Next morning she drove us out to the Bruce Highway, and on the way told us about a lady called Mrs McDonald who was the secretary of the Proserpine Show and chief hirer and firer of the casual labour used over the week the show took to set up, run and dismantle. “It starts in a few days, I think, there’s usually plenty of work. Call in and look her up. You can mention my name.” After this Mrs Hayes was silent as she drove us up the highway for a few miles, almost as if she was as reluctant to part with our company as we were with hers. Eventually she stopped and we got out and stood beside the Jeep. “Take care of yourselves, boys.” She extended her bony hand and we could still hear the two Jessies barking their farewell when the Jeep was long out of sight.
TEN
The Proserpine Show:
Jimmy Sharman and Carol
Yeppon had left its mark on us, physically and mentally, not that we could have explained the mental bit. We weren’t sad or pissed off or anything, but we sat on our new rucksacks beside the road in contemplative silence for over two hours after Mrs Hayes dropped us off, not one vehicle passing by in either direction. Strangely, the atmosphere seemed to match our mood; it wasn’t particularly hot but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky or a breath of wind, and once the noise of the Jeep and the barking Jessies faded away it was almost eerily still and quiet. The silence seemed to press down on us, and I am certain both Glen and I experienced the same feeling; that we were somehow suddenly completely alone in the world, cut off from society. When a crow squawked in the distance it wasn’t a harsh, unpleasant sound but a comforting reassurance, and we both looked in the direction it had come from.
“You okay? You’ve gone all quiet again.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just thinking how different everybody is,” and Glen looked at me in astonishment.
“I was just thinking something like that!”
I don’t believe we were gratuitous about it, and we certainly didn’t plan things around it or play on it; more it was instinctive, I suppose, but the further we went it was impossible not to be aware of the effect we had on people. Constable Waring was right. Young, seemingly homeless Pommie teenagers hitchhiking about the country were not exactly an everyday sight. From ‘Uncle’ Alf to Sergeant Pearce, the Molinaris and ‘Aunty’ Marge, and just about everyone in between, it seemed that people were not only surprised when we turned up on their doorsteps or got into their cars, but most were helpful, generous, even concerned about us. Of course, being well-endowed with teenage disdain for concern about anything, we were rarely worried about ourselves, but we were increasingly conscious that the concerns of others helped us enormously, and that without this help we would never have got as far as we had and would probably have turned back weeks before. We didn’t speak of it, but so common was this generosity and help that when somebody didn’t buy us a meal or offer us a bed it was conspicuous.
Which is why Sam Barker stood out a bit; not that he was nasty or anything. In fact, he was as chatty and friendly as anybody we’d met so far. I suppose the reason he didn’t fawn over us or wasn’t particularly surprised by what we were doing was because he had led a disjointed, nomadic existence for much of his life himself, starting as a child during the Depression. When Sam was eight his father had ‘hit the roads’, as many had at the time in search of work. What was slightly more unusual was that Sam’s dad had taken his entire family with him: his mother, his wife and three children.
“Slept many a night under the stars,” Sam told us. “Me and me little sisters loved it. We thought it was a great adventure, but I don’t think me mum and gran was too keen.” He grimaced. “Oh, I remember being hungry a lot and sometimes real cold, but I guess because we were all together it wasn’t so bad. ‘A trouble shared is a crisis spared’ me gran always used to say. Me dad got work eventually, but it was never permanent and we moved about a lot, living in barns, renting shacks. One way or another I’ve been on the road ever since,” he grinned. “Still am, I guess,” and he waved at the suitcase on the back seat of his car and the shirts hanging from the back window. Not that he was a bum or vagrant or anything; his clothes and car told us that. It was an immaculate black 1954 Chrysler Imperial sedan, and pulling up in front of us he’d cleared the bench seat next to him of papers and things and flung open the door with a cheery welcome: “Gidday boys, goin’ to Mackay, hop in!”
Sam Barker was a one-man advance party for Bullen’s Circus. His job was to go to the towns and cities ahead of the circus, organise dates and venues and put up posters and billboards advertising its coming. The back of his car and the boot were stuffed with posters and other literature, the majority of the posters showing elephants performing various feats and acts. “Elephants are our big attraction,” Sam explained proudly. “Mr Bullen and his sons have bred and trained them for years. There’s not many in Australia know more about elephants.” He and his wife, who also worked with the circus as the clown’s make-up artist and ticket seller, lived in a caravan on site. “I’m not home much. Sometimes I’m weeks, even months ahead of them, then I’ll go back and stay for a while before I set off again. I’m always on the road. Not that I mind,” he grinned. “I love it,” and he turned up the radio as the roomy Chrysler flashed through the Queensland countryside, gliding smoothly over the bumps like only the cushioned absorbers of those lovely 1950s American cars allowed, with Dion providing the rhythm.
“… and when she asks me, which one I love best?
I tear open my shirt I got Rosie on my chest.
They call me the wanderer, yeah I’m a wanderer,
I go around, around …”
At his suggestion, Sam dropped us off near the railway yards in Mackay at about five that evening and we headed straight for the truck stop cafe opposite. There were plenty of trucks parked in the yard, and one of them was bound to be going our way. The woman who ran the cafe was called Molly. Plump and matronly, she was known to all the truckies as ‘Good Golly’ and she more than made up for Sam’s lack of surprise and concern about us.
“Sydney! My, you are a long way from home. What are you doing way up here?”
After we’d eaten she came across to our table to clear the dishes away. It was beginning to get dark, and she looked outside.
“Where will you sleep tonight?”
See! It wasn’t any of our doing! She asked!
Within an hour we were settling down on two mattresses she put on the floor for us in a store room behind the kitchen. Not only that, but on hearing we wanted to get to Proserpine the next day she’d arranged a lift with a driver she knew was going there in the morning, and pointed his truck out to us.
“He’s staying the night in the hotel down the road. You’ve got to be by his cab at four o’clock in the morning. I’ll wake you,” she smiled. Then she took her leave, saying over her shoulder, “If you want a drink or anything during the night, just help yourselves.”
“Good Golly Miss Molly, sure like to ball!”
Good Golly Miss Molly … !”
There were still two days to go before the Proserpine Show opened, but as we neared the ground the following afternoon and saw the hive of activity — the Ferris wheel and rides of the funfair, the marquees and tents being erected around the main arena, and the horse floats, cattle trucks and other vehicles waiting to get in — the excitement and anticipation came flooding back.
* * *
The mother of all agricultural shows, of course, was the Sydney Royal Easter Show and for weeks before it we used to save every penny we could get our hands on, or in my case steal the pennies if the opportunity arose. Mostly, though, we scrounged as many tips as we could from our paper rounds, scoured the suburb for empty lemonade bottles to return, or collected old newspapers for the fish and chip shop, three-pence a bundle they would give you. By the time show time came we might have fifteen or sixteen shillings, maybe even a pound, although it never seemed to last long and half way through the day we would have spent everything. But it was exciting with the show ba
gs, the wood chopping, the Grand Parade and of course the sideshows and funfairs, the helter-skelter and knock ’em downs, the fattest lady in the world, the dwarves, the man with three legs and the incomparable, the one and only ‘Jimmy Sharman’s Boxing Troupe’.
Before each show all the boxers would line up in their glittering dressing gowns on a ten-foot high catwalk erected along the front of the gaudy marquee, the canvas of which was daubed with dreadful paintings of past Australian boxing legends.
At the end of the catwalk a huge Piltdown of a man in a shiny red dressing gown constantly beat a large bass drum. His days in the ring may have been over but he still looked terrifying, his nose and ears bent and squashed, as if taped to his head. Then the canvas behind the catwalk was flung back and the sartorial, flamboyant Jimmy Sharman emerged to much fanfare, coils of smoke rising from the fat cigar he never seemed to smoke.
“Roll up! Roll Up! Roll up!” he shouted to make himself heard over the boom of the drum and the blaring music from the merry-go-round next door. “Go three, one-minute rounds with any of these champions and win ten shillings! Six boxers! Six weights! Six world champions!” he exaggerated without batting an eyelid, and Piltdown man almost burst the drum-skin in his enthusiasm.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I give you six of the world’s greatest boxers. At the far end, weighing two hundred and forty pounds, the unstoppable! The mighty! The unbeatable! Brute Brabazon!”
To a fearsome pounding by Piltdown man, Brute stepped forward, scowling down at the crowd now rapidly being drawn to the spectacle. Shaking his fist and beating his chest, he strutted above us, looking every inch the hard, mean bastard he undoubtedly was yet unable to conceal his flabby stomach, or the fact that he must be at least forty-five.
“Six hundred professional bouts and never beaten!” Jimmy enthused, his nose visibly growing longer. “Five hundred and seventy knockouts, thirty …”
“I could take ’im in one!” shouted a voice, cutting Jimmy off, and the crowd wheeled around, gasping at the audacity.
“Yessir!” shouted Jimmy gleefully. “Ladies and gentlemen, we might have our first contest. How much do you weigh, sir?”
Conveniently the man, who looked like Brute’s twin brother, was also almost exactly the right weight, and having given his details he was ushered inside the marquee to prepare for his bout. Meanwhile the crowd grew ever larger as Jimmy introduced the rest of his troupe: middleweights, welterweights, lightweights, all of whom were eventually challenged to a fight by someone in the crowd.
The first night I went, I thought it was the most magical and exciting thing I had ever seen. I had no idea it was in any way stage-managed. It cost a shilling to get in, and with funds tight, a couple of us boys snuck round the back and managed to crawl under the side of the tent, only to be spotted by one of the bouncers who grabbed us by the scruff of the neck. He was about to chuck us out when Jimmy appeared.
“Caught them sneaking in, Mr Sharman,” the bouncer explained.
“Let ’em be,” said Jimmy. “Come ’ere,” he commanded, and as we got to him he gave each of us a clip on the back of the head.
“Sit down there and don’t let me catch you again.”
We had the best seats in the house, on the floor right next to the ring; we could reach out and touch the boxers!
The ring was not raised up like a normal boxing ring and just two ropes enclosed it, with an inch of sawdust covering the hard dirt floor. Overhead a huge rectangular, grubby lightshade hung over the centre, a pale orange light filtering through the thick cigarette smoke. Completely encircling the ring were tiers of rickety wooden benches, five or six rows high, the top rows so close to the sloping roof of the tent that the people sitting up there had to lean forward. By fight time the tent was packed to the rafters, literally, and as the first boxers emerged the atmosphere was electrifying, with shouted bets and money changing hands all around the ring.
The referee was none other than Piltdown man, who was booed mercilessly when the first fight was stopped in the first round. Everybody wanted the challengers to win, obvious plant or not, and by the time the massive Brute Brabazon and his equally large challenger emerged the crowd had become restless. Most of the other fights had finished within two rounds, with the challengers being beaten easily or appearing not to try. Heated words were exchanged and Jimmy’s bouncers looked concerned. The two huge men entering the ring diverted attention for a moment, but soon cries of “Rubbish” and “Av-a-go ya mug” rang out as they spent the first two rounds locked in a blubbery embrace.
In the third round they came out snorting and snarling, the crowd by now baying for action. Suddenly Brute swung a wild haymaker that hit the challenger a glancing blow on the shoulder. Instantly he crashed to the sawdust as if pole-axed and lay there, eyes tightly shut but lids fluttering, like a child pretending to be asleep. This was too much. The crowd went berserk, screaming their disgust as much at the dreadful acting as anything else, some demanding their money back, and for a moment a riot looked to be on the cards but the bouncers moved in, rough and menacing, and the revolt was quelled. Besides, the highlight of the show was about to start.
Ernie Watson came into the ring and was greeted with a roar of cheering and applause. Outside, Ernie had been presented as a young country boy from Wilcannia, a half-caste Aboriginal who had never had a fight in his life. As if to highlight this amateurish status, Ernie didn’t have smart shiny shorts on like the others; he was still wearing his trousers, rolled up to the calf above his bare feet. By the end of the first round, however, the crowd sensed the stable boxer had a fight on his hands and expectation turned to excitement.
“Come on, Ernie, show these bastards how it’s done!”
Like the first, the second round was fairly even, although right at the end Ernie caught the stable boxer with a ripper, right on the button, and the excitement became pandemonium.
“Come on, Ernie! Come on, Ernie! Come on, Ernie!”
The last round was frenetic, punches being thrown wildly by both young men right up to the bell. It was close, but the crowd was sure and they let Piltdown know in no uncertain terms. He took an age to decide, his stubby pencil repeatedly going over his sweat-soaked notes. Eventually he made up his mind and lifted Ernie’s arm in the air. The crowd went mad, all else was forgotten and forgiven and Jimmy Sharman magically appeared in the ring, handing Ernie his money while soaking up the acclaim.
“Can I play a crowd or what?” his toothy grin asked as he circled the ring with the victorious Ernie, waving his fat cigar, knowing that the next time Ernie fights the crowd will be different and few will recognise him.
There was no doubt Jimmy Sharman understood the art of the showman, but his show was by no means all a sham and many challengers were genuine people from the crowd. Years later I discovered he did a great deal for boxing generally in Australia, especially helping young Aboriginal men whom he claimed were “born to fight”. Like many things from those days, Jimmy Sharman is no more, but boy, it was fantastic! Brutal at times, maybe, farcical at others perhaps, but always it was pure, magical, unadulterated theatre.
* * *
The truckie who’d given us a lift from Mackay dropped us off right outside the showground gates, and as we jumped down we were confronted by a large sign:
‘Absolutely no admittance without a badge or pass on set up days’. Two gate officials were making damn sure the rule was obeyed to the letter, causing a mini traffic jam. Isn’t it strange how officious gate officials always seem to get? Anyway, to avoid a confrontation we snuck in behind a truck.
“Oi, you two!” yelled a distinguished-looking older man we hadn’t noticed hovering in the background. His hat, tie and smart tweed jacket hosted a vast array of official-looking badges and agricultural paraphernalia. “Where are your badges?”
Shit!
“We’ve been told to report to Mrs McDonald,” I said, and just for a second he was taken aback slightly and checked his clipboard.
“Are you signed on as casuals?”
“Yes.”
“So where are your badges? What are your names?” he demanded, looking down at his clipboard again. I was trying to think up a plausible answer when Glen came to the rescue.
“Mrs McDonald is going to give them to us.”
Being able to lie with the utmost sincerity is as necessary for survival as a warm coat for those living on the margins of society. It was a skill Glen was obviously beginning to master, not that it cut any ice with old Badges. He didn’t believe a word of it. Fortunately, at that moment a lorry driver who’d been waiting to get in for some time came to our rescue, hooting impatiently, and the old man was obliged to see to him.
“I’ll check with Mrs McDonald, mind!” and he waved his finger at us. “And if I catch you about without a badge you’ll be for it, understand!”
We didn’t hang around any longer, and headed for several large marquees that looked like the main administrative area of the show. Halfway there we passed a stockman covered in dust and carrying a saddle on his shoulder. He was obviously not the slightest bit official, giving us a cheery wink and “Gidday, boys,” greeting, so I took the opportunity.
“Don’t know where we can find Mrs McDonald, do you?”
“Ah! Barnyard Betty!” he exclaimed with a grin. “Sure, she’s in the dining marquee there. Yer can’t miss her! Calf-bearing hips and tits yer could camp under! Better be careful, though. She eats boys like you for breakfast!” And chuckling to himself, he swung his saddle onto his other shoulder and went on his way.
He was right; Mrs Elizabeth McDonald truly was unmissable! She was wearing a bright woollen tartan skirt and heavy brogue shoes, but without doubt her most noticeable feature were her enormous breasts, a frilly blue blouse only emphasising their size. The most amazing thing was that they appeared to be virtually flat on top. It was as if she had a large tray strapped under her blouse and it was all we could do not to ogle them as we introduced ourselves.
Once a Pommie Swagman Page 13
