An Outback Nurse Page 16

  51

  Christmas 1974

  When we first moved out to the new Wave Hill, we were asked by the Bureau of Meteorology to start a weather station. This was to be a completely self-contained, solar-powered unit, with wet and dry thermometers, a hygrometer for measuring relative humidity, a wind-speed propeller, a wind sock for direction, and a book of instructions plus pictures of the different cloud types. We were told the weather station was to be built on a site clear of trees and shrubs; the perfect site was across from the office, next to the last cottage.

  I volunteered to be the weather lady. Reading times were 6 a.m., 9 a.m., 3 p.m. and 3 a.m., and I sent the results on the two-way radio. I did the 3 a.m. readings for a couple of weeks and would take Dasher to the weather station with me. However, this encouraged every dog in Wave to come out barking, so I gave those readings away.

  *

  Darling Dasher had reached the ripe old age of fourteen years. He’d been suffering from arthritis and would get cranky when he was brushed, objecting to having the knots pulled out of his long white hair. The heat had never worried him but now he was becoming stressed frequently.

  The Katherine vet, on one of his regular visits, said, ‘When Dasher starts moaning at night, the time will have come to have him put down.’

  That’s what happened on the vet’s next visit. I cried for days. I felt the same as if I’d put down a family member. Dasher was a gorgeous dog.

  We bought a new puppy, Pluto, a bullmastiff cross Rhodesian ridgeback.

  At six in the morning on Christmas Day 1974, the weather was already hot and dry. With Pluto in tow, bouncing his large puppy body around me, I walked briskly to the weather station.

  Looking up at the sky, I noted the types of clouds—both ‘cirrus’, thin clouds scattered high across the sky, and ‘cumulus’, puffy clouds below six thousand feet. More clouds than usual. More rain coming, I thought. I opened the weather box to read the barometer and the wet and dry thermometers, then checked the wind sock before veering across the flat to the office and its radio transmitter.

  Letting myself in, I sat down at the desk, worked out the code for the weather report and turned on the transmitter. A lot of crackling followed. I picked up the microphone. ‘Eight Oscar Golf, Eight Oscar Golf, calling Darwin Meteorology. Eight Oscar Golf, calling Darwin Meteorology.’ Crackle, Crackle. ‘Where are you, Darwin? Eight Golf Oscar, 8OG, 8OG. Can you read? Can you read?’

  Probably too much partying last night, I thought. And to think I got up so early on Christmas morning!

  At about 11 a.m. we heard the news: the devastating Cyclone Tracy had hit Darwin. Tracy was a severe tropical cyclone with gale-force winds that killed seventy-one people and flattened seventy per cent of the town’s buildings, leaving many homeless.

  Imagine how I felt, having thought so badly of them. I remembered the weather I’d noticed that morning. Extra clouds, yes, but no inkling of a cyclone in the north—well, we were 800-odd kilometres away.

  Ralph and Gus went up to Darwin a few days later. Gus to check on damage to Vestey properties: their office downtown and the pastoral inspector’s house. Ralph to check on our investment three-bedroom house at Fannie Bay, which we’d bought a few years previously. It was a very good buy in a great suburb, with a timber and steel frame on stilts.

  The pastoral inspector and his wife, Ces and Dawn Watts, had sheltered in their bathroom on that terrible Christmas Eve, as their home at Bullocky Point had disintegrated around them.

  Ralph was pleased to find our Fannie Bay house intact except for a missing roof. He and Gus dropped their gear at the house and went off to register, as was required, with the Cyclone Committee. When they returned, all their gear and our whitegoods had gone. Stolen! There was a lot of thievery after the cyclone.

  We were very lucky with that house. After having the insurance company put on a new roof, we then sold it at an excellent price the following year.

  We weren’t strangers to extreme weather on Wave Hill, though had experienced nothing like Darwin’s cyclone. Some time after Cyclone Tracy, Ralph and the staff decided to hold a rodeo at Wave. It was to be on Boxing Day and Ralph invited all the neighbouring stations to join in.

  Jimmy Stretton was the cook and, as quite a few people had decided to come, he’d been left back at the homestead to prepare lunch. The bamboo blinds rattled, and rattled, and Jimmy wondered what was happening. He realised that the slight breeze had become a very strong wind that was getting stronger and stronger. He was thinking, It can’t be a storm on a beautiful day like this.

  Down at the yards the rest of the station folk, white and Aboriginal, were having a wonderful time, eskies in tow: some sitting on the roof of the shed; some on deckchairs on the back of the truck with brollies for shade; others perched on the rails. All were watching, with excitement, the bareback bronco riders performing.

  Suddenly, out of the clear sky appeared a huge dark cloud. At the same time, a ferocious wind with the force of a hurricane whipped across the yard, pushing the spectators off the roof and the people on chairs off the back of the truck. Everyone cowered in the shelter of the yard posts or under the vehicles.

  The tornado only lasted a few minutes, but was devastating in its narrow path. The school caravan was on its side with all the equipment wrecked. In the domestic quarters, an inner wall had collapsed. There were branches scattered everywhere with many trees uprooted.

  Thoughts of how Darwin had suffered during Cyclone Tracy made everyone think how lucky we were.

  52

  The Handover

  16 August 1975

  PROGRAM

  The Administrator of the Northern Territory, His Honour, Mr J.N. Nelson.

  The Minister for Aboriginal Affairs, the Honourable Les Johnson, M.P.

  Mr Roger Golding, General Manager, Angliss Group

  The Prime Minister of Australia, the Honourable Gough Whitlam, Q.C., M.P.

  Mr Vincent Lingiari representing Gurindji people

  Messages of Goodwill

  Luncheon including entertainment arranged by Gurindji people

  ‘Thea, go and save Margaret,’ uttered Roy Bell, the Vestey general manager.

  Behind us, at the rear of the elevated seating, we saw Margaret Whitlam, the prime minister’s wife, surrounded by Aboriginal women and children, all trying to catch her attention. They wanted to talk to this ‘Missus’ whose husband was about to return part of their land to them. Margaret seemed a little embarrassed at all the attention as she kept glancing at the program in her hand and then moved off to be with her husband.

  There was a sense of occasion, a deep feeling of a major event happening in Australia. We, the Vestey crowd—Roy Bell, Ces Watts, Mr Roger Golding as Lord Vestey’s representative, Ralph, me, Anthony and Penny—were sitting on the elevated seats awaiting the ceremony.

  There were about 350 people there, more Aboriginals than whites.

  This day was the culmination of years of what we at the cattle station called the ‘Experiment Wave Hill’. Daguragu had become like an anthropology campus at a university. In fact, uni students had come out and helped the Aboriginal residents build mudbrick houses and plant orange trees. Meanwhile, every aspect of the Gurindji people’s lives had been picked apart as if they were scientific exhibits.

  When we’d first arrived for the handover and strolled across from our vehicle, we met the nurse who had lived with the Gurindji people for part of their nine-year struggle. Ralph had only met her once before. She said to him, ‘Stop scowling, Ralph,’ but unbeknownst to her he often looked like that when he was serious.

  He ignored her and turned to a Sydney Morning Herald journalist who was hovering about, waiting for an interview. Ralph said to her, ‘Look around you and see what has been achieved in nine years for a few million dollars.’

  His brief interaction with the nurse and his comment to the journalist were duly published in the Sydney Morning Herald article about the handover.

  Pu
tting everything into context, it’s easy to recant—but this was the 1970s and at the time I supported what my husband said. I do think he could have been a little more circumspect with so many members of the metropolitan press around.

  After the walk-off, a lot of time and money had poured into Daguragu from all over Australia to help the Gurindji people. But it was not in the make-up of the Gurindji to be sedentary, to build houses and grow crops. They were a largely nomadic people. Ralph had a lot of time for the Aboriginal people, but he was worried that without continued guidance and support, the money would all be wasted.

  On the day of the handover, the country at Daguragu looked very tired. There were only a few spindly trees, and the main buildings were humpies in the background. The Australian flag flew beside a tarpaulin that was connected to an old corrugated lean-to. On top of the lean-to was a sign that read: ‘Gurindji Mining Lease and Cattle Station’.

  Aboriginal children and dogs were running through the lean-to, while Vincent Lingiari, Dexter Daniels and other tribal elders stood waiting for the important moment. Vincent looked old and weary, but he stood tall in his new shirt and jeans. Tables were set with paper plates and plastic cutlery for the barbecue to follow the ceremony. The Gurindji women were ready for their corroboree, and in deference to the occasion had put on bras instead of being topless.

  Not far from the lean-to, Prime Minister Gough Whitlam, the Minister for Aboriginal Affairs and other dignitaries all looked hot and uncomfortable in their business suits as they stood around waiting. Suddenly Margaret moved over to her husband and they entered the shade of the tarpaulin with the other VIPs.

  The Vestey representative Roger Golding stood in front of the microphone with Vincent to his right. He was the first to speak, promising four hundred head of cattle to mark the occasion and as a token of the company’s goodwill towards its neighbour. Vincent looked very pleased and I could see smiles from some of the Aboriginal people standing nearby.

  Then the prime minister came forward. He made a short speech about giving back ownership of the land, ‘1250 square miles’. Wave Hill had been leased land: the region given to the Gurindji was taken off the Vestey lease. The government paid for new fencing; and, as it was difficult to fence in and out of the river, they provided a block without river frontage and put down four or five bores.

  The deeds were then handed over as proof that this land now belonged to the Gurindji people. Gough Whitlam bent down, picked up a handful of sand and poured it into Vincent’s hand, saying that it was a sign of the restoration of the land to his people. Vincent looked quite overcome and hung his head, gazing down at the sand. Even the kids were quiet.

  Then Vincent, in his humble way, started chanting in Gurindji, talking to his people. Finally he said, ‘We are all right now. We all friendly. We are mates.’

  There was silence. Everyone was overcome by this most moving speech.

  Vincent Lingiari’s fight for his people’s rights made him a national figure, and in 1976 he was named a Member of the Order of Australia for his services to the Aboriginal people. His story is celebrated in the song ‘From Little Things Big Things Grow’, written by Paul Kelly and the Indigenous musician Kev Carmody.

  When I’d first come to Wave, on the wall in Tom Fisher’s office hung a brass Aboriginal breastplate, its inscription reading ‘JIMMY/KING of WAVE HILL’. It was crescent-shaped, flat in a vertical plane, with a chain attached at each apex.

  Breastplates were presented to Aboriginal people by Europeans from the earliest times of colonisation. Governments and pastoralists gave breastplates to the men and women they considered the leaders in an area. In this way they hoped to use Aboriginal leaders to control their own people.

  Before Tom retired, he presented Ralph with the Wave Hill breastplate. The name inscribed, ‘Jimmy’, refers to Vincent Lingiari’s grandfather, an elder of the Gurindji tribe in the early twentieth century. The breastplate was offered to Vincent before it was given to Ralph, but he declined it because of its association with the Vestey Group.

  This Aboriginal breastplate is now at the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory in Darwin.

  53

  Well-intentioned men

  The manager of Victoria River Downs Station in the 1960s told me that there were ninety thousand head of cattle on the property before World War II, then all the men went off to fight and the cattle had been out of hand ever since. ‘Micky’ bulls (young, uncastrated bulls) were everywhere. Helicopter mustering started in 1968 because a Mr Pat Shaw agreed to have a go. Yards were built, a helicopter purchased, and, slowly, aerial mustering grew.

  During the 1970s beef crash, stations were looking for cost-saving methods of mustering. Numbers of ex-Vietnam pilots were looking for flying jobs. Then the Brucellosis & Tuberculosis Eradication Campaign cranked up and all cattle had to be mustered.

  When helicopter mustering started at Wave Hill, not long after the handover, a company called Heli-Muster, run by John Weymouth, came to stay with its helicopters, pilots and engineers. Later John went to Delamere Station and was replaced by Tony Ferris, who came with his wife, Lisa, and their daughter, Erinca. Penny and Erinca became the best of friends and had lots of fun playing together.

  Ralph used to go out mustering with Tony every day, giving advice, and he was always ready with a gun in case of a rogue beast. One evening Lisa and I were still waiting for their return after the evening meal, which was unusual. We started to get worried that something serious had happened, when in they walked. Thank goodness! A small hiccough with the chopper.

  One day when our boys were due home for the Christmas holidays and I was preparing to drive in to Katherine and pick them up, Tony said, ‘Thea, I can fly you to Katherine, pick up the boys and bring them home.’

  I thought that sounded wonderful.

  The Sydney plane didn’t get in till 5 p.m., and it was running late. The boys had a large suitcase each; as it was the end of the year, they’d brought their entire wardrobe home. Undaunted, Tony placed the suitcases on the back seat of the four-seater Heli-Muster Cessna. The boys sat on top and away we went. The plane was so overloaded we had trouble getting off the ground—but we made it.

  The next worry was the light, which was definitely fading. The sun was going down and, for me, panic was setting in. How were we to land in the dark? Tony could see my concern. As we flew closer to Delamere, Tony said, ‘Would you like to spend the night here and continue to Wave in the morning?’

  I could have hugged him on the spot—a bit difficult when he was flying! Down we went, landing at Delamere to find that John Weymouth was entertaining our ex-general manager, Mr Peter Morris. We had a very enjoyable evening with great company, and a safe journey to Wave Hill in the morning.

  One of our young stockmen, Brian ‘Bigfoot’ Gettens, was keen to obtain his fixed-wing flying licence, which he did on his holidays. He returned to Wave Hill in someone’s plane; I’ve forgotten whose. He offered me and Ralph a trip out to neighbouring Cattle Creek. I felt quite nervous at the thought of flying with such a new recruit, but didn’t have the heart to say no.

  We took Penny with us, leaving the boys at home. I thought if worst came to worst, I wasn’t going to leave my baby motherless.

  As we came in to land the plane at Cattle Creek, it hit a wet patch on the airstrip and we started to slide. Bigfoot had told us to open the doors as we landed; I don’t know why. Water and mud shot through. I thought that this was it—we were going to crash! I screamed in terror. But Bigfoot controlled the plane beautifully. We slowed up and came safely to a stop. I realised he was a very good, safe pilot. The flight back was without mishap.

  Bigfoot went on to get his helicopter licence. He mustered on the big cattle stations throughout the Territory, then flew for Kerry Packer and Channel Nine in Sydney for many years.

  We had another scary moment, a couple of years later.

  One of the stockmen asked Ralph if he could leave his rifle in our house whil
e he went on holidays. Ralph said, ‘Yes, put it in the linen room,’ which was just off the entrance foyer.

  Our boys came home for the holidays. They were on one side of the house, in their bedrooms. We were in the lounge room on the other side, relaxing and entertaining friends, when we heard a rifle shot. Racing around to the boys’ rooms, we discovered Anthony standing there in shock.

  He’d found the rifle and taken it to show David and Jason. ‘Stick ’em up!’ he said, as he pointed it at David and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through the wall, inches from David’s head.

  A lesson to us all.

  54

  The horse sale

  In 1975 the Vesteys held a horse sale at Wave Hill. They were selling their horse brand for the first time, as there were too many horses on the station. The pastoral inspector, Ces Watts, contacted Jock Bremner, an agent in Darwin. Ces flew the agent down to Wave two weeks before the sale to go through the horses with Ralph and draw up a catalogue.

  Six hundred horses were for sale: stock horses, breakers, brood mares and foals. The Vesteys had always kept immaculate horse books and only bought the best sires in the country. The sale attracted buyers from all over Australia. Jock spent four days on the radiotelephone sending the horse details to his secretary in Darwin, as twelve minutes was the maximum allowed in one phone call.

  Sale day came and about three hundred people arrived, bringing swags, grog and food. A bullock was killed for the occasion. Our friend Ben Humphreys arrived with his hawker van to do the catering. Ben had been coming to the Territory for many years and later sold out of his hawker business. After he retired from hawking, he joined the Labor party and became Minister for Veterans’ Affairs from 1987 to 1993. At our horse sale Ben brought with him Jimmy Stretton, an old friend of his from Brisbane who was an excellent cook.