Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  Between trips carting freight, he went buffalo hunting and crocodile shooting to supplement his income. Dad sailed with his mate ‘Noondy’ Harritos on barges around the treacherous Top-End coastline, delivering food, stores and fuel to coastal mission stations. Dad survived the wreck of the Tiki – a boat which already had a hell of a reputation from gun-running in the northern waters and getting involved in the New Guinea uprising. When Dad was aboard, one night the pilot fell asleep and the ship was wrecked 64 kilometres off Goulburn Island.

  It was in Darwin that my parents met, in 1945. Three years later they married in the quaint little Church of England cathedral. My mother, named Eva after my gran, had a sister, Alvis, and twin brothers, Iva and Ian. Eva, the quiet and sheltered daughter of the foreman of a road construction team, had been a seamstress in Perth before meeting Dad in Darwin. Her favourite pastime, embroidery, kept us in beautiful tablecloths and doilies. Being a seamstress was very handy: she would whip up clothes for my brothers and herself in no time. She later began to collect seashells, amassing one of the largest collections I have seen.

  I was their first born, in 1949, followed by Bruce, Darryl, Eric and finally Michael. Bruce and I, being seventeen months apart, were close as kids. Darryl was born two years after Bruce, followed by Eric three years later, and then Michael three years later again. I don’t remember any fighting, physical or verbal. We grew up as good mates. This was extremely lucky, given the isolation of some of the places we lived.

  A few weeks after my sixth birthday, Dad mustered and loaded us all into the cab of his old truck and we were off, heading south of Darwin to visit friends and deliver their tractor and their wet season’s stores, enough tinned food and drums of flour to see them through the rainy period if the road became boggy and the rivers flooded. Dad was often doing favours for isolated friends, as he had one of the rare reliable, sizable trucks coming out of Darwin.

  The track to Elsey was long and dusty, and the heat coming off the engine didn’t seem to help. My beautiful blonde ringlets that Mum had so painstakingly put in after breakfast that morning were now standing on end. Bruce seemed half asleep, swaying gently in an upright position. I’ve always looked up to Bruce as if he was an elder brother. He was strong and calm, he made our billycarts and tin canoes, and he was there to throw us up trees when we were charged by angry buffalo, and to pull us down later.

  Darryl, who was three years old, hadn’t a care in the world, curled up like a kitten with his thumb glued in his mouth. Eric was home with Mum and Gran on the Fresh Water Rapid Creek block.

  ‘What have we got here?’ called Dad.

  All three tired young bodies came alive. ‘It’s Elsey, Dad!’ we yelled back to him. Dad shifted down a gear as we neared the homestead. Young Aboriginal kids, thin as whippets, came running out, arms waving madly, the camp dogs barking in tune with the children’s cheers. The wet season’s stores had arrived.

  Uncle Harry, who was not a real uncle but a family friend, would have heard us coming for miles and was already organising the station boys to take over the truck. Uncle Harry was a large happy-go-lucky fellow, greeting the boys and myself with massive bear hugs and nearly smothering us to death. He gave Dad a handshake and a pat on the back.

  ‘Follow me for a bite to eat,’ he said and took us into the kitchen, where he produced his special – large corned-beef sandwiches and giant fried scones.

  Between bites of the food and mouthfuls of sweet black tea, I could see movement under an old antique sideboard. Leaving the kitchen table and crouching down on my belly, I crab-crawled my way to a better view.

  ‘If you catch it you can have it, girl,’ Uncle Harry bellowed. ‘It’s a feral kitten.’ The kitten had moved in to escape the camp kids and their dogs. What a sight: ginger in colour and all her fur standing on end. Every move I made, she spat and hissed and lashed out with a paw tipped with razor-sharp claws, scratching red angry welts into my hands. I was wondering if she really was worth rescuing. Dad found me a piece of old sheet and suggested I throw it over her and save myself from further mauling. Success! After chasing her from one end of the sideboard to the other, I was now the proud owner of Ginger the feral kitten . . . for approximately five minutes. Before I knew it, she hit the ground in full flight and shot through the kitchen door in an orange flash. I never saw her again.

  CHAPTER 2

  School Days in Fannie Bay

  When I was nine years old, my mother and father decided it was time we had a house of our own. The boys and I were growing up and in need of education, so we moved to Fannie Bay, a township just west of Darwin that was gradually developing into a clifftop suburb of the expanding city. We were close to the new Parap Primary School and only a short bus trip from Darwin’s only high school.

  The move was at first an exciting adventure. After being in the outback, we were now 200 metres or so from the sea. Some days it roared as it pounded the cliff, sending fine spray high into the air. But Gran and Grandpa were not with us, and the house felt rather empty without them. This was a new beginning, but I wasn’t sure if I liked it.

  I was also missing our dog, Puppy. A mix of bull terrier and blue heeler, he was too large and savage to bring to a built-up area, so we’d had to leave him behind with a butcher 32 kilometres away who needed a guard dog to alert him to cattle duffers who were stealing the odd killer (a steer that had been put aside for butchering).

  Our new house was fibro with a corrugated-iron roof and, wonder of wonders, a flush toilet, although I rather missed the excitement of the furies. Not as flash as Gran’s house, I thought. Only one toilet!

  Next door was the largest tree I had ever seen, a banyan tree. The canopy seemed to take up the whole block. The boys and I took one look around the house and we were off, in no time hauling lengths of timber up into the tree, plank by plank, until we completed our cubby house. This was our home away from home.

  Dad was now working for the Department of Water Resources, gauging the rise and fall of rivers in the Top End. He was away working in the outback for weeks on end, and when he returned, he would have a drink with his mates Noondy Harritos and Nick Paspaley at the Fannie Bay Hotel, then come home and pull out the new record player and give us a good burst of Mario Lanza’s amazing voice. Dad has a good voice and would joyfully join him. We would scuttle up into the cubby and listen.

  The tree house had other uses. If one of us was in trouble, or wanted to get out of doing our chores, this was the place to come. At times you’d have to book to get in, as the cubby became very popular with the other kids in the neighbourhood. The boys and I saw a Tarzan movie at the Parap picture theatre. Johnny Weissmuller played Tarzan, and Maureen O’Hara was his Jane. I couldn’t wait to swing from the banyan tree, it looked so easy! Bruce found a long rope in the shed and up the banyan we went. About 6 metres from the ground was the ideal, horizontal branch. I worked my way slowly along it, pushing the rope ahead of me. About halfway out, I wound the rope around the trunk and tied it securely. Grabbing hold of the end, without a second thought, letting out the cry of ‘Tarzan!’, I sailed towards the ground. Instead of swinging out gracefully I smashed straight into the earth, flat-out like a skinned dingo, stars and all. I had terrible trouble trying to breathe. I wasn’t too sure whether I was dead or alive. I was lucky I came out without a broken bone, but was sore all over. Later we measured the rope; it was way too long.

  About 11 pm one Sunday weeks after the move, in the middle of a wild electrical storm, we thought we were hearing things. Some mad animal was trying to claw down our front door. Dad was away working. With lightning strikes and rolls of thunder rattling every louvre in the house, we huddled together. As the storm eased, we could hear the mad animal’s heavy claws grinding into the wooden front door. The howling wasn’t going to stop; I wished Puppy was there to protect us. With the boys and me clinging to her, the noise from outside like nothing we’d ever heard before, Mum moved towards the door. Trembling and crying, I begged her to
stay inside. Suddenly the howling stopped and in its place excited barking started. It was Puppy! How on earth did he ever find his way so many kilometres to our new house? There was no way the boys and I would let him go again, and after his miraculous journey we were allowed to keep him.

  As time went on we made some very good friends, especially Shirley and Trevor Fong, whose parents owned a large house just over the road. Mrs Fong had to be the best fried-rice cook in the Territory, and anytime we visited she would make sure we had a huge plate.

  Each morning and afternoon we would catch the school bus. Bruce, Darryl and I raced each other home, dumped our school bags, had a quick cup of tea and a biscuit, threw on our swimming costumes, then ran over the road to collect Shirley and Trevor and take off to the nearby Fannie Bay cliffs. The excitement was always on when we had a king tide. The sea would hammer the cliffs, draw out as if to gain breath, then pound them again. On king tides the swell would hit about halfway up the cliffs. Bruce, Shirley, Trevor and I climbed down the cliff face and dived into the foaming sea as it retreated. When we surfaced, it would throw us back at the cliff face. We were young daredevils; we enjoyed any challenge with an element of danger, and of course we never told our parents.

  We were never alone for all the years that we swam in that area. Our friend Percy the manta ray would always swim and fish near us. We would cheer his arrival, then continue diving and swimming, feeling that Percy was there to protect us from any danger in the sea. Percy swam with us right up to the time Dad moved our family to Arnhem Land.

  Between king tides, Bruce, Darryl, the Fongs and I ventured further around the coast to East Point, sneaking out and leaving our younger brothers home with Mum. We were excited about our secret venture, but unsure whether Mum and Dad would be quite so enthusiastic; we agreed to keep quiet about it until we were ready to float our new dugout canoe.

  East Point was our jungle, a canopy of poinciana trees blazing red and shading the narrow bitumen road that wound its way to the old lighthouse. After trekking through the jungle for what seemed like hours, with the humidity high and the sweat trickling down our bodies, insects moving in for the kill, we all agreed that a huge cottonwood tree was the one. Each of us in turn wrapped our arms around the tree and decided we would be able to build our dugout from it. Also in its favour was that we were less than a hundred metres from the water’s edge. Bruce marked the tree around the base and, a week later, after much chopping and hacking, down she came in a graceful fall, the cry of ‘Timbaaaa!’ echoing through the bush. But standing on the tree and having a good look at the situation, I was starting to wonder if we’d bitten off more than we could chew.

  Bruce became our leader and worked harder than any of us. Eric took his turn on the axe, and Michael, being younger, played in the bush. Our idea was to build a canoe like those of the Aboriginal fishermen in the bay, who had given us some pointers and told us what type of tree to use.

  Approximately six weeks later, the blisters on our hands having turned into tough calluses, we had completed our canoe. Throwing our hands in the air, cheering and yelling with excitement, we began wondering how to transport the dugout to the water’s edge.

  Bruce, Darryl and Trevor decided to bring their billycarts down to the point, put one under each end of the dugout and move it slowly to the cliff’s edge. We would then roll the canoe over the cliff on a low tide so it would land on the sand. Then we would wait for an incoming tide and – hurray! – test-float our dugout at last.

  Yes, it floated, after Bruce and his axe wrought a few minor changes to help with the balance. We were all very proud of ourselves, and naturally each of us wanted to be a crew member for the first trip, a little over a kilometre from East Point across to the Fannie Bay cliffs.

  I insisted on being aboard. Darryl, Puppy and I hopped in. Bruce pushed us out into waist-deep water, and then climbed on. There was a bit of a wobble while we fought to balance the thing.

  Puppy wasn’t helping much – he started to whine and tremble with fright.

  As we tentatively dipped our paddles into the clear blue water of the bay, Bruce and I synchronised our paddling, ignoring Puppy as we glided along. I could see the flashes of silver fish shoot past in the water. It seemed a very long way to the cliffs.

  We were more than halfway across the bay when Puppy started barking hysterically. I glanced out across the water from the left to the right and spotted a huge dark shadow. Trying to stay calm, I yelled at Puppy to lie down and shut up. Darryl was having a terrible time as he tried to control Puppy. Bruce had also seen the shadow and told us to keep paddling and stay calm – pretty hard to do with a huge shark following us! It looked to be the same length as the canoe. One minute we’d see it, and the next it would disappear. By now Puppy was really upset. He knew this intruder meant danger. With his growling and barking and trying to pull away from Darryl’s grip, the canoe had a very dangerous roll, oscillating from side to side and taking water each time.

  Bruce was baling vigorously with a jam tin and seemed quite calm, as he always did when we got ourselves into these predicaments.

  The sight of the huge dorsal fin became too much for Puppy. He fought Darryl, clawed his front paws over the side of the canoe, and over he went into the heaving sea to attack the predator and protect us. In a flash, our dog disappeared into the deep. Soon there were dark stains in the water; it had to be blood from Puppy. Once he looked like he was coming to the surface. There was turmoil all around us, the canoe rolling from side to side. Again we were taking in water. Terrified, we began to cry out for help, but of course no-one could hear us. There was nothing we could do. The monster moved in again and just as silently disappeared. We were trying to keep the canoe upright, trying to paddle and at the same time look out for Puppy and the shark. But we didn’t see Puppy again. I wanted to be sick. My stomach was churning and I was trembling and crying.

  Darryl and Bruce had gone silent and the three of us were furiously paddling for shore and hoping like hell that we would make it. Out of nowhere came a loud gunshot; we raised our tear-stained faces towards the sound. Dad was waving from the cliffs. He’d seen the shark circling our canoe. We were less than 50 metres from the beach now. I took one quick look over my shoulder to see if we were still being followed, then turned to paddle for all I was worth.

  We beached the canoe. Dad was pulling us out and reassuring us that we were now safe and that Puppy had been extremely brave. I believe Dad was so caught up with relief to have us on shore safely and all together that he forgot the real reason he went looking for us – to tell us we were in trouble. Mum had found out about the canoe and told him, and he’d come out to make sure that we never took the canoe into deep water!

  Back at the house, Mother was acting calm. Although she kept her feelings close to her heart, I’m not sure she fully understood the distress we had come through.

  Not long afterwards, Dad said he had a surprise for me. He pointed to a cut-down 44-gallon drum which was partly filled with murky water. I raced over to it and in went my hand. Wham! Something bloody sharp had hold of me. Shocked, I let out a blood-curdling scream, pulling back my hand a darn sight faster than it went in. A baby Johnston River crocodile was hanging onto my poor fingers with all its might. Once over the initial shock, with tears in my eyes and my heart beating overtime, I wasn’t sure whether to be happy with this present or not. In fact I felt angry inside, but I was the eldest and had to be brave. Dad released the crocodile from my fingers and gave me a quick lesson on how to handle and feed my seven – seven! – new pets. Once a week I’d haul the little fellas out of the drum one by one, grabbing each at the back of its head, then pry open the top jaw and gently poke a little ball of fish down its throat. That was feeding time procedure until they got old enough to change their diet.

  Over the next couple of years I would take one or two crocs to school to show the teachers and my schoolmates. Needless to say, the teachers treated me very well on those days.


  A couple of years later my father suggested that he return them to the river. By this time I think they were wearing out their welcome in Mum’s eyes. I’d moved them into her fish pond, which was full of beautiful guppies. I still don’t believe they could possibly have devoured the whole lot overnight. There were hundreds of guppies, but by morning they were all gone.

  This was one of the times I realised Mum wasn’t too pleased with me: no yelling or shouting, just a slight change in her expression. To top it off, one of our larger pet crocs, over a metre long, escaped often and one day ended up walking through the house, frightening the hell out of Mum’s lady friends, who left their morning tea behind in their rush to get out the front door. Bruce and I didn’t mind, because we shared the visitors’ abandoned cake. But as the crocs were now taking themselves for walks, I agreed with Dad that it was time to say goodbye. Off to the Alligator River they went.

  CHAPTER 3

  Arnhem Land

  In 1964 my father returned home from Gove Peninsula with a new job very similar to his last, only this time working with the sea, recording swell and sand movement for the mining company Gominco. This meant the family would be uprooting from Fannie Bay and moving as far east of Darwin as you could travel without falling into the Gulf of Carpenteria. The Yirrkala Mission was at Rocky Bay and our new residence was about 5 kilometres from it, perched on a bauxite plateau.

  Mum seemed keen on the move, having taken up shell-collecting as a hobby. Her only worry was the boys’ education, but this wasn’t the boys’ worry – they were raring to go. I was 15 years old, and three months earlier had dropped out of high school to take on a hairdressing apprenticeship. I wasn’t too keen to leave. So before the family moved to Gove, Dad arranged accommodation for me in Darwin with his friend Silent Bill and his wife June, who was Matron of the Darwin Hospital.