The frontier wars around our country have been a cause, in recent decades, for fervent debate between historians, played out in the media and in books. On our island the years of the so-called Black War caused fear on both sides of the conflict, but ‘war’, given the numbers involved, stretches the definition. Rather, it seems to have been a series of skirmishes, frightening nonetheless; often violently savage for the combatants and civilian populations. It was a battle the First Tasmanians were never going to win, given their decreasing population, internecine warfare, the ravages of disease and lack of fire-power. This was followed by a sad-beyond-words demise for them, only to rise as a recognised entity to again be a force to be reckoned with, in another sense, in more recent times.

Murray Johnson and Ian McFarlane, both steeped in the history of our first peoples, trace their story further in the one volume than has previously been the case, to my knowledge. Much of what ‘Van Diemen’s Land’ contains has been covered before, but the authors take the history from pre-contact times right up to the modern day – in fact to the recent controversy over the Brighton Bypass. The tome included accounts of the atrocious treatment of the Aborigines by the Bass Strait sealers around the time when the first European settlements on the island were being established; the second ‘war’ on the island between the local North West clans and the VDL company which lasted long after hostilities had ceased in other areas; as well as what happened on the islands after the cessation of Wybalenna. This last section was particularly welcome as it covered a stage that I knew scant detail about, a period from 1850 to1970 being accounted for. The traditional story, as I learnt at school many moons ago, ended with Oyster Cove and the death of Truganini. We now know, of course, that the presence of people of Aboriginal descent had a history that continued on.

All of the book is couched in prose that is eminently readable, patently well researched – as well as being, in parts, immensely disturbing. It also introduced me to some new players. The two Georges (Arthur and Robinson) are well known, as are Truganini and William Lanne. Those interested in the history of our state will know of the dark side of John Batman, thanks to Rohan Wilson’s novel ‘The Roving Party’. On the other side there are the resistance leaders such as Woorrady, Mannalargenna, Umerrah and the import, Musquito. And in present times there is a warrior of a different nature, Michael Mansell. But the newcomers to the list are as equal in fascination, as far as I am concerned, as the aforementioned.

Firstly the two scribes introduced me to the combination of Gilbert Robertson and Black Tom. Robertson (1794–1851), coloured colonialist and newspaper editor, was the son of a West Indies planter and his slave mistress. He was raised and educated by his well-connected grandfather in Scotland. Robertson arrived in Van Diemen’s Land in 1822 as a free settler. In 1828 he led the first ‘roving party’ to bring in Aborigines who had been waging attacks on white settlers. He was appointed chief constable of the Richmond district, but was remarkable in that he saw the Aborigines as patriots engaged in a war of resistance against the invaders. This is despite the fact that his party may have killed outright a number a number of them. He incurred the wrath of the establishment by standing up for the rights of the indigenous people, arguing that they should not be hung for their ‘crimes’, but treated as prisoners-of-war – not a popular opinion at the time. Given that, in at least one case he was successful in saving a life. As a whole the roving parties, with Batman to the fore, generally killed more than they bought in, even after Arthur put a bounty on those captured to be taken, initially, into incarceration. Robertson’s relationship with the Governor was frosty, but he absolutely despised Robinson. Robertson was the first to suggest a conciliator be appointed to go into the bush and peacefully bring out those remaining original inhabitants still scattered around the island. He obviously saw himself in that role. Arthur dismissed this idea, preferring the notoriously unsuccessful notion of the Black Line. Later, as it was obvious what a folly the Line was, Robinson put himself forward as Protector and swore it was his idea alone, even if his eminence vaguely remembered he had heard it all before. Robertson was livid, particularly when his right hand men were stripped from his service to go bush with Robinson; the latter having convinced the Governor to give him the gig. One of these was Black Tom. As editor of a local newspaper Robertson vented his spleen, with the result he was several times imprisoned for libel. All of this angst caused him to quit Van Diemen’s Land to become the agricultural superintendent for the Norfolk Island penal station. He was a newspaper editor in the Western District of Victoria when he died of a sudden heart attack in the middle of a heated political campaign.

His off-sider, Black Bob, was a white-raised Aboriginal who became involved in Musquito’s rampages early in the conflict. When captured he was spared the noose and sent to Macquarie Harbour to serve time. After his release, he became a skilled tracker for Robertson. He was then ‘seconded’ to Robinson’s mob as they trawled the back blocks for native inhabitants. He eventually ran out of steam at the fledging settlement of Emu Bay where he died of dysentery in 1832.

The north-western frontier features again through a female warrior, a Tommeginner woman, Walyer. She’s been sometimes described as the Tasmanian Amazon. Born in the Table Cape area, she spent her teenage years with the Straits sealers; whether willingly or abducted is open to conjecture. There she picked up a command of English. She later returned to her home area with a mini-arsenal of firearms. It’s possible she first used weapons on her own people during her time on the islands, but on returning back to the mainland it seems she was ready to inflict some pain on the whites for their many injuries to her kind, although again historians are conflicted on her exact motivation. She was soon joined by like-minded souls to become the only female resistance leader ever recorded on the island. But she didn’t evade the sealers for long and they caught up with her in 1830 – or again, did she flee back to them in response to the whites, none to happy with her after her rampages along the mainland coast, turning up the heat. When she attempted to kill one of their number the sealers gave her up to the authorities. Robinson, whose progress had been impacted on by this amazing woman, on hearing of this, stated in his diaries that it was ‘…a matter of considerable importance to the peace and tranquillity of those districts where she and her formidable coadjutors had made themselves so conspicuous in their wanton and barbarous aggression‘. It was, he thought, a ‘…most fortunate thing that this woman is apprehended and stopped in her murderous career…The dire atrocities she would have occasioned would be the most dreadful that can possibly be conceived.’ She died in 1831 of influenza. At a time when Aboriginal women were regarded by most whites they had contact with as chattels to be used for sexual purposes and traded, her defiance was remarkable, despite much of her story being unclear.

Even if they didn’t become warrior-women like Walyer, there were others of the female gender prominent in the history of these times. Richard Flanagan wrote a novel based around the unfortunate Mathinna; Dolly Dalrymple’s achievements are well chronicled as are those of Fanny Cochrane, who made the first sound recordings of her people’s language. Another great voice for the First Tasmanians – and whose story I had not previously encountered – was Lucy Beedon, the Queen of the Isles. She initially came to light when Francis Nixon, the first Anglican bishop of Van Diemen’s Land, visited the isles of eastern Bass Strait in 1856. He was most impressed with her as she had taken on the responsibility of educating the islander children. Daughter of sealer Thomas Beedon and his partner Emerenna, she was schooled on mainland Tasmania whilst her parents were settled on Badger Island. Here she embraced the Christian religion, learned to read and write as well as, eventually, developing a head for business. When she returned to the Furneaux Group she became a force to be reckoned with by all those ‘outsiders’ trying to take advantage of her people, especially in the dealings over the mutton birding rights. By her early twenties she was already a formidable woman due to her massive size and intelligence. She became lessee of Badger island, remained unmarried all her life and devoted herself to managing the islanders’ financial affairs. During her time in the area she transformed it from its perception as being populated byan idle, alcohol-sodden population to one of sober industry where, most importantly, women were treated as equals. Eventually her duties took her away from teaching so she set up a school with an employed instructor. Family fragmentation became, for the most, a feature of the past for now, under her guidance, a future could be had without leaving home. It was a sad day when she passed on, age 58, in 1886.

There are so many other interesting ‘characters’ to be met between the covers of ‘Van Diemen’s Land’. Read of Deloraine’s Paddy Heagon, alleged to have possessed a swivel gun (a small type of cannon) to dispense with the local first peoples. Discover what was the shocking incident that took place at Cooee Point, near Burnie, that almost blew the lid off the VDL Company’s covert policy of extermination in those parts it held sway over. What was the impact of Bishop Montgomery (who produced a famous son you may of heard of) on Aboriginal affairs during his tenure in Tasmania? What was the cause of the feud that schoolteacher Edward Stephens, half addled with drink, had with the community’s policeman on Cape Barren Island to caused shots to be fired? How was it possible for the islanders to cope for so long without any modern conveniences, or any assistance from the powers to be? And in these pages you can read stories of the forced removals of children from their families – another tale sad-beyond-words. Lastly, there was that terrible word – ‘octoroon’.

But times change and in our new millennium, to be of Aboriginal ancestry, is a badge of honour. There is no more of that nonsense of Truganini being the last of her kind, as was so often referred to in school curriculum when I was growing up. Some of what was so wrongfully taken away has been reinstated, although much more needs to be done. Conciliation is afoot on our island, as it is on the big one across the water. Hopefully that will soon be ratified in the constitution. The two authors are to be commended for their wide ranging account of a story that should never be lost in the mists again. It is an account that the venerable Henry Reynolds has rightly described as, ‘A study that will remain essential and relevant for years to come’.

He’s a greasy little sleazeball, is the young Charlie Manson – as portrayed in ‘Aquarius’. But he is seemingly a charismatic figure to the impressionable young maidens who bound around him. They hang out and do the drug thing at his urban commune – such a happening place. Eventually he coerces his teenage acolytes to do deeds for him that he perceives will contribute to him reaching his destiny – later on these will become the epitome of evil. For now his vicious streak is already starting to show – he’s not a person you cross without expecting retribution. I’ve only watched one episode of the series to date. It seemed somewhat cheesy in places, but I’ll stick with it. For you see it stars David Duchovny as your stereotypical rumpled cop, and after ‘Californication’, I am besotted by David D and the roles he makes his own.

But, I suppose, in the strictest sense, Gippsland’s Hope Farm, back in the eighties, was not a commune. It labelled itself an ashram, and I presume there is a difference, despite both being filled with a loose idea about boundaries within personal relationships. In Frew’s eponymous novel the height of flower power is long past, but a group of disparate, mostly ageing, hippies are hanging on at Hope Farm. The place has seen better days, as have most of its communards, but in the novel they are being introduced to New Age mumbo-jumbo by another charismatic figure – Miller. In contrast to Manson, his intent was purer, but still he seemed to have an effect on the ladies, managing to wheedle money out of them. He’s a big hairy bear of a man. Ishtar was soon in his thrall.

Mostly, in Peggy Frew’s ‘Hope Farm’, the hardscrabble life at the commune was seen through the eyes of an adult Silver, casting her mind back to her childhood there. Then she wanted a normal existence and she wanted a loving touch, but what she received from her distant mother, Ishtar, was a transitory existence. She moved from one ashram to another as her parent followed her dreams and men of uncertain quality. But at least at Hope Farm it all improved somewhat for Silver. She meets a mysterious boy down by the creek and he becomes a yearned-for friend of sorts. At the farm she experiences her first crush on a guy who, in turn, is besotted by Ishtar. And in the end an abandoned mine-shaft became Silver’s salvation, leading to an anchored life.

Frew displayed, with her first novel, ‘House of Sticks’, an ability to present a story of the human condition that looks at fractured relationships amongst urban Australians who haven’t quite made it into the mainstream. ‘Hope Farm’ is a very strong follow-up. It kept this reader engaged from cover to cover. I’m not completely sure if the device of having the diary entries of semi-literate Ishtah, interspersed throughout most of Silver’s narrative, is completely convincing. That aside, Frew has shown that she is a vibrant new voice on our recent national condition, conveyed in fiction form.

In the end Miller was no Charlie Manson. The hold he had over those around him was no where near as total as Manson’s, so errors along the way soon caused his world start to unravel. Once he lost control of those he expected to pander to his mental well-being – they being never fully convinced in the first place – his end is inglorious. The put-upon figure of Ian, the lad by the creek, comes out of it all very well as maybe the hero of the piece. Help arrives for Silver from an unlikely source. Frew is skilled with juggling all the threads and is considerate to her readers in not allowing any to dangle. She leaves her surely growing list of fans well sated. I like her for that. Roll on novel three.

From the preface of ‘Modern Love’,- ‘When John and Sunday Reed purchased their semi-rural property on the outskirts of Melbourne in 1931, they could hardly imagine that eighty years later it would be the site of a renowned museum and widely regarded as the birthplace of Australian modernism. The intricate way in which the Reeds’ lives unfolded has given rise to beguiling mythology – the romanticised tale of Heide and its bohemian inhabitants – that has long captured the imagination of the public and scholars alike.’

Heide’s mythology has certainly beguiled me over the years. I thought I knew a fair bit about it. For a while I toyed with the idea of a story, written from a child’s perspective – a watcher; drawn to the very different people she espied at the farmstead; reporting on the comings and goings there on the property then fringing Melbourne. Nothing came of it, being replaced by other fascinations in my post-retirement world. Then Emily Bitto’s book ‘The Strays’ up and won the Vogel, the award for female writers, last year. This authorly bar-owner (of Heartattack and Vine, near Readings in Carlton) had the honour of having this, her first book, published by Affirm Press’ new fiction list. She, too, is obviously steeped in that aforementioned mystique of the Reeds. What she has come up with, though, is a paralleling story of the Trenthams, a similar couple who operated a sort of open house for their ‘strays’. These were bods of artistic intent, picked up along the way. As it turned out, the fictional Trenthams were a far more conservative couple than the Reeds, as I discerned from ‘Modern Love’. Evan T is not John Reed. The former was an artist with the temperament that stereotypically goes with those taking to that vocation. Reed, a man of independent means (wife, Sunday, possessed a silver spoon background as well), was an artistic mentor – a word he disliked – of talent; a sometime lawyer and a writer/editor to boot. Unlike the Reeds, who adopted Joy Hester/Albert Tucker’s child, the couple of Bitto’s imagination had three daughters before semi-adopting ‘The Stray’s’ narrator, Lily. The latter befriended one intriguing daughter, Eva, with, in doing so, joining the family’s fluctuating circle. The matriarch, Helena, was a charismatic figure, letting all the children have the run of the place. But as the quartet mature, sexual attraction raises its head and the real world intrudes on Eden. Bitto traces the narrative through to present-day times. Whereas once often reviled, by the artistic establishment, the pair eventually become the darlings of modernism – a resurgence of Aussie art that had its flowering in the forties as war raged around the world. It petered out under the stifling conservatism of the Menzies years when many of our best deserted for the more progressive UK scene. Finally they become lauded gods as they were embraced by the mainstream in the latter decades of last century. Some of the events that affected the Trenthams are factual, such as when, in 1937 RGM, as Attorney-General, formed plans for an Academy of Art to provide a bastion against modern, ie communist, influences, then gaining some traction locally. The Reeds, as well as fictionally, the Trenthams, were outraged by this and were at the vanguard of opposition, forming the Contemporary Art Society (CAS). This period of discourse has prominence in both publications. As one would expect, Lesley Harding’s and Kendrah Morgan’s ‘Modern Love – The Lives of John and Sunday Reed’ is full of the who’s-who of the art world during their lifetime. As well there are other prominent identities, one such being Doc Evatt – a friend and valued confidante. He gets a mention in the fictional take as well.

‘The Strays’ is described in its advertorial blurb as ‘…a beautifully written novel, lyrical and wondrous. Emily Bitto is an elegant writer who knows how to sustain suspense.’ This humble scribe would definitely agree. The book is structured beautifully and her wordsmithery is quite sublime in places. The reader is led through the vicissitudes that play out for the Trenthams and their four girls, if we count Lily, as the years advance. It was a fascinating read, a positive page-turner. Ms Bitto’s follow-up will be eagerly anticipated.

Fascinating as well is ‘Modern Love’. What an incredible story – if this was fiction it would be difficult to believe. I ploughed my way at, for me, a very fast clip through it over a couple of days. I was transfixed. I had prior knowledge of some of the goings on at Heide – Sunday’s affair with Sidney Nolan, for instance – but, dear me, the sexual machinations that went on at that place and within their circle. Sidney’s passion for Mrs Reed was only the tip of the iceberg. It seems Sunday had an attraction for both genders. There were also some other intriguing combinations involving her, as well as some other pairings, mentioned in passing, that would be interesting to investigate further. The authors, both curators at Heide, did state that they refrained from using some particularly sensitive material available to them, so ‘Modern Love’ will not be the last word on the Reeds – that will have to wait till the parties concerned are further in the past. But this tome didn’t only dwell on the politics of attraction. The contribution the Reeds made to Australian art, just as it was rediscovering its own uniqueness, was astronomical and fully examined here.

Other enlightenments provided by the publication included the damage the constant threat of conscription did to the Heide residents during the war years. There was also the role of the couple in the Ern Malley Affair and the way the pair morphed from being privileged gilded youths to the best known representatives of Bohemian free-spiritedness our country has produced. Then there were the vast array of household names (art-wise today) who succumbed to the bucolic charms of their household. It was also interesting that there were Tasmanian connections as well. John R was born here. His family owned a substantial pile, by our standards, at Mt Pleasant, outside Launceston and Nolan also spent time on the island. Examined were the trips the Reeds made to other parts of Oz and overseas. Then there was the curious question of John’s sexuality – just what did he receive in turn from the sexual dalliances of his wife. Finally, heart-breakingly, was the battle to keep their adopted son on the relative straight and narrow before his tragic end.

And to join it all full circle, it was more than interesting to read Emily Bitto’s review of ‘Modern Love’, as published recently in the Fairfax Press. She points to the thoroughness of the research involved and its readability, even if, from her point of view, nothing earth-shatteringly new was added to their legend. ‘Modern Love’, she concurs, had all the rigour of an academic text, but its lightness of touch ensures it will reach a wider audience as well. There is a judicious use of photographic images, some quite touchingly intimate, bringing to life the major players. Added are some of the seminal works of art of the period. These include paintings by Sam Alyeo (Sunday’s initial lover at Heide), Moya Dyring’s beautiful portrait of her, Adrian Lawlor’s ‘John Reed’ and several notable daubings by Joy Hester who, with Albert Tucker, are prominent in the book’s pages. There’s Charles Blackman, John Perceval, Mirka Moya and Arthur Boyd featuring as well. They are all participants in Heide’s tale, a riveting account of a couple whose iconic status in the cultural history of Australia is unrivalled. And I submit that it will only grow in stature and mystique – there’s that word again – as time progresses.

And for this punter, there’s only one thing left to do now that I am fully versed in the life and times of the Reeds, thanks to Bitto, Harding and Morgan – and that’s to visit Heide myself. I’ve been promising myself to do it each time I visit Yarra City, but the transport logistics to actually getting there so far have proven too daunting. I’ll eventually sort it out and make it – one day.

Heide Museum of Modern Art website = https://www.heide.com.au/

Emily Bitto’s review of ‘Modern Love’ = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/modern-love-by-lesley-harding-and-kendrah-morgan-the-couple-at-the-heart-of-the-magic-circle-20151027-gkiuo0.html