The View From Connor's Hill (18 page)

We packed, and left early. After a steep trek down a sharp ridge, the area flattened out and was quite open. Shinga spotted it first — some stockyards, away to our left. I didn't believe that cattle or sheep grazed this far out. The yards were very old and had sliprails for a gateway, big enough to hold about 40 head of cattle or over 100 sheep.

As we walked around these mystery yards, a small distance away we found the remains of a smaller yard, possibly for a horse or horses. Then, around behind an enormous granite boulder, we found the remnants of an old hut. It was quite small, made of logs, with a single room that had a rock fireplace. We started to search for any other finds when, lying in the grass, we came upon an old bottle. It was made of clear glass, had a top sealed with a marble, and moulded on the front was a scene of a man panning gold. On the bottom of the bottle it said, in its original spelling: ‘Made in Ballaarat'. The image of the man was from the era of the mid-1800s.

It was an amazing find. We sat it on a rock and threw stones at it until one of us broke it. Around behind another large boulder, not far away, was a small waterhole — a soak, with many frogs in it croaking all at once. A satisfied big black snake slithered off after we startled him.

I could have explored that spot all day but, after an hour, we pushed on. We crossed the bullock track that led down to just below the Second Waterfall. It was a great day. We arrived late afternoon at Swifts Creek.

Along the way, Shinga and I both reckoned our discovery was a bushranger's hut — probably the Kellys'. They'd been over in our area, so legend had it, on their way to the pub at Tambo Crossing.

We had a cup of tea with the forestry officer and then walked to Shinga's place, where I rang Dad. I proudly read my journal to the family when I got home. The three-day trek had been quite an adventure. Both Shinga and I decided not to mention our false start, and how we'd nearly become horribly lost. Years later, it dawned on me what had probably happened: when the forestry officer had put the map and the compass on the bonnet of his Land Rover, the powerful magnetic fields in the engine had disturbed the compass, and had caused it to turn in another direction.

Later on, I also found out that the old hut had been the home for the Ward family some 40 years before. My mother had gone to school with two of the boys, Fred and Bill. At some stage, Fred Ward had worked on the run, and the hut had become a resting and holding place for stockman who worked a run for Wilson's back in the late 1800s.

We passed our first-class badge. Then, as usual, it was back to school, which by this stage I was finding a waste of time.

chapter nine

Leaving school

BY NOW, THE ONLY THING I ENJOYED AT SCHOOL
WAS THE
socialising that took place in the playground. Then I had a pleasant surprise. I was now old enough to be allowed to take part in the annual debutante ball, which was a highlight of the year. At every ball, a dignitary attended; his role would be to give a speech and to have the debs presented to him after a special dance. The event required months of rehearsal. Each year, there would be a large group of young women eligible to make their debut. Traditionally, this meant they were now able to attend social events on their own. However, this was almost irrelevant to us. It was simply a night to dress up, engage in a bit of pomp, and have professional photographs taken that would end up in local newspapers and mantelpieces — all in all, it was a wonderful occasion.

On the night, there would be milling crowds of proud, cooing parents. I was fortunate — a fellow classmate asked me to partner her. This meant I had to attend rehearsals for ten to twelve weeks beforehand. At the time, I and a few others in the deb party thought that three months of preparation was a bit much; after all, most of us could already ballroom dance.

The boys had to wear a suit on the night. Like mine, many boys' parents hired a suit for the occasion. White gloves and black shoes — highly polished — completed our outfits. The girls' dresses, similar to a bride's, were not only long; they were a combination of petticoats and flowing, folded material. I'd watched two previous balls and the graduating dance for the debs. At the time, the presentation dance had been an evening three-step — the Pride of Erin or the Palma Waltz. All of us had learnt these dances at the Church of England Hall during the year.

However, after the first night of rehearsals, we soon learnt that there was more to this type of event than just dancing. We had to dance in unison, all turning together in a large, circular formation. After five nights, we'd mastered circular and formation dancing. Then came the complicated process of the presentation to the dignitary for the evening. This required walking hand-in-hand through an archway, up a series of steps, and then bowing, or giving a curtsey, to the honourable gentleman. After that you had to move to the left or right, and then form a semi-circle on the stage. By the tenth night, we had most things sorted out, and the rehearsal went quite well. The last two nights would be full-dress rehearsals.

After being given instructions on how to be prepared, we blokes were pretty well stunned. Surely this was an invasion of our Aussie male privacy? On the nights of our two last rehearsals, they told us to bathe or shower. Then our fingernails were inspected — our hands had to be spotless to avoid soiling the white gloves. Each boy had to be clean-shaven, and had to liberally apply aftershave, underarm deodorant, and powder in private places. My father thought this was hilarious, ridiculous, and a bit ‘queer'. However, ‘them were the rules', and we turned up smelling sweet, and sparkling clean. The girls, rapt and excited, actually offered us compliments. The last two rehearsals were great fun. It was obvious we were ready … nerves might be the only problem.

In preparation for the last night, a haircut and neck-shave added the final touch.

The evening was a most memorable occasion. The girls looked superb — just beautiful. When we'd formed the semi-circle on stage, after presenting our partners to the high official, the crowd gave us a standing ovation. After that, we escorted the girls back down to the dance floor and led the audience in a slow foxtrot. Quickly, others joined in, continually swapping partners as the smiles of proud mums and dads beamed out over the floor. It was a great night.

From that evening onwards, tradition had it that the debs could then attend any public dance without a chaperone. Back at school, we now saw these girls quite differently. They became great mates, and we talked about the debutante ball for weeks.

However, apart from such highlights, I had no regrets about leaving when I finally finished Form Four at Swifts Creek Higher Elementary School. My results were poor; I'd failed all written expression subjects, and had only passed those related to numbers. I failed that year's exams for what was known as the Intermediate Certificate. As I expected, though, these results didn't worry my parents. They simply saw school as a place to learn to read and write. Like most parents in the shire, they were waiting for me to reach school-leaving age, to get a job, and to do my bit. Having decided that schooling and I were not compatible, my parents made me leave.

I thought it was a good decision to leave school, too. What a waste it would have been to stay, you know what I mean, keeping a fit young lad like me — who was capable of doing a man's job — locked up in a classroom staring at a blackboard, or wading through some damn yarn about a share-market dealer called ‘Shylock' who had worked in Venice hundreds of years ago. The spelling in that book was atrocious: hath, thou, doest, and so on. No wonder I didn't master English.

Consequently, during that last year, I started to lose interest in school rapidly. During all my years at school, I never thought of myself as having any academic talents. In fact, only two people ever made comments about my abilities that were positive. One was my Science teacher, Mr O'Brien, who told me that he believed I had the potential to do tertiary studies. He based this on the ease with which I'd mastered the photographic process and learnt to handle a sophisticated camera. Consequently, he encouraged me to work harder at school, to do my homework, and to get better marks. But his opinion had no influence whatsoever. I had little time for homework or reading. Once I stepped off the bus, I was only interested in having a snack, doing my chores, having a kick of the footy, and reading comics. Also, my parents, like most at that time, believed that school — not home — was the place to learn. Homework was frowned upon, and I never dared ask for help with it.

The other person who encouraged me to pursue further studies was someone who only met me a couple of times. Our first meeting was unusual. My parents had just purchased a second bush block we called the ‘top block'. Like most properties in those times, it was a square mile in area — 640 acres. It was a better block than Dorrington's or Sheepstation Creek; it had some undulating, open country suitable for both sheep and cattle. The initial problem was that there was no boundary fence; we had no real idea where the block was located. Admittedly, some of the better land had been fenced at some time, but those fences were no longer stock-proof, and needed replacing.

Through a series of indirect coincidences, I met a man by the name of Bruce Nicholson. He worked for one of the government departments, most likely Agriculture. One Saturday morning, as I was preparing to go to the bush block, he arrived at Doctors Flat early. Admittedly, Dad had mentioned that I would be helping a bloke do something on the property, but I didn't understand or hadn't listened, and I was simply prepared to help out in some vague way.

My guess now is that this happened in 1960. Over a cup of tea, Dad again explained what was going on. Earlier, there'd been an arrangement made between Bruce and Dad for Bruce to help locate the top block's boundary. He was going to use a detailed map, the original title, a prismatic compass, and me. I would hold a stick, like a surveyor's assistant, and we would peg out the boundary roughly. Only Mr Nicholson and I would be going out into the bush. Initially, I had to get him to the block and locate the only bit of boundary fence that existed. Fortunately, it was a corner, which meant that we'd have a start-point. We drove out in the four-wheel drive, and it quickly became obvious to me that this man loved the bush. He made comments about the trees, the rock formations, the grass types, the soil, and the general geology of the area. When we arrived at the top block, he showed me the map and told me what the plan was.

I have always been a questioning, curious person. With this in mind, when Mr Nicholson started to explain how we would use his map, I indicated I could read a map, and could use a compass. With that, it started. We discussed the map and its scale, and its added features that I hadn't seen before. Then he produced his prismatic compass; it was a superb piece of craftsmanship with an eye-sighting mechanism that located the bearing. It was very accurate. I was fascinated, and we spent an hour studying the map in detail. Immediately, I had a deep respect for the man because he treated me as if he valued my intellect, and that was foreign to me. He teased out my comprehension and my thirst for knowledge, and complimented me on my enthusiasm and interest. The result was that, after a couple of tries, he let me trace the boundary, and he held the stick. I was so proud. During our time together we had brews and snacks, we sat and told yarns, and we did all those things people associate with the bush. More importantly, he told me about his youth, his studies, his job — and I was fascinated. I had never met anyone like this before. It really got me thinking … in a confused way.

Finally, with the top block completely pegged out, we returned home to Doctors Flat. It had been a big job. During tea, Mr Nicholson brought up a conversation that not only embarrassed me, but I also knew would be taken the wrong way by my parents. Earlier, out in the bush, while sitting and enjoying a cuppa, Mr Nicholson had asked me about my schooling — about subjects I did, and what I liked. So I spoke, probably for the first time in my life, about Arithmetic, Algebra, and Geometry. I cherished these subjects. I explained how sometimes I solved problems a different way to the teacher, but we ended up with the same answer. I informed him of how I liked playing with numbers in my head, and I showed him how quickly I could mentally decipher a difficult multiplication. As Mr Nicholson was an academic and had a degree, I guess I felt comfortable sharing details of the quirky habits I possessed. Then he asked me something that, for me, had always been a secret: if I could do exactly what I wanted, what would that be? I answered that I wanted to be a veterinarian — an animal doctor. His response was that I should tell my parents, and pursue the idea, and that it would be hard work. ‘You could do it, Barry,' he said. At the time, that was like telling me to grow wings and fly away. I don't think I even responded to him.

Nevertheless, the topic came up again at the tea table at Doctors Flat. Mr Nicholson was quite glowing and enthusiastic. Dad glared at me, Mum smiled and shook her head, and very quickly they dropped the subject. Later, after Mr Nicholson had left, my parents suggested I mind my own business, try not to be smart with people, and to stop exaggerating. As it happened, my average marks for my last three years in the subjects I'd mentioned were 96 per cent, 92 per cent, and 97 per cent.

It was a brief and confusing moment in my life, that meeting with Mr Nicholson. To be truthful, it's important I point out that I totally agreed with my parents. I thought he misread my secret ambition. In fact, it was only a dream. I had no desire other than to leave school … the quicker the better.