JB Rowley's Blog - Posts Tagged "australia"
The Woman at the Back of the Room
The woman at the back of the room paved the way for Quentin Bryce to become Australia’s Governor-General and Julia Gillard to become Australia’s Prime Minister. Back in those days men scoffed at ‘this nonsensical idea of giving women the vote’. They exposed their own foolishness by objecting to the idea of women having the right to stand for Federal Parliament with the argument that ‘members would not do their work if ladies sat beside them’. However, for Louisa Lawson it was simply ‘a just privilege so long denied’.
The following story about Louisa Lawson’s role in yanking out the weeds of prejudice on the path to women’s suffrage won me an award and publication in Marngrook.
The Woman at the Back of the Room
In an auditorium packed with women eager to celebrate the historic occasion one woman in a high-collared dress, her dark hair swept up in a style more functional than fashionable sat unnoticed in the back row.
It is September 1902. Golden wattles hint at a bright new dawn, spring rains generate hope that the drought might soon be over and the world’s greatest opera singer, Australia’s Dame Nellie Melba, has returned home for a triumphant concert season. The women who pack the hall of the School of Arts in Sydney are there to celebrate something more important than the start of a new season, more significant than the breaking of the drought, more momentous even than the world-wide success of their compatriot. They are there to rejoice the blossoming of a new world for women.
“It has taken years of struggle,” said one speaker from the platform at the front of the hall, “but the Commonwealth Franchise Act has finally granted us what should have been our right from the beginning; the right to vote.”
The crowd cheered and applauded. The speaker continued.
“The Act also gives women the right to stand for election to the Federal Parliament, making Australian women the first in the world to be able to do so.”
More enthusiastic applause and cheering almost drowned out her final words. The exhilaration of the occasion rippled through the hall but the woman sitting at the back of the room seemed detached from the excitement. Her dark eyes reflected signs of disappointment. Her mouth was set in a firm line of dissatisfaction.
She glared at the official podium overcrowded with special guests and politicians, as well as office bearers from the Womanhood Suffrage League. Why hadn’t she been invited to be up there? She had worked harder for this day than any of those people on the podium.
The woman’s disappointment took her back to a time when she had first experienced such profound disenchantment. She was thirteen years old again, standing on the dirt floor of the slab hut in Mudgee that had been home for her, her numerous siblings and her parents.
Mr Allpass, her teacher, had suggested that when she turned fourteen she could train as a pupil teacher. Wanting very much to take up this opportunity she had waited impatiently for her parents to sign the necessary papers but they had not done so. She could not understand why her mother was opposed to the idea.
“It won’t interfere with my schooling, Mother. The training is done after lessons.”
Her mother turned from the old wood stove, waved away a hovering fly and swept back loose strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes before she answered with a stern look.
“You’ll do the training after lessons, will you? And who do you think is going to help me with the children if you are at the school house till all hours.”
“It’s only for a couple of extra hours, Mother. Anyway, what about Emma? She’s the eldest, why can’t she help you when I am not here?”
“Your sister has her hands full looking after the babies, as well you know, young lady.”
“But Mother, after two years I will get paid. I can help you by earning money.”
“Earn money? Earn money, indeed. A woman’s place is in the home. What man will want you if you go around giving yourself airs above your station. Men do not want to marry women who are smarter than they are. Your fanciful ideas will ruin your chances of making a good marriage.”
“But Mother, getting married is not enough for me. I want to do things, I want to achieve things. Mr Allpass says I could be a fine writer one day.”
A sharp look of disapproval crossed her mother’s face. “A fine writer is it? Writing such nonsense as this, I suppose.” She reached into her apron pocket, retrieved a piece of paper and held it aloft between her thumb and forefinger as though she were holding a dead mouse by the tail. She eyed it with the same distaste she might bestow on the rodent. “I’ve told you before; this nonsense you are writing is not fit for respectable people to set eyes on.” Her mother screwed the piece of paper up into a tight ball, enclosing it in her clenched fist.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s just a poem about the bush. Mr Allpass said it was a good poem.”
“Mr Allpass indeed!”
Protecting her hand from the heat with an old cloth set aside for the purpose, her mother turned the handle of the small iron door at the front of the stove and flung the crumpled piece of paper into the fire chamber. The flames devoured her beautiful poem. Her mother closed the chamber door firmly, straightened and turned back to her daughter.
“You need to get your thoughts in order, young lady. This world is for men not women. You will only create misery for yourself with your foolish dreams.”
“Why, Mother? Why? Why can’t women do more than just look after babies?
“Because that’s the way it is and the sooner you accept it the better.”
“Well, that is not the way it’s going to be for me. If a job doesn’t need muscles and brawn a woman can do it just as well as any man. One day I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone. I’m going to do something to make the world a better place for women.”
“That’s enough from you, young lady. There’s work to be done and you can start by peeling the potatoes.”
Loud cheers and applause brought the woman from her reverie. When she realised who the crowd was cheering she sat forward with alert interest. It was Vida Goldstein. By starting a newspaper in Victoria advocating women’s rights, Vida had copied what she herself had already done in NSW. She listened in anticipation of hearing her name mentioned, her thick dark eyebrows coming together in concentration. Vida Goldstein spoke about the history of the women’s suffrage movement and mentioned several people who had contributed to the good fight. Each person’s name was greeted with applause and cheers. However, Goldstein finished her triumphant victory speech without referring to the woman who sat at the back of the hall.
The anguish from her childhood memory was transferred to the present with bitter thoughts. She was the first to start a newspaper for women but Goldstein has conveniently forgotten that. And have they all forgotten she was also the first to publicly call for women to have the vote? That was back in 1888 through her Ladies Column in The Republican. Ever since then she had fought for women’s rights. She had also been one of the founding members of the Womanhood Suffrage League.
Waiting around to endure the indignity of further indifference was something she did not propose to do so while the official speeches continued the woman pulled on her gloves and picked up her bag. With cat-like disdain, she rose from her seat and crossed the room. A strong, tall physique was revealed, the puffed sleeves of her floor length dress accentuating her height and adding to the width of her ample shoulders. Despite her commanding physical presence the women in the audience, who were giving their full attention to those on the front stage, did not see her as she made her way to the door. However, on reaching the exit her departure was stalled by a woman dressed in a lace-collared satin gown with immaculately coiffed hair who stepped in front of her.
“Louisa,” said Margaret Windeyer, gently taking her arm. “Please do not leave yet.”
Someone in the crowd turned and, recognising the woman in the doorway, called out.
“Mrs Lawson! Louisa Lawson is here.”
Others in the crowd called her name.
“Louisa.”
“Louisa Lawson.”
A startled expression which quickly turned to pleasure crossed the woman’s face. She stepped back into the room. Hands began to clap.
The speeches had ceased. All those on the podium joined in the applause. A wave of enthusiasm brought the whole audience to its feet. Long, voluminous skirts swished as the women rose from their seats and turned toward the back of the room.
Louisa Lawson was swept by a torrent of excitement down the aisle and up to the podium. Miss Rose Scott, a genteel lady and secretary of the Womanhood Suffrage League, applauded her onto the platform. Miss Scott, her fair hair curling out from under a pert hat, raised her hand to silence the audience After following the customary protocol of acknowledging honourable and distinguished guests she then focused on Louisa Lawson.
“This lady is the pioneer who started our journey. She was the first to give public voice to our cause. By the time she joined us as a founding member of the League she had already fought fiercely for womanhood suffrage through her excellent newspaper, The Dawn, and later the Dawn Club. It gives me much pleasure to welcome, Mrs Louisa Lawson, the mother of womanhood suffrage in NSW.”
A storm of applause broke forth and thundered through the room. As she stepped forward, her bearing radiating dignity and pride, Louisa Lawson sent a silent message to a departed one. I told you I would make the world a better place for women, Mother.
………………….
JB (Mother of Ten the sequel to Whisper My Secret is now available at Amazon in paperback. I am still working on my next book, a murder mystery set in Australia, but cannot name a date for its release as yet.)
The following story about Louisa Lawson’s role in yanking out the weeds of prejudice on the path to women’s suffrage won me an award and publication in Marngrook.
The Woman at the Back of the Room
In an auditorium packed with women eager to celebrate the historic occasion one woman in a high-collared dress, her dark hair swept up in a style more functional than fashionable sat unnoticed in the back row.
It is September 1902. Golden wattles hint at a bright new dawn, spring rains generate hope that the drought might soon be over and the world’s greatest opera singer, Australia’s Dame Nellie Melba, has returned home for a triumphant concert season. The women who pack the hall of the School of Arts in Sydney are there to celebrate something more important than the start of a new season, more significant than the breaking of the drought, more momentous even than the world-wide success of their compatriot. They are there to rejoice the blossoming of a new world for women.
“It has taken years of struggle,” said one speaker from the platform at the front of the hall, “but the Commonwealth Franchise Act has finally granted us what should have been our right from the beginning; the right to vote.”
The crowd cheered and applauded. The speaker continued.
“The Act also gives women the right to stand for election to the Federal Parliament, making Australian women the first in the world to be able to do so.”
More enthusiastic applause and cheering almost drowned out her final words. The exhilaration of the occasion rippled through the hall but the woman sitting at the back of the room seemed detached from the excitement. Her dark eyes reflected signs of disappointment. Her mouth was set in a firm line of dissatisfaction.
She glared at the official podium overcrowded with special guests and politicians, as well as office bearers from the Womanhood Suffrage League. Why hadn’t she been invited to be up there? She had worked harder for this day than any of those people on the podium.
The woman’s disappointment took her back to a time when she had first experienced such profound disenchantment. She was thirteen years old again, standing on the dirt floor of the slab hut in Mudgee that had been home for her, her numerous siblings and her parents.
Mr Allpass, her teacher, had suggested that when she turned fourteen she could train as a pupil teacher. Wanting very much to take up this opportunity she had waited impatiently for her parents to sign the necessary papers but they had not done so. She could not understand why her mother was opposed to the idea.
“It won’t interfere with my schooling, Mother. The training is done after lessons.”
Her mother turned from the old wood stove, waved away a hovering fly and swept back loose strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes before she answered with a stern look.
“You’ll do the training after lessons, will you? And who do you think is going to help me with the children if you are at the school house till all hours.”
“It’s only for a couple of extra hours, Mother. Anyway, what about Emma? She’s the eldest, why can’t she help you when I am not here?”
“Your sister has her hands full looking after the babies, as well you know, young lady.”
“But Mother, after two years I will get paid. I can help you by earning money.”
“Earn money? Earn money, indeed. A woman’s place is in the home. What man will want you if you go around giving yourself airs above your station. Men do not want to marry women who are smarter than they are. Your fanciful ideas will ruin your chances of making a good marriage.”
“But Mother, getting married is not enough for me. I want to do things, I want to achieve things. Mr Allpass says I could be a fine writer one day.”
A sharp look of disapproval crossed her mother’s face. “A fine writer is it? Writing such nonsense as this, I suppose.” She reached into her apron pocket, retrieved a piece of paper and held it aloft between her thumb and forefinger as though she were holding a dead mouse by the tail. She eyed it with the same distaste she might bestow on the rodent. “I’ve told you before; this nonsense you are writing is not fit for respectable people to set eyes on.” Her mother screwed the piece of paper up into a tight ball, enclosing it in her clenched fist.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s just a poem about the bush. Mr Allpass said it was a good poem.”
“Mr Allpass indeed!”
Protecting her hand from the heat with an old cloth set aside for the purpose, her mother turned the handle of the small iron door at the front of the stove and flung the crumpled piece of paper into the fire chamber. The flames devoured her beautiful poem. Her mother closed the chamber door firmly, straightened and turned back to her daughter.
“You need to get your thoughts in order, young lady. This world is for men not women. You will only create misery for yourself with your foolish dreams.”
“Why, Mother? Why? Why can’t women do more than just look after babies?
“Because that’s the way it is and the sooner you accept it the better.”
“Well, that is not the way it’s going to be for me. If a job doesn’t need muscles and brawn a woman can do it just as well as any man. One day I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone. I’m going to do something to make the world a better place for women.”
“That’s enough from you, young lady. There’s work to be done and you can start by peeling the potatoes.”
Loud cheers and applause brought the woman from her reverie. When she realised who the crowd was cheering she sat forward with alert interest. It was Vida Goldstein. By starting a newspaper in Victoria advocating women’s rights, Vida had copied what she herself had already done in NSW. She listened in anticipation of hearing her name mentioned, her thick dark eyebrows coming together in concentration. Vida Goldstein spoke about the history of the women’s suffrage movement and mentioned several people who had contributed to the good fight. Each person’s name was greeted with applause and cheers. However, Goldstein finished her triumphant victory speech without referring to the woman who sat at the back of the hall.
The anguish from her childhood memory was transferred to the present with bitter thoughts. She was the first to start a newspaper for women but Goldstein has conveniently forgotten that. And have they all forgotten she was also the first to publicly call for women to have the vote? That was back in 1888 through her Ladies Column in The Republican. Ever since then she had fought for women’s rights. She had also been one of the founding members of the Womanhood Suffrage League.
Waiting around to endure the indignity of further indifference was something she did not propose to do so while the official speeches continued the woman pulled on her gloves and picked up her bag. With cat-like disdain, she rose from her seat and crossed the room. A strong, tall physique was revealed, the puffed sleeves of her floor length dress accentuating her height and adding to the width of her ample shoulders. Despite her commanding physical presence the women in the audience, who were giving their full attention to those on the front stage, did not see her as she made her way to the door. However, on reaching the exit her departure was stalled by a woman dressed in a lace-collared satin gown with immaculately coiffed hair who stepped in front of her.
“Louisa,” said Margaret Windeyer, gently taking her arm. “Please do not leave yet.”
Someone in the crowd turned and, recognising the woman in the doorway, called out.
“Mrs Lawson! Louisa Lawson is here.”
Others in the crowd called her name.
“Louisa.”
“Louisa Lawson.”
A startled expression which quickly turned to pleasure crossed the woman’s face. She stepped back into the room. Hands began to clap.
The speeches had ceased. All those on the podium joined in the applause. A wave of enthusiasm brought the whole audience to its feet. Long, voluminous skirts swished as the women rose from their seats and turned toward the back of the room.
Louisa Lawson was swept by a torrent of excitement down the aisle and up to the podium. Miss Rose Scott, a genteel lady and secretary of the Womanhood Suffrage League, applauded her onto the platform. Miss Scott, her fair hair curling out from under a pert hat, raised her hand to silence the audience After following the customary protocol of acknowledging honourable and distinguished guests she then focused on Louisa Lawson.
“This lady is the pioneer who started our journey. She was the first to give public voice to our cause. By the time she joined us as a founding member of the League she had already fought fiercely for womanhood suffrage through her excellent newspaper, The Dawn, and later the Dawn Club. It gives me much pleasure to welcome, Mrs Louisa Lawson, the mother of womanhood suffrage in NSW.”
A storm of applause broke forth and thundered through the room. As she stepped forward, her bearing radiating dignity and pride, Louisa Lawson sent a silent message to a departed one. I told you I would make the world a better place for women, Mother.
………………….
JB (Mother of Ten the sequel to Whisper My Secret is now available at Amazon in paperback. I am still working on my next book, a murder mystery set in Australia, but cannot name a date for its release as yet.)
It's a mystery
It’s a mystery, not a murder mystery, but a mystery just the same. It all began a few months ago when I was listening to the car radio on my way to an appointment. Nothing much on my usual station so I was flicking through the channels. That’s when I heard a voice, such a voice. I was so captivated that I knew I had to find out the name of the singer. The song was still in progress when I arrived at the place of my appointment, but I stayed in the car with the radio on waiting for the announcer to tell me who owned that voice. The song turned out to be a lengthy one, but there was no way I was going to turn the radio off until it was over and I found out the name of the singer. I had fallen helplessly, hopelessly, overwhelmingly in love with his voice.
The mystery is how that came about. You see, he was singing opera. I DO NOT like opera. Not one bit. For someone like me who loves simplicity, opera is an anathema. It’s an extravagant spectacle of emotional torture and opulent costumes. It’s over-the-top. Every moment is milked for drama. The performers use so many words when a few would do. And on top of all that the opera is not sung in English so I cannot follow the narrative (or I have to follow it ‘second hand’ through subtitles). So how is it that I could be profoundly affected by an opera singer’s voice?
And what’s more, this was not the first time. Many years ago I fell in love with the voice of another opera singer when I went to see a French movie called Diva. The voice of Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez bewitched me and I have never forgotten the moment in the movie when I first heard her sing. Perhaps that early ‘infatuation’ paved the way for the emotional impact of the voice I heard on the car radio.
When the ‘song’ (apparently opera does not use that term) on the radio concluded I wasn’t able to hear the name of the singer. Unfortunately, the reception was not clear, perhaps because it was a community radio station. When the singer’s name was announced, all I could pick up through the static was a first name that might have been Fergus and a surname which sounded like Hoffman.
It took quite a lot of searching later that evening on the internet to finally work out that the name of the singer whose voice had entrapped me was Jonas Kaufman.
Strangely enough, although I complain of not being able to understand the words of an opera, it does not matter at all that I don’t understand the words sung by Wilhelmenia Fernandez or Jonas Kaufmann. Perhaps it is something about the quality of their voices that enchants me. Does the solution to the mystery have to do with sound?
I was brought up on the sounds of the Australian bush. Since there are no buildings, sound is free to travel in the bush. This meant that the sounds of nature enveloped us day and night. As I comment in Mother of Ten: ‘Our natural amphitheatre was vast and yet the crisp, clear sounds wrapped us in a sweet intimacy.’ Those sounds are a long way from the voices of opera and yet perhaps there is a link.
Is there anyone out there who can help me solve the mystery of why I can make an instant spiritual connection with an opera voice while still feeling repulsed by opera? I cannot ponder it any longer as I need to get back to writing a murder mystery which I hope to have finished for release later this year.
The mystery is how that came about. You see, he was singing opera. I DO NOT like opera. Not one bit. For someone like me who loves simplicity, opera is an anathema. It’s an extravagant spectacle of emotional torture and opulent costumes. It’s over-the-top. Every moment is milked for drama. The performers use so many words when a few would do. And on top of all that the opera is not sung in English so I cannot follow the narrative (or I have to follow it ‘second hand’ through subtitles). So how is it that I could be profoundly affected by an opera singer’s voice?
And what’s more, this was not the first time. Many years ago I fell in love with the voice of another opera singer when I went to see a French movie called Diva. The voice of Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez bewitched me and I have never forgotten the moment in the movie when I first heard her sing. Perhaps that early ‘infatuation’ paved the way for the emotional impact of the voice I heard on the car radio.
When the ‘song’ (apparently opera does not use that term) on the radio concluded I wasn’t able to hear the name of the singer. Unfortunately, the reception was not clear, perhaps because it was a community radio station. When the singer’s name was announced, all I could pick up through the static was a first name that might have been Fergus and a surname which sounded like Hoffman.
It took quite a lot of searching later that evening on the internet to finally work out that the name of the singer whose voice had entrapped me was Jonas Kaufman.
Strangely enough, although I complain of not being able to understand the words of an opera, it does not matter at all that I don’t understand the words sung by Wilhelmenia Fernandez or Jonas Kaufmann. Perhaps it is something about the quality of their voices that enchants me. Does the solution to the mystery have to do with sound?
I was brought up on the sounds of the Australian bush. Since there are no buildings, sound is free to travel in the bush. This meant that the sounds of nature enveloped us day and night. As I comment in Mother of Ten: ‘Our natural amphitheatre was vast and yet the crisp, clear sounds wrapped us in a sweet intimacy.’ Those sounds are a long way from the voices of opera and yet perhaps there is a link.
Is there anyone out there who can help me solve the mystery of why I can make an instant spiritual connection with an opera voice while still feeling repulsed by opera? I cannot ponder it any longer as I need to get back to writing a murder mystery which I hope to have finished for release later this year.
Murder in Murloo
Yay! I’ve finally started my journey as a murder mystery writer. After years of reading crime fiction, especially that from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction, I’m overjoyed to be now writing my own series. I’m celebrating my new venture with a new name: Brigid George. This pen name is a tribute to my father, George Rowley, who always called me Brigid.
Although I say I’ve just started my journey, it really started over forty years ago when I began reading mystery authors such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers, Josephine Tey and Ngaio Marsh. Thousands of hours of reading these and other crime fiction writers have prepared me for writing in the genre. Readers of Whisper My Secret might suggest that this journey started even earlier with the mysterious secret that lurked in our family. Whatever the starting point, I love writing murder mysteries as much as I love reading them.
I chose to write the type of book I most like to read: a ‘cosy’ whodunit. When I’m in bed, such stories are perfect. The fascination of the puzzle holds me spellbound until I arrive at sleep land in what seems like no time at all. When the violence and horror in the daily news broadcasts create in me a desperate desire to know that order can be restored to our world, it’s a whodunit I reach for.
Murder in Murloo, the first book in my mystery series, is a whodunit set in a small Australian fishing village overlooking the Southern Ocean. The village is a fictional place but is inspired by Marlo in East Gippsland where I grew up.
The series features Dusty Kent, a feisty petite redhead with a black belt in karate and a passion for flushing out murderers. Accompanied by her ‘Watson’, a travelling Irishman by the name of Sean O’Kelly, Dusty is determined to uncover the ‘miserable murderous maggot’ who callously terminated the life of a young woman.
In putting the story together I’ve received much appreciated help along the way from my writing groups and beta readers as well as professional crime fiction editor, Lisanne Radice. Lisanne’s impeccable manuscript guidance has taught me a great deal. As a mere apprentice in this genre I know I have more to learn, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere! I believe I‘ve started at an excellent point with Murder in Murloo. According to one of my beta readers: “It’s a bloody good read.”
A crucial element in my development as a writer has been the role of Amazon in providing unprecedented publishing opportunities. Writers can only grow if their work is widely read. Feedback from readers by way of letters, emails, blogs, social media and reviews, motivate writers and help them to improve their skills. My sincere thanks to those who read my books and those who write reviews. Readers are invaluable. Reader reviews are extremely helpful.
Although I say I’ve just started my journey, it really started over forty years ago when I began reading mystery authors such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers, Josephine Tey and Ngaio Marsh. Thousands of hours of reading these and other crime fiction writers have prepared me for writing in the genre. Readers of Whisper My Secret might suggest that this journey started even earlier with the mysterious secret that lurked in our family. Whatever the starting point, I love writing murder mysteries as much as I love reading them.
I chose to write the type of book I most like to read: a ‘cosy’ whodunit. When I’m in bed, such stories are perfect. The fascination of the puzzle holds me spellbound until I arrive at sleep land in what seems like no time at all. When the violence and horror in the daily news broadcasts create in me a desperate desire to know that order can be restored to our world, it’s a whodunit I reach for.
Murder in Murloo, the first book in my mystery series, is a whodunit set in a small Australian fishing village overlooking the Southern Ocean. The village is a fictional place but is inspired by Marlo in East Gippsland where I grew up.
The series features Dusty Kent, a feisty petite redhead with a black belt in karate and a passion for flushing out murderers. Accompanied by her ‘Watson’, a travelling Irishman by the name of Sean O’Kelly, Dusty is determined to uncover the ‘miserable murderous maggot’ who callously terminated the life of a young woman.
In putting the story together I’ve received much appreciated help along the way from my writing groups and beta readers as well as professional crime fiction editor, Lisanne Radice. Lisanne’s impeccable manuscript guidance has taught me a great deal. As a mere apprentice in this genre I know I have more to learn, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere! I believe I‘ve started at an excellent point with Murder in Murloo. According to one of my beta readers: “It’s a bloody good read.”
A crucial element in my development as a writer has been the role of Amazon in providing unprecedented publishing opportunities. Writers can only grow if their work is widely read. Feedback from readers by way of letters, emails, blogs, social media and reviews, motivate writers and help them to improve their skills. My sincere thanks to those who read my books and those who write reviews. Readers are invaluable. Reader reviews are extremely helpful.
