Broken Dreams

Bill Dodd, born in 1965, spent his childhood in Mitchell, Queensland and on cattle properties in the area. He left school shortly before completing year ten, after the sudden death of his stockman father. For a time he worked as a stockman near Mitchell and later on a remote cattle station in the Northern Territory. Three days before his eighteenth birthday, Bill Dodd suffered a broken neck in a diving accident and became a quadriplegic. He spent almost six months in the spinal unit at Brisbane's Princess Alexandra Hospital, and afterwards was transferred to Westhaven Nursing Home in Roma, living there for six years. In Roma he worked as a clerical assistant in the office of the Community Youth Support Scheme. Bill came home to Mitchell in June 1989 where he now lives with his sister and family. He continues to write and has plans to travel Queensland.

Besides the doctors, hospital staff and mates I talk about in my book, I would like to mention the following very special people, who have all helped me in so many ways.

At the Princess Alexandra Hospital Spinal Unit: Andrea, Michele Cahill, “Crimmie”, Helena, and Jenny Kennedy.

At Westhaven and in Roma: Kerry Batley, Kay Burnes, Debbie Carmichael, Lee-Ette Clifford, Bev Coburn, Marie Connell, Judy Connolly, Paula Giles, Debbie Ison, Lesley McEwan, Julie, Kaylene and Sharon Newbolt and their parents Johnny and Marie, Cliff Orchard, Adriana Pellari, Allan Platz, Sue Primus, Mary Ramage, Marina Smith, Lyn Sullivan, Kylie Swan.

In Mitchell, my home town: Colin and Normie Finlay and their parents Bobby and Joyce, and Stevo Foster.

To all these people: thanks!

I am the third youngest in a family of seven. In 1965, the year I was born, my parents, Lesley and Billy Dodd (I was given the same name as my father) lived in a quiet, sleepy little country town called Mitchell, way out west. As people in the city would say: “Mitchell? Isn't that a little one-horse place out in the sticks?” The population of Mitchell was then around 1500.

My parents were Aboriginal. My father told me: “Always be proud of your colour, son”—and I am. I always loved to hear my people talk about the old days in Mitchell, about the yumba. The yumba was an area two miles beyond the town where all the black people used to live—only the whitefellows lived in town. Houses at the yumba had dirt floors and were lit by carbine lamps; there was no electricity. Then came the day the bulldozers moved in. The local council wanted the Murries to live in town. (The council didn't care too much what the Murries themselves thought of this idea.) Teary-eyed, the
black people watched their homes being bulldozed into the ground, buried in the dust along with their treasured memories of good and bad times alike. One proud old lady remembered the fourteen children she had brought up in the yumba. She said the dirt floor of her little house “didn't worry her”.

My brother Peter was born four years after me, and then our parents decided to leave Mitchell. My father had been offered a job as stockman on Westgrove station, twenty-three miles beyond the small town of Injune.

My uncle Edward brought his old Bedford truck to our house to lend a much needed pair of hands to load up all our belongings. I watched as my father, mother and uncle, helped as much as possible by my four older sisters—Narelle, Anne, Robyn and Michelle, whose ages went from eleven down to five—emptied our old house. After the truck was loaded and a pot of tea had been drained, it was time to say goodbye to Mitchell. Squeaks and rattles fell out of the old truck as it travelled down the road.

We seemed to travel a long time before Injune came into view. We passed through the township and finally reached Westgrove station. Then my parents and uncle unloaded the truck, putting our furniture and our other gear inside our new home before the night closed in.

We soon settled down to our new life at Westgrove. Each morning when I woke up I would find that my sisters had disappeared. I soon realised that they got up early so they'd have plenty of time to catch the school bus. It took me a while to work out where the bus stopped when it brought them back from school, but then I used to run and meet my sisters every afternoon. I can tell you that when you have four sisters older than yourself, you have to be careful to avoid an occasional clip on the ear, and know when to keep quiet. But when they were at school I used to get bored very easily. My father came to my rescue. One day he brought me a little
pony and began to show me how to ride. After that, I spent all my spare time with my pony. We developed a special relationship nobody could break.

A year later, I was shocked to be told that it was time I went to school, and that I would have to leave my pony at home. I was five years old. I remember the cold, frosty winter mornings when my mother had to drag me out of bed. It was too bloody cold to go to school! It was different if I was going out mustering with my father—I would be so excited I'd be out of bed at five o'clock in the morning, no worries at all! Right from the start, in first grade, I showed signs of being a bit of a rogue. My teacher introduced me to the word “discipline” with the help of a blackboard ruler. She had me bluffed for about two weeks. Since my four sisters were all at the same school as me, whenever I stepped out of line or played up it always got back to my mother ... and she had me bluffed all the time.

I used to get myself into a bit of strife at home, too. Once I got hold of a brand-new tube of toothpaste, took a pin and put a whole heap of holes in it, so that when anyone squeezed the tube, toothpaste would ooze out all over the place. Unfortunately for me, the tube found its way into my mother's hands. When she asked who had put holes in the tube, nobody owned up. My mother said: “Whoever owns up to the truth, I'll give them a dollar.” Then my sister Michelle said, “I'm going to say it was me—I could use a dollar.” But as soon as she said that I piped up: “It wasn't you, Michelle, it was me!” Michelle looked at me as if to say: “Sucker!” I was given a good flogging. I guess Michelle was a lot smarter than I was.

We all looked forward to the school holidays, and we were never short of things to do. And for me, trouble and mischief were never far away. Riding, fishing, swimming and shooting made those holidays pass very quickly. Sometimes I used to ride my pony down to the
stock-yards to see my father. I would sit on the top rail, watching him handle the young horses. That was one of the things I enjoyed most.

One day, I heard Michelle let out a loud screech, and discovered that she was afraid of molly grubs. I managed to round up one of these and showed it to her. She gave another deafening squeal and took off—much to my delight. I was like a young cattle dog as I took off after her in hot pursuit. I had speed and energy to burn. In the background I could hear my mother yelling at me to leave Michelle alone. I took no notice: I never thought I would see the day my big sister would run away from me! I found that the farther I chased her, the quicker she ran. Each time she turned around and saw the molly grub in my hand, she'd put more distance between us. I never had a chance of catching her. We covered a mile or so in quick time, then Michelle ran back. As I chased her through the gate of our yard, I was met by our mum, with a big strap in her hand that sure took the smile off my face. But a flogging didn't seem to teach me anything. A few days later, I came across my sister Robyn, who was two years older than me, sitting on the edge of the veranda. “Billy boy, I bet you can't push me off this railing,” she said. Always ready for action, I obliged. Loud yells from an injured Robyn. Another flogging for me. I guess it goes to show that as a five-year-old, I had more guts than brains.

When I was seven, my father decided I was old enough to try riding a poddy calf. The local rodeo was coming up, and I became one of the competitors. They tied me on a little Brahmin calf and opened up the chute gate to let me into the arena. I tried my best to ride that calf, but down into the dirt I went. I picked myself up out of the dust with a bloody nose, a few tears and a pretty damn sore ego. All this for a lousy two dollars—but nevertheless that reward took away a lot of the pain.

All my love was for horses. Out riding, if I fell off I always got back on. One afternoon I returned from school to find a pretty little Palomino pony tied up in the yard at home. My father told me he had named her “Tina”. Apparently as a yearling, Tina had been branded an outlaw, considered unmanageable. But Dad had taken a liking to the pony and paid her former owner ten dollars for her. He then broke in Tina himself, and soon found that all she needed was a little bit of love and plenty of patience, which he gave her. He was rewarded: the fiery little horse was soon quietened as Dad gained her full trust. Now, Tina had become so quiet that Dad had brought her home for us kids to ride.

I took a real liking to Tina. Each day after school I used to ride the pony across the creek, so that she could have a clear drink of water from the trough on the other side. When Tina and I came to the creek we used to walk down one side, and as soon as we got to the bottom I would gallop her up the other side. This was a lot of fun for anyone who could ride really well. My sisters Michelle and Anne, however, found out that it wasn't much fun if you couldn't ride properly. Michelle, in fact, couldn't ride at all, so Anne said: “Jump up here behind me, Michelle—I'll look after you.” As Tina set off slowly down the road the girls were progressing well, but as they approached the river, trouble was not very far away. Tina walked quietly down the near side of the creek and then, just as I'd taught her, she took off flat, galloping straight up the opposite bank.

The pony made it up the bank okay, but my two sisters were left floundering in the water, while Tina stood waiting for them to mount her again and ride home. Quite soon I saw the two girls coming back along the road, leading the pony. As they drew closer I saw that their backsides were riddled with burrs. My sisters were
cursing loudly and blaming me for what had happened—they were out for my blood.

It was in Grade Three that I began to get the occasional blood nose or busted lip. I never knew how to fight back. But one day, after I'd received yet another bleeding nose, I knew it was time I did so. My father told me: “If you don't learn to fight, those other blokes will walk all over you. Even if you don't win every time, make sure you let them know you were there.” He gave me some useful pointers, and next morning, scared shitless though I was, I was keen to get to school and try out his advice. I soon found the kid who'd given me a bleeding nose the day before. I just wanted to flatten
his
nose. I lined this kid up from a long way back and came at him swinging punches. I think it was fear that made me clean miss with my first punch. But my second came into solid contact with the kid's nose. He took off, and I found that he left me alone after that. My father had been right.

I used to get into a few fights whenever someone called me a “black bastard”. School kids can be pretty nasty and they know how to hit below the belt with remarks like that. One day in class, a bloke called me a “nigger”. Because we were in the classroom, he didn't think I'd be game to do anything about it. But I got up off my chair and punched this bloke right under the teacher's gaze. My punishment was two hits of the cane and having to spend the rest of the day chipping burrs in the school yard. It was worth it. I was proud to be a Murry.

During the school holidays I continued to spend a lot of time at the cattleyards on the property. I enjoyed watching the ringers draft the cattle they had mustered. Sometimes, my father would take me with him on the shorter mustering trips. Dad used to ride one of the young horses he'd recently broken in. Some of them were really fresh and would start to buck as soon as they
were mounted. My father was so cool. He would come into the yard, roll a smoke, have a bit of a yarn, then climb into the saddle. After he had given the horse a bit of a workout in the yard, it was time to go mustering.

My Uncle Edward gave me a black-and-white sheep dog. I named him “Snip”, and we had plenty of fun together. I was old enough now to do my share of the chores about the place. I had to feed and water the chickens, brush and feed Tina, water the dogs, gather firewood and cut the logs. My father trusted me with all these jobs—until one day he found out how I'd been spending part of my time. He decided to go down to the wood heap and do some chopping. Grabbing a block of wood, he found a nice little pile of contraband hidden there: a tin of Log Cabin tobacco, two packets of Benson and Hedges cigarettes, one packet of Craven A, and a couple of boxes of matches. My punishment was a good old-fashioned kick up the arse.

In 1973 my youngest sister, Donna, arrived, the only one of our family to be born in Injune. All the rest of us were born in Mitchell. Four months later, our parents decided to leave Westgrove and go back to live in Mitchell—my father had been offered a new job, working on Mount Owen station. We had lived at Westgrove for four years, and during that time I had adapted to the stillness and quietness of the bush. My love for the bush and its inhabitants had grown enormously. We had tamed a few little kangaroo rats and one or two wild cats. I was really sorry to leave Westgrove. When we moved back to Mitchell, my father would be working in the bush while we would be living in town. That meant no more freedom, no more peace, and, worst of all, no more horse or dog. Tina, the little Palomino pony and my dog Snip would be out in the bush with my dad.

Another day of moving arrived. Once again, Uncle Edward brought his old Bedford truck, this time to take us
back to Mitchell. When we started to move our gear, two of the wild cats I had caught and tamed disappeared—maybe they could sense that we were going to live in town, and decided they wanted to remain in the bush, together with the other kids and the animals.

As I sprawled in the back of the old truck later that day, I was really sorry to see the last of Westgrove station. I waved goodbye to the bush. Five minutes later, the place that had been my home for the past four years disappeared around a bend in the road.