#fundTrove

A few weeks ago, I presented at a symposium on Queensland Modernism on writer Dorothy Cottrell, who spent her life in a wheelchair and whose 1929 novel The Singing Gold was a sensation. After the symposium I was approached by a scholar who knew about my project on 19th century Western Australian botanist Georgiana Molloy.

‘Did you know,’ he asked, ‘that her husband was responsible for a massacre of Aboriginal people?’

‘What! No way, there’s been three biographies written on her, and none of them have mentioned him instigating a massacre.’

It transpired that this scholar had refereed a journal article by a playwright, Angela Campbell, who had written a play on Georgiana. An anthropologist named Howard Pederson had approached Campbell and asked her if she knew about the massacre. Like me, her reaction was one of surprise. In all of the research she had undertaken on Georgiana, and of the many people she had spoken to about her, there was no mention of John Molloy (who had fought at Waterloo) ordering a massacre. Pederson directed her to W.B. Kimberly’s History of West Australia, published in 1897. Kimberly described how, in retaliation for the spearing of John Layman by an Aboriginal man (whom Layman had antagonised), Captain Molloy ‘ordered his soldiers to march, and he took command of them and the chief settlers in the south west district. He gave special instructions that no woman or child should be killed, but that no mercy should be shown the men’.

While I was aware of this incident, I hadn’t known that John Molloy had instigated the violence. Campbell was astonished that this fact had been covered up, as was I. And so too was historian J.S. Battye, who wrote a more circumscribed account of the event when he published his 1924 history of the state, Western Australia: a history from its discovery to the inauguration of the Commonwealth.

When I went searching for more information on what had happened, I turned to Trove, a free online service provided by the National Library of Australia which includes information on over four million books, articles, images, historic newspapers, maps, music, archives, datasets and more. Following a series of articles published in the Western Mail in 1925, I found that Battye was taken to task for besmirching John Molloy’s name and for asking why, ‘where possible, accounts of [the incident] have been suppressed, and where that was not possible that the accounts have been watered down’. There was no answer to this, except for a heated reply from AG Layman, the grandson of John Layman, who wrote in August 1925 'I was well acquainted with many of the natives that were at Wonnerup when my grandfather was murdered, and I did not have to go to old Wheela for information. Wheela was too young at the time to know much about it, and at the most he was a most unreliable man.' Wheela was at least 86 in 1925 (on the presumption that he might have been at least two when the event happened); even if he was too young to witness a massacre his people would have known about it.

To me, this was a fascinating example of how history can be distorted by the valuing of some voices and the denigration of others. Historically, testimony by Aboriginal people has been dismissed because it is oral history. And yet the stories of some Aboriginal people are about climactic events that occurred thousands of years ago, and which contemporary scientists have corroborated.

I would never have been able to find this information without Trove, a service which, in yet another example of our government’s slow starvation of our arts and culture, is now facing funding cuts (and of course this is a government that will never tax rich corporations instead). As former manager of Trove writes of the service, ‘Our history is not in the past – it lives as a source of inspiration and unease, understanding and critique. Trove helps me to connect to that. I want it to be safe, and I want it to grow.’

The searches that I did on Trove show clearly how it can help us to critique and understand the past. Also, on a practical level – it’s online. With travel being expensive and polluting, this makes it an accessible, useful resource for scholars all over Australia.

There is a petition going around to #fundTrove, which you can sign. You can also tweet or write about the value of Trove, as I have done. And you can write to Senator Fifield or other government ministers. The people at the eScholarship Research Centre at Melbourne University have already drafted a sample letter.

Trove is an amazing resource. Please help us to keep it.

ANZAC Day Nausea

I was going to title this blog ‘ANZAC Day Ambivalence’ (which has nice alliteration) but after seeing the headlines on news.com.au this morning: ‘Gallipoli pilgrims pay respects’, I am changing the operative word to ‘nausea.’

It seems to me that each year the ANZAC Day celebrations become increasingly sentimental, distorted and obsessed with nationalism. In a country that has so little European history and therefore aspires to make do with what it has, the few events worth commemorating (and even those are dubious) run the risk of being blown out of proportion.

This year, it appears that they are trying to give the ceremony religious overtones, and this has made me very, very angry. Gallipoli was created by the mismanagement of leaders who wanted to create a back door entry by which to attack Germany. The terrain was inhospitable and almost unpassable and the ANZACs were fired upon as soon as they left their ships to crawl onto land. It was an absolute bloodbath which is not deserving of the respect of a religious ceremony. Yes, the soldiers were heroic and for that they should be remembered, but they were going into war and they were going to kill people. I am of the opinion that murderers should not be honoured as saints.

Often ANZAC Day appears to me as a celebration of war, or rather, a celebration of a bunch of men who played with their toys and territory. Adding to my reservations is the repellent term ‘mateship.’ For what of the thousands of women who supported the ANZAC forces? The nurses serving in Egypt, France, Greece and India; those working in auxiliary roles as cooks, nurses, driver, interpreters; and those holding together the country at home – taking on the emotional burden of keeping families together, and of making sure the economy dragged itself on by doing men’s work, whether in the cities or on the farms. Does ‘mateship’ celebrate them?

I do believe in respecting what these people did because they loved Australia and because they risked their lives for their country, but I think the commemoration shouldn’t focus so exclusively upon the Diggers. I also think we should look to the future rather than to the past. Australia, someone once told me, was different to England in that it had such an emphasis on youth. We encourage our young people, we are positive and we try to look forward. In this spirit, then, I believe there is another cause far more worthy of our attention: justice for the Aboriginal people.

Getup, always a practical organisation, have made a step in that direction into this by composing a song for justice. You can buy it here (but only if you’re in Oz). If Australians are determined to have ‘mateship’ as their defining characteristic, why not extend that to Aboriginals and do something about reconciliation?

A Rather Long Synopsis of my Sojourn in Oz

I am back in London again. I am despondent. How could it only have been a mere five weeks ago that I was trawling the shops of Bath, buying leaf-patterned thermoses for my Oz friends?

I flew into Sydney on a Thursday morning and was amazed, as always, by how friendly, healthy and attractive everyone is at Customs. Normally I arrive on a weekend and am received by the arms of a friend and ferried to Barzura in Coogee to acquaint myself with blueberry pancakes with coconut icecream, decent coffee, and of course, the morning sunlight on the ocean. This time I was met by lovely L, who dropped her boyfriend off at Qantas (he is an engineer making the new Marc Newton themed Oz Airbus) and conveyed me to an excellent café in Surry Hills, mere steps away from her house. This is one of the best things about Oz – good coffee is in abundance. Then L went to work and I had a massage in the afternoon to aid my recovery from jetlag.

The next day I had a hair appointment but, to my utter dismay, Blondes Brunettes and Redheads was no longer extant. Instead I had to make do with Brad Ngata, with whom BBR had merged. I didn’t like the feel of the salon – it had nothing of the intimacy of BBR - so now I have to find a new salon to frequent when I come home. I did have visions of chasing my previous stylist to Ireland, whence he has returned, but I think H would disown me if I did that as I am required (occasionally) to keep my obsessions in check.

In the evening, woozy with jetlag, I staggered to the Good Food Month noodle markets in Hyde Park. Chinese lanterns hung in the trees and there were rows and rows of noodle stalls. I was beside myself: how on earth did one choose? I made a random beeline for a random stall and bought some random pad thai, and then I- and I drank a bottle of wine out of plastic cups from Woolies. I met I-‘s boyfriend, who was sick with a cold and thus thought (as men tend to do when ill) that the entire world was coming to an end. He was a nice bloke though.

On Saturday was E’s wedding. I was picked up by Sj’s boyfriend and M, who I hadn’t seen for 11 years, since I left school. We drove to Katoomba and had a look at the Blue Mountains. I was impressed to find that, below the unprepossessing slabs of rock that were sculptures (for want of a better word) leading to the viewing platform, there were delightful quotes from people who had visited the mountains. The ceremony for the wedding was held in a garden in Katoomba, and then the reception in the revolving restaurant, which had a splendid view of the national park. Once I got over the shock of the realm of coupledom that presented itself when the dancing started, I danced my little heart out (in Collette Dinnigan, of course) and can’t remember the last time I had that much fun. I need to get out more.

Sunday I caught the plane to Canberra, and was met by J and P at the airport and taken out to dinner. I stayed with them later on in the week and was entranced by their Burmese cats, despite the animals’ penchant for attacking one’s ankles. I have decided I shall have a Burmese cat when I grow up. For three days I scanned microfilm copies of Nora Murray Prior’s letters to Rosa at the National Library, then I discovered that there was another bunch of archives I hadn’t noticed. I panicked and raced upstairs, and the lady behind the desk was most sympathetic and said that I could bring a digital camera in if I wished, to take photos of the documents. That saved my bacon, for Praed’s handwriting was almost impossible and deciphering it - as well as taking too much time - drove me insane.

Canberra is quite frankly the weirdest city I have ever frequented. It’s basically a number of important buildings shoved out in the bush. Or beside a lake. Any vibe which the place might have is dissipated by the space, and the lack of people with which to fill it. Also, most of those who work in Canberra are white, middle-class bureaucrats and thus there wasn’t much cultural diversity. And because it is mostly populated by people who work in well-paid jobs, the cost of living is inordinately high. Thus I was annoyed to shell out so much money for ordinary food, when that money could have gone to something far more satisfying, such as a piece of lingerie.

The rain followed me from England, which would normally have pissed me off, but the country needs it. A downpour ensued on the Friday that I finished at the library, and people hung about beneath the eaves, obviously expecting it to subside, as has been its wont over the last six years. It didn’t, however, and so they gathered their breaths and dashed out, newspapers held over their heads.

Although I had very much enjoyed J and P’s company, I was glad to leave the city on Saturday morning. The plane was delayed, however, due to the previous day’s storms, and I felt bad for J and P who had elected to get up at 5am to take me to the airport. My sister was also waiting for me at the other end in Brisbane with the kids, having bribed them with the condition that, unless they did a, b or c they couldn’t come to the airport to see Auntie Jess.

They weren’t quite crawling up the walls when I finally arrived, but they were close to it. G broke away from her mother and slammed into my legs with joy, which was somewhat startling, but still delightful. Mention was made of Uncle H, so we had to explain that he was still in London, and we are of course glad that he hasn’t been completely erased from the infant consciousness. B ran enthusiastic zigzags away from us and back again, and I wondered how it was possible for a tiny bundle to have so much energy. I wish I had enough steam to run run zigzags through crowds.

Since I was ready to commit violence for want of a coffee, my sister took us to a waterside suburb, the name of which I have forgotten, to appease me. Docked nearby was an enormous cruise ship, so B was overcome with excitement. There was also free ice cream to be had, although I couldn’t quite cope with the echelons which cruises seem to attract.

Most of my time in Brisbane was spent with my sister and the kids and this, combined with the heat, completely wore me out. However the jacarandas were in bloom and there were thunderstorms, which I always find thrilling, and the Indonesian geckos went clack-clack-clack in the evenings. On the Tuesday I went to the State Library to check a reference which Clarke had used in her biography on Praed. The staff there weren’t as on the ball as they were the last time I went, but they were still very helpful. One good thing about the horrible people who live in London is that they make you respect friendliness and helpfulness when you come across it.

At lunchtime I met up with the delectable SP in the café downstairs, which I love because it has couches outside – what better way to make the best of Brisbane’s beautiful weather? SP knew the name of the golden raintree which was in flower, and on the bridge to the city he stopped a man who looked like a Pacific Islander to check that he’d found a place alright – he’d given him directions earlier on in the day. I thought again, and it was hardly as though I needed reminding, of what a beautiful person he was.

I went home to mum and dad on the Thursday, having got in trouble from H for flying instead of taking the bus and saving my carbon emissions. However the bus took TEN HOURS and time was at a premium. On the plane to Armidale I sat next to a pleasant, fresh-faced country boy, which one could hardly complain about; boys with good manners are always so very pleasing.

At home I did a great deal of nothing in particular, being gripped by that ennui which is peculiar to going home to a country town. I stacked on weight (which must now be removed before I get into a bikini in Thailand), transcribed some of Praed’s letters, read four books, cooked lumberjack cakes and Russian teacakes, walked, slept badly, wrote a bit of my new novel, figured out how to fix a short story which wasn’t working particularly well, half-decided what my thesis was about, drank far more wine and watched far more TV than I am accustomed to and ended up in a car crash, because mum missed a give way sign. That spiced up my holiday no end. However, for the most part I was hugely bored, but that isn’t a bad thing, because it forced me to stop working and to rest.

And then I flew back to Sydney, and haemorrhaged some more money, and went out dancing and ate too much Thai. I was intending to do the Sculpture by the Sea walk from Bondi to Tamarama, but I was too tired, and instead wandered through Centennial Park, in which I used to run, and then lay beneath an old Moreton Bay fig tree and felt the breeze on my skin.

The flight back was fine – the last time I’ll have to do the Sydney-London leg thank God – apart from sitting next to a pimply boy from Blackpool, who insisted on telling me about his band, and wanted to follow me around Changi airport, although I fortunately foiled that one. He was an odd person, occasionally funny, but he irritated me immensely because he seemed to take it for granted that I would find everything about him fascinating, and he nudged me in the arm by way of getting my attention, which showed a total want of courtesy. In the end, having told him I was deaf, I just pretended I couldn’t hear him and absorbed myself in Alexis Wright’s Carpentaria.

The Incursions of Wildlife

Having lived in London for three years, where the only living creatures I come across are slugs and rats-with-wings, I am always pleasantly surprised by the fauna I encounter when I come home. In Brisbane there are Indonesian geckos which look like albinos, being all white, but are still adorable with their compactness and little hands. They come out in the evening and make a ‘clack-clack-clack’ noise which is startlingly loud for such small individuals. In Armidale, I staggered from my bed one morning to put the kettle on, and through the window I saw a white-faced blue heron hanging about the fishpond. Mum later said that it had been eating the goldfish and left me with instructions that, if I saw it again, I was to throw a shoe at it. Then, as I was vacuuming, I sucked up a piece of bark, only to realise that it was moving, and that I was inadvertently murdering a cricket. Well, I thought, if it was going to look like some bark in the 21st Century, then that was its problem for not evolving quickly enough to keep up with technology. Then there was the neighbour’s black Burmese cat which seemed to spend all its time at our place (but which killed three mice in one evening), and which woke me up at 7am by jumping on my bed twice. I was tired, and thus chucked the cat out the door in a fury. Only my father, in his wisdom, let it back in again, and so it woke me up a third time, after which much swearing ensued. I am not a happy bunny when I don’t get enough sleep, particularly when I’m on holidays, and when I couldn’t go back to sleep after this I decided I would have to walk off my violent mood. This was partially successful, until I got to the park and was attacked by a broody magpie, which scraped my scalp. I’d forgotten about the magpies; they always divebomb around the time of the high school kids’ exams, in Spring. I remember once when H and I were on the farm and I was learning to ride the motorbike, I decided we should visit our cousins. Not being very confident, I drove awfully slowly, with H sitting behind. As we neared a copse of trees, he said something to me but I didn’t hear it. ‘What?’ I replied, still putting along, and he shouted, ‘I’m being bombed by a magpie!’ I revved the accelerator and off we shot.