by Jenny Old
I was also putting unreasonable expectations on my child, wanting him to be the best. He was such a good, easygoing little boy, but under pressure from me he’d become rebellious and disliked school immensely. Raised voices and tears had become common from us both. I felt a failure as a teacher and mother, and I was constantly consumed with guilt. And Anthony, understandably, only wanted to be with his dad.
One night when I went to his room to kiss him goodnight, he put his arms up for a hug and said to me, ‘Mummy, can we be friends tomorrow?’
I hugged him, assuring him we would always be friends, but it broke my heart.
‘I can’t keep doing this,’ I said to Rick, sobbing. ‘I’m destroying my relationship with Anthony.’
Rick wrapped his arms around me. ‘Yes, it’s too much. We’ll hire a governess as soon as we can. How about the year after next?’
That seemed a long way away.
‘How will we ever afford one?’ I sniffed.
‘We’ll work it out.’
And I knew he would.
Not long after this episode I attended a home supervisors seminar at Gregory Downs. I drove to Lorraine with the boys, who spent a happy day with Marg and Ted. I enjoyed the seminar very much and felt a lot better in the company of other mothers experiencing the same insecurities. It helped my confidence and eased my guilt.
Teaching our children was an enormous undertaking and responsibility. Distance education did everything they could to support us, but it was difficult with the vast distances involved. We tried our best, but we weren’t trained for this role, and country women are also very involved in the running of the stations.
It wasn’t easy. I realised I was privileged to have received the high standard of education at MLC, whereas many of the mothers I met hadn’t had that opportunity.
The support system improved significantly over the years my family was involved, but nothing could be done about personality clashes in the schoolroom between a child and mother. My experience teaching Ben was to be entirely different, thank goodness.
During 1976 a special person entered our lives. Noel drove in one day, asking for a job. He was wiry, slightly unkempt and grey-haired, with twinkling, blue eyes. He seemed as if he’d been through hard times, but we liked the look of him.
‘I have nowhere to live and heard you were good people,’ he explained. ‘I’d love to be part of a family and call somewhere home. I’m happy to do odd jobs for my keep.’ He added, ‘I’m a returned soldier and have no family.’
Rick and I looked at each other and agreed that Noel could stay at McAllister. We were aware that people such as Noel came with baggage. They moved to the outback to escape their demons, whatever they were. But we wanted to give this kind man a go. He did light jobs and settled in easily. We did pay him. And we all loved him, especially Anthony. A very special friendship developed between the little boy and older man. Noel recounted long stories about his youth and Anthony followed him around like a puppy. They checked waters and fences, and went to the yards together, totally at ease in each other’s company.
When his compensation came through, he decided he wanted to stay with us.
‘You are my family,’ he declared.
With his compensation money he bought a set of dentures, a pair of glasses and a ute. That was all he wanted.
In due course, we were sad but not surprised to discover that Noel was an alcoholic, and his addiction let him down a few times. He managed to stay sober for twelve months at a time, but then he would crack and have a dreadful bender from which it took him weeks to recover.
Alcoholism was a common problem in the North, where men could hide from the lure of drink for extended periods then fall for the temptation. We forgave Noel’s transgressions many times, but following one serious breach of our trust—when he broke into the house and consumed our hidden alcohol supply—Rick had to ask him to leave.
Noel was very disappointed with himself but realised he’d gone too far.
We were devastated to see him go, especially Anthony. The days weren’t the same without our old mate. Noel had gone to Cloncurry and, in time, when the money had run out, he sent us many messages asking to return. Rick, against his better judgement, finally relented, sending a telegram to Noel: Come home, job here for you.
Noel loaded up his ute with his few remaining possessions and headed north on the Beef Road. He sent a telegram to say he was staying at the Quamby Pub, eighty kilometres from Cloncurry, for the night. He was very excited to be going ‘home’. We thought he may have been having a final bender, but apparently he’d just felt very tired and decided to break his journey.
He died that night in his sleep from a heart attack. We were pleased to know he was sober. Our sadness was tempered by the fact that he had passed away peacefully, knowing he was coming home. Anthony missed him very much and to this day has never mentioned Noel’s name again.
24
Stormy Weather
Another wet was approaching. The busy season was winding down and we were suffering from the NQTF: North Queensland Tired Feeling, aptly named by Rowan.
Somehow the beginning of summer was always more uncomfortable and enervating than the end. We couldn’t decide whether it was because we were fatigued after a long working season or if we were unaccustomed to the excessive heat and humidity. Either way, it was unpleasant.
Cyclones were a normal occurrence in the wet. Without their formation in the monsoonal trough, rain didn’t fall. When a cyclone was imminent, the two-way radio and ABC issued regular warnings that sounded like air-raid sirens. Constant updates followed with the position of the unpredictable beast. We were always as prepared as one could be.
In early December, warnings were issued for the impending Cyclone Ted. We were in the direct path of this particularly nasty storm.
We began preparations: tying down potential flying missiles, boarding up all the windows and doors, battening down as much as possible in the shed and quarters. I cooked food, prepared sandwiches, filled thermoses of coffee, checked batteries in torches and radios, and put clothing, bedding and insect repellent in plastic bags. I had plenty of drinking water in containers and moved the medical kit close to the radio.
There was an unnatural stillness in the air. The clouds were high but not threatening. Cyclones are never predictable, and we knew our work may have been for nothing, but it was better to be prepared.
‘This one feels different,’ said Rick, and I agreed.
We went inside and sat by the radio. I moved Ben’s cot and Anthony’s bed nearby. Both boys were miraculously asleep. Now it was a waiting game.
As evening fell, the wind began to blow.
With all the doors and windows boarded up, we sat close together in the gentle light of 32-volt batteries that wouldn’t last for many more hours, but I had candles at the ready.
‘Are you scared?’ I asked Rick.
‘I’m anxious,’ he replied, sounding worried. ‘I’ll be glad when this is over.’
The wind began to wail. It was strange not being able to see what was going on outside.
We called one of our neighbours on the radio. ‘How are you blokes getting on?’
‘We’ve done all we can, nothin’ else we can do, now we’re enjoyin’ a rum or two…waitin’,’ they replied through the static.
Half-hourly updates on the ABC gave us the wind strength and direction. We were still directly in Ted’s path. Steadily the wind increased until it became a screaming monster.
The next call to our neighbours: ‘Getting pretty wild here, how are you getting on?’
‘Okay for now, but the top’s goin’ back into the rum bottle—this is lookin’ serious,’ came the reply over the wailing wind.
We sat close together in the flickering candlelight. The battery lights had died long ago. We heard banging and crashing outside.
‘What do you think that is?’ I asked.
‘Don’t even think about it, we’ll find out soon
enough.’
After five hours of screaming, crashing and banging, the wind subsided and an eerie silence followed.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘Is it over?’
‘We’re in the eye. It’ll start up again soon and come back the other way, probably even stronger.’
‘How long do we have?’
‘I don’t really know but we mustn’t go out and be caught in it.’
Our neighbours reported the same unnerving quiet.
‘I’ve just had a look outside—trees down, debris everywhere,’ one neighbour reported. ‘We also have heaps of injured birds.’
As we monitored the two-way and the ABC for updates, we were horrified to hear Radio National telling listeners, ‘Cyclone Ted has now crossed the coast. The danger has diminished. We wish all our listeners and the people in the Gulf goodnight and sleep well.’
Great. So the rest of Australia thought we were out of danger.
Ted hit again with even more ferocity. It seemed he was angry he hadn’t wreaked enough damage with his first attack—he was determined to destroy us with his second. We huddled together, praying our roof and house would shield us from this angry, screaming ghoul.
We didn’t speak, but sipped hot coffee from a thermos and nibbled sandwiches. We were both lost in our own thoughts and fears. I was thinking of the disaster it would be if we lost the roof; I wonder what Rick was thinking.
Finally, after long, tension-filled hours, the wind began to subside, but the torrential rain continued to fall.
We looked at each other. ‘Phew, we survived,’ I said. ‘And the roof is still on.’
With enormous relief, we realised we’d safely made it through the horrendous night. The boys were still sound asleep and oblivious. Rick and I collapsed into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
At daylight, as we pulled the boards from windows and doors, we were confronted with a scene of utter devastation. Huge trees were uprooted, lying dejectedly on the ground, their massive roots exposed. Debris was scattered across what had been my lovely garden. Corrugated iron and bits of timber were strewn everywhere; the gauze from the Gidyea Hut flapped in the breeze. Creepers on the verandahs had torn the guttering, making the house look toothless.
But the house and roof were intact.
‘We had good builders and brickmakers,’ I muttered to myself, trying to make light of a dire situation.
The shed looked forlorn with sheets of iron hanging and flapping like broken limbs. The barracks was totally destroyed. Squares of insulation the size of postage stamps lay across the garden and paddocks like a blue snowfall: that was going to be a nightmare to pick up.
The Royal Flying Doctor Service radio was overloaded as people called in to send telegrams to anxious family and friends. The stories of damage and destruction were horrifying, but Australia was never going to hear what we all went through that night.
‘Where to begin?’ I sighed as we observed the chaos before us.
‘We can’t do anything until the insurance assessors have had a look,’ Rick advised.
‘Imagine how long that will be,’ I moaned.
‘Well, mate, this can be the family time you always wanted,’ he quipped. ‘We can’t go anywhere or do anything.’
We were shell shocked but still relieved, as many people had suffered worse damage.
Amazingly, Rick pushed my beautiful trees back into place with the tractor, compacting the mud around the base. I was very happy they survived and actually thrived after their dislodgement.
Christmas Day passed us by, another forgettable one. I longed to be at Deniliquin, preparing for a family Christmas, dry and safe and with my family.
Marg, Ted and their son Pete flew in for a two-day visit. They’d also suffered damage from Ted’s savage namesake. We all needed some camaraderie and a good laugh.
Ted and Rick flew over our property to assess damage. Stock losses were minimal, but a major concern was a gaping hole in the wall of our large storage dam; this urgently needed to be repaired so water could be stored for the year ahead. And several windmills had suffered broken fans.
In time, we cleaned up and everything was fixed. I wondered what else this tough country was going to throw at us.
Oh, the clashes between the boys. Ben was a dynamo and now walking. The five-year age gap created enormous tension, and their personalities were on a collision course. Anthony loved to construct Lego creations; Ben loved smashing them down.
Rick had been away for weeks at a time working at the Burke and Wills. It was school holidays, and when he arrived home I was in meltdown.
‘I’ve had enough, Rick! I’m going to Mount Isa and Devoncourt with the boys.’
My husband looked surprised at this announcement. Wasn’t it always him calling the shots and leaving us?
‘Of course,’ he responded, ‘but how long will you be away?’
‘No idea,’ I replied. ‘I’m sick of the boys fighting and I need some female company. I’ll stay with Thelma and then Chris.’
The boys were excited to be heading off on another adventure and by the prospect of seeing their friends. I loaded up the Nissan Patrol—affectionately named Leapin’ Lena because it was dreadfully rough, a far cry from the smooth, luxurious four-wheel drives of today. As always, my dear husband was supportive, but he looked rather bewildered as he hugged us goodbye and we piled into the car, both boys sounding thrilled. I must admit to feeling a sense of independence and courage at the thought of the long drive ahead, and I was exhilarated at the thought of breaking free from my demanding routine.
I looked back to wave goodbye to Rick, a somewhat lonesome figure standing by himself in the driveway.
Now you know how it feels, I thought.
Thelma, with her effervescent personality, was just the boost I needed. We shopped, we laughed, we laughed some more. We talked non-stop; we exchanged recipes and sewing ideas. It was total ‘girl time’. How I’d missed this kind of interaction with a friend. The boys enjoyed the company of Thelma’s three older children and had as much fun as their mother.
‘You are such a tonic, Thelma, I wish I could bottle you and take you home with me,’ I whispered as I hugged her goodbye two days later. I packed up Leapin’ Lena with our shopping and headed to Devoncourt.
My sons were so pleased to be seeing their best friends. Anthony and I sang as we drove along the dusty road through the superb mauve and red rock formations. I needed to remain alert, watching for kangaroos and cattle, and deep, deceptive bulldust holes.
‘There it is,’ Anthony cried, as the first glimpse of the homestead appeared through the haze.
There was no time for formalities when Anthony, Zanda and Susie greeted each other and disappeared, Ben and James in their wake. I was so happy to see Chris and Don.
The following two days raced by. All too soon it was time for us to head for home.
‘Anthony wants to live here with us,’ Susie announced.
I believed her.
I drove away with both boys in tears, waving to Chris, who was consoling her three tearful children. I shed a few myself, not wanting to leave my dear friend.
I’d driven on my own with two small children for nearly six hundred kilometres. I felt invigorated and happy. The boys were both exhausted and cranky, but I didn’t mind. Why hadn’t I done this before?
Little did I realise how often I’d be driving long distances with two small children in the years to come.
We’d arranged to meet up with Rick at Melinda, Rowan and Judy’s property.
‘Hello Daddy,’ the boys chorused joyously as they spotted him at the gate.
‘I missed you all,’ said my relieved husband, pleased to have his cook and family back.
Melinda always produced the unexpected.
‘N-n-now that we have a team, I-I-I…t-t-think w-w-we s-s-should h-h-have a g-g-game of p-p-polo-c-c-crosse.’ One never knew what Rowan had up his sleeve.
Polocrosse? This was something dif
ferent. We were happy to go along with it.
The local rules were explained carefully. The goalposts were identified as two trees at either end of the ‘field’. We were allocated our mounts and polocrosse sticks.
‘Our team should have a name,’ someone suggested.
And so we became ‘The Dismal Creek Watershed Polocrosse Team A and B’. A name that would inspire anyone to achieve great things.
‘Everybody r-r-ready?’ Rowan asked.
‘Yes,’ we chorused.
The whistle blew. Chaos.
Rick and several other riders were experienced players. The horses, however, were another story: stockhorses aren’t used to sticks whooshing past their ears or having to chase a ball instead of a beast. One horse took fright and bolted; another dropped its head and bucked frantically. One horse stood on the ball and couldn’t be persuaded to lift its hoof. Confusion reigned.
‘Maybe we need a little practice and time for the horses to adjust to the stick and ball,’ Judy suggested.
Now why hadn’t we thought of that beforehand, I wondered.
After being gently persuaded, some of the horses settled down and even appeared to enjoy this new game. However, a few of the confused mounts couldn’t be stopped or turned, resulting in some interesting manoeuvres through the goalposts.
We declared the match a draw when hardly a horse was left on the field. Most were cavorting enthusiastically into the surrounding scrub with riders clinging on.
This was to be our one and only match. Work commitments and a serious economic situation stood in the way of further competition.
The Beef Crash severely affected everyone in the industry. Rick and I hadn’t drawn a wage for eighteen months. The shareholders of McAllister had borrowed substantially to develop and stock the property, then interest rates escalated from a manageable six per cent to twenty-one per cent, making it impossible for us to meet the repayments.
No one could predict how long this awful recession would continue, but Rick and I were prepared to hang in there, praying the bank didn’t close us down.