An Alice Girl

by Tanya Heaslip

  Dad would thump the table. ‘We’re here to make Bond Springs viable, not just for ourselves, but to circulate money into the economy and give people work,’ he would glare around the room, daring anyone to disagree. ‘And where do they think they get their food from, anyway? Milk, bread, meat. Bloody desk jockeys. They’ve never lived in the real world, never had to try to make a living. They take their wages from my taxes.’

  For Dad, bloody bureaucrats only brought problems, never solutions or anything good.

  Dad’s view on business was shaped by his conservative past.

  ‘Private enterprise is the foundation of a successful society,’ he’d argue. ‘Anything that takes away the freedom of the individual to create ends up in disaster. Destroys the individual. And then the society. Small business is the backbone of this country and we should be supported in creating jobs and opportunities, not penalised for trying to make something out of nothing.’

  It was only many years later that I learned that the Pecks’ real name was Pecanek, and that they were Czech and had suffered during some of those terrible wars Dad talked about.

  I sometimes wondered what the Pecks thought, coming all this way to Australia, only to find there were probably just as many bloody bureaucrats, communists and socialists here as back in their original country.

  In the lead-up to our first Christmas with Miss Clarke, Mum said, ‘We’re going to a Christmas party!’

  M’Lis and I fell over Mum, filled with questions. Where? When? A real party? Brett trailed behind us, echoing our questions.

  ‘We’re going to fly out to Harts Range next weekend,’ she said, and explained that it was a small police station community about a hundred and sixty kilometres to the north-east.

  ‘A police station?’ Brett’s eyes widened.

  Mum added, ‘Father Christmas is coming too!’

  ‘Oooooooooohhh!’ We couldn’t believe our luck. Father Christmas was really coming down from the North Pole early to meet with us? And other bush kids, too? What would he bring us? Would he get lost?

  ‘It’s a long way to come,’ I said to Mum, anxiously.

  ‘He’s very clever,’ Mum reassured me. ‘He’ll see Harts Range from miles away. They’re very big. He’ll know exactly where to land his sleigh.’

  Saturday morning dawned, and with Miss Clarke, we all climbed aboard DQG. Dad took off into the bright blue sky and headed north-east. The flight seemed to take forever, but finally a long line of red ranges came into view. As Dad banked the plane, we all shrieked with excitement, as we usually did.

  ‘Quiet!’ Dad roared, as he usually did, too.

  We shrank back into our seats, looking through the windows to see a Land Cruiser heading towards the dirt strip—it was the Goreys, our friends from our next-door station, Yambah.

  Mr and Mrs Gorey were a glamorous couple. Mr Gorey was tall and handsome with a blond crew cut; Mum said he looked like the actor Paul Newman. Mrs Gorey was tall and beautiful with dark hair and always wore elegant clothes. She looked just like Sophia Loren (whom I had seen in photos in Mum’s Women’s Weekly). As they climbed out of the Toyota and shook hands with Dad and hugged Mum, I stood, awed, gazing at them both.

  Three children stood on the back of the Land Cruiser. They stared down at us, and we stared up at them. Their eldest was Aaron, Brett’s age, a small replica of Mr Gorey, and before long the two boys were entangled in a happy wrestle. Natalie and Jordie stayed close to Mrs Gorey’s skirts. M’Lis and I did likewise with Mum and Miss Clarke.

  The Goreys drove us all to a big tin shed set against the beautiful, rugged ranges. The shed was filled with bush people milling around, the men in their best hats and polished boots for the occasion, the women in their best summer dresses, and lots of children. The intense December heat poured down onto the corrugated-iron roof. The men drank warm beer, and the women took the chance to chat and catch up. No one else seemed to be in agony except for us. How long would we have to wait? We were too shy to talk to any of the other children. But when we heard a shout from behind the shed—‘He’s here!’—we rushed out.

  Heading towards us was a battered white ute. Behind the wheel was the local policeman, and in the back, standing up and waving at us all, was—yes, it truly was—Father Christmas! He was resplendent in a woollen red-and-white outfit, with white hair and a huge white beard. I could not take my eyes off him. He really looked just like the pictures in my picture book.

  Then I noticed something missing. ‘Where’re his sleigh and reindeer?’ I asked Mum anxiously again.

  ‘Oh, Father Christmas had to leave them at the police station so they would be safe. And the reindeer can have a rest and a drink.’

  I digested this. It was very disappointing not to see a real sleigh and reindeer.

  Meanwhile, Father Christmas was shouting lots of ‘Ho-ho-ho!’s to all the kids swarming up against the ute. One of the local men passed the great man a beer, as he was probably thirsty. Luckily, Father Christmas didn’t seem to mind the heat. He cracked open the beer and took a big swig with a wide grin. Then with more ‘Ho-ho-ho!’s he pulled out a big red sack from behind him and called us to gather around. One by one, we were allowed to go up and meet him.

  By now, however, we three kids had completely lost our nerve, and Miss Clarke and Mum had to lead us up there. When I stood before him, all I could manage was to hop from one leg to the other and gaze wordlessly at this beaming apparition from the North Pole.

  ‘Ho-ho! What’s your name, little girl?’

  ‘I’m Tanya. From Bond Springs,’ I finally said, after several nudges from Mum.

  ‘Ho-ho! Here you go, little Tanya.’

  Father Christmas handed me a parcel wrapped in red sparkly paper.

  ‘Thank you!’ I looked up at him shyly, then ripped it open. Inside was a pack of coloured pencils. I stared at him in delight. How had he known?

  Father Christmas was very clever because he gave both M’Lis and me coloured pencils and Brett a tiny plastic car. Aaron got a plastic car too and before long the two boys were racing them in the dirt. I longed for a piece of paper that I could start drawing and writing on. But there wasn’t one, and I’d have to wait till we got home, said Mum, as she put the pencils into her bag to keep them safe.

  After the presentation, we all went into the hall where it was even hotter, and there were cups of warm, red cordial and plates of lollies. The men drank beer, except for Dad, who flew according to the motto: Eight hours from bottle to throttle. His war-pilot instructor had told him that ‘safety in the air comes first’, and we often quoted those expressions to each other. We thought they sounded very grown-up.

  The day was broiling by now but a fire roared out the back onto which steaks were thrown. Father Christmas even had a go at turning the steaks.

  Mum and Miss Clarke talked non-stop with the other women as though they hadn’t had a good conversation in months, and they probably hadn’t. I couldn’t believe they were more interested in each other than Father Christmas, who seemed really quite good at barbecuing.

  Then, with a piece of steak wedged between two pieces of damper in one hand, and yet another beer in the other, the great man finally headed back to the ute. He jumped onto the tray and the policeman got behind the steering wheel, and they drove off in a cloud of red dust. He waved at us until he was just a speck in the distance. We waved back at him until our little arms were tired.

  ‘Do you think we’ll see him fly off in his sleigh with the reindeer?’ I asked Mum.

  She shook her head. ‘He’ll have a little rest now too and then fly at night-time when it’s cool. Too hot for the reindeer at the moment.’

  But not for us. Filled with sugar and adrenaline, we clambered back into DQG, and flew home, tired but ecstatic. I sat on Miss Clarke’s knee next to Dad all the way home and was as close to heaven as I’d ever been. Because of the heat, the plane bumped up and down the whole way, and everyone got sick. But I didn’t care. I’d been to my first
Christmas party!

  ‘Can we go next year?’ we chorused over and over again, until Mum said if we weren’t quiet, she might forget Christmas next year altogether.

  8

  Thank You, Adelaide Miethke

  When the drought finally broke in Central Australia, I learned what true happiness was.

  I learned that rain was the most beautiful sound in the world, especially when it drummed on our corrugated-iron roofs, and splashed wildly into the gutters. The most beautiful smell in the world was the sweetness of rain hitting the dry earth. And the most beautiful sight was water teeming down from the skies, drenching the wide, open landscape.

  Rain was precious and brought everything back to life. Everything about rain was a cause for celebration. Rain brought relief and happiness to everyone’s faces.

  Rain bought sweet-smelling freshness to the gum trees. It brought the joyous chaos of frogs singing, and gushing, swirling, brown water in the creeks. In the house creek we jumped and swam, and Mum drew water from it for her precious green patch of kikuyu lawn. The water tanks were filled. Nothing made Dad

  happier than full tanks. He strode around, inspecting everything, grinning, his hat collapsing under the weight of the rain,.

  We ran out in the rain, raising our hands to the sky in joy, feeling its light touch, then its heavy pounding, and licking its wetness from our lips. We raced around in the puddles, and jumped up and down in them, and shrieked. Mum didn’t stop us—she didn’t care—she was just so happy herself, that she sparkled like the drops on the trees.

  Even after just one day, the desert leapt back to life. Little green shoots shot up along the side of the roads. Soon carpets of bright wildflowers wove their way across the plains. Out of the tough earth, clumps of wild daisies sprang, and the tiniest round, yellow flowers that we called ‘billy buttons’. Delicate purple flowers on plants called ‘native tomatoes’ emerged, and the red earth was soon covered by vibrant, shining, luscious green grass.

  That grass grew, and the cattle got fat.

  Fat cattle meant good sales.

  Good sales meant survival.

  And we knew that life did not get any better than this.

  But Hanrahan knew better.

  ‘We’ll all be rooned,’ said Hanrahan, ‘before the year is out,’ which meant that just as life got good on the land, problems would emerge. Droughts, floods and fires were forever lurking, ready to ruin us, and Hanrahan knew, in his laconic, depressive way, we needed to be prepared.

  Miss Clarke first read the famous poem ‘Said Hanrahan’ aloud to us, and we learnt it off by heart, as not only was it funny, we related to it in every way.

  ‘Hanrahan’s got it right,’ Dad nodded, grimly. ‘You’ve got to be ready for what comes next. After something good, like rain, you’ll have lots of feed, it will dry off, and then you’ll have something bad, like bushfires.’

  As Dad spoke, he searched the horizon as if smoke and flames might pop up any minute.

  Could life ever be safe? I wondered. It didn’t seem so. Hanrahan certainly didn’t think so either.

  Story books quickly became my place of comfort, security and cheer. In them, magic did happen, dreams could come true, and good always won out over bad. If books could take me to such lucky places, I thought, I wanted to spend all my time there. Luckily, Mum and Miss Clarke let my imagination soar and encouraged my hunger for stories. The ones that I wanted to hear and read.

  My life was taken to a whole new level one winter’s night when Miss Clarke came into the sitting room holding an old, musty book.

  M’Lis, Brett and I were sitting around the log fire in our pyjamas, almost ready for bed. She sat next to us and said, ‘Now I’m going to read you a story before bed. Your mum brought it home from the School of the Air library for you today.’

  She opened the first, slightly yellowed, page.

  ‘Chapter one of The Enchanted Wood.’

  Enchanted? What a glorious word!

  I was in love with everything about that story from the first chapter on that first night. A magical tree, children, fairyfolk and a ladder at the top of the tree you could climb up to find magical lands. Mostly, their adventures had a happily-ever-after ending, which was very comforting.

  To our joy, Miss Clarke read one chapter of The Enchanted Wood each night before bed. Before long, she progressed to the second and third books, The Magic Faraway Tree and Folk of the Faraway Tree. Along with School of the Air, these readings were the best part of my day. One of the things I loved about the story was that it was set overseas, that place on the other side of the world. The stories filled my imagination to overflowing. The Lands came with castles, rivers, lakes, snowy mountains, woods, witches and wizards, queens and kings, princesses and princes, gold and silver.

  I spent hours imagining living in the worlds I read about. There, I was safe and happy, cycling through soft woods of bluebells, climbing leafy green oak trees, and lying on my back in grassy meadows, looking up at a snowy mountain. Oh, joy!

  But, just like real life, climbing up the magical tree and exploring the Lands came with Big Risks. You had to be careful when you were there, and remain constantly on your guard.

  One evening, Miss Clarke took us to a particularly terrifying place. The children and their fairyfolk friends had ended up by mistake in Dame Slap’s school. The chapter ended just as the children realised they were trapped and would have to spend the rest of their lives being slapped by the cruel Dame Slap.

  ‘Noooooo!’ we shrieked in terror on behalf of the children. ‘No, this can’t happen. How will they survive? What about their mum and dad?’

  ‘We’ll find out tomorrow night!’ said Miss Clarke. ‘Come along! Time for bed.’

  ‘Noooooo!’ we continued to shriek. ‘Pleeeeeease, just one more chapter, Miss Clarke! We can’t leave the children there by themselves. Surely they can find a way to escape and get off that Land?’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Miss Clarke, herding us towards our bedrooms, ‘but it’s bedtime. Off we go now.’

  As we cleaned our teeth and climbed into bed, I wondered if Dame Slap had anything in common with bloody bureaucrats, communists and socialists. She sounded as bad as them.

  In addition to my Correspondence School lessons with Miss Clarke each day, I spent thirty minutes on School of the Air, where I spoke to a teacher over the two-way radio. Mum called School of the Air a ‘daily supplement’ to my ordinary lessons.

  When at Witchitie, I tuned into Port Augusta’s School of the Air with Miss Jolley. While I never laid eyes on her, her voice well and truly lived up to her name. And when we moved to Bond Springs, we tuned into the Alice Springs branch of the School of the Air.

  To Mum’s delight, and mine, Judy Hodder became my Alice Springs School of the Air teacher. She was the wife of Rod Hodder, who had managed Bond Springs for us in the first year. She was also Mum’s great friend from her early days in Orroroo. The Hodders had settled in Alice and Mrs Hodder set about bringing the School of the Air to life for me.

  ‘But how did School of the Air start?’ I asked Mum one day.

  She was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink, so I thought it was a good time to ask her. With the large bowl of potatoes next to her, she’d be in the one spot for a while.

  ‘It came about because a lot of people with a lot of great ideas and a lot of courage made it happen,’ said Mum, zipping the peeler up and down the potato. Long strands went into the bowl next to her. ‘Get another peeler and help me, and I’ll tell you the story.’

  I pulled up a stool, got the peeler and sat next to her. I loved being with Mum. I always felt safe and secure with her. She also usually knew the answer to every question in the whole world, and if she didn’t, she’d say, ‘Ask Dad.’ So, one way or another I usually found answers to the interesting questions that were always going around in my head.

  ‘You know about John Flynn, who we call Flynn of the Inland?’ she said, and I nodded. ‘A long time ago he
set up the Royal Flying Doctor Service, which as you know sends little planes, with doctors and nurses, into the bush to save people’s lives.’

  I did. I also knew John Flynn called it his ‘Mantle of Safety’.

  ‘But when he set it up, he had one big problem: there was no two-way radio back then, no communication. So, if you lived in the middle of nowhere, how did you tell John Flynn and his people that you had a broken leg or had just been bitten by a snake and needed help?’

  I thought about this. I couldn’t imagine life before the wireless or our two-way radio.

  ‘John Flynn found a man called Alf Trager, who was very clever. Alf built a pedal radio for him and they trialled it and it worked. He could talk to people in the bush and they could talk to him.’

  But not everyone had a pedal radio, so John Flynn started pushing for them to be made available throughout the outback. ‘He said that if the sick person could talk to the doctor and the doctor could give advice over the radio, the sick person could take that advice and the doctor wouldn’t need to come.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with School of the Air?’ I asked, peeling inexpertly.

  ‘Well, the pedal radio is the important first step of the story. The next part is about an amazing lady, a retired teacher called Adelaide Miethke. She was ahead of her time, filled with vision.’ Mum shook her head as if still amazed by what she was about to tell me.

  ‘Adelaide Miethke wanted to work for John Flynn and help spread his word. She wasn’t young but she went into the outback to see how she could help families in the bush. It must’ve been very tough for an older lady from the city, who had no idea what awaited her: heat, snakes, isolation.’

  A vision flashed before me. I saw a tall, brave lady, marching about, doing good things, wearing high-necked dresses, stockings and sensible shoes, fanning herself as she went deeper and deeper into the hot, dry, dusty, fly-ridden outback.