Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  He listened to my story. No house. No phone. Life on the Ridge with two men, et cetera. My new doctor barely raised an eyebrow—although I didn’t tell him we had no money, or he might have turned me out there and then.

  ‘Do you have a set of bathroom scales?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I can buy some today,’ I replied, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘I only allow my ladies to put on one to two kilograms per month.’

  Even after hearing my story, he insisted I return every month for my check-up over the following three months, then fortnightly until I moved to Mount Isa for weekly visits.

  ‘Don’t you realise it’s an 830-kilometre round trip, and we have to muster cattle and build a house? Can’t I go to the flying doctor clinic?’ I pleaded.

  ‘If I’m responsible for your health and the health of your baby, I need to see you at these times,’ Dr McAdam answered sternly. It was non-negotiable. He declared my health to be excellent and echoed Dr O’Leary’s comment: ‘You have a beautiful pelvis.’

  I left his surgery with a sense of security, certain that this was the right person to deliver my baby.

  After a quick tour of Mount Isa, Dee and I retired to the air-conditioned motel to continue catching up on long-overdue news. Our friendship was one of mutual trust: she was the person I could share my worries and concerns with. I had so many questions about babies, childbirth and pregnancy. I felt overwhelmed by future responsibilities and the pitfalls of my home’s remoteness. The very thought of the travelling and discomfort involved, and having to find somewhere to stay in Mount Isa for three months away from Rick, all seemed too much to think about. Dee couldn’t offer solutions either. If only she lived nearby.

  We departed Mount Isa for the dreaded drive home, but Rick decided we would break the journey and stay overnight at Melinda Downs, so Dee could meet Rowan and Judy. Once again, our news was met with incredulous looks before the usual ‘Congratulations, very exciting, how are you feeling?’ comments, but I could see by their expressions they were thinking, Oh dear…what on earth are they going to do?

  I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to go to bed and sleep and forget about unsealed roads, morning (all-day) sickness, childbirth and babies. It was all too much to deal with.

  As I drifted off to sleep I could hear the hilarity as the others enjoyed red wine, stories and lots of laughter over dinner. Rowan and Judy were always ready for a party despite working extremely hard; their spontaneity, sense of humour and laid-back style of entertaining made it easy to relax and enjoy their effervescent company. One never knew what or when dinner would be served, but that was irrelevant. I envied their easygoing outlook and wished I could ‘go with the flow’ more easily. Dee was appreciating this great family, and they were certainly relishing her company.

  They don’t have a worry in the world, I thought grimly.

  Another of my close nursing friends was about to arrive: Jude sent a telegram informing us she was on her way. Like Dee, Jude was an accomplished rider; Jude and Dee had grown up together outside Melbourne, sharing a love of the bush and horses. Jude was one of the easiest people to know. She was very beautiful, but totally unaffected by the effect she had on people. Men were entranced by her beauty and easy, happy disposition. She wore her soft brown hair long, often tied into a ponytail.

  ‘She’ll be really useful for mustering,’ Rick and Paul agreed.

  Paul had recently met a local girl who visited on the weekends. Rhonda was a true daughter of the Gulf, having been raised on a station north of Normanton and attended boarding school in Townsville. Her father was the Carpentaria Shire chairman.

  All of a sudden I had plenty of female company on the Ridge, which I was determined to enjoy while it lasted. We were fortunate to have a Rhonda in our midst to help us navigate through local customs.

  Jude and Dee spent their days with the men doing cattle work, and I cherished every minute I could spend with them. Dinnertime was stimulating with great conversation and was often followed by very competitive games of Scrabble.

  One morning, Jude returned from the drop-through loo looking a little distracted. ‘I’ve been bitten on the bottom by a redback spider.’

  My nursing training kicked into gear, focusing first on reassuring the patient and then on ensuring the patient had privacy. I sat Jude down and offered her a cup of tea (reassure the patient). There were no problems with privacy out here.

  The female redback is the nasty one, so we desperately hoped she’d been bitten by a male. I held Jude’s pulse and stared at her, watching for any reaction. She sipped her tea anxiously. After thirty minutes, she declared she was tired of my constant scrutiny, and we decided the spider had been a male with just a red lump as evidence.

  ‘What if it had been a female?’ Jude asked plaintively.

  ‘I would’ve called the flying doctor.’

  ‘And if they hadn’t arrived on time?’

  ‘We would’ve had to dig a deep hole and hide the evidence,’ I replied solemnly.

  Feeling great relief, we dissolved in fits of the giggles.

  ‘Bugger the tea, let’s have a wine.’

  With the efficient help of my friends, our fat cattle were ready for the Cloncurry sale. This was going to be goodbye to my dear mates.

  We called in at Melinda Downs to find Rowan attempting to pull a fully loaded three-dog road train with his very ancient John Brown tractor. The road train had broken down. Rowan was determined to get his cattle to the sale, but his efforts were proving unsuccessful.

  He put his little tractor on full throttle and called out to the truck driver, ‘S- s-s-see y-y-you in the C-c-curry, Charlie!’

  With that the tractor’s front wheels reared up, and Rowan had to reluctantly admit defeat. He and Judy, like us, had begun life in the Gulf with second-hand and inefficient machinery due to the expense of setting up a station from scratch.

  We waved Rowan goodbye and continued on to Cloncurry—where, hopefully, our cattle were already unloaded.

  Rowan arrived later having missed the official sale, but he was still able to sell his cattle, making the top price for the day.

  ‘Come on, everybody, to the Royal Hotel to celebrate!’

  Rowan’s party also served as a farewell for Dee and Jude, who had won many hearts in the North. Following a lot of celebratory beers, a large group gathered in a backroom to play poker. Dee and Rowan found themselves behind the bar serving customers, which allowed the publican to join our game.

  Without warning, two khaki-clad men came through the door and demanded—in very authoritative voices—to know what we were doing.

  ‘Playing cards,’ we replied.

  ‘Are you playing for money?’

  ‘No,’ the publican replied, ‘for matchsticks,’ pointing to the matchboxes on the table. This was true, but we intended to convert matches to money at the end of the game.

  I had no idea these two men were policemen, not recognising the uniforms. Nor did Jude, as she was counting matches methodically and said, ‘Someone owes me twenty-six dollars.’

  The long arm of the law saw through us. We were threatened with arrest for illegally gambling in licensed premises.

  Dee and Rowan had overheard the conversation and fled into the coldroom: ‘I-f-f-f…a-a-a-anyone…c-c-c-comes i-i-in, j-j-just t-tell them w-w-we are s-s-stocktaking!’

  At 1 a.m.?

  Meanwhile, we criminals were lined up outside the hotel, feeling rather subdued, when a scuffle broke out with a drunken group. One of the police officers had his hat knocked off. He forgot about us, and we all made a speedy getaway, leaving Dee and Rowan to continue their stocktake! Two very cold individuals finally emerged when the coast was clear.

  It was a grand finale for Dee and Jude, and thankfully it didn’t include a night in the watch house.

  The next morning Paul, Rick and I waved goodbye to my dear friends. We’d loved their company and I was so grateful they had taken
time away from their work to spend four weeks with me. I would miss them terribly.

  Many more visitors were to follow. I had no inkling of how many.

  Poppy and Trenham were amazed at our progress since their last visit. I’m sure they were still concerned that my pregnancy was progressing at a faster rate than the house, but they didn’t say so.

  They’d brought their close friend Bren Littlejohn. When Rick was ten years old and suffering severe asthma, his parents sent him to live for a year with Bren on her property near Barraba in north-eastern New South Wales. The change of environment improved his health quickly, and his time with Bren gave Rick his love of the land. I soon understood why he adored her: a tall, wiry and fiercely independent country lady, she was very outspoken, yet warm with a wonderful sense of humour. I connected with her immediately.

  Poppy and Trenham were delighted to have a bedroom in the Gidyea Hut, a step up from the bed under an overhang of the shed. Bren was very happy to take that bed, our only other guest accommodation.

  Bren offered welcome advice to me on establishing a vegetable garden. We collected manure, planted seeds in long drills, covered them with finely crushed manure then watered them three times a day. In three days the seedlings appeared, and in no time they were ready for transplanting. Bren helped me through this step in the cool of the evening. The next morning, I covered the seedlings with hessian to protect them from the harsh sun until they were established. The young plants grew rapidly in the ideal conditions, and we were soon able to enjoy the harvest of fresh vegetables.

  One morning while we were having breakfast, Rick asked, ‘Bren, would you like a ride?’

  ‘Of course I would, as long as the horse is reliable. I’m not as young as I used to be!’

  ‘We have a bull in the weaner paddock—I’d like you and Jen to find it and bring it back to the yards.’

  So, an elderly grandmother and a pregnant lady set off to find a bull, which we did successfully, returning it to its rightful paddock. We had a wonderful day together, and I was grateful for her wise counsel about life in the bush, men and marriage.

  I missed this wonderful, feisty lady when she returned to Sydney. She reminded me so much of my own mother, whom I longed to see dreadfully.

  It was astonishing how people found us. We had no sign on the Beef Road, and our track had washouts and many gates. But find us they did. We were to have a steady stream of visitors from April until September, when I left for Mount Isa to have the baby. In fact, we only had three nights without guests during that period.

  Many of them were unknown to us, having heard about us from mutual friends. Many were interesting and good fun and joined in the work with gusto. Many stayed too long, sometimes several weeks. Naturally, it fell to me to cook for and look after them. I was still cooking on the 44-gallon drum and the mud oven; on many occasions I had to depart the kitchen quickly as nausea overwhelmed me.

  One day a tall, handsome Texan arrived. He had heard about this crazy mob at McAllister and wanted to meet us and see for himself what we were doing. Being from a ranch, he was very willing to help with the mustering and cattle work. His visit was a pleasure, and I couldn’t help admiring his beautiful, carved, high Texan boots.

  When he’d gone, we received a letter with a map of Australia drawn on the envelope, a mark where McAllister was situated, and ‘Rick and Jenny’ written beside it. Somehow this letter had found us!

  The Texan asked us to check our mailbox on the Beef Road, forty kilometres away. When we finally had time to drive there and investigate, we found a large parcel addressed to me. Inside were his top boots with a message of thanks for our hospitality. I felt pretty special in those boots.

  To have visitors arrive without warning was normal: the two-way radio and telegrams were our only means of communication, and sometimes we would go days without calling in. However, most of our guests didn’t send a telegram, using the excuse: ‘We couldn’t let you know we were coming as you don’t have a phone.’

  Two very attractive young women with their male friend arrived one evening. They were theatre people who had been visiting Brunette Downs in the Northern Territory and had heard about us—it seemed we’d become quite a curiosity to the district. We were thrilled this trio had decided to drop by.

  Paul had produced one of his specialities, suckling pig on a spit. The two gorgeous ladies appeared in little black dresses, lifting the standards on the Ridge.

  Rick was unable to join us for this memorable evening, as he’d been quite ill with flu for a week and confined to the top of the Gidyea Hut.

  While we were fine dining, the unexpected sound of ‘Golden Wedding’ floated towards us on the night air.

  ‘What is that?’ one of the women asked.

  ‘Sounds like a clarinet,’ I replied, not quite believing what I was hearing.

  We looked toward the sound. The outside fluorescent lights on the hut were blazing and there, sitting on the bed in the nude, was Rick. He was playing a clarinet.

  ‘I didn’t know Rick played the clarinet,’ said Paul.

  ‘Nor did I,’ I replied, though I recalled a black case he had carried with him, which lived in the bottom of a cupboard. I’d never investigated the contents, but I recalled hearing of ‘jam sessions’ when he was at school.

  Rick was obviously recovering from his debilitating flu. Our guests were very impressed with the entertainment.

  My parents made their first visit. Excited and anxious, I longed to see them and show them my home, although I wondered what they would think. Would they be horrified by how primitive it was?

  But I thought Mum would understand. When she married my father, she had to leave Sydney—the beaches she loved, and her home in the beautiful Blue Mountains—to move to Deniliquin, which was in drought. My parents built their house in wartime with limited materials. For a year they lived with Dad’s parents while waiting for their new home to be built. When it was finally completed, my mother established a gorgeous garden and lovely place for us all to enjoy.

  Because I came from pioneering stock, Mum would understand my primitive conditions, I told myself. In her time, my grandmother was a pioneer of the Blue Mountains as well.

  I needn’t have worried. My wonderful parents loved the Gidyea Hut, were enthusiastic about everything and settled in beautifully. Their car came loaded with goodies: fruitcakes, preserves, fresh fruit and vegetables, wine, nuts, bread and dark chocolate. ‘I had a huge cauliflower for you, Rick, but it turned into mush at Julia Creek,’ my poor mother had to admit. She was devastated it hadn’t made it, as cauliflower is Rick’s favourite vegetable: the three-day trek was just too far. Rick appreciated the effort.

  My parents were excited to see the evidence that they were to be grandparents for the first time. My belly was growing, and I now had to tie my jeans up with binder twine. (What would we have done without binder twine?)

  Dad was soon on the bricklaying team. Being a big, strong man of the land, he was prepared to be involved with whatever was on hand. I don’t think he’d ever had such variety before—brickmaking was something quite new. Meanwhile, Mum helped me with everything, except the cooking; she wasn’t impressed with the mud oven and stove. She loved the weather, having left the cold grey winter of Deniliquin. I was delighted they had embraced my new home and life.

  During their visit we drove to Karumba to enjoy the delicious Gulf prawns. I can still see my mother sitting on a stool in the Animal Bar, chatting to prawning skippers and deckhands.

  The time passed too quickly and I was soon waving them off. I never became accustomed to saying goodbye to my parents. I wept when they disappeared over the Ridge. Suddenly I felt very fragile and vulnerable. I was pregnant and isolated. Sometimes a girl just wants her mum, and this was one of those times.

  Mum and Dad never offered advice or interfered in any way. They never suggested I return to Deniliquin to have my baby, and the thought didn’t occur to me. Looking back, I wish it had: I would h
ave had a much happier experience with family support.

  11

  Friends, Neighbours and Shareholders

  The Rotary Ball in Cloncurry was one of the biggest social events of the year. There was great excitement on the Ridge.

  ‘Where on earth is my dinner suit?’ ‘Where are my black shoes?’ ‘Do we have an iron?’ came the calls.

  We managed to find the appropriate apparel. I washed the shirts and pressed them with a funny old iron that distressed the generator. I polished the boots. Then it was my turn to dig deep and find some finery. My slightly larger waist could have been a problem—however, thanks to the strict diet regime of Dr McAdam, I was able to fit into an evening gown.

  We booked a room at the Cloncurry Motel. Ah, the luxury of a long, hot shower and air-conditioning.

  It was fun to dress up. We congratulated each other on our classy appearance: ‘Wow, we scrub up well!’ Although having spent so much time in my good old R.M. Williams boots, I tottered uncomfortably in high-heeled sandals.

  We had a great time meeting many new people, most significantly Chris and Don McDonald. Another Don McDonald! I was instantly drawn to the couple, and by the end of the night I felt we’d known each other forever. Tall, handsome Don welcomed us and introduced us to other guests, while Chris and I instantly connected: she was interesting and knowledgeable, stimulating company, a genuine person I knew I could trust.

  Chris was glowing with happiness, and I was soon to hear the reason why—they were the proud parents of a six-month-old daughter. A new friend with a baby. I had so many questions. ‘Please, could I meet Susie?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know anything about babies and I need help.’ We met her the next morning and fell for her charms: what a beautiful little girl, with a mass of curly black hair and huge green eyes. Maybe babies were all right after all.

  Meeting Chris and Don was life-changing. They lived on Brightlands Station, south of Cloncurry, and invited us to stay with them to break the journey to Mount Isa for my monthly doctor visits. We gratefully accepted, relieved to know we had Melinda and Brightlands as welcome breaks. And I knew I had found my soul mate in Chris.