WOMAN on a MISSION
16.12.2000
She was a little white girl who loved fishing, swimming and running with the Aboriginal children on the mission. She moved away, grew up and married the man who's now Queensland's premier. Thirty-eight years after leaving, Heather Beattie goes back to talk, to dance and to reminisce
SHE was eight years old. Her hair cropped short, her skin burnt brown, she was rattling along with her parents in a truck from Edward River Mission on Cape York to Proserpine. They were leaving their home of five years, a two-bedroom dwelling with pandanus palm walls, a detached kitchen, and dirt floors throughout.
The year was 1962 and, as they bumped along the dirt road, the girl left further behind her beloved Aboriginal minder, Molly Edwards.
She was not to know it would be 38 years until she went back, and that the next time she danced barefoot in the dirt with Molly it would be as the wife of the Premier of Queensland.
Molly cried. The two of them joined in the corroboree with the children at the local school, laughing, as they performed together the shake-a-leg dance.
Heather Beattie is the second oldest of four daughters of the Rev David Halliday, the Anglican priest and teacher who, with his nurse wife, administered Edward River Mission in the days when electricity and even radio were unknown in such remote parts of Queensland.
The mission, later named Pormpuraaw, was part of a large cattle station, and the Aboriginal boys and men were employed as stockmen and station workers. There was no alcohol on the community, and it boasted a large market garden.
Life was primitive, social opportunities scarce and climatic conditions harsh. But to young girls like the Hallidays, it was heaven -- education by correspondence, gentle black adults always available to supervise the never-ending swimming and fishing excursions, the camping, the walks through the bush.
Feral pigs were plentiful, barramundi easy to catch, and the Chapman River and Gulf waters no-go areas because of crocodiles.
``There was one solid building here, made of concrete and when cyclones came we all crowded into it,'' Heather recalled as she looked around, trying to visualise where everything had been.
``All the pandanus palm humpies used to just be blown down and, when the cyclone passed, it was just a matter of replacing them. Dad built a church while he was here, but now there is a new one in its place.
``And over there, behind our home, was a large market garden.
``That's where I got my love of sweet potatoes -- and when we walked in the bush we would pick wild gooseberries. I still buy them now when I see them in city fruit shops, and just eat them as they are.''
The beach near Pormpuraaw is the feature which sets it apart from many kindred indigenous communities. It is picturesque -- the tidal Gulf waters at ebb leaving a curry-combed effect on the mud flats -- so much a contrast to the brilliant white beach that one expects to be sand but which is in fact immeasurable tonnes of shell grit.
Heather told how it was an exciting time for the children of the mission to go to the beach when the supplies were delivered each three months -- cyclones permitting.
``I remember the name of the supply ship. It was the Stephen Davies, and everything would be delivered in large sacks -- sugar, flour and powdered milk.
``And, of course, when the bishop or other dignitaries arrived, it was not on for them to walk ashore over the mud flats, so they had to be carried by the local men.
``Dear Molly used to look after us, and once when we went to the river to swim, I got out of my depth and she had to jump in and save me. I think I got into trouble because I had to be taken home and that disrupted the fishing.
``Another time I was allowed to steer the dinghy along the river, but promptly lost control and ran it into the bank.
``This was a large cattle station and the men were stockboys. They were not rounded up and made to live on the mission, but it was here for them to come to if they wanted.
``There were lots of corroborees -- and the menfolk were more tribal in those days, they dressed in loincloths and carried hunting spears.
``We used to watch them dance at ceremonial times, and us kids learnt to do it, too.''
That was no idle boast -- as Heather demonstrated when invited to join the school children later that afternoon.
People acquainted with Heather Beattie know her trademark calmness. Perhaps that's something she acquired from her profession as a nurse.
She's a very natural, unpretentious person, who doesn't dwell on pomp and ceremony.
Our drive through the bush outside the community brought us upon a scene not witnessed by many -- a muscular young Aboriginal man, his hands and arms bloodied, standing beside the track.
He and his dogs had earlier run a feral pig down and he'd stabbed it with a knife. The carcass was butchered, a fire lit beside the road, and friends gathered for the ``feast''.
Heather was not fazed, and eagerly introduced herself to the group, especially one young mother, Bernice Norman, who had her baby, Harold Doboy, on her hip.
She spoke of having grown up in the community and mentioned some of the names of people of the time. Different responses acknowledged whether or not the families still lived there, and Bernice's mother, Georgina quickly engaged her white ``sister'' in talk about the difficulties of bringing up children.
She spoke about her seven-year-old son who was deaf since birth, who was going to Brisbane next year to get a Cochlear implant. We later met the boy at the school, and a more delightful and becoming child would be difficult to encounter.
The wonders of being able to hear and speak are miracles that next year, hopefully, will bring.
``We had a kero fridge and kerosene lights in those days, and Mum used to work in the makeshift clinic each day,'' Heather said.
``She'd come home every hour or so to see that we were doing our schoolwork but I don't recall there was a very concentrated effort on our lessons. There were too many other distractions.
``This is a good community when measured against others. It is one of the few that maintains its own dialect. English is a second or even third language here -- with Thaayore and Wik the principle ones.
``But overall it is depressing -- the living conditions, the dreadful housing, the health problems, the alcoholism and the violence. There are so many people here who are doing good work -- teachers and nurses and so on -- but to fix things up is probably a generational thing.
``The community has to want to do it themselves.''
Community people had outlined to Heather the internal problems with sly-groggers, inadequate health facilities, and violence. A young man was murdered on Pormpuraaw just two weeks ago.
``Politicians can make a difference. The Queensland Government has embraced the partnership with Noel Pearson and his proposals whereby indigenous people have to accept responsibility for their own lives,'' she said.
``The national debate has bogged down on whether or not Prime Minister Howard should have apologised to Aboriginal and Islander people for the way they were treated in the past.
``I think he should have apologised. His refusal to do so has meant that has become the issue, rather than getting on with solutions -- the shadow, not the substance.
``A few months ago, Peter and I were at the big reconciliation celebrations at the Sydney Opera House and I was sitting beside the daughter of one of the conservative premiers. She asked her father why Mr Howard wouldn't just apologise, and he could not come up with a satisfactory response.''
Heather Beattie stopped and looked back as she left the community. Her thoughts remained private but a sure guess would be that her pleasant childhood memories were ill at ease with what had become the lot of Aboriginal people today.
