Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  The caravan was a total bloody mess. Usually it was neat as a pin with everything in its place, just like the windmill work he did for me. The first thing I noticed was that he’d had a few disagreements with some of his appliances. Blue’s flash new electrical jug was caught up out of his reach in the tree, the toaster was on its side out on the claypan flat and an electric frying pan (I didn’t even own one) was over the bank alongside Blue’s pride and joy, the portable red Honda electricity generator, which was caught up in the mud and flood debris three-quarters of the way down the riverbank.

  I stood and gazed around the camp, thinking, my God, will they ever learn?

  Both Mr and Mrs Blue were out cold, Mrs Blue in the deckchair with her skirt up around her waist in a most unlady-like manner and Mr Blue unconscious in a swag, wearing a bright red pair of jocks. Seeing him in red jocks alone was enough to break the tension, cracking me up. I never realised Blue was so modern. I let them sleep and returned about four hours later to find Blue staggering around.

  ‘You got hit by a cyclone, Blue?’ I enquired, half-seriously.

  ‘That effing power plant is buggered,’ he answered. ‘All that effing gear is buggered, it’s not good, Missus.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘You’re a silly old bastard, aren’t you? Once you chucked out the power plant, nothing electrical would work, Blue.’

  As I teased him, patting him on the shoulder, I saw something that was hard to believe. His sores were moving. More serious now, I asked him if I could take a look. Sure enough, his arm was teeming with activity of the maggot kind.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Blue, you’re bloody flyblown!’ I said in shock. I tried to stay calm, remembering reading somewhere that maggots were used to clean out wounds during the war.

  ‘Shower and get yourself up to the homestead, I’ll clean those sores up,’ I told him.

  Blue duly showered and followed me to the house where I checked each very angry-looking sore and removed the maggots with tweezers, drowned them in Dettol and covered the sore with Betadine from the medical kit. Then I issued him with a large portion of beef and vegetable stew and told him to sober up.

  * * *

  When Bob was around the homestead I would strive for moments of joy, a break from all the sadness. After the incident with Blue and his appliances, Bob and I had a laugh. But the happiness never lasted long before he would drift away from me. I was finding this hurtful and confusing.

  With funds always short in the company, and diesel running scarce for the power plant, Michael – a constant support to me – and I kept on chasing bulls. We would leave home with Leisha and Katie sitting up front in the truck beside me. With Michael in the lead, we headed out well before sunrise, hoping to catch rogues as they moseyed out in search of an early-morning feed in the sweet country. We knew there were five good-sized bulls hanging around at Dickie Plains, but each time we made a run for them, we would only down one. The others would head into the hills through breakaway gully country. So far the score was two down, three to go.

  One morning, luck was with us. The bulls – two dark and one roan – had more on their minds than heading for the hills. Grazing with them was a ‘bulling’ cow, or a cow in season, and our three muscled-up quarries were fighting and shoving each other in an attempt to ride her. By the end of the day I imagined she would end up shell-shocked, her insides incapable of carrying a calf.

  Leaving Leisha with Katie in the truck, I jumped into the buggy with Michael and we followed the plan we’d worked out. Working the cow away from the breakaway country and out onto the claypan flat, Michael put a rope over her head and tied her to a tree. Thinking they had evaded us again, the rogues stretched out and took sanctuary beyond the gullies.

  Back in the truck, we moved on and managed to pick up three more bulls, then another two further up the plains. My stomach was telling me it was well and truly smoko time. We found a shady tree and Leisha quickly abandoned the truck for the buggy, where she sat up behind the steering wheel, pretending to chase bulls. Katie and I got a fire going and boiled the billy while Michael was checking a tyre on the truck.

  ‘No hotplate, Missus,’ Katie called.

  We waited for the fire to die down, then moved the coals gently aside and cooked our steak and onions on the post-hole shovel. A pannikin of tea, a steak sandwich, and I could put my grief to one side. But when the working and eating was over, it would return, a familiar ache. As I stretched out on the ground, I watched the truck rock as the captured bulls settled themselves down.

  On returning to the plains we left our truck under a shady tree some distance from our tethered cow. The three rogues were again showing some interest. I climbed back into the bull-buggy, a firm grip on the Jesus bar, as Michael swung in after the roan bull on the outer edge of the claypan. Around we went, spraying fine dust. The roan swung around as if to aim for the hills and Michael answered by coming up on his near side. The bull turned to hook the buggy and went down in a hurry. I strapped him, and away we went after the other two.

  The next down in size was a dark, moody middleweight. He immediately decided to take a swing at us, hooking the side of the buggy with a mean-looking horn the size of a man’s arm. He struggled to pull his horn out as he pounded along beside us, tonnes of beef in a fearsome race against the inevitable. We stopped and backed off, circled around him, and came in on his near side. The beast stretched out and started to gallop away. With his cap pulled down firmly over his sandy hair, my younger brother worked along with him. By now the rogue had had enough. As he swung to hook the buggy, Michael accelerated suddenly. Losing his balance, the rogue went down. Strap in hand, I hit the ground nearly as fast as he did, lapped the leather around him several times and buckled him up.

  The third bull was lighter, more nimble and ready for a run. Michael accelerated to come up on his near side. There was no certainty that we’d get him as he stretched his well-toned body out. Tightening my grip on the Jesus bar, I wedged my legs firmly to take the weight as Michael slammed on the brakes and put the buggy into a spin. By now I was saturated in dust. I glanced toward Michael as he calmly manoeuvred the buggy into a wide swing around the breakaway and across a short creek. On the other side we came face to face with the nimble rogue. We positioned the buggy until we were on his near side. Exhausted, the bull turned to hook the buggy and we brought him down too, as gently as we could to minimise bruising.

  Michael dropped me back at the truck and we loaded the three from the claypan flat, let the cow go and headed for home, happy and weary with a load of eight good bulls. I arranged with the company’s Perth office to run 10 bulls to Broome, where the buyer, Gordon Bryce, would make the cheque payable to Shell Depot Derby. We could then load the drums of diesel and petrol we had ordered and return to Louisa. This was the way we kept the station operating.

  After spelling the bulls in the yard, the plan was to travel to Broome in the cool of the night, as the days had become hotter and quite humid. I worked my way through the round yard, opening all the gates, planning on closing them on the first 10 bulls through.

  Making sure I’d swung the round yard gate back properly, I climbed on the top rail with a firm grip on the oversize yard post. Michael could see that I was out of the way. I called him to push them up when he was ready.

  I noticed that old Blue had arrived at the yard. He fell out of his Toyota, cursing and abusing it, half-cut again.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand, Missus,’ he sang out, waving his arms. Too late, we heard the thundering of tonnes of galloping beef – 86 bulls rushed through the yard. I only wanted 10! The round yard was bursting at its sides, the gate somehow closed itself and the bulls were jam-packed on both sides. The old wooden yard was straining; I could hear the Cobb & Co.’s rattling. A rail cracked and the whole yard began shivering and shaking. Could we hold them, or would the yard give out altogether? Before I knew it, I had fallen in on top of the bulls. I was shocked, in total disbelief, but had no time to feel frightene
d.

  Stretched out and face down across the mob, I knew I had to get out quick and not let myself slip down between those solid walls of muscle or I would be crushed to death. Lying across the bulls, stretching my body and fingers as far as I could, I strained to reach the weld mesh on the gate. The movement of the mob rippled outwards. I could almost grip the gate with my outstretched fingers, but then the surging mob carried me away. I was afraid to call for help, afraid that my cries would rally the bulls around harder, afraid that the old wooden yard would give up altogether. I was in and out of myself, as if this wasn’t quite real. It seemed like forever, the longest minutes of my life. After the third or fourth attempt, my outstretched fingers reached the weld mesh and I gripped with every ounce of remaining strength. Somehow, I pulled myself across the bulls and arrived, shaking, on the top rail. I had got myself out of a lethal situation.

  Shivering and dazed, I tried to take in the scene. Where was my brother? Mike hadn’t even seen me fall in; he was too busy telling Blue to bugger off when the bulls rushed.

  ‘Yumun! Yumun!’

  Trying to focus, I could hear Alex’s voice. Then I saw Alex, Ringer and Frank standing around me, looking very concerned.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘I must load the bulls.’

  Michael was with me now, and I decided to let the men load the truck. I walked from the yard to get the head ropes ready to tie them head-to-tail once they were loaded. With the truck full, I climbed onto the crate and started tying. I threw the head rope over a set of strong horns and tied them off to the top rail, to prevent the beasts wrecking the truck and bruising each other.

  I was going well, although I still felt light-headed as I moved from bull to bull. Working my way down the truck, I flipped the head rope over the massive horns of the second last bull when the next rogue to be tied hit the back of the truck with a hell of a crash. The dried timber panelling splintered, and enough panels broke to give the bull a glimpse of freedom. I quickly shortened up and tied off. By now the whole truck was rocking, as the bulls all started to tug on their head ropes. Then came the loud crack of another panel as the last rogue made his break. I froze. Fear came over me. I felt cold, I could not move. The more the truck rocked, the tighter my grip on the top rail became. I could hear myself calling for Michael in a hoarse whisper, terrified that I might fall into the truck with the bulls. What came over me, I don’t know. Maybe it was delayed shock. My dear brother and faithful stockmen were probably wishing I’d left some of the jobs for them. Michael had to prise my grip from the top rail, slowly help me down and place me in the buggy. Then he asked one of the stockmen to deliver me to the homestead. I went to the freezer, got myself a drink, and sat on the lawn staring at the stockyards. I’d never come so close to a serious, serious accident.

  Luckily, Michael was able to repair the back panel for the trip to Broome. Once the bulls were loaded, old Alex came to check on me.

  ‘We worry for you, Missus,’ he offered in his quiet way.

  ‘I know, old man, I’ll be very careful,’ I replied with tears in my eyes. Once again I opened the floodgates and had a good cry.

  CHAPTER 14

  Let It Rain

  Early 1983 brought the promise – or threat – of more rain. I sat on the veranda, watching the dark thunderheads beyond the cattle yards. The infectious laughter of the camp children echoed as they played in the pools of water covering the claypan flat. I knew that most of their blankets and clothes were soaking wet from the heavy downfalls that had lasted right through the wet season.

  After each cloudburst, if we were lucky the sun would come out and the old wooden cattle yard would burst into colour as the camp women rushed to hang blankets and clothes out to dry.

  ‘Missus, Missus,’ called Katie. ‘That Sandra got broken this one.’

  She pointed to her thigh bone. Holy hell, I thought, as I raised myself from the lounge chair and hurried towards the back gate where Leslie had arrived, carrying his six-year-old daughter Sandra. She was screaming in pain.

  ‘You should have sent for me,’ I said quickly, glancing at the bone protruding between her groin and knee. Tears were rolling down her dear little face and she was screaming her lungs out in sheer agony and fear. Sandra’s high-pitched suffering soon brought Michael and Bob to the back veranda. It wasn’t something you could ignore.

  We laid Sandra on a firm bed on the veranda. Since we were still in sched time, I grabbed the phone and gave the handle a really good crank. I stated the situation and was immediately put through to a Halls Creek doctor. While I was on the phone, Michael and Bob sawed down the wooden handles of two lawn rakes for splints. Sandra’s dad sat by her side, trying to comfort her.

  With the Flying Doctor kit open by my side, I listened to the doctor’s instructions for drawing up the correct amount of morphine. Bob came to help, double-checking the dose, while Michael got the Ford ready for Sandra’s evacuation to Halls Creek. I shuddered at having to inflict more pain on her with the uncomfortable trip, but knew it would bring her relief. We waited for her to settle with the morphine and moved her on our homemade stretcher to the back of the Ford. The police had informed us that the medical team were leaving Halls Creek immediately, coming towards us with a police escort.

  By this time we’d almost forgotten that the roads between Halls Creek and Fitzroy Crossing had been closed for days. The creeks and rivers were up and down like yo-yos, and the roads were dangerous – boggy and very slippery. But this was an emergency and we had to get through somehow. The airstrip was out, so there was no other way but to plough onwards and meet somewhere in between. The distance to Halls Creeks was about 140 km, which could take an hour and a half in the dry season, but three or four hours, or more, in the wet.

  With Sandra peacefully sleeping for the time being, we were able to concentrate on the task of delivering her safely. We wound our way down the track while the hail and rain pounded so heavily on the cab roof it drowned out our voices. I was filled with uncertainty: the night was pitch-black and the road a bloody disaster. Bob took the lead with the blue Toyota, Michael and I following in the Ford. We slipped and slid from one side of the road to the other but somehow progressed, in and out of swollen angry creeks that had never even existed before the rains.

  I checked on Sandra and offered a little prayer as I sought a firm grip each time the vehicle slipped to the edge of the road. Please God, help us get this little girl through tonight.

  We arrived at the Mary River. The only sign of the causeway was where the flood debris was banking up. In the vehicle’s spotlights, the river churned past us, searching for an outlet for its tremendous foaming power.

  After loading the tray of the Toyota with large rocks to hold it down in the floodwaters, Bob manoeuvred his way across. I checked on Sandra; now it was our turn. The rain hadn’t eased up, and the flood was still rising.

  Down into the murky waters we went, the water tugging at the vehicle. My grip on the wheel tightened. There was a sudden shock of cold water swirling around my feet, then a bubbling sound and a feeling of drifting . . . then relief as the tyres gripped the opposite bank. Yes! A massive sigh of relief as I opened the doors and released the floodwater from the cab. It had risen to cover my ankles.

  Sandra was starting to murmur. It seemed like hours since we’d left the homestead. Patiently we ploughed along the road until we hit an unnamed creek which had turned into a swiftly flowing river. My heart sank – it was a raging torrent, even worse than the Mary. We had no choice but to stop. The rain had paused too. By placing a stick in the bank we could keep an eye on the water level as we waited, hoping to see the lights of the doctor and police on the other side. The mosquitoes were thick, and the bullfrogs were calling out to one another. Then, more heavy drops of rain started to fall.

  As the morphine injection wore off, Sandra’s cries of pain were becoming louder, her little body trembling in fear. I wanted the doctor now.

  Then the first set of lights a
ppeared in the distance, followed by another set. In no time the doctor and police were on the opposite bank – but with this creek raging between us, we might as well have been miles apart. Sandra was starting to scream her lungs out and I tried to comfort her, rubbing her arm and assuring her that help was coming, knowing she would need more pain relief.

  To the left of the crossing in the middle of the creek were some strong-looking gum saplings. We planned to get the wire rope across to the other side and hook it up there so that the doctor, with a firm grip on the rope, could work his way back across the river. There was no way a vehicle could cross.

  Then, against Michael’s and my wishes, Bob dashed into the river. One minute he had hold of the wire rope and the hook at its end, and the next he had slipped and gone under the rushing water. In the headlights, we saw him struggling as he surfaced downstream. I felt sick with fear, screaming out to him, but he didn’t answer. He knew how dangerous this could be. Bob wasn’t as agile as Michael or me, and I had a gut feeling that he had gone in with a death wish: if the river was to take someone tonight, he thought, let it be him.

  Bob struggled back to the bank on our side and trudged up to us in silence. We still had to get someone across. Michael took hold of the wire rope with the hook and battled further upstream. Bob held our end of the rope, and I screamed at Michael not to let go. Outside the range of our headlights, visibility was nil, and I knew that if we lost anyone in these raging floodwaters, we’d never find them tonight. I kept the tension on the rope as Michael bobbed in the floodwaters, then felt massive relief to see him grip those saplings. The current had such strength now that mature gum trees were leaning right over.

  Between the gums and the opposite bank the floodwaters were too deep for a vehicle to cross. We paid out enough slack for Michael to unroll the heavy wire rope and, after many attempts, he was able to get it to the opposite bank. The two vehicles were then hitched up, facing each other across the torrent. I backed up the Ford, which put tension on the rope, and Michael worked his way back across.