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at the Royal Perth Hospital, she suggested. Peggy would stay with the Callahans in South Perth. Lucy objected strongly. She didn’t mind her working as a ward’s maid or a nurse’s assistant at the Kingsley Hospital. But send her away to Perth—definitely not.
    It was a week after Peggy’s fourteenth birthday that the tragedy struck the Muldune family. An accident at therailway yards cut Mick Muldune’s life short. They said it was a freak accident, the concrete pipes had rolled off the back of a truck and on to him and crushed his ribcage and stomach. He died on the way to the hospital. The pipes narrowly missed two other men. They said they yelled out for him to “Look out”, but he never heard them. He went quickly to his tragic end.
    Michael Patrick Joseph Muldune, known affectionately as the “Irishman” or “Mad” Mick, was laid to rest in the Kingsley Cemetery. Many mourners like Jack Donaldson, his best friend and best man, stood mute, tears coursing unashamedly down their cheeks.
    Jack was silently remembering the Muldunes’ wedding day, fifteen years ago. Lucy dressed in a pink linen two-piece suit, white blouse and hat while Phyliss her matron-of-honour in an identical pale blue suit. Jack and Mick were dressed in dark navy pin-striped suits and white shirts—but no ties. “We joked about that, the Irishman and me. We never owned a tie. The Irishman promised he would buy one and wear it at the funeral—whoever went first. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore at his wedding, on his wedding day—but with a brand new black tie.”
    A nudge from Phyliss bought him back to earth abruptly.
    â€œBye my Irish friend, I’ll remember you always,” sobbed this tall sunburnt half-caste Aboriginal man, before turning away to walk back towards his ute. They said that Mick Muldune stood for justice, honesty and fair play.
    His widow Lucy and daughter did not leave Kingsley immediately. There were other formalities to be taken care of—according to Aboriginal custom. All Mick’s personal possessions were taken out to the backyard by female relations and burnt, nothing was saved except three beautiful crochet rugs—these were rescued by Peggy herself. All personal papers, records gone. The house itself was smoked out with Lucy and Peggy and other close relativesinside—a cleansing ritual, leaving nothing familiar for the spirit of her husband to find and cling to. He will find his own resting place—his own waterhole as it were.

Mt Dunbar Station Revisited
    Lucy and Peggy settled into station life quietly and comfortably. Nothing had changed, the routine remained the same, unchanged since the establishment of the pastoral station in the early 1900s.
    Peggy became the companion to Patricia Forbes, the “boss’s” fourteen year old daughter. She was glad too. She didn’t have to live in the “camp”, the “Native Camp” across the creek where over a hundred Aboriginal people lived. Their homes were built of cast off sheets of iron, one-roomed with a bough shed of wire netting on two sides and on the roof. There was no running water. Water was carried in four-gallon drums from a tap fifty yards away.
    The people at the camp suffered as a result of the unhygienic conditions. The poor nutrition and the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables in their diet contributed to complaints such as malnutrition, chest infections, trachoma, and infected ears.
    The usual weekly station rations for the camp contained: 3 bags of flour, 2 bags of sugar, 6 packets of tea, 4 tins of jam, 2 tins of golden syrup, 2 tins of treacle, 4 tins of milk, 2 tins of curry powder, 4 packets of rice, 6 plugs of tobacco, pieces of salted beef, and occasionally fresh beef. To supplement this station-introduced food, the peoplecamped out every weekend and lived on traditional “bush tucker” cooked in the traditional way. This