It was a hot afternoon in the isolated Kimberley town of Derby. The three women sat in front of a full-length mirror braiding their hair, smearing red lipstick, and daubing way too much perfume while sharing ideas and gossip. With a bed pushed against the flywire window, its shutters wide open to lure the occasional breeze, my cousin and I masked our giggles while pretending to nap. Later in life, I realised that it would have been better, had the Spanish invaded our country. At least everyone would have had a siesta. Not just us littlies.

‘She can go to school. She's already seven. You must talk to the nuns,' Aggie counselled Mum with Phyllis nodding in agreement.

Auspicious words that drifted into our ears. Kerry, six weeks older than me, was already at school and I wanted to be there too.

‘That new aeroplane. It went straight up in the air like this,' Phyllis angled her arm at the ceiling. ‘Like a rocket.'

Aggie and Mum chuckled at their friend's exaggeration. They too, had witnessed the spectacle. It was 1960 and a Fokker F27 Friendship, a turboprop airline that would take Kimberley kids south to boarding schools, had recently been added to a fleet of Douglas DC-3s that serviced the West Australian run. Locals had gathered at the airport to bask in the glory of seeing the plane for the very first time.

My dad, a remarkably hardworking Spaniard, was out bush developing his sheep station. The year before, my parents had sent my older sister to boarding school 2,000 km south to Geraldton. Running a pastoral property didn't leave them time to homeschool us kids.

Mum heeded Aggie's words and by October I had joined my older brother at the Catholic hostel in Derby. Crammed in the manager's small, pale yellow windowless van with a dozen other kids, it was standing room only for the short journey to school. All I could see were shorts and skirts from which protruded scrawny black legs. When my brother became seriously ill with an undiagnosed ailment before the end of the year, our parents removed us. I'd hardly even started school.

He was whisked off to Geraldton in February 1961 and I boarded with Aggie. However, by the second term I found myself on the DC-3 with my siblings. A cool breeze greeted us as we stepped from the plane. I shivered and moved closer to my sister. We went straight to collect my uniforms from downtown. Standing in the main street, I stared at the huge two-story buildings across the road that seemed to engulf us. My little head turned every which way.

‘Jacinta, do you want an ice-cream wedge?' My sister's gentle voice broke my gawking.

A thick slice of strawberry ice-cream wedged between two wafers looked delicious. But I was not well. Sure, I suffered from car sickness and Mum always carried Dexal, an anti-vomiting powder mixed with water, to settle me on long journeys. But now, I had no relief.

That first year was a dramatic departure from my early childhood trajectory—evident in my school reports. I failed everything. By the second year, I had improved considerably. Aboriginal English and Kriol were treated like any foreign language that needed to be stamped out, so I was taught the Art of Speech. I hated it. My parents placed unconditional trust in the nuns' decisions, and I spent more time in their care than that of my parents. For nine scholastic years, I was away at boarding school.

Kimberley kids didn't go home for short breaks. It was too far. So, I went to Mid West boarders' homes. I missed Easters on the station, where I'd see the sun dance across the sky and spawn pulsating tinges of colour through thin clouds. My parents promised it was

a sure sign that Jesus had arisen. I might even glimpse Him being escorted by angels if I got up early enough. But I never did. Half believing them, I was content to suck on hard, icing-glazed Easter eggs.

Between station life and an all-girls boarding school constrained by dormitory living, the college fence and homesickness, I wondered whether my parents had been overprotective during my formative years. I lacked social skills. When my boarding years came to an end in 1969, I had mercifully overcome motion sickness and enjoyed air travel. Relief at last. Within four years and into the future, I confidently wandered abroad, discovering places far beyond my childhood.

 

 

© Dr Cindy Solonec. From Ourselves: 100 Micro Memoirs published by Night Parrot Press.

Dr Cindy Solonec is Nigena (Nyikina) from the West Kimberley and has lived off Country in Boorloo for more than twenty years. Married with a growing bevy of delightful grandchildren, she enjoys dabbling in writing. Cindy is the author of Debesa, a quintessential social history that reflects colonisation during the 1900s West Kimberley.

 

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