Love on Forrest Downs

by Sheryl McCorry

  Having already purchased Michael a new suit for our wedding, we were left with time to browse at a leisurely pace in some of my favourite shops and to enjoy a lovely meal, before I attempted the long drive home to Forrest Downs. Soon we’d get the chance to wear our new clothes – and I was so looking forward to the day.

  *

  Within days of our city adventure Michael and I were both struck down with the flu again – I couldn’t believe it! But I suppose we had been pushing ourselves with the farm and cattle work, working extremely long hours, for some time. Something had to give, and it was our immune systems. I don’t think either one of us had ever remembered feeling so crook. We suffered fevers and high temperatures, and generally felt like death. We had to take it in turns to rest in bed while the other person kept an eye on the feedlot and everything else on the farm.

  One day during this terrible time, just on sundown, the hot wire surrounding the bull paddock shorted out and the bulls took advantage of the dead wire, shoving their way through the fence.

  Bugger the bloody bulls, I thought at first. I felt so sick that all I wanted to do was pull the doona up over my head, remain curled up in bed and sleep the horrid flu away. But it crossed my mind that the bulls could end up on the main road or trample the homestead rose garden. And as Michael was also crook with the flu, I couldn’t just leave it up to him. We had no choice other than to get out of bed, get on our motorbikes and hunt down the bulls. Of course, the animals weren’t content to stand around grazing and make it easy for us to muster them back into their paddock. No – we found that they had spread out far and wide. Many had wandered off down the main road, while others had taken to fighting paddocked bulls through the fences. This wasn’t a case of closing the farm gates, leaving our heads in the sand for the night and hoping to find the bulls the next morning. We had fifty-three top-quality big, boisterous bulls out on the main road, and it was our responsibility to find them and yard them that night.

  As it was a dark night and there was no moon, Michael and I stuck together. When we found a mob of bulls in the dark, one of us was there to back up the other person, especially as some of the rather large Angus bulls fought us all the way back to the stockyard. As I sat and watched one bull push and shove another around, illuminated by the headlights of my motorbike, I recognised that each massive grass-fed beast was over a tonne of solid muscle in weight, and this was enough to remind me to stay alert.

  Shivering more from the flu than the cold night air, I could hear Michael hollering at the bulls. As he was unwell he was shouting more than usual, telling the escapees to ‘F— off back to the stockyard’, then he yelled for me to ‘push them up’, and I did – I ran far up the arse of a big black bull I couldn’t even see in the dark, frightening the hell out of both of us! The bull took fright and charged another, and they had a fight while I stalled my bike in fear, hearing the thump and whack of flesh against flesh, and the shoving of fighting bulls, and with no idea where they were headed in the dark.

  Eventually the bulls had had their fun – or they’d had enough of pushing and shoving each other around, which was just as well as we’d had enough too. So they strung themselves out in a line, one behind the other like good bulls, and we were able to slowly push them home to the safety of the stockyards for the night. Once they were yarded, Michael and I agreed that the paddock repairs and other problems could wait until morning.

  *

  Both unable to shake off the flu, Michael and I bit the bullet and visited our local doctor for help. Sure enough, while waiting to see our overworked country doctor, I counted enough crook patients in the waiting room – barking and croaking their heads off with the terrible illness – to fill a hospital pen in our feedlot.

  We left the medical centre in Kojonup with prescriptions for antibiotics and a Turbuhaler each, and with the kind advice from our local doctor to ‘slow down and rest’. I wished we could. We certainly appreciated his concern, but we doubted if our bank manager would understand if the mortgage repayments on the farm got behind. Up till now our credit rating had been good and our bank had stood solidly behind us, and we wanted to keep it that way. However, we were starting to wonder if our health would stand behind us too.

  Several weeks later I spoke to Leisha on the telephone, touching base and checking if she needed a helping hand to set up for her wedding – although, as I was still not feeling very well, I was relieved that she didn’t.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Leisha said, ‘you and Michael should rest if you can.’

  Leisha went on to tell me that she had arranged for a huge wedding marquee to be erected on the lawn between the rose gardens at the Jamiesons’ farmhouse, where her wedding would be held. Sue Jamieson and her husband, Brad, were good friends of Leisha and Nigel’s. They had kindly offered their beautiful old mansion – which stands majestically on the banks of the Capel River – and its glorious rose gardens to the happy couple for their marriage ceremony, while Michael and I were going to be married at Leisha and Nigel’s house. The Jamiesons’ farmhouse was a beautiful, impressive rural setting, so suitable for an enchanting country wedding. Now we just had to wait for the big day.

  Life was busy but good for Michael and me, and even though we were frequently tired from work on the farm, we were extremely happy and content. We loved working together and always found time for a laugh and a cuddle during the day. I still found it hard to believe that not only did I have a great partner in my life now, but also that he was a tender and very caring lover – which I thought helped us tremendously when the going got tough on the farm. Michael and I found that our lovemaking was just the remedy to reinvigorate our bodies, and it certainly gave me that feeling of us being united as one. Really, it was much better than popping pills for taking care of any aches and pains!

  CHAPTER 16

  Digby’s paddock muster

  In early March 2010, Michael wanted Digby’s paddock mustered and the big lumps of weaners drafted off the cows. Late on the afternoon before the muster, Robby and I rode to the far end of Digby’s and mustered one huge paddock into the other, leaving only the one paddock to be mustered at sunrise the following morning.

  We woke the next morning to a change in the weather pattern: the muggy, humid mornings were gone and now a lazy cool breeze chilled me to the bone. Although we knew that a cool change in March wouldn’t last long, we still donned our warm jackets, jumped on our motorbikes, headed out to the boundary of Digby’s paddock and started mustering the cattle in.

  It was planned that Michael would meet us later on, half a kilometre from the homestead yard. The cattle disliked being pushed left into a laneway that was close to the stockyards, so it was at this point that Michael would help Robby and me ‘bend’ the cattle towards home. We all worked well together, enjoying the challenge and excitement of mustering the cattle, but my last words to anyone helping muster a paddock of cattle with us are to always watch out for the bull holes. These deep holes are formed when a beast full of testosterone has spent hours showering himself with dust, theoretically pumping up his ego in front of a mob of ‘bulling’ or ‘horny’ cows and young heifers.

  I’ve had several close shaves with bull holes. Once I nearly wiped myself out while riding flat chat across the paddock intent on putting a bend in wayward cattle that were breaking away from the main mob. Out of the blue I hit a deep bull hole at speed. Fortunately I kept my grip on the handlebars, but the impact severely jarred every bone in my body.

  Knowing the dangerous consequences of an accident happening in the middle of a paddock and a long way from home, I reminded myself to slow down while we mustered Digby’s paddock. With the breeders and their big lumps of weaners mustered out through the paddock’s gateway, we then had to convince four bulls to follow suit, while the fifth bull – the arthritic granddaddy of them all – was in a grumpy mood and seemed to have made up his mind that he wasn’t going anywhere. The stubborn old sod ignored every order and flatly refused to be pushe
d towards the homestead yards. Instead, he liked to charge at me unexpectedly. How convenient that the grumpy old bastard could find the energy to charge at me but not to walk steadily home!

  At this point I looked up and spotted Michael taking a short cut across our neighbour’s paddock on his motorbike. He arrived in time to help convince the grumpy bull to leave the paddock and tag along behind the mob of cattle. But eventually we decided to leave him be; I would return to bring him home alone after the large mob of cattle was yarded.

  In the meantime, Robby had got the four sleek and much younger bulls, which still weighed over a tonne each, through the paddock gate and into the mob that was being driven at a gentler pace towards home.

  It was still early in the day, but the morning sunshine had sprung its golden hue on the paddocks beyond the trees, while the wavering morning breeze carried the comforting sound of the cattle calls. As I rode along with the cattle, my face loving the breeze, I thought, How good is this? I felt peaceful and wished that the muster could go on forever.

  Just then two of the sleek younger bulls, as proud as can be, took it upon themselves to get into a bit of argy-bargy on the long drive home. This kept Michael and Robby on their toes, both of them moving about the wings of the mob while keeping the boys in line.

  As the homestead yard came into view the droving pace was stepped up, while slight pressure was put upon the moving cattle to have them believe that the homestead yard was the place they really wanted to be; we’d act as if we were driving them to that yard and then direct them to the receiving yards at the last minute. I couldn’t help but smile about it all. On reaching the cattle yards the leader of the mob – a confident old cow with attitude – led the cattle into the receiving yard without any trouble at all, leaving the breeze to disperse the dust that was trailing behind her.

  With the cattle yarded, and the gates closed, we planned on leaving the animals to ‘water’ for an hour or two while we rode our motorbikes across the paddocks to the homestead for smoko and a bite to eat.

  After an early lunch, Michael and Robby returned to the stockyards to commence drafting out the weaners, the cracker (old) cows and the bulls from the mob. Michael asked me to return to Digby’s paddock to try to convince the grumpy old bull who’d been left behind that he must visit the homestead stockyards whether he liked the idea or not.

  Tara, who had always worked by our side but was now far too heavily pregnant, was becoming bored at the homestead, so she offered to follow behind me in the farm’s Toyota, ‘just in case Grumpy got out of hand’. I appreciated her offer, knowing that she understood the dangers of working with bulls, but I said I was sure I would be okay. Tara was only weeks away from giving birth to her and Robby’s first child and my third grandchild. I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened while she helped me convince an old bull that he was going home.

  So, leaving Tara at the homestead, I headed towards Digby’s paddock on my motorbike, wondering if I would be able to coax Grumpy home without any further trouble. But when I got to the bull it became clear that he wasn’t going to make it easy for me. The old fart watched me closely as I rode slowly past, turning to follow my every move. My heart sank, and I realised that the cantankerous old bull planned on making this a long trip back home.

  Trying to put up a show of confidence, I rode directly towards the beast – head to head – hoping to call his bluff. But he called mine instead. Realising he wasn’t going to budge, I turned the bike away from him and did another circle, except this time I carried a lump of dried wood from a nearby gum tree. As I rode towards Grumpy for the second time I stood tall on my motorbike, waving the piece of wood in the air, and when he didn’t move I let fly with all my might, hitting the ground close to him. Shocked – though certainly not hurt – Grumpy spun around, now aware that somehow I had the upper hand.

  At this point the old bull appeared to give in and began to walk towards the homestead cattle yards. Whenever he got fed up with moving along, he would spin around and charge, then we’d start the whole process over again, sorting out who was boss. Finally, after four long hours in the mid-afternoon heat, Grumpy became more intimidating and aggressive. Out of the blue he spun around and charged, only missing my motorbike by a whisker, then sat down on his backside and refused to budge another centimetre.

  I almost felt sorry that I couldn’t offer him a chair. By this point, though, I’d had enough and so had he, and we called it a day. I thought I would give it another go the following morning.

  When I eventually returned to the homestead Michael and Robby were both covered in yard dust and had bloodshot eyes. They had just finished their afternoon smoko and were about to return to the cattle yards – except Michael looked as if he was in pain.

  ‘Mum,’ said Robby, ‘Michael’s got broken ribs.’

  Panicking, I looked at Michael. ‘What happened?’

  Robby answered instead: ‘Michael won’t tell – you know he doesn’t complain, Mum.’

  So Robby told me the story. He said that all had been going well: he had been pushing the cattle up through the stockyards to the round yard, where Michael was drafting them out into cows, bulls, weaners and abattoir pens. One bad-tempered old girl was alone in the round yard while Michael was making the tough decision, ‘paddock or abattoir’. The gnarly old bugger must have had a sense of which direction she was going to be sent in: when Michael turned his back for a few seconds to open a yard gate, the cow – now totally pissed off – took the opportunity to nail Michael up against the yard rails. He broke free and tried to escape from her frenzied attack, but he wasn’t fast enough. Poor Michael was pummelled around and around the yard.

  By this time Robby had worked his way up through pens of cattle to assist Michael in the round yard, and he clouted the hostile beast over the head with a lump of poly pipe – to no avail. The mad cow never budged. She seemed to have a one-track mind and that mind was set on nailing Michael. She even refused to change direction and charge at Robby, who by now had placed himself in the round yard as a distraction. Robby yelled for Michael to leap up on the rails, but with his crook back Michael couldn’t get away from the animal. She again forcefully nailed him flat up against the round yard rails, like a skinned fox nailed against the shed wall, breaking several of his ribs. As the crazed beast backed off, the abattoir gate was flung open and suddenly she was no longer part of the breeding herd.

  The next morning, with the pungent smell of cattle dust still hanging heavily in the air, I took the farm’s tractor with the hay forks mounted on the front and went in search of Grumpy. This way, I thought, Grumpy could charge all he liked and if he didn’t want to walk to the stockyards I would be more than happy to give him a lift on the hay forks.

  When I arrived at the scene in the tractor, the cantankerous old so-and-so couldn’t help himself: he charged the tractor several times before realising that it was a useless cause. I then placed the hay forks on either side of Grumpy to help guide him home, and after he tested the forks with several ill-tempered whacks of the head, he conformed and walked home to the stockyards like a good boy.

  Old Grumpy sadly went the same way as the crazy cow, while the breeding herd was returned to Digby’s paddock, the bulls went to the bull paddock on the far side of the homestead, and the Angus weaners went into the number-one paddock down the laneway. Robby and Tara returned to the Shiralee the following day, while Michael drove his faithful old Mack truck to the Mount Barker saleyards. Bringing in new cattle keeps the feedlot circle – we buy cattle in, we send cattle out for sale – rotating comfortably, and in turn helps lift the weight of debt from our shoulders, hopefully putting a relieved smile on the dial of our bank manager. But such is life – having debt is a challenge, which in turn gives us something to work and live for. And I like a challenge.

  CHAPTER 17

  Reading the tarot cards

  I called Leisha to arrange another shopping day in Bunbury for our weddings. Leisha had deci
ded to wear the Lisa Ho dress to my wedding so she needed another wedding dress. In the meantime, she had found a stylish bridal boutique in one of the quieter streets of town, and I suggested that she book an appointment there as well. Although we were planning to keep everything low-key, we had to remember that Leisha’s fiancé, Nigel, had never been married before – he wasn’t an old hand like Leisha and me, so we needed to make sure it was a special day for him. Plus I thought what a wonderful surprise it would be for Nigel to see his bride in a magnificent bridal gown.

  Filled with excitement and enthusiasm, I packed my bag that afternoon and left for Bunbury early the following morning, with Michael’s blessings, while planning on making the most of my few days in town. I booked a hair appointment, a psychic reading and an appointment with my counsellor, who lived further south in the quaint seaside town of Dunsborough. When I relayed all this information to Leisha in Bunbury, I was met with a minute of dead silence. Then she said, ‘Mum, have you forgotten that we’re shopping for our weddings? Do you really need all these appointments?’ – she really meant the psychic and the counsellor, I think. Certainly not the hairdresser!

  ‘Of course I do, darling,’ I volunteered sincerely.

  While Leisha tried to keep a straight face, a mischievous smile put the dimple in her cheeks and she told me that she would pacify her mother just this once.

  My first appointment was with the medium, a person through whom communication can supposedly be made with the spirit world. Over the years my curiosity has taken me to several tarot readings, as so many of them have been accurate about my past, and predictions about the future have come true. Sometimes I wonder if I am simply testing the cards to see if they can read correctly for me.