by Jenny Old
After many months, the Hickson family, the Old family and Rowan’s cousin Vincent Bettington with his partner, Margie, were the proud lease holders of five hectares of virgin land in this great spot. We had our dream and would start from scratch to achieve the results we desired.
Here we go again, I thought.
Vin, a veterinarian, had moved to Cloncurry so that he could work with Rowan. In the mid-1970s, all cattle in the North had to be tested for TB; it was a massive job and Rowan needed help. Vin was very different to his cousin—short and dark, he always looked as neat as a pin. Margie was a trained nurse who was searching for work and wanted to stay close to Vin. Being based at the roadhouse would be the perfect solution for them, so they would become its operators and managers.
Finally, after keeping us on tenterhooks for several months, a bank in Normanton approved our loan to commence work. The manager told us, ‘The pioneers always go broke—it’s the next generation who makes the money.’ Thanks, Mr Bank Manager, we will prove you wrong. We had youth and eternal optimism on our side.
There was so much for us to do. Water supply was the top priority: we’d have to get a dam built before the wet season, as nothing could happen without water. Then we’d need to fence the site, because it was part of a cattle station with stock wandering freely. Next, we’d construct the roadhouse and ablution blocks, and we’d quickly need to establish a garden—as I’d done at McAllister—to offer shade and create an oasis to welcome customers. We would also organise petrol tanks with pumps to provide a vital service for the many travellers, both locals and tourists.
Our partnership purchased a commercial kitchen and dining-room complex at a sale in Normanton. The mobile kitchen incorporated two six-burner gas stoves, a deep-fryer, tables and chairs, and a coldroom. Then we purchased a five-bedroom demountable from Mount Isa Mines; it was ideal, with beds and wardrobes built into each room, and the all-important air-conditioning installed—staff quarters done.
This heralded the beginning of the Burke and Wills Roadhouse.
Our need to establish the roadhouse garden led me to reflect on my own gardening journey. I looked back five years to when I’d started with couch-grass runners and patiently snipped them with an old pair of slightly rusty shears; now I rode a sit-on mower over the large expanse of green lawn that created a cool green palette around the homestead. For years I’d slowly spread the runners, nurturing each one with regular water and fertiliser until they had joined up to create a carpet.
I’d tried to heed my mother’s wise advice, ‘If you’re feeling stressed, angry or sad, go dig in the garden and soon you’ll feel better,’ and I passed on these words to Margie, as she would be maintaining the roadhouse garden. I wondered how often Mum had taken her own advice in the dry, unfamiliar surroundings of her home in the Riverina, after moving from the soft beauty of the Blue Mountains. She, too, had created an oasis amid dusty plains. She, too, like her mother before her, was a true pioneer.
At McAllister, we’d needed to plant lots of trees in order to provide shade and shelter from the constant heat. And because the unpleasant August winds whipped up dust, we’d required a windbreak. For beauty Rick and I had planted poinciana and frangipani, and for fruit we’d planted lemon, lime, cumquat, grapefruit, mango, pawpaw and banana. Between the trees I’d planted decorative, hardy shrubs, and I’d cultivated hardy creepers that climbed along the verandahs, providing flowers and shade.
But my greatest triumph was the vegetable garden. Apart from constantly moving hoses for the lawn and trees, this was where I spent my gardening time. From a few beds near the garden gate that were exposed to the elements and the animals, I’d graduated to a state-of-the-art fenced space with several beds. Over the years I’d adapted to the conditions and learnt which vegies would survive, while Rick had fenced and completely covered the beds with netting to protect them from birds and other wildlife.
At the change of seasons, I had perfected my method of preparing the vegie garden, then planting the seeds separately and transplanting the seedlings to the beds, leaving a week between. The seedlings required watering three times a day when the weather was still hot. To protect them from the midday sun, Rick made covers to fit each bed; I would place them over the fragile plants, removing them in the late afternoon. Once the plants settled into their new environment, the covers were taken off. In these perfect conditions, I harvested some vegetables in eight weeks. I regularly collected manure, and Rick constructed a liquid fertiliser contraption by welding two 44-gallon drums together, with a lid on top and a tap at the bottom. I filled these drums with manure and added water, leaving the ‘brew’ for several weeks, then watered the plants sparingly with the mix. It produced wonderful results, and it was free.
I had to be wary of the venomous snakes that often sought refuge in the moist, cool conditions. Many times I came across dangerous mulgas or taipans, which I disposed of. The netting on the fence kept out the non-venomous, sleepy pythons, who preferred the chook pen and a good meal of eggs—if not an odd hen—for dinner. The pythons just had ‘fright’ value: they were enormous, often up to four metres in length and as thick as my calf. I never killed them but discouraged them from staying by making a noise which made them move on. I was never sure where.
Every year I preserved a lot of produce from this garden to enjoy during the wet season. The tomatoes were the sweetest I’ve ever tasted, including organic produce from Italy. I made litres of tomato relish, sauce, jam and chutney—handy gifts for guests. I also produced masses of cumquat marmalade and liqueur. My famous marmalade was given to the governor of Queensland and his wife when they visited Lorraine Station. Chris often arrived with a box of empty jars to be filled.
There’s nothing quite like eating homegrown beef; picking vegetables for dinner one hour before cooking; collecting the warm, freshly laid eggs and fresh cow’s milk for breakfast. We were very healthy.
After many years of hard work, a lot of pleasure, and also heartbreak when plants died, I could look at a vast expanse of green lawn, strong trees around the perimeter, fruit trees dripping with their treasures, and a healthy and productive vegie garden, and feel proud. I looked forward to creating more beauty and bounty in the years to come.
Thank you, Mum, for your advice.
Now, I thought, let’s do the same at the Burke and Wills Roadhouse.
Time was galloping by at a tremendous pace. My pregnancy progressed well, and Rick was more enthusiastic about the Mount Isa trips for the doctor now—he had a great excuse to check on progress at the Burke and Wills.
I reluctantly had to find another doctor to deliver our baby, as Dr McAdam had moved on. And I didn’t have a rapport with my new female doctor.
‘She’ll do,’ I said to Rick when he expressed concern. ‘As long as she can deliver the baby safely, that’s all I need.’
The rules still applied. I had to be in Mount Isa six weeks before the baby was due—I decided three weeks beforehand would be quite enough. Thelma Hughes, my friend in town, was able to find house-sitting for me, and I could stay with her in the meantime.
As my pregnancy developed I had a solid six weeks of visitors at McAllister: the AGM with the shareholders, plus a group of twelve from Mount Isa for four days, including one poor guest who came down with measles and mumps together. I waited for Anthony to show signs of either or both, and thankfully this didn’t eventuate.
Visitors gone and catching my breath again, I was even contemplating a snooze one afternoon, but life was never dull at McAllister.
I looked out the kitchen door to see a huge pall of black smoke billowing from the shed. I knew Anthony had been in the shed. I began to panic. But then I spotted him heading to the horse yards as fast as his little legs would carry him.
The caravan, housed under an awning of the shed, was on fire. I immediately guessed he’d been in the caravan, the current home of a jackeroo, probably trying a cigarette.
The men were at the yards. I was alone apa
rt from my pyromaniac son who, very wisely, was in hiding. Where were all the visitors when I needed them?
Dragging a heavy hose from the garden, I ran to the fire, which was well and truly ablaze. I connected the hose to the tank and managed to prevent the flames spreading into the shed. Luckily the wind was blowing from the south, away from the building.
Then I stopped. What was I thinking? I was only into my sixth month of pregnancy, supposed to be resting with no stress. Here I was, dragging a heavy object, heart racing, trying to extinguish a fire. What was more important? The shed or my baby?
My baby won.
I breathed deeply and walked back to the house, lay on the bed and prayed, again, that my baby would survive this scare.
Stay calm, Jen, stay calm, I told myself over and over.
Fortunately Rick saw the cloud of smoke and raced home to find me curled up on the bed, clutching my stomach and trying to be calm.
‘Where’s Anthony? Where is he?’ he screamed.
‘Don’t worry, he’s in the horse yards…hiding.’
Rick hugged me and raced off to find his wayward son, who was cowering among the hay while the men battled the blaze.
The men managed to contain the fire with only minimal damage to the shed, but the caravan and its contents were gone. We were very lucky Anthony wasn’t caught in the van. He admitted to trying a cigarette, then somehow the fire started. He frantically attempted to douse it with a glass of water. Thank goodness he decided to run in time.
We had a very upset little boy, but it was a good lesson. I don’t believe that Anthony ever smoked again, although he still likes a good campfire.
We were all diverted from our daily routine by the television program A Big Country. A nine-seater plane flew in with a National Party candidate to do a program on his electorate. The place swarmed with photographers—they were even on the roof.
Our two labradors were stars but became very bored with the frequent takes and had to be cajoled into appearing with treats, the way to a labrador’s heart. Us humans were such amateurs at acting that the novelty soon wore off. Who would believe that walking to the plane and welcoming a dignitary could be so difficult? I’m afraid it was for these bushies.
‘That was good, but one more time,’ the director instructed us over and over again.
At last…‘Cut! That will do,’ he called.
We adjourned for lunch and animated conversation that flowed both ways. We were interested in our guests’ life and work, while they were fascinated by our life in the bush.
‘I’ll let you know when the program goes to air,’ promised the director.
‘Don’t bother,’ I replied. ‘We don’t have television.’
His astonished look was comical, but we were used to the surprise this information provoked.
Just to add to their sympathy, I informed them with a sad face, ‘We don’t have a telephone, either.’
‘I think there’s a television series to be written about your family,’ the director responded.
It was lucky we didn’t wait for our fame to be televised, because we never heard anything further, but the program did go to air. Our families were able to view it in their suburban comfort.
We didn’t have television, but we did have an unusual kitchen appliance. My daily chore of breadmaking became a lot easier when my innovative husband designed a bread-mixing machine after studying a big commercial one in the local bakery. He proudly appeared on the back verandah one afternoon with his version.
I was totally surprised to see the bottom third of a gas cylinder on a stand, with a hinged lid made from the top dome of the cylinder. An enormous motor was attached to the side. Inside the bottom of the bowl were prongs to throw the dough around.
The next morning our family assembled to watch the inaugural mix. In with the flour, followed by the yeast and warm water. I turned on the switch.
Wham! Bang! Wham! Bang!
The dough was flung around the bowl to the beat of the motor. Three minutes later, I held up a large lump of silky dough. ‘Wow…that’s so easy! It would’ve taken me many kneading sessions to reach this consistency.’
The machine created great amusement for our guests, as they were awoken early to the thumping of their luncheon loaves.
Anthony was now riding his pony and loved escaping from the house to help in the cattle yards. He spent one night out in the camp on a swag with the men, and loved it. I knew he was growing up when I began to wash his dirty clothes with Rick’s work clothes.
He looked up at me one day and said, ‘I’ll be glad when you have this baby to look after you, so I can go out with Daddy all day.’
Now, that’s a child’s appreciation for all a mother has done. He didn’t realise that his good times were to come to an end soon, because the thought of school hadn’t yet crossed his mind aside from our preschool correspondence adventures.
The year was winding down. The final stages of the mustering were complete, and the stockmen finishing up for the season. The push was on for the dam to be built at the Burke and Wills site before the wet season, so a dam sinker was booked to start work, and once again Rick waved goodbye and moved to camp. When it was time for me to move to Mount Isa, Des and his wife, Maureen, were to caretake McAllister while the roadhouse was being built.
Rick, Anthony and I planned to be away from home for six months.
Tomato Sauce
With my vegetable garden producing enough delicious, sweet tomatoes to feed an army I had to think of many ways to use my produce. This tomato sauce never lasted long—as well as being for our consumption it was a popular gift for visitors.
Makes approximately 20 large glass bottles
INGREDIENTS
5.5 kg tomatoes, roughly chopped
1 kg brown onions
6 garlic cloves, crushed
1.5 litres white vinegar, plus 600 ml extra
1.25 kg white sugar
8 whole cloves
2 teaspoons ground ginger
salt and pepper, to taste
cayenne pepper, to taste
METHOD
Add all the ingredients to a large boiler and simmer for 2 hours. Strain through a fine sieve into a large bowl, pressing the juice through using the back of a large spoon. Stir the extra 600 ml of vinegar into the resulting liquid and return to the boiler. Simmer the sauce gently for approximately 30 minutes until it reaches the desired consistency. Store in sterilised bottles and refrigerate once opened.
21
The Joys of Parenthood
The dreaded day arrived for me to pack. We planned to spend two months in Mount Isa, then four months at the Burke and Wills site until after the wet season, living in a small caravan with a new baby and a five year old who would be commencing his distance education with me as teacher. Rick would be building and establishing the roadhouse with Vin and Rowan, ready for an expected grand opening at Easter.
I spent my final days at home scrubbing, cleaning, mowing lawns, washing windows, pruning bougainvillea, fertilising fruit trees, spraying weeds, and even washing the blankets and entire contents of the linen cupboard. Crazy? Certainly. As the good book (Doctor Spock) stated, I was ‘nesting’.
On Sunday morning, as I was doing my final clean, guess who arrived? You won’t.
The Flick man.
‘Oh, no, not you,’ I groaned. ‘That’s twice you’ve done this to me.’
‘I can assure you, lady, I never receive a rapturous welcome wherever I go,’ the poor man replied.
I felt sorry for him. I did what I had to do, grateful I was in ‘nesting’ mode. He happily departed—without asking for accommodation—on to another victim, hoping the next station didn’t have a pregnant and slightly hysterical lady of the house.
I collapsed into bed, ready for an early departure. The plan was that I’d drive the ute with Anthony and two freezers full of beef for Thelma and for my consumption in Mount Isa, followed by Rick in the truck.
Durin
g the night, a massive storm brewed. Sensibly we decided to leave immediately. We couldn’t risk being isolated by impassable roads at this critical stage. Sleep was not an option.
We drove to the Burke and Wills, rolled our swag and tried to sleep. However, because of my busy baby and incessant mosquitoes, it was impossible.
Why didn’t I ever think to have my babies in Deniliquin under the tender loving care of my parents, with a ten-minute drive to the hospital and a familiar doctor to deliver my baby? I wish I’d been able to sit back and enjoy visitors and adoring family in a room full of flowers—even an odd bottle of champagne. Perhaps I love my husband too much.
We arrived in Devoncourt at 6 a.m. to enjoy breakfast with Chris, Don and children. Anthony stayed on for a few days with his friends and barely took the time to wave us goodbye. Little did he realise that life as he knew it would soon be very different.
Thelma welcomed Rick and me into her home, where we were to stay until the baby was born. I hoped it wouldn’t arrive the next morning like its brother. I wasn’t ready for labour.
Rick returned to the Burke and Wills. He didn’t enjoy sitting around waiting for the baby’s arrival. I didn’t either.
I was still in one piece when he came back on the weekend.
‘Hey, Jen, there’s a car race on this evening,’ he announced. ‘Let’s go.’
This was the last thing my distended belly and aching back felt like doing, but I agreed. It rained heavily during the event, creating more excitement and crashes.
On our way home I knew it was time for me to go to hospital. We rushed to collect my belongings and tell Thelma, ‘We’re on our way, so can you look after Anthony?’
Eight hours later, twelve days early, I delivered a healthy baby boy, Benjamin Richard Old. At last, I was able to hold our longed-for baby in my arms. Rick shared my delight at having a second son. One day, we hoped to have a little daughter.