Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  Sandra’s screams of pain were now non-stop. I could see the brave doctor was anxious to attend his patient and, with the police’s help, he strapped his medical bag to his back. He entered the raging river. The current grabbed him and pulled him under. He surfaced, only to be dragged down again. I was terrified. Then he surfaced again, but no sooner did he raise his head above the murky waters than he was pulled under again. We kept the tension on the wire rope as the doctor finally worked his way to our side, safe but exhausted.

  He injected Sandra with some morphine, and we all waited another couple of hours, which seemed like an eternity, while the creek dropped.

  Sandra was transferred to the ambulance; we turned around and worked our way back home. It had been a very long night. Some months later I had a phone call from the police and was asked if I would consider this rescue mission an act of bravery.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is a way of life!’

  We expected risks, and Sandra’s survival was at stake. There was something different about Bob’s effort to get across the river, though. He wasn’t acting out of bravery – more a mixture of self-destruction, grief, and a deep wish to take control again.

  I kicked Bull Pup out from the toilet to make room for a vigorous attack on the bowl with a brush. Katie was busily flicking the straw broom over the back veranda to the music of Slim Dusty. Our clean-up was suddenly brought to a halt by Bull Pup’s aggressive performance at the homestead gate.

  ‘What’s wrong, Katie?’ I asked.

  ‘Steve Hawke, Missus,’ she answered and kept on sweeping, not worried that the dog might want to take the visitor’s leg off.

  ‘Who, Katie?’ I asked again.

  ‘That Steve Hawke fella, Missus.’

  Troubled thoughts were racing through my mind. We had a very large camp of Aborigines and were not willing for outsiders to create unwarranted problems, as had happened at Noonkanbah. Restraining the dog, I greeted Steve and suggested he speak with Bob this time. It was nearly midday and I watched the two men as they walked out the back gate. Soon they had found a rocky outcrop where they could sit down in the fiery heat and talk. They remained there for several hours until Bob returned to the homestead and Steve left without a word.

  ‘He’s all right,’ Bob said. ‘He’s trying to help the people get some land for a school. Some of them want to break away from the Louisa camp.’

  Norm Cox and some families had been camping for some time in the area they wanted to call their own, near a rocky outcrop about 5 kilometres from the homestead. Neither Bob nor I could see any problem in their wanting a school. In fact, we thought it was an excellent idea that the children could be educated on the station. It wasn’t a massive land claim; they simply wanted a few acres to build a school and community. Bob’s only worry was that it would become a huge rubbish dump. We approached our company and in time the Aboriginal group were granted their land.

  Noonkanbah had the only other school in the Kimberley where the Aborigines incorporated their own language in the daily lessons. Yiyili, the new school, would do likewise. It had to offer the children a better future than no schooling at all. The existing educational situation was to split families up and plonk their children in town schools, with mothers camped at ration camps on the edge of town while the fathers stayed working on station stock-camps. There were broken families Kimberley-wide. By asking for the land, and by getting it so peacefully, Norm Cox, Steve Hawke and Robin Dickinson, the school’s first teacher, had set a precedent for the Kimberley. It also transformed our slightly wary attitude to Steve into a friendship.

  One Tuesday in April 1983, Bob was on Kimberley Downs Station and I was left in charge at Louisa. That year the East Kimberley was receiving record rainfall – all roads were closed, and the rivers were running a banker. I can’t say a long wet bothered me. I loved the cooler nights, with bullfrogs croaking and the wonderful sound of rain tumbling on the tin roof. Our red pindan earth had quenched its thirst a hundredfold, and was now producing luscious feed. Louisa was having its highest rainfall in its 30-year history.

  The word from the camp was that the Mary had broken its banks. Or, to put it another way: ‘Big floodwater coming this way, Missus!’

  I sent one of the stockmen with a note to Bluey’s camp, about a kilometre away on the flat, telling him to move to higher ground by the homestead or the windmill shed. I saw no sign of Blue and assumed that the river must have been dropping. Another possibility was that Blue didn’t believe it would be a threat to his camp. Sometimes it was difficult to get through to the old bushman. I couldn’t exactly order him to move his van. He had to want to do that for himself.

  At 11 am, Katie ran into the homestead.

  ‘Missus, that floodwater coming this way,’ she said, pointing to the hill closest to the Aborigines’ camp. There was still no sign of Blue. I asked the camp kids about him.

  ‘Nah, nah, Missus,’ they chorused.

  ‘He might still be down that river, Missus,’ one little girl volunteered.

  My house girls returned to camp to rescue their belongings and help move the old people onto higher ground. Michael, Leisha and I jumped into the Toyota and headed towards Blue’s camp.

  Driving around the foot of the homestead hill, I gasped with shock at the sight of the rushing wake of brown frothing water racing towards the cattle yards and Aborigines’ camp. What was once a crackling claypan flat between the Mary and the homestead was now a torrent of floodwater.

  Not sure whether we should risk going further with Leisha, I decided to drive and search until the floodwater was halfway up the Toyota’s door. Michael stood on the back searching for signs of life. With my hand firmly on the horn, which was starting to sound rather sick, I was hoping to draw Blue’s or Rita’s attention.

  Goannas and snakes were swimming past us. I could not believe how quickly the floodwater had eroded the track. Down we went into a huge pothole which stopped the vehicle completely. My heart skipped a beat as the warm, murky floodwater washed in around my knees. Grabbing Leisha and hoisting her onto my shoulders, I got out of the car and worked my way through the pindan-coloured water full of lizards, spiders and spinifex particles, towards a gatepost that still had a few centimetres showing. The top strand of barbed wire was exposed – we could use it as a guide back towards the homestead.

  I assured Michael I would be all right hanging onto this post while he ventured towards the windmill and pump shed – now half-underwater – to try to find Blue and Rita.

  ‘Be careful, but please hurry,’ I said as Michael headed off. The undertow of the red water was terribly powerful, tugging at my jeans and shirt. Ants and spiders wanted the last centimetres of dry gatepost as much as I did. My long hair had fallen down into the water, collecting spinifex particles which irritated my neck. With one arm gripping the gatepost, I held firmly onto Leisha’s leg.

  ‘Are you all right, girl?’ I asked.

  She never complained and took all the outback threw at her in her little stride. There was no sign of Michael; I grew anxious. The floodwaters had become deeper and stronger and we’d lost the barbed wire. Leisha and I started calling. Over the roar of the water I heard Michael answer. Looking his way, I could see three heads bobbing above the water. He yelled for me to move on up the fence. But neither Bluey nor Rita could swim, so I stayed put and as soon as Michael reached the fence, I grabbed Rita’s arm and told her to slowly work her way along the fence, keeping a firm grip on the barbed wire, which was now well under water. Michael was more or less carrying old Blue. If he hadn’t, I’m sure we would have lost him. It was dangerous and exhausting trying to keep Blue’s and Rita’s heads above water. Slowly we moved along the fence, pushing flood debris out of our way to keep a firm grip on the old barbed wire, which was cutting into my hands under the water. All the way, Leisha sat quietly on my shoulders. About 150 metres out from the homestead, I could see and hear the dogs barking excitedly; they would run into the water, get carried down wit
h the current, get out and run back again. Then, along the ridge came my house girls, Katie, Alma and Jeannie. Tall, slim Katie came down into the floodwater and worked her way along the fence line, grabbed Leisha from my shoulders and worked her way back.

  ‘Come on, Rita, keep going, not far now,’ I said. It was a slow process. Rita was so small and frail, I had to push her whole body along, keeping a firm grip on the barbed wire. Snakes, goannas and spiders continued to float by in the swirl of water. ‘Fair go,’ I said out loud, slapping away a goanna who was desperate to use our heads and shoulders as a dry base.

  I glanced ahead to see the stockmen and families running along the ridge towards us. Many came out into the murky waters to help. Finally on dry land, we slumped on the ground. I gave a thought to the faithful Toyota, now fully submerged except for the top of its cab. Then, with jelly legs I helped Blue and Rita further along the ridge to the homestead. My girls made a big pot of tea and we all sat and rested. As much as I enjoyed a solid wet season, there were limits!

  By 1984, the company had gone into receivership. Kevin Meyer, the Receiver Manager, was by no means a cattleman, but was having a go.

  Over the phone I had put a deal to Bob which I intended to lay on the table to Meyer. Bob had reservations, which infuriated me. He really hated change, but he grudgingly made the trip back from Kimberley Downs for the negotiations.

  The evening before Meyer arrived, I had a rough contract written up. Bob and I would both resign from our job as manager. Bob would become a contract musterer. He could find work Kimberley-wide, or contract himself back to the station. I was looking for a way to get ahead. I had more faith in Bob than he did in himself now, but I knew what a good cattleman he was. I also thought that if his mind was preoccupied with this new venture, it might help ease his pain and grief. The receiver could hire a new manager, or perhaps I could apply for the manager’s position in my own right.

  Bob came around to my way of thinking, and the gamble paid off. Kevin Meyer granted Bob the contract to muster the company’s properties – Louisa, Bohemia, Kimberley and Napier Downs – and I was given the management position of both Louisa and Bohemia Downs.

  I was very grateful for the opportunity. There were only two other women who managed properties in the Kimberley. One looked after 20,000 acres outside Derby, the other 600,000 acres near Fitzroy Crossing. I promised myself not to let the side down. For years I had wanted to break away from being an underling. Bob worried over dragging the family around the Kimberley chasing work, but the way we’d arranged it, we’d have a permanent base, and with him receiving 50 per cent of what we delivered to the meatworks, there was the potential to make much better money. If we both worked hard, the light would be really glowing at the end of the tunnel. Continuing solely on a manager’s wage, this would have been difficult.

  Our financial situation improved overnight. Bob did a muster on Roebuck Station outside Broome, and his share of that one muster was more than our wage for the whole of the previous year!

  Bob was more or less based at the Mango Farm south of Broome now; it was a central place for the new business. Working apart, we seemed to be getting along better, and I knew that if I had a problem he was always there for me. In some ways I was relieved to be away from him, running the stations myself, without his temperamental behaviour and black, angry moods.

  Leisha was now six years old. She was a healthy and happy child and wonderful company for me. But lately my beautiful, bubbly daughter had lost her spark and was sleeping a lot. I was becoming frantic. There was no pain, and she didn’t have the flu. With no idea what could be wrong with her, I raced her to Broome Hospital. A doctor raised the possibility of flu or a virus, but with Leisha feeling like a dead weight in my arms I was not entirely happy with this diagnosis; in fact I was terribly worried. I walked in silence towards the exit, thinking I’d take a plane to Perth for a second opinion.

  Bobby Telford, the head nursing sister, called out to me to stop. She questioned me, then asked me to wait while she consulted with the doctor again. Within the hour, my darling girl was flown to Derby (which was the major local hospital at the time) by the Royal Flying Doctor aircraft, and was diagnosed with Murray Valley encephalitis, caught, they said, from a mosquito bite.

  We were on tenterhooks, hoping and praying the encephalitis cells would not multiply. If they did, she might become fully or partially paralysed, or slip into a vegetative state.

  Panicking and running on autopilot, I raced to the Mango Farm to inform Bob, grabbed some clothes and arrived back in Derby in record time. I was shocked to see my little girl in a semi-coma. It brought back memories of Kelly, she had so many tubes connected to her body. Why I did this I will never know, but I asked the nurses – who in turn had to get permission from the doctor – to disconnect the tubes. This was probably not a smart move, but I was adamant, and they consented. I felt that Leisha, who had never been parted from me, needed the closeness of my body more than she needed what was in the tubes. I lifted her floppy little body from the cot and laid her on my stomach on a hospital bed. In happier times, when she would need comfort, this was where she would like to curl up, always on my tummy with her face snuggled into my shoulder.

  I willed her to get better. I prayed in silence. We slept, I believe, for eight hours and both woke at the same time. The hospital staff never had to reconnect her to the tubes, and were amazed at the speed of her recovery. They didn’t even need to administer more medicine.

  More tests were done, including a lumbar puncture, to see if the positive cells had multiplied: they had not. Leisha and I lay alone, day after day. I was fired with a single-minded determination not to lose her. I knew she would be all right: I have no other way of describing my certainty. On the fifth day, after she’d steadily recovered and the doctors had consented to let her come home, I loaded the Ford with stores, plug tobacco, frozen bread and cool drink, and Leisha and I headed back to Louisa. I was profoundly happy to have her well again and by my side.

  ‘Missus, Missus!’ called Alma.

  ‘What’s wrong, Alma?’ I asked.

  ‘That old man, that old man,’ she said, pointing with her chin but not saying his name. We had many older men on Louisa, so without knowing who she was talking about I dutifully followed her down the hill to the camp.

  At the camp I was met with total silence, just a lazy breeze through the cattle yards gently scattering some leaves. I went over to Alex, who was sitting on a flour drum. He stood up to greet me. I took his hand and whispered quietly: ‘What’s wrong, old man?’

  ‘This way, Yumun.’

  The camp people were staying out of sight in the shadows of their corrugated-iron huts and bow-shed humpies. The 20 or so inbred, hairless dogs were quiet for once as I carefully made my way under low awnings, around open fireplaces, dodging hanging billy cans and sleeping dogs till we reached the old man’s camp. Knowing that all eyes from the shadows were on me, I looked at Joe, the oldest man in the Louisa camp, lying on his stretcher bed. I walked across the well-swept dirt floor towards him. Two blue-eyed dogs sat by his bed, watching. I moved closer to check the old man’s pulse.

  ‘Old man, old man,’ I whispered, my eyes filled with tears. I pulled the old grey swag blanket up over his body and paused for a minute to gain my composure. A little ray of sunlight had forced its way through the rust holes of the humpy and was throwing gently moving patterns over his body.

  I later estimated that Joe Nipperiappi was between 90 and 100 when he died. He had never been to town. His people had first followed the station mustering camp for the scraps of beef and damper left behind, and it was the same trails which had finally led them into the Louisa Downs Station from the O’Donnell Valley.

  As I slowly wove my way out of camp, people emerged from the shadows of their humpies, looking to me for an answer.

  ‘Old man finished,’ I said softly. ‘He was a very old man, his body very tired, old man finished now.’

  The camp
people wanted the body buried at the station. I agreed, as long as I could get permission. Why bury him in a town when he had never visited one? On the edge of the rocky plateau 100 metres from the homestead was the grave of the white man Frank Cox, who’d founded Louisa Station. The Aboriginal people and I decided we would bury old Joe next to him.

  I called Welfare in Halls Creek and asked would they obtain permission for me to bury the old fella on the station. The police and Welfare were most helpful, and a light aircraft was arranged to take the deceased to the Fitzroy Crossing morgue.

  I marked out the area and filled a 44-gallon drum with water to dampen the ground. It would be hard going with only a crowbar and shovel for tools. Working in the early morning and in the cool of the evening, we took it in turns loosening the rocky ground with the crowbar and shovelling out the grave. Five days later, we had finished.

  Aboriginal people had gathered at Louisa from stations and communities near and far. Ringer, Frank and young Eric, three of the stockmen, went out and butchered a killer, which gave us sufficient beef to share around. It was Saturday 25 February 1984, when a plane burst out of the clouds, circled the homestead and landed with the body, back from the morgue. In the blue Toyota, I drove the coffin around the old wooden cattle yard to the burial site. Because the Aboriginal people wanted this burial, I suggested one of them conduct the service. Coolibah Quilty proceeded to give the most beautiful and moving sermon, followed by hymns sung by Norm Cox’s girls, who had voices like angels.

  Somehow I found myself balanced on the rim of the grave, the only white person, rocking gently with the mass of mourning people, terrified that I might fall in. Then I heard Coolibah say what a good person I was, and ‘the sorry they feel for Missus, and the sorry they feel for Kelly boy’. With the mention of dear Kelly’s name the painful memories came flooding back. I let the tears wash my face, knowing that although I felt sorry for the loss of the old man, it was Kelly I was crying for.