Love on Forrest Downs Read online

  Michael repaired the cattle yard immediately, which meant sinking more railway-iron posts and cementing the yard panels. Working on her own, Leisha slowly brought in small mobs of cattle as she found them further down the road and in the bush beyond. Michael told me later that he couldn’t believe how well she handled these feral animals all by herself; he was proud of her. Of course, Leisha had grown up around feral cattle in the Kimberley and saw this breakout as an exciting adventure on Christmas Day; plus the task didn’t allow her time to feel sad or ponder over her separation from Nigel as they still hadn’t properly reconciled.

  Back at the homestead, I thought, What a Christmas Day. It was as hot as hell, with high humidity, and with Leisha and Michael out chasing cattle my dear little grandsons could only shake, prod and feel their beautifully wrapped presents underneath the Christmas tree. Trying to console the boys, I said, ‘Mummy will be back soon. She’s doing a very good job mustering cattle into the yards for Michael D, and then we will open the presents so we can all see what Santa brought to Forrest Downs for Christmas.’ Luckily Brock and Cohen didn’t grumble – of course they wanted Mum and Michael to be there to open the presents, and they were extremely proud of what their mother could do on the farm.

  It was close to two o’clock when Leisha and Michael returned to the homestead. Their faces were covered in dirt and dust and their shirts were wringing wet with perspiration, but they only had time for a mug of tea each and then they returned to the chase. I had offered to take Leisha’s place in the muster but she was adamant that I stay behind with her boys. There was one thing she needed to do, though.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, laughing, ‘I raced out in such a hurry this morning I forgot to put my bra on. My poor boobs have had a hell of a shake-up chasing cattle, I can tell you!’ She then made sure her bra was firmly in place before heading out again.

  Michael and Leisha had spotted cattle in a tree plantation on a neighbouring farm and another, bigger mob eight kilometres away. Leisha told me later about chasing four head of stray cattle out of the tree farm. ‘It was awful,’ she said seriously. ‘I was among the tall trees and could feel spiderwebs all over my face, arms, everywhere. I looked down and I was covered in hundreds of gold-coloured Christmas spiders. They were just everywhere.’ Leisha has a phobia of spiders, as do I. ‘I began to panic,’ she continued. ‘I couldn’t turn the bike around, and I just had to keep going into the spiders.’

  ‘How did you get away from them, love?’ I asked. By this time it felt as if they were crawling all over me too. I slapped madly at any fly that landed close by.

  ‘I stood up on the bike,’ she said, ‘had the throttle flat out and screamed, “F—! F—! F—!” all the way through the tree plantation to the other side.’

  We laugh about it today, but it was impossible for Leisha to laugh at the time. Eventually, though, she did get the last four head of cattle out of the tree farm, and was relieved when Michael said he’d yarded up another eight head ten kilometres away, which they would pick up in the cattle truck.

  With the last of the cattle back home and the day’s work over, it was time to celebrate Christmas together. Drinks were passed around and balloons burst, and in no time at all the lounge room was a sea of bright tinsel and colourful Christmas paper. Young Brock and Cohen had a wonderful time operating their remote-control jeeps under the table and around the rooms, very nearly sending Nan head first onto the dining table.

  As we dined, laughing over the day’s events, the shadows grew longer until the last afternoon sunshine drifted west, leaving behind paddocks full of now-quiet cattle. The last rays of light blended with the pink and grey clouds like something from an artist’s palette, and Christmas Day slowly came to a peaceful end.

  *

  As the days rolled on at Forrest Downs, Michael and I knew the time had come round again to muster the number-three stud paddock. Robby and Tara came to help us, although Tara was nearing her last trimester and her safety was our priority. Leisha and Nigel – who were newly back together – had offered to help with the muster too, I suggested they spend their weekend bonding as a family instead.

  While Michael rolled and mixed twenty-five tonnes of feed for the feedlot, and Tara worked in the kitchen to have morning smoko ready, Robby and I slowly pushed the smart-looking Angus girls through the paddock, down past the ten grain silos, until we hit the homestead yard. I admired the cows’ large frames and shiny coats, their heads held high with a characteristic touch of arrogance.

  How dull our lives would be, I thought, if we never had the odd gnarly bull, mad Mickey or angry cow give us a run for our lives. I missed having that excitement from my Kimberley life; when it happened all the time it really kept me on my toes.

  With the beautiful black Angus cattle yarded up, Michael and Robby were left with the weaning of the calves and the knackering (castrating) of the three not-so-smart-looking bulls. This left Tara and me to tag and record the weaners in our farm stud book.

  The drafting of the cattle was in progress and I noticed Michael had drafted aside five ‘cracker’ cows – animals that were now too long in the tooth to be of any use. He hated having to draft off these older beasts, as they had produced good offspring in the past. But now age had caught up with them and we had the choice to either let them die in the paddock or send them to the abattoir.

  We had each spent our lives working with cattle, and once upon a time making these decisions wouldn’t have bothered either of us, but I found that as I grew older I seemed to ponder longer over the right decision for each beast. Eventually we did what we thought was right for them, and the abattoir seemed to be the humane way to go.

  With the job completed, the following day Robby and Tara returned to the Shiralee. They never liked to be away from the farm during the sort of forty-degree heat we’d had of late. If a water pipeline blew a valve, or the cattle knocked a float off a cattle trough, they would be left with huge water problems – and no one wanted that to happen when it was so damn hot.

  The next morning, New Year’s Eve, I rode with Michael in his white Mack cattle truck to pick up a mob of cattle from the Walpole area, some 200 kilometres away. We were driving along when an aggro bee flew in through the open window and somehow stung Michael on the balls. Letting forth with, ‘What the . . . ?’ he groped frantically between his legs to find or kill the culprit. Then he got stung again. I was wavering between near hysterics and tears as I tried not to laugh.

  Slamming on the brakes, Michael bailed out and stripped off his shorts. He is usually a shy person, but it only took a bee sting to have him stark bollocky naked in a flash. Thank God it was just the two of us in the middle of the forest! The only prying eyes were those of a noisy kookaburra in the gum tree above. I couldn’t help but think, I’d be keeping a watchful eye on that kookaburra, if I were you.

  Not knowing what to say or do to help, I climbed down from the truck and said, ‘Let me have a look.’ But Michael wouldn’t stop galloping around in circles – so I galloped behind him while he hung on to his balls and tried to preserve his modesty in front of me.

  Eventually, after a cup of tea from our thermos, Michael calmed down. In a semi-reasonable frame of mind he got back in the truck and we went on our way, eventually arriving at his friend Ian’s Walpole farm and loading his new cattle without incident.

  It was refreshing to see the green hills and paddocks in the high-rainfall area of Walpole, a contrast to our bare, parched paddocks at home – a consequence of 2009 being one of the worst years on record in Western Australia.

  With the cheque written for payment of the cattle, and the cattle loaded, we began the long journey home through tall karri forest set among rugged hills and valleys, which was in stark contrast to the slightly undulating country around Kojonup.

  Despite the terrible intense heat, the cattle and truck seemed to be travelling reasonably well – until I demanded, ‘Please stop the truck now, Michael, I need to pee. Right now, and not ten kilom
etres further down the road.’

  Michael’s smart answer was, ‘Are you becoming incontinent?’ It flashed through my mind that I’d straighten him out when I was done; however, he pulled up the truck immediately, much to my relief. And seeing that we were stopped in the middle of this deserted and infrequently used road, he thought he would take the opportunity to relieve himself also.

  As Michael walked towards the rear of the cattle trailer, he noticed that one set of dual wheels looked to be on a strange angle. On closer inspection of the wheels it was revealed that the bearings had disintegrated, causing a tyre to wear down to the point where it could easily have caught fire because of the friction of the rim with the road.

  Anxious thoughts flashed through Michael’s mind: he could see the whole truck going up in flames, setting the countryside on fire and barbecuing the cattle in the process. Hearing him swearing, I zipped up my jeans in a hell of a hurry and raced to the other side of the truck to see for myself what predicament we were in now. When I saw what had happened, I grabbed a shovel from the box under the truck, ready to smother any potential flames with dirt, while Michael grabbed the fire extinguisher. But that was soon empty and it had made little impression on the heat coming from the glowing wheels.

  Michael grabbed a jack from the truck’s toolbox and proceeded to jack up the offending rear tyres, all the while cursing as he was drenched by the urine and wet cattle dung that dripped through the cracks in the floor of the crate.

  ‘Michael,’ I pointed out, ‘if it wasn’t for the cattle pissing and shitting like they are, I’m sure this whole show would go up in smoke in an instant.’

  We decided that if needs be, and as a last resort, we would jump the cattle out the back door of the cattle crate, even though we would probably never see half of them again because they’d escape into the dense forest. The thought of jumping thirty thousand dollars’ worth of cattle into the bush didn’t help our frame of mind much.

  Panicking, I called the truck’s radio channels and tried our mobile phone, thinking we could bring in another road train to back up to our Mack truck, and then jump the cattle from one truck to the other. But I soon realised that both our truck radio and mobile phone were out of range.

  With the tyre at the point of ignition due to the heat coming from the crippled axle and brake drums, we knew we would have to get the wheels away from the crate in a hell of a hurry. The heat was so intense that it had welded the bearing nut to the axle of the trailer. Michael persevered with the cold chisel and sledgehammer, until finally the wheels and brake drums were separated from the axle. As Michael rolled the rims and brake drum, still glowing from the intense heat, towards the edge of the road, I warned him not to let them come into contact with the dry leaves and twigs that would easily ignite in this weather. I didn’t know that he had already burnt his hands in the process.

  Not only could we be burned alive, but I was sure we wouldn’t be popular with the area’s fire resources if they were called out on New Year’s Eve, not to mention the fact that we might have the pants sued off us by the relevant authorities.

  ‘What will we do now?’ I said to Michael.

  He said, ‘There’s only one option.’ With burnt hands he proceeded to pull a high-tensile chain from the truck toolbox and drag it towards the now jacked-up wheelless axle. After more jacking and cursing, he used the chains to secure the axle to the trailer and then said, ‘Let’s give this a go.’

  We cautiously set off for home, knowing we still had another 100 kilometres to go. We crawled along in the intense heat at a very steady pace. After going another fourteen or so kilometres, our worst fears were realised when we heard an almighty explosion from the rear of the trailer. I thought we had been travelling too well. The remaining tyres had had to share the extra load, and considering it was stinking hot something had to give – and it did, with another tyre giving out.

  So once again the truck jack was dragged out, followed by the whole ritual of jacking and cursing until the spare tyre was in place. We then ventured forth again, having decided that we would unload the cattle in the first cattle yard – no matter who it belonged to – that we came across. We travelled along steadily without further incident, and at the first sight of a cattle yard looked at each other and said, ‘What do you reckon?’ ‘Ah, bugger it,’ we both said, deciding to push our luck while it was still holding.

  By now we had only fifty kilometres to go. We arrived home just on dark to an anxious Robby and Tara, who had travelled over from the Shiralee after they’d been unable to make radio or phone contact with us all day. Our normal five-hour return trip had on this day turned into twelve hours.

  The sun set on what had been an exhausting and trying day. After unloading the new cattle into the homestead yards, and leaving the watering and haying of the animals in Robby’s capable hands, Michael and I fuelled the LandCruiser, hooked up a trailer and returned the 100 kilometres to retrieve the truck wheel we had discarded by the roadside.

  ‘Nothing ever runs smoothly with farming,’ Michael declared wearily that night as I bandaged his burnt hands.

  *

  Several weeks later I was a guest speaker at the Harvey Business and Professional Women’s Club, at the invitation of their president, Jennifer Maughan. The ‘West Week’ dinner was a lovely way for the business and professional women of the town of Harvey to gather in the evening and have a gorgeous meal while raising funds for breast cancer, and I was delighted to have been asked to speak.

  Michael has been a staunch supporter of my writing and has come along to most of my speaking engagements, which have taken us far and wide throughout Western Australia. As Michael and I walked into the Harvey hall we were struck by the stage, which had been beautifully decorated by Dawn Withnell with outback paraphernalia such as saddles and Western gear, Akubra hats and even a nice set of polished cattle longhorns. I felt immediately at home. On one wall was a huge padded purple bra, and as soon as shy Michael clapped his eyes on it he bolted for the door – it was all too much for him.

  I tried to smother a laugh as I went in hot pursuit of him. ‘Come back, Michael,’ I coaxed softly. Taking hold of his hand, I pulled him gently back into the hall. ‘You’re not the only male in the room with this huge bra.’ I suggested he take a good look around the audience, which was evenly split between men and women. It was clear that husbands and partners were throwing their support behind their women in aid of this cause.

  This was one of many breast-cancer fundraising engagements we both attended throughout 2010. There are many women who are breast cancer survivors, like myself. I have never accepted a speaking fee for these events, and those people who insist that I do find I immediately donate it back to the cause.

  CHAPTER 13

  Bruce comes to visit

  It was January 2010 when Michael and I instructed our respective solicitors to push forward and complete the settlement process on our divorces. Once this was completed we felt we would really be able to get on with our own lives together.

  Early one morning I received a phone call from my mother at Northampton. My brother Bruce had arrived from Broome and was preparing to drive down to Forrest Downs to visit me and meet Michael. I was thrilled, as I hadn’t seen him for some time, and it meant that Michael would meet another member of my family.

  A day later my parents and brother arrived at Forrest Downs in the middle of a heatwave. Bruce got along famously with Michael, and several jobs around the farm were completed with his help. Having a brother who is a mechanic by trade – and a good one at that – was an immense help to us living way out of town. Michael and I could keep things going, but we just weren’t bloody mechanics. Bruce gave Michael a lift to remove the old heavy solar panels from the farmhouse roof, then balanced on the bullbar of the old Mack truck with a can of Emu Bitter in hand, offering moral support to Michael while he was under it fixing a leak in the fuel line.

  As Bruce poked about among the cobwebs and dust in the shed, he
came across a brand-new welder still in its box. ‘What’s wrong with this, sis?’ he asked me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I answered. ‘It’s too bloody complicated. We just wanted to weld struts and supports on the cattle crate and feeder bins. We couldn’t figure out how to use that thing so we blew the dust off the old Lincoln welder and brought it out of retirement.’

  Bruce pulled the new welder out of its box, looked at it for a minute or two, and before long – and with another Emu Bitter in his left hand – we were being taught how to use the newfangled thing, much to our delight.

  After a productive few days in the shed and around the farm, Bruce drove our parents back to Northampton and continued on his way to Broome, and his home on the edge of a saltwater lagoon at Coconut Wells.

  The continual heatwave of near forty-degree temperatures throughout January eventually got too much for me and I had an air conditioner installed in the farmhouse – maybe I’m getting soft, or maybe I’m just getting older and think it’s time I had a few creature comforts. Except the air conditioner leaked water like a bloody sieve. After paying nearly $4000 for the unit and its installation, I had to purchase a large rubbish bin to catch the water that leaked from it. Can you believe it? A wet towel over the front of a fan would have been a better and cheaper idea.

  *

  Thursday morning came around again, and it was sale day at the cattle yards in Mount Barker. After starting water pumps and checking feedlot pens for any sick cattle, Michael left Forrest Downs in his beloved Mack cattle truck, planning on buying only thirty head of cattle, which would leave him with enough room in the crate to load another thirty-five head of weaner cattle from the Shiralee. Robby and Tara had already drafted the weaners from the cows and had them in the cattle yard, ready to be picked up and brought home to Forrest Downs.