6. The Marron and Other Stories

Mum, tell us the one about the marron.

There was so much to get used to in this new Australian life – and so much to be frighted of. One night, Mary and John sat in the farmhouse alone, the sky darkening with a brewing storm. On other nights, the birdcalls rose to a crescendo before a sudden and deep hush descended. This night there were no birds. The rain thundered on the tin roof of the farmhouse so hard that Mary, eyes wide with fear, had to yell at John to be heard. Why would anyone be knocking on a night like this? They were miles from nowhere. John pulled back the bolt on the top half of the stable door that led from the kitchen to the veranda and he said his heart leapt. The dripping apparition before him lifted its hood slightly. It was a man wearing a hessian sack slit up the side to form a crude cape. His face was in darkness but a muscular arm shot forward and thrust another hessian sack at John, saying: Something for your dinner.

John grasped the bag, trying to find words but the man touched his hand to the sack on his head. He turned and left without the couple having a clue who he was. My father then realised whatever was in the bag was alive and kicking. He dropped it in fright. The couple watched in horror as a beast, such as they had never seen, slowly crawled from the sack, throwing macabre shadows on the hessian walls. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp, Mary screamed and stood on a wooden chair. They’re playing tricks on us, John. Bloody Australians! They think it’s funny to torment the new chums.,

John kept his eye on the slow-moving beast, while he reached for the packing case that served as a spare chair for visitors, and brought it down, the open side over the big black crawly thing, trapping it.

I’m away to check the bairn. Mary sidled around the crate keeping a frightened eye on it. Get rid of that thing, John, she said.

And what do you suggest I do with it, woman?

It then dawned on my Mother that my father was out of his depth. She remembered Doug’s sister, Jean and grabbed the phone on the wall, winding the handle six times. She had seldom ever used a telephone and nervously asked to be connected to the Littles’ house.

That’d be Bryn Morgan. That was nice of him, said Jean. You can cook that for your supper. Just boil the stock pot with a good cupful of salt, pick him up and pop him in for ten minutes.”

That was good enough for Mary. Good food could never be wasted, but John shook his head in disbelief as they boiled a great pot of water on the stove. He then hurriedly threw a towel over the monstrous marron and bundled it in alive. He remembered shuddering about the barbarity of what he had just done. He also remembered the pleasure of this new taste.

In 1949 Mary and John were New Australians and as such, considered oddities. For a start, the way they talked was different, with their broad Scottish accent. Much of their speech contained a Glaswegian dialect that they soon learned not to use if they wanted to be understood. They had to learn the many Australian ways of speech including the confusing slang. Mary would go into the drapery store and ask for Kibry grips, and be right scunnered to find the shopkeeper look at her as if she were talking Japanese. Eventually, she would find what the locals called hairpins and point to them. Almost every task no matter how simple was different and often difficult. Wood was burnt for cooking and heating instead of coal. When Mum complained to someone that she couldn’t get the fire to start, it was suggested that her wood may be green. She replied indignantly: No, it’s brown – the same as yours.

One escape from reality for Mary was through the love of reading, but even this simple pleasure was difficult. The oil lamps were too dim to read or write by until she eventually braved the long walk to Manjimup and bought a Tilly lamp. Mary was looking forward to reading the work of Australia’s famous writer, Patrick White. His reputation had spread to Scotland. However, when inquiring at the small local library, about the author, who was to go on and win the Nobel Prize for literature, she was told indignantly by the librarian that she didn’t stock books by the likes of him and had no intention of ever doing so. At this stage so much of the Australian culture seemed to challenge.

John found work in a timber mill in Pemberton twenty miles away. He set out early each morning on his bike. Mary left alone for much of the day, tried to help around the farm. Uncle Doug would go off to the paddocks to clear the great trees and prepare the land for growing potatoes. Aunty

 Clearing Land to Grow Potatoes

Helen suffered much in the nine months of her pregnancy sick and needed help. Mary learned to milk a cow, tend the vegetable garden and collect the eggs. She overcame her fear of the hens, to do as she was told and feel under the broody birds. She complained one day that one of the hens hadn’t laid an egg all week. My father went out to the shed and lifting up the stiff bundle of feathers declared it had been dead for days. I don’t think we’ll ever make a farmer out of you, Doug had said. But Mary had no intentions of staying on the farm.