The View From Connor's Hill (30 page)

Then, without trying, or carrying on like a film star or a charmer — or a complete dork — I met a nice young woman at a dance. After three months, we started going steady. She lived near Bairnsdale. Between courting and Young Farmers, I now had a hectic social life. I kept all my other commitments around Ensay and, somehow, fitted in the busy schedule offered by Young Farmers. Some nights, I would knock off work, get picked up, drive to somewhere like Leongatha, go to their ball, turn around and drive back to Ensay, get dropped off, get changed, and go and milk the cow — oh, the benefit of youth.

Usually, when we left to come home after Young Farmers' functions, there'd be a long drive ahead of us. I'd have a nap for an hour or so, but once we reached the road from Bairnsdale to Ensay I'd wake up. With my eyes shut, the constant twisting and turning around endless bends made me feel ill. Being awake during that last part of the journey was a bonus — it meant I could keep an eye on the driver. There were the odd occasions when I had seen them doze off. There was one time, though, when I let the side down, as it were.

We'd been to a ball in South Gippsland, and had left to come home about 2.00 a.m. We were looking at a four-hour trip; but, as usual, as we headed up into the mountains via the Omeo Highway, I was wide awake. It was always a slow trip. There could be fog, many of the bends in the road were very tight, and both people in the front would be on a hyper-alert lookout for wildlife — particularly wombats. If you ran into them, it felt like you'd hit a brick wall. Just before you reached Ensay, the road would open out, farms would replace the bush, and the bends would almost disappear. From that point on, it was only a 20-minute drive to where I worked. On this occasion, I must have dozed off the moment the road straightened slightly. Next thing, there was a screech of tyres, a crunch of metal, and a loud, jarring, scraping sound. I woke to see us rushing side-on up a high bank, and the car tearing along vertically for some 20 yards until it dropped down onto the road. Finally, it bounced this way and that, and landed on all fours, still facing in the right direction. Phew. A brief check revealed that nobody was hurt … and then we burst into raucous laughter. The four of us were covered in jelly, cream, sponge cake, and trifle.

You see, when you attended a Young Farmers' Ball it was obligatory to bring a plate for supper. We'd all obeyed the rule, but had forgotten to take the plates in when we'd arrived. So we were bringing them home again, having placed them carefully up behind the rear seat. By coincidence, my parent's car was the first on the scene. Their concern lasted all of two minutes before peals of laughter split the air. I was late for work that day.

BY 1964
, my parents owned a farm at Tongio and two bush blocks, both located on Sheepstation Creek. If I wasn't tied up with Young Farmers, I still worked on all these properties most weekends and enjoyed it. However, the year 1964 started badly for me.

Bob and I were up at the Tongio farm. I was on holidays, and we were putting up a new fence. The day before, I'd used our dozer to push in a new dirt road that led up to a paddock we called the cultivation. This particular day, we'd finished putting in all the posts, and I was trimming off loose timbers before we drilled them by hand and threaded through new wires. I was using my good axe when it slipped, hit my boot, and severed the laces. It didn't hurt, so I pushed on. Admittedly, I was disappointed about the boot. They were my new Commandos — two weeks wages' worth, and waterproof as well.

I finished trimming that post and went to move on, when …
squelch, slosh
. I looked down, and realised there was blood oozing out every time I took a step. I still felt no pain, but the blood started to flow quite freely. Hell, I thought,
I'd better have a look
. Hell again — the axe had gone through the boot and my foot, and had almost come out the other side; it was a very deep cut. I hopped quickly into the Land Rover, and then an hour later I was on a bench in the Omeo hospital watching a doctor sew up the inside, then the outer layer, of the wide gap in my foot. It took ages to heal properly. The rest of my holidays were spent in a chair at Doctors Flat.

One good thing happened while I was chair-bound: Mum taught me how to knit. It was three weeks before I was walking again.

THE BUSH BLOCK
, the one we called the top block, was a much better property than the one below it, called Dorrington's. It was more open, and had lighter bush on it. We'd done quite a bit of work out there, including building a new road and a dam, and now Bob decided that we should build our own log cabin. By this time we'd stopped using our axes and crosscut saw. Bob had bought a new chainsaw call a
BEBO
, and he felled several dozen suitable trees with it. The process of locking the logs together to build the cabin was fascinating. We had a single-roomed cabin up in no time. It had one doorway, and two windows … or holes.

We got up early one Saturday morning, and loaded up the truck with the windows and other materials we needed to finish off the log cabin. It was exciting. I'd already made plans to do some camping out, and I was glad we'd arrived early. Our first job was to put in a window: it fitted neatly into the opening and I held it in place, and then Bob started to nail the frame to the logs. But, as he hit the nail, the window slipped backwards and started to fall. He accidentally hit the pane of glass, and it snapped, the top half having dislodged. My automatic reaction was to catch the broken pane as it fell. My hand shot through where the glass had been — just like a catch in ‘slips' at the cricket — and I held on tight as my arm jammed down on the bottom half of the pane that had remained in place. I pulled it back into place and tried to line it up in the frame. Then a most amazing thing happened: we both noticed a long spurt of blood. It was spraying everywhere. One of us was bleeding. A quick look showed a deep cut right across my wrist. It wasn't red blood; it was a rich, purple colour. Quickly, we wrapped it in handkerchiefs, but the blood soaked straight through in minutes.

There was no question that the cut needed medical attention, but first we had to stop the bleeding. I took off my shirt and we wrapped it very tightly — no good. I was starting to feel faint. We knew that medical help was at least three to four hours away; but, thanks to my Boy Scouts training, I undid my boot, took out the lace, and made a tourniquet on my arm, just below the shoulder. I tightened the bootlace with a stick, and the bleeding stopped. Feeling very groggy, I hopped in the Land Rover, and Bob headed us down the steep bush track to Dorrington's block. We stopped briefly; I had a drink of water from Sheepstation Creek, and then it was a good half-hour until we reached the Omeo Highway.

My hand started to fizz and ache badly, so I released the lace … just a fraction. Blood went everywhere, but I got the feeling back into my hand. Again, I tightened the tourniquet, and we headed off. I continued this process until we reached the Omeo hospital — release the tourniquet, get the feeling back, tighten the lace. But there was no one at the hospital … the doctor was out, and had taken the nurse with him. We hopped back in and drove to Swifts Creek, which we'd just driven through 40 minutes before. Dot Carroll, the bush nurse, was expecting us. She sewed up the wrist. I don't know exactly what I cut in there when I severed the wrist, but I've never had much strength in it to this day. Fortunately, it healed, and I was only off work for two weeks.

AS I MENTIONED ABOVE
, like all bush kids, I got my driver's licence when I turned eighteen. The test wasn't too difficult; the local policeman simply said, ‘Sign here.' He was aware that many young people on farms were not only capable of driving a car, but a truck, a bulldozer, and other farm machinery as well.

For my eighteenth birthday, my parents presented me with their car keys. To be honest, at the age of eighteen, the only problem in my life was sleep: it interfered with my working and social life. The nights when I had no sleep were becoming more common. At times, this would catch up with me. Fortunately, many of the big nights out were Friday or Saturday. This was good; I could grab Mum's car, go out, come home at an ungodly hour, and then be yelled out of bed on Saturday or Sunday morning. Yes, I was still working on my parent's farm.

However, one morning after a very late night out, Dad found me asleep in a most unusual place — the lucerne-paddock gate. My arms were over the pipe on top, and my head was resting on them. I was sound asleep. I vaguely recall a Young Farmers' do I'd been to, and that I'd driven a long way home. It was very late, I hadn't wanted to disturb the animals or the household by driving in, so I'd turned off the ignition key, gone to open the front gate, opened it … and, I guess, rested for just a fraction of a moment, and …

I KEEP REFERRING
to 1964. Let me just say that it was a very different year for me. I had a hectic social year, a girlfriend, a cut foot, and then a severed wrist. Yet I was fully fit and ready to play in the lightning premiership that started the new footy season mid-year.

The lightning premiership was a series of short games in which all teams competed. Held at Omeo Oval, one of the four teams would be the premier by the end of the day. I'd started to fill out a little and was looking forward to my year with the Ensie team. We were playing Omeo in the second game.

About five minutes into the game, Bertie Sam grabbed the ball and I dived at him to lay a tackle. I fell forward awkwardly and skidded along the hard ground. His boot jammed my left knee into the turf, and the stops on the sole of his footy boot sank into the top of my kneecap. It really hurt. I lay on the ground holding my knee. Gingerly, I lifted my hand a bit. Something felt funny and … Jesus … my kneecap was fully exposed. The coach, Jim, ran past me and said, ‘Come on, Baz, it was just a tap … Jesus!' He stopped, stared at this huge piece of white bone the size of a tennis ball and said, ‘Shit, mate, I think you've broken ya leg. Isn't that ya leg bone or something?'

The game stopped. I wasn't going to move anything … it looked very serious. The runner, who had as much first-aid knowledge as Rover, reckoned I definitely had a broken leg, and that the funny, white protruding lump was part of the bone sticking out — very astute of him.

Mum and quite a few others came onto the ground. After a lot of staring, I was carried off. Someone's ute took me to the Omeo hospital. There, a nurse had a brief look and, after a few probes, announced that the skin over my kneecap had been prised off. She added that I was fortunate. It was a neat wound, like a knife cut. It was a large tear, and the skin had folded down below my knee — like opening a handbag, was the way she explained it to Mum. It looked a lot worse than it really was; in fact, I was in little pain … for the moment. The biggest problem was that the dirt had gotten into, around, and below the kneecap. There was also grass protruding from the layers of folded skin below my knee. The wound was about three inches across. The nurse assured everyone I was going to be okay, and left. The large contingent from the footy returned to the ground … football was serious stuff, after all. I was on my own; in fact, when the nurse left, she also didn't return for a long time.

An hour later, I was in a lot of pain. Fortunately, there was little bleeding, just a lot of pain, then more waiting … and more pain. Finally, a bloke I knew quite well walked in. His name was Reggie Tomkins. Thank God — I was busting for a pee. Reg helped me to the men's. Back in the waiting room, he asked what I was doing there and I showed him my knee. He nodded his head. He seemed oblivious to my major wound and the protruding bone. Then he told me why he was there. No, his bumping into me wasn't a social visit to check up on me. He'd come into the waiting room to lower his head and relax … for the first time in hours. His daughter, Anne, aged six, had just been in a horrific accident. It had happened on the farm. A posthole digger had entangled her, and she was badly hurt. He gave me some details.

The posthole digger is a farm implement attached to a tractor by a power take-off and three-point linkage. A large auger, it turns powerfully in a screwing motion and bores into the ground. This enables it to dig a hole roughly fifteen inches across. Reg's little daughter had been near the auger as it was grinding into the ground. She was wearing a loose cardigan, the wind was blowing, and it caught in the digger. Pulled in, the little girl became caught up, and was then screwed to the bottom of the hole. Reg became very distressed as he explained the incident. I suddenly lost interest in my knee.

When his little girl arrived at the hospital, she had a fractured skull, all the skin from the back of her head to her bottom was torn, and her condition was critical. Norma, Anne's mum, believed her little girl survived because of a miracle. By sheer chance, the Omeo doctor, John Cantwell, had had a lot of experience in West Africa, where he had seen many a fractured skull treated — and hence he'd been able to perform the necessary procedure on Anne, and the little girl's condition improved immediately. Reg said it had been wonderful to hear her cry.

Now, I must admit, an accident like that put mine into some perspective, but my pain was very bad. Reg paid me a couple of visits as I sat waiting. Suddenly, he appeared briefly with a grin, and announced that he'd made a wise decision. He left and re-appeared with a small brown bottle of something.

Twenty minutes later I was smiling, talking endlessly, and insulting Reg — he was from ‘above the Gap', after all … they deserve their appalling reputation. By the time the doctor got around to see me, some five hours after the accident, I was quite intoxicated. He spent ages cleaning the dirt away, put in some eleven stitches, and sent me home with strict instructions not to bend my leg. Once again, I took up Mum's knitting needles and started to knit, only this time it was more sophisticated. I learnt how to cast off, and knit both plain and pearl. I completed two scarves and a pair of bed socks.