Love on Forrest Downs Page 13

Often after a day mustering or working in a dust-filled yard, we lie in each other’s arms late at night and ponder our future together, never forgetting how lucky we are to have found each other at this late stage of our lives, after both having lived through previous unhappy marriages. And we also don’t forget how lucky we are to have the love of my children.

  In winter 2009 Robby and Tara arrived back at Forrest Downs to help process 190 new head of cattle through the homestead yards. The cattle purchased from the sale yards were heavier than usual so Michael decided to inoculate them all for stress and move them promptly along to the feedlot rather than to a ‘spell paddock’, as we usually did with a new mob of cattle brought onto the property. Putting them in the feeder was also a good idea because the cattle carried those few extra kilos each – having them in the feedlot was preferable to them losing the weight in the paddock.

  The following morning, after a good night’s sleep, Michael and I rose early to draft through four of the feedlot pens in search of any animals that showed signs of stress or grain poisoning. We found only one rough-looking heifer, who seemed to have done it tough before arriving at Forrest Downs, so we moved her into the hospital pen. Although some animals did grow worse and die, I found it amazing that many could improve in health within four to six weeks and be returned to the feedlot pens. I wondered if their conditions were physiological or psychological.

  This was our second lean year, when the annual rainfall on the farm was well below average. The oat crop had survived the season but we had cut and baled only half as much hay as we normally would have. With the worry of rationing out the hay across the entire cattle herd, we were also concerned that grain prices were going through the roof – we needed large amounts of grain for our feedlot mixes, and the rising prices would dramatically reduce our profit margin in the feedlot.

  Michael and I were feeding out hay across the farm paddocks every third day, but he was also mixing 150 tonnes of grain and hay for the feedlot every week. We still had to buy in cattle for the feedlot, and what with trucking them in and the ‘fats’ (grain-fed cattle) going out, inoculating, drafting and settling the cattle into their new pens, followed by checking the pens each morning for sick or stressed cattle, our lives were on the extremely busy side. And then there were fence repairs, busted pipelines and general breakdowns of water pumps or tractors – let’s forget about flat tyres on trucks or tractors, because it’s starting to sound ‘too much like hard work’ . . .

  *

  In the midst of all this activity, I received a distressing phone call. On my father’s eighty-fifth birthday, Dad found Mum passed out on the kitchen floor of their home, jammed in between the meat safe and breakfast table. My mother had been having some dizzy spells and now it seemed she’d had a very bad turn.

  That morning Michael and I had woken to a beautiful day of bright sunshine and clear blue skies. The heavy, drab wintry days had just about moved on to the north. Then we got the call about Mum.

  In my haste to get to my mother’s bedside, I hadn’t ventured more than six kilometres from Forrest Downs when I drove smack into a kangaroo, causing $19,000 worth of damage to our Mercedes. Shaken but unhurt, I had no alternative other than to limp home with what was left of the car before getting another vehicle to drive to my parents’ home.

  Mum took a good whack to the temple from the meat safe before she hit the floor, but she recovered quickly from her fall. The shock of finding her on the kitchen floor certainly took its toll on Dad as well (although later he was able to jokingly express relief that his meat safe hadn’t been damaged by Mum’s head). Even though she recovered well from this fall we were – and still are – worried about Mum’s health.

  CHAPTER 11

  Holidays at last

  I was in need of a rest after what felt like a rather long year, and on 26 August 2009 I finally realised my dream of visiting Tasmania, in the arms of the man I love. Michael and I flew from Perth to Melbourne and then on to Launceston.

  On that last leg a calm female voice came over the intercom asking us to tighten our seatbelts and warning us that the landing of our aircraft would be rocky due to the worst weather experienced in years in the northern half of Tasmania. Glancing through the small window of the plane, we saw paddocks (and even part of the runway) resembling rice paddies. The country was awash and we both thought that even a sure-footed duck would have trouble traversing it. Eventually we landed safely, and the relief on the flight attendant’s face was evident as she commented, ‘This is what we employ capable pilots for.’

  We were met by a taxi in the shape of an ancient Toyota Camry, and its pleasant and knowledgeable driver took us to our hotel in the centre of Launceston. The weather was beautifully crisp and cool, and it made for an extremely comfortable first night on the ‘Apple Isle’. Waking early the next morning, we were excited to investigate the CBD of Launceston. After a hearty breakfast and a good mug of coffee we headed off to hire a car to take us around the island.

  Our first stop out of Launceston was Scottsdale, to purchase a decent-sized thermos and mugs, and plenty of tea, coffee and snacks for the road. But what impressed us both was the rich red soil of the potato paddocks, which had been freshly cultivated. It was not unlike that of Michael’s home town of Pemberton, where he had spent fifty years growing potatoes along with cattle. I found Scottsdale so beautifully refreshing that we spent the night in an old-world mansion.

  The following day our wanderings took us through St Helens and St Marys. As we travelled through small villages, negotiating hairpin bends and numerous log trucks, I noticed the dense undergrowth that was so thick a dog couldn’t bark in it. Eventually we arrived in Campbell Town, where we spent the night.

  Sadly, the paddocks beyond Campbell Town were dotted with the skeletons of hundreds of dead trees that had fallen victim to the prolonged drought. With not much previous knowledge of Tasmania, I was shocked to learn that parts of the island were prone to these weather conditions. It just didn’t seem right! I’d always thought of Tasmania as lush and green.

  We spent the next night in Richmond and woke to a glorious, sunshine-filled morning. In Port Arthur we walked among the ancient ruins and remembered the tragic events that had occurred there on 28 April 1996.

  We arrived in Hobart on 1 September, which is my grandson Brock’s birthday. There we had breakfast on Constitution Dock, the finishing point of the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. While there we were able to make a birthday call to young Brock and touch base with family back home.

  Travelling north again, we saw some magnificent farming country around Hamilton in the Derwent Valley, then proceeded towards Queenstown, passing through breathtaking mountainous forest country with snow glistening on the high peaks. It was along the Lyell Highway that I saw and touched real snow for the first time in my life. ‘Michael, please pull over,’ I demanded. ‘I need to get out and feel the snow with my bare hands.’ It was unbelievable, all these tiny particles that looked like crystals. What an experience!

  We drove on steadily, negotiating the steep declines while trying to absorb the incredible view of the Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park, and arrived in Queenstown on dusk. The old mining village truly resembled a Wild West town, with smoke twirling gently from chimneys and the quietness and stillness broken only by the barking and answering howls of the town’s dogs. All it was missing was two tough-looking gunslingers shooting it out or a clump of tumbleweed rolling down the main street.

  With several more days to fill before our planned departure, we had no problem occupying ourselves. We were so used to the wide open spaces of Western Australia that we were unable to comprehend the closeness of all the towns and villages – but we took advantage of it, driving from Launceston to Hobart and back one Saturday afternoon to purchase a particular ceramic piece that I had read about in an antiques catalogue.

  Once our Tasmanian holiday was over we spent two nights in Melbourne then flew to Alice Springs. And what a contrast the
re is in our great country – we saw so many different landscapes just in that one journey. In particular we couldn’t help but notice the glistening waters of Lake Eyre, which had previously been dry for many years due to the lengthy drought.

  Arriving in Alice Springs, we were met by a blast of hot, dry air as we emerged from the aircraft. We sought the shelter of the terminal, where we organised a taxi to take us to our accommodation on the banks of the Todd River.

  The following day we visited Hermannsburg, cutting through the picturesque Waterhouse Range on the way to Palm Valley. It was a place I had always wanted to visit as my parents had known Albert Namatjira, the famous Aboriginal artist, from his time in Darwin, when Albert had tried to sell his paintings to my mother. If only she could have foreseen then the value of his artwork today! Hermannsburg was where Namatjira spent most of his life and some relics from his past were still evident. Needless to say, I couldn’t help myself and purchased two lovely prints of ghost gums.

  The next morning we walked through the Alice Springs mall. For some reason we attracted some members of the local Indigenous population and ended up answering a wide range of questions. One old fella said to Michael, ‘Where you going, old man?’ and Michael replied, ‘We’re going to look up that Plenty Highway, and maybe buy a cattle station’, as one of the reasons for this visit was, indeed, to look into buying a property in the area.

  From that point on we were followed up and down the mall. These old Aboriginal ringers just took an instant liking to us – even the women. Probably because we spoke to them. We speak to local people when we’re travelling. We ask them how they’re going, what the country is like, what’s happening with the country, which properties are good and which aren’t, and where the rain comes from. That sort of knowledge is what I had to rely on in my time in the Kimberley. The old-timers could always tell you where the big storms came from, and they were spot-on over the years.

  ‘Boss and missus, I’ve got a full stock camp when you buy ’im that station,’ said one old fella. He didn’t want his mob hanging around town any longer. They had no work and wanted to go bush, he said. Looking at him, I felt his better days were probably behind him. The old fella’s black and dusty Akubra was clamped down firmly over his greying hair; his royal-blue western shirt was tucked into new skinny jeans that couldn’t hide legs bowed by years of riding in a saddle. I also couldn’t help but notice that when he walked, in his worn old Cuban-heeled riding boots, he dragged his left leg. But I knew the value of the old people’s experiences in this rugged outback environment, as I had operated on it and by it in the Kimberley.

  We had been considering leaving Western Australia and moving to the Territory, so we set off with the idea in mind of purchasing a cattle station. But we’d travelled not more than 100 kilometres when I said to Michael, ‘Please turn the car around – this country is not for me. Let’s get the hell out of here.’ I just had a gut feeling – I go on gut feeling a helluva lot of the time. Michael understood, but he also knew that the countryside was not having one of its better seasons. We both knew from previous experience that, for anyone in the cattle industry – or farming in general – there is no worse feeling than waiting for rain, and it was obvious that there had been no rain in this place for a long time. The following morning we flew from the Alice to Perth direct, then drove the four hours to our Kojonup farm, where it was evident that we were in for our own tough season.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cattle don’t stop for Christmas

  It is late afternoon at the Forrest Downs farmhouse, and I’m writing, dreaming, checking notes and reading diaries. I watch as the lace curtains of the lounge room glow golden, pierced by the last soft light of the day. Those strong shafts of light have found their way through the lace and they bounce off my writing desk, and for some reason I find myself thinking of Leisha.

  Late 2008 and 2009 had been one hell of a time for my girl. Her younger son, Cohen, went into Princess Margaret Hospital for Children in Perth to undergo major surgery, as it had been discovered that he had major hip displacement and curvature of the spine. Afterwards he was put in a full cast from hip to toe, and he constantly suffered terrible pain – and Leisha, of course, suffered too. She and her doctor in Dunsborough had arranged for the best specialist treatment they could get for our beautiful boy, and while Cohen was in hospital Leisha never left his bedside, worrying about her younger son’s future. Nigel, Leisha’s partner, and her older son, Brock, supported her through the operations, with Nigel often taking a day or two off work to be there for her in her time of need, while I helped to look after Brock at home.

  Cohen’s operations had no sooner finished than Leisha and Nigel found out she was pregnant. Then, tragically, in late 2009 they lost their much-wanted baby. For weeks Leisha’s body had suffered while she unknowingly carried a dead foetus. Pale, run-down and terribly ill, my girl had dropped to a low point in her life and relationship. Eventually, the trauma of the year took its toll on both Leisha and Nigel and they agreed to take a break from each other.

  Devastated, my girl moved out of Nigel’s house and back home to Forrest Downs with her two young sons. Forrest Downs was the only place where Leisha felt she could find the tranquil surroundings that would help heal her heart and soul. And the boys settled into their new bedrooms, as enthusiastic as ever about being there. They found their elastic-sided farm boots in the cupboard and were raring to go. Thankfully, Brock and Cohen believed they were simply on holiday at the farm with Nan and Michael D. The boys were never told of Mummy’s loss of her unborn child; Leisha and Nigel felt it wasn’t necessary to burden such young children with this knowledge, or to tell them about the break-up.

  On the first afternoon, while Leisha settled in and cleaned and waxed her saddle, ready to go riding, I decided to take the boys for a long motorbike ride around the paddocks, checking on fences and the stock.

  ‘Come on, Nan, let’s check out the cattle,’ called Brock, already sitting on the motorbike that was parked in the garage. By then Cohen was no longer in a full-body cast, so he wasn’t that far behind his brother, limping to the garage as well.

  After ten days back on the farm, my girl’s health improved significantly. She was again riding Joe, her beautiful chestnut quarter horse, and working cattle in the shocking heat with Michael and me as we steadily processed hundreds of head through the cattle yards prior to moving them along to the feedlot. She willingly took my place helping Michael when he was in the cattle truck, loading at the saleyards or unloading at the abattoir. This gave me time to get odd jobs done around the homestead – with the help of my two spirited grandchildren. As I didn’t often have a chance to get things done around the homestead. I was glad of the opportunity (and the help). The boys were willing assistants, jumping in and giving their nan a hand.

  During those long trips on the cattle truck with Michael, her future stepfather, Leisha found that she had plenty of time to think and talk over the turmoil of the last year. Her tiredness had gone and her spirits had improved. What she could see more clearly now was that she hadn’t been the only one hurting over the loss of her baby – Nigel had suffered too.

  As the weeks turned into months I was delighted to learn that Leisha and Nigel were in constant phone contact. They were always there for each other and never interested in anyone else. Then December 2009 came around and Leisha asked, ‘Is it okay if Nigel comes over to the farm to shoot vermin for a night or two?’ At that time we were having nightly trouble with the foxes spooking our pens of feedlot cattle. The foxes were playing with the cattle, and of course they had to go. Nigel had shot foxes for us regularly in the past, and in any case we were happy to see him again.

  After dinner one evening I was over the moon to see that Leisha and Nigel went into her bedroom together, and from that moment onwards I felt deep in my heart that they were spiritually together still, and that this separation was only temporary. Then, after spending several nights on the farm, Nigel returned to hi
s parents in Bunbury.

  As Christmas Day approached, it was clear that the weather wasn’t going to make it a pleasant celebration for us at Forrest Downs. Christmas Eve was scorching-hot and humid during the day, and the night was no better. We lay in our beds listening to the shutters rattling from the turbulence of the distant thunder. Michael tossed and turned, to the point that all the bedclothes ended up on the floor. We were both concerned that the severity of the atmospheric conditions would bring on a stampede of our cattle.

  Sure enough, at first light on Christmas morning, we woke to the bellowing of cattle coming from every direction. My heart sank. ‘God, no,’ I said out loud. ‘Not today of all days.’

  But there was no point talking to myself. Just get going, I thought. The bellowing, roaming cattle had surrounded the homestead and were busily investigating the rose garden on the front lawn.

  Still in my satin pyjamas, I pulled on my boots and jumped on the motorbike, racing to the homestead cattle yards to find three heavy galvanised yard panels flat on the ground and four dopey-looking buggers still standing in the yard. There we were – Michael in his satin boxers with a bow tie on the front and heavy boots, me in my blue pyjamas with white piping around the edges – chasing the escaped cattle across the flat.

  We mustered the cattle close at hand into the paddocks but we were still missing 108 head somewhere. Looking up and down Wandoora Road, which ran through the full length of the property, we saw the silhouettes of animals way off in the distance. They had scattered far and wide onto neighbouring properties.

  Leisha arrived. ‘Mum, I’ll muster the cattle in from the road and check the neighbouring properties. You go home and stay with the kids.’

  I handed over my motorbike and moved out of the way as Leisha took off. Once I would never have stepped back from a job; not for all the tea in China would I miss out on the chase. But now I accepted that times were changing. I returned to the homestead to keep an eye on my grandsons while their very capable mother hunted for the lost cattle further afield.