by Jenny Old
All quiet.
Until the next bang on the door.
To escape the confines of the caravan and schoolroom, in the afternoons, weather permitting, I’d often load Ben into the pram, call the labradors—all seven of them—and, with Anthony beside me on his bike, set off for a walk along the Beef Road.
One day I attracted some attention when a car passed me and my strange entourage. The driver slowed down, then stopped. A kindly, concerned face appeared at the window. ‘Er…lady…are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I replied nonchalantly.
‘How far are you going?’
‘Cloncurry.’ (About 183 kilometres south.)
He reluctantly drove on, probably feeling quite puzzled until he saw the roadhouse. He pulled in and was filling up with fuel when I wheeled in behind him with my pram.
‘Fill her up, please,’ I asked a surprised Rick.
The confused driver looked anxiously at Rick, who reassured him with the comforting words, ‘Don’t worry, mate, my wife’s gone troppo.’
Sometimes I think I had.
We planned to open the roadhouse for Easter. It would be four and a half months since we’d arrived—long, frantically busy months. Rick and the men had completed the first stage of building and got the all-important ablution block working. We were all eager to see some results for our labour.
Easter was a popular holiday time for Mount Isa residents, who liked to go camping and fishing at Karumba. Hopefully the roads would be open and the convoys of vacationers would stop at the roadhouse to fill up with fuel and snacks.
The time to test our new business was here.
Rowan and Judy swelled our workforce, bringing the essential supplies for the Easter weekend. We packed the fridges and coldroom with food, soft drinks and juice, and loaded the freezers with ice-creams. We swept, raked and polished the grounds and serving area.
We were ready.
Around six o’clock, we could see it: an endless snake of lights on the horizon, streaming towards us as far as the eye could see.
‘This is it,’ called the Chiefs.
‘Yes, Chiefs!’ Judy and I realised we were the Indians. There seemed to be a lot of Chiefs.
As we’d hoped, every car pulled in. We ran around putting orders together, toasting sandwiches, heating pies, and making endless cups of coffee and tea. There seemed to be a crowd twenty people deep at the counter at all times, but these wonderful country folk were in good spirits, patient and delighted to have a place to stop for refreshments and break their long journey.
‘Two Cokes. Four toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches. One toasted cheese only. Two Drumsticks and one Hava Heart ice-cream, please. Oh, and a Mars Bar…’
Maths was never my strong suit, but try adding that up in your head quickly. Our second-hand cash register didn’t offer any hints of what the change might be.
Suddenly, it was eleven o’clock at night and the last car had departed. A silence descended over the Burke and Wills as the dust settled. We sat down and sighed with exhaustion and exhilaration.
Our opening day had been a success.
‘We did it!’ ‘How good was that?’ ‘Well done, team.’
This Indian remembered she had a baby who would be needing a feed.
Then…
‘All th-those ca-a-ars wi-i-ill be r-r-returning…in three days’ t-t-time,’ exclaimed Rowan. ‘We d-d-don’t have a-any s-s-supplies left, not even a slice of b-b-bread.’
This was the eye of the storm. Maybe our customers wouldn’t be in such good spirits returning to work. Maybe—well, definitely—they’d be a little hungover.
‘All the shops and bakers are closed in Cloncurry for Easter. How will we get more supplies?’ I asked the Chiefs, glad I was an Indian and didn’t have to make momentous decisions.
Rowan, being our most persuasive and charming Chief, was duly elected to go to Cloncurry with Judy, to obtain more supplies any way they could. The remainder of the weary and bedraggled crew began to clean up and recharge our batteries, ready for the influx in three days. Our ablution block had stood the test of the multitudes.
Rowan and Judy returned two days later with three hundred freshly baked pies. The generous business community of Cloncurry—with persuasion and no doubt some bribery from Rowan—didn’t hesitate to open the bakery and fill the massive order for us. They also opened the supermarket and sold Rowan all the necessary supplies. We were prepared for the impending return rush.
Rowan and I hadn’t proved successful at managing the cash register, so we found ourselves delegated to the back of the kitchen, peeling and cutting potatoes by the bagful for the endless orders of hot chips.
‘We are a s-s-sitting du-u-uck for a hold-up…w-w-with all this ca-a-ash,’ said Rowan, looking worried.
We’d never seen so much cash. We hid stashes in Sunshine milk tins, Rick’s sock drawer and even Ben’s bassinette while he slept. Later, we had trouble remembering all our secret hiding places.
As quickly as the crowds had arrived, it was all over.
‘Wow, I think we’re onto a winner,’ said Rick, reflecting all of our thoughts. ‘They’ll tell their friends that we’re open for business.’
The bush telegraph at its best.
It had been a steep learning curve for four cattle breeders, two vets and a nurse who were all inexperienced in this line of business. But we were a versatile mob.
Anthony, the true entrepreneur, had made a sign at the front of the roadhouse prior to Easter: Labrador Pups for Sale. $30 each. He sold all five in two days. He couldn’t wait for the next litter. Poor Sophie. Life was a little more peaceful without the active puppies, but we did miss them.
23
Back Home
It was time for us to return to McAllister. By June, the majority of the work at the roadhouse was complete for the short-term, enough to allow Margie and Vin to carry on by themselves. Development would continue for many more years, but the Burke and Wills was operational at last.
We were sorry to wave goodbye to our dear friends. I’d miss Margie very much: she’d been such a support to me with her cheerful outlook, especially when I’d been feeling frustrated with correspondence school, a new baby and the confines of a caravan.
After a long and eventful seven months, I was bringing my baby home. How I longed to be there. I drove the ute, loaded with our personal goods, baby gear, dogs and Benjamin beside me in the bassinette. Rick and Anthony followed in the loaded truck, towing the caravan. Once again, we looked like a circus on the move.
We arrived home to a very warm welcome from Des and Maureen. They happily departed for a well-deserved holiday the next day.
What a relief to see my garden had been cared for, the lawn mowed, the house cleaned and food in the fridge. We revelled in the space and joy of being home. Our tiny house felt like a mansion after the caravan.
Anthony went off very happily to explore the garden, his favourite places and his room with toys he’d forgotten he owned. But Ben had trouble adjusting to the relatively large spaces and enormous cot after his squashy bassinette. And there was no more air-conditioning, something he was used to.
Just as I was settling into home life again, Rick announced, ‘I’m returning to the Burke and Wills with the tractor to help over the May Day long weekend.’
‘How long will you be away?’ I asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
‘I’ll be back by next weekend,’ he replied.
I knew it would be a matter of which ‘next’ weekend.
Well, boys, I thought, it’s just us again.
I was so proud of Anthony, who had dealt with all the upheavals of the past months with ease. He was the most amiable little boy and great company. And at this early stage, his baby brother wasn’t a threat to his daily activities.
Because it was school holidays, I had time to unpack and clean the caravan. I scrubbed away the red mud, inside and out.
Rick had made a wooden boost
er seat for Anthony on the bench beside the table. I pulled this out to get to the seats underneath. A movement caught my eye. A two-metre brown snake was coiled around the timber. I disposed of it by digging it out with a long wire and then whacking it before it could find another hiding spot. But how long had it been there? Had we been sitting above this intruder for weeks?
As predicted, Rick was away for the following two weekends. He arrived home to a rollicking houseful of happy visitors. Chris, Susie, Zanda and James, along with Thelma and her three children had come to spend the weekend with me and the boys. The noise was cacophonic, and it wasn’t just made by the eight children.
We had an unexpected visit from Father Tony Mathews, who had christened Anthony, as well as the new Church of England minister for Normanton. They had heard there was a new baby to add to the flock.
We set the date for another bush christening.
My garden was flourishing and I planned the ceremony to take place there, as we’d done for Anthony’s. When that day arrived, horror of horrors, our beautiful, predictable, balmy dry season weather turned cold, windy and unpleasant. Many of our friends were unable to join us; they’d succumbed to the flu in the unseasonably cold weather. The guest of honour, Ben, was also suffering a cold and not in the sunniest of moods.
However, we managed thirty guests for the weekend. The service took place on our front lawn. Our local Church of England minister officiated and the family christening chalice was once more the special feature. Ben was in good hands with his four Catholic godparents: Chris and Don, and Marg and Ted. As Marg always tells me, ‘We get you all in the end.’
The weekend passed happily with no dramatic scenes of pigs on fire, just plenty of hot mulled wine, good food and great company.
Bush kids lead incredible lives, and Anthony had many stories to tell on air. He recounted the story of our snake intruder, adding a few embellishments.
How my life had changed. The years to come were filled with educating my children. Not a problem at the roadhouse, where I’d had the time, but at McAllister it was a very different scenario.
The caravan had become our schoolroom, situated conveniently beside the kitchen. Each day we had to complete a thirty-minute SOTA lesson, plus weekly correspondence papers, and return them to Brisbane for correction. SOTA then posted them back to me for correction with Anthony. It was all extremely time-consuming.
Monday afternoon was Religious Instruction. Our teacher, Miss Walker, then decided to introduce a craft lesson on Wednesdays called ‘Zip and Zap’. Can you imagine trying to do origami by instruction over the air?
Miss Walker: ‘Fold your piece of paper in half, then fold it into triangles. Take the first triangle on the right-hand side and fold it back into itself—’
Pupil: ‘Which side do I fold over first?’
On it went.
The result: a tangled mess of paper with mother and son laughing hysterically at our futile attempt.
Other projects were more successful. A papier-maché elephant took us months to complete, as we added one layer of soggy newspaper a week, gradually shaping it into an elephant then painting the finished work. The result was pretty amazing.
Tie-dyeing was messy but fun. Anthony created a cot sheet for Ben and aptly named it ‘Cobwebs in the Sky’. This was one of his greater artistic accomplishments—he was a practical child like his father.
The imaginative Miss Walker decided on a circus theme for one craft lesson. I scratched my head for ideas, wondering if these dedicated SOTA teachers realised that teaching wasn’t my full-time job.
‘I want to be a clown,’ Anthony announced.
Dressed in an old pair of Rick’s boots on the wrong feet, an enormous pair of striped winter pyjamas and a pillow stuffed down his front, with large smears of red lipstick and white cream covering his face and a silly hat on his head, Anthony looked hilarious. I took a photo for Miss Walker so she could see what went on at the other end of the microphone. (Well, some of what went on behind the microphone.)
These activities were important to help our bush kids develop their imaginative skills. They had to act the character and describe, in detail, their costume and presentation. On the receiving end, the other children had to picture these descriptions. They were amazingly inventive, along with the home tutors, who only had household goods from which to create the productions.
The Mount Isa SOTA pupils also enjoyed many interesting guest speakers, including one from a local television channel. Anthony found this fascinating—especially as we, like most of the pupils, didn’t have television. A fireman with the unfortunate name of Mr Fry was also a hit.
As if we didn’t have enough on the go, Anthony announced he’d like to join Cubs of the Air.
‘How can you possibly do Cubs over a radio?’ I asked Rick.
‘Don’t know, but I don’t think he needs to do those practical tests when he lives on a property. It’s more for city kids.’ Such a helpful response.
However, Zanda McDonald and Anthony had discussed this and were determined to join together. It was another opportunity for these great friends to communicate with each other. Susie McDonald was most put out as, being a girl, she couldn’t join.
‘Mum, you have to buy the shorts, shirt, hat, belt, scarf and toggle, and I’ll attend the session every Tuesday afternoon on the radio in full uniform,’ Anthony sweetly informed me. ‘Then I’ll do tests, which you’ll supervise, and I’ll earn badges that you’ll have to sew onto my shirt.’
‘Anything else?’ I inquired tartly, but sarcasm was lost on my child.
‘You’ll have to drive me to camps in Mount Isa.’
‘Oh, is that all, young man?’
‘Yup…I think so, Mum.’
Phew!
He joined. I bought the uniform, and he was soon the master of the toggle, badges, ‘dib-dib-dib, dob-dob-dob’ and the national anthem. Every Tuesday afternoon on the dot of three o’clock, Anthony would be found fully dressed in uniform, apart from shoes.
The tests were completed on an honour system. Anthony was diligent in earning his badges, which I sewed onto his shirt as he’d requested. With rollcall, Akela (Cub captain) did a uniform parade—over the air!
‘Anthony, do you have your hat on?’
‘Yes, Akela.’
‘Do you have your scarf on?’
‘Yes, Akela.’
And so on, until Akela asked, ‘Anthony, do you have your shoes on?’
‘Er…No, Akela.’
It amused many of our guests to see this little boy from the bush, fully dressed in his uniform (minus shoes), rushing down to the schoolroom. He was totally self-motivated. If only it had been as easy to get him into the schoolroom for normal lessons. As predicted, Anthony and Zanda had a long yarn on the radio after each class.
Just as I fell into the semblance of a routine, it was time for us to attend our first SOTA sports day in Mount Isa. I didn’t feel like going anywhere, and the thought of having to make up the lost days of schoolwork wasn’t appealing. But I realised this wasn’t about me when a little voice called out, ‘Yaaaay, Mummy, I’ll be seeing Susie and Zanda at the sports day. I can’t wait!’
How could I not be excited?
We had no idea what to expect but were pleasantly surprised at the level of organisation, and the variety of races and competitions for the children in every grade. We found it hilarious watching the little bush kids trying to understand the rules of tunnel ball, and egg-and-spoon and three-legged races. The starting gun terrified some children, who ran back into the arms of protective mothers. Appropriately, Anthony won the life-saving race—he was used to running for his life on occasion.
This was a great opportunity for everyone to get to know each other. However, Susie, Zanda and Anthony showed little desire to mingle. Chris and I found our inseparable threesome sitting under a tree, oblivious to the activity around them.
Rick and I formed great friendships through SOTA, and many happy family outing
s were shared between our homes, SOTA functions and camps.
Miss Walker had arranged for Anthony, Susie and Zanda to attend a ‘real’ school in Mount Isa the day after sports day. This proved to be a positive experience. The children were made to feel very special, enjoying a Q&A session with the local students who asked them about station life. All three had plenty of stories and relished their moment of glory.
On the way home, Anthony asked, ‘Mum, how many square miles is McAllister?’
‘Two hundred and thirty-four,’ I replied.
A silence followed.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I told the class McAllister was 2034 square miles,’ he replied with embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure most of the students won’t remember your answer. The others will just think we’re cattle barons.’
We returned home tired after a happy and stimulating time away. Unfortunately, I was to learn that we would pay for our good times. The following few days involved grumpy and overtired children—and mother—with two weeks of schoolwork to be completed in one week by a very reluctant pupil. Then we all succumbed to the dreaded colds and flu that follow an event with crowds.
Oh well, it was fun at the time.
Did I mention that correspondence school was going to dominate my life for many years?
Meanwhile, serious work continued at McAllister: the interminable fencing repairs, mustering, breaking in colts and general maintenance. We had a team of men in the barracks, and I was grateful when Maureen, Des’s wife, offered to cook for them. She and Des, with their baby Darren, were living in a large caravan alongside the barracks; Des had become our head stockman. Maureen was the daughter of local station-owners, a quiet girl with little conversation. She was an enormous help to me, as my days were packed with school activities, the needs of a young baby and various chores.
Not only were the SOTA lessons time-consuming, but I was also finding it very difficult to teach Anthony. I was aware of putting pressure on him to complete the day’s work quickly, enabling me to get my work done. This was unfair, and we both struggled.