Milk, olives and a broomstick

I started working at a farm near Clermont, QLD, for a 81 year old lady. She was deaf, had one eye and could not stand up straight anymore. She ran her farm for years with little help and decided to start an olive orchard. I was impressed with her personality, aghast about her living conditions and eager to get into it. I worked seven days a week for 80 dollars (I am not sure about the share of wages being transferred to the arranging party). I was happy seeding a veggie garden, planting trees, putting in the irrigation system and weeding and ploughing acre after acre by hand and spade. Even the flies that covered my face almost the entire day did not make me falter. The facilities almost did. They were situated beside the lady's bedroom, lacked a door and only needed flushing after the bigger messages - so she believed. Cleaning was a word that wasn't used for a very long time. You could describe her interior as extremely 'zen'; there was almost nothing there. Still, pests of all sorts found enough to linger about and leave their traces, which she hadn't seen or bothered about for many years before.
Better were the odd muster jobs we did together. The more then thirty year old ute existed out of four wheels, a rusty carcass and a steering wheel and that was really about it. The diesel needed to be sucked out of the barrel. The gear did not work properly so we buck jumped along the way. Once we had to make our way around a yard on foot to shift twelve odd cows and got covered in what I think was called spear grass. We both had to get undressed to be able to sit in the car to get back home and laughed our heads off doing so. Maybe cackling is the better description of her laughter. Less funny was the cow she expected me to milk. After all I was a Dutch girl wasn't I? I never even seriously tried to catch her (the cow that is) as she had a murderous look on her face and still hadn't weaned her last calf which was more then halve her size. I cooked and cleaned between jobs and occasionally I was able to ride an old friendly horse without any gear but a little piece of string. Although officially that was a chore too; checking the paddocks.
You could hear the phone ring miles away through the outdoor speakers. Of course I was never in time to pick it up, I wonder if she was. Meanwhile the villagers came by every now and again to see if I was fine, as the lady had a reputation. When she started to be really nasty when I wanted an afternoon off once a fortnight or when doing my laundry I gave in to another job offer coming from someone out of town. I became a home help.