Nan, breathing a deep sigh of thankfulness, unfastened the seatbelt that restricted her movement in the dust-filled Ute, and a little stiff because the distance travelled over the red-dirt road had left her weary, slowly walked to the derelict gate swinging on one rusty hinge. A fleeting thought slid past her mind … why have a gate when the fence was all but non-existent? The gate slipped from her grip and collapsed on the ground, allowing the vehicle to drive within a few meters of the old shearing shed that captured their attention whilst heading home, via the seldom used back road.
Electing to walk the short distance, and needing a breath of fresh air, she waved for Bill to drive on. The building appeared to consist of several separate units; one obviously where the shearers laid their heads after a busy day, stood aloof and distant from what she presumed was the cookhouse. Another smaller building, minus door and windows, leaned like a drunken sailor against the cookhouse, and it was this large ramshackle hut she decided to check out first.
Peering through the cob-webbed gap that acted as a doorway Nan glimpsed, standing upright, plump, and full of importance, a huge chopping block, which gave a positive sign that not only did the cook prepare meals, but was compelled to show a skill in slaughtering the beast before placing it in the oven. She shivered upon spying a dark blob, suspiciously like dried blood, staining the splintered floorboards.
Bill, who had wandered to the sleeping quarters called to Nan. “Nan, see how small these rooms are! They don’t have a window, only a door. I bet they kept it open at night.”
“I don’t think they would”, she replied. “Mosquitoes and snakes could get inside.” Clutching his arm she whispered, “Oooh Bill, it’s spooky!”
“Come now Nan, don’t let your imagination run away. It is isolated, but definitely not spooky!”
Electing to walk the short distance, and needing a breath of fresh air, she waved for Bill to drive on. The building appeared to consist of several separate units; one obviously where the shearers laid their heads after a busy day, stood aloof and distant from what she presumed was the cookhouse. Another smaller building, minus door and windows, leaned like a drunken sailor against the cookhouse, and it was this large ramshackle hut she decided to check out first.
Peering through the cob-webbed gap that acted as a doorway Nan glimpsed, standing upright, plump, and full of importance, a huge chopping block, which gave a positive sign that not only did the cook prepare meals, but was compelled to show a skill in slaughtering the beast before placing it in the oven. She shivered upon spying a dark blob, suspiciously like dried blood, staining the splintered floorboards.
Bill, who had wandered to the sleeping quarters called to Nan. “Nan, see how small these rooms are! They don’t have a window, only a door. I bet they kept it open at night.”
“I don’t think they would”, she replied. “Mosquitoes and snakes could get inside.” Clutching his arm she whispered, “Oooh Bill, it’s spooky!”
“Come now Nan, don’t let your imagination run away. It is isolated, but definitely not spooky!”
Nan glanced into the darkened space no larger than their bathroom at home, closed her eyes, and attempted to envisage the tiny room furnished with a bed, and perhaps a box at the side on which to place tobacco, or maybe, a lamp. In the heat of summer it must have been stifling, and in mid-winter the cold night air would have made one pull their swag further under their chin. Looking at the shearers’ quarters was fascinating … living in them, almost certainly, less tolerable.
Nan was more interested in the cookhouse. From outside it didn’t appear large and she wondered if the stove was still in working order as she fancied a cup of tea and had forgotten to fill the thermos before leaving their weekend retreat on the southern coast. Taking Bill’s hand they carefully made their way over the dusty track that separated the cookhouse and sleeping quarters. Footprints showed others had visited recently and wheel tracks engraved in the soft ground had smoothed out from strong winds that buffeted the region for several days bringing a promise of rain while the scudding clouds, white and fluffy on top and dark and grey underneath, hinted a little moisture might fall onto the scorched earth and hopefully encourage a flush of growth.
The cookhouse occupied a corner site; in real estate terms it had location, location, location. The fact that it was several miles from human habitation may have appealed to those desiring a quiet rural atmosphere. A couple of scraggy flannel plants valiantly raised their heads but the severe lack of moisture curtailed the majority of their efforts.
A fuel stove looked forlorn, its rings rusty, and an enormous gap that was big enough to put head and shoulders through lay at the base of a tin chimney allowing the sunlight to shine onto the cobwebs and grime accumulated over a period of years. The wooden surfaces representing preparation space were minimal and would have needed careful scrubbing to maintain basic standards of hygiene.
In what was the dining area, if such a pompous term could be applied to the oblong room with a long narrow plain wooden table with dust as a cover, and two strictly utilitarian benches either side, dominated the space. Nan imagined men drinking strong tea, or something alcoholic, from chipped enamel mugs as they waited for the evening meal to appear.
What a long day it would be for the cook who would not only be expected to produce a breakfast of bacon and eggs, but morning and afternoon smokos as well as lunch, plus a substantial main meal at the completion of the days shearing.
She wondered where the sheep were penned before slaughter. Had there been a garden of sorts or was it up to the cook, or the station holder, to supply vegetables? Potatoes, carrots and cabbage, or perhaps pumpkin roasted alongside the mutton and smothered with luscious brown gravy? Nan smiled as her mind soared into culinary delights.
She became aware of a woman’s voice seemingly emanating from the kitchen and vaguely wondered how it was they had seen no sign of life. She listened. Was that a woman crying? Nan shook her head in disbelief. The sobbing woman was asking for her Mammy. Nan held her breath and beckoned to Bill to come and listen. Bill plodded over, his boots echoing throughout the ancient building.
“Shhh Bill,” Nan whispered. There is someone in the kitchen crying.”
“Nan!” Bill exclaimed, “How can you think such rubbish? There is no one here. This is the Outback and no woman is sitting in the abandoned kitchen of ramshackle shearers’ quarters. The journey has addled your brain!”
Nan felt injured. How dare Bill insinuate she was losing her mind! The sound of crying was not a figment of her imagination. Her fury blinded her hearing … for a moment. She heard the crying again. Surely Bill could hear it was well?
Bill sheepishly glanced at Nan. From the depths of the gloomy kitchen came the unmistakable sobbing of a woman in distress. Bill marched in and looked around surprised to see a rocking chair moving gently in a dim corner. Was there a breeze coming in the open doorway? Bill didn’t think so.
A dark cloud drifted by; the late afternoon sun cast deep shadows on the kitchen. Bill blinked. A woman, wearing a long dusty dark brown skirt and a cream long sleeved blouse with a cameo at the neck, her crochet shawl slung over the chair back, sat hugging herself in misery, quietly sobbing as she rocked slowly. Bill, nudging Nan, pointed at the rocking woman who seemed completely oblivious to the watchers.
A fragment of yellowed newspaper caught in a recess on the mantle captured Nan’s attention. She reached up and carefully unfolded the frail paper.
Man found Guilty of Murder
An Irish girl working as cook’s assistant at Balamb Station was murdered on 2nd January 1902. Her body was left lying on the floor of the slaughterhouse while the accused carried on with his normal duties. Today, John E Cum-Lately pleaded guilty to the first-degree charge of murder, and has been sentenced to hanging.
Nan, with tears in her eyes, looked at Bill who stared uncomprehendingly towards the chair. It was empty. There was no one there, no young woman sobbing mournfully.
The kitchen no longer held a fascination for either of them. It felt cold and morbid, and they easily understood the reason for its abandonment.
Nan was more interested in the cookhouse. From outside it didn’t appear large and she wondered if the stove was still in working order as she fancied a cup of tea and had forgotten to fill the thermos before leaving their weekend retreat on the southern coast. Taking Bill’s hand they carefully made their way over the dusty track that separated the cookhouse and sleeping quarters. Footprints showed others had visited recently and wheel tracks engraved in the soft ground had smoothed out from strong winds that buffeted the region for several days bringing a promise of rain while the scudding clouds, white and fluffy on top and dark and grey underneath, hinted a little moisture might fall onto the scorched earth and hopefully encourage a flush of growth.
The cookhouse occupied a corner site; in real estate terms it had location, location, location. The fact that it was several miles from human habitation may have appealed to those desiring a quiet rural atmosphere. A couple of scraggy flannel plants valiantly raised their heads but the severe lack of moisture curtailed the majority of their efforts.
A fuel stove looked forlorn, its rings rusty, and an enormous gap that was big enough to put head and shoulders through lay at the base of a tin chimney allowing the sunlight to shine onto the cobwebs and grime accumulated over a period of years. The wooden surfaces representing preparation space were minimal and would have needed careful scrubbing to maintain basic standards of hygiene.
In what was the dining area, if such a pompous term could be applied to the oblong room with a long narrow plain wooden table with dust as a cover, and two strictly utilitarian benches either side, dominated the space. Nan imagined men drinking strong tea, or something alcoholic, from chipped enamel mugs as they waited for the evening meal to appear.
What a long day it would be for the cook who would not only be expected to produce a breakfast of bacon and eggs, but morning and afternoon smokos as well as lunch, plus a substantial main meal at the completion of the days shearing.
She wondered where the sheep were penned before slaughter. Had there been a garden of sorts or was it up to the cook, or the station holder, to supply vegetables? Potatoes, carrots and cabbage, or perhaps pumpkin roasted alongside the mutton and smothered with luscious brown gravy? Nan smiled as her mind soared into culinary delights.
She became aware of a woman’s voice seemingly emanating from the kitchen and vaguely wondered how it was they had seen no sign of life. She listened. Was that a woman crying? Nan shook her head in disbelief. The sobbing woman was asking for her Mammy. Nan held her breath and beckoned to Bill to come and listen. Bill plodded over, his boots echoing throughout the ancient building.
“Shhh Bill,” Nan whispered. There is someone in the kitchen crying.”
“Nan!” Bill exclaimed, “How can you think such rubbish? There is no one here. This is the Outback and no woman is sitting in the abandoned kitchen of ramshackle shearers’ quarters. The journey has addled your brain!”
Nan felt injured. How dare Bill insinuate she was losing her mind! The sound of crying was not a figment of her imagination. Her fury blinded her hearing … for a moment. She heard the crying again. Surely Bill could hear it was well?
Bill sheepishly glanced at Nan. From the depths of the gloomy kitchen came the unmistakable sobbing of a woman in distress. Bill marched in and looked around surprised to see a rocking chair moving gently in a dim corner. Was there a breeze coming in the open doorway? Bill didn’t think so.
A dark cloud drifted by; the late afternoon sun cast deep shadows on the kitchen. Bill blinked. A woman, wearing a long dusty dark brown skirt and a cream long sleeved blouse with a cameo at the neck, her crochet shawl slung over the chair back, sat hugging herself in misery, quietly sobbing as she rocked slowly. Bill, nudging Nan, pointed at the rocking woman who seemed completely oblivious to the watchers.
A fragment of yellowed newspaper caught in a recess on the mantle captured Nan’s attention. She reached up and carefully unfolded the frail paper.
Man found Guilty of Murder
An Irish girl working as cook’s assistant at Balamb Station was murdered on 2nd January 1902. Her body was left lying on the floor of the slaughterhouse while the accused carried on with his normal duties. Today, John E Cum-Lately pleaded guilty to the first-degree charge of murder, and has been sentenced to hanging.
Nan, with tears in her eyes, looked at Bill who stared uncomprehendingly towards the chair. It was empty. There was no one there, no young woman sobbing mournfully.
The kitchen no longer held a fascination for either of them. It felt cold and morbid, and they easily understood the reason for its abandonment.
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