*
When I was nearly eighteen years old, in the late 1960s, my father sold our camp, which was perched high on a bauxite plateau, and moved the family to Broome in Western Australia. Until that time I had never used a telephone or seen a television.
My parents had purchased a historic property, known in Broome as ‘the Bishop’s Palace’ because it had once been owned by Anglican bishops – not that the religious tag influenced Dad at all. He bought the beautiful property from local pearling master McDaniel and his son and told us that it was a magnificent, rambling mansion symbolic of its era. ‘You’ll just have to be patient and see for yourself,’ he said if we asked questions about it. All I could think was, This will be one hell of a long trip to Broome.
Just before we left Arnhem Land my Aboriginal girlfriends asked me, ‘Who is your promised man?’ At first I thought they were being a bit forward, asking something so personal. Within days, though, I worked out that there would soon be a traditional ceremony and in it some of my female friends would be promised to much older men in their tribe, as was the custom – young women were promised to older men so they would hunt for them and look after them, and young men were promised to older women basically for the same reasons. Junie and Betty had both been promised to old men – one old fella was as blind as a bat, and just steering him around the place would have been a full-time job. I confidently told my friends, ‘I’m not having an old man for a husband. I’m going to marry a much younger man!’ Betty and Junie’s faces lit up with huge smiles. They reasoned that they too should have younger men as husbands.
The girls’ decision caused uproar in the Yirrkala camp. Campfires were smouldering day and night, and the rhythmic throb of the didgeridoo, accompanied by tribal dancing, went on for days – it very nearly drove us all crazy. It seemed that all hell had broken loose: the elders were upset, the missionaries were upset (I don’t know what it had to do with them), and my parents were upset with me for voicing my seventeen-year-old opinion. All this because my girlfriends refused to take their promised men as husbands, as their tribal law expected of them.
The disorder in the camp eventually calmed down once the two groups of families sorted out their matrimonial problems. Eventually Betty and Junie gave in to tribal law and accepted the older husbands. Later my parents explained to me that my friends really had no choice. It was ironic, too, that some years later I married a much older man myself – but he wasn’t as blind as a bat.
*
Dad hired a truck driver – Silent Jack from Alice Springs – to drive the red International truck from Darwin to Broome. It was carefully packed with all our family’s worldly possessions, including my mother’s collection of seashells. At Melville Bay, Dad loaded the truck onto Noondy’s barge the Betty-Joan and sailed with it to Darwin, where he met up with the family after we had arrived from Yirrkala via the DC-3 mail plane. We joined forces, my father towing our camper with the station wagon while Silent Jack drove the truck.
With the convoy moving steadily south on the Stuart Highway, the plan was to make camp on the Victoria River sometime that night. We passed over the Adelaide River, which Dad knew well, then carried on to the Pine Creek Pub, where refreshments were taken. Although the convoy was travelling well, my brothers were not impressed that we still had quite a way to go before we reached that night’s camp.
Dad put fuel in the station wagon at Katherine and then parked in a shaded area by the low-level crossing for lunch. The Katherine River was no longer flowing but a smattering of billabong channels remained within its high banks. My youngest brothers, Eric and Michael, splashed around in the shallows, while Bruce and Darryl tried their hand at fishing the channels. Our father checked the water and oil in the car, and kicked every wheel to check the bearings. With the billy on for tea, I then helped Mum throw some polony and salad sandwiches together for lunch. (As we were a family of big tea drinkers, the billy had to be boiled several times to quench all thirsts.) I overheard Dad mutter to Mum that Silent Jack seemed to be taking his time ‘getting the bloody truck from Katherine’ and he hoped that the man wasn’t on the rum.
Once the tuckerbox was loaded and the family was ready to roll again, we caught sight of the red International’s dust trail as Silent Jack rolled in towards the crossing. Dad jumped out of our vehicle in a huff and met Silent Jack halfway across the crossing, where they appeared to exchange some heated words (Silent Jack not being, in truth, completely silent). Silent Jack said that he had stopped off at the Katherine Hotel for a nip of rum. Dad waved his arm towards the truck and told Silent Jack to ‘sober up and keep bloody driving’.
It was a slow and painful trip from Katherine to Victoria River, as Dad wasn’t about to let Silent Jack out of his sight again and Silent Jack took it upon himself to hold us up with his constant stops to pee and refuel his rum pannikin from the water bag hanging off the front of the truck. By late afternoon we eventually arrived at the long, cool shadows of the Stokes Range and the welcome sight of a subtropical belt of green boxwood trees close by the river. There was no such luxury as a bridge in those days – just a two-wheel rut that ran across the bed of the dry river.
We made camp that night halfway across in the gravelly loam where Dad had Silent Jack park the truck as a windbreak for the campfire. The only water in sight was a waterhole a hundred yards up, near the high banks of the river. Sparse clumps of pandanus palms shaded the riverbed, and the cool evening hush was disrupted only by a chorus of flying foxes.
Silent Jack – who was by now sodden with grog – helped drag in the dead timber for the night’s fire. The billy on, Mum and I had the camp oven full of devilled sausages and veggies. After dinner everyone swagged down for the night – everyone except Dad and Silent Jack, who sat on logs around the campfire knocking back neat OP rum and reminiscing about their times in the Top End.
That night I lay in my swag, staring for ages at the thousands of twinkling stars and waiting to spot a travelling Sputnik, when a sudden movement from the direction of the campfire attracted my attention. Great gushes of fiery sparks disappeared into the night sky as lumps of fiery wood were pelted about the riverbed. Fuelled by OP rum, Dad and Silent Jack staggered and grappled in the sand, wrestling on the edges of the dying fire. For a short time they’d been mates, but now they were at loggerheads again. Both of them were so drunk that they didn’t realise they were scrapping in the fading coals of the campfire.
‘Sock him one, Dad!’ I yelled, then heard the thump as one – I couldn’t tell who – landed a punch on the other. By now the whole family was awake and sitting up in their swags, watching the rumble between Silent Jack and Dad. There wasn’t much noise – just jostling and shoving, and more sparks from the fire than any fireworks night we’d ever seen. Dad was in his late forties and as fit as a Mallee bull, but Silent Jack was ten years younger and I was worried that he’d have an advantage.
I bounced out of my swag, followed by other members of Dad’s cheer squad, and we all stood by to watch this fiery entertainment.
‘Empty that bloody rum bottle on the ground or I’ll knock your bloody block off!’ Dad threatened. He lunged towards Silent Jack, grabbed the rum bottle, emptied it out and threw it towards the sky – then realised that his kids were enjoying a ringside seat at the pandemonium.
Mum fussed about like a broody hen and shoved everyone off to bed – including Dad – while Silent Jack swagged down somewhere on the other side of the truck. I quietly hoped that if there were any hungry crocs about they’d eat Silent Jack as punishment for getting on the rum all day.
At daybreak, Dad had the breakfast fire glowing while Silent Jack had the porridge on the go. Common sense had prevailed and Silent Jack promised to stay off the rum until we arrived in Broome.
That day we travelled via Coolibah and Fitzroy stations, through the Stokes Range to Timber Creek, a journey of about 240 kilometres. It was good travelling – of course, Silent Jack hadn’t had the constant pit stops to refuel hi
s pannikin.
Mr Shadford, the owner of the Timber Creek store, was glad to see my father and remembered him from his river-gauging days, so we were all greeted with open arms – except for Silent Jack, who was remembered for his wild cattle mustering and days spent boozing in the area . . .
Good hospitality in the outback meant that you had to share your only bottle of rum with your guests. Mum never touched the poison and us kids were too young to even consider taste-testing the stuff, so that meant Mr Shadford’s bottle had to be shared three ways, between him, Dad and Silent Jack. Mum could see that the bottle wouldn’t go far with three of them to drink it so she let them be.
To shower at Mr Shadford’s place meant stripping off stark naked and standing on a platform out over the Victoria River, right behind the store; the only protection from prying eyes was the sparse river vegetation and clumps of pandanus. I’d never before appreciated the prickly pandanus so much; at eighteen years of age I was sporting a young woman’s body, and I was still shy about its development and not about to go advertising it on the Timber Creek shower platform. Surprise, surprise, there were no taps or showerhead, but I did have the added luxury of being able to use a jam tin to throw the cool river water over myself, and the pleasure of watching little fish swim around my feet.
The following morning, everyone was on deck at sunrise and ready to leave Timber Creek for Kununurra and Halls Creek. It was a steady trip and Dad was pleased that there were no problems with the vehicles, as mechanics were few and far between out there.
Our arrival at Halls Creek coincided with the local rodeo weekend and there wasn’t a lot left in the way of choice camping spots. The town was chock-a-block with Indigenous ringers and families, as well as station people and staff. So Dad and Silent Jack refilled the tanks and we continued down the rough and corrugated Great Northern Highway, to stay instead in the peace and quiet of Lamboo Station, fifty kilometres south of Halls Creek. We camped up just off the roadside by the old wooden cattle yards. Dad and Silent Jack decided to give the rum a miss that night – much to my disappointment, as it meant I missed out on a night of entertainment! Everyone swagged down immediately after supper to what we thought would be a quiet night, but we were occasionally woken by the calls of distant dingoes, howling to each other.
At daybreak we got back on the road for the last long leg of the journey to Broome. However, neither of my parents wanted to arrive at the new house at some ungodly hour, so we stopped that night at Roebuck Plains. I thought that was a good idea – it would be much better to get our first impressions of our new home in daylight hours.
At about 10 a.m. the next day we arrived at the Bishop’s Palace in Broome with the station wagon and camper, the truck following not far behind. We weren’t sure what to make of this old mansion with its meticulously polished floorboards, its high ceilings with gold-tinted cornices, and the solid carved mantels with high mirrors that could be found in every room. In the bedrooms there were romantic window seats and French doors with coloured-glass squares. Every room had these French doors that opened out onto the wide, bull-nosed veranda that ran around the entire building; they kept the house cool. The design of the veranda was complemented by heavy carved wrought-iron columns and statues, a reminder of who had occupied the old home before us.
If only these walls could talk, I thought while I moved quietly from room to room. I bet they’d tell some good stories.
*
When Dad moved us all to Broome I was eighteen years old, and until then I’d never lived in a town. Broome was an adjustment, that’s for sure. For one thing, it was a funny little seaside town, and we were used to wide open spaces. And at that time, in the 1960s, the main business of the town was pearling – and it’s safe to say we didn’t know anything about pearls. But we were probably the only ones who didn’t. The pearlers were all there then, dressed in their white trousers, shirts, shorts and hats. It was impossible not to notice them. Then there were the Malay divers, who hung around in a group of their own and dressed immaculately. And there were the pearling masters, who ran the operations. Broome even had its own little Chinatown, and the buildings in that area looked very Chinese, with their carved wooden entrances. The place was a mixture of different people and cultures, and at the heart of it was the pearling.
When we moved into the beautiful old mansion, the Bishop’s Palace, a houseboy came with the deal. We were used to female staff in the house but not houseboys – and this one would come knocking on our bedroom doors at six o’clock in the morning, wanting us to get up for breakfast. So obviously he had to go – there was no way we were getting up so early!
The houseboy wasn’t the only thing that came with the house. There were strange noises that didn’t seem to have a cause, and so my brothers and I began to think the place was haunted. Never mind the houseboy: we nearly all left the place ourselves within a week of arriving. Dad told us that it was quite safe and the noises we heard were just rats in the roof, scratching on the metal ceiling. But I never believed that. My bedroom was huge, with a really high ceiling, and at one end there was a beautiful window seat with French doors that opened onto the veranda. Lying in bed at night I would hear this strange noise and then see shadows moving across the French doors. Petrified, I would pull the bedcovers right up over my nose, and I would be perspiring like hell, because it was Broome and the place was hot and humid. When I mentioned the noise to Dad he told me it was just the weather – that the cool evening breeze was coming in. But to me it always sounded like a person going for a nighttime stroll.
Sadly, the house is gone now – that old Bishop’s Palace was demolished. The courthouse is the only other place in Broome that looks anything like the Palace did, with its heavy old wrought-iron lace and beautiful big verandas with carved posts.
In the end, of course, it wasn’t any ghost that took me away from the Palace – it was Oobagooma. Mum and Dad stayed on there for another decade. Then my father decided that Broome was getting too crowded and he bought a place in Shark Bay, a few hundred kilometres down the coast. There he got a fishing boat and, obviously, did a bit of fishing. Then he went over to Dirk Hartog Island, off Shark Bay, and managed that for a few years. The island was a sheep station and Dad was in charge. It had a lot of goats on it too. Dad liked it there. He would get the mills going and he and Mum loved going out to investigate their surroundings. Mum was fascinated by shipwrecks, and around the island there were reefs and every so often boats would fall victim to them. The whole place seemed a bit treacherous.
When Dad was running the island the only way to get across to Dirk Hartog was by barge. I will never, ever forget the time Mum and Dad took me across to that place on their bloody barge. Kelly was with me then and Leisha was still a baby, just a little thing, but I took them both with me because I had no idea what we were in for.
I know now that the strait between the island and the mainland was renowned for being incredibly rugged and rough, and as we crossed it water was coming over the top of the barge and sloshing in. It didn’t take long before we were nearly knee deep in water, and there I was with two small children on board. My darling mother couldn’t swim then and still can’t – something to do with almost drowning as a kid – but she loves the sea, so she was standing up there beside Dad at the wheel, soaked in sea water and with the wind in her hair. I don’t know what she thought she was going to do if the barge actually sank – luckily it never came to that. Dad managed to get the nose of the barge up so the water could run out the back. But I was so worried for my children, because even though Kelly and I could swim, there was such a huge swell that the situation was just plain dangerous. Suffice to say, I was in no hurry to go back, even though I loved the place once we got there.
It was in Broome that Chuck, an American from Wyoming, first asked me out. He was rather handsome, with green eyes and thick, curly blond hair. I was only eighteen at the time, but that didn’t stop him demanding that I marry him. I had my doubts – his fa
ther was always hanging around us, giving me the creeps – but Chuck made it seem like I didn’t have a choice in the matter, telling me that if I didn’t marry him he’d kidnap me and run off. Looking back, I suspect that I might have been father and son’s ticket to remain in Australia at that time. I got out of that marriage as soon as I could.
When I was eighteen and dreaming of running cattle stations, I didn’t know what that entailed. I’d never run a business before – or seen anyone else run a business, either – but somehow I decided that that’s what I was going to do.
Apart from Grandfather Wallis telling me to keep diaries, no one gave me any guidance about what to do with my life. My father wasn’t a businessman, although he’d tried his hand at a few different things. So it wasn’t as if he taught me how to do anything business-wise. In any case, my dad was of the era that believed women belonged in the home, rearing children, and shouldn’t go out to work. Later on, when I became the first woman in the Kimberley to own several cattle stations, my father wasn’t particularly proud of me. He felt that I should have remained in the home, and he often talked about how I could get hurt or lost in the outback while doing the job.
Once they were of an age, my brothers all took apprenticeships in Broome, either in the meatworks or as an engineer, mechanic or electrician. Before I went bush, I realised that I needed money. The places in Broome where you could make the most money were the meatworks and the telephone exchange. I didn’t want to work at the meatworks because I wasn’t used to being around a lot of loud men (and there were a few of those at the meatworks), so I applied to the telephone exchange – with no experience, mind you – and got the job. I was so keen that I did three weeks’ training without pay, and I ended up as the youngest trained telephonist there. At the same time I was working at the post office.
Love on Forrest Downs Page 5