An Outback Nurse

by Thea Hayes

  Thank goodness we sold the shop after two years, two months and three days of being storekeepers. It was the worst thing we ever did. Only two days off a year; working from 6.30 a.m. to 6.30 p.m. seven days a week; having to deal with overly demanding customers. I think people need to be born into the retail trade before they take on a corner store.

  We spent ten years at Toogoolawah before we sold Bidji Park and moved to the Darling Downs, which was more like the undulating hills of Wave. The country was also much more to our liking, but we missed the lifetime friends we’d made in the Brisbane Valley.

  We purchased a grazing block near Oakey, which we named Murrawah after Ralph’s Aboriginal nanny. We’d started showing our stud Murray Grey cattle quite successfully when in Toogoolawah, so that continued on the Downs until the big drought came in 1992, when we had to sell all our stock.

  Throughout our years in Queensland, Ralph and I continued to catch up with our Territory friends at dinner parties, at our holiday house on North Stradbroke Island, and at the yearly Territory Reunion at the Olsens’ home at Beerwah. I’d never met the Olsens before this; they had been managing property on the Barkely tablelands.

  Ralph was much loved by his family and friends. He often had some friend ringing him up to have a chat—he didn’t need to ring them because they would always ring him. He told the most incredible stories of life on the stations, and I never heard the same one twice. He drew people to him, although at first he was always shy.

  In 1989, Ralph became ill and was diagnosed with lung cancer. The surgeon at the Wesley Hospital removed a small part of Ralph’s lung, which contained the cancer in two small capsules. Ralph battled to give up smoking, but unfortunately his habit was too strong and the cancer returned.

  In July 1992, the Vestey Company sold its properties at a sale in Brisbane, which we attended. This brought to a close the Vestey family’s involvement in the Northern Australian cattle industry.

  On 3 February 1995, with the whole family present—including Madeline and Milton—Ralph passed peacefully away a few hours after his fifty-ninth birthday, which had been celebrated in St Vincent’s Hospital, Toowoomba.

  64

  Murrawah

  At Ralph’s funeral in Toowoomba, our old friend John Kirsh—who had worked in the mission town of Balgo—gave the eulogy, telling a story about Ralph that I’d never heard before.

  I’d met Murrawah, Ralph’s tribal mother, and had assumed that she was more a nanny than a mum. But here is the story of Murrawah.

  In the mid-1930s, Ralph’s parents, Dick and Mary Hayes, had a farm at Pretty Bend in Queensland. In 1936 they accepted a management position with the Vesteys at Waterloo Station in the Northern Territory. (Waterloo is east of the Ord River Scheme, where the famous Argyle Station was found and pioneered by Patrick Durack, as written about by Mary Durack in her book Kings in Grass Castles.) Mary and Dick brought with them their first-born son, Ralph, who was a tiny baby having been born prematurely in Brisbane on 2 February 1936.

  The move must have been very hard for Mary who, although a champion horse rider, had been brought up in Brisbane. Her new life on an outback property with a baby was isolating, especially when her loving husband had to spend a lot of his time in the stock camp, mustering cattle and fencing.

  There were only a handful of Aboriginal people at Waterloo, employed around the homestead or in the stock camp. Ralph was loved by this group of nomadic people, none of whom had their own children. Most likely they had never seen a white baby before.

  Mary had Aboriginal help with the cooking, housework and gardening, and she employed a young Aboriginal woman, about the same age as herself, to look after baby Ralph. Her name was Murrawah.

  When Mary was leaving for Wyndham to have Lynn, her second child, she asked Murrawah to look after Ralph. Little Ralph fretted for his mother. He became very distressed and quite ill. Murrawah took the tiny child to her breast. She loved this child as if he were her own. Although she wasn’t pregnant and had never been with child, she produced milk and suckled Ralph with all the love that she could give him, and he survived.

  Thanks to Murrawah, Ralph lived and the story in this book was possible.

  Before Ralph and I left Wave Hill to go south, Murrawah—who had moved from Waterloo to Kalkaringi, the renamed Aboriginal settlement at Wave—came to visit. There was a knock on the homestead’s laundry door. Cudge—Mary—was also visiting; she went to answer it. There stood Murrawah.

  ‘Good day, Murrawah, what are you doing here?’ Cudge asked.

  ‘I’ve come to see my son.’

  ‘Who is your son?’

  ‘Dat Ralph, he bin my son.’

  ‘Ralph is my son, not yours.’

  ‘No, Missus, you bin born him, but me bin grow him up. He my son.’

  The Aboriginal women at Wave Hill would bring their babies to Thea for a health check. She weighed the babies at the store every month.

  Thea with one of her young Aboriginal patients outside the clinic.

  Thea with the mail at Wave Hill.

  Giving Jimmy, one of the stockmen, an injection.

  Our wedding in the smoko area at Wave Hill.

  Ralph and I about to leave for our honeymoon.

  The Wave Hill crew about to leave for Thea’s and Ralph’s engagement party at Limbunya, 1961.

  Ralph and I outside our first home.

  Our third home on Wave Hill, just completed with men’s quarters on the left. It looked much better with lawns and shrubs when the Governor General came to stay.

  A stock camp buggy loaded up with supplies. (Photo courtesy of Gunna Isberg)

  Gunna and Aboriginal stockmen at work. (Photo courtesy of Gunna Isberg)

  Mustering the cattle at Wave Hill.

  The Kookaburra went missing while searching for Sir Charles Kingsford Smith’s and Charles Ulm’s Southern Cross.

  Ralph and Jim Tough holding up one of the planes sent out to search for the Kookaburra. It met a fiery end. Part of its frame was used to make a beef cart.

  Dick Smith came to Wave Hill to search for the Kookaburra. He’s pictured here front left with, from left to right, (front) Ralph, Dick Jansen and the rest of Dick’s crew.

  Vincent Lingiari and Ralph’s Humber, 1963.

  Vincent on a bronco horse, 1964.

  Rounding up the children for the first day of school, 1961.

  Wodular, Terrie Jones, Anthony and Linda at Gordon Downs, 1963.

  David with Wodular and Sarah on the lawn at Gordon Downs, 1964.

  The Christmas Day cricket match complete with goats in the outfield, 1960.

  Picnic at Moonbull Waterhole at Kirkimbie Station, NT. Thea, Ralph, Robyn, Anthony, Cameron and Graham Fulcher, Anthony and David, 1965.

  Penny dancing in the orchard at Wave Hill.

  Baby Jason on the lawn at Gordon Downs with Thea and Skippy, 1965.

  The bookmakers at the Negri Race Meeting waiting to take bets from the lovely ladies of the Outback.

  Everyone loaded up and heading off to the Negri Races.

  Our bush camp at Negri Race Meeting was set up with a kitchen and sleeping areas.

  Baker Dollie’s children in the vegetable garden at Wave Hill, 1961.

  Swimming pool, Outback style! Anthony and David at Gordon Downs Station, 1966.

  Thea and Anthony at Gordon Downs.

  Thea and baby David, 1963.

  Bridesmaid Thea and best man Ralph at Heather and Rod Russell’s wedding at Limbunya Station, 1961.

  A very moving moment. Prime Minister Gough Whitlam pours soil into the hand of Vincent Lingiari in a gesture to symbolise the handing back of Gurindji land. (Photo courtesy of Ces Watts).

  ‘Anthony, stand over there next to Gough Whitlam and I’ll take your photo!’ From left to right: Gordon Bryant, Bill Wentworth (at rear), Nugget Coombes, Gough Whitlam, Anthony, unknown journalist.

  Prime Minister Gough Whitlam with the Vestey’s representative from England, Roger Golding, at the H
andover ceremony.

  The new Wave Hill station from the air, 1968.

  Extract from a newspaper article reporting on the Gurindji walkout from Wave Hill Station.

  The following photos show some of the staff on Wave Hill Station in 1979.

  Mosquito and Connie.

  Vera (who worked in the laundry), her husband, Oscar, and their children.

  Dora and Charlie outside the men’s quarters.

  Thea, aged 19, on a jetty at the Dame Edith Walker Nursing Home where nurses from Royal Prince Alfred Hospital were sent to work for a few months.

  Thea at her 70th birthday, celebrated in Brisbane.

  There were hugs and smiles all around when Thea recently returned to visit. To the right of Thea are Mary-Anne, Biddy and Pansy, and Topsy on the left.

  Epilogue

  In July 2010 I found myself again on the road to Wave Hill.

  This time it was with my new partner, Bob, whom I’d met while I was living on North Stradbroke Island.

  I’d always wanted to go back some day, and I wanted to show Bob what had been such a big part of my life. Also there were three people from my Wave Hill days whom I desperately wanted to see: Emilie, Algie and Pansy.

  Before we left on our trip to the Territory, I wrote to the owners of Wave, the Oxenfords, to ask if we could visit the station. Not having received a response, we rang from Top Springs—and yes, were relieved to hear that we were very welcome to come.

  I was so excited as we drove into the station on the dirt road, passing Five Mile Creek where Jimmy had put on our silver service lunch. The buildings came into view as we rounded the curve in the road. Instead of us passing the old garage, there on the right was a huge vehicle shed. The weather station was no longer near the top cottage, but I found out later it had been moved nearer to the homestead; the manager’s wife still did the weather. It was amazing: the other buildings hadn’t changed, but the trees we’d planted were now ten metres high.

  Greg and Alison Daikin, the managers, made us very welcome. Alison was fascinated by everything about Wave, because there seemed to be no photos or history of the station anywhere when they’d taken over.

  They took us out to the old station to see if I could put a plan down of the position of the various buildings, as there was nothing left except a few sheets of iron, chunks of old cement and a bit of scrub. Even the road was in a different position. You could see the cement outline of the Aboriginal houses, and I found a small section of ant bed where the tennis court must have been. I also found the grave of the unknown child, thought to be the offspring of a Wave manager many years before. Other than that, I recognised nothing, and yet the memory of the old station is firmly implanted on my mind. It was sad going back there.

  At the current station drinks were served in the rec room around the old bar where we met some of the staff. The propeller from 1929 was still hanging on the wall! There were only two Aboriginal employees, both stockmen.

  We ate in the old dining room where everything was the same, including the smoko area. The main difference I noted was the lack of domestic and gardening staff. The overseer’s wife looked after the gardens, and everyone did their own washing. Gosh, we were spoilt in our time, but then it gave us more time for the more important jobs we had to do.

  The overseer offered to take us on the bore run, but not in a truck—we went by plane. Wow! We flew over about ten bores, noted the start of a bushfire at the side of the Buntine Highway, and enjoyed looking over the beautiful undulating Downs country.

  The next day we drove down to Daguragu to find my old house girls, Emilie and Pansy. Driving into this community was quite daunting: there were large squares of unkempt grass and scrub surrounded by old prefabricated houses.

  We saw an Aboriginal man carrying a child in his arms; the child looked limp and lifeless. Stopping, we started to get out of the car to talk to him, to offer help. He waved us on and disappeared between the houses. Was there a medical clinic there? We felt powerless!

  Driving on, we saw a group of people sitting in the yard. I jumped out of the car to ask if there were any former Wave employees here. ‘Yes,’ I was told, ‘up dere, dat house alonga dere.’ We mentioned the sick child but they just shook their heads, making no comments.

  Arriving at the house, I walked through the gateway. Three Aboriginal people were sitting in the dirt; a dead dog lay two metres away.

  ‘You fella from that Wave Hill?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Missus,’ they replied.

  ‘Me Missus Ralph,’ I said.

  ‘Ah Missus, Missus Ralph,’ they cried as they rushed to embrace me. Hugging and kissing ensued from Connie, who must have been eighty-odd, with her hair dyed black; Oscar, a great old stockman; and Iris, who was only a child when I’d last seen her.

  Bob entered the yard and couldn’t believe his eyes at the jubilant cries from the three, and the hugging and kissing that went on.

  They told me that Emilie and Algie had died. I was shocked.

  ‘Where that Pansy?’ I asked.

  ‘Pansy at Kalkaringi,’ they informed me.

  We were about to leave when Iris said, ‘Missus, don’t go yet, dat social club him been open soon. We get drink. We no money. You buy.’

  At Kalkaringi we found Pansy, Biddy, Topsy and Cushion.

  Once again a group gathered, screaming with delight when I said, ‘Me Missus Ralph.’

  Pansy had hardly changed. She was so happy to see me. She’d been like a nanny to Penny, always there if I had to shoot down to the hospital, or was called to the office for a radiophone call.

  Pansy loved my children: ‘How dat Anthony, Harji, Jason and little Penny?’ she asked. ‘They got him Aboriginal skin name—“Jubuda”, dat name.’

  Biddy decided she was going to be our guide. We had to make room in the front of the vehicle for the three of us, before going on a tour to visit more of my old friends: Ida and her husband, Rankin; Mary Anne; and Marian, who’d had the twins. We then stopped at the Kalkaringi store to purchase a few things.

  Word had got around that Missus Ralph was here. People, young and old, kept coming up to me. ‘Missus, ’member me?’ ‘You bin give me my name, “Norman”.’ ‘My mother alonga me, Ena.’ ‘Missus, me Toby.’ And so it went on.

  Bob and I, last year, went to the Wave Hill/Jinparrak/Canberra Exchange Art Exhibition in Canberra and caught up with now famous indigenous artists Biddy and Jimmy Wave Hill. They were ecstatic to see us again. Bob mentioned the stock camp at Wave Hill to Jimmy.

  At the mention of Wave Hill and the stock camp, Jimmy’s eyes lit up. ‘Bob, working in dat stock camp, riding dem horses, doin’ dat big muster. Dem were the good day.’

  When Bob and I had visited them back in 2010, I had wondered how they felt living where they lived now, not being on a cattle station having their jobs, being involved in running a great cattle station.

  ‘You fella happy?’ I had asked them.

  ‘Yes, Missus. We got im air-conditioned house.’

  I wondered if they were really happy. Do they still think of the Dreamtime; the corroboree; the life in the stock camp; mustering the cattle; telling stories around the campfire; these great stockmen, now with nothing to do?

  And my housegirls who’d always been part of the family, who were always there at important occasions, and digging yams with the children, teaching them about bush tucker, being teased by the stockmen. What is their life like now, in their air-conditioned houses? The young people having no jobs; drinking too much; forgetting their Aboriginal culture. Working for Vesteys they had their jobs and they also had the freedom to continue their culture.

  But I do know that Ralph loved these people as they loved him, and besides very successfully running Wave Hill Station and Gordon Downs, he was also a paternal figure to these Aboriginal people. He was someone with whom they could discuss problems in their own language, share stories, tell jokes; and he helped them as much as he possibly could.

  As for me
, I was so proud to be beside Ralph in our initiation as a young overseer and a naive young nurse, later to manage one of the largest cattle stations in Australia. My serious concerns about going to the Outback as a young nurse were resolved within a week of arrival. I was fascinated by Wave Hill from the moment I arrived. I seemed to fit in, this city girl, this world traveller, this adventurer. I loved my work looking after the health of these wonderful Aboriginal people, and the white staff took some beating, too. We had a wonderful life and a beautiful family.

  This whim to have an interview for a job just to see a cattle station turned out to be the greatest adventure of my life.

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks to Jane Grieve who told Mark Lewis at Allen & Unwin that I had an interesting story.