On Sandy, I felt safe. With her calm nature, I knew she wouldn’t chuck me off, so that made riding a lot easier for me. We were a great team from the outset. She changed my whole riding experience. Perhaps Dad realised I needed that too.
Finally, the Show weekend arrived.
The day before the Show, Dad entrusted Pips and Mr Browne to take his precious cattle into the showgrounds in the truck. He would follow in his vehicle and together they would unload and settle the cattle in.
Everything with the cattle went well.
Everything with the horses went wrong.
At the last minute, we realised we didn’t have transport for the horses. Dad’s truck was stuck in town and no one had time to bring it home. Mum had to rush around and find another truck. When she finally did, ‘those fools’ (Mum’s words) dropped the horses at the wrong place. By the time we finally found them, we had to walk them along the railway line to get them back to the right place. That took about three hours in the fading light and winter chill.
As neither we, nor the horses, had ever walked through town before, much less on the railway line, we were sick to our stomachs with fear. The horses shied constantly at passing cars and trucks, we were worried they would go lame walking on such a hard surface, and we were cold and frightened. Most of all, we were petrified a train would come.
We certainly didn’t feel like courageous Jill or any of the heroines in the Pullein-Thompson books. We wished Dad would turn up to save us. He always knew what to do in crises. He would have gone and sorted out ‘the fools’. He would have made everything better, especially for Mum. He might even have arranged for a truck to collect us halfway.
But he didn’t, because he didn’t know where we were, and we had no way of contacting him, so Mum walked the whole three hours with us to keep us safe. She had dressed up for the day in a gold-and-brown top with long sleeves, sunshine-yellow flared pants and long boots. By the time we got to the right place, it was dark and her beautiful outfit was ruined: covered in horse slobber and bridle grease and red dust. Darkness had also descended. By now the horses were drooping by our sides. Our teeth were chattering. None of us could speak. We were dead beat.
Fortunately, Pips and Mr Browne were still at the showgrounds, because they were staying in a caravan next to the cattle, to guard them. Grabbing their torches, they helped us find our stables and settle the horses.
‘Think the Boss headed to the Members’ Bar,’ they added, helpfully, ‘some hours ago.’
That was the last straw. Mum stomped all the way to the Bar. We trailed behind her, adrenalin kicking back in.
We found Dad thumping the bar and telling stories, surrounded by lots of blokes doing the same. There was smoke and noise. Everything smelled like beer. Dad looked as though he had no intention of leaving.
I’ll never forget Mum’s fury. She held three bedraggled, starving, desperate children in front of her and asked Dad why the hell he hadn’t returned his truck so that we could use it, and further, not given a thought to how we might be managing without it. Did he realise it was a miracle we were all still intact? And how the hell did he think we were going to get back to the Braitlings’ house, where we were staying? Had he forgotten about us altogether?
Dad didn’t seem to have any answers, probably because he’d had such a lovely time with all the local station men and judges and breeders up from the south, and had indeed forgotten all about us.
‘I’ll take you back to our house,’ Mr Braitling stepped in. ‘My LandCruiser’s just outside.’
It was a good fifteen minutes to get back to the Braitlings’ house, so Mum used every second of that time to tell Mr Braitling—who was like a brother to her—what she thought of bush men and their behaviour at the show: irresponsible, selfish, self-indulgent—she’d had enough of them all! Including the fool of a driver who hadn’t understood his instructions. When she got her hands on him …
Mr Braitling murmured agreement (sensibly, I thought) as M’Lis, Brett and I huddled in the back, silent and awed.
As he dropped us off, he added (again, sensibly, I thought), ‘Tell Barb I’ll be back soon. And I’ll bring Grant, don’t worry.’
Inside, Mrs Braitling was waiting.
Mum burst into tears.
Mrs Braitling handed her a strong brandy and then, because there was nothing to be done, they set about dealing with eight shattered children (Benny was there and crying by now as well). Mrs Braitling fed us her famous hot corned beef with white sauce and cabbage while Mum changed out of her ruined clothes and had another brandy.
I thought about what Mum said. It was true. Bush men like Dad became different creatures when they came to town, especially for the Show. At home they carried enormous responsibility for staff and stock, had to keep both the stock agents and the Land Board pacified, and could never forget they were the boss. But when they got to the Show, or anywhere that involved other bush men, they lived it up. And they could do it because the bush rules said it was all right for the blokes—it’s just what they do.
It was almost expected; that’s what bush blokes were meant to do.
There was no chance for the mothers to behave in the same way. They still had to look after their many children. They had to behave ‘appropriately’, whatever that meant. The double standards of being a woman, and a bush wife as well, infuriated Mum so much. She felt so helpless, and she was, because there was nothing that could be done about it.
Worse, the men didn’t seem to notice or care.
Except, perhaps, for dear Mr Braitling, who more than redeemed himself that night.
Luckily, Dad and Mr Braitling turned up not long after that. Dad put his arm around Mum. We all went to bed and things calmed down.
But as I went to sleep, I thought to myself, Who would want to be a wife in the bush?
Not me.
The next morning, we were up before it was light, focused only on the day ahead, yesterday’s problems gone. Winter mornings in Alice were always the same: below zero, with huge blue skies promising a beautiful day. We dressed in jodhpurs, polished our boots until we could see our faces in them, and grabbed coats and hard hats. We’d bought these flash clothes from Don Thomas in Alice Springs—the place every bush man and woman bought every piece of clothing (from hats down to riding breeches); we loved the smell of saddle leather and riding boots, and Aunty Lil—the big cheerful lady who ran it—and were very proud of how we looked.
Then Mum and Mrs Braitling took two carloads of us to the showgrounds. We raced to find our horses, pulling out oaten hay for them to eat. The sun came up and melted the frost on the ground.
It was great fun all being together. We groomed our horses until their coats shone, plaited their manes with frozen fingers, then saddled them up with our beautifully polished saddles and bridles. Today we were acting out a Pullein-Thompson story; about to join that mysterious, exciting world of pony club and horse events. In that icy morning, we were ready to compete in events, make new friends and win ribbons.
Janie finally arrived. We flew into each other’s arms, giggling immediately. I led Sandy over, shyly, and Janie patted Sandy’s nose.
‘Sandy looks very happy with you,’ Janie said, and I felt a warm rush inside.
The first event was ‘Best Novice Pony’. Janie had been competing for years and so she and Lucy looked the part, relaxed and self-confident.
The pony club members were assembling now too, just as I remembered from last year. Smart, beautifully groomed—both the horses and riders. Janie rode over, said hello and chatted to them easily as they moved off towards the oval.
I looked on from a distance, trying not to tremble. No matter how much Brett, M’Lis and I had wanted this moment to arrive, now it was here, my stomach was filled with butterflies and my throat was dry.
‘Come on, Sandy,’ I whispered, as we bush kids headed to the oval too. Sandy pricked her ears as though she understood. I gave her a reassuring pat, although it was more for myse
lf than for her.
Mum and Mrs Braitling waved us off, as did Mrs Joseland, who had arrived looking like she should be competing herself: wearing smart jodhpurs, riding boots and a pink skivvy that matched her lipstick. The three of them beamed at us. With a final adjustment to the itchy strap under my neck, we were gone.
It was a stomach-churning day. We competed in everything. Most of the time, I didn’t really know what I was doing, and my nerves were so intense I thought my heart might burst out of my chest. At the start of each event, the judge would tell us where to line up and remind us what we had to do: canter here, turn there, change legs, ride in pairs. But I had a sense of accomplishment as I cantered off after each event, simply knowing that I’d done it. Furthermore, I’d become like the characters in the books that I loved.
I’ve finally ridden in a horse show.
At the end of each event, we had to line up to receive the prizes. Janie and the pony-club goers won blue ribbons for almost everything. Simone was close behind. M’Lis, Brett, Jacquie, Matthew and I received a handful of red and orange ribbons (second and third). I received an orange ribbon for coming third in ‘Quietest Horse or Pony’.
A huge achievement!
Even though I was too shy to talk to the regular pony-club members, Janie was soon on first-name terms with everyone. I could only watch and wish I had her sunny, easy disposition, rather than the shyness that threatened to paralyse my every step when I came in contact with someone new.
But my shyness disappeared in the thrill of the Grand Parade. This year M’Lis, Brett and I were finally able to ride in it. We felt a mix of excitement and pride as we joined the long line of competitors to enter the oval.
Dad was there, with Mr Browne and Pips, and all his prizewinning cattle. He took the lead of the Grand Parade with his new Champion Poll Hereford Bull, Electra. He had a huge grin on his face, which told us the Show had been a great success for him.
Dad hadn’t watched us ride. We hadn’t expected him to. We knew that cattle came first.
But Mum was very supportive. She watched us in everything, and hugged us even if we’d won nothing (which in my case was almost every event).
Even Charlie Gorey came and watched. Despite him telling us that it was a waste of time, he supported us, as he always did. He even gave us a wolf-whistle and thumbs up as we entered the Grand Parade.
In my short life to date, the Grand Parade was the most marvellous thing I’d ever done. I thought I might burst with pride as we made the long walk around the side of the oval, with the noise of the crowd and the band filling the air. In that moment, I was so overjoyed I had a ribbon around Sandy’s neck. Being in the parade was like being on the stage; it was like performing. I loved every minute of it.
‘Thank you, Sandy,’ I whispered to her as I waved to the cheering crowd.
It was hard to say goodbye to Janie, but we promised each other we’d be back on air next week. And to top the weekend off, both Dad and Mr Braitling remembered to come home in time to get ready for the Alice Springs Show Ball, the social highlight of the weekend.
Mum and Mrs Braitling looked like true princesses as they swept off in their long gowns and gloves, with their hair up in beehives. The next day we heard stories of Dad and Aunty Dawn from Hamilton Downs performing together around the piano. Aunty Dawn yodelled (that was her specialty) and Dad sang ‘Danny Boy’. Everyone danced wildly until the wee hours.
Later we saw photos of Mum in Dad’s arms at the Ball, and the special smiles they shared melted our hearts. Despite the tough times, we knew that Mum and Dad loved each other deeply, and their passion for each other, for us, and for Bond Springs, was like a shining, golden thread that held us all together.
30
Writing and Music
Mum always made our birthdays special. We would rush into breakfast and there would be a present on our chair, carefully wrapped by her. On the top would be a card she’d filled out on behalf of herself and Dad.
The year I turned ten, Dad told me I was really growing up. When I came into the kitchen on the big occasion, I looked at my chair and it was empty. I quickly looked up and around, surprised. Everyone was smiling at me. Then I realised there was a big parcel on the table. Perhaps double figures meant I’d graduated from a chair to the table.
When I ripped the paper off, I was unable to speak. ‘Ohhhh!’ I breathed in, staring at a beautiful, orange typewriter. ‘Ohhhh!’
‘Well, you write so many stories—this will help.’
I wanted to cry with joy over this, the best present ever, in the whole wide world. I could hardly bear to go to school that day. As soon as lessons were over I raced back and set up my typewriter on the kitchen table. Mum gave me some paper and I was away—typing with one finger.
Reading and writing my own stories had helped my imagination flourish over the years. But now I had my own typewriter, my imagination was off the clock and the number of stories I could create endless. The only thing that stopped me were the tiresome matters of cattle work, jobs for Mum, and school work. Oh yes, and eating and sleeping.
Breakfast was non-negotiable, and after we ate, we had to finish our jobs and get to the schoolroom by seven-thirty. Dinner was equally non-negotiable, and we also had to do jobs beforehand (watering plants, cleaning our boots), then have a bath, and then it was bedtime shortly afterwards, by seven. Afternoons after school were the obvious times for reading and writing, but we were regularly dragged off by Dad to work; there was always cattle-yard work, or the need to fix up a fence or pipe, or to ride out and bring in recalcitrant cattle. Or we lost afternoons altogether because we were mustering for the whole day.
I figured the only time I could potentially escape and have free to myself was lunchtime. So, I set about persuading Mum to let me skip lunch.
In the homestead, lunch was always a big affair, with hungry men arriving after the morning’s work. There would be about twenty people around the table, an enormous amount of noise and chatter, and Dad firing questions. There was meat, either hot or cold and sometimes both, usually mashed or baked potatoes, with coleslaw, tomato-and-onion salad, iceberg salad, sometimes boiled eggs and lots of damper and butter. Preparation, serving, eating and cleaning-up could easily take an hour and a half. I couldn’t bear losing that much of my own precious time. So, whenever Mum let me, I’d sneak an apple and head out to the lawn where I could read or tell myself stories, or prop up my typewriter and start typing.
Mum didn’t like me skipping lunch, so she didn’t always let me do it. I used every trick in the book I could think of to escape. The downside, which Mum warned me about, was that after a flurry of creativity I would be ravenous, and by about three in the afternoon I would be heading to the kitchen looking for food. But by then, the kitchen would be full of women preparing dinner, and they wouldn’t want me in there, hanging about and getting in the way. Sometimes I’d sneak some Weet-Bix and have that with powdered milk, or spread it with butter and Vegemite, but that only made Mum cross.
‘Mealtimes are mealtimes,’ she would say. ‘I haven’t got time to put up with children making more mess. There’s enough to deal with as it is. If you don’t come for lunch, you have to miss out.’
So, it was always an anguished juggle: the overriding hunger to get to my typewriter and escape into my imaginary world versus the mundane but essential task of feeding my body.
There was another problem to contend with, too: I needed somewhere permanent to keep my typewriter. Somewhere I could type undisturbed (where Benny and others couldn’t interrupt and grab my papers and throw them about for fun), and where I could store my stories safely when I’d finished typing for the day. After all, Dad had an office where he sat down at a desk and wrote things, undisturbed, and left them on his desk overnight, so I decided that’s what I wanted too.
Why not? Dad’s life was the one I wanted to emulate. I wanted my own space, the chance to make my own rules in it, and to be entitled to work there, alone.
Luckily for me, Mum understood my longing for a room of my own. And she was already tired of me and my typewriter and my endless streams of paper messing up her tidy house. My natural state of disorder did not suit her natural state of order.
So, Mum emptied out a corner of her and Dad’s bedroom and set up a little table facing the wall. She found a portable screen that divided my space from theirs and gave me some privacy. I could sit there and type undisturbed after school. I still had to pack my typewriter up when I’d finished, and put my papers in the drawer of the table, but at least it was my space, and nobody else’s.
I was ecstatic. I loved their bedroom. It had wide windows looking over the lawns and the horse yards. The afternoon sun dappled its way through the trees. My greatest happiness was being able to finish school for the day to spend the rest of the afternoon in there, typing frantically to create yet another story of children having adventures between England and Australia.
But my time in Mum’s precious space was only temporary until she could think of somewhere more permanent. Finally, she did, and emptied out a corner in the veranda of one of the outside rooms. Then she brought in a medium-size cupboard, which had compartments underneath in which I could store all my papers and books. My typewriter could sit on top and I could sit on a stool. I was away! Pure bliss. I’d rush there after school every day, relieved to find it undisturbed, and smash out my next story.
Often M’Lis would sit with me and wait for each finished page to come out of the typewriter. She would read it while I started busily typing the next page.
All with one finger.
‘Doesn’t it get sore?’ she asked me one afternoon, looking at my right index finger in full flight.
I looked at her with amazement. I didn’t feel a thing once I started typing.
Typing out stories was a passion over which I had no control. It was the only thing I wanted to do all the time and the only thing that made me really, really happy. M’Lis and Brett’s real passions were horses and the station, but I was a daydreamer and happiest in my own world of words and magic.
An Alice Girl Page 24