An Outback Nurse Page 11

  On very hot nights, the Launching Pad was the ideal place to sit and have an evening drink, or to sleep on steel folding beds that we kept handy. One night several years later, we decided to sleep out as it was oppressively hot. Ralph was inside doing some paperwork. I was reading in my bed on the Launching Pad and the boys were jumping up and down on mattresses.

  I felt the whole Pad suddenly start to shake.

  Earthquake! Grab the children! How can I grab three children at once?!

  Pictures came vividly to my mind of this monolith collapsing with us on top.

  Abruptly, it was over and all was still.

  I raced in to tell Ralph of our horrible experience, but he’d felt nothing. The following morning we heard on the radio that the town of Merredin in Western Australia, over three thousand kilometres away, had experienced a magnitude 6.5 earthquake, and tremors from a northern fault line had been felt all the way to the Kimberley.

  Ralph took much pride in anything he did. He was highly conscientious and an excellent manager, and had a wonderful knack of being able to work men very well. The Aboriginal residents all loved him. He spoke to them in their language, which he learnt rapidly.

  Aside from us, the white staff at Gordon Downs were two jackaroos, Colin and Mike, and a bore mechanic, Des Peterson. The bookkeeper/storekeeper, Des O’Donahue, and his wife, Dulcie, lived in a cottage next door to our house and looked after themselves.

  Having taken on Gordon Downs, we’d also taken on the care of Janice, a lovely half-caste girl who had been brought out of the camp by Stan and Mary some years before. Janice lived in the homestead and spent every school term in Derby, seven hundred kilometres away on the West Australian coast. Derby is a cattle-shipping port where the jetties are ten metres high due to tide rises; there are mudflats, crocodiles and mosquitoes in abundance. After her schooling, Janice married Des Peterson, and now lives in the small town of Fitzroy Crossing.

  At the beginning of each school term, Father Maguire, the Balgo mission administrator, would drive from Balgo—approximately 250 kilometres north—to the station to pick up Aboriginal children aged between nine and fifteen; there would have been fifteen to twenty of them. They went to school at Balgo for the whole term. More than two hundred Aboriginal people had come in from the Great Sandy Desert to live in this Catholic mission, established in 1939.

  Our dear friends Nora and John Kirsh, whom we met when they came to Balgo, gave two years as volunteers to assist Father Maguire. They returned to Balgo Mission for another five years—John taking on the job of cattle manager—and then they and their nine children ended up on their own property in Queensland.

  Father Maguire always arrived at Gordon Downs with a bottle of Scotch, which he loved—and we loved listening to his yarns. After a day or two at the station, he’d take the children back to Balgo. The kids looked forward to returning to school with Father. The parents didn’t seem to mind, either!

  Father Maguire had been brought up on a dairy farm in Victoria; he joined the army until he was kicked out for causing a strike over poor-quality food. He then became a priest, doing his studies in Rome. He loved horses and used well-known sires to breed his own thoroughbreds.

  When the ‘walkabout’ disease affected many stations in the area, Father Maguire supplied Kimberley stations with Balgobred horses. Walkabout or Kimberley horse disease affects horses that graze on the genus Crotalaria, commonly known as rattlepods. The plant contains poisonous substances that damage the liver. Affected horses appear to be blind and wander aimlessly, bumping into objects, hence the name ‘walkabout’. They rarely survive this debilitating disease.

  33

  Me Missus Cook

  Eager to improve my culinary skills, and not very impressed with our station cook, I told Ralph my intention of doing the cooking myself. ‘Managers’ wives have never been allowed to cook on the stations,’ he replied.

  What a lot of hogwash, I thought, so I wrote to Peter Morris. I stated that I wished to cook for my family, and that to cook for three others—the bore mechanic and two jackaroos—would be a delight. Hence, I got the job of cook at Gordon Downs

  My cooking bible was still Mrs Beeton’s, although the last time I’d used it extensively was when Ralph and I were first married. Inexperience and fancy recipes didn’t mix. ‘Please, can we just have plain steak?’ he would beseech me. I decided I was going to become a first-rate cook at Gordon Downs, but still to this day haven’t got there.

  Three girls worked in the kitchen; Topsy cooked the corn beef, Polly did the washing up and Tamarin cooked the bread. My mother-in-law, Cudge, had given me some advice: ‘Never learn to make bread.’ Good advice, as we needed ten loaves a day at Gordon to feed the troops, and Tamarin did a great job.

  Topsy was the best corn beef cook ever, especially of brisket. Under a large mulga tree not far from the kitchen, a pot of boiling water sat over a campfire. The salted beef would be taken from the meat house, rinsed off, and thrown into the water with a handful of ‘Quickqurit’, a curing salt which puts the pink colour into the beef. The meat simmered until tender, was tested with a fork and then pulled out, ready to taste. It would literally melt in your mouth. Delicious!

  My lunch menu always included corn beef, thus several frequent visitors referred to me as the ‘Corn Beef Queen’. I used to think that if I ever moved back to Sydney, I’d open a cafe near David Jones in Market Street and serve fresh corn beef, on fresh crusty bread, with a dill pickle on the side. I would make a fortune.

  While I was busy cooking, my house girls, Sarah and Larrikin, would wash and dress my children, take them down to the dining room for meals and play with them, but Ralph or I was always there when they went swimming.

  The boys learnt to swim at Gordon in a 4000-litre, cement-lined tank behind the vegetable garden. It was a little over a metre deep, so my little boys had to hang on to the sides until they learnt to keep themselves afloat. We’d go out swimming nearly every day in the hot weather.

  The furniture upstairs in our private lounge room was fairly limited, so Ralph and Des Peterson set out to make a couple of lounge chairs of welded steel and timber. I requested flat wooden arms to put an ashtray on, as we all smoked in those days. The result was two very comfortable chairs in our lounge.

  Des and Ralph also made a cart for Dasher to pull, although sometimes Ralph would bring up one of the goats to pull it instead. I’d get in with the children on those occasions, just in case they went too fast, but the faster the better as far as the boys were concerned—they loved it!

  34

  Opening night in London’s West End?

  Many people who came to Vestey properties were guests of the company. One was Keith Michell, the Shakespearian actor, film star and artist. He visited Wave Hill and was then given a lift to Gordon Downs by Graham Johnson, the droving overseer, who brought him in his truck.

  When they were about halfway, Keith said, ‘Excuse me, old chap, do you mind if I sit on the back? I wouldn’t mind getting a suntan while I’m here.’ To protect his lips he covered them with lipstick—well, he’s an actor after all.

  Who should come along but Graham Fulcher, whom I’d met at my first Negri with his then fiancée, Robyn. He was on his way to Wave Hill from Kirkimbie Station, which he and Robyn were now managing.

  ‘Where’s this famous film star?’ bellowed Graham Fulcher peering into the front of the vehicle.

  Just then this apparition, stripped to the waist, jumped up from the back of the truck where he’d been lying on a towel. They greeted one another cordially then Keith made himself comfortable again reclining in the sun.

  At Gordon Downs, Keith enjoyed every aspect of the station. He went out to the stock camp to meet and observe the Aboriginals and had long discussions with Ralph about their culture.

  Keith is an artist and drew excellent sketches of us all, calling Ralph’s portrait The Missing Link. He also decided to write a play based on Aboriginal people in the Outback. Ralph, with his
vast knowledge of Aboriginal culture and his ability to understand many of their languages, was appointed as Keith’s chief adviser. Keith and Ralph spent many hours discussing various aspects of this play. We were told that should it be a success, Ralph and I would be flying from Australia to London’s West End to attend opening night.

  Wow! That sounded exciting. What would we wear? Where would we stay—the Dorchester, the Savoy or the Ritz? Who would we meet?

  Keith stayed for about ten days, and we did hear from him several times after he returned to London, but never about the play. However, an invitation arrived for Keith’s art exhibition, in which he had paintings of a corroboree performed by the Aboriginal people who lived at Gordon Downs.

  Did we think of going? No, not really. It was a busy time for us in the middle of the dry season, and we were expecting our third child, so it could have been a little difficult. But Keith’s whole visit had been a lot of fun, especially when we’d been thinking about that opening night. It was a thrill to receive the invitation.

  35

  Halls Creek

  Everyone knew everyone in the Outback—if you hadn’t met someone, you’d hear all about them and eventually meet.

  In 1965, an invitation came to Gordon Downs asking me and Ralph to attend the wedding of Tom Quilty’s son Basil to Leslie Elliot, a Sydney girl who was the governess at Inverway Station, neighbouring Wave Hill.

  Tom, a pioneering pastoralist, poet and outstanding cattleman, together with his wife, Olive, lived at Springvale Station. The annual Tom Quilty Gold Cup Endurance Ride was instigated by R.M. Williams after Tom donated a gold cup as a perpetual trophy; this ride is considered the pinnacle of endurance riding in Australia. The whole Quilty family had properties in the Kimberley: Mick and Edna on Landsdowne, Cherry and Mick on Ruby Plains, and soon-to-be-wed Basil and Leslie on Bedford Downs, out of Halls Creek. The ceremony was to be held at Hall’s Creek, 130 kilometres from us over a pretty rough road.

  I was about twenty-eight weeks pregnant with my third child and really starting to show, so I made a dress of white linen with tucks down the front to disguise the tummy. As wigs were in that year, a black bouffant hairdo completed my outfit.

  The wedding took place in the beer garden of the hotel where we stayed, and the reception was at the Halls Creek town hall. A great time was had by all. Tom Quilty played the saw in the beer garden: the handle between his legs, the far end held with one hand, and his other hand drawing a bow across the back edge of the tool. It was pretty scratchy, but clever nonetheless.

  My brother-in-law Lynn Hayes ran around doing a survey, asking all the young ladies if women farted just like men. Cheeky devil!

  But by the third day I was anxious to get home, as I wasn’t feeling terribly well. On arriving back at the station, I called Sarah and Larrikin to bathe and feed Anthony and David while I went to bed. I started having abdominal pain and felt mildly nauseated. I must have overdone it, I thought. How stupid I was to have gone to the wedding. Too late now!

  In the meantime, Ralph presumed I was going into labour and sent Popeye the gardener down to the camp to warn the Aboriginal midwives, who probably came up to the homestead and sat around having a chat in the laundry, waiting for further directions from Boss Ralph. He kept tiptoeing into our bedroom and whispering, ‘You all right? How’re the tummy pains?’

  I had no idea that he was agonising over a possible delivery, because I knew I wasn’t in labour. Poor guy!

  The following morning, gazing into the mirror, I was shocked to see dull yellow eyes looking back at me. My urine had turned bright yellow. I knew then that I had hepatitis, a very contagious disease affecting the liver that causes jaundice, nausea, extreme fatigue and abdominal pain—and, in pregnancy, can lead to early delivery. One of the stockmen on Rosewood Station had contracted the disease some time ago. A month ago Ralph hadn’t been very well; I think he may have had it too, and that’s probably how I picked it up.

  As I hadn’t gone into labour, earlier that morning Ralph had decided to make a quick trip out to the stock camp. I sent a note over with one of my house girls to Des O’Donaghue, the bookkeeper/storekeeper, and asked him to contact the Royal Flying Doctor with all my signs and symptoms. Des quickly contacted the flying doctor base in Wyndham and a plane was dispatched immediately.

  ‘Sarah, Larrikin,’ I said, ‘you fella look after dat Anthony and Harji—’ a nickname that Anthony at the age of two had given David as a baby ‘—till Boss Ralph get back. Me gotta go hospital.’

  The hospital admitted me because of the risk of going into early labour, or so the doctor informed me when I reached Wyndham. Being infectious I had a room to myself. Meals were brought in, but no one wanted to take the trays away. I ended up with half the hospital’s crockery and cutlery! They kept me in hospital for a week, but I was feeling better and bored after one day.

  However, I felt incredibly weak once I returned home on the mail plane. I had to rely on my faithful house girls to look after the boys and the kitchen girls to do all the cooking. I’d wander up to the kitchen each morning to go through the menu for the day—then, exhausted, head back to bed. It took a few weeks before I was really well again. The girls were marvellous.

  36

  Number three arrives

  Having had so much trouble when David was born, I decided to go back to Crown Street Hospital and book Dr John MacBeth again for my third delivery.

  At thirty-two weeks I was ready to leave for Sydney. Ralph drove me in our Humber Super Snipe to Darwin Airport, while Gus and Pat Ringler looked after the boys. On the way home Ralph was about twenty kilometres from Nicholson Station when he noticed the temperature gauge high and smoke pouring from the engine. He just had time to jump out before the whole car burst into flames.

  Gus was starting to become concerned as to where Ralph had got to, because a message had come through on the radio from Wave Hill that he was leaving for Nicholson at 9 a.m. It was well into the afternoon and there was still no sign of him. Gus drove out on the road to Wave, only to find a miserable sight: Ralph sitting sadly beside the burnt-out remains of the his beloved Humber.

  Everyone surmised that Ralph had put a match to it for the insurance. He hadn’t, of course, but they liked to have a bit of fun and tease him about it. The site, near Yellow Waterhole, was later called ‘Ralph’s Folly’.

  After spending a few weeks with my mother in Wollongong, I went to Sydney to stay with my old overseas mates Jill Askew and Jennifer Fisher. I felt single again—except for a big bump! I loved going to opening nights of art exhibitions, seeing many plays and films, and dining out at delightful restaurants.

  Jason William Hayes was born on 21 July by caesarean section—a beautiful healthy baby. After Jason’s delivery I went to stay with my mother again, and three weeks later I was ready to return to Gordon Downs. But before I could make a booking, a telegram arrived from Ralph:

  Don’t return yet. Epidemic of gastro-enteritis in the Aboriginal camp. Babies have died.

  I wasn’t so worried about my two older boys: they were three-and-a-half and two years of age, and being strong, healthy children were not as susceptible to gastro as newborn babies. I knew they were in safe hands with Ralph and my faithful house girls.

  After waiting a few more weeks, I finally flew in to Gordon Downs with baby Jason. Ralph and the boys were besotted with him. We felt very blessed to have such a healthy child, especially when the three sick babies from the Aboriginal camp had died in Wyndham.

  The same week that I arrived back, the flying doctor flew in to our airstrip to return the three bereaved mothers. As soon as the plane landed, the women disembarked, raced over to the edge of the airstrip and proceeded to repeatedly bash their heads with rocks, which is their way of grieving for a loved one. Blood was spurting everywhere. Ralph sent the women back on the same plane to Wyndham for treatment.

  The terrible gastro infection struck the nursing sister’s baby at the Halls Creek hospital. The baby did
n’t survive the flight to Derby. We felt so lucky to have a healthy baby, and so sorry for those devastated mothers.

  I asked Popeye if he would make me a coolamon for Jason: a shallow wooden dish with curved sides, like a miniature canoe, a coolamon is used by Aboriginal women to carry fruit and nuts, as well as to cradle babies. Popeye did so, and I carried Jason around in it for quite some months; it was much cooler for the baby than being carried on my hip.

  Popeye also made a boomerang; a nulla-nulla, a heavy, carved hunting stick about a metre long; and a shield made of balsa wood with a depressed handle. All were painted with dots: red and white ones from the Vestey paint. I still have these precious artefacts today.

  We had a christening party for Jason. The priest came down from Wyndham, as that was our diocese in Western Australia. Heather and Rod Russell, the couple who’d married just before us, were now managing Sturt Creek about ninety kilometres south of us. I asked Heather and Milton—Ralph’s brother, who was visiting at the time—to be Jason’s godparents. Milton had come north for Lynn’s upcoming wedding to Patsy Collins, Anna and Cowboy’s daughter from Uralla Station near Wave; the wedding was to be in Katherine.

  We didn’t have a Negri race meeting for a few years, as the government resumed Ord River Station. The Ord produced the tenth-largest volume of water of any river in the world. It was resumed as part of an irrigation scheme built in stages during the twentieth century, producing Australia’s largest artificial lake.