The View From Connor's Hill (19 page)

In 1960, with only three weeks to go until the Christmas holidays began, many kids in my class were starting to leave school. Some kids went to work in the timber mill, while others were going to continue their senior years of education at major private schools in Melbourne and Geelong. Other boys went to the technical school in Bairnsdale to learn trade skills. By third term, my parents said I would be leaving at the end of the year to work with Dad in his plumbing business.

Just before my school days ended, there was a lot of excitement in the air. Our Scout troop would be going to a jamboree in Sydney, in January 1961. The only problem with it for many parents was the cost. It was £30 ($60), which was a large amount of money — about two weeks' wages. As a result, many working bees and the like were set up to help pay the expenses. The community decided it would raise half of each boy's expenses. Robbie and I would both be going, and we decided to try to find our own money by taking on part-time work and other jobs.

I approached several neighbouring farmers and asked if I could pick the wool off their dead sheep. It wasn't an idea I was keen on; in fact, I only did it because I knew I could get about one pound (two dollars) a bag. Finding dead sheep in paddocks was common. Many had died from fly-strike, during lambing, or from worms and other diseases. Few farmers could be bothered gathering the carcasses or burning them, so they were happy to take up my offer. Consequently, after finishing my chores on most afternoons and on every free weekend during my last weeks, I walked the paddocks collecting wool. It was a disgusting job. There were rotting carcasses, bloated stomachs, armies of maggots, and blowflies in plague proportions. I lugged the potato bag over my shoulder, and in my pocket I kept a handful of eucalyptus leaves. By continually rubbing the leaves between my palms, I managed to endure the dead-sheep smell. After four weeks of this, I had enough money.

My brother Robbie, though, had no such luck. He got a job on a local farm every afternoon after school for two hours a day. After two weeks, he asked for his pay, and the farmer gave him five bob (50 cents). Poor Robbie thought that was for one day's work. But no, that was it — two weeks' income. With haste, we came up with another plan: stripping wattlebark.

That first weekend, we sharpened our tomahawks, loaded up our horses with supplies, and headed for the log cabin on Sheepstation Creek. For the next three weekends we camped out from Friday night until early Monday morning, worked tirelessly, and comfortably made the required income. It was hard work, and fun. We collected the bark from the bush block and sold it to the tannery at Bairnsdale. However, one night during our time stripping the wattlebark we had an eerie experience. It was just on dark, and we were preparing tea when we heard the sharp, piercing squeal of an animal — a dingo. It was the first time I'd ever heard this animal, and yet I knew it was a dingo. I'd heard others describe its howl so many times as sounding like the bloodthirsty scream of a woman, or something similar. Unfortunately, we didn't have a dog with us. The dingo circled us several times, repeating its scary call. At first, we thought we should catch the horses in the Five Acres paddock and ride home. Then I decided to get the rifle and fire a few shots in its general direction. This worked, but we were still frightened. After tea, we built up the camp fire until it was like a bonfire. This produced a lot of light, and I sat for hours hoping to get a shot at the dingo … but that came to nothing. Next morning we quickly bundled up the wattlebark, loaded up the horses, and led them home.

The Scout jamboree attracted thousands of Scouts from all over the world. We drove to where it was being held, on the outskirts of Sydney, in two vehicles. The first thrill was simply driving into New South Wales — that was a first for everyone on board. The site for the jamboree was in a huge park. It rained quite heavily while we were there, but we were one of the very few groups that wasn't washed out. Yes, we were bushies. Our tent was pitched on high ground. We spent the first day digging a drain around the tent, and had ourselves off the ground with palliasses. The highlight for me, though, was collecting badges. Every day, there was a place in the centre of the large jamboree grounds where Scouts would gather and swap their badges. The First Swifts Creek Troop badge was a very rare badge, and many Scouts from overseas tried to collect it. It was good fun. After two weeks' camping with thousands of others, we headed back to Swifts Creek.

BY NOW
, after almost seven years in the area, I was quite familiar with the bush, snakes, biting ants, and numerous other problems and experiences that face newcomers to this type of environment. I now considered myself a country lad. I could shoot or trap rabbits, skin a fox, and scalp a wombat — that was very rewarding, as we still got ten shillings and sixpence for the two ears from the Lands Department.

On Mum and Dad's bush block, I'd found it easy to fell trees with an axe, and I'd learnt to mark calves and crutch sheep. I was also developing the larrikin streak typical of bush kids. One time at home, while our parents were away, Robbie and I laced some wheat with whisky, spread it on the ground around our cherry tree, and watched with amusement as the parrots not only got very drunk, but had trouble flying and then couldn't land properly. Many kept falling over as they walked. Funniest of all, many hung in the trees upside-down like fruit bats, hanging off one leg. In fact, we reckoned we heard some of them laugh.

Once a fortnight, I would cut a sheep's throat and skin it, gut it, hang it on a gamble, and have it in the meat bag in less than 30 minutes. This didn't make me exceptionally skilled. Most farm kids were capable of such tasks, and more. By now I'd experienced both city life and country life, and I was in no doubt that, for all its chores and demands, country life was better.

Apart from going to the debutante ball and getting my first-class Scouts badge, about the only exciting thing that happened to me in my last school year took place at home. It involved our jersey milker, Betty, who wandered in one day when she found the gate to the house paddock open. There were several fruit trees in this paddock, one of which was a quince tree that produced enormous fruit. They were too big for the horses or cows to eat, so I would dice them up into edible pieces while the animals stood at the fence watching me in anticipation. They loved quinces. However, on this occasion, having snuck into the house paddock, Betty decided to gorge herself on the quinces.

The first indication that something was wrong was when I heard a low honking noise, like the sound a tugboat makes. It was that damn milker. Not only had she gotten a large quince in her mouth, she was having difficulty swallowing the big, green fruit. It was huge — about as big as a grapefruit. It moved into her neck and then, unfortunately, it got stuck halfway down. Both my parents were out; what could I do? The cow was very distressed, cross-eyed, down on her knees, and groaning. Hmmm … I tried to put my arm down her neck and dislodge it — no luck. I pushed a hose down the poor cow's neck and tried to wash it down. Betty started to roll her eyes … I knew she was going to die, as she couldn't breathe. I rushed inside, grabbed Mum's mop, shoved the handle down the cow's throat, and thumped several times. It worked — the quince moved slowly down into her stomach. Phew, that was a relief. The cow took a very big breath.

In fact, it was a very traumatic experience for the cow and yet, somehow, I managed. Maybe life in the country gives kids a sense of independence, even maturity.

By the time I was ready to leave school I was content, and eager to move into the next phase of growing up. There was no question of continuing schooling, or of where I would find a job. There were always jobs about, and I never knew of any person unable to obtain work. Life was simple, and I looked forward to living in and around Swifts Creek, playing footy with the local team, maybe working on a farm, and then probably marrying a farmer's daughter — who knows? That wasn't too much to ask, surely? Life was a treat. Tomorrow couldn't come quickly enough.

WITH SCHOOLING FINISHED
, I was about to start work with my stepfather. At sixteen, I was keen to learn how to thread pipes, flare copper-tubing, solder, and the numerous other skills I'd watched him perform with ease. I was eager to start. Dad's surname was Richards, and mine Heard, which used to confuse some people. When asked to explain this, I would mumble a vague explanation, only adding to the problem. In those early months, the highlight of the work with Dad — who I will now call Bob — was travelling throughout the district and meeting people. I recall once going to a farm at Benambra to help Bob put in a slow-combustion stove. We arrived at the homestead, where I met two ladies in the kitchen. After we'd only been there a short while, Bob sent me out to the truck to fetch some tools. When I returned, the older of the two ladies stopped me at the back door, demanding to know who I was. Startled, I introduced myself, thinking she must have been the twin sister of the other old lady. I entered. Not long afterwards, I found myself back at the truck again and, yes, again I faced a challenge at the back door. What was going on? Finally, the other lady, noticing my distress, said that this dear old lady had ‘lost her mind', whatever that meant.

Because Bob was the only plumber in the entire shire, we found ourselves in places with wonderful Australian names like The Blue Duck, Bindi, Bingo, Reedy Flat, Uplands, Shannon Vale, Cobungra, Mount Hotham, Dinner Plain, Tambo Crossing, Dargo, Glenn Wills, and the Omeo Valley. Some days it would take hours to get there. At places like Dargo, we would camp with the people, and we'd stay there until the job was finished. If not, we returned home only at weekends. The people were always friendly and welcoming, and they served up some enormous meals. Rarely would Mum have to make us a lunch as we headed out to a job. Always on arrival there'd be prolonged lunchtimes or morning teas. Sometimes, I'd see Bob spend ages talking with our hosts.

The plumbing work was unusual. Not that I'd worked with Bob in Ringwood, but not too many places in Melbourne had windmills, water troughs, septic tanks, and slow-combustion stoves, or wanted us to make their water tanks. Making the tanks was okay, but getting them up onto wobbling tank stands, or high stands like the one at the back of the Swifts Creek police station, was damn scary. I recall we'd made a couple of very long skids, and hauled the 2000-gallon tank up with a rope. When it finally reached the top, and was tilted and plopped down into place, all I had to stand on was a small space that was half as big as a doormat. Looking down, I was 25 feet off the ground. New septic tanks required a hole almost six feet deep. Sometimes, the ground was so hard that even with a pick or crowbar I could only dig down an inch at a time.

I learnt a lot of practical skills over those first months — a little about plumbing, and a lot about improvising. All too often, Bob had to invent ways of solving problems that required certain materials or fittings. There was no hardware store just down the road when we were out the back of Benambra. This meant he devised ways around problems. He was a good plumber, but plumbing didn't suit me. Perhaps if I'd worked as an apprentice I might have seen a future for myself in the job. However, there were times when I found the work frustrating; I would have been happier on a farm. Mind you, I was working weekends on our bush block and enjoyed it, and my parents were about to buy a sheep farm at Tongio. Apart from playing cricket on Saturday afternoon, I was working the other days.

As winter approached, the coach of the Swifts Creek footy club told me that he wanted me to make an effort to get fit, as he felt I could hold down a position in the senior team. I'd been a school captain in my last year and, although I hadn't excelled as a player, we'd beaten those Omeo blighters — which was the ultimate credential for a new footballer for the district.

Then, from out of the blue, I had another job. Dad and I had arrived home, I'd done my chores, and we were at the dinner table. The conversation was about the bush block and things that needed doing when, quite casually, Mum informed me that I'd be working on a farm at Ensay in the next district. It was down the road a bit from Swifts Creek, about fourteen miles away, on the way to Bairnsdale. This was certainly a surprise. However, it was exciting; this would mean my first wage, independence, and work on a farm that I was positive I would really enjoy. I'd have my own bungalow or room; it sounded perfect. It would also mean leaving home and living on the farm from Monday to Friday every week.

chapter ten

Ensay

I WAS VERY EAGER WHEN I RODE OFF ON SANDY MAC
, my horse, for the farm job that first Monday morning. Admittedly, I had to ask Mum which house to ride up to. On my back was a haversack with my pyjamas, a spare jumper, a raincoat, and extra socks in case my feet got wet. I also had spare hankies, a toothbrush, a comb, and some comics — Phantom comics. Sandy Mac was despondent about the extra weight when I mounted up. It didn't take much to make this horse unhappy. As payback, he plodded along slowly — unless I was prepared to kick him in the ribs every step of the way. Knowing this would be the case, I'd left very early.

I was really an amateur farm labourer. I didn't have a stockwhip, a dog, an oilskin coat, or a big hat. Although my parents owned two farms and were about to buy another, their farming methods were simple. I always felt that they treated the enterprise more as a hobby than a business. Neither had come from a farming background; and yet, somehow, we managed. For me, what this meant was that, although I'd been hired as a farmhand, I had no experience other than milking cows, killing sheep, putting in fence posts, and making butter.