Stars over Shiralee

by Sheryl McCorry

  He stood there gaping at me, this was obviously not how he thought things would go. And I wasn’t finished.

  ‘You’ve lied to me. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Lauren, but it’s not right, whatever it is. You shouldn’t be letting a young girl come between you and the woman you married. In fact, this isn’t a marriage, and I want you to leave now.’ He tried to protest, but I didn’t want to talk about it further then.

  ‘Take some time to think about what you are doing,’ I said to him. ‘You can return another day if you really want to.’

  The children wondered why I left the door open at all. Leisha came in when she saw Terry leaving and sat down next to me. ‘I can’t tell you what to do with your life, Mum,’ she said, ‘but it’s hard on Robby and me seeing him make you so unhappy.’ She put an arm around me. ‘Just remember, you have your own farm, you’re not broke, you don’t need him.’

  She was right, but there were many reasons for my not wanting to walk away from this marriage, despite Terry’s behaviour. I was a strong and modern woman in many respects, but I also had some deeply traditional views. When I married Terry, I expected to be in it for the long haul. I was of the era that, once married, I had to try to make it work! I felt a responsibility to at least give it a chance. I had already walked away from one marriage, my first, and I was determined not to do that again. Because on top of all that there was my pride. It was my downfall. I wanted to prove — to myself as well as my family — that I hadn’t made such a bad decision after all.

  So when, after several more visits from my husband in the weeks that followed, he asked me to come to his mother’s house for the haymaking season, I went with him to try again. I still had a fantasy that we’d help each other with our farms, even though he’d never lifted a finger on the Shiralee, I thought if I shared his load with him, sooner or later he’d reciprocate. When I was growing up I read The Water Babies and was struck by the character Mrs Do As You Would Be Done By. That had always seemed like a good ethic to me, so I went along with him. Robby refused to come; he was no longer comfortable with his stepfather, and he stayed behind with the girls to help with the hay on the Shiralee.

  I was very fond of my mother-in-law Molly and got along well with her, but it was her house and I felt some-what awkward living there. Other than doing a share of the cooking, there wasn’t much I could help her with in the house — I couldn’t knit to save myself and thoughts of dressmaking had long gone out the window — so I offered to help with the haymaking.

  The field grass had been slashed and I was to drive an old Ford tractor with a ten metre rake on the back of it while Terry followed behind in a much newer Chamberlain, rolling the hay. By the end of the day, every joint in my body ached. I was black from head to toe with paddock dust; my hair had gone from blonde to brown and looked like last year’s bird’s nest, and my eyes were bloodshot. With no power steering and the metal seat hard and rough as hell, I might have been riding an iron horse all day. At sundown I literally fell off the thing and battled to stand up straight.

  By the third day on this antiquated beast I’d had a gutful. I suggested to Terry that we exchange tractors and, would you believe, out of the woodwork came another Chamberlain with a cab and power steering, so I remained on the job. It occurred to me that Terry was just testing me to see if I could stick it out in the paddock with him. It was a lot easier in the Chamberlain, though, which was just as well for these were long days, getting up early in the mornings to cook breakfast, pack the tucker box for lunch, and prepare the evening meal ready for Molly to pop it in the oven come late afternoon.

  It was exhausting, and I was not really physically well enough to work the long days. I was trying to pull my weight by my husband’s side while ignoring my health and trying to forget about the cancer. And this was a new experience for me, as here we were working far more acres than on the Shiralee.

  When the hay season was over, Terry was returning to the caravan park, and he asked me to go with him. He told me Lauren was no longer there and that he was ready to make a real go of our marriage. I wondered if I could ever really trust him, but in the end I said yes. All the hard work had done me good; I was in fine health, and had come through my first six-monthly check-up with flying colours. I felt I had the energy now to try again.

  I decided I would try to make the park my home. And yes, the park, not the house in Broome that Terry had told me he’d bought before we married. That had proved to be a slight exaggeration. But the park would not be forever; this time it really would be for a few months only. There was a million dollar house on Cable Beach which he could put an offer on if I would join him. I realised if I was going to get a real home, I’d have to meet him halfway. So I agreed in principle, dependent on seeing the contract.

  I wanted Robby to feel he had a solid base, so we took the dogs with us. Robby’s blue heeler Sally and little Prince the chihuahua. Leisha was already in Broome. She had gone up after the hay season was completed on the Shiralee. She had accepted an offer from Terry to work in the park’s reception — I think he operated on the principle of ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ for there was no love lost between them. She moved into one of the old units that was lying empty and waiting for renovation.

  Kristy, too, had left the Shiralee, moving to Albany to work for another trainer, and I came to an arrangement with Richard O’Connor to move into Robby’s room on the farm so he could better keep an eye on things for me. It suited him perfectly, as he’d just sold his house in Narrikup and was building a new home on his farm. I didn’t even contemplate leasing the Shiralee. All my possessions were there and I needed to be able to come and go as I pleased.

  Terry, Robby and the dogs and I had just set off when weather forecasters announced a predicted cyclone in the Kimberley region. As we headed north beyond Geraldton, heavy clouds brought some relief from the muggy build-up that came with the cyclonic conditions, and we decided to continue on up the highway to Broome. But once Carnarvon was behind us, the countryside became a sea of water. Once-dry riverbeds had come to life, flowing with foam and pindan-coloured water. Everywhere the country was blooming as heavy rain washed the river gums and spinifex clean.

  It was the middle of April, which seemed rather late for a cyclone, but Cyclone Rosita was coming in anyway. I wondered if I was fated to run into a cyclone every time I drove to Broome. Kilometre after kilometre of highway went under water, while tiny silvery fish rained from the heavens on the Anna Plains flats — unbelievable but true. As we pushed on slowly through the flooded plains I spotted tiny silvery flashes darting through the floodwaters. Then I saw what looked like two fish caught in a leafy saltbush. I asked Terry to stop the car and got out to find the water was teeming with little fish.

  I had seen floodwaters like this many times before, back on Kimberley Downs. Once I was driving with the children and the new ‘govy’ (the governess, who supervised the children at their schoolwork) to get stores. Homestead Creek was running a banker at the foot of Homestead Hill, and that was just the beginning. The road and flats were under water. On Tombstone Flat only the tops of the anthills were showing and the water was still rising.

  I got out and tucked the mail bag onto the front grille to reduce the chance of water pressure pushing the fan into the radiator, then entered the water slow and steady. There was no obvious current. The clear water of the floodplain stretched out as far as the eye could see on both sides of the vehicle. It was an awesome sight, almost surreal, as little grey pythons curled themselves around the very tips of the anthills. The new high rise additions were darker than the rest. I saw one snake wrestling for control of the safe haven with a young goanna, only to lose to the goanna.

  The gurgling sound of the engine half underwater gave way to a choking noise and I felt the vehicle lift slightly. We were momentarily floating. There were sounds of panic from the govy, a city girl, and I thought she might be going to open the door. ‘Don’t open
the door,’ I said. ‘We’re all right.’ But in fact it was deeper than I’d estimated and I decided to reverse back out. The govy was near to hysteria now, but the children were calm. This was our way of life. We understood our wet seasons and what they could throw at us, but I was never stupid enough to risk a life. We could wait another few days for the waters to recede.

  Terry and I finally crossed Roebuck Plains, which was a sea of water, to arrive in Broome in the early afternoon. The staff were running on overdrive. Cyclone Rosita was constantly changing course and obstinate tourists were refusing to move out to the designated safety areas around Broome. I filled water containers with fresh water and changed the battery in my torch. I looked for a battery-operated transistor radio, and when I couldn’t find one I told Terry I was going out to buy one. ‘What for?’ he said. ‘We don’t need another radio.’

  ‘Look, I’m not asking for a Mercedes-Benz,’ I said. ‘How else are we going to keep track of the cyclone if the power goes off?’

  Terry ignored me and began swinging around on his office chair while tapping his desk with a ruler in each hand. I might as well not have been there.

  Standing like a schoolgirl waiting for him to speak, I asked him, ‘Is that your answer?’ He didn’t reply, except that the rapping of the rulers became louder and faster.

  The cyclonic cloud mass sat like a huge mushroom over Broome. Winds ripped palm fronds right off the trunks and wrapped them around neighbouring trees. The glass rattled in our bedroom window and I knew it was time to tape it up for added safety. I was halfway through this when Terry walked in. ‘What are you doing now?’ he asked me, in a tone that implied I was a complete idiot.

  ‘Taping the window,’ I replied, swallowing my anger. ‘It may stop the glass from shattering and blowing in on us if the winds get any stronger.’

  He walked out of the room shaking his head as if he couldn’t be bothered with me.

  Sundown came and went, and it was pitch black outside. The constant roar of the wind rattled my nerves as it thrashed trees about, tearing limbs off and hurling them wildly about the park. The elements would not give up. The tree outside our window was uprooted and landed on the roof, branches and debris slamming against the corrugated iron walls. The noise alone was enough to arouse fear in the toughest individual.

  I thanked God for Robby and his young mate Darren. Tipping out old boxes of lost-and-found gear on the back verandah, they discovered a battery-operated radio in reasonable order. With new batteries, and holding the radio to my ear, I could just make out the hourly cyclone update. At midnight it seemed Rosita had changed course slightly, so that Broome was no longer in line for a direct hit. But the situation was still very serious — the Echo Resort just south of Broome was completely wiped out — and I remained worried. Terry thought I was overdramatising and went to lie down in the bedroom where he was soon out for the count, oblivious to the wild wind playing out its fury.

  Leisha was spending the night with her cousins John and Ben, the pearl divers. She assured me she was safe, that they were ‘keeping an eye on the storm’, which probably meant they were partying the night away.

  The boys’ safety was my priority, and I got them to help me drag mattresses from the bedrooms into the laundry. We set up camp on the floor there. The town’s generators had shut down at 10 pm and the park was in darkness. The boys eventually fell asleep, and I lay there listening to the angry howl that rattled the doors and windows. It stopped another hour or two later, and the noises gradually settled until there was an eerie silence about the place. The static had died from my radio and I realised it had gone off air. I moved towards the window, parted the blinds and shone my torch out into the darkness, but I could see nothing. I returned to bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  When I woke a few hours later the sun had risen. Outside it was still eerily quiet, there was not even a bird about. I parted the blinds and couldn’t believe my eyes. I opened the door and just stood there staring. The park looked like a disaster zone, it was a wasteland. Trees and caravans were uprooted everywhere. I woke Terry, who staggered out in his underwear. In shock he started climbing over tree trunks and branches trying to get an idea of how much damage there was. He was mesmerised by the devastation, and I couldn’t blame him. It turned out wind speeds had been recorded up to a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour.

  The park was fully booked for the high season and the caravans would start rolling up in a few weeks’ time. It was going to be a massive clean-up job. But no one was hurt, there was only material damage, and for that I was grateful. My brothers’ mango farms suffered only slight damage, though Bruce, my oldest brother, who lives on the edge of a lagoon just off Cable Beach, had the sea lapping at his front door. Leisha and her cousins brought a team of pearl divers and friends to the park to check on us. For this they needed police permission — power poles and powerlines were down, such was the state of emergency. Under Terry’s supervision they worked as a team with chainsaws, axes and the park tractor to clear away debris. On our gas burner I made steak sandwiches and hamburgers by the dozen for the helpers. We also gave ice creams to one and all. It was not entirely an altruistic gesture — we had no power and were going to lose the lot anyway.

  It was an interesting way to return to Broome. It was months before life at the caravan park returned to normal, and in some respects Rosita was good for me, as I bonded with many of the park’s residents as we worked together to get it back into shape. I was talking to people I hadn’t spoken to before. We swapped our Rosita stories and had some good laughs together. It was a lot better with Lauren gone. In fact, she had still been there when we arrived back. But not for long. I felt that Lauren and Terry were still far too familiar and secretive with each other, and I always felt like the intruder when around them. Then one day in the office reception I decided to check the park rental slips and found that Terry was providing her with free accommodation. I told him that this arrangement didn’t exactly impress me.

  It didn’t exactly impress Jean either; as Terry’s business partner, she was keeping Lauren too! I gave Terry an ultimatum: it was either Lauren or me! I told him I was prepared to leave him. He was angry as all hell, but within a week she was gone.

  Looking back I don’t believe they ever severed their contact with each other entirely, though. And things still weren’t any easier living in a small room with Terry. Each morning I would wake at five, dress and have a quick cup of tea, then take myself for a walk while it was still relatively cool, psyching myself up to facing the pressures of life in a fishbowl. Our tiny kitchen, dining area, laundry and bathroom were shared with staff during the day, and my only privacy lay in shutting the doors that divided our sleeping quarters from the shop. In the middle of the day it was too hot to be outside.

  One day I had been lined up for a teleconference with Pastoral and Graziers Solicitors who wanted to discuss Kimberley land claims with me. I found the situation almost laughable: they wanted me for my knowledge, experience and expertise, and there I was, sitting in the bedroom for privacy with my mobile hot against my ear.

  I tried my best to relieve some of the pressure under which Terry worked. Part of the problem was he insisted on doing everything himself; he found it very difficult to delegate. He didn’t have faith in those around him. I took on the advertising for him, but in the end he couldn’t leave it to me.

  It was clear to me now that Terry had no interest in us having a proper home. The million dollar house near Cable Beach had turned out to be another dud. Midway through the deal I realised it wasn’t to be our home at all — as he had encouraged me to believe — but an investment property. Luckily I had done my homework before signing any contract. I considered renting a place in town, but Rosita had put accommodation at a premium. Anyway, I knew Terry well enough by now to know he would be unhappy about that: how people saw our marriage was important to him.

  Physically, I was feeling quite strong; there was no more sign of cancer. Onc
e or twice a week I would mix a bucket of kerosene, linseed oil and dark floor polish to clean and buff the old wooden floors of the reception area and shop. It was hot and sweaty work, but it felt good to keep the place clean and looking cared for. It was good for me to stay busy too, and I filled my time with stocking the park store, looking after the park laundry and picking up the slack in the cleaning. I rarely went off for coffee with friends; I didn’t want to. My life had changed so much, it wasn’t easy to relate to people from my earlier Kimberley days. My friends had stopped visiting me as there was no privacy in which to sit and talk. And Terry’s rudeness and arrogance made them uneasy and discouraged them from visiting. My friend Joanne could not understand what was happening to me. She could not bear to see his dominance over me. Slowly he seemed to be isolating me from my friends and I think I was gradually falling into the early stages of depression.

  I had been back in Broome about three months when Kristy telephoned from Albany with some bizarre news. Someone had somehow managed to sell Little Blue, over our heads. I owned Little Blue and had the paperwork to prove it, and I certainly would never have dreamed of selling her to anyone. She was far too valuable in her new role of calming cattle. In earlier days this would have been called horse stealing and someone would have hung for it. I decided to investigate, and called my friend Brian Singleton, one of Western Australia’s best criminal lawyers, to look into the matter for me. I first met Brian when he successfully handled a cattle case for friends in Broome in the early eighties, and I called him in over McCorry’s case of indecent assault, the circumstances of which very nearly destroyed my happy young family. But Brian helped to keep us strong and positive. We saw a lot of him then, and after that he always dropped in to see how I was going whenever he was in the Kimberley.

  I had lent Little Blue to a young niece of Heath’s named Penny, so that she could learn to ride on her. Later, when Penny’s family moved from their small farm into town, there was no room for Little Blue, and at that point the mare should have been returned to the Shiralee.