The View From Connor's Hill (9 page)

My head was bursting with questions. To date, I hadn't said a word, and I didn't know how to bring up the conversation of rabbit traps. Then Les spoke.

‘Likes a brew, mate? Time for Marg to puts the billy on I reckon, eh?'

‘Yes, sir,' I replied, not really sure what he meant, although I guessed he had a wife inside called Marg — or Mrs Haylock, if ever I spoke to her.

‘For Gawd's sake, don't call me sir. Had enough of that crap years ago. Just call me Les. And what brings ya down this way anyhow? Just a stickybeak, or what?'

Gathering that he wanted me to respond, I said, ‘My name's Barry. I live up there.' I pointed towards our house, which you couldn't see for the bush.

‘You're from the city, eh? I heard a new family moved into the Coffey's house the other month.'

I nodded.

‘The old man's a plumber or something. I knew ya mum's dad. What's the matter anyhows, me boy?'

After a lot of stuttering and mumbling from me, Les worked out that I was worried about where he had set his traps or, more importantly, how to set the jolly things. By now we were inside his hut, and his wife had boiled the billy. I was enjoying my first-ever bush brew. It was delightful. Les showed a little pride when I told him so. With that finished, he grabbed a long, crooked stick and we set off around his traps. Looking at me, he asked, ‘Where's ya staff, mate?'

Again, I produced a vacant stare that indicated ignorance. He then explained, at length, that I had to have a staff — a long stick. ‘For snakes and stuff you know, eh? Either that, or a length of eight-gauge wire, although it's a bugger to walk with, I reckon.'

He may as well have been muttering in Mandarin — what the heck was he on about, eight-gauge something? So we turned back to the hut, and he got his ‘good' axe. Then we wandered into the nearby bush, where he selected a strong sapling.

‘A stringy-bark, mate. It won't break when ya bash a snake, eh?'

He tapped the stick all over with the back of the axe, and stripped off the bark. Then he handed me my very own staff. With Croney trotting behind our heels, Les showed me where he set his traps. He then suggested where I should set mine. I only had ten and Les had more than thirty. For the first time, I asked him a question.

‘Why so many traps, Les?'

Between lots of ‘eh's and ‘we's, I worked out that Les sold most of the rabbits he caught. Sure, he ate some and gave some to the farmer, but most he sold.

‘On the skin, son. They keep for three days, on the skin. I walks into town twice a week and a bloke takes 'em and sells 'em down the mill. You should set some more traps and I'll sell 'em for ya — even jist the skins if ya like, eh?'

I spent two hours with Les. I learnt how to set a trap, then how to skin a rabbit properly, and how to stretch the skin over a wire. It was actually an eight-gauge wire. In future, I would keep the unusual skins — like a ginger or a black one — separate. They brought a penny more per skin. Apparently, once a fortnight, a skin buyer called in and collected Les's skins. He reckoned that most hats were made from rabbit fur.

We returned to the hut. Then he did something I'll always treasure. He lit a small fire, got a long, thin piece of metal, held it with a leather glove, and heated the end. When it was glowing red, he took my staff and burnt ‘Barry' along the side. I was so proud of that staff. I kept it for years.

When I finally returned home, Mum wasn't worried about where I'd been; just why I'd taken so long. When I said I'd been visiting old Les, she said, ‘He's a real loner, that one. Used to being on the road. Has a lot of nerve problems — to do with the war, they reckon.'

The kids at school explained what a drover was — someone on a horse who moved cattle along the roads down to the railheads, and camped in the bush as he went along. He had a roll of blankets, a groundsheet, and spare clothes tied together with a rope or strap — it was called a ‘swag', apparently, and it hung over the back of the saddle. Hanging off the swag was a billy — for a brew, or a cuppa, or for cooking the odd meal. Now that was as clear as mud. I didn't quite understand it all, but it sounded a lonely sort of life to me. Then again, I guess Les and Croney were a team, and they had one another for company. For me, Les was good company, he told fascinating stories, and I got used to his shakes and tears.

Slowly, probably more out of curiosity than because I needed a new friend, I spent a little more time with Les. He taught me how to plait hay band, and how to make a halter and a strong leg rope, which proved handy when I milked the cow. Over time, my traps caught as many rabbits as Les's did. We caught bigger game, such as hares and foxes, by making a wire snare in the shape of a hangman's noose, which we'd hang over a hole in a wire netting fence and then tie to a post.

I visited Les almost every week. At first, it would be for ten or fifteen minutes, mainly on a weekend. With my chores finished, I'd go down to Les's, swinging my staff along, maybe even hoping for a snake. After a few months, the stopover would last for an hour or so. He'd always answer my queries, provided I stayed away from the subject of his past or where he'd grown up. It was almost as if he didn't have a past.

Then, one day, I had a treat — a thrill, really — because Les invited me for tea. Marg was away and he would be cooking the meal. I rushed home, told Mum, did my chores, and returned to the hut. First, he lit a fire outside in the light bush. Then he produced a big, heavy, cast-iron bowl with a lid, which he called a ‘camp oven'. I had never seen a camp oven. As he prepared the meal, he told me stories about droving and some of his ‘good' dogs. Finally, we had roast rabbit, potato, onion, and beans. He had cooked the lot together in the camp oven after pouring in a liberal dash of beer. With a wry grin he said, ‘That's the secret, son — a dash a beer, eh.'

It was the best meal I'd ever had, and I told him so — it was in the same category as one of Nana Roy's cakes. The juices in the beer-gravy, mixed with the vegies, were delicious. So were the small dumplings: tiny balls of plain flour mixed with milk, rolled into a ball the size of an egg, and cooked in the juices. Although I wasn't seeing him regularly, Les was becoming a special person in my life — my first country friend.

However, back at home, life wasn't good. It was cruel, too busy, too far from my friends in Ringwood, and too cold as winter approached. Although I enjoyed Les's company, it didn't fill the hole created by my treasured family we'd left behind, who seemed beyond reach in Melbourne. There was no Nana and Uncle Jock a 20-minute bus-drive away to Bellbird paradise. Further, I wasn't used to being the new big brother. Although I can't remember my older brother, Ian, he must have been a good eldest child before his death. I'd never imagined being responsible for younger siblings before.

I constantly wished we could go back. I was very homesick for Ringwood, not to mention that I was struggling with the fact that our family had almost doubled. When we left Ringwood, I'd had three brothers: Robbie, a two-year-old half-brother called Jeff, and a four-year-old called John. I was very uncomfortable suddenly being the eldest. Now, when Mum and Dad were out, I was in charge. What were the rules when you were the head of the household?

Then, one day, things changed. Three of us had set off for school — young John had come along, for the first time. He struggled during the very long walk, so Robbie and I took it in turns to piggyback him some of the way. It was early morning. We were almost there when, while crossing a small, low-level bridge that ran over Gap Creek, we stopped and peered over the side as usual. The creek was fast flowing, and only eight feet across.

Suddenly, a magnificent wild mountain duck appeared from under the bridge. It swam along, oblivious to our presence. We didn't move a muscle. Behind it, in a straight line, were six tiny, yellow, fluffy ducklings swimming along. Their heads were swaying as if in tune to a waltz. Suddenly, the mother duck spotted us. She took off and flew down the creek, crudely dipping one wing in the water as if wounded or shot. Wild ducks will do this to protect their young — a hunter's dog would naturally chase the injured bird. The ducklings scattered and disappeared back underneath the bridge, except for one. It went the wrong way, panicked, and found itself swept away by the fast-flowing stream. It quickly slipped into some rapids and swirled around as it rushed downstream. The mother finally flew away, circled, and then flew back under the bridge from the far side, back to her family. Meanwhile, the separated little duckling, quite a distance away, was bobbing swiftly down the stream alone — left to its own devices.

Probably for the first time ever, I donned my eldest-child mantle and rushed down the bank of the creek in the hope of rescuing the tiny bird. My cautious paranoia about snakes, magpies, ticks, red-back spiders, and other wild, attacking vermin disappeared. I dashed, and finally leapt, into the freezing water and lunged at the little bird. It nearly drowned in the tiny tidal wave I caused, and it washed up on the bank. It was too young to fly and could barely walk. I had no trouble catching the little fella, and shoved it down my wet shirtfront.

When I returned the little creature to the bridge some fifteen minutes later, there was no mum or ducklings to be seen. They had disappeared under some low willow trees, or maybe had gone up onto the bank and filtered into some ferns. We looked and looked before we finally gave up. I sensed my brothers were pleased. They were very impressed with my efforts, and maybe hoped for a pet. So, with me clutching the duckling softly in my hands, we continued on to school, where we arrived late and I was growled at for being wet.

The Tongio kids were amazed. In one day, I had gone from a pathetic, outcast city slicker to a dashing animal-saver. All the kids wanted to help this little creature. School for the moment was temporarily abandoned, and we put the duckling in a small box and fed it crumbs, bits of cake, and other good country cooking.

That afternoon, I walked home from school with my new little fluffy friend in a box. Possibly for the first time during that long walk, I looked around. I saw the hills, the beautiful trees, the birds, and the diversity of scenery that abounds in that picturesque area. Somehow, this little mortal seemed to give me courage, or some reason to assume my big-brother role. We walked in a straight line for home, through the paddocks. Damn the cattle, the wild, ferocious bulls, and the annoying sheep — I had a family to protect. I had to look after two brothers and a new member we nicknamed ‘Donald'.

chapter four

Settling in

MY FIRST YEAR OF COUNTRY LIVING WAS ENDING
.
DONALD
the big duck had escaped and flown into the wild. He came back twice for a free feed, but probably found a girlfriend, we reckoned, as that was the last we saw of him.

By now I could kill a rabbit efficiently, and had climbed Mount Tongio, the high mountain behind the house. The view from this giant was magnificent. At its highest point, I could see from one end of the valley to the other, a distance of at least 20 miles. Towards Ensay, away in the hazy distance, was Connor's Hill.

Gradually, I got used to every person I met saying hello and asking after me or my family's welfare. I started to venture away from home a bit. During the school holidays I helped cart hay for a farmer down the road — well, not really, as the bales were too heavy for me — and I rode in the front of the truck. Now I could kill and pluck chooks. With the help of old Les, I watched and then helped deliver a calf.

During my walks, two black snakes and one copperhead had fallen victim to the sturdy staff Les had hewn from a stringy-bark tree. I carried it wherever I walked.

My life had changed, and I started to feel settled. I enjoyed school, and mixed easily with these country kids.

It was soon obvious that I had it easy compared to many of the kids at the Tongio school. Some walked or rode pushbikes over long distances to get to school. One family, in particular, did it very hard. They had to rise very early and help hand-milk the dairy herd before school. Then they rode bikes three times as far as we had to walk. As the days got shorter, they would leave school early to be home in time to milk before dark.

However, there was another reason for the change in me — old Les. He was there when the beautiful, shiny, wet calf slid from its new mum. He taught me about the old ways — the ‘good old days', as he called them. He talked of such things as the camp oven, how to make a damper, and how to skin an eel. He thoroughly enjoyed reminiscing, once spending ages with me explaining the strange commands used to work a sheepdog. He demonstrated with Croney — ‘Come here! Go back! Speak up! Steady, steady. Sit! Go way back! Come over here! Come round! Go way out!'

There were many commands. ‘However, if you can whistle, Barry, that's the secret,' Les told me seriously. ‘Some blokes can whistle, somes can't. If ya can't, ya jist have to shout a lot louder at times.' Les explained that a short, sharp whistle meant ‘Sit'. A long whistle was a casting whistle, and an arm would point in the right direction. It was fascinating. Les reckoned the whistle was definitely the best — ‘Once he gets aways a bit, the dog can still hear a whistle.' He demonstrated this once when Croney was far away on a hill. He gave a short, sharp whistle, and the dog dropped as if shot. I was most impressed.