Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  On the train, Rick drew the short straw and shared a narrow bunk with Anthony, who had no intention of wasting time sleeping on this new adventure. Hence no one slept.

  The Olds’ holiday house at Palm Beach had been built by Rick’s paternal grandparents. It was one of the original homes in the suburb, with a cottage for staff and a larger cottage for the family; naturally, they’d been built on the choicest parcel of land with magnificent views across North Palm Beach, Barrenjoey and Pittwater.

  These cottages accommodated everyone in Rick’s family. His sister Michele, her husband Mike, and their three children stayed in the small cottage, while the large one stretched to house Rick’s eldest sister Rosemary, her husband Peter and their five children; Rick, Anthony and I; and Rick’s parents. We all cohabited very happily, sharing meals and chores. Poppy and Trenham worked hard to provide food and allow us all maximum time at the beach. The pleasant weather, salt air, long walks and healthy food were therapeutic for us all.

  Rick and I were delighted to introduce Anthony to the beach. He blossomed, his development accelerated by the stimulation of good company and a cooler climate.

  I met many of Rick’s childhood friends; we were often invited to their homes for drinks or dinner. This was an intriguing experience for me, and a whole new world of Palm Beach Society was opened up, far removed from McAllister. Some people were interested in our life, some were sympathetic, and some were quite condescending, which made me bristle. ‘So, what do you DO all day?’ was the most commonly asked question.

  I found it difficult to explain my everyday life to these sophisticated city dwellers, and my reply often provoked sounds of disbelief. ‘I get up at five in the morning, I cook breakfast for a large number of people, make four loaves of bread, two batches of biscuits, two cakes and a dessert. Then I do housework, washing, take smoko to the yards for the men, and help with the cattle work. I head home to make lunch for the multitude. I deliver it to the yards and work there until dusk. I go home again to feed the chooks and pigs, lock up the goats, water the vegie garden and fruit trees. I have a shower, bathe and feed the baby. I cook dinner for the multitude, am a gracious hostess at all times, clean up and go to bed. Pretty boring, really.’

  It sounds outrageous, but it was true. As I write it down now, even I am impressed.

  I would add, ‘Last year we hosted seventy groups of visitors.’

  That finished them!

  We’d loved our time away, especially being able to introduce our little son to his extended family, but now our holiday was coming to an end. We began to make preparations for our return journey.

  ‘How were we going to get home?’ I asked Rick.

  ‘Maybe we can find another Bessie.’

  And so the search began.

  Oh please, let us find a car with the gears all working, I prayed.

  My amazing husband found an advertisement for an ex-Mr Whippy ice-cream van. ‘Hey Jen, this is brilliant! We could convert a Mr Whippy into a camper. Please, oh please, let’s go and have a look.’

  Needless to say, we were soon the proud owners of the shell of a Mr Whippy van. It had a side door from where the ice-creams were sold and a driver’s seat: that was all.

  ‘Where am I going to sit?’ I asked. ‘And what about Anthony?’

  ‘Not a problem!’ Rick was enthusiastic, as always. ‘I have a wooden chair you can set up beside the driver’s seat, and Anthony can camp in the wooden fold-up cot by the serving door. He’ll be able to see out as we drive along.’

  That wooden chair was to be my seat for two thousand kilometres. It wasn’t even bolted down. Anthony had the better deal—I would have moved in with him if there had been room.

  We waved goodbye to the family at Palm Beach and set off north along the coastal road, planning to visit friends on the way. Anthony loved his cot and would sometimes stand up between naps to watch the world pass by, often waving to people. He also played with his toys and books. I rode my chair without incident, and Rick looked the part behind the wheel, enjoying the astounded stares and curiosity we created. Seatbelts were not compulsory at the time.

  Our first port of call was the home of Theo and Jeannie Hayes, old friends of Rick’s who lived on a farm out of Cooroy. When we drove up to their farm in Mr Whippy, with Anthony waving regally from his cot, they couldn’t believe their eyes. If we’d had ‘Greensleeves’ playing, the picture would have been complete.

  Our evening together was interrupted by a cyclone warning: it was heading straight for Cooroy and we were directly in its path. Preparations were made. Rick and Theo were dispatched to town for emergency supplies. They returned with plenty of rum and three pumpkins.

  We battened down the hatches and weathered the fierce storm. Theo was thrilled that he had this chance to produce his camp oven, using it to make delicious meals while the power was out. All the meals featured pumpkin. Rick and Theo consumed plenty of rum, while Jeannie and I remained sober and alert at all times, but despite the howling wind and torrential rain, we still managed a lot of laughter.

  In the morning we discovered our beautiful Mr Whippy was seriously bogged, so we spent another happy night with our friends. The next morning, Theo was able to drive his tractor out of the shed and pull Mr Whippy from the mud. We made a very unceremonious departure, but Anthony still managed the royal wave.

  Our next stop was to see Donal McDonald, Rick’s friend and one of Anthony’s godfathers. He lived in Capella but was holidaying near Rockhampton at the beach with his parents.

  As he sat on the verandah waiting for us to arrive, he noticed a Mr Whippy van drive slowly past.

  ‘Are there any Mr Whippy ice-cream vans still operating?’ he called to his mother.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ve just seen one go by. There was a baby in a cot waving from the serving window. I bet it’s Rick and Jen.’

  In Longreach, Donal had been horrified by Bessie with her broken windscreen. Now he was equally shocked to see his godson in a Mr Whippy.

  That was the day that Anthony, at sixteen months, took his first steps towards his godfather. After that, there was no stopping him.

  ‘And Chief,’ Donal demanded of Rick, ‘how can you allow Jen to sit on a wooden chair for two thousand kilometres?’

  ‘She’s tough and she loves it,’ was Rick’s cheerful and confident reply.

  I must admit to feeling rather surprised at my resilience. I never had a second thought about the situations my beloved husband placed me in—I was a good and obedient wife, showing supreme trust in Rick.

  15

  From the Wet to the Dry

  The weather was closing in as we continued our journey north. Soon we were facing torrential rains in a late monsoon season. Luckily we’d arranged to stay with friends south of Cairns, who extended warm hospitality to us: for ten days we were stranded in their home. All roads to Normanton were closed by flooded rivers as the heavy rain continued.

  We passed most of this time indulging in masses of delicious avocados from a tree in the back garden. When we weren’t gorging ourselves, Rick and I borrowed a sewing machine and made four beanbags for our lounge room from material we’d purchased in Sydney. They were ready to be filled—if we ever arrived home!

  Finally the roads opened, so we made a hasty departure to cover as much country as possible, now very anxious to be home. Anthony was delighted to be on the road again, still loving his cot.

  We spent one memorable night in the Georgetown pub. Monster mosquitoes hummed all night, leaving us covered in bites. The sagging bed left us no option but to put the mattress on the floor and try to sleep, without success.

  At last we were on the final leg home. The unsealed road was quite treacherous after the recent heavy rain, but Mr Whippy managed to manoeuvre his way through. We were doing well until, twenty kilometres from Normanton, we reached the Norman River. We’d checked road conditions and there was no mention of the river being in flood. But here
it was, roaring across the road in wild fury.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked.

  Rick and I sat in silence for a moment, watching the raging torrent.

  ‘We can’t stay here with a baby. It’s too risky.’

  Unbelievably, the famous and historic Gulflander train was due through that day. It only ran once a week. Who would believe we’d be hitching a ride on a train to safety AGAIN?

  ‘Get the basics you need for Anthony,’ said Rick. ‘I’ll secure Mr Whippy on higher ground.’

  Frantically I gathered nappies, food and one set of clothing for each of us as Rick used a thick rope to tie the van to a sturdy tree. All our belongings were inside. I wondered if we would ever see them again.

  Once more I stood on a railway track, this time in pouring rain, holding a baby in my arms, as the historic train came choofing towards us. I hailed it down. A shrieking of brakes as it shuddered to a halt.

  The driver and passengers gave us curious looks, but they welcomed us on board and we rattled off to Normanton. Once we’d disembarked, we received the unwelcome news that the roads to McAllister were impassable. It was to be a week before we managed to charter a light aircraft. In that time we shared the warm hospitality of the locals, who made us feel at home. The kindness of the bush.

  What a relief to finally land on the McAllister airstrip and be greeted by Rhonda and Paul. They couldn’t believe the changes in Anthony as he ran towards them, thrilled to see them again. And my precious garden looked wonderful—Paul and Rhonda had maintained it while I was away. I couldn’t believe the growth in this extended wet season.

  Drip, drip, drip… Humidity was one hundred per cent. Everything dripped, the gutters dripped, I dripped, we all dripped. Mould grew, doors on cupboards swelled, insects were rampant. Drip…drip…drip.

  It took some time for us to re-acclimatise after the beach. However, we loved the storms that gave us brief respite as we stood in the monsoonal downpours, soaking wet. Rain was vital for our livelihood, so it was to be celebrated.

  Chris and Don McDonald soon arrived for a greatly anticipated visit. They were amused to hear of our adventures in Mr Whippy. Don very generously offered to fly Rick and Paul to Normanton, where they would hire a truck and boat to ferry the contents of Mr Whippy across the Norman River to be stored in a friend’s shed.

  All went according to plan until, job completed, they were ready to fly home. They couldn’t take off: a huge storm had built up that forced them to remain in Normanton. They spent the night in the airport waiting room with all the tables and chairs upside down, mosquito coils from our supplies on every leg, trying to combat the invasion of the monstrous insects that were keen to enjoy some fresh blood.

  Meanwhile, Rhonda, Chris and I were waiting at home, dressed up for a special fondue dinner, hoping nothing sinister had happened to our men. The lack of a telephone caused sleepless nights for me on such occasions. To our huge relief, at first light we heard the plane bringing the boys home.

  Several days later, Rick flew over the tree where he’d tied Mr Whippy. But Mr Whippy was bobbing in the water with only his roof visible. There was now a bike tied to the same tree.

  During this long wet season we began to brew our own beer: a cumbersome, messy and time-consuming process.

  ‘But we will save so much money.’

  Rick was always so persuasive. So…

  1. Find one pair of pantihose.

  2. Chop off upper leg.

  3. Stuff with hops and tie top securely.

  4. Take Jen’s large corned-beef boiler and fill with molasses, water and sugar. Add the hops in pantihose.

  5. Wait for mixture to come to the boil.

  6. It takes a long time. Rick becomes impatient and leaves the boiler.

  7. Molasses mixture proceeds to boil over and infiltrate the stove. Very sticky.

  8. Clean up mess and watch boiler because Jen is very angry.

  9. Once the mixture has finally simmered for required time, leave it to cool. Clean stove again.

  10. Jen still angry.

  11. Place cooled mixture in a black plastic barrel with a plastic monitor on top that bubbles away happily. When bubbles stop, the brew is ready to bottle.

  12. Jen washes and sterilises forty large beer bottles and places them upside down to dry in a rack Rick has made.

  13. Put bottles on the laundry floor and place two teaspoons of sugar in each bottle. Syphon beer into each bottle, then cap the bottles.

  14. Store some of the bottles in a laundry cupboard, ready for ‘Happy Hour’. Store others in the fridge, ready for consumption.

  15. Jen did all the above and cleaned up afterwards, until next time.

  16. Jen deserves a medal!

  Our first brew was memorable. With great anticipation we sank into our beanbags, cheese and biscuits to hand with chilled pewter tankards full of frosty, cold beer.

  ‘Mmm…not too bad,’ declared Rick.

  I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic, but we consumed one large bottle between us.

  ‘I’d better get dinner on.’ I struggled to climb out of the beanbag. With Rick’s help, I made it to my feet feeling quite wobbly. We were both inebriated. After checking the recipe, we discovered we’d doubled the sugar, making the brew double strength.

  Some of our brews were drinkable, but most were very ordinary. And sometimes the brew was explosive, turning my laundry into a war zone with shattered glass everywhere. Our regular guests soon learnt to arrive with their own supply of beer.

  We persevered and home-brewed for many years, but I don’t recall any improvement in the brew. Nor did my opinion of the entire process change for the better.

  I’m not sure which regular job I disliked most at McAllister: home-brewing, cooking or fencing. I think cooking won overall.

  At the end of each wet season, the first and most disliked job was to repair the fences and floodgates. The incredible volume of water that washed down the creeks made a tangled mess of the fences. Unravelling the wire and saving what could be reused took us a long time, and it had to be done before mustering could commence. The men would start the repairs close to home and, as the roads dried up, move further away, often having to camp out. It was an awful job in the intense heat, but one that was there every year.

  Other outside maintenance work at the change of seasons included cleaning the plunge dip, cutting back mimosa bushes around the yards, cleaning troughs, painting inside water tanks and grading roads.

  Meanwhile, I had to take care of the garden at the change of seasons. When the rain had eased and the weather cooled—slightly—it was time for the vegetable plot to be cleared and prepared for planting. This wasn’t a pleasant or easy job as the humidity was still extreme and the grass and bushes, having grown rampantly during the wet, created a mini-jungle that was a haven for snakes, centipedes and all manner of vermin.

  But once it was cleared, the smell of fresh, moist soil was magic to me. I loved carting manure for the beds, planting the seeds and watching the seedlings emerge. I would transplant them carefully, then keep nurturing and watering until the plants were strong. Finally, I had the satisfaction and joy of being able to pick fresh organic produce to use immediately. My vegetable garden was very rewarding and therapeutic.

  Our first full-time employee arrived.

  Brownie, as she was affectionately known, was the daughter of good friends of my parents. Bronwyn Dye was an attractive, bubbly girl with long chestnut hair and a constant smile. I loved her soft, musical voice, and her clear enunciation and perfect grammar, such a change from some of the harsh local slang. From the time she lived with us in the Gidyea Hut, we considered her family. Apart from being great company, she was totally competent in all aspects of outdoor life.

  One of her first tasks was to accompany Rick and Paul to rescue Mr Whippy, who had been underwater for several weeks. The Norman River was still flowing over the bridge, so a council low-loader was driven through the water to retrieve our va
n. Mr Whippy was then taken to Normanton where Rick, Paul and Brownie worked to clear the silt and mud, clean him up and hopefully get the engine running again. A big ask. It took three days but finally the engine reluctantly kicked into life.

  The baggage that had been rescued from Mr Whippy was retrieved from the storage shed, repacked into the van and finally driven home.

  The trip wasn’t without incident: Mr Whippy became bogged at the Flinders River. It took Rick, Paul and Brownie two hours to winch him out.

  They finally arrived back at midnight. Mr Whippy and contents were home at last. He was emptied, cleaned and left to contemplate his new surroundings.

  Welcome to McAllister, Brownie and Mr Whippy.

  The long wet season over, we enjoyed a trip to Cloncurry to have the Holden ute serviced and attend a National Party cabaret, a good opportunity to introduce Brownie to the district. We spent the night at Devoncourt with Chris and Don who had moved from their lovely new home at Brightlands having purchased the neighbouring station, Devoncourt. Don had promised Chris it would only be for twelve months. Anthony and Susie played together, always enjoying each other’s company. Then we made the obligatory trip to Mount Isa, where I was admitted to hospital for two days to have a minor operation: this was like a holiday with air-conditioning and meals delivered. After five months of the wet, it was good to be out.

  We were then invited to Lorraine Station for a movie weekend—a novel experience for us. Lorraine, managed by Ted and Marg Flamsteed, was a beautiful station situated on the Leichhardt River near Burketown. We drove up to the entrance of the majestic homestead, surrounded by lush formal gardens including rosebushes either side of the front path. As we walked inside, the air-conditioned freshness enveloped us. Heaven.

  Marg and Ted were gracious hosts. Following a lovely dinner, we moved into the garden for the movie, which was to be projected onto a large wooden panel surrounded by sweet-smelling Quisqualis vines. Quite a few people were already seated, as Lorraine was a big station with a large staff, including several families with children. After we were all introduced, Rick and I set up our folding chairs. Ted operated the 16mm projector with the large reels, usually about three for a film. We sat under the stars amid the fragrant perfumes of the tropical garden, watching Casablanca.