Diamonds and Dust

by Sheryl McCorry

  Dazed and heartbroken, I travelled with Robby to St John of God Hospital and slept by Bob’s bed until the end, nine days after the diagnosis, on Leisha’s twenty-first birthday. She came too, so the three of us were there for him.

  The room was filled with yellow roses, my gift to him. A grey cloud filled the space, and the evening sunrays bounced off a crystal vase on the windowsill. I saw flickers of light moving across his worn-out body.

  For a fleeting moment my thoughts returned to the old Aboriginal man, Joe Nipperappi, whom I’d buried on Louisa all those years ago – the same loneliness, but a long distance away. Death was returning, bringing its heavy freight of sadness.

  We performed one final ritual: the children and I knew it was time to put Daddy’s boots on. Bob had always said he must ‘die with his boots on’.

  I sat holding his hand, then my breath tensed as he opened his eyes, which were now seemingly peaceful.

  His final words, mouthed in a barely audible rasp, were: ‘I love you.’

  You tough old bastard, McCorry. It took you a whole lifetime to whisper those three simple words.

  Epilogue

  Since Bob died in 1998, I have remained in the Great Southern region of Western Australia. The veranda from which I view the Porongurup Ranges and relive the past is only a few thousand kilometres from the stations Bob and I bought more than a decade ago. The Kimberley is a long way away, yet I feel it as a constant presence in my heart and in my blood.

  The cold winds continue to blow in the winter months, causing me to stop at times and wonder why I don’t return to the north. I think, once again, of Bob. When he was trying to cheer me up against those winds and against that temptation in his last years, he said: ‘The past is gone, Sheryl, you don’t go back. What have you got to prove by going back?’

  Bob never went back.

  As significant as what he said, towards the end, was the fact that he was talking to me at all after so many years of deep, thickening silence. We had come to a hesitant peace, for the children’s sake as well as our own. It would be wrong to say Bob and I were fully reconciled. That could never happen after some of the things he had done. But we could be friends, and friendly, to each other. After all, Bob was always, even in our darkest hours, the person who had had more faith in me than anyone else in my life. Bob placed total trust in me. Yes, I placed him on a pedestal; but so, in his way, did he lift me.

  After he died, I fell in an emotional heap that lasted many months. Robby, only 13, was a source of great strength, even as he was battling with his own feelings of unfinished business with his father. We all suffered. Leisha partied hard, trying in vain to drown her sorrows, while Kristy, who had just entered the workforce, was seesawing with raw emotions. All of this had built up in the previous few years, and was let loose by Bob’s passing.

  In an emotionally vulnerable state, I took possession of both farms, the Shiralee and Sleepy Hollow. Later I did fulfil part of my dream, which was to buy and sell young steers for the export market. I regained my enjoyment in life bit by bit, boosted by the mateship of growing and selling cattle. I even had a short but passionate affair. The children came and worked with me, and often we talked about that old story of the bundle of sticks which, as long as they hold together, cannot be broken. Thank God I didn’t chuck in the towel.

  Once my grief settled, I found that my spirit was still strong. I met and married Ron Beacham, the owner of the Cable Beach Caravan Park in Broome and a farmer. But two days before our marriage, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had no choice but to have immediate surgery. I elected to have a lumpectomy, with further treatment after the wedding. The chaos upended my children’s lives, and Leisha refused to leave my bedside in hospital. Then, as I was recuperating, she, Robby and Kristy looked after me on the farm.

  Fifty-eight this year, I am reasonably happy and healthy. I move between Broome, where Ron’s work is, and cattle farms at Carbunup River and Narrikup here in view of Mount Barker. My visits to the cancer clinic are down to once a year.

  Weeks after the court case, Fiona told Leisha and me that the complaint against Bob was taken out of her hands and blown out of all proportion. That was 14 years ago now. We are all very close – Fiona, her parents, and my family. There is no anger or animosity, only love, between us. The girls are as close as ever.

  Five years after her father’s death, Leisha married and produced two beautiful sons. She is now single, 30 years old, and devoted to her two strong boys, Brock and Cohen. Her fighting spirit is well and truly back, and she has recently begun to compete in rodeos again.

  Kristy, now 28, has remained single and her love of horses is as strong as ever. She worked as a track rider for Bart Cummings in Sydney and Melbourne for a while and has returned to live in the south-west of Western Australia. She still works with thoroughbreds.

  Robby, 21, has teamed up with Tara, his girlfriend, and they are currently working for my husband, Robby’s stepfather, at Cable Beach Caravan Park. The land is very much in Robby’s blood and he will return to it one day.

  My parents, now in their eighties, live in peaceful Northampton, north of Geraldton. They try to keep off the beaten track. Thank you; Mum and Dad, for your many trips to Louisa. Your love and advice helped keep me going.

  My four brothers and their families all own properties around Broome. They enjoy sundowners at sunset and of course the fishing. We are still close and see each other at various times through the year.

  Michael, my youngest brother, works for a mining company at Turkey Creek, between Wyndham and Halls Creek in outback Western Australia. He married Janine, who visited him on Louisa Downs all those years ago, and they have three children.

  Jamesey, who caught bulls for us on Napier Downs in the 1970s, built up a cattle station of his own. Sadly, he was killed recently in a chopper accident on his property.

  Shawn Murphy, who answered my distressed radio call when Kelly died and courageously flew into Louisa after dark, was killed while heli-mustering cattle in Gascoyne, Western Australia, in the 1980s.

  Bluey and Rita left Louisa when we did, and moved into a retirement home in Derby, where they both passed on.

  Jimmy Marshall returned to Derby, where his family were based, and he still lives there today. I still keep in contact with that fine man and his family.

  Katie, who worked by my side at Louisa, is still there and calls me regularly, bringing me up to date on her part of the Kimberley and its people.

  So many of my dear Aboriginal friends who helped guide me and stood by me during the saddest times of my life have now passed on, but always by my side are my wonderful and courageous children. Thank you, Leisha, Robby and Kristy. Extra special love to you, Leisha and Robby, for your unwavering strength in sharing your home with so many people over the years. It was tough at times, I know. Thank you for your stoic support while I wrote this memoir. Your cries of, ‘You can do it, Mum!’ kept me going. This is for you.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to say a big thank you to Pan Macmillan for its gamble in taking on a bushie’s story of life in the Kimberley. Thanks go to Alex Craig for her faith in the outback; her belief inspired me to make this book the best it could be. Thank you also to Malcolm Knox for helping me bring it all together, and to Catherine Day.

  Thank you also to Peter Melsom. Your trust was my strength in those difficult times.

  Finally, thank you to my family – you know who you are – for your ongoing encouragement and support.