Some of My Friends Have Tails Read online

  I stood transfixed as the entrails finally came away, more as a result of countless snarling, fighting, tugging dogs than by the butcher’s knife. A few quick kicks from the men sent a frenzied mass of dogs, entangled in endless lengths of entrails, snarling and growling out into the street. Leaving the muddy, dirty area clear for … whatever came next. It was enough for me; skirting around the snarling pack, I hurried to catch up with Elvie, remembering the large print on one page of the Embassy instructions:

  ‘DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, EAT LOCALLY KILLED FRESH BEEF.’

  I hurried past pigs tied to posts, squealing because they could smell their fate, and chickens sitting in bamboo cages stacked on top of each other, so high they leaned at dangerous angles. The chickens were so hot they couldn’t even raise a cackle in protest. I raced away from that living hell, and added pigs and chickens to my memory bank along with the Embassy’s beef warning. Just on cruelty grounds alone, I would not buy their food, not to mention the health risk.

  The Embassy instructions also said if I did purchase salad vegetables locally they had to be washed very carefully as the growers used human manure to fertilise their gardens! I dreamed longingly, every night, of Australia. My many advisers told me it was all right to use local lettuce as long as it was washed very thoroughly. The first time I handed a lettuce over to the cook, I explained in detail to her that a careful washing was essential to prevent us from getting sick. I was served a salad that night with the lettuce leaves limp and flat, in a glucky mound in the bottom of the bowl. Vilma, my cook, had followed my instructions enthusiastically; for washing she had used hot water and washing detergent to clean off all the germs.

  So we survived without contracting any terrible tropical mystery bug. Charlie also made life more interesting by often finding a business reason to fly to Hong Kong for a weekend; we would pig-out on such things as Sydney rock oysters, flown in fresh by Qantas, followed by exotic dishes such as Peking duck and shark’s fin soup. We would waddle onto the plane back to Manila, stuffed to the eyeballs with food that hadn’t been treated with washing detergent.

  As the years wore on, my panics over the Embassy’s food instructions faded, and we could eat lettuce in a salad that actually looked like lettuce. But this didn’t stop the mistakes due to language problems. I showed Vilma how I liked cabbage steamed in butter and nutmeg, and the next time I asked for coleslaw, it was made with cooked cabbage. But her greatest faux pas was on her first day with me. I asked for a cup of tea. She had always worked for Americans, who drank percolated coffee. I had made the mistake of saying tea was similar to coffee, and so I got percolated tea!

  She filled the percolator with tea-leaves and percolated them for about thirty minutes. With about twenty teaspoons of tea-leaves in a six-cup percolator, it was so strong even the smell was repulsive. I never did taste the percolated tea, but it could be a new craze waiting to be discovered.

  One of the greatest and nicest characters in my life to date is a Filipino, but we first met in Hong Kong. The first morning after my wedding, Charlie left me on the boat while he went to the office. That wonderful, cheerful face appeared over the side of the boat every day and said, ‘Hullo, Mummy!’ For the three months we stayed in Hong Kong on a supposed honeymoon, Charlie at the office, me on the boat, Ernesto would appear each morning after Charlie had left and make sure I came to no harm until Charlie’s return from the office at the end of the day.

  Ernesto was very much a part of our life, trials and tribulations during our time in Manila. We lost contact with him when we left to come to Australia and the station in 1965. Then he came to Bullo to visit us in the mid-seventies. By then he had made his fortune, and Charlie had well and truly lost his. Ernesto was shocked that Charlie allowed the children and me to live in a tin shed, as he put it, ‘only used for chickens’.

  Charlie didn’t bother to contact him after that remark, and indeed, did not speak to him again.

  Ernesto contacted the station a few years after Charlie’s death, wishing to speak to him, and was sad at the news of his death. Since he found out we were carrying on alone, he has been a constant friend, always there to help, never asking anything in return. The rarest of gems in a jewel box of friends. Like Uncle Dick, I could write a whole book about Ernesto, and our friendship over the years.

  4

  * * *

  SMELL THE ROSES AND DRUGS

  I thought Manila was behind the times, barbaric in some ways, but little did I realise I was about to arrive in a place that was a thousand times more remote and barbaric. When Charlie deposited me in the far north-western Outback, I went into deep shock for a year. Even the Manila meatworks looked modern compared to the systems out there—though not cleaner. Everything was clean in the wilderness, except for the flies which equalled Manila downtown. But over the years I have come to discover that the Outback has more characters per square mile than anywhere else.

  When we landed on a million acres of nothingness, it created more than one problem. Up to that point in our five years of marriage, Charlie would rise at four o’clock in the morning, plan his day, and that of everyone in his office. He would write reams of instructions for the entire office staff, and also instructions for me, the children, the maids, the chauffeur, even the gardener! Once he started, it was hard to stop him!

  Every morning at six o’clock I would have to ‘front and centre’, to be issued all the work orders for the household, and the boat crew. After a quick breakfast, he would finally be whisked away by the chauffeur, and the staff and I would breathe a long sigh of relief, and go about our day without the aid of Charlie’s pages of instructions.

  We would have a peaceful day until five o’clock in the afternoon, when the car would bring him back into our midst, and we would be issued with constant orders until he had had his requisite number of cocktails, been fed, and finally he would slowly wind down from the day’s hype and promptly fall asleep around eight-thirty each night, to snore loudly until four o’clock the next morning. This was the Manila routine. However, on our million-acre wilderness I suddenly went from seeing Charlie on an average of five hours a day, to seeing him all his waking hours. All day, every day!

  From thirty-plus staff in the Manila office, and hundreds of crew members on ships all around the world, Charlie was reduced to having only the children, me, and the Aboriginals to control. It didn’t take our stockmen long to work Charlie out, and they soon became very good at the disappearing act.

  In Manila, Charlie had four full-time secretaries and an administrative secretary to organise all the other secretaries and his appointments. So guess who was expected to take over all those jobs, plus the switchboard operator, plus the household staff, plus the cook, plus new positions like the station nurse, or doctor (whichever was required), plus the baker, gardener, bookkeeper … I’ll give you two guesses and Charlie isn’t one.

  This adjustment caused some contention from the working ranks. Charlie couldn’t see my problem: I only had to organise myself, he said. My problem was I was not organised, he said. I won’t write what I said.

  Suddenly, from having a maid in every room, a chauffeur, gardener, two baby amahs, a cook, a laundress, spending my days entertaining clients’ wives, playing tennis, and playing with my children, I went to being ‘The Missus’. Which as far as I could see incorporated every living action on earth, except maybe answering God’s telephone! And all Charlie could say was I was disorganised when I couldn’t stop doing the three things I was doing, and do his bidding.

  It didn’t take long for me to decide to strike back whenever the opportunity arose. And I have to give Charlie credit, when I did catch him out, he conceded defeat and took note of my point. But if I didn’t make an issue of each injustice, he would get away with it until I did challenge him. One of his most annoying habits was the constant remark it should only take me fifteen minutes to cook a meal. Every time he wanted me to do something for him, I was always in the kitchen cooking. This a
nnoyed him! The fact that I was cooking now for thirty people (including the abattoir staff) and teaching three different grades of school, plus the few hundred other jobs that seem to be the personal responsibility of ‘The Missus’ in the Outback, annoyed me no end. The fact that all this effort—my days stretched from four o’clock in the morning to ten o’clock at night—wasn’t even recognised, let alone appreciated, also irritated me.

  One particularly bad day he made the remark, ‘You’re just not organised’ once too often. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was one of those days when nothing was going right, you want to down tools, tell everyone who approaches to ‘get lost’, just walk away from it all, change your name. A bad day! So I thought, what the hell. I left the kitchen, went into the classroom, brought order back to the chaotic scene there, and quietly spent the rest of the morning with the children.

  At one second past twelve, the ravenous horde of workers would charge in the door, expecting to devour a few tonnes of food for lunch. So, at eleven forty-five I walked into the office. Charlie was industriously devouring a box of Jatz crackers and a block of cheese, washing it down with beer, while reading a paperback about pirates. These activities, eating, drinking and reading, usually occupied ninety percent of his time when at the station; in town it was a different situation altogether … well, I’m not sure if he ate cheese and crackers during his town activities! His excuse when I interrupted him, on the station, that is, was always that he was waiting for an important phone call, and because he always sat at the desk next to the phone, this somehow in Charlie’s mind vindicated his outright laziness. This day was no different: ‘Just waiting for an urgent call, darling.’ Not one twinge of guilt showed through the glib statement.

  ‘Charlie, I must stop and smell the flowers.’ It came out in a voice that indicated I was off with the fairies. That certainly changed his expression, and even stopped the hand stuffing cheese and crackers into his mouth.

  Before he could splutter any words at me, I went on: ‘It’s a quarter to twelve, and as you have said many times to me, it should only take fifteen minutes to throw a meal together. Be a dear, and throw lunch together for me today.’

  I started out the door, but paused. ‘Oh yes, and if the children have any problems in the schoolroom … solve them, there’s a dear. I’m off to smell the flowers.’

  Before he could recover from the shock, I put on my sun-hat, walked out the door and headed across the front lawn for the distant paddock and the river.

  As his voice faded into the expanse of the Outback wilderness, I would hear it going from commands: ‘Return at once’ to requests: ‘Let’s talk about what has upset you’ to outright begging: ‘I’ll agree to anything, please come back!’

  I just kept walking.

  I walked back into the kitchen at four o’clock. A scene of devastation told the story. Forty-plus opened cans of baked beans scattered everywhere, various frying pans with remains of eggs in stages of putrefaction littered the stove, open packets of sliced bread were strewn around the counters. The havoc continued, spilt cooking oil spread across the floor, open jam jars were scattered over the counter, various containers of melted liquid butter were dotted with drowning flies. Open tins of fruit, saucepans with burned peas and carrots stuck to the blackened bottoms. Every surface in the room was covered with some sticky substance of something spilt, all mixed in with dirty plates, knives, forks, spoons and cups of a ravenous horde bent on getting their fill.

  I remember thinking, Was it worth it? when I faced the mess. But I had gone that far, so I wasn’t about to quit.

  I found Charlie sitting in a lounge chair, a strange expression on his face, a look of sheer disbelief, as if a herd of wild animals had charged over him and he couldn’t understand why he was still alive and in one piece. The abattoir staff arriving for lunch could be described in such a way.

  A big smile came out of the dazed expression when he saw me. It was so genuine I almost felt sorry for him. But I quelled the emotion and charged on into the campaign. ‘How was the fifteen-minute lunch?’

  He gave me one of his charming, yet wistful smiles, and simply said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  I didn’t relent. ‘If you want dinner cooked, I want that kitchen restored to normal.’

  He was so glad I had offered to cook dinner, he actually came out to the kitchen and cleared the mess away while I cooked. But Charlie’s idea of cleaning was to wipe everything off the counters and into the garbage. So I did have to stop him, and under my instructions he quietly picked out the jars of jam, bread, knives, forks and cups and plates, and put things away, wiped counters and started washing the dirty dishes.

  He completed his charm programme by complimenting me on how quickly I had put the meal together. When I replied I still wasn’t up to his fifteen-minute standard, he replied, ‘Touché.’

  His baked beans and whatever had taken a few hours, plus his cleaning, another few hours, and he knew the staff went back to work very grumpy, late and still hungry, and what’s more he knew I knew. I never heard about fifteen-minute meals again, and to make sure I wouldn’t go off and smell the flowers again, he returned from Darwin with two girls to help in the kitchen and with the housework.

  I had a long, long line of house help characters; some I have already written about, but I forgot one who particularly stands out, an unusual girl. She was all of sixteen; I repeatedly told Charlie not to bring back young girls to do housework as they were never any good. He assured me this one was from a large family and was used to loads of housework. Her friend, not much older, was going to work in the meatworks. I showed them to their room. The next morning, bright and early, she skipped in the door ready to start. I thought, well, at least she’s cheerful.

  I explained what she had to do. Took her through the house step by step, explained the washing machine, the vacuum cleaner, showed her all the brooms and mops and left her to it, saying if there were any questions I’d be in the kitchen cooking.

  She cleaned all day, regularly asking me questions, and keeping up the cheerful attitude. She bobbed around the house humming and da-da-da-ing her way through endless unrecognisable songs all day. Apart from the terrible sounds she made, I had to admit Charlie just might have found a gem.

  My hopes were dashed the next morning when she bobbed in the door, still da-da-da-ing and asked me what I wanted her to do that day. For a moment I thought she was joking, then I realised she wasn’t. So I told her that she would have to repeat the things she did yesterday. Unfortunate as it was, the laundry had to be done, the dishes washed, and now the horde of thirty people had departed down the flat to the abattoir, the house had to be dusted, swept, floors mopped, put back in order for another day.

  She looked at me in horror and said, ‘Oh f… that!’ and walked out the door.

  After recovering from shock I called her back, told her to keep her remarks to herself, and explained some painful truths: that a job as a domestic entails cleaning, daily, so if she didn’t do that, she didn’t have a job. She went about her work but didn’t sing one note, which was okay by me. But the good work of the first day had disappeared for ever. As soon as I was out of sight she downed tools, so I had to check on her constantly. I finally told her I didn’t have time to chase her all day; she had the house to clean, and I didn’t care if it took all night, she would stay at it until it was done satisfactorily. So she started cleaning again, but I asked Charlie to start looking for the next domestic. He complained I was too hard to please, said it was very hard to find new girls all the time and I should be more tolerant. The events of that night had him agreeing with me.

  Loud thumping on our bedroom door brought me out of a deep sleep; Charlie still snored on soundly. It was my house girl: her friend was very sick, could I come quickly. One look at the girl made my heart sink to the floor. She was a white/grey tone, her skin was cold and clammy, her eyes rolled back in her head and she was unconscious. I quickly put her in the recommended positi
on for an unconscious person, made the domestic hold her head forward and down, told her to watch the girl in case she swallowed her tongue. Then I raced to the emergency button on the radio. My heart was in my mouth; I knew very little about first aid, but could tell this girl seemed close to death, though for what reason I had no idea. The bleary voice of the doctor came over the radio from the hospital. I apologised for getting him out of bed at … I glanced at the clock … at three o’clock in the morning, to which I got a very uncivil response. Ignoring his rudeness, I gave all the information I could about the sick girl, and waited for his questions and help.

  Well he said quite a lot and I was so shocked at the language coming over the radio from a doctor that I couldn’t repeat or remember most of it, but it more or less boiled down to, ‘Why in the f… did I have the f…… hide to get him out of his f…… bed in the middle of the f…… night for a f…… heroin junkie!’

  I dropped the microphone and jumped back in shock as if the voice had physically struck me. Apart from being insulted by his language and manner, the word ‘junkie’ rattled my brain. A dope addict! On Bullo! In the middle of nowhere?

  My brain came back to the problem with a jolt when I realised my charming doctor had turned off his radio! Now I was mad! I put my thumb on the emergency button and kept it there for an inordinate length of time. When I lifted the button, his irate voice greeted me again. Before he could get out more than one word, I launched my attack.

  I told him to never speak to me in that foul manner again, and I didn’t care if I had a f…… heroin junkie or a f…… green man from Mars. As a doctor, he took the Hippocratic oath which obliged him to conduct himself in a proper manner, dedicate himself to the saving of lives and didn’t mention any f…… office hours. So would he stop wasting my f…… time and give the instructions to help me keep the patient alive until the medical plane arrived at f…… dawn!