Barra Creek

by Di Morrissey

  In the morning Lorna seemed refreshed. Rather than stay in bed and wait for her cup of tea, she was up not long after Sally and the boys.

  John gave Sally a wink at breakfast. ‘Look out, Lorna’s on the warpath.’

  Life settled back into its routine with the lure of the race meeting as the only excitement on the horizon. Rob left a few days before Sally and the Monroes, driving his ute with his dogs, swag and supplies in the back. He was planning to stop at a station along the way to discuss a mustering contract they had offered him for the following year before meeting them at the races. Dougie and Harry also left to start work on a job for the station adjoining Barra Creek. In the back of their ute was the rolled and salted giant bull croc skin.

  Once while she was out riding near the river, Sally wondered who had mourned Gloria, if she had a family somewhere. It was only a passing thought, though the river still gave her the shivers.

  It was arranged that Donny would charter a bigger plane and fly the family to the Camel Head Races near the Gilbert River. He’d been hankering to go to the races for the past few years, so he was happy to take leave from his mail run to go along.

  Sally hadn’t minded that they’d postponed their picnic. The races sounded like a fun diversion.

  Up in the air John Monroe, sitting next to Sally, shouted in her ear, ‘Who knows how many wild cattle are down there! I tell you though, Sal, I reckon the writing is on the wall for those big holdings, the old ways are going. No one can compete with government meddling and so-called development.’

  They flew over the temporary township that had grown up for the races. There were clustered encampments of canvas, bough shelters, temporary wood shelters, the fenced racecourse, judges’ box, and a rough and ready grandstand. Big tents served as the dance hall, mess hall and bar. A dam, windmill and cattle yards were part of this spread that was fourteen miles away from the main homestead. Light aircraft and vehicles were parked next to grazing horses.

  As Donny circled, Sally counted nearly thirty campsites. ‘How many people are here?’

  ‘Several hundred, plus the blacks and all their mobs.’

  ‘How are they all being fed?’

  ‘We’ll eat our way through several bullocks and wash it down with tanks of rum,’ said John.

  They landed and were soon settled in to one of the big tents. The three boys quickly met friends their own age from other stations who they had talked to on the wireless. People were still coming in from all directions. They’d come long distances and made it a special occasion. From the backs of vehicles came tables and chairs, cooler boxes, even a playpen or two for the babies. One family arrived on packhorses, a child and baby tucked into the saddle bags on one horse.

  The jackeroos and ringers were dressed to the nines in new RM Williams gear with big buckles, polished boots and new Akubras. Sally had been dubious about the clothes Lorna said she should bring but many of the women had gone to town with frilly frocks, heels and hats, though most seemed to favour shirtmaker dresses and white shoes that were soon covered in dust. A lot of younger women stuck to their casual clothes but Sally enjoyed wearing a good sundress, her pearls, her gold sandals, smart sunglasses and make-up. She’d eschewed a hat, knotting a silk scarf over her hair. Lorna, as always, was impeccably dressed, in a loose linen skirt, silk blouse with a matching linen bolero jacket – understated but smart.

  The predominantly black jockeys, garishly dressed in brilliant silks, were skilled riders, but it seemed that almost anyone with a horse was prepared to have a go. And everyone wagered accordingly. Odds were short, betting frenzied. The two bookies looked frayed around the edges and both had raucous gravelly voices. They set up business beneath faded beach umbrellas, stuffing money and tickets into their worn leather bags.

  The bartenders in the long bar next to the racecourse were run off their feet serving keg beer, rum and warm fizzy soft drinks. In the mess tent, food was served non-stop. You could eat steak and eggs with fried onions for breakfast and morning and afternoon tea as well as dinner. Fried potatoes were optional. Bread was tipped out of camp ovens and slabs of it were served with meals or with golden syrup any time. The hours merged. People drank through the night to sit down to rum with breakfast. There was a grubby, rickety merry-go-round and a fairy floss stand heavily patronised by the black kids.

  Rob found the Monroes and threw his swag down on the ground next to the tent Sally would be sharing with the boys.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ she laughed.

  ‘Wait till you see Rob ride in the rodeo,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Are you going to go in the gibber races?’ Marty asked Sally.

  ‘There are foot races after the rodeo,’ explained Rob. ‘Anything from rock and spoon, sack races, three legged and the ladies’ barefoot run. The women dash across a track, maybe a hundred yards or so, in their best gear but they take off their shoes and stockings first.’

  ‘It’s over gibber stones,’ said Ian.

  Sally knew how sharp the hard little stones could be. ‘I’m not going in that.’

  ‘There a big dance tonight, you mustn’t miss it.’ Rob grinned at her.

  ‘Can we come?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘You bet,’ said Rob.

  The five-piece band thumped into the wee hours as the dust rose from the swinging high-heeled boots of the men and shoes of the women. Men wore their denim trousers and coloured shirts, sleeves tightly rolled up over muscles. Skirts swirled as the girls were spun, and everyone laughed and squealed above the music. Sally danced with the boys, with Rob, Donny, John and a string of young men.

  The men made frequent forays to the bar and no one seemed to mind that they were eating steaks at four in the morning. A cheerful young waitress slapped food onto the tables announcing she hadn’t slept in two days, hadn’t laughed so much in a year and wanted a couple of matchsticks to keep her eyes open. Fortified with rum, Sally, Rob and Donny sang their way back to their camp.

  Lorna spent time with some women from other stations, chatting and laughing. The boys finally fell into their swags as Sally and Rob followed them back to the tents. John settled down at a campfire with old friends from all over the Gulf, Cape and Territory swapping yarns and drinking themselves into oblivion.

  The following day was the rodeo and Sally watched the cattle and horses being brought into the pens and wondered at the wisdom of the hung-over stockmen preparing to ride these rough beasts. There was a big crowd, and the MC stood on the back of a truck with a microphone, screaming descriptions and encouragement at the mayhem in the main ring. All the blacks gathered on the far side of the ring to laugh and applaud. While they were there to help out when needed, their skill as jockeys acknowledged, they didn’t mix with the whites. Whites and blacks, station owners and managers, stockmen, jackeroos and ringers, all had their own areas.

  As the rodeo got under way hell-bent riders raced after maddened steers. The buckjumping was violent and wild, the pick-up men in the ring swift to pluck a rider to safety and wave away a beast determined to trample the men who dared to straddle their backs. Rob pulled on his spurs and carefully lowered himself onto a mean-eyed steer with a set of dangerous horns. Released from the chute into the ring the animal twisted and leapt, then tried to scrape Rob from his back against the rails. Deflected by the pick-up men the steer bucked around the ring in a crazed dance until a metal clang announced that Rob had gone the distance. He scrambled over the rails and Sally and the boys rushed to slap him on the back.

  Egged on by John Monroe and the three boys, Sally entered the rock and spoon race, and won the sack race to uphold the honour of Barra Creek.

  The days and nights were a blur and finally even John Monroe had had enough rum and fun. They took off into a clear sky, a wedge-tailed eagle angling away from the aircraft as it rose above the township, which was folding its tents and packing up for another year. The plains stretched to the horizon, broken only by the lines of cattle tracks radiating from w
aterholes. Sally had enjoyed herself enormously and had to smile as she thought back on the smart races she’d attended in Christchurch and the regimented formality of the hunts.

  Lorna’s laughter and relaxed manner disappeared once they returned to Barra Creek. She stalked through the house and gardens, quietly but firmly issuing instructions, directing tasks. The night before Sally’s picnic with Donny, as she and Lorna discussed what food to take, Rob came into the kitchen.

  ‘Lorna, I need to get stores. I’m heading out to trap brumbies and I’m taking six of my fellas. We’ll probably leave at the end of the week.’

  ‘I suppose John is going.’

  Rob gave a small shrug, a little embarrassed that Monroe hadn’t told his wife but he wasn’t surprised. Lorna, no doubt, was used to it.

  ‘We’ll miss you round the place,’ said Sally with a smile.

  ‘Ah, plenty of company round here. Foxy the bore mechanic is coming in for a day or so,’ he said. ‘He needs spare parts and tucker.’

  ‘I don’t imagine Sally will be interested in passing the time of day with that dreadful man,’ Lorna said tartly.

  ‘He’s handy. Keeps those bores flowing. You can’t expect everyone to have charm, patience and time on his hands, like Donny.’ He gave a wink and picked up the box of bread for his camp. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Well, if they’re going to be away for a week or so, we’ll have some peace and quiet.’ Sally didn’t comment and Lorna continued to slice the fruit cake. ‘Once the boys know about the brumby trapping they’ll probably want to go, especially Ian.’

  ‘Could they go along? The two big boys?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it. Let’s see if they raise the idea. Marty would hate to be left behind. Now he’s no longer going to be the baby of the family, he’s trying to keep up with his brothers.’

  Sally had her swimsuit on under her sunfrock and was wearing her fancy cats-eye sunglasses and gold sandals but despite Lorna giving her a cotton sunhat, she’d chosen one of Ian’s old Akubras to shade her face and protect her hair.

  Donny looked different as he grinned at her and took the box of food. Then she realised he wasn’t wearing his usual uniform of navy shorts and white shirt and his pilot’s cap, but casual shorts and T-shirt and sandals instead of his leather shoes and long white socks.

  ‘All ready?’ He helped her into the passenger seat.

  ‘I certainly am.’ She buckled her seat belt as he got in and slammed the pilot’s door closed.

  It was almost impossible to talk over the noise of the engine. Sally enjoyed the scenery but the gap where her door met the body of the plane made her nervous as daylight and a cold draught came through.

  The nose of the plane dipped slightly. Raising his voice Donny said, ‘Look down there, that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Looks like jungle to me! Where will we land?’

  ‘There’s a deserted strip that was part of a mining enterprise that failed. Gold, tin or something. There’s a shack, a strip and a truck we all keep in working order.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Those of us who know about it. Serious fun seekers – fishermen, shooters, buffalo and boar hunters. Don’t blab, you’re one of us now,’ he shouted.

  ‘God, I’ve no idea where we are. Is that a track down there?’ She peered at the thin red line weaving between trees, an open plain and lush wetland around a watercourse of some kind.

  ‘Yes. Flying in is much easier.’ He banked and aimed the plane at what Sally could now see was a roughly cleared stretch of land. ‘It’s a bit bumpy but don’t worry.’

  ‘How do you keep it cleared?’ She clutched her seat as they hit the ground, which was studded with small rocks.

  ‘Drag a log behind the truck. Here we are.’

  Sally stepped down and saw a rusty galvanised lean-to, an ancient Bedford truck, some oil and petrol drums, rusting equipment and an upturned dinghy. She thought she was used to silence after spending months at Barra Creek, but here it was oppressively quiet. There were no sounds of men, the blacks’ camp, horses or cattle. A bird screeched and she jumped.

  ‘Crikey, this is the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Perfect place for a murder, isn’t it? No one would ever find a body out here.’

  Sally went cold for a moment. Were all her instincts wrong? Then she thought of Lorna and John, encouraging her to take a few hours off and go flying with Donny.

  ‘I always think about it when I come here,’ said Donny, unloading gear from the hold. ‘I wonder about some of the blokes who camp out here, get on the piss, have an argument . . .’

  ‘Could we talk about something else. Like where’s this famous swimming hole?’

  ‘Okay, throw the food and that swag into the tray of the truck. I’ll bring the drinks. There’re towels and a blanket to sit on in the swag.’

  It took a bit to start the truck as it hadn’t been driven for a while, but eventually he got it going. They drove through the bush, Donny’s unerring sense of direction taking them in fifteen minutes to a clearing. They got out and she followed him, ducking beneath giant pandanus and paperbark trees, through knee-high grass to the edge of a huge billabong. It was beautiful. The water was clear green, dotted with blue waterlilies. There was a red sandy bank partly shaded, which was a perfect spot to picnic.

  ‘This is gorgeous.’

  Sally spread out the swag with the blanket and towels while Donny tied the box of food into the fork of a tree branch away from ants.

  ‘Right, let’s swim. This water is like a bath.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s safe?’

  He swung his arms around in an arc encompassing the remote landscape. ‘No river, or crocodiles, for miles. Wait till the Wet though, all the waterholes link up, it’s amazing. That’s when a croc might get up this far.’

  Sally gingerly followed him into the water, stroking quickly into the centre away from the reeds fringing the edge that could be hiding goodness knows what creatures. Gradually the sheer pleasure of the caressing water, the tranquil setting and Donny’s easy company relaxed her and she felt the tension of the last weeks flow from her body.

  Lying on the blanket, drying in the sun as Donny set out the picnic, her hat over her face, Sally sighed contentedly. ‘This is so great. It’s hard to really relax when I always have to be watching the boys.’

  ‘So enjoy this little break, until you take your holiday. Ever been to Darwin?’

  She lifted her hat and glanced at him. Did Lorna discuss everything with Donny before making a decision, she wondered. She hadn’t mentioned her trip to him while they were at the races.

  ‘I suppose when you have your sights set on the bright lights of London, Darwin doesn’t cross your radar,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to go there at all. I don’t feel the need to get away. I’m still discovering this area, like today.’

  ‘I s’pose Lorna thinks it will do you good. After Gloria’s accident and all that.’

  ‘She tells you a lot, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, we chat,’ he said easily. ‘She didn’t have anyone much to talk to about things, until you came along.’

  ‘So what else did she say? How am I doing?’ Sally sat up and although she was smiling her voice was challenging.

  ‘As a governess? Top marks.’

  ‘But? It sounds like a but is hanging in there.’

  He looked at her, his face more serious. ‘She’s worried about Rob.’

  ‘Rob? What’s he got to do with me?’

  ‘She’s worried you two might have a fling.’

  ‘If we do, it’s nothing to do with her!’

  ‘Yes it is. She feels some responsibility towards you, besides it could be very disruptive. And more importantly he’s not good enough for you!’

  ‘She said that?’ Sally was both irritated and flattered. ‘She doesn’t mind him eating with the family or playing with the boys.’

  ‘Lorna is a snob. I like her enormously,
but she has her standards as I’m sure you know. Rob doesn’t have his own place. That’s important to Lorna. It’s the difference between managing a property and owning one.’

  ‘I gather he had a blue with his father and he went out on his own. That’s admirable, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m not here for romance. I don’t want it to bugger up a nice friendship, with anyone,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘So how’s the lover left at home? Still pining?’

  ‘I doubt it. But he does send me sexy letters, and he says he misses me.’

  ‘Is he going to Darwin?’

  Sally laughed. ‘You’re one step ahead of me. I was thinking I’d ask him. There’s not much time, though. And I don’t want the whole of Cape York to know about it if I ring him up or send him a telegram.’

  ‘I could send it for you. Write it out and I’ll send it from Cloncurry with my return address.’

  ‘Why would you do that for me?’

  ‘Why not? Pals help each other, right?’

  ‘Okay, be cupid. Thanks. Darwin sounds a bit dull on my own.’

  ‘The place has a lot of drawbacks but dull isn’t one of them. You and whatsisname will have a ball.’

  ‘His name is Sean.’

  They were silent for a while and Sally thought back to her romance with Sean. How distant and unreal it seemed. Or was it that this place and her life in it seemed so unreal. Her parents – and Sean probably – couldn’t imagine what it was like. She smiled, remembering how she’d jumped on the mail plane for the last long leg of her trip up here with no idea of where she was going or what it would be like.

  ‘What are you smiling about? Fond memories of Sean, eh?’

  ‘No. Actually I was thinking about first coming up here with you. How unprepared and naive I was.’

  ‘Yeah. How do you feel now?’

  ‘Still a bit of a greenhorn but I’ve struck a few blows. I won that damned horse race. It was stupid to do it because of Ian, but now the lot of ’em want to borrow my saddle. They think it makes the horses go faster. Everyone wants to be a jockey.’