Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  The evening was cool for a wet season night and a good soaking had gone some way to quenching the thirst of the red earth and spinifex plains. There was little movement in the camp, just the old bomb vehicle that farted its way through the homestead gates around 10 pm. With Bob away at the Mango Farm near Broome, Leisha and I were sharing the double bed. I lay listening to the broken chatter as the Aboriginal men laughed their way through the homestead to their camp at the foot of the hill. Bull Pup ran out to the fence and gave a bark or two, then settled himself back on the toilet floor of the back veranda.

  Kissing my girl goodnight, I thought that if Bull Pup wasn’t worrying about the late arrivals, nor would I.

  Around 2 am I woke to the most terrible wailing argument. People were yelling, dogs barking and rocks hitting an iron roof. I sat on the side of the bed for a moment, listening and trying to take it all in. It sounded like someone had come into our camp with a load of grog. I was far from pleased.

  I checked that Leisha was still sound asleep and secure, threw on my jeans, shirt and boots, and made my way to the back door. Not wanting to draw the people’s attention to the house and have to mediate with a drunken group at this hour, I took only a weak torch. I could hear someone stumbling around on the cement pavers. Bull Pup started barking uncontrollably, and next thing I was confronted with a drunken, unkempt Aboriginal male entering my house from the back veranda.

  ‘You wait at the back door,’ I told him in a clear, strong voice.

  He mumbled and cursed, coming forward, ignoring me completely. Bull Pup was going absolutely berserk but had somehow locked himself in the toilet just when I needed him most. The bad-tempered, drunken stranger just kept coming towards me. It was all the more frightening because I was unsure of his intentions. There were no men in the house, just me, my daughter and her nanny, Andrea. I could feel my body start to burn with aggression: this bastard had no respect for me or my family. There was no way he was going to invade my space.

  Raising my right arm and pointing towards the veranda, I said very plainly, ‘Get the hell out of here. Get out of my house.’

  He kept on coming. Bull Pup’s barking and my raised voice had woken Leisha and the nanny. My aggression grew as I heard Leisha’s frightened voice calling, ‘My Mummy, my Mummy!’

  He kept on coming. I suddenly lost control – totally out of character, but I was overwhelmed by rage. As he entered the lounge room, I hit him for all I was worth with my right elbow. The blow sent him flying back against the fridge alcove. Then, before he had time to get to his senses, I hit him again and sent him staggering across the enclosed back veranda. My pulse racing, my temper running hot, I ran at him and pushed him right out the back door where he landed among my prize cycads.

  I followed him out and waited for the right moment to brain him with a not-so-prized pot plant. Out of the darkness came other Aboriginal voices that I recognised as friendly. Silently the men moved into the lit-up area of the back veranda. Before I had any idea what was happening, they had the stranger by the legs and arms and carried him out into the black of the night.

  ‘You all right, Missus?’ asked Jack, my yard man. ‘That little Leisha all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you for following him up.’

  I let Bull Pup out of the toilet and closed the door, chiding him. ‘You silly old bugger, locking yourself in the loo and missing all the excitement.’

  I made a pannikin of tea and settled my girl back into bed before creeping outside, leaving Bull Pup in the homestead yard. I worked my way over to the station store, where I stood against the corrugated-iron wall. Eyes slowly adjusting to the black of night, I could see and hear people moving from the camp up to the rocky ridge that ran along to the homestead. Kero lamps were swinging in the dark. There was yelling and abuse, and women and children were crying and wailing. A full-on fight had broken out, with sticks and boomerangs flying everywhere. My stomach churned. I slowly let myself slide down against the wall, hoping not to be seen. I was worried for the old people, the women and the children. With my chin on my knees, staring out into the dark of the night, I watched and listened. If anyone was hurt I knew the camp people would come to the homestead for help. A boomerang whistled over my head and slammed into the shed. Old Alex was a champion with the weapon. Smiling to myself, I knew the drunks wouldn’t hang around his camp tonight. The stronger elders must have been driving the drunks out of the camp.

  Thunder had started to grumble in the valley and the night seemed to grow even blacker as the first heavy, cold spots of rain fell. Raising my weary face to the skies, I let the icy coolness trickle over my face.

  ‘Send her down, Hughie,’ I prayed as I crept back to the homestead. ‘Please! Send her down and sober the bastards up!’

  The rain poured down even heavier. Back home, I peeled off my damp clothes and let them drop in a pile on the floor. As soon as I hit the bed I fell into a dead sleep.

  In the morning I was called to the back gate by Jack.

  ‘Missus, Missus, the peoples want to speak with you,’ he said.

  I followed him to the gate where 30 to 40 people from the camp had gathered. There was total silence as they waited for me to speak. Everyone looked fresh, showered and sober. I still felt like hell and I hadn’t even had a bloody drink. I looked around the circle.

  ‘Who brought the grog into camp?’

  Arguing broke out among them until an old woman grabbed hold of a man in his early thirties and dragged him into the centre.

  ‘This one, Missus, you growl him.’

  I knew this woman. She wasn’t the sort to stand for any nonsense. She pushed the offender up to face me.

  ‘Say sorry to Missus,’ she ordered him.

  He apologised. I asked him to say sorry to the people. He did, showing such remorse he was unable to lift his gaze from his dusty boots.

  ‘Don’t ever bring grog into Louisa again,’ I said, loud enough for all to hear. ‘Every stockman gets two cans at night and the women and children get one can of cool drink, and that’s it. We have a good and happy camp, but with grog it’s fighting all night. Do you understand me?’

  I was gazing at his sick and sorry state, willing the message to sink in.

  ‘Yes, Missus,’ he replied.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Everyone have smoko now and we’ll do the store rations later.’

  The people drifted off towards camp, chattering and sounding a lot happier. The offender moved off alone. He’d been publicly shamed and it would be some time before he got over it.

  Another hectic mustering season was coming to an end, the toughest one of all for Bob and me. As we worked the cattle through the dusty yards, I was not always as alert and nimble as I should have been. I was inadvertently putting my own life at risk, my judgment clouded by my grieving heart.

  Bob’s suffering was masked with deep, dark silences. His own faraway thoughts were evident in his sad eyes. At night he buried his agony by drinking himself to sleep. There was nothing I could say to help him. Nothing could heal the loss of Kelly. I battled to keep up my confident exterior. I had to be strong for my husband and daughter. Any tears I cried now were shed within the four walls of my bedroom.

  One day at siesta time, I was resting my weary body and as usual wrestling with an overactive mind. Somehow I fell into a deep sleep. Suddenly, an urgent young voice woke me: Kelly’s voice.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ he was calling.

  ‘Coming, Kelly, coming,’ I cried, sitting bolt upright. My chest was pounding – there was such urgency in his young voice. I raced to the door. All of a sudden I realised what I was doing. My mind was spiralling out of control; my world had become surreal. I collapsed sobbing on the bed. It was obvious we all needed a break, me most of all.

  I approached Bob with the idea of a family holiday in Perth, where we could visit my mother’s sister Aunty Alvis on her farm at Mundijong.

  ‘I don’t need a break,’ he snapped. It was obvious that
he did need one, but I wasn’t going to force it. Leisha and I flew to Perth without him. Aunty Alvis met us at the airport and drove us out to the farm. It was lovely to see her and put some distance between us and the place where we’d lost Kelly.

  ‘I’ve got no idea what life has in store for me next,’ I sighed. Aunty was a good listener and on the way back to the farm I poured out all my mixed-up emotions.

  ‘You should go and see our psychic,’ she said. It was the first time I’d ever thought about such a course, and I was curious.

  ‘I’ll come along with you,’ Aunty added. ‘She might do you some good, as long as you don’t take it to heart.’

  A few days later, with dear Aunty Alvis behind the wheel of her little car, we made our way along a narrow road bordered by freshly-harvested wheat rolled into haystacks. In other paddocks wild oats billowed in the breeze. How different it all was from our wild red cattle station! In the distance I could see a blue roof, shaded by a single jacaranda tree.

  The farmhouse was old but lovingly maintained. I had a mountain of tangled questions running through my head and I needed answers. At this point I was desperate to try anything. I was often emotional, with anger, restlessness and explosive frustration all competing for space. I’d lost my self-confidence, and was worried that my marriage would not survive. The rug had been pulled roughly from under my feet and I was struggling to keep my balance. Bob was retreating behind his wall of silence and dark depression; there was often no communication between us at all.

  Aunty and I were greeted at the blue front door by the card reader, a woman in her early thirties who had a floaty floral dress, bare feet and a mane of long, dark hair. I walked into the farmhouse filled with apprehension, feeling like a child, wanting to beg Aunty Alvis not to leave me alone with this stranger.

  She led us down a passage of dull timber floorboards that creaked all the way to the vacant room where the reading was to take place. The room was filled with shafts of sunlight pouring in through a stained-glass window, although the air felt strangely cold. She sat down on the naked floorboards and beckoned for me to sit opposite her. I shivered. Her voice was soft and gentle. She seemed hesitant and didn’t always look at me directly.

  One at a time she laid the large wooden Tarot cards on the floor in front of me. The first card to appear was black, sullen and evil-looking. It screamed of death. I felt frightened and my heart pounded in my chest. Now I felt hot and flushed as the psychic hovered over the card, looking at me. I knew it was Kelly’s death.

  The next card depicted my suffering and the struggle Bob and I were having. One at a time, she laid out the chunky cards on the floor. It was hard to believe that this woman, someone I’d never met, could be so in tune with my life.

  ‘There is another male in your life,’ she said hesitantly. ‘He is closer to your own age and he will make you laugh and feel yourself again. When he is near, the hurt will ease.’

  I had no idea who she was talking about.

  ‘But be warned,’ she continued. ‘Do not confuse this friendship with anything more than that. You are extremely vulnerable. Should this friendship develop, its only purpose would be to ease the hurt of your loss.’

  She dealt another card, as filled with foreboding as the first. I wasn’t to know then, but it signalled the death of my Aunty Grace, my Grandma Bond’s sister, three weeks later.

  I floated out of the card reading feeling detached, unemotional, even peaceful. Who could the mystery man be? I could only think of a couple of the bull-runners. Yet her warning had calmed me. Whatever happened would turn out all right. And the break from the station had helped us; Leisha and I had reconnected again. We returned feeling a lot better. If only Bob had agreed to take a break as well.

  Ten months later, at the Halls Creek rodeo and ball, I was to receive first-hand proof of the power of the Tarot.

  It was a beautiful full-moon night and I was very glad I’d managed to persuade Bob to attend. He hadn’t wanted to go. Along for the ride were two teams of contract bull-runners, led by Jack from New South Wales and Morgan, a very smartly-dressed man from Queensland. Both men were good company and I was looking forward to the evening. As usual, all the men and women were beautifully dressed and the band was pumping out some toe-tapping music. Once all the trophies of buckles and ribbons had been presented, I was hoping to dance the night away.

  The music started and I looked at Bob, hoping he would ask me up for the first number. He shook his head. I assumed it was physical pain that robbed him of his interest in me. He seemed quite content to have a beer or three, as usual. Morgan, the bull-runner staying at Louisa, was tall with steely broad shoulders, sunburnt, rugged good looks and an air of experience. He stepped up and asked Bob’s permission to dance with me. I thought his manners were superb and I enjoyed being treated as a woman. It was certainly a contrast to the way Bob had been treating me.

  We moved out onto the dance floor, joining all the other station couples gliding gracefully around the floor. My body seemed to soak up the melody floating around the room. Morgan’s grip on my waist was firm. I felt free and happy, loving the music, loving the dance. As we moved about the floor, our eyes locked, both of us hit with a burning desire flowing from deep within our bodies. He pressed against me and I began to feel frightened by my raw emotions. At that moment I would have done anything he asked. This moment had an intensity I had never experienced before.

  In a dream, we waltzed around the floor, lost in the crowd and savouring each blissful moment. Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed Bob. He was watching me with terrifying intensity, on his feet stalking me among the dancers. He ghosted through the crowd, an implacable blackness in his eyes.

  ‘I can’t dance anymore,’ I whispered to Morgan. ‘I must sit with Bob.’

  Morgan’s grip around my waist tightened as he held me for a few more seconds. At that moment I think we both felt an aching need to be loved, to be folded into each other and forget the rest of the world. Then he released me, bowed his head, tilted his Akubra and thanked me for the dance.

  I returned to Bob with a pounding heart. It was difficult to reconcile what had just happened with our everyday life on the station. He felt like a stranger – never more so than in the weird way he had followed me onto the dance floor. I suggested we leave and go back to the motel where we were staying.

  The following day I summoned Morgan to the homestead. I had trouble looking him squarely in the eyes, but had the strength to inform him I had transferred his bull-running contract to Kimberley Downs. A good bull-runner was needed there and I told him he should leave immediately.

  After those few wonderful moments of sexual awakening, I realised that it was with Bob that my destiny lay, that the sexual desire I felt with Morgan was a kind of grief-fuelled madness. The way Bob had woven his way through the dancers, half-crouched, while I was with Morgan, hadn’t left me. My place was with Bob. He was telling me, with his eyes, that I must never forget that. Through our history, and our grief, he had cast a kind of a frightening spell on me. I silently thanked the psychic for her foresight and wisdom. And I was glad to have received her warning, which had perhaps saved us from a very messy situation.

  CHAPTER 13

  Trouble in the Camp

  Bob had finally taken my advice and had gone for some time out on the Mango Farm near Broome. This left Michael, old Bluey and his wife Rita, Leisha and me and a camp of 40 to 50 Aboriginal people. We were all good company for each other in our unique ways.

  I looked out at the sodden paddocks and leaden skies. No mail plane, no mail. The company was four months behind with our wages – again. Sometimes this made me angry, knowing the cattle numbers we had mustered for them.

  Bob came home a worried man, suffering not only physical pain but deep depression over losing our boy. Again I tried to help him, but I was unable to reach him. His moods were deep and dark and his silences lasted for days as his anguish and agony translated into a churning turm
oil in his gut. His suffering was tearing me apart. In three days’ time, on 24 April 1982, it would be Kelly’s sixth birthday. I had been obsessively counting every week since my boy had gone. Once a month I’d been taking the 1200 km round trip to lay native flowers on his grave in Broome. I sat in my bedroom, shaking uncontrollably, letting my tears flow. I had been holding on so tight, just to keep going. To be strong for Bob, Leisha and myself. I was afraid Bob might do away with himself. I cried until I fell into an exhausted sleep. It was as if the wet season was playing itself out inside me and in a funny way, just as in nature, it was necessary.

  When the day came, Bob knew and I knew and the whole homestead felt the change, but nothing was said. I felt that to raise the thing we were obviously both thinking about would only tear Bob apart more.

  In June 1982, there was a sign that the Australian Land and Cattle Co.’s troubles were affecting the station, when the Aboriginal stockmen from town refused to help draft, due to unpaid wages. The Perth office was late again with payment, and the boys were perfectly within their rights. Who wants to work for nothing? I promised the boys I would travel to Derby that same week and draw money from my personal account to pay them.

  At the end of August, Dad called from Kilto Station to say he’d heard that the cattle stations could be going into receivership any day. Rumours had been circulating for months. I called the company accountant, who promised to send all wages and monies owing.

  The old ‘red-headed terror’ and his devoted Rita were on a heavy drinking binge again. Home was a caravan balanced on the banks of the Mary River, shaded by beautiful white river gums. The trouble with old Blue was he never knew when enough was enough. If alcohol was in sight, he figured his job was to drink it. I decided it was time to run a check on him.