Wool Away, Boy!

by Alan Blunt

  The businessman hurried for the pub phone to call the law, while the Scotsman did a triumphant jig and clapped his hands as he challenged. ‘Has he got any mates want to try their luck with wee Scotty?’ While most silently glared disgust at this arrogant grandstanding, one scrawny old timer shouted belligerently, ‘Hang around for five minutes, sport, and I’ll fetch half a dozen boys who’ll tan yer bloody hide for peanuts, yer loud-mouth bastard. Pickin’ on poor old Fred! Yer nothin’ but a pie-eater!’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Grandpa,’ Scotty patronised, and fixed on me. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’ he accused. ‘Yes! You! The bloke with the bugle big enough to pipe the Last Post.’

  I had long before learnt to laugh with mates making fun of my prominent nose, but strangers and acquaintances taking liberties got my back up. I had recognised the Scotsman, sans glasses and hat, as he stripped; pictured him clean-shaven, crew-cut and vicious, as he had appeared at Malboona shed during our violent encounter three years earlier.

  His annihilation of the ageing, drink-sodden Fred was ruthlessly efficient, but any sober bush pug could put together a combination of punches which would KO the likes of Fred. It would be a hard fight, and there was no way out of it with self-respect intact, but I was confident I could take him in a clean fight – or under Rafferty’s rules. Scotty remembered me, but he’d be shocked by the strength, experience and confidence his opponent had gained in three years.

  Even so, I didn’t like the odds: there wasn’t a likely looking referee among the bystanders, I had no back stop, and I knew from experience that Scotty would respect the Marquess of Queensberry only while he was winning – if at all. Besides, the Scotsman’s hatchet-faced offsiders looked like they would pawn their grandmother’s false gold tooth, or gang-bash a schoolboy for his lunch money.

  Scotty was grandstanding again, fancy dancing about the centre of the ring of spectators, laughing and addressing them. It was the display of a stoush artist who gloried in picking a blue – and didn’t doubt the outcome. He played the audience, revelling in their attention, as much to bolster his own confidence as to destroy his opponent’s. Grinning, he jigged and jibed. ‘The laddie will show the white feather to the wee Scot. He’s a gutless wonder; his lovely mother suckled a squib.’

  I felt my gut harden as insults turned adrenaline into anger and fuelled hunger for revenge. I kicked off my thongs to fight in shorts and T-shirt; I’d seen mugs king-hit as they struggled to remove a shirt. Besides, the fabric would absorb punches a trifle and hide the damage of body blows. As I shaped up and manoeuvred for an opening, I was relieved by Terry’s unmistakable voice booming support, conveying both promise and threat. ‘I’m with you, mate. Get on with the job. I’ll keep these toe-rags in their place.’ The big shearer had come in late, summed up the situation, and taken a stand close behind Scotty’s flunkies.

  I struck first with a straight left, which crunched into the top of Scotty’s ducking skull, jarring my knuckles. Then he was in, ripping punches into my ribs that had me gasping. He side-stepped to swing a ‘finisher’ to the jaw, but I got a forearm around his neck, jerked his head downwards and dug in a couple of counter punches. The Scotsman had the best of the exchange. He snapped, ‘Fight fair, you bastard. No wrestling,’ as I skipped out of range to gather my wits and my wind.

  The watchers were quietly intent, while the fighters grunted and sucked breath. I was too engrossed in the contest to heed the thud of fist on flesh and bone, and abusive chat from Scotty. I ducked or parried punches, and from long-range I feinted for the head and punched for the body, while Scotty’s tactic was to duck and weave and close, so his pumping short arms could dictate the mill.

  I was a stone heavier and in better condition. Sensing Scotty was running out of steam, I went in hard. Our skulls clashed, and then my face was buried in his sweaty right shoulder, and I was pile-driving punches into his rib cage and belly. Driven backwards into the scrambling spectators, who were yelling for his blood, Scotty dropped, winded. There was no referee and no count. Cannily, he took his time while I waited and jibed, ‘C’mon! Yer counted out. Yer lovely mother raised a squib.’

  Scotty got up, pulling wind and clearly weakened. Over confident, I reckoned he was ready for the ‘finisher’, but he ducked my knockout punch, stepped swiftly and speared me head-first into the grass with a hip throw. Down and desperate, I parried his following kick with a forearm and brought him down with a leg throw. Now it was a berserker’s brawl. I was on top, punching furiously while one of the toe-rags was kicking my ribs – until Terry nearly beheaded him with a back-handed chop. Jerry pulled me off, shouting, ‘Break it up. Move! The cops will be here in a minute.’

  Scotty was breathing hard, bleeding and spitting chips. A born warrior, he snarled at me, ‘If you want some more, follow me!’

  My blood was up, and I moved to follow, but Terry grabbed my arm. ‘Steady on. Wait a bit! They’ve had enough – give ’em time to leg it.’

  Jerry handed me a double brandy and soda. ‘Get this in to you, cobber,’ he commanded, ‘and then slip upstairs to room five. Clean up, and stay there till I give you the all-clear.’

  I took stock in the mirror in room five. For all the ferocity of the battle, I had come out well: eyes and nose unmarked, a split lip, a bruised right ear trickling some claret, and a few hurtful bumps about the rib cage.

  I joined Terry, and Jerry pulled me a beer and leant confidentially on the bar. ‘A couple of the Queen’s finest called. They had a drink on the house and departed. But I’ll give you a piece of advice, son: keep out of the Scotty’s way. He’s a bad-un!’

  I was still riding high. ‘Be buggered!’ I protested. ‘I had the bastard beat. He was blowing like a broken-winded nag. I’ll see if I can line up a hundred quid bet and a fair dinkum ref, and I’ll punch holes in him.’

  Jerry spoke seriously. ‘My guess is they’ve hit the toe already. They’re Melbourne boys – wharfies’ mob. The law said they’ve got form. Apparently Scotty isn’t long out, having done time for armed robbery. You did well. He’s fought prelims and a ten-rounder or two at West Melbourne. Could be you’re lucky he isn’t in shape.’

  The news flattered me. I laughed and said, ‘Strewth! The way he started I reckoned he was Ray Robinson in Madison Square Garden. Anyway, Jerry, how did you get this info?’

  Jerry grinned and winked. ‘You give a bit, you get a bit.’

  Terry asked quietly, ‘What are they doing out this way?’

  ‘Lying low, I guess. They’ve been at a shed for three weeks. Scotty was shearing and his mates were shedhands. They cut-out on Friday and came to town last night and got on the piss. After this turnout they’ll shoot through.’

  I laughed. ‘Lying low? Crikey! They stuck out like a back-to-front collar in a brothel. When they came in I thought it was Darcy Dugan’s gang casing the joint.’ The fight had focused all my attention; now I noticed that Terry was wearing a beige summer sports coat and green tie, a rare turnout for a shearer’s Sunday drinking session.

  ‘Holy dooley! What’s the occasion?’ I queried.

  The staunch shearer mumbled to the bar top, ‘Church … I go to church now and then.’

  Returning, the barman refilled our glasses with an orange juice for Terry and a beer for me.

  ‘I’m closing up at one sharp,’ he declared. ‘Pub cricket comp. I’m the skipper. Would you blokes like a hit? Do you good, Presser – to run some of the bruises out.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘You too, Terry! You told me you cracked a ton or two for the old school, and you look as if a run’ll do yer good – if it doesn’t kill yer.’

  The barman went on his round, and Terry spoke to me confidentially. ‘Keep it quiet, mate, but the doc said I’ve got a dose of clap. No grog while I’m on penicillin. He gave me an injection. I need two more to clean it up. Would you do me the favour of running me to town on Monday night and Wednesday night?’

  ‘No trouble, Terry,’ I said, but I was flabberga
sted. Since penicillin had become available, gonorrhoea had become rare in the outback towns, yet the mythology persisted: ‘You can catch it off a dunny seat, mate, or kissing a sheila whose got a load; and a cook whose got a dose will turn fresh meat bad in an hour.’

  I knew it was bullshit, yet I caught myself shrinking back from Terry. Terry caught on and chuckled sardonically. ‘It’s not the Black Arabian Pox,’ he said quietly.

  Later, he said privately, ‘Talk about stiff luck: the last woman I cohabitated with was my wife, and that was three years ago. I landed in Sydney and felt like I needed a woman – for the first time in years. I never had much courage to go dancing, so I slung a taxi driver a fiver. He introduced me to this attractive young blonde. Moira was stylishly turned out, she had manners, was reserved and well spoken – you’d reckon she graduated from a posh young ladies finishing college.’

  ‘Maybe she did,’ I said.

  ‘More likely the University of Hard Cocks,’ Terry said shortly.

  ‘Only a fiver, and a dose chucked in for a night at her place?’ I queried.

  ‘Yeah, plus another forty quid, and dinner and drinks.’

  The sun was a scorcher when we took the field – about seventeen players a side. Jerry won the toss and padded up with Terry. The medium-paced attack wouldn’t attract the state selectors, but it was good enough to allow the paunchy shearer to demonstrate that his natural ball sense had been enhanced by public school coaching. Penetrating the cluttered field, he machine-gunned the boundaries with drives, cuts and hooks, and occasionally lumbered between wickets with the stately reluctance of an ageing WG Grace. He retired on thirty-six, blowing like a beached whale.

  At the other end Jerry, opting for over the top, skied out on fifty. He declared on 120, and then took six wickets in three eight-ball overs. The opposing top order survived rockets which hummed about their ears as they went through to the distant keeper, before being bowled by full tosses they mistook for hand grenades while defending from square leg. They were not happy.

  Their skipper bailed Jerry up. ‘You’re new here, big fella. But you ain’t Keith Miller and we’re not playing for the Ashes! These blokes have got to be at work on Monday. The doctor’s not on duty to patch ’em up, and we ain’t got a first-aid kit.’ Stabbing an index finger into the big bowler’s wish bone, he roared, ‘Pub rules: nobody bowls more than three overs. You’re off.’

  The opposition mustered sixteen out for eighty before both teams adjourned to the pub for a free round and a loser’s shout.

  14

  HAPPY JACK’S LAST POST

  The owners wanted ten shearers at Kahmoo, some eleven miles from Cunnamulla, but only eight could be found: Yabba, Carl, Terry, Scrubber, a couple of young cocky’s sons from New South Wales, and Les and Frankie (two boozy itinerants who said they hailed from ‘not far from a pub’). Brian was classer/overseer, Happy Jack was the babbler, Curly and a Cunnamulla lad were picker-ups, and three middle-aged blokes from Charleville were wool rollers and piece-pickers.

  I wasn’t overjoyed to see Scrubber, recalling a sawn-off scrapper who’d tried to punch my lights out in ‘friendly’ spars three years earlier. A Goondiwindi lad, I met him when he arrived at a district shed in a VW Beetle he’d paid a deposit on six months earlier. It seemed he took ‘Drive away, no more to pay’ literally, for he boasted he hadn’t made a single repayment since.

  We had been tucking into dinner a few days later when two young blokes drove up in a Holden sedan. ‘Mizzenmast’ Fred, our boisterous Swedish babbler, invited Callum and Noel to take a plate, as was the custom. Mizzenmast, who had sailed the seven seas before jumping ship in Australia in 1934, amused us with stories about the wild-looking Nordic gods and shameless naked women tattooed on his arms and back.

  When the visitors innocently admitted they were repossession agents, Mizzenmast exploded into profanity in several languages and banished them to a table on the verandah. ‘Out, out,’ he raged. ‘You are capitalist crawlers, not fit to eat vit good men.’

  We were silently slipping into plum duff with custard when a rousie yelled, ‘Hey! Those jokers are pinchin’ Scrubber’s car!’

  Men boiled from the mess, screaming abuse and curses, and war-danced around the V-Dub. Mizzenmast wielded a meat cleaver which went close to accidentally beheading Scrubber as he took a punch at the callow youth behind the wheel. But the doors were locked and the windows wound, and Scrubber’s knuckles crunched on the shatterproof glass. He swore in frustration as the terrified driver revved the motor. The Beetle might have bowled over half the team, but the other half had lifted the rear end and suspended it on two four-gallon drums; the motor roared and the wheels spun madly, but there was no take-off, and the boys dropped back with jeers and cheers until the engine stopped.

  Yabba, as usual, was the Union rep. After relieving Mizzenmast of the meat-axe, the ex-platoon sergeant left the Volkswagen to his troops and besieged headquarters. He swung the door of the Holden sedan open, ordered the repossession agent out, and bellowed at the jostling team: ‘Righto! Give us room and keep quiet, you blokes. Let this man have his say and we’ll make some sense out of this.’

  You had to admire Callum’s coolness under fire. He eased from behind the wheel, lit a man-sized Marlboro and passed the pack around. Apart from Scrubber’s threats, the team held its peace while negotiations went on for a few minutes. Arthur, the amiable overseer/classer, was six foot two, fifteen stone and nineteen years of age. He said Scrubber had enough sheep shorn to pay for two monthly instalments. Scrubber was an argumentative little bugger at the best of times and he didn’t like it, but Yabba twisted his ear and roared, ‘You’re copping it sweet, boy. Now sign this cheque over and shut up.’

  Scrubber paid two instalments and kept the VW – on the condition that he would come good with the arrears within six months. A couple of years later at Aberfoyle shearing shed via Hughenden, when Mizzenmast, Scrubber and I next worked together, the babbler jocularly remarked that the battered Beetle looked as if it had been parked on an army mortar range.

  ‘Oh yeah!’ the prickly little shearer perked. ‘And I haven’t paid those smart bastards another brass razoo.’

  We signed on at Kahmoo on a steamy Monday morning. The team pulled into gear, and I wandered about the shearing shed, waiting for the bins to gather enough wool to bale up.

  From a cocky’s or contract presser’s point of view the team didn’t look too bright. The brothers were only advanced learner shearers, and Scrubber and Les had hangovers. They were all clearly snaggers, using jabs and short blows rather than long rhythmic movements. Frankie was also boozed out, but he patterned his sheep with stylish easy rhythm, and clearly he had been a good ’un – maybe even a gun – before grog took its toll. Terry, too, had the inherent rhythm of the born athlete, but the fat man was distressed, hanging over the pen gate after every few sheep. Dripping sweat, he said, ‘You and your bloody cricket, Alan. I’m as stiff and sore as a drover’s dog.’ I shore a few ewes to give him a spell.

  Yabba and Carl were only solid, average shearers, but they had job pride and were work fit, and they took the lead shearing dense-wooled merino ewes – not large or ‘necky’, but hard pushing. If the station owners reasonably expected eight shearers to tally 1000 shornies plus per day they were disappointed with 700 per day that first week; especially as they had wanted a full board of ten shearers.

  On Tuesday and Wednesday nights Scrubber and Les and Frankie piled into Scrubber’s VW and hit the pub till late. Grog sick again on the following mornings, their work did little to boost the team’s tallies. The overseer was disappointed, but he couldn’t do much about it; he couldn’t sack men for boozing in their own time as long as they were on the job and shore cleanly; and with the shearing season well underway reliable shearers were as hard to find as feathered frogs.

  By Friday Terry had finished his course of antibiotics, and four days of shearing in a furnace had sweated a stone off him. He punished himself by moving
up a couple of gears, and Frankie, who had given his metabolism a break by hitting the sack early on Thursday night, went with him. After smoko, Brian commented sarcastically to me, ‘Seven hundred and fifty counted out and a run to go. I’ve got a team of guns!’

  That evening, I grinned and said privately to an exhausted Terry, ‘A hundred and fifty’s not a bad tally for a fat man with a broken heart, recovering from a dose of the clap.’

  ‘Thank Christ I’ve finished the penicillin!’ Terry declared. ‘Hand me a longneck, mate.’

  I had expected to have ten solid shearers on the board, hard yakka for at least forty-odd bales a day, and a fat cheque at cut-out. ‘Set the pace, Terry,’ I said, ‘and I might still earn a quid in this cracker.’ But that first week wasn’t promising: half the team it seemed were alcoholics, more interested in complaining than yarning or cards. After tea I drove to Cunnamulla with Terry and Carl and Curly for a few cheerful revivers. We were back by ten o’clock, singing and joking, a bad week behind us.

  On Saturday morning Carl and Curly and I shook off mild hangovers and joined the brothers fossicking through the station rubbish dump. For hours we inspected the discarded power sources and transports of earlier generations: wrecks of old steam and fuel stationary engines, a wool-wagon, a buggy, sulkies, trucks and cars. Before the decade was out city collectors would discover these unattended outback museums, and carry away for restoration countless relics of horse-drawn society and hundreds of decaying Chevs and Whippets, T-Model Fords, Willys and Hupmobiles, and occasionally the corpse of a Mercedes, Itala or Packard that had once been the carriage of a proud western wool baron.