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For months we’d been tending those tough little Moree wethers. As the water receded in the dam, we laid corduroy on the mud, shovelled gravel, anything at all to try and stop them bogging as they drank. Then one lousy half-baked storm washed all the crud and sheep shit off the banks and batters and turned the water bad.
It left the Boss and the Missus no option but to abandon all the frontage country and move the sheep out to the drain. On Boxing Day 1958 we did a late afternoon sweep of the sheep camps and ended up with maybe seven hundred strong enough to make the walk.
The plan was to use the cool of night to push the mob to the rock holes, rest them up until daylight and do a dry stage to the bore. There was little feed out in the bore-drain paddock but at least they’d have decent water and, if we were careful, maybe two months’ worth of scrub. Back then cutting scrub—edible foliage—was the only means we had of keeping starving stock alive.
Me and the Missus poked them off along the netting and the Boss stayed back to shoot the several hundred that lacked strength or will to walk. I was just sixteen and such wholesale destruction of livestock was new and incomprehensible to me.
“We have to shoot them Andy,” the Missus told me softly as she eased her pony close to mine, “we can’t just leave them to be crow pecked and die of thirst . . . .” She trailed off stricken at the first crack of the .22. Awkward and unable to articulate my feelings I just touched her on the shoulder and I told her I was sorry.
The Boss caught up later at the rock holes. He had tucker for the horses, our swags, a waterbag and a camp oven full of curry on the carryall of the Ferguson. He told the Missus he was nearly out of ammo and there were still a few to shoot. He was clearly upset and she slipped her arms around him and gave him such a hug.
A bit embarrassed by the show of affection I left them alone for a moment, grabbed the hobbles and nosebags from the carryall and headed out into the moonlight to get the horses fed. I rubbed them down and they were munching contentedly when I saw the flicker of a fire and heard the Missus call, “Are you finished out there Andy?—I’ve got the curry heating.”
“No worries Missus,” I said, “I’ll be with you in a sec.”
The Boss was sitting there real quiet as I stepped into the fire light. I put my quart pot on to boil and with a stick he packed some coals around it. He stared into the flames and said softly that shooting those sheep had been a real hard thing to do.
I nodded as I tucked into the curry and about then, I realised raising livestock and battling drought would never be for me.
#
By New Year he had me camped out on the bore drain, scrub-cutting every day. There were no chainsaws of course but I rather fancied myself as an axeman. I’d cut from daylight to ten, sharpen the axes, have a blow till three o’clock and then cut right through till dark.
The Boss was busy pulling dead wool and burning carcases but, every few days he’d come out to top up the tucker box and check I was okay. He’d always give a hand with a few hours on the axe and then one afternoon he tried an awkward undercut and somehow ricked his back.
He was in big trouble but I managed to get him onto the carryall of the Ferguson and drove him to the homestead. The Missus took one look at him all pasty faced and scrunched up in pain and asked me to fuel the Customline as she’d have to take him to St. George.
#
It left us in a fix. She reckoned she’d get onto the stock agents and see if they could find us an axeman. For a few days I worked my guts out running the drain and catching up with the cutting. By the time I got back to the homestead for some tucker I was very nearly stuffed.
The good news was a scrub cutting crew was arriving just next day.
“A crew?” I said to the Missus. “We don’t need no crew, we just need a bloke.”
She shrugged. “It’s a family, a father and two sons. They come highly recommended. They’re yard builders and fencers and just want a bit of work and a place to camp until they can start a Government job near Dirranbandi.”
Next day they pulled up in three vehicles right on lunchtime. There was the boss bloke with the beard driving the five ton Bedford, the young bloke in the jeep was just a few years up on me and a feller, maybe thirty, was in the Mainline with a woman and a girl. The bloke with the beard did all the talking. No introductions were offered, not even to the Missus. He just nodded and thanked her as she signed the agent’s paper work.
I led off on the Ferguson to show them the way. When we got out there the woman clambered from the Mainline followed by the girl. They were in a hurry and I didn’t get a good look as they slipped into the bushes. The girl was young, with long red hair and very, very pregnant, of that there was no doubt.
It was completely unexpected. I suppose I was surprised and probably even shocked. I’d seen her sitting in the Mainline and there had been a certain titillation about having a little female about my age on the place . . . and then to realise she was pregnant.
I was the eldest of nine and my mum had always seemed to be pregnant with various complications and, to me, it just wasn’t right for a little pregnant girl to be out there a hundred miles from town.
#
I was a bit embarrassed but, at tea that night, talking with the Missus I mentioned my concerns.
“I mean,” I said, “she’s only little, what if things go wrong?”
“How old do you think she is?”
I shrugged. “I dunno, fifteen or sixteen I reckon . . . maybe even younger.”
“And you’re sure she’s pregnant?”
“Oh yeh, she’s a skinny little thing and it looks like she’s swallowed a pumpkin—a bloody big pumpkin.”
She smiled but didn’t say a lot and I heard her yakking on the party line as I did the washing up.
She came back as I finished. “I’ve just been on the phone to Mrs Henderson . . . .”
Mrs Henderson was the lady at the next Station. She was a nurse and splinted broken arms and legs and stitched up pig-ripped dogs.
“. . . It’s not really any of our business,” the Missus continued, “but she reckons we should tell that bloke there’s a nurse in the district . . . if they have an axe accident or something, at least they’ll know she’s there if they need a bit of help.”
#
I slipped out next morning early. Their big army tent was set up neat with the flash Mainline ute parked in the shade of the Wilga trees. I drove on down the drain a bit, listened for the axes then wandered over and found the boss bloke perched up in a Kurrajong. I watched as he did a proper undercut and trimmed the branches neatly.
“Guday,” I yelled, “how yuh going?”
“Pretty good I reckon, that’ll do us for this morning . . . .”
“No worries, I just come out to run the drain, it must be leaking along the ridge, its way down on the flow . . . bloody pigs.”
“Yeah, I shot a big old boar this morning. I was saying to the boys it’s a nice drain, it makes a real good cuppa.”
“Yeh, it’s not too bad, you can get rainwater at the woolshed if you want to though . . . the other thing,” I continued, “the Missus asked me to tell you the lady at the next station is a nurse . . .I mean if one of you blokes chops a toe off or something?”
He glanced at me surprised and then he nodded. “Thank you, thank you very much, it’s uncommon decent of her to mention such a thing.”
#
Dingos were unheard of in that district but, the following week we found dead and dying sheep. The attacks continued and, with the 32-20 in the scabbard I took to doing dog patrols on the Bosses big old half draught mare. A placid bumble footed ambler she rode like a rocking horse and covered country quick.
I persevered, saw nothing for a week or so and then, one morning early, I cut dog tracks near the drain. I fancied I could smell him and, all atremble with anticipation I tied the mare off to a beefwood and slipped the rifle from the scabbard.
Crouching low in concentration I tracked him along the dusty sheep pad back towards their camp. The pad divided but the tracks continued on the branch that shortcut to the rock ledge. ‘The Ledge’ as we called it was perhaps four or five feet high, a strange anomaly in a land which, for the most part, was featureless and flat. The Boss reckoned in the good years it was a mossy oasis with flowing springs, wild violets and little fishbone ferns.
#
In the dust of the sheep pad the dog tracks showed up plainly. I glanced up and froze as I saw movement up ahead. Unsure what I’d seen I drew back the hammer, and with rifle at the ready took a couple of quick steps forward . . .in my mind’s eye I saw a big red dingo cocking his leg and marking out his patch.
Instead of a big red dingo I looked down at the little redheaded girl. Shovel in hand, she glanced up, saw me with the rifle and gave a startled shriek.
“It’s okay,” I shouted, “I’ve been tracking a dingo, I saw you move . . . .”
Hand to chest she gasped and nodded. “Yeh, he just went trotting by—he scooted when he saw me though.”
“Yeh, he would—are you okay? She bit her lip and nodded. “Sorry to frighten you,” I continued, “but what you doing way out here?” Then I flushed embarrassed as I realised the obvious conclusion. Frantically I tried to devise some way to apologise for interrupting her ablutions.
Then she whispered, “My baby died last night, Mum and me just buried her.”
I scarcely believed what I was hearing. “Your buried your baby?”
“Yeh, there was nothing else we could do . . . she’s under here.”
With the shovel she indicated a little patch of disturbed earth.
“Mums gone back to camp,” she continued, “she reckons I should stay here alone with bub a while and see if I can find her some flowers . . . all I could find are these.” She reached into a crevice and showed me some sprigs of droughty Myrtle arranged in a broken handled cup.
Shocked beyond belief I nodded. She replaced the bleak little hard times offering and all self-control forsook her and she wept in utter grief.
“Oh, c’mon you,” I whispered and, knowing no better I jumped down and slipped my arms around her as if she was my little sister. She began a thin keening that changed to sobs of absolute despair. I had never heard such grief and, as my own emotions overcame me, my tears welled out of nowhere and spilled into her hair.
I’m unsure how long I held her. It seemed time had gone on hold and I stepped back half embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t suppose I should have done that . . . .”
“No, no,” she whispered and through her tears she managed a wan little smile, “that was lovely, very kind. A nice hug is what I needed . . . .” She paused and picked up the shovel. “ . . . But could we keep this thing our secret?”
I frowned not understanding.
“About my baby I mean . . . and about where she’s buried, there’s just Mum and me and now you, we’re the only ones who know.”
“But what about the blokes?” I asked puzzled and motioned back to camp.
“Oh them? They don’t care,” she said disdainful, “they reckon my baby’s soul is going to Hell and will burn down there forever—I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Neither do I,” I said, shocked by her statement, “no baby would deserve that . . . and course we can keep it a secret, I’ll never say a thing.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your kindness, I’d better get back, my bantam hen is hatching out some chickens and I need to give them some rolled outs . . . one day though, I’ll come back with proper flowers—I never will forget.”
Our eyes locked for an instant and she reached out and touched me on the shoulder and whispered to me softly, “My baby’s name is Grace.”
Moved beyond all reason I took her hand and squeezed it. “Yeh,” I said inanely, “that’s a lovely name,” and then I added, “and I’ll call in with flowers for Grace if I’m ever back this way.”
#
I never saw her again. The rains came a few days later and I was awoken by the revving of engines as, right on midnight, with no by-your-leave or anything, they came churning past the homestead and bogging up the road.
At breakfast next morning the Missus reckoned it was rude.
“Yeh,” I agreed, “they’re a strange mob, I can understand why they’d want to get out though, if this rain sets in proper they could be stuck out there for weeks.”
“Anyway,” she said, “even though they’ve cut our road up, the good thing is they’ll be closer to a doctor when the little girl gives birth.”
I nodded embarrassed. I of course had not told her of the baby’s death and I was disturbed by my deceit.
The death of the child affected me profoundly. It was the first time for me that death had paid a visitation and thoughts of that little redheaded girl were heavy on my mind. In truth I have never forgotten her and, down the years have wondered if she managed to rise above adversity and carve out a decent life.
As for myself, I suppose I’ve done all right. I got the wanderlust a few years later and, with a mate, went over to Kalgoorlie and started scratching around for gold. My mate couldn’t hack it but digging dirt sort of clicked with me and I ended up with gravel trucks.
#
Now, half a lifetime, a dozen Macks and two wives later I’ve come home to retire near my daughter in Toowoomba. First off though, I’m on a trip through that south western border country to once more smell the Gidgee and to fulfil that implicit undertaking to come back with flowers for Grace . . . those words uttered back in 1959 have haunted me for years.
That lonely bore drain paddock, once the end of my known universe, is now a gas field and it took a while to get my bearings. On Google Earth I could pick where the old bore-drain used to run and, despite the drilling pads and access roads, the rock ledge is intact.
I ventured out there yesterday. The paddock gates were locked but I found a ‘roo hole in the netting and, as I scrambled through, I thought about that little girl. Elfin faced and freckled she’d been very nearly pretty and somehow, in my mind, the years have never aged her and she hasn’t changed at all.
Things had changed though, at the rock ledge. With the return of decent seasons the seeps were flowing from the mossy rock face and, right where her baby lay, were wild crocus, some violets and tiny fishbone ferns.
I took the petunias from my rucksack and my vision sort of blurred as I arranged them in the glass. It’s just a simple little shot glass but, on it with the Dremel, I’d engraved . . . ‘In Memory of Grace’.
Stooping low I saw a splash of colour in the crevice and reaching in, I withdrew a broken handled cup—the cup in which she’d left the offering of droughty Myrtle over fifty years before—now though it held a posy of pink and white carnations.
Confused, I stared at it a moment and then I realised . . . after half a lifetime she had beaten me by days. True to her word she had returned with ‘proper flowers’—perhaps on more than one occasion—and in that hallowed place, my emotions once more overcame me and as I placed her cup of carnations and my shot glass of petunias in the crevice I smiled in satisfaction and smudged away the tears.
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