But in what seemed like no time of contact with Europeans, an Aboriginal man would be out of his naga and into shirt, trousers and hat; and a lubra would cover her nakedness, donning the floor-length, high-necked fashion of early days. Only the piccaninny remained clad in dust-covered skin.
When European fashion became less rigid, the lubras’ skirts shortened accordingly, but they remained very modest and preferred their dresses to have sleeves. ‘Want im gotta arm,’ they would tell you. ‘Me chame [ashamed] no arm.’
After his first wet season on the Ridge, my father started building the present pub. He used the angle-iron of a windmill he’d purchased from the Department of Works to form the frame, bought corrugated iron for roof and walls, and laid a cement floor. Apart from its doors, no timber was used in the pub’s construction, to avoid white ant infestation.
My mother’s brother Bill Hese and the author Bill Harney were my father’s helpers. Harney and his part-Aboriginal wife, Linda, rigged their camp on the Ridge, and he spent the wet season working for my father.
With bar, dining room, kitchen and three-bedroom living quarters, the Junction Hotel was ready for occupation and business. It was so-named for being the junction of the main north–south road and the east–west stock routes, and was comparable to a saloon in America’s Wild West. No swinging doors here, but gunfights and wild brawls aplenty.
To the drovers travelling their big herds to southern markets, the pub meant that the open downs country of the Barkly Tableland lay ahead and the Murranji Track was behind—a once-forbidding stock route that snaked westward through Bullwaddy and Lancewood scrub for a couple of hundred kilometres to Top Springs on the Armstrong River.
Perched on its stony ridge, the pub was fronted by a wide gravel road. Open country bare as a billiard table—the cattle mobs and pub goats saw to that—ran down to the white, clay-coloured water of Newcastle Creek.
These days, a plaque outside the Junction Hotel informs tourists it was ‘built by Arthur Edward (Jack) Sargeant with help from those owing him money’. Not so, a total fabrication! No doubt a story concocted by a writer hoping to create a little local colour—you know the sort of thing: I heard it, I liked it, I wrote it.
CHAPTER 12
He Redeemed his Vices with his Virtue
This is a tale of the eccentric Territory man who loaned my parents the money to buy the McCarthys’ store.
A white man with a long white beard, he’d first ridden into the Territory in the late 1880s, bearing the name Harry Bates. Later he’d changed his surname to Bathern, although he was known mostly as Bullwaddy, in honour of the hardy, ugly shrub that grows densely in that region. Name changes weren’t so unusual then—a new name was something to hide behind if one had a dubious past; it could smooth the way to a new life. Some had two or even three aliases, but the Territory never held a man’s lawless past against him.
Although I was very young when I knew Bullwaddy, I remember him quite well—perhaps because he gave me a beautiful taffy-coloured pony, which after long deliberation we imaginatively named Taffy.
A successful cattleman when he loaned my parents money, Bullwaddy was the owner of several stations and lived on Beetaloo Station, quite close to Newcastle Waters. Like many old bushmen, he had no white women in his life. He reigned over his kingdom of dark concubines and the prodigious issue of his loins, their skins of all shades. Were they really all his? He liked to think so and loudly boasted, ‘See those cattle? Bred ’em all. The horses? Bred them too. And see those fine men riding ’em? Bred the bloody lot.’ Perhaps a little wishful thinking there, but with some truth to it.
They all had little schooling. Bullwaddy could neither read nor write and saw no reason his children should. Later he employed a bookkeeper in the belief the man was impotent due to First World War injuries. How wrong he was! The bookkeeper was soon given his marching orders, to be replaced by someone deemed more suitable.
Bullwaddy was looked upon with much respect and affection by his large family, although he wasn’t overly generous. On the occasion they requested jam, bottled sauce or anything else on the dinner table he thought excessive, he would tell them sadly, ‘Of course you can have it, but you must understand the great risk to your good health. Perhaps even blindness is possible from such indulgences. But if you desire it, you can have it. Have I ever denied you anything?’
Silence! Not another word. Fear of such calamity ruled out any arguments or further requests, and that was the end of it.
At the same time, Bullwaddy provided well for his children and everyone on the station. They butchered their own cattle, goats and chickens; were excellent cooks and bread-makers; and had a large vegetable garden. They worked their cattle—their brand ZTZ—and maintained their properties well. Although Bullwaddy’s word was law, I never heard of him being harsh. I guess he was too small and too old by then anyway.
On a trip to Beetaloo to attend someone sick, my mother spent the night in their only fully enclosed bedroom. A wild storm blew up with thunder and flashing lightning. Bullwaddy, brave as any bushman with horse or rushing cattle, was deathly afraid of lightning. The little man rushed in panic into Mother’s room and straight under the bed, where he huddled, shivering with fright.
All the while, Mother told us, she reclined regally on her pillows above, like a feudal grande dame with her servant at foot. She hadn’t the heart to send him forth before the storm quietened.
Mother often told this story of continuing to read her book by the light of a kerosene lantern, while a frightened little man with a long white beard cowered beneath her bed.
Bullwaddy died in the Junction Hotel during the Second World War, and the story goes he left instructions for his boys to bury him in a particular spot that was especially hard digging. His word was law unto the end, and none dared disobey. Who knew what he could do even beyond the grave?
He’d also ensured that his considerable wealth was distributed in such a way that all of his descendants were provided for. Many years later they were still profiting from his estate, still cashing their cheques at the store.
His eldest son, Wattie, regularly made the trip into Newcastle Waters in an old red truck he referred to as the ‘Dieselene’. He and his chief offsider, Whitefoot—probably named for the marks of leprosy from which he later died—grandly took their places in the cab. Along with as many people as could cram on board, they all set off for their trip to town. Wattie could neither read nor write, but he could make his mark on his cheques and this was good enough for Mother. After a day visiting relatives and spending money in the store, the old Dieseline chugged on home to Beetaloo.
Wattie had a bottomless fund of tales to tell about old Bullwaddy, who’d always been ready to compare the hardships of his own life, as a young fella roaming the Outback, to the good fortune and what he considered the easy life that his hard work had provided for his children.
I have among my books a collection of drawings Wattie presented to my mother, including scenes from his life in the bush, cattle, men on horseback and a small aeroplane of the 1930s—Dr Clyde Fenton’s plane on a mercy flight, perhaps. All the action of life on the old Territory cattle station by a man of the bush who could neither read nor write, remarkably well drawn; perhaps I will entrust them to a Territory gallery.
CHAPTER 13
Daughter of the Mounted
I was to remain my parents’ only child. Spoiled? Sure! You know what they say—everything under the Christmas tree is for you alone.
My father called me Jackie or Jock; my mother Jacqueline or, when irritated or angry, a shrill ‘Jacqueleen!’ in the French fashion. To the Aboriginal men, lubras, nannies and ringers, I was always Jack-a-leen, never Jackie, for reasons I know not.
Little white girls were rare in the remote Territory of my childhood, so I received lots of special attention. I still possess teddy bears, silver mugs and books to attest to my bevy of surrogate uncles in the Mounted: Tom Turner, Tas Fitzer and Wally Langdon
, to name a few. All are familiar names sprinkled throughout the pages of old police records and histories of the Territory’s past. I was ‘a true child of the old Mounted’, my father used to say.
He was determined I should be a girl. It’s said that when a man has a son, he becomes a father; with a daughter, he is a daddy. I had a daddy for 56 years who thought me quite marvellous and always referred to me as his beautiful daughter. How could you not love such a man?
He believed a father should spoil his daughters or they would grow up disliking men. It’s a good thing he did just that, for a large part of my life has been spent in the sole company of men, mostly hard men of the Australian bush; they were my protectors, teachers and trusted friends.
Not long after we’d moved to Newcastle Waters, Polly—a Mudburra woman from nearby Montejinni country—had come into our lives. She wasn’t a young woman, had no children of her own, and was my nurse girl for the next few years. She happily carried me about in my coolamon and, I am told, fussed possessively over her piccaninny.
As a young child I was always in search of wannoo tins for Polly. These were accepted, whether suitable or not, with a gracious, ‘Good gel, Good gel,’ and tucked away in her dilly bag.
In those early years I was taken on hunting expeditions with women of the local tribe. I was taught to dig yams with my own yam-stick, what bush tucker one ate (or didn’t eat), and what berries were ‘cheeky bugger’ (poisonous). We had many a bush feed of greasy goanna on ashy coals.
One day my mother came upon Polly giving me a lesson in hygiene. After taking up a handful of sticks, she carefully laid one down. When quite sure she had my full attention, she said, ‘Ghish un, im dirty bugger,’ then another stick in a separate pile, ‘Ghish un, im clean bugger,’ and so on until she was satisfied that the difference was noted.
One fun memory of my early childhood is of lying on the ground in a great tumble of lubras and piccaninnies, gazing skyward and conjuring images in the shifting clouds. ‘Look, there horse, see his tail? Im gone now, that un now him helephant, see his long nose?’ Not that any of us had ever seen an elephant, but we had my picture books to aid our imagination.
I remember the vision of the koala bear, because it so amused my father that he often brought it up. Clearly formed in cloud, this image caused me to excitedly announce to all, ‘Look, qualabare! Qualabare!’
‘What that un qualabare, Jack-a-leen?’
‘Well, he’s a bear,’ I put forward uncertainly. ‘He got fur like kungaru.’
‘You bin lookin for this un qualabare one nutja time, Jack-a-leen?’
With all attention hanging on my superior knowledge of such matters, I wasn’t about to admit I knew not a thing of koala bears.
‘I bin see pictures,’ I countered tentatively and changed the subject, with a mental note to consult my father regarding qualabears.
A popular pastime was smoothing the dusty ground and imitating animal tracks: ‘See ghish un, im lighard foot,’ and the spidery mark of a lizard was there in the dust. You could make a baby’s bottom or footprint, or press down on the outer side of a clenched fist, dabbing in the ‘toes’ with thumb and fingers.
Cat’s cradles were another skill; string interlaced through fingers created a wide range of designs. With a quick flick of a finger, a twist of string, another picture appeared. An anthropologist once told me that he had recorded over 200 designs of string pictures.
The women were ever curious and showered me with questions. When Uncle Bill Hese of Harpers Springs Station came to visit, they asked, ‘Jack-a-leen, what name you call that brother belong mother belong you?’
‘That uncle for me.’
‘Ay-na-yah, uwai, that un huncle for im,’ they agreed, with understanding nods all around.
‘Ay-na-yah’—I’m at a loss to spell this sound. It was an exclamation of surprise, irritation, praise, alarm: a warmly familiar acknowledgement of anything at all. I still think ‘ay-na-yah’ when I’m truly surprised by something.
The women didn’t always speak aloud. Periodic silences were imposed on individuals for tribal reasons, and finger talk—a special sign language, more complex and conveying a wider range of information than one might think—was learned early and used often. A heated disagreement could take place without a single sound uttered, and be quite entertaining for me to observe.
There was much to know. I learned early that secrets must not be told if a willy wagtail should alight on a branch nearby, because it was a well-known fact they carried tales and caused trouble; of course, this was obvious from the way they tilted their heads to listen to what you were saying. Another rule was that the name of one departed must never be spoken, or he might hear from that dark place beyond, and perhaps think you were calling him to come.
We bush kids retrieved objects from the ground with our toes as the Aboriginals did, pouted our lips toward an object, or pointed with the chin when asked directions. We stood with a bare foot resting against the opposite knee—I still do this barefoot. All of which irritated our mothers, of course.
The nurse girls gave loads of attention to their charges; they seemed to have infinite patience with European children. If I incurred my mother’s wrath or the world was unkind, I stomped off to their camp by the house to tell of the unfairness of it all, and be petted and fussed over: ‘Ay-na-yah, poor pulla Jack-a-leen!’ Maybe I’d be fed a bit of ‘sugarbag’ (wild bush honey) or other titbits from a grubby dilly bag, until ruffled feathers settled.
My father took delight in telling the following little tale, much to my mother’s discomfiture. One day, with her patience sorely tried by her unruly child, my mother slapped me. Polly took offence at such treatment of her beloved charge, and sprang into battle with serious intent.
Mother was going down fast; her only defence was to take up a saucepan and bounce it off Polly’s woolly head. My father came by and intervened: ‘Oh bugger off, Pol, and take your piccaninny with you.’ We were banished from the house until tempers cooled. Although the fault lay with Polly, she returned with me on her hip and haughtily treated Mother with magnificent forgiveness.
After a few years in Newcastle Waters, my parents leased the Junction Hotel to Max Schober, a tubby little German ex-seaman, and bought a store with a liquor licence in the gold-mining town of Pine Creek. North of the Ridge on the main north–south road, and about 230 kilometres from Darwin, Pine Creek had the advantage of being on the railway line.
The farewells of our Aboriginal friends were dramatic in the manner of old tribal people. The lubras wailed and cut shallow wounds into their arms and foreheads until the blood flowed down. It was reasoned that blood must be shed to show real sorrow and grief must be heard to signify sincerity.
Polly didn’t accompany us. I still remember looking over my father’s shoulder at her dear old face as I was taken from her. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground where we’d played every day, swaying back and forth, blood streaking her face from the cuttem-cuttem marks, loudly lamenting the piccaninny she believed she would never see again.
CHAPTER 14
North to Gold Field Country
What a gentle bucolic scene the name ‘Pine Creek’ conjures. Forget it! Several large gold mines were working around the clock and there was nothing placidly pastoral about a mining town of those days. The wild ringers were replaced by mad miners, and in a town where the booze flowed freely, there were quite a few to rage and rampage about.
As well as gold mines and my parents’ store, Pine Creek had another store, a Chinese bakery, a bush pub, a railway station, a small school and a bush hospital run by one nursing sister.
To the end of her life, my mother wasn’t domestically inclined. I never saw her cook anything, not even a piece of toast. Probably during her nursing training she’d learned something of invalid cookery, but she always declared she couldn’t cook, and that was that.
Instead, Mother was totally involved in her business ventures, so my general day-to-day care f
ell again to nurse girls, some of them Malay amah. I have good memories of all the women who cared for me—each left something special to remember with affection.
A great favourite was Rosie Cheong, a mix of Chinese and Malay and, as my father put it, an Aboriginal was looking over the fence as well. Pretty and good natured, she laced my food with the hottest chillies, so that very early I acquired a taste for highly spiced Asian cuisine—and with this added to Polly’s bush tucker, I developed a cast-iron digestion.
Bet-Bet, another Aboriginal nurse, accompanied us on our only family holiday to Adelaide. On our return she, who had never had a shoe on her foot, refused to be seen not only without shoes, but also the white cotton stockings that were in fashion and disappeared regularly from my mother’s wardrobe.
Still another was Daphne Alright, a European girl who was later married at our house, my mother’s wedding ring borrowed for the ceremony. Daphne’s husband became a well-known hotelier in the Territory.
Maggie, a half-caste girl, was with us a very long while. She had a glass eye that shattered in its socket, and my mother spent a good deal of time probing for shards.
After her marriage, Maggie and her husband trained their pet pig to perform a wide range of clever tricks, all of which impressed me no end. He could retrieve things and carry them about on command, and was about as talented in a piggy way as it was possible to be. I found it all great fun when he was put through his performance for me, and I always brought along a good supply of treats for him.
I was utterly crushed by the vagaries of adult behaviour when I found out he’d been eaten for Christmas dinner—it fostered in me an early distrust of adults where pets were concerned.
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