This is an extract from ‘The Long, Long Road – Isa to the Burma Railway and Back’ written by George Beard (founder of Playtime stores) and reproduced here with kind permission of the Beard Family
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My memories may be becoming uncertain, but those I have of Daisy are vivid.
She was a full blood Aboriginal and would have been around 40 years when I first knew her.
She washed and ironed for my parents, one day each week.
When she approached our house, on foot, I saw her white sandshoes long before I saw Daisy.
The sandshoes were so huge, it seemed they must be too large for her feet, but when she removed them before starting work, it was obvious the size was correct.
Her tough, hard feet were enormous, but she moved with much ease and grace without her sandshoes.
She remained barefooted until it was time to walk home.
Her walk was over a hill along a goat track.
It was rough, and at least two miles, by no means an easy walk.
I used the same route when I attended mass each Sunday.
Daisy was a really dignified lady, with a balanced view of life.
The mother of several children whom I remember growing up in Mount Isa, she neither smoked nor drank.
She scorned drink, which she blamed for most of the problems of her people.
My mother was a truly kind person, and in her relations with Daisy, there was never any suggestion of treating her as anything other than an equal.
She discussed all subjects with her, including, I am sorry to say, private family matters.
I am sure they were safe with Daisy, but I rather wished my mother did not do so.
That was wishful thinking, because she sometimes discussed family matters with perfect strangers.
I recall my father saying, “The trouble with your mother, she discusses everything with all and sundry, even Billy the Blackfellow.”
The pay for one day’s washing and ironing was just ten shillings, but the large billy can of stew my mother made for Daisy to take home was a bonus.
Made from shin of beef, cooked slowly for many hours, with potatoes, pumpkin and onions added for the final half hour of cooking.
If it tasted half as good as it smelt, I am sure her family would have enjoyed their evening meal.
I recall on odd occasions Daisy bringing in a small piece of snake or goanna for us to taste.
As I remember, it tasted all right, but I did not want either included in our daily diet!
Daisy spoke softly, and - so it seemed to me – had an inner calm, and was at peace with the world.
She was very, very much her own person, and never regarded herself as any less – or better – than her fellow human beings.
At times she spoke of life on different cattle stations, and it was clear that life was no bed of roses for Aborigines.
But there was no bitterness when she spoke of ill treatment of her people – she simply related what had taken place, and made no complaints, even when they would have been more than justified.
She also told of station owners’ wives who had been kind to her.
My father, a stern man, seemed to delight in scaring most people with his gruff exterior.
He wore a wooden leg and carried a walking stick.
His greeting was polite but curt, with an almost fierce glance.
Daisy however, never seemed to be in awe of him, returning his greeting with a brief, soft “Good morning, Mr Beard.”
One of Daisy’s grandchildren, June, trained as a nursing sister at Mount Isa Hospital, achieving well above average marks.
Gentle and dignified in the style of her grandmother, she was much loved by all her patients.
After completing her training, she left to work in a mission on one of the Pacific Islands.
Daisy never spoke very much about her children, but she did speak often with pride of the success of her granddaughter, June.
After the war, I often saw Daisy in Mount Isa, and spoke with her.
When she called me Mr Beard, I said, “No Daisy, I am George.”
“My father was Mr Beard.”
It made no difference and she always called me Mr Beard.
Thanks to the kindness of Mrs Holley, ticket collector at the Star Picture Theatre, Daisy – seated in the very front row of canvas deck chairs – enjoyed films a couple of times a week.
She scorned light romances, and preferred serious films with a little substance.
She and my mother would spend many happy hours discussing the merits of films they had seen.
My mother must have been a lonely woman, and enjoyed Daisy’s company.
One evening a day or two after my father had died as the result of a car accident in 1958, I was visiting my mother when I heard a gentle knock on the front door.
I opened the door, and there was Daisy, who had arrived by taxi with small grandson.
Daisy, the essence of dignity, expressed her sorrow and offered her condolence on the death of my father.
I was more than happy to drive her home after she and my mother had enjoyed a cup of tea.
Later, I learned from a doctor friend of mine that Daisy was going blind with an eye infection but refused to travel to Townsville for an operation.
I tried to persuade her to go to Townsville by train and have the operation, but she was too scared to do so.
I was relieved to be in Mount Isa when she died, and to be able to ensure she was not buried a pauper.
My mother and father would have been happy I was able to see her buried as she deserved.
Daisy was a truly fine lady, and worthy to be remembered as one of the last of the Kalkadoons, a proud tribe, not always well treated by white landowners.
Researched by Kim-Maree Burton wwwkimmareeburton.com
Photos supplied by MIMAG and generic.