by Jenny Old
We were to enjoy more wonderful weekends with Chris, Don, Marg, Ted and the children at Lorraine in years to come.
As the paddocks dried, it was time for us to run the horses into the yards following their long holiday in the spelling paddock. Brownie, being an excellent and experienced horsewoman, was looking forward to handling and breaking in some of our colts. I loved to see the animals galloping into the holding paddock, full of cheek and vitality, shiny, fat and very playful after a long spell with plenty of green grass.
The biggest surprise was my special poddy foal, Topaz Andre Darcy. I’d doubted he would ever grow into a strong horse, as he’d never had the early nourishment of his mother’s rich milk and he’d always refused a substitute. But here he was, transformed from a woolly, pot-bellied, stunted little fellow into a large, shiny, handsome bay colt. Surprised and delighted, I wrapped my arms around his neck.
‘Please don’t let anyone else break him in or ride him,’ I begged Rick.
I wanted him for myself: I’d reared him and he was mine. However, I wasn’t experienced in breaking in a horse and didn’t have the time to do so.
‘I’d love to break him in,’ offered Brownie.
I knew she had a very gentle way with horses, so I agreed and watched her progress with interest in the following weeks. Topaz responded to her careful approach. He became an excellent stockhorse, but he was only ever ridden by Rick, Brownie and me. I remember so clearly the joy of my first mustering day on Topaz: sure-footed and intelligent, he liked nothing more than to chase after a beast.
I loved having Brownie with us—she was such a willing and enthusiastic worker. Of course she preferred the outdoors, as we all did, but occasionally she sweetly offered to stay home with Anthony and allow me to spend a day in the saddle. She was also a gourmet cook, so we enjoyed some delicious meals, although we often didn’t eat until nine and the washing-up was formidable.
I had so much faith in Brownie that when she offered to stay at home with Anthony while Rick and I made a quick trip to Mount Isa for a doctor’s appointment, we gratefully accepted. I’d never been apart from my son, so Rick and I were like a couple of teenagers setting off on an adventure together.
After a busy day in Mount Isa, we drove to Devoncourt for the night. Chris and Don had a new baby I couldn’t wait to meet. Donald Alexander McDonald was born on 29 July in Brisbane, and he was a beautiful little fellow. Chris and I wondered how he was going to be accepted into the very close bond that Anthony and Susie shared. He was ineffectual at this early stage and didn’t bother them too much—however, things changed when Zanda, as he was to be known, grew older.
While we were with Chris and Don, we received a phone call. Brownie, home alone with Anthony, had had a terrible experience.
He’d been perfectly well when we left the day before, but then he’d suddenly developed croup and bronchitis with a very high temperature. Poor Brownie did all the right things. As Anthony’s temperature soared, she tried to call the flying doctor. It was 3 a.m. The battery on the radio went flat, and she lost contact.
The poor girl then put Anthony in the Toyota and set off for our nearest phone at Inverleigh, thirty kilometres away, to call the doctor. She became lost in the dark.
Thinking clearly, she decided to drive to Wondoola, a station she’d visited several times, remembering that Susie Lister was a trained nurse. Thankfully Susie and her husband Don were home and able to take over. Susie spoke to Dr O’Leary, who prescribed intramuscular penicillin twice followed by oral penicillin (both kept in the medical chest). She managed to lower Anthony’s temperature to a more acceptable level.
How grateful we were to Brownie and Susie for dealing with a dreadful situation and enabling our precious little man to recover. We drove the four hundred kilometres from Devoncourt to Wondoola, where we were happily reunited with a very relieved Brownie and much happier Anthony. He took some time to recover from his illness, and I was reluctant to leave him ever again, though he’d been looked after beautifully.
The next day I was called on to help in the yards, and stupidly I took my little boy with me in the ute, only to see him become distressed. ‘I’m taking Anthony home—he’s my priority, so your cattle work can go jump!’ I announced angrily and drove off, fed up with work taking priority over everything.
Fortunately Anthony was rarely ill, and I was usually able to fulfil my yard duties.
Amid our busy daily lives, visitors continued to stream into McAllister, often unannounced and uninvited: ‘You mustn’t see many people way out here.’
‘We see plenty of people, just take a look at our Visitors Book,’ was my response, and it was true. Our book contained the comments of an eclectic mix of people from all walks of life, with different backgrounds and from different states, cities and countries.
In July of that year, a couple of invited guests came to stay: Brownie’s mother and brother. Then Brownie returned to her home in Deniliquin with them. She’d been such a vital part of our team, but more importantly, our family. It was hard to see her leave.
16
Hard Times
As a child, some of my favourite books were The Silver Brumby, Silver Brumby’s Daughter and The Golden Stallion, which I read and re-read. I had such romantic ideas about wild horses. At McAllister, I loved to watch them gallop across the plains when we were driving around our boundaries: free and sure-footed, manes streaming, muscles gleaming. The mares guided the foals, while the stallion was ever watchful over his brood.
This was indulgent thinking on my part. The brumbies had become a pest and were increasing in numbers. They had caused a serious problem at the end of 1971 by plunging into the waterholes and stirring up the mud, making it impossible for the cattle to drink the water. I was distressed that these beautiful creatures might have to be culled.
Fate stepped in when, a few months into 1972, we had a visit from two brothers, Des and Morgan Waldon, who asked for permission to trap brumbies on McAllister.
‘Just do what you have to do and don’t tell me anything about it, or discuss it in front of me,’ I instructed sadly. This was a rare ‘princess moment’ for me.
I did learn that the brumbies would be trapped, then yarded and trucked for sale in Cloncurry. Des and Morgan camped out by the waterholes, having first constructed hessian enclosures into which they would guide the horses. For days the canny animals refused to come near. But finally, their need to drink drove them to overcome their fear and cautiously approach. Des and Morgan quickly closed the gates behind them.
We decided to keep some of the better-looking young horses to be broken in, and the majority turned into very good stockhorses. Only a few remained rebellious and unreliable.
After that, Des became part of our team. He was a tall, swarthy, thin man, typical of the bush, and stayed with us for several years. As he was an experienced Gulf local, his knowledge was invaluable to us, plus he was an excellent horse and cattleman.
I was the kitchen queen, churning out massive meals, desserts, smokos and bread on a daily basis. It was a seven-day-a-week job. Occasionally, when Poppy or Mum stayed with us, I was given the luxury of a day out mustering with the men, but I never expected my mother or mother-in-law to work when they had travelled so far to visit us.
Entry in Rick’s diary: Jen rode Topaz today, cut out two head herself [which means I extracted two beasts from the mob]. Topaz did a good job and brought Jen home in a much better and improved mood!
But one of my long-awaited days in the saddle didn’t end happily. Rick gave me his gelding, Manning, to ride. This was a pleasure as the horse was an ambler and could walk as fast as a normal horse could trot. It was like riding an armchair.
We rode out early, heading to August tank, fifteen kilometres from the homestead, to muster cattle back to the yards. The muster had just commenced when I experienced the warning symptoms of a migraine. The headaches I suffered were violent and totally debilitating. I had half an hour from the visual distur
bances before the pain hit, then I didn’t care if the house was on fire—I couldn’t move for up to ten hours.
I rode up to Rick to tell him.
‘Head for home,’ he said. ‘Manning will get you there quickly.’
‘I don’t think he’s that fast,’ I replied.
Manning was delighted to be going home. We’d just made it to the last paddock, about two kilometres from the house, when the headache hit me. I managed to tie Manning to the fence, remove his saddle, put his saddlecloth on the ground in the shade, and lie down to suffer the agony and vomiting that would follow.
Hours later, one thousand head of cattle filed past me, and being the curious beasts that they are, many walked up to me sniffing and snorting. I was unaware, or didn’t care, and just lay there in my misery.
Once the cattle had passed by, Rick appeared. He decided I was better left alone until he could return with the LandCruiser. But in the meantime, I recovered enough to saddle Manning and ride home.
‘You’d have to be crook to die,’ commented Rick.
Migraines were to be the bane of my life. They strike at the most inconvenient times—I’ve missed weddings, parties and special dinners because of these wretched headaches. But back then, my biggest worry was to make sure Anthony was safe while I was out of action. The meat-safe cot was good for this, and Rhonda was often able to look after him while I recovered.
Despite missing some social events and important occasions over the years, I managed to enjoy many of those on offer in the Gulf.
The famous Saxby Round-up, a large gathering of bushies, was held at a waterhole on Taldora Station every August. Surrounded by large trees with shade for the camp sites, it was an exceptionally beautiful place. The event attracted station people from far and wide, of all ages, who brought their horses to compete in the many events.
I’d never ridden competitively, but in 1972 Rick, Des and I decided to bring two of our favourite horses and have a go. We were planning to camp in Mr Whippy; Rick hadn’t had time to do up the interior as planned, so we would sleep in the bare van with Anthony’s cot and our double swag on the floor.
We were about to depart from McAllister when a car drove up to the house. Out stepped the most elegant couple imaginable, looking as though they had just come from Paris. In fact, Jean-Claude Engrande—a slim, pale, serious young man—and his wife, Jacqueline—a petite, blonde and vivacious young woman—were French and did hail from Paris. In limited English, they explained they had been staying with Dee, my friend in Victoria. They had a strong desire to see the ‘real’ Australia, so Dee had suggested they call on us. Her letter introducing them arrived two weeks after their departure.
‘You can be assured we’re the real deal,’ I promised. ‘We’re about to leave for four days’ camping on a waterhole with some horse competitions. Would you like to come?’
‘Oui…oui…merci.’
This is going to be interesting, I thought.
We found camping gear for our new arrivals and added extra food. We set off, their Citroën following Mr Whippy and the Toyota with horse float attached.
‘What a circus,’ I said to Rick and smiled. ‘Would they believe this in Paris?’
When we arrived at the camp site, Mr Whippy attracted some amused looks: I don’t think the Gulf had ever seen a rig like him. We set up camp with the other station people, some with very sophisticated equipment and others with only a swag—it didn’t matter. Once again, our obliging little boy settled in to his next adventure.
Rick had a lot of fun practising his exaggerated French accent while introducing Jacqueline and Jean-Claude to everyone. The young couple created a lot of interest, and in turn they were fascinated by their surroundings and the wide mix of people. With great joie de vivre, these elegant Parisians threw themselves enthusiastically into everything. Jean-Claude was an avid photographer and we gave him plenty of subject material.
I was persuaded to ride in the steer-undecorating event: a young beast with a ribbon fixed to its horn is let out of the yard at the same time as the horse and rider, and the winner is the rider who can pull the ribbon off the horn in the fastest time. This was the first competitive event I’d ever ridden in, and I was thrilled to come second.
On Saturday night we danced to the local band, which played into the wee hours of the morning. We were woken by Rick’s name being called over the loudspeaker: ‘Would Rick Old please report to the arena to contest the steer-roping event NOW?’
Unbeknown to us, Des had entered Rick in this popular event. Des even had his horse saddled and ready to go. Rick staggered out, very hungover. Surprisingly he rode well, managing to rope his steer, but failed to qualify. I think he was relieved—I certainly was.
On our way home, Mr Whippy shuddered to a halt in the middle of the road. There we were again, stuck in the back of beyond with a baby. Des and the Engrandes were ahead of us. All those who passed stopped to offer help and advice. At last Rick was able to get Mr Whippy going, and we stuttered our way home.
That was his final journey. He was gracefully retired and joined Bessie at the dump.
‘I’m over second-hand vehicles, Rick,’ I declared.
‘Me too,’ he muttered.
We waved Jacqueline and Jean-Claude goodbye: they were off to complete their trip around Australia and then Asia. I’m sure their stay with us was an Australian highlight, something never to be repeated and the ‘real deal’.
They wrote in the Visitors Book: Better than Marlboro Country, we came to where the flavour is. Merci beaucoup.
Our bottomless list of jobs to be done grew daily as further improvements at McAllister continued.
We hired a bulldozer to cut a road through the rough country to the Beef Road. This was to provide our main route and, more importantly, access for road trains to cart our cattle to sale.
We purchased another stallion, along with more breeder cows to add to the herd. With our Brahman bulls and mixture of breeds, we would eventually be the proud owners of a lovely line of Droughtmaster cattle, but at that time we still had a hotchpotch of breeds and colours.
The biggest and most exciting addition to our property was a second, very large dam. Building a dam is a very expensive operation, and the conditions and soil have to be favourable, so a couple of sites were assessed before it could go ahead.
We built a dam large enough to hold water to run the creek at the end of the year, enabling the cattle to spread out over more country when grass became scarce. Brahmans will walk a long way out to feed and back for water; the British breeds don’t have the stamina in the heat or the tick resistance. Our aim was to conserve the feed further out from the waters, then spread the cattle later in the year with the creek water refreshed by dam water, also reducing the tick problem and weakness in the cattle. It worked beautifully. We called it Pokino—I’m not sure where this name came from, but it stuck.
Paul and Rick were totally focused on establishing McAllister as quickly and economically as possible. The shareholders were very lucky to have them: they worked so hard. For example, an entry in Rick’s diary:
Rick & Paul to Melinda, early start, collected truck, to Cloncurry for cattle sales, left ute at Cloncurry Motors for service. Sold forty-three head gross $5035.50. Drove to Mount Isa shopping, discussing dam with Bill Wright the dam sinker. Collecting pipe from Mount Isa, heading for home. Collected ute from Cloncurry, to Melinda Downs. Arrived at midnight, collected jack, drove home arriving at daylight. Went to bed for five minutes, awoken with a fire in the shed. The hot water service had set the logs on fire and it had travelled into the shed and burnt two tractor tyres and quite a bit of the shed.
No two days at McAllister were the same.
But how quickly the days, weeks, months and the year were passing.
By 28 September 1972, Anthony’s second birthday, I was fourteen weeks pregnant. Rick and I were thrilled. I wasn’t suffering from debilitating nausea this time, so there was no reason to believe I couldn�
��t fit this new pregnancy into my busy lifestyle.
As usual we had a houseful of visitors, including Rowan and Judy Hickson. While serving lunch to the hordes, I began to feel unwell. I rushed to the bathroom and, to my horror, discovered I was bleeding. My heart was racing as I realised that I was possibly losing my baby. I felt rising panic and didn’t know what to do.
I grabbed some towels and lay on my bed, calling out to Judy. She saw the severity of the situation and took charge, ushering the other guests out of the way and asking Rhonda to take Anthony home with her. Then Judy reassured me, ‘I’m calling the flying doctor now. They’ll be here in ninety minutes.’ It was all a blur to me, but her unflappable demeanour made me feel a little calmer. I lay still, praying the baby would be all right, but I was frightened. I was bleeding heavily.
Rick was many kilometres away. Oh, for a telephone, smoke signals, anything…
It was with great relief I heard the flying doctor landing. Dr Ian Robinson and his pilot, reassuring and efficient, loaded me into the plane as quickly as possible. Feeling alone and frightened, I was evacuated to Mount Isa Base Hospital.
Dr McAdam gently informed me I’d lost the baby and I would require a procedure in theatre before being discharged.
I was devastated.
The next evening, when I was ready for discharge, I had difficulty explaining to the staff that I needed to first send a telegram to my husband, then wait until he collected it, then wait six hours for him to drive to Mount Isa. I remained in my bed waiting, not knowing if Rick was on his way.