by Jenny Old
Our first television came to us in 1985: an enormous satellite dish was installed, and we were in business. We didn’t receive any stations; we could only use videos that we hired from Normanton weekly.
The men loved the entertainment, but viewing was dependant on the generator. Sometimes Rick forgot they were watching a movie and turned the generator off when we went to bed.
‘Hey! We’re watching a movie, turn it back on,’ erupted from the men’s quarters.
‘Okay, okay, coming.’
Inevitably this happened during the most important part of the plot.
The year had been a confusing one for me. I’d been quite lost without the enormous involvement of SOTA; it wasn’t only the time spent in the schoolroom but also the associated activities that had made my life challenging, fulfilled and rewarding. My time was taken up with visitors and staff, but there was an enormous, dark, empty void in my days. Obviously my ill health had been a reason for my malaise, but I’d recovered from the surgery. I felt that my precious family wasn’t complete anymore.
Rick was spending more time away from McAllister—the plane made it easy for him to dash off to conferences, meetings and even shopping. My husband is a total extrovert who craves the stimulation of people, action and facing new challenges; I, on the other hand, am an introvert. Although I enjoy playing the hostess, I need space and time to myself, something I hadn’t enjoyed often in the past seventeen years. I wasn’t motivated to join Rick on his excursions, preferring to remain at home, but I think I was lonely: certainly not for company, but for my family.
Rick and I had discussed, at length, the necessity to purchase another property or possibly sell. Wages and expenses had risen dramatically in the time we’d been at McAllister, but the price of our beef hadn’t increased accordingly. We needed enough country to run a further five thousand head of cattle to be a profitable concern; naturally this would entail further debt and hard work. Boarding school fees, with the travelling expense of bringing the boys home for holidays, were formidable.
No decision was made following our discussions, mainly because there were always people around and little privacy. But a decision would have to be reached soon.
33
Our Sad Farewell
In 1986, to ease our indecision and restlessness, we decided to hold a party to celebrate my fortieth. At first, I thought a dinner in Mount Isa with close friends would be perfect, but suddenly Rick took over the project.
‘Leave this to me, Jen, I don’t want you doing a thing—this party is for you. You only have to buy a dress to wear.’
I was so happy with that, I bought two dresses.
Rick was more than experienced with organising fundraising events, so I was confident he’d have it all in hand. There followed a great deal of hushed conversations, telegrams, and messages back and forth.
I wondered about the menu, but reminded myself to stay out of it and enjoy the treat of entertaining without having to prepare mountains of food. Rick asked Trish Armstrong, who was bookkeeper at Devoncourt but also an experienced caterer, if she’d cater for the party; with permission from Chris and Don, she accepted.
Preparations and planning went on for weeks. As the day drew closer, I was given the best gift of all.
‘Guess what?’ asked my excited husband.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Our boys are coming home for the weekend of your party,’ he announced triumphantly.
I threw my arms around him, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘I explained to their schools that it may be the last party at McAllister if we decide to sell. They didn’t hesitate.’
The weekend was one of my happiest times at our homestead. Seventy guests attended, including Rick’s parents. I was especially thrilled to see my boys and that my brother, sister and two of my cousins chartered a plane from Deniliquin to join us.
The evening was superb. Perfect balmy Gulf weather cooled a garden sparkling with coloured lights, and we’d hung lanterns in the trees as usual. The food was exquisite, especially as I’d had nothing to do with its preparation. Dear friends mingled, enjoying McAllister at its best. The extended living room allowed for dancing into the early hours. A barbecue breakfast went on until late morning, followed by tennis matches and many cups of tea and coffee.
By late Sunday our guests had departed, and we were left to relive those marvellous two days. Thank you, Rick. One of my very special memories of McAllister.
McAllister was now a beautifully run property with almost every convenience and improvement in place. But Rick was in need of a new project, Anthony had always expressed a desire to be a builder, and Ben was never going to be a beef producer.
We both missed the boys desperately and wanted to be part of the impressionable years ahead. We needed to change things financially. We were restless.
For many months we’d weighed our options. Soon after my party, we made the decision to sell McAllister.
It was a decision made with great sadness. We loved the Gulf and McAllister. This was our home. The friends we’d made would always be our friends no matter where we were, but we would miss being near them.
We listed McAllister for sale by auction with our agents, Dalgety Cloncurry. The date was set for 11 October, which coincided with a visit from Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen to lay the foundation stone of the new John Flynn Place Museum in Cloncurry.
On Sunday 25 August, Don McDonald arrived in his plane from Devoncourt unexpectedly. He delivered the sad news that Rick’s father had passed away, then flew us to Mount Isa where we caught the earliest plane to Sydney.
It was a sad time. Trenham was a much-loved man. He’d been a wonderful father-in-law to me, loving and appreciative of all I was trying to achieve. He’d been a gentle and loving grandfather to all twelve grandchildren. His sharp legal advice was always invaluable to Rick. They’d shared a great love of McAllister, which had brought them closer.
Poppy and her brother returned with us to McAllister. She’d lost her devoted, beloved husband and was understandably grief-stricken. I felt a complete change would help her through.
I nurtured her, taking time to sit and talk and cry over a cup of tea—and sometimes a tiny whisky—at ten o’clock in the morning. After a while, I could see her begin to relax and find some peace. I helped her reply to the many condolence letters and flowers. We laughed and cried together, and I’d never felt closer to my mother-in-law. I know I helped her, and she appreciated my company and care.
Poppy stayed with us for six weeks before she felt strong enough to return home, where her wonderful daughters continued to support her.
Another dreadful loss followed with the death of our dear friend Judy Hickson following a severe asthma attack. The entire district was devastated by this tragedy. Judy was very popular and a friend to many, including me.
Her funeral service was held at Melinda Downs, the beloved home she’d turned into an oasis from a bare and imposing block of land. People arrived from near and far as we gathered in her beautiful garden. It was a sombre and hushed crowd, many in tears as we tried to come to terms with the loss of a beautiful friend. The strains of ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’ wafted uncertainly as two hundred people valiantly sang farewell.
Judy was laid to rest under a large granite boulder beneath a tree outside her bedroom window in the garden she’d created from dust. Her death was difficult to comprehend, and Rick and I found it hard to know how to help Rowan and the children through this awful time, but we did our best, knowing only time would heal their grief.
Property inspections followed the marketing of McAllister. These were an all-day process, sometimes with the interested parties staying overnight. Cattle, fences and improvements needed to be inspected by vehicle followed by an aerial inspection of the waters. We were very proud of our cattle and property and how beautifully it presented; my lovely house, however, was not on the buyers’ radar. It was all about the pr
operty assets and stock.
I produced delicious meals for all and sundry, hoping to impress. Each group showed interest and were pleased with what they saw, but did they really want to purchase?
We very much hoped a family would take over and enjoy the fruits of our labour, but that was out of our hands—as Rick reminded me several times a day when I voiced my dream.
I don’t think the reality had sunk in that we were selling McAllister. It felt surreal. Was I really leaving forever? What were we doing?
I began to clean cupboards and pack personal belongings, a massive task after eighteen years. I started with my enormous book collection, knowing there would be little time for reading in the near future. It kept my mind off the reality of leaving.
A journalist from Brisbane sent a telegram. She wanted to write a story about our family and McAllister: please could she and her husband, six-month-old baby and two friends stay for ten days? Honestly! How would she have felt if someone she didn’t know asked her that question? I just didn’t get these people—somehow they believed that bush people were put on Earth to entertain because they had nothing else to do.
My reply: ‘I’m sorry, this is a busy time for us with inspections and packing. I regret I’m unable to host your family and friends at this time.’
Succinct and to the point, I thought.
They arrived, despite my protests. God, give me strength. The journalist did write some nice articles, but I wasn’t in the mood to be gracious, and they departed after five days.
Soon afterwards, my parents made their final visit to McAllister. They, on the other hand, were very welcome. We worked hard: packing, sorting, cleaning cupboards and shelves, determined to leave everything immaculate. The property was to be sold as walk-in-walk-out, with all furniture, linen, kitchen utensils, crockery, cutlery (apart from specified pieces like our wedding presents), tools and vehicles. A working property.
I felt anxious, with so many mixed emotions. Why were we selling and leaving the place I loved? I’d miss my dear friends. What would we do next?
But then…We’d be near the boys. We could be a family, without extra people and all the cooking involved. I could have a beautiful garden in a softer climate.
Maybe it was the right decision. Too late to wonder now.
The day of the auction arrived. Mum and Dad departed in their car to meet me and Rick in Cloncurry, while we flew KNW to the life-changing event. It was going to be a very public affair, and I wondered what the outcome would be. There had been several positive inspections, but one never knows.
‘I feel sick,’ I muttered to Rick.
I could see he was churning as well, though outwardly calm. He gave me a hug.
‘It’ll be okay, Jen. Just think, we’ll be nearer the boys. Chin up.’
Hundreds of people gathered in the large dining room of the Leichhardt Hotel, a popular gathering spot and function centre. Sir Joh was in attendance and came to us with kind words. ‘Good luck! I understand how you’re feeling. It’s a harrowing experience.’
People milled around us, offering reassurance and wishing us luck. The bell rang, and the auctioneer took his place.
The room was hushed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen…’
I clutched Marg Flamsteed’s hand as the process began. My heart was pounding.
Finally, bidding stopped.
‘Passed in to Stanbroke Pastoral Company.’
They then negotiated for three tense hours until an acceptable price was reached.
Stanbroke owned Donors Hills, one of our neighbouring stations, so McAllister would become an outstation of a large holding. My dream of a young family owning our property was not to be.
My parents waved us goodbye as they began their final drive back to Deniliquin. They looked very sad—they had loved their holidays at McAllister.
Rick and I joined our friends at the Cloncurry Races with mixed feelings. We didn’t really feel like celebrating.
It was over. We had sold McAllister.
A fourteen-day contract gave us little time to finish packing up our life. Stanbroke sent a young man to live with us and supervise our departure. I was a little offended by this: we’re decent and extremely honest people with no intention of doing the wrong thing.
‘It’s standard procedure, Jen,’ Rick reassured me. ‘Stop being so sensitive.’
Visitors continued to arrive without warning, but they had to fit in with the chaos and boxes.
‘I wonder if they’ll continue to arrive when we’ve gone?’ I muttered.
‘They’ll get a shock if they do,’ Rick replied.
Most of our staff had departed, leaving Tina—our wonderful, loyal New Zealander—and Simon, who had been like a son to us. They were a tower of strength, enabling us to be ready to leave on the appointed day of settlement. We packed furniture and belongings onto the truck for Simon to drive to Toowoomba where we’d meet him soon, hopefully with a rented house to move into.
I scrubbed everything. I washed the windows, made up the beds. I’d cleaned and stocked the cupboards and storeroom. I had meals prepared for the caretaker, biscuits and cakes in the tins. Rick and I had written everything down to help the new inhabitants deal with anything that could possibly arise. We also offered our best wishes.
We’d watered the garden, pruned the roses, mowed the lawns. My beautiful home and garden had never looked better. The same could be said for the property: Rick had worked hard to leave McAllister in pristine condition. The Stanbroke supervisor had a very easy job watching us. Leave it, Jen!
I don’t recall the purchasers offering us any appreciation, but we knew we’d done the right thing. We were too busy and exhausted to feel much emotion—that would come soon enough.
The final day dawned. I lay in bed attempting to put off the moment. I gazed around the walls of our bedroom, the walls we’d painstakingly papered in a soft pearly white; then the curtains and blinds, pretty hues of grey, pink and blue; the soft grey carpet and pale pink bedspread. My only piece of femininity in a male-dominated environment.
With a sigh, I stepped out of bed and my day began. As usual, I had too much to do to dwell on my sadness. The boys had returned to boarding school, having said their final farewell to their beloved home.
I waved Rick goodbye as he taxied to take off on his final flight from McAllister. He would deliver KNW to its new owners. I knew how sad he was feeling.
So many last-minute things to do.
I allowed myself a few moments of contemplation. I looked out on a vast, lush green lawn surrounding the homestead. I strolled under my first poinciana tree and the fruit trees, now matured, offering shade and an abundant crop.
As I walked through my home for the last time, it seemed to be saying, ‘Why are you leaving me?’
We’d made the bricks and agonised over the design of the original, simple five-roomed house we’d built ourselves. We’d extended in stages—the schoolroom, guestrooms, dining room, recreational area, offices—creating the large, accommodating and graceful homestead that stood there that day.
I recalled the painting jobs; the thrill of our first floor covering, honan matting in the living-room after two years of concrete; those handmade beanbags; the tiles on the bathroom floors. All done ourselves. Each little step had given us pleasure.
We’d come a long way from a shed and a mud oven. We’d created a beautiful, real, unique home set in tranquil gardens. I could look back with great pride.
I hoped the new inhabitants would appreciate and enjoy McAllister as much as we had. We’d provided a haven for family and friends, and the hundreds of guests, many of whom we hadn’t known before they’d come to visit.
I said goodbye to the caretaker and gave him a few final instructions, even though I’d written everything down.
I put my last bits and pieces in the dual cab and drove down the airstrip. My vision was a blur as the tears flowed.
I stepped out to open the first gate at the end
of the strip. The milking cows were staring at me expectantly, hoping to escape. For a fleeting moment I thought of leaving the gate open.
I looked back. Glimpses of the trees we’d planted, tall and lush. The oasis we’d developed. The tennis court with tall lights. The roof of the Gidyea Hut, shining in the sunshine. It seemed to be calling, ‘Come back! Don’t leave us!’
Who would remember to prune the bougainvillea in December and March to create a mass of colour? Who would remember to check if the tank was full for showers at night? Who would remember to switch the booster on for the hot water on cloudy days when the solar panel didn’t work well?
This felt like a bad dream. I wanted to wake up.
‘Pull yourself together,’ I told myself.
Another deep breath. On to the next gate, past the thousand head of weaners I’d helped Rick to handle and quieten. They felt like family to me, and I felt like I was abandoning them.
I was sobbing and feeling very alone, but I needed to be alone to bid my final goodbye to the animals and to the home I’d created and loved. This was time for me, just me.
I drove over a hill with a stunning view across the downs, the brown and golden hues of softly waving grasses, the soft pink of the Flinders grass, the grey-blue of the silver-leaf box trees, the red of the anthills all melding into a soft landscape.
The outback at its best.
My tears kept flowing.
‘Don’t look back. Keep going.’
The final gate. I reflected on my arrival, eighteen years before. This gate had been a monster I couldn’t open. I recalled my nervous anticipation at what lay ahead in this unknown country with the man I loved. I had no idea if there was any future for me with him. So many unknowns and uncertainties.