Stars over Shiralee

by Sheryl McCorry

  In the quiet after the flurry, his mother turned to me and asked, ‘Has he really won lotto, dear?’ I felt a burning shame throughout my body; I felt inadequate as a wife and daughter-in-law. I was unable to give an honest answer, because I really did not know. Surely a real wife would have known.

  ‘He said he has, but I don’t really know,’ I confessed.

  ‘My dear,’ Molly said softly, looking me in the eyes, ‘he’s told so many lies all through his life, we don’t know when he’s telling us the truth either.’

  Cattle prices were at an all-time low in the south-west, and in February 2006 we struck a much better deal with the Murray Bridge meatworks in South Australia. Two double-decker road trains set off for Murray Bridge loaded with Wildwood steers, and I flew over with Terry to be there when they arrived.

  We had come to scrutinise the Murray Bridge way of killing and butchering cattle and to check that the cattle were stress-free after their journey. If the butchered animals were free of bruising and there were no dark cutters (when the meat of a freshly slaughtered beast is darker than normal), we could conclude that the transport had been a success, since stress is believed to contribute to these conditions.

  The manager of the meatworks was to guide us through the process as the cattle moved from the knocking box, where they are instantly killed by a bolt to the head, to the cardboard box. To visit a meatworks and watch my own cattle being killed wasn’t new to me. I had followed many road trains to the Broome meatworks during the years I was managing cattle stations in the Kimberley. Each beast was no more than a number to me.

  I was watching the yard hands pushing the cattle along to the knocking box when the bombshell hit me — and it hit hard. I recognised these big beautiful steers. I had been talking to them most evenings over my back fence at Wildwood. On the other side of the knocking box I fought a wave of nausea and had to look away from the animals’ big dewy eyes, which were now vacant. I moved through the rest of the process in a daze, wanting only to get out of the meatworks as quickly as possible.

  Terrible as it was for me, the whole process was a credit to all concerned. But I left with a heavy heart; I had grown too close to the cattle on the farm and recognised each one. I had not expected that. On the large acreages of the north, with such large numbers of beasts, the cattle are just that, a number. I love having cattle around me on the farm, but now I hate sending them to slaughter. I am getting soft in my old age.

  Back in Perth, I drove Terry to the airport for his return flight to Broome and then headed back to the farm, very tired and beginning to feel empty inside. I was anxious, too, because Robby and Tara and a young friend Rachael were travelling south in a twelve-year-old Ford Laser that had seen better days. They had far more faith in this old car than I did, and no amount of reasoning would persuade them to buy a newer vehicle for the two and a half thousand kilometre trip. They had a fat gold Buddha perched high on the dashboard which they said would get them safely home, and I simply had to suffer sleepless nights in silence until they arrived safely.

  Their journey was not to be without incident, however, and I was right to feel apprehensive for their safety, though not for reasons of the Laser’s age. They had arrived at a roadhouse on the evening of their first night of travel feeling tired and dusty and looking for a room they could all share. Rachael was prepared to bunk down anywhere as long as Robby and Tara were close by, but she wouldn’t take a room alone. She knew that all types of desperadoes frequent outback roadhouses. However, the last double room had just been taken. Realising they were out of luck, they returned to their little car.

  Just as they were about to set off into the night, a man approached the Laser saying he had two rooms. He was a big unkempt-looking fellow and they felt a little uneasy about the situation, but they were tired and desperate for a shower and figured that three of them together were safe, so they followed the bloke to check the rooms out. To their horror, the rooms were occupied by other men, who looked like they could be members of some bikie gang. The three of them were worried and insisted that they all wanted to bunk down in the one room, whereupon the fellow who had approached them spun some line about that being ‘against health regulations’. He was clearly trying to get the girls into a room away from Robby.

  They managed to extricate themselves and run to their car. Shaking from anger, they didn’t calm down until they were well away from that godforsaken place.

  I was nineteen when I learned for myself the danger of outback desperadoes. It was the late sixties and I was a partner in an outback contracting team, sinking dams, clearing fence lines, dozing and erecting miles of new fences through the untamed Kimberley. I had a low-slung silvery Falcon 351 and almost never drove anywhere without my companion, a bull terrier cross boxer named Butch. On one particular trip, however, I left Butch behind at home.

  I had left Halls Creek behind me and was travelling steadily towards Fitzroy Crossing, dodging stray cattle on the road and feeling that my day was going very well. It was late in the afternoon and I had seen only one other vehicle, a road train that rattled slowly over the corrugations, head-ing in the opposite direction. Then about fifty kilometres north of Fitzroy the Falcon began to chug and choke. It was losing power. I frantically pumped the accelerator, fuel burst through the lines and the car seemed to get a new lease on life. Maybe there’d just been a blockage. I knew there’d be no help in Fitzroy Crossing and that Derby was my only option; I prayed the car would get me there.

  Then to my horror, south of Plum Plain, the car died. It just stopped dead. The sun had long gone by now and the night was pitch-black. Fitzroy Crossing was about two kilometres away as the crow flies, but it wasn’t exactly the best place to trudge around on a ‘pension night’. I could hear the racket going on from my car — cries, dogs barking, camp people yelling, and what sounded like a bloody good stick fight.

  I had little choice but to wait for a passing motorist to give me a lift to the Fitzroy service station so I could ring someone. I walked around my car in the dark, stretching my legs while praying for a gentle breeze to cool the evening down and keep the mosquitoes at bay. Then I lay the passenger seat back as far as it would go, placed the biggest wrench I was carrying by my side and, after much tossing and turning, fell into a restless sleep.

  It was still dark when I was woken by a road train pulling in beside my vehicle. Alarmed, I was unable to identify the truck as one I knew from the area, when a man’s face pushed against my window. I screamed out, and then recognised the man as a cattle station owner from north of Broome. He had his own road-train business on the side. I knew of his reputation as a serious sleaze artist with women, but his son was a real gentleman. He smiled and tapped on the car window and I opened it an inch.

  He offered me a cup of coffee; I thanked him, but refused it. He tried to get me to wind the window down further. I said, ‘I’m not going anywhere tonight,’ and he replied, strangely, ‘You need me,’ and walked back to his truck. He remained parked up beside my car. I slept restlessly after that, and at one point I woke busting to go to the toilet. While quietly opening the car door, my interior light came on, and in seconds so did his. He had clearly been watching for movement from my vehicle all night. I closed the door and sat tight, feeling as though I was involved in a cat and mouse game.

  As the early morning light bounced across the plains the station owner came to my window with two steaming mugs of tea. I felt safer in the light of the day and wound down the window. No sooner had I taken the mug than he had the door open. He grabbed the mug and put it on the ground and in a moment had pinned me down in the passenger seat. Horrified, trying to shield my face from his, I found I didn’t have the strength to push his body off mine. My left hand was frantically searching for the wrench. He stopped molesting me for a moment and said, ‘What do you think you are going to be able to do with that?’

  Realising I was probably unable to do anything at all, I remained still, with closed eyes, hoping and p
raying he would come to his senses. After what seemed like an eternity, he moved to untangle himself from the gear stick and steering wheel. ‘Get off me,’ I screamed, frantically kicking out at him with my legs and clawing with my nails, and somehow managing to get out of the passenger door.

  I watched him go back to his truck and return with a small pearl-handled pistol. Unbelievably, he was telling me I should carry one of these for protection.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what are you going to do now?’

  Somehow I felt he didn’t have the guts to use the gun. Feeling quite brave from the opposite side of my car, I said, ‘You have the choice to tow me to Derby without trying to molest me again, or I run to the Fitzroy police station.’ Of course he could simply shoot me if he wanted to; I was as good as a sitting duck, but I was increasingly sure he wouldn’t.

  He was enjoying playing with me though, pointing the pistol and pretending to shoot at each side of my body. My heart beat rapidly against my ribs as I waited for this terrible man to make a decision.

  ‘I’ll back up and tow you,’ he said. Relieved but still wary, I kept my distance while he hooked my car on behind his road train. Not another vehicle or truck had passed by in the last twelve hours, and that wasn’t unusual in this part of the Kimberley.

  I let go of the handbrake and he towed me flat out down the corrugated road, my car fishtailing from side to side with the swing of his trailers. In and out of creek beds and rivers, there was no stopping as rocks flew up from under the trailer wheels. The car was the least of my worries, though; all I wanted was to arrive in Derby in one piece.

  Some four hours later we were coming into Derby, but the truck didn’t appear to be slowing down for the service station. Frantic, I literally stood on my brake pedal, not caring for the consequences. Smoke billowed from my car as the tyres were dragged along the bitumen road and eventually the truck braked too, till it came to a standstill just beyond the service station. With a pounding heart I leaped from my car and ran for the security of the office.

  ‘Don’t let him near me,’ I said to the man behind the counter. ‘Can you please call me a taxi for Broome.’ I explained what was happening and told him I would collect the Falcon later. He asked if I wanted the police and I said no. I went to the door and looked out to see if the station owner had unhooked my car. I waited for him to go, but incredibly he just stood there, leaning against his truck watching me, looking completely relaxed. He had a colossal nerve.

  I stayed glued to the service station counter until my taxi arrived; the man behind the counter was looking at me as though I was some hysterical woman.

  Why didn’t I call the police? Because the man had a lovely son who was soon to marry a friend of mine and I didn’t want to bring shame on his family. I was a cot case for weeks after this; I told my parents what had happened, but I wouldn’t let them make any kind of official complaint, although I’m certain my father followed it up. I heard later that other truck drivers had sorted the bastard out, and I always wondered if the word had got through from Dad.

  Robby and Tara stayed at the Shiralee for the duration of Broome’s off-season. I was glad to have them there keeping an eye on things for me. I hoped they would stay and encouraged them to settle in, but as the new season came around in Broome they packed and returned to their old jobs.

  By that time Kristy had moved south again and begun work at a top thoroughbred stud. She moved in with me at Wildwood and it was comforting to have another person sharing the large house. There was plenty of room for both of us. Kristy worked long hours and I was happy to do the cooking and washing to take the pressure off her.

  When Brock spent weekends with me he would take over as the little man of the house, often helping me in the garden or cleaning out sheds. One day both boys were helping me pick figs to make jam. I was working my way backwards down the wonky ladder, balancing a full bucket of figs, when I slipped and landed like a sack of potatoes on the wet ground below. I was sprawled out among the squashed figs, rueful to discover I wasn’t as nimble as in my bull running days — although I can vouch for squashed fig tasting far better than a mouthful of Kimberley bulldust. I wiggled all my limbs to check I wasn’t hurt, then looked around to see an expression of absolute horror on young Cohen’s face. Muddy tears were already making tracks down his face. Meanwhile Brock was frantically trying to help me to my feet. ‘Shall I call 000?’ he asked. ‘I know how to, Nan.’

  I got to my feet, dusted myself off and reassured them that I was fine. And I thought how lucky we were that if a real emergency occurred we could dial 000 and get the help of professionals in no time. In the outback we had the flying doctor, but help could be hundreds if not thousands of kilometres away, and sometimes it took time. And that could be the fine line between life and death. My son Kelly died as the pilot of the rescue aircraft walked through the homestead door. I still wonder whether, had we lived closer to civilisation, Kelly would have survived.

  The fig jam ended up a bit on the runny side, and when Leisha arrived to collect the children after their weekend with Nan, she wasn’t too interested in it. With her marriage over, she had plunged into studying psychology with a vengeance. She’d studied by correspondence all her life and she was very self-disciplined, squeezing in odd hours every moment she could. ‘Keep at it, love,’ I joked, ‘I’ll probably need a shrink in the family one day.’

  They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and for years I have sustained myself with that. I had been through a lot, losing my firstborn son, then McCorry’s tragic deterioration as he sank into depression. His frightening black moods as he battled to kill his pain with alcohol. He was a strong man, that one, and I tried to remain strong for him and for the children too.

  I worked long, hard hours on first Kimberley Downs then Napier, Kilto and Fairfield; my children pulled their weight too. I’d wanted to remain on Fairfield for the rest of my life and leave it as a legacy for my children, and it was another heartbreak when I had to sell it. I survived all of those cruel losses, but not one of them brought me as low as the madness of living with Terry. And yet maybe they also gave me the strength to come back to life, despite the psychological beatings I’d taken and all the mind games and confusion of living with a man who insisted black was white and night was day.

  The writing played a big part in coming back to myself — all the hours I spent going over the past, remembering who I had been. This was the beginning of getting my strength and confidence back, though sometimes I feared I would never again be the woman I once was. Those were scary times, when I just had to give myself a shake and say, ‘Sheryl, you got yourself into this, you can get yourself out again.’ In my old life in the Kimberley I was such a can-do sort of person, I had to be. Out there, you had to be able to handle things on your own. It went with the territory. And that is one reason why I found it so hard to accept that I couldn’t pick myself up without help.

  More than once a doctor had suggested I see a counsellor. Now and then I did think I ought to bite the bullet and find the courage to do so. But I never did. To admit I needed that kind of help was like admitting I was a basket case. There wasn’t much that was worse than that, I thought. Or maybe I was afraid that it wouldn’t help. And if I tried and it didn’t work — well, then I would be beyond help.

  CHAPTER 16

  Someone Wants my Story

  It was with a heavy heart I called up a real estate agent in Mount Barker to put my precious Shiralee on the market. Well, to begin the process of putting it on the market. When the call was over I sat for a moment as what I had just done hit home. I had worked hard for that farm, I loved it dearly, but it wasn’t making a decent income. I wanted to get myself financially secure, and for that I needed more land and more cattle — and to be on hand to run it myself.

  I was having a real tussle with myself. Because if I was living on the property and running it myself, then the Shiralee could probably run at a profit. After all, it had kept me going
for the first few years, while McCorry was still alive. So maybe it could again — if I lived on the property full-time. But that was one fence I still wasn’t completely ready to jump. I had hoped that Robby and Tara would stay and farm it for me, but they had returned to the caravan park.

  Leisha and Kristy didn’t care if I sold the Shiralee. Neither of them had a bond with it as I had. Leisha said, ‘Don’t hang on to it for us, Mum. You worked hard for it, it’s your right to do what you want with it.’ Robby was more concerned about where home would be if the farm was gone, but that didn’t stop him wanting to go back to Broome. Terry didn’t pay brilliant money, but at least it was wages, and on the Shiralee it would be lean times for a while until things were running smoothly.

  In August I made a visit to my parents in Northampton. Living in this quiet little town was their way of remaining in the bush, away from the hustle and bustle of cities. We sat together on their back verandah, reminiscing and letting the winter sun give warmth to our bodies. I loved these quiet times with each other.

  We laughed as we reminisced about the old days. There is one story of Dad’s that I’m particularly fond of. Back in 1967, the Shell Company of Australia part-funded a documentary film about the exchange of culture and lifestyle between black and white. Whites were teaching Aboriginal men basic mechanics, and Aboriginal women were teaching the whites how to live and survive in the bush.

  My dad, known by the Aboriginal people of Yirrkala as Mr Snow because of his white-blond hair, was hired as a guide for the project. It was his responsibility to make sure nobody in the film party became a main meal for a crocodile or got gored by a rampaging buffalo.