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Author biography
Helen was born on the 17 December
1954 to Irish parents in London. She went to Australia in 1973, at the age of
eighteen, for two years. Since then she has spent some eight years in Australia.
As well as becoming a resident in 2003 she studied with the Australian College
of Journalism and gained a Diploma of Advanced Freelance Journalism in the same
year.
Helen is currently spending time in
England researching and writing her next book.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Lynda and
Gordon Proud for their friendship and support because without them I may never
have gone to Australia. I would also like to thank Dave and Bev for their
kindness, generosity and opening their home to me when I first arrived in
Roebourne. I am also grateful for all the Kununurra girls who have been willing
to part with their memories of life in Passion Lane.
I would also like to include my
friends Judy and Ray in Kununurra for their help and Liz and Laurie for their
encouragement and willingness to let me stay with them so I could write
surrounded by the beautiful views of their home in the hills of Kelmscott
near Perth.
I would also like to acknowledge
that I have changed the names of a number of individuals and the names of some
of the places I have mentioned.
Chapter One
In the early hours of Christmas
Day, 1974, Cyclone Tracy hit the guts out of Darwin in the Northern Territory of
Australia. The winds were so strong they peeled paint off the cars before
turning them upside down. In one home, instead of an interior door, a string of
glass beads whipped holes into the wall cutting to shreds anyone who tried to
pass. Children tried to salvage wrapped Christmas presents from the rubble while
parents tried to salvage their lives. Looters were spotted and Marshall Law was
declared. Roadblocks were set up on the outskirts of the town to count and
record the names of those able to flee. All communication links with the outside
world were severed except for one with the small pioneering town of Kununurra,
which sits in the most northern part of Western Australia, near the Northern
Territory border and 513 miles from Darwin.
Charlie Preston, a policeman, was
on duty that fatal day when he picked up the distress call from Darwin. He
informed his sergeant and other colleagues and between them they spent the rest
of the day, relaying messages between Darwin, and Canberra, the capital of
Australia. Charlie was concerned about the cost of the calls but Sergeant
Belmont made it clear, that under the circumstances, “No one would give stuff!”
He also made sure his men were not deprived of the Christmas spirit and ordered
in plenty of beer.
On that same Christmas Day morning,
37 miles out of Kununurra, at Carlton Hill Cattle Station, the cook, Lena
Mallows was having a frustrating time. She had spent the early part of the
morning trying to persuade the manager Stuart Hadlow or Harpoon as he was known,
and his stockmen to shoot one of their pigs, so she could roast it for their
Christmas dinner. The boys set about their task but no pig appeared. Each time
Lena mentioned it they gave a different excuse. Eventually, seeing the
frustration and anger mount in her face they blurted out, “We can’t kill the
bloody thing because of they way it keeps looking at us.” Lena huffed and
puffed, picked up the shotgun, marched down to the pigpen and shot the succulent
roast. The group enjoyed their Christmas meal and continued their festivities,
ignorant, that not that far from them, the worst natural disaster in Australian
history had occurred.
On Boxing Day no news of the
cyclone had travelled to Carlton Hill. Lena was flying down to Perth, Western
Australia to spend the rest of Christmas with her family. Harpoon drove her out
to the airport just outside of Kununurra. They both waited by the gate on the
tarmac and watched her MacRobertson Miller Airline (MMA) plane land and unload
its passengers. One young man crossed the tarmac wearing nothing but football
shorts, Harpoon turned towards Lena, raised both eyebrows and said, “Gee that’s
a bit casual, he could at least of worn a shirt and trousers.” The plane had
just come from Darwin and neither of them knew about the cyclone. Lena nodded in
agreement but her mind was elsewhere. She said goodbye, crossed the tarmac and
boarded the plane.
Just before takeoff one of the
stewardesses thrust a baby into her arms and said, “Due to the circumstances
this baby has to travel alone, can you look after her for me?” She was not
impressed, but the stewardess had gone before she could reply. She continued to
nurse her bundle as she studied her scruffy travellers who sat in silence and
wondered why the stewardess was so frazzled dishing out painkillers and bad
food. It was an uncomfortable journey. Lena’s mind, often interrupted by her
tiny travelling companion, went over and over the relationship she was having
with Bill Gilbey. She had kept it a secret from her family and wondered if she
would have the courage to tell them. After all she was twenty years of age, an
adult, and could do what she wanted with her life. But, deep down, she knew she
would keep her secret. When the plane finally landed at Perth Lena began to
compose a letter of complaint in her mind, after all, she thought, ‘I did not
pay for my ticket to become an unpaid nanny for the MMA airline.’
She walked through the arrival
lounge her addled mind still composing her important letter when she spotted her
mother, and even more importantly her mother’s jaw, since it had dropped to the
ground; she realised she was still holding the baby. “It’s not mine,” she
blustered as she thrust the baby back into the arms of a stewardess, who had
approached her to relieve her of her charge. It was as they were leaving the
airport that she learnt from her family about the cyclone the day before. It was
sobering news for Lena and she quickly forgot about her letter.
I was also in Kununurra that
Christmas. I was working as a housemaid at the Hotel Kununurra and lived in the
staff quarters. I had arrived at the beginning of November and just a few days
after a lengthy telephone conversation with Breda Clune, a family friend. She
lived and worked as a barmaid at the Hotel Kununurra and had been there for a
few years; I had happily accepted her suggestion to come and work at the hotel
for a while.
On Christmas Eve I had gone to
midnight mass at the local Catholic Church with Breda, as we were both
Catholics. Another barmaid from the hotel, Teresa Parker, who was a Protestant
from Northern Ireland, had also joined us. The guitar playing Father Willis was
always happy to see hotel staff walking through the door, “Now don’t get too
excited Father, I’m just visiting, not staying!” Teresa said in her Northern
Ireland accent that I was only familiar with from watching news reports from
that troubled place on television. I don’t know what the girls were thinking
about during the service but my mind drifted around my mother’s stories of
religious segregation in her village in Southern Ireland – a Protestant in a
Catholic Church or a Catholic in a Protestant Church would have been unheard of.
I also kept wondering what to wear later in the day.
After the service, none of us had
any idea that a disaster was whipping its way towards Darwin. We had talked
about religion for a while and discussed the differences between the Catholic
and Protestant faiths. We also talked about what our families would be doing on
their Christmas Eve on the other side of the world as we strolled back to the
hotel, under a peaceful ink-coloured sky bursting with stars.
The next morning Breda, Teresa, a
few of the other girls, and I started our Christmas festivities with a champagne
breakfast. Then one of the local lads drove us around the town and in high
spirits we tumbled in and out of the back of the van and wished everyone a happy
Christmas. Then we headed back to the hotel for a boozy smorgasbord lunch,
provided for the staff by Mr Camer-Pesci, the owner of the hotel.
The men had put their best shirts
and shorts on and we girls searched through our small selection of clothing and
most of us managed to find a dress. Mini halter necks were popular at the time –
it amazed me how big-breasted girls had the courage to wear them. They were not
so popular with my ‘fried eggs’, as my mother often teased, but I managed to dig
out something suitable. I had found living in the tropics too hot to wear
make-up, but I did make the effort and put on lipstick since it was a special
day.
In the afternoon a few of us were
sitting by the hotel’s swimming pool recovering from our over indulgence when
the sky turned a sinister black. Torrential rain poured upon us sending us
scurrying back to Passion Lane, where most of the female staff lived. Word began
to spread of events that had occurred in Darwin. No one in Kununurra had a
television because we were too remote to pick up a reception. Instead, with the
help of a large aerial situated on a hill known as Kelly’s Knob, a small
mountain range on the outskirts of the town, we tuned into the ABC radio
station. It was sobering news for us.
Over the next few days many people
arrived from Darwin, some of them driving into town still wearing their pyjamas.
Charlie, the policeman, and his colleagues had to record the number of people
coming through and take their names as they stopped in town – he told us it was
not an easy task listening to so many sad stories of people losing their homes
and possessions. Although many had received food and petrol vouchers for their
journey, there were still those who needed help. With no vehicles or easy access
to money many refugees were left stranded in the Darwin rubble. The Australian
Government began to airlift people out and, over a period of time, Hercules
aircraft packed with refugees landed on the tarmac of Kununurra’s small airport.
The locals from the town, with a
population barely reaching a thousand, did what they do best in emergencies and
rallied around and provided food, blankets and clothing. Frank Camer-Pesci was
also generous. As well as sending food up on the many MMA flights to Darwin, he
provided emergency accommodation. But, there were those not so generous, like
some of the taxi drivers who were charging their refugee passengers extra for
their journeys. I met and talked to a few of the refugees and although still in
a shocked state they were all happy to be alive.
The news of the disaster went
around the world. 71 people had died and I made a phone call home to England to
reassure my family I was safe.
It was not until the refugees had
started to arrive from Darwin after the cyclone that the ‘girls’ and myself
realised the seriousness of what had happened. For many young people travelling
around Australia at the time Kununurra was the gateway from east to west and
vice versa. It was the last place to work before heading to Queensland and
nearly always via Darwin. A few of the barmaids who had recently left would have
been in Darwin over that Christmas. Unfortunately, contact with anyone was
difficult because they were just ‘passing through’, and often only known by
their first names.
More days went by before it was
quiet in the town. The stream of Darwin refugees slowed to a trickle. Tourists
stayed at home down south and enjoyed sane summer weather, while our brains
cooked here in the extreme heat. I spent all my spare time in and by the hotel’s
swimming pool. It was a time of reflection for me because although I had not
been a victim of Tracy I realised I had used up a few lives myself. I had no
idea how many had been given to me and more importantly I had no idea how many I
had left.
In October 1973, I arrived in
Australia from England. I had been living in Wickham, a mining town on the coast
in the Pilbara region of Western Australia before flying to Kununurra in
November 1974. In the same month I had left England to travel to Australia,
Breda had left Kununurra to visit her family and friends in Ireland and England
for the first time since she emigrated in 1961.
She visited my mother in London and
had been delighted to learn that I was not only in Australia but lived near to
Kununurra where she was living and working. Of course Wickham was not as near as
my mother had thought, it was 1,107 miles from Kununurra but it was in the same
state and that had been good enough for me. So much had happened during the last
year and here I was at the start of another period of my life, in a town I knew
little about.
My MMA flight had landed at the
small country airport on the outskirts of Kununurra on that November morning in
1974. The air was tight as the tropical heat grabbed my throat as I descended
from the plane. It was my first time in a tropical climate since I had left
Singapore en route to Australia from England. I crossed the tarmac straight into
the arms of Breda. I recognised her without having seen a photo. She was the
image of her mother but with long jet-black hair that swung in a ponytail behind
her head. I didn’t stay long in the hug because I felt her bony frame might
break in my arms. I was nervous. I was glad to see her.
After being loaded into a car by a
nice looking, tall chap called Anthony, a friend of Breda’s, we drove to the
Hotel Kununurra. There was plenty of conversation on the journey so I didn’t
take much notice of the area around me. But I was impressed by my first sight of
the hotel, a complex on one level apart from a small flat above the reception
area. It felt intimate. I dumped my luggage in Breda’s room and she showed me
around. This took a while since we stopped and chatted with several people along
the way. As we passed the swimming pool I was pleased to hear it was available
to staff as well as guests.
After the tour we found Mr
Camer-Pesci in his office. His name matched his appearance, European, in fact
Italian. He had hairy arms and a lot of black hair poured out from his
open-necked shirt on his stocky body and he wore dark, thick-framed glasses. He
didn’t say much just welcomed me, offered me a job in Housekeeping, which I
gladly accepted, and explained that I could stay in one of the old guestrooms
until something more permanent could be sorted out. I thanked him and he chatted
to Breda for a while before we left. I could tell that in the three years Breda
had been in Kununurra she had developed a good rapport with Mr Camer-Pesci. “He
is a hard worker, and he won’t ask you to do anything he hasn’t done himself,”
she said.
“So he owns the hotel?” I asked.
“He not only owns it but he helped
build it. He started life helping his father as a milkman in Perth, Western
Australia. He worked and saved and moved here and then became the owner of the
service station next door and then he built the hotel. The Minister for the
Northwest, Charlie Court, officially opened it in September 1964. Mr Camer-Pesci
is a good man to work for but he demands a high standard of work.” I had noticed
when Breda had showed me around how clean every part of the hotel was. “And, he
keeps a close eye on the moral conduct of the staff. He has two strict rules NO
MEN or PETS are allowed in Passion Lane,” she said. He hadn’t said anything to
me about his rules but then he knew he could rely on Breda to fill me in on all
the necessary details.
I spent my first evening sitting in
Breda’s room, drinking copious cups of tea, talking about our families. The
Clune family and my mother had grown up next to each other just outside a small
village called Ballina, in the county of Tipperary, Southern Ireland. They were
poor but happy and appreciated their humble beginnings and valued the
experiences they had had growing up. It toughened them, but equally they always
maintained a good sense of humour and a philosophical attitude to life, which
eased their hard times. Over the years Breda’s family has become an extension of
my own and I knew her mother, brothers and sisters well. But, I did not know
Breda. She had emigrated to Australia when I was still at Primary school and
until now I had never met her. Consequently, we spent several hours exchanging
news of our families and I discovered the good-looking Anthony – who had driven
us from the airport – was indeed Breda’s boyfriend.
Breda had arrived in Australia on
May 10, 1961, a migrant, sponsored by her friend Joan’s parents. It cost her ten
pounds sterling – or as the expression developed over the subsequent years a
‘ten pound tourist’. After all these years she can still remember how she felt:
“A combined set of emotions, you are setting out on an adventure but also
leaving everything and everyone you have known all your life. Exciting and sad,”
she said. I looked into her dark eyes framed by high cheekbones and sensed she
wanted to say something. I sat in silence and then she told me about her
daughter Catherine.
She had fallen in love with a young
man in Perth some years previously. It was only when she told him she was
pregnant that she discovered he was not in love with her as he ended the
relationship straight away. A difficult time followed and although being an
unmarried mother in the sixties was still not socially acceptable Breda had many
good friends. One couple in particular took Catherine under their wings allowing
Breda to continue working full time. But bad health struck and her doctor
strongly advised her to go north for a while.
She arrived in Kununurra, in the
October of 1970 – three years before I had left England. It was her first time
out of Perth. Breda was still a quiet and shy person and for the first three
weeks she lived in a state of shock, “I really do not know how I performed
during that time. It was a whole new experience, the wide open spaces, a small
community and closer contact with the Aborigines,” she said. Living in a small
town again made Breda feel so much at home and she soon made friends with people
whom she felt cared about her. Breda was delighted when she was able to bring
Catherine up to Kununurra for a holiday. Everyone loved and made a fuss of the
little girl – it did Breda’s soul good to be able to spend that precious time
with her.
Having promised not to tell anyone
back home about Catherine we realised we were comfortable in our conversation.
So as the air-conditioner hummed in the background I decided to tell her about
Colin McGregor. I had been living with him in Wickham before coming to Kununurra
and I had not told my family or friends because I didn’t think they would
approve; it was, at the time, still socially unacceptable, especially for
someone as young as I was. She didn’t say anything and for those few moments of
silence I knew in my heart that I had really left Colin for Good; it was an odd
feeling and I guessed Breda had read my mind so we both changed the subject and
had another cup of tea.
The first few days in my old
guestroom were interesting. Hot weather was not new to me but I was now living
and working in a Tropical Monsoon climate and certainly a different experience
to being on holiday in one. In this part of the world there are two seasons. The
‘dry’ (winter), May until October and the ‘wet’ (summer), November until April.
I had arrived at the start of the ‘wet’ season. The moist air dripped and I
dripped. My room did not have air-conditioning or even a ceiling fan. So during
the day I avoided my room. At night there were times when I couldn’t breathe
from the heat. I used to get up and have a shower; the water was always warm
never cold, and then I partly dried myself and lay naked on the bed to keep
cool. The gorgeous scent of Frangipani trees outside my window mingled with the
soft murmuring of crickets had helped me go to sleep.
After a few days I moved into the
female staff quarters, or Passion lane as it was more affectionately known, a
single-storey building containing six rooms in a row. Each one had a small
window; two single beds; a wardrobe; a table and a ceiling fan. The rooms opened
on to a long narrow covered cement walkway, edged with trees and shrubs. You
could enter the walkway from either end; one from the main hotel complex, where
the laundry, showers and toilets were or the other from the street, the back
entrance as we referred to it, hidden by a wooden gate covered with a
Bougainvillea.
Across a small grassed area from
Passion Lane was Frigid Alley, a few air-conditioned rooms used by senior
members of staff, and where Breda’s room was. We were neighbours – happy news
for our mothers.
In Passion Lane I shared a room,
the first one in the block from the main hotel, with Alma, a middle-aged
divorcee, who was also a housemaid. She had left her shattered marriage in
Brisbane, Queensland, and had come to Kununurra to try to rebuild her life. I
sensed she was uncomfortable about having to share her room with me and
consequently it made me feel uncomfortable. But I made a big effort to fit into
her routine since she’d had the room to herself for a while. Plus, she was old
enough to be my mother – and I had learnt early on in life you had to respect
your elders and anyway I was the new girl. I also think the heat didn’t help,
although I was happy for at least we had a ceiling fan. It was a time of year
that can send people ‘troppo’ from the heat – people had been known to become so
deranged they committed murder. It was a time of year when everyone yearned for
that first torrential downpour to break the heat and for every day without rain
it took you one step closer to being whisked down to Perth for psychiatric care.
Apart from being female I wasn’t
sure who else was living in the other five rooms but they were a mix of
receptionists, waitresses, and barmaids. However, living with them at such close
proximity I soon got to know the ‘girls’. One afternoon Alma and I were in our
room getting ready to go into the air-conditioned lounge bar for a drink when
the sound of rain beating off the roof sent us running outside.
It was a torrential downpour but we
didn’t care, it was such a relief, at last the wet season had begun. It was a
great feeling to feel cool rainwater and we jumped around bare-footed like
children in growing puddles and it wasn’t long before a few more residents from
Passion Lane came and joined us. The rain broke the tense atmosphere in more
ways than one and by the time we had both dried, changed and had sat in the bar
with a beer Alma and I relaxed into what was to become a firm friendship.
I’d never had a live-in job before.
It was a novelty not having to commute for any distance or length of time or
experience any stress getting to work – something my friends back in London
would envy, not only that, I was earning good money even though I was only doing
domestic work. Consequently, it didn’t take long to slip into a comfortable
routine.
My working day started with a
shower in the communal block. And then breakfast in the hotel kitchen at 6.30
a.m. There was a large table at one end of the kitchen where all the staff ate
their meals. I always had steak and eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee. I
would then start cleaning the guest rooms at 7.00 a.m., under the watchful eye
of our German housekeeper Anita, with blonde hair, back-combed and pinned up
‘fifties’ style – an amazing woman who used to bring her young baby, Michael, to
work with her every day. She lived in the caravan park next to the hotel.
Morning tea was as at 9.00. All the
housemaids, Anita and perhaps Mary from the laundry would sit under the shade
outside of the kitchen and have tea and biscuits. I listened to the gossip and
observed them closely. I wondered if Anita went to bed with her hair still
back-combed and how often did she wash it? And wondered how old Mary really was
since all her wrinkles hung of her bones like hoops on a stick? And wondered why
I could never take my eyes off Kim’s hooked nose and marvelled at the way it
concertinaed when she laughed? And how did Teresa remember all the Irish jokes
she often peppered us with? And why was it that the luscious ex airhostess,
Penny, never laughed and constantly complained about the fact that there was no
hairdresser in Kununurra?
Lunch was at 12.00 p.m. In the
middle of the table there were always a couple of jugs of water and salt tablets
– you sometimes had to take them because of the salt you lost from sweating.
After drinking several large glasses of water I usually had cold meat and salad
with bread and butter and a dessert. Then I worked until 2.00 p.m. After work I
always went for a swim in the pool. Dinner was at 6.30 and the busiest time of
the day. As this was when most of the staff wanted to eat, sometimes you had to
wait and come back half an hour later.
We had a Greek chef called Robert
and his Greek wife, Angelina, also worked in the kitchen with him. She was a
quiet shy girl and spoke little English – it was not an easy life for her. Most
days Frank Camer-Pesci’s father, whom we all called ‘Pop’, would be around and
he kept a close eye on life at the hotel. All the staff ate the food that was on
the hotel menu. Lobster Thermidor and Chicken Cacciatore were popular as well as
Barramundi. I always had a dessert and sometimes a second helping. My ferocious
appetite was becoming a joke since I was skinny – I remember one chap actually
asked me if I ate at all, to which he was told, “Bloody hell mate, does she eat?
She eats more than anyone.” I enjoyed my food and I never missed a meal –
watching my weight and dieting was an alien concept to me and I certainly never
read about models, celebrities or stars or had watched anything on the subject
on television back in London, thank God.
The easy routine drew me into a
life centred on Passion Lane at the hotel. In those first few months I only
ventured into the small town when necessary. From the back entrance to Passion
Lane I walked along a dirt track edged with tall dry cane grass, waiting to be
cut before the next rains, before reaching the handful of shops and commercial
buildings. On many occasions I passed one or two groups of Aborigines, usually
drinking and chatting to each other. They would wave and I would wave back and
continued on my journey to post my letter’s and open my numbered mail box to see
if anyone had written to me, to the bank where I deposited part of my weekly
wage and as always a visit to the chemist; even if I didn’t need anything it was
an opportunity to browse the cosmetics, perfumes and toiletries in case there
was anything new or needed.
When I was not working I spent my
time talking to Breda and slowly getting to know the other girls. As well as
Teresa there was Yvonne, who had a thick mane of jet-black hair, born of Greek
and Albanian parents and was a waitress in the restaurant. And, Una, who was
short with strawberry-blonde hair and a set of perfect white teeth; you saw them
all the time because she laughed a lot. They had all come ‘north’ because they
wanted to save money. I also swam a lot and lounged around the hotel’s swimming
pool reading or daydreaming.
On December 16, just a week before
Christmas and Cyclone Tracy’s visit and, the day before my twentieth birthday,
my past caught up with me in the form of Colin McGregor. He had wanted to
surprise me. I had no idea he would come without telling me and suddenly my
emotions were flung all over the place. It was awful but on reflection more so
for him. When I had made the call to Breda from Wickham back in the November I
had been living with Colin. He had encouraged me to come and visit Breda who he
knew was the closest to a relative I had. So it came as a surprise to him when I
told him over the telephone that I had taken a live-in job in Housekeeping at
the hotel and that I’d no idea how long I would stay in Kununurra; I had lied to
him. I knew I would not return to Wickham. I did not know what Colin thought
about our relationship and the situation we were now in but, he realised, the
only way he would truly find out was to come to Kununurra himself.
He had sensed things were not
right. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I felt bad. I had
shared a part of my life with him and now I felt nothing, he didn’t deserve to
be treated like this. But I couldn’t go back. It was over. I knew that but I
didn’t know why. I didn’t know how to deal with it and consequently I didn’t. It
was Breda then who spent time with Colin and tried to help him understand the
behaviour of her young family friend – impossible when I didn’t understand it
myself. I let him leave Kununurra without any attempt to talk to him about my
feelings, how shabby of me. I never heard from him or made any effort to contact
Colin and I ended that chapter of my life. Breda was puzzled but not as much as
I was. It made me think. It had been a strange year, full of events, experiences
that had touched all my senses; perhaps it was growing pains. I knew I had
changed, I was still changing. I thought about my childhood, growing up, I was
now on a path and in the hands of the gods. Maybe it was fear. Underneath I
didn’t want to settle down. I didn’t want children. I was too detached; my
emotions had been scooped up and bundled in with my dreams. I wanted to be free
like the bird that spent hours flying over London in my childhood dreams. And I
wanted to run around the wheat fields in Ireland and listen to the old stories
again.
According to my mother it was not
the easiest of births when I arrived in the Whittington Hospital in North London
on December 17, 1954. But, of course, I have no memory of that moment but what I
did remember was listening to tales of the Banshee told by one of my uncles in
Ireland. I had sat as a youngster with my aunt and cousins around an open peat
fire full of dancing devils and it had enflamed my spirit. It let me experience
fear in the story telling. The location allowed me a freedom to roam and explore
and to sit and watch for any leprechauns that might dash by carrying pots of
gold. For those memories, I am sure, gave me a thirst for adventure and the
desire to travel. For this I am eternally grateful to my parents for giving me
life at the time and place that they did.
Kununurra was a small town but I
had learnt from living in the Pilbara that there were always plenty of things to
do. So I naturally jumped at the opportunity to go water-skiing on the Ord
River. My first attempt on water skis was a disaster. I fell off the skis
quicker than I managed to get up on them and consequently spent more time in the
water. On the second occasion I managed to stay up longer. I was feeling very
pleased with myself as I skimmed by the banks when a calamity snatched my
pleasure away. I had been wearing my old and well-worn green bikini when the top
flew off. I did not know this of course, I was too busy concentrating on staying
vertical, and didn’t realise until I was a heap in the water. I could see no
sign of the departed item and if that wasn’t bad enough my friends had witnessed
the departure. I then had a very embarrassing few moments getting out of the
water and onto the boat, and as quickly as possible into my towel in front of my
male companions. I declined any future offers to go water-skiing.
I only had the one bikini and
swimwear was essential clothing so the first thing I had planned to do after
work on the Monday was to go straight to the shop and buy a new one. But then on
the Sunday afternoon I was lazing around the pool in bikini bottoms and a
T-shirt, when an excited conversation went around about the travelling salesman
that was staying at the hotel. He was a regular figure and sold women’s clothing
– especially swimwear. This caused great interest since there was only one
clothing shop in town and, although we seemed to live most of our days in
uniform and swimwear, the opportunity to buy something new could not be missed.
The next morning I met the
salesman. His room was in my section and he greeted me as I entered his room. He
was from London and Jewish. It was great to meet someone from the ‘Big Smoke’
where I also had come from. He knew the East End as well as I did since I had
gone to school there. As we chatted he placed his suitcases on the bed and began
to show me what he had for sale. I asked him if I could come back at the end of
my shift to have a look and he happily agreed.
When I returned he still had the
suitcase on the bed. He had a large range of swimwear. I really liked one
particular white bikini and he suggested I try it on straight away. “I will give
you a good discount, as I always do a good trade when in town,” he said. I
grabbed the article and went straight into the bathroom in his room and put it
on. When I came out I suddenly became aware of what I had done. I could not
ignore the way the salesman looked at me. I did not know what to do. My face
turned red and I started to sweat. I think I then asked how much it was. Within
seconds he had me pinned up against the wall in his room and was trying to kiss
me.
Fortunately for me he was too short
to reach my mouth, even though he had grabbed me by the neck and had tried to
pull my face nearer to his. My mind raced and I remembered I had been in a
similar position before at the young age of 14. Back then I had used my knee
successfully in between the legs of my attacker. This time however, I just used
my height and stuck my head firmly above his and spoke very loudly and
threatened him with the words, “If you touch me I will scream the bloody place
down.” He released his grip and became extremely apologetic. I ignored the
pathetic look on his face and ran into the bathroom, grabbed my clothes, and as
I ran out of the room he begged me not say anything and that I could keep the
bikini. I just kept running until I was safely in my room still with the bikini
on.
I never reported the incident, or
told anyone, not even Breda. He must have left town pretty quickly as no one
mentioned him or any clothes that they recently had purchased. I certainly never
asked and I never mentioned it to anyone. For several days I kept thinking about
what could have happened.
My spirit was still feeling low
when the well-known figure of Harpoon (Stuart Hadlow) came into town. After his
second beer he sent an invitation out to some of the girls inviting them out to
Carlton Hill Station for the weekend. Excited by the prospect Alma and I managed
to rearrange our roster so we could go as well. In the end we were four girls.
None of us had ever been to a cattle station so we excitedly set out on the
Friday afternoon in Harpoon’s truck with plenty of beer stowed in the back. None
of us had any idea as to where the station was, how long it would take to get
there or what to expect.
“Christ, the road is rough,” Rose,
one of our barmaids shouted; we all agreed as we bounced and banged over the
rough ground chewed up by earlier heavy rains. About half way into our journey
it rained and within minutes we were bogged; the road had turned to a mud bath.
There was no radio contact of any kind. We knew we would have to wait for the
rain to stop and the ground to dry out before we could continue, “Well girls the
only thing we can do is have a beer,” Harpoon said as he quickly dispensed a
bottle of EMU Export to all of us.
Harpoon stood a skinny, seven feet
tall in his riding boots. All I knew about him was that he had been born to
English parents in South Africa and educated in England. As a young man his
father had turned around to him one day and told him to go out into the world
and make a man of himself and he chose Australia.
The rain stopped but it was almost
dark by the time we were able to proceed. All went well until we neared the
station only to see we had to cross a creek – the problem being the rain had
gouged chunks out of the road leading in and out the other side. This was no
problem for Harpoon as he told us to hold on as he made our four-wheel drive
vehicle move in a way I had never seen a vehicle move before and brought us
safely to the other side. Finally, we drove into the station.
Naked light bulbs cast shadows
across the faces of the five other stockmen that greeted us. We were late. But
they all seemed pleased to see their weekend guests – or at least that was what
I thought. The truth was they were pleased to see the vehicle as they had run
out of beer and they were thirsty. The beers were unloaded first and the cartons
of precious liquid were carried up to the kitchen. When we had unloaded
ourselves from the vehicle, Harpoon showed us where we were going to sleep. I
had never seen anything like it when we walked into the stockmen’s quarters. It
was a building on stilts, open plan with a couple of rows of single beds, a roof
and supporting posts. The outside wall was solid up to the waist and the rest
was of fly-wire. It was designed to be as cool as possible as there was no
air-conditioning. I loved it and couldn’t wait to sleep in such a strange place.
We dumped our bags on our chosen beds and Harpoon ushered us back to the
‘party’. Serious drinking time was not wasted on formalities; unpacking, wash
and brush up or changing out of travelling clothes.
We all sat around a large table
near the kitchen and bottles of beer were handed around. One of the stockmen was
busy cooking on a barbecue. While our stomachs stirred to a glorious smell of
steak cooking, Harpoon told us how they had all drawn straws the night before to
see who would get the job, since Lena Mallows their cook was on holiday in
Perth. It was a surrealistic experience sitting there and listening to all the
yarns and stories about life on a cattle station amongst the noise of crickets
clicking and the generator spluttering in the background
The night continued and plenty of
beer was drunk. We had no music and no one danced at this party. It was well
into the early hours of the morning when we left the boys – still drinking, and
set off to find our beds. Once in our quarters we realised that if we were to
change for bed with the light on we would be seen from outside. A lot of
giggling ensued and jokes about the possibility of uninvited guests staggering
in on us. Instead we turned the light off, removed our clothes and jumped into
bed under a slither of moonlight. There had been no danger of uninvited guests
because, as we discovered the next morning, the boys had continued to drink
before finally keeling over and sleeping where they fell – in other words they
had ‘carked it’.
The next day we were given a tour
of the station; a bit of a rough and tumble collection of buildings. We drank
more beer and ate more steak, again cooked on a barbecue, with bread, but none
of us cared because the meat tasted so good. The stockmen were young, shy and
reserved. There was nothing crude about their manner and considering the
remoteness of our location they could have taken advantage of having a bunch of
girls around or perhaps they thought we were being chaperoned by Alma, a mature
woman. Equally, we were well behaved. None of us took advantage of our situation
– although I had begun to have romantic fantasies about one of the young men
called Sandy. He was tall with fair hair. As part of our tour we were taken
around to where the horses were kept and none of us turned down the offer to go
for a ride. I paid close attention to Sandy’s demonstration on how to saddle a
horse and even closer attention to the hair on his tanned shapely arms that
glistened in the sun. I was very happy to let him help me up onto my horse,
before we all set off for a ride around the surrounding paddocks near the
station. I had hoped Sandy liked me but I couldn’t tell.
The weekend went too quickly and
by the Sunday evening we had been transported back to the hotel without any more
rain or problems. Over the next few days we all shared our adventure with the
other girls at the hotel. Rose, who had been with us, reported back to us an
interesting conversation she had heard in the bar. One of the town’s businessmen
had heard about the few girls Harpoon had taken back to the station for the
weekend. He had insinuated that Harpoon and the other stockmen had just wanted
sex, after all they were a rough boozy bunch, but then the girls from Passion
Lane would have enjoyed all of that. Rose tried to educate him with the truth,
but he would not accept it. The conversation made me realise, if you lived in
Passion Lane – and nobody seemed to know who had christened the staff quarters
with that name – you may come across a customer who had a low opinion of you
simply because you were a barmaid.
A few days after being out at
Carlton, Alma told me she had been restless for a few weeks, and had been
thinking about going back to Brisbane. She was lonely and homesick. She told me
about her family and how she felt being this far away had helped heal her
emotional wounds. She now felt able to cope with being divorced – Alma was of
the old school where divorce was frowned upon. Her eyes brightened when she
spoke of the city she had grown up in and then just out of the blue she asked me
to go with her. It was an easy decision and I excitedly accepted the offer.
Since neither of us had a car we knew we had to fly, so we spent a few days
trying to agree on a departure date. Breda was concerned. She could not
understand my sudden desire to leave since I had only been in Kununurra a couple
of months.
In a small town news travels fast.
George Saxby, the manager of Argyle Downs Cattle Station was also from
Queensland. He and another couple of stockmen were going to drive to Brisbane to
see family and have a holiday. They had heard of our plans, via conversations
with the barmaids in the bar, and news came back to Alma that there was room in
their vehicles for two extra passengers.
A couple of days later Alma and I
met George for the first time in the bar. He was the most extraordinary looking
person I had ever met and it was, without doubt, his jet-black, groomed, waxed
moustache that looked like handlebars on a bike sitting on his face. He told us
about his friendship with Harpoon and how they and their stockmen worked
together. He mentioned Sandy and how he was also from Queensland and would be
travelling with us. When I heard Sandy’s name mentioned I felt my heart pump so
fast I thought it would expel itself and take off. I began to believe that any
passion I was going to experience was going to be on the road with Sandy and not
in Passion Lane. We all agreed on a date of departure and Alma and I celebrated
that evening.
We only had a couple of weeks
before leaving and neither of us had seen much of the area or the Ord River Dam
and Lake Argyle – the heart and soul and reason for the existence of Kununurra.
So with a degree of urgency, when we were able to roster the same day off and
organise someone to drive us out – not difficult as there was always someone
willing – we made the journey.
Interestingly a man called Patrick
(Patsy) Durack was born in 1834 in Co Claire, Southern Ireland – the next county
to Tipperary where my mother came from. In the early 1880’s after hearing good
reports of the Kimberley region he arranged the droving of 7,250 breeding cattle
and 200 horses from Queensland, to stock Argyle Downs and Ivanhoe Stations. It
took three years to make the 3,000-mile trek and at the time it was the longest
ever attempted in Australia. In 1941 the Western Australian Government sent the
experienced engineer Sir Russell Dumas to accompany Kim Durack, Patsy’s son, in
selecting the site for the Ord River Dam. Of all the places that had been
suggested it was Kim’s location that was finally agreed upon.
As Alma and I stood on top of the
dam wall we looked out onto Lake Argyle in utter amazement. All that water on
virgin land looked unreal. No sign of people, homes, roads or farms. The lake
holds the equivalent of nine Sydney Harbours, a staggering fact for me since I
had seen Sydney Harbour the previous year.
On the other side of the dam wall
the Ord River trickles through and on towards the Diversion Dam, built in 1963,
the year before the Hotel Kununurra was completed. 1,199 hectares of irrigated
land was carved up into farms and the final allotment was made in 1965.
Kununurra – built to service the project – was the Aboriginal word for Meeting
of the Waters; appropriate when you see how much water there was. I knew farmers
had given up growing cotton or were certainly thinking about it due to the
problems controlling pests, and it was the subject of many a conversation in my
short time here in the area. Many Australians down south had decided the whole
idea wouldn’t come to much but I found the project hugely impressive.
R G Menzies, the State Premier,
officially opened the Ord Dam in 1972. “Oh yes, I remember it well, because we
had an official breakfast here at the hotel,” Breda said as she rummaged through
a number of drawers in her room where we were talking. “Here it is.” She gave me
a copy of the seating plan. Of course I didn’t know any one that had attended
but I noticed the name of Mrs M P Durack, the author of the book Kings in
Grass Castles, which I happened to be reading at the time. She was, I
discovered, one of Kim Durack’s sisters.
Also on the list were a Mr and Mrs
Withers. “They were instrumental in establishing Kununurra,” Breda told me. It
was strange to think of individual people pioneering a new town when you have
come from such an old one like London. But, as I found in the Pilbara, new towns
were not unusual in this young country of Australia.
A few days later I was sitting by
the swimming pool writing a letter home. It was cloudy and the humidity was high
and I had parked myself under the shade of a Frangipani tree. It was quiet and I
was on my own but my concentration was poor. I started to wonder if I was doing
the right thing by leaving Kununurra. I was saving money and it was easy to live
and work at the hotel, but then I remembered Sandy – I pictured myself as his
wife living on a cattle station.
The day finally came and I had
spent just a couple of hours early in the morning packing – I didn’t have much
to pack. I was nervous at the prospect of seeing Sandy again and I wondered if
he had been thinking about me. The boys arrived and we finally got to meet our
other travelling companion, Charlie. He was short, with a mop of brown curly
hair and he grinned through dimpled cheeks from under a big hat that matched his
baggy shorts.
Alma and I watched the boys pack
the two Holden Utes and then Breda came to say goodbye. We were both chatting
when Teresa joined us. “I will see you both in Brisbane in a few weeks,” she
blurted excitedly. Alma and I were both pleased that Teresa had at the last
minute decided to join us but we had been unable to persuade her to drive to
Brisbane with us. “No, I will fly over,” she had said.
Breda and Teresa waved like crazy
at us as the two white vehicles pulled away and drove towards the Northern
Territory border. I had mixed feelings about the journey since I was excited
about seeing more of Australia but sad at leaving Kununurra and Breda and I
wondered if or when I would see her again. |
