Blackwell Doris - Alice on the line: the overland telegraph, one familys story

First published by Rigby Publishers 1975
Reprinted by Seal Books edition 1978
Reprinted by Lansdowne Publishing Pty Ltd 1996
Reprinted by New Holland Publishers in 2001, 2008

www.newholland.com.au
Published in Australia by New Holland Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd
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Copyright 1975 in text: Doris Blackwell and the estate of Douglas Lockwood
Copyright 2008 New Holland Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers and copyright holders.

A CIP record of this title is available from the National Library of Australia

ISBN 9871741108033
e-ISBN 9781921655128

To the memory of my parents,
without whose loving
and cheerful common sense
our childhood at Alice Springs at the
turn of the century
would not have been so happy.

DORIS BRADSHAW BLACKWELL

These pages from the past would not have been possible if I had had to depend entirely on my own memory.

More than sixty years have passed since I was taken to Alice Springs in a horsedrawn buggy and so have many of my contemporaries.

Having been persuaded to leave a record of life on the old telegraph stations in Central Australia, I must acknowledge my gratitude to friends who have willingly hunted through papers and letters and their own memories.

I am especially indebted to Mr L. B. Spicer, who joined the telegraph station staff at Alice Springs in 1905, and stayed on there and at Barrow Creek for several years after we left.

He responded generously to many an S 0 S by calling on his own superior memory to help fill blank spaces in mine. He also gave me access to letters written to his sister, which she wisely preserved.

Doris Bradshaw Blackwell

Kingswood, S.A.
1965

SOMETHING VERY MYSTERIOUS INDEED WAS going on in our home. For days there had been intriguing scraps of conversation in muttered undertones. Confidential talks between my mother and father had become much more frequent than usual. Even to an eight-year-old girl who could not yet claim to be blessed by womans intuition there was nevertheless an unmistakable atmosphere of Something Doing.

But what? What could it be that my parents were so careful to keep from me? What could possibly have come into their lives that I shouldnt know about? A new baby? A death in the family? No, I felt it was neither of these.

How infuriating it was, and how frustrating to be told constantly, Now run along, Doris, theres a good girl. And then doors would be shut to me and voices lowered and I couldnt get a clue of any kind as to what might be Up.

I was then of an inquiring and curious nature. To me, puzzles were for unravelling and mysteries for solving. Now here was one in the heart of my own home and I couldnt work it out. To a young girl who dearly loved to be in on things, to be privy to all the family gossip, this deliberate exclusion was annoying in the extreme. My school studies suffered and I lay awake at night searching for the explanation, the revelation that would not come. I fretted until I dropped unhappily asleep, only to resume the quest from the moment I wakened. But there was never a single tangible clue on which I could put my finger and never an unguarded word from my parents which might have betrayed them.

Then in due time I was told all about it and wondered why I had been expecting calamity when in fact it was merely a bombshell.

We were going to Alice Springs!

In these days of comfortable trains and jet air travel a visit to Central Australia might not seem remarkable. The train trip in air-conditioned sleeping carriages is completed in two days. By flying, it is possible to be in Alice Springs just three hours after leaving Adelaide. Things were very different for me and my family, for when I was eight we were still in the nineteenth century. To be sure, the year was 1899, but I have always taken smug satisfaction in announcing it. It sounds so much more impressive than 1900, the beginning of the century of the horseless carriage, the radio, aeroplanes, earth satellites, and other miracles we had never imagined.

The news of our impending departure came at a time when the Adelaide streets had horse-drawn trams and the narrow-gauge railway to the north terminated at Oodnadatta, 688 miles awaybut still more than 300 miles short of our destination. I was pleasantly excited at the prospect of having to drive in a buggy over this last long distance, especially when I realized that for more than a week we would camp each night beside our sandy track.

Within a few days, however, anticipation gave place to trepidation.

When I told my friends at the Church school in Halifax Street of the great adventure ahead of me I was bursting with importance. That bubble was soon pricked because none of them had ever heard of Alice Springs. It had been in existence for only thirty years and, of course, hadnt yet been blessed with a dot and a name on the maps in our geography books. I suffered a certain loss of face to be leaving the States beautiful and growing capital city for a place that didnt yet existif the cartographers were to be believed.

Go on, show us Alice Springs on the map! My friends wanted proof.

I was upset and disappointed yet put on the defensive by this, to me, churlish attitude.

I cant show it to you on the map because its too new, I said. Its really just been discovered. These maps theyre old they wouldnt even know about Alice Springs.

But how do you know its there?

I knowwell, because I just know, thats all.

This illogicality was no proof at all and the torments continued to the point at which I might have burst into tears. Fortunately, I had an inspiration instead.

I know its there because my father is going to send all the telegrams and cables to Adelaide from Darwin, and even from London. Were going to live in a big house and well have horses to ride, and therell be lots of kangaroos

And wild blackfellows one boy said.

My eyes must have flickered with fright, for he seized the advantage with the sadistic glee of young boys everywhere.

Yes, Ive heard of people going up there and Im sorry for them, he said. You never hear of them again.

Why? It was a question I shouldnt have asked if I wanted to sleep at night, but I had to know the answer.

They get eaten by the blacks, thats why, he said.

I saw the huge satisfaction spread over his face at what was obviously wide-eyed fear in mine, and then he turned the knife.

Sometimes they find the bones. Sometimes they dont. People have even been known to escape the blacks, but those that do are always eaten by wild animals,

He let me absorb this horrifying information for a short while and then asked: Have you ever heard of anyone returning from Alice Springs? Do you know of anyone who has been there and come back? There was an awful finality about the emphasis on his last two words.