An Alice Girl

by Tanya Heaslip

  This time I did break something—my collarbone—and by the time I got back to the homestead, and Mum got me to the hospital, it was hours later. Hospital was a place of white lights and beeping sounds. Mum was only allowed to return during visiting hours. I cried in loneliness for the first day.

  My visit lasted a week, and to distract myself from the pain I asked Mum to bring me in a dictionary and a pen and paper. Then I spent my time in hospital teaching myself new words. M’Lis couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to visit me.

  ‘That has to be the most boring thing in the world to do!’ she spluttered.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said, carefully lifting the dictionary and paper filled with words. ‘Look how many exciting words I’ve taught myself!’

  One of those words was interminable.

  Before long, I quite liked hospital. Despite missing Mum and everyone at home, it was exciting being somewhere new. I got to eat jelly and ice cream. Mum brought me books, which I could read without being told to go to bed, because I was already in bed. And I didn’t have to get up to go to work or school, because I couldn’t. Instead, I spent my time gazing admiringly at the nurses in their uniforms and made up stories in my head about life in a hospital. Plus, I knew I was getting out of a big, hot muster on the western side, which I knew would be interminable.

  Over the years, I went on to break both wrists and ankles and numerous other body parts. But I wasn’t lucky enough to get back into hospital.

  M’Lis broke no bones during her childhood. She was an excellent rider and managed her horses well. Brett did break bones, but that’s because the stockmen and Dad thought he was up to riding the most difficult horses. Brett was a natural daredevil, so he relished the challenges, but nor was he given any choice. ‘T’wasn’t’ easy for Brett, to be sure, as Irish Ray would say.

  On one of our trips to Witchitie where Dad now had an interim manager, we discovered that our beloved Shetland pony, Pinto, had died. Pinto was very old, and had passed away in the paddock, as we knew horses always did when it was their time. But we were bereft. M’Lis hid in our bedroom and sobbed, inconsolable, and wouldn’t come out. Mum couldn’t do anything with her. Finally, Dad came home from a bore run and went in. He sat down on the bed next to her and put his arm around her little shoulders.

  ‘Now, Lis,’ he said, in his calm, direct way (Dad always called her Lis, which was the family’s special name for her), ‘This is what happens. Animals and people die. It’s part of life. We have to expect this to happen.’

  M’Lis wiped her eyes.

  He stood up and turned to her with a slow smile. ‘It’s how you love them when they’re alive that matters.’

  Dad certainly loved Limerick.

  One year, he was persuaded to enter Limerick in the Stock and Station Horse Race at the Alice Springs Cup. It was to be held at the old racecourse, on the northern end of Alice. The event drew people from all over the bush to either watch or compete, and no one wanted to miss out. It was the annual chance to showcase the stock horses that formed the backbone of the stock camp and enabled the cattle stations to function. It was also a day of great pride as all the bush men paraded their favourite horses.

  Dad would have the chance to show Limerick to the world. We knew he was the best horse ever, and that together, he and Dad could do anything. Dad trucked Limerick in the night before. He stabled him at a set of yards some way from the racecourse over a large hill, Mount Nancy. It was too big a risk to leave such a valuable horse alone in Alice Springs, so Dad took his swag and slept close to Limerick that night.

  We all stayed at the Braitlings’ town house that night, so we didn’t have far to go the next day. We couldn’t wait to meet Dad and Limerick at the racecourse for the big event, which took place at 11 a.m.

  There were no jockey uniforms or caps for the participants of this race. Instead, Dad and the other bush men were in their usual attire: stock hats, Longhorn trousers, work shirts. At the starter’s call, they mounted their horses, and cantered slowly down the racecourse to the starting blocks. It took about ten minutes for all the horses to get into place. Many of them were stirry and flighty, not used to people or town, and some were shying and pig-rooting.

  Fortunately, Dad kept Limerick calm. When the starter’s gun went off, Dad and Limerick streaked out to the lead. We hung over the fence, cheering Dad on, with Brett, and his great mate Aaron Gorey from neighbouring Yambah Station, leaning over the rails and cheering the loudest.

  It was a fast and dusty race, the station men spurring their favourite steeds along the dirt track towards the finish line with grim determination. Those bush men were hugely competitive. Which horse would be the best? To our joy, we saw Dad keep the lead and then fly over the finish line in front of the others.

  We grabbed each other and yelled, ‘Limerick is the winner! Limerick is the winner!’

  After the horses had slowed, turned and then cantered back towards us, the starter grabbed Dad’s hand and raised it in the air in a triumphant salute. We kids were beside ourselves as Dad returned to the yards. He leaned over Limerick, patted him and dismounted. His face was covered in dirt, but a big grin shone through it. Limerick was sweating hard, his head and nose jerking up and down with the adrenaline of it all, but he looked like the happiest horse there ever was.

  People were slapping Dad on the back and pointing him towards the bar where celebration awaited. Still grinning, Dad handed Brett Limerick’s reins.

  ‘Take ’im back to the stables, Brett. Give him water and hay and settle him down.’

  But Brett was in bare feet. As was Aaron, who was hanging by his side.

  Aaron never wore boots unless he had to. He’d grown up with a big group of Aboriginal kids on the station, and so his feet were as tough as leather. And while Brett’s feet were pretty tough, they weren’t at the same level of Aaron’s. So, why Brett thought to remove his boots on race day made no sense, but presumably Mum hadn’t discovered what Brett had done (she was trying to keep Benny from being trampled underfoot), and Brett wanted to show Aaron he was as tough as him.

  Dad hadn’t even noticed Brett’s bare feet.

  Brett went to protest—but nobody protested to Dad. So, he obediently took the reins and just hoped Limerick wouldn’t step on him.

  Besides, this was a big honour. Dad was allowing him to walk his precious and beloved Limerick back. It was no easy task, either, because Limerick was flighty and buzzing after the race.

  Brett never forgot that walk. It was a long, long way, and the hike over Mount Nancy seemed even higher, bigger and longer as Limerick snorted and jumped and sidestepped and was hard to hold. He kept knocking Brett, and Brett had to keep jumping into the prickles to avoid being stepped on. The soles of his feet became increasingly swollen and pierced the further they walked.

  Brett vowed he would never, ever take his boots off again. Aaron cheerfully marched beside him, unfazed.

  15

  Bush Art and Animals

  Mum loved having visitors from ‘down south’ to stay. She would always take them out to show them our local history. We kids would have to go too, but we didn’t mind, because there was lots of room to play and fun things to do, and we never got sick of hearing Mum’s stories.

  We would start at the Old Telegraph Station, a beautiful area of old stone buildings on the banks of the Todd River, just north of the town.

  ‘This is where the town of Alice Springs really began, back in 1871,’ she would say crisply, as though a tour guide. ‘Although of course the Arrernte people were here for many thousands of years before then. Alice Springs is known as Mparntwe.’ She would pause, then go on, ‘And you know of John McDouall Stuart, of course?’

  The visitors would usually nod politely, but she’d explain anyway. ‘He was the famous explorer who travelled all the way from South Australia to the top end, where Darwin now is. Do you know,’ she’d pause again, ‘the explorers back then hoped they’d find inland seas in the centre of this co
untry? What a shock they must have got to discover it was mostly arid desert!’

  The visitors would invariably nod politely again at this point, and Mum would sail on. ‘Stuart was a very brave man. He opened up the inland, got scurvy, went blind, but thanks to him the Overland Telegraph Line was finally built from south to north. That meant Australia could be connected from end to end at last, and then to England through cables under the sea. They began relaying messages here by Morse code in 1872.’

  Morse code! Cables under the sea! It sounded like something from one of my adventure books. We were so fascinated by it all, probably even more so than the visitors were, because it was our history. We loved exploring the old buildings where they still had some of the Morse code machines.

  ‘Can you imagine,’ mused Mum, ‘they only got supplies up once a year. You wouldn’t want to miss out something in your order, would you? Ha-ha!’

  Ha-ha, indeed!

  The next beautiful place on Mum’s tour was Pitchi Richi, a sanctuary just south of Heavitree Gap, built by an inspired man (we thought), Leo Corbett, in the 1950s. Its name meant ‘gap in the ranges’. To us, it was a wonderful place for adventures.

  The sanctuary was filled with birds and plants and red earth, shaded pathways, bushy hide-outs and turkey nest dams (just without the water). The dams were covered by huge athel pines in which we could play hide and seek.

  Just like at the Old Telegraph Station, there was an area set up as though the pioneers were still living here. There were old leather bags and saddles, an old wooden wagon (complete with the name Overlander painted on the side), which we could climb and play on. There was a rusty bush oven set up in a round fireplace with an iron tucker box, iron water container and copper pot. Swags were dotted around, so we sat on them and pretended to make dinner camp like we were pioneers.

  There was also a dark cave filled with what we thought were precious stones. When we peered in, gold and silver sparkled through the dim light. Mum told us they were actually local gemstones, and even though we were disappointed they weren’t like the kind of stones in The Magic Faraway Tree, we loved their colours.

  But perhaps best of all, the bush garden was dotted with fascinating statues. They looked to us like they’d been made out of red earth and water mixed together, coming straight from the Dreamtime. Aboriginal faces and people were interwound with wildlife and plants and trees. Some were tiny busts. Others were large works, taller than us.

  The creator’s name was William Ricketts, and I thought he must have been deeply in touch with God, because some of the statues really looked like angels with flowing hair and their faces turned up to heaven.

  One day a tall, bearded man turned up in a battered Land Rover pulling an old trailer piled high with camping equipment.

  ‘I’m a painter,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve been wanting to paint the space and light of the Centre for a long time. Hate bitumen roads. Would you let me camp by one of your creeks for a couple of weeks?’ Normally Dad would have sent somebody like this on their way. He was wary of strangers being on the place. It meant gates left open, fences cut, cattle disturbed and—worst of all—in some instances, his precious cattle killed.

  But the owner of the Alice Springs Arunta Gallery, a formidable woman named Iris Harvey, had sent the painter to us with a character reference. He had a name—Brian Nunan—and he was a renowned artist in his home state of Victoria. Mrs Harvey already sold his works and wanted more from him.

  So, in an unusual fit of benevolence, Dad said the painter could camp down near the Todd for a couple of weeks to paint, as long as he kept his fire under control at all times—‘And make sure you shut the gate.’

  Brian headed off happily and, on the way, met Mum. She was driving home from doing a bore run for Dad—with us in tow—and had a flat tyre. In true pragmatic style, she was just about to start changing it. Brian couldn’t believe the sight of this slight figure of a woman carting a huge tyre around, a gaggle of children at her side. He jumped out, introduced himself and changed the tyre for Mum—immediately charming her in the process.

  M’Lis, Brett and I were intrigued by this new arrival. We knew what it was like to be out in the stock camp for a couple of weeks, but we were never on our own. How did the painter survive out there, all by himself? And what did he do? We’d never seen a painter before. Was he like the man who made the statues at Pitchi Richi? Perhaps he really was him in disguise?

  Over the first week Dad went down several times to check that everything was in order, and soon we started to beg him to take us with him, to see the painter in action. After a week, Dad relented, and we all, including Mum, piled into the back of the Land Rover and headed towards the creek. It was about a half-hour drive from the homestead but utterly idyllic—big, sandy bed, huge old gum trees, birds sailing above, peace and quiet.

  As we arrived, we saw the most extraordinary sight.

  Brian’s Land Rover and trailer were neatly parked in a semicircle, around a small fire and Primus stove and swag. In the middle was the bearded artist himself, looking a little like the pictures we had seen of Moses in the Bible. Unlike Moses, though, he was splattered in paint from head to toe, sketching the creek bed onto a large exercise book with big bits of charcoal. Several easels stood around and paint tins were scattered at his feet. A billy was boiling.

  ‘Love charcoal,’ he said, simply, pointing to his current work, his big hands still flying over the page, black everywhere, even smudged onto his nose. ‘Cuppa?’

  We crowded around, mystified by the drawing and fascinated by the smell of the oils and paint. It was hot and there were plenty of flies, but the painter didn’t seem to notice.

  He didn’t have a generator, or any kind of power, so he lived very simply. Lots of root vegetables—carrots, potatoes, pumpkin—some tinned fish, powdered milk, flour for damper. Foodstuffs he could keep in his tucker box that wouldn’t go off.

  Mum had brought a cake, so we had a feast around the fire.

  ‘I love your animals,’ he said, as he poured us tea in pannikins from the bubbling billy. ‘They have a real sense of humour.’

  He told us the cattle would wander up to his camp, congregate and gaze soulfully at him for hours. They had all sorts of facial expressions, many of which Brian was able to capture on paper and would go on to use as the basis for cattle paintings in the future. It was the same with the horses. They’d sneak up behind him and lick the charcoal off his pages. As he turned and yelled, ‘Oi!’ the horses would jump away, flicking their tails. They kept him amused and intrigued.

  ‘They’re very intelligent,’ he said. ‘It’s a game.’

  We were sorry to leave Brian and go back to the homestead. But he stayed with us for three weeks. And then for another three. And another three. Towards the end of his stay, Dad invited him to come and watch some of the yard work with the cattle.

  When Brian finally left, he said, ‘Would you mind if I come back next year? I’d like to do some paintings for you.’

  Brian came the next year, and the next year, and the year after that. We finally discovered he had a wife and children. And that alcohol was one of the demons he’d had to fight. So, he went bush to survive. Some years he brought his wife, who was a lovely, strong woman named Pat. But we learned that he needed to go away to paint on a regular basis and live in solitude.

  ‘I have no choice,’ he once said simply. ‘I have a terrible feeling of frustration if I can’t paint and draw. I am happiest when I’m alone in the bush doing what I need to do. I lose myself.’

  Not only did he go on to paint beautiful paintings of Bond Springs, he infused his paintings with stockmen on horseback, working cattle, Dad and his beloved DQG, the hills and the flats and the bores and the dams. His powerful, rich ochres and blues perfectly portrayed the red heat and dust of our daily lives.

  We loved the painter. He knew us. He got us.

  On his third trip, Mum and Dad asked him if he would paint portraits of us kids. He ag
reed, no doubt reluctantly, because that meant he had to stay at the homestead and deal with live human subjects.

  M’Lis and I were terribly thrilled, though. We were let out of school to go for our sittings in the—of course—sitting room, where Brian had set up easels, paints and charcoal, and Mum had sensibly put sheets all over the floor. Brett wasn’t as excited and insisted on being painted wearing his bush hat. Benny came last and of course, being just a youngster, couldn’t sit still for more than a couple of minutes. He’d jump up and run outside and go back to playing under the pepper trees. Brian got in the habit of simply following him with his sketchbook and sketching Benny under those pepper trees.

  ‘Not so happy with this painting of Benny,’ he sighed, after Mum hung all the portraits on the sitting-room wall. ‘He was just too hard to capture, always being on the move.’

  That was our Benny. And that was our Mr Nunan, as we kids called him, a wondrous spirit for us all.

  And he came to us every year for over forty years.

  In the meantime, Dad kept building opportunities.

  His father had taught him to never put all his eggs in one basket, and he was ever conscious of locals saying that Bond Springs was unviable on its own, so he set about ‘diversifying our interests’.

  To start with, he decided to link Bond Springs with other properties to ensure its long-term viability. He’d seen how others had successfully done this, and with the support of Elders GM and yet another increase on the overdraft, Dad bought another cattle lease a hundred or so kilometres north of Bond Springs. It was called Singleton, and was larger than the Bond, with rich grassy plains and excellent water. This gave Dad flexibility, meaning he could move cattle between the three leases according to the seasons. When it was dry on the Bond, we could truck cattle down to Witchitie, which had high-protein saltbush, or up north with its green, grassy flats and soft water. Singleton was an excellent fattening block, unlike Bond Springs and Witchitie, both of which were marginal country and mostly dry.