Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  Around this time I discovered some very positive news. I was pregnant again and was quite sure I was carrying a boy whose name would be Robert Kelly, Robby. Bob came back to the station to hear the news, and pulled me onto his knee, where I sat with the biggest smile ever. We were both over the moon. It had been three years since we’d lost our boy, and deep down we hoped this would help heal our grief and bring us closer together.

  It had been two years now since Bob started contracting and I’d begun managing on my own. Not much had changed, except I didn’t have to consult Bob before making decisions. Bob told me I was doing a good job, and I was pleased he’d come back to contract for me. Leisha and I were doing fine, but we always looked forward to Daddy coming home.

  Our chopper pilots, Ken and Bob, arrived ready for a muster in the area between Pond Spring and Me No Savvy. I had to drive into Halls Creek in the truck to pick up flour and rations, and also to bail out Chatterbox, one of my stockmen, and any others who had decided to join him for a short stay, not exactly a free one, in Her Majesty’s quarters in Halls Creek. There were sore heads and huge smiles all round.

  The chopper muster went smoothly, or as smoothly as it possibly could, considering that at least two-thirds of these cattle were pure rogues and had never had contact with man. Descendants of cattle that were first driven into this country, they’d multiplied healthily, taking up residence in the outlying areas of valleys and rugged ranges. If we could outsmart them, and yard them, they meant dollars on the hoof.

  Even though the country had just come through a good wet season, with plenty of feed and young, tender spinifex, the 700 head the choppers had in hand had stirred up great billowing clouds of dust as they filed down our hessian-covered wings into the portable yard. The soundtrack to this spectacle was the clashing of horns as the dominant bulls tried to force their way though the mob, and the constant call of cows trying to track their weaner offspring.

  The cattle troughs were hooked up to the water tanker, so with a bellyful of water the cattle might start to settle. We could then jump into the buggies and head for the homestead.

  We had the right helicopter pilots. Skogy had given flying away. He’d lost an arm in a freak car accident when a semitrailer’s loose rope had wrapped itself around his elbow while it overtook him. Bob and Ken were bringing in larger numbers of cattle, and quicker, than mounted stockmen. Helicopter mustering was cheaper and much more efficient, and if the cattle were handled right from beginning to end there was very little bruising. I felt sadness as I thought about the future of the horse-plant musters and the future of the Aboriginal stockmen. I shuddered to imagine the damage this would do to their families. With helicopter mustering, we hired six men compared to a team of eight or 10 stockmen on horseback. Progress was putting Aboriginal stockmen out of work, leaving many lying around their camps or hanging out in towns. But I also understood the need for progress: the stations couldn’t remain viable otherwise.

  I was highly pleased with the muster, estimating we had achieved about 700 head yarded plus more than 50 good bulls. I watched closely as two of the larger bulls muscled their way through the yard, bellowing and locking horns in a show of authority. You could hear the brrrrr, brrrrr of the big fella as he kept locking horns and shoving the smaller brindle one about the yard. We worried about the massive horns and the bruising and holes they might punch in the other cattle. Gangrene set in quickly in this country.

  Down in the yard, Bob disconnected the hose from the cattle trough. Michael moved the water tanker closer to the yard to get extra slack in the hose, turned up the pressure on the water pump, then hit the bulls with as much pressure as he had. But it didn’t seem to be working.

  By now the dominant bull had shoved the brindle onto the yard panels. Grey dust rose above the mob. The portable yard was moving with the force of the fighting bulls and we had good reason to be worried. At that very moment the big fella charged at the brindle, missed and picked up the portable yard panel with a horn. The panel lifted off the hinges, and suddenly tonnes of beef were racing for freedom. There was an immense thundering mixed with the cries of calves, flesh clashing with flesh. Bob and his right-hand man, Browny, jumped into their bull-buggies and drove directly into the missing yard panel with engines revving amid the blinding dust. With visibility nil, they were risking their lives. Fierce determination to keep as many of these cattle in the yard as possible was written on Bob’s face.

  My stomach churning with fear and anger, I sat with eyes fixed on the scene. For a moment it was all confusion, a stubborn man and a thick wall of dust. Then magically, the cattle stopped spewing from the enclosure and I could see Bob’s and Browny’s silhouettes in the grey bulldust as they pulled the yard panels together again. We estimated our loss at approximately 100 head. Sometimes my dear husband frustrated me with the risks he took, especially since our family was growing. But I knew how he hated anything to beat him. Bob came home to Louisa to do this muster for two days with us, then had to leave . . . to keep mustering!

  Leisha’s cousins from Broome had already arrived. Her many playmates from Yiyili and the station camp were there too, letting fly with squeals of laughter as they played chase and tag around the back lawn. Bob too was back on Louisa for his girl’s seventh birthday and was sitting with his pannikin of tea on the back veranda talking to Alex and Ringer about musters, helicopters and horse plants. I had succeeded in keeping Leisha’s doll cake hidden from her in the coolroom. It would shortly take two of us to carry the cake out.

  Leisha’s eyes were glued to her dad and me as we steadily moved across the lawn, carrying the large cardboard box from the coolroom. Placing it on the table on the veranda, we gently lifted the box from the cake. There were screams of excitement all around, but not a word from our girl. She just stood and stared at the cake in amazement.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ we sang. Leisha walked slowly around her cake, gently touching, poking and feeling to see if this beautiful doll was edible. The doll cake, just like the ones I’d had as a child, was nearly as tall as she was!

  My pregnancy had gone without a hitch. I was eight months along and big, although not as large as I was with Leisha, who’d weighed nine and half pounds at birth. All I wanted was to produce a healthy boy, a brother for our girl and a son for Bob.

  It was time to wait patiently for the wet season to start. Huge red dust storms would be seen in the distant desert. Leisha and I would watch the storm for days as it rolled towards the homestead. Once the wall of red dust hit the front horse paddock, we’d run like hell into the house and lock it up. It didn’t matter how hard we tried to block every tiny hole, with towels rolled up and jammed under doors, sheets and blankets over bedding, and windows – when the storm had passed we’d need a road sweeper to find our way out. Louisa’s average 350-millimetre rainfall meant every drop was a blessing. The first storms would have the cattle stormchasing, and waiting on green pick – the first green shoots of grass. Leisha would be running around all covered in red mud, or flat-out making mud pies with her mates. Once the initial groundwork was completed, the big thunderheads would roll in and give us the works. The torrential rains would bathe the countryside, leaving it clean and fresh. Then the heat and humidity would ease and we would start to appreciate the wet season as the surrounding countryside burst into life.

  CHAPTER 15

  New Life, New Challenges

  The trip into town from the station felt long and uncomfortable. My feet were swollen, as if I’d eaten too much watermelon. I was booked into theatre at 8 am on Tuesday 28 November 1984, and I couldn’t wait. I’d already been informed it would have to be another caesarean. It seemed unfair that I couldn’t experience natural childbirth, but there was no choice.

  Prepared and gowned, lying uncomfortably on the hard theatre trolley, I told the nurses to write Robert (Robby) Kelly on the name plate on the baby’s cot. Perhaps, thinking I was desperate to have another boy, they were humouring me. There was silence, and one
of the nurses asked if I had any girls’ names, ‘just in case’.

  ‘No!’

  I was adamant I was having a boy. They wheeled me into the cold, stainless steel, sterile theatre. As the mask was placed over my nose and mouth, I began to shiver. I remember being asked what sex I thought my baby would be. It seemed the theatre staff were laying bets. After that, the blackness came quickly and pleasantly.

  In no time at all the darkness was lifting and I could hear excited voices. Someone close by whispered, ‘You have your son, Sheryl.’

  Someone else scolded that person; maybe they wanted Bob to tell me. I felt terrible pain in my lower abdomen. Still sedated heavily, I couldn’t speak; deep choking sobs and tears of joy escaped, mixed with pure happiness, and then blackness again.

  I woke several hours later to see Bob, Leisha and the Irish nun in charge of maternity admiring our beautiful new addition. At seven and a half pounds (3.4 kilograms), Robby was the spitting image of our beloved Kelly. We were so lucky and so blessed! I walked from the hospital with our new precious cargo snuggled lovingly in my arms, blissfully happy. I lifted my gaze from baby to an immaculately-restored early model Mercedes Benz, white with huge rolling mudguards and large gleaming chrome grille. I hesitated, admiring its beauty for a moment, and turned to Bob.

  ‘Isn’t it a beauty?’ I said. He placed my hospital bag on the back seat.

  ‘It’s yours. Thought you might like it,’ he said in his bushie drawl.

  ‘It’s for you, Mummy,’ Leisha chorused loudly, skipping excitedly around the car.

  ‘It’s beautiful, just beautiful, I feel so lucky,’ I enthused, walking around the car with our baby in my arms. I’m an old-fashioned girl at heart and had always loved the early model Mercedes. But I’d never imagined Bob would ever see any sense in me owning one. This beautiful, fully-restored Merc was a loving gift from the heart from my husband and daughter. How Leisha kept this secret between herself and Daddy, God only knows.

  Louisa was a hive of activity. The stockmen had erected the portable yard, and the bull-buggies, cattle trucks and water truck were ready to go. I woke around 3 am to the distant call of a dingo, a matter of concern since my bull terrier bitch was on heat. She was a brazen harlot at these times and I needed to check on her. My movement disturbed Robby, but there was a lot to do. After breastfeeding I would change and settle him before starting breakfast for the stockmen and pilots. My life ran on routine while Robby was small. But there were days I would feel absolutely shell-shocked and exhausted, wondering if I could keep up the pace. A long-time mate, Jimmy Marshall, joined me in the kitchen and proceeded to put together the lunchtime tucker box and billy cans for the stockmen. Breakfast was over and there was still no sign of sunrise. The peacefulness of the night was rudely broken as two choppers burst off the ground, sending dust and spinifex flying. The chopping sound faded in the distance as they headed for the plains to begin the day’s muster.

  The big news was that the Premier was arriving, to confer on a new arrangement for sharing land with the Aboriginal people. Across the country, there were legal moves afoot to ascertain Aboriginal people’s rights to land. I’d sent a message to the camp: ‘The Premier fella is coming to Louisa. When the planes circle the house come up and sit on the homestead lawn. Maybe you might want to ask this boss fella something.’

  I sent a stockman out in a buggy to check out the airstrip and clear it of horses. All the camp dogs and my bull terrier had to be chained up. We couldn’t possibly have the dogs disgrace us by latching onto the city folks’ long town pants!

  I said to Katie and Alma, ‘Let’s make a chocolate cake for this boss fella; he’s the boss of this Western Australia country, Labor boss. They’re coming for a big smoko.’

  There were the usual last-minute dramas. Would you believe I burned the bloody cake and ended up with a restoration job on my hands? That meant cutting off the top, turning it upside down and smothering it in very thick chocolate frosting. Also, some of the dining room chairs were a bit dicky. If you sat on them with your weight distributed to the good legs, things were okay. But I had never had the leisure to test all the chairs.

  ‘Them gardiar [white] men coming, Missus!’ called Katie, her long skinny legs striding out towards the kitchen to check on the kettles.

  Two aircraft circled the homestead and landed. West Australian Premier Brian Burke emerged first, then Kevin Skipworth, Tom Stevens and Ernie Bridge, all members of parliament, and then two others. The party walked up the path and into the lounge, where they found seats around the table. Katie and I made tea in the huge pot. The visitors seemed terribly quiet for a group of men and I had the feeling some were slightly uneasy. Maybe they had never used a pannikin to drink from before, or maybe their concentrated looks came from trying to ride the wonky chairs.

  With as much aplomb as I could muster, I proceeded to pour tea, then feverishly passed around the restored chocolate cake before the heat had the frosting dribbling down the sides and all over our distinguished guests.

  To eat his cake quickly, Premier Burke went to move his chair in closer to the table. Oops – his chair gave way. He put up a tremendous fight to keep it intact, but the chair got the better of him and he went arse-up. Head down, I scurried to the kitchen, unable to contain my laughter. Katie and Alma both had their heads on the benches trying to hold themselves together.

  ‘Come on, Katie!’ I urged. ‘These people are distinguished guests.’ It must have been the way I rolled my eyes to the heavens – laughter got the better of her and she crumpled to the floor.

  ‘Get up, Katie!’ I hissed.

  ‘Nah, too weak,’ she replied, still shuddering with laughter.

  I pulled myself together, went out and apologised to the Premier, for what I don’t know, and said: ‘Most chairs are like that around here, you’ve just got to learn to ride ’em.’

  The Premier spoke to the 40 or so Aboriginal people on the back lawn. His government wanted to restructure the Kimberley cattle industry, he said. Existing properties would be broken up into smaller holdings. There were ‘too many multinational companies using the stations as a tax dodge,’ he said. His government wanted to improve the way the land was worked, to make it more productive.

  We’d already heard rumours that the government wanted to resume all of the Australian Land & Cattle Co.’s properties and give them to the Aboriginal people. Another rumour suggested that the Burke government was looking at our neighbouring properties, Go Go, Cherubun and Christmas Creek, to purchase and split into smaller holdings to give all cattlemen in the Kimberley an opportunity to have a go independently.

  Bob and I had heard about this already, so it was easy for us to understand – but not so for the rest of the Premier’s audience. After waving the distinguished guests goodbye, I turned to the Aboriginal group and asked: ‘Did you understand any of that?’

  ‘Nah, nothing,’ came the reply.

  Wednesday 24 April 1985 would have been Kelly’s ninth birthday; so Bob drank himself to sleep at the dining table. I found him with his head resting on his arms. My insides ached. I hesitated, taking in the sorry sight, unsure of what to do if I roused him. Would he abuse me and tell me to just leave him be, or come quietly? I shook him gently. His clothes were covered in dust from the cattle yards and his odour hung heavily in the air. His eyes were dark and mournful as he raised them. I dissolved into tears. Kneeling down and wrapping my arms around him, I wept, letting free my bundle of grief. Kelly’s birthdays were the days we suffered most, reliving that terrible, unforgettable accident. There was no response from Bob, not even an arm thrown around me. He was as hard as an empty shell.

  In July of that year, we had a visit from a new Receiver Manager, Peter Melsom. Later that evening, Bob, Peter and I sat on the veranda negotiating a plan to work the stations out of receivership. Was it possible for us to work together, for Peter to clear all company debts on the way through, while meeting expenses, and the station come out in one piec
e?

  The answer was yes. We had mustered all the company’s properties and had a rough idea of cattle numbers. Peter was upfront, admitting he knew absolutely nothing about cattle – he didn’t even have a clue what a steer was.

  ‘It’s a mickey minus balls,’ I said. ‘A mickey is a young bull with balls.’

  I remained as Peter’s manager, with Bob as his contractor. So began an excellent 10-year working relationship.

  In mid-July, my first cousin Mary asked if I’d take her son Guy for two weeks over the school holidays. There hadn’t been a lot of communication between Mary and me over the years, but if Guy wanted to spend time with me on the station that was fine.

  Guy, 14 years of age, was an active smoker and knew a few more tricks than I did. I flatly refused to supply him cigarettes, so he broke into my bedroom and helped himself to the Log Cabin tobacco. I wasn’t pleased – this was the only tobacco theft in all my years on stations. I may have felt better if he’d been a stranger, but he was family!

  One evening while Guy was with us, I noticed a huge fire burning down by the Aborigines’ camp. Every so often I heard a small explosion. This surely had something to do with the fact that my stock of pressure-pack toilet spray had been disappearing rapidly. As luck had it, Bob and Browny were at the station. When Browny heard the explosion, he jumped in the buggy and caught Guy red-handed teaching the young Aboriginal boys how to make magic.

  I spent the following days trying to phone Mary, but to no avail. I needed to send Guy back, or to talk about how to deal with him. A week later, I lifted my head from the evening dishes at the sink to see fireballs glowing all over the hill between the homestead and the camp. Realising the house was far too quiet, I started yelling for Leisha. I ran into the darkness with torch in hand, and found her; she’d followed Guy outside. Then I sat down to wait for him.