by Jenny Old
The month of May was a beautiful time of year with hot, sunny days and cool, clear nights. As we worked further away from home, we decided it would be more productive for us to camp out. Our first night found us at the back of the bullock paddock, camping on a waterhole with lovely ghost gums amid a rocky outcrop. It was delightful and very peaceful.
The water was an interesting colour, and I was quite horrified when I realised I was expected to drink it. But I was so thirsty. ‘Close your eyes,’ Paul advised, ‘and pretend it’s a caramel milkshake.’ He was right. I tried not to think about what could be contaminating the water and pushed my nursing training out of my mind. (The next day, I was horrified to discover a dead pig further along the waterway. I survived!)
Rick and Paul proudly produced silk hammocks for them to sleep in. Paul’s had been with him in Vietnam, while Rick’s was a relic from his Boy Scout days. I expressed my concern about this delicate fabric being strong enough to hold a big man, but they assured me the silk was very tough and they would be a lot more comfortable than I was on the ground.
I settled myself snugly in my swag with a thin foam pad and tarpaulin cover, lying back to enjoy the night under the stars. The men fiddled around for ages trying to find suitable trees to string their hammocks between. Finally all was quiet, except for the snoring from one of the hammock occupants and the droning of the ever-present mosquitoes. I fell asleep.
I was woken by a loud tearing, a thump and a very undignified exclamation as Rick hit the dust. His hammock had split from woe to go! He wasn’t amused, but I was laughing hysterically. He spent the night in the front of the LandCruiser with the mosquitoes. Paul slept soundly through the entire drama. He was very smug that his superior model had held up as we observed the tattered remains of Rick’s hammock in the morning.
The days rolled by. We worked on with many laughs and a few tears. I learnt tears were ineffectual—and if you were hurt, you had to spill copious amounts of blood to gain any sympathy.
Paul and I were double-dinking on the tiny Honda CT90 back to camp at the end of the day, when he commented, ‘There’s a huge washout somewhere along here.’
A washout is a deep crater created in the monsoonal season when torrents of water surge down the creeks, gouging holes in the ground.
Paul had no sooner said this when suddenly we were airborne.
We landed at the bottom of a very deep hole filled with rocks. We lay in a heap for a moment, then couldn’t stop laughing as we disentangled ourselves, realising the ludicrous position we were in. It was a miracle there were no bones broken, though I’d suffered a severely painful bash on my shinbone. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this injury didn’t produce any blood or even a bruise, but I still have an indentation on my leg. No sympathy was offered.
I was constantly in awe of the rugged beauty of the land, and its many large washouts and rocks with seemingly impassable areas that somehow we managed to manoeuvre our way through.
At last, we completed the fencing and were ready for the monkeys a.k.a sheep, which were due to arrive in the near future. They would help provide an income, of sorts, for McAllister. I was beginning to feel part of this amazing country.
Classic Corned Beef
Corned beef was a staple I cooked several times a week and served with green vegies, cabbage and white onion or mustard sauce. It was a favourite with staff, family and guests. I always hoped to have some left over for sandwiches for the mustering team.
Feeds up to 12
INGREDIENTS
1 x beef brisket or silverside of beef (approx. 2 kg)
6 tablespoons brown sugar
4 garlic cloves, peeled
1 tablespoon dried mixed herbs
6 bay leaves
8 whole cloves
1 cup coarse salt (if beef not already salted by your butcher)
2 small potatoes, scrubbed, for each diner
1 carrot, scrubbed, for each diner
1 parsnip, scrubbed, for each diner
METHOD
Place the meat in a large boiler. Cover with water and add the sugar, garlic, herbs and spices. Bring to the boil, reduce the heat to low and simmer uncovered for 3 hours, or until the meat is tender. Add the potatoes, carrots and parsnips to the boiler for the final 15 minutes.
5
A Memorable Day
We might have finished the fencing but my apprenticeship at McAllister continued with a variety of jobs: painting the inside of water tanks, an excruciatingly hot and unpleasant task; long days of mustering and yard work; washing heavy, filthy jeans in the concrete basins of our lean-to laundry; and cooking.
I was learning things about myself that surprised me. I became very fit, lean and strong. I was used to hard work as a nurse, but never such tough physical work. At the end of each day I collapsed into bed exhausted, with the satisfaction of a job well done. I slept soundly, looking forward to the next day’s challenge. I was part of the team and enjoyed working with both men, who always treated me with respect.
How different all this was to my upbringing at Lauriston, my family home. There, fencing had meant sitting in the ute chatting to Dad while he did the work, or maybe holding a piece of wire or a post for a short while, then enjoying a cup of tea from a thermos and home-baked biscuits or cake under a tree. Mustering involved riding my pony behind well-behaved sheep with the dogs and Dad on hand to help if required. My siblings and I weren’t spoilt kids—we all had our jobs to do and we did them willingly—but we always had plenty of time to read, swim in the channel or climb trees.
Out here in the Gulf, Rick, Paul and I had no time or energy to do anything other than the job on hand. The conditions were hot and dry, and I never got used to thirst being with me at all times. Water was scarce—our bore water wasn’t suitable for human consumption—so we had to conserve it, which was difficult when all I wanted to do was drink our entire supply!
Water supply was a constant concern. It had to be carted from August Dam, sixteen kilometres from the Ridge. We would hitch the trailer onto the LandCruiser, load six 44-gallon drums onto the trailer and the same number onto the back of the vehicle, and drive to August to fill the drums. After a swim in the lovely clear water of the dam, we’d drive very slowly and carefully home with the heavy, precious load. We then pumped the water into a tank on the roof of the shed and unloaded the drums until next time. It was a taxing and time-consuming job. We were very, very careful with our water usage. This supply was for everything: washing-up, showering, cooking and drinking. And it always seemed to run out at the most inconvenient times.
I’d accompanied Rick and Paul to work every day, but on the twentieth of May I decided to stay home, catch up with the washing and attempt to bake bread, again. Over the weeks I’d unsuccessfully tried to bake bread many times, offering Joe—our marvellous neighbour from Inverleigh—a sample whenever he dropped by.
Joe was the one I turned to for advice on everything: a seasoned bushie, he never disappointed, always delivering a solution. Tall and broad, with a battered akubra that covered his receding hairline, a flannelette shirt and baggy shorts, he was always ready for a yarn. And he was extremely generous with his knowledge, keeping an eye on us at all times. His response to my baking attempts was predictable: ‘You can only improve!’ His shy and gentle wife, Ethel, offered to teach me, but as she did her baking at four in the morning, I declined her kind offer.
On this day Paul and Rick were to be pegging a new fence line. To do this, Paul was to drive several kilometres from Rick, where he’d light several old tyres covered in oil to create black smoke. Once Rick spotted the smoke, he’d walk towards it in a straight line while pegging the fence. I didn’t feel my presence would be necessary; I’d just be sitting in a tree with Rick, watching for Paul’s smoke. I felt I’d be far better occupied struggling with my breadmaking.
By the time Paul and Rick arrived home in the evening, I had the shed looking fabulous, with dried-grass arrangements, clean sheets on the beds,
folded clothes in our wardrobe, and dinner ready to serve. I was showered and wearing a pink sundress. I’d enjoyed my day of domesticity but missed being with the men.
‘How was your day?’ I asked Rick. ‘Did you see the smoke and peg the fence line?’
‘No, I sat up a tree all day watching for the smoke signals, but they didn’t happen—we reckon there were too many trees in the way. I missed you.’ He smiled at me.
‘I missed you too.’
Each evening after work, the three of us would usually sit on an old car seat outside the shed with a cold beer and a plate of cheese cubes on Jatz biscuits. We’d relax and chat about our day before showering and preparing dinner.
Tonight was different. Paul had gone to take a shower, and Rick turned to me with an odd expression on his face. ‘Will you marry me?’
I was stunned. ‘Do you mean it?’
He replied that he did.
‘Yes,’ I stammered.
I’d only been at McAllister for three weeks, and marriage hadn’t entered my mind. I’d believed Rick wouldn’t marry until he’d built a comfortable home for his bride, and I’d been enjoying the experience of working with the men, doing something so totally different. I’d thought a proposal was a long way off, though all along I knew I loved this man very much.
Rick presented me with a ring he’d fashioned from tie wire while sitting in his tree that day. He’d broken the wire from the fence and twisted it around a stick three times.
I was overwhelmed, understanding the significance of the tie wire. I immediately put it on and never wanted to take it off.
Paul appeared fresh from his shower to be told the news. He, as always, was generous in his congratulations.
‘Good,’ he said, smiling. ‘If you hadn’t, I would’ve.’ (Joking!)
We toasted our happiness with a beer.
I was aware it wouldn’t be easy for Paul. Three is an awkward number when two are going to be a married couple. But we remained such a great team, and we have Paul to thank for this.
Rick’s diary entry for that eventful night is interesting. Having recorded the day’s work, he added a PS: This was the day for Jenny and me. I asked, ‘Will You?’ and she answered, ‘Yes.’
And in a letter to his parents: Well, at long last you can relax, Mum. I asked Jenny to marry me last night, and she said ‘yes’ immediately, so that’s that.
The next weeks passed in a daze as the reality of our commitment to each other sank in. I continued to go along with whatever was on the agenda, but I was looking at things from a very different perspective, knowing I was a permanent part of this property.
Gone forever were my days of social outings with family and friends, dressing up for lovely restaurants and parties. I was going to marry the man I loved and live on McAllister.
In the middle of nowhere.
Later in the week, Rick presented me with a large box, which I opened with great anticipation. Inside I found a pair of Cuban-heeled R.M. Williams riding boots. I’d considered these boots to be a bit of a show, until I actually rode in them. Apart from being safer, they were much more comfortable.
Rick obviously felt he needed to invest in me. My apprenticeship was progressing.
I wrote long letters to tell everyone my exciting news and counted the minutes until mail day brought replies. I’d been corresponding with both families and my friends weekly. Their letters were my lifeline—and these letters, which both mothers kept, have enabled me to recount so many of the stories in this book.
We would collect the weekly mailbag from Inverleigh, thirty kilometres away, at the end of a working day. Paul and Rick were less enthusiastic than me about the mail, but they knew how important it was to me. We all enjoyed our visits as we always had questions for Joe, whose experience in the Gulf was extensive and valuable to us. We returned home with fresh beef, bread and the precious mail.
Communication in the Gulf was never easy. Thank God for ABC Radio, our only station. Reception was often scratchy because of the weather, but we accepted this as part of life in the bush. The ABC was our constant companion in the evenings, while the long-running saga of Blue Hills—broadcast at 1 p.m. for fifteen minutes each day—was a must for our lunchbreaks. And to think I used to tease Mum about this program.
Our vital link with the outside world was a two-way radio via the Royal Flying Doctor Service based in Mount Isa. This radio, with a large car battery attached, had prime position in the shed, enabling us to hear it easily while we were doing other jobs. I dreaded the day I’d be left to send a telegram over this complicated and temperamental piece of equipment. But it was only a matter of time.
Every station on the RFDS network had an allocated call sign, ours being ‘9QYM McAllister’. Weekdays from eight-thirty in the morning until five in the evening, the list of stations with incoming telegrams or ‘traffic’ was read from the RFDS base on the half-hour. To receive your telegram, you announced your call sign and joined the queue, however long.
‘9QYM McAllister,’ I’d bellow with the button pressed down.
‘9QYM McAllister, you are sixth on the list,’ the operator would reply.
It could take hours to collect or send telegrams. Obviously nothing was private. At first I found this daunting but I soon became used to the routine; after all, there was no alternative.
On one occasion we were trying to order a desperately needed part for our precious LandCruiser. After finally getting the telegram away, we were stunned when Jackie Rice, the head stockman at Inverleigh—a gruff, stringy bushie and man of few words—arrived several hours later. He’d heard our telegram and driven into the station to collect the part we needed. This cooperative goodwill was typical of the spirit of the bush, and we were always happy when we could reciprocate in some small way.
In time, I came to understand the sense of community provided by the two-way for people in isolated areas. Many wives and children were left at their station homesteads for long periods while husbands, sons and stockmen were out in the camps mustering cattle. At the end of each working day, the ‘chatter session’ began. The loudest person with the strongest radio won the day. I learnt to follow the thread of one conversation while several others were going at the same time.
We heard about rainfall, cattle prices, how mustering was going and who was where. If one station was having trouble hearing prices from the sale of their cattle, a stronger station would relay the message. On weekends, everyone enjoyed more leisurely chats with friends.
Each morning at 8 a.m. the RFDS dedicated half an hour to routine medical queries or advice. People would call in and join the list to speak with the doctor. If the medical condition was at all sensitive, we had to remember that everyone could hear. Too bad! We were very grateful to have this wonderful service.
Every station was supplied with a free medical chest that contained an amazing assortment of supplies. It was the station-owners’ responsibility to keep the contents replenished and up to date. For an infection, the doctor might advise, ‘Bottle number thirty-eight, bottom tray, take one tablet three times a day until all tablets have been taken.’ This system would have made my nursing training very easy. I was pleased to have the medical chest on hand and felt confident I could deal with most situations.
In the event of an after-hours emergency, we would blow a small tin whistle into the microphone. This would set off an alarm at the base. An operator would answer the call for help and, if necessary, put the doctor on the line.
This service was very efficient—except when the weather played havoc with reception, a frequent source of frustration for the operators and for us.
The entire eighteen years we lived at McAllister, the two-way radio was our only means of instant communication with the outside world. Later there were some upgrades and improvements, but nothing solved the problem of weather conditions and reception.
Our working life continued to be full: fencing, grading, carting water and firewood, mustering, welding, driv
ing to Inverleigh to collect mail, in between the domestic essentials. Life was never dull.
What a far cry from the previous year when I’d explored the treasures of London, then Scotland with its heath-covered mountains, Scandinavia, the land of the midnight sun, East Germany and Morocco. I met incredible people and learnt so much about culture, history and architecture. Yet here I was in the middle of the Australian outback and loving it. Rick had proposed, and McAllister was now my home, so it was a good thing that I didn’t want to leave—and I was relieved we didn’t have 24-hour daylight!
Rick and Paul were busy building horse yards. I bravely offered to drive to the Beef Road on my own and collect supplies of fresh food. The men accepted my offer gratefully, as they were keen to continue their work. On my way back, fifteen kilometres from home, I stopped to check the water supply at Corella Dam. When I tried to start the Toyota, it refused to go. After several attempts, aware I could flatten the battery or flood the motor, I gave up.
I set off on foot with my water bottle. I was thoroughly enjoying the walk in the solitude of the bush until I heard strange noises behind me. I whirled around. Nothing.
I continued walking. I heard the noises again. I began to feel uneasy, certain I was being followed. I told myself it was my imagination playing tricks.
Then I saw them. A pack of dingoes, stalking me! I counted six of various sizes and gulped my fear down. I increased my pace and began to sing at the top of my lungs. They followed stealthily.