Part 1 Coralina’s Story
February 1873
Chapter 1
She sat on the bench beside the thick woollen curtain that closed off the sleeping area in the wagon and she listened to her mother’s feeble cries. She was sitting on her hands, because she knew that if she didn’t keep them under her legs she would have bitten her nails down until they bled. She rocked backwards and forward in her space; she was scared.
She was the only child to have survived birthing, all the others had come away before their time, and two boys had been born, but they were blue when they came out. She hadn’t seen them, but she had heard the aunties talking. They would have been her brothers, and she was sad about that. She was sad for her Ma too, because she cried whenever anyone in the camp birthed a new baby.
“Push, push, try harder lass,” she heard the old Mither saying.
The men were outside leaving the women to look after things, and she was alone in the wagon separated from the others only by the curtain.
She needed to pee so badly, but she was afraid to leave, not that she was any help, but still she didn’t want to run through the dark to the toilet tent to relieve herself of her full bladder just in case she was needed. Finally, when she could hold it no longer, she left the wagon at a run.
“Where yi’ goin’ lass?” her father called as she scooted past him. He and the others were sitting around the campfire patiently, if worriedly, waiting for the birth of the next child, sharing a bottle of whisky, and silently praying that all would be well.
“Ah’m goin’ tae the dunny Da.”
“Straight back Coralina, mind now, straight back.”
Off she ran to the space that had been prepared which contained a large stainless-steel bin that had a lid with a hole cut through so that anyone who needed to use it could sit. A wooden frame to sit on had been fashioned to protect tender skin from the cold metal. The dunny was covered with a tent to give some privacy. She hitched up her thick woollen skirt and dragged at her pants, pulling them down as far as her thighs and then she squatted over the seat. She sighed with relief as she emptied her bladder. She had held it in for so long that she thought she would never stop. She paused when she had finished, hoping the last drips had fallen before she hitched up her pants, and hurried back to the wagon.
As she came through the trees, she was guided by the light from the campfire and the shadows of the men sitting around it, wearing their thick jackets, caps, and scarves to keep themselves warm in the cold February air. She could hear their whispered conversations but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
The three-legged cast-iron tilly prop sat over the fire suspending a large cast iron kettle of water on the boil. She could feel the heat of the fire as she ran past and quietly crept back into the wagon shivering from the cold. Once more, she took her place on the bench in the sitting area. She didn’t know what time; it was but she knew that it had been hours and hours. It would be morning soon and still she sat.
The Mither had been in and out several times demanding more hot water; she didn’t know what the hot water was for but the Mither needed plenty of it. Just as the day was breaking she heard a funny little noise, a squeak, almost, and then loud lusty cries. She knew as her heart filled with joy and excitement that the baby had come and it wasn’t blue, she didn’t think blue babies cried. She was excited and happy to have a new baby brother or sister, but as she listened, she realised that it had all gone very quiet apart from the little noises the new baby was making.
Still she listened and then old Mither Morrison came out. The Mither at fifty-three was the oldest grandmother that lived in their camp, and the Mither in any camp was always looked up to and respected. The Mither had been quite a character in her day, and even yet, as old as she was, for in those days being in your fifties was a good age to be, she still managed to bring a spark of light during heavy or hard times. She could make everyone laugh with the old stories she told, and when the occasion warranted it, she could dance a jig with the best of them, though her arthritic bones meant that her jig didn’t last very long. With a word or a look, the Mither could make a man feel ten feet tall or reduce him to feeling that he was ten years old. She was held in such esteem that she seldom had to chastise, and was more likely to nod and say, “Well done lad, aye well done.”
And the lad in question, though twenty-four or forty would puff up his chest and look proudly at the others as though to say, “Ah’m the best.”
The Mither in any camp always had the finest of things, and everyone in each camp made sure that she had everything she needed. Mither Morrison’s hair, once red, was now as white as snow. She wore it partly covered by a thick woollen chequered scarf that she had wrapped around the length of her hair at the back of her neck and twisted and tied to one side. Her hair had receded back from her forehead a little, exposing a deep brow over watery eyes once as blue as the sky on a summer’s day. Though her skin was pale, her cheeks were always rosy, red, being exposed daily to the fresh air and the elements. A thick brown woollen dress came down to her ankles, and over it was a sleeveless hand knitted V-neck jumper made using many assorted colours of wool. Over one shoulder was a chequered woollen blanket of reds, yellows, and blues, and the toes of chunky black boots peeped out from her ensemble. She wore heavy gold hoops in her ears and fine gold bangles dangled on her thin wrists as she moved. The Mither loved her jewellery and the bright colours that she wore, and her appearance always drew attention.
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