by Jenny Old
The year was drawing to a close too quickly.
Anthony’s uniform arrived and the name tags were sewn on. He looked in horror at the stiff black shoes he’d be wearing every day; we suggested he wear them each evening after his shower to break them in. He was quite a sight in his black shoes and socks and summer pyjamas, emphasising his skinny legs.
‘You look so funny,’ giggled Ben.
His day would come soon enough.
We took one more coastal holiday with the McDonalds before school commenced: Broadbeach on the beautiful Gold Coast for two weeks of beach heaven. Long walks by the water in the early morning. Hours spent sitting on soft white sand, then into the surf to cool off. Bliss.
Our apartment in the Penthouses had direct access to the beach. It was an older building, roomy and comfortable, with stunning views of the coast and hinterland. A prawn van visited the apartments each day, ringing his bell, and fresh prawns with fresh bread became a favourite meal. After the beach in the morning then lunch, the tennis court was booked for two hours in the late afternoon for some competitive matches between young and old. Many of our country friends were also holidaying on the coast prior to leaving children at boarding school, and we shared lunches and dinners.
The children thrived in this environment and the company of their best friends. Life was perfect—until the day arrived for us to pack up and bid goodbye to our friends and the recuperative powers of the coast.
‘Bye, Zan,’ Anthony muttered gruffly.
‘Bye, Ant,’ replied a sad Zanda.
‘Good luck, Susie.’
‘Good luck, Anthony.’
The friends parted, knowing the free, idyllic life they’d enjoyed to date was never going to be quite the same again.
In Toowoomba we hugged our beloved son goodbye. He seemed so young and vulnerable in his stiff and unfamiliar uniform with its heavy black shoes. He didn’t look back as he was led away by a ‘prep angel’, one of the senior students who had volunteered to return to school a day early to take care of the new boarders.
I watched him walk away with a heavy heart. We would only have him part-time from now on. I felt empty and sad, and I knew Rick was feeling the same. We still had a vibrant and interesting little boy to fill our days with entertainment, but Ben would miss his big brother very much.
Communication with Anthony was forbidden for three weeks, a sensible rule allowing the children to settle in. But before flying home, I couldn’t resist phoning the school to ask how my son was coping. ‘He’s settling in as well as can be expected, Mrs Old,’ was the standard response, which told me nothing.
We flew out of Toowoomba, heading for home, leaving our boy behind.
Life at home was very different without him.
‘I even miss the fights,’ I sniffed miserably.
I made the decision to teach Ben rather than hire another governess. Every minute was precious before he, too, commenced boarding school. I noticed an enormous difference in the support network for home tutors because of the ICPA’s hard work.
This time around I found it rewarding and interesting because Ben loved school and was a joy to teach. And we now enjoyed the luxury of a beautiful schoolroom, something I hadn’t had with Anthony. I was also not having to look out for a busy little brother while teaching.
I counted the days until the three-week ban was lifted. We drove to Inverleigh to phone Anthony.
‘Hi, darling, how’s school?’ I asked.
‘Good.’
‘Have you made some nice friends? How’s the schoolwork? Do you have nice teachers? Are you managing the maths?’
‘Yep, all good, Mum.’
‘How’s the food?’
‘Good.’
‘Are you playing sport?’
‘Yup.’
Anthony was, and still is, a man of few words, but from this short conversation I felt he sounded reasonably happy.
Every week we looked forward to his compulsory letter in the mail, always with the same contents.
Dear Mum, Dad and Ben,
How are you? I am well.
The rugby score was…
The video we watched this week was…
Love from,
Anthony
Ben informed me he would not write the same thing every week when he went to prep. (He did!)
As always, the school year was packed with activities aside from the work.
Ben and I enjoyed a rewarding year with School of the Air and Cub camps. Yes, he had decided to be a Cub of the Air.
Mini-schools were week-long camps with extracurricular activities for the children. I always stayed for the week as a cook, along with other mothers: because of the distance, it wasn’t worth my while returning home. Itinerant teachers, employed by Distance Education, planned the mini-schools; these wonderful teachers, often a married couple, also visited stations to check on the progress of correspondence pupils—and the state of the mind of the home tutor. They stayed for two days and took the lessons, which was always a welcome break for the mothers.
Our SOTA camp was held at Sedan Dip. The facilities were still very basic: we had to cook on a wood-fired stove, and our daily routine was well organised so the children could be fed. It was a full day’s work, but fun to share stories with the other mothers. We were also charged with feeding hungry and demanding poddy calves and lambs brought along by the children.
The work the children completed in this week was extraordinary. Activities included archery, creative writing, art, pottery and drama. The three younger grades and the three senior grades each created, produced and acted in their own play with costumes and backdrops. Ben loved the drama and was always a star. The play was the highlight of the weekend, performed on the final day when parents arrived to pick up their children. The standard was very high. The children produced a wonderful entertainment, and it was enormously gratifying for them and their teachers and parents.
I was offered the opportunity to be a delegate at a conference in Brisbane. It included speakers on gifted children, the effect computers have on children, and leisure time in the future. (I liked the sound of that.)
The moment the final session finished, I boarded the bus to visit Anthony in Toowoomba. We enjoyed dinner at my hotel. When it was time for him to return to school, the tears flowed. I watched my little boy being led away, sobbing.
In the waiting taxi, the concerned driver offered sympathy. ‘Don’t worry, dear, it’s a wonderful school. He’ll be well looked after. Where are you from?’
‘Near Normanton,’ I gulped.
‘Oh no, that is terrible!’
We had no further conversation.
With anticipation, Ben and I crossed off the days until Anthony arrived home for the Easter school holidays. When that day finally arrived we flew to Mount Isa, arriving in plenty of time just in case the plane was early, which it never was.
‘I can hear the plane.’ Ben was jumping up and down with excitement. Hugs and kisses all round. Anthony wanted to get in our plane immediately and be on his way home.
The first fight erupted very quickly.
‘That’s my seat,’ said Anthony. ‘I always sit behind Dad.’
‘I always sit there when you’re not here. I want to sit there now.’
I looked at Rick. ‘It has begun already.’
Our precious time together sped by at an unreasonable pace. Most importantly for Anthony, we fitted in a weekend visit to Zanda and Susie. The topic of school was off limits: the friends wanted to be together like ‘old times’. But those times were history. Things couldn’t be the same.
All too soon we were back in Mount Isa, waving Anthony goodbye with more tears. We were a very sombre trio as we flew home.
This was to be the pattern of our lives for years to come.
Rick and I weren’t to know how desperately homesick Anthony was. Many years later, his headmaster told me that Anthony was one of the most homesick children he’d encountered in his career. Our p
oor child had masked his unhappiness from us.
Stuffed Scotch Fillet
This recipe, totally created by me, was, and still is, a favourite for dinner parties. The stuffing I used depended on what was at hand, and I served it on a platter lined with cabbage or banana leaves.
Feeds up to 10, depending on the appetite of your guests
INGREDIENTS
1 x scotch fillet (approx. 2 kg)
1 x loaf stale white bread, torn into pieces
2 onions (white or brown), finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, crushed
3 teaspoons each of chopped parsley, sage and chives, or 3 teaspoons of dried mixed herbs if no fresh ones available
50 g pine nuts
1 x 285 g tin champignons, drained, or 200 g mushrooms, thinly sliced
1 egg
canola oil, for rubbing
salt and pepper
cheddar cheese, thinly sliced, for topping
METHOD
Preheat the oven to 250 degrees Celsius.
To make the stuffing, combine the bread, onion, garlic, herbs, pine nuts, champignons or mushrooms and egg and mix well.
To create a hole for the stuffing, make an incision in the middle of the scotch fillet with a long sharp knife.
Using a wooden spoon, fill the hole in the fillet with the stuffing. Rub a little oil over the fillet, sprinkle with salt and pepper and place in a roasting tin. Roast for 30 minutes or until golden brown. Reduce the temperature to 200 degrees Celsius and roast for a further 15 minutes for medium–rare. Wrap in foil and rest for 10 minutes. Cover the top of the fillet with the cheese slices, allow them to melt for 5 minutes, then serve.
30
Keeping Busy
To plan a three-day country show was ambitious, but the inaugural Cloncurry Show fostered enormous community spirit. We formed a committee of country and town people, then held regular working bees over the weekends. It was hard work but productive and fun, and our enthusiasm was contagious.
The three-day event was held on the first weekend of the June school holidays. People came from far and wide. We scrubbed and groomed our pets, and shampooed our cattle and horses—a new experience for all. The stock exhibits were popular with stations carting in cattle, horses, dogs, ponies, chooks and pigs. We’d imported judges to avoid any favouritism. The horse events were filled with well-decorated contestants and gave wonderful entertainment to those who needed a rest from the side-show alley.
The women of the bush are an inspiration. They presented not only cooking, preserves and gardening expertise, but also handicraft, sewing, pottery and art.
Anthony, Susie, Zanda, Ben and James were able to spend the weekend together and enjoy the show before returning home. The children entered every section possible: handwriting, poetry, creative writing, art, craft and cooking.
The men also showcased their talents with leatherwork, silversmithing, finely plaited bridles, belts and headbands, art and woodturning.
Chris, Marg and I entered every cooking section, winning several ribbons. I was thrilled to win first prizes for my rosebuds, tomatoes and bread. Chris won the best chocolate cake. Marg’s dainty biscuits were unbeatable and my chutney another winner.
Marg and I were invited to judge the children’s art, which we subsequently enjoyed doing each year. The entries were of a high standard, so choosing a winner was difficult.
The fireworks display is etched on my memory. The majority of bush children had never seen fireworks, and as the sky lit up with a cacophony of explosions and flashes of cascading colour, their little faces watched in utter disbelief and sometimes fear, especially from the Aboriginal children. The oohs and aahs that accompanied the display are one of my enduring recollections of this show.
The Saturday finished with a big party at the Post Office Hotel. A band thumped out a rhythm all night. Chris, Marg and I had spent the evening buttering bread rolls for the barbecue. We were a great threesome, never missing a moment to chat.
On Sunday, as the final day drew to a close, all entries from the food hall were auctioned to support the Royal Flying Doctor Service, with enthusiastic bidding for days-old pikelets, scones, biscuits and slices. Prices were high, with family members sometimes unknowingly bidding against each other. Ben took part in this bidding war, so we flew home with plates of inedible goodies. Understandably, the Christmas cakes and puddings were the most popular items, having plenty of alcohol to preserve them. We raised large sums for the RFDS, a deserving cause.
Station-owners loaded trucks with their livestock, and everyone straggled home weary but happy. Rick and I are proud to have been part of the first-ever show, which has continued to be a hugely successful social event in the far north Queensland calendar.
Sir James and Lady Ramsay, the Queensland governor and his wife, had officiated at the opening of the show. This gracious couple planned to visit Devoncourt and Lorraine after driving from Cloncurry to enjoy the countryside. They called at the Burke and Wills on the way.
The roadhouse manager was now an Aboriginal man, quite a character, called Slim. We’d attempted to prepare him for a vice-regal visit.
‘Slim, the governor is Sir James Ramsay and his wife is Lady Ramsay. When he greets you, call him Your Excellency.’
‘Righto, mate…got that, I will practise.’
Slim practised, over and over.
As the vice-regal car drove in, flag fluttering, Slim fell apart with nerves.
‘How do you do, Slim?’ greeted the delightfully casual, friendly governor.
‘G’day, Your Majesty,’ replied Slim.
Sir James recounted this story many times, always accompanied by appreciative laughter. At Lorraine, Marg and Ted invited me and Rick to join them for dinner, along with Poppy and Trenham who were staying with us at the time.
Several months later, we were invited to a luncheon at Government House in Brisbane at the time of the Ekka (The Queensland Agricultural Show). Rick, Ben and I flew down in our little plane, an eight-hour flight with refuelling stops. As we spilled from our taxi at the Sheraton Hotel with Tupperware boxes of sandwiches and thermoses, wearing very ‘comfortable’ attire, the doorman glanced down his nose in disdain and parked us in a corner, out of sight, while Rick booked in.
The next day we taxied to Government House, dressed appropriately. The McDonalds and Flamsteeds were among the other guests. We enjoyed a delightful lunch that we didn’t want to end. Finally Sir James arose and asked Rick if he could move everyone as he had another appointment.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that—I have a reputation to uphold as I’m always the last to leave a party,’ was my husband’s cheeky reply.
We were sent off in the chauffeur-driven vice-regal limousine with flag fluttering proudly.
‘I do hope that same doorman is on duty,’ I declared.
Yes! He was. And did he treat us with a little more courtesy after that? Yes, he did. My day was made.
A succession of jillaroos joined our team and proved to be wonderfully capable workers. Rick continued to find the girls were more accepting of his demand that our cattle and horses be handled quietly.
The jillaroos came from Western Australia, New Zealand, New South Wales and Victoria. Mostly they were recommended by friends, and once one lot were ready to move on, they happily replaced themselves with their own friends. It was a satisfactory system, and we enjoyed having the girls very much.
Our new head stockman, Danny, initially reluctant to have girls involved with ‘men’s’ work, after a time admitted to Rick, ‘These girls can work. They do a good job.’
Danny actually married one of our jillaroos.
As the season wound down, the girls decided to celebrate with a big bash at McAllister to raise funds for the Royal Flying Doctor Service and School of the Air. Our trusty fundraising committee was called into action. This was the biggest and most challenging event we’d held so far: a great deal of time and planning went into it.
We
posted advertisements all over the region. We had no way of knowing how many visitors would appear for the weekend, but we heard whispers of busloads coming from Mount Isa and adjoining towns. Security would be an issue with so many people invading our premises, so the local police were notified and volunteered to be present all weekend—a big relief.
Our ambitious plan included cricket, tennis, clay-pigeon shooting, archery, broom throwing, egg catching and three-legged races, as well as a spot-landing competition for the pilots (the winner would land closest to a circle painted on the airstrip). Vendors set up stalls selling homemade treats under umbrellas alongside the airstrip. Ben and his mates sold baskets of sweets at exorbitant prices. Danny organised two cricket teams, the Northern versus the Southern, to play on the airstrip.
The hordes arrived in 4WDs, planes, trucks and buses. We placed ticket sellers at every boundary gate. Soon our Ridge was swarming with people, all anxious to take part in the events on offer. We set up a bar in the shed, a popular meeting place to discuss the success or otherwise of the activities. The barbecue ran non-stop, with beef and sausages, bread rolls and salads donated by us.
In the evening, we held a bush dance with an exuberant band from Mount Isa, the Gum Boots, set up on the back of our truck. Dust flew as hundreds of people danced the night away to the toe-tapping music. Most people didn’t go to bed.
Dawn was greeted with a sunrise church service conducted by our local Anglican minister, who’d won the spot-landing prize. This was a true Christian gathering of all denominations, bringing people together. The Gum Boots accompanied the hymns.
The last guests departed in the late afternoon. We were exhausted, and the weekend was an enormous success, raising substantial funds.
The final muster was complete. October was always a difficult month as we anxiously awaited the first rain to alleviate the long, dry months. The cattle lost condition by the end of the season due to a lack of nutrients in the dry grass. Lightning strikes often started grass fires, destroying the little feed remaining. Early rainstorms were vitally important.