The View From Connor's Hill (2 page)

MY FIRST EFFORT
at just writing for the joy of it was a short piece I wrote about Rover, a dog I had once owned and loved. I harboured countless fond memories of my times with him, but the idea of writing about my dog only arose after a chance meeting. Like many locals who knew me, the bloke I met realised I had been doing some writing, mainly for therapeutic reasons. He was very concerned about my health, and was pleased that I was finding writing such a benefit. It was a strange period of my life. People would say things to me like, ‘You're looking younger, Baz' or, ‘You're back, our Baz is back … bless you, my boy' and, ‘I haven't seen that cheeky grin for decades.' However, rarely would they talk about my illness — a mental breakdown — or the cause of the problem — Vietnam. Until this day, and this meeting.

To my surprise, the person almost challenged me to write about Rover … for fun, for the very reasons stated above.

His name was Bill, or old Bill, as I called him. Let me explain.

I met old Bill, a dear old man from my past, in the mall near Safeway in Bairnsdale in the year 2000. As I approached the precinct, the first thing I spotted from some distance away was old Bill's familiar, thin, leathery face. The checked shirt, moleskin trousers, 1950s' Harris tweed sports coat, riding boots, and wide-brimmed Stetson hat he still wore also gave him away. It made me smile as I thought,
Still a gentleman — a neat, polite bushman who always doffs 'is lid to the ladies
. He sat alone on the bench seat in the mall, his head lowered, staring at the rollie between his nicotine-stained fingers.

He looked up as if sensing my approach and said, ‘G'day, mate.'

‘G'day, Bill, ya old blighter. How's things?'

‘Good, mate. Yourself? Ya spelling improved yet?'

‘Yeah, good. You know, Bill, I wouldn't have believed it, but the older you get, the uglier you get. You sure you weren't from Omeo, mate?'

‘Steady on, Baz. Anyhow, I can do up me shoe laces. You learnt that yet, mate?'

This was a typical greeting. We discussed the weather, stock prices, and the possible closing of the old Benambra store. I had first met Bill about 40 years before, while working in a shearing shed. I was the rouseabout and Bill was a shearer — and a good one at that. He is retired now, and lives in the small country city of Bairnsdale. I see him whenever I go down the street, which is not too often. On this day he gave me some lip about my footy skills, or lack of them, when I'd played for Ensay; Bill always enjoyed reminding me how bloody useless I'd been. Then, as usual, I'd turn to the subject of Bill's shearing. There is no doubt he was one of the best shearers I'd ever picked up for when I used to rouseabout. But he was a bloody mollydooker — a left-hander — and it was difficult to pick up his fleece when he finished shearing his sheep.

Even though we usually had the same discussion every time we met, our conversation was enjoyable, created a few laughs, and reinforced the strong bond of friendship we shared. It's funny how insults affirm camaraderie in the bush. Yet, for all our yakking, I sensed a deeper resolve. Bill lived alone now. Doris, his wife of around 50 years, had died some ten years back. I also noticed that his old dog, Tattle, wasn't sitting beside his boots.

So, with some concern, I awkwardly asked, ‘How's things, Bill? Looking after yourself?'

He hesitated, looked down, and said, ‘Can't bring Tattle downs the town any more, Baz. He just used to get excited when he saw other dogs, but then this lady complained and reckoned she would get him banned, ya know? So now I don't bring him. Bit rough, I reckon. Poor old fella, he knows when I gets dressed up and I is going downs the street. He whines and then sits at the front gate and looks real sad, like. He's still there when I go back. Pity, the kids downs here love him.'

I was taken aback. This didn't seem fair. Tattle was Bill's best mate, a kelpie-cross sheepdog that was reputed to have been a brilliant yard dog in his day. It didn't seem right that they deny Bill the company of his mate. Reaching over to old Bill, I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Geez, mate, that's a bit rough.'

‘Yeah, I know. Poor old Tattle. I only ever seen one better dog than him, and that was the dog you had, Baz. Remember him, mate?'

I looked away. How could I forget? The powerful memories of my own special dog flooded back. Bill continued talking about Rover, that unique dog I once owned. He not only recalled many of his characteristics; he also remembered in detail the peculiar markings of that strange-looking dog.

Bill, like many of the old people up home, was aware I had been real crook for the last couple of years. After a period of silence, in a low voice, he mentioned my writing. I guessed that, like most, he had heard that it had helped with my recovery, and he knew I had been doing a lot of it. He muttered something I didn't quite get. He seemed embarrassed until, with a cough, he asked, ‘Ever put the story of Rover on paper, mate?'

‘No,' I replied. ‘I haven't.'

‘You should, mate.'

I changed the subject. We continued to speak of other characters, and recalled those wonderful days in the 1950s and 1960s in the bush. I still feel lucky to harbour such delightful memories.

I returned home that same day, half determined to write about the dog and to acknowledge the wonderful companionship I had experienced by having owned such an animal. Later the same day, I was in my shed working on a piece of old furniture. It was a simple task — sanding back the top — but I was continually distracted. Old Bill's enquiries earlier that day about Rover really nagged at me. At one stage I stopped, walked outside, and sat in the shade of the old rivergum that grows in our backyard. Pondering those good times years ago, and that exceptional dog, I asked myself, ‘Surely just the memory alone is worth the effort?'

So, as a dedication to Bill and to a wonderful dog I once owned, I decided to write the account he had requested. I wanted to re-live on paper that special time in my life.

That night, I put pen to paper. Several hours later, I had finished the rough draft and cherished re-living that era, and that unique dog and his part in my life — or should that be the other way around? It was only ten pages long, and the exercise made me realise how special it is to write about a treasured memory. I was keen to show old Bill; I thought I might pop around for a cuppa and give Tattle a pat. As it turned out, old Bill loved the story — he reckons he read it to Tattle. I hope you enjoy it, too.

chapter one

Rover

I MET ROVER ON A SHEEP-AND-CATTLE FARM. MY INITIAL
impression was that if I was ever going to have a dog, it would be a lot smarter than this mutt and, hopefully, not as ugly.

It was during my first week at a farm called Kanangra that I spotted the dog. He was sitting up in the front seat of a blue Desoto ute. His master, old Jack Moy, was doing his block and calling the dog names that I wouldn't put on paper.

I'd just started work on the farm as a labourer, in my first paid job. I would be ‘kept', which meant that I'd live and work on the farm from Monday to Friday. It was late 1961, and I was sixteen years old.

Now, Jack Moy, Rover's owner, was a rotund old man of 70-odd years. He owned the farm next door to where I worked, and he had the misfortune of owning this ugly, brindled part-kelpie dog called Rover. In fact, I thought old Jack was pretty tolerant with the dog. Perhaps it was his pet as well. Like me, old Jack Moy lived at Kanangra from Monday to Friday. We shared two bungalows out the back of the main homestead, and we both ate all our meals with the owners of the farm.

I'll never forget the first meal I had on that Monday night. Although it wasn't a special night, it was like a banquet — perhaps put on for my benefit, I first imagined. Initially I was quite chuffed. In time, I discovered that most meals consisted of at least three courses, completely different from home where we had large, simple meals with little variety. There was a another big difference: at home, Mum had insisted that we bathe once a week, and we only got dressed up for dances, barbeques, and balls. Now, in this new job, I was showering every night. Everyone also got dressed up for tea, which started with an appetiser and a sherry.

The meal that first night on the new farm was a bit daunting, really. At the table, bamboozled by the array of knives and forks in front of me, I sat not moving a muscle. Then there was a bit of cloth wrapped up in a metal ring. I watched every move that the others made.

We were up to the main course when old Jack, Rover's owner, arrived. Although he was quite late, he joined us for tea. He had been down to the post office to collect the mail, which he did most nights. Naturally, old Jack couldn't go past the pub on the way back, so he walked in with a slight lean to one side and a lop-sided grin to the other. He lunged towards the table, sat on the sideways-turned chair, and then plopped the napkin on his lap. Grunting, he turned his chair and pushed it back, which enabled him to slide his sizable belly under the edge of the table and lean forward on his elbows. He then began eating.

I was fascinated, especially by old Jack's table manners. I had never seen a display like it before; it was amazing. His substantial stomach increased the distance from the plate to his mouth, so he sat well back from the table. Then, leaning forward, he would pivot his food towards this mouth while his elbows rested on the table. Naturally, his arms were a fraction too short, so the last half-inch could be best described as a lunge, a fling, or a flick in the general direction. Actually, to be fair, over time, I noticed he was quite accurate. Most went in. This night, with his skill levels lowered by the intake of a few ales, the food went, let's just say,
towards
his mouth.

The first time I saw him swivel his food and gulp, I blushed with embarrassment as I struggled to stop a giggle coming out. It reminded me of my three-year-old young brother feeding himself. Mind you, it didn't bother old Jack; he hoed into the lamb cutlets and salad with gusto. In fact, I was amazed that the boss, a gentleman, didn't point out to the old fellow that he had a piece of lettuce hanging off his bushy eyebrow. Then again, before I started at the farm, Mum had told me old Jack was a shire councillor, and an ex-shire president as well.

‘Call him Mister,' said Mum.

So my guess was that you didn't mention things like stray food to such an esteemed gentleman. Still, when a piece of beetroot landed on the left shoulder of his clean, newly starched shirt, I thought something should be said. But I believe the boss either didn't possess the courage or had too much respect for him to do so.

I went to bed that night with a head full of old Jack's eating prowess, doubts about the order in which one should use the assortment of knives, forks, and spoons and, to top it off, instructions from the boss to rise at about 6.00 a.m., milk the cows, separate the cream, and come in for breakfast at 7.00 a.m. Fortunately, I could do all those things. As for the dining etiquette, that was a different matter. My first day on the farm was a steep learning-curve.

The next morning I got up half an hour early. Old Jack in the next bungalow also stirred. He opened the door, and Rover emerged; he'd also slept in the room. I'd never known a dog allowed in a house before, let alone a bedroom. Old Jack appeared on the top step in his dressing gown. He stooped and then, with a grunt, patted Rover. They seemed good mates. He stretched, reached inside his pocket, and started another ritual that was far more intriguing than his eating habits. He began a weird charade of rolling a fag. I'd known a smoker before, but I'd never seen a smoke rolled while the roller had a convulsion, and I'd certainly never seen anyone finish a whole cigarette in one deep drag. Meanwhile, Rover disappeared briefly, piddling on every post within 25 yards of our bungalows. The dog shook himself vigorously and then returned hurriedly. Did he enjoy the fag-rolling as well?

In the meantime, old Jack unscrewed the round, orange lid on his tin of Log Cabin, plucked out a small wad of tobacco, and rubbed it around in his palms. The smell — a pleasant, rich odour — wafted in my direction.

Temporarily, his lips held a cigarette paper. Gradually, a small, blurting cough — a sort of a choking sound like a two-stroke engine refusing to start — emerged from his mouth. With this rhythm established, the volume increased to a squawk and then a splutter, spraying saliva in a circle of roughly six feet all over the concrete and Rover.

Old Jack then pulled the cigarette paper from his mouth and coughed some more. By this time, it was a deep, loud, rumbling, gut-wrenching growl like a possum in the mating season. His body started to bend forward and wobble, the cough got deeper and louder, and the process of rolling the cigarette continued. By now, my mouth was agape. This was incredible.

Finally, with his belly flopping up and down, his face red, his eyes bulging, and his hands reaching for the matches, old Jack spat out an oyster-like, solid piece of phlegm the size of a large grape.
Thwack!
It hit the saliva-sprayed concrete, and Rover barked. I was stunned. The dog sniffed at the vile globule warily.

I'd never seen anything like it. I felt like applauding this exhausting feat of human endurance. But the show wasn't over yet — this was only act one.

To finish his oyster-ejection spit and rasping convulsion, old Jack, with his head lolling over his belly and his belly jammed between his knees, shoved the rolled cigarette into his mouth, struck a match, and lit 'er up. By the time he was vertical, he'd sucked the fag down to his lips and thrown it away. A large
ahhh
then came out of his mouth, he thumped his chest, and started rolling another.