When the Lyrebird Calls Read online

  OTHER BOOKS WRITTEN BY KIM KANE:

  JUNIOR FICTION

  Pip: The Story of Olive

  Ginger Green, Play Date Queen series, illustrated by Jon Davis

  YOUNG ADULT FICTION

  Cry Blue Murder, co-written with Marion Roberts

  PICTURE BOOKS

  Esther’s Rainbow, illustrated by Sara Acton

  The Unexpected Crocodile, illustrated by Sara Acton

  The Vegetable Ark, illustrated by Sue deGennaro

  Family Forest, illustrated by Lucia Masciullo

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2016

  Copyright © Text, Kimberley Kane 2016

  The author claims no ownership over any Aboriginal cultural material referenced in the story, including language or the important historical story of Coranderrk.

  Aboriginal cultural material used with permission from Aunty Joy Murphy on behalf of the Wandoon Estate Aboriginal Corporation.

  Every effort has been made to ensure that, at the time of publication, information in this book pertaining to Aboriginal cultural references is correct. Please contact the publisher with any concerns.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street, Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100, Email: [email protected], Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia, www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 9781741758528

  eISBN 9781952535536

  Teachers’ notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

  The excerpt from the poem ‘Lyrebirds’ on page vi is by Judith Wright, Collected Poems 1942–1985, 4th Estate, HarperCollins Publishers, 2016, p164, © The Estate of Judith Wright 1994. First published in Birds: Poems, 1962. Used by permission of HarperCollins Australia.

  ‘Ye women of Australia, arise in all your might!’ on page 78 is excerpted from a poem signed ‘C.E.C.’, presumed to be the work of Caroline Emily Clark of South Australia, from Worker (New South Wales), 11 January 1896

  The poem ‘Mr Sludge, “The Medium”’ on page 225 is from Robert Browning’s collection Dramatis Personae,1864

  ‘Latere semper patere, quod latuit diu’ on page 297 – Latin for ‘Leave in concealment what has long been concealed’ – is from Lucius Annaeus Seneca’s Oedipus, 826.

  ‘White for purity in public as well as private life; purple for dignity and self-respect; and green for hope and new life’ on page 299 was reportedly a description by Emmeline Pankhurst, founder of the Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU), of the suffrage colours she chose for the group.

  From: maas.museum/magazine/2015/10/purple-green-and-white-an-australian-history/

  Cover and text design by Debra Billson

  Cover images: Gert (photographer unknown, circa 1926, from National photographer’s studio, Atelier National, Helsinki) and Charlie (photographer unknown, Kidderminster, UK) supplied by the Wishpom Vintage Image Collection: www.wishpom.com; Imo (by Adelaide Photographic Company, circa 1855–1900) and Bea (by Grut, T.A., circa 1910–1940) via State Library Victoria, slv.vic.gov.au; lyrebird (© Yulia Avgustinovich), dome (© Евгений Косцов), trees (© andreiuc88) & rough texture (© Nupean Pruprong) from 123RF.com; back cover frame (© Milen Stankov), shoe (by Firmin-Didot et Cie, France, 1897, photo © Lynen) & coin (© Fat Jackey) from Shutterstock.com

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For my grandmother Nen,

  who is so old she has seen the olden days firsthand.

  And to her step-great-granddaughter, Madeleine –

  not only because she is an utter delight, but because

  she has the courage to blaze her own trail.

  A wise woman and a young woman,

  bookending our family.

  With much love, thanks and admiration. X

  K.K.

  Some things ought to be left secret, alone;

  some things – birds like walking fables –

  ought to inhabit nowhere but the

  reverence of the heart.

  ‘Lyrebirds’

  Judith Wright

  Parts of this novel are historical, and consequently the characters’ language and behaviour is at times dated and completely unacceptable today – for example, it is often overtly sexist.

  Similarly, the language and characters’ behaviour in the historical parts of this book are also sometimes racist, because sadly so is our past and, quite frankly, our present. I think that to depict our history in any other way does yet another disservice to those who suffered and continue to suffer in Australia at the hands of racist policies – in particular, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people as well as people from non-Anglo minority groups, such as Chinese people.

  As Anglo Australia must own its sexism, so too must it own its racism and the consequences it had and continues to have for so many people.

  Readers should be aware that the following racist terms appearing in the historical part of this novel must never be used today: ‘half-caste’, ‘Chinamen’ and, in the context in which they are found in this book, ‘blackfella’ and ‘native’ (see the AIATSIS ‘Guidelines for Ethical Publishing’ referenced in the Acknowledgements for more information).

  While I am exceedingly uncomfortable with the words and actions of some of my characters, during the course of the research for this novel, I found countless examples of such overt sexism and racism in Australia’s past, and while it may be more palatable to a contemporary reader to exclude this, I think that to do so would be dishonest. I also think that falsely recreating our history makes it harder for young Australians to learn from past wrongs.

  In my mind this novel is set in the Mount Macedon area shared by the Wurundjeri, Dja Dja Wurrung and Taungurung people, as well as on Wurundjeri land in Melbourne. I wish to acknowledge this country and these people, together with others of the Kulin nation, and pay my respects to their Elders past and present.

  It was important to me to include an Aboriginal character, Percy, in the story to acknowledge the role Indigenous Australians played in the suffrage story – the fight for all Australians to obtain the right to vote.

  Percy is a made-up character, but the place where he grew up, Coranderrk Station, is real. The political activism undertaken by those on Coranderrk as they fought for justice – which is touched on very briefly in this novel – is an important story with which I hope all Australians will become familiar. I urge you to explore it further. (See Acknowledgements for some links.)

  Tremendous thanks to Aunty Joy Murphy and the Wandoon Estate Aboriginal Corporation for giving me permission to include cultural references in the book; what an honour to have someone of Aunty Joy’s standing, as a Senior Wurundjeri Elder, community leader, and the great-great-niece of William Barak, support this project. Sincere thanks also to Lisa Fuller, Gabrielle Wang and Rebecca Lim for their advice on how to most appropriately go about including historical racism in the story; this required a great deal of thought, and I was exceptionally grateful to have access to their suggestions and guidance as I struggled with these questions. Big thanks to Yolanda Wa
lker-Finette for her generous on-the-spot assistance. Finally, thanks to the Dja Dja Wurrung Clans Aboriginal Corporation and the Taungurung Clans Aboriginal Corporation for confirming spellings for me.

  Kim Kane, 2016

  Three girls were bunched together in a circle. At their feet lay a doll, nestled in a box filled with tissue paper. Its ankles, wrists and neck were shackled by silky cord. A white terrier rooted about in a pile of scrunched-up brown paper and fraying string. One of the girls tipped the box upwards with her foot and then allowed it to slap back onto the ground.

  The doll stared. Mama. Mama.

  The doll’s eyes were big and purple-blue, like pansies. They were rimmed with feathery lashes, top and bottom.

  ‘But she’s just so beautiful.’ The second girl leant down and pushed a sticky finger into a celluloid dimple.

  ‘Her costume really is quite elegant.’ The first girl sat with a dull thud and ran a finger across grey velvet so thick her finger left a smoky trail.

  ‘Is that real ermine on her bonnet?’ asked the third, kneeling to stroke the milky down that edged the doll’s curls.

  ‘Er-min, not er-mine,’ corrected the first. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  On the grass was a card, written in perfect copperplate, stamped with a muddy boot print.

  I am so very sorry.

  ‘Sorry?’ The third girl looked around to check that nobody was watching and then pulled at one stout little doll-leg. The cord harnessing it to the box stretched taut and gave. Ping. ‘I’ll show you sorry.’

  ‘Careful,’ said the first girl in a headmistress voice. ‘She’s precious.’

  ‘She’s not. She’s modern, not china. She’s cold and hard the whole way through.’

  The second girl pulled the doll’s hips away from the box until just its neck was pinned back against the card. Purple-blue eyes stared.

  Mama. Mama, the doll bleated as the girl tugged.

  ‘You’re destroying her,’ the first girl said. But she didn’t reach forward to stop it, even though she could have.

  The third girl snatched the doll. She stood and spun the box away from the circle, pushing and pulling, yanking the doll free from the last of its cords. Tissue paper fell from the emancipated toy in ribbons, drifting as gently as blossom across the lawn. The girl turned to face the others, clutching the doll by its neck. The others stood too. The doll dangled between them, as stiff as a hunt-duck.

  ‘Give her back,’ said the first girl in a wobbly voice. She took a breath. ‘She’s not just yours.’ She snatched the doll and threw it, thwack, down on the lawn.

  Mama. Marr. Marr.

  The third girl gasped. She dipped into a crouch and drew a penknife from inside her boot. She flicked it open and raised the blade above her head, her wrist trembling.

  The others watched on, mouths slack. The knife glinted in the afternoon light.

  The girl wrenched off the velvet coat, its buttons spraying like pellets. Then she plunged the penknife into the doll’s chest. There was silence as the girls studied the perfect part the knife had rendered in the spotted silk. Through the slit they could see the doll’s flesh, thick and ample.

  ‘Oh,’ whispered the first girl, taking a step back.

  ‘Oh,’ whispered the second, squatting beside the doll to pinch its chubby wrist. She picked up the doll’s bonnet and hurled it into the air. It glided up in an arc towards the sun and disappeared for a second in the glare before landing. The stocky white dog bounded after it. Rruf, rruf, rruf. The doll’s parasol followed, spinning all the way into some white azaleas.

  The first girl was still another moment, poised, then she gave the doll a good sharp kick. Mama. Marr. Marr. The doll thumped across the grass. The girl reached down and ran her finger over the doll’s fraying skirt. ‘It’s silk velvet.’ She looked back towards the house, then turned, grabbed the doll’s head and yanked it right off. The girl’s face was as tight as a butcher’s tearing the guts from a chicken, as tight as ice. ‘Ghastly cousin,’ she spat, grinding the head into the grass with her boot. There were tiny beads of sweat above her lip.

  The second girl wiped the knife on her apron as if it were covered in real blood and guts, then crushed her own hat back onto her hair. She picked up the doll’s torso and threw it straight and hard at the camellias. ‘I hope the foxes find it and maul it.’ The girls all watched as the flowers swallowed shredded coat, stockings and kidskin boots.

  The first girl roared, a pained cry, deep and ancient. Then she blinked and walked across the lawn, smoothing her hair, each step punctilious, elegant, controlled. The other girls followed, the puppy scrabbling behind them.

  Somewhere, from someplace deep in the garden, a lyrebird called.

  CONTENTS

  At Mum Crum’s

  A cupboard with a hole

  Teeth and pearls, a child with curls

  Meeting Gert

  Something old, something new

  The hired help

  Federation fibs

  Lyrebird

  Convincing Aunt Hen

  Nanny

  Bea–utiful

  The next day, about a hundred years ago

  Enter Elfriede

  Stockings in clumps

  The grotto

  Back to the grotto

  The shrill hoyden

  Aunt Hen’s (neat) nest

  The sport of gentlemen

  To town

  The secret

  Same direction as the hair

  Sherry soiree

  Steak–and–kidney life

  Secrets

  Coming, ready or not

  Friends of the Spirit World

  Tea for two

  Red flag

  Owning up

  The lake

  A doll and goodbye

  Joining the dots

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Madeleine woke, her limbs loose, the bleat of the doll still raw. Mama. Marr. Marr. Her eyes swept across the room, sorting through shadows. Twisted in the sheets, she was breathless, tangled. Inky light streaked through the window at the foot of the bed and across the floor. The room swayed and creaked.

  And then Madeleine remembered. She was not with three angry girls. Nothing had happened. She was at Mum Crum’s. At Mum Crum’s while her mum sweated over her final exams and her dad sweated through a cycling tour somewhere in Italy. She was at Mum Crum’s and there was no doll; there were no girls.

  Mum Crum was Madeleine’s Grandmother Crumpton, and she currently lived in Elf Cottage – a small wooden house bogged in an English garden on the edge of a scone-and-tea town just outside Melbourne.

  At Mum Crum’s everything always smelt like dust and turpentine. Mum Crum was always renovating; she renovated properties herself and then moved on, collecting houses like kids collect footy cards – only instead of just tucking them away in a property portfolio, she let people like nurses and teachers stay in them for free while they saved for their own places. ‘Property has got too damn expensive in this country,’ said Mum Crum, ‘and the government is doing nothing about it.’

  Mum Crum watched renovating programs on telly and then rushed out to stock up on tools. This was why she currently had white floorboards that looked floury, and a green fake marble paint covering most of the furniture, created with a sponge and vinegar. The effect, Madeleine thought, was like mould.

  Given the choice – and she was not, because Madeleine was never given a choice in anything – Madeleine would have stayed with Nandi. Nandi was her best friend and they were in the same class, the same cricket team and even did nippers at the same surf club, but Nandi’s mum had just had a make-up baby with Nandi’s dad, so the timing wasn’t right.

  ‘I’m sorry, Moo,’ her mum had said from her study stacked with books and plastered with post-its, ‘but you’ll have to stay at Mum Crum’s. If I can just get through these exams, things will be so much better for us, darling. To do that, I need to concentrate.’<
br />
  ‘And what about staying at Dad’s? Why doesn’t anything ever get between Dad and a bike?’

  ‘His bike pants do.’ Madeleine’s mum smiled.

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘Oh come on, Moo, you’re not being fair. You know perfectly well your father’s been saving for this trip for years, and cost aside, the tour’s just not set up for kids.’

  ‘But why doesn’t Teddy have to come to Mum Crum’s? You know she’s easier to deal with if her attention’s divided.’

  ‘Madeleine, it’s just for the winter holidays! Anyway, it’s better if Teddy stays with Raj up here. He’s got band practice most days, and Uma doesn’t mind. Besides, he’s Year Ten now, and at least Uma will make sure the boys actually do their maths homework instead of spending the entire time talking about doing maths from the PlayStation.’

  ‘PlayStation? I wish! Painting and Pilates are more likely to get in the way of homework at Mum Crum’s.’

  Madeleine pulled her nightie down and fished around for her bedsocks, flipping the hot water bottle and pushing it against her stomach to try to squeeze out the last of its warmth. She breathed in the smell of rubber and cotton and damp under her sheet and lay quietly as the room shifted around her. How did Teddy always get his way? How did he manage to land his best friend and endless computer games while Madeleine got . . . sawdust and turps?

  Cock-a-doodle-dooo. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Cock-a-doodle-dooo. Cock-a-doodle-doo.

  Madeleine sat up. It was Mum Crum’s alarm clock, crowing like a rooster through the wall.

  ‘Morning, Maddie Moo,’ said Mum Crum, swinging into the room and flicking on the light, every bit as chirpy as she had been when she went to bed. Her hair was curly like Maggi Noodles and sprouted from her head in a wild woolly bun. Madeleine caught a glimpse of her grandmother’s velour tracksuit pants (in tangerine) and buried her head in her sheets. Mum Crum claimed she only wore colours as bright as her personality, which excluded anything normal like navy or grey. Mum Crum was determined that old age would not leave her invisible.