Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  I’d spent most of the day checking bores on the east side of the property. Arriving at the homestead, I stopped at the stables and noticed Leisha’s horse, Lucky, was missing. Jud, my nephew, the station’s horse-breaker and Kimberley Saddle Bronc champion, pulled a buggy up beside me with Leisha looking dishevelled, dusty and tear-stained in the passenger seat. Jud’s offsider was riding Leisha’s horse.

  Having earnt an early mark from school, Leisha had saddled Lucky and, unable to remember where she last took off her riding boots, rode through Homestead Gap and around Melody’s paddock. As she paused at a trough for water, her horse reared up and shied away from a brown snake. Lucky took the bit in its teeth, and the girth slipped. With the saddle sliding off to the left, Leisha leaned to her right. The next terrifying moment her foot slipped through the stirrup right up to her knee and, tangled in the saddle, she swung out to the right of the panicky horse, which took off and hit the fence line. Leisha narrowly missed being torn up on the barbed wire, saved only by her grip on a handful of horse mane – but there was more to come.

  Jud, working on the fence line, hollered to his offsider: ‘She’s hung up!’ Swinging their buggy around, he approached the galloping horse. Leisha, seeing the homestead gate shut ahead of her, had visions of the grey attempting a jump. From the buggy roaring alongside, Jud fearlessly leaped across to the galloping grey, simultaneously wrapping his arms around his cousin. The grey didn’t miss a beat, gathering itself to clear the gate. Pulling Leisha, the saddle and the girth, Jud went to ground, taking the brunt of the fall. The grey slammed into the gate. As a veil of bulldust rose around her, Leisha sat up in shock, her trembling body sore and bruised.

  Jud patted her on the back. ‘You all right, Bub?’ he asked with a short nervous laugh.

  Bob came in from the stock-camp, having heard of Leisha’s horse accident.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she called as she limped towards the kitchen veranda, happy to see her father home.

  ‘What happened?’ Bob demanded bluntly, looking as if he’d had a thundercloud hanging over his head for a week.

  She looked at him in shock, unable to believe the harsh way he was speaking to her. He never gave her time to answer. As she stumbled to find the right words to explain her stupidity for riding in sandshoes, he blasted her again.

  ‘You know better – you’re a McCorry,’ he said. Then he got himself a pannikin of tea and sat glaring into the distance.

  Leisha was vulnerable after the fall; a little emotional support would have helped. When I questioned his ruthlessness, Bob said we were expected to get it right the first time. Looking back on this, I wonder if he was reacting out of the fear of losing another child. At moments like this, it can’t have been far from his mind.

  The station had begun attracting media coverage. Copies of stories in the West Australian and the Western Mail magazine were sent to the station from as far afield as Melbourne and Brisbane. I was attracting attention as a woman managing a big outback cattle station. I was pleased that my boss, the Receiver Manager Peter Melsom, had enough faith in me to give me a go. We had a big job to do and this was a big operation and I was keen to give it my best shot. But I was embarrassed by the attention. I felt it wasn’t really a big deal; it was a job I loved and I was lucky to have it. It was sheer hard work and I loved it. But I hoped the stories might prompt other women working in the male-dominated cattle industry to hang in and have a go.

  As the stories hit the newspapers and magazines, Bob became sombre and reclusive, leaving me feeling isolated and very lonely. I felt most distant from him after the Western Mail magazine put me on the cover, with the title ‘Cattle Queen. Station Manager, Sheryl McCorry.’ The inside caption read in big letters: ‘No bull, she’s boss.’ The girls saved several copies of the magazine to show Daddy. At least the kids were proud of Mummy, I thought. When Bob returned from work that day, the girls raced out and put the magazines on the veranda table. They were full of excited chatter and wanted him to take notice. Bob never even glanced at them, simply shoved them off to the side, and ignored all of us. I continued my daily work as if nothing bothered me. But it certainly hurt, since I had always placed Bob on a pedestal. I wondered if he was becoming insecure in our marriage. Was the age difference worrying him? Not all his parts worked as well as they had in the early days, but I married him expecting this and was fully prepared to accept it without reproach. This was the ‘For better or worse’ part of our marriage vows. He needn’t have worried. All my life I had worked with men and been treated with respect. I never had the inclination to drift, and, aside from that one dance with Morgan at the ball years ago, the thought never entered my mind.

  Or maybe his insecurity was professional rather than personal. Bob had always insisted that I was to familiarise myself completely with the Kimberley cattle game, an opportunity I grabbed with both hands. Bob assumed that I would outlive him, and would need this knowledge to support the children and myself. I always saw myself as his apprentice. I wondered if this idea of my becoming the ‘master’, as I was being painted in the magazines, was making for an uncomfortable reversal.

  At Easter 1988, we took advantage of a glorious day for a picnic. The weather was hot and humid, and we needed more rain, but there was no sign of the hoped-for thunderheads. Beccy, Sandy, the children and I planned a trip to Rarragee Billabongs, then to Lennard River for a swim. Billy cans and tucker box loaded, we took the bumpy two-wheel track through Melody’s paddock. Wild ducks lifted in unison and circled as we approached the billabong, exposing a sea of shining green lilypads and thousands of magnificent blue waterlilies standing in all their splendour. We parked in the shade of two cabbage gums. How could their leaves remain so glossy while the surrounding earth was crying out for rain? It was a miracle of lushness.

  The billy simmered on hot coals. The aroma of smoke competed with the eucalyptus scent. I cut flowers for the house. Beccy and the children collected bulbs as she gave them a lesson in bush tucker. The ducks returned, their webbed feet outstretched. Landing with aplomb, they waddled blithely in and out of the camp, quacking their heads off.

  I sat on a groundsheet, pannikin of tea in hand, appreciating the peaceful beauty and wildlife. I had quiet moments of grief and sadness – it had been seven years since Kelly died and I still thought of him every day – but the joy of Robby, Leisha and Kristy helped leaven the sadness.

  ‘Look Mum,’ Robby called. ‘Look here!’

  I left the billabong and walked towards the children on a sandy ridge. I knew exactly what they were doing. Their heads tilted back, they were popping huge white bardi grubs into their mouths. I had terrible visions of these big, creamy grubs crawling around the children’s stomachs. I convinced the children to cook them in the fading coals. But Beccy assured me they were ‘all right’.

  With the windows down, the cool breeze flowed through the vehicle as we travelled towards Police Camp Bore. I heard the shrill of a flock of brolgas before sighting them. We stopped and sat mesmerised by 15 to 20 of these lithe creatures dancing, heads high, wings spread wide, magnificently circling the claypan flat. The children sat in wonderment, watching silently. We moved on, checking Police Camp mill and tank before arriving at the Lennard River where we were greeted by the sight of our stockmen throwing somersaults from the bridge. I immediately banned the girls from following suit!

  We swam for several hours, enjoying the crystal-clear water. But our peaceful afternoon was broken by a terrifying clap of thunder, too close for comfort. We saw mountainous thunderheads moving across the ridge above us. I screamed: ‘Out of the water!’

  Lifting Robby by his armpits, I rushed in knee-deep water towards the bank. There was a flash of lightning and a simultaneous burst of thunder, leaving Robby and me short of breath, as if we’d been whacked in the chest. Scrambling over the bank, unsure of what had happened, I felt dry and raw in the throat. It appeared that we’d been struck by lightning.

  With the children safely in the ca
r, we left for the homestead. As we crossed Bullock Paddock flat the sky turned from mauve to deep dark purple. The heavens opened up, hailing golfballs. Unbelievable but true! We tracked home through the paddock, holding out our Akubras to collect the ice. It was the beginning of our ‘knock ’em down’ rain: the last rains of the season, windy and wild, mowing down the tall spear grass so we could start the mustering season. The lightning strike was a message: time to get to work again. Nature’s logic is impeccable.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sadness and Solace

  For a long time Bob had been unwell. Aside from his spine degenerating rapidly from wear and tear caused by years spent in the saddle droving, he now had internal bleeding from an ulcer and was occasionally vomiting blood. He also had pancreatic problems, and his doctor had informed him that the vertebrae in his neck were not far from severing his main artery. It might only take a knock, fall or jar of some kind to kill him. It was unlike Bob to consult a doctor, but he did so under pressure from me. He was that poorly. I begged Bob to let Browny take control of the mustering. I worried that Bob’s heavy workload was taking its toll, but my words fell on deaf ears. His constant suffering made him moody, driving him to that dark solitary place in his mind where he grew angry and defiant.

  I called his doctor and begged him to help. Bob was furious with me. I doubted that he wanted any help at all.

  But in spite of his pig-headedness, I loved this rugged old cattleman of mine. His back was really bent and he walked bow-legged from years in the saddle. I simply wanted to help him handle his grief and pain.

  It was early 1988 and Robby was now three-and-a-half. His favourite pastime was playing with his trucks under the canopy of the huge rain tree that shaded the kitchen veranda. Robby never got to spend much time with his dad in these early years. I always felt that Bob was frightened something terrible might happen to him.

  I arrived at the homestead late one afternoon after clocking the kilometres of a new fence forming Telegraph Dam paddock, to find Kristy lying on the couch, noticeably unwell: quiet, pale and lethargic.

  ‘What’s wrong, love?’ I asked her. Any other day this would most certainly have been horse-riding time.

  ‘Pains, Mum,’ she said, pointing to her lower abdomen. Appendix! The pain would generate and decline, then gnaw at her again. I contacted Derby Hospital and spoke with a nursing sister. Kristy was promptly admitted to the children’s ward.

  ‘Doctor, would you check her for appendicitis?’ I asked before leaving the hospital. ‘We live a long way out of town.’

  The doctor seemed to think it was just some childhood bug. I’m no doctor, but I could see it was more than that. I tucked Kristy into bed, kissing her goodbye, uncomfortable leaving her there without some conclusive diagnosis. She looked pale and sick. Reassuring my girl, I said, ‘Mum will be back in the morning to check on you.’

  I returned to Kimberley Downs. The next day there was no improvement in Kristy. In fact she looked worse, and the doctor was still vague. Working on a mother’s intuition, I said I wanted to take her to Perth. Shock clouded the doctor’s face. He hadn’t a clue what the problem was. I wanted to move fast, and to his credit he gave me his support.

  At the same time, I was worried about having left Robby in the care of Sandy, Leisha and Beccy. He was only little and not used to being away from his Mum. Bob also returned to Kimberley Downs. I had never left my children for any length of time before, but this was an emergency.

  By the time of our departure, Kristy was deteriorating rapidly. The hospital delegated a nurse, with tubes and bottles hooked to the stretcher, and Kristy was delivered by ambulance to the aircraft. I flew with her, frightened and stressed, with panicky urgency. After what seemed like many, many hours, my mind nearly blown away with flashes of Kelly’s emergency and the worry of great distances, we eventually arrived at Princess Margaret Hospital for Children.

  I waited patiently for a doctor to examine Kristy. The nurse from Derby Hospital had vanished into thin air. I was suddenly all alone, fighting an uphill battle. I kept hounding the nurses’ station to find a doctor. Thirty minutes later one walked into another cubicle and went to walk out again.

  ‘Excuse me, doctor,’ I said, thinking, There is no way you are leaving now, mate. ‘I need five minutes of your time, please. It’s imperative you look at Kristy now.’ I’d come from the Kimberley, for God’s sake! If I’d had to barricade the door to keep the doctor in, I would have.

  After a quick examination the doctor arranged for emergency theatre. What seemed like hours later, my stomach churning, I was relieved to see the orderlies push Kristy towards her room. The doctor’s diagnosis was peritonitis. Seven months earlier he had attended another little girl with the same complaint and similar age, and he picked it up immediately.

  Lying in bed, Kristy looked small and fragile, with many terrifying-looking tubes connected to her. My dear Aunt Merle, Kristy’s grandmother, arrived. I didn’t know where Kristy’s mother, Mary, was, and was too distraught to find out. But I knew how much Kristy loved her grandmother. Merle and I comforted each other over the many long days and nights we spent by Kristy’s side.

  Back at the station, it took her six months to fully recuperate. She lost so much weight through her ordeal, her body was just skin and bone. But with lots of tender love and care, she started to gain some strength and to smile again.

  While I was in Perth, Bob had started mustering Kimberley Downs again. When he was out mustering or drafting the cattle during the day, the children were in the good hands of Sandy, their governess-nanny. Leisha and Robby were happy to have Daddy around the house and would sit on his lap or hang off his arms every chance they had. He tried to be the best Daddy he could. But there was one instance, while I was in Perth, that hurt me deeply.

  After a hard day’s mustering, Bob, the stockmen, the Department of Agriculture boys and the vets all got on the grog at the homestead. Sandy saw the children to bed, then went to bed herself. About 2 am, Robby started to sleepwalk. He was missing me terribly. Somehow he found his way out of the bedroom. Out the front door, he climbed down the homestead steps into the blackness, and walked down past the old schoolhouse. Then Beccy who had a room in the single men’s quarters, was woken by the sound of someone dragging their feet on the gravel by her bedroom window. Beccy jumped out of bed, grabbed a torch and went out in the dark to investigate. By this time Robby was heading for the gate to the homestead house paddock, nearly 100 metres further on. Beccy was unable to believe her eyes to see a little blond boy wandering around in the dark by himself. Beccy called to Robby softly and led him back to the homestead. By the time Beccy banged on the front door to wake Bob, she was very upset. Bob was shocked at his own behaviour: he’d passed out after his bender while his own son was sleepwalking. Anything might have happened to him. Unperturbed, Robby got tucked into bed and slept the rest of the night away. Bob didn’t sleep at all, instead sitting at the foot of his son’s bed keeping an eye on him and reproaching himself for his thoughtlessness.

  The choppers had landed after a good day’s muster. Bob was home from the cattle yard, showered and looking fresh, his health problems giving him some respite for the moment. In his blunt manner, although with a cheeky smile, he suggested I make a pot of tea and meet with him on the veranda. There was evidently a problem he needed to discuss. I had woken unhappy. That day was my birthday, and he seemed to have forgotten.

  Waiting impatiently on the veranda, I kept flicking a ball of newspaper from pannikin to pannikin, until it missed the pannikin and went under the table. Bob came out, and I noticed his anxious look as he retrieved the ball and plonked it down in front of me.

  ‘Happy birthday – it’s for you,’ he said.

  I unravelled the ball of paper, finding a seven-carat aquamarine ring encircled with diamonds. It was extraordinarily beautiful.

  Bob was a plain-spoken man and never over-generous with praise. He had his own special way of making me feel privileged.
I wore that ring while I worked, though after covering it in black oil from the jack pump I decided to put it away for special occasions.

  My dream was to purchase a cattle station of our own in the Kimberley, but Bob would not borrow funds, even though the contract mustering was proving so lucrative. I saved and tied up every spare dollar we had, placing large sums on term deposit with the ANZ Bank in Derby, taking advantage of the high interest rates at the time. Bob never gave a damn, or questioned me, about money; he had 100 per cent faith in my ability to manage our investments and resources. He didn’t mind as long as we had sufficient funds to put food on the table, clothes on our backs and a roof over our heads – and the occasional gift for me. This was his simple philosophy.

  He treated the children well, never denying them anything. At that time Kristy and Leisha were winning barrel races (timed events where the horses galloped around a track marked by barrels) and ‘All Round Cow Girl’ titles Kimberley-wide. I was so very proud of them. I persuaded Bob to attend several rodeos and watch the girls ride, hoping he would show appreciation for the long hours and hard work the girls put into their horses. But the trips were a punishment for his weary old body and he found it hard to muster enthusiasm. Thankfully Leisha and Kristy understood Bob’s struggle with his pain. They knew that having Daddy with us wasn’t something to be taken for granted; it was a special sacrifice on his part which would intensify the happiness for us all.

  We were making good progress with the fencing and TB eradication programs, but I also knew that if we slipped up it would open the door for the government to have another go at trying to resume the stations. On Kimberley Downs we continued with two rounds of mustering a year. If a positive TB result was returned on the second test, that paddock of cattle had to be sold. This happened to us once, costing us a couple of hundred head.