The View From Connor's Hill (14 page)

The year 1959 was my second-last year at school, and it was the first year I noticed the opposite sex. Some enterprising teachers and one of the parents had set up dancing classes at the local Church of England hall. I desperately wanted to go, as most of the kids in my class at school went and constantly talked about the fun they were having. I begged my parents to take me, but it was a no-go. I arranged to stay at a mate's place — again, a no-go. I did extra chores at home and helped wherever I could — still a no-go. I was getting quite desperate, because my parents offered no explanations or reasons as to why I couldn't attend. The dances were chaperoned, they ended at 10.00 p.m., and only cordial and sandwiches were served. Now, what was wrong with that?

On one particular Saturday night — dance night — Dad, who'd played footy that day for Swifts Creek, was visiting a mate's place in the town of Swifts Creek, with Mum and us kids in tow. His team had won and he was in good spirits. Again, I asked if I could go, as the dance was on just up the road; once more, it was a no-go. Did I spit the dummy? No, I said nothing; I just walked outside, planning the hour-long walk home. I was going to pack my bags and leave … for somewhere.

Outside, it was freezing cold, with a razor-like wind slicing the air. Pausing, about to trudge home, I abruptly changed my mind.
Damn going home
, I thought. The devil in me decided to go to the dance instead. But I had one big problem — no money. It was sixpence to get in. I also had no suitable clothes. I never wore good clothes to the footy because we would always have a kick at half-time and I would get my clothes dirty. So that ruled out the dance. I wasn't happy. I wanted to get back at my oldies somehow.

Next plan: I would hide on the floor, behind the front seat of the new Holden. No one would find me, and this would get right up my parents' noses, as dinner was about to be served.

Come teatime, there were calls in and around the house, but I remained put. Then, with everyone outside spreading out and still no sign of Barry, Dad lost the plot completely. This led to name-calling and threats, followed by panic — mother became worried. After half an hour of shouting, I decided to make an appearance. This wasn't a good move. Dad threatened to impose the death penalty when I emerged all guilty from the floor of the Holden.

However, my misdemeanour soon faded into the background. The adults started arguing about when a kid should be allowed go out, at what age, and what about hooligans, etcetera. Mum won. She took me home, where I put on a fresh set of our shared good clothes. I didn't have a bath, though — we only had them on a Friday. Then I was taken to the dance.

It was very late, and it only had about half an hour to run. So I just stood in the corner and looked at the girls — with no eye contact. Apparently, that was what you were supposed to do.

Quite pleased, I walked home afterwards. During the crisp stroll, an owl hooted, and rabbits scurried under bushes. Other night birds called their mates, and several horses came up to the fence out of curiosity, snorting a wary welcome. In all, for my part it was a good night, although admittedly I snuck into bed when I finally got home.

My pathetic, rebellious behaviour at least had one good outcome, if not two: I attended these dances most Saturday nights and, over time, learnt how to ballroom dance. I enjoyed using this skill for years.

Another benefit from going to the dances was the lessons I learned about the opposite sex. They stirred up something inside me that I enjoyed. The opposite sex: what a curious subject. They were definitely from Venus.

For me, there was no question that Miss O'Farrell was my first love. She was a dark-haired, attractive female with a soft, kind smile and a perfect manner; at the time, I was besotted. She was my Grade Three teacher at Ringwood Primary School. Her affection towards me was affirmed by remarks she uttered for my benefit alone. She said that I sat up straight, tried hard, was a nice boy, and always had clean fingernails. The fact that she said this to the other 40 students at different times was irrelevant. I was her favourite. The twinkle in her eye gave it away. It enabled me to realise that I had a rare attribute: I had a way of both charming and winning over the opposite sex. I didn't flout this gift like a Casanova or womaniser; I remained humble and unassuming, and only plied my skills when needed, with absolute care and aplomb.

Armed with this self-confidence, and having forgotten all about Miss O'Farrell, I asked Curls for my first date when I was almost fourteen. We both went to the school at Swifts Creek. There were seven boys and only four females my age at the school, and competition for the hand of one of these mountain maids was an endless battle — as Roy, one of the older boys, was heard to say, ‘And we like mount'n women.'

However, at school, my charisma and other natural gifts only got me so far with the opposite sex. Curls, for some reason, didn't respond to my charm. So I asked one of the older kids — again, Roy — who'd grown up in the city, for some advice.

‘Money,' he said, ‘the evil of a good root.'

No doubt this was another of Roy's pearls of wisdom that I couldn't quite follow, but I gathered that money was a necessity when attempting to court a mountain maid. So, armed with this knowledge, I looked for a job, got an offer, and then wagged school for a brief time just before school holidays. In all, I worked a full three weeks — two of them in the holidays.

Now armed with several quid, I discovered that Roy was right. Suddenly, back at school, I had a lot of kudos and the perfect drawcard to ask Curls to the movies. Yes, money put the male contestants at the top of the popularity queue. Just as well, as, despite my magnetism, I was turning into an ugly bugger, really. With pimples, growth spurts, bum-fluff, and freckles on my face, it was quite a challenge to win a female heart.

But let's go back to earning my pocket money. To be honest, the three weeks' work away from school was a lot of fun. I was the rouseabout in Wilson's two-stand shed, just up the road from home. There were two shearers — both good, neat craftsmen, and I admired their skill. However, I was amazed at the effort required to shear a sheep. Both shearers were capable of shearing one hundred or more sheep a day, and they lost a large amount of sweat in the process. A rouseabout is a busy job. There were fleeces to be picked up and thrown, the floor to be swept clean, and catching pens to be filled up every time a shearer called, ‘Sheep-oh!'

This particular year it had been a good season, and the fleeces were heavy and full of thistles — an annoying plant with needle-sharp prongs that stick into your hands. This is doubly a problem if you work in a woolshed, as your hands become very soft because of the lanolin in the wool. Within two days, my hands were very sore, and I had trouble milking the cows early in the morning before work. Then one of the workers in the shed noticed my problem and kindly took me to one side.

‘Not to worry,' said the wool classer, Tom — Tom Cook from Ensay.

‘I know a good way to harden ya hands. Just pee on 'em, Baz. Rub it in well, and do it every time ya have a leak.'

Three times he explained the procedure until, a little confused, I headed for a catching pen to have a piddle. Tom was a good bloke, so the shearers reckoned, so I was grateful to him, and appreciated the advice. In fact, I was pleased that he almost treated me like an adult. So I began the daily ritual. Every time I snuck out into the catching pens to have a pee, I would liberally smother my hands. Boy, did they sting. I continued with this procedure, even when I went home for weekends, but the sore hands remained a problem. However, I was encouraged, as Tom said they'd be a lot worse if I stopped the pee routine. Nice bloke, Tom — he always had a smile on his face when he spoke to me. It was funny but, at home, Mum complained that there was a foul smell most nights at tea. I never determined until years later that it had been me.

Then the woolshed job finished and I was back at school with twelve quid in my pocket for three weeks' work. Curls was mine. Within a day, I had a date to the movies arranged. I rode my pushbike into the town and picked her up. Fortunately, she only lived around the corner from the hall. It was Tuesday night and we headed for the Town Hall.

A bloke from Buchan, a town just over the hill, ran the movies. He was deaf, the poor blighter. Once the movies started, you could hear the noise that blasted around the hall from half a mile away. This meant that if I wanted to say something really special to Curls, I had to get in early, or shout once the flicks got underway.

We sat in the back row — the ‘cool row'. The lights went out, and we all stood for the national anthem. The Queen's head appeared, in the middle of a waving flag. The men and boys all stood to attention. Then it was the Movietone news, cartoons, and trailers. Finally, the first feature started. It was a Doris Day epic; someone had told me that the trailer the week before suggested it was a cool movie with a lot of ‘smooching and flapping eyelashes' — very suitable for my first date. Ten minutes after it started, I made my first move. With the grace of a good-looking male goanna, I slid my arm around Curls's shoulders, tickled her chin, and stared at her like a hooting owl.

‘What's that awful pong?' she asked, with her nose in the air.

Those around us sniggered. Then bloody Shinga — Tom Wilson, a schoolmate — burst out laughing, the rotten blighter.

‘Pardon?' I asked (this was a really bad mistake).

‘Ya hands stink. Don't ya wash, ya dirty beggar?'

By now, the back third of the hall was in uproar — this was better than any Doris Day movie. Devastated, I rose to my feet and said I needed a pee (without the hand-washing). Then I snuck out the back and cleared off.

The three-mile bike ride back home was a long one. There were no damn horses wandering up to the fence, or owls hooting. I knew that at school the next day there'd be questions. Not about ‘how'd ya git on with Curls?' but about where my hands had been. God, it was embarrassing — everyone in the hall had heard Curls's comment. She'd had to shout above the booming sound from the movies. How would I explain it to the parents, since the word would have reached her mum and mine by the next day? So I learnt my first lesson about dating: take a bit of time before you make your first move.

The next day at school, I lay low. After the movies fiasco, it was best if I steered clear of the girls for the week, I reckoned. Naturally, after pondering on the entire incident, with the hindsight of a typical vacant adolescent, I changed my ways. Well, let's just say I wasn't deterred, and I gave Curls the shove; she chewed her fingernails, anyway.

Meg was my next target. This time I didn't ask Roy for advice or guidance; I simply took my time and waited for the right moment. Meg was a bit of all right: she had long hair and she barracked for the Bombers. As I mentioned, timing was important, and here I had an opportunity. I needed a date for a special occasion — a party for Jacko's girlfriend, Rosie, who was turning fifteen.

I approached Meg, real cool-like, and enticed her for a date with a comment about her beauty. Now
that
was a downright lie because, in reality, Curls was the only good-looker in the school. But Meg had charm and was a goer, according to Roy. Did that mean she was good at netball? (Roy had offered me his opinion anyway, and that was good enough for me.) The main thing was that Meg accepted my invitation, which was great. I begged Mum to let me have a bath on the night in question, and she obliged. I polished my shoes and put on some of Dad's hair oil and a pair of his pants, since I was now taller than he was.

The evening's entertainment was at Rosie's family home. They lived in a mill-house in the town. It was a typical 1950s' country party: some twelve of us in attendance, the boys in one corner with their plastic-looking hair slicked down with Californian poppy, looking smooth and pretending to ignore the girls — a well-honed Aussie ritual. Meanwhile, the mountain maids, even though they were our dates, were over in the far corner, giggling, fluttering, and whispering.

Then, of course, there was Jacko. What a hero. He was fourteen going on fifteen, and he was holding hands
in public
with his girl already — boy, did I envy that. Word had it that they'd been going steady for 22 days.

Naturally, at a bush party, several mothers were there, and they had a nice supper prepared.

We did a rough barn dance to a wind-up 78 record player, followed by the Mexican Hat dance. Then we played some games: Pass the Parcel, and Postman's Knock were usually the first. Both were games that were regularly played at teenage birthday celebrations.

Then we played a new game called Over the Water. Two broomsticks were placed parallel on the floor about seven feet apart while Mrs Buckland leapt around the room in a big circle, giving a brief explanation of the rules. We boys were fascinated by the way her boobs flopped about. The game sounded great — at some stage we had to pick up our partner and carry her between the two brooms. I vividly recall glancing briefly at Meg and wincing. This would test me.

‘Let's give it a try,' announced Mrs Jackson, as she wound up the gramophone and carefully placed the needle in the groove. The music started up, and we held hands and skipped around the room in twos to the tune of Pat Boone's hit,
Silvery Moon
. Then it was time for the broomsticks: ‘Time to pick up your partner in your arms and carry her over the water,' said Mrs Boucher. ‘And remember, if the music stops while you are in between the sticks, you are out.'