Author: Chris Wallace
Publication Date: October 30, 2023
Pages: 368
Genre: Historical Fiction
In the 1850s, Australia was a thriving colony of the British Empire, with its own sense of importance and sophistication. But the people who had occupied this vast land for upwards of 40,000 years didn’t fit well with colonial expectations of the future. In every way imaginable, white Australia tried to keep its “darkies” in line. It is against this backdrop in the 1860s that the amazing story of an all Aboriginal cricket team, the first Aussie team to do so, played at Lords, the home of cricket in England. Conventional wisdom predicted that Indigenous Australians would die off by the next generation. The Dreaming Team brings those Indigenous players to life and follows them on an adventure that would appear to be unbelievable if it weren’t true. They not only changed the minds and perceptions about Aboriginal Australians, they arguably changed the course of Australian history. Praise for The Dreaming Team: “A beautiful story, beautifully written, about a piece of Australian history that, if you don’t know about, you probably should. Heartwarming, heartbreaking and brimming with relevance for today’s Australia. A poignant example of how far we’ve come and how far we haven’t.” “The Dreaming Team tells the true story of the all Aboriginal cricket team from Victoria who did a tour of Great Britain back in the 1860s and all the drama, setbacks, and cultural divide between the Aboriginals and white Australians involved. Considering the state of affairs for Aboriginal people in those days, the team’s accomplishments are no small feat!” “What an interesting story. It is truly an Australian story about indigenous Australians. The story grabbed me from the first chapter, and drew me further in to where I could not put it down. I don’t want to give anything away, so I will say that the twists and turns makes you want to know what happens next at the end of each chapter. To say it is a sports story is not fair, it is a people story, told from the heart, about the hearts of people who love the land, and their story. I recommend it highly, and look forward to more from the author, Chris Wallace!”
You can purchase your copy at Amazon.
First Chapter:
“But, Mum, he’s all alone. He doesn’t have anyone.”
“That’s not our worry, Alice. Now, help me hang this washing.”
Alice takes one side of the washing basket while her mother takes the other.
As they peg the laundry onto the clothes line, Alice keeps up her protest. “And besides, he’s my age. We grew up together. He’s like a brother to me.”
“Alice, stop it! I don’t have time for this nonsense. We’ve given him a job and food and a place to sleep while he was growing up. That’s more than a lot of people would do.”
Alice has never been one to give up easily on anything. When she was a little girl, her mother insisted that Allce’s hair grow long enough so she could braid it. Alice didn’t like wearing braids. Her mother braided it anyway. Alice protested. Her mother ignored the protests. Alice got hold of some scissors and cut all her hair off.
“Well, I don’t care what you say. I like him and he’s my friend. He’s the only friend I have. He’s my best friend! I guess I’ll have to talk to Dad about it.”
“Don’t you dare. And besides, I’ve already talked to him. Listen to me, Alice. It was one thing when you two were little. But you’re getting to be a woman now. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to spend so much time with Black Johnny. Things happen. And I’m not going to let things happen to you. It’s already decided. He’s going and that’s the end of it.”
* * * * *
As he wanders away and into the dense Australian bush, Unaarrimin looks back at Mullagh Station. The brick house and its veranda, along with the sheds and pens, had been the only things he could identify with for these many years. They had been his everyday surroundings, as were the dogs and horses he looked after and the sheep he sheared. The land on which Mullagh Station sits had also been his ancestral home going back thousands of years. This is his country. It provided his Jardwadjali people with everything they needed. It took care of them and they took care of it. This dot on the earth had been his everything, his every place, his only place. Then the white settlers came and made the land do things that were unnatural to it after brutally displacing the people who had lived there for thousands of years. They introduced new animals and ripped down the trees and plants that had stood there since the beginning of time. They plowed up the earth and sowed new plants that this land had never known. They built new structures that belonged on another continent.
They said they owned it now. Unaarrimin knew that nobody can own the land. It is the earth. People cannot own the earth. All anyone could do is to be part of it – be at one with it, as the Jardwadjali have been since the Dreaming. But now, he is no longer even a part of this new version. Now, his attachment to the land is in his soul, not in a geographic location.
He walks deeper into the bush. Little by little he finds it more and more familiar, not by way of recognition, but as a concept, as an organic existence. With each step, he goes farther away from the station and closer to his roots. He stops by a stream. Without thinking about it, he takes off his “white man” clothes and fashions a loincloth from one of his old work shirts. Then he kneels down for a drink of the fresh water. As he gazes down at his reflection, his mind wanders back to a day when he was at his father’s side, drinking from this same stream.
“Try it again,” his father says, as he hands the boomerang to Unaarrimin. “Hold it like this.. Throw from your shoulder.” The boy takes the boomerang. It is nearly the size of his arm. “Now make yourself calm,” his father continues. The boy tries to relax but feels the pressure of wanting to please his father. His father senses this and says in a softer, more encouraging voice, “Be calm, son. You must be still inside. Stillness is the key. You can do it.” The boy lets out a big breath and his shoulders relax. He steps away from his father and hurls the weapon into the air. It whirls around in a wide arc with a velocity that belies the boy’s size, coming to rest on the ground in front of his father. Unaarrimin beams up at him.
“Now do it again,” says his father, suppressing a slight smile.
After some time has passed, being driven off Mullagh Station doesn’t feel as much of a hardship for Unaarrimin. He is at home in the bush. In his genetic memory, he knows that everything he needs is here. He grazes on berries and bush tomatoes as he strolls along. As the afternoon sun bears down, he decides to have a rest. No reason to hurry. No place to hurry to. He finds a spot in the shade of a gum tree and stretches out with his hands behind his head. Before long, he is in a deep, peaceful sleep.
It is late afternoon when he is awakened by birds in a pre-dusk conversation, announcing their presence to one another from all around the canopy of trees: brilliant crimson rosellas, double banded plovers, fairywrens. Their presence sparks his recollection. These are birds he has known from his childhood, albeit by different names. Each bird adds a different voice to this familiar symphony. He sits up to listen. He realizes that he’s smiling. Then he hears another bird emit three sharp, penetrating screeches which immediately grab his attention. This is a call he knows very well. Looking up through the trees, he spots the Black Cockatoo, his totem. He hears his father’s voice, “This is your totem, your brother. Our people have known this bird since our beginning. It will protect you. You must respect and protect it too. We are one with the Black Cockatoo. Never forget this.” Unaarrimin looks up at the bird and nods to his father. “I will remember, father.” “Always.” “Yes, father, always.”
Unaarrimin can’t recall the last time he wandered in the bush without a destination or purpose. He knows he will eventually have to find employment somewhere. The bush can no longer really be his home. White men have pieces of paper that say they own it. But at least for the moment, he is free. He continues wandering aimlessly, looking at the sky, listening to the wind, feeling the cool evening air begin to embrace him. He’ll need to find a place to camp soon. When it gets dark here in the bush, it gets dark. Moonlight and the stars are the only light source. On moonless nights, it’s only the stars. On cloudy nights, there is nothing. Just at dusk, he comes upon a billabong. He gathers some brush and broken limbs and builds a satisfactory lean-to against a huge blue gum. He rolls out his swag and picks a place to build a fire. In a few minutes, it is glowing and throwing sparks into the night air. Soon some of the night creatures begin serenading from the darkness. He hears the haunting sigh of the brush tail possum. Then, the screeching rumble of the Soot Owl. The fire casts flickering shadows onto the surrounding vegetation. Unaarrimin stares into the fire and listens to this night music. His mind wanders.
The corroboree is in full swing. They come from three different groups: the Jardwadjali, the Gunditjamara and the Wotjabaluk people. It is already well into the night. Fires blaze. Sparks fly up into the sky. The sound of didgeridoos and clap sticks fill the night air, along with the sound of bare feet beating against the earth. The adults are dancing and singing and telling stories of the Dreaming. The festival is also a chance to catch up with old friends. The girls steal surreptitious glances at the boys who are trying to impress one another with their physical skills. Later in their lives, these same boys will be known by “white” names: King Cole, Bullocky, Sugar, Jellicoe, Dicky Dick, Redcap, Johnny Cuzens, Neddy, Tarpot, Sundown and Peter. Even Unaarrimin will be called by another name. But for now they are busy challenging one another. A ball made of possum skin is suspended from a limb. In turn, each of them jumps as high as he can in an attempt to dislodge it. Tiny Johnny Cuzens leaps and leaps while the others have a hearty laugh. Finally he gives up and laughs with them. “One day,” he says. “‘One day”’ Bullocky’s thick body barely leaves the ground when he tries to jump. Jellicoe comes closest, but still falls short. Finally, it’s Unaarrimin’s turn. Before he jumps, he quiets himself. Stillness is the key. Then he springs into the air and grabs the possum ball with both hands before landing lightly on the balls of his feet. The others whoop and howl in celebration. He always outdoes the others in these games. They are used to it and they would be disappointed if he didn’t. Dicky Dick tells Unaarrimin to put it back up there. He wants to have a go. Unaarrimin tosses the possum ball up into the tree. Dicky Dick stands beneath it. He sizes it up from one angle. Then he looks up at it from another. With great drama, he looks over his thumb to calculate the height. He is finally ready. Then he runs to the tree’s trunk and scampers up with the agility of a koala. He shinnies out onto the limb and retrieves the ball, before dropping to the ground. The others, including the girls, applaud and laugh as he bows in all directions. The fruit bats banging around in the trees above him bring Unaarrimin out of his reverie. He banks the fire and lies on his back looking up through the trees until he falls asleep.
He wakes up as the new day dawns and has a full throated yawn and a leisurely stretch. He gathers some wood and refreshes the fire. After fetching some water in his billycan, he carefully sets it at the edge of the flames and tosses in a handful of tea. He sees a tall tree trunk a short distance away. He climbs up to the top and looks down inside the hollow. Just as he thought, there is a duck nest in the bottom with four large, white eggs resting in it. He takes two from the nest and leaves the others. Breakfast. He returns to the billabong and finds wattle ferns and grinds the seeds into flour between two rocks. Then he adds water and salt, shapes it into a loaf and puts it on the coals to become damper, bush bread. A feast at his fingertips.
Two more days pass in this same, relaxed, unhurried way. By now his day has a familiar routine. After he has had his morning tea, he goes out looking for food. The variety is limitless: one time he’ll trap a possum, another time he’ll catch a fish. Each day, he digs up some tubers, picks some leafy plants or collects nuts. One of the days, he feels especially daring. He climbs a tree and with the greatest delicacy, using a long stick, steals some honey without being attacked. He tries to imagine what it would be like to live by this billabong forever.
But on the morning of his fourth day, as he eats his morning meal, his mind feels unsettled. He is not focused on anything in general or anything in particular. But the euphoria of being free and on the land, which had so powerfully embraced him these past days, begins to fade. Something is bothering him. He knows he has to still himself. Whatever it is will reveal itself once he is still. It is the way he solves all problems. He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. As he feels himself calming, he begins unconsciously humming a song. Finally, he is where he is, focused, present. He suddenly becomes aware of the song he is humming. Alice had sung this song when they were children. Like a tidal wave, an enormous sorrow washes over him. He begins weeping shamelessly, the tears of a heartbroken child. It was only four days ago. It seems like an eternity.
Mr. Buckingham has asked Black Johnny to come into the shearing shed. They stand together, both uncomfortable for different reasons. Unaarrimin wonders if he’s done something wrong. He has always tried to be a good worker. Never complained about anything. Was happy just to be there on the station What could he have done? In the very back of his mind, he wonders if it has anything to do with Alice but dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. Mr. Buckingham is uncomfortable because he doesn’t like confrontation. And especially this one. He is perfectly happy with Black Johnny, finds him easy going, cooperative and good at his job. It’s only because of his wife that he is in this position. After a few more awkward minutes, Buckingham clears his throat and begins. “You know . . . Um . . . You see . . . If it was up to me . . . Well . . . Er . . . The Missus has a bit of ah . . . Oh, damn it, I’m going to have to let you go. That’s the size of it. You’ll have to leave the property. I’ve arranged some provisions for you, tea and sugar, salt, a blanket, a billy, matches, a good knife. But you’ll have to go.” Unaarrimin can only look at this man dumbfounded; this man who has been his guardian since he was orphaned as a little boy. “What have I done?” Unaarrimin asks. “Well, that’s just it, you see. It isn’t that you’ve done anything. It’s more like . . . um . . . look, Johnny, let’s just leave it that the Missus would rather you weren’t here anymore. Like I said, if it was up to me, we wouldn’t be having this talk. But you’ve got to go. Here, take this letter with you. It’ll help you get a job somewhere else. But she wants you off the property tomorrow. Early.”
Alice and Unaarrimin had been inseparable when they were children. She claimed him. She taught him to read. As she learned them, she taught him manners. They hiked all over Mullagh Station together. He taught her how to live in the bush, showing her what plants were edible; how to make bread, how to build a proper fire. They got into all manner of mischief together, stealing honey from Mrs. Buckingham’s cupboard and tobacco from Mr. Buckingham’s pouch. One time Unaarrimin twisted his ankle jumping from the roof of the shed because Alice dared him. When they saw that he was alright, they rolled on the ground together in fits of laughter. He remembers how infectious Alice’s laugh is. It’s like a melody, like music to him. He would always do anything to make her laugh. And she always did. One day he was teaching her how to throw a boomerang. “Hold it like this,’ he says. “Throw from the shoulder”. Alice cranks her arm for a mighty toss and cracks Unaarrimin in the nose. She starts laughing her magical laugh. Even when it starts bleeding, she’s still laughing. And by now, he is laughing too. Alice takes a handkerchief from her pocket and begins dabbing the blood. Then she gives it to him so he can apply enough pressure to stop the bleeding. All the while they are laughing uncontrollably.
But there is no laughter now. Now, he is filled with sadness as he empties the remains of the billy onto the fire and rolls up his swag. Where is he to go? What is he to do? He ambles away from the billabong, no longer conscious of freedom, but thinking of what he has lost, wondering if he’ll ever see her again.
* * * * *
It is late afternoon. He hears men’s voices coming from a clearing up ahead. As he approaches the clearing, he puts on his trousers. A group of men are in a paddock. They are playing a game of some kind. One of them throws a ball in the direction of another who is holding some kind of stick. Others are standing around the paddock. These men are both black and white and are having fun together. The man with the stick hits the ball that is thrown at him and it comes flying in Unaarrimin’s direction. An Aboriginal man is chasing the ball. Unaarrimin steps into the clear and the ball comes to a stop at his feet. He’s wondering if it is alright to pick it up and toss it to the man running toward him. But before he can act, he hears the Aboriginal man shout out his name.
“Unaarrimin!” the man calls.
Now he looks more carefully at the man coming toward him and recognizes him from corroboree days. King Cole is on him and grabs him by the shoulders for a mighty hug. In language, he says, “Hello, my brother. I am happy to see you. ”
It takes a moment for Unaarrimin to remember. Then he says, “Bripumyarrimin?”
“I am called King Cole now.”
“King Cole?”
“Yes. It is because none of the white fellas can pronounce my name. What are you doing? Why are you here? Last I knew you were over at Mullagh Station.”
“They ran me off.”
“Why would they do that? What happened? What did you do?”
“Nothing. I think Mrs. Buckingham was afraid of what I might do. I don’t know.”
“So, you are free? Do you have work?”
“I am as free as a cockatoo.”
“You have to come with me. The Edwards run Pine Hills and they are good people. You’ll meet them and I’ll make sure they give you a job here. Murrumgunarriman and Boninbarngeet are here too.”
“They are?”
“Yep, but like me, they have “white” names too.”
“What are they called?”
“Two Penny and Tiger.”
As an actor, he was a regular on the hit daytime drama, All My Children, created the role of The Half-Percenter in Joe Papp’s production, Mondongo, appeared in countless television programs, including The Incredible Hulk, The Mary Tyler Moore Hour and had a starring role in the holiday horror classic film, New Year’s Evil.
As a producer, he put on New York: A Great Place to Live at Lincoln Center which kicked off New York City’s Diamond Jubilee; for Channel Five in New York, he produced the highly acclaimed Harlem Cultural Festival; at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, he produced Uptown Sunday Afternoon, which was hosted by Harry Belafonte and featured Richard Pryor, Bill Withers, and a galaxy of other performers; for the National Organization for Women, he produced A Valentine’s Day Tribute to Woman at New York’s Town Hall; was associate producer of the first Ali-Frazier Heavyweight Championship Fight at Madison Square Garden, and produced the gigantic block party, hosted by Gwen Verdon, which named West 46th Street as Restaurant Row. .
He earned the Silver Award at the New York International Film and Television Festival for In the Balance, a film that advocated sustainability and common sense in wildlife management. It was also singled out by the Department of the Interior as one of the best films of its kind. Chris wrote, narrated and wrote the musical score for that film.
He performed on several children’s television programs in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington D.C. and Jacksonville, singing his original children’s songs. In Hollywood, he performed them for all denominations of Big Brothers and Big Sisters of America. He created a musical, A Special Thing to Be, at the Los Angeles Children’s Museum that featured his kids’ songs and the museum’s children’s chorus.
He wrote the songs for two children’s theatre productions in Hollywood, Hooray, Here Comes the Circus and Sleeping Beauty; wrote and performed the songs on Strong Kids, Safe Kids, a video produced by Henry Winkler for Paramount that dealt with the protection of children from sexual molestation and exploitation. He created his first musical revue, Greatest Hits, in Hollywood, which played several venues, including Carlos ‘n’ Charlie’s on Sunset Strip and The Backlot in West Hollywood.
Upon relocating to Australia, he produced A Helping Hand at the Victorian Arts Centre, a benefit for Quadriplegic Hand Foundation; wrote book, music and lyrics for Nothing to Wear, a musical based on “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” also produced at the Victorian Arts Centre. He created a one-man show, A Thing of Shreds & Patches, for the Melbourne Fringe Festival; created another one-man show, The Mark Twain You Don’t Know, which toured Australia, then Pacific Palisades, California, and played in New York City on the 100th anniversary of Mark Twain’s death. He created several cabaret shows for The Butterfly Club in Melbourne, most notable of which was Les Femmes which featured an all female cast. He wrote, produced and performed in Huckleberry: A Musical Adventure which premiered in Melbourne.
Which brings us to The Dreaming Team. This is his second book. The first, Hollywood Mosaic is written under the pen name, Pete Joseph.
You can visit his website at www.olentangymusic.com.
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