The light aircraft had bumped and reared all the way from "The Hill." Now, as it touched down on the runway of the family cattle station, I felt a tremendous weariness engulf me.
I had begun with the flight from Paris to London to say goodbye to a few old friends. From there, I had taken the interminable flight to Sydney. An internal flight had taken me to "The Hill," and a light aircraft had taken me home.
I had been in Paris for the past two years studying at an art school, and had soaked up the life of that sophisticated city. I was returning to an outback cattle station that was in danger of financial collapse. My father had become a hopeless alcoholic, and it was my mother who had struggled to keep things going.
Mother, or Leah, is a well educated and a cultured lady. She had married the tall, handsome man that had been my father, who seemed to embody the romance of the outback. The clear skies at night, hot dry days, wide-open spaces and the freedom.
When she married, cattle had been an important part of the national economy, but not long after their importance began to decline. In addition, mother had not taken into account the loneliness, the isolation and lack of contact with other women. Her love of music and literature were not common features of the pastoralist's life, and even the radio and television were subject to poor reception, or none at all.
No one told mother that the "romance of the outback" included long droughts, dry dams and dust storms.
Mother could have chosen from a large number of men who desired her. She elected to marry the dashing boy from the bush. All went well for as long as the "in love" sexual attraction remained, but once she became pregnant with me, my father's interest declined. In the following years he took to drinking increasingly, and nearly brought the business to financial ruin. It was mother's efforts that had kept things going.
It had been mother who had persuaded, or perhaps bullied is a better term, my father into letting me pursue my interest in art. His attitude had been, "I couldn't care less what the bloody poofta does."
There was still some money in the family at that time, so I was allowed to go in pursuit of my longed for career as an artist. Now, with collapse imminent and no more money, I had been called back to help salvage the situation.
I clambered out of the aircraft and looked around. Almost as far as the eye could see there was nothing but salt and blue bush, but in the far distance, seeming to hang on the horizon, there was a line of blue-grey hills. Our cattle station extended to those hills and beyond.
Citizens of the U.S.A. boast about the size of things in Texas. What most of them don't know is, that one cattle station here can be as big, even bigger, than Texas, and that we have many such cattle stations.
Mother was there to meet me in the station pick-up. She looked tired, and was dressed in jeans and a shirt. She almost fell into my arms, saying, "Darling, I'm so glad you've come home," and then burst into tears, burying her self against me.
Holding her, I was nonplussed. My strong mother, who had always been my support, seemed suddenly to be the dependent child.
We went, or rather, I led her, to the pickup. She was still crying, so I took the wheel and drove the three or four kilometres to the station house.
The station house is a large, five-bedroom place, and as if it were a small hamlet, there were a dozen other, not as big houses, once used by the senior and permanent station hands. This had included the station accountant and foreman. With the decline of the business most of these people had now gone.
Little was said on the brief drive to the home, but looking at the passing scene, it was obvious that things were run down. Cattle gates were sagging on their hinges, fences were in a poor state of repair, and if this were the case so close to home, what was it like further out in the bush?
The station itself had a dilapidated appearance. Where once the houses had been tidy and painted, they now looked disreputable and peeling. It was as if nobody cared any longer.
We pulled up in front of the station house in a cloud of dust. Amos, the Aboriginal foreman and his wife Bathsheba were there to greet us.
I kissed Bathsheba on the cheek and as Amos and I shook hands, and he said, "Thank the Good lord you've come back. The place is in a terrible state."
"I'll settle in, Amos, and we can talk tomorrow," I replied, and followed mother into the house.
I wanted something to eat and a rest, but she said, "You'd better see your father."
I had wondered why he had not appeared so far. I was about to find out.
Mother went on, "He spends his time in the family room now. I think you'd better prepare yourself for a shock."
She was right about the shock. When I had last seen my father two years ago, he had been drinking heavily. When the door opened on the family room the scene was one I could hardly believe.
In the midst of filth and chaos sat what I took to be an old man. There were spirit bottles all over the place, some empty, other partially filled and a crate of full bottles. The room stank and not a single item of furniture seemed to be in one piece.
Blood shot eyes stared at me blankly from a ravaged face, but without recognition. "Hello dad," I said. There was no response. I extended my hand to him, but there was no reaction.
Mother touched my arm. "Come away, darling. He doesn't know you."
The door closed on the wretched scene, and I turned to mother, "What the hell's been going on? How did he get in this state?"
"After you left," mother replied, "he drank more and more. We tried to keep him and the room clean, but he became violent, so we gave up trying. After a time, he stopped the violence, but his memory seemed to go. He didn't recognise Amos or Bathsheba, and in the end he failed to recognise me."
