Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  The girls were rewarded with a ride after they’d completed the chairs, which lasted for the next thirty-eight years without any repairs. We thought of Margie and Jillie often.

  When the day arrived for their departure, the road was dry but my eyes were not.

  Hard to get in and hard to get out, but will be back without a doubt, was Margie’s entry in the Visitors Book.

  The girls were travelling south to attend a wine festival in Adelaide. I felt a nostalgic urge to be with them and a slight feeling of envy. But as the last speck of dust disappeared, I wiped my tears away. I hugged Rick and Anthony and felt better. I had been lucky and was happy with my life.

  Not long afterwards, we headed off to Paul and Rhonda’s wedding in Townsville.

  Rick and Rowan drove in Rowan’s truck. My dear husband and his friend did not want to miss an opportunity to pick up a load of goodness knows what to bring home. Meanwhile, Judy Hickson and I, along with a girl who was working at Melinda Downs, drove in our ute. Imagine three of us on the bench seat with a very busy six-month-old baby in the mix. Not exactly a comfortable ride, but who were we mere females to complain?

  We drove through the night telling stories, playing games and singing to keep the driver awake, which unfortunately also kept Anthony awake—he thought it was a huge adventure. We were totally exhausted when we reached the motel at four in the morning. Of course, the men were already there, tucked up in bed and fast asleep.

  It was all worthwhile. The wedding was superb. Rhonda was a lovely bride in a simple, slightly medieval gown; Paul was a very proud and handsome groom. We partied with the energy of youth, finally collapsing into bed for a well-earned sleep in the early hours of the morning. Anthony loved his first big party and slept for the remainder of the short night.

  Rick, Anthony and I departed soon after dawn to make our way home. We stayed the first night at Hughenden—another motel for Anthony to explore—and thankfully we all slept well.

  The next day, our adventures really began. Twenty kilometres from Nelia, a small hamlet close to Julia Creek, we became bogged, along with several trucks and other vehicles. This was April, and although the wet season normally finished in March, there had been heavy rain and the road was unsealed.

  I looked at my eternally optimistic husband. ‘So…what now?’

  We always carried water and supplies, but having a small baby was an added responsibility. I was breastfeeding and had a limited supply of cloth nappies; disposables hadn’t been thought of at that time.

  Rick admitted there was no way out of this one—even our LSD wouldn’t get us out.

  ‘What’s LSD?’ I asked.

  ‘Limited-slip diff.’

  This meant nothing to me, but at least it wasn’t an illicit drug.

  ‘I think we should hitch a ride on the train that’s due through today,’ Rick suggested.

  Luckily we were close to the railway line.

  After consultation with the other stranded people, we all agreed to leave our vehicles in the boghole and head for the train.

  ‘Rick, will the train stop for a motley bunch in the middle of nowhere?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll use you and the baby.’

  It was a unanimous decision from the crowd. I was reluctantly dispatched to stand on the railway track. With a babe in my arms and nappy bag at my feet, I was to hail the oncoming train. If my mother could see me now!

  ‘It’s coming, we can hear it,’ called the chorus.

  ‘Okay, Anthony,’ I whispered to my unsuspecting baby, ‘it’s up to us.’

  As I waved a hand frantically, I wondered what would happen if the driver didn’t see me in time.

  The train slowed and with a crashing of brakes came to a grinding halt. After hearing our tale of woe, how could the driver refuse? He allowed us to board and delivered us to Julia Creek, refusing any payment. No wonder I love the bush and its people.

  ‘Okay, Rick, what now?’

  We were standing forlornly on the platform of the Julia Creek station, covered in sticky black mud and sweat.

  ‘I’ll take the ute keys to the Dalgety manager so he can pick it up when the road dries,’ Rick decided. ‘Then I’ll phone Dallas and Royce and ask them to come and get us. We’ll stay with them until we can get home.’

  Sounded like a good plan to me.

  Dallas and Royce McCowan lived on a property outside Julia Creek. We’d met them on several social occasions, but hardly knew them well. I wondered how they would feel about taking us in. We were filthy, hot and smelly, with a six-month-old baby and a limited supply of clothes and nappies.

  True to form, bush hospitality and generosity was shown to us again. Royce, a gentle sheep breeder, arrived to collect us, and we were made very welcome in their lovely home for three days until we were able to charter a plane to McAllister.

  The Dalgety agent collected our ute when the road was open and looked after it for us—another duty for our wonderful agents. Everything in the back was intact.

  How do you thank people like this? You just hope that one day the opportunity will come for you to repay, in some way, the many kindnesses.

  We chartered a local pilot to fly us home, landing on the airstrip after a very heavy storm. I wanted to kiss the ground when we stepped out of the plane. Rick put our meagre belongings in a wheelbarrow, and the three of us made our way back to the house looking like refugees.

  I’d fantasised about the wedding: driving to town, having my hair done, dressing up, enjoying the occasion, and then driving home to wake up in my own bed the next morning. How simple that would have been. And should have been. But life was never going to be simple at McAllister.

  When Paul and Rhonda returned after their honeymoon, they howled with laughter at our adventures. ‘You may think it’s funny now,’ I remarked crossly. ‘It wasn’t funny at the time.’ But I had to admit it was a good story. I hoped I wouldn’t have any more train hitchhiking adventures in the near future—or, preferably, ever.

  14

  Enjoying Ourselves

  Once again, we were just our little family on the Ridge. There was plenty to do. The grass was growing at a rate of inches per minute, and I had to keep it trimmed around the house and sheds because of the constant threat of venomous snakes. I was pleased to put my shears to rest and enjoy our first lawnmower, which was called into very active service.

  One day, as I was gardening, I heard a plane circling overhead. Then the engine stopped. I held my breath as I watched the unfamiliar plane circle lower and lower above our house. Finally it pulled out of the downward spiral and roared to life, much to my relief.

  The plane landed on our airstrip and I walked over. A couple stepped out: a tall, slim, gorgeous woman with long blonde hair, and a wiry, short, older man with twinkling, wicked eyes, followed by two large basset hounds.

  ‘Hi,’ said the man, ‘Noel Winterburn and Jenny Fisher.’ He gestured to the hounds, ‘And these fellows are Hugo and Plato.’

  ‘Good to meet you. Please come inside. Would you like a cool drink or a cuppa?’

  ‘A cuppa would be lovely,’ said Jenny.

  We sat in the cool of the verandah. Noel was a geologist and Jenny a teacher, and they lived in Cloncurry. I found them to be interested in everything to do with McAllister, and I, in turn, was fascinated by this different-looking couple.

  Over a cup of tea, I asked them why they were here.

  ‘We’d heard so much about you that we wanted to meet you. Also, we’d like to borrow your lawnmower.’

  Well, that was a different line. If only they’d arrived before my new lawnmower, then I could have offered them my shears.

  I didn’t disguise my surprise, but something made me agree to lend them my precious machine.

  ‘I’ll bring it back tomorrow,’ Noel assured me when he saw my hesitation and also noticed my acres of freshly mown lawn.

  I waved them goodbye, wondering what Rick’s reaction would be when I told him of this strange
visit.

  ‘You what?’ he immediately responded. ‘They’d better bring it back tomorrow.’

  And they did.

  Noel and Jenny were to become very close friends, always welcome visitors to McAllister. Our expanding group of friends was diverse and interesting. I was constantly amazed by the places people had come from and how they’d ended up in this country.

  Now I had a house with amenities, I wanted to throw a party. A bush christening and house-warming were good enough excuses for me. The date was set for Saturday, 8 May 1971. This put a deadline on many projects, such as building a stone barbecue, painting the internal walls and cupboards and arranging sleeping accommodation for extra guests.

  I was thrilled that my sister, Pam, and her schoolfriend Libby Allcock were making the trip from Melbourne. But when Rick drove to Normanton to meet their flight from Brisbane via Townsville, he was told they weren’t on the plane. He phoned the airline to be informed they had missed the Brisbane connection and would arrive the next day.

  Rick came home without the girls, not thrilled at the thought of another long drive. However, their story ended up giving us great amusement.

  The girls had arrived at Brisbane Airport and were waiting in the lounge when an announcement was made over the PA: ‘Would Misses Allcock and Bull please report to the booking counter?’ This was followed by a great deal of laughter over the PA, as well as from many of the waiting passengers. There was a further announcement and even more laughter. It seemed the whole airport was laughing, and the poor girls were so embarrassed, they refused to identify themselves and consequently missed the plane.

  We’d invited eighty people for the party. An eclectic mix of managers, jackeroos, stockmen and the many friends we’d made since our arrival in the North. All the locals accepted. Rick’s old friend Donal McDonald and Rowan were to be the godfathers, while Dee was godmother but unfortunately not able to be with us.

  The local flying padre, Father Tony Mathews, was to officiate. Rick had previously encountered Father Tony on an isolated stretch of road outside Burketown. The padre was riding a mini-motorbike. Rick expressed amazement at his dedication, or madness, to ride such an unsuitable vehicle on a lonely stretch of road. Father Tony, with a wicked sense of humour, was enjoying the moment and Rick’s concern immensely—but he had to confess he’d only ridden from the airport nearby, where he kept a Cessna 210.

  On the day of the party, everything was in readiness when our house guests began to turn up. Father Tony was the first to arrive in his Cessna, and when we needed more ice to keep the beer cold, he didn’t hesitate to offer to fly to Normanton and collect some. Bless him.

  Poppy and Trenham brought a beautiful antique silver christening chalice that had been used in the Old family since 1862. We were very proud to use it for Anthony Trenham Old.

  The service was due to commence at four on the front lawn. Guests arrived in droves. The pig on the spit was cooking gently and smelling delicious. Rowan, who had offered to be in charge of the pig, examined it carefully. ‘It’s n-n-not hot enough,’ he stammered. ‘Stoke it up a bit.’ Which we did.

  Everything was finally in readiness for a true bush christening. I’d covered a 44-gallon drum with a white damask tablecloth. The family silver chalice was the centre-piece, surrounded by bush flowers. Father Tony, dressed in his white gown, gathered us all around, and the service began. Our little boy wore a soft blue suit that Poppy had bought in Madeira. He very patiently accepted his special status for the day, being happily passed from person to person. Judy Hickson held him for the service as a stand-in for Dee. The setting on the front lawn was superb, with the aroma of roast pork wafting temptingly around.

  Finally everyone settled, and there was silence apart from the birds chattering nearby. The service began.

  Halfway through, Rowan gave a startled cry, ‘F-f-f…fire! F-f-f…fire!’

  The pig had gone up in flames! We all forgot the solemnity of the occasion. The baby was passed to a willing female as everyone else, including our padre, rushed for buckets of water to douse the inferno and save supper.

  Order was soon restored, supper saved, everything under control, allowing the service to continue without further disruption.

  An entry in our Visitors Book from a stockman: McAllister has the only Chapel in Australia where you can smoke and drink throughout the service. Good luck, Anthony!

  The event was a huge success. We partied well into the night, and I remember Father Tony and many others drinking red wine from the christening chalice.

  All our guests camped the night. People in the bush always carry a swag that can be rolled out under a tree or in a shed—though the nights were always very short at party times. Our celebrations ended with a large barbecue breakfast before the guests made their way home.

  This was to be the first of many happy parties at McAllister. Much as I disliked the everyday drudgery of cooking, I loved to entertain and produce special meals.

  Sometimes I’d gaze at Anthony and think of the miracle he was. I often longed to devote more time to motherhood, and I missed being able to share the special moments with my family, who only saw him once a year. However, my son fitted in with my crazy life and rarely complained. He was my little star.

  One mail day, Jacko arrived with a hundred one-day-old chirping chickens that I’d ordered. We watched the delight on Anthony’s face as the balls of fluff noisily pecked at their chick mash. I was fascinated to watch Jacko, a gruff bushie of few words, sitting with a grin as he watched my son gurgling at the baby chickens.

  ‘You realise they’ll probably all be roosters,’ Jacko said dryly.

  This was a dilemma. Even if half the chicks were roosters, what was I going to do with such a number?

  Jacko’s dire prediction wasn’t quite correct, but we certainly had more roosters than hens. They grew rapidly and began crowing before daybreak. Our days were quite long enough without this raucous cacophony.

  ‘Off with their heads!’ Rick declared.

  No objections from anyone.

  Following the success of the christening and housewarming party, I decided to host a formal dinner for twelve guests. I begged Rick to hold off on his decapitation plan until then: ‘chicken in a basket’ would be a novel dish for the beef breeders on my guest list.

  This was the kind of planning and cooking I actually enjoyed immensely: studying recipe books for something exotic, cleaning the silver, setting the table and decorating the house with flowers gave me great satisfaction.

  I designed and made the invitations for my special rooster dinner:

  To McAllister we invite…

  A formal dinner for the night

  For the men a dinner suit please wear

  The ladies any gown with flair

  We look forward to this night

  Don’t wear anything too tight

  Six courses we will devour

  The night will end at a very late hour.

  Everyone accepted, responding in verse.

  I pondered the menu for many hours, then ordered the ingredients for this feast and began baking.

  Rick did the deed with twelve young roosters. They looked pathetic hanging along the Gidyea Hut rafters—they also looked huge. From the time I’d decided to have a formal dinner, the chicks had grown into birds. No way would they fit in my dainty baskets. Also, with six courses, no one would wish to devour one of these monsters.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’ll cut them in half and you can have a “half-chicken in a basket”,’ my practical husband suggested.

  ‘But I had a vision of dainty chickens in the basket,’ I moaned.

  ‘Well, tough.’

  On the night, soft music played as we sipped cocktails and watched the sun set from the verandah. The ladies had all dressed for the occasion in long gowns, and the men had thought it was novel and quite fun to dress up too, looking handsome in their dinner suits.

  All the food was appreciated, and the half-roosters
were delicious. We drifted off to bed at daylight. Then, following the now-traditional barbecue breakfast, our guests departed. I was thrilled it had gone off so well. Rick and I enjoyed hosting parties and events, and I became more confident in the role of hostess. I revelled in the praise and acknowledgement of my prowess as a cook.

  Here we are

  Though it’s far

  Began formal

  Ended normal

  (quote in the Visitors Book by Jennifer Fisher, 23 October 1971)

  Rick and I celebrated our second anniversary with a barbecue on our front lawn. As we clinked glasses, we wondered what the following year would hold. The previous year had been full and rewarding, but I was pleased it was drawing to an end. The busy months of development work and mustering had left everyone weary at the end of the dry season, and the heat was setting in. We were ready for a break.

  It was our turn to have holidays, leaving Rhonda and Paul at home. We’d acquired—by accident while we were helping a friend out—a second-hand Austin 1800. This car was supposed to ‘float on fluid’; Rick and I felt it ‘banged on bags’. We planned to drive it to Deniliquin then sell it, hopefully for a better price than would be offered in the Gulf, where it was totally unsuited to the roads and conditions.

  We made it to Blackall the first night, arriving very late. The motel was basic, with shearers’ beds—thin horsehair mattresses on wire bases—and paper-thin walls. Anthony took an instant dislike to the surroundings and proceeded to make his displeasure felt. His loud wailing meant we had no sleep; nor, I’m sure, did our fellow guests. We departed very early, thinking we’d have been better off driving through the night.

  What a joy it was to arrive at Lauriston and be greeted by my family. I was very happy to be back in familiar surroundings. We were exhausted, but I didn’t want to waste a moment of catching up with family news. Anthony was content in the comfort of my old home, surrounded by his loving relatives.

  Our two-week sojourn passed in a flash, and it was time to board the Southern Aurora train from Melbourne to Sydney and spend time with Rick’s family at Palm Beach. We’d managed to sell the Austin for a meagre sum.