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Out of the Mists
The Hidden History of Elizabeth Jessie Hickman
By Di Moore Balboa Press
Copyright © 2014 Di Moore
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-1248-8
CHAPTER 1
Burraga
As I sit down to write this, I know that I am dying. This thing in my head is getting worse, but before it kills me I want to set the record straight about what has really happened in my life. It has been an exciting life one way and another but, because I have never hesitated to embroider the truth or even to tell a straight out lie when I was in trouble - which was often - or wanted to play a joke on someone, much of the truth has been lost. It is time now to come clean and to tell the real story - the story that has been hidden by gossip, rumours, misunderstandings and lies.
I must admit that quite a lot of these tales about me - many of them quite absurd - have been my fault. I have always found great amusement in seeing how far I can pull people's legs. Oh, just recalling some of those memories makes me smile to myself.
Without a doubt, this 'pulling someone's leg' is quite a common type of humour amongst people in the bush. Having been on the receiving end of many such jokes I soon learnt just how easily fooled some people are. There are some wonderful story-tellers out there, too, but swallow their tales whole – I don't think so. Mart, dear Martin Breheney, would say you need a good pocketful of salt when sitting around some campfires. Maybe I am not as good as some people at telling tall stories and mostly untrue, but even now I just cannot resist tempting people to their very heel ends before the bubble bursts. To be honest, some never do wake up. I cannot help chuckling at some of the things I have convinced people are really the truth.
Now I have time to sit here enjoying the sun, looking out over the peaceful paddocks towards Emu Creek and thinking about my life. I love my hut even if it does look a bit rough to other people. It certainly has very few comforts but that does not worry me. Those rose bushes I planted years ago give off such a lovely perfume and they look so beautiful against the hut, while the old peach tree bears fruit which is so sweet and flavoursome that one can make a meal out of only one of those peaches. I would like to be buried here but I suppose I will not be allowed to.
The mountains that guard the valley with their high cliffs, deep ravines and narrow tricky trails give me such a sense of security. Emu Creek grumbles along through the grassy paddocks drawing horses and cattle to it for water, while birds swoop and call to each other, either pleasingly or raucously, and I can lie here at ease and just remember!
I can see my mistakes of course - things that I could (maybe should) have done differently. Some were wrong decisions, some were the result of telling wild stories, some were simply the result of my love of the free life where there was nobody to tell me what to do. I could be my own mistress here, going and doing whatever I pleased. However, what I intend to write here will be the real story of Elizabeth Jessie Hickman, her life as best I remember it - warts and all.
As I have already said I know my time is limited. It is now March, 1936, and I am not sure I shall be here for my forty sixth birthday in September. This thing in my head is giving me terrible headaches and those black periods when I cannot remember what I have done may make it difficult or even impossible to finish what is really a sort of confession. If I am to write the truth in these pages there can be no self pity. What I will write may shock the reader. Many people that I know accuse me of using bad and profane language all the time. That will never do here so I promise that I will try not to use that sort of language if I can possibly help it. Still, a person cannot grow up in a travelling circus and buckjumping show without learning some very shocking - that is shocking to some - language. It sort of becomes a habit which I have found very hard to overcome.
Kitty, dear friend that she was, took me in hand for a while, trying to teach me how to speak more like she did, but it is years now since I have talked to her so I may get carried away. Please forgive me if I do.
If I manage to finish writing this, I can only hope that some kind person will get it to my brother, Hector. I would also like my son to see it and perhaps understand why I gave him away. I hope so.
I was never very interested in him when he was young because, to put it simply, I do not like children. Occasionally I will take a liking to one but that is very rare. Do I regret that past lack of interest in my son? I really don't know now, because suddenly I find I would like to see him and his family. Perhaps I should have made more of an effort when he was a baby, but I feel that I have done the right thing for him by giving him away. I do not know. It will be for you to judge. At least he has had a good life with Kitty and Arundel, a life I could never have given him.
It is hard to believe that I am a grandmother now, but the really incredible thing is I would love to hold my baby grand-daughter in my arms! I cannot explain this longing but I do realise that Kitty or Arundel may not have told my son that I am his real mother so my sudden re-appearance in his life would cause too much of an upset now that he is married and has a child of his own. Some people might feel that this unexpected yearning of mine is a sort of punishment for my treatment of Hedley. If so, there is not much I can do about it now.
I don't see why I should apologise for anything that I have done because I simply did what I had to do. Sometimes this was only to survive. Although I had some very happy times, looking back and thinking about it, it was a hard, unforgiving society that I lived in; a society that seemed determined to make me fit into the mould they saw was womanly. I had other ideas.
Now for my story.
My parents were James Hunt and Susan Ann McIntyre, better known as Jim and Susannah. I knew Mum's parents were Duncan and Matilda (nee Warren) McIntyre and Mum had been born at Peelwood not far from Burraga. Mum told me Dad gave Robert Hunt and Mary Vidler as his parents and his place of birth as Wollongong when they got married, but she did not think Wollongong could be correct. She said that if Dad was really born in Wollongong then she thought it was strange that none of the family made any effort to make the trip to Rockley for their wedding. Once when I asked her about Dad's family, she told me she had never met anyone from Dad's family. However, he did get letters from England, one even had some photos in it. Mum said Dad never read the letters to her. He would have had to do this because she could not read or write herself. She said Dad would not talk about his early life, although when he was drunk he would ramble on about his days in the Royal Navy.
Sometime in the mid-1880s Dad drifted into Burraga which was then a small mining town set in an agricultural area of the Great Dividing Range in New South Wales. Mum and Dad married at Rockley, some thirty miles from Burraga, on August 8, 1888. They were very poor and, as seems to be the way with poor folks, Mum fell pregnant immediately. My brother, Hector, was born on a property called Buckburraga, near Burraga on May 30, 1889 and Matilda McIntyre, my grandmother, was the nurse who was the midwife. For some reason the names of Duncan and Kenneth were added to his registered name over the years and he became known as Duncan Hector Kenneth.
I was born in Burraga on September 6, 1890, when Hector was about eighteen months old. Dad went to Carcoar, the nearest Registrar's Office, to have both our births registered. No alterations to my name crept in over the years so my legal name remained Elizabeth Jessie Hunt until I got married. Much later I was forced from time to time to use another name for a short time to avoid getting into trouble, particularly with the police. But more of that later.
Like many small country towns, Burraga had a pretty close-knit community. This probably grew out of the need for people to help one another during the hard times. Burraga was awfully cold in winter with snow coming far too often, not to mention those icy cold winds that would blow in from the Snowy Mountains. The summers were probably cooler than those out on the western plains, but the winters were bitter. Anything that would help keep you warm was pressed into service. Wild animals such as rabbits were often killed for their skins, which were then tanned and often sewn into blankets or jackets or even sorts of cloaks to keep people warm. Some old bloke made a lovely rug from rabbit skins. He sort of matched the colours of the skins to make a pattern. He was so proud of it because it looked real good and kept him warm too.!
The country looked so beautiful after the snow but the beauty was hard to appreciate when all you could do was shiver. Mum said that most of the houses were poor things that were little better than canvas shelters. Looking back on those days from 1936 standards, it must have been really roughing it.
The children were able to get some sort of an education which was something. Burraga had two schools, one was a State school and the other a Catholic one. The teachers in the State school were allowed some coal to have a fire in the classroom during the winter but us poor pupils did not benefit much from it. We were left to huddle together in the classroom or to run around like lunatics to avoid chilblains or even frostbite on the really cold days.
Burraga also boasted a small hospital and a couple of general stores. Supplies were brought by wagon from Bathurst. It was pretty rough going over the tracks. You would hardly call them roads but somehow the supplies got through. There was a stage drawn by a couple of horses, but all this depended on the road being usable and not covered with water or snow, and the potholes made travel difficult. Any of these could make the carts, wagons etc. get bogged down and not get through to Burraga.
When Hector and I were old enough, Mum insisted that we go to school and learn to read and write. She could not do either and had to sign her marriage certificate with her mark which was a rather large X. She was so embarrassed by this that she was determined that Hector and I would learn to read, write and do arithmetic. It was a great handicap for Mum but I seem to remember that she did a lot of sewing for those who could afford to pay her. I know she made our clothes for us. As well, nobody ever short changed Mum because she sure knew how to count money. Poor Mum. It was such a struggle one way and another.
Burraga had two main industries, mining and farming. Dad grew some potatoes at one time on land he probably rented, share-farmed or leased. As one might expect, he went bust as usual but they moved into town sometime between the births of Hector and me. The town had a copper mine and smelter and Dad was able to find work there. The miners did some pretty terrible things to the countryside particularly the rivers and creeks. For years the diggers had been washing the sludge into these waterways, destroying waterholes in the creeks and filling up the rivers. Where holes ten or twelve feet deep used to be, only sand and shingle remained by the time I was born. Looking back that seems so sad.
Mum remembers when the world copper prices fell and men were put out of work and had to fend for themselves. Some tried looking for gold, usually without much luck. There was a small goldmine in Burraga too, but even for a small mine, it did not pay much.
Dad was a great story teller, often boasting about the amazing and dangerous things he had done as well as of the important people he knew or was related to. He usually found a good audience down at the pub, because the tales he told were so convincing and interesting that you could almost see yourself there in the middle of the action.
Mum said he talked a lot about his days in the navy, but he never let on if he had any family back in England. He was also quite proud of the fact that he was always in trouble with either the shore police or the officers on the ships he sailed on. He even spent some time in Darlinghurst Gaol at some stage while he was still in the Royal Navy, at least that is what Mum said.
Even now he is still at it, telling yarns, enthralling kids in particular, with these half truth-half fiction tales of his. Some of the stories he told children upset Mum no end because she thought that many of them were unsuitable for young ears. Looking back now, I can see how right she was. Another thing, I think he would have to be about two hundred years old by now to have done all the things he claimed to have done - one lifetime was far too short. Still, telling wild stories really didn't do much harm to anyone and he was quite popular amongst his cronies.
The real trouble with Dad was his drinking and gambling. He would bet on two raindrops running down a wall but it was all serious stuff with Dad. He also liked going for a drink - well, lots of drinks - with his mates. Never mind poor Mum stuck at home with two kids and no money. To Dad, that was Mum's problem.
In later years Mum would talk to me about Dad and the problems she had when she was with him. She said that the mines closed down when the price of copper dropped in 1891. A lot of men were laid off then and the times were very hard for Burraga folk. Dad heard that there were plenty of jobs going at the Bodangora Gold Mine near Wellington so he headed off there. Once again poor Mum was left at home with two small children to care for and no money as usual.
Dad did not get far. While he was in Bathurst he was arrested and charged with stealing clothing from Alfred Draper, John Pollard and Albert Shipley. Some of the clothing was recovered, but Dad was convicted and sentenced to two years hard labour at Bathurst Gaol. He came back to Burraga after that for a few years, even taking out a goldmining lease around 1896. Over the following years, he took out mining leases and operated the mines in Rockley, Burraga, Trunkey and Stuart Town near Wellington. In tougher times he got work at the Bodangora Mines where he spent most of his time after Mum kicked him out. I do not think she could bear the shame of him having been in gaol.
I know we did better when he was not living with us. Mum did not get upset and angry every day because of fights over his drinking and gambling.
For myself, I do not remember all that much about Dad then, although I do have vague memories of arguments with Mum. My most vivid memory is about a puppy that Hector and I had. I cannot even remember the pup's name now, but he was just an ordinary pup that we loved - as children do.
Dad had this horrible tobacco pouch that was supposed to have been made from human flesh. Mum said that he had got it on one of his trips to the islands north of Australia when he was in the navy. Anyway, he was really fond of it and liked to tell all sorts of bloodthirsty stories about it. Hector and I hated it because Dad used to frighten us with the terrible tales he would tell, like how it was the skin taken off a real person and then made into a pouch. He went into the most gruesome details.
Dad would shove the dreadful thing into our faces or make us hold it while he told some dreadful tale that gave us nightmares. I think he must have hated us to do such an awful thing like that to us. What he told us was probably his imagination at work but we were just kids then. I don't know about Hector but I believed absolutely in everything he said so I was scared stiff. I was terrified that someone would cut me up to make bags. Remember he was a great story teller - even of horror stories.
Mum used to get awfully mad at him for doing this. One day she must have been really mad because she threw the pouch on the fire. It burnt to ashes but the smell in the house was something awful. Dad had come home drunk as usual and passed out. When he sobered up he demanded to know where the pouch had got to. Maybe Mum was afraid of what he would do if she told the truth so she said the pup had eaten it. Dad went crazy! Would you believe it? He shot the pup and gutted it in an effort to get the hideous pouch back! What sort of a person would do a thing like that to a puppy?
When Mum finally kicked him out for good she must have been thoroughly fed up with the way he carried on. He was little better than an animal the way he treated the three of us. Now I can only wonder that his mates at the pub put up with him.
Perhaps Mum learnt from somebody that he had recently done time in Bathurst Gaol for stealing because I doubt that he would tell her. She was a good Catholic, was Mum, and this would have been very humiliating for her. Perhaps the incident with the puppy was the last straw. Perhaps she had just had to put up with too much and could take no more of his carry on. I can only guess.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Out of the Mists by Di Moore. Copyright © 2014 Di Moore. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
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