by Jenny Old
Back then, children weren’t allowed to visit the maternity ward. I had to hold Ben up to the window to show Anthony, who was looking up from the footpath with Rick. Barbaric! Naturally I was anxious to be released and have my family together.
We moved into a house belonging to a friend of Thelma, to caretake for two weeks. It was comfortable but had tanks of exotic fish that were in my care—a formidable task for an inexperienced fish handler.
Once we were settled, Rick departed for the Burke and Wills: job done as far as he was concerned. Remind me to return as a man in my next life.
Rick always comments on how good our babies were—that’s because he wasn’t part of the first six weeks of two-hourly feeds.
It was a lonely time, and I’d never have survived without Thelma’s friendship. It was also a time for me to treasure every moment with my new baby.
Anthony was fascinated by his little brother and showed no sign of jealousy; after all, this seemingly inanimate object wasn’t a threat to him. And he was thriving in the new environment of Mount Isa with constant activity, phones and television.
In 1975, we spent an unusual Christmas at Mount Isa surrounded by tropical fish. Marg, Ted and their son Pete were also on their own, so we invited them to stay. Thelma, Gary and their children joined us for a simple lunch. We were lucky to have friends to share Christmas with, as it could be a lonely time without family.
Our household didn’t enjoy a peaceful night, because a very unsettled baby gave vent to his discomfort: his mother had indulged in far too much red wine, chocolate and plum pudding. Marg kindly sat up with me as we unsuccessfully tried to settle him. His father and soon-to-be godfather slept peacefully through.
When the owners of the house returned, I was very relieved to hand over the large aquarium, complete with healthy fish, all accounted for.
Our next stop was Thelma and Gary’s house, our regular Mount Isa base, to caretake while they were on holidays for four weeks. I was much more at home there, and Mum arrived to spend ten days with me. Was I pleased to see her. Rick had returned to the Burke and Wills, and once again I was stuck in Mount Isa without a vehicle, this time with two children. I welcomed my mother’s common-sense advice and sense of humour.
We were never sure when we would see Rick. (Oh, for a telephone!) However, a few days before New Year’s Eve, he appeared with a huge load in the back of the ute.
‘What have you got there?’ Mum asked.
‘Wait and see! I have some presents for you, Joan.’
Over a cup of tea, he told us the story.
‘Outside Cloncurry I was driving behind a truck that was heading for the tip. I decided to follow it, as I could see bolts of material, hats and other goodies I thought we could use.’
The truck driver explained to his ‘stalker’ there had been a fire in the Cloncurry General Store, and the goods on his truck were damaged by flames or smoke. That was music to Rick’s ears.
‘How about we load the good stuff into my ute?’ he asked.
‘No probs, mate, take what you want, it’s only being dumped.’
Rick, Mum and I unpacked bolts of patterned fabric with small burn marks and a strong smoky fragrance. These would provide a lifetime of patchwork fabric for me and my friends. We also found metres of shower curtaining that found homes in many men’s quarters across the Gulf.
Rick was proudly wearing a brand-new akubra with a burnt rim. ‘When people ask me about it, I’ll tell them the heat out here would burn the rim off your hat.’
That would be a tall story for the tourists at the Burke and Wills.
Mum’s special gift was dozens of pairs of pantihose that appeared undamaged. She was delighted. However, the day she tried to wear a pair, she discovered they were sealed together from the heat and had to be discarded. Great gift, Rick.
We’d been invited to a New Year’s Eve party at the Hicksons. Their parties were legendary.
‘Let’s go,’ pleaded Rick.
Mum and I looked at each other.
‘I don’t think driving 220 kilometres for a party in the wet season, with a newborn baby, a five-year-old, and a sleep-deprived mother and grandmother, is such a good idea,’ was my caustic response. ‘Apart from the fact we can’t fit in the ute, unless Mum and I sit in the back.’
‘Maybe it would be easier if I go myself to represent the family,’ Rick suggested.
He was never one to refuse a party. We waved him goodbye, and I don’t think he gave us a second thought as he headed off to celebrate the new year with our friends. Naturally he was going to the party on the way back to the Burke and Wills with a load of building material, where he’d remain until more material was required. He was lucky to miss a few more crazy weeks with a newborn.
Mum and I celebrated the beginning of 1976 in the company of an unsettled baby.
‘Happy new year!’ we chorused as we clinked our mugs of hot chocolate. A new year with a difference—we would often laugh about seeing in 1976.
I cherished my mother’s easy, comfortable and supportive company, and I wished she could stay longer. When she departed, I fell in a heap. It was a miserable time. We missed Rick. Anthony and I were trying to do correspondence school, a time-consuming project. The boys both developed nasty colds, and Ben was unable to feed because of a high fever.
I needed to get the boys to a doctor: not easy for a sleep-deprived mother with no vehicle. I took a taxi to the appointment, then waited at the medical centre with a very sick and unhappy baby and a restless, unwell five-year-old. Then we went to the chemist for prescriptions, with more waiting, and finally home. Again, we were behind with the schoolwork, which would have to be made up when Anthony was well enough.
Thelma and Gary were due home from their holiday, and I wanted the house and garden to be perfect for them. Then Rick appeared the day we were to leave. I’d had enough. I was tired and not feeling well, having developed a cold myself.
‘Please can you help me make up the beds, bring the washing in and do a final vacuum, or even hold the baby while I do it?’
‘Sorry, not now—I have to pick up supplies for the roadhouse. Later.’
At this point I seriously thought of booking a plane south to my parents, but I didn’t have the energy. I was fed up and not happy with Rick’s lack of empathy.
But I still did the work. Thelma, Gary and their kids arrived home to a clean house and food in the fridge. Rick and I loaded the ute up with baby gear and supplies. After hugs and kisses goodbye, we climbed in. Anthony sat between us on the bench seat with a bassinette over his knees holding his little brother. As usual, my mood lightened once we were ready to leave.
As we waved to our dear friends, Thelma put her head in the open window and said, ‘This is the next part of your book, Jen.’
With relief I said goodbye to Mount Isa, heading north to spend the following months living in a caravan at the future Burke and Wills Roadhouse with a six-week-old baby, a five-year-old, two labradors (one of them heavily pregnant), and an air of optimism that this was the beginning of a new adventure.
22
Our Caravan
It was late afternoon when we pulled into the site of the future Burke and Wills Roadhouse. Apprehension washed over me as I stared at what was to be our home for the next six months: a caravan under a stand of silver-leaf box trees. It looked small, very small. How was I going to live in a caravan with a new baby and a five-year-old? How were we going to fit? I thought longingly of McAllister. My house, my garden, my home. This arid desolation wasn’t where I wanted to be. My optimism was gone: I was tired, anxious and unprepared.
Vin and Margie greeted us enthusiastically.
‘I’m so pleased to have you here, Jen, it’s good fun,’ said Margie.
I wasn’t convinced, but I was grateful to have Margie with me. Her cheerfulness helped my mood—a little.
She immediately made friends with Anthony, and I gratefully passed my hot baby to her, relieved to escape the ute after a long tr
ip with two restless boys. It was at least comforting to know I’d have the support of a trained nurse.
Anthony, as usual, quickly adapted to his new surroundings. This was simply another adventure for our easygoing little boy.
After making the beds and setting up the bassinette in the middle of the caravan, Rick and I settled to try and sleep. A small fan pushed the tepid air around the confined space, giving little relief from the oppressive heat and humidity.
The site for the Burke and Wills Roadhouse was a bare block of land at the junction of four major roads. It looked no different to the hundreds of kilometres that stretched emptily in either direction.
Apart from our caravan, the accommodation was two mobile dongas, sitting side by side, soon to be joined by the commercial kitchen. Fifty metres behind the dongas, a small shed housed the all-important generator for 24-hour power.
Our 5.5-metre caravan stood at the edge of the site. It held a double bed at one end under a high window, with a small wardrobe alongside, and double bunks fitted along one wall opposite a tiny kitchen. A table and bunk seats filled the other end, and this small area would serve as a dining and schoolroom. The bassinette, with baby inside, was positioned in the middle between the kitchen and the bunks, having to be moved—preferably without disturbing the baby—whenever the stove or sink was in use.
An annex attached to the side of the caravan housed fold-up chairs, a bench for food preparation and a baby bath, and it also provided a small area for us to shake the red mud off our shoes before entering the van.
There was no air-conditioning, only small, high windows that failed to allow any airflow in the tepid, cloying heat.
‘At least I won’t have much housework, and I’ll only be cooking for three,’ I muttered to Rick. I failed to think of any further benefits. As for the negatives…too many to list.
Our bathroom was under a tree behind the caravan, in full view of passing traffic. It consisted of a shower rose in a tree with a bucket overhead. I’d had experience of open-air ablutions at McAllister, but I’d never dreamt I’d be doing it again—and in public.
‘Rick, how can I have a shower alongside the road?’
‘No problem, darling, just choose a time when there’s no traffic.’
How would I manage that when a car or truck could appear at any moment? A swimming costume was the answer.
Our lavatory was a shovel with a roll of toilet paper on the end. We each had a favourite private spot. Going to the toilet proved to be a lively activity, with sandflies and mosquitoes ready to attack any sign of unbitten, exposed, juicy flesh. Nobody lingered. Vin returned from his constitutional one morning and announced proudly, ‘I’ve given birth to a tomato bush!’
It was weird living in a caravan. Spending most of the day in such a tiny space was so different to what we were used to. Somehow I muddled along, finally falling into a routine:
• Begin school by seven in the morning.
• Feed baby.
• Settle baby.
• Make breakfast for family.
• Clear breakfast away.
• Set up table for school.
• Have flashcards, glue, paints, Cuisenaire rods, paper, books and pencils at the ready.
• Thirty-minute SOTA (School of the Air) lesson at nine-thirty.
• Smoko…phew! Half-hour break with Rick.
• Hopefully complete school by lunchtime, allowing other chores to be done.
My father saved our sanity by sending money for us to buy a small air-conditioner. This little machine rattled on non-stop, day and night, sucking out the humidity and pumping cool air into our tiny capsule, making our lives bearable.
And to make our lives even more interesting, our pregnant labrador, Sophie, gave birth to five puppies one night, where she and Rorie resided under the caravan. Labrador puppies are adorable, but they’re hell-bent on destroying everything and anything in sight. They grew rapidly and our shoe supply diminished considerably. Their raucous games and fights became noisier and more vigorous as they grew. Why did they have to do this under the caravan?
Then the wet season set in, in earnest.
Torrential rain fell without warning. The noise on the caravan roof was deafening. Sticky red mud was everywhere. I had no hope of drying the wet clothes and dozens of thick towelling nappies that were always damp. One day I tried to dry two in my tiny gas oven—they caught fire and burnt to a sizzle.
Still, despite the discomfort, I enjoyed the time spent with my boys, and the fact that Rick was with us made me happy. Another consolation was the mail service, a little more regular at the roadhouse than at McAllister. At least I could keep in frequent touch with friends and family, and bemoan my new life in a caravan to them.
One day, when Ben was six weeks old, a letter arrived from the adoption agency. Our baby boy was available. Would we like to proceed?
We’d advised the agency of my changed circumstances when I reached a safe stage of my pregnancy. They’d informed us they would continue with the application until I’d delivered a healthy baby. We’d also advised them of Ben’s safe arrival.
We declined the adoption, knowing there would be another family out there with a greater need. Still, I often wonder where our little boy is. In my heart I know he’s with a worthy and loving family, giving them as much joy as our boys have given us.
At the roadhouse site, we dreamt of creating a meeting place for the locals and a watering hole for tourists. It was unusual to find a junction of four major roads in the bush: the roads stretched for vast, seemingly endless miles. Travellers quickly responded to our roadhouse with gratitude—now they wouldn’t have to carry fuel for the long distances between towns.
At first we sold fuel in a primitive and unconventional way. With no bowsers yet installed, the good old 44-gallon drum and a hand pump had to do.
Margie served customers our limited offerings of ice-creams, toasted sandwiches, tea and coffee. She was stunning; tall, with long black hair, she exuded warmth with her constant smile and tinkling laughter. Our customers loved her. Vin was still working as a vet until trade built up, then he’d be full-time with her.
Sundays were good trading days when the station people came to visit, weather and roads permitting. We always enjoyed catching up with neighbours and friends. They bought cartons of ice-creams and chocolate to take home and store in the freezer.
Spending time with them made me long for McAllister. They spoke about the things I was familiar with: horses, cattle, maintenance work, gardening and children. The roadhouse was unfamiliar territory for me. I wondered how my garden was surviving without my tender loving care. I longed for space and I longed to take my baby home.
Rick, on the other hand, was focused on the job at hand. He had total faith that Des and Maureen would be taking care of our property; after all, the cattle were fine as we’d had rain. We spoke on the radio regularly for updates. Rick was living in the moment and enjoying the challenge of establishing another venture, which we hoped would produce an income to tide us through the tough economic times. He happily pumped the fuel in between his mountain of labouring work.
The builders arrived to start work, hopefully without interruption from the weather. They lived in the accommodation dongas, along with Margie and Vin. Margie cooked for the men in the industrial kitchen; she actually enjoyed the cooking and the company, and the men certainly enjoyed having this vivacious, beautiful woman in their midst.
One morning as I emerged from the caravan schoolroom for a much-needed respite, I was confronted by the interesting sight of Rick driving the McAllister tractor and pulling the kitchen donga on skids. He was trying to place it at right angles to the second donga, ready for a shed to be built over both. As I watched, the poor, rather old tractor shuddered to a halt, wheels skidding, and finally bogged.
My husband is resourceful in any situation, but I wondered how he was going to extricate himself from this one. I need not have worried. He placed timber u
nder the tractor wheels to enable traction, then slowly and surely he positioned the heavy building.
Once the dongas were arranged in an L-shape, Rick and a couple of jackeroos built an enormous iron roof over the top of them, including an extension at the front for a covered courtyard that would contain tables and chairs and, in time, plants and colourful bougainvillea, a welcoming oasis.
The building work took weeks. As soon as one stage was complete, the next began. Rick and his team poured the concrete flooring with three mixers, carting the mix in wheelbarrows and buckets. With humidity often reaching one hundred per cent, it was enervating and exhausting work, but Rick went out with the builders each day, helping to complete the job before the monsoon arrived. Once the shed was finished, work commenced on the new ablution block: a brick construction with a generous number of toilets and showers. What bliss to have such luxuries.
During all this activity, I was grateful for the company of Margie and Vin. We shared many happy evenings together, playing Scrabble or cards, or just chatting. Margie was my tonic—I loved having a compatible friend who was also a nurse. We had a lot in common, especially a sense of humour and willingness to adapt.
There was great excitement when Rick and the men installed a 20,000-litre fuel tank. At last we looked like a roadhouse. They replaced our other primitive set-up with new, smart bowsers.
Always looking for an income, and unbeknown to me, my enterprising husband put a large sign at the front: TWENTY-FOUR HOUR FUEL. BANG ON CARAVAN DOOR IF REQUIRE FUEL AT NIGHT.
And bang they did.
Imagine waking up to a loud banging on the door in the middle of the night. Seven labradors wake too, barking, bumping heads on the floor of the van. Rick, who sleeps against the wall to allow me to attend to night feeds, frantically climbs over me to get to the door. He trips over the bassinette containing our baby in the middle of the van. Ben wakes and screams. Rick serves a grateful customer and returns to bed. Jen feeds and settles Ben. The dogs finally settle. Anthony sleeps soundly through all the chaos.