by Thea Hayes
Two other friends of ours, Patricia and Grey Lapthorne, had flown in from the Gold Coast. Someone organised a ‘blue movie’. When the lights went out in the marquee where the movie was showing, Patricia and I crept into the back area to satisfy our curiosity. We got more than we bargained for and fled in horror.
The sale went on for three days, starting at eight-thirty each morning and finishing at three each afternoon. Every horse was sold, and they went to every state in Australia except Tasmania. At the conclusion of the sale there was only an hour and a half to draft six hundred horses. Ralph offered Jock the assistance of the jackaroos, but he preferred the Aboriginal stockmen—especially Algie, Emilie’s husband, who knew every foal and which mare it belonged to.
By the fourth day, with the exception of Jimmy Stretton, they were all gone, even Ben Humphreys. As we were desperate for a station cook, Jimmy decided to stay and take the position.
55
The cat
The chookyard was in our backyard. I had hens, ducks, a drake and many ducklings. As I was walking down there one morning, David put his head out the window and said, ‘Mum, Daphne’s cat Tinker is trying to kill your ducklings.’
Daphne was the bookkeeper. A single lady, she’d come to Australia from South Africa and had been with us for several years.
‘David, it’s okay,’ I said, ‘the cat can’t get in to the ducklings. The chook pen is very secure.’ I trotted off to do the nursing.
The next day, Daphne came into the clinic. ‘Thea, would you mind having a look at Tinker? She isn’t well and she isn’t eating.’
I had a sudden horrible feeling, recalling yesterday’s talk with David.
‘No, of course not!’ I said. ‘Bring her down here.’
While I examined the cat, Daphne told me how well Tinker had been until that morning, when she’d had slightly loose bowels.
‘Daphne,’ I said, ‘I shall ring the vet in Katherine, give him the signs and symptoms, and see what he says.’
I felt quite relieved when the vet said that Tinker probably had feline enteritis, and he would send out some tablets on the mail plane.
That evening, Ralph and I and the boys were sitting in our kitchen, chatting, when Daphne arrived. ‘I’ve discovered a little hole in Tinker’s side,’ she said.
‘How very odd,’ I said.
‘What do you think it is?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I’ll come down and have a look at her.’
Ralph was being very quiet.
Down I went to Daphne’s quarters. Lying on a mat in her kitchen was Tinker. I knelt beside the cat and started feeling her abdomen with my hand. I found the hole. It was about two to three millimetres across. ‘Yes, I’ve found it,’ I said. ‘It’s very strange.’
‘What?!’ Daphne said, looking from the cat to me. ‘Is there one on that side too?’
Shock horror! Someone had shot Daphne’s cat. At that moment I knew we were guilty. There was nothing I could say except how sorry and sad I was, knowing that one of my children was responsible. Ralph had, meanwhile, guessed correctly what was wrong with the cat.
At midnight there was a rapid tapping on our bedroom window. It was Daphne again. We weren’t going to get off lightly.
‘Tinker is dying,’ she sobbed. ‘You must come down to see her.’
Poor Daphne! Down we went. It was just after midnight and we stayed until the very end, and the poor animal breathed its last.
I was very angry as I gathered the children together the next morning, and asked, ‘Who shot Daphne’s cat?’
David hung his head. Anthony and Jason had smirks on their faces and said nothing.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m going to get Ralph.’
‘David, own up!’ said Anthony.
‘You’re the one who killed her,’ said Jason.
‘David, are you responsible for killing Daphne’s cat?’ I asked.
‘Well, she was trying to kill your ducklings, Mum.’
‘What a terrible thing to do, David. Daphne loved that cat. Now you’re coming up to the office to tell her that you’re really sorry.’
Up we went to the bookkeeper’s office.
‘Daphne, David has something to say to you,’ I said.
David stood, head hanging down. ‘I’m sorry I killed your cat,’ he mumbled with a grin on his face, which I was hoping she wouldn’t see, but I’m sure she did.
Daphne hardly spoke to me for the next six months.
56
Success at last
Ralph was always very involved with our yearly race meeting at the Negri. The meetings were still meant to be grass-fed affairs, which Ralph duly stuck to, even though we heard that others were grain-feeding their horses. Consequently, we were lucky to get a third or fourth place in any race.
On holidays one year, we went to visit my cousin Gwen Cunningham and her husband, John, in Ben Lomond, New South Wales. Paddy, one of their sons, was also visiting; at that time, he was the leading apprentice jockey in the Grafton area.
‘Hey, young fellow,’ Ralph said to Paddy, ‘how about coming up to Wave Hill and working for me?’
Being adventurous, Paddy thought this a great idea and arrived at Wave shortly afterwards. He went into one of the stock camps. Ralph made sure that our best racehorses were handy for Paddy to train.
That year we went over to the Negri Races on the Monday; Tuesday was meet and greet day. On Tuesday night, we all went to the drawing of the Calcutta, in which everyone buys tickets in the hope of drawing a horse. Next the horses are auctioned off to the highest bidder. If you draw a horse, you can buy it at half the auction price, while if anyone else wants to buy it, they pay full price. The money raised is then divided between the first prize (sixty per cent), second (thirty per cent) and third (ten per cent)—which, depending on the auction, can each be worth lots of money.
The night of the Calcutta, the bar was open and the stockmen were gearing up to let their hair down and have a few beers. This included Paddy. I thought that with the big race day tomorrow, he would be better off coming back to the camp with us. He readily agreed, then hopped in one door of our car and hopped out the other!
Ralph just said, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’
The next day—the first race day—everyone arrived dressed in their best clothes: ladies with their hats, gloves and high-heeled shoes; gentlemen looking very dapper. The bookies were in position, taking bets on the first race. Everyone moved to the grandstand as the horses came out of the holding yard and trotted to the gates. Then they were off!
Coming down the straight was Paddy on our horse, Diana Dors. He was coming up fast, past Sabrina, and nearly at the winning post. There he was, Paddy on Diana Dors, coming in first! I was jumping up and down in delight, surrounded by ladies congratulating me with hugs and kisses.
In the second race he did it again! This time there was only a smidgen of a congratulatory murmur from those around me, a single peck on the cheek.
After the third race and following wins, no one wanted to know me. We won all the races. It was fantastic!
Ralph was president of the Negri that year, which meant I’d been in charge of buying all the trophy prizes, so some weeks earlier I’d purchased them in Darwin. Naturally I bought things that I really liked: silver—EPNS, really—ice buckets and silver wine glasses, to name a couple.
Presentation night was exciting and rather embarrassing, with Ralph presenting me with all the trophies. But we loved it, after all those years of winning next to nothing.
57
The social club
Not long after we moved to the new Wave Hill, the staff requested the right to have a drink in the evening and at the weekend. Times were a-changin’—dry stations were a thing of the past. After contacting head office, we were allowed to start a social club.
Every evening before dinner, those who wished could buy two drinks at the bar. It was a fun get-together at the end of the day. On Saturday night, six drinks
were allowed. We returned to the rec room after dinner, played ping-pong, darts or billiards, or just socialised. Sometimes we played cards: mainly five hundred, which the older stockmen loved. All visitors to the station at the weekend were able to enjoy our social club.
Every fortnight a movie would arrive from Darwin on the mail plane. It would be shown on the back wall of the kitchen. Bringing chairs, blankets and maybe a packet of lollies from the store, everyone—Aboriginals and whites—would settle down to a great evening. If it was an exceptional film we would show it again, as we had a week between each plane. We watched Cabaret three times.
In 1971, Fred Hollows came to Wave with his ophthalmic team to test all the Aboriginal residents for trachoma, an infectious bacterial disease that causes a roughening of the eyelids, and the leading cause of infectious blindness in the world. Fred wasn’t well known then. He was a very pleasant and dedicated ophthalmologist who worked with the Gurindji people at Daguragu, as well as at the station, and assisted in the establishment of medical services for Aboriginal people throughout Australia.
There were four in his team, two nurses and two doctors. We told them about Saturday night in the rec room, so they joined us for a drink after dinner. My brother-in-law Lynn and Swannie—who’d been working on Wave for years—must have had a few too many before they arrived, as they dared each other to strip off and do a streak around the rec room.
And that’s exactly what they did! When I think about it now, I am mortified. I was annoyed with them at the time but couldn’t stop laughing, especially at the look on some of our visitors’ faces. I bet that the Fred Hollows team didn’t forget Wave Hill in a hurry.
Sometime in the seventies, the Aboriginal residents were allowed to purchase beer from the social club on a Saturday night. The men and women would line up outside the rec room, waiting for their six cans each. In the beginning, the men made such a mess of themselves. As the women hardly drank, their husbands would often drink the full dozen. The results were arguments, fights, split heads, lacerations and occasionally broken limbs—a busy time for the nursing sister.
One Christmas morning, Ralph was busy dealing with Aboriginal arguments. I was called to the hospital: ‘Mad’ Maria’s husband had hit her on top of her head with a nulla-nulla, inflicting a large wound that was squirting blood like a fountain. It was impossible for me to stitch, so I applied pressure until the plane arrived. I couldn’t leave her for about an hour as it kept seeping blood.
Finally, when the flow eased, I made her husband sit and press on the dressing while I went back to check on my boys. To my dismay, the little devils had opened every parcel under the Christmas tree. Gifts and cards were all jumbled up, and I would never know who’d sent what. I felt like crying.
Whenever there were conflicts between the Aboriginal residents, they would come up to the homestead to tell ‘dat Ralph’ or ‘Ralphie’ their troubles. Ralph loved helping to sort out their problems.
One morning I came back to the homestead from the clinic to find one of the kitchen girls, Connie, drunk and raving on to Ralph. He was sitting on the front steps, thoroughly enjoying this banter, while Connie stood in the middle of the pathway. I’d just had a very busy morning attending to the results of fights in the settlement; I was in no mood for any more intoxicated Aboriginal people. I said, and I’d never used these words before, ‘Piss off, Connie!’
She nearly collapsed in shock at me saying such a rude thing. ‘You no talk like dat. You da missus!’ But she did take off to the sound of Ralph’s peals of laughter. I felt so ashamed.
Every year, Christmas dinner was held in the rec room and catered for thirty to forty people. The tables were set in long rows adorned with bonbons, red-and-green serviettes and decorations. At that time, Cold Duck was the favourite celebratory alcoholic drink for the ladies; it tasted a little like champagne. The men, of course, drank beer.
One Christmas morning, I woke to find that the cap on my front tooth had fallen out and was lying on my pillow. We were expecting important visitors that day, and there I was with a front tooth missing. Horror!
Prior to my marriage, I’d had a friendly argument with the stockman Jim Tough over a jar of macadamia nuts, a gift from some visitor. He was trying to wrench the jar out of my hand. As I pulled away, he suddenly let go and the lid slammed into my mouth, breaking my central right tooth. Devastation!
I had to go to Darwin to see the dentist, and he filled the slanted broken half with gold. I’d implored him to use anything but—however, this was Darwin, a frontier town. So that was it, I thought, I would never smile again!
I’d had the part-gold tooth for about ten years when the cap fell out.
Waking Ralph up, I said, ‘Look! How can I appear in public like this?’
But my husband had the solution. Not that I was very happy about it, but I was desperate. He sealed my cap into place, and do you know what he used? Araldite glue. It’s a wonder it didn’t make me sick. That cap stayed put for at least another five years.
58
Tales from the Territory
There was never a dull moment, there were always plenty of characters to talk with, lots of humour and good times, but also many sad and tragic events.
Jimmy Stretton took over the job of station cook. The staff thought he was wonderful, especially after their experiences with the last cook, who’d been hopeless and seemed continually inebriated; we soon discovered that he’d been on the ‘lemon essence’, an alcoholic flavouring.
Jimmy was gay and proud of it. Within no time he’d revamped his bedroom with a frilly bedspread, lace curtains and feminine knick-knacks, and even a chandelier that he’d had sent up from Brisbane. He was a superb cook, as well as an excellent hairdresser and dressmaker. Every dish looked and tasted delicious.
I was used to cooking for my guests at home. But Jimmy would say, ‘I’ll send dinner over if you like. How many people?’ It was too easy to say yes. The kitchen girls would bring the food down and it would be put on the bain-marie until we were ready.
Mick Coombes, an old drover, was visiting Wave one Christmas and decided to drive over to Kelly’s Camp, on Victoria River Downs Station. There, he and several men from the station celebrated the festive season, and may or may not have got on the grog. One partygoer, Danny Marr, a part-Aboriginal station employee, had gone to sleep in the long grass behind one of the vehicles—the owner of which, having no idea Danny was there, backed straight over his head.
The police were notified. Because the policeman and his wife were on their way to Victoria River Downs for Christmas dinner, Danny’s body was placed in a body bag, brought back to the station and put in one of the vehicle sheds. After the policeman picked the body up and was on his way to Katherine, his vehicle broke down. By the time another vehicle was found and the body brought into town, it had taken hours and hours, and in that heat.
Another tragedy involved dear old Harry Selmes, one of the most extraordinary characters I met at Wave Hill. Harry was the brumby and donkey shooter for the Vesteys’ Territory stations, and had been for many years. He camped in the bush, only coming to the station to renew his supplies, but having grown up in Sydney he was a gentleman in every way.
One day he knocked on our door. He’d come to see me. He asked me if I would look after the gold watch that his parents had given him in 1935, for his twenty-first birthday.
Some months later, after a bushfire went through near Mataranka, Harry’s body was found in his burnt-out vehicle. We’d lost a wonderful man.
Only very recently, I found out that after Harry’s body was discovered in the early 1970s, his daughter came to collect his belongings. I didn’t know this as it was many months before we heard through the grapevine that he had died.
Another time, coming back from Katherine, Ralph and I called in to the Top Springs roadhouse to get a cold softdrink for Penny. This would have been about 1975 or 1976. The publican said he had a problem and, knowing I was a nurse, asked if I could he
lp. One of his Aboriginal customers had had a fight outside the hotel with his wife, hitting her so hard that the publican thought she was dead. Would I please take a look and confirm?
Going outside with the publican, leaving Ralph with Penny, I found the husband sitting in the dirt beside a seemingly lifeless Aboriginal woman. ‘She no good. She give me cheek. I bin hit him.’ There appeared to be no remorse at what he had done. He allowed me to examine her as she lay there, in the dirt and her blood. Sadly, she was dead.
There was nothing more I could do, so the publican contacted the police and we left. On the news we heard talk of the murder but no sentence.
*
There was nothing sad about this next character. Mick Maloney from Brisbane was a great jovial guy who worked for Southern Cross Windmills and did most of his business with head office through Peter Morris or Roy Bell. But he was always there at the Katherine Show, where he attended the Brahman Dinner Dance with us.
In the sixties and seventies, everyone went to the Brahman Dinner Dance. Brahman beef was served as the main course. Brahman aren’t as tasty as the British breeds, but they’re tick resistant, which is a big plus in the North. These days, Brahman would be the major breed replacing the Shorthorn cattle of old. We didn’t really care what meat we ate, as it was the people who made the dinner dances fun, all decked out in their formal gear and having a marvellous time together. Sadly there is no Brahman Dinner Dance anymore, so Mick tells me, but he recently went to his forty-ninth Katherine show. He only missed one show and the organisers of the dinner phoned him to ask him where he was. When he said he had the flu, they said ‘But you should be here!’ and had to admit that they’d organised a ‘This is your life’ event for him at the dinner.
