and could see then in one pan was a big leg of meat, under another lid potatoes and carrots, a shiny chopping knife, then a bunch of eggs, then bread. And in the Dutch oven, a wonky-looking steamed pudding.

  Mum was crying too much to laugh at the cake.

  ‘I haven’t got a hand for baking yet. Hope you don’t mind I tested it out.’

  Mum just shook her head; she couldn’t say a word and Samuel understood. He put on his smart hat, tilting the brim at Mum, and as he left the doorway, he said, ‘Good day to you, Alice. Good day, young lady.’

  And when Mum passed, she gave the pots to me.

  When our mother finished her story she’d be crying too, tiny streams down her cheekbones. I knew she would hock everything we’d ever own, except the only thing that mattered, five size-ranged saucepans, with Dutch oven. Still in their hard case, only a few handles chipped.

  I run my fingertips over fingerprints now, over years, generations. They haven’t changed much; they still smell of friendship. I suppose that to my nanna, Samuel was much like a cloud buster. Letting in the sun, some hope, the rainbow had been their friendship. And I suppose that to Mum, Samuel was someone who she wanted to be around, like a blue sky. For Samuel, my mum and Nanna, I don’t know, maybe the exchange was even, and maybe when those clouds burst open, he got to feel the rain. A cleansing rain, and maybe that was enough.

  Waltzing Matilda

  Herb Wharton

  Herb Wharton was born in 1936 in Cunnamulla, Queensland. His published works include Unbranded, Cattle Camp and Where Ya’ Been, Mate? In 1998 he received a residency at the Australia Council studio in Paris where he wrote Yumba Days, published in 1999. Herb was awarded the 2003 Centenary of Federation Medal for service to Australian society and literature, and in 2020 was made a Member of the Order of Australia (AM) for ‘significant service to the literary arts, to poetry, and to the Indigenous community’.

  Bunji and his old mate Knughy were droving horses in the outback. As the evening shadows lengthened they reached a billabong where the thirsty horses trotted down the sloping bank to drink heartily after thei
r fifty-kilometre stage that day. Both Bunji and Knughy lived nomadic lives, wandering the stock routes droving sheep, cattle and horses, mainly for other people around the outback.

  After the horses had watered, the two men looked around for a suitable camping place and unloaded their packhorse under a big, spreading old coolabah tree which would shelter them from the wintry night dew. While Knughy hobbled the horses close by, Bunji gathered firewood. Looking through their meagre rations, he realised they were out of meat – and there was very little else in the packs except for a bit of flour, some tea and sugar and a few spuds and onions.

  ‘We got no yudie (meat)!’ he called out.

  ‘Might be we get ’em thum-ba (sheep) later on,’ Knughy said. ‘Plenty meat then.’ He walked back to the camp, where the fire was now alight and the billy filled with water. Both men sat around the campfire waiting for a well-earned drink of tea.

  At the moment, not two metres away, slowly lumbering down to the water like some prehistoric creature, they both saw this big old sand goanna. His long red tongue flickered as he walked along with the gait of a heavyweight sumo wrestler. Seemingly unafraid, he paid little attention to the two tired, hungry drovers. As it happened, the land this big old goanna strutted over was once their tribal kingdom.

  Now this goanna might have been considered smart or brave, perhaps, walking in front of two hungry Murris like this. Or maybe he thought he was protected under some newfangled withoo (white) laws. In fact, his appearance was both foolish and fatal.

  Both Bunji and Knughy jumped up, grabbed themselves sticks, and into the tuckerbag went goanna. As soon as the fire had produced enough coals and ashes, they scratched a long shallow hole in the ground, filled it with the coals and ashes, and cooked that big goanna.

  ‘Proper bush yudie this one,’ Bunji said later, savouring the tasty white flesh together with some johnnie-cake.

  ‘A feast fit for a king,’ Knughy agreed.