Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  Billyarra was a big billabong, with good shade trees and plenty of bush tucker. On the way out we had the Wombrella Flat to cross, 6.5 kilometres across and under water. The tops of anthills rose above the murky floodwaters. I was on tenterhooks as we left the gravelled Gibb River Road. The first time we made it across all right, but on the second run we broke through the surface beneath the brown floodwaters and fell into a deep pit. The boys jumped off the vehicle and more or less carried it through.

  On Skogy’s first run we ended up with close on 600 head in the Billyarra paddock. It was a battle, but the plan more or less worked. We reached the billabong by sundown and set up camp.

  The evening was darker than usual, with a large cloud build-up coming from the south and a cool, gentle breeze. The wet had more or less finished, but the country was still covered in water, a sign that there was more rain coming that winter. We would only get winter rains every six or seven years, and it wasn’t looking good for us that night, I thought, lying in my swag. Three hours later the heavens opened up. It continued to pour all through the night and most of the next day. By the following evening we’d had a good 150 millimetres. Everything was completely soaked and covered in mud and we were all wringing wet, but the Aboriginal men and their families never complained. They knew that in a day or two the sun would shine and dry everything out.

  We hadn’t noticed that Mary, Robert’s wife, was very pregnant. I asked her how long to go, and she said, ‘Could be long time, Missus.’ Fair enough, I thought, but we knew they never kept a counting stick. On the fourth morning, just as we were pulling the saddles from the back of the Land Rover to ride the paddock, Robert walked over to me and said, ‘That girl got pain, Missus.’ I asked him to lie Mary in her swag on the trailer towed by the tractor, and we would return to the station. I knew I’d worry too much otherwise.

  I checked and timed Mary’s pains. ‘Robert, you ride with Mary,’ I told him. ‘If she has any trouble, you wave and I’ll pull up.’

  McCorry warned me to keep the revs up going back across the Wombrella Flat, because if I didn’t, that’s where we would sit until the country dried out. I jumped behind the wheel and told Mary and Robert to hang on real tight. I pointed the nose of the tractor at Wombrella Flat and we slowly moved off. I kept the revs right up and a tight grip on the wheel as we ploughed, slipping and sliding across the flat. The moment I hit a bit of hard country I slowed enough to check that I hadn’t thrown Mary or Robert off. They were hanging on still, covered in the mud and spinifex that the wheels had thrown up, soaking wet but with huge smiles on their faces, their beautiful white teeth gleaming through.

  Once we made the gravel road I pulled up and checked Mary again. So far, so good. I kept going at a steady pace. As soon as we were home and all cleaned up, I put Mary, who was suffering her contractions in stoic silence, into the Land Rover and headed straight for Derby Hospital. We made it by 10 minutes! Mary safely delivered a very large baby boy, who they called Robert after his father. I promised Mary we’d pick her up from Derby on the next store run, and Robert and I headed back to the station. At daylight the next morning, we met the camp as the cattle were being pushed along a sandy ridge into the yard. The truck driver had to unhook his 13-metre trailers from the prime mover, hook them up to the tractor and turn them around on the gravel road without going over the side.

  Robert and I put together a small fire on the road once the cattle were loaded and the stockmen branded them on board. Whoopee – the dollars were on the truck! We could hear Bucko, the driver, blowing the horn as he slowly manoeuvred down the wet, gravelly road towards Broome.

  My life seemed to be travelling along a beautiful, winding, dusty outback road. There would be some little hiccups on the bends, often due to the company’s cash shortages, but I would pick myself up on the straights. We were a family now, and it felt good. I was pregnant and all was going well. The only cloud in our family life was that McCorry seemed to be drinking more in the evenings. Never during the day. But sometimes the pressure of chasing cattle all day and battling with scant resources seemed to be getting to him. He would sit alone, brooding silently.

  Looking back, I think he must have been showing the first signs of depression; but at the time it just seemed to be the way he was. He didn’t need people. He thought he could figure everything out on his own.

  Parenthood also brought its anxieties. I had to fly to Perth with Kelly, who needed a minor hernia operation. ‘A small incision, and all over in five minutes,’ my paediatrician informed me from Princess Margaret Hospital. Those five minutes turned into the most traumatic time of my life to that point. As I watched my baby wheeled away, down what seemed an awfully long corridor, my heart pulsed heavily and I burst into tears, reliving a silent fear I’d carried on the station: that if anything ever happened to our son we mightn’t be able to get help quickly. But I was comforted by a kind nurse and Kelly was soon returned to me. It took me longer to recover than he did. He sat up in his cot laughing and clapping and very soon we returned home, my faith in our medical profession renewed.

  My parents and younger brother Michael arrived in early 1977 to spend some time with us on the station. Mum and Dad set themselves up comfortably in their caravan and Michael moved into the homestead. Dad always found something to do in the workshop: if it wasn’t a broken-down vehicle or machine, he’d overhaul the water pumps. In the meantime, Mum and I, between drinking bucketloads of tea, would fill each other in on the gaps in our lives since we’d last seen each other. Michael would race out and join McCorry with whatever he was doing on the ‘run’. It was a holiday of sorts, and we found a lot to do together. McCorry and I were pleased to see them, but more than anything proud to show off our little man Kelly, who was ten months old.

  One day while my parents and Michael were there, we were out on a muster. I jumped into the Bell 47 chopper with Skogy, buckled up and waited while he secured his thermos full of black coffee (although I sometimes wondered if that was all he had in it). The peace and tranquillity of the early morning was rudely broken as the old chopper roared into life. I was to show him the area we wanted mustered while the others, including McCorry, stayed to manage things on the ground. Skogy would then drop me off, downwind of where the cattle would come through to enter the yard.

  As we did a gentle lap around, moving the herd in the general direction of the yard, I pointed out the schist hills that were the boundary for this muster. Skogy winked and I took that as an okay. I was in no hurry to return to earth, enjoying the beautiful feeling of flying. We dived and prodded at a rogue bull who was being a bit too territorial. After several more runs, I signalled to Skogy that I was ready to get out. I knew he was better off without the extra weight. Heading straight for the highest granite hill in the area, he landed the old Bell on top of a precarious, slippery boulder – just to be a smart-arse. Then he dropped me back at the yard. A little while later, I looked up to see the chopper heading towards the yard, making a hell of a racket. As Skogy came closer to the ground, I could see the chopper was way out of control. It landed heavily, bounced high and, the main rotor roaring, rocked wildly, the blades nearly collecting the ground.

  As the dust settled, we came out from behind the granite boulders like rabbits from a warren, keeping an eye on the slowing blades. As we rushed forward, a deathly-white Skogy waved us away. He wasn’t joking. As the rotor came to a standstill, Skogy stepped out, shaking his head. ‘It was close this time,’ he said. Too right. We were all shaken up.

  Skogy, McCorry and Dad did a full study of the chopper’s rotary section, finding a couple of bolts snapped off. They were talking about Cobb & Co.-ing the base of the rotary section with fencing wire. I thought, God, no! and walked away. They were forever jimmying up machinery and this time too much was at risk. Skogy said, ‘If you can secure it, I can fly it!’ – so the challenge was on.

  First they doubled no. 10 wire and gave that a go. Skogy kicked the engine over and the blades started to
rotate, but the chopper started to rock and he shut it down again in a hell of a hurry. After much discussion, the bush mechanics proceeded to Cobb & Co. the rotary section again, this time with some no. 8 plain wire.

  Skogy told everyone to clear the deck, as he had seen a blade fly off a chopper before and go through three sheds. He kicked the engine over. The chopper held – there was no rocking this time. He brought the revs up to full throttle and it was starting to look real good, no rocking at all. Skogy gently lifted her up from the black soil plain and I peeped out from behind the boulder as he manoeuvred a full circle and landed her.

  He jumped out and ran over to us, all smiles, giving a thumbs-up. ‘She’s great, better than ever, I’ll finish the muster!’ And away he went to bring in the cattle. It turned into a long day as we sat and worried and waited, but I knew Skoglund was no fool; he wouldn’t tempt fate for the sheer hell of it.

  Later, with the chopper back on the ground, we drove the tail of the herd up into the yard, closed the gates and headed for home. Thank God the day’s over, I thought. It would be another full bottle of whisky night for Skogy.

  One beautiful sunny day at the station, some of the women from the camp were having smoko on the back lawn under a giant frangipani tree. Old Yardie, who had appointed himself my minder at the homestead now that his horse-tailering days were over, was also having his smoko; only he sat three to four metres out on his own. From the kitchen window I watched him jump up and head to the front gate to question some strangers who had arrived. Yardie never let anyone in the house yard; they were all made to wait at the fence while he came to collect me.

  For months newspaper headlines, radio and television and the outback radio galah session had concentrated on the unrest among the Aboriginal people on Noonkanbah Station, 145 kilometres south-east of Napier. A mining company wanted to drill for ore samples in one of the sacred sites on this property, supported by Western Australia’s very conservative Premier, Sir Charles Court. The Aboriginal people were coming from far and wide and grouping together to protect this sacred site. The Kimberley, and particularly the cattle station personnel, were in turmoil.

  We’d never seen a disturbance like this. We believed they had every right to make a stand – surely the mining company could drill somewhere else close by. But we also wondered if the Aborigines’ resistance would set a precedent. The Shell Oil Company had been involved in exploration work on Napier Downs for years without complaint, but McCorry began predicting that that might change. He was proven right when Steve Hawke, the son of the future Prime Minister, and his colleague Sarah arrived at our Napier Downs front gate. They were white activists who had become involved with the Aboriginal people who opposed the exploration work on Noonkanbah.

  ‘Missus,’ was all Yardie would say. I followed him to the gate and shook hands with the young man, whose name had become publicly connected with the conflict.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked Steve Hawke.

  He explained that they had received a complaint from an Aboriginal man working on Napier Downs that Shell was interfering with sacred land and sites. It was just as well McCorry wasn’t home; the one thing he detested most was what he saw as outside interference.

  ‘I don’t believe that either one of you knows or understands the Aboriginal people well enough to speak to me on their behalf,’ I said. ‘How long have one of you lived, worked and sweated side by side with these people? Not bloody long enough to come here stirring up trouble. I can guarantee that Napier will not become another Noonkanbah.’

  I asked them to name the person behind this complaint. I had to smile; the man, in the camp on the Barker River, was a sacred-site robber himself, I told them, a grave robber!

  ‘I have about 15 stockmen to back up what I’m going to tell you,’ I said as I told them the story. We had just set up camp at the original Napier site and Yardie had come in from hobbling the workhorses. The stockmen were grabbing a slice of damper, a pannikin of strong black tea and were settling down in their swags for the evening. It was to be an early rise for the muster. Then the cards came out, and the first hand was dealt. This boy scratched around in his shirt pocket and pulled out a tooth – an eye tooth from a nearby burial site. The bodies in that particular cave had been laid in rows, one behind the other, over the years. My brother Michael had found the cave on a visit to Napier several years earlier. We respected it, and therefore no-one went there. But this boy had no respect for the dead. He was questioned loudly and extensively by the stockmen. Two of the older ones walked over to the camp fire, and sat down beside me.

  The head stockman said, ‘The boys don’t want to camp here – the spirits, Missus.’ They were frightened because this person had robbed a tooth from a skull in a burial cave.

  ‘Load up,’ McCorry said, ‘Move camp back to the Barker River Junction.’ Two hours later, the stockmen were dropping their swags on the ground again and settling down for the night. I went up to the boy who had stolen the tooth.

  ‘Maybe the spirits will collect that tooth tonight,’ I said, hoping like hell the damn thing would disappear by morning.

  Now, having told my story, looking straight at Steve, I suggested he and Sarah jump back in their vehicle and drive out of Napier Downs a darn sight faster than they came in.

  There never was a problem with the mining company. Some years later at Louisa Downs Station, Steve Hawke returned. Here we go again, I thought. McCorry and Steve went out behind the homestead, sat down on the hill in the midday sun and had a good two-hour discussion. We have been friends ever since, and I would encounter him many more times over the years as he worked hard representing the Aboriginal people.

  The Main Roads department from Derby were camped at the one hundred mile jump-up, the rise in the road as it passed through the King Leopold Ranges. They were filling and grading the Gibb River Road. One of the bosses, Ivan Watson, was a friend of ours who would often pick up and drop off mail on his way past the front gate. They would collect mail or machine parts for us, and we’d give them some meat. One day outside of the mustering season, their camp cook called by radio asking if we had any spare beef, as they were cleaned out. As it happened, we too were in need of a killer.

  Had it been mustering season, the job would have been easy: we’d drop one in the mob. Now it would be tougher. It was hard to get in for a close shot at wild cattle. To aim behind the ear or go for the lung shot was not so easy when the target was galloping at 60 kilometres an hour. Making sure we had the waterbottle and butchering knives in the back of the old Land Rover, McCorry and I headed out in the direction of Mungawheeler, a billabong along the river heading south.

  I was eight months pregnant now and it was a rare pleasure for the two of us to be out alone, and we were laughing together and enjoying each other’s company. Crossing a gravel road into the Mungawheeler track, I slowed down and took it steady. Thunderheads were building up and the sun was setting. The wild buggers would be coming in for water. We needed to get a killer before we ran out of daylight. McCorry had the .243 in hand as I nosed the Land Rover up out of the scrub and onto the plain, where we could see cattle watering. We spotted a bullock who, judging by his size, had escaped many musters. Very carefully I manoeuvred the Land Rover closer, making sure to keep downwind of the cattle. McCorry thought a standing shot would be easiest, a head shot behind the ear.

  Stepping out of the vehicle, using the open door to steady the rifle, he fired. The bullet went in halfway down the bullock’s neck. He took off across the buggar buggar – black soil plain – at a flat gallop. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. We had to get this bullock. Calmly but quickly, McCorry took aim again behind the bullock’s shoulder, hoping for a lung shot. Getting desperate, he frantically fired off another four rounds, and on the last shot the bullock hit the ground.

  Thank God, I thought as I drove over to him, but when we were within 10 metres of the bullock he jumped up.

  ‘Knock him down!’ yelled McCorry.


  I’d had enough and wanted it all over with; I knew we both did. Slamming my foot flat to the floor, I pushed the bullock over. Within a split second McCorry jumped out and cut his throat.

  We’d never experienced such misfortune in getting a killer for meat. The day had all but gone; it was getting dark. Because he was worked up, McCorry mistakenly grabbed a long, thin boning knife from the pouch instead of a wider siding knife, which would have been safer and more effective. He bent over and was running the blade from the butt of the tail down to the hock in a hurry. He had quite a lot of pressure behind the knife and halfway down the hind quarter the blade slipped out of the hide and into the inside of McCorry’s left arm, above the wrist. The point of the knife came out the other side, just below the elbow.

  ‘My God,’ was all I could say. I very nearly fainted. He had 20 centimetres of cold steel lodged in his arm, his hand locked up in a tight fist. I stood in shock, staring. ‘Shit,’ said McCorry, and pulled the knife straight out. A cold shiver ran through me – it was a stark reminder of how easily you could lose someone you loved out here.

  Grabbing an old towel from behind the seat of the Land Rover, I cut it into strips and put pressure on the wound. We left the bullock and headed for home.

  It was now that the Land Rover chose to play up. We must have dislodged some dirt in the carburettor, and a couple of spark plug leads had bounced off. We were getting along like a sore-footed duck on a stony road. I pulled up and we replaced the spark plug leads, but there was nothing we could really do about the carburettor out there in the dark. The sooner I could get McCorry to the hospital, the better.

  At the homestead I ran in and grabbed the keys for the Kingswood. McCorry grabbed a few cans for the road and we headed for Derby. Two and a half hours later, we arrived. The doctor refused to touch the arm that night, due to the six cans of beer Bob had consumed on the trip.