Clair Jessen was the wife of Alfred John Jessen, sworn into the Queensland Police Force in 1944 and serving many city and country communities, including from the very remote Burketown Police Station in 1960. Mrs Jessen wrote down some of her experiences as a police wife, and today we bring you Part 2 of her memoirs – Cooking up a Storm.
Last week (12.12.2017) we ended where there are no words to describe the sight of this old low set wooden building, one end the Police Residence, the remainder Police Station and Constable’s quarters, again not a tree or blade of grass to be seen, built we were told around 1880, and long condemned…
The front and back walls were not of timber but heavily gauzed. I think it was meant to let in the breeze, however after so many years, it was black and choked with dust, making it impossible to see out or let in any breeze, not that it mattered considering the view.
The posting was to a two-man station. We were met by a young Constable who was happy to see a new face in this remote part of the world. It was a bit daunting for a city girl to suddenly be in such isolation, with no power, searing heat and no fans to cool the house. We had bought a second hand kerosene fridge, which in such heat proved to be useless. To make matters worse, we were told our furniture was delayed and would not arrive for another week.
It was then my husband said: “Clair, I don’t wish to stay at the one and only hotel, but we are in luck, there is still a mattress here bought from the previous Sergeant and yet to be collected. We can sleep on that and borrow crockery from the Constable.” So for the first week we slept on the mattress thrown down on wooden floorboards – my introduction to the Gulf!
About 20 people lived in this tiny town, though police work covered a large area. The [Indigenous residents] in our time were a fine group of people, the women kept their small tin huts spotless. There were only six wooden buildings: a tiny hospital, post office store, shire clerk’s residence, police station and a little hall for all functions. The store sold everything from petrol to a can of baked beans. With its wooden walls, floor and counter it looked like something from a western movie. From the ceilings hung some very old dusty cotton frocks, the coat hangers were rolled newspaper tied in the middle with string and hanging from a nail in the ceiling. They were never sold or removed during my time there. So they dangled from the ceiling looking like some long forgotten Christmas decorations.
Everything in the store seemed to come in tins, from drums of flour, sunshine milk, vegetables and even butter, which I never got used to. Because of the heat it became almost liquid and tasted nothing like butter. Dried dates were sure dried after being jammed into drums for months and I never forget Tom Pipers Stew; tinned meat, a great standby for weeks on end.
The kitchen was at the back of the house getting all the hot western sun. Also in the back of the kitchen stood my worst enemy: a wood stove as old as the house itself. Despite the heat it had always to be left alight for cooking and for making cups of tea. Water was pumped in from a lake, it came through the colour of weak tea, so a precious bucket of tank water was always in the kitchen, but only for cooking and drinking.
The bathroom seemed to be put on as an afterthought. You went down a few steps into this dark dreary room with tin walls, a tin bath and a tin chip heater. Again the water came through the colour of weak tea, so we certainly did not linger there. Did I mention the toilets: 3 wooden boxes as old as the house at the back of the house? One for our use, one for the Constable and a spare for visitors. I never found the courage to use them late at night, apart from the long dark walk, there were the red back spiders who called it home.
The muddy water we also had to use for washing clothes. We had no hose or connections so the discoloured water had to be carried across and filled into big empty petrol drums and dropped in alum which, left overnight, would clear the water for washing. But you could never wash till you remembered to clear the water. So washing day was a big ordeal. Once again, I needed the help of both men to haul the water over to the tubs and also with the hand washing. With a sigh of relief wet clothes were hung on the line and only then would we see a dark cloud approaching. Was it welcome rain? Too late – it was a dust storm that covered everything – us and the washing, so it all had to be taken down and dumped back into the tubs till we found the energy to do it all again. The men hated washing day as much as I did.
Next, I had to learn to make bread. We were able to cut open large olive oil tins which we used to bake the bread in. The bread was kneaded in a large, clean old washing dish for there was nowhere to buy the right tools. However, no matter what advice my bread was always a flop till the day I asked the Constable to help me knead the bread. As he did so, he told me how he hated the place and in his anger he kneaded the bread again and again. The bread rose to the top of the tins and was my first success. One could understand the Constable’s anger. After all, the six women in the town were married, the only entertainment was the pub which was the downfall for many lonely souls.
At last Clair makes the perfect loaf of bread, with the angry assistance of the town’s Constable, c1965. Image courtesy of the Jessen family.
Supplies for the store came in by boat once a month, also bringing only basic vegetables such as potatoes, pumpkin and onions. As for fresh fruit and greens, we had to wait until someone had reason to go to Mount Isa. They would fill their truck with fresh vegetables for the return trip. When they arrived after such a long, hot journey they could hardly be called “fresh”, and I soon learned to cut out all the squashy bits. You could not be choosy when everything was so scarce.
We were on the Flying Doctor’s run but he visited only once a month. Meanwhile we had a matron who could cope with most problems. Matron was a down-to-earth no-nonsense woman who could stitch wounds, deliver babies, and patch up fingers after a fight. She could also outthink any man and if she wasn’t at the hospital the next place to look for her was at the pub. But she certainly was the right person for such a difficult job. Anything really serious matron would call the Flying Doctor and he would advise. The only problem — all of the Gulf tuned in to these calls — a little light entertainment. I always prayed I would have no personal problems. My prayers were answered. The dentist only came every six months, meanwhile if toothache was bad enough you had to make the long rough trip to Cloncurry.
We were truly isolated. I had little in common with the other women. They, having spent some years in the Gulf, would find comfort at the hotel rather than a cup of tea. On one of my melancholic days I would look outside at nothing but dry endless saltpan with only a few crows sitting on a wire fence. With their black feathers they seemed like undertakers just waiting for my demise.
Part 3 of Clair Jessen’s memoirs will be provided next week.
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This information has been supplied by the Queensland Police Museum from the memoirs of Clair Jessen titled ‘Three Meals and a Bed”. The Police Museum is open from 9am to 4pm Monday to Thursday and 10am to 3pm on the last Sunday of the month (Feb-Nov) and is located on the Ground Floor of Police Headquarters at 200 Roma Street, Brisbane. Contact: E: museum@police.qld.gov.au
“FROM the VAULT- The Memoirs of Clair Jessen Part 2 – Cooking up a Storm” by the Queensland Police Service is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution (BY) 2.5 Australia Licence. Permissions may be available beyond the scope of this licence. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/au/legalcode