Exclusive extract from Barra Creek (Pan Macmillan Australia) by Di Morrissey, the Great Read in The Australian Women’s Weekly, November issue.
Preface: It’s 1963 and Sally Mitchell, the well-bred daughter of a wealthy new Zealand sheep farmer, has impulsively taken a job as a governess at a cattle station, Barra Creek, in the wild Gulf country of northwestern Queensland.
Donny threw the outgoing mail bag into the plane. ‘All aboard. Next stop Barra Creek.’
‘I’ll believe when I see it,’ sighed Sally.
She dozed in the cockpit, her head against the side window until Donny spoke above the engine. ‘Look, down there. We’re coming into the river country now.’
‘Gosh, it’s green. What’s that silver bit?’
‘That’s the mighty Norman River, we can follow her all the way way inland. Normanton is your nearest town when you’re not cut off in the Wet. Barra Creek is a tributary off from near where it rises. Still a helluva big river.’
‘What’s down there?’ Sally peered at the vegetation radiating form the snaking grey river. ‘Big ugly saltwater crocodiles. Wild pigs. Birds. Stray cattle, horses, buffaloes, a few Aborigines. And barramundi, the best eating fish in the world.’
He angled the plane towards the east, circling over patchy russet earth sprinkled with trees and small hills. They were descending. She could make out dots of cattle.
‘Are we getting close?’
‘I’ll fly you over the homestead.’
‘I don’t see any buildings.’
‘It’s four hundred square miles. So it’s easy to lose a couple of buildings in it.’
She could see fences, shining pools of dams, cleared land, small clumps of trees.
‘There’s your new home, Sally.’ He banked and she caught the glint of tin roofs, then saw vehicles parked around buildings, sheds, the paraphernalia of a station nestled on the bend of the river. Donny did a circle leaving the homestead behind them. ‘The strip is tree miles down the track. It’s a bit of a hike from the house but it’ll never get flooded. Do the know you’re coming today?’
‘Of course. The agent said they’d meet me.’ Sally looked down at her clothes And flicked some dust off her skirt, more a mental preparation than tidying.
Donny gave her a quick smile. ‘Last chance. We can buzz straight over ‘em and head south.’
‘Not on your life.’
‘Right.’ He concentrated on levelling the little aircraft as a windsock and bulldozed length of red dirt in the flattest stretch of land near the homestead marked the landing strip.
The plane slowed down to a halt and Donny muttered to himself as he got down from the pilot’s seat. As Sally gathered herself to get out she heard shouting, ‘Where boss, where boys? Why you mob here?’
He came round to help Sally step down, leading her past the struts of the wing. ‘Seems the welcome committee has had a bit of a problem.’
Sally walked around the rear of the plane as Donny opened the hatch and pulled out her suitcase, the mail bag and some parcels. There was no car, no adult, no friendly white face. Instead she was confronted with a knot of Aboriginal children, two boys about seven and eleven wearing sagging shorts tied around their skinny frame with rope. A little girl of about six was holding the hand of an even younger girl. Faded dresses hung from their coathanger shoulders. All had dusty hair, bare feet and running noses attracting flies. They stood by a large wooden wheelbarrow.
Donny walked over and threw the mail into the wheelbarrow and turned back to look at Sally, who was standing dumbstruck next to the plane. They all stared at her in silence and she glanced down at her shoes: patent-leather pumps with sensible heels. In her mind she redressed herself: suspenders and nylon stockings, petticoat, pleated navy Sportscraft skirt, white blouse with a peter pan collar, over her arm was her Fletcher Jones plaid jacket and, of course, she wore her single strand of pearls and pearl earrings. No wonder the kids were looking at her like she was form outerspace.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Where’s the Monroes?’
Donny gestured to the older boy who looked down and mumbled, ‘Truck bust.’
‘Means you’ll have to hoof it, Sal.’ Donny picked up her suitcase and hoisted it into the wheelbarrow. He avoided her eyes.
‘Righto.’ She made a shooing gesture at the children and the boys took a handle each and began pushing the barrow. The girls trailed behind, sneaking glances at Sally.
She held out her hand. ‘Thanks, Donny. I’ll be seeing you then.’
‘In a week. Remember what I said.’ He pulled his hat further down over his eyes. ‘So long, Sally.’
She gave a wave and set off after the weaving wheelbarrow, her heels scuffing through the thick dust and gravely stones. She concentrated on walking as straight as she could. Miss Allen, who’d taught her deportment, would have been proud of her. She hard the plane rev up and taxi but she didn’t look back. Three miles to the homestead, Donny had said. A slow anger began to boil in her but she tried to calm herself and consider all the possible reasons why she hadn’t been met. She heard the plane circle and Donny swooped above her. She looked up and felt her anger melt as Donny waggled the wings.
She waited for the girls to catch up and tried to talk to them. Between their titters and sucking on fingers she got their names, but found them hard to understand. The boys were competing with each other to push their side of the wheelbarrow harder than the other. Inevitably it tipped over, spilling everything onto the ground. At first the boys were horrorstruck and quickly looked at Sally, waiting for her to shout at them. Instead she burst out laughing at the incongruity of the whole scene. In a rush of relief the children laughed too and together they repacked the wheelbarrow.
Sally lifted the younger girl, surprised at how light and frail she was, and sat her on top of her suitcase as the boys set off again.
They’d walked about a mile when they heard the sound of an engine and a truck drove towards them in a swathe of dust. Three young boys were in the cabin, the head of the one driving hardly came above the steering wheel and he looked about twelve. A nine year old hung out of the window and a seven-year-old was sandwiched between them. The boy leaning out the passenger side called cheekily, ‘Hey lady, want a lift?’
So these were her new charges. ‘Get out of that truck and get down here.’ Sally spoke loudly and firmly. Surprised but with cocky grins the boys got out of the truck. You’re late. Don’t you ever keep me waiting again. Do you understand? Now unload that wheelbarrow immediately.’
The boys looked sheepish. They hadn’t expected this reaction. ‘Couldn’t help it. The truck blew up and dad’s out with the land Rover. We’re here, aren’t we?’
She watched them throw, with unnecessary force, her suitcase and the mail into the tray of the truck. ‘Now come here and introduce yourselves properly. You’re Ian, I suppose.’ She turned to the oldest boy.
‘Yeah. And that’s Tommy and that’s Martin.’
‘Take off your hat when you speak to a lady and shake hands. You boys don’t know much, do you?’
Insulted, the boys whipped off their hats and extended their hands for her to shake one by one. ‘You know who I am, Sally Mitchell, your new governess.’
“Howdo, Miss Mitchell,’ they mumbled, but Sally could see the resentment and hostility lurking in their eyes. They’d declared war on her even before they’d met her.
Related stories
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
