Fanny Bay to Flemington:
Living Bush Legends
Barrie and Jan McMahon
Copyright 2012 B & J McMahon
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Foreword
The cyclone of Christmas 1974 coiled its murderous way through Darwin suburbs splintering houses in its path, veered into the city to mangle power lines and flatten businesses then took to sea to drown a fishing fleet. It briefly sent a population into retreat; thousands evacuated, others bunkered down in ruined buildings and decimated campsites.
The physical structures would take years to restore but the culture of the Top End miraculously escaped. In fact it was strengthened by the resolve of survivors, the return of evacuees and the arrival of adventurers seeking excitement and opportunity in what was effectively a frontier town. As Darwin went about its daily business, the culture that flourished inadvertently drew strongly from the bush culture that had underpinned Australian settlement and development from its colonial days.
In the almost forty years since the cyclone Darwin has flourished; most of its current residents were born or arrived post cyclone. Arrivals from other States happily adopted Darwin’s bush culture which merely re-invigorated the Australian mythology which still existed, be it in watered down form, across the rest of the continent.
This is a tale of some of the Darwin arrivals in the post-cyclone years, a group who came to develop a strong kinship. Their shared interests were a love of horses, horse racing and the punt. Certainly the career of Undue, the horse that realised many of their dreams, is on public record, a unique career for a unique horse. That career is recounted but it is the stories of that horse’s extended ‘family’ that have provided the narrative for this book. If there are any deviations from the literal truth in these stories then let us ascribe this to the characteristic of an oral storytelling tradition which generously accommodates culture and draws on mythology in its telling.
The characters in this book are based on real people, some larger than life. Undue’s connections – the owners, trainers, strappers, jockeys and supporters – are all part of the extended family. Names have only been changed where this was requested.
Prologue
It was late morning and Shane Clarke was killing time, having a drink or three with his nephew Dan at his sister-in-law’s house at Wavell Heights, not far from the racing centres of Doomben and Eagle Farm. The early morning tasks at the stables were long finished and there was little to do until the big race, little over a week away. The two trainers were mulling over their finances and wondering how they could get enough to place a decent bet on the horse that Shane had brought over from Darwin to run in the 2006 Doomben Ten Thousand. Shane was certain that Undue was a good each-way chance.
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of crows in the tall gum tree in the middle of the school playground next door. Nothing unusual in that. Crows were social creatures and often made a racket. Even so, their calls had the pitch of sudden alarm which caught Shane’s attention. He looked towards the school yard to see one large crow fall from the tree to the ground. This created a frenzy in the murder of crows as they circled the tree and looked down on their fallen mate. He was obviously dead.
“Craark! Craark!” Their mournful calls rose to a crescendo.
“Must be paying their respects to that old king crow,” Shane remarked to his nephew. A man of few words, he put down his beer and jumped over the fence.
“Hey Shane, that’s the school yard. You’re not allowed to go over there!” Dan exclaimed in alarm.
“I’m going to get that crow.” As Shane walked across the playground the kids emerged from their classrooms for the lunch break.
“What are you doin’ here?” demanded one of the boys, picking up on the teachers’ instructions to be wary of strangers venturing into school grounds.
Shane bent down and cupped the bird reverently in his hands. “Just pickin’ up this crow.” He walked away and climbed awkwardly back over the fence without disturbing the cradled corpse.
Dan moved towards Shane as he approached, beer still in hand. “What the devil! Is that the crow you’ve got there? Jesus!”
“No not Jesus. Don’t know his name. Could’ve been I s’pose. This is good luck,” he told Dan. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate that his actions were the result of his love of medieval Irish legend in which the crow was regarded as a deity. “We’ve got to look after this crow and give him a decent burial,” was his only explanation.
Dan was not impressed. “Well, I’m not in the mood for a funeral right now. What are you going to do with the bloody thing?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll look after it. Get me another beer will you?” Shane walked around the back of the house and put the crow in the back of their covered ute. The bird needed to be buried back at the stables where its luck could be transmitted with maximum impact.
Shane returned to his new beer and to more terrestrial matters. He phoned his cabbie mate, Dennis ‘Slim’ McLoughlin, in Darwin.
“Look Slim, Undue’s a big chance. Good track work this morning. Nothing too heavy but he’s ready. At his peak.” Shane did not mention the dead crow. Slim was more a realist – a numbers man. The crow would not come into Slim’s reckoning. “Trouble is Slim, I blew most of me kip on the BTC last week.”
“Yeah, me too!” Slim had been with his trainer mate in Brisbane for the Group One race. Undue had run a respectable ninth but the bookmakers don’t pay out on respectability.
“We’ve gotta find some money to put on Undue tomorrow. What can you rake up?”
“Dunno yet. We’ll find something. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”
“A good each way bet at least. I’m looking at Saturday’s meeting. If we can get a few bob to invest there it should see us right for the Doomben.” Shane looked across at his nephew. “Dan likes Stephen Arnold’s mount in the fourth. He’s been watching him pretty closely.”
“Arnold in the saddle gives me a lot of confidence.” Slim had been impressed with Arnold’s ride on Undue in the BTC Cup. “I’ll see what I can do. Give Duey a pat for me. Cheers!” Slim hung up and sauntered back through the queue of cabs at the taxi rank.”
It was not until next morning when Shane and his young nephew were driving back to the stables that Shane remembered the dead crow in the back of his ute.
“First thing, gotta bury that crow when we get to the stables.” Shane was in the passenger’s seat because Dan reckoned Shane was better on the back of a horse than behind a steering wheel.
“What? Where is the bloody thing?” Dan’s voice registered surprise and alarm.
“Back of the ute.”
“Back of the …Oh no. I took the ute when I went to that night club last night!”
“That’s all right. Nobody would pinch a dead crow. It’ll still be there.”
“That’s not the point. My swag was in there with the crow.”
“So?”
“So I got lucky last night. Met this lovely young lady and well, we slept in the back of the ute!”
“With the crow?” Shane grinned. “Don’t worry, it wouldn’t have noticed. Trust me, I know about dead crows.”
“God, she probably thought it was me that smelt a bit off. There goes my chance for tonight!”
“When the dead crow does its stuff for the Doomben you’ll be thankful it was there last night. You’ll see. We’ll bury it soon as we get to the stables.”
“You bury it. You and your bloody Irish superstitions! How long ago did our Irish ancestors come out here anyway?”
“’bout a hundred and fifty years ago, but the Irish in you never goes away.”
“It’s left me. You bury the crow.”
When they reached the stables at the back of Doomben, with the same reverence he had shown in transporting the crow from the school yard, Shane buried the crow under a bush, a fitting place for an Irish deity.
Andrew Waters had taken his two young children to his brother’s house in Darwin. He was enjoying a coffee with his brother David and sister-in-law Jodie while the kids played on the lounge room floor when the phone rang. David answered, recognising Shane’s number.
“All okay with Duey Shane?” There was no concern in David’s voice, just a question in the form of a greeting. David had been talking with Shane’s wife Elizabeth at the Fannie Bay stables only two hours earlier. Following a conversation with her husband in Brisbane, she had reported that Undue was at peak fitness. David also knew that Shane predicted a place for him in the Doomben Ten Thousand a week later.
“Thought I’d let you know, I buried a crow.” Shane’s hushed tone suggested this was significant.
“Sorry to hear that Shane. Do I know him?” David thought he’d heard correctly but he certainly didn’t know anyone named Acrow. He frowned at Jodie and Andrew who were both straining to hear.
“No. I buried a crow. A bird.”
“Shane, maybe you should start taking it easy. I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure in the lead up to this race, but there’s not much more you can do now. Just relax and have a coffee, or a beer if it’ll help. What do you mean you buried a bird?” Andrew and Jodie were looking perplexed.
“It’s good luck. You don’t understand. It’s bushman’s lore based on Irish legend that if you bury a crow it will bring you good luck. Duey will win no doubt.”
David’s science background had made him a sceptic when he first came into contact with bush lore. But his experiences teaching in the remote Aboriginal community of Wadeye had convinced him that some things could not be explained by science. With a grin he passed on Shane’s news to Jodie and Andrew. “Shane found a dead crow and buried it. Good luck in bushman’s lore. Reckons Duey will win the Doomben.”
Jodie did not share David’s scepticism. She jumped up, almost spilling her coffee in the process and grabbed the phone from David. “Shane, that’s fantastic! It’s telling you that you deserve the luck. I’m not going to jinx it increasing my bet. I’ll stick to my usual fifty each way on Duey. Gee, I can’t wait!”
Andrew was lost in thought. Sure, you needed luck in the racing industry. You could be involved for a lifetime and never score a horse like Undue. Then again, Shane Clarke had done the hard yards over the past thirty years. In fact he had made his own luck, and now that hard work was meeting opportunity.
Andrew reflected on how proud his grandfather Ronnie would have been, his two grandsons having a horse in the Doomben Ten Thousand. “Greatest weight for age sprint in Australia. Highest prize money too,” Ronnie had told them hundreds of times as he and David were growing up in Scone. Well, Ronnie was no longer with them, but Andrew would have a bet for him – even if Duey was a forty something to one long shot. It figured. No Darwin trained horse had ever started in a Group One race, let alone won one. Maybe it would need the luck of a dead crow.
I
Myth is a widely and variously used term referring to a culture’s way of understanding, expressing and communicating to itself concepts that are important to its self identity as a culture.(O’Sullivan et al Key Concepts in Communication. Methuen, London 1983)
Australian myths form the basis for a collective Australian morality. (Anonymous)
Legends make plausible the disparate processes of our institutions. They legitimate, explain and justify.(Paraphrased: L Berger and T Luckman The Social Construction of Reality. Anchor Books, New York, 1967)
Today’s task might well be to develop those features of the Australian Legend which still seem valid in modern conditions.(Russel Ward The Australian Legend. Oxford University Press, 1958)
1
The ute dodged slowly around debris, sometimes backing up to find another path through the devastation. Cyclone Tracy had ripped the northern suburbs to shreds. All of Darwin was suffering from the hit but these areas had been reduced to streets of floorboards and rubble. Christmas 1974 was one that Darwin would never forget.
Even with his previous knowledge of the Fannie Bay race course, Shane Clarke was struggling to find landmarks to guide him to the former stable area. At least the power had been cut off so the tangle of power lines was not an additional hazard.
Shane had heard the news of Cyclone Tracy at his parents’ house in suburban Brisbane having shifted back there from Jindare station in the Top End at the onset of the wet. It was months before the wet season would be over and the young stockman was running short of money. This was not unusual for Shane. He had an easy come, easy go attitude, knowing he could always get part time jobs to tide him over until the land dried out and station hands were again in demand. There were bars to visit, illegal bookmakers to support and friends needing a handout.
The scale of the devastation shown in the images that flickered across the television screen signalled to Shane that there had to be plenty of paid work in Darwin. A massive clean up operation would be followed by insurance payouts and an injection of funds for reconstruction. Labour would be in high demand; there was bound to be enough work to get him through to the next dry season. When he announced his intentions at the family Christmas gathering, Shane’s brother immediately kicked in with a two hundred dollar loan to tide him over.
On Boxing Day Shane Clarke threw his swag into the back of his ute, loaded up with fuel, added a broom for good measure and headed for Darwin. News across the outback journey from Brisbane to Darwin was intermittent because the short wave radio signals during the wet were punctuated with messages from Indonesian fishing fleets and ear shattering static. In these circumstances rumour was rife but from the sketchy information he was getting from the roadhouses he dropped into as he drove towards Katherine, Shane realised that the devastation was even worse than was first thought. It appeared the death toll was mounting and a massive evacuation was about to get underway.
Shane knew he would need to rough it in Darwin and he was well prepared. His swag in the back of the ute had been tailored over years of camping in the outback as stockman, horse breaker and rouseabout. Plenty of water, tucker that would keep, not much in the way of clothing, a bottle of Bundy and a couple of his favourite books.
At one roadhouse Shane had heard a crackled warning about staying clear of Darwin during the State of Emergency that had been declared. Women and children were being evacuated by air and the volume of traffic on the road south to the Alice was so heavy it was straining resources at roadhouses, even the town of Alice Springs itself. Fuel had run out at some of the roadhouses he passed and the young adventurer wondered how he would fare at Katherine where he would eventually meet up with the Stuart Highway. Still if he was stopped and questioned about why he was heading north into Darwin instead of joining the south bound refugees, he could claim that the radio static at this time of the year was so bad that there was a better chance of picking up the messages of a foreign fishing fleet than news from the national broadcaster.
However, Shane knew that his chances of being stopped were pretty remote. If he could not get through the roadblocks then he knew every back track that would help him avoid the checkpoints. This would take longer and there might be a problem navigating the fast flowing creeks, but he had plenty of fuel in the back of the ute and patience was one of his strongest attributes, nurtured over the years by his long drives from remote camps to his home town of Brisbane. As it turned out he was able to persuade the authorities at the Katherine road block that as a stockman at Jindare Station he needed to be in Darwin and would be able to make a contribution towards the cleanup, though pointing to the broom in the back of the ute failed to trigger the policeman’s sense of humour.
The promise of Darwin for Shane was the choice of well paid jobs, way beyond the meagre $75 per week plus keep offered by station work. However, if he was honest with himself, and he wasn’t, this was not the major lure. Perhaps it was the same sense of adventure that had first taken him from his sheltered life in the comfortable Brisbane suburb of Kelvin Grove into the outback to break horses, ride the wings in the drafting camps and revel in the stark beauty of the bush. Even as a kid he’d loved spending holidays with his grandparents in their country home outside of Brisbane.
However, inextricably bound up with Shane’s chosen lifestyle was the strong sense of mateship that grew from sharing adventures and hardships with a mixed bunch of blokes in the isolated outback. Your mates were all important. Those who had drifted into Darwin for the wet might need a hand – if they were still alive. This was a pact that bushies shared but never articulated. To do so would sound soft. In particular, he wanted to connect with the Griffith family from Jindare station. With the onset of the wet, it was a fair bet that the family would have headed to town. It was even shorter odds that his mate John Griffith, the bantam rooster, would want to be in the thick of the action.
Shane had never been concerned about the perceptions of others. Back in his primary school days, he recalled, the convent school teacher had asked the class what they planned to do when they left school. Shane proudly stood up and said “I’m going to be a farmer!” The teacher, who had never been outside of Brisbane, laughed and the rest of the class dutifully followed suit.
It was at that moment Shane made two resolutions that would shape his future. The first was that actions would speak louder than words so he would keep his plans to himself until he could do something about realising them. Secondly, if farming was beyond his reach, then he would look to wider horizons. He would go west, beyond the farmland, even beyond the Queensland border to places his teacher and classmates had never heard of, to a live a life they had never dreamt of.
As soon as Shane finished his final year at Marist Brothers he set off to pursue his dream. Now, after living the dream for more than five years, it was time to fulfil a commitment that had grown with his lifestyle. If your mates are in trouble you lend a hand. But that generosity of spirit could not be acknowledged, even to oneself. It was not what men of the bush did. ‘The money’s good’ was a more acceptable explanation for the Aussie bloke.
Shane did acknowledge to himself on the long drive into Darwin that a passion for adventure had been a common driving force throughout his short adult life. It was the same feeling he had when he won the lottery and was drafted into national service while Australia was still committed to fighting in the Vietnam War.
While others took to the streets in protest Shane relished the prospect of a tour of duty, drawing on the images he’d grown up with at the Friday night pictures. In the American movies shown at the local theatre, combat was only mortal for the enemy. Shane pictured himself as a young John Wayne, an invincible force against whom the enemy was helpless. However, this image of military life was short-lived as he discovered the reality of following army routines at the bottom of the pecking order – largely mindless, pointless drudgery.
His only adventures during that period stemmed from being designated as ‘enemy’ – a target to be chased by the wannabe soldiers during combat simulations. Unlike the other raw recruits who didn’t have a clue, Shane had been working in the bush for three years and seemed years older. He’d always enjoyed being on his own, he could handle himself and he loved the wide empty vistas of the Aussie outback. Being the nominated Viet Cong target, to be hunted and exterminated, was more akin to the Friday night images but it did feel a bit strange playing the bad guy. It was like losing the toss in back yard cricket and having to be the England team.
It was almost as a duty that Shane decided to create his own adventure instead of kowtowing to military training. Townsville was the base for jungle training, an exercise that now seemed pretty futile as everyone talked about the new Labor Government and their intention to cancel their involvement in the Vietnam War. This talk was enough for non-drinker Shane to take to a bottle of gin and end up in a brawl. His opponent claimed that it was Shane who smashed the television set and Shane was in no condition to dispute this. It was time to make himself scarce, a little AWOL was in order and the annual Oak Park races, just fifteen hundred miles west of Townsville beckoned. A spell in the brig would be well worth it.
It was at the Oak Park races that Shane discovered that death was more than an adventure at the Friday night movies or a game of ‘catch the Viet Cong’. There was no town at Oak Park, just two camps for the race goers. Invited guests had a camp up the creek and were feted with good food and booze. Shane and the rest of the blow-ins were camped down creek. They brought their own grog or purchased it at exorbitant prices and were fed only if the cook sobered up long enough to separate the flies from the food.
Shane had backed a few winners at the races that day, had foregone the earlier ‘meal’ and was settling in to a game of Crown and Anchor set up on the ground near the camp fire. The chef was there too, alone on a log and morosely sipping from a bottle of methylated spirits. Even through the glow of the rum, Shane twigged to the fact that the game was rigged. He watched more and more intently until he detected how the scam worked then called the dealer’s bluff. The result was an altercation that was only broken up by the intervention of the race administrators.
Before his hasty exit from Oak Park next morning Shane heard that the cook had died overnight. Contradictory rumours were spreading through the camp, some holding that it was an overdose of meths that killed him while others claimed he had slit his own throat with his butchers’ knife. Whatever the cause, it was a dose of reality for Shane. Death was not heroic as John Wayne would have had us believe. It could be unexpected and ugly, undignified and not even mourned. Whatever gloss still clung to Shane’s notion of military service was now erased by an event that was in no way connected to his national service training. When he returned to Townsville and gave himself up, the sobered soldier welcomed his fourteen days ‘detention’ driving around Townsville with a mate from the Military Police.
The long and sometimes tortuous route to Darwin also allowed time for Shane to reflect on his relationship with Elizabeth, the woman he hoped to marry. Not that she was aware of this intention. They were close friends and Liz seemed content to share his highs and lows rather than trying to tame his wild adventurous streak. At this stage Shane did not know whether what was before him in Darwin would be a high or a low, but either way his future had to be with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was the governess at Jindare Station and if the Griffith family had come to Darwin, she just might be with them. However she might have stayed back at the station and if so, Shane knew that she too would now want to be of service in Darwin. There were rumours that several children had been killed and many more injured. This would be the strongest motivation for Elizabeth. She could help out at the hospital or assist those in need of more intensive care.
He would suss out the situation when he got to Darwin and find out where she was. With the traffic of women and children heading in the opposite direction, it would be difficult to convince those at the road blocks to let a female enter the disaster area. If needed, he could collect Liz in the ute and smuggle her into town, but first he would need to check out possible accommodation.
Elizabeth had been brought up in horse country, near Newcastle in the Hunter Valley region of New South Wales. Although this was a manicured setting compared to the rough outback terrain of Jindare Station, she was a capable horsewoman used to camping out. Shane knew that his true blue bushie friend would not need anything flash in Darwin. A roof to protect her from the wet would do but even that might be hard to find in devastated Darwin.
The thirty six hour drive from Brisbane to Darwin had been quite relaxing in spite of the rough roads and crude resting places. It had given him time for reflection, time to craft a couple of poems that he must write down while they were still fresh in his mind. The devastation he saw as he crawled through the streets of Darwin jolted him back to reality. First things first: find somewhere to sleep, then check on his mates and get some work.
Alongside Shane’s swag in the back of the ute was the broom he had pinched from his parents’ garage. Apart from jerry cans of petrol, that was it. The swag to survive, the broom to help clean up. As he gazed out the window at the mangled power lines and flattened houses, furniture and debris quilting the former front yards and intruding on to the roads, Shane reflected ruefully that it might take more than a broom to fix this mess. He found a debris free spot near what had been the Fannie Bay racing stables, stopped rather than parked, hauled his swag from the tray and set up camp. Even though the radio had crackled talk of another cyclone heading this way, Shane’s bush knowledge told him there would be no rain tonight. He would not need to shelter in the one stable that had part of its corrugated iron roof intact. Shane would rather trust his luck in the open than risk the whims of that rickety ruin.
There was an hour or so left before the tropical sun switched off the light. Best use of it was to spend the time reading, so tea could wait. He plucked a bottle of Bundy from his bag and a tattered copy of Emile Zola’s J’Accuse. He had first read it as an eleven year old and revisited it many times since then. It seemed particularly pertinent to him when he whiffed injustice in the air. This was such a time. In terrorising this city God had wreaked a huge injustice on the people. A sacrilegious thought perhaps for someone schooled by the Marist Brothers but lives had been lost, livelihoods crippled, homes and families shattered. But with disaster came opportunity, sad but true. Tomorrow he would look around, make contact with his mates and get to work.
The suburb of Moil after Cyclone Tracy:
Northern Territory Library, NT Dept of Housing and Construction Collection, photographer Joe Karlhuber
2
Shane usually enjoyed the dawn even though it was short lived in the tropics. He loved the pre-dawn silence broken only by small sounds such as the snuffles and scuffles of awakening horses. As dawn lightened the sky the calls of various birds chimed in intermittently. This morning there were no bird calls, no sounds from the stables of horses returning from their track work, no hoses running to wash down horses. Just an eerie silence.
Shane made his way carefully through the pre-dawn gloom exploring his immediate surroundings. Although he knew the Fannie Bay stable area well it was hard to get his bearings. The landmark trees were all stripped of leaves, the former stables were largely spread across the clearings and any evidence of a race track nearby had been obliterated.
“Compliments of the season to you Shane,” a familiar voice completely devoid of the festive spirit spoke through the pre-dawn gloom.
“Nothing much to celebrate about this lot,” replied Shane as he picked his way tentatively towards the voice. “Hope you’ve got the billy on John.”
“Over to your left behind that heap of rubble that used to be a shed. You’ll see the fire. Of course I’ve got a cuppa ready. Watch your legs on that glass and corrugated iron. It’s lethal.”
Shane picked his way even more carefully. It had been a mistake to start exploring so early but he was not used to sleeping past four thirty. Apocalyptic literature was not Shane’s preferred genre but he was familiar enough with it to feel that he had stepped into the opening chapter of a catastrophe novel. It was not just the rows upon rows of elevated floorboards he had seen last night on his way towards Fannie Bay, all that remained of houses except for the occasional bathroom standing erect among the ruins. What struck Shane in the early morning gloom was that nature itself seemed to have lost the battle. Trees that were stripped of leaves and their heavy tropical canopies seemed embarrassingly naked. The heavy silence was also chilling. Even with dawn on the way there were no bird calls, no birds. It was with relief that he exited the apocalyptic environment courtesy of his mate, John Griffith from Jindare station.
“Well this is civilised. Even chairs around the fire. Where did they come from?” Shane stepped into a clearing that seemed out of place amongst the wreckage.
“Who knows? There’s junk and furniture scattered everywhere. I’ve just given them a good home.” John chose a wooden kitchen chair with four legs that appeared to be intact. He pointed to the other side of the camp fire. “There’s a lounge chair over there if you’re lookin’ for comfort.”
“She’ll be right,” said Shane. “Where’s the Falcon ute?”
“Couldn’t get it in this close. We’ve set up camp here. I’ll have to clear a track to get the ute in.” John handed Shane a metal mug of tea.
“Mmn good cha. You said we’ve set up. The family with you?
“Yeah. Still sleepin’ in the tent behind that rubble,” John Griffith gestured vaguely. “Jan and the kids were already in town when Tracy hit. Nothin’ out at Jindare this time of year. They’d go cabin crazy if I left them out there too long.”
“So where were they staying?”
“Over in Parap. Spent the night in the bathroom. That’s the advice we were all given. When they came out there was nothin’ left. Just floor boards.”
“Saw that on the way in last night. Whole streets of floor boards.”
“I reckon we’re goin’ ta be here a while.” John poured another mug of tea. “I’m gunna get this camp straightened out then find some work. There’s gunna be plenty of that over the next few months.”
“That’s my thinking too. Reckon I’ll start with the clean up crews.” Shane reached for a chunk of bread that John Griffith had cut from a loaf that was approaching old age, skewered it and held it over the fire. “What about I set up camp here too?”
“Yeah, way to go I reckon. Plenty of scrap around and there’s a caravan over there on its side.” John pointed through the gloom. “We could stand that up and you’d be set.”
“Is Elizabeth in town too?” Shane tried to keep his voice casual.
“Nah. She was staying back in Jindare for a day or two to tidy up. Reckon she might have trouble getting in for a week or so what with the road blocks and all.”
“I could always go out and fetch her. There’s plenty of ways around road blocks if you know the country.”
“You know Liz. The moment someone suggested she needed help, she’d dig her heels in and stay. She’ll get here as soon as she’s ready.”
“Yeah, I guess she will.” Shane tried to hide his disappointment. “What are your immediate plans? What about supplies?” Shane bit into the toast. Even without the luxury of butter it tasted delicious. Perhaps he was just hungry. He washed it down with scalding tea.
“Reckon I’ll find a way to get in touch with Jindare then work out how to get the truck in here. The truck’s goin’ to be in great demand. Might see if I can get my hands on a generator and get it into town on the truck.”
“Good thinking. I’m going into the admin centre to land a job. S’pose there is an admin centre?”
“Yeah. They got an emergency station down by the court house. Those buildings are still standing. Well, most of them anyway. What sort of job did you have in mind?”
“Cleaning up. I got a broom in the back of the ute.”
“Bloody hell!”
“I’ll hunt around for some supplies too. Water and stuff.” Shane finished his tea and wiped the mug clean on his shirt. The little water left in the jerry can was better kept for brews of tea.
“They’ve chucked out a lot of the perishables what with the power being cut off. But I heard there are flights of big 747s coming. Bringin’ in supplies and shippin’ out women and kids.”
“Well, I guess the admin centre will be able to put me on to supplies.”
“Yeah. While you’re there, find out when the navy ship’s due into port. There’s talk of one on its way, loaded up with supplies.”
“Okay. Anything else you want while I’m in town?” Shane stretched and made to move back to his ute.
“A couple of champagne flutes, a few bottles of Moet and a nice cheese platter would go down well.”
“Piss off.” Shane waved an arm as he left.
The trip from Fannie Bay to the town centre usually took less than fifteen minutes. Today it took more than an hour as Shane stopped to remove obstacles from the road and once to free a kelpie dog whose leash had got tangled in some debris. The wagging tail when it was released suggested the kelpie had not come to any harm. It decided that its future was best served in the back of the ute and could not be persuaded otherwise. Shane welcomed his new companion. He had started the journey from Brisbane with his blue heeler Nettle, but Nettle had decided to go bush during a kip stop west of the tablelands.
By the time he had reached the temporary administration area near Parliament House, Shane had also picked up a half dozen hitch hikers. One sat in the passenger’s seat, the others squeezed in the back and shared space with the broom, petrol drum and the dog. They were a motley lot. The old man in the passenger’s seat said he was going into town to get some food. He hadn’t eaten for a day. An ugly wound on his left arm was partly swathed in a pair of underpants that helped to stem the blood flow. Shane decided the first stop in town would be the hospital – if it was still in business.
Shane had also picked up an Aboriginal mother who had been sitting on the side of the road nursing her child and clutching a pitiful package of possessions crammed into an ancient case. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Evacuation made sense but she did not want to leave her country. Most of her mob had moved out of town when they felt the cyclone coming on. Now she was sorry she hadn’t gone with them because she knew they’d have found a safe place in the bush to weather out the fury. In spite of this she just wanted to know they were safe. The child was crying and although mum was putting on a brave face, she was very distressed.
“Don’t worry missus,” Shane reassured her. “I’ll get you to the admin centre.”
“That dog there. He don’ bite Blackfellas do he?” The mother needed to get into town but she had a deep and usually well founded suspicion of Whitefella authority. She was even more suspicious of Whitefellas’ dogs, often inclined to attack Aborigines.
Shane picked up on her apprehension. “Nah missus. Nettle here, he loves kids, don’t you Nettle.” Shane patted the bewildered dog affectionately. “I’ll see you right in town, don’t worry,” Shane consoled the mother as he helped her into the back of the ute, squeezing the old suitcase in alongside the petrol drum.
The three young men who also crammed into the back of the ute said they were answering their union’s call to join one of the work parties. It appeared their Christmas Eve party had extended throughout the night and the following day until they eventually ran out of beer. Their obvious motivation for joining the clean-up gangs was to get food and beer after each day’s work. Unlike the other passengers, their attitude suggested they were enjoying the adventure despite their hangovers.
Crowded as the ute was, the kelpie had no choice but to choose someone’s lap for the ride into town. It did a quality test moving from one lap to another, eventually settling on the Aboriginal child, perhaps so it could push its head over the side and face the breeze. The dog’s company seemed to mollify the child and her gentle words to the animal were rewarded with vigorous tail wagging and occasional licks.
First stop was the hospital where the three young fellas took charge of the injured man. “Don’t worry cobber,” the least hung over boy assured Shane. “We’ll look after this old bloke, get him admitted then we’ll get down to the admin centre. Thanks for the lift.”
Shane appreciated the help. He really wanted to get to the centre and line up a job. Before he reached the destination there was a rap on the back window of the ute. He stopped and shouted to the mother through the driver’s window. “What’s up? The dog playin’ up?”
“Nup. Just wanna get out here. This far enough.”
“But the admin centre’s another few hundred yards.”
“Know that. I wanna get out here.” The mother was not waiting to continue the discussion and was unloading her child and case on to the debris littered street verge.
Shane realised what was going through the woman’s mind. She needed time to weigh up the risks; the risk of Whitefellas’ rules, the risk of survival in town closer to food and water, even if shelter was still an unlikely option.
“Fair enough. Good luck missus.” Shane gave a wave as he slowly pulled away.
There were none of the usual bureaucratic delays at the emergency administration centre. A young man, well turned out in shorts and long socks in spite of the calamity surrounding him, greeted Shane’s request for work with a smorgasbord of job choices. Shane opted for driving a tip truck at $15 an hour, cash in hand, a fortune compared with his stockman’s wage at Jindare Station.
“Got a truck driver’s licence?”
“Yep.”
“Right, sign here. We’ll get you over to the temporary depot and you can start immediately.”
Shane was surprised that he had not been asked to show his licence but guessed that this was a precaution in case the answer to this question was no. The emergency team must have been desperate for labour. In fact Shane did have a truck driver’s licence, acquired on the way to Darwin in a one policeman town. He was required to drive a truck up the main street and fortunately did not have to demonstrate that he could turn or reverse the vehicle.
Getting his new vehicle under way provided some challenges.
“You’ll need to double declutch it,” advised the yard foreman.
“Double the what?”
“Double declutch. Push the clutch in twice before you can slip it into gear or change gears. Haven’t you driven a truck before?”
“Yeah, yeah, just forgot about that clutch thing that’s all.”
The foreman looked at the rookie driver suspiciously but was in no position to argue. He needed several drivers desperately and could not afford to be choosy.
“Right then, on your way. Head up to the northern suburbs as far as you can go. You won’t be able to get all the way in. You’ll see a gang of blokes there. Might have a fork lift if they’re lucky. Start there. The loads go back to the tip. Got that?”
Shane was too pre-occupied to reply as he kangaroo hopped the hefty truck out of the yard.
Now that he had it going, Shane reckoned he would look around the town a bit before he headed for his assigned pickups in the northern suburbs. He had heard that the harbour was a mess so he would wend his way down there, a sort of practice run as he taught himself how to double declutch.
Cyclone Tracy Emergency Station:
Northern Territory Library, Northern Territory Government Photographer Collection
3
Shane was satisfied with his first day’s work in the tip truck although he was sure that breaking in a horse was easier than controlling a kangaroo hopping truck. At least you could adjust to the rhythm of the horse as it bucked. He found the massive vehicle far less accommodating. Still, by the time he reached the clean-up site he had managed to gain enough control over his recalcitrant vehicle to avoid outright laughter from the clean-up crew, although he caught glimpses of mirth on their faces in the rear vision mirror as he took off for the tip with each full load of rubble.
The tray of the ute was just as crowded for the return trip to Fannie Bay. The emergency workers had gathered after work at the administration centre where they were treated to a couple of warm beers before dispersing for the evening. Most were accommodated in nearby tents while several needed transport back into the suburbs where the occasional shelter stood unscathed.
This time the ute was loaded with supplies for the camp, including water collected from burst mains. The kelpie had again staked its proprietary claim in a corner of the ute. The bucket of water Shane had left for the dog had been nearly empty when he returned. He refilled the bucket and fed the ravenous dog with a hamburger the administrators had provided along with after-work drinks.
Six workers squeezed into the tray, grumbling good heartedly, complaining when the dog refused to sacrifice any of its squat in the front corner. Shane knew one of the workers, Charlie Fammon, an Aboriginal bloke. Charlie shared the front cabin with Shane on the return trip to Fannie Bay.
“So what brought you into town Charlie? I thought you were out in the community.”
“Bin doin’ a bit of track work and muckin’ out stables for the Brown family mate.”
Charlie was in his late twenties, son of Shane’s friend and well-known horseman Gallaway Fammon. Gallaway and his large family worked horses from Roper River to Mountain Valley.
“How’s your dad?”
“Just the same. Ruling the mob as usual. No grog, no fun, all traditional way ya know.”
“Your old man’s the smartest bloke I ever knew. I learned a lot from him. Maybe you could too Charlie.”
“Yeah mate, he’s a good man. But I like to mix it up a bit see. Some of the traditional and a bit of the town. Me old man says that’s okay so long as I don’t hang out with the long grass mob. He likes me ridin’. Says I might get good as him one day.”
“If you did, you’d be the best rider in the Top End. He still doing any stockman work?”
“Yeah, when he’s not doin’ lore. Got lotsa responsibilities for our mob you know. Head bloke.”
“I guess there won’t be much riding round here for a while,” Shane reflected. “Had a look around the stables area this morning and couldn’t even see any horses. The Bantam Rooster reckoned they’d be looking for a feed.”
“Who, John Griffith?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Know of him. He don’t mix with us Blackfellas much.”
“Well, John was going out looking around for them today. Where can I drop you off?”
“How far ya goin’?”
“We’ve got a camp near the old stables. Nothing left of them far as I can see.”
“Drop me at the turn off. A few of us got a camp out on the Bay. Million dollar views. But the road’s still closed. Makes us exclusive. I’ll walk the rest.”
Shane progressively dropped off his passengers as he guided the ute slowly through the debris, heading back to the camp. “I’ll pick you up here tomorrow morning and give you a lift back into town,” Shane offered as Charlie, his last passenger, alighted.
“'Bout daybreak?”
“Yeah, about then.”
“Catch ya then.” Charlie had already turned, humping the bag of supplies he had been nursing during the journey.
John Griffith had certainly been busy. Shane was able to drive the ute right up to the camp. The clearing, previously scattered with rubble, now resembled a legitimate campsite. Certainly Shane had seen worse on cattle musters. Even the camp fire had taken on a more formal shape with pieces of metal arranged to support various cooking utensils. There was even a hot plate of sorts.
Jan Griffith and her two sons Mac and Luke were busying themselves around the campsite. Shane greeted them warmly, hugging Jan and ruffling the boys’ hair fondly.
“Look what I done Shane!” Mac pointed very proudly at the table he had found.
“Did,” corrected Jan.
“Yeah I did that,” Mac pointed to a well-spliced table leg. “Real solid that is. It’s not broken now.”
“Great job young fella,” Shane praised the child as he bent over the handiwork. “Where’s John?”
“Gone looking for horses. There’s no sign of any around here. Got the kettle on if you want a mug of tea Shane.”
“Kettle? My, things have certainly looked up since this morning.”
“Well you could fit out a kitchen just by walking fifty yards down the street,” Jan laughed. “Walk a block and you could furnish a whole house, but the soft furnishings are all ruined.”
“I reckon the horses will be looking for a feed. I bet John’s checking out the lagoons.”
“You’re probably right. He’ll be back soon. You wouldn’t want to be wandering around amongst this stuff in the dark.”
“I’ve got some supplies in the back of the ute. Nothing fresh I’m afraid but plenty of other tucker.” Shane headed back to the ute.
Jan did the canned food proud. The men had second helpings and the boys needed no encouragement to eat their meal. They were equally happy to make an early exit to bed. Tracy may have spelled tragedy for the adult population of Darwin but for the boys it was the greatest adventure of their lives.
“Where did ya get the beers?” John asked as they settled after the meal?”
“They were thrown out with the perishables.”
“Why?”
“Because the cans are going rusty. Look on the bottom.”
John lifted his near empty beer. “Still tastes okay. Never thought I’d be drinkin’ warm beer though. We need to get a generator into town in a hurry.”
“Did you find any horses John?”
“Yeah, a few down in the lagoon inside the racetrack. A few more in that other lagoon towards Fannie Bay. Not many though.”
“At least in the wet they’ll get good feed there. Best place for them for the time being.”
“What’s happening round town?”
“I ran into Ray Pike.” Shane reached for another beer, already developing a taste for the warm brew. “You know, the Customs bloke. He was down by Stokes Wharf near that little Customs office – which is still standing, believe it or not.”
“Yeah, I think I know him. Lives out in Gingili doesn’t he?”
“Well he did. The place was flattened along with all the others. The family sheltered in the bathroom. All nine of them in fact. Would you believe his sister and her family arrived in town that evening from New Guinea? So there’s Ray’s family, the dog, mattresses against the wall to protect the kids and his rellies all in the bathroom.
“What a welcome to Darwin! Jesus it must’ve been stifling.” John Griffith had an aversion to high humidity even in normal circumstances. He suffered from asthma and high humidity brought on bad attacks.
“He thought they were gone. Reckons the noise of the wind and houses smashing down all along the street was just as scary as the shaking walls.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No, but he’s not smiling a lot. I reckon a lot of people are going to be in a state of shock for a long time. But Ray says the advice they got before the cyclone was on the money. The bathroom proved to be the strongest structure in the house. A stroke of luck for him. He wanted to shelter in the basement where there was a bit more room but his missus insisted it had to be the bathroom. The basement roof caved in. There’s a few blokes that I know could take a lesson from that.”
“What?”
“Listening to their wives.”
“Where’s Ray’s family now?”
“They all slept in the pub up the road for the first two nights after the blow. You know, the one in Marrara Street. Hundreds of mattresses were laid out in the public bar. Well a lot of mattresses anyway,” Shane modified his tale as John raised his eyebrows sceptically.
“Could be in a worse place.”
“Think again. No power, no beer, no fans going. Just cyclone survivors suffering from shock.”
“Where’s the family now?”
“Ray said they were evacuated by air in less than forty eight hours. A bus loaded them directly into a bloody big RAAF Hercules. Piled in hundreds of families and this time I mean hundreds. No room for seats. Just sat them all on the floor.”
“What’s Ray gunna do?”
“He’s going out by road in a day or two just to check they’re okay.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Yeah. Says he’ll be back as soon as he can. Wants to be around his place for the clean up.”
John stood up and tightened the flapping tarpaulin over their living space. The wind was picking up but it was in the wrong direction to bring more rain. “So what’s the situation down on the wharf? I heard some of the racing mob were working down there during the off season.”
“Ray Pike reckons it’s real serious. I saw one big trawler washed up, the Clipper Bird. Left high and dry. There’s even a navy ship nestling in the rocks on the wrong side of the mangroves. Couldn’t see the name of that one, just the number ninety.
“Only one trawler? That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“A lot of the prawning trawlers took to sea at the first warnings to avoid being washed up, according to Ray.”
“Makes sense. That’s usual practice isn’t it?”
“Yeah but they haven’t been seen or heard of since. He reckons the death toll there will be high. They seem to have just disappeared.”
“Jesus. Do we know anyone on the boats?”
“As far as I can tell none of the racing mob was crewing but I can’t be sure. Doing factory work I heard. Ray reckons there could be nineteen of them lost.” Now three days after the cyclone, Shane held little hope that there would be survivors.
“What about around here?”John finished adjusting the tarpaulin stays. Having adjusted one, the other five had been put out of whack.
“This is the worst hit of all, the northern suburbs – Northcliffe, Parap, Moil, around there. The eye of the cyclone seems to have hit the coast at East Point, just down the road, headed towards Casuarina then decided to head south and take out the town centre and harbour area. It worked over the airport on the way into town. Cavanagh Street’s a mess. Just bent poles and corrugated iron. Headed east after that.”
“If the airport’s wiped out, how are they getting the women and kids away?” John pictured planes and demolished hangars strewn across the runway.
“They’ve cleared the strip. The government’s flying in anything that’s available, from DC3s to 747s. And of course the RAAF’s flying in their Hercules. Ray reckons a lot of the local planes are sitting upside down on the tarmac or on the roofs of hangars but the runway is clear and safe. Pretty well half of the population, I hear, will have to get out one way or another, road or plane.” Shane drew breath long enough for another sip of beer. “There’s plenty more of these at the tip, where this came from. I’ll get more supplies tomorrow.”
“So who’s runnin’ the show? The boss for the emergency?”
“Some ex-army bloke, Stretton I think his name is. He’s organising work parties to clear debris, get water and power back on, that sort of stuff. Reckons he’s God if you ask me. ‘I’ve decided to postpone New Years Eve!’ he says.”
In spite of the grim tales, the mates laughed till their beers spilt.
“Sounds like he’s also postponed sex if all the women are being shipped out.” This comment added to the spillage problem.
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m off to bed. Big day tomorrow, cleaning up the castle. Yes we do have a bed Shane. It just fits into the tent!” Jan announced, emerging from the tent where Luke and Mac were housed.
“Got a broom in the back of the ute if you need it Jan. Yep. It’s bed for me too. Anyway the beer’s run out.” Shane stretched and made his way to the now upright caravan.
4
Shane was impressed with what had been achieved in less than a week, not just by the clean up gang he had most contact with but also by those working in other parts of the city. With the clean-up in full swing, his truck driving skills had improved considerably, albeit from a low base. In the eyes of his mates Shane continued to be an accident waiting to happen.
A sure sign that things were on the up was the flood of politicians arriving for their photo opportunities. Prime Minister Whitlam had been overseas when the cyclone struck but he quickly returned and replaced his Deputy Jim Cairns in front of the media cameras. The Governor General, Sir John Kerr, stayed sober long enough to walk through the wreckage in some of the northern suburbs and the Leader of the Opposition, Billy Snedden, headed for the Darwin hospital to be photographed amongst the bandages – the real heroes – those injured while protecting their families and kids.
More importantly for those who remained in town, entertainment and recreation reappeared towards the end of the first week. The military personnel from the navy ships in the harbour worked hard all day and demanded to be entertained at night. Johnny O’Keefe, the legend of Saturday evening’s must-see television program for teenagers Six O’clock Rock, rocked up to Darwin High School where the gymnasium remained intact, and performed to a packed crowd.
There was even talk of a race meeting being held early in the new year.
“Dunno where they’re going to get the horses,” John Griffith commented when Shane mentioned it one evening around the camp fire.
“What about the herd you saw down in the lagoon?”
“Not so much a herd. Just a rag of ponies. Some looked in good condition but most looked the worse for wear. At the very least they’d need a week of good feed.”
“I ran into Theo Dobbe in town.”
“He’s got a property out at Ten Mile hasn’t he?”
“Yep, down the Stuart Highway. They had the usual storm damage, but nothing like the blitz that happened here.”
“His horses okay?”
“Yeah. He’s got a few good ’uns too. If they had a race meet about now, Theo would really clean up.”
“How’s his little girl? What’s her name?”
“Coralie? She’s going to be a real good rider when she grows up. Nothing pretty about her style but very good balance. Got a few years to go yet before she gets an apprenticeship, which is what she wants to do.”
“Well her old man will be a good master. A good trainer and a good bloke too.”
As far as he could tell, Shane’s mates in Darwin had all survived. Perhaps the survival skills they had fine tuned in the outback had served them in good stead as the cyclone raged at speeds that broke the weather bureau’s instruments. Most of the women and children had been evacuated and it was left to the men to attend to household duties like cleaning up, drying out the sodden linen and washing when they could get fresh water. Shane had mixed feelings when he saw people going about their routine tasks. On one hand it was heartening to see strangers kicking in and helping each other, but it was also sad to see these household chores being carried out for houses that no longer existed.