Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  In fact he’d received the telegram, immediately driven to Mount Isa with Anthony, and arrived at the hospital at 3 a.m., only to be told I’d been discharged.

  ‘Where has she gone?’

  ‘We have no idea,’ was the disinterested reply.

  My poor worried husband wasn’t sure what to do. He called a friend who hadn’t known I was in hospital, and together they checked all the motels in town.

  ‘Maybe I should call the police?’ Rick asked.

  ‘Why don’t you try the hospital again?’ our friend advised. ‘Jen must have left a message somewhere.’

  This was all going on in the early hours of the morning, and Rick was becoming more and more concerned. He returned to the hospital and demanded the staff check again to see if I was there. They found me sitting on the bed. Rick hugged me while I sobbed.

  I was so happy to be with my husband and little boy. We were all exhausted and spent the remainder of the night at a motel. The next day we had to rush home because the dam builders were still operating. I was miserable, feeling very sorry for myself.

  ‘Will you be okay if I leave you here?’ asked Rick.

  Of course I was okay. The poor man was frantically busy. What else could I say?

  I had no idea that grief following a miscarriage could be so severe. I was in a very dark place. I felt wretched. One day, wiped out after my domestic tasks, I lay on my bed and wept. I opened my eyes to see Anthony standing there, watching me with an anxious look on his little face. That was the turning point for me. I sat up, took many deep breaths and hugged him closely.

  Pull yourself together, I told myself. You have a beautiful little boy. There’s so much to be grateful for. I was young and healthy. I would have more babies. Get over it and get on with life.

  And that is what I did.

  In a letter to Poppy and Trenham, Rick wrote: Jen has recovered really well from her miscarriage, though she was very weak for a while. They do not give you long to convalesce these days in hospital, one and a half days.

  No one knew of my struggle. I didn’t share with anyone the sorrow and the disappointment. How lucky I was to have my precious Anthony, who was such a joy to me, but neither Rick nor I wanted him to be an only child. We would keep trying to add to our family.

  Easy Two-Egg Never Fail Pavlova

  I loved this recipe as it literally never failed and was simple to make. It was a firm favourite for children’s parties and guests. I have shared this recipe with many people.

  Feeds 4–6

  INGREDIENTS

  2 egg whites

  1½ cups castor sugar

  ½ teaspoon vanilla essence

  1 teaspoon white vinegar

  1 teaspoon cornflour

  4 tablespoons boiling water

  METHOD

  Preheat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius.

  Place all the ingredients in a small mixing bowl and beat on high speed until the mixture is VERY stiff (about 15 minutes).

  Spread onto a greased baking tray (or a baking tray lined with baking paper these days!) in a circular shape, leaving a lip around the edge. Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 150 degrees Celsius and bake for a further 45 minutes, or until crisp and dry on the outside but marshmallowy on the inside. Turn off the heat and allow the pavlova to cool completely in the oven.

  17

  Friends of the North

  I was thankful to welcome in the New Year. 1973 began with us swimming in the chocolate-brown waters of the Leichhardt River with the odd freshwater crocodile for company.

  To put the reader’s mind at rest, these are not aggressive crocodiles, growing to only about two metres long—though they might give a nip if you get too close. Their cousin the saltwater crocodile is the nasty, massive and extremely dangerous kind.

  We were with our friends at Lorraine Station, an oasis alongside the Leichhardt River and a welcome haven for me so soon after my miscarriage. The lush gardens were a joy, with vibrant splashes of purple and red bougainvillea, green lawns and roses. Mango and banana trees grew in profusion and yielded delicious, sweet fruit. I loved the smell of the garden’s moist freshness, mingled with the cloying sweetness of the Quisqualis. The Flamsteeds’ unlimited water supply from the river helped to create this oasis, with the sprinklers going day and night.

  This was one of many special times that Rick and I shared with the McDonalds and Flamsteeds. The deep bond that the six of us enjoyed was to be for life. Marg, Chris and I could chat for hours on end, sharing our deepest thoughts and concerns; the three men were the same, and there were never any pregnant pauses. These two couples were our ‘family’ as we were all far from our true families. It became a tradition for the three families to spend many Christmas and Easter celebrations together.

  Our little ones were inseparable friends, with Susie the leader. They loved nothing more than to kip in sleeping bags on the lounge-room floor downstairs, ready for an early start, not wanting to miss a moment of their time together. Marg and Ted’s son, Pete, who was older, liked to tell us rude jokes. He was such a bright, cheerful fellow, always ready to shock his conservative mother. Ted entranced all of the children with stories, some fact but mostly fiction.

  We adults played poker at night, often into the wee hours, enjoying drinks, many cups of tea (for the girls, the men preferred rum), and Marg’s delicious, dainty biscuits. Ted would become frustrated at our incessant chatter, banging his fist on the table: ‘A fast game is a good game. Stop chattering, girls, and focus!’

  It was around this time in early 1973 that Rick and Don Lister, from Wondoola, began to play chess over the radio, giving great amusement to those who listened in.

  ‘King pawn to King 3.’

  ‘Queen 1 to Castle 1, Castle 1 to Queen’s Bishop 1…’

  And on it went.

  They played for half an hour each day at lunchtime, often with only a couple of moves. Rick had his chessboard set up under the radio.

  Atmospherics sometimes played havoc with the reception. One memorable day, with bad conditions, Rick found it impossible to hear. ‘I can’t hear you, Don, will try again tomorrow…over and out.’

  Rick studied the board that evening, strategising his next moves.

  ‘9QYM McAllister to Wondoola,’ he called the next morning.

  ‘Checkmate, you bastard!’ Don replied triumphantly.

  Even after studying the board the night before, Rick hadn’t realised he was in checkmate. Don thought he’d been hedging when he said he couldn’t hear, and Rick was horrified. They had a lot of fun.

  Rick taught me to play but he always won. He knew all my moves. This infuriated me but pleased him greatly. He went on to teach Anthony to be a very good player. They enjoyed many games together—until Anthony began to beat Rick. Then the fun was over.

  Anthony was growing like a mushroom. His favourite toys were Rick’s tools. He’d choose a collection and tinker away for hours, then insist on taking all the tools to bed with him. He was obviously destined to become a builder from an early age.

  I longed for a mate for him, but this wasn’t happening. In March I had a doctor’s appointment in Mount Isa and, luckily, Susie Lister had an appointment with the same doctor. I was able to drive there with Susie, leaving a relieved Rick at home with Anthony, and Susie’s two kids with her husband. It was a weird feeling not having children with us. Appointments out of the way, we were like two dogs let off the chain. We enjoyed a rare day shopping and lunching, then stayed at the brand-new, air-conditioned Mount Isa Hotel. Dinner and a floor show completed a special day, and we both felt totally refreshed.

  Several weeks later, I returned to Mount Isa with Rick to spend several days in hospital for investigative surgery. The doctors wanted to find out why I was having such trouble carrying a baby to term.

  I arrived home to a household of seventeen. The shareholders had come for the AGM, bringing a group of friends. No recovery time for me. I didn’t attend the meeting as I h
ad my head in the oven—either cooking or, at times, suicidal. This domestic goddess now well and truly loathed cooking.

  What Rick told me about the AGM didn’t lift my spirits. Beef prices had crashed, and the immediate outlook wasn’t positive. McAllister was a small property by Gulf standards: 607 square kilometres, with a carrying capacity of five thousand head. The average size of a property in the Gulf was closer to 2500 square kilometres. Our dream had always been to support two married couples, but now this would be difficult. At the AGM, an agreement was made for us to continue and hope beef prices would improve.

  The day they all departed, I was busy changing bed linen and sorting mounds of washing when another vehicle drove up to the house. Great! The Flick man for pest control, unannounced as usual. I could hardly send him on his way—it was important to have the work done while he was on the circuit, otherwise we’d miss out. I told myself it was a ‘spring clean’, even though it wasn’t spring. It was really an ‘enforced clean’.

  Some instructions on how to deal with the Flick man:

  1. Take a deep breath…or two. Change my attitude.

  2. First, remove all contents from all kitchen and laundry cupboards.

  3. Nasty poison is sprayed everywhere. Allow to dry.

  4. When the cupboards are dry, clean out all dead bugs.

  5. Replace contents of cupboards.

  6. Sweep dead bugs from floor, then mop.

  7. Remember to cook dinner for twelve among the mess.

  8. Take another deep breath and tackle milky streaks on all windows.

  9. This is such fun…not.

  10. Clean all windows and try not to think about residual poison in and around the house.

  11. Think positive thoughts about the masses of unwanted bugs that have gone to bug heaven.

  12. Thank God that’s over for another year. Reward myself with a cup of coffee on the verandah.

  My brief peace was interrupted by yet another vehicle arriving: a representative from the land commissioner to do an assessment. Unannounced, of course. Great!

  McAllister had been a property taken from Inverleigh by the Lands Department and drawn in a ballot. So the Lands Department would send representatives—often three men—to assess the progress as specified in our lease agreement. Their visits usually came at the most inconvenient times, and required a lot of figures and paperwork from Rick.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I snarled at the representative (sweetly).

  ‘That would be nice, and could I stay the night, please?’

  ‘Of course, it will be so good to have company,’ I replied (sarcastically).

  He looked at me in bewilderment. He would understand when the mob returned from mustering and he shared the dinner table with eleven people.

  Anthony had been happily playing with his cars in the garden. He wandered up to us on the verandah and asked sweetly, ‘Hello, darling, smoko ready?’ He mimicked Rick perfectly. How could I not laugh?

  Rick and Paul needed help with the stock work. Our first two jackeroos were young cousins from New Zealand. Dave, the older one, looked ominous: short, swarthy, very solid, with long, curly black hair and several tattoos. However, I liked Dave very much. He was always the first person to jump up to wash the dishes. He treated me with great respect and adored Anthony. The feeling was mutual.

  Kenneth, however, was the opposite: lean, fair and quiet, a dark horse. For some reason I didn’t like him. I can’t explain why but I was never comfortable with him.

  The jackeroos lived in the Gidyea Hut, as the rooms in the shed and men’s quarters were occupied.

  One Sunday, when Rick was away, I happened to overhear a conversation.

  ‘Anthony,’ said Kenneth, ‘would you like to come upstairs to my room? I have some really nice biscuits there.’

  I made my presence felt by calling out, ‘Kenneth, Anthony is not going upstairs to your room, EVER, so please do not ask him again.’ I led the reluctant little boy away and spoke to him sternly. ‘You must never go to any of the men’s rooms. That’s their private place, and you must tell me if this happens again.’

  The next day, while Kenneth was away at work, I decided I’d have a look in his room. I felt uncomfortable invading his privacy, but I was so unnerved that I had to do something.

  When I entered his room, I was horrified to find pieces of my personal clothing that had gone missing, along with letters, financial records and other confidential material, obviously taken from Rick’s desk. The bed was soaked with urine. The room was filthy.

  I felt sick. What was I going to do? I didn’t want to tackle this situation alone.

  I sent Rick a carefully worded telegram asking him to get home quickly. He received it and, realising something was seriously amiss, left for home straight away, arriving at midnight. When I told him of my discovery and of Kenneth’s invitation to Anthony, he was furious. Kenneth was escorted to town and put on a plane to New Zealand. His cousin was horrified at his behaviour.

  I realised I had to be more careful around strangers and more aware of protecting Anthony. My confidence and trust was shaken, but it was a timely warning.

  News came that my friend Jillie was to be married in Melbourne. I desperately wanted to be there, but it was impossible. The tyranny of distance and the cost were my enemies.

  However, we could attend Donal McDonald’s wedding in Rockhampton—he was marrying a New Zealand girl. He’d been our groomsman and now invited Rick to be his best man. We were looking forward to a break. Difficult as it was to part with Anthony, we left him in the safe hands of Paul and Rhonda. This was one of the many benefits of having two couples on our property.

  We drove to Townsville, inspecting some bulls and breeders at Mount Garnet on the way. We then booked into a lovely hotel on the Esplanade.

  ‘This is like a second honeymoon,’ I declared, dewy-eyed.

  ‘Let’s have dinner at a nice restaurant,’ said Rick. ‘I can’t wait to fall asleep to the sound of the sea.’

  Ironically the gentle lapping of the foreshore kept us awake. At 1 a.m. I flung the bedclothes aside, slammed the sliding doors shut and turned on the air-conditioner.

  ‘Now for some sleep,’ I muttered.

  ‘That would be good,’ came the sleepy response.

  We both woke in a puddle of sweat after an hour. The room was hot.

  ‘What have you done?’ my exasperated husband asked. On inspection, he discovered I’d set the air-con at thirty-six degrees, exactly what we’d come to the coast to get away from. We needed more practice at this ‘luxury’ stuff.

  The plane to Rockhampton was full of well-dressed businessmen heading for a local government conference. Rick also had his briefcase, and the air hostess asked, ‘May I put your case in the overhead locker, sir?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll just get my book first.’

  As he opened it, the contents were revealed: a packet of cornflakes, a fluorescent light tube, and a novel. His cover was blown.

  It was on this trip to Rockhampton that we met Rosemary and Ian Bender, who were to become great friends. They lived on a property north-west of Moree in northern New South Wales. I warmed to Rosemary instantly: she was vibrant, with a wicked sense of fun. Ian reminded me of my father—tall, gentle and smiling, with impeccable manners. Although he looked out of place in the city, he was born and raised in Sydney like Rick.

  Rosemary and I were ready to party, two bush girls let loose in the big smoke.

  ‘Let’s have our hair done,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes, what a luxury.’

  We wandered along the shopping strip near our motel until we found a salon named Scammell’s. We entered the empty salon and asked if we could make an appointment.

  ‘What time would you like?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Can we have our hair done now, please?’

  She scanned the empty appointment book for quite some time before replying seriously, ‘I think we can manage to do you both now.’

/>   By this time we were trying to suppress explosive giggles. Another hairdresser was summoned, and we sat side by side at the basins. We should have run then.

  ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ I asked Rosemary.

  She couldn’t reply as her hairdo had begun. Next minute my hairdresser attacked my head as if it was a punching ball—I’d never had such a physical shampoo in my life. I noticed Rosemary was being pummelled as well. When we finally emerged, red-faced and wide-eyed, we were unable to control our laughter.

  ‘I’ve just been scammelled,’ Rosemary spluttered.

  Our hair was glued into curls on top of our heads, frozen in place with copious amounts of hairspray. We could barely recognise the people we’d become.

  Rosemary needed to do some grocery shopping, so we found ourselves in the vegetable market. We filled a trolley with pumpkins, potatoes and other vegies. Once through the check-out, we realised there was a problem: we had to carry the produce all the way to the motel. Being law-abiding girls, we didn’t even think of taking the trolley.

  We managed to pick up the heavy boxes. However, as we crossed a busy pedestrian intersection, the bottom fell out of one box and pumpkins rolled across the road. This really was the point when insanity set in—we just couldn’t stop laughing. Patiently waiting motorists were laughing too, either with us or at us. Perhaps our glamorous, immovable hair won them over. Thank goodness there was no road rage.

  We finally managed to get ourselves together, picked up the offending bruised pumpkins and moved off the pedestrian crossing.

  Our astounded husbands could hardly believe their eyes as two unrecognisable, coiffed, hysterical women staggered into the room carrying boxes of vegetables and babbling about the funny experiences they’d just shared.

  ‘What are you two on about, and what have you done to your hair?’ Rick demanded.

  Ian was plain gobsmacked. He’d never seen his wife with cemented curls before.

  The men didn’t think our escapades were funny at all. Rosemary and I shared a large Cherry Ripe to make us feel better before we showered and washed the hairdos away. Ian and Rick were pleased to have their real wives back.