Our stock boys were not as sophisticated as their tribespeople from the big stations on the tablelands. They’d never been out of Borroloola, so they’d never been to a race meeting and were naive in its specifics. They did not take losing a race lightly and felt it a personal slight if the Bauhinia colours weren’t first past the post. In the festive atmosphere of race day they wore their new green shirts and white moleskin trousers with a sense of importance and belonging—they were the Bauhinia Boys and all should know it.
Dandy Jack won the cup that day and Ken won the Stockman’s Race, which in tonier climes was known as the Gentlemen Riders’ Race—not a title appropriate for a race in Borroloola in the 1960s. We were not without gentlemen, of course; it was just that the title had too pompous an air to it.
Every bush race meeting in those days ran a Blackfellas’ Race for Aboriginal stockmen. They were welcome to ride in other races, and did, but they would tell you this race was for blackfella only, did not permit whitefella. Roy won on a brown gelding, Christopher, and was lavished with praise and a prize.
Dominique and Kurt were wildly excited when Fanny rode in the Ladies’ Race. She competed against the white Missuses, who were all good riders, and beat the lot. She’d insisted on wearing her dress over the top of her riding trousers—she may have been a modest dresser, but she could ride, could our Fan.
Trophies were presented on the track. I hung my new hat carefully in camp. In the morning it bore evidence that birds—big birds—had roosted above, so it was tossed in the fire with other party debris.
Amusing stories emerge out of the hectic days of bush races, which are retold for months. Our stock boys in their Bauhinia colours had, with some cockiness, caused a fist fight with visiting lads. During the battle their green shirts suffered terrible damage. Ruska appeared with one remaining sleeve attached to a primly buttoned collar and was thoroughly pleased with his first race meeting.
The Borroloola races soon became a popular annual event. The Territory administrator attended one year, spending the night with us at Bauhinia. He arrived, driven by his chauffeur, about 60 years after Administrator Gilruth and his chauffeur had made the trip to Erekini Springs.
We had delayed sending Dominique to boarding school for too long, and at the beginning of her eighth year she went off to Queensland—with no great enthusiasm, I might say. The vision of her standing in the rain in her yellow raincoat and sou’wester hat, waving a tearful goodbye, is one of those painful moments that remain with me, as I’m sure it did for all bush mothers.
We all missed her, and Fanny’s reproachful, ‘When Dominie coming home?’ at least once a week did nothing to help.
Pat Festing’s six children and others from the surrounding district also went to boarding schools. At the end of their school holidays, a despondent group of children would gather on the Borroloola airstrip.
Dominique and Kerry, the youngest Festing daughter, once made a valiant effort to return home. When the plane landed at Wollogorang Station—the first touchdown out of Borroloola—they spotted the familiar face of a huge Aboriginal man, somewhat facetiously named Big Splinter, on the airstrip. Recognising him from Borroloola, they regaled him with an improbable story about their baggage having been left behind and it being imperative they return home.
Splinter was all for driving his compatriots to their home country and was fussily preparing to take them in his vehicle when the pilot nipped escape firmly in the bud with a ‘Nice try, girls.’ Splinter was much disturbed to see their tearful little faces at the window of the departing plane and was never quite sure he’d done the right thing in not making off with them in a rescue bid.
Whenever I drove into Borroloola I would hope Splinter wasn’t around the store, because if he saw me he would hover outside, awaiting my appearance, then rush off to my car, open the door wide, and stand there stiff and attentive with his big bare feet and dusty old singlet, like a doorman at a posh hotel. It might be that I wasn’t yet ready to leave, but such attention couldn’t be ignored and I had to enter the car like royalty. I would drive up the road a way, or to the Festings’ house, only to return later when Splinter was not to be seen.
The last time I saw Big Splinter was in the company of the Borroloola policeman, who was making a social call into Bauhinia on his way through to Darwin. Splinter was under arrest for biting a man’s nose off in a fight. We had a chat, I gave him some food, and he waved cheerily as they drove off.
CHAPTER 57
A Bush Christmas
Bush Christmases had always come soaked in monsoonal rain, searingly hot in the midst of parched aridity, or just poised between storms with nothing to whinge about other than how hot it was, because it always was.
Chinese station cooks had been the order of the early days, presiding with keen authority in many kitchens. Station cooks were well aware of their value—a good cook was hard to replace and you didn’t wander carelessly into his domain. Food was prepared in steamy kitchens on huge woodstoves, with no refrigeration.
At Christmas, quantities of liquor were set out under wet bags to cool in the breeze. Way out bush in camp, a bottle of Christmas beer could be suspended on a string in a waterhole to cool, and no one complained. A plum pudding turned out of a camp oven was jolly good tucker.
With the advent of cold-rooms and freezers, ceiling fans and gas ovens, everything changed—for the better, of course.
One early Christmas on Bauhinia, in our first little house, Santa Claus was expected in spite of torrential rain. Amid high excitement, pillowcases were hung at the foot of each child’s bed in readiness.
A small glass of sherry was placed within easy reach to lift the big man’s spirits after a boggy journey, and soggy grass was cut and left as a sustaining snack for his hard-travelling reindeers. With the bush child’s knowledge of such things, it was decided there was no need for a water dish this year; the gilgais and billabongs were full, so a reindeer could find a drink easily enough.
Everything was ready; expectations were high.
Early in the evening, in pouring rain, Ken drove out in the Blitz to Billingarra Creek, now running a banker with floodwater, to await the arrival across the creek of two crocodile shooters, John Jamieson and Ted Dixon, who were to spend Christmas with us. Santa’s delivery depended on them returning in time to retrieve his gifts, hidden high in the rafters of our house—I had no way of climbing up there. Ken settled down in the truck to wait.
The next morning it was almost daylight and not a reindeer in sight. Santa’s non-arrival would be a tragic disappointment for two small children. Although usually they were no more than a few days’ horseback ride from Borroloola and the companionship of other kids, they were a world away in our small bush house in the isolation of the wet season.
I paced about in a fever of nervous impatience, tossing down Santa’s sherry to ease my edginess—although an empty sherry glass would present a poor image of a Santa who bore no gifts, just scoffed the booze and rode on.
Meanwhile, back at flooded Billingarra Creek, Ken swam across to help Ted, who couldn’t swim. Halfway over, amid swirling debris, Ted became agitated and was disinclined to continue. It wasn’t fear of drowning that caused his panic, but with a wet and slippery grasp on his rum bottle it was going, going, gone. The bottle was swept way downstream, perhaps even to the Limmen River.
The men returned just on daylight and the last pillowcase was settled in place—Santa reigned.
We always made a great occasion of Christmas. Like most parents, we devoted our efforts toward a festive family occasion. Newcomers to the district or those with nowhere to spend Christmas Day were gathered into our fold; we welcomed all those who fell under the label ‘strays’ to Christmas dinner.
Ken was keen to introduce Brahma blood into our shorthorn cattle. Though not generally popular at that time, Brahma were resistant to tick and a hardy breed for the tropics. At the first ever bull sale held in Mount Isa, Ken bought nine stud Brahma bulls—hug
e, sleek beasts with great humps on their shoulders.
Within a few years Brahma were much in demand; they were fast overtaking the old shorthorn breed in the Territory. With good seasons, calves proliferated with distinctive Brahma characteristics. However, good seasons came and went even in this country of monsoonal rain.
One year, Christmas had passed but the rains held off and the country was as parched as we had ever seen it. Clouds built; the air was hot and still with the expectancy of a storm. Away to the north, sheet lightning flashed like the distant flare of a searchlight; thunder thumped fists on clouds, beseeching them to open. We waited, hands outstretched, gazing mindlessly skyward, anticipating the first fat raindrop that precedes a downpour.
Then the clouds blew away to the horizon, with any hope of rain—gone!
In cities of the south, a newspaper might carry a single line: ‘Drought threatens northern cattle country.’ Who reads this and cares in a city where a clear day with no rain is a joy and lifts the spirits? For us paddocks got so bare it was hard to remember them green with feed. The cattle grew weak and listless, many dying in bare paddocks or bogged deep in mud of receding waterholes, too weak to free themselves and sucked deeper with every movement.
Dingoes thrived on the surrounding misery, growing fatter and more lustrous than you could ever expect to see a wild bush dog. This was their brief time to prosper, while all else suffered; the bush wasn’t always so generous to the hungry dingo. Why else would bushmen refer to a meagre meal as a ‘dingo’s breakfast’, which they would tell you was a ‘piddle and a look around’?
Still the sun scorched brazenly down. In the dry, hot air, small birds dropped exhausted from above; lizards panted, heads held high, throats pulsating furiously; dogs made a beeline for the creek, skittishly lifting their feet high over the hot stony earth—then with blissful relief, like a woman taking her corset off, they eased themselves into the cool water.
Out on the run, the sun glared from a sky as hard and blue as the steel of a gun barrel: poised, hopeful, yet unable to find a beast fat enough to kill for beef. Instead the shots from the rifle mercifully disposed of the weak and dying.
On the plain, mirage clothed the seared country with a glittering expanse—heaven’s daydream, they called it. Dust-devils ran in spirals across the baked earth. Hard-working cattlemen would say to you, ‘No cattle for sale this year. Too dry, can’t say what we’ll do if it don’t rain,’ and from under their wide-brimmed hats sweat ran in thin rivulets down dusty faces. When grass shrivelled and he saw his stock dying, a cattleman’s spirit would shrivel up with it.
Drought didn’t affect the flow of Erekini—the water gushed up as freely as ever. But without rain there was no grass and no feed for starving stock. With nothing to tell of rain, one way or another, we just looked at the sky and hung on the promise of every small cloud.
This was walkabout time for our Aboriginal staff, and they’d all gone to Borroloola. The children were still home on school holidays.
We first smelled the smoke, then saw billowing black clouds rise high in the sky, thick with debris, dust and burned leaves. Dozens of hawks circled above, on the watch for small game in the bushfire’s wake. The sky darkened out beyond the paddock.
Ken left in the truck to take a look and soon returned, calling, ‘Everyone needed, be quick about it.’ We rushed around gathering bags and water, then headed off at top speed.
Through most of the night we worked against the fire in tinder-dry country. The children were very young but they were able to beat along the brown grassy edges of the road with green bushes. Using back burning, we prevented the fire leaping the road, which was about all we could do by then.
On the blackened earth there was powdery smoking ash and scattered burning logs. The greatest risk were the smouldering holes where trees had burned deep down into their roots, the surface deceptively sound, flat grey ash; one step onto this powder and down you could go, waist deep into a pit of red-hot coals. I kept calling to the children to keep back along the road’s edge.
It was a long night, with most of the hard work done by Ken, who rushed from one flaming patch to another and was well singed for it. He and I returned to the road to find our two exhausted children sound asleep on the bare ground beside the truck. My shoes had burned through the soles, we were soot-blackened and smelled of singed hair, and we coughed for hours. There was ugly scorched country all around, but we hadn’t done a bad job together.
After a long dry season with bushfires and dwindling stock feed came the first heavy shower—drops we’d longed for, which pelted down with gathering force. We stood outside and let the rain soak into our very bones, while the children ran about slithering in the mud, screaming with delight.
It then rained for 29 days straight.
Our bulldozer, left out on the run, went completely under water; stock drowned; heavy with debris, fences collapsed; stores could not get through; and anything damp in the warm humid air became fly-blown—even dry salted beef was fly-blown. Drenched, unhappy fowls clustered on high perches.
Aboriginals sat under the iron verandah roofs and stared contentedly out at the rain, chewing wannoo or smoking their pipes. They boasted of the rainmaker’s success with his rain stones—usually brought out to work their magic when scurrying ants had been observed and heavy clouds looked ready to discharge their load.
We sailed in our tin dinghy across paddocks usually dry and grassy, crossing roads where dusty wheel tracks were drowned deep.
Our truck, returning from town loaded with stores, had to be abandoned out on the main road—too boggy. The country became so saturated that a heavy footstep here would cause the ground to quiver way over there, like a huge jelly. The truck remained out on the main road for three months.
Around the station, the pervading smell was of musty damp, wet saddle cloths, blankets, swags, sour drying mud, wet dogs—everywhere wet dogs.
I woke early one morning to a strange silence. The rain had stopped. I watched as a pale pink and grey line of daybreak under cloud eased apart to reveal a lone star shimmering, shaking the water from itself.
The wet, the real wet, was over. But the roads took ages to dry out and the children missed the entire first term of school.
CHAPTER 58
Working on Bauhinia Downs
I once had a gardener whose name was Syd. He was a rather special little fella—a tireless worker who would take up any work, no matter how difficult. I never, ever heard him complain about anything.
Syd was a skilled survivor or, in bush parlance, a tough little bastard. He’d fought in the Australian army in the Second World War, and when Crete fell was taken prisoner and spent four grindingly awful years of privation and freezing winters behind barbed wire in a German prison camp.
After Syd was released from the army, he lived for a time in a city boarding house opposite the botanical gardens. A pool with lilies and waterfowl lay close to the entrance, and the ducks there lived a precarious existence with Syd nearby. His hunting inclinations were always close to the surface, so with fine fat ducks of all description waddling about among the water hyacinths, Syd was wont to wander over there, a bag over his shoulder, to admire the botanical wonders.
In his small room in the boarding house, this ex-soldier fresh from the prison camps in Germany dined quite spectacularly, with a gourmet’s appreciation, on exotic poultry.
Years later, even in a tropical climate he seemed never to have recovered from those four bleak years of extreme cold, with frost coating the inner walls of the prison huts and only one blanket issued to last through all that time. Like a man who has suffered starvation and takes a cache of food with him everywhere, Syd was rarely without a warm coat, and each year purchased a new one.
One year when the stock camp returned after walkabout, Willie and Kathleen joined our staff.
Willie was very tall, had a bushy white moustache, and bore the stern air of an authoritarian schoolmaster. He wasn’t a stockm
an; he’d worked in the garage of Anthony Lagoon Station, and knew the workings of motors and machinery.
Kathleen was a plump, pretty middle-aged woman with a shy, sweet smile, and she worked in the house with Alice, Minnie and Fanny. I became very fond of Kathleenea, as I called her, and it amused Ken no end that when Kathleen shyly presented me with a flower from the garden, she usually departed the house with a generous supply of small treats.
My mother sent parcels to the station containing all sorts of things for the girls—jewellery and watches, handbags, clothes—from both her travels and her fashion-conscious city friends. The girls just loved it when the station mailbag was opened to reveal their parcels. Dresses were the most popular, and it was a sight to see the lubras setting off for a day’s hunt with billy-cans, dilly bags, yam sticks on shoulder, splendidly decked out in designer cocktail dresses awash with beading and aglitter with sequins.
Years earlier, in Borroloola, Kathleen had a romantic liaison with an Irishman who worked in the old pub before it fell into ruin. He had long since died, but had fathered a son with Kathleen who, because of his European heritage, was taken from the camp and into care, as was usual then.
Kathleen’s son became a successful businessman and married a white woman, which would have been quite improbable in the past. He once contacted Ken to ask if he could bring Kathleen into Borroloola to see him, as he was passing through the town, and of course Ken did.
Kathleen hadn’t seen her son in years and barely knew him, so the visit was quite exciting for her and they spent the day together. Returning to the station, Ken asked her, ‘How was this meeting with your son?’ Kathleen assured him they had talked and he had given her 10 shillings.
He never came again in the years Kathleen was with us. Doubtless the gap in their lives had become too wide for her to deal with the reality of a white daughter-in-law; to her, a white woman had always been a ‘Missus’. And for the young man, a black, barefoot, shy and uneducated mother, with little English, unable to adjust to separation from the tribe, would surely prove untenable, so there was never a suggestion of a change in their association.
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