Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  Finally, six weeks after the birth, I could return home. I was ecstatic. We broke the journey at Brightlands for a night. It was always a joy to spend time with Chris and Don, and it gave us the chance to ask more questions about babies and life on a station. Rick was keen to question Don about all aspects of beef production and the North; an experienced cattleman, Don was extremely proactive in the community. Chris, a wise and practical lady, always had a solution to my worries.

  ‘Jen, keep his feet warm, keep socks on him,’ were her final words of advice to me.

  ‘Sure, Chris, but it’s forty degrees outside, I think his feet are warm enough!’

  Melinda Downs was our next welcome break with the Hicksons. Judy Hickson’s attitude and advice were very reassuring, as she’d had four children.

  The final leg home was long, dreadfully hot and uncomfortable. Cousin Judy, Rick and I were a tight fit on the bench seat of the ute. Judy and I had the bassinette on our knees. I was concerned Anthony would become dehydrated, so we stopped at several cattle troughs to wet a sheet and place it over the bassinette. How I missed the comfort of air-conditioning! My poor little baby was going to have to toughen up.

  When we finally drove up to the Ridge, I could barely contain my excitement. Our house looked amazing, and I had a kitchen with cupboards and a roof. The cupboards had no doors and the roof had no ceilings, but it was home and I couldn’t wait to move in.

  Paul and Rhonda were there with a warm welcome, especially for the newest arrival.

  I was so happy to be home with my husband and son, a family at last.

  Our first wedding anniversary was 14 November 1970. That was also the day we moved into our house. The building was still a shell, but we couldn’t wait, and I’m sure Paul and Rhonda were pleased to have their own space after sharing with us and a new baby.

  I set up a table in one of the bedrooms and finally opened some of our wedding gifts, taking out and arranging a lace tablecloth, silver cutlery and crystal wineglasses. I cooked a special meal to celebrate our anniversary and the arrival of our precious son.

  The champagne cork flew up into the roof.

  We had no ceilings and no luxuries like TV, running hot water, a telephone or a washing machine. But after so much time apart, being together was a luxury in itself. And we had the joy of Anthony.

  ‘We are a unit,’ Rick said proudly.

  Quite an achievement for the girl from the Riverina. This was my home and where my heart was.

  I settled into a routine with the help of Judy. Anthony was a contented baby; he didn’t object to being dragged around the countryside in a basket when I needed to go for a drive to check the waters or to help in the cattle yards. He only demanded a regular feed, day and night, so I was becoming used to sleep deprivation. Oh, for an unbroken night and the luxury of a good night’s sleep. The dream of every new mother.

  Paul and Rick continued to work on the house every spare minute. Paul and I soon got tired of Rick constantly singing that he would rather be a hammer than a nail—these being the only words he remembered of Simon & Garfunkel’s famous song, ‘El Condor Pasa (If I Could)’, they were repeated over and over. Finally Paul, in desperation, bought the Simon & Garfunkel record, hoping this might inspire Rick to learn some more lyrics—but no, he continued singing the same words, oblivious to our protests.

  The house now had flyscreens on the windows, essential for keeping out the many irritating insects, especially the tiny black bush flies that covered the back of our shirts and had to be swatted away before we entered the house. They often caused bung-eye, a painful swelling, so I had to keep a fly veil over Anthony’s face. He looked like a little Martian.

  The mosquitoes arrived with the first rain, followed by moths and hundreds of other tiny bugs that pushed through the flyscreen with ease, the worst being the flying ants that dropped their wings everywhere: they would just flutter over my broom like fairy dust. I discovered the way to conquer them was to spray water over the floor before sweeping.

  Rick decided to build a meat-safe cot for Anthony, offering a secure and insect-free environment. My husband could turn his hand to anything, and I knew the large, gauze-covered cot with a folding lid would keep our baby safe and cool for many years.

  Our empty lounge room became Rick’s workshop with benches, planes, drills and other tools. The cot was a magnificent specimen on rollers, allowing it to be easily shifted to catch any breeze. The big day arrived for it to be installed in Anthony’s room.

  It wouldn’t fit through the doorway.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked Rick.

  ‘Resort to Plan B.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘I’m still thinking.’

  I had faith he would find a solution in no time. I was correct.

  Luckily the wall into the lounge room from the baby’s room had a large opening for cross-ventilation. The cot fitted through this space but was never able to be as mobile as its wheels had promised. Although Anthony was a tiny figure in it, he settled in happily, and I was relieved that he was finally safe from insects and spiders.

  Soon after this, Judy returned home. I missed her calm presence very much—now it was up to me to deal with motherhood.

  One of the motions passed at our inaugural AGM was for us to build a house dam for a domestic water supply.

  The shareholders had been a little reticent at this proposal, so Rowan had announced that: ‘Having a garden is the difference between living and existing in this country, and to have a garden, Jen needs water.’

  I’d kissed him. The dam would also put an end to the constant carting of water for our use, a tedious and time-consuming job.

  Now the dam was about to become a reality, and it was urgent that construction be completed before the wet season set in. The pressure was on. And it was an expensive exercise—every hour meant dollars.

  Eddie Phillips, the local dam sinker, worked long shifts to finish the job before the heavens opened. He didn’t want to have his big scraper stuck in the bottom of a boggy hole in the Gulf for the next few months.

  He was able to depart with all his equipment before the big rain. Now it was a waiting game to have a dam full of precious water. Bring it on!

  Just prior to Christmas, I had to return to Mount Isa for a further check-up with Dr McAdam. As usual, we left in the early hours of the morning to arrive in time. Anthony and I were both pronounced to be in excellent health, and we departed for home after a full day’s Christmas shopping.

  Several kilometres along our dirt road to McAllister, we became hopelessly bogged. It was 2 a.m. It had been a huge day and we were both very tired. After several attempts to get out, we decided to wait until daylight.

  We rolled our swag across the bonnet of the ute, out of the mud, and tried to sleep. I put the baby in the cabin seat. It was hot, and the mosquitoes were unbelievable. I have never been so pleased to welcome daylight.

  After we managed to extricate ourselves from the bog, we headed back to the Beef Road, not wishing to face another bog with the baby. We made it to an outstation of Donors Hills, where we sent for Paul via a telegram. Soon enough, he arrived in the trusty Toyota and was able to pull us through the worst bogholes. We were covered in mud and bites and very weary, but happy to be home.

  While the roads were still open several days later, Paul and Rhonda managed to drive out for a well-deserved holiday. We were now three on the Ridge. I was content to remain at home for the duration of the wet season.

  It was vitally important for us to be able to access the flying doctor in case of an emergency. Fortunately, our ironstone ridge was a wonderful foundation for an all-weather airstrip. This gave me great comfort.

  Christmas 1970 was a day of reflection and nostalgia, as we thought of our families far away. Even though I tried to make things festive with a decorated gum tree in a bucket, it didn’t feel like Christmas.

  ‘Next year Anthony will love Christmas, so it will be bett
er,’ Rick assured me, trying to cheer me up.

  The heat meant we couldn’t face traditional fare, so we dined on salad. It was nice to have a day off and be together, but it was certainly not Christmas. We tried hard not to think of the celebrations our families would be enjoying.

  I have to say, we were feeling rather sorry for ourselves when we heard a vehicle approaching. Rushing out to greet the approaching ute, we were astounded to see a skinny little man with a crooked grin pull up and step out.

  ‘Jacko, what are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘It’s Christmas Day!’

  ‘What’s special about today? I would’ve come on mail day, but the roads were blocked. So it’s still mail day, same as any other bloody mail day.’ He handed me two bulging mailbags. ‘Happy Christmas, mate.’

  My hug embarrassed him, but I didn’t care.

  ‘Come inside,’ I offered. ‘Would you like a beer, something to eat?’

  ‘Naw…I’m diabetic and I have to get back before it rains,’ he replied, waving as he hopped into the ute and drove off.

  Jacko knew he’d made our Christmas, and I suspect our pleasure and surprise made his day as well. Thank you, dear Jacko. What a treasure and so typical of the constant kindness offered us by generous locals.

  The day, and our mood, took on a very different meaning. We spent happy hours unwrapping gifts and reading many cards from our families and friends. Now it felt like Christmas.

  Boxing Day was even brighter because the McDonalds arrived in their Cessna, the first plane to land on our airstrip. Rick and I were glad when Don declared our strip safe.

  We proudly showed Chris and Don around our property, carrying our babies with us. The next day we flew in their plane to Wondoola Station for a game of tennis and lunch with Susie and Don Lister. Rick and I were impressed the trip only took fifteen minutes instead of the ninety by car: a plane seemed like it would be a necessity.

  At the end of my first year of living at McAllister, and my first year of marriage, we had a house dam, an airstrip, a growing garden and a partly completed home, along with all the improvements carried out by Paul and Rick. And a new baby.

  I reflected on our year. I’d been stretched to the limit physically and emotionally, way out of my comfort zone and the world as I’d known it. I’d survived in Mount Isa away from Rick, not the happiest time for me. I’d been isolated from my family and forced to do without basic conveniences. Yet how rewarding to have helped with the development of McAllister, which I’d grown to love and call home. I was proud to have coped in this unforgiving country with its wild and untamed beauty.

  The love I had for the life we were building had given me the strength to overcome all the difficulties. I’d gained a much richer lifestyle, and the most fulfilling part of all had been to share the year with my beloved Rick.

  We’d also hosted a multitude of guests. According to our Visitors Book, thirty-two groups stayed with us in 1970. Not bad, considering we didn’t have a house or even a road sign, and I’d been away for nine weeks having a baby. No wonder I was tired.

  It all seemed surreal, but as I looked at our little son asleep in his huge meat-safe cot, I felt very blessed. I was ready to face 1971 with optimism and enthusiasm.

  13

  A Sticky Situation

  The new year arrived with intense heat and no rain. Carting water was still regular and tiring work. We anxiously watched for the first storms, and I continued to dream of a house dam full of water.

  Our days were spent frequently checking the cattle and working on the inside of the house. Apart from our lounge room still being a workshop, things were taking shape: kitchen cupboards, shelving in the storeroom, laundry cupboards, a wall of bookshelves in the lounge room and ceilings throughout the house.

  In between my domestic duties and being a mum, I painted. And painted. I left the bricks their natural grey but everything else I painted white gloss to look fresh and cool.

  At last I had my very own kitchen with a gas stove and refrigerator. I loved the black-and-white colour scheme of the room and felt inspired to cook. I was able to unpack all of our wedding gifts and use the beautiful pieces. I became a domestic goddess, wearing a pretty apron as I prepared a gastronomic feast for dinner—well, that’s how I felt after surviving the 44-gallon drum kitchen I’d lived with for so long.

  The view from my kitchen window was stunning; it looked across at the horse yards and laneway to McAllister Bore, with a line of trees and greenery winding its way to the distant horizon. In time, I’d come to love watching the horses being yarded for the day’s mustering.

  To our great relief storm clouds finally appeared, accompanied by the rumble of thunder and flashing of lightning. The smell of torrential rain on hot dry earth was magical and sent our endorphins into overdrive.

  ‘Let’s go and watch the dam fill up,’ called Rick, above the din on the corrugated iron roof. He gathered Anthony in his arms, and we raced down to witness chocolate-coloured water gushing into the dam.

  ‘Wow…wow…wow!’ I danced about in the mud. ‘I have water for my garden and house,’ I sang gratefully. ‘But how will I ever do the washing in that muddy water?’

  ‘It’ll soon settle and clear,’ Rick assured me.

  Our excitement turned to concern when we heard on our trusty ABC that we were directly in the path of Cyclone Aggie. We immediately began to make preparations: we moved anything that could become an airborne missile, dug trenches around the shed and house to drain water, and taped the windows.

  We sat in our partly completed home to wait. Although we were prepared, cyclones are unpredictable beasts. I couldn’t bear the thought of damage to our new home, or the wall of our brand-new dam being washed out.

  Very soon we were experiencing gale-force winds. But they died down. Thankfully Aggie passed us by and we were spared her full force.

  ‘Better to be prepared, mate,’ declared Rick.

  We’d have to undertake this preparation many times in the years to come. After all, we did live in a cyclone-prone weather zone.

  Late one morning, many weeks later, we saw a large Bedford truck rattling up the airstrip. It was loaded to the hilt with all manner of things. We rushed out to meet it.

  Paul and Rhonda pulled up and waved to us. They’d driven the truck from Sydney.

  ‘It’s so good to have you home,’ I said, throwing my arms around Paul and hugging Rhonda, who was glowing. They both looked like cats that had swallowed the cream.

  Over lunch I asked them, ‘What news?’

  ‘Well…we’re engaged!’

  Now I was really excited, even though I wasn’t surprised. I was thrilled that they were committed to each other—they were such a great partnership.

  ‘I want to hear all about wedding plans,’ I told them.

  ‘And I want to see home improvements,’ Paul said, grinning at Rick. ‘Let’s leave the girls to talk about weddings.’ He made a gesture towards the truck. ‘But first…’

  I shrieked with delight. There was our beautiful antique cedar dining table, a gift from Rick’s parents. We unloaded it right away and set it up with all of its extension panels ready to seat fourteen people. Many wonderful meals, spirited conversations, debates, poker games and parties would be enjoyed around and over this special piece of family history in years to come.

  That evening we enjoyed dinner at the table to welcome Paul and Rhonda home.

  The next evening, Rick and I dined alone, with him at one end of the table and me at the other.

  ‘Pass the salt, please,’ Rick shouted.

  ‘Would you like the pepper?’ I called back. All we needed was a butler.

  The evening after that, we sat together at one end. We found it a lot cosier, and it was easier to share the salt and pepper in the absence of a butler.

  The only problem was, we still required proper dining chairs.

  Two of my close nursing friends and travelling companions, Jillie and Margie, sent a telegram to say th
ey were driving their Holden car, with a camping arrangement on top, from where they lived in the state of Victoria to McAllister. I was excited but a little anxious, as our road was still inaccessible and I had no way to tell them.

  My fears were realised: the girls tried to drive in but sensibly realised the road was impassable. They found their way to a nearby station, and from there they sent a telegram to us. By the time we’d received it and replied, they realised they would be spending the night where they were. The manager and his family were hospitable, offering dinner and a bed. But the girls became concerned when they realised that the manager’s wife and two daughters were all pregnant. Alarm bells rang.

  They didn’t sleep that night and were very relieved to board the charter flight Rick had organised to get them to McAllister the next morning.

  ‘Are we pleased to be here and see you both,’ they muttered.

  And we were pleased to have them with us. I hadn’t seen the girls since the wedding, so we had much to catch up on. They were dear and loyal friends. Jillie tended to be a deep thinker and made wise decisions, while Margie was the adventurous one. She could see the funny side of any situation, no matter how serious. They threw themselves into life at McAllister—and they were the reason we came to have dining chairs.

  Rick had welded nine steel frames that would fashion solid and comfortable chairs with leather webbing on the seat and the back. Our visitors did all the leather webbing, a huge job and very tough on their hands.

  ‘This is hard work!’ cried Margie. ‘I thought we’d come for a holiday.’

  ‘How many more to go? Look at my hands, they’re like mincemeat,’ groaned Jillie.

  ‘Come on, let’s get them done, then Rick might let us have a ride,’ said Margie.