He walked in from the dark shadows, all front, not a shred of remorse. To provoke me further, he carried a boombox blaring horrible, distorted music. My blood boiled. I grabbed him by both shoulders.
‘What did you think you were doing?’
‘Nothing,’ was all he could say. Grabbing both of his hands, I rubbed them in his face.
‘What were you doing with my diesel fuel?’ I asked.
‘Nothing.’
This little bugger had tried to make petrol bombs, using diesel instead of petrol. Thank God. Had he known more about bomb-making, he could have killed Leisha, the camp children, and himself. By this point I’d had an absolute gutful.
Mary had disappeared into thin air and didn’t seem to be coming back. We heard that she’d taken off with a truck driver, but didn’t know for sure. I called Mary’s mother, my Aunty Merle, a severe migraine sufferer who had been left with Guy’s two sisters, Del and Kristy.
Since my finances were more secure than Aunty Merle’s, I suggested that I try to keep the children together by taking the two girls as well. But they would have to live on the station. She sent them from Dampier, roughly midway between Perth and Louisa. The plan was then to fly all three children to Broome, where they could enjoy a week at our log cabin and all the fun of the Pearl Festival.
Guy was 14, Del 11 and little bewildered Kristy four. Within an hour of their reunion, fights had started between Guy and Del. I already understood why cousin Mary had disappeared! The obscene, abusive language and the damage to my house had me wanting to pull my bloody hair out and disappear too. They hadn’t an ounce of respect for each other, or anyone else for that matter.
This was not good. I worried for my own two, who had never witnessed anything like this. Robby was only one year old.
I sat Mary’s children down and laid it on the line.
‘I want you all to understand that if you don’t shape up, you will be shipped out. I’m not your mother; I’m trying to keep you all together as a family. This is your only chance.’
After a few sullen moments between the older two, it was on again. Guy antagonised the girls by trying to flush Leisha’s pet joey down the toilet. I’d had enough. I contacted the Department of Welfare’s head man in Kununurra.
‘How many spare bedrooms do you have at your house?’ I began. He was speechless. I repeated my question.
‘How many spare bedrooms do you have, sir? There is no bullshit attached to this. I’m sending you a couple of abandoned children.’
He flew to the station within days. After a round-table discussion, Del and Guy made it clear they wished to return to the city. There was no way I was going to let little Kristy be shunted in and out of foster homes. She was a lost, wistful little soul, clinging to her security blanket day and night. I simply wished for her to be happy and secure, and if her mother couldn’t supply this, I could. Many family members and friends told me not to get involved. Even though I had two young children of my own, a household and a cattle station to manage, I could not bear see this girl go without. A little love and care cost nothing.
The older children became state wards and I became Kristy’s guardian. I had tried, with the older two, but they were beyond my help. Bob never complained, bless him, and he put up with my rescue efforts like the good man he was.
Over time Kristy came out of her shell. With a child’s innate love for animals, she joined Leisha feeding the poddy calves and riding the ponies around the backyard in the afternoon. She had moments of sadness, sitting with her thumb in her mouth, thinking her own thoughts, curtained behind her thick mane of honey-coloured hair, but her face would light up when Leisha took her out to play or look after the animals. I couldn’t help but love her; she fitted into our family as if she were our own.
Late one afternoon Bob suggested Leisha and I go for a run out towards Three Mile in the buggy with him.
‘We can check the bull numbers,’ he said. ‘May be worth a run to fill the last truckload for the season.’
We didn’t find many until we came upon a lone rogue crossing a barren flat. Bob accelerated. Sensing something uncontrolled in Bob’s aggression, I grabbed Leisha with my right arm, the other hand in a death grip on the Jesus bar. I started yelling at Bob: ‘Not with Leisha!’ Screaming, begging: ‘Please, not with Leisha!’ My heart galloping and my breathing shallow, I was full of outrage and disbelief.
‘Let the bull go!!!’ I screamed. ‘Let the bastard go, Bob!’
As I screamed, the wind whipped saliva from my mouth. Bob made no facial movement to acknowledge me, just total dark concentration and determination. He was a wild animal mesmerised by his prey.
The massive black rogue would probably be the largest, most aggressive bull we’d run that season. He had a huge hump and an enormous set of horns with deadly tips. I’d seen maddened bulls like this simply hook and drop the guts out of a horse. His appearance was overwhelming me. I shoved Leisha under the dash and secured her between my calf muscles, my legs wedged to hold me in place. Afraid for my daughter’s life, my palms sweaty, I tightened my grip on the Jesus bar, realising we had no choice but to ride this out. I felt like I didn’t understand Bob at all. Sometimes I didn’t know who he was.
Bob threw the buggy into a skid, sending up clouds of dust and gravel as he worked to dodge giant antbeds and work the loner around the flat. Just as Bob thought he had the big bugger lined up to go down, it swung around to hook us, narrowly missing me and tearing the back of my seat apart with his razor-sharp horn.
Wind whipped my face and hair and carried my screams off with the dust. Bob maintained his speed, roused all the more. The buggy flew forward into a spin. Bob gave a gentle push under the beast’s ribs as it attempted another attack on the buggy and down it went, simple as that. With strap in hand I was ready to go. In spite of myself, this was one job I would enjoy.
‘Stay with Leisha!’ Bob demanded. He grabbed my bull strap to secure the enraged animal. It was all muscle and fury now, with the strength to lift the buggy up and down like a yo-yo. Bob had only walked from the tail to the head of the beast when it pushed the buggy off, the strap still loose, and got to its feet, a tonne of might and muscle. We were in trouble, big trouble. Bob stood, motionless. One move and he would certainly be dead. His gammy arm and hand, without an ounce of feeling, had let him down badly. The loner twitched its muscular body in rage, its piercing black eyes darting at us. It was important for us to stay calm and quiet. We also had to do something, quickly.
I slowly inched my way to the driver’s side of the buggy, still with a firm grip on Leisha, keeping her safely by my side. Bob remained motionless.
‘Hang on very tightly,’ I whispered to Leisha. I moved slowly, as if in a trance, engaged the four-wheel drive, then found second gear. Every fibre in my body was stretched to breaking point, knowing I had to hit the bull hard and fast to save Bob’s and our own lives.
‘Ready,’ I whispered to Leisha. By now the bull was tossing, snorting and throwing his head and shoulders about, stamping his feet, making agitated swishes of his tail. He’d had enough? Well, so had I.
With the clutch half-out, my right foot pressed the accelerator pedal to the metal. Dust and gravel exploded from the spinning wheels. Down went the monster with a thump, sending bulldust up all around.
Bob made a mad dash to the buggy; I slipped back across to the Jesus bar, still gripping Leisha, who had shown no fear throughout the drama. Letting the bull up, Bob lapped him around again, came up on the near side, put him down and securely tied him, no mistakes. My bull-headed husband had caught his bull!
Afterwards I confronted him. This had been a stupid thing to do. I was absolutely furious with him for putting our daughter’s life at risk. ‘It was too bloody close!’ I shouted. Typically, he had no answer. He rolled his cigarette and walked off, finding something else to do.
Alex had escaped to the back lawn for some peace and quiet. Asking Katie to make smoko, I took two pannikins and joined
Alex. I liked to sit and talk to this old man; he was an important part of my life. As an elder, Alex never liked the younger ones to call me by name. He would come forward and correct them.
‘Yumun,’ he would say – ‘Missus Boss.’
Squatting under the jacaranda tree, our talk came around to Alex’s early days on Bohemia and Louisa, about the white managers and some of the horrifying treatment dished out to Aboriginal people. This old man didn’t drink and he never lied to me, so I believed what he said.
He told me I was ‘a good Yumun, not like them before’.
‘What did they do, old man?’ I quizzed him, thirsty for Kimberley history.
‘Him bad, Yumun, him bad,’ he whispered, head bowed.
‘Tell me, old man, it was a long time ago,’ I gently questioned. ‘What did he do?’
‘That gardiar boss,’ nodding his head in the direction of Bohemia. ‘He want one boy’s woman. That gardiar manager send that stockman to fixem that fence in morning,’ he quietly continued, scratching the ground with a twig.
‘Then what?’
‘Not long gardiar boss follow him on horse,’ his voice low. ‘He had a gun.’
We were sitting cross-legged on the ground. Alex lifted his head and looked at me with sad eyes full of misery.
‘Only gardiar fella come back, Yumun.’
Battling to keep my emotions together, I looked into his clouded, sad eyes.
‘Poor Yumun,’ old Alex whispered.
I felt that Alex was sorry he’d told me the story; he hadn’t wanted it to make me sad. But I really wanted to know more.
‘How many people?’ I asked.
‘Plenty, Yumun, plenty,’ he answered, ever so softly.
‘Where did he put these people?’ I wanted to know it all.
‘Deep hole, long way, those hills.’ The old man pointed with his chin in the Bohemia direction.
I couldn’t believe it. I felt sick to the stomach. It wasn’t the first story I’d heard. In the early days, some white managers treated Aboriginal people worse than mongrel dogs. When we stood up, I put my hands on Alex’s weary shoulders and gave them a squeeze. I shook my head, saying nothing, as I turned towards the coolroom to collect his beef ration for the day. I was thinking, Let’s leave it behind, let’s leave it in the past and move on. I’d had so much pain, I couldn’t handle any more.
The next Sunday was picnic day for women and children, and we made a pilgrimage to Old Bohemia Downs. With the guidance of the elder women, I tracked in and around rocky outcrops, across the claypan, dodging antbeds, down and through shallow creeks towards the range, until we were suddenly at the homestead. Here were the remnants of years gone by, stone placed upon stone, the walls of a once-sturdy building. The goat pen was still standing, empty now, of course. I gazed into the distance, still troubled by the whereabouts of the ‘deep hole’ Alex had mentioned. It disgusted me to think a white manager handed out such deplorable treatment to unfortunate stockmen to satisfy his own lust.
One Monday in September 1985, I woke at 1.30 am. The night was a black one, with a light fog and the air damp. I felt lethargic, but it was time for another ration run. I tenderly secured my three sleeping children – Leisha, Robby and Kristy – to the front seat of the Ford. They never murmured or complained about such privations; they seemed to understand. Such dear children, I thought. How I loved them.
Without taking my eyes from the road, I drove from Louisa towards Fitzroy Crossing, stopping several times, honking to wake up cattle bedded for warmth on the blacktop. But south of Plum Plains I was afflicted by every driver’s worst nightmare: I fell asleep at the wheel. Over the verge we sailed, ending in a heavy thump. I woke in shock, disoriented, with the vehicle still travelling at great speed. The trunks of ghost gums were flashing by and there were some very solid antbeds looming. My heart pounding to choking point, I offered a quick prayer to my God and put every ounce of skill and strength I had into pulling up safely.
The first thing I did was check the children. Although they were strapped in, we had been bounced around heavily. Their beautiful, scared, sleepy eyes were looking to me for reassurance. Tucking them in again, I tried to be reassuring. ‘It’s okay, go back to sleep now, Mummy will fix it.’ I was speaking with more confidence than I felt.
The realisation set in: it was freezing cold and my teeth were chattering, and all I could see in my headlights were the ghost gums against the blackness. Unsure of my bearings, my mind still fuzzy, I checked the Ford for any leakage of fuel or water. It was all right. Tired and shivering, I couldn’t seem to locate the road. Eventually, I crossed my arms over the steering wheel and slept.
I had driven in and out of Derby town every fortnight for five years. This was a warning. I was becoming tired, with too much driving.
Two days later I woke from a deep afternoon sleep to a heavy pounding on my bedroom door.
‘Missus, Missus,’ hollered Katie, against a background of noise and confusion.
‘What’s wrong?’ I answered wearily.
‘One boy stole Mallick’s bull-buggy.’
‘Which way have they gone, Katie?’ I hurriedly pulled on my boots. She pointed her chin past the old wooden cattle yards.
‘Three Mile?’ I asked.
‘Ya, ya.’
At the back door, Jack, my yard man, was pacing.
‘It’s Jeffrey in that buggy, Yumun,’ he said. Jeffrey, Jack and Alma’s boy, was my Kelly’s old playmate. The memory of Kelly’s death flashed through me. I raced to the linen cupboard and retrieved two clean sheets – why, I don’t know.
‘Katie, you mind the kids!’ I yelled. ‘Jack, come with me. I may need help.’ As it turned out, this wasn’t a good call.
My gut told me this was urgent. I drove the Ford to the Aborigines’ camp and yelled for help. Three stockmen jumped onto my vehicle. I shuddered as I drove through the gateway, past the site of Kelly’s accident. No-one had any idea of Jeffrey’s intention, and we followed the buggy tracks zigzagging across the dusty road – signs of an unsure driver – then through a turn-off down a decrepit fence line. We tracked him for 7 more kilometres, arriving at a steep, sandy creek. The Ford, without four-wheel drive capacity, had to be left behind. Grabbing the sheets, I yelled for someone to bring the waterbag and set out running.
It was 2 pm, a shimmering hot day, and my head and heart were pounding from exhaustion. I stopped, sure I could see the buggy on the far side of the claypan. Using my shirt sleeve to wipe the perspiration from my eyes, I paused to get my bearings. The heat bored down ferociously. This was an illusion. We were looking upriver and into the sun; were my eyes playing tricks on me?
Turning, I motioned Jack and the boys to follow. We tracked the buggy around the outskirts of the yellow claypan. Two hundred metres out I spotted it, balanced on its side.
When we got there, Jack and the boys began crying uncontrollably, wailing, bashing themselves with rocks to bring on the drawing of blood, agonising over what they had predicted. I checked young Jeffrey’s pulse, but he was gone, pinned under the buggy. Moving quickly, I checked Lenny, the 16-year-old who had been driving. He was still huddled under the buggy, in shock – with good reason, as he was probably in line for a payback for causing the death of his friend.
Making sure Lenny hadn’t broken any bones, I pulled him out and made him comfortable under a tree.
Some of the others were still wailing and bashing themselves.
‘Stop it, stop it!’ I screamed at them. ‘You must help me lift the buggy a little bit and pull Jeffrey out.’
We couldn’t leave him there, but the accident had terrified them. They were crying hysterically and shaking in their shoes. I was running on pure adrenaline. Taking Jack by the shoulders, I begged him.
‘Pull yourself together, please, pull yourself together. I need your help.’ I was determined to pull Jeffrey out from under the buggy. Since the wheel jack was buggered, the only way was to lift the vehicle. It had to be one good lift
, or we risked dropping it and cutting the body in half. I couldn’t live with that. I looked at Jack.
‘When I say pull, I mean pull the boy all the way out,’ I said clearly. Somehow we found the strength to lift the buggy an inch or two, enough to get this dear boy out. Two bubbles popped out in the vein in my right arm, but we did it.
Wrapping young Jeffrey in a white sheet, I placed him in his father’s arms.
‘Nurse him, old man,’ I said. ‘Nurse him.’ Jack rocked backward and forward, lost in his grief, chanting his mournful grief song.
When word flashed around the homestead, 200 mourners gathered. Lenny, who came from Fitzroy, needed to be hidden. The Flying Doctor arrived and took him away. The police and the public health nursing sister were informed, and came to collect the body. Leisha’s shock and tears at the sight of the corpse’s exposed foot saddened me terribly. I should have covered Jeffrey better.
I was sitting alone on the back veranda reflecting upon the tragic event when Jack walked in from the shadows and sat by me. There was no need for words. Now we had both lost sons on Louisa. They were mates, and now they were both gone. What a waste.
‘Yumun,’ Jack’s voice was ever so soft. ‘Payback him fix up.’
This news set my pulse racing. My emotions were all over the place now, but I let him explain. From his culture, this age-old law still carried enormous significance. It seemed harsh to my ears, but it was their way.
‘Jack,’ I whispered. ‘Can I ask something of you? Let our white law test this boy first. Please let the white law test this boy first up. If you’re not happy, then I know nothing.’
I knew Jack respected me, as I did him, and we left it at that. I measured out the burial plot, and filled the drums with water to dampen the ground. The following morning, we dug the grave with crowbar and shovel.
The autopsy completed, the body was returned home. An emotionally-charged crowd, all swaying trance-like, watched as the coffin was lowered. Bob hadn’t returned to the station for Jeffrey’s burial; though we never put it into words, we both knew he couldn’t have handled it. As soon as Kelly’s name was mentioned, I felt the warm tears begin to flow all over again. This was serious mourning: a wailing mob, the throb of deeper voices, traditional bloodletting.
Diamonds and Dust Page 20