by Jenny Old
‘You’ve grown so tall!’ I exclaimed as our bronzed beach boy gave me a half-hearted hug. ‘Welcome home—we’ve missed you so much.’
As usual, Anthony wasn’t effusive, but we knew he was happy to be home. Ben had been sworn to secrecy about our big surprise.
Within minutes the boys were involved in their first fight.
‘Oh no,’ I groaned.
Then the moment arrived when we allowed Ben to show Anthony his new room.
‘Wow…’ he gasped as he looked around. ‘It’s great.’
We’d worked hard to finish the painting, curtains and floor the night before. It looked wonderful with all his treasures and books installed. He unpacked and settled in happily.
After several hours we tried to extract news—any news—of his holiday and family, without great success. We retired to bed, happy to have our family complete again, fights and all.
I awoke to hear doors opening and noises coming from Ben’s room. I went to investigate. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I can’t sleep out there—the shadows are spooky. I’m coming back to my old room.’
The frangipani tree outside the windows threw some interesting shadows across the walls. I must admit they did look a bit spooky.
All was quiet for the remainder of the night.
The next day, Ben decided he’d move into the new room, with Anthony’s blessing. The day was spent moving books, toys, clothes and other treasures.
But it wasn’t to be. Ben soon moved back in with Anthony: the shadows had done their trick again.
‘What a waste of effort,’ said Rick, exasperated.
‘And the fighting continues,’ I muttered.
In time, Anthony took possession of his room, and a little peace reigned at last.
Our boys were growing up quickly. We proudly watched them develop into curious and inventive kids: independent, opinionated, self-assured and happy. Having never had the distraction of television, they contributed to healthy debates around the dining table. They were comfortable with people of any age or background, but also enjoyed their own company. Pets were an important part of their lives: dogs, a Manx cat, joeys, chooks, white mice, piglets, goats and horses—we had it all.
Anthony was an extremely responsible and reliable little fellow, willing to do anything asked of him. He was his father’s shadow and, in turn, his beloved dog Sally was his shadow. Thank you, Zanda.
Benjamin was quick as lightning in body and mind. He loved being among the station activities but needed time to himself. He couldn’t wait to begin school.
Both boys could be found with the men at any time. These wise men of the bush taught our sons a great deal, not always the good things.
27
A Dream Come True
Visitors continued to stream through our doors: some staying briefly, others for up to three weeks; some welcome, some not. That year we hosted forty-nine different groups at McAllister.
Some comments in the Visitors Book:
I don’t know how you get any work done here when you have smoko immediately after breakfast! (John McIvor, 5 August 1979)
Money all gone, but I leave content. (Ted Flamsteed, 14 May 1979, after a poker night)
Battered and bruised, but I shall return. (Ted Flamsteed, 24 September 1979, after another poker night)
You are a charming asset to the Gulf. (Iris Makim, 2 June 1979)
And from Margie Moore on 8 October 1979: The magic of McAllister has captured me again.
Rick’s sister Michele, her husband, Mike, and their three children, accompanied by another couple and their two children, arrived in a charter plane for a visit. Both men were professors of anaesthesia at Flinders University, Adelaide.
One night, as I was hanging the final load of washing on the line by moonlight, I found Mike standing outside staring into the brilliant night sky with the Milky Way and Southern Cross at their sparkling best.
‘What are you doing out here?’ I asked.
‘I’m enjoying the solitude and the unbelievable clarity of the stars. I have never seen such an amazing display.’
I stood with him, appreciating the beauty of our night sky, which I’d been taking for granted.
I found it rewarding to watch the tension dissipate from two very busy professors. Their families embraced station life and blossomed with copious amounts of fresh beef and vegetables—and, more importantly, no telephones.
Rick happened to be spaying—removing the ovaries—from some cows at the time. The professors were amazed at the procedure being carried out in the cattle yards by a bushie. He would make an incision in the cow’s flank, then remove the ovaries by guiding in a long wand with tiny scissors on the end to snip them. The cows stood quietly while the procedure took place, without needing any drugs.
The topic provided boisterous discussion over dinner that night.
‘It’s amazing that the cow doesn’t appear to be in pain,’ Mike commented. ‘There was no reaction when you made the incision.’
‘I make sure the environment is quiet,’ Rick explained. ‘I have music playing softly, and the cow isn’t distressed.’
‘The pain-feeling part of a cow’s brain must be small in comparison to its body size,’ Fred offered.
‘Mmm, I think you could be right,’ Mike agreed.
That night I had a vivid dream, or rather a nightmare. Rick was spaying me. He laid the wand over my stomach, and, as he pulled on his surgical gloves, he said to me, ‘I’m going to spay you, Jen.’
‘Don’t spay me!’ I screamed. ‘Please don’t spay me!’
‘Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing because your brain is tiny compared to the size of your body.’
I created a great deal of amusement over breakfast as I recounted my nightmare, still smarting because it was so vivid.
‘You hardly need spaying, darling,’ Rick commented wryly.
We were still trying to have more babies.
We’d thoroughly enjoyed the visit of these two families and were sorry to wave them goodbye as their charter plane taxied for take-off. There was an additional passenger on board: a six-week-old puppy our young nephews couldn’t live without. If you think it’s hard to resist one little boy wanting a puppy, try three little boys. Poor Michele.
Towards the end of the mustering season, we held the inaugural McAllister tennis party to christen our new court. We invited neighbouring stations and friends.
Tennis matches continued throughout the night, and competition was intense: station versus station, boss versus employee, fathers versus sons, and wives versus husbands.
McAllister tennis days became a tradition. Following the Normanton race meetings, everyone was invited to return to our homestead to play tennis for the remainder of the weekend. Sometimes we served a pig on the spit for dinner, but generally the barbecue was popular.
The tennis court became a vital part of our lives and of everyone who visited or worked on McAllister. We soon installed lights that gave us the opportunity to play most evenings of the week.
Our governess that year, Annette, was a lovely addition to the family: a beautiful willowy girl with thick wavy dark hair and deep brown eyes. It wouldn’t be long before eligible males in the district found their way to McAllister.
Annette enjoyed her new accommodation and the luxury of a schoolroom situated well away from the station activities to avoid distraction. She was an experienced and dedicated teacher, so I had confidence leaving the schoolwork in her capable hands.
Observing our participation in fundraising events, Annette decided to enter the Queen of the Outback Quest to raise funds for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. We offered to sponsor her and help with her fundraising efforts.
Her major event was another family sports day at the roadhouse. Our loyal committee followed their formula for success and delivered again. There followed many raffles, dinners and generous donations. Annette didn’t win the Quest but was able to make a generous contribution to
the RFDS, and we were very proud of her.
And 1979 was the year that we hired another wonderful and memorable worker. We had many different jackeroos, stockmen and jillaroos through the seasons, but one young man was exceptional.
Ray Heslin, known as Redskin, joined our staff and our family. Named for his shock of red hair, he was skinny as a beanpole, with freckles and a wry, slightly crooked grin. His voice was slow and considered with a nasal twang. He was fifteen years old, one of a family of fourteen from Winton.
Redskin’s intuition, knowledge of the bush and common sense were extraordinary. He was illiterate, but that didn’t hold this intelligent young man back at all. He took on every task with enthusiasm, however menial, and never complained. He was also confident, ready to offer his opinion on how things should be done. Rick was wise enough to listen and often, if not always, adapt to Redskin’s way.
‘Redskin, you are so thin—I’ll have to fatten you up,’ I told him one day.
‘Mate, you can’t fatten a thoroughbred,’ was his dry response.
I did try, but even my best efforts were in vain.
He desperately wanted to be a ball of muscle. After a day’s work in the yards, he could be seen running back from the last gate pushing a heavy crowbar above his head, and he’d follow this with a hundred push-ups. Nothing worked. He remained slight of build but big of heart.
Both boys loved Redskin and joined his fitness regime. I think he also taught them some interesting vocabulary along the way.
Redskin was to remain with us for many years and will always hold a special place in our hearts.
Thanks to improved beef prices and determined saving, we were finally able to buy a plane early in 1980: a single-engine, four-seater Cessna 182. In this vast country, a plane was an economic necessity, not a luxury.
My family gathered at the airstrip in the Lauriston back paddock, listening for the plane. Who would hear it first?
While Rick had been completing his theory and practical examination at Mudgee Flying School, the boys and I had stayed with my parents at Deniliquin. It was good to reconnect with family, and we enjoyed the change.
His exams complete and results successful, it was time for Rick’s arrival in our new flying machine. Excitement mounted as we searched for the tiny speck.
‘I can hear it!’ the boys called in unison, then, ‘There it is. There it is.’
The speck on the horizon formed into a pretty red, white and blue plane, circling above us, wiggling its wings in greeting. We could just make out a grinning face and a waving arm. My heart was in my mouth as I watched the final approach for landing.
‘Please make it perfect,’ I silently begged.
I held my breath.
What a relief—a perfect landing. We all applauded and rushed to meet Rick, who looked so proud as he stepped out of our new plane. A dream fulfilled. We plied him with questions and took turns in the seats.
Following the excitement, we gathered at Lauriston for a barbecue lunch and caught up on all the news. Much as he tried to hide it, I could see Rick was anxious to head home. I’d have liked to stay with my family for longer, but I understood: it was time to leave.
The next morning, Rick carefully loaded the tiny plane, then studied the maps and made radio contact with Airservices. It was quite a performance, and the boys were getting restless in their seats.
‘You could have driven to Melbourne by now,’ my father quipped.
‘KNW all clear for take-off,’ came the radio reply from Airservices. KNW was our registration and call sign: Kilo-November-Whisky.
We taxied down the airstrip, turned and roared for take-off. Then we were airborne. Rick circled above my family waving below, tiny dots as we wiggled the wings and set off towards Melbourne.
As always, I was overwhelmed by sadness about leaving my beloved family and old home: such a predictable, safe, secure environment. However, once in the air and pointing to our destination, I felt optimistic again, looking forward to the next few days and then our trip home to McAllister.
Rick was determined to conquer the major airports as soon as possible so he’d be comfortable flying into them later. As we approached the very busy Moorabbin Airport in Melbourne, he quietly asked, ‘Jen, would you keep an eye out for planes?’
He soon regretted that request—planes were coming from all directions, as Moorabbin had a dual-circuit system.
‘There’s a jet…Oh, there’s another one…God, there’s two over there…’
‘Jen, would you please close your eyes until we’ve landed?’ came the stern command. And, of course, we landed without incident and without my assistance.
I trusted my husband completely, knowing he’d be a safe and responsible pilot. Relaxing at last, I was able to enjoy the flight North, especially once we’d departed the busy Melbourne and Adelaide airports.
The flight was fascinating. I followed our progress on the maps and enjoyed the bird’s-eye view. The boys slept for most of the journey, leaving us in peace to appreciate the experience. After landing at Bourke and Longreach for refuelling and to stretch our legs, we were on the last leg: one that would have taken us three days in a car and took only six hours in our plane. By late afternoon we were approaching McAllister.
‘We’ll fly over,’ said Rick, ‘and check the waters and fences.’ This took only half an hour compared to a full day of driving on rough roads with many gates to be opened.
‘That was so easy,’ I said with a sigh, though I was pleased to climb out of the tiny cabin after the long flight.
The men were keen to inspect this new addition to our fleet, and there was great excitement as we exchanged news.
‘Do you think you could fly into Normanton tomorrow to collect the mail and some fresh supplies?’ I asked Rick tentatively.
‘Of course, my darling, I’ll fly in first thing.’
Wow! That was a change in attitude. I knew I would enjoy this plane very much.
Our six-hour trip to Mount Isa now took a little over an hour. This meant one day away rather than three, not to mention the saving of wear and tear on bodies and vehicles.
Funny, though, how I’d thought Rick would be home more now. All too soon, I realised he’d be away more often, and sometimes for longer periods.
The plane was to change and improve our lives dramatically. We were no longer isolated in the wet season. I could receive my precious mail regularly, along with fresh supplies. We could visit our friends when the roads were impassable. And, importantly, mechanical parts and tradespeople could be flown in when necessary.
I held a party for Rick’s fortieth with a hundred people to celebrate such a milestone.
The weather was perfect: a beautiful balmy Queensland night with phosphorous stars. Guests sat at candlelit tables scattered throughout the garden, with pretty lanterns hanging in the trees.
I’d planned a menu of beef, chicken, seafood and salads, all prepared by me. And the massive chocolate cake I’d baked was proudly carried out by Anthony and Zanda, who carefully lit forty candles to the strains of ‘Happy Birthday’.
All our guests stayed for the weekend with a barbecue breakfast and tennis to follow on Sunday. It was a marvellous event, and I was proud to have managed it all.
But hosting people wasn’t always fun, and in 1980 we had sixty-four groups of visitors. I was running a free guesthouse.
28
The Invasion
An enormous army helicopter thundered above us again. This was the beginning of one of the most exciting and unique experiences I had at McAllister.
Several months earlier, army representatives had visited us and nearby stations to ask permission to invade our properties. The soldiers would be involved in conflicts with gunfire, using blank bullets, kidnapping and a lifelike invasion by the ‘enemy’. We were not to become involved. The soldiers would live independently, surviving solely on army rations. The ‘enemy’ were in various station camps but no one knew who they were.
/> Sounded simple.
As the time drew closer, our excitement built up. This was going to be something different.
On the first day, the huge, noisy helicopter landed nearby then quickly took off, disappearing into the distance. The first group of soldiers were situated on L- Creek, close to the house.
As Rick was driving home in the evening, he came across a dozen confused young soldiers. In attempting to follow directions on a map, they’d become disorientated. Their confusion arose from the fact our creek was dry—understandably, they’d been expecting running water to define a creek. Many of our southern guests also found the dry rivers and creeks unusual. But the soldiers needed water for their survival in this harsh country.
‘Hop up in the back,’ said Rick, ‘and I’ll take you to the homestead and you can camp there. We have a dam full of water.’
They accepted gratefully and soon had their camp set up beside the airstrip under the close scrutiny of two young boys.
The following two weeks were amazing. We would wake at night to the sound of raging gunfire. Vehicles coming and going, raised voices issuing orders, planes zooming overhead.
The scenario felt very real. I’d look out my kitchen window to see soldiers running across the lawn, the enemy in hot pursuit, guns drawn and blazing.
We never knew what to expect. I got a huge fright one day when I came across two soldiers hiding underneath the tank stand.
Following a night-time battle, the boys would rush over to the camp in the morning to find out which soldiers had been ‘killed’. Once identified as ‘dead’, the soldier retired from the exercise until further orders. These men became friends with the boys and staff, often playing tennis, even mustering, but at any stage they could be moved on. Who knew where?
Our shed became a popular meeting venue for the general to gather his troops. Sometimes we had over a hundred soldiers at a meeting. One morning I saw Ben sitting on the general’s knee as he addressed his men—I think Ben knew everything that was going on.