Hail the drover's wife

AUSSIE chicks are resilient, outspoken, stoic - and respected for being as assertive as the men.

Drover's Wife

ONLY one person had the Aussie speech therapist, Lionel Logue, quaking in his boots in The King's Speech. The King of England, perhaps? The Queen consort? The Archbishop of Canterbury? Not a bit of it. The missus.

“You’re being a coward... Get out there, man!” spluttered the King while Lionel cowered behind a door as his fearsome Myrtle bowled home early from her bridge game.

They make ’em tough, those Aussie chicks. Back then and now. That deliciously steely, no-nonsense archetype holding her own against the blokes goes back a long way in Australian folklore. She’s called the Drover’s Wife and she’s rightly celebrated. Read about her in Henry Lawson’s story; gaze at all her sturdy glory in Russell Drysdale’s painting or, my favourite depiction, Jeff Carter’s wearily beautiful photo. There’s also something of her in My Brilliant Career’s Sybylla and Seven Little Australians’ Ju-Ju.

What a gal she is. A specifically Aussie chick. Resilient, outspoken, stoic - and respected for being as assertive as the men.

It’s a legacy Aussie females carry with them far from these shores. The scene: London, 1997. Freshly arrived in Blighty, feeling distinctly non-Drover’s Wife. Shivering, near broke, unemployed, not sure where my life was going or what I was doing in this place. I’d written a novel about an Aussie chick who jumps in her ute and crosses central Australia in search of her father – and needed it sold.

An old-school publisher’s office of meticulous bookcases and cigar-fat pens. A gentleman in a tweed jacket sitting across from me. Did he want to publish my book? God no. He just wanted to examine the odd creature behind it. “You Australian women are very... strong... aren’t you?” It was not a compliment. I swear there was a curl of the lip.

“Noooo,” I wanted to scream, “I feel lost and lonely and a failure as a writer - and cold, bloody cold.” But his disdain was galvanising: I realised I had an archetype to live up to. A fabulously positive, bolshy, gutsy one. I walked out tall despite quaking inside, determined to show just how strong I could be.

Australia being a fertile breeding ground for tenacious women was a reason, earlier this year, to repatriate our family – which includes a feisty daughter who runs rings around the rest of us. From angry, Toff-ruled Blighty the situation looked exhilarating. Thirty per cent of seats in the Australian parliament are now held by women. A Sydneysider, for example, was well used to women in power, had six layers of it in fact: a mayor, premier, state governor, prime minister, governor general and queen. That was a lot of chick power to either get used to, despair over – or shrug your shoulders and concede they’re the best candidates for the job. Which the majority of Aussies seemed to be doing. Wasn’t that the feminist dream?

It felt modern – certainly compared to Britain, where the pollies are being drawn from an increasingly narrow pool. (Currently the PM, his deputy and chancellor all went to schools with fees higher than the average wage. It’s a huge step back from a grocer’s daughter ruling the roost.) This new breed of Aussie women seemed like the modern-day equivalent of the Drover’s Wife: women who just rolled up their sleeves and got on with it, often with a wry sense of humour – and without sacrificing their femininity.

But by the time I’d returned home the political situation had shifted – NSW’s female premier had gone and Gillard’s confidence seemed to have been chipped away at; there was something reduced, too careful, about her. All I can say is: Julia, a lot of Aussie women – and their young daughters – are watching you, whatever their politics. We need to see a bit more of the no-nonsense steel of a Drover’s Wife. They don’t do crushed. They don’t do cowed. Don’t lose your fight, girl. There’s a glorious Aussie archetype to live up to.