‘Not to my knowledge, my dear. It is a most difficult situation.’
Jessica gives a bitter laugh. ‘Joe would say she’s on a hiding to nothing.’
‘Precisely, my dear. Difficult, if not impossible, that is, for an Aborigine, who is not given the same rights as an Australian citizen, to mount a court case. If Mary was a white woman she might be entitled to free legal representation, but as an Aborigine she would be hard put to find a lawyer who would even take the case.’
Richard Runche spreads his hands apologetically. ‘It’s an expensive business and well beyond the means of virtually any Aboriginal parent. It is true to say that the Amendment Act simply allows the Board to steal children away from their parents. It is essentially an act of deliberate and, one is forced to conclude, purposely legislated cruelty.’
Jessica barely hears this final part of his explanation. Her mind is already preoccupied with the business of getting Mary’s children back. ‘How much?’ she asks him.
Richard Runche looks puzzled. ‘How much? Oh, you mean to take the case to court?’ He rubs his chin. ‘Well, we can expect the Aborigines’ Protection Board to vigorously oppose it with the full backing of the government.’ He sighs, thinking for a moment. ‘My dear, it could go on for some time, months, even a year. But then, of course, if we could find a lawyer who’d do it for nothing and with me acting as his brief — his barrister -’ he smiles at Mary, ‘we could considerably reduce the outgoing expenditure.’
‘I have some money, my turkey money! Nearly a hundred pounds,’ Jessica exclaims, then she brings her hands to her lips. ‘And a lawyer, I know a lawyer, Mr Moishe Goldberg!’
Richard Runche KC grins and, unable to resist the pun, says, ‘Well then, my dear, let’s talk turkey.’
Jessica and Mary embrace, both of them bursting into tears, their chins resting on each other’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be orright, you’ll see,’ Jessica sobs to her friend. ‘They can’t keep your rainbow kids away from you, Mary.’
Then she jumps up and goes over and kisses Richard Runche. ‘We’re gunna beat the bastards! You’ll see, you can do it, Mr Runche!’
‘Oh dear, I feel quite faint, I really must lie down,’ the barrister says, colouring furiously. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies?’ He gently untangles himself from Jessica’s embrace and rises a little unsteadily to his feet. ‘The last lady who embraced me was also you, Jessica. I shall never forget that moment.’
‘We’ll buy yiz a new suit an’ all,’ Jessica laughs. Richard Runche turns to depart when he sees Mary still seated at the table, her eyes averted. He knows suddenly with absolute certainty that she would never have the courage to thank him in the same way Jessica has just done — that she is thinking that he would object to being embraced and kissed by a black woman. The Englishman leans over the table and takes Mary’s hand, bringing it to his lips. ‘We shall do everything we can, my dear. I’m getting to be an old man with few of my wits remaining, but what few you and Jessica have so nobly salvaged are entirely at your disposal, Mary Simpson.’
It is now almost two months later on a hot summer morning in late November of the same year, 1923. Jessica, Mary and Richard Runche KC, perspiring in a new serge suit, are standing together outside the Narrandera courthouse. Moishe Goldberg is inside, going over some procedural details for the hearing with the clerk of the court.
Ever since Jessica wrote to him in Sydney, enclosing with her own letter a brief from Richard Runche, Moishe has been going full steam ahead. At long last something to get my teeth into, he’s written back to Jessica. Perhaps this will be my revolution? The first thing is to locate the whereabouts of Mary Simpson’s children — can your friend describe them for me? I want to know everything, any scars or distinguishing features are important: eyes, hair, approximate height, dates of birth, birth certificates, if any. I confess, the Aborigines — the few I’ve seen — all look alike to me, I could be easily fooled. Do Mary’s girls have more than one name? Are they all called Simpson, or have they taken the names of their respective fathers? Moishe’s list of questions seems endless and Richard Runche, who remembers meeting Moishe when he was visiting Jessica at Callan Park, is suitably impressed.
‘A lawyer who cares about details, how very nice. A good case is built on details, minutiae, and sometimes the smallest things can be the turning point. He’s just the man for me, as my poor mind is like a sieve these days,’ Runche says.
‘Moishe likes to know everything. He’s a proper old stickybeak,’ Jessica laughs.
‘Stickier the better, my dear. We are about to hit the proverbial bureaucratic brick wall with a thump.’
Moishe has written to the Aborigines’ Protection Board and the Child Welfare Department, requesting to know where Mary’s children have been taken. Both authorities reply that the information is not available to the public or to the children’s family. They give no reasons.
The appearance in court this morning is so that they might obtain a court order to issue to both bodies to supply Moishe with the information he needs. It is the first step in the first court case ever attempted by an Aboriginal parent to get her children back. If Mary Simpson eventually wins, she will make legal history. Richard Runche knows that, at best, their chances are slim to non-existent and he wonders if his health will see him through to its conclusion. This morning, however, he will not be needed as Moishe is entitled to make the plea.
The little party is called into the court and the clerk asks them all to be upstanding while Mr John Sneddon assumes his place at the bench. He is a man of medium height who has a remarkable resemblance to King George, a likeness which he appears to have taken the trouble to emphasise by trimming his sandy beard and combing his thinning hair in precisely the same manner as the monarch. The only notable difference is that he wears pince-nez, a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses pinched onto the bridge of his nose. The clerk now reads out the business of the court, then announces the court is in session and asks the two lawyers to front the bench. Mr Bruce McDonald, a local attorney, is representing both the Aborigines’ Protection Board and the Child Welfare Department, while Moishe Goldberg introduces himself as the lawyer from Sydney for the applicant, Mrs Mary Simpson.
McDonald is a much-admired local who is also President of the Mechanics Institute and Chairman of the School Board. He is a large man of sanguineous complexion, bald for the most part with bushy white eyebrows and a naturally belligerent look — what Miss French the librarian calls ‘his bull in a china shop look’.
He has a countryman’s gut which spills over a broad belt holding up the trousers of his grey worsted suit. He has already loosened his collar and pulled down his black tie to the second button of his white shirt. On his feet are a pair of unpolished cattleman’s boots and it is as if he wishes to give the impression that he is more a man of the land than of the law. Compared to the diminutive and still pencil-slim Moishe, he is an imposing presence in the courtroom.
‘Mr Goldberg, up from Sydney, is it?’ Magistrate Sneddon says, taking very little care to disguise his sarcasm, though whether his remark relates to Moishe’s surname or the place he hails from, it is not quite clear. McDonald does not see the magistrate’s question as ambiguous and it earns a sly grin from the country lawyer.
‘Oh dear,’ Runche whispers to Jessica, ‘I think we may have a couple of “bush brothers” on our hands.’ Moishe appears not to notice, his expression remaining deadpan and his voice, when he replies, contains not a hint of anxiety. ‘Yes, Your Worship, I am from Sydney and I am also a Jew,’ he says quietly.
Richard Runche smiles, and his admiration for the young Sydney lawyer increases further. Moishe is a wary fish and has not risen to the magistrate’s crudely baited hook.
‘Well then, Mr Goldberg, having successfully established where you are from and what you are, we will treat this occasion as an open inquiry. You and our colleague here, Mr McDonald, may proceed in an informal manner, provided you apply the normal courtesies due to each other and address all your questions through the bench. I shall decide when to interrupt or call you to order. Perhaps you would like to begin, Mr Goldberg from Sydney.’
‘Thank you, Your Worship, my request is simple enough. I wish to locate the whereabouts of four young girls, the daughters of Mrs Mary Simpson, who have been forcibly removed from their family and placed into an institution under the jurisdiction of the Aborigines’ Protection Board.’
‘Aborigine, eh?’ the magistrate asks.
‘Well, yes, that is the children’s race, not their gender.’ Police Magistrate John Sneddon looks up sternly. ‘Mr Goldberg, if we are to proceed in an orderly fashion I must ask you to kindly refrain from using your Semite wit. The question was simple enough, are these children Aborigines? ‘
‘Certainly, Your Worship, they are Aborigines of mixed blood. My point is that, despite the apparent simplicity of the request on behalf of my client, Mrs Simpson, every attempt to obtain the whereabouts of her children from this government instrumentality has been refused. I have received nothing but obfuscation.’