Next morning as they were preparing to leave, there was no mention of the previous night’s offer, so I hastened to remind Frank of my great worth to the running of the station. I received my wage even though it was £2 more than Ken was getting as manager.
With the wet over, mustering began in the surrounding harsh, unattractive country, where a wild ride through rough coral limestone took some courage.
At the beginning of the muster we decided to abandon our iron shed by the river to be closer to where we’d be working. We loaded our woodstove and kerosene refrigerator, and moved to a small two-room timber house on McArthur’s southern boundary. Built on high wooden supports, it was located right on the bank of a limestone creek called Top Springs—not to be confused with Top Springs of the Armstrong River at the western end of the Murranji.
No one had lived in this house for years, and snakes of all kinds and sizes, centipedes and other creatures had proliferated undisturbed.
File snakes lived under water in the mud—big ropey creatures, they weren’t poisonous. The Aboriginals felt for them with their feet, finding them good tucker; after one hard bite on the head from strong teeth, the snake was curled around with its tail placed in its mouth, and set to cook on the coals of a campfire.
Huge pythons sunned themselves on the rocks by the water, while the highly venomous king brown or mulga snake took to frequenting our makeshift kitchen under the house.
Ken’s method of killing any snake, if necessary, was a grip on the tail, a swing around the head, then a sharp whip crack. Charlie Schultz of Humbert River Station was the only other person I knew who used this method. It took skill and agility, and a man must be good with a whip—Ken was skilled and could always draw an audience; he had a personal whip crack he called ‘The Western Castrator’: the whip tossed from one hand to the other, finishing with a sharp crack deep between the legs that was guaranteed to extract from every man watching an involuntary tightening of the lower abdominal muscles.
Protection of native snakes in the wild is all very well, but a 3-metre king brown—as thick as a man’s arm, with the fierce glitter-eyed look peculiar to this deadliest of serpents—rearing up out of the onion box called for harsh, permanent measures. If bitten by a king brown in the bush, death was a certainty.
So while Ken was away in camp, which was most of the time, out would come my trusty .410 shotgun, a gift to keep snakes from under the bed and crows from the vegetable garden. Long gone were the days when a birthday gift was something along more feminine lines.
Then there was the black-headed python: a menacing-looking snake with its long, thick, striped body and jet-black head, although it wasn’t venomous. The Aboriginal people believed very seriously that bad luck would befall anyone who harmed it, so it had free access to the best rocks by the creek to bask in the sun. I once saw a black-headed python killed, and the very next day the killer broke his leg in camp; no bush Aboriginal of that time would have put that down to chance.
Our lubras were afraid of snakes. There’d be fearful shouts of ‘Schnake, schnake, me prighten for schnake!’ from a safe distance, then they would excitedly offer conflicting suggestions as to how Missus should proceed with its extermination. When they were sure it was dead—quite sure, after much prodding with long sticks—it was carried off for all to admire. ‘Look, look, Mighus bin killum schnake. Im proper cheeky pulla long schnake that un, Mighus’—which meant they believed I was unafraid of snakes, which was far from true.
I was a vigilant watcher for snakes and other dangerous wildlife, including centipedes and spiders, which is probably why I’m still living the life of a vigilant watcher and haven’t fallen prey.
I planted a big vegetable garden on the bank of the creek to supply us all with vegetables in the cooler months. From April to September was good gardening weather; after that nothing would flourish in the extreme dry heat, except the perennial sweet potato and a few hardy vines.
The creek bank was high above water; with no pump, serious thought had to be given to the problem of watering this ambitious project. The regular practice of two buckets on a yoke carried up by the Aboriginal workers each morning was hopelessly inadequate, barely enough for the kitchen.
Ken, ingenious as ever, constructed a shadoof—an age-old watering system used by the Ancient Egyptians, and a couple of thousand years later it worked just as well for us. The water was levered up by a bucket-like scoop attached to a long pole with a counterweight on the other end, and emptied into channels that ran between the raised beds. Our garden flourished.
It was that time of year again. The creek was drying back and the vegetable garden withering under the hot sun.
Christmas wasn’t far off. We wanted to improve on the previous year’s corned-beef dinner, so we made out a list and posted an order for fresh fruit and other appropriate Christmas fare to a grocer in Mount Isa. This was due to arrive with the mail plane at Borroloola. We drove to Borroloola in the old truck with the wonky gearbox and no doors on the cab—a slow, hot trip.
Early storms had made the country around Borroloola very wet and boggy. The ‘six-mile’ was a regular wet season hazard, but we had come to know the tricky detours along the hard ridges. Even when the country was a sea of rainwater, we could weave our way around the bad patches.
For some reason the mail plane was delayed, so we settled down beside the airstrip to wait. Storm clouds were building. Hours passed. We knew that if rain set in, the road would be a quagmire and another trip before Christmas would be out of the question, so we decided to wait another half-hour.
Just as we were about to leave empty-handed and disappointed, we heard the plane’s faint engine and there it was, a silver speck against a backdrop of black storm clouds.
Hurriedly we loaded, leaving just as the rain began in earnest. We cleared the six-mile, then set off along a dirt road that was disappearing fast under water. We kept carefully on the road—a fraction either side and we would have sunk in deep mud. We ploughed on, the water washing into the open cab.
Then Ken made a violent swing to the left and off the road. Down we went, sinking quickly, until the truck’s tray settled flat on the mud. In the fading light and looking across the floodwaters, Ken had realised at the last moment that the swirling whirlpool ahead was a deep creek crossing the submerged road. Without doubt we would have been swept away if he’d continued.
It was just on dark. We camped on the tray of the truck, surrounded by water, mud and mosquitoes. In the morning digging began.
Three days later, Ken’s hard work paid off. With a track of saplings and bushes under the wheels, the truck crawled slowly, slowly out. By this time Ken had worn the seat out of two pairs of trousers, while the Christmas tucker had all been eaten, right down to the last apple and the final nut.
Soon after Christmas, Ken made a horseback trip to Cresswell Downs for some wet season supplies. Rain set in with a steady downpour.
On New Year’s Eve I was woken in the night from a vivid dream of being attacked with red-hot pincers to find an outsized yellow and black centipede attached to my upper arm.
Next morning, with a mammoth throbbing arm and a raging headache, I consoled myself with the thought that there were probably a good many people around the country this New Year’s Day with as bad a headache as mine, but happily for them for much more cheerful, festive and less painful reasons.
Ken arrived back in torrential rain. I heard the familiar clink of spurs, the pad of hooves and soft snort of horses I was always alert to. I acquired an unerring ear for this sound over the years; when men were overdue or stock boys hadn’t shown up, this was the sound to await, and it could infiltrate my deepest sleep.
Ken had left Cresswell at 4 a.m. and arrived at 2 the following morning. Travelling alone, he’d ridden about 130 kilometres straight through, in continuous heavy rain, over deep bog and creeks all up, with two riding horses and two pack mules loaded with two 30-kilogram bags of sugar, four 20-kilogram bags of flou
r, swag and sundry items. Not a bad effort by anyone’s reasoning.
Soon after his return from Cresswell, Ken took off alone through bush for Eastern Creek on the Limmen River to meet up with Aboriginal stock boys mustering our Limmen property.
Wet season work out bush was pretty near impossible by motor vehicle and damned hard work on horseback. Ken departed with two riding horses, two bull-catching dogs and his big pack mules, Quid and Barramundi. It was slow travelling, scorching heat, oppressive humidity and long stretches of deep bog.
It wasn’t too long before the dogs were unable to keep going, so he strapped them on top of the loaded mules, which were soon down belly-deep. Toiling back and forth in thigh-deep mud, he unpacked the mules, cut long saplings to help lever them out, then moved on through swampy ti-tree flats and further problems.
This is one of the many memories that surface years later, when you’re settled in a dry camp and look out onto the wet saturating the country into mud.
CHAPTER 45
New Additions
At Top Springs we acquired our first real pet together, a brolga chick.
The brolga is of the crane family, with the crane’s long supple neck and awkward legs, and has the most beautiful sliver-grey plumage. Known in the bush as ‘the native companion’, the brolga is as loyal a pet as any dog. He dances most elegantly at mating time, with his great wings outstretched and long neck bowed in a graceful pas de deux with his partner.
As a small child I had a brolga as a pet, who was a bit of a nuisance, in my father’s tool shed. One day he swallowed a small shiny spanner, which had to be removed by working the obvious bulge back up along the length of his swan-like neck.
At McArthur River, our brolga chick was brought in by the Aboriginals and presented with some ceremony. I made no enquiries as to how they had acquired him—sometimes these things were best left unasked. He was instantly a devoted pet and had free run of the station, settling in as to the homestead-born.
We just called him Brolga. He would settle down beside me with contented chortlings and trills. If I moved away, he moved too, unfolding his long legs, laboriously and awkwardly rising, then following along in his stiff strutting gait. Lying in a swag, I would open my eyes to find his long beak inches away. Satisfied I was aware of him, he’d fluff his feathers and gently settle on my chest, quite content to be part of the gathered company, even if it was asleep.
He was an avid gardener’s mate, bossily striding about while plucking out plants he thought best removed and neatly laying them down by their beds. The removal of a long bed of tomato seedlings, which he tidily placed in a line, was his undoing—he was banished from the garden.
When the lubras and I were gardening, he would glide over with his great wings spread—landing gear at the ready—and hover for a moment, just to tease, then plop down outside the fence and stride furiously up and down, head bent, clucking angrily to himself. He looked exactly like an irate schoolmaster striding about with his hands behind his back. The lubras would say, ‘Him proper coola that un, him swearin’ belong to we.’
Brolga particularly liked settling down in a water dish, such as the dogs’ drinking bowl, in which he regularly washed his food, swishing it around and leaving bits to float about. He also liked to sit his big body in the basin that held soaking leather.
Every day he went with the lubras to the waterhole and fluffed his feathers in the shallows. On the walk back they draped their towels across his back and he strode along trilling happily to himself.
He was king of our animal realm—no dog dared defy him.
My first pregnancy was a period of prolonged misery. It was during the hottest time of year; temperatures were in the 40 degrees without a fan or even a cool breeze to enjoy. We had no generator, only carbide light, but we did have our kerosene-operated refrigerator, for which I was especially grateful.
Morning sickness became an all-day condition and so I was rarely vertical, my nose everlastingly buried in an old enamel basin; even today I recall the pattern on its chipped interior. Cresswell Downs was generous with station supplies and we had a well-stocked storeroom of canned goods, but there was little I could manage to eat.
Ken became quite desperate about my inability to keep food down. After some discussion and thought—reluctant, as food wasn’t my favourite topic then—I told him that I could maybe eat an orange.
Ken left for Mount Isa to purchase a case of oranges, involving a round trip of some 2000 kilometres, most of it on dirt roads. It was one hell of a trek for oranges, but they got me through long, hot months of continuing illness.
I never did get to see a doctor. Around eight months into the pregnancy, I thought I’d better track south or Alice would be sharpening her bush knife for the big event—or, even worse, Ken’s veterinary skills would be called upon.
At the height of a sweltering wet season, clutching strong paper bags and a water bottle, I boarded the mail plane at Mallapunyah airstrip and flew off in a haze of biliousness, little caring if the plane got there or not.
It didn’t! Engine trouble forced us down at Borroloola, and I staggered off and sat in the shade of a tree at the edge of the airstrip.
After some time I was told, ‘Sorry, no plane till tomorrow. You’re staying overnight with the Festings.’
Tas and Pat Festing had taken over the Aboriginal Welfare post from Ted and Nettie Harvey, and they made me welcome for the night. In years to come, Pat became a very good friend. She had six children and never suffered a moment’s indisposition in their production; in fact, she breezily told me that with the birth of her last baby, she’d walked back from the labour ward smoking a cigarette—now that was fortitude way beyond any effort I was able to muster.
Next day I headed down to the big city hospital in Brisbane. Ken arrived later, just prior to the baby’s arrival. In those days a man wasn’t permitted in the delivery room, his presence considered bothersome, so he remained at home or in a hospital waiting room.
I have never held with the penchant of women writers who give intimately detailed descriptions of their obstetrical ventures. I cannot think this makes riveting reading, however vividly presented. Suffice it to say, after 36 hours in a labour ward, I emerged with both a daughter and the enduring belief that when a medical person tells you ‘birth is a perfectly natural procedure, nothing to it’ they are wilfully lying and are absolutely not to be believed.
Our daughter Dominique arrived with everything in its right place, all in good working order, perfect in every way. Her father announced to all those interested—or otherwise—that he had a filly foal, and in true male fashion took full credit for the whole thing.
When the stock camp was in, the Aboriginal boys and lubras went bush for a day to bag a goanna or kangaroo and keep their hunting skills honed.
Our dog Murphy—the end product of many bloodlines, with bulldog predominating—was sometimes taken along to assist in the hunt. Murphy wasn’t fast, but with prey well in hand he was a killer: almost anything within his great jaws was dispatched with a few shakes of his bulldog head.
One Sunday Big Tom returned home early, in high excitement, to tell me the tale of Murphy’s unfortunate involvement with a big wallaroo. The dog had taken the scent and, master hunter that he was, headed off with as much speed as a bulldog can muster.
The wallaroo made straight for the waterhole and Murphy splashed in bravely after him. They met in midstream, where the old dog was promptly enfolded in the wallaroo’s strong embrace and nonchalantly held under water. There was no question of the outcome without assistance. Killer of many kangaroos, the old fella had bitten into more than he had a hope of chewing.
Big Tom, seeing his main hunting offsider was going down fast, and no doubt mindful of the explaining he’d have to do to the dog’s owner in the event of a lone return, leaped to the rescue and brought Murphy to the creek bank. Tom’s explanation to me went thus: ‘Poor bugger Murpie, he bin jus bout nearly pinish. I bin proper prighten
for that old pulla dog, that big kunghru he bin jus nearly drownded im. I bin fetch im art, pump-im, pump-im, water bin come art long time.’ Murphy had been saved to hunt another day.
With his crumpled old bulldog face drooping miserably, Murphy stood by, damp and dejected, listening to this unflattering dissertation of his hunting misjudgement.
In one of her sometimes misguided acts of generosity, my mother presented us with a borzoi—a Russian wolfhound—believing its reputation as a killer of wolves would make it a perfect bush dog. Nothing like the borzoi had ever been seen in that part of Australia.
The dog was narrower than a greyhound and she stood higher than my waist. We didn’t give her a real name—she was just ‘the Russian’. Aloof and elegant, she would have been more at home gracing the pages of Vogue magazine with an equally haughty fashion model than scruffing about in a stock camp. Nevertheless, her flowing, silky coat soon roughed up, and she became a regular bush dog, well able to hold her own in confrontation with the less noble canines.
On the opposite side of the world, the Russian’s ancestors would have followed Cossack horsemen across the snowy steppes. This heritage prevailed, as she found it no effort to lope steadily along for miles behind Ken’s horse.
It soon became apparent, however, that a Cossack’s dog wouldn’t have been required to swim in the icy waters of Russia. The Russian couldn’t swim an inch, but in hot weather she splashed fearlessly into our deep waterhole to cool off—then came the slow sink, her hind legs going first, the rest gradually following until her long sharp nose and splashing paws were all that was visible.
With no sign of panic, she re-enacted her drowning on a regular basis; possibly she considered near-drowning the hazard of going for a cool swim. Luckily one of the lubras was always around to rescue this ‘proper myall dog’.
Daughter of the Territory Page 25
