by Jenny Old
With the season over, the staff departed to go their separate ways. We were finally a normal family again. Our home was permanently filled with staff and guests for eight months of the year. The wet season, with the cloying and uncomfortable heat, was my favourite time—I had my home and family to myself.
I’d had a happy year in the schoolroom with Ben. Being an adaptable child, he’d fitted in and around my busy schedule with good humour. We’d achieved excellent results in time for Anthony’s greatly anticipated arrival home for the long holidays.
He unpacked his bags and for a while we could forget about school. We enjoyed heated discussions and debates over the dinner table. Rick read serialised stories to the boys in the evening, holding us all in suspense. Bedtime was relaxed and the boys could sleep in if they wanted. (Very rarely!)
One of our favourite books was Colin Thiele’s Storm Boy, about an Australian boy and his pet pelican. We regularly drove to August Tank for a swim, and by coincidence a single pelican was often there. Over time, he became used to us and allowed us to swim with him. We called him Mr Percival after the pelican in the book.
He was our pet for many months until one day, when we arrived for our swim, we found our beautiful friend shot dead.
We were devastated and very angry. Rick discovered the culprits: two of our men who were gun happy. They were sacked on the spot.
Later one of the jackeroos informed Rick he’d overheard the young men talking about shooting me and the boys. One never knew where some of the men came from or what history they had with the law. We were pleased to see the end of those two.
It was time for Anthony to commence secondary school. He loathed leaving home.
At Toowoomba Grammar School, I tried to help him settle into another strange environment, but he remained a very reluctant pupil. At least Zanda would be at Downlands College nearby—they’d meet at football matches and free weekends.
I farewelled my little mate, returning to my motel opposite the school with a sad heart. That evening I met a group of equally distressed parents in the same situation. We gravitated to the bar to drown our sorrows. More and more sorrowful parents joined us. Following several cocktails, our mood lifted as we mixed and made friends.
‘Let’s book a table and have dinner together,’ someone suggested.
We rearranged tables to accommodate our growing numbers while we consumed more cocktails. The poor barman was becoming quite flustered: Brandy Alexanders, Bloody Marys, Lime Daiquiris…
‘The barman reminds me of Manuel from Fawlty Towers,’ one of my new friends whispered to me.
On cue, ‘Manuel’ dropped a tray full of glasses. From that moment, it was a ‘Fawlty Towers Dinner’. The evening lurched from one funny incident to another, and the more we likened the scene to Fawlty Towers, the more flustered our poor hosts became—and with the help of many cocktails, the more we laughed. When our meals eventually arrived, the orders were incorrect, but the drinks had done their job. We were a happy and noisy bunch, forgetting our sorrows and our sons across the way.
A more sombre group sat down to breakfast the next morning. We were all nursing huge hangovers.
31
Disaster Strikes
On returning to our depleted household, I was pleased to be busy with Ben’s school and back to a routine. We were constantly reminded of our missing boy—no fights, an empty seat at the table, an empty and tidy bedroom. Most of all, we missed his company.
However, visitors continued to stream through: an accountant from Alaska, a fascinating lady from Zambia, a film crew from ABC TV interviewing Rick on the beef industry.
Two young men from Colombia arrived on our doorstep seeking work. They had been through a traumatic, harrowing ordeal: they’d been kidnapped by rebels the previous year but managed to escape. They were reluctant to go into details of the ‘who’ or ‘why’, or how they’d come to be in northern Queensland. I sincerely hoped their kidnappers wouldn’t think to look for them at McAllister. They were great company and keen to work for the short time they were with us.
I was extremely grateful that a doctor was staying with us when Rick developed a nasty chest infection. Of course, he refused to rest, and his childhood asthma returned with a vengeance. During the night he was ashen and gasping for breath. I knew it was an emergency. I raced to the Gidyea Hut where our visiting doctor was sleeping.
‘Can you come quickly? Rick is really ill. Bring your bag.’ After a quick examination, our friend administered intravenous adrenaline that gave Rick instant relief, and he made a rapid recovery with the help of antibiotics. His asthma is now in the past with no further attacks since moving from McAllister.
If our doctor friend hadn’t been on hand, I believe I would have lost Rick that night.
There were many benefits to having a constant stream of guests, and on this occasion I was extremely grateful to have help available.
One of the locals thought he was hallucinating when he saw two elephants in the shimmering mirage on the horizon. As it came closer, the vision became reality with a pair of enormous jumbos appearing on a flatbed trailer.
The circus was coming to town: they wanted to stage a performance at the Burke and Wills, depending on support from the district.
‘What’s a circus?’ Ben asked.
Our extensive collection of books obviously hadn’t included a story about a circus. We described the acts he could expect and his excitement rose to fever pitch.
Sadly we’d miss the camel section of the show: two camels had died from ironwood poisoning between Croydon and Normanton.
The novelty of a circus proved a drawcard, and the (rather small) big top was filled to capacity.
From the moment the performance began, Ben was transfixed. It’s impossible to explain how hilarious this evening was: the entire audience was laughing at Ben, who was laughing uproariously and infectiously at every act, oblivious to the fact everyone was laughing at him! The clowns mesmerised him, and afterwards he could recount every tiny part of their acts to anyone who inquired about his night at the circus.
It’s surprising the circus didn’t recruit him—he certainly made their show worthwhile. As we emerged from the tent, people crowded around him, congratulating us on our wonderful little boy and how he’d made the quite ordinary evening memorable. Locals told the story for many months, but Ben was still oblivious to his fame.
He was always a different and fascinating personality. One of his jobs was to bring in the milking cows and their calves on his motorbike in the late afternoon. The calves were locked in the yard overnight, enabling a good supply when the cow was milked in the morning. Milking cows are notoriously cunning and stubborn, often causing Ben serious frustration.
One evening when my parents were staying with us, we heard some expletives—yard language—coming from the airstrip. Ben’s motorbike skidded to a stop, then the garden gate crashed open. Ben stormed through the kitchen door with a look of thunder, picked up a slug gun and marched out, slamming the door. He resembled an angry mushroom with his large akubra.
‘Might be a bit serious for the cows,’ laughed my mother.
The tiny motorbike roared to life, and Ben was off down the airstrip, gun raised.
Bang…bang…
We ventured outside tentatively to see what was happening. Two hapless milking cows were galloping down the airstrip, udders swinging from side to side, calves running next to their mothers. They ran straight into the yard without any diversionary tactics, an angry mushroom following closely behind.
For anyone with concerns about the dangers of a slug gun that shot pellets into the rumps of the cows, rest assured there was no mortal injury, only a stinging sensation. Our boys had been trained to handle guns safely from a young age, a necessity in this country.
I’m pleased we don’t live out there in the present time. Imagine seeing a three-metre taipan near your child and having to go to a locked cupboard to retrieve the gun. By then the snake would
have bitten the child or disappeared, who knows where?
The only side effect of this incident was the laughter-induced pain suffered by my mother and me. Also, there wasn’t a lot of milk the next morning.
Disaster struck in 1984.
With the roadhouse running well and making a profit, our shareholders agreed it was an opportune time for us to sell. The managers were due to take their annual holidays, so Rick and Danny went to live there for the duration.
On the day before the managers were set to return, the two men were sitting together enjoying a beer and feeling very pleased with the maintenance they’d been doing in preparation for the sale. They’d trimmed and tidied the gardens, raked the grounds, painted the walls and cleaned the windows. The roadhouse had never looked better.
Click.
‘What was that?’ Rick asked.
A massive explosion erupted behind them. A room in the accommodation donga was alight. Smoke billowed and flames licked at the walls.
Rick and Danny ran for fire extinguishers and hoses, only to discover the hoses from the overhead tank had been burnt, rendering them useless. They desperately tried to douse the fire with buckets of water, but now the buildings were well alight. Gas bottles exploded, bullets fired from the supply in the shop, huge flames hungrily devoured the buildings.
Rick and Danny could only stand and watch the dongas and roadhouse burn, until there was just a pile of smoking rubble.
A passing car pulled in. The driver looked in disbelief at the smouldering ruin. ‘What happened? I was here yesterday and there was a roadhouse.’
Rick hobbled over on burnt feet and explained the disaster. He and Danny had been shoeless when the fire broke out, so they had lost all their possessions, including their boots. Rick had always worn boots: he didn’t have the tough feet of the locals, and his tender soles were suffering.
‘Oh no, that’s terrible!’ said the sympathetic driver, who then noted Rick’s sore feet. ‘Would you like my thongs?’ he offered.
Rick, who had never liked thongs, accepted gratefully.
At McAllister, I was unaware of the tragedy until early the next morning, when I turned on the ABC: ‘A devastating fire has destroyed the Burke and Wills Roadhouse overnight.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but Rick sent a message to me confirming the news. Ben and I had been preparing for his return home.
‘Daddy won’t be coming back for a while,’ I explained.
Generous neighbours, friends and local businesses rallied. They brought portable coldrooms, graders and teams of men to help with the clean-up. Rick was able to pump fuel for motorists the next day.
Rowan was in Brisbane to meet with a prospective buyer. He was having lunch with this investor when Rick finally managed to contact him. ‘Mmm…w-w-we-e-ell…Rick, looks as if the sale is off f-for the m-m-moment,’ our dear Rowan stammered.
It was discovered the fire had started in an air-conditioner.
The managers arrived back from their holidays, observed the pile of ashes and handed in their resignation. Who could blame them? Thankfully their possessions were safe as the house hadn’t been damaged.
Workers erected a weldmesh fence around the concrete slab with a padlock on the gate. Electricians were flown in to establish the wiring for freezers, coldrooms and cooking equipment that would be housed in the wire cage. Financially it was important to have the business up and running as soon as possible, and this was also important for the travelling public who relied on the fuel.
Five days after the fire, Judy Hickson and Rick flew into Mount Isa to buy new equipment. Danny drove a brand-new truck, belonging to Rowan, to transport the purchases back to the roadhouse. Truck loaded, Danny set off. Rick called me cheerfully on the radio from the plane. ‘We’ve had a wonderful day. We’ve got all the gear for setting up shop again. We’ll be back in business by tomorrow.’
I was heartened to hear his happy voice and retired to bed feeling relieved.
The next morning, ABC Radio dashed my optimism. ‘The owners of the Burke and Wills Roadhouse have suffered more bad luck. The truck carrying the new equipment for re-establishing the business caught fire eight kilometres from the roadhouse, with everything destroyed including a brand-new truck.’
Again, I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
Rick called me on the plane’s radio. ‘Judy and I were close to the roadhouse when we spotted some smoke on the road. I circled down to discover it was our truck on fire.’ He sounded so dejected. ‘I was concerned for Danny. We couldn’t see him and gas bottles were exploding. Luckily, he was safely on the side of the road.’
The truck had a high exhaust pipe behind the cabin. It’s thought a spark fell on the load in the back and ignited the fire. The brand-new truck and its contents were uninsured.
So Rick made another phone call to Rowan, who was on his way home. His response to this devastating news was unforgettable and says so much about the man.
‘W-w-well, R-R-Rick…w-w-when you d-d-do a job, you d-d-do it w-w-well.’
Rick and the others made a second trip to Mount Isa for equipment, all fully insured this time, returning safely in a rental truck without incident to re-establish the roadhouse.
In no time it was back up and running. The tough bougainvillea were soon a mass of colour again, giving a tropical appeal to the wire cage. After a prolonged stay, Rick and Danny returned to McAllister.
We eventually sold the roadhouse to a Mount Isa bus company. There have been several owners since but it has grown into an established and successful business serving the community with attractive buildings, sporting and horse events, and a vibrant caravan park. Our dream became a reality, but why did we always do things the hard way? It’s tough work being a pioneer.
We’d never had enough money to spend on frivolous things like doing up a house. For many years I had put up with the very basics. Now we were better off, I decided it was time for a total refurbishment. I pictured an elegant and comfortable homestead with a touch of femininity.
We planned some exciting extensions. Our builder from Gympie, whom we’d employed once before to do improvements, was booked to build us a formal dining room, a casual sitting area with a bar and space for table tennis, and a proper office for Rick.
I went into overdrive. I ordered new blinds and carpets, and even wallpaper for our bedroom. But I soon realised this was a stupid idea when Rick and I tried to paint glue onto the extremely porous homemade bricks without success. Only after several trips to Mount Isa to discuss our problem with the paint shop, and the tenacity and endless patience of my dear husband, did we manage to complete the job.
I had so much fun redecorating. As the refurbishment was completed, I looked back on our achievements over the sixteen years we’d been at McAllister.
We’d gone from our humble beginning in a shed, to Gidyea Hut with no garden, to a basic house, to a newly painted, redecorated seven-bedroom house looking across lush lawns and mature trees, blooming roses and magnificent bougainvillea. Two resident peacocks strutted proudly across their domain breaking the tranquillity with their cry; they looked beautiful, especially when they fanned their magnificent tails. The orchard boasted a variety of healthy trees all laden with fruit. And the vegie garden was bursting with fresh produce waiting to be picked and consumed.
This was the oasis I’d dreamt of but sometimes never believed we could achieve.
And Rick had developed our property into a successful operation. Fencing was complete with laneways and trap gates for easier mustering. The permanent yards were efficient and strong, supplemented by portable yards. Kilometres of poly pipe carried water to distant places, enabling the cattle to spread out in the dry months. Two large dams allowed the creeks to flow later in the dry season, so the cattle could stay strong until the end of the year as they awaited rain to bring on sweet, nutritious grass.
We had all the equipment required for efficiency: trucks, a grader, bulldozer, tractor and, best of all, a pl
ane in a hangar. Accommodation was available for stockmen and a married couple, and I could accommodate guests comfortably in the extra six bedrooms.
We had come a long way.
Cumquat Marmalade
My citrus trees produced masses of juicy fruit. The cumquat tree seemed most prolific and I provided our friends and neighbours with jars of this delicious marmalade. Even Lady Ramsay, wife of the Govenor of Queensland at the time, was a grateful recipient.
Makes approximately 20 jars of various sizes, whatever was to hand
INGREDIENTS
1 kg cumquats, washed and quartered
5 cups water
2 tablespoons lemon juice
5 cups raw sugar
METHOD
Place the cumquats in a large bowl and pour in the water. Cover with a cloth and set aside overnight.
Pour the water and cumquats into a large boiler and stir in the lemon juice. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes, or until the fruit is soft. Add the sugar and stir until the sugar has dissolved. Bring to the boil and boil for 30 minutes, or until the jam has reached setting point. To test whether it has set, place a small plate in the fridge to chill. Spoon a little jam onto the plate and return it to the fridge for a few minutes. If you can run your finger through the jam and it stays firm, it is ready. Remove the pips with a large slotted spoon. Bottle the marmalade in sterilised jars, seal and label.
32
The End of an Era
The years had flown by and all too soon it was time for Ben to leave home for two years at the Toowoomba Preparatory School, following in his brother’s footsteps. We had decided to send Ben for two years rather than one to hopefully allow him to settle in a little more easily than Anthony. Funnily enough, it was at Anthony’s suggestion; Ben was lonely at home alone. We were great mates. I dreaded to think of a life with both my boys away.
I couldn’t imagine days without a school routine and years without all the associated social activities: camps, sports days, Christmas trees, mini-schools, parents’ and friends’ meetings on air, ICPA meetings and conferences—just to name a few.