One Friday night in 1973 (or thereabouts) in Rhyde Street, Toowoomba, we were sitting around playing cards when Dad came in and said, ‘Do you want to come down to Brisbane with me tomorrow? I’m going to meet my father.’
‘No,’ was our immediate response.
‘We only know one grandfather and that was Grandfather Martin,’ we all replied.
There was no more said, and we went back to playing cards. Many years would pass by and as I look back on that night, I’m filled with mixed emotions. I feel a deep sense of hurt for Dad knowing that we didn’t want to go with him to meet our biological grandfather.
I’m not making excuses for my decision not to go with Dad, but I believe that if he had approached us in a slightly different manner and said something like, ‘I would like you boys to accompany me to meet my father,’ then it may have been a completely different situation and that’s why I felt annoyed with him later on in life because I would have loved to meet my biological grandfather, and I wish that he had been more persuasive that evening.
Since Dad’s death, and as I grew older, I was always bothered by the events of that Friday night, and me being the oldest of Dad’s living children, I believed I had a responsibility to follow up and try to make contact with his father, our grandfather. And I believe that person is Jack Farlow. But before I go on, let me first go back a little …
The Kooma people of western Queensland have occupied lands around Bollon and the Nebine River areas for generations. My grandmother, Sarah Mitchell, who I called Granny, was one such person who lived there. Granny’s mother, Susan Andrews, was an Aboriginal woman from the Nebine who lived with a white man named Thomas Mitchell and he was the father of her many children.
Granny lived and worked around the district, and Clifton Station was one of the properties where she worked. It was also the place she gave birth to my father. I believe that Jack Farlow’s father managed Clifton Station around the time Granny worked there and from all accounts Jack was the father of my father, Jack Martin.
After much deliberation and lots of encouragement from my wife, I one day worked up enough courage to pick up the phone and call him.
‘Hello, I’m Garry Martin from Oakey, I’m the son of the late Jack Martin,’ I said, and went on, ‘I believe you are my father’s father.’
The voice on the other end of the phone replied, ‘Nice to meet you, Garry. I’m going up that way next week and perhaps we could catch up for a chat.’
We would continue to chat about nothing important for a while and then said goodbye to each other with a promise of meeting the following week. I was really happy, but more relieved than anything to know that I had now made contact with him.
However, my happiness soon turned to disappointment and anger because the following week he didn’t show. A few weeks passed by and I didn’t know what to do until one day I thought, ‘Bugger it’, I’m going to call him and find out what happened regardless of what he’d say.
My heart was in my mouth as I was waiting on someone to pick up the phone until finally… ‘Hello?’ came the voice on the other end. It was him.
I didn’t quite expect the reaction I got, but something inside prepared me for the outburst I was about to receive: ‘There were vicious rumours about me and your grandmother and it never happened.’ And he went on and on.
He completely denied ever having any association or relationship with Granny and rejected the notion that he was the father of my father. I didn’t take too kindly to the manner in which he spoke and his outright denial and the next day I wrote him a letter. I enclosed a small photograph of Dad and all I said was: ‘Please take a good look at the photo and ask yourself: Does this person look anything like me?’
I wanted to give his conscience a bit of a shake as I believe Dad’s features would be easily identifiable to someone with similar characteristics and if there was any resemblance he would certainly notice.
You wouldn’t believe it, but a few days later I got a letter written by his lawyer that stated something along the lines of: ‘Mr Farlow understands that you are wanting to find out who your father’s father is, but he assures you that he is not that person.’ Blah…blah…blah.
Mr Avery, our next-door neighbour in Rhyde Street, Toowoomba, once lived in Cunnamulla and knew Jack Farlow and his family and told Dad that he looked like him. I can only assume from those comments by Mr Avery that he and Dad must have been talking over the fence about who he believed was his father.
Olive Murphy, an elderly woman from Charleville, told me that she also knew the Farlows, as she lived in Wyandra for many years, and Clifton Station was a property out from there. She would also tell me that she believed Jack Farlow was Dad’s father, but naturally she had no specifics about whether or not he was, as it was only rumours at the time.
Dad was never registered at birth for obvious reasons and it was only through the kindness and understanding of Grandfather Martin that he willingly accepted him as his own and hence the name, ‘Jack Martin’.
I recall Mum telling me that when she and Dad went to get married in the courthouse in Charleville, that’s when Grandfather Martin officially gave him his surname.
I know it would have been difficult during the period that Granny worked on Clifton station for a person of colour and a white person to openly show their feelings of love for one another. However, regardless of any political sensitivity or any personal constraints surrounding their relationship, I would be delighted to know that they enjoyed romantic moments together and their love for each other was mutual.
It was strongly rumoured that Jack Farlow was sending Granny money to help support Dad and whilst it was only rumours at the time there’s evidence that he was doing this. Grandfather always had a motor vehicle to drive around in, and he was too old to work at the time, so I can only assume that he would use the money to buy the cars.
I can recall sitting in one of his cars with Granny and a few other kids waiting for the mail plane to come in.
He told us that he’d won some money for solving a crossword puzzle in the Post magazine and he was waiting on his cheque in the mail.
Garry Sonny Martin 