Love In a Sunburnt Country

by Jo Jackson King

  Love in a SUNBURNT COUNTRY

  JO JACKSON KING

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  About the Author

  Jo Jackson King is the author of the award-winning and bestselling Station at Austin Downs. An occupational therapist, she works with remote communities in the outback. A gifted writer with extensive rural women’s networks, Jo is a School of the Air mother and veteran of late-night talkfests between women where the conversation veers away from school and land care and becomes about love.

  Wishing you love

  And on your land a flourishing garden

  Our loves and our gardens are all different

  And all the same.

  Contents

  Setting Out

  Didn’t Know I Was Looking For Love

  Frances and Luke Frahn, Holowiliena Station, Flinders Ranges, South Australia

  Anything But Mine

  Robina and Aaron Meehan, Outback Gypsies

  My Love Is Your Love

  Cathy and David Jones, Boogardie Station, Mt Magnet, Western Australia

  Lovely Boy, Beautiful Girl

  John and Mary te Kloot, Marmboo Station, Longreach, Queensland

  You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio

  Kath and Steve Baird, Kiewa Valley, Tawonga, Bogong High Plains, Victoria

  Like a River

  Rebel Black and Michael Matson, Lightning Ridge, New South Wales

  Holdin’ a Good Hand

  Cissy and Bill Bright, the Top End, Northern Territory and Queensland

  Never Tear Us Apart

  Tania and Tim Wiley, Broome–Wiluna–Marble Bar–Port Hedland–Broome, Western Australia

  Home Again

  Acknowledgements

  Setting Out

  At the beginning of 2015 I set off on a journey to find and tell some of remote Australia’s best love stories and to paint a portrait of not just the lovers, but the endless pattern of how the land transforms those who live on it and how those who live on it transform the land.

  I am an outback dweller myself, and I have young children, so I am a School of the Air mother. Parents teach the children a curriculum supplied by the school, and once a day the children speak to their teacher and classmates ‘over the air’—this was once done via radio but now involves virtual classrooms on computer screens. Every so often there is a camp. We drive our children hundreds, sometimes thousands, of kilometres for these gatherings. These are necessary for the children and for teachers, but also, as you might imagine, for mothers. We talk and talk. Late at night, when the children are hopefully sleeping (or, at the least, settled!) we tell the stories of how we came to live where we do. And so often these stories are ones of life-derailing and transformative love. In this book, from all around Australia, are the kind of stories that I hear late at night and into the early morning on School of the Air camps. The outback setting forces couples to rely on each other far more than usual as there is often no-one else—it strengthens marriages or breaks them. And within each love story I wanted to share the other aspects of living remotely—both the smaller and larger stories of our lives, the dangers and comforts, the history and the possible futures we see. I didn’t want the love stories to have just a romantic beginning. I wanted to find people with lives about which my readers and listeners would say ‘you couldn’t make that stuff up’.

  Initially I thought the hardest part of this book would be finding stories from all around Australia. And it was tricky. For example, the first story was found by friends of friends through the bush telegraph that still operates across regional Australia. One of the numbers I was given to call was that of South Australian artist Marie Parsons, mother of another well-known artist Ally Parsons.

  I rang Marie. As I spoke the words aloud I could hear for the first time what a very strange request I was making. ‘Even if a love story comes to mind in a few weeks’ time, perhaps you could call me …’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said warmly. ‘A story has come to mind straight away. One of my daughter Ally’s governesses from when Ally owned a station. Her name is Frances. Frances and Luke fell in love … well, that took a bit longer … but they met when Frances was working for Ally as her governess, and Luke came to the property to shear sheep. Now they’re restoring the historical buildings on the station belonging to Frances’s family and the ABC has just made a TV show about what they’ve done. The story I heard about their meeting was that Luke went shearing in a suit, tie and jacket and all, and that’s what caught Frances’s eye.’ So that became the first story in this book.

  But, in fact, finding the stories was the easiest part of writing. When you begin to write a book it feels a great deal as if you are packing for a long, exciting and arduous journey. You hope to have most of what you will need in your suitcase. On first setting out I felt confident I was uniquely qualified to write this book. I was in the midst of the first story when I began to suspect I was missing something vital—something I had not even known I needed to pack. To write this book I needed to understand love, and it had never occurred to me before that I didn’t understand how love works and what it is.

  My home is in remote Western Australia on a pastoral property with my husband, my parents and my three sons—and together we are regenerating it. We have lived there for sixteen years and Austin Downs is well and truly halfway back to life. I know how land degrades and how it can heal. My family’s adventures on Austin Downs are the subject of my first book.

  Healing land must be rested. This means less stock. Sometimes it means no stock, and therefore no earnings. But you must still live! All the adults in our business work off the property—my husband and father in mining and making fences, solar arrays and monitoring systems, my mother and I as occupational therapists. We don’t work in clinics, but out in the communities themselves, and our favourite work is with children. And so my second book was on human development. It lays bare the interconnections between generations and shows how the way love is expressed travels down between generations. It tells the stories of how the forces in wider society shape the interactions between parent and child and how we all transform each other, all the time: bodies, minds, hearts and relationships.

  My work as an occupational therapist often brings me close to people during the most painful parts of their lives. So what do I read to recover from vicariously experiencing that pain, to be able to be present with a full heart on the next day? Apart from research about how to do my job better (I am a research junkie, as you will see), I read romance. I read a lot of romance. I am particularly fond of Regency romance. I had assumed that this, combined with my own happy experience of love and marriage, added up to a natural understanding of romantic love. There is a book called Everything I Know About Love I Learned From Romance Novels—but, I was to discover, reading romances had apparently not taught me enough.

  I was astonished to discover that some people who were falling in love had no idea what was happening to them. In fact, when I heard this from the first couple I talked to, Frances and Luke from Holowiliena Station, I didn’t believe them. In our long discussion of this intimate, extraordinary part of their lives I actually argued with them about their feelings and the sequence of events in their own love story. I am mortified when I think about it now. At the time I just couldn’t help myself.

  The next interview was with Robina Meehan (‘outback gypsy’) who said: ‘Limerence, that patch when you are off your head, that didn’t happen with me and Aaron. It was better and deeper than that.’

  Then, on the plane journey back from Lightning Ridge to Western Australia, I fell into conversation with Lachlan Gatti, who was in his second year of a Bachelor of Arts and Teaching. At Lachlan’s college an expe
rt had been brought in to talk about love and so Lachlan knew all about limerence and he also told me it had another name: PEA Brain.

  Back to the research I went, but by now I was becoming aware of how very much I didn’t know about love. Talking to each of the couples in this book resulted in me returning to the library to learn more of the neurology, the psychology and the philosophy of love. And I was on another journey too: to better understand the land.

  Driving through the Flinders Ranges to meet Luke and Frances, the uncovered hills have me wondering if they have always been so picturesquely, so revealingly bare, or if this is a result of early overgrazing. Once I would unhesitatingly have thought ‘most certainly’, but now, I’m learning this is not necessarily the case. Aboriginal people kept the ‘woody weeds’ that cover much of Australia to a minimum by use of fire. The ‘parkland cleared’ landscape that early painters replicated faithfully in the 18th century was not the original Australian landscape, but the landscape created deliberately by the Aboriginal people. The Australian ‘natural’ (not farmed or grazed) landscape of later centuries—dense scrub, forests, woodland plains—is therefore one created by human intervention too, in this case the cessation of the Aboriginal people’s efforts.

  In fact, the question of whether a landscape is natural or not is similar to that of whether nature or nurture shapes a child. Both questions are based on flawed assumptions: firstly, that ‘nature’ is inanimate and static rather than dynamic, responsive and creative; secondly, that change is always human-led; and, finally, that we ourselves aren’t part of nature. The truth is that the land and all that live on it, below it and above it are always changing—innovating, responding, adapting—and the idea of an unchanged virgin landscape is nonsense.

  How land changes people and how love changes land is the context for this book and to write it I’ve had to come to a better understanding of what love is, and what land is, and of how they both work, and how love and land work together to create us.

  Didn’t Know I Was Looking For Love

  Frances and Luke Frahn, Holowiliena Station, Flinders Ranges, South Australia

  It is evening and early winter, and my father Tom and I have just reached the twisting gravel road that will take us through the Flinders to Holowiliena, one of South Australia’s most remote and historic sheep stations. Holowiliena has been in the hands of the Warwick family for 160 years. This long association of family and land is rare, and becoming rarer with every year that passes.

  It is a lonely road. For some unknown reason I expected to see the same messily rounded shrubs and short trees and willowy grasses that are found around our own station, but I see nothing of the kind. In this part of the Flinders Ranges the hills are covered in low grasses and small rocks. The complex and self-contradicting form of the land is instantly apparent: soft beginnings, sudden scarps, deep incisions where the water runs, and gently rounding crests. The hill shapes echo each other, travelling further and further back, until I am no longer sure what is range and what is cloud on the far horizon.

  But there are trees here, creek bed and valley dwellers, river red gum and native pine. Few trees combine solidity and grace like these river gums: where they touch the sky they are delicate, each twig carefully placed so it doesn’t crowd another, maximising light onto leaf, and yet they pour out of the earth with such power held in their massive trunks and low branches. The native pine is a very humble, prosaic tree in comparison, with stubbled bark, trunks of even width, and closely hung dark leaf clusters.

  There are well-fed grey-and-black kangaroos at every creek bed. I’ve been counting them, trying to get a sense of how many there are on the property, but there are too many. In fact the number of roos on the road here has me rattled and I’m finding it hard to concentrate on what Dad, who has been talking for the past few kilometres, has to say. He is braking and swerving intermittently, and glancing at me to check that I am listening. I am silent, braced against everything available to brace against and with my teeth locked together. I cannot help wishing he would simply concentrate on driving and I am relieved and delighted when we find the edge of the shearing-shed yards and turn in to the homestead. We are here to meet Luke and Frances Frahn, who have a story that is one worth telling.

  We are met by the family dogs, welcoming and smiling all over their black-and-tan faces. Luke Frahn strolls towards us, gently sending his five-year-old son Todd, who has come out in his dressing gown to meet us, back to finish his dinner. I am curious about Luke. He is a shearer, and the story I have been told is that he does this work dressed in a suit and tie. But tonight he is dressed for visitors and the cold in a plain navy woollen jumper and neat jeans.

  In fact, almost all the photographs I’ve seen of Luke show him costumed for an ABC television episode showcasing the building restorations on Holowiliena. In the photos he looks remarkably comfortable in the kind of clothes that have not been worn in Australia for over a century: high-necked shirt, high-waisted button pants, vest, hat—clothes that even predate those worn by the men in Tom Roberts’s iconic painting The Shearers. I look for signs of the flamboyance I’ve more than half-expected. But it is quickly clear that I have misunderstood Luke’s character. He is not at all flamboyant or eccentric. He has a rather austere face for such a young man. He looks approachable but not persuadable: clean-shaven, conservatively dressed, thoughtful. (I am soon to realise Luke looked comfortable in the clothes of over a century ago simply because he is at home in his body. A shearer, after all, is a professional athlete. Physical and emotional balance, the skills to reassure a stressed animal or colleague, rhythm, patience, love of craft, learning by doing, team-thinking, enjoying the moment and the work—these are the gifts of the good shearer and Luke, as it turns out, is one of Australia’s best.)

  In the warm kitchen-dining room, with overloaded bookshelves and an efficient potbelly stove, Todd and three-year-old Stella, Luke and Frances’s daughter, gaze up at us speculatively from their dinner. My dad is grandfather to twelve children, many of whom have perfected the art of extending dinner in order to avoid going to bed. ‘It would have been better if we’d been an hour later!’ he says apologetically to Frances Frahn.

  Frances has remarkable eyes, which are large and lovely. I have read about eyes like these. They are the ‘well-opened eyes’ with which Georgette Heyer endowed her heroines, who were of a selfless and giving disposition. She flashes us a glance of warm gratitude and relief. It is a terrible time for us to have arrived. There is no doubt that schemes to suspend bedtime are being hatched and refined, in Stella’s mind at least. Her fine hair is bunched into a pigtail, and it shines sparkly gold under the bright light. She is warmly bundled up in a soft dressing gown of greys and pinks made by Janne, Frances’s mother. No child could look sweeter. She is smiling at us, but her eyes are alight with plans rather than welcome. I smile back, trying to do so in a way that conveys that I am not to be considered a fellow conspirator. Stella immediately returns my smile with a significant look and slips from the table, leaving her dinner uneaten.

  The children’s governess, Miss Mikaela, dark-haired, dimpled and from a Queensland bush family, comes in to sort out weekend arrangements. Todd is debating a range of pudding options.

  Stella returns holding what I think is a sheep—it can be hard to identify species with some stuffed toys—in all the shades of the rainbow.

  ‘This is Daddy’s,’ she explains. ‘When he goes shearing, I look after him until Daddy comes home again.’

  ‘He was Daddy’s,’ Todd clarifies for me. ‘From when Daddy was little.’

  Luke will be away all of next month, and Stella is getting herself ready to bear it. Luke’s earnings from shearing still assist the family budget. This includes his prize money from shearing competitions which is considerable—and about which Luke will say very little, changing the subject instantly to the gentleman who taught him to shear, John Hutchinson. (Luke considers John an important mentor. ‘If I could please him, then I
was happy,’ Luke says. And he did not just mentor Luke. John was Australia’s champion shearer for six years, but found time to work with troubled young people and was eventually awarded an Order of Australia for this.)

  Then Luke is finalising dessert plans with Todd, talking to Stella about putting away the rainbow sheep again, prompting her to have her hair brushed before bedtime and explaining to us Frances’s role in local government. Frances is on the phone, cooking our dinner and finding Todd’s read-aloud book. Children’s bedtime is not the time for me to be asking questions—or, indeed, for observing what drew Frances and Luke to each other: because it is their story I am here to explore.

  And shortly afterwards it is time for me to go to bed too. I fall asleep still wondering why Luke wears a suit when he is shearing.

  By morning, I have developed a new working theory about the suit.

  Frances and Luke are serious in all their shared undertakings: within the wool industry (where they’ve been offered leadership and training roles), in terms of land and animal management, in curating and restoring Holowiliena (for which they’ve also been well recognised), and in parenting, which is so manifestly their top priority. Luke grew up on a farm, where his parents still farm, and he knew from very early on that he wanted to shear and to farm. Then there is Luke’s precision and work ethic, both of which are in tune with his German Lutheran heritage. Luke says grace before meals too, which I take as a demonstration of a pious but also a serious and thoughtful attitude to life. Perhaps, said my ridiculous theory, Luke is such a serious person that he habitually wears a suit to indicate he is a professional shearer?

  After breakfast Frances and Luke tell me that they have planned to use the daylight hours for Dad and me to become acquainted with Holowiliena, however, they have set aside this evening to tell us how they met and fell in love. So whatever the story is behind the suit, I know that I am soon to hear it. (The story of all we learned in the daylight hours is told in the next section.)