by Jenny Old
Following one of these important meetings, the leaders departed in their jeep only to be kidnapped and captured at our boundary gate. They were blindfolded, handcuffed and not treated kindly. It was serious business.
Aircraft were frequently arriving and departing, and everyone was greatly excited when a giant Hercules aircraft landed on our airstrip, offloading thirty soldiers with their equipment in three minutes.
The nights were the busiest and noisiest times, quite a change from the normal peace of the outback. One night, a group of armoured personnel carriers thundered up the airstrip and parked outside the shed. I’d heard their engines an hour before their arrival. It was an eerie sound, and I could really begin to imagine how people felt while living in the reality of war. I can’t say it was pleasant. We had to remind ourselves that none of this was real.
The ‘enemy’ had cleverly infiltrated the station camps up to six months before. They were part of the elite SAS, highly skilled and trained, and extremely fit. They were employed as stockmen, truck drivers, grader drivers and even gardeners. No one really knew who they were.
Naturally we became very caught up with the entire exercise and felt protective and supportive of ‘our boys’.
Ben became obsessed with the army and anything khaki. He made friends with the soldiers and began to trade our rump steak for their rations. He loved the compact packs with exotic labels of ‘Ham and Eggs’ and ‘Hawaiian Steak’, which disguised Spam. Also in the packs, much to Ben’s delight, was chewing gum (not allowed by Mother), chocolate (which unbeknown to Ben had a laxative ingredient), biscuits, a small burner, a tin mug and folding utensils.
Ben was in heaven and quite happy to shun my meals in favour of these delicacies.
‘Mum, don’t cook dinner for me tonight, I’m having ham and eggs.’
He would proceed to sit in the dirt and cook his dinner on the tiny burner, enjoying every morsel. He began to live on the rations. In the meantime, our rump steak supply diminished and the soldiers thrived. So much for living independently.
Ben’s obsession with the army escalated. He went from living on pack rations to wearing khaki and carrying a massive backpack—I was never sure what was in that pack, but it was heavy—with an old and hefty shotgun over his shoulder. He was going to be a soldier, no matter what. The troops taught him to stand at arms. He was hooked.
We believe our little soldier may have passed on some important information.
A truck driver from Inverleigh didn’t fit the mould of a normal truckie in the Gulf: this man had a magnificent physique, very fit and strong. Rick and I thought he must be the ‘enemy’ and mentioned it with Ben in earshot. Needless to say, the troops acted on this piece of juicy information from the ‘littlest soldier’.
Ben was devastated when he heard from Joe that the truck driver had disappeared during the night and been picked up by a plane on the mud flats many miles from the station. He’d made his way on foot with only a radio, leaving his meagre possessions behind. He obviously had his own spy network to pass on information of the possible ambush. Inverleigh was now looking for another truck driver.
The intrigue continued. Maybe Ben was a double agent? He didn’t admit to anything.
We changed governesses each year. That was usually more than enough for the girls, and we benefited from having a different personality in our home and schoolroom, although we enjoyed living with all our girls very much.
Our governess for 1980 was Wendy, a cheerful and very easy person to have in the house. Both boys loved her. She was a trained teacher who made school a lot of fun. Anthony blossomed under her tuition.
Surrounded by all the military activity, it was difficult for Anthony and Wendy to focus on schoolwork. Ben had been having all the fun, but on Anthony’s tenth birthday ‘our’ troops invited him to the airstrip after school.
We all gathered to watch as a surprised Anthony was serenaded with ‘Happy Birthday’, followed by a traditional 21-gun salute. Something different to tell School of the Air.
On the final day of the exercise we organised a barbecue for our thirty remaining troops. We’d enjoyed the company of these young men, all from different backgrounds and all with a story to tell.
In the midst of the festivities, we were startled by the roaring of motors. The camp was surrounded by enemy vehicles, their lights flashing, horns blaring and guns firing.
‘Oh shit…it’s the enemy!’
The lads scrambled to confront the intruders. Too late. As a final insult, the ‘enemy’ took all their belongings.
‘This is a disaster,’ they groaned. ‘The exercise isn’t officially over until midnight. We’re going to regret this.’
The enemy had the last laugh and was the victor.
During the night our troops evacuated and in the morning it was as if the exercise had never taken place. The place was strangely calm and tranquil. Had we dreamt it?
No, we hadn’t. A gleaming army helicopter landed the next day.
Two immaculately dressed officers stepped out with a silver tray. It held an embossed invitation for me and Rick to join them at a grand banquet in the officers’ mess in Normanton. The occasion was elegant and lavish, a nice show of appreciation for our contribution to the exercise.
Life returned to normal. Except that Ben persevered with his passion for everything khaki.
Picture a little blonde four-year-old boy wearing heavy khaki jeans, a very large army shirt and boots, carrying a heavy army backpack full of rations. (Yes, he’d been given all the leftover rations.) He had a slouch hat on his head and an old shotgun over his left shoulder.
He marched everywhere. He practised his drills. We were all given our orders.
One day I heard him in the vegetable garden with Mrs Wilson, our mechanic’s wife.
‘Present arms! Attention! Stand at ease!’
Here was this delightful lady amid the tomato bushes with a shotgun over her shoulder obeying mini-General Old as he flung orders at her.
Our numerous guests were offered meals cooked on his little burner, instead of my delicious offerings. I recall only one guest who obligingly sat on the hard garden path while Ben cooked ham and eggs—Spam—on his burner then served it in the tin pot, which I suspect had never been washed. Ben was delighted to have a recruit at last: someone who actually ate his delicious repast.
‘It’s good to have rump steak again,’ I said to Rick with a sigh. ‘I wonder how long this army phase is going to last.’
It lasted for many long months, until a jackeroo who’d been in the army told Ben it was ‘hell on earth’. Finally the phase was over, much to our relief. After all, Ben’s rations were running low, and he was getting very hot carting the heavy load and wearing many layers of clothing. And we were all becoming tired of obeying orders.
29
Boarding School
Rick and I remained very involved with the Isolated Children’s Parents’ Association, along with a follow-up organisation called the Priority Country Area Program that brought programs to bush children attending public schools.
We met with the headmasters of the Normanton and Karumba schools to lobby for correspondence children to be included in the program. We were successful and became convenors at the Karumba school, helping with many interesting activities: art, kite-making, archery, music, poetry, dancing and a variety of challenging games. It was a good opportunity for our boys to mix with the town kids.
In 1981, Anthony was spending his final year at home before boarding at the Toowoomba Preparatory School. It was recommended that bush children board a year prior to secondary, to settle into being away from home and the vastly different school routine. But I couldn’t begin to imagine our life without Anthony.
Susie was also going to board in Brisbane, but Anthony’s best mate Zanda would still be at home for another year. That hurt.
Ben had commenced preschool correspondence and was happily established in the schoolroom with Anthony and Lynne, our go
verness for the year.
I didn’t want the year to end. To make the most of this precious time, we invested in a ski-boat with the McDonalds and Flamsteeds. It was kept at Lorraine, on the Leichhardt River, and together we spent happy weekends on the muddy riverbanks.
The children never tired of skiing. ‘Just one more time, pleeeeease,’ they begged Ted, who was the main driver.
Because of the boys’ enthusiasm for skiing, Rick and I bought a windsurfer, a sailing boat and a small aluminium tinny for us all to enjoy on our large dams. The tinny could just pull the boys out of the water on skis, but that was it. The windsurfer was popular, even with the stockmen; I loved it too, safe in the knowledge that a bank was on the opposite side of the dam, unlike my experience in Pittwater when I’d nearly been washed out to sea.
Our family enjoyed many wonderful Sundays on the banks of our dam with a picnic before having fun on the water. Our staff often joined us, sometimes entertaining us as we watched the tough bush stockmen try to master a windsurfer. Their ‘never say die’ attitude often caused them a great deal of frustration.
‘I can ride a bucking bronco but can’t stay on this bloody thing!’ cried the voice across the water.
One evening, when I was returning from feeding the chooks, I noticed an early model Holden car slowly approaching. It pulled up near the garden gate where I was standing. Out stepped three long-haired young men, looking quite dishevelled and hot.
‘Hello,’ I said, my heart sinking, thinking of available beds and dinner for three extra people.
‘Bonjour…Are you Jenny?’ one asked hesitantly.
‘Yes, who are you?’
‘Er…I am Guy –’ pronounced ghi ‘– my friend here is also Guy and my other friend is Michel,’ he replied in heavily accented English.
‘Are you French?’
‘Oui, do you speak French?’
‘Only schoolgirl French.’
‘That is a pity, because my friends do not speak English.’
Mmm…this was going to be entertaining.
I was able to glean that like the French couple who had visited us about ten years before, they’d been staying with my friend Dee in Melbourne and had expressed a desire to see the ‘real’ Australia. As she’d done last time, Dee wrote to explain all of this, but of course I didn’t receive the letter until well after our guests had departed.
I hurriedly made up beds in the caravan that they would have to share with the schoolroom as I had four other guests in residence. I then made the introductions over a drink before dinner. It was awkward at first with the language barrier, but soon—with sign language and my limited French—we were able to have interesting conversations. We decided on ‘Guy 1’ and ‘Guy 2’ to avoid further confusion.
What an absorbing story. These young men had been in the Antarctic for eighteen months, doing their national service. Their chosen field to study was Antarctic birdlife. We were fascinated by their photographs and what we could understand of their stories. Rick explained to them that Australian women could be referred to as ‘birds’, knowing the stockmen would be using this form of slang, which they thought hilarious.
‘I love to study birds,’ said Guy 1 with twinkling eyes.
They threw themselves into station life. The stockmen were fascinated by the three enthusiastic young men with the strange language and background, enjoying them immensely. Every day, their conversation got better with the ardent coaching from our boys and the stockmen.
One night, their improved vocabulary caused a stir.
Our governess, Lynne, had her parents, brother and girlfriend staying with us. They were strict Lutherans and very conservative with little, or no, sense of humour. During dinner I asked the French boys, ‘What did you learn today? Any new words?’
‘Oui, we have new words: fucking cattle, fucking gate, fucking dogs, fucking flies,’ Michel recited proudly.
A stunned silence followed.
Anthony and Ben exploded with laughter, as did Rick and I. Our guests sat in mute horror.
The Frenchmen realised something was wrong and suspected they’d been set up by the stockmen—which, of course, they had.
‘I am so sorry, Jenny,’ gasped Guy 2, red and embarrassed. ‘Are they bad words?’
‘They are “yard language” words,’ explained Anthony, in between fits of laughter. Our boys weren’t allowed to swear, but we made an exception for yard language, only to be used in the yards, though I don’t think this worked.
‘Don’t worry, boys,’ I said, ‘you weren’t to know. The men set you up.’ Try explaining that to a distressed trio in schoolgirl French.
I chose to ignore the stony looks from across the table. It was too funny. Our horrified guests departed soon after this incident and the dinner conversation became a lot more relaxed.
The Frenchmen were fascinated to see Anthony dressed in his full Cub uniform for Cubs of the Air. He invited them to join the radio session. They were asked many questions by the Cubs, who all showed an enthusiastic interest in the Antarctic.
We missed our colourful friends when they departed several weeks later, but received postcards from Bali, informing Rick that the ‘birds’ were great!
My thirty-fifth birthday was looming and called for a party. I decided to host a grand dinner with eighteen close friends. Rick’s parents were staying with us and Poppy, being a superb hostess and cook, helped me plan something a little different and special.
The table was dressed with the family damask tablecloths, a gleaming silver candelabra, bowls of roses from the garden and crystal glasses. In that lovely setting, pre-dinner drinks were served on the verandah, with lanterns in the trees, and Pavarotti crooning in the background against a typically sensational sunset.
The food was exceptional. I cooked a whole rib fillet stuffed with mushrooms, pine nuts and herbs, with melted cheese drizzled over the top, served on a platter covered in banana leaves. Under Poppy’s guidance we produced a whole broccoli and cauliflower head on another platter, smothered in rich cheesy sauce; it looked spectacular and tasted wonderful.
I left the dessert to Poppy, who served a stunning trifle in a glass bowl with Swiss roll slices around the edge, filled with delicious custard, cream and jelly—a work of art.
What a happy birthday it was, especially as my sister, Pam, and her family were with us. But Pam was the one guest who turned down the trifle. On further questioning, I soon learnt—as I’d suspected—she was in the early stages of pregnancy with her third child.
It was a change for Rick and me to be the first to know her exciting news. The absence of a telephone always had us on the tail end of any family news. This time, no smoke signals were necessary.
That year, we asked Chris and Don if they’d like to invest with us in a holiday house on the northern coast of Queensland. They said yes enthusiastically. Our children were inseparable, and every holiday they spent as much time together as possible. We began looking for a suitable house along the stretch from Cairns to Port Douglas.
Rick was sent off as forward scout and found an interesting place at Port Douglas, long before it was a fashionable destination. The house was on Four Mile Beach, with its long stretch of white sand, very suitable for the children on their bikes. It sounded perfect, so it was purchased sight unseen for us by Rick.
When the September school holidays arrived, Chris and I drove, with the children, for our first visit.
The front entrance to the garden boasted two enormous concrete green frogs sitting on the gateposts. A great landmark—surely everyone knew the house with the frogs.
We noticed a large undercover recreational area that had room for table tennis, and, on rainy days, five active children.
When we entered the front door, a multicoloured carpet with swirls of purple, green and brown assaulted the eye.
‘Wow, one could drop an entire roast dinner on that and never find it again,’ I commented.
Chris nodded.
The enti
re wall facing us in the lounge room featured a colourful mural of a Swiss mountain scene, reminiscent of a chocolate box cover. Why Swiss, we will never know.
‘Well, that will have to go,’ said Chris in a firm voice. I agreed wholeheartedly.
The kitchen was a classic sixties model with orange benchtops and timber cupboards. No comment from either of us. We could manage.
Mission Brown, a dark brown popular at the time, featured on all the doors throughout the house. We would paint them white.
The toilet topped it all: carpet covered the walls. Soundproofing? And there were fleas in the carpet, which made this important room very uncomfortable. Not a bad thing, though, with up to nine people in the house and one toilet—there was no lingering or reading magazines in there until they were dealt with.
Apart from all that, the house was solid and very acceptable for two families and five boisterous children. In time, we grew to live with the multicoloured carpet and viewed the mural as part of the eccentric surrounds of an easy-care holiday house. We were to enjoy numerous happy holidays in this funny house.
The children had a wonderful time, exchanging the bush for a beautiful, seemingly endless beach where they rode their bikes for miles. They sped off in the morning and only returned to be fed. This was a time when Port Douglas was still a fishing village, so we never worried about them.
It had been Anthony’s final year at home. Our final year as a complete family.
Lynne had done a great job, and his results were excellent. We’d attended the usual School of the Air activities, including a camp, a pony club camp, Cub camp and sports day. Chris and I, along with other mothers, usually stayed at the camps to cook for the children.
Ben had become an independent, busy little personality who enjoyed the preschool correspondence lessons and activities. He was excited about ‘real’ school next year, but life without his big brother was going to be very different.