The Best Australian Bush Stories

by Jim Haynes

  ‘An’ th’ terrible floods they have in them rivers,’ she went on, ‘carries horses an’ men away; an’ th’ wild blacks. Oh, they’ll massacre you all in th’ night!’

  I never heard anythin’ before about blacks bein’ down th’ rivers, an’ it made me hair stand up when she mentioned them.

  ‘We’ll give them all th’ massacrin’ they want, mother,’ I sez, treatin’ it lightly, but at th’ same time makin’ up me mind to ask Sam how many there was down there.

  ‘An’ y’ can’t go without seein’ your father,’ th’ old lady continued, ‘there he is not over his birthday yet. Oh, th’ terrible fool of a man that he is, an’ gettin’ worse instead of better every year. Where he’ll find th’ money to pay Dollar his wine bill when it’s all over, I’m sure I don’t know. This is no life for me an’ your sisters to be livin’, Frankie, an’ if you’re goin’ to go away it will be far worse.’

  ‘He’s been down there too jolly long, no doubt about that,’ I said, waggin’ me head in agreement with her, and appearin’ wise at th’ old man’s expense. ‘An’ if he ain’t home be eight o’clock tonight I’m goin’ down to bring him.’

  ‘He might come for you,’ the old lady answered with a sigh, ‘but if I go near him there’ll only be words, an’ then he won’t come at all.’

  When eight o’clock arrived, o’ course th’ old man wasn’t home, an’ down I goes to Dollar’s.

  Near Codlin’s corner I sees a light comin’ along th’ road, an’ hears a wheel squeakin’, then a cove starts singin’ loud an’ another chap tells him to ‘hold his tongue’. For a while I couldn’t make out what sort of a trap they was drivin’, but I could tell it was th’ old man who was singin’ by th’ sort of ‘cooee’ he used to begin th’ lines with. He always sung like a dingo howlin’. But when we got close together an’ I sings out, ‘Hello!’ they stopped. An’ there was th’ old man squattin’ as comfortable as you like in a wheelbarrow with his back to th’ wheel an’ his legs danglin’ over the back an’ a lighted candle stuck on each side of him, an’ a big square bottle o’ wine in his arms, an’ old ‘Scottie’ nearly as screwed as himself in th’ handles of th’ barrow.

  ‘By cripes!’ I sez to them, ‘this is a nice sort o’ thing.’

  ‘Thash you, Frankie?’ sez th’ old man.

  ‘Of course it’s me,’ I growled at him. ‘This is a nice sort of business; an’ them sittin’ up waitin’ for y’ at home.’

  ‘Yer needn’t go down to (hic) Dollar’s for me. I’m comin’ home (hic) meself. Ain’t we, Scot-(hic)-tie?’

  ‘Aye, comin’ home in (hic) Dollar’s motor car, d’ y’ see, Frankie.’ An’ raisin’ th’ handles of th’ barrow, Scottie proceeded to propel th’ old man over stones an’ ruts at a vigorous and reckless speed again.

  I trotted along beside them actin’ as a guide, an’ thinkin’ of the reception they would get from th’ old lady when they reached home, an’ silently wonderin’ if all the horrors of drink wasn’t more than compensated for by th’ humours of it.

  Every hundred yards or so Scottie would stop an’ puff hard, an’ tell th’ old man he was as ‘heavy as yon German lassie i’ th’ wine (hic) shop’.

  ‘Take another drink,’ an’ th’ old man would hold out th’ bottle to him. ‘An’ make me a bit (hic) lighter for yourself.’

  Then Scottie would drink, an’ off again.

  Arrivin’ at th’ house th’ old man broke into fresh song, an’ th’ dorgs begun barkin’ an’ th’ old lady followed by th’ girls come runnin’ out. I knew they’d get a surprise when they saw him in th’ barrow between th’ candles like a blitherin’ Chinese god. An’ they got one too.

  ‘I’ve brought him home to y’ in a (hic) motor car, d’ y’ see,’ Scottie said to them, stickin’ to th’ handles to keep himself from fallin’.

  But they just stood starin’ as if they had no tongues to talk with.

  Last th’ old man who kept blinkin’ an’ hiccupin’ at them, an’ thinkin’ of th’ blokes he saw givin’ up their seats to ladies in th’ tram th’ time he took Fogarty’s bull to th’ exhibition, opens his mouth an’ sez:

  ‘You’ll (hic) ’scuse me, ladies, for keepin’ me (hic) seat.’

  Th’ girls an’ me bust out laughin’, but th’ old lady lost her block.

  ‘You beast!’ she shouted, an’ grabbin’ one of th’ candles nearly burnt off his whiskers with it. Then she kicked the barrow over, an’ th’ other candle went out an’ old Scottie fell on top of th’ old man an’ they both started roarin’ an’ bitin’ each other, an’ I got ready to run. But seein’ th’ others wasn’t frightent I waited too.

  ‘A lovely pair! Two beautiful specimens of men! Come away, girls, come inside an’ leave th’ brutes.’

  An’ carryin’ what was left of th’ bottle o’ wine which she rescued when th’ barrow went over, th’ old lady bounced inside an’ I after her.

  Next mornin’ first thing I rolled me swag up an’ strapped it on th’ pack horse along with a jackshay an’ a pair o’ greenhide hobbles that I made on purpose about three months before.

  Soon as breakfast was over I grabs me hat an’ sez, ‘Well, I got to meet th’ rest of th’ chaps at Hodgson’s Creek in about an hour.’

  Then th’ hand shakin’ an’ th’ cryin’ commenced, which was always the worst part o’ goin’ away. Anyone who’s never left a home in th’ bush don’t know what that means.

  ‘Look after y’self Frankie while you’re away,’ th’ old man who was the last to shake sez, ‘an’ if ever ye see any drinkin’ or gamblin’ goin’ on, keep away from it.’

  THE SIX O’CLOCK

  SWELLS

  FRANK DANIEL

  SIX O’CLOCK CLOSING AT the pubs was supposed to be the law when we were growing up. In our town this law might have existed—but it wasn’t really enforced.

  When I was a kid women didn’t go into pubs—and I didn’t know any women who drank beer. As I grew older I discovered a lot of ladies drank beer, but they didn’t always let on. Some even smoked cigarettes.

  Ladies who drank beer weren’t very nice. Neither were ladies who smoked cigarettes. Mother didn’t drink beer or smoke cigarettes—and she didn’t like other people doing either. However, I don’t recall her ever treating them any differently from those who didn’t.

  As a youngster I had a lot of Aunties and Uncles, most of whom were not even related to our family. The titles were used instead of calling them ‘Mister’ and ‘Missus’, just as a mark of more familiar respect.

  As I grew older I sorted all this out and gave the family tree a real pruning. I already had enough relations without cultivating any more.

  One day around 1951, we met a new ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’, who arrived unexpectedly from Albury on a Friday afternoon.

  He was a large bloke with a big belly. He’d known my father during the war and thus, on arrival, was automatically promoted to the rank of ‘uncle’. His wife, our new ‘aunty’, was a thin quiet lady.

  They were towing a thirteen-footer Sunliner caravan behind their 1950 model Ford Custom Sedan. Uncle said his car was a ‘Single Spinner’. The bullet-shaped chrome piece in the centre of the grille was apparently known as a ‘spinner’, and there was only one.

  Useful information of course! It would be handy to know stuff like that when we used our expert knowledge of Uncle’s Ford to impress our mates.

  The car was also a V8, and had a ‘ton a guts’ to tow the plywood caravan ‘smack bang round Australia’.

  Dad kicked the tyres and tapped his fist on the mudguards and said how solid the car was. He said that we would get one like it one day, ‘Soon’s we get a few more quid.’

  Our car was a Willys Overland. It was a big square old tub. It had lots of room inside, and a rack on the back for carrying luggage. The Willys also had a draw-down blind on the rear window. The Ford didn’t have a blind but it had large chrome hubcaps. The Willys had wooden spokes.

  My parents sho
wed the visitors around the house and the yard and gave them a look at our modest garden. Mum explained that water was the greatest problem on our farm, and that we had to be very careful as we were down to about two thousand gallons in the tanks.

  ‘It will need to rain soon,’ said Dad.

  The surprise arrival of our guests caught us low on supplies and Mum asked Dad to run into town and get some things from the shop. It was a rare occurrence, rushing to town like that. Any other time we always managed to ‘make do’ with whatever could be scraped up.

  These visitors must have been very important. They looked as if they were pretty ‘well off’. They didn’t look like us. They didn’t dress like us. They didn’t sound like us.

  My older brother Jim was much chattier and less shy than me. He soon found out that they didn’t know anything about sheep and they didn’t even know how to ride a horse.

  What sort of people could they be?

  Maybe they were what Mum called ‘swells’, or even ‘snobs’.

  Dad drove us to town in the Willys—our new Uncle and me and Jim.

  We felt that we should have been taken for a drive in the big Ford, but the offer wasn’t made, though our visitor made a lot of comments about our old ‘faithful’, comparing it with his new ‘Henry’.

  As he talked his big fat arm, outstretched across the back of the front seat, was blocking my view of the speedometer, which was in the centre of the dashboard. I liked to keep a good eye on the speedo to see if Dad ever got the old thing over thirty miles per hour, which was about its limit.

  Uncle talked a lot about real estate and extolled the virtues of ‘keeping up with the times’ and not letting his cars get too old. Dad looked a bit uncomfortable, but generally seemed to agree with his mate.

  The gathering up of the groceries wasn’t any great problem. Mr Hogan, the ‘General Merchant’, was ‘pleased to meet’ Uncle, who didn’t seem terribly pleased to meet Mr Hogan. Uncle kept looking at his watch and at the pub, which was just two doors from the store.

  With all the goods loaded, Uncle suggested that he and dad ‘should imbibe a little before they ventured home’.

  ‘Uh-oh!’ I thought to myself, ‘Mum will go crook,’ especially if imbibing meant drinking beer, which I figured it did.

  Then he gave me and Jim a two-bob piece and told us to go and get an ice-cream and some lollies at the milk bar up the street, while he bought our father a few beers.

  Why had we ever had suspicions about this man from Albury? He’d turned out to be a real good bloke. In fact he was a bloody beauty, shouting lollies for us and buying Dad’s beer too! Gawd, that would save Dad a heap of dough. He’d soon be able to buy that new Ford that he was interested in.

  We didn’t realise that buying Dad a few beers meant that Dad had to buy a few more for Uncle. Nor did we realise that if a couple of the locals met Uncle, and then bought him a beer, that meant that Dad and Uncle had to join that ‘shout’ and drink a few more to square up.

  For us kids, the pub was one of the ‘Wonders of the World’. Peering through the doorway into that dark mysterious place felt to us like we were encroaching into the secrets of some exotic religious sect. It was a bit like us wondering what it was like inside the Church of England, where the nuns said we were forbidden to ever go.

  Drinking beer was a complicated arrangement, accompanied by a continual hubbub of noise and lots of laughter—and it always seemed to last until well after six o’clock.

  Hanging around waiting didn’t concern us too much on this occasion as Uncle slipped us a few more bob and told us to ‘disappear for a little bit longer’; he also advised us ‘not to tell the women’ that he and Dad had been drinking.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Jim, when Uncle went back into the pub; ‘we ain’t never had more than a shilling at the one time before in our lives.’

  He was right too.

  When the publican decided that he had overstepped closing time by a sufficiently profitable margin of about two and a half hours, but it was still early enough not to annoy the local constabulary, he evicted all his patrons from the bar.

  We watched the exodus and it was hard to imagine that so many people had been able to fit inside the bar at the same time. They were all laughing and some were wobbling—and one bloke fell over.

  Two others tried in vain to help him to his feet and finally Dad came to their assistance and helped get the bloke up.

  Evidently they were shearers from one of the sheds down near the Lake having a ‘cut-out’. As they staggered away Dad commented that some blokes didn’t know when they’d had enough.

  The trip home in the faithful Willys was memorable—and at times a little scary. We were pleased to see that Dad was not really ‘that drunk’ after all. He must have been OK because he managed to bring the car back onto the roadway without any trouble on more than three occasions. Jim kept turning to see if the guideposts were still in place as we went along.

  Big fat Uncle was sitting quietly in the front with his left elbow out the window, but every now and then he’d suddenly make a comment.

  ‘Hang on to her there, mate!’ he said, as Dad battled with the Willys on a bend at about twenty miles an hour.

  ‘She’ll be right mate,’ said Dad, ‘the old girl knows the way home on her own.’

  ‘Bore it up ’er!’ burped Uncle.

  He wasn’t sounding too much like a swell now. He was as red as beetroot and he kept doing little hiccups, which puffed his cheeks out and made his lips pout and give a little hiss each time he exhaled. His face looked fat and round as if he had a mouth full of something and he had three chins now, instead of the two he had when he arrived. At times, in the intervals between hiccups, he looked like he was about to explode and, sure enough, about halfway home he let go a huge fart that made the car stink.

  That gave Jim and me the giggles, which gradually got out of control. Finally our hysterical giggling roused Dad, who tried to give us a clout by swinging his arm at us over the back of the front seat.

  We were pretty safe in the Willys as the rear seat was too far back for him to reach us, but his attempt to discipline us caused the car to leave the main part of the gravel road for a while, before finding its way back to where the grader had been and the road was smooth.

  After that we’d snort and start giggling again whenever one of us looked at Uncle. What a funny fat old geezer he seemed to be now.

  When we reached our place there was a fight over who would open the front gate. Jim was first out and away and then Uncle decided that he had to get out too, to ‘shake hands with his best mate’.

  I thought that meant that he’d developed a sudden affection for Jim and wanted to show his respect for him volunteering to open the gate by giving him a manly handshake.

  Once he got out, though, he seemed more intent on something else.

  He had a pee on the gatepost and while he was busy doing that it must have slipped his mind to shake hands with Jim.

  Back at the house Mum and Aunty had managed to gather some bits and pieces together for a meal and only needed a few essentials from the grocery box after all. Some mention of our late arrival was made, but we didn’t dob about the men going to the pub.

  Dad and Uncle stood outside in the dark, talking and laughing for some time until they were called for tea. Of course they tried to look sober and make out that they hadn’t been drinking.

  The light from the kerosene lamp in the centre of the table seemed to give Uncle and Dad a kind of rosy glow. Aunty’s face had a serious look and her steely eyes were fixed on Uncle. His eyes, on the other hand, were a bit watery and glistened in the flickering glow of the lamp, and he still hiccuped quietly now and then as he ate.

  Mum was busy making sure that everybody had enough to eat but Jim and I were not hungry for some strange reason. We’d eaten about four bob’s worth of ice cream and chocolate and still had pockets full of lollies.

  Then Uncle hiccuped loudly and we started giggling
again. Mum went crook on us but Dad said nothing, for fear that his speech might betray his drinking, I suppose.

  We had almost controlled our giggles when Uncle reached for a slice of bread and let out another loud fart.

  All hell broke loose.

  We just couldn’t contain ourselves. In an uncontrollable fit of hysterical giggling, Jim slipped off his chair and disappeared under the table. The last we saw of him were his two hands holding a knife and fork, which clawed the tablecloth in an endeavour to slow him down.

  Dad did his block. ‘Shut up and eat ya tea!’ he roared through a mouthful of meat, peas and potato.

  Dad gave Jim a kick under the table, which brought him to the surface smartly. In the process he cracked his head on the edge of the table.

  Now, Jim had finally put a slice of mutton in his mouth where there was already a well-sucked boiled lolly just before Uncle farted.

  When he hit his head he let out a yelp and then started to choke. Before anyone could do anything to help he coughed out the mutton and the lolly and made a bolt for the back door.

  The screen door from our kitchen to the back verandah was abused so many times in emergencies like that. Once again it was flung wide open beyond the manufacturer’s wildest expectations and then slammed shut.

  The mood changed very quickly. Suddenly things didn’t seem that funny anymore.

  Jim went to sit on the paling fence behind the shearer’s hut, which was a good defensive vantage point. Should an attack come from the house yard he could drop down into the orchard and make for the tank-stand behind the laundry. An attack from the rear could be countered by a quick drop into the house yard, where a number of escape routes were available. The safest hiding place of all was under our beds, should access be available through a vacant house.

  By the time the meal was over it was way past our bedtime. We had a wash outside by the laundry in an enamel basin, which sat on a large chopping block.

  Cold water and Sunlight soap soon put a shine on my face again and about then Jim decided that it was all clear to return to the ranks.