An Alice Girl

by Tanya Heaslip

  After a month or two of trying to manage three cranky children in three different grades in one tiny room, our new governess said to Mum, ‘I want to go home.’

  Mum had to drive into Alice Springs to the Elders GM office to borrow their telephone to ring the governess’s parents. There was no other option, apart from a telegram sent over the wireless, and Mum said that wouldn’t be nice for the parents to receive out of the blue.

  Once our governess left, Mum had to step into the teaching role for a short time. She brought Nana Parnell up to look after Benny while she taught us. But having Mum in the classroom didn’t work either. She was our mother, not our teacher, and none of us managed it well. Mum was forever rushing out to pull some meat from the oven or prepare smoko or pack the tuckerbox for the stock camp. And Benny kept clamouring for her at the school room door. It was just confusing: Mum was pretending to be a teacher rather than Mum, but we could hardly say, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Heaslip, can you please explain …’

  Fortunately, before we all went backwards in our grades and Mum had a nervous breakdown, Miss Thiele came into our lives.

  Miss Thiele was also from country South Australia. She had blue eyes and red-blonde hair. She also had our measure from the outset. A natural teacher, she took no nonsense. She was often cross because we drove her to it. But when she was in a good mood and happy with us, she had an infectious giggle, and her cheeks dimpled. We loved hearing her laugh.

  Another South Australian girl, Helen McGilvray, came to assist Mum in the house at about the same time, so those two gave each other much-needed moral support.

  Miss Thiele was wonderful for me because I was hungry to learn and she inspired me to keep learning.

  Except for maths. I hated maths. I’d stare hopelessly at a page of sums and they would mean nothing. Words I could connect with but sums were from another planet.

  Day after day, I’d wrestle unhappily with this subject. And day after day, Miss Thiele would hover, exasperated, eventually throwing down her pencil and shouting, ‘You’re not trying, Tanya!’ I’d stare back at her grumpily, knowing she was right, but not knowing how to make the connections to work it out.

  But I would always perk up when it was time for maths on School of the Air. Perhaps that was because time with Mrs Hodder was like play, like theatre.

  ‘Today we’re going to discuss a maths problem,’ Mrs Hodder would say. ‘Good morning, Tanya at Sierra Victor Uniform! I’ll start with you. Can you read me? Over.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Hodder,’ I’d respond breathlessly. ‘Yes, I can read you, loud and clear. I’m ready! Over.’

  I made many mistakes on air but the embarrassment of that faded completely against the joy and theatrics of being on the wireless.

  Mum loved the wireless as much as I did; maybe more. It gave her a connection to people and the outside world. Being a people person, she craved conversation. She found a way to be on the session nearly every morning.

  First thing in the morning, Dad put the wireless on. The big, old two-way sat in the kitchen, so over breakfast we’d hear the static and crackle as people called in, trying to connect with people on other stations. Mum would lean in to hear other voices and stories and she said it ‘filled her up’.

  At 8 a.m., George Brown of the Royal Flying Doctor Base would take over with his morning telegram session. He would read out the list of telegrams for the relevant call signs in a booming voice, and then people would call in with telegrams they wanted to send.

  In either case, telegrams mostly involved the two stock and station agents in town: Elders GM and Bennetts. There were orders for stock feed, engine and machinery parts, trucking requests and sometimes advertisements for staff. Every now and then there would be a personal telegram, but they were not as common, because everyone could listen in and there was no privacy. It was for this reason that Mum didn’t want to send a telegram to the parents of our poor departed governess.

  Following the official sessions were ‘skeds’, where station people could get back on and call one another up; women, desperate for female conversation, and men keen for updates on weather, moving stock, road conditions and cattle prices.

  Mum was regularly on the sked to talk to her great friends Barb Braitling from Mount Doreen to the west, and Nancye Gorey from Yambah, our next station to the north.

  Throughout, there would be bursts of static, but the conversation (mostly about children, the weather and stock work) would struggle on through it. There was a five-to-ten-minutes-only airtime protocol. If anyone spoke too long, the next lot of people waiting to talk would start calling over the top of them. And the fact that there were plenty of listeners for an eleven-hundred-kilometre radius was also a natural circuit breaker.

  The only exception to the five-to-ten-minute protocol was the Bloomfield family who, on account of having so many stock camps on the go at any one time, had carved their own regular spot in the late afternoon. Everyone else basically just gave up trying to get on the air until they were finished. It was known as the Bloomfield Half-Hour. Every evening there would be a different episode, covering all the dramas and issues the Bloomfields were dealing with at any given time. I loved tuning in—it was like listening to our own radio broadcast, with all the different actors and parts in a play.

  But Mum and Barb didn’t have that luxury.

  ‘Better go, Barb,’ Mum would finish reluctantly, when their time was ending. ‘But we’ve had good reception today. That’s something. One last thing—when are you next coming to town? Over.’

  Trips to town were a highlight for many of the women out bush. They loved the chance to dress up and meet friends for a few days. In the early years, Mum went about once a month to get stores (including heavy sacks of flour, sugar, potatoes and pumpkin) and collect mail. It was always a full-day trip, by the time she got in, got around Alice’s shops, and got home again. She would wear a gorgeous frock, even though it wasn’t very practical for lugging heavy sacks around, and meet as many people as she could while in town. Because she’d previously lived in Alice she had a lot of friends there, and it would take several hours just to walk from one end of Todd Street to the other talking to everyone.

  But the downside now, for both Mum and for us, was that she usually took us with her. We were now old enough and, besides, she thought Miss Thiele and Helen deserved a break.

  We hated everything about going to town: the long trip where we inevitably all got carsick, the sticky heat of the vinyl seats, the blazing sun through the window, the bickering (‘It’s my turn to be by the window!’ ‘No it’s not!’ ‘Yes it is!’), Benny’s crying, and Mum’s exasperation at our constant whining and fighting.

  When things really got out of hand, she would pull up with a screech of brakes and dust and shout, ‘That’s it! I’m at the end of my tether!’

  We didn’t know what a tether was but we always thought Mum got to it quite quickly.

  She would turn around to glare at us furiously, her frustration spilling out in puffs and shouts, her brown eyes flashing, her curls damp on her hot forehead. ‘I’ve had enough of you kids. You can get out and I’m going to leave you here by the side of the road until the middle of next week!’

  We would cower, terrified, and pinch whoever we thought was the culprit.

  If we were really bad, she’d pull out her worst threat: ‘I’m going to belt you all into the middle of next week!’

  Her rage invariably had the desired effect. ‘Sorry, Mum, sorry,’ we would cry, and eventually she would relent and agree not to carry out her threat. This time.

  Throughout this Benny would chat to us all in his funny little language, with lots of smiles, and I’d squeeze him tight. The thought of being left by the side of the road until the middle of next week without Benny was unbearable.

  But no matter the season or time of year, the trip to town was dreadful and did not get better for years.

  The trip was in two parts.

  First, there was the dirt r
oad from the homestead to the bitumen. It was boggy, narrow, corrugated, rough and winding. Driving it could take anywhere between thirty minutes to three hours, depending on whether we got bogged in the sandy creeks, or broke down, both of which happened frequently.

  Once on the bitumen (the second part), it was equally narrow and winding, up and down through the northern parts of the MacDonnell Ranges. Driving it would take another thirty minutes to an hour, depending on how many trucks we got stuck behind, and how slowly Mum drove, which was very slow, as many people were killed on that stretch of road.

  When we got bogged in the creek, or the car broke down, there was often no way of letting anyone know we needed help, especially if we were on the dirt road. It was bad enough if we were going to town, but if we were on the way home, it would be worse. Night would usually descend upon Mum and us kids trudging along wearily, and hungrily, step-by-step, on the dusty road back to the station. We took it in turns to carry Benny.

  If we were lucky and Dad was home (and not in the stock camp), we would finally hear the Land Rover in the distance, when he’d realised something must have gone wrong, and came to find us.

  ‘It’s Dad!’ we’d cry, as his vehicle rumbled towards us, the brightness of the headlights enveloping us, our eyes poking through dirty, tired faces. ‘He’s come!’

  Dad would pull up, step out, put his arm around Mum (who by now was usually limping and cross-eyed with exhaustion), and make everything better. ‘C’mon’, he’d say in his commanding, practical way. ‘Let’s go.’ He’d drive us all home, squashed against each other, and his strong, steady presence meant we knew we were safe again. Our tears would dry; Mum would breathe out.

  There was no feeling like it.

  Overwhelming relief.

  The routine and structure in our lives at home otherwise continued, unchanged. Every weekday it went as follows:

  6.45 a.m.: get up, wash face and clean teeth, get dressed in jeans, boots, shirt (and jumper in winter)

  7–7.10 a.m.: breakfast when Mum rang the big triangular bell outside the kitchen (it could be heard all over the station including the cattle yards)

  7.10–7.30 a.m.: complete daily jobs such as watering plants, feeding the calves and emptying the chook bucket; clean teeth again

  7.30 a.m.: into the schoolroom

  10 a.m.: smoko

  10.30 a.m.: back to the schoolroom

  1 p.m.: end of school, and lunch when the bell went

  Afternoon: play, more jobs, bore runs with Dad

  5 p.m.: the bell went again and it was time to clean boots in the laundry, have a bath and dinner

  7 p.m.: bed and lights out.

  In the midst of our busy lives, Mum was always there for us. We would run out of school at recess time and she’d be waiting for us at the kitchen door, her arms open, embracing us all in a big hug. Benny would be with her and we’d all fall into each other like puppies.

  She didn’t like changes to the structure of our week and school life. Routine was how she coped with all she had to do every day. But Dad often came along and pulled us out of the schoolroom to help with work. This happened increasingly as we got older. When Dad wanted something done, we hopped to it, and everything else went by the wayside.

  He was the Boss, after all.

  The only difference in our day on the weekend was that we didn’t go to school—unless Dad had pulled us out of the schoolroom earlier that week for work and we had to go back on Saturdays to catch up on school.

  Miss Thiele was the stopgap for Mum and supervised many of our activities to ensure that all our jobs were done, and our boots were cleaned, and that we kept up with our lessons (especially if we’d missed school). She was strict, but kind to us, and a good teacher.

  Before long, it was as though Miss Thiele had been with us forever.

  13

  Buckjumping on the Bond

  At the start of the mustering season, Dad had to make sure he had the right men and horses. His gamble with the beautiful but expensive stallion was paying off. Foals were being born with good, clean lines and good breeding.

  One of the first colts was golden all over, with dark eyes, and, Dad said, had a ‘noble nature’. Dad knew the moment the colt cantered into the yards with its mother that it was the horse for him. ‘He’s got a heart for work,’ said Dad.

  Dad broke the colt in himself; slowly, gently and reverently. Then Dad threw his leg over the saddle and rode off to do his first muster.

  From that moment on, it was as though they were one.

  Dad called the colt Limerick, after the city in his beloved Ireland he’d never seen, and together they were a dynamic team. We loved watching Dad saddle up Limerick in the yards. We hung over the rails, agog but not allowed to say a word or interrupt Dad in any way. There was something special about the ritual for us. Then we’d wave madly as Dad and Limerick headed off. It was like farewelling a king riding grandly to his next conquest.

  Ross and Colin had moved on, as had all the Aboriginal stockmen, so Charlie Gorey came to us as head stockman.

  Charlie was nineteen when he arrived, but to us he seemed to be much older because he was tough and gruff. He came from Bundaberg in Queensland, a mysterious-sounding place to the east. He was stocky, with Asian heritage reflected in his dark eyes and face, although we never had the courage to ask him about that. He spoke with the usual Queensland drawl, and added ‘eh?’ to the end of every sentence, whether it was needed or not.

  He drank Bundy rum (‘What else, for someone from that town?’ Mum said cheekily), and he loved a fight.

  We trailed after Charlie. Everything about him was interesting. He wore Longhorn trousers every day, RM Williams boots and smart press-stud shirts. Moleskins were for special occasions. He knew horses and stock, and had a dry sense of humour. We’d never met such a character, and we started saying ‘eh?’ at the end of our sentences too, until Mum stopped us.

  A young Irish stockman also came to us. His name was Ray Murtagh and he was ‘full of the blarney’, as Mum would say. We’d beg, ‘Talk to us some more, Ray!’ just to hear his lilting accent.

  Over breakfast during Ray’s first week, Dad said, ‘Ray, I hear you were a bareback rider in Ireland.’ Ray looked startled but Dad continued, ‘Charlie reckons you should be the number-one horse breaker. What d’ya reckon?’

  Our eyes darted from Charlie to Ray.

  ‘Well, Mr Heaslip, to be sure, I can give it a go,’ said Ray, swallowing some steak and eggs in a hurry. ‘T’was only on my family pony … on my family farm but—’

  ‘Settled then,’ said Dad, standing up.

  Charlie couldn’t hide his smirk.

  M’Lis, Brett and I were a bit worried for Ray. We knew that breaking in horses was a big and scary job. We’d seen Ross Cooper and Colin Ansell do it. There had been a lot of horses bucking wildly, and men flying through the air and hitting the dust. Ray was neither big nor tall. He might get crushed underneath one of these horses if they turned wild.

  But Dad was on a mission. Over the next few days, the brood mares and their offspring were mustered into the yards. By now there was quite a number. Once they’d settled down, Dad walked around and examined them.

  ‘Righto, I reckon we should start with these five,’ he said, pointing to some younger colts and fillies standing quietly in the morning sun. ‘We start mustering in two weeks. Need these five broken in by the end of the week. Then another five after that. That’ll give us a plant of fresh horses we can rotate. And we’ll use our current stock horses as needed.’

  Our jaws dropped. Ray would have to break in one horse per day. Was that even possible? Charlie’s smirk grew bigger.

  The next morning, we rushed down to the horse yards before breakfast.

  Ray had chosen his colt and was already walking around him, talking to him soothingly, rubbing his mane with a halter. The horse was a beautiful chestnut with white forelocks and we thought that was a good omen.

  ‘How’s it go
ing, Ray?’ we shrieked.

  The colt jumped and snorted at our voices. It skittered over towards the edge of the yard.

  ‘Quiet, you bloody kids,’ came Charlie’s voice, his face like thunder, as he emerged from the side of the yards. He was overseeing Ray’s first day.

  ‘Sorry,’ we said, shamefaced. We were always too noisy, we knew that. Dad was always telling us off, and not just in the plane.

  We hugged the rails, keeping as silent as we could, while Ray slipped the halter over the colt’s head. It felt the weight, startled, and jumped sideways. Ray had to jump too, so he wouldn’t get stepped on.

  ‘Time to hobble and side-line,’ instructed Charlie.

  We knew Charlie wanted to stop the colt from kicking or bucking, so Ray had to hobble it, then slip a leather belt from the hobbles through to the back legs, which was the ‘side-line’. All the while, trying to avoid being kicked in the head. Not easy.

  The breakfast bell went, so we had to leave. Then we had to go to school. On our way there we ran past the horse yards for one last look. Poor Ray was still trying to get the side-line belt on and the colt wasn’t liking it one bit. It was whinnying and kicking.

  ‘Oh, to be sure …’ we heard Ray’s exasperated tones as we headed for school.

  At smoko time, we raced back to the yards. We weren’t sure whether Ray had had breakfast or not, but he certainly wasn’t getting smoko. He was talking to the colt in Irish. Then we saw him take a deep breath, lean back then forward on his left foot, grab the colt’s mane, and then jump, high up onto its bare back.

  The colt felt Ray’s weight and went crazy trying to buck, but the leather belt held. We stifled our cheers, and then the bell went for school again.

  At lunchtime, we ran back to the yards again. Ray was removing the side-lines and hobbles (still trying not to get kicked in the head). His face was red and sweat dripped down his sideburns.