Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  Shawn Murphy, a friend from Halls Creek, picked up on my desperate call. He chipped in and said he was leaving immediately; he would fly into the station in 30 minutes.

  ‘Good, please come quickly, Shawn,’ I answered with my heart bursting. ‘The strip will be lit with fires, you can land.’

  Michael, with the help of those at the stock-camp, lit the fires down each side of the airstrip. It was completely dark now. I knew Shawn would come and I knew he would land safely.

  I began to give Kelly mouth-to-mouth, holding his little suntanned arm and feeling for his pulse. Bob was hovering in the background, seeming lost, with nothing to do. Every second seemed like an endless, terrifying hour. I remember seeing Shawn through blurred vision, and everything else was in slow motion.

  Then I felt the last three beats of Kelly’s pulse. Tears were rolling down my face. I felt cold, I was shivering and shaking. Everything was out of focus.

  ‘I can’t find a pulse anymore,’ I whispered to the others. ‘Please, someone check, I can’t find Kelly’s pulse!’

  I heard a gentle voice beside me.

  ‘He’s gone, Sheryl.’

  Everything turned black. I remember nothing more. Sometime during the night I woke with every cell in my body aching. I got up and found Bob sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands. I went looking for Kelly; I found Leisha curled up asleep and safe, but no Kelly.

  No, nooooooo! It can’t be true!

  Suddenly I was screaming and out of control. Everything seemed like a nightmare. Someone gently led me back to bed. Bob’s suffering was as great as mine, probably more, because his tortured mind would be blaming himself.

  Somehow, without Bob being aware, Kelly had climbed up on the bull bar and sat there as his father drove slowly through the gate. In those fatal few moments, his foot slipped out of his too-large desert boot and he went under the buggy. There were no marks on him. He hadn’t been run over; just a little scratch on his chin. Bob didn’t know it then, but our boy’s spinal cord had snapped high in the neck. Kelly’s father was already a broken man.

  The next day Martin Pearson Jones, owner of the Kimberley Hotel, Halls Creek, picked us up from the station and flew Bob and me to Halls Creek to identify Kelly at the small hospital there. My parents had arrived during the night to take care of Leisha, and took her on to Broome, where we joined them later that day. Father McMahon from Broome and Father Lawrence from Derby gave Kelly the most beautiful service and burial in Broome, the town where it had all started for Bob and me. I remember very little; I was caught up in my own private world of grief and pain.

  Somehow in the weeks and months following, I struggled through the foggy cloud of emptiness and continual heartache. In the mornings I awoke with my body so tired from suffering, it was a battle to lift myself from the bed. There were black days when I so badly wanted to be with my son I would beg God to let me die so we could be together again. When the darkness lifted a little, I would remember I also had a beautiful three-year-old daughter – Leisha, who seemed lost and confused. Just by being there, and needing us, she gave Bob and me comfort. I could never accept my mother’s view that my son was only on loan from heaven. If Kelly was God’s child, why did He give him to me, only to take him away barely five years later? In my grey, cloud-filled and isolated world, I tried in vain to find a reason for his death. I started to read the Bible, which I’d never done before, in the effort to believe his death had some reason and to discover where he might have gone. But none of it made any sense to me.

  My doctor prescribed medication, which sent me into a numb and unfeeling world of total blackness, but it was the only way I could get through the nights. As awareness returned each morning, so did the terrible realisation that Kelly was no longer with me.

  During this time I dressed only in black. Like a cocoon, the traditional mourning colour covered my feelings and shielded my hurt. Whatever I picked up, I seemed to drop and break. I was frightened my life was spiralling permanently out of control. If Kelly wasn’t coming back, how could I ever get better? Deep inside, I felt guilty: I knew Kelly had reason to be disappointed in me. I had always been so strong and in control, and I’d failed him.

  As if things could get any worse, my Grandma Bond, from Fresh Water Rapid Creek, died from cancer three weeks after Kelly’s tragic death. My mother took it stoically as ever, absorbing her own grief while shielding me at the same time. So deeply buried in my pain, I was barely aware of Grandma’s death.

  After another hysterical call from me, my parents decided to come over from Kilto and stay. Observing how badly Bob was affected, my mother was worried that he might do away with himself unless I pulled myself together. Her wisdom – not to mention the reassurance of Mum and Dad’s very presence – allowed me to move out of my terrible black trance. I had to realise that I wasn’t the only one suffering. I threw away the medication and discarded my cloak of black clothes. I also regained the ability to hold onto objects.

  Soon enough I was back on the job; with the caring and loving support of the Aboriginal women around me, with their understanding and kindness, I got through it somehow. We would be working alongside each other when I would burst into uncontrollable sobs. I’d feel a supportive arm around me and would hear them whisper their own comforting mantra: ‘Poor Missus, poor Yumun.’ Jeannie had that natural empathy which many women, especially older women, have. Alma and Katie made sure I was never left alone; they looked after me as if I were one of their own. Looking back, I realise that there was much in their own lives that made grief, and death, no stranger to them.

  One day I called out to Kelly and Leisha that dinner was ready, then was shocked to realise I’d overlooked his absence. Then I burst into tears. The women around me understood the pain my heart was suffering. I clung desperately to the support of my dear Aboriginal friends, these people with big caring hearts who helped keep me on track in some of the darkest days of my life. With their help, I was able to find the strength to survive and face the future.

  When I look back on this time, I can see the beginning of a change in my life with Bob. His grief knew no bounds, but rather than express it he banished it to some dark recess of his soul, from whence it would surface in ever stranger ways. Bob was a changed man. Distancing himself from me, he kept repeating, ‘It should have been me.’ He knew he wasn’t meant to outlive his son. I would try to find comfort with him but he would push me away. The silences grew longer, and longer, so that I found it difficult to communicate with him. Then he began drinking himself to sleep at night to take the pain away. Even though I never brought up the fact that I had warned him, he must have remembered. He seemed to hold it against me, that I’d had a premonition. But whatever was going on inside Bob was a mystery to me. He wouldn’t let me in. He was a stranger to me. I could never bring myself to talk about the accident, and nor could he. In my heart I had blamed him, for a while, anyway. It was altogether too painful for words.

  CHAPTER 12

  Finding a Future

  Katie and Alma came to see me on the back lawn.

  ‘We go picnic to Palm Springs, Missus, take Leisha.’

  ‘Can we swim, fish? Are there shady trees?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ They both nodded and their eyes lit up.

  I quickly put together a tucker box of bread, beef, two large packets of sweet biscuits and some fruit. Then I washed out and put wire handles on two large Sunshine milk cans – they make good billies and the water boils faster in the light metal. I stopped by the camp on our way out, where Judy and Biddy, two of the oldest ladies in the camp, climbed aboard to join us.

  As there was no such thing as a road into this secret place, the girls guided me from landmark to landmark. The entrance to Palm Springs was a gap between two high hills, wide enough for only one vehicle. As I steadily wove my way in and out of the rocky outcrop, I was stunned by the sight of beautiful crystal-clear pools of water. I parked the Toyota and looked on in amazement.
The hills had closed in on us and formed a gorge. Here was nature resplendent, from the brilliant colours of the walls to the clear pools of water surrounded by evergreen water plants and lilies. There were hundreds of tropical Livingstonia palms, their forked fingers pointing in all directions, and several majestic fig trees pumping the sweet aroma of their fruit through the gorge. Everything about the place was beautiful, so peaceful and cool with just the gentle sound of the spring water moving gracefully from one pool to the next. In the background I could hear the happy chattering of colourful birds going about their daily business. Occasionally the demanding squawk of a black cockatoo would break the spell.

  The springs started high up in the rugged range, where waterfalls cascaded from one perfectly round granite pool to the next. Soon our trips to the springs became a regular treat. Every couple of weeks I would take the old people, mothers and children, for a picnic, sometimes to Palm Springs, other times to a waterhole called Me-No-Savvy, or to any one of the numerous lovely places on the station. These were rare moments of quiet amid a turmoil of grief. The moment I’d calm down enough to seek some happy memories, I’d break down crying again: those memories would remind me of what I’d lost.

  Michael was bulldozing the track from the valley to Goat Paddock at this time, one blade wide. The fog was starting to lift from the valley as the first light of day appeared between the peaks of the rugged O’Donnell Ranges, spreading its golden glow around the valley floor below.

  Bob and I were due to run the bulls that day. I followed him out with the bull truck. Soon we sighted a beauty, between 600 and 800 kilograms, all rippling muscle, in top condition with a set of horns that could punch a hole through the buggy as if it were cardboard. We stopped. I left the truck and jumped into the passenger side with the bull straps all hanging from the Jesus bar, which I was gripping fiercely with both hands, legs wedged firmly to left and right.

  Bob’s determination to down this huge beast was evident in the set look on his face, his old bloodstained hat pounded firmly down on his head. We swung in and out of the back breaking gullies, around the edge of the buggar buggar country, pushing the bull back towards the flat, nearly wiping ourselves out with a low-hanging branch.

  I found it hard to glance sideways to register the speed we were travelling, but knew it was fast. I remember wondering Is he mad, or does my husband have a death wish? I was absolutely terrified, for the first time ever. He was driving like a madman, carelessly, fearlessly. He seemed full of aggression and anger, prepared to do us both in. This was the first time he had driven this bull-buggy since Kelly died. Was Bob losing control? Fine, mustard-coloured dust was billowing up behind us. My pulse was racing, my palms sweaty. I tried to tighten my grip on the bar, and my legs held firm as we came up on the near side of this racing tonne of beef, every muscle in his well-formed body stretching out for freedom. As we lapped him around the claypan, his pace started to drop. Bob turned the wheel and gently nudged the rogue, who took offence and hooked the buggy. In response Bob accelerated harder, and brought him down with the bull bar over the near side horn.

  Over the side of the buggy I leaped, strap in hand. I wrapped the strap firmly around the bull’s hind legs and buckled it before the brute had time to start fighting and hooking his way up and out.

  Bob drove me back to the truck. I took the truck to the bull and dropped the slide down near his head. With Bob still in the buggy, I looped the head rope over the bull’s massive horns and signalled Bob, who slowly pulled the huge weight up the slide and into the truck. In this time not a word was exchanged between us.

  When the bull’s head first touched the truck, I was on the top rail of the cattle crate on the truck’s rear, pulling off the long rope and throwing on a short head rope. The rogue came alive. Now he was snorting, muscles rippling, head down, hooking and charging the truck every time it moved.

  By now I had worked my way along the top rail to shorten up his rope. He saw my movement and charged toward me. Good! I tightened his head rope up short, took a deep breath and jumped from the crate to the dusty ground, sending up a small cloud of claypan around me.

  I was to follow Bob, who had charged off in the buggy to hunt for more; we needed another nine to fill the truck. I was trying to understand the way he was, but he had unnerved me with his ferocious driving and his silence. So instead of following him, I turned the truck around and went home.

  Bob arrived back an hour after me. From the kitchen window I watched him walk towards the homestead. He leaned against the kitchen door jamb and rolled a cigarette. I spun around, my fists clenched.

  ‘Why? Why did you drive like a madman? You could have killed us both!’

  He took an awfully long time to roll his cigarette.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to do?’ I screamed, in tears. ‘Do you think Kelly would want us dead?’ Answering my own question, I went on: ‘No! He wouldn’t want that! We have a beautiful daughter, remember? We have to get it together!’

  I put my arms around him, but he wouldn’t be comforted. After a pannikin of tea, he returned to chase bulls with the men.

  Having finished our next stores trip to Derby, Leisha and I left the town later than usual, loaded to the hilt with the station stores, including cartons of bread and many cases of beer. The night air was humid, with some cloud about and hardly a star in the sky.

  The road was slow, as a construction gang had been working to build it up ready for the blacktop. As I slowed to change gears and manoeuvre the Ford steadily down into the dry bed of Gap Creek, I felt my driver’s side back tyre blow out.

  ‘God, no,’ I said aloud as I pulled the Ford out of the deep creekbed onto the rough verge of the road.

  Leisha woke with a start. I explained our predicament as best I could. I comforted her; she was with me all the time now, but I worried because she hadn’t asked about Kelly.

  ‘Mum will fix it,’ I assured her. ‘If we’re late, Daddy will come looking for us.’ With my torch in one hand and Leisha on the opposite hip, I took one look at the vehicle and my heart sank. We were right down on the rim. Since leaving Fitzroy Crossing I hadn’t sighted another vehicle, not unusual for this part of the Kimberley at this time of night. Our main road was rough, rugged and corrugated with lots of short deep creeks between Fitzroy Crossing and Halls Creek. Pulling a small tarp out from under the seat, I settled Leisha on the ground beside me.

  ‘Stay there, while Mummy finds the jack and spare tyre.’

  This wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. I knew I would have to unload boxes and boxes of shopping to reach what I wanted. The night was pitch-black and my heart jumped when I heard a rustle in the high grass close by. Next came a thump-thump from further out. Leisha was on her feet, clinging to me for comfort. I reminded her of something Bob had often told us: if you can name the noise, then you don’t have to worry. The first noise was probably a little snake or lizard that I had frightened when I placed the boxes on the ground.

  ‘The thump-thump was a kangaroo checking to see that we were okay.’ I probably sounded more confident than I felt.

  There was no way I could get the jack under the Ford, with the vehicle so heavily loaded and the ground rock-hard. I gazed into the distance, searching for the glow of headlights and listening for the sounds of the station’s Toyota, but no such luck.

  I began unloading Bob’s beer supply – carton after carton of Gold – until the Ford was half empty. I desperately needed to dampen the ground to help make it easier to hammer and chisel my way through the surface and get a block of wood and the jack under the vehicle. Using one carton of Gold as a seat, I dragged another carton up beside me and started popping tops. As the warm beer flowed over the side of the cans I took a swig.

  Uuugggh! No wonder I don’t drink beer, I thought.

  Can after can I poured into the area, digging with a screwdriver to try to loosen the ground. About three-quarters of a carton later, and still stone cold sober, I had the block of wood and jack
in position under the Ford. I always carried a water-bottle for times of need, but saved this for emergency rations for my girl. Fixing the wheel spanner in place, I climbed onto the handle with a grip on the canopy to steady myself and rock-and-rolled the first nut off. Then I repeated the procedure until I had them all loose.

  Once the wheel with the flat was off, I wedged a tyre lever under the spare to lift it up and into place. Then I found I was able to push the tyre back onto the studs with my legs. It was an unladylike position, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. After tightening the nuts in reverse fashion, I reloaded the station stores and the remaining golden ale. As I gently lifted Leisha from the tarp on the ground, she woke, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, my girl, Mummy has fixed the tyre,’ I whispered. I settled her back in the front seat and manoeuvred the vehicle back onto the road. With both windows down hoping for a cool breeze, I heard the lonely sound of the curlew calling from the dark of the night. I remembered a story an old Aborigine had told me when I was little: that the call of the curlew was a sign a child had died in camp. A shiver ran through my weary body. The curlew seemed to express exactly how I was feeling.

  All the lights were blazing as I pulled in by the freezer at the station homestead at 2.45 am. I carried Leisha into the homestead asleep in my arms and was hurt and dismayed by what I saw. The dining room was littered with empty beer cans and empty rum bottles. Maybe it was a hard day – who knows? Two of the contract bull runners were out cold, and Bob was asleep over the dining room table. This was becoming an increasingly regular event and I was just too numb to address it. It was another of those things I couldn’t talk to him about. I closed the door, and fell asleep with Leisha in our bedroom. I planned to let fly on my ‘rescuers’ tomorrow, or today, or whenever I woke.

  But the next morning, everyone was up and working at dawn. Over breakfast I had a crack at Bob and the stockmen, but they were looking so sheepish, with their weak and apologetic excuses, that I gave up. There was no use holding a grudge: there was too much to do.