Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  To divert my mind from the threat, I began to plan my wedding—and my wedding dress.

  I arrived home several hours later.

  ‘What’s happened to the Toyota?’ was Rick’s first question.

  I’d been away nearly all day. I thought he’d be worried about me.

  ‘I couldn’t start it at Corella,’ I explained breathlessly. ‘I’ve been walking for hours. I’ve been stalked by a pack of dingoes.’

  ‘Oh well, you’re okay and the Toyota’s okay. We’ll go get it now.’

  I felt deflated. The boys were very nonchalant about my distress.

  But I’d managed to design my wedding dress. It had been a nerve-racking day, but at least it was productive.

  6

  Setting Up

  Rick and Paul had been slowly acquiring a number of breeding stock from various areas in northern Queensland. I was fascinated to learn so much about cattle.

  I had an excellent teacher in Rick. Each time we rode out, he quizzed me on the different grasses and trees, then the brands and earmarks of the cattle we’d purchased. At one stage we had thirty-six different brands and I quickly learnt them all.

  By May 1969, we had enough cattle to do a muster. Our small team was helped by Joe, his two young children and governess.

  This was another learning curve for me. The monstrous wooden gates in the old timber yards were very heavy—to see two little kids pushing with all their might to block a beast or allow one to pass through was amazing. It was almost like watching a movie in slow motion, but the children never faltered.

  We put the grand total of 511 cows and heifers into our bullock paddock and branded 147 calves. At this early stage, in the absence of a branding cradle, it was necessary to rope the calves to brand and castrate them on the ground. This method was called ‘broncoing’. I felt a great sense of pride that our cattle numbers were gradually increasing. It gave me a sense of ownership: I’d been here from the beginning.

  Since my arrival, I’d insisted on having Sundays off. I felt strongly that we all required a rest. Plus, Rick and I needed some time together, and Paul some time without us. Yet, oddly, the three of us often became bored on Sundays and would saddle up the horses and ride out to check the cattle. Just for something different to do.

  ‘Tender mustering’ was another foreign term to me. Bush etiquette required us to inform neighbouring stations—by telegram, in our case—when we were about to muster adjoining paddocks. Neighbours chose whether they would send a ringer (stockman) to attend the muster and draft out their cattle for collection. During the wet season, fences were frequently washed away. Cattle chase water and sweet grass, roaming freely, so having a neighbouring stockman attend the muster meant the animals were returned to their rightful owners.

  Joe had sent two of his stockmen over for our first big muster. I was introduced to Podge and Dick, Aboriginal men who greeted me warmly. Dressed in jeans, flannelette shirts, Cuban-heeled boots and the traditional battered akubras, they sat easily on their mounts, slightly slouched, legs long in the stirrups, reins loosely hanging around the horses’ necks while they nonchalantly rolled a smoke. The horses looked to be half asleep.

  I, on the other hand, was sitting upright, leaning forward in the saddle, reins pulled to hold Roger, who was champing at the bit, sensing my anxiety. Rick and Paul had already disappeared into the never-never.

  ‘I’m new and don’t really know what to do,’ I said—as if Podge and Dick hadn’t realised that.

  ‘You be ’right, missus. We look after you.’

  I put my trust in these wise men of the bush.

  So I set off with the stockmen, who gave me a general plan of the way the muster would work. I hoped and prayed that I would survive the day and not stuff up. I was off into the unknown.

  Riding out, we came across a small group of cattle that I tailed while the stockmen rode away to collect more small mobs and bring them to the main mob. I diligently kept my ever-increasing mob together, heading in the direction I’d been given.

  It was such a relief every time one of the stockmen appeared, but then they left me again, alone and vulnerable in a paddock of huge proportions. I felt very responsible.

  Podge and Dick seemed to know instinctively when I was in trouble with my mob. They would materialise through the scrub just in time to save the situation, then quietly disappear.

  At the end of the long, hot and dusty day, I emerged through the scrub thankful to see the big timber yards, our destination. There was Podge, waiting with the gate open. As the final beast went through, he grinned at me, flashing his white teeth, and said, ‘You did it, missus.’

  My reward: a huge drink of water and a pat on the back from Rick and Paul.

  ‘Thank you, Podge and Dick, for helping me,’ I told them.

  ‘You did good, missus.’

  Not only were Podge and Dick superb stockmen, they were also kind and supportive. I was grateful to have spent the day with these gentle men.

  Our next project was the construction of a new loading ramp in the laneway in front of the shed. Rick and Paul put the welder into action, and I grew to loathe its harsh sound. Over many days, for hours on end, the unbearable noise took away the solitude of the bush. It drove me to distraction.

  During the construction of the ramp, my job was to paint the recently welded rails silver. While the men were busy welding and constructing, I was in hot pursuit with the paintbrush, determined not to be late for my cold beer at the end of the day. However, the paint was boiling because the welds were still hot.

  ‘Hey, mate, slow down, let the welds cool,’ Paul called back to me.

  I’d have to wait a little longer for my beer.

  My dislike of the welder increased one day when Rick called out, ‘Hey, mate, can you hold this rail while I weld it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied cheerfully, then, ‘Aaah! Stop! Stop!’ I screamed as thirty-two volts went through my body.

  When he’d started to weld, Rick had failed to earth. I was the earth and not amused.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he gasped between fits of laughter.

  ‘Not funny,’ I muttered. I returned to the safer pursuit of painting.

  The Cloncurry Cattle Sale was looming and pressure was on us to build a calf-branding cradle within the big old wooden yards. This entailed more welding with the noisy monster, and more silver painting for me, although I was now more cautious about holding any pieces of steel for Rick.

  When it was finished, we were very pleased with our Morrissey branding cradle, which looked so out of place with its glimmering silver surface amid the ancient rails and posts of the yards—however, it didn’t take long before it blended in.

  On the seventh of June, we began mustering cattle for the sale. With great anticipation, we loaded forty-six bullocks and followed the road train in our Toyota.

  We sold all our beautiful bullocks that day, and the Dalgety agent told us we had the best finished cattle in the sale, meaning the bullocks were in perfect condition for the buyers’ needs. We averaged $109 per head.

  I felt so proud of our first load of cattle to be sold.

  We needed more sand and gravel, and the nearest supply, Joe informed us, was at Floraville Station on the Leichhardt River near Burketown. I looked forward to visiting this small town with a lot of character.

  Our first mandatory stop was the pub, where I was introduced to the skilful game of ‘rolling the coin’: the winner was able to roll the coin so it stood up against the bar. The locals enjoyed watching some raw newcomers have a go. I managed a couple of good rolls, even beating Rick and Paul, which had the locals encouraging me. ‘Good on ya, girlie,’ they chorused. Needless to say, we weren’t the overall winners, but we left vowing to practise in our shed and compete at a later date.

  After closing time we set off to camp by the Leichhardt River, not too close to the edge as huge saltwater crocodiles reside in its waters.

  The next morning, after unsuccessfully tr
ying to catch some crayfish, we proceeded to Floraville to collect our load of sand and gravel, and also to inspect some bulls.

  The owners, Walter and Lenore Camp, entertained us for hours with stories of their time in the Northern Territory and Gulf Country. They were true bushies. Lenore was a mother hen, warm and affectionate with a ready, throaty laugh; wiping her hands on her apron, she produced fresh scones and strong, black tea. Walter was more reserved, a short man who viewed us with some suspicion and cynicism. ‘City slickers,’ I could almost hear him mutter. However, as we asked him questions and listened to his tales, Walter relaxed. We seemed to have passed the test.

  Nothing was too much trouble to the Camps. Their children were wild, robust, confident kids, peering at us with curiosity from under enormous akubras that covered unruly hair. They wore hand-me-downs and their feet were bare. Their existence was wild and happy—they were ‘free-range kids’ who took responsibility for their station’s many domestic animals, including a large herd of angora goats. I loved these pretty animals and asked if we could buy some. The children were in charge of negotiations, and we settled on a bucket of ice-cream plus $10 cash per head. It was a deal. We shook hands.

  I’d noticed that children were often the willing workforce on family-owned stations. Trying to entice them into the classroom for correspondence, however, seemed to be another matter.

  A large plant of horses caught my attention.

  ‘Can Jen ride?’ Walter asked Rick.

  ‘A bit,’ he replied.

  I admit to feeling rather offended. I thought I’d done quite well hanging on to my trusty steeds for long days of mustering. Later, when we were alone, I challenged Rick. ‘What did you mean I can only ride a bit?’

  ‘Because, Jen,’ he explained patiently, ‘you never say you can ride in this country or they’ll put you on the worst buckjumpers.’ Another valuable lesson.

  During our hugely entertaining and happy day at Floraville, we acquired our building materials, along with seven angora goats and four unbroken colts (we were to pay for two of them by returning the other two in twelve months when they were broken in). We also acquired fourteen bulls, with payment due in six months. We all shook hands on the deal. This was a very generous offer to help us get a start.

  As we were leaving, Walter leant across to Rick, looked him in the eye and said, very slowly and clearly, ‘It’s a brave man who niffers with old Nick…’ (And there was to be no doubt that ‘Nick’ was Walter.) We paid him as soon as we had the funds. We were not going to niffer with old Nick.

  Back at McAllister, I ushered the goats into their hastily constructed pen. Walter and the children had advised me to keep them locked up for several days to let them get used to their new home. The first morning I let them out to wander, I was rather anxious. When the time came for me to lock them up for the night, there wasn’t hide nor hair of a goat. The next morning we set out to search for our little herd. We found them eventually—all safe and well—and lured them home. After that, no more trouble. Our goats happily returned to their pen, safe from dingoes.

  It wasn’t long before the goat population exploded, with each nanny having three to four kids. The new arrivals were so cute that our original plan to eat them vanished from our minds. Their antics kept the three of us amused—one morning I discovered a kid sitting in the driver’s seat of the LandCruiser.

  Paul and Rick finally finished building our horse yards, which were situated in front of the homestead site. They then added a saddle shed to house our riding equipment, tack and horse feed.

  The yards made life much easier. Our previous arrangement for catching the horses had consisted of a fenced-off corner at L-Creek Bore, with a wing to guide the reluctant animals into the makeshift yard. When we had drafted off the horse to be ridden for the day, one of us putting on the bridle while the other two held the other horses. Some of the horses had been difficult to catch, testing our patience first thing in the morning.

  In the workshop area of the machinery shed, I was amazed by the sight of the big leather hides being turned into hobble straps and bridles. Rick taught me how to make my own bridle, and I was very proud of my first handmade attempt with its plaited headband. I’m sure Roger’s self-esteem went up when I put my magnificent piece of work on his head.

  I was finding strengths in my character I hadn’t realised I possessed. I really enjoyed the tough but rewarding work in a male-dominated world. I was feeling more at home and confident.

  And then we had our first visitors.

  Rick’s parents arrived on the Bush Pilots Airways plane from Sydney, via Cairns to Normanton. Rick and I were ordering our supplies in Burns Philp, the enormous general store, confident we would hear their plane fly over and get to the airport on time.

  All of a sudden, a booming voice called out, ‘Rick Old, where are you? Your parents are here.’

  Beryl Raisin and her husband, Jacko, owned the local taxi service. Beryl was a very ample and formidable lady, and at first Rick and I were in awe of her abrupt manner, but we were soon to understand what a generous and wonderful woman she was. She had rescued Poppy and Trenham, who had been waiting patiently at the airport for us.

  I was late to meet my future in-laws on their first visit—not a good start. Rick and I hurried over, apologising profusely.

  Poppy looked me up and down. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  When I’d arrived home from my overseas trip considerably heavier, neither Rick nor his family had been impressed.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered my formidable mother-in-law to be, ‘it’s easy to lose weight when you’ve been working as hard as I have without pay.’

  We drove home in the LandCruiser, and I happily volunteered to sit in the back.

  I was nervous about the visit. Rick’s mother was an elegant lady from the North Shore of Sydney: petite, beautiful and always immaculately dressed. How would she cope for three weeks without a visit to the hairdresser, I wondered? I felt gawky and awkward in her presence at this early stage. We were very different, and I had doubts about how she would adapt to McAllister. On the other hand, I knew Trenham would fit in easily. He had taken an avid interest in the process of Rick’s investment.

  Poppy surprised me. Like Trenham, she looked on everything as a new adventure. Rick and I had fun driving them around the property, showing them the cattle and the improvements we’d made. Poppy embraced the lack of convenience and the unfamiliar environment, while still managing to look elegant in outfits and shoes that were maybe a little outdated for Sydney. She was terrific, and I thoroughly enjoyed sharing this time with her.

  She and Trenham slept in an old double bed on a tarpaulin under an overhang of the machinery shed. One morning, she sought our help to identify an animal that had left odd footprints in the sand around their bed. The prints turned out to be little craters left by her high heels.

  I’d been living in a time bubble. I knew I had to return to Sydney to plan our wedding and earn some money. We decided I would go back with Rick’s parents and stay with them until a venue had been booked. Mum would come up to finalise plans, then she and I would head home to Lauriston, and I would work at the Deniliquin Base Hospital.

  I’d always imagined that being engaged must be the most exciting and wonderful time of one’s life, with parties to throw and lots of fun planning the wedding. But my experience was rather different to what I’d envisaged: Rick and I were to be apart for our entire engagement, aside from him making one brief visit for the announcement. I would attend most of our celebrations without my fiancé. I’d miss him dreadfully.

  The day before my departure arrived too quickly. We decided to visit Karumba, a fishing village on the Gulf of Carpentaria known for its prawns and only an hour’s drive from the Normanton airport. Rick drove us there, his parents in the front, Paul and me in the back on the old car seat. We enjoyed a superb dinner of fresh seafood at the Lodge and a nightcap in the Animal Bar, where the local prawn-trawler crews celebrated a goo
d catch. The tables and stools were all bolted to the concrete floor in the event that celebrations became too rowdy, which they often did.

  When I boarded the plane the next day with my future in-laws, my mood wasn’t the sunniest. We’d met two attractive English backpackers at the Animal Bar, and to my chagrin Rick had invited them to return to McAllister with him and Paul. I was happy for Paul, but I hoped Rick would remain true. After waving us goodbye, they were off to the Normanton Races.

  As we disembarked in Sydney, the air hostess stopped the lady in front of me and commented on her lovely rings. I was wearing my wire ring, so I asked, ‘Would you like to see my special engagement ring?’

  I felt a prod in my back. ‘Jenny, there is a time and place for everything,’ said Poppy, who wasn’t amused.

  The next morning I was whisked into Hardy Brothers Jewellers to select my engagement ring setting. Poppy mentioned that Rick had a diamond that had belonged to his grandmother. I was thrilled but had no idea of the size or style of the diamond, and Poppy didn’t offer any details. I selected a simple setting that would be suitable for any style, and thankfully my mother-in-law was happy with it.

  I was surprised to find I was quite disinterested in the whole process, no doubt because Rick was missing. My wire ring held more meaning to me than this one.

  Poppy was determined to have a real diamond on my finger as soon as possible, and I was just as determined to wear my wire ring, which had polished to a lovely silver. However, when the day came for me to collect my ‘real’ ring and I saw the solitaire diamond, its beauty won me over. Since then, my wire ring has lived in its own velvet box, and it’s still very special to me—one of my most treasured possessions.

  Once I had the diamond ring, my thoughts turned to planning my wedding and then returning to my new home as soon as possible.

  I stayed with Poppy and Trenham for ten days. After my life of freedom in the bush, au naturel, it was surreal to find myself back in luxurious surroundings, having to dress elegantly, with my make-up and hair done each day.