The View From Connor's Hill (29 page)

However, wisdom comes with age, as farmer Jack Campbell, our old World War I Gallipoli veteran who lived up the road, would say. Whatever the saying, I guess after that incident I gained a little insight into motorbike riding — particularly just on dusk. I slowed to a very moderate speed whenever I rode at that time of night … for a while anyway. Then, one day, I thought,
This is no damn good … surely there has to be a solution
. I visited Victor, the .303 man and the mad biker. Within a week, I had a helmet, goggles, and a windscreen attached with U-bolts to the handlebars on the front of the bike. Beauty — that meant we could go flat out again. By the look on Rover's face after my first short trial-run and the length of his tongue dangling out, he approved as well. The only difference I noticed was that the bike went a bit more slowly. Then again, I never wound her right up, either … I thought I'd do that on the Monday when we returned to work.

That day, after a hearty breakfast, I donned all my safety gear, and we tore off to work early. It was a breeze with a new amour-plated, beetle-proof motorbike purring calmly up Connor's Hill. Then, over the top, I thought,
Now's my chance
. I wound the throttle down hard, and we slowly accelerated to flat out. I was amazed at the amount of wind that the windscreen deflected; I guessed Rover was impressed as well. We were almost flat out when …
thump
. The U-bolts holding the bloody windscreen had collapsed. It slammed forward and down on my good mate Rover, pushed me onto the rear seat, and lodged itself in my guts. Hell, I could barely reach the handlebars. Stretching, like someone trying to moor a boat at a jetty, I somehow managed to stop the Bantam. Yet again, I was in pain. This was worse than the beetle fiasco … in fact, it almost topped the crushed nuts. Lifting my clothes and inspecting my poor tummy, a bruise appeared there almost immediately — as if someone had painted a long, black band across it. Worse was to come. After I dislodged my poor old mate Rover from under the windscreen … well, let's just say that he spat the dummy completely. He just stood there and barked at me. I apologised, tried the usual warm, fuzzy words and pats, but he was angry — very browned off, to say the least. I just couldn't get him back on the bike.

Decision time. I left the bloody Bantam and we walked to the farm … late again. Slowly, the Bantam started to wear out. No matter. When I rode in the paddocks, prangs — followed by a long, limping walk back to the shed — continued, as did the constant repairs. However, I did slow down considerably on the open road. I guess a change of attitude was required, as Rover was a wary passenger until I convinced him I had gained a little maturity and skill as a driver.

THE FUN AND CAMARADERIE
that goes with sport had always been a large part of my youth. Even in a remote country area like Far East Gippsland, there were many different sports to take part in. After I got the Bantam, I was able to travel some distance in the evenings. In the winter, I played footy and badminton. Footy was the best fun; I preferred the forward line, as you had a chance to kick a goal. Badminton was completely different. It was another popular winter sport, usually played in the local hall. On completion of the evening's competition, there would be a generous supper and a cup of tea. This was totally the opposite of the footy, where beer and hot pies were the preferred choice. Also, in the hall on badminton nights, apart from the players, there was no crowd on the sidelines hurling abuse or adoration, no jockstraps for the men to adjust, and rarely, if ever, would you receive a life-threatening injury — although I must admit, one night I came horribly close.

It was mid-winter. We were playing Omeo in the Ensay Hall. Most games consisted of singles, doubles, and mixed doubles. The mixed doubles were my favourite. In those games, the woman played in the centre of the court near the net; the bloke, up the back. Now, unlike footy, badminton players were not required to wear a uniform — just something white, as a rule. Some blokes wore long pants, and the women, short skirts. Of interest were the women's undergarments, or knickers. You always got a good gander at them when they bent over or reached for the shuttle. They were all frilly looking — like a good head of cauliflower. Being a modest bloke, I have to admit I enjoyed glimpsing the fluffy panties of the opposite sex. They lifted the pulse-rate somewhat.

This night I was playing with Ethel Hartman, a local lass. She was a well-proportioned, alluring female of courting age. To put it simply, I had the hots for her. Most nights I could ply my smooth charm and gain a few points, but this night I had to be cool because Ethel's parents were there. I might add that they were there not to barrack, but to keep their eyes on loose-pizzled buggers like me — Fred Hartman said this several times while I was within earshot.

I was on my best behaviour during the first game. Ethel and I were two points up, and it was my serve. I belted the shuttle to the back service-line. The return, just over the net, was fast. I bent over and returned a powerful, low, penetrating shot. It hit poor Ethel fair in the quoit — her rear, backside, rectum, bum, call it what you want. The bloody shuttle not only thwacked into her bum, but the damn thing stuck in her frilly knickers. Not realising this, poor Ethel looked around for the shuttle, while giggles started to arise in the small crowd. Then, trust bloody Gus Krusp, he had to open his stupid bloody mouth. A rough bugger at the best of times, and from above the Gap, his stockman's tongue took over. He turned to Ethel and said, ‘It's stuck in ya bloody arse, Ethel.'

Jesus, they're crude blighters, those Omeo buggers. Poor Ethel. She cleared out, and I, like a damn fool, burst out laughing. Most of the others did, too, but Ethel's dad leapt to his feet. He wasn't impressed. He offered to punch my bloody lights out, and he was serious. I should add here that bloody Fred, Ethel's dad, was a cranky bastard at the best of times. He took a swing at me, fell arse overhead — I forgot to mention, he was warmly primed with the amber fluid — and hit the pole that held the net up, which fell and hit Mrs Hartman on the head. She grabbed a racket and smashed poor Fred so hard on the skull it drew blood and bent the racket. Rubbing his scone, silly damn Fred then turned to me and blurted, ‘You'll pay for this, you dirty little worm.' Then he staggered out, pushing young Ethel in front of him with Mrs Fred in tow. She glared at me with flame-throwing eyes, and then strutted outside. To top it off, I think those ugly Omeo buggers beat us.

MY LIFE ON THE FARM
and at Ensay just seemed to get better. Rarely did I think it was time to spread my horizons — to leave the farm or the district, or to look for a change. To be honest, I was basically very content, although I was always hankering for a girlfriend. Absurdly, whenever I had a rush of blood and tried to impress the opposite sex or put out some vibes, something always went wrong. For some reason, when it came to courting, I could be best described as immature, mindless, and a dill. Sadly, I have even more examples than those I've already quoted. Of all places, it once happened while I was droving cattle with my two mates, Rover and Swanee.

I'd been working on the farm for over a year when, just before the annual cattle sales, I was offered a trip droving cattle from the high country to the railhead at Bairnsdale. Great — this was every young farmhand's dream. I waited eagerly for the sales to begin. Being the early 1960s, the local roads had little traffic. At the end of each sale, the drovers would collect the calves, tightly move them onto the road or track, and head for the next sale. The first sale was always at Benambra, and the first few days would see the calves very edgy, as things were very hectic. There was a lot of demand on the drovers to keep them in tow. As the mob got bigger, the original calves became quite placid and, within a day of the sale, most of the calves started to settle.

This year when I joined the drovers, my job was to tend to the packhorse as well as to escort cars through the mob. Local drivers were no problem. They followed behind my horse and obeyed my instructions. Strangers, though — city people, I guessed — were different. They were often impatient, and tried to force their own way through by tooting their horns or thumping the side of their cars. This would spook the calves and create little stampedes and panic. I have seen a car surrounded by wary-eyed calves that, when the driver tooted, suddenly kicked out, jumped, and put many a minor dint in the car. Then there were those drivers and passengers who were awestruck at witnessing this almost bygone age of droving. They would get out of their cars and want to talk to the drovers, or pat the horse or dog. I often found myself the photographic subject of these people. When it came to me, I would casually push the hat back on my head, and then, without warning, crack the stockwhip for the camera. My only regrets were that I hadn't started shaving and I wasn't a smoker — I would have looked better with a rough bristle, and a rollie hanging from the lip would have set the scene, I reckon … just like in a cowboy western I'd seen at the movies.

That Sunday, I was about to direct a local car through the mob when I noticed a nubile-looking beauty sitting in the front of a car next to Les Copper, who was a bachelor from Reedy Creek. Les stopped the old Austin ute and introduced the stunning beauty.

‘Baz, this 'ere's Beryl. She'll be working on tha switchboard at Hensie North, mate. She's me niece.'

Gulping and lifting my Stetson, I made a really dumb reply: ‘G'day, I'm a drover.'

Beryl didn't giggle; she gasped with wonder. Great. I found my composure quickly. Pushing my hat back again, I gave my best smirk and lent on the pommel of the saddle as the film stars do.

Beryl then asked, ‘Can I please take your photo, Baz?'

‘Sure.'

My brain snapped into moron mode and I thought,
Great, she's fallen for me already
. I noticed a steep bank on the other side of the road. I reckoned Swanee could dash up this bank in one stride while I cracked the whip with that charming smirk on my face during the entire manoeuvre. So, naturally, I told Beryl she could get a good snap of me leaping up the bank and cracking my stockwhip at the same time.

Les commented, ‘You be careful, Baz. That bank's pretty bloody steep, mate.'

Great — thanks, Les, mate. That puts me into hero-come-dare-devil status,
I thought
.
I beamed with pride, and retained that heart-melting smirk on my dial. I released the reins slightly and, as I expected, Swanee surged effortlessly up the incline. As he did, I flung back my ten-foot plaited stockman's whip and lashed it forward. It normally produced a loud, resounding
crack!

Next thing I know,
crunch
… I'm on my arse, Swanee's bolted, and Rover's sitting, bewildered, with a bloody curious look on his ugly dial. Later that week, Les told me he reckoned Rover actually smiled while shaking his head. What happened? Well, how was I to notice the bloody telephone lines overhead? The damn whip wrapped itself around the wires, I kept hanging on — as was my pig-headed wont — and, bingo, Baz was on his arse. Meanwhile, Beryl was having a fit of the bloody giggles. Les shook his head, called me ‘a bloody rabbit', and drove off.

chapter sixteen

Coming of age

THE BIGGEST CHANGE IN MY SOCIAL LIFE CAME ABOUT
WHEN
the Young Farmers organisation became popular. It was relatively new. At the time, clubs were forming all over Gippsland. This changed many young people, particularly those from remote areas like the Omeo Shire. At our first formal meeting, one of my bosses became the new president, and I became the secretary. Tambo Valley Young Farmers became our new club name.

The new task of secretary took up a lot of my time after work on the farm. I corresponded with over a dozen clubs, and over the years visited them all. Any correspondence was by hand, with a carbon backing to record a copy.

It was a unique organisation in that it was more than just social. Meetings offered a lot of variety. There were debating teams, public-speaking competitions, information nights, and presenters. There was the opportunity to do cattle and sheep judging — even at the Melbourne Show. Every club had to follow a meeting protocol and procedure that put me in good stead for the rest of my life. Socially, it was like a dream come true. There were dances, hayrides on trailers, and woolshed dances, and most important of all were the Young Farmers' Balls. They were the highlight of the year, and every club supported each other. This meant huge crowds attended. Looking back at that special era, something else now stands out. There was no alcohol. Never at a Young Farmers function did I see alcohol served or drunk. Admittedly, many were under the drinking age of 21, but it was never an issue. I find that fascinating, considering attitudes today.

Most of all, I liked the Young Farmers' dances. You could hold your partner and talk. Bands were always live, and they usually played a mixture of ballroom and a little rock-and-roll. The camaraderie between the sexes was great … we were all just good mates. Yes, relationships did develop, but often people just became mates regardless of gender. Not only did I cherish the innocence of my growing up in that era; I felt that the Young Farmers organisation was simply the icing on the cake.

However, 1964 was a year of change for me in many ways. Getting a motorbike and car licence, and going to Young Farmers events, meant I started to travel the Gippsland area, mostly attending meetings and dances. These experiences allowed me to mature, as I had a lot more responsibility in that organisation than I'd been used to.