by Jenny Old
‘No,’ Rick reassured me, ‘it will pass. It’s only one little cloud.’
That one little cloud dumped heavy rain over our handiwork. We scrambled for tarpaulins but were too late—the bricks disintegrated in front of our eyes.
Characteristically, Paul and Rick responded by putting the entire mix through the machines again to produce another hundred and fifty.
But sometimes Murphy really has a set on people, and it was obviously our turn: another rainstorm came by. We did manage to save most of the bricks this time.
‘Wow, that was quite a day!’ said Paul.
Making bricks was to become a fill-in job, always tackled first thing in the morning before the storms. Our stockpile slowly grew, and we were turning out better-looking bricks. It was a bit like my breadmaking: practice makes perfect.
Our complex on the Ridge grew with the addition of a chook pen inhabited by one bantam rooster and three elegant little bantam hens given to Paul by a neighbour. The hens were named Faith, Hope and Charity, and we enjoyed their fresh eggs. The rooster was called Superdick.
The horse yards were complete, and the pigs were happily breeding in their smart pen. Now we were enjoying pork dinners, a nice change from beef. Paul made a spectacular suckling pig, slowly cooked on a rotisserie that he had invented for the top of the 44-gallon drum. The pig was served on a large board placed on our table with an apple in its mouth and golden crackling that begged to be torn apart Tom Jones-style.
I was desperate to plant fruit trees and vegetables as soon as possible. During the wet season it was impossible to get fresh supplies, and we were all tiring of the tinned options. I was to learn that it’s also impossible to grow vegies in the humid conditions of the wet: the grubs and bugs had a field day, and my efforts failed miserably. However, I was able to plant pawpaw, mango, orange, lime, cumquat, grapefruit and lemon trees—I was determined we weren’t going to suffer from scurvy. And my poincianas and golden shower trees encouraged me to continue with my gardening endeavours.
Paul, Rick and I were hard at work on Gidyea Hut. They gave it a genuine log cabin aesthetic by fitting external timber, while I made curtains from cream hessian for the upstairs windows. This created a cosy effect—until the wind shredded them in a very short period. Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
We now had a guest or ‘bad weather’ bedroom: a bed under the stairs, next to a wardrobe. Rick’s desk was placed under the window with views across the laneway and horse yards. The fact that I didn’t have a bathroom or kitchen didn’t faze me at all. We managed beautifully between the shed and the Gidyea Hut.
The men built a solid fence around the future house site that enabled me to protect and plant more trees. My lawn was progressing well and required lots of shearing.
The shed was also having a makeover. Rick and Paul installed kitchen cupboards taken from Rick’s family beach house, and they built a large bench for my breadmaking and the two-way radio. Paul built a larger wardrobe, and with a dining table and chairs from Palm Beach, we were very comfortable. However, our wedding presents were still stacked under a tarpaulin in a corner of the shed; I was longing to get into them, but it would obviously be a while before I could unpack them and enjoy the treasures within.
Now that I was proficient with the drum stove and managing to produce a meal without burning it into oblivion, I was promised a mud oven.
‘What on earth is that?’ I asked Rick.
‘Well, we cover a 44-gallon drum with ants’ nest and then you can cook bread and roasts and cakes and all manner of things in it,’ said Rick with his usual bubbling enthusiasm. Another way to use the good old drum. I failed to picture the finished product and couldn’t imagine that cooking in it would be as simple as Rick seemed to think.
I’d been battling with a camp oven for my breadmaking. A camp oven is a large cast-iron cooking pot that’s placed in a hole and covered with hot coals. When successful, this method produces superb stews, roasts and golden crusty bread. The mud oven would be another method for me to learn, but everything involved lighting fires and burning them down to coals, hot and heavy work in the oppressive weather.
My mud oven began to take shape. Rick and Paul made a base from ants’ nest and cement, then added the 44-gallon drum on its side, covered it with the ants’-nest mixture and finished it off with a smooth rendering. They cut a door in the front with a ventilation pipe through the back; we would place a champignon tin over the pipe whenever it was necessary to contain the heat.
To operate this wonderful invention, we’d put firewood in the drum, light it with a splash of diesel, and leave it to burn until the coals were red. We’d then scrape out the majority of the coals into a wheelbarrow. The heat would remain in the oven with the ants’-nest insulation until the bread or roast was cooked to perfection.
Well, theoretically.
Our neighbour Joe informed me, ‘You’ll be able to judge when the temperature is correct for bread or a roast by putting your hand inside…in time.’
That didn’t work for me. A burnt hand was the result of my first attempt.
‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ I asked my mentor.
‘Hold a piece of brown paper inside the oven for fifteen seconds, and if it goes black it’s right for a roast.’
That worked for me, and after some disastrous results I began to have success. In time, I was able to put a large roast in the oven before we went mustering and it would be beautifully cooked and still warm when we returned. The bread took longer to master, but once I had the temperature gauge sorted, the loaves were superb, with a thick golden crust and soft fluffy inside. Yum!
Paul produced fabulous pizzas in the mud oven, but my attempts at cakes and biscuits resulted in burnt offerings. I gave up on them—after all, with hot, crusty bread, who needed cakes and biscuits?
I loved this addition to my kitchen, and even though it was hot, messy and hard work, the results were very satisfying. I have a framed photo of this kitchen that has been proudly displayed in the kitchen of every house I’ve lived in. It’s a reminder of happy and tough times, and for me to appreciate the conveniences I now enjoy. I sometimes felt that my life was based around 44-gallon drums. Where would I be without them?
One day Rick returned from a supply-collecting trip to Normanton with a very self-satisfied look on his face. ‘Guess what I have for you?’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine what treasure you’ve brought me from Normanton,’ I replied without enthusiasm.
‘I got you an automatic washing machine,’ he replied smugly.
Please forgive my cynicism, but Normanton didn’t have a Harvey Norman or the like—and, just a minor detail, our generator could barely power our lights, so how was it going to deal with an automatic washing machine?
Rick showed no sign of noticing my scepticism and proceeded to unload his treasure, finally admitting he’d found it at the dump.
‘Rick, why do you think it was on the dump?’ I ventured.
‘Don’t worry, mate. Whatever’s wrong with it, I’ll be able to get it going.’
So, the washing machine was installed in our lean-to bathroom, hoses attached, generator kicked into life, power plugged in.
The poor generator groaned and objected as the bowl sloshed the clothes around. So far so good. Then the spin cycle started. It whined and spluttered and threw all the clothes out the top.
‘Quick, Jen, put them back and sit on the lid,’ shouted a very excited Rick.
When the generator finally gave up, the water had to be bucketed out of the machine. Automatic? I don’t think so.
Thankfully the washing machine ended up on our dump, where it belonged. I went back to washing by hand.
We were longing for fresh food of any kind. Our daily intake of beef was salted, so whenever the rain eased long enough for us to drive to find a beast to kill, we didn’t miss the opportunity.
Rick always insisted we kill a good beast for our own consumpt
ion. ‘It’s no good being a beef producer and eating second-rate beef ourselves,’ he told me.
I was comfortable with killing for consumption, as throughout my childhood I’d watched my father slaughter sheep. I used to sit on a log and chat to him while he explained the different cuts.
The first night of the kill was considered a treat and tradition. Rick and Paul butchered the meat and placed it on a mat of gum leaves in the LandCruiser tray, taking it back to the shed where it hung overnight. The sight and feel of the warm flesh brought on bouts of nausea in me, and I often had to leave the men to it. They barbecued the ribs and chuck steak, plus the sweetbread, over hot coals while the meat was still warm from the kill. I imagined the chuck steak would be as tough as nails, knowing it was a stewing cut, but it melted in my mouth and the flavour was superb. The giant ribs were utterly delicious. We three ate in silence, devouring the meat with juicy charcoal dripping down our chins. What a treat, and one we would later introduce our visitors to at every opportunity.
We filled our little kerosene fridge with as much beef as we could fit in, then put the remainder in salt brine. I had to learn how to rinse the meat of excess salt before cooking—we had some very salty meals until I mastered this process.
My waist was beginning to disappear and nausea was my constant companion. I knew I should visit a doctor to make sure all was well. Rick and I drove to Normanton for the monthly flying doctor clinic, where I waited in the long queue for my turn.
I walked into the consulting room to a warm greeting with a broad Irish accent. ‘How do you do, Mrs Old, and what can I be doing for you today?’ asked Dr Tim O’Leary.
My pregnancy was confirmed with these words ringing in my ears: ‘What a beautiful pelvis you have, my dear!’ Mum had always maintained I’d be grateful for my wide hips one day. That day had arrived.
Dr O’Leary assured me that I could continue to ride carefully, but…
‘Do not fall off and do not ride next week at the twelve-week mark,’ he warned.
He also made it clear I would have to find a doctor in Mount Isa and arrange to have the baby there. I wasn’t happy I couldn’t continue regular check-ups in Normanton. I understood this wasn’t the role of the flying doctor, but felt overwhelmed with anxiety about how we would manage this pregnancy when travelling 415 kilometres each way to Mount Isa for doctor appointments.
Brushing away all the negative thoughts, Rick and I felt elated that the pregnancy was confirmed and all was well. We would overcome the challenges, somehow.
Our local post office gave us, or me, the exciting news that we were to have our own mail delivery, a continuation of the Inverleigh mail run, every Wednesday, weather dependant. I was ecstatic.
The following Wednesday, Jacko Raisin—husband of Beryl, who had rescued Poppy and Trenham at the Normanton airport—arrived at two-thirty with a big grin and a huge navy-blue mailbag, bulging with letters, out-of-date newspapers, catalogues, magazines and the ever-present bills. After a cup of tea and quick chat, we handed over our mailbag for Jacko to take back to the post office. Wednesday was to be my favourite day of the week.
I tipped all the mail onto the floor and drafted out the letters from family and friends. I was excited to read that Rick’s parents were planning a visit and bringing their friend Brenda Littlejohn. Dee and Jude, two of my closest nursing friends, were also planning a visit. I looked forward to the girls arriving, especially as they had both completed midwifery. Did I have some questions for them!
I’d reached the twelve-week mark, and heeding Dr O’Leary’s advice I announced over breakfast I wouldn’t be riding that week. Paul and Rick exchanged glances.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Jen…today we have to move one thousand head of cattle to another paddock. Couldn’t you come with us and just poke along on the tail of the mob?’
Dr O’Leary had been very clear that I needed to be careful and not risk miscarriage.
But I looked at the two anxious faces waiting for my reply. They would never be able to manage a mob that size on their own.
‘Okay, as long as I can just poke along at the tail. No galloping.’
‘Absolutely not,’ they assured me.
We saddled up and rode off together, collecting the mob on the way. Soon the men had disappeared from sight, leading the huge mob. The Brahmans took to the front. I positioned myself on the tail with the slower Hereford cows and their new calves.
Things began to get out of hand. The cows were desperately trying to head off into the scrub with their calves. I galloped continuously for three hours to herd them together, pushing them along to keep up. I didn’t sight the men, who were having their own problems controlling the lead.
At last the gate appeared. I pushed the final couple of cows and calves through into the holding paddock. I sat for a while taking deep breaths and holding my belly, willing the baby to be all right.
Rick appeared through the dust with a worried expression. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I think so.’ I wasn’t sure how I felt. My legs were like jelly.
He helped me down from the saddle and led me to get my breath under a shady tree while he and Paul finished yarding the cattle.
I’d certainly flaunted the rules, but thankfully this baby was determined to hang on.
10
Playing the Hostess
I could barely contain my excitement: Dee, my dear friend and bridesmaid, was due to arrive.
Dee and I had returned home from our overseas trip together. She had been my friend and confidante for many years, and she shared my deep love of the outback and Queensland, having spent a lot of time at Quilpie where she had many friends and worked at the town hospital. I was thrilled that she was to be my first friend to visit because I knew she would love McAllister, even in its raw state.
Rick and I drove to Normanton Airport in the Toyota with the horse float behind. He had organised to pick up two dairy cows from Forsayth, an old goldmining town and small railhead east of Normanton. ‘Killing two birds with one stone,’ he’d declared.
The plane circled and landed. I was beside myself. There she was. We hugged and laughed and cried at the same time. We didn’t draw breath all the way to Forsayth.
‘Guess what? I’m pregnant,’ I announced.
‘You’re what…?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘But…you don’t have a house…’
‘We have five rows of bricks laid,’ I replied defensively. To hear myself utter the words, I realised how ridiculous it sounded.
Dee settled down once she’d become used to the idea and asked me how I was feeling.
‘Lousy…nauseated all the time,’ I responded morosely.
I was very happy to have my practical, well-trained friend by my side. ‘Okay, Jen, you’ll visit a doctor in Mount Isa soon,’ she told me and Rick in a stern voice.
We agreed meekly. I could see Rick planning in his head the jobs he could do while at Mount Isa.
The train with the dairy cows was running late, so we explored countryside that was very different to McAllister. The hills shimmered with quartz that looked like a million diamonds sparkling in the sunshine. The tall, waving brown grasses contrasted with the blues and purples of the scrubby trees on the hills. I wondered how much gold would still be in those hills.
Finally the train arrived and our two heavily pregnant milking cows stepped down, gratefully ate some hay and had a drink. We loaded them into the horse float and drove carefully through the night, arriving home in the early morning. We named the cows Deidre and Louise after Dee, her full name being Deidre Louise Halliwell.
Dee was a great addition to the Ridge. Stunningly beautiful—tall, dark and willowy—she had a love of the bush and a great sense of humour. She was also an accomplished rider, which meant she immediately replaced me in the mustering team. I was relegated to cooking, and delivering meals and smokos to the yards, plus general domestic duties. However, I sometimes managed
to accompany the riders. My horse, Roger, had an amazing intuition that I was pregnant; he’d often rest his head on my belly and was very patient as I had to dismount on many occasions for the call of nature.
Dee had managed to find a gynaecologist in Mount Isa who had recently delivered a friend’s baby. We made an appointment for the following week.
When the time came, Rick, Dee and I waved goodbye to Paul and set off in the middle of the night to make the Cloncurry Horse Sale on the way to Mount Isa. I straddled the gearstick. The first 295 kilometres on a mainly unsealed and rough road wasn’t a comfortable ride for any of us, and we had to be on constant watch for stray cattle, pigs, kangaroos and emus. However, we talked and sang to pass the time. This was the first of many long and uncomfortable trips to Mount Isa during this pregnancy.
Dee gave me a list of questions for the doctor. I was tired, nauseated and uncomfortable when I was dropped off at his surgery. What a pleasant surprise to walk into a lovely homelike waiting room, with current magazines, cool water and a tea facility. I sank into a beautiful cream leather armchair and settled in for the inevitable wait, but all too soon I was ushered into the consulting room.
I was greeted warmly with a firm handshake. ‘Good morning, Mrs Old, I’m Dr McAdam and I will be looking after you and your baby.’ He was a handsome, suave, well-spoken man with dark hair and eyes—not what I had expected in an outback mining city. Very smooth, but I warmed to his friendly, professional manner. I commented on his lovely rooms and the fact I hadn’t had to wait.
‘I always run to time and never overbook, but I expect my patients to be on time as well,’ he replied in his polished English accent.
I thought to myself, I’ve travelled 415 kilometres and plan to always be on time.
I liked his professionalism and felt I was in good hands. He tried not to show his horror that I’d been driving all night via horse sales in Cloncurry in a less-than-luxurious vehicle to make this appointment on time.