The first 13 years of my life were either idyllic or deprived, depending on your point of view. I lived on a cattle and sheep farm up the steep mountain from Tamworth, on the road to Walcha. The rugged landscape felt like home, I loved it. I was happiest out on the property on my beloved pony, helping Dad with the stock, riding with him to check fences and cattle, learning how to work the cattle dogs, practising over the little jumps Dad built for me. I knew every inch of the place. I brushed my little pony until he gleamed and held endless conversations with him, feeling his warm breath on my face and neck as he stayed close to me.
The seasons brought extreme heat and snow. Spring was the best – the sun on my face, the sound of birdsong, the roses in the garden and the wide verandah and shady soft lawn in summer. Feeding the poddy lambs and calves -. I loved how they’d run up to the gate, and how the lamb’s tails would wiggle while they drank. We had bower-birds in our garden – I watched them building their complex display with all Mum’s blue clothes pegs and any other blue things they picked up – then the eggs – then the hatchlings.
There were Lyre birds in the foresty bit of the mountain, up the old dirt track past the hand built old stockyards, and the tiny fallen down settler’s cottage. One copied the sound of the cracking whip and Dad whistling the dogs, causing confusion in the dog pack. The birdsong of Kookaburras and magpies was everpresent.
I had to be formally educated, but aside from a year in the tiny 10 student, one teacher school in the small village 10K up the road (not such a happy memory) and an ill-fated attempt to go to Tamworth for primary school (bus, steep windy road + snow), Mum taught me at home. The work would arrive by mail, I finished the week’s work in a day, and I was released. I can’t say that the day spent doing my schoolwork brought joy, poor Mum, I fear I was a disruptive and defiant student – a description that followed me right through my school years.
The happiest memories out of many in those years are of roaming around the large property, free as a bird. The trust and freedom my parents gave me made me confident and brave, and my darling Jumbo looked after me, never playing up, never causing trouble, saving me from snakes or from falling into one of the many disused mine shafts – I had complete faith in that dear little bay pony, and he repaid it in spades.
My dog, Katie, a beautiful kind Lassie Collie was my faithful companion, once saving me from a river, just like on the TV. She also submitted to being dressed up and brushed constantly, never a cross word from Katie.
My other friends were books, innumerable English books about ponies and posh private schools, I loved imagining myself there in the Pullein-Thompson or Enid Blyton world, playing hockey, pillow fights and midnight feasts in the boarding house. At the same time I also reread, over and over, books like the Silver Brumby, Black Beauty, Storm boy and Seven Little Australians, snuggled up in my cosy bed with a torch.
Some could say it was a lonely life, but I was so so happy. As I grew older, Dad gave me more responsibility, I took my tasks seriously – revelling in the satisfaction of mustering a paddock on my own, or corralling sheep in the yards, catching lambs to be castrated. So much to do all day, and I was never excluded.
Sometimes we would go to a gymkhana, often a couple of hours away. I would enter everything and quiet little Jumbo would transform into a fierce speed demon; whipping around the barrels in the barrel race, speeding through the bending poles with me hanging on for dear life. The exhilaration of the races, and the pride in winning many blue ribbons against larger horses and older kids, brought enormous joy. I loved it, and I discovered I loved the feeling of winning. Then at the end of the day, after Mum and Dad had a drink at the bar, and I’d eaten several sausage sandwiches (white bread, lots of tomato sauce). We’d load a tired Jumbo back into the rickety old float and drive back to the farm, exhausted and happy with the ribbons proudly hanging from the rear vision mirror.
A big treat was to put on my pyjamas and drive the 2 hours down the mountain to Tamworth to the Drive-In cinema. Memories of the magic on screen, the speaker hanging on the car window, watching the people in the other cars. Dad would go the diner and buy lollies and potato chips, sometimes hot chips or a pie with sauce as a special treat. Mum and he would cuddle in the front seat, and I felt warm and safe in the car.
Sometimes, we’d go to town for cattle sales or shopping. I was allowed to sit in the sun on the step of the pub with a lemonade, Mum was confined to the Ladies Lounge where she gossiped and chatted with other wives and CWA ladies, while the men were in the front bar swapping stories and comparing prices at the sales. Snippets of conversation from both bars would drift out to me on my step, I loved feeling like an observer. On the long drive home, I’d pepper them with questions about things I’d heard.
I was allowed to go up to the shearing shed, at first the shearers would shout ‘Ducks on the pond’ – (female in the shed) and shut me out of the shed. Gradually they tolerated me if I sat very quietly, then later I was able to help pick up and trim the fleeces, help yard the sheep and let the freshly shorn ones out of the yards. ‘working’ alongside the tightknit group of strong, highly skilled men made me very happy, I think I wanted to be one of them.
Then came the great breakthrough when I could join the men at Smoko, drink a mug of string black tea, and listen to stories of shearing sheds and trade unions and strikes, bad and good cockies and sheds while asking endless questions. Until then I knew nothing of politics or inequity or bosses and workers. The social justice flame was set alight by these conversations with these kind, soft handed, rough blokes from an entirely different place in the world.
In the evenings, watching ‘Bellbird’ with my parents, crying together when Rhoda was killed at the level crossing. Listening to ‘Blue Hills’ in the kitchen with Mum while we ate lunch. I still remember the opening intoned in a posh ABC voice ‘Blue Hills by Gwen Meredith.’ Watching the roller derby and the wrestling on a Sunday afternoon. Watching the moon landing, and Kennedy’s assassination, and the news. That black and white TV and the radio were my windows to a larger world, I was happy to drink it all in.
Once a year we’d drive the 9 hours north to the beach, stopping at my grandparents in Sydney on the way. Memories of sticking to the hot vinyl car seats and trying to get a cool breeze through the open windows, getting car sick from reading in the car; singing songs to the radio with Mum and Dad while my baby sister slept in a bassinet on the seat – entirely unprotected. The joy of the novel feeling of hot scorching sand under my feet, getting dumped in the surf, then – sunburnt and salty – fish and chips with potato scallops and pineapple fritters on a table by the sea. Staying in a motel, with our breakfast coming through a slot in the door – how I loved lifting the metal cover to see my bacon and eggs and pouring my cereal from tiny boxes.
Sometimes, I’d watch with fascination as my beautiful mother dressed in shiny dresses while my handsome Dad, dressed sharply in a black suit, did her hair. We’d drive an hour or more to the party or ball. My sister and I stayed outside and slept under quilts on a mattress in the back of the station wagon parked alongside other wagons and cars with sleeping children. On the way home, I’d look out the window from my cosy mattress, at the passing trees and the moon and the stars, and sometimes the magical falling snow. Contentment.
At the age of 13 we uprooted and moved to Sydney. Readers might notice that the story ends there. I went to a private girl’s high school, the same one Mum attended. Mum taught there, luckily she was very popular. We took our horses and ponies with us, and it was when riding around the suburban streets and through the bush tracks with new horsy friends or going to Pony Club every Saturday learning new things, that I felt happiness. There were moments of joy at school, but I most often felt like a fish out of water, questioning ‘why’ when I was asked to do anything, being scolded for not paying attention, and regularly getting thrown out of class. The other girls were from much more privileged families, their worlds were very different. I felt deprived of ski lodges, beach houses and overseas trips.
In hindsight, that freedom and trust in my early years was so important and I treasure it still. My confidence gradually disappeared as my world shrunk, and my freedom was curtailed by roads and rules and uniforms and having to sit still.
The next phase of my life is another story altogether.