Free Beneath the Southern Cross by Judy Nunn Page B

and waited for the reaction which he knew would come.
    â€˜Father, in God’s name you cannot be serious!’
    â€˜That is the third time you have said that, Richard.’
    â€˜But we will be living right beside the natives.’ Richard dropped all pretences, forgetting to choose his words with care. ‘Mary won’t have it.’
    â€˜Then Mary can build another new house,’ Thomas replied, ‘somewhere else, where the view will not offend her.’
    For the first time Richard recognised the hurt and anger beneath his father’s resolution. He crossed to Thomas and rested his hand upon the old man’s shoulder. ‘She didn’t mean it, Father. You will never be denied your grandchildren, you have my assurance of that.’
    â€˜She meant it.’ Thomas knew that, despite his son’s genuine concern, if Mary decided upon a course of action, there would be little Richard could do about it. He was a pitifully weak man with not a shred of his wife’s strength. Mary had guts and a will of iron, Thomas had to give her that. ‘My decision regarding Wolawara has nothing to do with your wife’s threats, however. It was a decision I made before her ridiculous outburst.’
    â€˜Why? Why make such a decision?’
    â€˜Because the man is my friend. And if I cannot address the terrible wrongs done to his people, which I obviously cannot, then I can at least help a man to whom I owe my life.’
    Richard realised that he must somehow assuage the old man’s cantankerousness, ‘Father,’ he said gently, ‘I understand and admire your feelings regarding the natives, it is a shocking state to which they have been reduced. Believe me, if there were some practical way of addressing their plight, I would lend my own assistance, I swear I would.’
    In that instant Thomas despised his son. He wanted to call him aliar. He wanted to accuse him of being a shallow man. A spineless man. One with no true human depth whatsoever. But instead,as disappointment overwhelmed him, the old man let his son lead him to his favourite armchair and he sat wordlessly as Richard spoke with all the earnestness of a teacher trying to communicate with a backward ten-year-old.
    â€˜You don’t understand, Father. Governor Macquarie himself attempted to settle several of the Aboriginal clans years ago. He provided land for them, and implements, and farming instruction. But it was useless.’
    â€˜And you remember that, do you, Richard? Remarkable. You were only a lad at the time.’
    Old Thomas Kendall remembered the experiment clearly. It had been under the governorship of Lachlan Macquarie that Thomas, like so many others, had been granted his pardon, had acquired lands at Parramatta, and had been encouraged, along with other emancipists, to contribute to the colony as farmers, architects and builders of the new Macquarie towns. It was under the governorship of Macquarie that many emancipists had become valued citizens of the colony of New South Wales. But, much as Thomas admired Macquarie’s governorship and humanity, the Aboriginal experiment had been a mistake. The Europeanisation of a nomadic race had been, from the outset, doomed to failure.
    â€˜I remember hearing of it, Father,’ Richard replied patiently. He found his father’s sarcasm offensive, but he took pains to hide his annoyance. ‘And it didn’t work. These people will never become farmers.’ Thomas was silent. Richard started again. Patiently. Reasonably. ‘You don’t understand. You see—’
    â€˜No, Richard. You don’t understand.’ Thomas heaved himself out of his armchair. Today was one of those rare days when he was feeling his age. ‘If my friend Wolawara did indeed wish to become a farmer I would have chosen to give him arable land. Perhaps the land further to the west which, as you know, is currently being held in trust for your