One day Charles was complaining to Uncle Dick our mechanic that Don could never understand his instructions. Dick said he never had any trouble explaining to Don what he wanted done. He withdrew this statement the very next day.
Because Charles had put our fuel order in too late we were running out of fuel for the generators, so Dick was syphoning diesel out of tractors, Toyotas, water pumps, anything he could find. He was down to a quarter of a forty-four gallon drum when he remembered that there was a drum of diesel at the six-mile muster campsite. He decided to dispatch Diesel Don to get it.
‘Don.’
‘Eh?’
‘You go six-mile.’ Pause. ‘Okay?’
The less words you used with Don, the better.
‘Six-mile, okay.’
‘Good. Six-mile muster camp.’ Repetition was also important.
‘Muster camp, okay.’
‘Good, six-mile muster camp, gate.’
‘Gate?’
Dick knew he had hit a snag. He walked Don over to the gate nearby. ‘Gate,’ he repeated, patting the gate.
‘Ah, door.’
‘Okay, okay, the bloody door at six-mile!’
‘No, is gate, yes?’
‘I don’t care what you bloody call it!’
‘Call gate,’ said Don, in very definite tones.
‘Go gate, next to gate, drum of diesel, okay?’
‘Okay, you say so.’
‘Yes, I say so. Bring here.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, here!’ Dick was now losing his temper.
‘Okay, okay, bring here.’
Dick went back to the workshop. After some time Don finally returned.
‘Where I put?’
‘Where do you bloody well think? In the generator shed.’
‘Not here?’
‘No, what good is it here? In the bloody generator shed!’
‘Okay, put generator shed.’
Don walked off muttering to himself and shaking his head. Some time later, when Dick went to the generator shed, instead of a drum of diesel, he found the six-mile gate!
Another time it was Charles’s turn. I came into the kitchen just as Charles was giving Don instructions to go and pick up Marlee at the gate a few miles past the twenty-two-mile camp. When he had finished, I told him Don would not have understood and would go to twenty-two-mile camp. Charles said Don understood perfectly and I was not to say anything or it would confuse him. So Don departed. This was at three o’clock in the afternoon. At nine o’clock that night, and two trips later, Marlee was still sitting at the gate a few miles past the twenty-two-mile camp.
By now Don was so upset he was lapsing into Yugoslav. He was worried about Marlee sitting out on the road, and he could not get across to Charlie that ‘Cap-a-tan’ was not where he said she was. ‘Cap-a-tan’ was his name for Marlee—he would salute her whenever she asked him to do something and say, ‘Yes Cap-a-tan!’
‘I drive twenty-two-mile, no Cap-a-tan. I stand on hill and I go “cooeeii” this way, and “cooeeii’ that way.’ This was all done with actions including standing on the breakfast stools which represented the hills and the full volume of his voice to show how far the sound had travelled. ‘No Cap-a-tan! I climb next hill, I go cooeeii this way . . .’ We couldn’t have stopped him even if we’d tried.
I was thoroughly enjoying this exchange. Charles was amazed, he had never seen Don angry and shouting.
‘Don.’ He paused and looked at me. I took a sheet of paper, drew a line and said, ‘Road.’ I put an ‘X’ and said, ‘Twenty-two-mile camp.’ I drew the line past the ‘X’ representing twenty-two-mile camp, and put a gate across the line. I put another ‘X’ and said, ‘Cap-a-tan.’ His eyes lit up and a big smile came over his face.
‘I here.’ He pointed to the twenty-two-mile ‘X’. ‘Cap-a-tan, here.’ He pointed to the second ‘X’.
He then launched into rapid Yugoslav—I think he was telling Charles what he thought of his directions. He finally lapsed back into his version of English.
‘Missus tell good. Now I go get Cap-a-tan!’
Marlee arrived home with Don at eleven-thirty p.m. Apparently she had got the whole routine all the way home, including the ‘cooeeiis’.
Diesel Don was with us the last time we took cattle out to the road before the truck era. On this occasion we again walked steers out, and cows in. Charles was sick with pneumonia and, as it was late in the season, most of the stockcamp had gone. So we were down to the girls, two Aboriginal stockmen, myself and Diesel Don following up in the Toyota.
It was early December so we had to walk the cattle in the very early morning and rest them in the shade for the hot part of the day. On the way back to Bullo the cattle were difficult—the last thing they wanted to do was walk fifty miles. I had been told by the ‘old timers’ that cattle always prefer to walk in a northerly direction. However, I think this particular mob of cattle must have missed the geography lesson on north, because although we were travelling in a northerly direction, it was like trying to push jelly through a keyhole. They just kept spilling out at the sides. The only time they behaved was going up the road over the pass into Bullo. They had no choice—it was up the road or over the side—so they marched like little soldiers.
I was lead again, due to my lack of riding skills and most of the time that was it, just the cattle and me. The poor little girls and two Aboriginal stockmen were constantly up mountains and down dales, chasing the bolters and bringing them back to the mob. The cattle hated walking over the rocky country, and they performed the whole twenty miles. Then when we reached the grass country, we couldn’t move them at all—all they wanted to do was graze. All this had put us two days behind schedule.
About fifteen miles in from our front gate, the road crossed the Bullo River. Marlee told me that, as lead, I had to keep them from rushing the water. We had to stop them drinking water in the heat of the day or they would not be able to walk long distances. The plan was to keep the mob tight and get them across the water as fast as possible before they could drink too much. That was the plan.
About half a mile away the cattle smelt the water. They became noticeably restless and started to increase the pace. At that point the road was a cut-away along the side of a hill, with a steep drop on one side and a rock face on the other. The cattle were strung out quite a way, with the girls and stockmen right back at the tail.
I held them back as long as possible. I kept weaving back and forth across the road in front of them; however, slowly but surely the pace increased. I turned and shouted, hoping it would balk them, but they ignored me. I stayed just ahead of them until the last hundred yards. At that point, you round a bend in the road at a high spot and can see the river running along quietly at your feet.
My horse was also very thirsty, and, completely ignoring my protests, suddenly took off at flat speed. So, horse, cattle and dust barrelled towards the quiet waters of Bullo Crossing. Somewhere in the midst of all this dust and commotion, I was holding on for dear life. Horns, hair, tails and hooves went flying past me at an alarming rate. Then, without warning, I was airborne. My horse had reached the river’s edge and slammed on the brakes to lower his head and drink. I was deposited plunk in the water. I came up spurting water, with cattle milling all around me.
‘Are you alright, Mummy?’ I looked up into the concerned faces of the girls and the stockmen on horses. Diesel Don was standing with them, hat in hand, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
‘Well, I think so. I haven’t tried to move yet.’ With wild cattle starting to sniff my hair, I thought it might be a good idea to try.
By the time the cattle were out of the river and under control again, they had all consumed far too much water to travel. We had to rest them for most of the afternoon and, as a result, had to walk well into the night to reach our next yarding. We yarded them at around ten p.m. by the light of the moon.
Diesel Don had gone on ahead to set up the camp. He had a
lovely campfire and a nice hot cup of tea waiting. However, the two days’ delay on the road had caused him a few problems with the food. He was running out, and what he had left meatwise was off. So he marinated the steak in, well, I don’t know what, and then cooked it on the steel plate. It was a sight to see, but it tasted worse. I couldn’t even swallow it and threw it in the bushes mouthful by mouthful when he wasn’t looking. He would ask after each mouthful, ‘How Missus like?’
After dinner we all settled down for a short night’s sleep. We woke at 4 a.m. to the sound of the Toyota returning from somewhere and the smell of breakfast and coffee simmering on the side of the campfire. I asked if anyone knew where Don had been. No one did.
The Toyota, like most vehicles on the place, should have been in the rubbish dump. It was held together with baling wire and glue. Whenever Dick, our mechanic, asked for any spare parts, Charles would go into such a tirade that Dick found it easier to improvise than ask. He had bypassed the starter motor in the Toyota and, although the vehicle worked alright, it had to be roll-started each morning. This had been no problem through the twenty miles of hills, but now we were on the flat it was presenting big problems. So Don had driven to a hill, parked, walked back to the camp to cook dinner, then walked back to the vehicle in the morning and brought it back to camp. He had walked ten miles during the night.
By the end of the return journey, my poor old gammy leg was really playing up. The extra days were just too much for it. After four hours in the saddle it would be numb and by the end of the day I could not dismount as I could not stand on my left leg to swing out of the saddle. My dear old horse would patiently stand there while I wriggled and squirmed until I could slide down and put both feet on the ground together. The last day, even that wasn’t enough. The leg just collapsed and I ended up underneath my horse. He didn’t move, just turned his head around and sniffed my head to see if I was alright. Having satisfied himself of this, he stood there, resting one leg, waiting for me to get the saddle off so he could have his rest. I crawled out and removed the saddle, washed him down, gave him a Weet-Bix, his favourite, and he trotted off to join his mates.
We had ten miles to go—I kept saying to myself over and over, ‘Nearly there’. My whole side was aching and I hadn’t felt my leg since mid-morning. The girls realised I was having trouble and at lunchtime, they sent one of the stockmen ahead to get Charles to come out and meet me. They knew I wouldn’t give in and go home with Diesel Don, so they correctly decided to send for Daddy.
As we approached the four-mile gate, we saw the other Toyota waiting by the side of the road with the lights off. I had to admit I was finished. The cattle slowed as Charles got out of one door with a bottle of champagne, cheese and crackers, and Uncle Dick the other side with a bunch of wild flowers. They clapped. I was near tears as Charles gently eased me down from my patient horse and helped me to the Toyota. It was one of those moments that Charles was a master at creating.
‘Don’t make all this fuss over me. The children and the boys did all the hard work, I was just there.’
‘But they do it every day, it’s nothing for them.’
‘True, but they still like to be appreciated and told, and they really did a marvellous job.
He paused. ‘You’re right.’
He went back and turned his charm on the children. They glowed. He gave them each a sip of champagne, said ‘Well done’, to the stockmen and shook Diesel Don’s hand and congratulated him on bringing the whole operation home safely. Don didn’t understand a word of Charles’s elaborate speech, but the smile and handshake said it all.
The first cattle roadtrain into Bullo was a big step. It held none of the magic of droving, but it only took four hours to get the cattle to the front gate, not four days. I listened in silence to the driver’s complaints.
‘Four bloody hours to get over that flaming road!’
We loaded the cattle and listened as the roar of the big engine going through its paces filled the valley. The driver slowly worked up through the gears and we watched the cattle adjust their stance with each gear change until they disappeared in a cloud of bulldust.
‘Well, that’s progress for you!’ stated Charlie.
‘Is it?’ I couldn’t help feeling sad that the droving days were over.
CHAPTER 16
Uncle Dick
I think it is time I told you a bit about this ‘Uncle Dick’ character who keeps popping up. Actually, to do him justice, I would need a whole book, but I will just have to settle for a chapter.
Uncle Dick is a salt of the earth, fair dinkum, hard-drinking Aussie battler. Talented in many trades and certified in more than a few, he is also well-read and polite, the Fred Astaire of the Outback, and now, in his later years, a wise philosopher on the subject of the roads in life you should not take. I know this for a fact, because there are very few roads that Uncle Dick has not taken.
I know he sounds too good to be true, but Uncle Dick was not perfect—he had the curse of the demon drink as the levelling factor. And oh boy, in the early years did that demon level.
Dick came into our lives in 1973. We were all in Darwin staying with Gus at his house in Fannie Bay. One of Charles’s sons, Fraser, was soon to leave for America but his father, in his usual brash way, told him before he could leave he had to find a mechanic for the station.
Charles, Gus and I were sitting on the patio talking and watching the sun set when a taxi stopped in front of the house. Two people emerged, one of whom we recognised as Fraser. After a lot of stumbling and mumbling, they arrived on the patio and Fraser introduced us to Richard Peter Wicks.
He was well and truly under the weather but that didn’t seem to bother anyone but me. He sat down on a stool and Charles asked him about his experience. He certainly seemed to have the knowledge required for a wide field of station work. He was neatly dressed and quietly spoken—he seemed to be exactly what we needed. Except for one thing. I took Charles inside the house.
‘What about his condition?’
‘Well, no cook or mechanic in the North is going to be a teetotaller. You just have to put up with it.’
I went back and sat down. Gus was telling a story about one of the old characters of the North and Uncle Dick leant back in his chair laughing. Only it wasn’t a chair, and he went ‘head over turkey’ backwards. His feet came up under the coffee table sending glass, flowers and peanuts everywhere. Charles roared with laughter, Fraser just stared and Gus carefully picked up all the peanuts.
When everything was back in order, they all sat down and the questioning and yarning continued while they munched on the recycled peanuts. But the peanuts were not to escape that easily, as Uncle Dick started to use them as an ashtray. Gus ignored this and still offered the peanuts around but Uncle Dick was the only taker.
Charles hired Dick, and a few days later with a still red-eyed, very under-the-weather Uncle Dick, we flew to the station. I think Charles’s remark that there was no alcohol on the station could have had something to do with Dick’s condition. He was making up for the drought to come.
I will always remember my first conversation with Uncle Dick. Charles, as usual, had given his directions for the day, and I had dutifully written them all down and delivered them to everyone concerned. Dick appeared and I read out Charles’s instructions for the day. His reply was as follows:
‘She’s jake. Tell his nibs I’ll grab crib, have a bit of a kip, whizz the head off the u/s bastard, slap him in the eye with the part numbers, in a flash of a nod, and Bob’s your uncle.’ And he walked out the door. I was still digesting this when Charles came into the kitchen and asked if I had given Dick his orders. I said yes and he asked what his answer was.
‘I really don’t know.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know? Did he give you an answer or not?’
‘Yes, he gave me an answer, but I don’t know what it means!’
Charles spoke very slowly as if he was dealing with someone who was
a bit simple. ‘Tell-me-his-answer.’
This treatment immediately got my back up so I rattled off what I could remember of Dick’s answer at break-neck speed, and then sat and stared at him.
‘What?’
‘What’s the matter Charlie, can’t you understand plain English?’
He went down to the workshop and spoke to Dick himself. I have never forgotten that conversation, and later, when I knew Dick better, I asked him to translate it into English. He told me that he had said, ‘That’s okay. Tell Charlie I will have my lunch, have a short sleep, take the head off the broken-down motor, get the serial numbers to him as soon as possible, and he can take it from there!’
Dick’s first workshop was just a canvas awning under a big gum tree. Because there was never any time or money, he had to wait years for something more substantial. Eventually, one was built out of bush timber and secondhand iron. One day, he tried to hoist an engine up, and the roof came down with the engine, so he graduated to steel trusses. And after that the workshop stayed that way for the next fifteen years, one bay, thirty feet wide.
Back in the early days, it was unbelievably hard. Dick and Charles argued endlessly about the reconditioning of old machinery. Charles had the philosophy that ‘the older the better’. He maintained that any vehicle or machine could be reconditioned and brought back to its original condition. Dick’s view was that this might be true if you were working with quality handmade machines, but to put it in his own words, ‘When you’re working with robot machine-made junk off assembly lines that has been thrown together, forget it, not practical.’
Of course Charles won, and Dick started the restoration of an old vehicle that we had actually taken out of the dump at Montejinni when Charles and Gus bought the station. Dick said the compression was so weak, she couldn’t drive out of a pig wallow.
This was the vehicle that was going to prove Charles right. Thousands of dollars and a book of spare parts later, Dick had finished, and he told Charles he still had exactly what he had started with, a pile of shit.
From Strength to Strength Page 23
