But juggling the workload of three properties became a big problem.
Dad was constantly moving people from one station to another—sometimes by truck, or Land Rover, or in his Cessna 182—depending on what was required according to the different times and seasons. Everyone kept in contact via the two-way radio but that was unreliable. You could only talk at certain times, information was always delayed, and you couldn’t always speak openly. In the end, Dad was in the air almost more than he was on the ground, and he was often away from the homestead more than he was there.
One night, we heard the familiar drone of DQG approaching, and rushed outside, on full alert, as we always did.
‘I spend my life waiting for that man to come home!’ said Mum, as she stood at the back gate, gazing up into the sky. Her tone was a mixture of wistfulness and exasperation.
The familiar outline of DQG was silhouetted against the darkening sky. It dived and swooped with a roar over the homestead. Then it turned, and came in to land quickly.
I looked back at the sky. The sunset colours that had filled it moments ago were dying. Five minutes more and Dad wouldn’t have been able to see the airstrip. But that was Dad. He timed his flights—in fact, everything in his life—so he didn’t waste a minute.
But by now, even Dad knew he was stretched. So, he went searching again for people from the area he knew and trusted—the mid-north and Flinders Ranges of South Australia.
Before long he found a full-time bore man and mechanic for Bond Springs. Then he persuaded his great friend from Elders GM, Malcolm Roberts, to take his family up to Singleton. Finally, he employed a couple, Mike and Margaret Kimber, who had four young girls, Jane, Sally, Kate and Margot. They took over the full-time management of Witchitie.
The house at Singleton was no more than a huge corrugated-iron shed with concrete floors. It was tough living up there and unbelievably hot. Mum constantly said, ‘I don’t know how Malcolm and Jan and the kids are coping.’
Malcolm and Jan and their two children, Grant and Andrea, coped amazingly well, and went on to develop long-term business partnerships with Mum and Dad.
Down at Witchitie, Dad brought in a large demountable for the Kimbers to live in, because otherwise they would have had to live in our house, and that would have been a bit squashed when we went down. The demountable was some distance from the main house, and Dad built verandas around it, and plumbed in water and sewerage.
On our first visit to meet the Kimber family, we crowded into the demountable kitchen for smoko. The girls were younger than us and stayed close to Margaret, undoubtedly wary of us. Suddenly Brett looked over to the corner and shouted.
‘Mum, snake!’
In front of us a large snake slid across the room. Everybody froze, then screamed. With one move, Mum scooped us all up onto the table. I clutched Benny tight.
‘Stay there, stay there,’ she ordered, before she and Margaret raced after the snake. Margaret must have wondered what kind of wild place she’d arrived in as she and Mum pulled the house apart. We kids sat frozen on the table, and as the search went on and on with no result, we became fidgety. ‘Can we get off now?’ we begged.
‘Not yet,’ said Mum, her face set with determination. No snake was going to get away on her watch. You couldn’t let it go; if it disappeared into your house, you’d never feel safe and you couldn’t risk your children being bitten. Snakes did not belong inside.
On a hunch, she tipped over the linen basket, and all the clothes fell out—along with the snake. It came out slithering through the garments amid more shrieks, until Mum killed it with a broom handle.
We were so proud of her. She had protected us from possible death.
What a brave mother.
Then we climbed off the table and went safely back to play with our new friends.
16
Bush Music
Dad had a beautiful voice and he had sung the old Methodist hymns at church with Papa since he was a little boy. During our early years at Glenroy and Witchitie, I had soaked in these melodies and harmonies on a weekly basis. Whenever we returned down south for holidays and Christmas, I would soak them in all over again.
The little country churches at Cradock or Hawker or Carrieton would ring with ‘When I Survey the Wondrous Cross’, ‘How Great Thou Art’, ‘Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer’, and ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’. Being part of the singing of these hymns connected me with something far bigger than myself. It always brought goosebumps to my skin and tears to my eyes.
Sometimes Dad sang ‘Danny Boy’. Every time, a lump would reach my throat as his voice transported me into the green and beautiful vales of Ireland where Danny Boy had once roamed and would never return. I would wait for Dad to hit that exquisite high note, and he always did, pitch-perfect, holding it for just as long as was appropriate, and finishing the last note with his eyes lowered, as if in prayer.
Dad had grown up with family singing around the piano, as well as singing hymns all weekend, so singing was normal for him, and a legitimate way to express his deep emotions, which he usually kept hidden. Singing always made him smile, right up to his eyes. It always made us feel close to him and so happy.
Mind you, he never sang in front of the stockmen—just us.
One day, when Dad was in a slightly philosophical mood, he let slip that his God was in the trees and the landscape, in the bush and the skies. Dad didn’t say that his God wasn’t in a church, but we instinctively knew his deep connection was to the land.
But in every other way Dad was a Methodist to his core. For him, his religion was found in hard work, never giving up and always being grateful. Dad always said grace before dinner, and the whole table, stockmen included, had to bow their heads and give thanks for what we were all about to receive.
Mum taught us prayers and was very spiritual, in her wild, Irish way.
When we were being particularly naughty and fighting, she would shout in despair, ‘And you children are meant to be Christians!’ We knew that meant Mum was very angry and we should feel great shame. I spent a lot of time on my hands and knees praying and repenting and longed to be back in Mum’s good books and be called a Christian. It meant that life was easier and better if we behaved in a way that made Mum happy.
Mum loved music too and she ensured we were exposed to it from a very young age. Dear Mum was tone deaf but that didn’t stop her from singing to us constantly—nursery rhymes when we were little, which taught us words and repetition, and undoubtedly helped grow our neural pathways—and teaching us songs and their meanings.
One day, Dad brought home a huge surprise for us: a tiny, bright-red record player, with an LP called, ‘The Ugly Duckling’. It was a very sad song, but we played it over and over, until we could sing the words in our sleep.
Dad might have been tough on us with station work, but when it came to music he was generous and kind-hearted.
Of course, Slim Dusty and Charley Pride were the most famous of all singers for bush people, because they sang ballads about our lives. We loved them. Even though Charley Pride was American, we still felt he sang for us. All bush songs were a mixture of the funny and sad and inspirational. They were played on the local radio station and sung by the stockmen and became the soundtrack of our lives.
We knew by heart the words to Slim Dusty’s poignant ‘Saddle Boy’, ‘Rusty, It’s Goodbye’ and ‘Leave Him in the Long Yard’. We often cried when we sang them. Losing horses, dogs and people in the bush was something we now all understood. It was heartache for all of us when we lost them. But perhaps Slim Dusty’s most profound song was ‘Hard Hard Country.’ It reflected perfectly what we already knew to be the case: that the bush was an incredibly harsh environment, and to live and survive in it you had to be an incredibly hard man or woman.
Slim Dusty was lucky to share his musical life with the beautiful and talented Joy McKean. Not only did she play the fiddle, she wrote many of his great songs. And best of all, they were married,
but Joy always kept her maiden name—presumably because she was an entertainer with that name before she even met him.
She was my first pin-up gal for independence.
We loved the fact that Joy and Slim sang deeply spiritual songs set against a bush background. ‘The Old Rugged Cross’, ‘Heaven Country Style’ and ‘When the Golden Sliprails are Down’ were always reverently played. Given our Methodist upbringing with Wesley hymns, we connected unconsciously to such ballads. We had sliprails on the edge of the trough paddock next to the horse yards, so I always imagined Slim and Joy walking together hand in hand towards them, watching them glow brighter the closer they got, until they were completely illuminated in a blaze of gold.
M’Lis was lucky enough to get Slim Dusty’s Greatest Hits for her birthday, which meant we could play the songs over and over whenever we wanted to rather than wait for them to come over the radio. Next in line was Brett’s birthday and so we got Charley Pride’s Greatest Hits as well. We were ecstatic. ‘The Crystal Chandeliers’ and ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ got a huge workout.
Now we had our two favourite records, there was room for just one more.
The Bangtail Muster by Ted Egan.
We loved Ted Egan like he was our own national hero, which in a way he was. Ted lived in Alice Springs and wrote and sang songs about the characters of the Territory, of which there were many, and accompanied himself on an empty Fosters beer carton. He played it like it was a guitar crossed with a drum and called it a Fosterphone. We thought he was the most marvellous musician in the world. Whenever there was a chance to see Ted perform, we would plead for Mum to take us, and she always would. Ted had twinkling eyes and lots of time for us kids and let us sing along with him. Our favourite song was ‘The Drinkers of the Territory’. It was beyond outrageous that we could legitimately sing, ‘Oh, they’ve got some bloody good drinkers in the Northern Territory’ at the tops of our voices and get away with it. We learned all his songs and could sing them anywhere at the drop of a hat. So, for my birthday, I received the large LP, The Bangtail Muster, and we were set.
Our good-natured Irish stockman Ray Murtagh continued to play guitar and sing with us. Our favourite nights were when we were out in the stock camp, sitting on swags, watching the crackling flames flicker up into the air and light the darkness as we listened to Ray sing to the stars. Someone would lift the billy off the fire with a long piece of wire and we’d all drink sweet black tea. Ray’s gentle lyrics and guitar playing transported us to different times and places.
We desperately wanted to play guitar like Ray. And we told him, again and again, until finally he said to Mum, ‘To be sure, these kids need to play the guitar, Mrs H.’
So, to be sure, Mum lined up weekly guitar lessons in town. Of course, we hated the trip in and out but we loved the lessons. A quiet young man with greasy hair taught us the guitar in a little studio next to the general store, which sold lollies, so there was always an incentive to go. We all learned earnestly and practised our chords determinedly. We might have only been three-chord-wonder kids, but before long we three were playing together and singing every country song we knew. As Benny grew up, he would join in banging a stool, and go on to become a brilliant drummer.
One day Mum said that she and Dad would take us on a big outing.
‘We’re going to see The Sound of Music at the Alice Springs drive-in,’ Mum enthused. She seemed very happy about this.
We’d heard about the drive-in from Ray and Charlie, and we could hardly believe that Dad was going to stop work and come on an evening outing with us. We didn’t know what the movie was about, and we didn’t really care.
‘It’s about music, so you’ll love it,’ promised Mum.
It was a Saturday night. Mum packed beef sandwiches and a thermos of tea, and a thermos of cordial for us as a treat. We all piled into the car; Benny was on my lap, of course. Dad drove in his usual fast manner, and before we knew, we were heading through the Heavitree Gap towards a vacant paddock, at the end of which sat a huge screen. We shrieked and Dad roared his usual ‘Quiet!’ but even he didn’t seem as cross with us as usual tonight.
We followed a long line of tail-lights, Dad stopping to buy tickets from a man at the gate, and then drove in to where there were lines and lines of parked cars. Dad chose a good spot, near the centre, and arranged for a speaker to be put inside the windows on either side of the car.
‘When will it start?’ we pestered Mum as she distributed the sandwiches, until Dad roared again and we really were quiet then for a while, until Mum whispered, ‘It’s starting!’
To my amazement, the sounds of an orchestra floated through the speakers, and before us emerged Julie Andrews running across her Austrian meadows, twirling in her pinafore, arms outstretched. I leaned forward, utterly enchanted.
I’d never heard anything so glorious. The music filled the entirety of the car in surround-sound from the two speakers. For nearly three hours I barely breathed. (In the same way I’d become entranced by The Magic Faraway Tree from the very first reading, I was entranced by The Sound of Music from the very first viewing.)
I didn’t really understand the scary bits or the dangerous bits or the sad bits. Dad later said that it was important for us to understand them when we grew up, because they were about the war. But none of that dimmed the star quality of the show for me—the music, the romance, the love, the glorious setting—the magic of it all. The scenes depicted exactly where I imagined all my Enid Blyton and Heidi storybooks were set. Snowy mountains, beautiful lakes, chateaux and mansions, green fields and dark woods.
To cap off the wonderful evening, when we got home Dad carried us all into bed. We’d fallen asleep as the car rocked its way towards Bond Springs and were groggy when we pulled up. Mum gathered Benny in her arms and Dad picked up Brett, and they both whispered, ‘M’Lis and Tanya, wait there’. We were happy to obey, snuggling up to each other and pretending to be asleep when Dad returned. We both longed for him to carry us too. And he did—M’Lis first, and then me. I burrowed into Dad’s strong arms and felt so safe as he strode over the gravel.
We were all given a special treat from Mum. ‘You don’t have to clean your teeth tonight, it’s too late. Just quickly get into your pyjamas and hop into bed and I’ll kiss you goodnight.’
We did, our heads and hearts filled with visions of the evening—and snatches of Dad humming ‘Edelweiss’ as we drifted off to sleep.
From that moment I longed for the record of The Sound of Music. Luckily, Christmas was close, so it was a joint present for us on that special day, and we played it until the needle nearly rubbed through the record. I had found a place and a story where I knew I belonged.
It was made all the better by Dad singing ‘Edelweiss’ along with us whenever he strode past.
17
DQG in Full Flight
Once we began mustering, our lives changed. We were away almost as much as we were home during the mustering season. There was school, obviously, but Dad would regularly crunch over the gravel up to the schoolroom door and order us out to work if he needed help.
Stockmen, including Charlie and Ray, came and went. That was the reality of trying to hire and keep staff on a cattle station in Central Australia. Many were drifters or nomadic or simply wanted to try different places to work. Dad found it hugely frustrating every time a stockman left, often with little notice, because it messed with his tight schedule.
So it meant we quickly became good at what we had to do, because, as Dad told us, we were ‘the core’ of his workforce.
Each muster would take a similar format.
We would walk our horses all the way to our destination stockyards, which usually took a day, depending how far the paddock was. Once there, we would feed and water and hobble the horses, set up camp, light a fire, cook the steak and boil the billy, then head to our swags. By dawn, we’d be up to bring in the horses, saddle them up and head out for the muster. That would usually take all day. Sometimes i
t would take several days if the paddock was very big and we’d have to set up mini stock camps throughout the paddock, with different people camping at different spots.
We didn’t use packhorses anymore to carry food, as the Land Rover was more efficient (assuming there was someone available to drive it). The tucker box would be filled with corned beef, cold roast beef, tomato sauce, flour, tea, sugar, and enamel plates, knives, forks, spoons and pannikin mugs. Steak was only for the first night (it wouldn’t last long beyond that, with the heat, flies and ants). But there was lots of bread (rarely time to make damper) and treats like apricot jam and strawberry jam to put on the bread (which quickly became dry, so we mostly toasted it over the coals). The biggest treat of all was rice-cream and little tins of peaches in juice, which we’d take for something sweet after the evening meal if we were away for a long time.
On the day we left, I was reminded of the days we used to watch the stock camp heading out, when we were just little kids and holding on to Mum’s hand. Now it was just Mum standing there waving us off. It was like watching ourselves inside an old movie. By now I was nine, M’Lis was eight and Brett seven, and we were practically grown up.
Dad started to fly the musters as well, which made them more efficient.
We’d ride out at daylight and listen for the hum of the plane in the distance, flying towards us. I always felt a huge sense of relief as the speck in the sky grew closer—Dad’s here. Everything’s all right.
The early part of the muster was my favourite. Dad would be diving and weaving in his plane, looking for cattle hiding along the boundary or in scrub, where they weren’t very visible to us. We’d all split up to make the best use of resources, galloping fast to meet him. Some would head towards the plane and some away, trying to cover the entirety of the paddock.
An Alice Girl Page 14