by Jenny Old
Emotions weren’t discussed in the bush. The attitude was: Deal with it. I decided the best way to deal with my apprehension was to ignore it. For now.
The following is a poem I wrote that Chris found in a School of the Air commemorative book many years later.
A Day in the Life of Ben’s Mum
It’s 8 a.m., school time again
Breakfast done and floors are clean
Washing done, chooks let out
Vegies watered, no one about
Phew…notices and lessons now
The door is closed, pupil enclosed
Now the day and date to be exposed
The first knock sounds upon the door
One of the men has something sore,
Fix him up, back we go
Tables and numbers are rather slow
Spelling to begin learning
‘Oh dear,’ said Ben, ‘can you smell burning?’
It’s corned meat put on to simmer
Ready for an early dinner
Mess cleaned up and pot is soaking
Where were we now, black and smoking!
Now to story writing…gosh…SOTA
reception is bad, listen with care
Another knock, ‘Oh who is there?’
A furniture salesman on the mat
‘Good morning, would you like a chat?’
Now smoko and a cup of tea
Persuade the chap his goods are not for me
Back to school we must get going
This afternoon I must do the mowing
Dad comes in ‘please ring this number’
How to do this quickly I just wonder?
The list is long, ‘you are sixteenth Jen’
So back we go, to pencil and pen
‘Oh Mum, the cow is in the garden!’
Hibiscus gone, no beg your pardon
Back again and slam the door
Won’t answer it anymore.
Social studies, music and art
Calm us as we make a start
Nearly forgot P&C this afternoon
Things have changed since our honeymoon
Five o’clock, garden to be watered and animals fed
Dinner for twelve, wash up and then to bed!
No day was ‘typical’. Every day at McAllister was unpredictable—and always interesting.
‘We’re used to sleeping rough,’ Rick said, scoffing at my suggestion. ‘We don’t need a rubber mattress.’
Before the boys left for school, we embarked on a camping holiday in New Zealand. We hired a large mobile home to accommodate five active children and three adults: Rick’s sister Rosemary and three of her five children were coming with us.
Rick wisely decided that he and I should sleep in a two-man tent, foreseeing future problems sharing with three fourteen-year-olds (there were twins), one sixteen-year-old and a nine-year-old. Smart move.
We arrived the day before Rosemary and family to collect our home on wheels, shop for supplies and have all in readiness for our fellow travellers. We set up in a camping ground, leaving the boys to sleep inside the van while we retired to our tent, with only sleeping bags to ease the discomfort of the unforgiving ground.
During our long and uncomfortable night, a storm delivered torrential rain. In the morning, we discovered the boys had slept the sleep of the young and innocent, leaving all the windows wide open. The result was a sodden mess. We had a frantic scramble to dry the saturated bedding before the remaining four occupants joined us that day.
‘So, Mr Tough Guy, do you think we could buy a rubber mattress?’ I asked as I noticed Rick stretch his aching body.
‘Maybe that’s a good idea. You’d be more comfortable and stop complaining.’
I let that slide.
The cousins took turns to cook the evening meals, and their creations were varied and interesting. One evening when Ben was the cook on duty, he became very distressed when he noticed Rick driving away in the van. ‘Where has Dad gone?’
‘To refuel.’
‘Oh no, he’ll get talking and be away for ages, and my potatoes are in the oven—they’ll be ruined,’ Ben growled, dark eyes flashing with anger.
Rick did take his time and returned to be greeted by a furious Ben, but the potatoes were saved.
On Christmas Day, the children decorated the van with streamers made from cut-up magazines and alfoil.
Afterwards, we travelled through both islands of New Zealand. This was a beautiful country. The holiday was special with cousins, aunts and uncle living in close quarters; we didn’t have a tense moment and cohabited very happily.
Rick and I had been such good examples of sensible purity, we needed to let off steam. We were longing for a bit of excitement.
‘I feel like a drink,’ Rick whispered to me as we lay in our sleeping bags, wide awake.
‘Let’s go out,’ I suggested.
Not wanting to disturb the van’s sleeping occupants to change our clothing, we crept out in our ugg boots and tracksuits. We found a cosy little club called the Busy Bee where we consumed quite a few glasses of wine, giggling our way back to our tent at 3.30 a.m. like naughty schoolchildren.
The rest of the family wondered why they were able to sleep in the next morning—nobody guessed the head prefects had played truant.
Often we found it difficult to get the team moving in the mornings. After all, it was holiday time, but that made no difference to Rick. We had country to explore and an early start was the only way to cover the itinerary he’d set for us.
‘We’ll pack up our tent and just drive until they’re all ready to get up, then stop for breakfast.’ That was Rick’s solution and that’s what we did, only stopping when the cries became panicked: ‘Pleeeease, Uncle Rick, I need to go to the toilet…desperately.’
After a wonderful three weeks together, we reluctantly departed from this beautiful country. We all look back on this time with very fond memories.
Back at McAllister, I wanted to enjoy every minute of our last few weeks together as a family, before boarding school for both boys. What a special year it had been, as we’d wanted it to be a happy and memorable one for Ben.
Name tags were sewn on and bags packed with uniforms for both boys. The day arrived for our departure. Before delivering our precious sons to boarding school, we visited their grandparents, then went on to stay at the Gold Coast with the McDonalds.
Rather than fly in KNW with limited space for the boys’ large suitcases, we drove in the Toyota HiLux. Our plane was booked in for a repaint and service at Mount Isa.
As we drove away from home, I knew Ben’s life—like Anthony’s—would never be the same. Gone were the days of flexibility with school hours. Gone was the easy dressing, pulling on a pair of shorts for the day. It would be boarding school food, fussy uniforms with ties, hats and heavy shoes, and rules, plenty of rules.
For us, the parents, there would be an enormous void in our lives.
‘Let’s go via Boulia,’ Rick suggested, ‘since we’ve never been there.’
‘Yes,’ we agreed, a change of scenery on the long drive would be good. We tried to concentrate on the holiday. We drove, and drove, and drove, admiring the different landscape, but by the end of the long day the boys were fed up with being immobilised and constrained by seatbelts.
‘If we’d flown, we’d be at the beach by now,’ moaned Anthony. It was true.
Three days later we reached our first destination, Deniliquin. Two weeks later we were at Palm Beach, enjoying time with cousins and family. Then, with great excitement, we arrived at the Penthouse Apartments in Broadbeach to be greeted by Chris and Don with Susie, Zanda and James.
The children disappeared, reappearing in swimming gear, ready for the beach. This was a special time spent surfing, playing tennis and relaxing, allowing the five to run free. The last time for quite a while.
At the end of the holiday we reluctantly packed our bags, sharing commiserations and hugs as we waved goodbye
to the McDonalds. They were leaving Susie at Stuartholme in Brisbane, then Zanda and James at Downlands.
We made our way to the Toowoomba motel opposite the grammar school—yes, the same Fawlty Towers motel. The boys changed into their uniforms. We had a last hearty lunch—a smorgasbord—at the famous Weis Seafood restaurant. But Ben returned to our table with three Jatz biscuits and three pickled onions: that is all he ate.
He was anxious to get to school. As we arrived, three ‘prep angels’ swooped. We unpacked and were given a tour.
Time to leave. Please, just five more minutes. It’s time to leave. Go quickly. A hug and a kiss. Our little boy looks so tiny.
As we left, I couldn’t look back.
How was he going to cope with being away from home, with the schoolwork, the routine, living with large numbers of children?
‘No contact for three weeks,’ the smiling master on duty reminded us.
Next stop was the grammar school with a very reluctant student. No angels here as Anthony was a seasoned boarder. There was a lot of chatter as boys and parents greeted one another, many of whom I’d shared my Faulty Towers evening with. Everyone maintained a happy demeanour until it was time to say goodbye.
Here we go again…deep breath…leave quickly…five more minutes, please…say goodbye…now.
‘Goodbye, young man, see you in twelve weeks.’
An eternity. Rick hugged me as we wiped away our tears. Our boys were in someone else’s hands now, and we would never have them permanently in our lives again. The end of an era.
‘The years have gone by so quickly,’ I sniffed. ‘We don’t have them for long, do we?’
Rick nodded in mute agreement as we drove away.
All through the years since having Ben, we’d hoped for another baby. I’d had many tests during that time and suffered six miscarriages. I lived through this heartache without my family in Deniliquin to share it or the comfort of my mother nearby.
After each of these miscarriages, I suffered severe pain and discomfort. I didn’t tell Rick. I was a bush wife: who was interested in my problems? In the bush, we just got on with it. I ignored these increasingly painful symptoms for several years. But the pain had become almost unbearable. So, after Toowoomba, and before returning to McAllister, I decided to visit a specialist in Brisbane for a long overdue consultation.
Following an investigative procedure, the specialist asked to see us together.
‘Jenny, you have severe endometriosis throughout your pelvic cavity, plus fibroids and lesions. You are precancerous and need to have a radical hysterectomy urgently. I’ll let you have a day to think about this and make your decision.’
In a strange way, I felt relief. There was an explanation for my ill health.
‘I don’t think we need a day to think about it.’ I looked at Rick. ‘It has to be done.’
Rick nodded.
‘That’s the right decision,’ the specialist replied. ‘I don’t know how you’ve lived with the pain you’ve obviously been suffering. This is the reason you haven’t been able to have another baby.’
The huge disappointment of knowing our family would never be extended was tempered by the knowledge my suffering had been very real, not imagined. Rick was stunned when he heard the diagnosis. I think, for the first time, he began to realise how alone I’d been while dealing with my problems.
I was booked for surgery at St Andrew’s Hospital in four days.
I was angry at my own stupidity in ignoring the symptoms. I was a nurse and should have known better—instead, I’d battled through the pain, pretending there was nothing wrong. Perhaps if I’d looked for treatment earlier, we might have had another child. Foolishly, I’d felt I was indispensable in my role at McAllister, risking my health in the process. Stupid.
At least a solution was at hand. And we had two beautiful sons. Enough of wishing and hoping and constant disappointment.
I was in surgery for six hours, a long and delicate operation. My recovery was slow and frustrating. Chris and Don kindly allowed us to stay at their unit in Brisbane where Rick looked after me beautifully for several weeks, but we both realised I couldn’t go back to McAllister in my condition.
I returned to my parents in Deniliquin, the perfect place for me to convalesce for six weeks. Here I found the peace and loving care I needed. I could allow my body to recover without the constant demands of station life. Thank you, Mum and Dad.
The doctor was happy with my progress but warned it could be eight months before I’d be fully recovered. I was determined to prove him wrong.
I couldn’t resist a visit to see the boys in Toowoomba. What a reunion. Ben and I watched Anthony’s rugby match and he scored a try; Ben had to explain to me how significant this was, as I had no idea of the rules. Zanda joined us for dinner, and I could see how much the boys enjoyed being together.
We all shed tears as we said goodbye, but thankfully the next holidays weren’t far away.
My return home was a strange and confusing time. The empty bedrooms and vacant schoolroom were a constant reminder of our missing boys. I was frustrated about not being able to do the things I was used to, because of my lack of stamina.
Meanwhile, Rick was feeling unsettled and unfulfilled without a challenge now that McAllister was beautifully improved. It appeared we needed to expand and buy another property, or perhaps even sell. We tossed the pros and cons around for many months.
An ordinary morning in April turned into an extraordinary one when I listened to a telegram being read out to me on the radio.
‘Congratulations, Mr & Mrs Old. You have won a trip to Brisbane for the Royal Gala Opening of the new Queensland Performing Arts Centre in Brisbane. The Duke and Duchess of Kent will be officiating. Please RSVP to…’
I raced over to the shed to share the news. ‘Rick, Rick! Guess what?’
‘What?’ (It sort of sounded like ‘What now?’)
I read the telegram to him. His excitement didn’t match mine, but I was used to that. Sometimes he’s a little too calm for his own good—or maybe that’s a good thing.
I rushed back to reply before my bubble was burst. A lady who I’d met in hospital had seen an article about a competition for country people, with the prize being this exciting event. I’d entered and forgotten about it.
The entries had been drawn out of a hat. One couple from each shire was selected to attend, all expenses paid by the government. Premier Joh Bjelke-Petersen and the arts minister had declared the Performing Arts Centre was for all Queenslanders, not only the city folk. This was quite exceptional, as we were rarely acknowledged by any party other than the Nationals. We were the invisible part of the population, even though we provided the food on their tables.
I chuckled to myself when we received a follow-up telegram for all to hear, inquiring if we had suitable formal attire. I assured them Rick owned a dinner suit, and I’d soon have an appropriately expensive and elegant new outfit—after all, we’d be in the company of royalty.
We flew to Brisbane in KNW and arrived at the Sheraton Hotel, the very hotel where the doorman had been rude to me. He was nowhere in sight, sadly, as I would have loved to have dropped a royal name within his hearing.
The first event on our agenda was a cocktail party. We emerged at the designated place for the cars to pick us up and were surprised to find many of our good friends waiting there. It was like a reunion at the Ekka. This was going to be fun.
We were treated to an elegant reception, greeted by Sir Joh, then escorted on a tour of the beautiful new facilities. Later, much later, the barman was forced to turn the lights out to remove the noisy group of well-dressed bushies.
The next day we were given front-row seats for the procession through the city and a greeting by the Duke and Duchess of Kent. There was a great air of festivity. I sat back and immersed myself in the buzzy atmosphere.
The bushie contingent dressed in formal attire for the Royal Gala Performance in the evening. I felt like Cind
erella in my new black-and-silver cocktail dress, with my new shoes and handbag, escorted by my handsome, formally dressed husband. I was in a dream and didn’t want to wake up. I settled back to enjoy the program: ballet, cabaret, a children’s choir, choral groups, the Queensland Symphony Orchestra and opera arias. How I missed theatre and music, and how grateful I was to have been chosen to take part in this great occasion at the beautiful Performing Arts Centre for all Queenslanders.
The next morning Rick and I wandered through the art gallery, enjoying our rare time alone together. Finally we could talk to each other freely without the demands of the property. Attending the cultural events of the past two days had made us aware of what we were missing in such an isolated region, though I’d never felt deprived in any way. We had a frank discussion about our options.
Life remained busy with cattle work and constant visitors. We were working with the best team we’d ever had: two exceptional young men, Simon Cobb and Rob Warby, plus three amazing New Zealand girls, Sue James, Tina Coutts and Val Mackenzie. Redskin and his wife, Judy, had also returned to McAllister. It was a happy camp.
Simon and Rob were the sons of friends and both from the land—capable, mature, loyal and hardworking. Simon stayed on until the end of the year. He was like another son to us. He and Anthony became very close friends; they even looked alike, similar in height, with blond hair and a great sense of humour.
Tina also remained with us for several years. A strong, stocky girl with freckles, she had thick, wavy short hair. She was a strong character who liked to do jobs her way and when it suited her. Rick was soon to understand it was better to give her a list of jobs to be done and leave her to it. Always productive and thorough, she never disappointed.
‘Please, Rick, can I be a jillaroo rather than a cook for the men?’ she pleaded one day.
This was a common plea from the girls. Rick knew my reaction wouldn’t be favourable if he relented, as I remained the cook for our frequent guests and wasn’t willing to take over again. A compromise was reached: Tina would cook the main meal for the men and take part in the outdoor work when she could manage both, which she did.