From Strength to Strength

by Sara Henderson

  Finally, after three more days, we had a solid solder, cement-lined tank that still leaked, not as much, but enough. But that was that, there were too many other things to be done. I would just have to put up with my leaky tank. Short of falling off the stand, the tank would not receive any more attention.

  We had plenty of water, so I suppose the wastage was alright, though the mud around the tank was not alright. After a few days the tank stand was definitely leaning to the left. The tank and stand were sinking! The leaking problem had to be solved, and quickly, before the tank ended up at ground level again.

  One of the children’s horses prompted the idea that solved our sinking tank. Old Herbert would stand under the tank during the hottest period of the day. The children, having heard all the talk about the tank falling, wanted me to make Herbert come out. When I walked under the stand, I realised that smart old Herb had his own airconditioned room. The constant water running down the poles made the air as cool as could be. It was then I hit upon the idea of using it as a coolhouse for the meat (it was so hot that even our salted meat went off, not to mention vegetables and so on). Willie rigged a roof under the base of the stand, put screening around the four sides, laid a sandstone floor, and we had the best coolhouse in the North. And there was often much more than meat and vegetables in there.

  Willie also built a drain around the outside of the screening with a channel to the spot where I was vainly trying to start a garden. He continued the channel in and out of my rather pathetic patches of dried plants and the change was miraculous from the next day. The ground around the tank was always moist, so I planted some grass I had taken from the bottom of the billabong. The ‘experts’ informed me it would die because it needed a lot of fresh water, and our bore water was a long way from that. But I reasoned that if the grass had survived the long hot months when the billabongs were dry, it surely stood a chance with water all the time, even if it was a bit brackish. I was right—before long I had a healthy green patch of lawn. I kept planting runners everywhere. Soon we had a nice little garden and a green patch of lawn.

  Of course this presented another problem. We did not have a fence around the house and our two little green patches were drawing all the stock within a five-mile radius. I presented my problem to Charles and he agreed I needed a fence around the tin shed. However, the men were busy with the muster preparations, so the fence would have to wait until after the muster. I tried various arguments, but it was no good—muster before all.

  ‘When all else fails, do it yourself’ was my motto. So the next day I ventured out bright and early with pickets and an axe to hit the pickets into the ground. However, the pickets were six feet in length so I could not reach the top to hit them. Back to the shed for a chair.

  When finally one crooked picket was in the ground, I knew this was not the way the fences of the Outback were built. It was then that Charles introduced me to a dolly. A dolly is a hollow steel cylinder, the required height of the fence pickets. One end is open, the other sealed, with a handle on each side. You slip it over the picket and thump it into the ground until the dolly is resting on the ground. Then the picket is the right height.

  However, it’s not as simple as that. Eventually, I had six pickets in the ground at the right height, but not in a straight line. And you have to have them in a straight line or you cannot strain the barbed wire tight enough. By midday I had admitted defeat and retired to the caravan too exhausted to cook lunch, which did not amuse Charles.

  In fact, the need for a fence was not really that pressing. We hadn’t been overly bothered by stock as most of the cattle were off in far paddocks, miles from the house, and the few horses around were for the children to ride and were very quiet. Since the introduction of the little green patch, we did have a few more visitors, but they would leave as soon as a human appeared. However, the events of the next morning changed all that. Suddenly my fence became a priority.

  In readiness for departure, Old Bob and some of the men were bringing all the horses up from the river paddocks to the yards to shoe them. The house stood between the mob of horses and the yards. In typical Old Bob fashion, he didn’t deviate the herd one inch and I watched in horror as one hundred and fifty horses, give or take a few , thundered down upon our wall-less kitchen. I grabbed the children and sat them on the sink, and wedged myself in the corner between the sink and wall. That left Charles with the table or the stove, and as the stove was hot, he jumped up on the table—just as the horses thundered through and out via our future living room.

  After the dust had settled, Charles gave orders for the fence to be built. Judging by the time it had taken to put the tank together, I didn’t think they would leave for weeks, but alas, the men knew how to build a fence and were ready to leave on muster early the next day.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Not long, and I’ll check back whenever I’m near.’

  ‘What if you’re not near?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you have Mary and I’m leaving Sylvester. If you need me, he can ride out to the camp.’

  ‘Sylvester? Are you joking? That poor boy isn’t sure which foot comes next!’

  ‘Now, Darling, don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘I’m not exaggerating, I’m flattering!’

  ‘Just relax and play with the children, stay close to the house [as he called it] and nothing can possibly happen to you. I’ve had everything seen to, so you won’t have to worry about a thing. Just enjoy yourself.’

  He kissed us all goodbye, told Mary to look after us and rode over to join the men. They all looked very serious as they assembled in rank position, Charles, John, the manager, Old Bob and Willie side by side, the head stockman, and the young jackaroos in order of age. Orders were issued and the stockmen moved over to take the coachers (quiet cattle used to calm the wild cattle, when caught) out of the holding yard. Old Bob was in charge of the pack mules. Everyone was assembled behind the airstrip fence which separated them from the wild bush section of our station.

  It was all very quiet and still. The animals seemed almost asleep. But when the order was given to open the gate, it was as if someone had fired a starting gun. All the horses, cattle and mules, especially the mules, went crazy. They shot out of the gate and once on the airstrip, began stampeding around in circles. It was mayhem. The men were racing around bumping into each other, trying to get the situation under control. Bob was yelling that the mule with the rum supply had gone bush. Trust Bob to know which mule. Eventually, after racing around the airstrip and generally kicking up a fuss and a few packs off, they finally stopped and meekly allowed themselves to be led back into position. Bob returned with the ‘rum mule’, John checked the rum supply and, after this quite hilarious performance, men and animals at last departed in a cloud of dust. I really think the animals looked forward to this rodeo because, in the years to follow, they did it every time the camp was ready to leave.

  CHAPTER 9

  1966

  I now faced the unnerving prospect of spending the next week or so alone—except for a few promised visits from Charles. Well, not really alone—I had the children, Mary, and of course Sylvester. I decided then and there to take a positive attitude. I would not be scared or upset. I would cope. There was no reason why I couldn’t keep busy, heaven knows there was enough to do. Yes, I would think positive. I would work, swim, play with the children, and relax. I was right in the middle of my positive thinking when Mary walked in.

  ‘No water, Missus.’

  ‘But we must have water, the tank was filled.’

  ‘No water, Missus.’

  ‘They couldn’t possibly have forgotten to fill the tank.’

  ‘Sylvester, ’im clim’ up, ’im empty.’ She meant the tank, but she was right on both counts.

  Great! The dust hadn’t settled and already things were falling apart. How on earth could we manage without water? We couldn’t.

  Somehow we had to start that water pump. By we, I mean Ma
ry, Sylvester and yours truly. The mechanic had gone mustering. Mary and Sylvester’s knowledge of water pumps was on a par with mine. I knew when the pump was going and when it was not. And that’s all. Nevertheless, we had to start the pump.

  It was now approaching midday, the temperature was rising and the need for water was becoming urgent. Donning a large straw hat and sunglasses, I ventured out to the pump site with assistant engineer Mary close in tow. The children were sitting in their empty swimming pool waiting for water. There, on the ground before me, sat a small uncomplicated-looking piece of machinery. I decided that the best line of attack was to be calm and practical, so, kneeling down next to the pump, I looked for an instruction plate. I couldn’t see a thing—the pump was completely covered in one inch of grime and dust. My assistant raced off and returned with a rag. After vigorous rubbing with petrol on a flat area, we uncovered the secret formula for starting the greasy machine.

  I cannot remember the exact combination stated on the plate, because from that day to this, I have never ventured near another pump, but it involved moving levers to a certain position, closing some flange or other, opening another valve, and with all these moving parts in correct position, the confounded thing was supposed to start.

  With roughly five moving parts, the possible combinations came to around twenty-five. In the next five hours or so, I tried about five hundred. The twenty-five deal only applied when you knew the five right parts. I didn’t. And anyway, there were a lot more than five moving parts on our particular pump. Granted, a lot of them moved when they shouldn’t have, for that pump had had a long service record. Too long!

  After setting each combination I would wind the rope around the starting wheel, or whatever, and pull with all my strength, whereupon the horrible thing would cough, splutter, and die.

  After hours of shutting this thing and opening that thing with no success, I decided to look for more instructions. More vigorous cleaning with petrol and another small plate appeared. It informed me that it was standard procedure to fill the engine with petrol and oil before starting. Having been put soundly in my place, I set about the task of trying to find the necessaries. The petrol was ‘to hell and gone’ down the airstrip. Because of the fire danger, the drums of various fuels sat forlornly in the middle of the paddock about a half mile from the homestead. Having exhausted myself with hours of opening and closing valves, and pulling the starter rope, I took a breather after explaining to Sylvester that I wanted a container full of standard petrol. This took quite a while because I had to make clear to him, with Mary’s help, that there were three kinds of fuel in the stack of drums: petrol, diesel and aviation fuel. Each had a different colour painted on top of the drum, and after establishing the colour of the drum we wanted, Sylvester went off down the airstrip, container in hand.

  The oil was located in the tin shed, all types neatly lined up against the wall in four gallon drums. The instructions told me to fill the pump with ‘thirty’ oil, so I did. After quite a while Sylvester returned with the container of fuel, and I filled the petrol tank.

  After another half hour of the same procedure as before, opening that, closing this and so on, with no luck, I decided I would have to try another approach. I needed to eliminate each combination as I tried it. So I tagged each moving part and numbered it, then started my process of elimination. After a page of combinations, the pump started!

  I was so excited I forgot to close the open gadget, and open the closed thingamajig and it stopped.

  Putting a big ring around the magic combination, I then read the instruction plate again. It stated that after starting the monster, I then had to open the closed thing and close the open one. So, with the magic combination in place, I pulled the starting rope. The pump jumped into life, I quickly followed the next instructions and stood back in triumph to watch the water flow into the tank. No such luck!

  Then, as we all stood watching the hose arched over the tank, waiting for the water to spurt forth, we were suddenly drenched from behind. The hose from the well into the pump had blown the fitting. The water stopped. The pump stopped. After reconnecting the hose to the pump, I found a little lever which indicated ‘on’ and ‘off’. The lever was pointing to ‘off’ so I turned it to ‘on’ then went through the starting procedure again. The pump started, I opened the closed, closed the open, and once more turned to the tank to watch the water come forth. No water.

  By this time the pump was roaring. I was just about to turn it off and try to work out what was wrong when water came from everywhere! The hose from the pump joined a set of valves and the line from the pump had blown at this point and we were being drowned by a two-inch water spout!

  Slipping and sliding around in water and mud, I finally made it to the pump and turned it off. I was now faced with three valves; one operated water flow to cattle troughs in nearby paddocks, the second went to troughs across the airstrip, and the third directed water to our tank. After what I had just been through, a three-way valve combination was a pushover. I tried the first valve, waited, the fitting blew. Once more I was drowned. Next valve, same result. I was now slopping around in about a foot of mud. Things slipped and slithered everywhere. The children were having a marvellous time, Mother was not.

  Naturally the last valve was the tank valve. Thinking nothing else could go wong, I went through the starting operation for the hundredth time. Pump set, valve open, flange closed, water lever open, tank valve open, petrol primed, start. It did and all eyes turned to the hose over the tank. We held our breath.

  At long last water sprayed forth. Boy, did it spray! Mary informed me the pump had never pumped better. I staggered through the mud and headed for the bathroom to decoat myself. I showered, washed my hair and was dressing when Mary came rushing in, eyes wide.

  ‘Come quick Missus, flyin’!’

  ‘Flying?’

  ‘Quick, quick!’ Mary’s eyes rolled back in her head.

  I ran out to the pump. There it was, hovering like the centrepiece at a seance, a few inches from the ground. I put some heavy rocks on the base and it decided to stay grounded.

  I couldn’t, for the life of me, work out what was wrong. Until now, the poor old pump would hardly start, and when it did, it just putted along like it was about to utter its last putt. Now here it was flying! The next shock was that the tank was overflowing. Now I knew something was wrong! Normally that poor old pump took hours to fill the tank, it had just completed the task in record time. Water was now cascading down the sides, making one big mud pool for the children.

  ‘Plenty water now, Missus.’

  Slithering through the mud to the pump, I followed the ‘close the open, open the closed’ routine and waited. Nothing happened. The pump continued to roar and pump water at an alarming pace. I reversed the operation, still nothing happened. I did everything. I moved, pushed, pulled, closed and opened every possible thing on that machine, but to no avail, that damn pump simply would not stop. Water continued to cascade over the side of the tank.

  Mary and Sylvester ran around acting as if the end of the world was near while the children were having the time of their lives. I was covered in mud, again.

  Then Mary suddenly let out an unearthly scream and pointed to the tank. I looked up fully expecting to see the tank sinking into oblivion, but instead, spouting out of the hose was brown shiny mud. We had now exhausted the water supply of our small well and were pumping liquid mud from the bottom of it. What to do? I couldn’t direct the mud to the cattle trough, they would have nothing to drink. I couldn’t let it continue into our tank, we would have nothing to drink. After the first wave of panic, I pulled the fittings apart at the valve connection.

  This saved us from drinking mud for a week, but it was making a terrible mess of the yard. The mud was spraying all over the place and pouring back down the well. At least it was running away from the tank stand. I was just taking a breather, when Mary prompted me back into action. She was pointing at the pump which was n
ow lurching up and down, trying to simulate vertical take-off, and belching black smoke.

  The mud was getting thicker by the minute and was having great difficulty passing through the pump. The pump was protesting in the form of thick black smoke and a terrible burning smell. Oh, if only the thing would run out of petrol, I thought.

  ‘That’s it!’

  I slithered over to the storeroom and found a small length of hose, skidded back to the pump and syphoned the fuel tank dry. The gallant old horror gave a few sickening lurches and finally stopped. Cheers issued forth from the gallery. I was standing there basking in the applause when the muddy ground slowly disintegrated from under me and I started to slide into the well. I grabbed for the poly pipe and with feet and hands working at incredible speed, managed to stay above the mud going with me. Mary threw me a rope just in time and I crawled out to safety.

  I was too exhausted to move for quite a while, so I didn’t. I just sat. After about ten minutes, the sun dried the mud and I set solid. The children had a wonderful time chipping away their solid mud mother. Eventually I slopped into the bathroom and took another shower. The water was dark brown and when I had finished, I had acquired an instant suntan. I collapsed into bed and the children served me dinner.

  We survived, even though the potatoes were a beige colour and the bread and milk a dirty off-white. I just hoped that our dirty water would last until the men returned. There was no combination in the world that would start that old pump again.

  The next morning brought with it the promise of an extremely hot day. After breakfast I filled the children’s pool with murky water, much to their distaste, told them not to swallow too much, and then decided to clean out the storeroom. This was a large room, about fifteen feet by fifteen feet, but there was only two feet of actual space. One would walk into this space and lean in the direction of the article wanted—that is, if one was fortunate enough to know where the article was.