Susan

Introduction

This is the story of a woman who had no claim to fame, one of millions like her, who lived her life as best she could, raised a family and then disappeared from history. She was uneducated, poor, cunning when she needed to be, belligerent at times. One man accused her of being a prostitute; her own husband accused her of being a drunkard. She never went to prison, but was familiar with the workings of the police courts both in Australia and in England. Parts of her life are comical, much of it mundane, some of it tragic.

I first became aware of Susan’s existence in 1969 at the age of twelve, when my family were about to migrate to Australia. My father’s elderly aunt Mill mentioned that her mother had been born in Australia. Her grandfather, a British soldier surnamed Whybrew, had been stationed there, and his wife, whose name wasn’t mentioned, had given birth to a child before they returned to England. Aunt Mill thought the family had been stationed in Western Australia.

This was the first time either of my parents had heard anything of an Australian connection in the family. My mother, in particular, wondered why my grandmother had never said anything about it, even after hearing that we were moving to Australia. Surely she must have known that her own mother was born there?

Years later, one of my sisters and I both searched the early records in the Battye Library, the State Records library of Western Australia, trying to find more information about the Whybrew family. We found several migrants named Whybrew or Whybrow (the names are often mixed up) but none that had returned to England with a child born in Australia.

Much later, when many more genealogical records began to appear on the Internet, I started searching again. From an on-line forum I discovered that the Whybrews’ story began in South Australia rather than Western Australia, and in the process, I reconnected with a cousin I hadn’t seen since childhood. Slowly, very slowly, I was able to piece together the history of Susan Mason and her soldier husband, David Whybrew. The more I learned, the more intrigued I became.

Because of the vast distance between Perth and any of the places where Susan lived, I did most of my research on-line. Even Adelaide is a three-hour plane ride away from Perth. But I did eventually have the opportunity to visit Adelaide, where Susan was born, and Colchester, where she lived for much of her adult life. Both have changed a great deal since the time when Susan lived there. A plumbing business occupies the site where Susan’s childhood home once stood in Currie Street in Adelaide, and Colchester has become a town of leafy, brick-paved shopping malls and tourist-attracting tea shops. Even so, my visits allowed me to see the landmarks in Susan’s history as real places, and to gain some sense of the terrain in which she lived.

In Adelaide I was also able to look at the original documents of the Destitute Board and the Police Court - large, tattered ledgers with handwritten entries on blue lined pages. They didn’t tell me much more than the newspaper articles I’d found previously, but again they moved Susan’s story from words on a screen to something more tangible.

For much of the time that I was researching Susan’s life I was working in an addictions treatment clinic. I recognised in her many of the same characteristics that I saw in my clients - a difficult childhood, interrupted education, teenage years spent recklessly, frequent trouble with the law, pregnancy outside of marriage, stormy relationships both inside and outside of the family, but a settling down with age and maturity. Coupled with that, a sense of not belonging, of being unable to break into ‘normal’ society, of being despised, and fighting to be recognised as worthy of respect as a human being.

Susan was, to some extent, my alter ego. I’m a well-educated, well-resourced person from a stable family, with a tendency towards shyness, even timidity, so I found this strong willed, canny, but in many ways impoverished woman quite unlike me. Yet she was my great great grandmother. I inherited many of my genes from her.

I found myself asking impossible to answer questions. What did she look like? No photos of her exist, or at least none have come to light. What kind of woman might she have been under different circumstances? What would she make of her descendants’ circumstances and achievements? How much of her story did her immediate descendants know? And how much did they deliberately keep quiet about her?

It would be easy to dismiss Susan as just an ill-mannered, ill-educated nobody, a woman that my parents’ generation might have described as a fish wife. She achieved some minor notoriety, but nothing worth recording for posterity. She may well have been deliberately forgotten, or at least her story whitewashed, by her children.

But all human beings act as they do for a reason. Even the insane have their own inner, inscrutable reasons for their behaviour. I felt I needed to know what drove Susan. What did she long for, for herself and her family? How far did she go in achieving those things? And what stood against her? This is an attempt to answer those questions, as far as it’s possible from this distance in time.

It’s also an attempt to discover how much Susan was a product of the times and places in which she lived. Her life time spanned almost the whole of Queen Victoria’s reign and beyond. She experienced life as a child of Irish immigrants in colonial South Australia, and as the wife of a British soldier in England and Ireland. She lived through the Crimean War, the Boer War and the First World War.

During her lifetime, Ireland experienced the worst famine in its history, Australia became a Federation, and steamships, photography and telegraphy opened up the world in previously unimaginable ways. Women in South Australia (1895) and Britain (1918) got the vote, effective methods of birth control became more available, and anaesthesia in childbirth was introduced.

Susan was almost certainly illiterate and would not have been able to read the papers, but she would have heard the news on the street and from David, her husband. She would have seen the changes going on around her. Perhaps sometimes she tried to imagine what life would be like a century after her death. If she could have foreseen the future, would she be pleased with what became of her grandchildren and great grandchildren?

Susan had eight siblings and fourteen children, so her story inevitably includes a lot of names. I’ve included two charts summarising the Mason and Whybrew families in the reference section at the back (Appendix 1 and 2). Since it is a history rather than a novel, I’ve tried to avoid offering my own speculation as if it were fact, by using maybe, perhaps, most likely and so on where the facts are uncertain. Occasionally I’ve drawn on newspaper articles to recreate scenes, including the words people reportedly used, but recognise that these may not be verbatim records.

With regards to referencing, I’ve debated endlessly with myself while writing this book about whether or not to include footnotes. I wanted to make it easy to read, a free-flowing story rather than an academic history. At the same time, I wanted to provide enough references so that others could follow up my sources and check them for themselves. In the end I reached a compromise. As much as possible I’ve included information about my sources in the text itself. I’ve also included a list of references for each chapter at the end of the book, as well as a more comprehensive bibliography. The reference section also includes extracts from a historical map of Adelaide.

Chapter 1

Not a little whore – 1865

Life as a Magistrate in the Adelaide Police Court was never dull, and for Mr Samuel Beddome, 23 August 1865 proved no exception. The day, a Wednesday, began routinely enough. As he and the other bench members - Mr Mildred, SM and Dr Mayo, JP - entered the court room, the clerk sternly ordered ‘Hats off!’, as he always did, producing a sudden clatter of people standing and doffing their hats.

When everyone had settled, the usual parade of drunks from the police cells began, each hoping that ‘Sammy’ would forget their previous appearances in his court. Mr Beddome seldom forgot anything or anyone. As was his custom, he fined the miscreants 5 shillings each, about a day’s wages for a labourer, and sent them on their way.

Thomas Turnbull, the defendant in the next case, was more fortunate. He was charged with driving on the wrong side of the road, resulting in damages to another vehicle. The magistrates agreed to the charges against him being withdrawn by the prosecutor, since he’d paid for the damages already.

The case that followed his, that of Elizabeth Maguire, a widow charged with being a pauper lunatic, was not so easily resolved. Being found guilty of being a pauper lunatic was the legal requirement for a person to be sent to the asylum. Elizabeth Maguire, however, was not in a fit state to appear in court, being, it was reported, completely naked and in a filthy state on a mattress in the police cells. So the honourable gentlemen of the Police Court bench left the court room, temporarily housed at the time in the Adelaide Town Hall while a new court house was being built, and visited the unhappy woman in her cell.

Once back in the court room they proceeded to hear evidence from one of her neighbours about her strange and wild behaviour, which included throwing blocks of wood at her fowls. Dr Mayo duly wrote a certificate for her admission to the asylum.

The entry in the court list for the final case of the day might have piqued Mr Beddome’s curiosity. Pasquale Nicro, an itinerant musician, was charged by Susan Mason with having used insulting language and gestures tending to provoke a breach of the peace. Itinerant musicians who moved from pub to pub and from one country town to another, playing with varying degrees of musicianship, were not unusual. Letters to the editor decrying them as a public nuisance appeared from time to time in the local newspapers. But Adelaide had only a smattering of immigrants born outside the British Isles and the Australian colonies, so an Italian musician had novelty value. What had this young Italian said or done to provoke the wrath of Miss Mason?

Susan Mason, the magistrates discovered, was only a young girl, barely 17 years old, and from her accent more than likely born in the colony. Despite her best efforts to appear respectable and demure, her dress and demeanour immediately told Mr Beddome the social circle to which she belonged. Young women like her appeared before him in the Police Court every day, charged with using offensive language, drunkenness, or indecent behaviour. Still, for her age and social class, she had an unusually determined and confident air about her.

He invited her to state her case.

Your honour, I’m just a servant girl, Susan Mason began. I live in Currie Street, near the Ship Inn.

Mention of the Ship Inn immediately confirmed the impression formed by the gentlemen on the bench. Currie Street, in the west end of the town, was where many of the working class, the Irish and the penniless lived. The Ship Inn was notorious for its association with working girls and the area had many houses used as dens of iniquity and vice. It was not a place where Mr Beddome and his colleagues would go for a quiet drink, and they certainly wouldn’t take any daughter of theirs to such a place.

Susan Mason continued her story. At about half-past seven on Wednesday last I was walking down Hindley Street, minding my own business, when this man - she pointed at Nicro - not only threatened to spit in my face, but he did so. And then he put his finger up to his nose like this - she demonstrated the gesture - and called me a little whore!

She stopped to glower at Pasquale Nicro, who seemed indifferent to what was being said.

One of the magistrates asked, Do you know this man?

I saw him first at the Ship Inn, where he plays his music, she replied, but I never gave him any cause to insult me.

To support her case, Susan called on another young woman, Ann Connor, who obligingly agreed that she had witnessed the defendant’s contemptuous gestures and words of the same tendency (to quote the newspaper reporter’s words, not hers).

The magistrates then called on Pasquale Nicro to make his defence. The young Italian appeared to be struggling to understand what they were saying, and eventually they agreed to his calling on a friend to interpret for him. This man seemed to know little more English than Pasquale. As a newspaper reporter later put it, he vainly attempted to describe intelligibly an offensive interchange of words and gestures.

The gist of Pasquale’s argument was that he might have used the phrase little whore, but his English was poor and he didn’t know what it meant. This produced a murmur of amusement in the courtroom.

What were the magistrates to make