This has been such a strange time to be launching a book. I am very grateful to Fremantle Press for supporting me with their expertise in all things electronic. Certainly something I’m not good at, but I’m learning – fast. As the date of the planned celebration approached it became abundantly clear that we were not going to be able to have the ‘outback pub comes to Perth’, live music event for just under 100 people in the Theatre at the State Library of WA. But, even though the book had been released a month before, somehow I couldn’t quite let the day go by unmarked. I enlisted the help of my friend Michael Wheatley who made the following video and put it up on YouTube for me.

So clap along to the Goldfields Girl Rap and click on the link below it to see what happened next.

Hey! Hey! It’s the 7th  of May

At last! At Last! The 7th of May

But what do they say

When I knock on their door?

No! No! Wait some more!

Ten people only? they say

 

NO WAY!

 

Click on the link below to see what happened next.

 

https://youtu.be/eXwHGEJuV0g

 

We will be rescheduling as soon as possible. Watch this space.

The goldfields are full of unusual characters. Here’s one from Coolgardie 1894. His name is Edwin Greenslade Murphy, but he often went under the name Dryblower Murphy, or just Dryblower. He was a man of many talents, none of which you would expect to find in the harsh, dry as dust field known as Bayley’s Reward, in 1894.

Dryblower Murphy was born in Victoria to a potter and clay worker. But from an early age it was obvious that he had a wanderlust about him. He had a good tenor voice and became an opera singer, joining the J.C. Williamson Opera Company, travelling with them and singing in the chorus  for two or three years. When the gold rush began in WA in 1892 he left the Opera Company for the life of a prospector. He walked from Perth to Coolgardie, arriving not long after the ragged collection of tents and diggings had been declared a town.  With his obvious skills as an entertainer he quickly became a popular figure in the bar of an evening, leading the singing and telling yarns or reciting his poems. Although he travelled briefly to London to promote the Esmerelda Gold Mine, when that slumped he returned to WA. Back in Coolgardie he and Billy Claire set up the Coolgardie Miner. At that point Dryblower began in earnest to write poems and bush ballads. Henry Lawson and Banjo Patterson were also writing bush ballads. They were being published in The Bulletin and Dryblower’s work sometimes appeared alongside theirs. In Coolgardie he and his wife were an important part of the community and close friends of Clara Saunders. At a time when very few women ventured so far from civilisation it seems he was more observant than most men and sympathetic to the lot of goldfields women. In the first verse of his poem, Cooking and Patching their Dungaree Pants he writes:

Think on it, dwell on it, mining camp man;
Picture the woman’s monotonous lot!
Dusting the dug-out and cooking the scran
Out in some weary unwomanly spot
Not that we want to create discontent,
Not that we want rebellion to brew
But picture yourself in a tattered old tent
Baking the brownie and stirring the stew,
Hefting around like the hardworking ant,
Cooking and patching their dungaree pants.

Cooking and Patching their Dungaree Pants by Dryblower Murphy

Later Dryblower became a journalist with the Sunday Times and wrote many thousands of poems, articles, ballads; and one novel.

Everyone of us has faced fear, uncertainty, pain and sorrow, especially in the last two months. The important things to remember are who we are and how far we have come. Fear itself is now our greatest enemy.

To remind myself of this I pulled out photos of my ancestors who fought in major wars including the Boer War where one of them, George Whitton, was court marshalled and narrowly escaped being shot at dawn with Breaker Morant. There was also my great uncle Tom, who was killed at Gallipoli, and my uncles and an aunt who served in WWII. But like the girl in the Maurice Sendak story, Mr Rabbit and the Lovely Present, I felt these illustrious ancestors needed more recognition in these testing times.

A cotoneaster tree, conveniently growing in our garden, provided some flexible branches. The red roses are blooming nicely at the moment. And a red ribbon from a box of chocolates provided a nice finishing touch to my Anzac Day wreath. Just before dawn on Saturday I lit my biggest red candle and put it in the window, with the photos facing out onto our driveway. When I looked out along the street there were already similar displays in other driveways, placed there to acknowledge the courage and can-do spirit of our service men and women, who went to war to defend our way of life and to show the world who we are and who we can be.

The present war against covid-19 is scary. But we will come through it if we can hold tight to the legacy of courage and mateship shown by those who have already stood firm on the brink of the unknown. Fear can paralyse us, but if we shift the focus on to others who need us, our own terrors can be forgotten for a while.

Bon courage

Books about the end of the world as we know it are already emerging. Dystopian novels, prescient in their timing, uncanny in their descriptions of our present situation, although called by a different name, are being reviewed this weekend. In one case it is almost a year since the book was first published, which means the author had the idea long before that. Even my own, Goldfields Girl, has its echos of a past pandemic. Like covid-19, typhoid is invisible, highly contagious and thrives in places where hygiene and sanitation are almost non existent.

In September 1892 the largest movement of people in Australia’s history occurred. People from all over the world flocked to the newly discovered reef of pure gold which was eventually called Coolgardie. They followed a very basic track for three days out into the desert east of Southern Cross. But there was no such thing as social distancing in those days. Prospectors pitched their tents in close proximity to each other. They clustered together, not only for company but for safety from the vast, unknown desert. And from  thieves who might try to steal their meagre stash of gold, or even their life – especially if the thief had already been driven crazy by thirst. Like the corona virus, typhoid thrived in the camps where there was no water to drink, let alone for washing your hands, your cooking pot or the shared enamel dinner plate both you and your newfound mate ate from. The death toll was so high in those first few months on the new diggings that one man wrote in a letter to his friend: ‘One half of Coolgardie spends all of its time buying the other half.’ But those who did survive to tell the tale, like 14year old Clara Saunders, speak of the camaraderie that develops between people who struggle against a common enemy and share what little they have. Encouragingly the same can be said for most of us in the present crisis. Already there are stories emerging. Tales of small acts of random kindness to strangers. Useful little treasures of innovation shared with neighbours. And, most importantly, the gift of laughter.

Stay healthy. And exercise your sense of humour.

Families build their own traditions. It helps them stay connected in ways that are unique and special to them. In our family the Easter Egg Hunt, on Easter Sunday, is one of them. But this year, with most people directed to stay inside, the event the children looked forward to most looked to be in danger of cancellation. To successfully hide the eggs at their house, not ours as we usually do, was complicated by the arrival of a new puppy ten days ago. This new member of the family is a ruthless hunter and gatherer of anything shiny or vaguely edible that she can reach. Her presence  narrowed down the possible hiding places for chocolate eggs to almost zero. Some creative thinking was obviously called for.

The Easter Bunny, hampered as she was by these untimely restrictions on movement, plus a new puppy, had to think long and hard about how to pull off this important event in our family life. The dog slept in the house. She was let out into the fenced back garden as soon as she woke up, which ruled out that option. The unfenced front garden, which was only separated from a busy road by a footpath and narrow verge was not ideal. Tasty chocolate eggs would be vulnerable to passer’s-by, neighbours children, dogs and the local birds. Clearly some innovative and creative thinking was required – and eventually, some string, scissors and (lightbulb moment) four small draw-string bags. At last there was a plan. But would it work?

I chose my time – 7am. Light enough to see. Minimal traffic. I drove down their street and parked my car out of sight. Disguised in my black leggings and top I approached silently. The shutters on their house were still down. Phew! Now, with the resident birds all chattering at me at full volume I had to tie the four bags to what I hoped were inconspicuous branches in the trees near their house. After a few nervous fumbles, it was done. I high-tailed it out of there, leapt into my car, and drove home. From the safety of my dining room I sent this text to my grandson: ‘The Easter Bunny is in lockdown so she  has sent a high-flying chicken to set up your Easter Egg Hunt this year. Good luck.‘

Happy Easter. I hope you have managed to have as much fun as I did.

Like the Bunyip of Berkley’s Creek, I find myself forced to confront my own image of myself in the mirror of covid19. After delivering a tirade along the lines of ‘How dare the government force me into a pigeon hole and try to define me by a number? I pay my taxes. I have been running my own business – from home – for years!’. My Bunyip mirror looks back at me with a frown and says, ‘What are you? Is this really you?’ Having grown up in small, isolated country towns, one of them a lot like the Coolgardie of Clara Saunders’ time, one would think I would be able to handle isolation. But while I do acknowledge the need for our current lockdown, and I’m cheering because it does seem to be working, it has caused me to question whether I really am who I thought I was.

In these uncertain times everyone is under pressure. There is a sense that we no longer have any control of our lives. The law is changing daily. Responsible, law abiding citizens are threatened with huge fines just for leaving their house. Couples who have inconveniently fallen in love are banned from spending a night under the same roof. Adults who have railed against the amount of time children spend on their computers have taken away schools and sporting activities and driven those same children back into the arms of technology. In a world gone mad is it any wonder some of us loose our cool occasionally?

On the bright side, at least coronavirus is throwing up some funny moments. Today someone sent me a cartoon showing Greta Thunberg, incandescent with rage, saying, ‘This is not the way the world is supposed to end! We are meant to have a climate catastrophe! Not some beer virus.’

Keep smiling and stay calm.

Goldfields Girl by Elaine Forrestal

In the midst of all the doom and gloom a pleasant surprise came on Wednesday. My new book, Goldfields Girl, was released a month early! But the thrill was bitter sweet.

I had been talking about this book for so long, planning the big celebration, but also looking forward to all the little unexpected ones that come spontaneously when there is a new book on the scene. This time everything seems muted. The incredible team at Fremantle Press has been working frantically to spread the news. As the world, and the old rules, change day by day these brave people are creating new and innovative ways to connect with readers. I am so lucky to be able to stay busy, helping them produce new posts and online content for a whole range of different sites. It must be hard for people who find themselves with too much time on their hands when everything is changing so rapidly. Everyone at the Press remains positive and enthusiastic, but for me, leaping up, punching the air and dancing around the house is somehow not as satisfying as hugging my friends and seeing their eyes light up. Still Clara is finally out there! So buy yourself a copy for me to sign. I’m working on a digitally signed version of the old ‘Ex Libris’ stickers that you will be able to download and attach inside your book – just until I can give you a high-five and sign it for you face to face, in real time.

Can’t wait for all this social distancing stuff to be over. Please stay well.

Australians are known for their mate-ship and for banding together in times of crisis, but this coronavirus is pushing us apart. It is forcing us to distance ourselves, both physically and socially, not only from our friends but in some cases even our families.

On Monday my brother-in-law and his wife, who had gone to the UK for the funeral of a close family member, missed out by one day on getting back into Australia before the borders were closed. As a result they are now under house arrest! They are banned from leaving their suburban

property. In spite of living within half a km of the beach, they are not even allowed to go down there for a walk! Family members like us can deliver food and other essentials, if we can find them on the supermarket shelves, but we must leave them on their doorstep. We, or they, face a 50,000 dollar fine if we so much as enter their house. My sister-in-law is grieving her beloved aunt and we can’t even give her a comforting hug, even if we wear a surgical mask and gloves! How un-Australian is that? Normally healthy people are beginning to lose their confidence. I see them shrinking into themselves and becoming depressed. We know that persistent feelings of helplessness and despair suppress our immune systems. That creates a vicious circle we can certainly do without at the moment. Have we become completely paranoid? And is it the paranoia that will kill us more quickly than the virus itself?

As a writer I am used to isolation. And I am comfortable working on line. But there are times when we all need real contact, in real time, with real people. Let’s take sensible precautions, of course, but let’s make sure we don’t forget what it is to be human.

Leaching away common sense and confidence, as reactions to the coronavirus seem to be doing, is threatening to do more long term damage than the virus itself. We are social beings and most of us are capable of taking sensible precautions. Which is why it was such a joy to be at a large gathering of authors, illustrators, librarians, teachers and other supporters of the arts last week.

Elaine Forrestal disappearing into to a good book

The fact that human beings thrive on social contact is well researched and documented. We may seek it out to a greater or lesser degree, but if we are without it altogether for too long we begin to shrink into ourselves and become a shrivelled up version of artificial intelligence. While isolation may be a habit of choice for people pursuing any of the arts on a full-time basis, we become diminished, as people, if we are completely cut off from all contact with others. For me the dedicated hermit simply living off the land in complete isolation may be proving something to himself, but is adding nothing to the well-being of his fellow citizens.

Fortunately while 14 days seems like a long time to be in isolation, for most of us it is just long enough to read the pile of books on our bedside table. After that we desperately need to tell someone, in detail, what we thought of the stories. We need a gathering of people.

The first store on the new ‘field’ that surrounded Bayley’s Reward Reef in 1892

An outback pub is coming to the State Library of WA for the launch of Goldfields Girl on Thursday  7th May. Get out your pen and mark the date clearly in your calendar.

In the new ‘field’ surrounding Bayley’s Reward Reef in 1892 the one and only pub was the social centre for a rag-tag collection of prospectors from all over the world. Since water cost more than Champagne, the pub was the best place to quench their thirst after a hard day of scratching at the red desert dirt. And where so many men gathered there were always tall tales to be told and songs of their homelands to be sung.  Of course only the smallest and least fragile of musical instruments could be carried in the swag of a prospector, most of whom had walked the 168 miles from Southern Cross out into the desert. Mouth organs, squeeze boxes, tin whistles and the occasional ukulele had arrived with the men, but it wasn’t long before other instruments were cobbled together to add to the sound and rhythm. Empty wooden tea-chests were plentiful and, since nothing could ever be wasted in such a harsh environment, they were turned into drums. It was thirsty work in the relentless heat so there was no shortage of discarded bottle tops either. The men gathered them up and nailed them, close together in rows, onto a spare broom stick. The unique swish and rattle this instrument made added a new sound to accompany the tea-chest bass and swell the band.

If you have never experienced the enthusiasm and camaraderie of an evening in a bush pub – or even if you have and want to feel that excitement again, here’s your chance. Come along to the launch of Goldfields Girl on the 7th May and bring your friends, young and old.

Invitations coming soon.