Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  First published as McAllister by InHouse Publishing in 2016

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2018

  Copyright © Jenny Old 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100

  Email:info@allenandunwin.com

  Web:www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76063 209 0

  eISBN 978 1 76063 578 7

  Set by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  Cover design: Romina Panetta

  Cover photos: Jenny Old

  Dedicated to the memory of Zanda McDonald,

  29 July 1971 – 4 April 2013.

  Tragically taken too soon but always remembered.

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  1 From the Riverina to the Gulf

  2 McAllister at Last

  3 Home Sweet Home

  4 Testing Times

  5 A Memorable Day

  6 Setting Up

  7 I Do

  8 Home Again

  9 An Urgent Need for a House

  10 Playing the Hostess

  11 Friends, Neighbours and Shareholders

  12 Off to Mount Isa

  PART TWO

  13 A Sticky Situation

  14 Enjoying Ourselves

  15 From the Wet to the Dry

  16 Hard Times

  17 Friends of the North

  18 Forces of Nature

  19 Uncertain Times

  20 The Burke and Wills

  21 The Joys of Parenthood

  PART THREE

  22 Our Caravan

  23 Back Home

  24 Stormy Weather

  25 Raising Spirits

  26 Light at the End of the Tunnel

  27 A Dream Come True

  28 The Invasion

  29 Boarding School

  30 Keeping Busy

  31 Disaster Strikes

  32 The End of an Era

  33 Our Sad Farewell

  Picture section

  Reflections

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  I had an adventure. A wonderful and life-changing adventure. For eighteen years my husband and I lived in the Gulf Country of far north Queensland on a property called McAllister.

  We started with nothing. We lived in a shed while we built our home, brick by brick. I created a garden from scratch. We took a virgin lump of land in the middle of nowhere and turned it into a thriving, working cattle property.

  As I write my story, I wonder how I managed to do the things I did. Friends often express amazement and admiration. What a hard life, how did you do it? It must have been tough…

  Yes, it was tough, but this is not a story of martyrdom. I arrived at McAllister when I was twenty-two years old. I was young and in love. I still am—in love, that is, not so young anymore! I never regretted the hardship, the absence of even basic necessities that I’d always taken for granted.

  I looked forward to each new challenge. There were times of frustration and anger, but they were often more to do with my inability to accomplish a task. My eighteen years in the Gulf helped form the person I am today. I pride myself on the way I can now face any challenge that confronts me, and there have been a few!

  I am blessed. Not many people are given the opportunity to do what I did. I feel privileged to have lived such a life. I am the lucky one.

  1

  From the Riverina to the Gulf

  Would it be the beginning or the end for us?

  As the jet lurched into Mount Isa, my heart lurched with it. It was April 1969. Was I doing the right thing coming to this totally unfamiliar region in the back of beyond? A thin plume of smoke wafted uncertainly above the large smokestack of Mount Isa Mines. I saw vast stretches of hard rocky ridges, outcrops of spinifex and a tinge of green. The colours were superb, with hues of mauve and red. However, the landscape looked barren and unforgiving.

  I had dressed very carefully in a pale pink ensemble with new shoes to match. I’d spent a good deal of my hard-earned money on this outfit and told myself I looked lovely. I checked my lipstick; a quick spray of perfume. I was nearly there.

  Would Rick be the same person I remembered? We came from contrasting backgrounds: I was brought up on the land whereas he spent his childhood in Sydney.

  Rick and I had fallen in love ten days prior to my scheduled departure for a twelve-month overseas adventure. I’d completed my nursing training at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne and, with my closest nursing friends, was setting out to see the world. Falling for Rick had turned my very organised world upside down.

  We’d known each other for several years. Rick had been the overseer on a large property outside Deniliquin, my home town. At parties and balls we’d always enjoyed a dance and a chat. A mutual attraction had certainly been there, but we’d both had other love interests.

  That all changed when Rick came to stay at my family home for a Bachelors’ and Spinsters’ Ball. In Sydney, a mutual friend had mentioned to Rick that he would be staying with my family—it was common for my parents to host a large contingent of young people for these occasions.

  ‘Is she still single?’ Rick asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  This was untrue: I had a steady boyfriend. After confirming with my parents that he would be welcome, Rick made the decision to attend the ball.

  I was unusually excited at the thought of seeing him again. When he walked down the front garden path towards me, I froze.

  ‘Hi, Jen, it’s been a long time,’ he said.

  It was as though I’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. We hugged and the electricity between us was palpable. It sounds corny but it was true, and the feeling was mutual.

  I was overcome by many emotions: excitement, confusion and utter joy.

  ‘This is weird,’ whispered Rick.

  ‘I know, what are we going to do? My boyfriend is inside.’

  ‘You have to carry on for tonight and we’ll work things out over the next few days.’

  I was happy with this, knowing it was the right thing to do.

  We tried very hard to hide our feelings during the evening of the ball, until Rick asked me to dance. We moved to the music in each other’s arms, wrapped in our own world. The hum of people chatting and laughing brought us back to reality, and we realised the music had finished and we were alone on the dance floor.

  This was something special. I knew I was truly in love for the first time.

  Ten days later I was to set sail on the Fairstar for the UK and beyond. I’d spoken honestly to my boyfriend about my feelings for Rick. He, understandably, chose not to come to Melbourne for our farewell party. Rick, instead, flew down to see me off.

  As I hugged him goodbye, I sobbed and said, ‘I don’t want to leave you for a year.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Rick said. ‘I’d never want to be responsible for you missing an experience you’ve dreamt about and worked so hard for.’ Then he made me a promise. ‘I’ll write and be here when you return.’

  A few minutes later, I stood on the deck of the ship. A f
limsy paper streamer was all that connected me to Rick. As the ship slowly moved away from the port, the streamer broke, and I wondered if I was making a big mistake. I found it hard to believe that this handsome, vibrant man would wait around for a year for me.

  During those twelve months, Rick bought a partnership in a property called McAllister in the Gulf Country of far north Queensland.

  This was a surprising choice of career for a young man brought up in the affluent suburb of Killara on Sydney’s North Shore. However, Rick had no interest in pursuing a legal career like his father, uncles and grandfather. His love of the land had been ignited when he was a child, following a year spent on a family friend’s property while recovering from asthma. His decision to leave the prestigious Church of England Grammar School in North Sydney and complete his education at The Armidale School as a boarder reinforced his decision to go on the land.

  By the time I met him, Rick had been a jackeroo and overseer on properties and stations throughout Queensland and New South Wales, but he’d long harboured a desire to own his own property. As he’d spent most of his working life in drought conditions, he was determined to find one with reliable rainfall.

  He was about to travel to Western Australia in search of his dream property when fate intervened with a call from a friend, Paul Williams. Paul and another friend were travelling up to the Gulf Country, and they invited Rick to join them.

  On their way, they stayed at Melinda Downs with Rowan and Judy Hickson, where the Hicksons received another fateful phone call—from New Guinea, of all places. The call was from Bruce and Barbara Jephcott, who had won a ballot for a block called, you guessed it, McAllister. However, their business partners weren’t interested in another venture.

  The Jephcotts had contacted the Lands Department to see if there were any other local applicants in the ballot who might be interested in partnering with them. They were given the Hicksons’ details. Having only recently relocated from Bathurst, the Hicksons couldn’t join them on their own.

  Rick and Paul immediately expressed interest. Together with the Hicksons, they inspected McAllister, and it was a done deal. They formed a company with the Jephcotts, Hicksons and Henry Leonard (overseer in New Guinea for the Jephcotts), with the agreement that Rick and Paul would manage the property.

  McAllister was in the middle of nowhere, but I agreed to visit. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for.

  I’d been blessed with a wonderful childhood on a farm outside Deniliquin, in the Riverina region of New South Wales, with my parents, brother and sister.

  My brother, Tony, is three years older than me. He never showed much interest in me in the early years; he was mainly interested in the farm and ‘boy’ things like shooting, rabbit hunting and being with Dad. My sister, Pam, is seven years my junior, and while to me she was a welcome addition to the family, we spent little time together, as I was away at boarding school and then my nursing studies. In later years we all became very close, although our personalities are quite different.

  I attended Deniliquin Public School before being packed off to Methodist Ladies’ College in Sydney. My mother and her three sisters had thrived while boarding at MLC, and their aunt had been headmistress there for many years. Mum, an extremely intelligent woman, was keen for me to carry on the family tradition and wanted to give me the same opportunities that she’d had. But although I’d always been a good student, I didn’t adjust very well, suffering with homesickness. However, I appreciated that MLC was progressive, with a strong academic record, and it fostered in me a great appreciation of art, history, language, music and drama. I look back with gratitude for the wonderful education I received and the sacrifice my parents made to allow me this privilege.

  Still, I shed no tears when I celebrated my final day of school and returned to Deniliquin. It was a prosperous time, and a rich social life was on offer with parties and balls aplenty. The larger properties employed jackeroos and overseers, so there were many attractive young men available. For months I enjoyed myself immensely and didn’t show any sign of deciding on a career until my mother decided she’d had enough.

  ‘I’ve booked an appointment with the matron of the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne to discuss you commencing your nursing training,’ she announced one day.

  ‘Do I want to do nursing?’ I asked.

  ‘You have to do something, and nursing is a good career,’ she replied firmly. She and her sisters had completed their nursing and midwifery training, though they’d done so in Sydney.

  My dear mother, Joan, was a strong character: strict and direct, with no fluff about her. She meant what she said, but she was never unkind. She was certainly not happy with my partying ways, a seeming waste of my time. My father, Stuart, on the other hand, was a softy—a doting family man. He was the one I went to if I really wanted something. He had a lovely saying: ‘Your mother is nearly always right, but never wrong.’ She was a wonderful mother.

  All too soon, I found myself sitting in an austere office with a very serious-looking matron dressed impeccably in a starched uniform and veil.

  ‘Why do you want to be a nurse, Jennifer?’ she asked, peering at me over her glasses.

  Mum gave me a look.

  ‘Because I like to help sick people,’ I replied meekly.

  One month later my relieved mother deposited me at the Alfred and waved me goodbye. My heart sank as I gazed around my small, sparse bedroom with its plain bedspread, tiny cupboard and grimy window. This was reminiscent of boarding school, including the supervision and rules and regulations; my freedom was to be seriously curtailed. A suitcase lay on the chair, and inside was a supply of uniforms. Trying to sort out the starched collars, cuffs with berry pins, aprons and belts, then thick brown stockings and heavy shoes, was going to be a challenge.

  I turned out to be one of forty-five new trainees, and we all helped each other dress, ready for our first day of Preliminary Training School. Our uniforms had an enormous red cross on the sleeve, indicating we were PTS—the bottom of the ladder, avoid at all cost, a danger to everyone!

  I’m so grateful for my training and the friends I made in the ensuing three years. We were a tight-knit group: Jillie, Dee, Jude, Margie and I, plus an extended bunch of friends, were to share many adventures during our training and then our year overseas.

  Rick flew to Sydney to meet me when I returned. I wasn’t the svelte brown Aussie girl he’d farewelled: instead I was rather rotund and pallid, wearing a burgundy mini dress with long sparkling earrings and chunky patent-leather shoes to match my chunky legs. My hair had been coiffed in a smart Hong Kong salon with masses of sticky hairspray to hold my bouffant ‘do’ in place for the ten-hour flight. I had sat bolt upright to preserve my appearance, hoping to have a positive effect on my man.

  ‘How do I look?’ I asked Rick cheerfully.

  He was speechless. For a boy from the bush, the vision of this plump girl, dressed in the latest London fashion, was a bit much to cope with. To top it off, burgundy was his least favourite colour! Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.

  Things were a little rocky for a while, but as the weight dropped off—which it did very quickly—and we had time to reacquaint, the love returned.

  Now I’d come to meet him at Mount Isa Airport.

  The shimmering heat hit me with unexpected force as I descended the steps to the tarmac. This was 4 p.m. in April 1969, nearly winter in Sydney. How could it be this hot? I was relieved to reach the cool comfort of the large air-conditioned terminal.

  Totally unaware of Mount Isa or its surrounds, I focused on looking for that beloved face in the welcoming crowd. No sign of him. I reminded myself he was always late. I looked around again. Still no sign.

  I ordered a cup of coffee and, with a sinking heart, watched my fellow passengers and their loved ones depart from the terminal. As I sipped my coffee, I felt more vulnerable and alone than at any time on my travels around the world. Even the comfort of having a good book
with me did nothing to reduce my anxiety.

  The cleaning lady began chatting to me, then a reporter from the local newspaper interviewed me, asking why I was visiting the area. I don’t think she’d have printed my response.

  By now all the chairs were on top of the tables and the floors were mopped, as my flight had been the final one that day. I decided I needed to go somewhere—anywhere. I looked around for a phone booth to ring for a taxi and find some accommodation, but then discovered I didn’t have any coins. I walked to the front doors, looking in vain for a taxi.

  Just then I noticed a puff of dust in the distance. A Toyota LandCruiser came into view. It was Rick.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ I said, so relieved that my anger and disappointment evaporated.

  ‘You gave me the wrong time of arrival.’

  ‘I don’t think so—in fact, I know I didn’t. I thought you might have changed your mind.’

  ‘Never.’ He grinned.

  The sheer pleasure of seeing my good-looking, energetic man overcame most of my negative feelings, though I had a niggling doubt that there may have been another reason for his delay. He’d been on a cattle-buying trip, but had spent the weekend at Magnetic Island. I wondered what he’d got up to, although I never asked.

  Our love had brought me back to him, in this strange and foreign part of the world.

  So, it was, after all, to be a beginning.

  2

  McAllister at Last

  First, Rick needed to rush around Mount Isa, buying the things bushies always have to buy when they make a rare trip to a metropolis: machinery parts, food and other supplies. I was happy just to be with him and absorb my surroundings.

  This was to be an entirely different adventure from my overseas trip. I’d returned home to find that no one was really interested in what I’d got up to. I was out of touch with local news, and getting back to regular work didn’t appeal to me. I was bored, and the Gulf Country offered the escape and excitement I was searching for.