Tanya Heaslip - Alice to Prague: The charming true story of an outback girl who finds adventure – and love – on the other side of the world

First published in 2019

Copyright Tanya Heaslip 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

Email:

Web: www.allenandunwin.com

ISBN 978 1 76052 976 5

eBook ISBN 978 1 76087 118 5

Cover design: Nada Backovic

Cover photos: Arcangel (Prague); Alamy (Trephina Gorge, Northern Territory)

Contents

To three generations of wise, wonderful women who believed in me:

Nana Parnellwho led storytelling by example

Mumwho bought me an orange typewriter so that I could start

MLiswho loyally read every page that rolled off that orange typewriter

Central Australia, 1972

Out of the inland sky roared the sun. It flattened the land with its intensity and turned the horizon into lines of mirages that shimmered along the distant foothills. Above those silver illusions a range of hills rose abruptly, curves of purple smudged with dark valleys and rocky outcrops. Below, where the red earth had once cracked and heaved, it now collapsed into ancient and misshapen forms as though exhausted. It was an ancient place woven with Aboriginal stories, hundreds of miles of emptiness, largely untouched by Europeans.

And in that particular spot of nowhere, on a Tuesday afternoon in November 1972, a group of stockmen, including three children, drove several hundred cattle from the scrublands of the north towards the mirage-dotted hills of the south.

I was one of those children. My skewbald horse Sandy and I were on the tail of the mobthe lowliest role and the one I hated the most. It meant pushing up the slowest of the cattle, usually cows and their calves, as they called out mournfully to one another in a cacophony of unceasing bellowing. The air was red with thick, choking dust, the smell of sweat and shit, and the powdery taste of dirt. The ochre colours of the hard land underneath billowed as hooves rose and fell, generating waves of crimson and yellow-brown that covered Sandy and me. That was the worst thing about the tail. You were always in line for the bulldust.

On the western wing of the mob rode my nine-year-old sister MLis, her long brown plaits swinging out the back of her hat. We could have passed as twins except I was one year older and my plaits were long and blonde. On the eastern wing rode my younger brother Brett, eight years old, his freckly face dwarfed by a hat pulled low over his ears.

We three were all small, tough and wiry, with freckles; we were little men among big men, doing big mens work, and we knew no other way. But there was always a rush of happiness if Dad ever acknowledged wed done a job as well as any man. Praise from Dad was rare and we gave our all for those tidbits.

Everyone called Dad The Boss. Hard, determined and stoic, he walked fast and rode fast, stockwhip looped over his shoulder, boots crunching over the ground, stock hat pushed low over his eyes. Whatever he said went. One of his many mottos was: There is no such word as cant. He and Mum were living proof of that. Theyd arrived from the south during the 1960s drought to make a go of this station when everyone had said it was too small and drought-stricken to be viable. Theyd put in fencing, theyd increased the herd, and they were still here.

But Dad wasnt with us this afternoon. He was at the homestead preparing for the drafting and trucking in the morning. And so in the heat I drifted off...

Tanya! Stop yer daydreamin, girl, and push up them bloody calves! The shout of Head Stockman Mick brought me back with a start.

A dry, wry bushman, Mick was a natural with horses and stock and kids. He could plait belts and bridles and stockwhips like no one elseand spin a long yarn while doing itbut when he yelled we all jumped. Especially as he was in charge today.

I looked quickly down at the tail. The cows, calves and I had all slowed down to a crawl, probably because it was so hot. No doubt the cows and calves still wished they were under a tree, as I did. Hours of interminable boredom lay ahead as we faced the long trek through the hot afternoon.

Sorry! I shouted back to Mick, all the while thinking of the word interminable. I quite liked that word. It sounded like it meant forever, which is how this part of the daythe droving partfelt to me. MLis and Brett, on the other hand, relished every part of the day and were born for the saddle (a perfectly apt expression Id read in a pony story recently). Me? I wished I was home curled up under my favourite pepper tree with a book in my hand and the dogs panting happily at my feet.

It had been a long day.

As with most musters, this one had begun before daylight, where wed saddled up in pre-dawn shadows, our horses snorting and fidgety, everyone full of anticipation, edgy. We had swung up into our saddles and ridden to the end of Orange Tree Bore, a misnamed paddock if ever there was one; it was dotted with spinifex and its one gnarled tree rarely bore the sweet bush fruit it was named after. Wed mustered that day because the winter rains had not come. It was dry, feed was short, and the cattle had to be turned off before they lost condition. The Bore was miles from the homestead so wed camped the night before to get an early start.

The start of the muster, any muster, was the best bit of the day. As the sun rose, the distant hills would turn to mauve then rose-pink and finally golden brown, and the air would be crisp and our world beautiful. Wed canter along, looking for the first mob, then the second, and then anotherand it was on. Shouts would ring through the clear morning air: Bottom of the gorge!, Down on the creek!, Up on that hill! The cattle were often hiding out in gullies, some cresting the top of rocky ranges, others inside thick mulga scrub, and the minute beast saw man and horse it would break into a run. Then the chase would begin. There was the thrilling sound of stockwhips cracking, the rush of air over hot faces and sweaty heads, the leaning over the necks of trusty steeds as we wheeled the beasts towards one big mob with shouts of: Ha hup there, cattle! Hut hutwalk up!

We are adventurers, one and all, Id whistle through my teeth as I crouched low over my saddle and raced towards the flat, although I wasnt sure where Id learnt that from. I loved the rush of danger, of being one with my horse as we sprinted across rocky creek beds and up flinty hillsides and into the grey thickets. There was the thrill in my body of being truly alive, the sound of thrumming hooves and thumping hearts, and the drive for a successful outcome. Dad had drilled into us that nothing was more important than getting the mob together and heading home without losing a beast.