Back of Beyond

by Jenny Old

  With great sadness, we heard that Inverleigh was to be sold. Its manager, Joe, had lived on the station for forty years. It was his life, and he was devastated. Joe had been our mentor and our friend, advising and helping us in so many ways.

  I’d loved his unannounced visits when he would open the kitchen’s gauze door and throw his akubra inside to await a reaction.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I’d always ask.

  ‘Nope,’ was his standard reply.

  ‘Are you worried I’ll poison you?’

  Joe would laugh, sipping the tea he hadn’t asked for but always enjoyed.

  He’d often stay for two or more hours, yarning about all things. I loved to listen to this wonderful man from the bush.

  We would miss his wise counsel and presence very much. When he decided to retire in Normanton, we were pleased that at least he would remain close by.

  An exciting diversion from our woes dropped in from the sky one day.

  I was in the schoolroom with Anthony and Ben when we heard a loud whirring noise outside. Anthony glanced out the window. ‘Mummy, look, two huge helicopters are landing,’ he cried, while his little brother’s eyes widened.

  These weren’t mustering helicopters with a bushie behind the controls. Two immaculately dressed army officers alighted from the enormous, throbbing machines. They introduced themselves and explained their presence: ‘We want to let you know that we’re in the area to do surveying work. We didn’t want you to be alarmed.’

  ‘Our main communication here is smoke signals,’ I responded, laughing. ‘I wouldn’t know if we’d been invaded.’ I was wishing I’d dressed with a little more care for these handsome guys.

  ‘Would the boys like to have a sit in the chopper?’

  ‘Oh, yes please.’

  The boys were fascinated with the officers’ helmets, fireproof jackets, gloves and boots. The men explained that nine officers were based at a neighbouring station with a staff of twenty-two to do their laundry and cook their meals. Twenty-two people to look after nine men—I seriously considered a career change.

  The year 1977 was punctuated with many visitors, including my parents and in-laws. Poppy and Trenham arrived with sixteen rosebushes. This was significant.

  Prior to the Beef Crash, Rick had decided we’d have a swimming pool in our front garden. A good idea at the time. The dam sinkers had dug a massive hole in the middle of my front garden. That was all, just a hole.

  Because of the Beef Crash, I had to live with this ugly, gaping hole in my front lawn. It had become a compost heap, a snake pit, an eyesore and a thorn in my side. Certainly not the garden feature I wished to gaze upon every day.

  I persistently voiced my desire to turn the monstrosity into a rose garden. The Gulf climate isn’t exactly conducive to roses, but Marg and Ted had managed to produce beautiful blooms at Lorraine. I wanted to have a go.

  When my in-laws arrived for their annual visit with the precious rosebushes, it put the pressure on Rick and his trusty tractor to have that ugly hole filled in.

  We planted the bushes carefully. Rick erected a brush fence on one side to protect the garden from the hot westerlies. I planted bougainvillea along the fence, and in no time its spectacular splashes of red, pink, white and gold framed a proliferation of rosebuds. The rosebushes thrived in the dry season, though I had to nurse them through the humidity of the wet. I was thrilled to have a display of roses on the dining table.

  Our mail was now delivered weekly by Beryl Raisin, wife of Jacko. We loved Beryl, who could be intimidating and didn’t suffer fools but had a heart of gold. She was always accompanied by her diminutive Aboriginal friend, Lilly.

  On her first visit, Lilly stepped out of the ute, looked around and said, ‘Gawd, how can anyone live this far out of town?’

  I thought that was funny as she was the Indigenous one of the two of us.

  They joined me for a cool drink inside. Lilly spotted my vase of rosebuds and asked, ‘Geez, are they real?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, proudly showing her the rose garden.

  ‘Gawd, they are nearly as nice as the plastic ones,’ she declared.

  I accepted that as a lovely compliment.

  From that day on, Lilly arrived with an enormous bag of sweets for the boys: ‘Because they’re so isolated!’ she declared.

  Interesting that both boys didn’t eat sweets and happily gave them to the men, who devoured them enthusiastically.

  My garden, especially the roses, always gave me great pleasure and satisfaction. It was my sanctuary and therapy. Sometimes I worried it wasn’t progressing, but the compliments and encouragement from visitors made it all worthwhile.

  I was very proud to have kept the rosebushes alive. For once, I’d beaten the elements.

  The majority of Gulf stations were using helicopters for mustering. Men on horseback gathered the cattle that had been flushed out of the scrub by the chopper, then held them in a mob to be taken to the yards. It seemed expensive but was more efficient: with the difficulty of finding good stockmen and the cost of their wages rising all the time, the economics made sense.

  Rick was insistent that our cattle be handled quietly, causing the animals as little stress as possible. It was important to him to find a pilot who had similar principles. That man was Brian Barable, and we became great friends with him and his family.

  Preparing for the helicopter muster was a tense time as we couldn’t afford to have any delays. We left drums of fuel strategically around the property for the chopper to refuel when necessary. Twice a year we carried out a helicopter muster to obtain a ‘clean muster’. Rogue bullocks or bulls (mickeys) that escaped a muster became dangerous and passed on their bad habits to other cattle—sometimes it was impossible to muster mickeys and they needed to be shot from the helicopter.

  A couple of young New Zealand men were staying with us during a helicopter muster and were keen to be involved. They set off on their horses in great anticipation of a new adventure.

  In the early afternoon, I was surprised to see one of them return to the horse yards. Sensing something wrong, I went to investigate.

  ‘Why are you home so early? Is everything all right?’

  ‘I think I’ve made Rick really angry,’ replied an ashen-faced young man.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was trying to get a bullock into the mob and Rick was waving at me with his hat—then he shot at me,’ the poor, shattered man informed me.

  I comforted him. ‘Let’s go inside, have a cup of tea and sort this out.’

  This bizarre story didn’t sound like a lie, but I knew my even-tempered husband would never attempt to murder our guest.

  I was relieved later when Rick reassured the young man that he wasn’t the target.

  ‘I was trying to shoot a mickey bull,’ Rick told him, ‘and you were diligently trying to return it to the mob. I was waving my hat and yelling for you to leave it and get out of the way. When I could get a clear sight, I shot the bull. You looked up, put your hat between your teeth and galloped for home!’

  Our poor guest was greatly relieved, but wrote in the Visitors Book, Next time, no mustering!

  25

  Raising Spirits

  Hawkers travelled through remote areas, visiting stations to sell their wares. They carried their mobile shops on the back of their large trucks. They were always welcome, though we were never quite sure when they would arrive. The gossip session on the radio alerted us to their presence in the district.

  Shopping was a rare treat for station people, and they spent generously. The men bought hats, shirts, jeans, belt buckles, pocketknives, whips, spurs and boots, just to name a few items. Each account had to be tallied and approved by Rick or me, to be sure the stockmen didn’t spend more than was owed to them in wages. We had learnt this lesson the hard way.

  I especially loved the Lincot Linen truck with its array of high-quality bed and table linen. Our beds were soon graced with sheets fea
turing large cabbage roses of pink, yellow and lilac. Patterned sheets were in fashion, replacing crisp white sheets that were impossible to keep clean with our dirty dam water. Unfortunately the Lincot sheets were such good quality that they lasted forever, and I quickly tired of their busy patterns.

  An unusual hawker van arrived one day, unannounced as usual. Two men emerged, a colourful pair. One was short and swarthy, with quite a few tattoos; he wore lipstick and carried a handbag. The second man was slim, with oiled, blond hair, and very suave. This mobile shop was different and for the ladies only, full of jewellery, perfumes and trinkets. Luckily our men weren’t at home.

  ‘Lady, look at this wristwatch, genuine Swiss, try it on,’ they insisted, producing a heavily bejewelled watch.

  ‘I don’t think it would be very practical out here in the cattle yards or garden,’ I commented as I tried on the flashy piece.

  Not to be deterred…

  ‘Our perfumes are direct from France. We source the best of the best, straight from Paris. Smell this…and this…’ They were very persuasive.

  ‘Do you have Arpège by Lanvin, my favourite fragrance?’ I asked.

  The blond man thought for a moment, then replied, ‘Arpège is much too common for a beautiful lady like you.’

  Smooth dude. It was a good line, as I was far from feeling beautiful in my shorts and T-shirt, dripping with sweat.

  I wondered where this odd pair had come from. I resisted their persuasive sales presentation, but they had added a colourful hour to my day. They departed for Darwin with kisses and promises to return with special perfume for me, the ‘beautiful lady’.

  Naturally, I never saw them again.

  Rick’s great friend and Anthony’s godfather, Donal McDonald, arrived with his wife and twin boys in their large caravan for a visit. They’d sold their property near Capella in western Queensland and were travelling around Australia with their young family.

  Donal had visited McAllister in the very early stages and couldn’t believe its development. And he was pleased to see that Bessie and Mr Whippy were both out of commission.

  ‘No holiday for you, mate,’ Rick informed his friend. ‘You’re too handy to sit idle.’

  They were soon joined—in our makeshift caravan park on the front lawn—by another couple and three children who were travelling with them.

  I was cooking for seventeen plus the little ones and trying to teach a very reluctant Anthony; he didn’t want to miss out on the fun. Ben was having a ball with the twins, who were the same age as him.

  Anthony’s seventh birthday fell in the middle of this busy time. I’d not been to town for months and didn’t have a present for him. Donal and his friend saved the day by building a swing, which was a huge success with all the children. Donal also hand-made Anthony a leather wallet. I produced a cake and, with the four extra boys, we had a lovely party. I was very grateful to our guests for turning my son’s birthday into a great event.

  Donal’s entry in the Visitors Book:

  Some time spent ‘milling’ around,

  One or two cattle thru’ the pound,

  Not enough time spent with the fish,

  But belly sure full with plenty good dish!

  Not long afterwards, two famous guests visited the School of the Air base on the same day: Rolf Harris in the morning and Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser in the afternoon.

  Lessons were suspended as the pupils tuned in to Rolf Harris. He sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Anthony, which was a thrill, and delighted the children by answering their questions. He seemed moved by the bush kids, apparently wiping tears from his eyes at times. Some of the footage from this hour was to be used in the United Kingdom on a television program. (It’s disturbing and sad to look back on his visit now.)

  The prime minister was visiting far north Queensland on the campaign trail for the forthcoming federal election: SOTA was an important institute for dignitaries. The children soon lost interest in him, and I couldn’t blame them.

  We were still enduring the terrible beef recession and money was extremely scarce. Although the roadhouse was up and running, it would take years before we’d see a profit. Distractions came in the form of frequent social activities.

  A Burke and Wills expedition was passing through Cloncurry, retracing the explorers’ tragic final journey, but the promoters were running out of funds.

  Judy Hickson and her eldest son, Peter, were now managing the roadhouse (Vin and Margie had purchased a business near the coast), and they offered to throw a fundraising party there. The event was advertised and, with the enthusiastic support of the district, was a huge success, enabling the group to complete their journey. A crew from the television show A Big Country was travelling with and filming the expedition. We were photographed with them, proudly wearing our Burke and Wills T-shirts designed by Judy, a great advertisement for the roadhouse.

  At Sedan Dip we attended a fundraising family sports day. I watched hundreds of families arriving in their LandCruisers with swags in the back. The dust finally settled, and the many events organised by the committee began—for mothers, fathers, grandparents, children and anyone else who’d come.

  I was soon taking part in broom throwing, three-legged and wheelbarrow races, catch the rooster, a greasy pig race and, most entertaining of all, the egg-throwing competition. Two lines of participants stood facing each other, approximately two meters apart. Only one egg was allowed per couple: it would be gently thrown to the person opposite. There was an art to this. If the egg was thrown high and caught in a downward movement, there was more chance of success. Very soon, there were broken eggs aplenty. The pair with the last intact egg was declared the winner. One stockman was caught cheating with a second egg in his back pocket; he was to regret his sin when he fell backwards—his broken egg infiltrated his wallet. A sticky, smelly mess!

  At sunset, everyone gathered around the bar. Children played in the dust with their friends. This is the bush: having money isn’t important when a large group of people from all walks of life gather to enjoy fellowship and laughter in the middle of nowhere.

  The biannual Normanton race meeting was another popular event. On one occasion, we stayed overnight in the Normanton caravan park. Despite the dust and the heat, the ladies went to enormous effort to dress for the day and looked stunning. The horses were station-bred and the standard high. As I wandered through the crowd I spotted managers, owners, stockmen (including Aboriginal stockmen) and their families, teachers, nurses and shopkeepers, all mixing happily.

  At the ball in the evening, again I was amazed by how lovely everyone looked and what pride they had in their appearance. Children ran and danced happily, finally falling asleep under chairs on a rug while we adults bopped to a local band until the wee hours.

  I felt blessed as I returned home. I had a loving husband and my boys. And I lived in the outback where there were so many big-hearted, generous and friendly people.

  ‘I think we should take the caravan on our holiday this year,’ said Rick. ‘It’ll save motel expenses and we can stop wherever we want, have a cuppa and let the boys run around. Maybe we can take their bikes too?’ He looked to me for approval.

  ‘Great idea!’

  We’d never been on a caravan holiday—our camping had always been in a tent or under the stars.

  When the time came for our end-of-year trip, the boys and I packed away the schoolwork and filled the cupboards in the van with food and essentials. Rick welded a rack onto the back for Anthony’s bike and Ben’s ride-on tractor. We arranged for a young local man to caretake McAllister.

  First stop was Winton Caravan Park. We arrived after a ten-hour drive through endlessly arid countryside. What a welcome sight: acres of lush green lawn and large shady trees. A very pleasant oasis to park our van for the night. We selected a site.

  Then the fun began.

  ‘Right hand down,’ yelled Rick, as I valiantly tried to follow his directions to reverse our van into the site.
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br />   ‘What do you mean?’ I yelled back.

  Things were tense for quite some time until I managed to obey commands and park in our allocated space.

  The boys happily disappeared on bike and tractor.

  ‘G’day, mate, how far have you come?’ inquired a fellow traveller.

  Rick was soon surrounded by a group of travellers, in deep discussion about road conditions, fuel consumption, best caravan parks, et cetera.

  I opened the caravan door to prepare dinner.

  ‘Oh no,’ I gasped.

  A broken rum bottle lay on the floor amid a sea of tea leaves and a dozen smashed eggs. The fridge door was open with the chain broken.

  ‘Rick, I need you, please!’

  I pointed inside. Rick came over and gasped in disbelief. We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  ‘Smells like rum eggnog!’ he said.

  My dear husband gave me a big hug, and we began to clean up the smelly, sticky mess. I’m sure everyone can relate to how difficult it is to clean up raw egg. The smell would linger for many months.

  We collapsed into bed following a late dinner.

  ‘Rick, is this van rocking or is it me?’

  ‘Mmm…I didn’t put the stabilising legs down as we’re only here for one night. I didn’t think it was worth it. Don’t worry, I’ll put them down tomorrow night. Go to sleep.’

  All night we rocked. Ben fell out of the top bunk with a loud thud. I rushed to pick him up and comfort him but he hadn’t woken. I envied him.

  The next morning we were determined not to have a repeat of the fridge disaster. We sealed the cupboard doors with locks and duct tape, and made sure that the fridge chain and lock were secured. We set off for Blackall, our next overnight stay.

  Again, we found a welcoming oasis in which to park the van. Parking wasn’t quite as traumatic this time around.

  ‘I’ve put the stabilising legs down, Jen—we’ll all sleep well tonight,’ called my confident husband.