The View From Connor's Hill (23 page)

Rip
… The neighbour tugged the reins, seesawing poor Swanee's mouth and then spinning him tightly. He then kicked him savagely in the ribs. Jesus! I cringed with fear. I could just picture what was about to happen in Swanee's head — sure enough, bloody Swanee arrived at the first gate at blistering speed. It was like a car at a drag race. Our neighbour had his arms wrapped around the horse's neck, muttering obscenities. Closing the gate, he reefed the reins again and — believe me — he kicked Swanee again, even harder. There was a noise like a mini sonic boom, followed by a large cloud of dust, and the sort of high-pitched wail one hears in a Dracula film. The neighbour's hat flew off as he grasped at Swanee's mane, saddle, and neck. They disappeared down the dirt track like a fighter jet on take-off.

Our neighbour returned an hour later, walking backwards, leading Swanee very slowly. The poor bloke looked like he'd had some pommel treatment — maybe his gonads had changed colour. His legs were very bowed. His face looked like it had spent an hour in the school dentist's chair. Swanee? He had a smirk on his face. I loved that smirk, then that cunning wink … I loved him dearly at times, the bloody rogue.

Naturally, I asked the neighbour if he'd prefer one of the other horses, one with a bit more life, or sting, in it. He mumbled something, something you wouldn't hear in church, gave me a new pedigree, and left. I took the saddle off Swanee and gave him an extra long brush. He loved it. He'd done well. The neighbour never came back looking to borrow a horse.

FEAR WAS SOMETHING
I thought Swanee would never display. However, one day I found him standing, shuddering, with fear in his eyes. Caught up in some loose wire, he was extremely distressed and standing still like a statue. No way was he moving. I have seen other horses in similar situations — if they panic, particularly if they bolt, they end up not only entangled completely, but also the wire tears into the skin and results in terrible wounds. A smart horse will stand still, and Swanee was rigid, like concrete.

Slowly I unthreaded the wire from around his legs, crawling under his belly and hindquarters. I had some wire cutters, but the loud ‘click' as I cut the wire really frightened him. It took ages, but Swanee remained frozen to the spot. After I finished, he was wet with sweat and looked exhausted. I left him standing there, walked to the saddle shed, and returned with a currycomb. After a long brush, I talked to him quietly, patted him for quite a while, and then led him by the mane back to his paddock, away from the wire. He stood there solemnly after I let him go, then he turned and gave me a quiet and friendly nudge. We were mates.

chapter twelve

‘What's that horrible smell, Barry?'

DURING THOSE EARLY MONTHS AT MY NEW JOB
,
THERE WERE
quite a few changes at home. We now had a new water tank on a high stand, which enabled Mum to change the way she did many of her domestic duties. A pump, located on the Tambo River, filled the tank. This led to a hot-water service being put in, as well as a shower in the bathroom, and a flushing toilet at the back of the house that replaced the long drop found over the bank.

The long drop had a proud history; I was sad to see it pulled down. Dad had erected it in 1956, and it was a vast improvement on the dunny we'd had at Tongio. The other added luxury in the new toilet was proper paper. However, the toilet was in for a shock. In 1959 the Tambo River experienced a major flood. The river rose rapidly and levelled off just two inches below the floorboards of the house at Doctors Flat.

The two things I remember vividly involved Mum and the outside lavatory. At the time of the flood, Mum was heavily pregnant with my youngest brother, Peter. On the night that the river peaked, I recall lying in bed and listening to the roar, and the snapping and crashing of the large trees and debris that were charging down the swift-flowing river. The dogs barked all night. We got up at dawn and couldn't believe our eyes: the river was at the back door. It was several hundred yards across, and moving speedily, with small, swirling eddies and whirlpools in the brown, murky water.

Next thing, we could hear voices calling out and car horns tooting. We went out onto the front veranda and, to our surprise, there was a group of people with a boat, organising to rescue us — well, to have Mum and the younger kids rescued, really, as the water around the house was only, at the most, three feet deep, and we were able to move around if we were careful. The small outboard motorboat was moored to the veranda post, and Mum got in and carefully sat in the middle. It putted back to the Omeo Highway, about 100 yards away, and she waved to us, indicating that everything was okay. Then my smaller brothers were also ferried away.

That left Dad; Darky and Skipper, the dogs; and me. Meanwhile, back at the house, we were quickly working out what had washed away and what needed saving. Would you believe, the first job given to me was to swim out to the outside lavatory? Then I had to lash a rope around it. Finally, I followed Dad's shouted orders, anchoring it to the sizable, old, dead tree nearby. It must have been in part of Dad's plumbing training manual — save the dunny first. Having completed that, Dad seemed to breathe easier. Then we let the horses and cows out of their paddocks, and moved them onto the road, as it was the highest ground available. The chooks, whose pen was two feet deep in water, simply sat on their roost as if it was bedtime. The river, which was lapping under the veranda and sloshing up against the stumps and bearers under the house, stayed at the same level for the rest of the day.

That night, we waited. It stayed the same. Slowly, the following morning, it subsided. Call it luck or whatever you want but, the following day, it continued to go down. When it finally returned to its original course, mud covered most of the fences, paddocks, and yards. It was six inches deep in some places. The water had also caused a lot of damage.

At the time, another two inches and it would have entered the house; another two feet, and who knows what would have happened? Noticing the size of some of the huge trees floating down the river, we had no doubt that this large volume of water had had a tremendous force. The outside lavatory did survive — although it ended up at an unusual angle. If Dad had his way, that leaning lavatory would still be there to this day.

Over the next couple of years, the house was modernised with a gas fridge, a gas stove, a hand basin in the bathroom to replace the outside trough, and a shower. And then, most importantly of all, Mum bought a new — and her first-ever — washing machine. It had a two-stroke engine that operated the water pump, the agitator, and a wringer on top of the machine. To get it operating required a kick-start like a motorbike. Few people in the district had one. For once, Mum was able to get ahead with her washing. Between a new baby daughter, five boys, and Dad there was always a mountain of washing to do. The new washing machine was a hit.

After several trial runs during that first week, Mum had it mastered … until one unfortunate day. She got up early, put on a load, and was inside attending to breakfast. The machine, when it had finished the washing cycle, would automatically stop and turn itself off. To do the wringing, it had to be re-started. It was a Saturday. Most of the family were inside when we heard a blast from the .410 shotgun, right at the back door. We all rushed out, and there was Mum, standing with a proud smirk. She had just shot a sizable tiger snake that had wrapped itself around the warm engine of the washing machine. Let's face it — it was winter, probably between one and three degrees. Was there a warmer place for a snake to snuggle up in than a washing machine that had cooled slightly? The result: one very mutilated snake, and one wrecked washing machine. I can't imagine what Mum was thinking. Our local mechanic told Dad that the machine was beyond repair, so Mum went back to the scrubbing board and the hand-wringer until electricity arrived in 1967.

THERE WAS
another incident around the same time that I'll reluctantly share with you. Not long after I'd started the farm job, the boss invited a niece up to the farm to stay for school holidays. It was quite a thrill to learn that she was my age, a city girl, and that she was really looking forward to living on the farm for the holidays.

What with my new good clothes, my newly acquired table manners, and my riding abilities, I wasn't only keen to meet her, but I also thought that, if she fitted the bill, I'd attempt to impress her. Sadly, this didn't run to plan. Let's just say that my next sortie into the female fold taught me something I've never attempted again: do not wear gumboots when attempting to impress the fairer sex.

Let me explain. After leaving school, I worked a seven-day week, either on the farm or with Dad. This meant I had little spare time for courting. Nevertheless, my mind was continually clicking into overdrive with thoughts about women — like, how I would court them, speak to them, or tell them about myself, and even about what to do if it came to a bit of smooching.

The day came, and she arrived. She wore a very pretty dress and was quite a looker. Her name was Irene, and she was from Melbourne. It was her first visit to both the bush and a farm. As I expected, she took a shine to me straight away. Well, she smiled in my direction … and I took the hint. Let's face it: I could drive a tractor and milk a cow, not to mention separate the cream, and so on — all earthy, man-like chores that set a fair maiden's heart on fire, eh?

After lunch on that first day, with the boss away, I offered to take Irene in the Land Rover for a ride up to the hayshed to get some bales for the animals in the bull paddock. She came, and opened the gates as I drove, real cool, with a hand draped over the steering wheel. I bet Irene was impressed. I was only a sixteen-year-old boy. I chewed a bit of straw on the way back to the bull paddock. When we arrived at their gate, the animals were standing, eager for their treat. Irene was apprehensive, and asked if I could open the gate … no worries. Once inside the paddock, I put the Land Rover in low-low, a very slow gear, and told Irene to steer it as I fed out the hay — normally I would feed out, as the Land Rover simply wandered across the paddock with no driver. She was besotted — another tick to me. When I finished feeding, I asked her to jump aside as I took the controls. So far, so good — I could tell she was more than just a little interested in me.

Later that afternoon, like every afternoon, I headed for the milker's paddock, and rounded up the cow and calf. With the calf locked up for the night, I gathered the eggs, split some firewood, and took in an armful of larger logs for the open fire. Irene followed me everywhere and, by now, I believed she was completely head-over-heels — even if we had only spoken eight words for the day.

At the dinner table that night, my manners were impeccable. It was during supper that it happened: the confirmation of my inner thoughts and desires. Irene asked what I did in the morning, when first I got up. I didn't mention that I usually had a pee, but I explained the milking, the separating, and the calf- and lamb-feeding ritual that took up most of the morning before brekkie. She wanted to rise early and come along … wow. The next morning she was there in jeans — another wow — and she was beginning to ask endless questions … about the animals, not me, but I knew that would not be far away. However, of all the highly skilled tasks of mine that she admired or complimented me on, it was feeding the lambs and calves that set Irene's love
haw-moans
pinging.

We had three lambs, all very cute; and when it was the last one's turn, Irene begged me to let her feed the poddy lamb with a bottle. This was no big deal, although there was a preferred angle to hold the vessel, for the uninitiated: bottom end up. With that explained, Irene fed the woolly little lamb with affection and joy; she was really excited. I then returned to the separator room and got a bucket of milk for the poddy calf. Irene walked very quickly behind me as we headed towards the little feller, its tail in the air in anticipation. I could tell she was just trying to get near me — Irene that is, although the calf was keen, too. When it came to feeding the poddy calf, Irene was infatuated. She just sighed with admiration at my casual, but deftly crafted, method of putting my finger in its mouth to induce sucking. Admittedly, she would not have been impressed a week earlier, when I had to biff the little beggar for almost amputating my ring finger. It was a new calf, only five weeks old. Its mum had died during birth
.

Perhaps I should explain the method. To feed a new poddy calf, you first let the calf suck your fingers. The calf is always hesitant when you first entice it to suck, but a little cream mixed with honey usually does the trick. Then, once the calf sucks with confidence, you stand behind the little fella, push its head into a bucket of milk, and it drinks by slurping the warm milk through your fingers. I was coolly explaining this to Irene while she just beamed at the way I was carrying out this demanding task involving our fluffy little calf. I bent over the little blighter, my knee behind his rump, and my other hand holding down his head. The calf, a cute little white-faced Hereford, slopped and gulped while Irene gasped with wonder. When it had finished drinking, I ruffled his soft fur and let Irene pat him. By now, I reckoned I had Irene well and truly hooked — I was her man.

With my shoulders back and my chin squared, I calmly picked up the empty bucket and turned to head for the house, when I realised there was a problem … a really big problem.
Hell
, I was thinking,
Come on … do something
. So, temporarily, I pretended I was injured. I held my thigh and limped, trying not to stir up the problem, but … bugger … that didn't work. Then, just as I was desperately thinking of a way to get Irene to leave my side for a while, I got asked that bloody question again — yes, almost word for word, the same one that Curls had asked me in the Swifts Creek Mechanics Institute Hall at the movies that memorable night. Here we were, walking along, Irene and me — with me limping (I was going to suggest I had a torn bone), when she asked, ‘What's that horrible smell, Barry?'