Biddy and Irene clattered down the steps of the school bus, their bags bumping behind them.
‘Bye, giggle pots. See you tomorrow for the last day of school!’ The bus driver swung the bus around and headed back to town.
The girls started down the gravel track that led towards Biddy’s house, picking their way carefully so that their heels always landed on the biggest possible stones. They called this game ‘High Heels’, and they zig-zagged along putting on the voices posh ladies in high heels would use. ‘I say, Irene,’ said Biddy as they passed the dam, ‘wouldn’t you just love to catch some frogs?’
‘Oh yes, Biddy, indeed I would . . . Look! There’s a huge one!’ Irene immediately forgot her snobby voice. ‘Quick, Bid! Give me your lunch box!’
She plunged down the bank, then scrambled back up, legs dripping, and sat the lunch box in the middle of the track.
‘What a beauty!’ Biddy peered at the huge green bullfrog, sprinkled with spots of gold. Irene crouched beside her.
‘Aren’t his eyes beautiful? We better let him go . . . ’
The blast of a car horn made the girls scream and leap off the track. Irene’s dad was leaning out the window of his old truck, laughing.
‘You two are hopeless, I could have run you over and you wouldn’t have noticed. Chuck your bags on the back and you can squeeze in here with Joe.’
Biddy slid along the seat. ‘How’re you going, Joe? You and Mick look like twins now your hair’s started to grow.’
Joe smiled but he didn’t say anything. His arms were folded around his ribs as though he was cold, but his eyes were dancing. His smile grew wider.
‘What have you been up to?’ Biddy poked him. ‘Look at him, Irene. And your dad. There’s something they’re not telling us.’
Irene caught her father’s eye. ‘Where have you been, Dad?’
‘Well, you know my right-hand man here.’ Joe snorted. ‘Well, him and I have been giving your folks a hand with the hay, Biddy. As you know—’
‘Dad,’ growled Irene. ‘Get to the point.’
‘Well, stop interrupting. I broke the belt on the slasher, so Joe and I had to drive over to Henderson’s workshop to pick up a new one.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Biddy. Mr Henderson was nice, and he did have a kelpie called Holly who could climb trees, but visiting there was no big deal. ‘Come on, tell us what you’ve been doing.’
‘All right,’ said Mick, as the truck rolled to a stop beside the shed. ‘Hop out and we’ll tell you.’
Biddy pushed Irene out the door and waited for Joe. He wriggled his bum across the seat, then stepped down carefully from the truck.
‘Why are you holding your arms like that?’ asked Biddy.
Joe was grinning. It was as though he was so happy he couldn’t speak.
Mick grabbed the girls’ bags off the back of the truck. ‘You know Holly?’ he asked. ‘Mr Henderson’s bitch. And you know that dog of the Jacksons? The heeler?’
Joe stepped towards Biddy. ‘Look.’ He held open his shirt. She could see a fluffy bundle of brown and white nestled against his chest. ‘I got a pup.’ He showed Irene. ‘I got a pup.’
Biddy was dying to cuddle the puppy, but it looked so comfortable that she put her arm around Joe instead.
‘I’m going to call her Molly,’ he said. ‘Devil was my wild dog and she will be my home dog.’
Biddy gazed across the paddocks. Bella was lazing under the cypress tree, flicking flies with her tail. Across the bay the purple mountains of the headland faded into the sky.
‘Do you want to hold her, Biddy?’ Joe handed her the pup and his smile was as sunny as the day.
My thanks to the following people for their help with this
book: Billy Dwyer and Louey Fleming for the image on page i, Mary Haginikitas, Matt Caldwell, Rosalind Price,
Sue Flockhart, and my family, especially my father,
Don, who told me these stories.
Here is a picture of Taffy, with Alison’s father giving his children a double-double dink!
I grew up at Foster in South Gippsland, Victoria. Our farm was like Biddy’s farm. The big open paddocks ran down to Corner Inlet, and the mountains of Wilsons Promontory were beyond that. Our family farmed cattle, and in those days they bought ‘store’ (skinny) cattle from all over the country and fattened them. My dad and Uncle Jack also leased the southern end of the Prom and used it as a cattle run. They left the cattle there in the winter, to feed on the bush; then they were mustered and brought home to sell.
I can’t remember learning to ride a horse. I think I always could. Mum used to pass me to Dad as he rode by the house, and he sat me on a cushion on the pommel. This was probably before I could walk. Once I was riding by myself, I fell off more times than I can remember. I got so good at falling off that I often landed on my feet. I always held onto the reins; it was a long walk home if the horse went without me. My brother and sisters and I rode together on the farm. We didn’t put saddles on very often as it was too much trouble; usually we just sat on a chaff bag. Dad made us use saddles when we were doing stock work.
STOCK WORK
Stock work involved rounding up the cattle to drench them, checking the calving cows, checking the water, and getting cattle out to sell. Sometimes we drafted cattle in the paddock, separating the fat ones out for market. Then we took them up to the yards, where they’d be loaded onto trucks. That was the best fun, because we had to single out particular ones: ‘Let the first one go, stop the next three, let that steer with the white patch go through . . .’ You had to be on your toes. Dad took great pride in handling the cattle as calmly as possible, so that they wouldn’t get stressed.
PONY CLUB
I went to pony club when I was eight. Once a month I used to trot twelve kilometres there, attend pony club, and trot home. I must have been tired on those Sunday nights. Every year I went to the Foster Show and would enter every event I could. The night before I’d lie awake and dream of all the blue ribbons, but I’d be lucky if I came home with a third prize for the School Pony competition.
When I was about twelve, Dad broke in a horse for me. His name was Blue, and when I took him to the Foster Show, he won the Champion Hack in the Shire of South Gippsland. I loved that champion ribbon.
MY HORSES
My very first horse was Inky. Santa bought her for me when I was about five. She was a sweet little old shaggy Shetland who was so quiet we used to dress her up in a cardigan and socks. My next horse was Tammy, a little grey pony. I fell off her lots of times—she was a pretty slippery customer—and she was lots of fun. Then Blue was my horse for a long time, until I was in my mid-twenties. My next horse was one I bought myself when I was teaching at Alexandra. He was an Arabian, called Ben Fox. The family next door was looking for someone to ride Ben. I loved him and they sold him to me when I moved away.
My horse now is called Woollyfoot, and he’s a big Clydesdale Thoroughbred cross. Woollyfoot has been to pony club and one-day events with my children, and he has been to events and hunted with me, and also been on some big rides in the bush on the high plains.
MUSTERING
The first time I went mustering in the bush was with my friend Christa on the Dargo High Plains. We put out salt and called ‘Saaaalt’—just as Biddy does in the story—because it’s lacking in the cattle’s diet and they see it as a treat. We rode right out into the bush to find any cattle that were feeding in little grassy valleys, then drove them back to the holding paddock. It took us a few days’ ride to drive them all down the road to Christa’s farm.
I’ve done a lot of bushwalking on the Prom and other places, and I’ve come across lovely little valleys that you can easily imagine living in. When writing about Joycie, I thought about what you couldn’t do without when you are in the bush. You always make sure you’ve got matc
hes and something to keep them dry and something to burn to start a fire with when riding in the bush. In the saddlebags we carry food, spare string, a snake-bite bandage and a pocket knife. And you have to dress so that you’re safe from the weather. Lots of the country on the high plains looks the same, so unless you really know your way around, it would be easy to get lost. It’s very spooky mustering when it’s snowing or foggy.
WRITING THIS STORY
I loved writing this story as it was very easy to lose myself in Biddy’s world. I could describe what that world looked and felt like because I knew it so well. I would just close my eyes and imagine riding down the beach or rubbing down a horse at the end of a long day.
Riding on the beach is a lovely feeling, and the story about the quicksand is true. Taffy did get bogged in quicksand and was left, then came home during the night. The sand on the beach can become unstable where there is water running underneath the surface, from a creek flowing under the sand.
My ideas for stories come from everywhere. I’m a magpie and collect little bits of information and store them in my head. If you love writing or drawing, consider making it your job. You just have to keep doing it, every day, and you’ll get better and better.
Alison Lester
ALISON LESTER is the well-known creator of many popular and award-winning children’s books, many of which reflect her own country childhood. The Quicksand Pony was shortlisted for the National Children’s Award, Festival Awards for Literature in 1998, and in 1999 was the winner of the WA Young Readers Book Awards. The Snow Pony was shortlisted for both YABBA and KOALA awards, reflecting its popularity with young readers of horse stories. Her picture book Are We There Yet? was the 2005 winner of the Children’s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year, Picture Book Award. Running with the Horses was shortlisted in the 2010 CBCA awards, and in 2011 Noni the Pony shortlisted in the CBCA awards and was the winner of the ABIA Book of the Year Award for Younger Children.
Alison visits schools in Australia and has been a writer in residence and guest speaker at international festivals. She is involved in many community art projects, and travelled to Antarctica to run the Kids Antarctic Art Project. Alison spends part of every year travelling to remote Indigenous communities, using her books to help children and adults write and draw about their own lives.
The Quicksand Pony Page 9