Wool Away, Boy!

by Alan Blunt

  I grinned. I liked singing and stirring the possum, and I thought it ironic that I should learn the lyrics of old Australian folk songs off an American. Most singers I met in the bush would regale with pop songs from the Hit Parade and old Irish classics. They only knew a few choruses and verses from our great repertoire of bush song with its rebel heart, humour and scorn of privilege.

  Unfortunately, along with his culinary skill and dedication, The Eagle soon displayed moodiness and a bullying streak. This drew little comment from his workmates because it was accepted that the better the cook the crankier he was likely to be, although a warning might go around: ‘Lookout for the babbler this morning, mate. He’s as pissed off as a pregnant wife on washing day.’

  Like most bullies The Eagle needed to bolster his self-esteem by brow-beating someone he believed could not retaliate – not someone entirely defenceless, for the bully’s ego requires a victim who fights back, but someone who can be antagonised and crushed at the bully’s whim, like a cat with a mouse. He picked on Wide Awake because he was an outsider who was lippy enough to make amusement, but not big enough or important enough to strike back effectively.

  Running the length of the shearing board eight hours a day, carrying and throwing weighty fleeces, Jimmy burnt up a power of energy and worked up a healthy appetite. Coming up behind him at the mess table one night the big babbler set his target up. ‘How many brothers and sisters have you got?’ he asked.

  ‘Nine sisters and eight brothers,’ Wide Awake jested between bites. The ridiculous reply suited The Eagle’s purpose better than the truth, and he swooped. ‘You must be the runt of the litter; all runts are gluttons. Leave some for other people, you greedy whelp.’ He looked around the table as if expecting an approving laugh, but his caustic attack earned only the censure of silence as Jimmy ignored him, and hungry men continued eating.

  The next night when Jimmy scraped his plate and placed it in the wash-up tub, The Eagle grabbed his wrist. ‘Can’t you do anything right? Scrape it properly, you lazy runt!’ Jimmy scraped the plate again, and then said brightly, ‘Sorry, chef. I’ll do better next time.’ He went out whistling merrily.

  He was a tuneful whistler, and he had a pleasing light tenor voice. At that time blokes were often heard singing and whistling snatches of Hit Parade numbers and old favourites around the huts and on the job, but Jimmy was special: he knew the songs right through and had the confidence to stand up and sing them on request. The Eagle’s reaction to Jimmy’s whistling was to snarl, ‘Shut-up, Runt! Don’t whistle in my kitchen. I’m listening to the radio.’ It was an attitude and voice he reserved solely for Jimmy.

  Since the success of the shearing industry’s epic struggles to unionise against wage slavery in the 1880s and 1890s, the bush workers had harboured a rugged sense of democracy. ‘Fair go, mate’ had become the first commandment of the itinerant shearer’s culture. Thus Les Goodman, as shed rep, had a quiet yarn with Bert and me, his committee men, and Rooster sat in. ‘The cook’s making it hard for Wide Awake,’ the rep declared. ‘He’s standing over the little bloke. Do you think I should give him a word to go easy?’

  ‘Not on yer Nellie,’ Rooster said emphatically. ‘Jimmy’s cheeky enough to look after himself. Chuck a grenade under The Eagle and London to a brick we lose a good cook. Besides, Wide Awake is giggin’ the cook, whistling and stirring him. This morning he told The Bald Eagle he could get him a wig on the cheap, made of canary feathers!’

  When the chuckling subsided, Bert said, ‘I’m with Rooster. I’m as crooked as the next bloke on standover coves, but let’s leave it for a day or two. With a bit of luck the babbler might start picking on someone else – like you, Les, or the classer or the presser.’ He added with a chuckle, ‘He’s too bloody big for me!’

  Within a day of our meeting, Jimmy came in to the kitchen wearing thongs. Union men since long before my time had established a basic code of cleanliness, health, dress and respect for each other. The scowling cook singled Jimmy out, ordering him to don shoes. When he came in wearing an unbuttoned cardigan which revealed his puny hairless chest, The Eagle bellowed, ‘Go and put a shirt on, Runt. Have some respect. You’re not at home now! Were you brought up in a pigsty?’

  I usually finished work about twenty minutes before the boss rang the knock-off bell and this day was no exception. I went back to my room and found that some mail had arrived. Inside a brown foolscap envelope addressed to me was another addressed to Jimmy G in a neat feminine hand. I left it on Jimmy’s bed and went for a training run. When I jogged back the shedhand was still in his greasy work clothes – shorts, T-shirt and sandshoes – sitting on his bed, elbows on knees, head in his hands. ‘Cheer up, champ,’ I said, hurrying out to shower. On my return Jimmy’s attitude hadn’t changed. ‘What’s up, mate?’ I asked.

  Jimmy replied brokenly, ‘It’s alright. Just my boy’s in hospital; broke his thigh. I should be with him.’ Although he usually steadfastly refused alcohol while in the bush, Jimmy now joined me in a can of VB.

  Leaving him unwashed and hunched in the gloom I went for tea. The Eagle stood over me as I bent to scrape my plate. ‘Where’s the bloody runt?’ he snarled. ‘The little shit’s trying to annoy me again, is he? Tell him he’s got five minutes to get a feed or he can go hungry.’

  I picked up a clean plate and loaded it with roast meat and veggies. ‘Where do you think you’re going with that?’ The Eagle bellowed. Ignoring the big man, I took the meal to my mate.

  Jimmy ate and showered. He’d often talked about ‘little Jim’ with pride and humour, but now spoke only to ask if he could borrow a few cans from my carton of VB. ‘Go for it, mate,’ I said, and he drank beer and smoked and walked till the small hours.

  In the morning he drove to the homestead in my VW and phoned Sydney. ‘Little Jim is doing alright’ was his brief report when he returned, but his mood remained sombre, and all day he went silently about his work, oblivious to the friendly jokes and repartee of his workmates and The Eagle’s bullying jibes.

  The dining room and kitchen were screened against insects, particularly flies which swarmed in the summer time. With the chill of winter almost on them, however, the insects had vanished and The Eagle had jammed the door wide open to make it easier for him to come and go.

  Jimmy followed three or four others into the kitchen and The Eagle swooped. ‘Close the door, Runt. Where were you bloody well reared – in a tent or a pigsty?’

  Quietly, Jimmy closed the door and served his meal. Absorbed in his personal worries he ate quietly, scraped his plate and left the table.

  The Eagle was annoyed by his victim’s passivity. He screeched as the rousie approached the exit. ‘Don’t forget to close the door, Runt! And answer when you’re addressed by your betters! Where were you born anyway – in a pigsty or a tent?’

  The rep called sternly, ‘Lay off the lad, Eagle! He’s having a hard enough time; he’s got family troubles.’

  But The Eagle paid no heed. And neither did Wide Awake, who had turned back from the door. ‘Maybe it was a tent,’ he snapped. ‘Maybe it was Jimmy Sharman’s tent.’

  The cook bore down on him: a trumpeting, charging white elephant, bellowing, ‘Lip me in my kitchen, Runt, and I’ll kick your arse till it’s red raw.’

  Wide Awake danced a boxer’s side-step, and swung a leaping left-hook from his hip to the butt of The Bald Eagle’s ear. Then he was back in front of his man, dancing, about to fire a finishing combination, but the big man was out on his feet. He sat down with a seventeen-stone thump that shook the kitchen and rattled the crockery.

  Half the team rushed to the cook to inspect the damage and raise him to a chair, but Rooster, his contentment fortified by a brace of over-proof Bundy rums, only stopped eating to declare, ‘Yer wouldn’t read about it in Pix! The pygmy burrs up and drops the giant! It’s the biggest upset since Jonah swallowed the whale!’

  I swiftly followed Jimmy G and found him sitting on his bed, anxious and breathing heav
ily. ‘Can you run me to town, mate?’ he asked. ‘I guess I better pull out before Frank sacks me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the pitch and toss, mate,’ I reassured him, knowing that the boss would be on Jimmy’s side. ‘The rep and the boss will have a yarn to The Eagle. Everyone knows he had it coming. They just didn’t think you had the heft to do it. Les would have pulled him into gear in a day or two.’ I broke the seal on a flask of hospital brandy that had been resting in my first-aid kit for half a year. ‘Have a shot of this, mate. It’ll settle you down. That was the best left-hook I’ve seen since Punchy Roberts decked me a couple of years ago in Goondiwindi – but, on second thoughts, I didn’t see that one coming.’

  Wallowing in self-pity, The Eagle retreated to his room. After a few volunteers finished the washing-up and tidied up the kitchen, the team mustered outdoors around the campfire to yarn and laugh over the unscheduled entertainment. A few minutes later, Jimmy – cheered by the flask of brandy – pulled up a stump. He couldn’t be induced to expound on his boxing career. ‘Just a lucky punch,’ he told us. ‘Like I said, I’m a lover not a fighter.’

  The general opinion was ten to one that The Eagle would roll his swag – until the rep joined them. ‘The Eagle has talked things over with me and Frank,’ he said, ‘and it looks like he’s going to stay … But Wide Awake will have to apologise.’

  ‘Like bloody hell I will!’ Jimmy spluttered.

  Les laughed and patted the shedhand’s shoulder. ‘Come on, lad. Consider yourself lucky. The Eagle says if you weren’t such a runt he’d have got up and punched you into the middle of next week.’ He waited for the laughter to fade before giving me a knowing nod and adding with finality, ‘No need to make it a legal matter, Wide Awake. Leave it till the morning and just say you’re sorry. Talk it over with your mate.’

  Jimmy and I lubricated our souls well into the night over a few tinnies with stories of life and sport – and family.

  The atmosphere at breakfast time was as tense as a magistrate’s court when Jimmy came in. Fronting The Eagle, he said firmly, ‘Sorry about last night, Eagle. I lost my temper.’

  ‘You’re lucky I didn’t lose my temper,’ The Eagle said aggressively. ‘We’ll settle this after the shed cuts out.’ But he didn’t look confident; and he failed to meet Jimmy’s gaze as they shook hands.

  That night after tea the rep and Rooster visited Jimmy and me. ‘You did well, Wide Awake,’ Les said. ‘I reckon you won’t have any more trouble with The Eagle. But don’t stir him! We don’t want to lose a good babbler.’

  Rooster added, ‘That’s right – and look out for the big bastard in town. If he gets up a skinful of Dutch courage he’ll take a swing at you. His size bluffs most blokes, and he picks his mark. And he’s a well-known king-hit merchant.’

  The team worked on. For the sake of harmony it was taboo to mention the fight in The Eagle’s presence, but Jimmy copped plenty of ribbing. Rooster offered to train him for a heavyweight fight with Floyd Patterson, the world champ. ‘You’ll have to carry a couple of anvils to make up weight, Wider – and give up smoking.’ Jimmy said the anvils would be no trouble, but he wouldn’t quit the fags.

  The Charleville Show came, and I had a couple of scraps in the boxing tent. Despite the urging of his mates to ‘Glove up and have a go, Wider,’ Jimmy stayed in the bush. I surmised that he was afraid of being recognised.

  We cut-out the shed and the team grew from six to eight shearers to sign on at Pinkilla for four weeks’ work. The sheep carried a lot of wool, and my maturing young body was suffering by the end of the first week, even as it was strengthened by the rigours of constant heavy labour. I was proud to keep up with the shearers, pressing forty bales a day without working overtime of a night. My technique developed as I adapted to the moods and mechanics of the Ferrier press, and most days during the dinner hour and smokos Jimmy gave a hand lifting butts of bellies and locks, which were bales of oddments from the board that were filled by hand.

  By Friday knock-off I was rung-out. My muscles and sinews were drained of all energy save the willpower which drove them. Halfway through the third week, however, my stamina and technique had improved and I was confident I would complete the contract on my own. But on the Wednesday after smoko the classer braced me. ‘Alex seems to think you’re working too hard for a young fella. He’s putting an offsider on next week, Red Johnson, to give you a blow.’

  ‘What! I’m doing the job, aren’t I?’ I protested.

  ‘Yes, you’re doing a good job. Just settle down and think it over. The fact is the Old Boss wants to keep Red on the payroll. His team cuts out on Friday. There’s a bit of crutching for the shearers but no work for the presser. Come July, Alex says there’ll be more work than you can poke a stick at – so he wants to hang on to Red.’

  My earnings would be cut in half, but it wasn’t the loss of money that was the problem: my pride was hurt. ‘I understood I had the shed on my own,’ I snapped, as I strode angrily into a bin piled with fine wool to gather an armful.

  The classer watched me heave armfuls of fleeces into the top box, climb swiftly up and tramp the wool. With both boxes loaded and tramped twice, I mounted the counter-weight bag and, driving with my legs off the upright pole, plunged nine feet to the floor, pulling the top box over on its pivot to fit above the bottom box. The two boxes now stood ten feet tall, and the five by three inch greased hardwood spear with its pulleys and wire ropes towered another eight feet. I dropped the spear onto the monkey board on top of the wool, connected the pulley wires to the windlass and took up the slack with the handle, before picking up the iron lever and swinging into a regular stroke to compact 350 pounds of wool into the bottom box.

  Sweating freely while recovering my wind with measured breathing, I fastened the bale and rolled it onto the scales, where I weighed and branded it with the station name – Pinkilla – above the wool grading of AAA and the bale number below. Rolling the bale from the scale I felt the usual satisfaction with the sight, weight and firmness of my labour.

  The classer had watched patiently for ten minutes. ‘I know the Old Boss is rough around the edges,’ he said, ‘but he’s a trump. He looks after his men. He likes you, lad, and he doesn’t want to see you bust yourself. You’re a lightweight for a presser, you know, and you’re still growing.’

  ‘I know he’s a good boss. My dad often tells me he is and some of you blokes have worked with him for years. But it makes no difference. He didn’t say anything about putting another presser on before the sign-on,’ I said, selectively forgetting our actual conversation.

  ‘And he didn’t say he wouldn’t. This is a pretty fast team, and the sheep are cutting more wool than usual. Alex is a man of his word – and proud of it. You’d be well advised not to suggest otherwise.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said curtly, before plunging into a bin of combing wool to gather an armful for the next bale. The classer returned to his table, where the waiting fleeces had overflowed onto the floor.

  Following my words with the classer I called it a day and hurried to an early shower. I returned to find Jimmy, just arrived from toil, eyeing a bundle of mail the rep had dropped on my bed. I glanced through the addresses and said, ‘No luck, Wide Awake.’

  The mail came once or twice a week, and most deliveries brought Jimmy a foolscap envelope under my address, containing several letters. Jimmy would read them immediately, his smiles, frowns and chuckles reflecting the content – usually family affairs, some of which he relayed. Little Jimmy, I discovered, was at home and in plaster, but on the mend. I became vaguely familiar with his wife, Janice, and little Jim’s kid sister, Carmel, who was ‘as sweet as a lolly and bright as a sunflower’. His father and older brother, however, remained obscure. I didn’t inquire, but given Jimmy’s resume and mail arrangement I wondered if they might be at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

  Jimmy inquired anxiously, ‘What’s in the parcel?’

  I grinned. ‘Mine! Get your eyes off that parcel, Wi
der! That contains two books I’ve been waiting for from the Queensland Book Depot.’ But when I removed the brown paper, I was disappointed to discover a smaller parcel directed to Jimmy G in a familiar feminine hand. It was Jimmy’s turn to grin as he fondled his parcel with delight, then placed it, unopened, in his port and locked the lid.

  ‘A singular and most unexpected reaction, old chap,’ I observed in my version of an Oxford accent. ‘What the hell’s in it? Nitroglycerine or ten quid notes?’

  ‘Just a birthday present, mate. I’ll be twenty-six in a couple of weeks. That’s when I’ll open it.’

  I didn’t believe him for a second but knew better than to ask. ‘Could be nitro, but I’ll back a swag of tenners,’ I said.

  Red Johnson proved to be a jovial big lump of a bloke with a muscular worker’s beer gut and a fierce red beard. He was strong alright, but he hadn’t developed a rhythmic method of distributing his energy; and as he was making a comeback to wool pressing he wasn’t in good shape. Not that it mattered: with two men on the lever for eight shearers we had time to spare.

  Although work was a lot easier, I was still resentful of Alex employing a second presser. I was aware the dint to my pride was clouding my mood, but I wanted to build a reputation as a coming gun presser – and having an offsider to keep the wool away for eight shearers didn’t fit with this self-image.

  The next Monday night Jimmy and I took a shower and drove to Quilpie before tea. We had the usual feed of steak, eggs and chips at a cafe before going to the post office. I phoned Bill Blackwood in Hughenden and booked a pressing run starting the first Monday in July at Aberfoyle station. I then phoned Alex and told him my services wouldn’t be available after Pinkilla. The Old Boss didn’t hide his hurt, and gave me a memorable dressing-down. Jimmy also gave notice and then rang someone in Sydney and engaged in a brief conversation. ‘Janice and the kids left Sydney this morning,’ he reported. With all his love of camaraderie Jimmy was cautious and only hinted at his plan. We went to a pub and Jimmy fed the jukebox. Jimmie Rodgers lively hit song ‘Honeycomb’ came on.