My life story by Henry J Macey (best e reader for manga .TXT) 📕

Most creeks had just concrete runs through them; they were dry for most of the year. In the wet, they flooded even if no rain fell locally. The Ashburton was the major drain off for the Hamersley range. Not always wet, but it flooded frequently. We reached Dampier with no further delay and unloaded our hut. The three-day round trip had taken seven days one way. That was the great joy of trucking back in the days of dirt roads.

At Dampier, we were asked if we would do a trip to the Ord River dam project in the Kimberly’s below Kununurra. [Now called Lake Argyle]. We were to take a load of oil in forty-four-gallon drums. Our trailer was covered with sand on which the drums stood to stop the bottoms vibrating, they expected a loss of about twenty, but the sand might stop further damage.

When we finished loading, we were to go to Port Headland to pick up some drilling rods for delivery to Broome. We arrived at Broome a day early and had to wait for the drilling crew to arrive before we could unload. I had been to Broome before so we spent the afternoon looking at the old pearl lugger that was beached by the crumbling oyster-canning factory, which was surrounded by millions of oyster shells.

In the evening we got our fishing lines out and went to the jetty. We fished well into the night catching many different kinds of fish, losing many more. On one cast we saw a streak of fluorescent light go through the water; Don’s line went out like lightning then snapped. We would have liked to know what it was but could only guess.

The next day we unloaded the drill pipes and went on our way, Don was driving somewhere between Darby and Fitzroy Crossing when he called to me asking.

“Can you smell anything.” I had been dossing in the bunk and it took me some time to identify the smell of hot oil. Don had stopped by now, getting out we tilted the cab and saw the engine was covered with oil.

We topped up the engine with oil then started it and saw where the leak was coming from. A weld on the flange of a metal oil pipe had cracked and a jet of oil was spraying out. We had two options; one, carry on and keep topping up the oil. And hope we had enough and that we didn’t seize the engine. There was a thirteen-gallon drum on the rack behind the cab. Two, sit where we were and wait for someone to come along to take a message. We decided on option two. We sat all afternoon and at sunset lit a fire to cook some food; nothing had come down the road in any direction, so we were there for the night at least.

In the morning we were having breakfast when we heard the sound of a motorbike but could not see one on the road. Then out of the bush came a bike, the rider pulled up and told us they had seen the glow of our fife from their station and he had come to investigate. We told him our problem to which he said he could take one of us back to the station, from where we could radio Port Headland for help.

Don went with him returning by four-wheel drive in the afternoon, telling me that Bell’s would fly a new pipe up in the morning. He had brought with him, curtsey of the station owner, stakes and eggs plus beer. We assumed the pipe would be flown to Port Headland then put on a northbound truck, so we would be there for some time yet, wrong!

About mid-morning the next day a small plane flew over us did a circuit, then as it passed over us again dropped the pipe on a small parachute. Having replaced the pipe we were on our way again. We had been there two days in which time we had seen two cattle road trains and one car, not counting the bike and four-wheel drive from the station.

One more thing happened before we reached the dam site. I was driving at the time and was going over a cattle grid. It looked alright on the approach, but there was a washout on the far side. I hit it at speed, the truck leapt into the air. When it landed the cab tilted forward and I was looking at Don lying in the windshield in front of me. We, or more accurately, I had not locked down the cab properly, with the result that it tilted forward. We delivered our cargo with five drums empty, most of the oil was over the back of our cab, but a good steam clean would soon remove that.  Mind you

I have toyed with the idea of trying to describe the scenery in which the Ord river dam was built, but you have to see the Kimberleys to really appreciate the beauty. The deep ravines that wound through the landscape and rocky stone towers carved by wind and rain through the ages.

The return trip was routine. Calling into Port Headland we refuelled, picked up a loaded trailer to take back to Perth, arriving there late at night having been away for fifteen days. We drove into Graylands about midnight and went straight to the shower block. From there we went our separate ways to our respective flats.

I opened the door silently with my key, undressing in the dark and went into the bedroom. Gently pulling back the sheet on my side of the bed I went to get in. A scream to chill the blood filled the air. It’s all right I said it’s me. "Who the hell are you." Said a male voice? I reach for the place I thought his throat would be but came up empty.

The bedside light went on and I stood face to face with him separated by the bed. I looked down at my wife but it wasn’t her. I was in the wrong flat but had opened the door with my own key? There was a loud banging on the door. Don was calling my name. I pulled on my pants and opened the door. Don came in and hurriedly told me and a very irate husband, that Jane had been given the keys to the house we had built in Kelmscott. She had not seen the sense in paying rent and mortgage so had gathered all our friends with cars and had moved out. She had been gone for a week.

And that’s how she met Isabel. Isabel was to become not just her best friend, but more like the sister Jane never had. She was already living at number one David Terrace. We were next door at number three. In those days the bank account was in my name. As we lived on the camp Jane did not need to buy shopping so when she moved out she had very little in her purse.

Halfway through the week she ran out of money and was forced to beg from Isabel. I was hardy home for more than six hours at a time. In the weeks that followed the move to Kelmscott, I would arrive at night and be gone before the morning. Everyone in the street thought I was Jane’s boyfriend, instead of her husband.

There was so much work at Bell’s, with the mines growing, together with the normal transport, we were kept going day and night. Bell’s guaranteed everyone one day at home a year, but they would not say which day. On one occasion Jane rang Owen in a fit of frustration to ask him if she could possibly cook me Sunday dinner as I had never spent a weekend at home since moving into our new house.

David Terrace runs off Lucich St. At the junction on the other side of the road, a home was being built. Into it moved Margaret and Roy Bell; they to were to become long-lasting friends. The three girls did everything together, one night they decided to have a girl’s night out.

At three in the morning they staggered home with the milkman, he had accessibly given them a lift on the back of his milk float from the bottom of the hill. The first I knew about it was when three drunken women staggered into my bedroom. I was rudely awakened when all three of them sat on the bed. I had to lie there listening to their burbling. I sleep in the nude and as it was a hot night I had just a sheet over me, so could not move.

After they’d had a cup of coffee, Jane and Isabel decided to walk Margaret home. When they finally arrived at her door, Margaret and Jane insisted they would walk Isabel home. All three ended up back at my door an hour later refusing to let anyone walk home alone. I had to get up and escort each of them to their respective front doors with all three women clinging on to one another. They staggered a zigzag course that was twice the distance, in truth they could not stand unsupported.

You may have detected a note of affection in my writing when I mention our friends. That is because we think of them as more than friends, they are in fact our family. When we moved to Australia all we knew was Don and his family, Don was my brother so to speak, the rest of our very close friends became replacement family

Our home was brand new and needed what a new house needs. The walls could not be decorated for some time. The garden was the builder's wasteland and had to be cleared of all rubble and tree roots before it could be turned with a spade and shaped in any form. It was hard work digging the virgin soil. Inside the house, all the floors were made of jarrah timber, a very hardwood indeed but this wood is beautiful, full of reds and yellows.

I decided to bond it with varnish. I spent many days well into the nights sanding the floorboards smooth. When sanded the floorboards looked beautiful, and that was before the varnish went on. I used a product called ‘Esterpole,’ a two-pot hard resin varnish. My first job was to seal in all the colours, so a light stain was painted over every inch of the wooden floor.

Then following the instructions I mixed some of the resin with thinners and once again painted the whole floor. This weak application soaked into the boards and sealed the stain. Now came the hard job. I had to mix part of the remaining two tins of resin and paint as quickly as I could to cover the floor before it hardened in the mixing tin.

This was done early on a Saturday morning of one of my rare weekends off; we then had the rest of the weekend away to give the floor time to harden. Several weeks later I repeated the process; the wooden floor now had