‘Swept away, too,’ he said, furiously.
Over the next few months, Charlie spent hours down there looking for it along the creek bed. But to no avail. The rifle had disappeared and was never seen again.
A brighter time for Charlie came when he met a beautiful redhead, a woman named Dawn.
One of our favourite songs playing on 8HA was ‘Delta Dawn’, and we couldn’t believe this gorgeous girl had the same name. Charlie brought her out to Bond Springs, and we thought she looked like a movie star. (And our jaws dropped when we discovered that she stayed overnight with Charlie.)
We started singing ‘Delta Dawn’ to Charlie all the time, until he got sick of us and threatened to take his strap to us if we didn’t stop. One day Dawn stopped coming, and Charlie took to the rum, and we didn’t sing ‘Delta Dawn’ to him anymore.
As a way of cheering himself up, Charlie taught Brett to smoke gum roots down in the creek. Before we knew it, Brett was coming back from motorbike trips with Charlie with a silly grin on his face, charcoal all over his lips and smelling like smoke.
Mum took one look at his scruffy appearance and demanded to know what he had been doing. Now, all bush kids look dishevelled—and Brett was no exception—but there was something not quite right that caught Mum’s eagle eye.
‘Nothing, Mum,’ grinned Brett, looking sillier and smelling smokier by the moment.
Charlie ducked off sheepishly at that point, as Brett wilted under Mum’s stern gaze. Eventually he cracked and confessed. Mum was appalled, and told Brett—and Charlie—never to do it again or she would take the most extreme measure at her disposal: to tell Dad.
Charlie nodded obligingly, but Brett wasn’t going to give up that easily. He had graduated beyond naked bike rides at bath time and, at eight years old, was pretty pleased with this grown-up form of misbehaviour. And best of all, he could do it when he was kilometres from the house, which meant that mostly Mum would never know.
Despite Charlie’s occasional encouragement of our less-than-exemplary exploits, he still looked out for us. That was lucky, because we needed all the looking out for we could get.
One day we were out drafting at Bulldust Bore, where there were a lot of big scrubber bulls and cows. They were the cattle that had got away during previous musters and were always a challenge: wild, they completely ruled the mob. They could charge and kill you in an instant.
‘Right,’ said Dad, assessing the scene. ‘These scrubbers are going to be hard to manage. You’re going to have to be quick off the mark on your gates.’
Dad stood in the round drafting yard and assigned us our positions. He put Charlie on the gate for the micky bulls and young calves that led to the branding yard. Brett was in charge of the gate for steers headed to the trucking yard. A young jackaroo who came for a short time was on the gate for the young heifers. He assigned M’Lis the bush gate—that’s where the old cows and mad scrubber bulls would be sent back to the bush, because they were too old to be bred from or marketed. I always thought it was the best gate, because it meant freedom for the cattle. If I were a beast in the yards, that would be the gate I’d want.
But I wasn’t a beast, just a worker, and was sent to the bottom of the back yard to push the cattle up into the drafting enclosure. Normally I hated being down the back. You were in line for the bull dust; it was just like being on the cattle tail during droving. But today it brought a benefit: it wouldn’t be as dangerous as being on one of the gates. We knew what could happen if things went wrong. If a beast charged the gate, you could be sent flying, especially if you were as small and skinny as we were. Worse, Dad would yell furiously at us, especially if the wrong beast got through and got away.
There was one other benefit: once I got the cattle up to Dad, I could return to the back of the yards where I was largely out of his sight for ten minutes before he called me to push up the next mob. I could do a lot of daydreaming in ten minutes. Go to a lot of places in my imagination. Create stories. Find a way to escape the heat and the boredom of the hours of drafting that lay ahead.
We all took our places for what would be a long day. It was already hot. Dad stood in the round enclosure, stockwhip in hand, hat pulled low against the sun.
‘Righto, Tanya, push ’em up!’ he yelled, and I set to work.
It was no mean feat getting the mad group to move in an orderly fashion into the drafting enclosure, so I pushed them in smaller groups to make it more manageable for Dad, darting in and out, trying not to get stepped on or kicked as I went. My mouth was filled with dust within minutes. My hair stuck to my head under my hat. Even thoughts of daydreaming started melting away.
Dad stood in the middle of the swirling mob of mad cattle, moving as if on a sixpence, pushing a micky bull here, a steer there, a bullock for market there, his focus razor-sharp. It was as though he never noticed the heat.
Suddenly, one of the big scrubber cows in the back broke away from my group. She stormed her way through the middle group towards the drafting yard. She was bellowing and snorting, snot dripping from nostrils, flies across her huge eyes.
I tried to yell to Dad but my voice was lost in the bellowing of the cattle. Dad saw her coming just in time and flicked his stockwhip to push her away. The cow took his hint—and headed at a gallop towards M’Lis’s gate.
‘Lis, scrubber to the bush gate!’ shouted Dad.
But it was too late. The cow was faster than all of us. Before M’Lis could even get to undo the chain, the cow smashed through the gate.
M’Lis was pushed backwards and went flying into the dust. Through the red blur, I saw her on her hands and knees.
Dad yelled, ‘Get up, Lis! You’ll be right,’ and turned his attention back to the mob.
The mad cow was through the gate by now, and galloping to freedom, but M’Lis was still trying to get up, dazed and winded by the knock.
Next minute there was a streak of blue.
Charlie.
He picked M’Lis up and put her on his knee. Then he gently held her while she had a little cry.
The knock had ‘hurt like hell’, she later told me.
But M’Lis’s narrow escape led us to create a new expression: ‘Block … [insert type of animal; my favourite was ‘the red heifer’] at the bush gate!’ So whenever we wanted someone or something to stop, we’d shout, ‘Block ’em’ (for short) or the whole expression (for maximum effect). Or if we wanted someone or something to go away, we’d simply roar, ‘Bush gate!’
These became some of our all-time favourite expressions (although we never dared use them on the grown-ups).
22
Mind Over Matter
We kids had to eat first at night so we could be put to bed and the adults could have dinner in peace. However, one summer’s evening we all got home late from yarding up bullocks, and we were allowed to eat with the adults.
At the time, Dad had a few extra stockmen helping out, so it was an enormous crowd of about twenty-five that trooped into the kitchen for dinner. The air was full of noise, with people chatting and laughing. M’Lis and I helped Mum dish up plate after plate of steak, potatoes, peas and beans, topped with delicious thick gravy, all cooked on the Aga stove. It had been a good day and even Charlie was grinning.
But somebody had forgotten to properly close the back door.
There was so much noise and chaos in the kitchen that a long king brown snake was able to slide in under the back door undetected. In fact, it was able to slither into the kitchen and under the table and through people’s feet and up onto the cabinet where Mum’s cups were laid out—all without anyone noticing.
Mum, however, was always on high alert for snakes, day and night. She either felt the movement at her feet or caught the movement out of her eye—she wasn’t sure which—but through the hum of conversation and clink of knives and plates, she shrieked: ‘Grant! Snake!’
Dad’s head swivelled and then he jumped up so fast none of us had time to speak. He grabbed the shovel, which sto
od conveniently in the entrance hall next to the door, and then—although Mum then shrieked, ‘Not the shovel!’—smashed its blade down onto the snake. The sound was like a ka-chung from one of the Braitlings’ comics.
By now the snake was curled around the cups and saucers, and Dad missed. Cups and saucers went flying into the air and smashed down onto the concrete floor.
The noise was horrific and everyone finally started screaming. Even Charlie took a back step. A long king brown was not something to be messed with. One bite and we were dead (according to all the grown-ups).
Meanwhile the snake, which was slightly put out by all of this, slid onto the Aga stove next to the cabinet. It then wound its way around the plates of food piled high there.
‘Not the food!’ shrieked Mum, but whether that was directed to Dad or the snake, I wasn’t sure. Anyway, Dad took no notice. He smashed the blade of the shovel down again: ka-chung and ka-chung and ka-chung.
Plates went everywhere, shattered all over the kitchen. Bits of meat and beans and gravy hit the walls and the floor. By now everyone was up on the table, except Charlie, and the hapless king brown was finally in a number of pieces, partly on the plates, partly on the wall and partly on the floor. Dad kept smashing it with the shovel while it writhed madly in its death throes.
‘Oh, my God, Grant! Stop, get it out!’ shrieked Mum.
That was a dinner nobody would forget. The clean-up was unbelievable, and by the time it was over, everybody had well and truly lost their appetite.
But Dad just marched out and went back to his office to continue his bookwork.
Even without a snake, dinner with Dad could be a trying event.
Actually, it didn’t have to be dinner. It could be lunch, or breakfast, or morning smoko. We’d hear his boots coming along the rocks and the gravel—clip-clop, clip-clop—and everyone would quieten down and snap to attention.
Dad always sat at the head of the table. Once everyone had taken their place quietly, Dad would say grace. And then, when everyone started to enjoy their food (and Mum’s cooking was always delicious), Dad would start firing questions around the table. Or if it was smoko, the questions would come just as everyone had piled their plates high with slabs of Mum’s fruitcake or chocolate cake.
Dad’s questions would go along these lines:
Have you checked Davis Bore? (Or any other bore he felt fit to name.)
Did you weld that leaking pipe?
Did you fix that fence along the creek?
Did you get the yards ready for the trucks?
Are the horses ready for tomorrow?
Did you know the house bore has stopped pumping? (Terrified silence would generally ensue.)
Everyone would squirm, desperately hoping the questions wouldn’t be directed at them. But Dad made sure he had a question for everyone.
While Mum put her heart into cooking beautiful food to ensure everyone was physically and soulfully nourished, Dad viewed mealtimes as an opportunity to find out what was happening everywhere on Bond Springs. There was so much to do, all the time, that it was the most efficient way for him to keep on top of it all. It was also his chance to then give orders, to instruct people and most of all, to keep everyone on their toes. He hated to repeat himself, so he saw his role as teaching people to think for themselves and be proactive.
Of course, we didn’t realise that. We were too busy ducking and diving and weaving and trying to come up with answers that would satisfy him, all the while our throats dry and hoping we wouldn’t be next in line.
For Dad, it was all about survival of the fittest. He’d spent years now watching and learning from the land and the animals around him, and had taken that knowledge deeply into his psyche.
We saw this firsthand at Bull Dust Bore, when we had to deal with about eight scrubber bulls that had been trapped in the yard overnight. They’d come in for water at the trough through a swinging gate, positioned so that they could get in but not out, and Dad wanted to see whether he could truck any of them to market.
By the time we arrived the bulls were stirry and angry, pushing up dust and intimidating the rest of the mob that had also come in overnight for water. At the back, one old bull stood against the rails. As we looked closer, we could see he had a huge cancer growing over his eye, which looked to be weeping, the goo stuck to his face. One leg was broken and was covered in blood. He was struggling to stand up.
We gathered around while Dad checked him out—at a safe distance.
‘He’s in a bad way, poor ol’ fella. Can’t truck him. And he’ll die if he goes back into the paddock on his own. Dingoes’ll get him before long, then the crows.’
Dad went to the Land Rover and pulled out his .222 rifle.
He always believed in putting animals out of their misery if it was necessary. He hated to see them suffer, and he knew just how bad it could be in the bush.
‘Righto, you kids, out of the way.’
He shot the scrubber bull in the head.
Dad was a good shot. The bull went to one knee, but it refused to die. Scrubber bulls were, after all, the toughest of all tough cattle, and they didn’t give up easily.
And in that moment, we were given a lesson in nature in the wild.
The rest of the scrubber bulls charged him.
I stood in disbelief and horror as they attacked the dying bull, knocking him again and again. Those scrubbers with horns gored him. Yes, the bull was nearly dead, but his comrades finished him off.
Don’t worry about the dingoes and crows: your own kind is your biggest enemy.
The moral of that story was: No matter how big you are, the minute you show weakness, you’re finished. That was life in the bush. And it certainly described Dad’s attitude to life. He never showed weakness, especially to his own kind.
Dad’s toughness was tempered by Charlie Gorey’s kindness, especially during those long musters. There was a particularly horrible route through a paddock between Bendy and Corkwood where a water bag had to last nearly a day. It was dry, sandy scrub as far as I could twist my head; red, red, red underfoot and seemingly even hotter under a blazing blue sky.
Dad would say, ‘Get a rock and suck it. That’ll help. It’ll create moisture in your mouth. Take your mind off being thirsty.’
However, one particularly stinking hot summer’s day there, we were almost ‘finished’. We hung over our horses, our throats thick with the filth of the muster, our eyes squinting miserably at the tempting mirage on the horizon.
‘Boss, these kids need a drink.’ Charlie looked like he might even throw a punch if Dad didn’t agree.
Dad finally nodded. ‘Righto, when you get to the next trough, you can stop for a bit. Have a short spell.’
We couldn’t believe our luck. When we got to the trough, we buried our faces in it, as did the horses. The water was disgusting and covered in slime, but we didn’t care. Bush people drank whatever water was available, just to survive, and never thought of complaining. We were just thankful to have it. Charlie told us that he did his usual thing: he dipped his hat in, swirled the water around, threw it over his face and had a small sip.
Dad didn’t have anything. Not a drop. He didn’t even leave the cattle. He was in the lead, focused on his destination, leading the cattle onwards, undistracted by human weakness.
Dad was the toughest man we knew.
Even Papa Heaslip, who was notoriously hard, wasn’t as hard as Dad.
Papa and Nana Heaslip came up to visit us during September one year. When we came down to the house for lunch, covered in dust after a morning of drafting cattle in the house cattle yards, we were exhausted. As usual, it was hot, and we’d been up since daylight. As soon as lunch was finished, Dad stood up and collected his hat. Then he turned to us and said, ‘Righto, you kids, we’re back to the yards.’
We got up wearily. Wouldn’t have dared protest.
Papa said, ‘You work these kids too hard.’
Silence filled the kitchen. Mum loo
ked shocked. I was stunned.
But Dad simply said, ‘Now,’ and we got up out of our chairs and followed him.
M’Lis said afterwards that she’d never previously thought about our heavy workload. And when she did, she felt her chest swell. ‘I just felt so proud that we worked so hard and helped Dad.’
I wasn’t sure my heart swelled like M’Lis’s did.
Dad had changed a lot since he’d taken over Bond Springs. Once Papa was the top dog, but not anymore.
For example, when Dad grew up, there was no work on Sunday. Not even sport was allowed. Good Methodist rules.
Dad changed all that: Sunday became a work day, just like every other day. He had more work to do on Bond Springs (and elsewhere) than he had staff, resources or days in the week to do it all, so he didn’t have time to rest. And if he didn’t, nor did we.
Nor could we ever feel sorry for ourselves.
If we got hurt when riding or working out bush, Dad would use salt or kerosene to clean our wounds—it was usually the only thing he had handy to kill germs—and then pronounce his usual prognosis: ‘You’ll be right.’ And we knew we had to use ‘mind over matter’ to manage the pain.
Dad said to M’Lis, ‘The mind has no sympathy for the body’.
He seemed to view his body as something separate to himself and always referred to it in the third person. He also saw it as something under his control, and something that he drove forward, as he drove all of us forward.
The one creature Dad didn’t ever push beyond his limit—and he might as well have been a person, given how much Dad loved him—was his golden horse, Limerick.
He and Limerick would gallop up hill and down dale in the toughest of conditions and always make it seem effortless. Even as Limerick got older, neither of them slowed down, and Limerick seemed happy to be wild and free under Dad’s hands.
It was, however, a different story if someone else was involved.
One day, M’Lis was given the privilege of riding Limerick. Only one other person had been afforded this honour—Miss Clarke, who was allowed to walk around the horse paddock and feel how beautiful Limerick was to touch and ride. This was a mark of respect and a farewell gift from Dad before she left Bond Springs.
An Alice Girl Page 18