Read Online I Knew You'd Have Brown Eyes by Mary Tennant - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Tennant
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push. I started up the car and the man by the window joined his friends to push me out of the ditch. My car was back on the road. They jumped in their car and, without saying a word, they were gone as quickly as they had appeared.
I sat for several minutes, not wanting to go anywhere, wondering what I was doing out here, so far from my home, my friends. I was lost, not only on the road but in my life. What was I thinking coming here? My car was now facing Brisbane. Was this a sign? Go home, you don’t belong here, my head was screaming at me. But I slowly turned my car around on the dirt road in the middle of nowhere and headed to Bourke.
The Sisters of Charity were Indian nuns from an order of Mother Teresa’s. Australia had been giving aid to India since the 1950s, when it was coming out of colonial rule, and yet here in Bourke was a group of Indian women giving aid to Australian Aboriginal people.
These nuns were like nothing I had ever experienced. They had very little money. Once a week a group of them walked into town. There they stood outside the butcher’s with their hands extended, begging for food. They believed that everything came from God, and He provided.
‘How did you find out about Bourke?’ I asked one of the young nuns one day.
‘Our holy Mother – Mother Teresa – heard about these people,’ she said.
‘But couldn’t you do work in India with the poor people there?’
‘It is not for me to say. If Mother tells us to come, then we come.’
‘I see. What about your family? What did your mother say when you told her you were coming to Australia?’
‘She was surprised that Australia had poor people. We expect that in India but not in Australia. But she is very proud of me, because I am doing God’s work.’
I soon fell into a routine with the nuns who sent me daily to a group of old Aboriginal men who lived in a tin shed on the outskirts of town. The heat and dust were unbearable. At one end of their dormitory was a bathroom where I helped them to shower. The nuns brought food at meal times; the car was provided by the local priest. Once dressed, the men liked to sit outside in the morning sun to share a cup of billy tea and a biscuit. I felt very comfortable with them. They accepted my care and were grateful for it. They didn’t ask anything of me other than what I gave. These men were not big talkers. They were content in each other’s company. I was happy with that too.
In the afternoons the nuns looked after a group of Aboriginal kids. We used to play together in a garden near the convent. They were adventurous, climbing trees, jumping the fence and pretending to run away, coaxing us to run after them. When their mothers came to pick them up I noted the love they showered on their children.
Before I left Brisbane I had applied to all the hospitals and nursing agencies. A month into my stay in Bourke I received a letter telling me of a temporary position available over the Christmas–New Year period in Longreach, central Queensland. I was pleased to be offered the opportunity to go back to work in a hospital. Bidding the nuns who had taught me about Indigenous people in my own country goodbye, I drove carefully back to Brisbane and was relieved to learn that the Longreach hospital had provided me with a bus ticket – no more long lone drives.
As a relief nurse I was allocated to different wards, from medical to surgical, theatre and occasionally the nursery. I didn’t feel ready to be back in a maternity ward, so I avoided it if I could. The nurses living in the hospital quarters were, like me, on temporary contracts and we were invited to the homes and parties of other nurses working in the hospital. Many of them lived on cattle stations so I went horse-riding, played tennis and went to dances. Whatever was going, I was in.
After three months in Longreach I took up a position as a junior sister on a geriatric ward, in a Brisbane hospital. Most of the patients had dementia.
I sat for several minutes, not wanting to go anywhere, wondering what I was doing out here, so far from my home, my friends. I was lost, not only on the road but in my life. What was I thinking coming here? My car was now facing Brisbane. Was this a sign? Go home, you don’t belong here, my head was screaming at me. But I slowly turned my car around on the dirt road in the middle of nowhere and headed to Bourke.
The Sisters of Charity were Indian nuns from an order of Mother Teresa’s. Australia had been giving aid to India since the 1950s, when it was coming out of colonial rule, and yet here in Bourke was a group of Indian women giving aid to Australian Aboriginal people.
These nuns were like nothing I had ever experienced. They had very little money. Once a week a group of them walked into town. There they stood outside the butcher’s with their hands extended, begging for food. They believed that everything came from God, and He provided.
‘How did you find out about Bourke?’ I asked one of the young nuns one day.
‘Our holy Mother – Mother Teresa – heard about these people,’ she said.
‘But couldn’t you do work in India with the poor people there?’
‘It is not for me to say. If Mother tells us to come, then we come.’
‘I see. What about your family? What did your mother say when you told her you were coming to Australia?’
‘She was surprised that Australia had poor people. We expect that in India but not in Australia. But she is very proud of me, because I am doing God’s work.’
I soon fell into a routine with the nuns who sent me daily to a group of old Aboriginal men who lived in a tin shed on the outskirts of town. The heat and dust were unbearable. At one end of their dormitory was a bathroom where I helped them to shower. The nuns brought food at meal times; the car was provided by the local priest. Once dressed, the men liked to sit outside in the morning sun to share a cup of billy tea and a biscuit. I felt very comfortable with them. They accepted my care and were grateful for it. They didn’t ask anything of me other than what I gave. These men were not big talkers. They were content in each other’s company. I was happy with that too.
In the afternoons the nuns looked after a group of Aboriginal kids. We used to play together in a garden near the convent. They were adventurous, climbing trees, jumping the fence and pretending to run away, coaxing us to run after them. When their mothers came to pick them up I noted the love they showered on their children.
Before I left Brisbane I had applied to all the hospitals and nursing agencies. A month into my stay in Bourke I received a letter telling me of a temporary position available over the Christmas–New Year period in Longreach, central Queensland. I was pleased to be offered the opportunity to go back to work in a hospital. Bidding the nuns who had taught me about Indigenous people in my own country goodbye, I drove carefully back to Brisbane and was relieved to learn that the Longreach hospital had provided me with a bus ticket – no more long lone drives.
As a relief nurse I was allocated to different wards, from medical to surgical, theatre and occasionally the nursery. I didn’t feel ready to be back in a maternity ward, so I avoided it if I could. The nurses living in the hospital quarters were, like me, on temporary contracts and we were invited to the homes and parties of other nurses working in the hospital. Many of them lived on cattle stations so I went horse-riding, played tennis and went to dances. Whatever was going, I was in.
After three months in Longreach I took up a position as a junior sister on a geriatric ward, in a Brisbane hospital. Most of the patients had dementia.
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