The Australia Stories - Short Story

Literary Review, Spring, 2001 by Todd James Pierce

1 - My Grandfather

My grandfather was a free settler; that is, he was not a convict. He came to Australia because his family did not have much land. For a while, he built stonework houses then later, when the economy turned bad, helped build the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The Sydney Harbour Bridge is a beautiful piece of architecture: sandstone pillars at either end, the bridge itself a bronze arch, the road passing along the bottom. Because of its shape, locals call it "the coathanger." He worked six days a week, first on the foundation then later spot welding. On Sundays, he went to First Anglican and spent his afternoons in the yard, trimming the lawn with a small pair of hand clippers because a lawnmower was an unnecessary expense.

My grandparents had two children, a boy and a girl. They both attended The Christian Brother's School, were baptized in the Anglican faith, were brought up to believe in the official history of Captain James Cook and of Governor Arthur Phillips. Australia, at that time, was a wide open space, the bush, the black stump, the end of the civilized earth. Its main exports, wool and minerals. Its population, less than five million. Its one dream, to come into its own so that its citizens might be made whole again. Above my grandfather's bed hung both the cross and a picture of Queen Elizabeth, as though the two, in some larger scheme, might be equal.

After finishing the Harbour Bridge, my grandfather had difficulty locating work, even part-time or what he called casual labor. For a while he worked as a carpenter's assistant and later as an interior painter, but by then he drank most nights, Bitters his favorite beer. The days he spent in his bedroom, the curtains drawn, his life bankrolled by the dole. The nicest thing he ever did: he gave my mother money for the trip to America so she could be with my father, Robert Browne. The meanest: he forbade her from dating her first love, an aboriginal man of mixed blood.

My grandfather spent his final days walking along the North Heads. There has always been speculation about his last years--why he moved north, why he did not try to win back my grandmother--but my opinion is this: he wanted to walk along the shore, looking out to the Pacific, and remember the land of his childhood. When he was seventeen a ship brought him from England to Sydney; he married at nineteen, had two children, worked for years, lost almost everything by the age of fifty. The only visible remains of his life, a few houses he helped build in the Western Suburbs and the impressive bridge that connected the two halves of the city. He died in bed, June 14, 1972, his hands folded neatly across his chest, his eyes already closed, his liver no longer able to support a man of his habits. Beside his bed, The Book of Common Prayer. On its first page, an inscription, "To my large-hearted son who always placed his hopes in the colonies--love, mum."

2 - My Grandmother

My grandmother descended from convicts. Convict lineage is now a mark of pride among many Australians, though it was not always that way. She rarely spoke of her own grandfather--a Welshman sentenced for pickpocketing--except to say he had a fine sense of humor and came good in the end.

My grandmother, herself, was born in The Blue Mountains. The Blue Mountains are an hour west of Sydney--sharp granite peaks forested with gum trees so thick they give off a light blue haze. She attended a small, one-room bush school up through Year Six. After Year Six, she helped her mother who worked as a seamstress. During the day, my grandmother sewed woolen jackets and ankle-length dresses--she was particularly gifted with lacework--and in the evenings, she read by herself: The History of British Kings, Bleak House, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice. She loved histories, romances, and almost anything to do with England.

When my grandmother was sixteen, she met my grandfather, a man who ventured into the Mountains only to help build the old May Cottage, which is in the township of Katoomba. The May Cottage overlooked the Jamison Valley--the gum trees, the streams, the ancient stone pillars. My grandfather built two stone fireplaces and two stone chimneys, neither of which are still present today, but were considered exceptional during his time, fine English stonework, a good eye for arrangement, careful overall design. My grandmother was enamored by him--his blue eyes, the turn of his accent, his diligence and handiwork. His first words to her: "How does a bloke keep the bloody mossies off himself on a day like today?" His second: "If you don't mind me noticing, Miss, you're prettier than any of the girls I knew back in London."

They were married six months later, my grandmother believing they'd one day move to England and start a family. My grandfather wanted to return home, money filling his pockets, and purchase a small house. He pictured himself as a man who migrated to the colonies then returned, success evident in him. The twist to their tale is summed up in two words: The Depression.