The voyage was my first overseas trip. We headed south past France and Spain in blustery weather which rocked the ship and left not a few feeling queasy, myself included. Then we were into the heat of the Mediterranean and I became sunburnt and realised that I should get in the habit of wearing a hat, because Australia was going to be hot too. We sailed on through the Suez Canal and the Red Sea and out into the Indian Ocean. Two weeks without sight of land lay ahead, and when finally a distant darker blue on the horizon indicated the shores of Western Australia, we were almost delirious with joy at seeing it. I had made a few friends on board and the time passed pleasantly enough, eating, sleeping, reading, deck games in the day and card games at night, but all the while the thought of what I was going to hung over me. From Fremantle we sailed for a few more days further east to Adelaide and Melbourne, and then more days north via Sydney to Brisbane where I would leave the ship. Brisbane seemed like a large country town, so different from London.

For someone used to living in a relatively small country like England, the distances I was forced to travel were beyond imagination. I was fortunate to have made friends with Josh, a young Australian returning to his home town of Brisbane after two years in Europe, and now ready to settle down and marry his childhood sweetheart. He and his family were so kind to me, putting me up for a night and then seeing me safely onto a train to travel 400 miles further north along the coast to Rockhampton where I changed to another train which took me hundreds of miles into the interior of this vast continent. Gazing out of the window of the train, I saw mile after mile of flat dusty land with occasional stunted trees and shrubs. Several times I was thrilled to see mobs of kangaroos racing the train, just like I'd seen in a film once. This truly seemed to be 'Back of Beyond', but I wasn't there yet. I changed trains once more, informing the guard that I needed to alight at Crane's Halt, on my way to Mackenzie Station. After travelling for several more hours, and rocked to sleep by the train, I was woken by a hand on my shoulder and offloaded onto a tiny platform, baking in the midday sun.

I stood there with my suitcase and looked around. I had been promised that someone would be there to meet me, but there was no-one to be seen. The train jerked into motion and I turned in panic to jump aboard, but it was too late. I watched as it dwindled in size and finally disappeared into the haze.

Silence. There was a small tin shed at one end of the platform and I took shelter from the searing rays of the sun. Once I touched the metal side and jumped back, my hand reddening with the burn. A black bird alighted on a nearby tree stump and viewed me with beady speculative eyes. I had a sudden vision of my dehydrated body being picked over by crows, and despite the heat I shivered. Taking a cautious sip from my water bottle I sat on my suitcase to consider my position. There was another train due in three days. Could I last that long? I dare not leave my present position as I had no idea where to head and how far it was to the nearest settlement. A tear rolled down my cheek and instantly evaporated. I had never felt so lonely and afraid in my life.

Then I blinked. There was a small cloud of dust in the distance. Surely it hadn't been there before? I watched it intently, and yes, it was growing in size. Soon I could make out a dark spot at its centre, and then a faint humming sound. The black bird squawked in disgust and flew off. Now I could see it was a truck of some sort, growing larger and larger, until it finally skidded to a halt a few yards away. A tall lean man dressed in jeans, boots, a checked shirt and a broad-brimmed hat swung easily out of the driver's door.

“G'day mate,” he greeted me, and then looked around. “Sorry I'm running a bit late. Where's the sheila?”

I stared at him. “There's no-one called Sheila here, just me. I'm Leslie Cobb and I'm expecting a lift to Mackenzie Station.”

It was his turn to stare. “Strewth! You're Leslie Cobb? We were expecting a sheila — a female.”

“It's spelt differently for a girl,” I pointed out.

“Too right,” he responded, then muttered to himself “Jeez — what's John going to say?”

Then he grinned. “Can't leave you here — you'll fry when it heats up. Better get in the truck.”

'Heat's up?' I was already almost melting. He grabbed my nice new shiny suitcase and hurled it into the back of the truck, then motioned for me to climb in the passenger's seat. The engine started, he threw it into gear and we lurched off back the way he had come.

As we travelled along, he told me his name was Tom and he was the local postman, courier and whatever else was required, including picking up and dropping off at the rail line. We travelled in silence for a while and then he said. “Cobb's your name, you said?” I nodded.

“Any relation to Cobb and Co?”

“I don't think so,” I replied, “I don't know who they are.”

“Jeez,” he muttered, “Only the most famous coach and transporting company out here.”

I felt more alien than ever in this land where they spoke English — of a sort any way, but otherwise it couldn't have been more different to the England I had left. I started to explain why I was there — an edited version anyway, but he cut me off.

“We know why you've come. John's the best cattleman around here, but Mary his wife did the books, and he's hopeless at anything like that. Ever since she died....” his voice trailed off.

“I'm sorry about that,” I ventured.

“It's a hard country. When we heard a 'Leslie' was coming out we assumed you were a female. Otherwise you would have been 'Les'.” I didn't know how to reply to that.

Eventually we came to a metal gate across the track, attached to a wire fence that seemed to stretch for miles in either direction.

“Make yourself useful and open the gate.” said Tom, so I hopped down and opened the gate after cautiously wrapping my handkerchief around my hand. Tom drove the truck through and I ran back and started to climb aboard, but he stopped me.

“Rule number one in the bush - always leave a gate the way you found it,” he said. I felt myself blushing though I'm sure it was not visible as my face was brick-red already. After I secured the gate, we drove on in silence.

We had been travelling for a long distance with no sign of more fences when I asked “When do we reach Mackenzie Station?”

Tom laughed. “Remember that fence and gate? We've been on it for half an hour at least.”

This was farming on a scale I'd never heard of before. Once in a while we saw some cattle in the distance, but that was the only sign of life. The earth looked dry and the grass, such as it was, was stunted tussocks. I wondered how the cattle found enough to feed on. We drove for another half hour before we topped a slight rise, and there in a shallow circular depression below us was a cluster of small buildings around a larger one. Here at least was some greenery and trees. A ring of low hills surrounded the valley, and the track we were on went through one of the few gaps between them.

“Mackenzie Station. They say a meteorite caused the ring of hills,” said Tom. “Now we'll find out what John's got to say. Maybe he'll send you straight back?”

I gasped, but looking at Tom he was grinning, so it was a joke. Well at least I hoped so. Even this was better than life behind bars in England.

As we rolled down the slope towards the homestead, Tom slowed down, and I realised it was to reduce the cloud of dust behind us. We rolled to a halt beside wide steps leading up to a deep shady verandah surrounding the homestead. Like everything here, it was built on a vast scale. Out of the shadows of the verandah a man appeared. He was tall and lean and dressed in a similar fashion to Tom.

“Wait here,” ordered Tom as he slipped out of the cabin and then climbed the steps. I watched him talking to the other man. The both looked at the truck and I knew they were talking about me but with the windows closed against the dust I could not tell what they were saying. I wondered if I would boil with the heat or choke on the dust first. Finally Tom returned and opened the door.

“Out you get. John wants to meet you.”

I suddenly felt nervous. What with the confusion about who I was, suppose he took an instant dislike to me and sent me back? I walked slowly up the steps. Up close I saw a handsome man, probably in his mid-forties, but with hair that seemed to be prematurely grey. But it was his eyes that I noticed most of all — a piercing blue, they seemed to reach deep into my soul and stirred me in a way I couldn't explain or understand. They seemed to hold all the sadness of the world within them, but there was something more too. Then he thrust out a hand and the spell was broken.

“G'day. How are you going? I'm John Brodie.”

“How do you do, sir?” I replied. “I'm Leslie Cobb. I'm sorry there was a misunderstanding about who I am.”

The English greeting suddenly seemed out of place in this alien land, and I knew I was blushing deeply. His large work-hardened hand closed over my smaller city-soft one, and again I felt that sudden rush of — something.

He gave a brief smile and his face lit up. “Call me John. We don't stand on ceremony here. How was your trip?”

“Long.” I replied and both he and Tom laughed.

“She's a big country alright. OK Tom, better get Les's suitcase, and I'll see you in a couple of days.”

Relief! At least he wasn't sending me straight back.

John lead the way into the house. After the glare of the sun, it seemed almost gloomy, until my eyes adjusted. It was certainly a lot cooler. A long corridor led through the middle of the house, and as I glanced into rooms on either side, I caught glimpses of heavy old-fashioned furniture. The house seemed caught in a time-warp. John stopped at a door and opened it. The room contained a single bed, a desk and chair, a set of drawers and a wardrobe.

“This is your room,” he said. “leave your case and I'll show you the rest of the house.”

We reached another room, obviously an office. There was a desk with an ancient manual typewriter and piles of files and ledgers. Shoe boxes overflowed with papers, invoices and receipts.

“This is where you'll work,” he said. He opened a ledger at a page where figures were scrawled haphazardly. “I need you to sort this out.”

I flipped back through pages of his writing, and then suddenly it changed to a smaller hand, neater but uneven. Further back still, the writing and figures gradually improved in quality until they were neat and concise. I suddenly realised what I was seeing. His late wife had done her best to keep the books until she could no longer hold a pen. It was a labour of love. I looked up at John's face, but he was staring down at his wife's writing, his eyes glistening. I closed the ledger quietly. “I'll do my very best to sort it out for you si...John,” I said quietly.

“Come. I'll show you the rest of the house.”

The homestead was large, but many of the rooms seemed unused and I wondered who had occupied it in the past. Then a gong sounded somewhere.

“Time to eat,” said John. He led me to the large dining room, and as we entered, a Chinese cook appeared bearing two large plates which he set down at the two places laid. On each was the largest steak I had ever seen. Dishes of tinned vegetables followed. John helped himself and saw me looking at the piece of steak.

“Something we're never short of on a cattle station.” he remarked.

I barely managed half of the steak, and found my head nodding. It had been another long day.

“I suggest you get your beauty sleep,” John said. “We can do the rest of the property in the morning.”

I found my way back to my room, undressed, washed my hands and face and fell into bed. I was asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow.

The following morning after breakfast — two eggs and more steak! - John showed me around the rest of the house, and then the outbuildings. There was a number of other people present, jackaroos and roustabouts, and each greeted me with a “G'day.” as John introduced me. Realising the absurdity of an English 'How do you do?', I quickly adopted a 'G'day' back, realising that as with the English greeting, a reply wasn't expected.

John told me he had to go out with some of the stockmen, and suggested I make a start on the accounts. Determined to make a good impression, I readily agreed. I settled down with the ledgers and boxes of paperwork. Once I got into it, it wasn't too hard to sort out. I started back where his wife Mary had been in good health judging by her writing, and checked her figures, which were fine. As her health had deteriorated, occasional errors crept in and not all were corrected. The real work started where John had taken over, and to be blunt, it was a shambles. After an hour or so, I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, but didn't bother with lunch after the enormous breakfast. The water had a faintly metallic taste and I assumed it had come from a bore.

John returned in the evening, in time for dinner, and I was able to report some good progress. The meal was accompanied by a red wine which I judged to be good, and I sipped it sparingly, since alcohol had always gone to my head. John finished off the bottle, and afterwards we sat down in armchairs opposite the fireplace. I had an uncomfortable feeling I was occupying his dead wife's chair, although nothing was said. I was surprised to see John reach for a whisky decanter and pour himself a large glass. I pretended not to notice, and read some week-old newspapers from Brisbane. I was surprised to see that they contained some news from England and I suddenly felt very homesick. Eventually John lurched to his feet and bade me 'goodnight'. I sat in my room and pondered on events. Was he drinking to drown his sorrows? It certainly looked like it.

The days slipped into a pattern. After breakfast, where he appeared none the worse for the drink, John headed out with the stockmen, and I worked on the books. Within a week I had it all sorted out. Some of the amounts coming in and going out were quite staggering, and there was cash too, but bearing in mind the advice of Mr Jenner back in London, I was scrupulous in accounting for it all. Besides, I didn't want to add to John's woes. I had a growing deep feeling of respect for him. 'Yes, that was it,' I told myself 'respect.' In the evening, John returned for dinner, and then we sat and read, either newspapers or books from the small library, while he drank whisky. Catching me looking at him one evening, he half-smiled, raised the glass and said “Medicinal.”

With the accounting up to date, I began to find myself at a loose end. The house showed all the signs of a bachelor, or in this case widower lifestyle, so I set about tidying, washing and dusting. I actually rather liked it. I wasn't totally alone in the house. A young aboriginal girl did the clothes washing, but not any ironing, and she also occasionally ran a broom over the floor. I gradually worked my way through more and more rooms, eventually finding myself in John's bedroom. I wasn't sure how he would feel about me being there, so I did some minor dusting, enough for him to notice, and waited for the reaction. When there was none, I took that as tacit approval and went further with the dusting and polishing.

During the day, the blinds were nearly closed to keep the house cool, which made it dark, and so it was a week before I noticed a door which I'd missed before and I slowly opened it. The blinds were fully closed, and when I groped my way to open them and light flooded in, I looked around in surprise. It was obviously a woman's room. There was a dressing table with a large mirror and sitting on it were various jars and bottles. I lifted one up, and its place was marked by a clear circle in the layer of fine dust. There was a faint smell in the air — was it perfume? I had the strangest feeling of a presence watching me, but it was not an unfriendly feeling. Next to the dressing table was a chest of drawers and I slid one open. Expensive lingerie lay neatly folded in sets. I closed the drawer and moved to the wardrobe, and gasped when I opened the doors. Inside was forty or fifty skirts and dresses on hangers. Again, they looked expensive. Poor John. He couldn't bring himself to let go of anything belonging to his wife. I reached out a tentative hand and touched the soft fabric of one gorgeous gown.

“What are you doing?” the voice rang out like a pistol shot and I jumped back. John stood in the doorway, his face working.

“I, I'm sorry,” I gasped. “I've been doing some cleaning. I didn't realise.....” I must have looked so frightened. John's expression softened.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you,” he said in a more moderate tone. He walked slowly, almost reluctantly into the room and looked around.

“I know you've been cleaning and tidying, and I appreciate it, but please, not this room. You see I couldn't bear....”

I stood there looking at him. Every fibre in my body screamed at me to rush up and throw my arms around this devastated man, but equally I knew that I must not. Everything was becoming very plain to me.

“I understand,” I said softly. “and it won't happen again.” I walked slowly out of the room, and he followed me, pausing only to draw the blinds and then closing the door gently behind him.

Life carried on as before — John's daily rides out with the stockman, my cleaning and polishing plus whatever accountancy was required, and in the evenings, sitting in the big armchair reading, while John drank himself into oblivion. I was worried about him, but what could I do? I couldn't discuss my worries with any of the other staff.

One day, Tom the mailman arrived while John was out. I wanted to talk with him and offered him tea, sitting on the verandah.

He must have seen from the expression on my face that there was something I needed to talk about.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Tom, I don't know how to put this. Please don't think I'm interfering or betraying John. I'm growing to love this place, but I'm worried about him.” I explained to him about our routine and how John was drinking every night. “You're his friend. You're the only one I can talk to about it.”

Tom pursed his lips. “It's as bad as that, eh?”

“What happened to his wife, Tom?”

“It was cancer — a really bad cancer. By the time she saw a doctor, nothing could be done, so she returned here. She told me John needed her, and of course he did. She kept doing the books right to the end, and tried to pretend everything was normal, but it wasn't of course.”

“I know,” I replied “When I first started doing the books, I could see it in her writing.” A thought struck me.

“Is that why he was disappointed I wasn't a girl? He wanted female companionship?”

“I don't really know,” said Tom, ”but I know he's pleased with the work you've been doing here, because he told me.” I felt myself blushing with pleasure. I've always blushed easily, and compliments were guaranteed to have me looking the colour of a fire truck.

"Leave it with me," said Tom, and I had to be content with that.

Everything seemed fine, so the blow when it fell was all the more shocking for being unexpected.

To be continued.