An Alice Girl

by Tanya Heaslip

  My stories started to grow more complex. They were racy, page-turning tales of children on cattle stations having adventures, infused with Enid Blyton expressions like ‘“I say!” ejaculated Peter, in excitement. “Super muster today, ol’ chap!”’

  Peter, and his many friends, including girls, were often ejaculating about this and that, in their very own ‘super’ and ‘smashing’ way.

  When I read sections of my stories out loud to Mum or Miss Thiele or Helen, they would bend over double and stifle back laughter. Mystified, I’d put my nose in the air and march off.

  Mrs Hodder would write careful notes back, like, ‘My goodness, Tanya, your children do have a lot of fun! Perhaps we could have fewer ejaculations from Peter and his friends, though. How about a simple, Peter said?’

  Much as I adored Mrs Hodder, I thought ‘said’ was a very boring word. Why use that when I could write in a way so that M’Lis could see the words actually spouting from Peter and his friends’ mouths? Finally, a full book emerged. I titled it Adventures at Cutters

  Creek Station and it boasted six chapters: ‘The Ride’, ‘The Muster’, ‘Branding’, ‘The Picnic’, ‘Christmas Holidays’ and ‘The Breaking of the Drought’, etc. Janie and her brothers appeared throughout, just with slightly different names.

  Mrs Layton from the Correspondence School told Mum about a children’s book competition—the most successful story would be published—and suggested that I submit Adventures at Cutters Creek Station. For weeks I was driven to make it the most beautiful book ever. Tongue sticking out of my mouth, I laboriously drew and redrew a picture of me for the front. When it was finally done, it depicted me galloping along on a beautiful horse, hat squashed over long blonde plaits, cracking a stockwhip and chasing a beast, with dark-brown ranges in the background. Then I coloured in the drawing and put my name at the bottom.

  On the back page in careful cursive script I wrote, ‘About the Author’, just like I’d seen in other books, which went as follows:

  I am ten years old and in Grade 6.

  Because I live on a cattle station, I receive my lessons from the Correspondence School in South Australia. My brother and sister and I attend school in our own schoolroom on the station, and our lessons from the Correspondence School are supervised by a governess.

  I learnt to type with one finger, and I’m now quite quick at it.

  This story is all my own work.

  Tanya J. Heaslip,

  Bond Springs Station,

  Alice Springs

  Under the words, I put a tiny coloured photograph taken of me by Mrs Joseland when I was at Everard Park. Mrs Layton had told me a photograph would be looked upon favourably, and I thought this one was perfect. There I was, astride Janie’s horse Lucy, with Janie’s other horse Sugar in the background. And not only was I revealing long blonde plaits, jeans, boots and a little checked shirt, but also some bare chest. Being so small, we were all flat-chested, and often rode with our shirts flapping open for coolness. It didn’t strike me that there was anything odd about this when I put it onto the book.

  ‘Do you think, darling,’ began Mum tentatively, ‘that perhaps we should find a photo of you with your shirt done up? I’m sure we could take one. That might be better.’

  I looked at her indignantly. ‘But I’ve got two horses in this photo, Mum, and it’s special, because it was taken by Mrs Joseland.’

  I thought the film-star effect might permeate through to me from the great Mrs J.

  Mum gave up.

  We carefully bound the book and sewed it together with wool. Then Mum packed it up for me and sent it off. I waited anxiously for days, and weeks. Every time she came back from the post office I would rush to her, heart in mouth, wondering if I’d had a response. Eventually, several months later, she returned home with a package that had my name on it. Hardly able to breathe, I ripped it open, and there was a handwritten note on the inside cover: ‘No publisher etc. You have put a lot of work into your book and we like it very much. A good effort.’

  I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

  I was inconsolable for days. Didn’t they know about Mrs Joseland’s magic touch? Had all my work been for nothing? What did this mean for the rest of my work?

  These were big, existential questions for a ten year old.

  But there was something deeper in this for me. I knew I was never going to be a useful, long-term talent on the station. Unlike M’Lis and Brett, who were naturals with stock and horses, I knew I had no destiny there. Besides, I was a girl, and the rules were as old as time: the land would eventually go to the boys. And even though nobody ever said so, my lack of interest in the yards and stock work held me back from ever being as good as M’Lis and Brett. My handicap was like a painful sore that festered away, with flies all over it.

  The one thing I was good at, and in which I overflowed with interest, was school. There I could earn Dad’s praise, and Mum’s, too. But unfortunately, excelling at school was of no use to the station. On the other hand, it meant I wasn’t completely useless, which was about the greatest sin of all in Dad’s eyes. And publication of my book would have been proof that I wasn’t useless in life.

  But even that strategy had failed.

  I had no words to explain the depths of my grief at this rejection. I wept in Mum’s arms and she tried to comfort me, then reason with me; then she got desperate.

  Dad was called in. Well, to be more accurate, I was sent to his office.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, swallowed hard and opened the door. Dad was sitting behind his desk with pages of bookwork in front of him. He pushed his glasses up on his head as I entered. His eyes looked tired.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’ I stood in front of him, shifting from one leg to the other.

  Dad pushed away the bookwork. ‘I want to tell you something I’ve learned over the years, Tanya. About losing the bullocks at night-time.’

  I looked down at my feet, unsure of what was coming.

  ‘This is how it goes. You muster all day to get those bullocks, it’s hard work. Finally you get ’em back to the yards. Last bit of the day’s the hardest. Trying to get those bullocks through the one gate isn’t easy. You risk losing them.’

  I nodded, still shifting my feet.

  ‘So, by the time you actually get them in the yards, you’re just thankful and dead beat and ready to hit your swag.’

  Yep, I could smell the dust and grime and feel the ache in my bones.

  ‘And then, sometime later, you hear it … that sound of bellowing, hooves, the sound of bullocks on the move …’

  Yep.

  It meant somebody had left the gate open. Or hadn’t latched it properly. Either way, the bullocks had pushed it open and escaped into the night. All the hard work—sometimes days of it—was lost in a few minutes. All the effort put in, useless, gone. It was like the end of the world when it happened, particularly if you were the fool who hadn’t shut the gate properly. It was virtually a sackable offence on our place.

  Dad looked directly at me. ‘When that happens, you’re wild, furious, upset, but there’s nothing you can do.’

  I chewed my lip.

  ‘And then what to do next, Tanya?’

  I didn’t say anything, so Dad answered for me.

  ‘Nothing. You get in your swag and you have a good night’s sleep. That’s all you can do. Have a good camp so you’re right next morning. Then you get up, and you go out and find those bullocks, and you bring them back again.’ Dad took his glasses off his head. ‘And that’s it. Nothing else to be done.’

  Dad pulled his bookwork towards him again.

  ‘Righto? Got to get on that horse again, Tanya, and bring those bullocks back.’

  He smiled and put his glasses back on his nose.

  I whispered, ‘Thanks, Dad,’ and stumbled out of the office.

  My eyes stung, hotly. I felt a mixture of shame at my weakness, yet hope at Dad’s story. He had imparted something special, just to me. He’
d given me his hard-won wisdom, honed over the years. He’d given me something of him.

  No time for self-pity or weakness. It was time to grow even stronger, like my book heroines; like Florence Nightingale; like a true bushman.

  M’Lis and Brett were waiting anxiously when I returned from my talk with Dad. They wondered if I was going to be belted, and whether in fact I had been. They hadn’t heard me shout or scream, so they thought not, but you could never be too sure if you were summoned to Dad’s office, especially if you were Brett.

  We went back outside and fed the horses. I told them Dad’s story. I called it ‘Losing the Bullocks at Night’. M’Lis and Brett were silent. In that moment, they too realised the precious gift Dad had passed on.

  I returned to my typing and produced a lengthy tome entitled, ‘The Red Red Rose of Triumph’. It was seventy-seven pages about horses, children, love and loss.

  I defiantly wrote inside the book, ‘First published in 1974 by Heaslip Press.’

  I wasn’t taking any chances with anyone else.

  It was also ‘illustrated by the author’ and ‘dedicated to my favourite sister, M’Lis, who gave me helpful hints all through this book’.

  The fact that I didn’t have another sister escaped me. The one favourite sister that I did have sat faithfully at my feet as I typed all seventy-seven pages and read each one as it rolled off my orange typewriter. And her helpful hints were our secret.

  31

  It’ll Take the Time It Takes

  About this time, the Schmidt family came into our lives. The Kimbers had moved on from Witchitie and Dad needed a new manager. Mick and Lorna Schmidt turned up from Western Australia and moved into the role. Mick was a brilliant stockman, his wife Lorna was a sensational cook, and they had two small children, Robbie and Rhonda, who were used to bush life. We never looked back.

  Mum and Dad went down to meet and settle the Schmidts in, as they’d done with the Kimbers. I wondered whether there would be a snake crawling into the kitchen at the first meeting, forcing Mum to tear through the house in pursuit of it.

  ‘No snakes, thankfully,’ Mum confirmed when she and Dad returned home. ‘And the Schmidts are going to come up for mustering in a few months. Mick will be your new Head Stockman.’

  M’Lis, Brett and I looked at each other. A new Head Stockman?

  Our beloved Charlie Gorey had moved on, so Dad decided to split Mick’s skills and time between Witchitie and Bond Springs.

  Several months later, just before the mustering season began, the Schmidt family arrived in a cloud of dust, with swags, cases and billycans atop their station wagon. Robbie and Rhonda peered through the windows, then stumbled out, blinking in the bright Centralian sunshine. They stared at us, as we stared at them.

  Mum greeted them all. ‘This way,’ she said, leading them towards the house, Benny chasing after her. ‘Time for a cup of tea. Grant’s on a bore run but he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Robbie, Rhonda, come with me,’ said Lorna.

  M’Lis, Brett and I stayed put, staring up at our new Head Stockman.

  Mick was as tall as a tree. We only came up to about his knees.

  ‘G’dayyy,’ he said in the longest drawl we’d ever heard. He seemed to be talking through his nose as he looked down at us and grinned. It was a long, wide grin that lit up his eyes. ‘So, you’re my new young stockmen, eh?’

  We shuffled our feet in the dirt, grinning back shyly.

  He pushed his hat back. ‘Yer goin’ to show me yer horses?’

  Brett was the first to speak. ‘Yep, this way, in the horse yards.’

  He darted off and M’Lis and I followed. Our new Head Stockman was wasting no time getting down to business. We hoped he’d approve of our morning’s work. We’d headed out into the horse paddock before breakfast to muster in the main stock horses for Mick to meet, and then spent several hours grooming them. Our work had paid off. In the morning sun, the horses’ coats shone, and as we walked through the yards, they were munching contentedly on a bale of chaff in the corner.

  It was always a big moment when the Head Stockman first met his stable of horses, and we wanted him to be impressed.

  ‘Yer, yer, yer …’ Mick nodded to himself, clicked his tongue, ran his hands across the manes of a couple of the quieter horses, and leaned against the rails and took it all in.

  We hovered anxiously.

  At Mick’s request, we then took him to the saddle shed so he could inspect the riding gear, the blacksmith forge with the requisite horseshoes for shoeing, and the second saddle shed with the packhorse equipment. He walked fast between sheds; we could hardly keep up.

  ‘Righto,’ he nodded after a lengthy perusal of everything we thought he might want to see. ‘What about that cup of tea, eh?’

  Then he turned and headed to the house, fast.

  We were panting by the time we caught up with him outside the kitchen door. We looked at each other, stunned, as Mick took off his hat and bent his head to enter the door.

  We soon discovered that Mick walked very fast, everywhere, and that he hated slackers. We always had to run to keep up with him. ‘Keep up or go home,’ was his motto. If you couldn’t keep up with him, you were of no use, so we did a lot of running, as his legs were several times the length of ours. One day M’Lis was determined to walk as fast as she could, and ideally as fast as Mick. By putting in a huge effort over a short distance, she almost managed to match his pace.

  Mick looked down in surprise and uttered a rare compliment. ‘Good walking, M’Lis.’

  Life under Head Stockman Mick was a steep learning curve. Most of the time he was tough and gruff, with people at least. With horses and stock, it was a different matter. He was brilliant and skilled. And he taught us many of his bush techniques.

  One day we were out mustering and the flies were everywhere: all over the eyes and the tails of the cattle and the horses. They were in our eyes and mouths and all over our clothes. Every time we blinked, we blinked out or in a fly. They were driving us insane.

  When M’Lis finally swallowed a mouthful of them, she erupted in rage. ‘Ahhh! These mongrel, stinking flies—I’m sick of them!’

  Mick looked over. He pushed his hat back and drawled, ‘Don’t worry about ’em, M’Lis. Waste of time.’

  She looked up, surprised that Mick had even noticed her.

  ‘Yep, they’ll always be here,’ he drawled. ‘Just get a switch from a tree and flick from side to side slowly. Keep doing that, and after a while you won’t notice them.’

  M’Lis gulped. ‘Yeah?’

  M’Lis headed to the nearest mulga tree and pulled off a switch of leaves. She started flicking it from side to side. When a stirry cow and calf broke from the mob, she had to focus on chasing after them, and dropped the switch, but once she’d got the recalcitrant cattle back, she found another tree and another switch. Then she flicked the leaves from side to side for the rest of the day.

  By the end of the afternoon she was grinning.

  Mick had changed her life with flies, she said.

  Not mine. I continued to complain about them just as much. But M’Lis never complained again.

  Apart from flies, Mick helped us all with another part of droving cattle that we (well, I, particularly) found unbearable—the boredom. Mustering was an adrenalin rush, yes, but once the muster was over, we were usually stuck on the tail of the slow mob. Time seemed to go on forever when on a long, boring drive, or when it was scorching hot, or we were just so tired. I likened it to being stuck in Purgatory. Couldn’t go backwards, couldn’t go forwards; stuck in the violent white heat and blinding red dust; our throats swollen, parched; thick bulldust haze over everything; with no say over our time, or our own lives. Some days the awfulness of it all threatened to eat me from the inside out.

  M’Lis and Brett usually coped better than me but it often got the better of us all.

  ‘Mi—ii—ck?’ we’d chorus. ‘How much longer till we get there?’

&nb
sp; Destination ‘there’ could be anywhere: the end of the road ahead winding its way into the distance, or beyond the shimmering mirage at the foothills, or over the ranges where we knew the cattle yards lay. ‘There’ differed depending on wherever we were mustering at the time. But inevitably, on long, hot afternoons, ‘there’ was always a long way away.

  Mick would have the same response, every time. He’d push his hat back and drawl, ‘It doesn’t matter how long till we get there. It’ll just take the time it takes.’

  Our new Head Stockman had the capacity to live in the moment in a way I’d never seen before. He never wore a watch. He told the time by the sun. He worked with the sky and the seasons, not against them. For him, time was never the issue. His sole focus was getting the mob back safely in one piece. He was a man truly born for the saddle.

  I had none of Mick’s self-control or restraint. I coped by escaping into my imagination and daydreaming about what it would be like to live in those cooler, northern climes with Heidi or Enid Blyton’s characters. Most the time I would then drift off into that other world, and by default, let the tail drift off as well.

  Mick’s yells would bring me back to reality with a jolt.

  ‘Oi! What d’yer think yer doin’, girl? Wake up—and get them bloody cattle back!’

  When I’d finally get them back, he’d say, ‘Yer here, Tanya. Yer gotta be here, now; not there, in your head.’

  But, oh, how much I wanted to be there.

  Mick also had an extraordinary capacity to beat time when it did matter.

  On the morning of a muster, Mick was always ready first. By the time we got up, dressed, and got down to the horse yards, Mick would be sitting on his horse, all saddled up, ready to go, waiting. It didn’t matter how hard we tried, we never beat him. We were always late, and it seemed to take us forever to saddle up with our childish fingers and thumbs.

  One day, when we got into the yards, Mick was on a young colt. As we rushed in, falling over ourselves to saddle our horses, the colt started pig-rooting. Mick was taken completely by surprise. The next minute he was on the ground, looking up at the colt. We couldn’t stop laughing as Mick dusted himself off, but he was furious.