The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  The first fifteen minutes had the potential at any moment to erupt. Then it would be a true test. Word had it that this year these calves were bigger and livelier than usual. Even in the yards, the calves were anxious and wide-eyed, their flanks jerking up and down as they sucked in short breaths. As the wooden gates were about to be swung open to let the calves run onto the road, bystanders watched intently. Many locals were perched up on the yards waiting in anticipation, their legs hooked over the top rail, hats pushed back, chins on clenched fists, elbows on knees. It was a common scene at any sale, with the audience almost hoping for something to go wrong — anything that would test the drovers’ mettle and create an exciting, chaotic scene. Maybe there’d be a mini-stampede or a rogue calf — a frenzied young Hereford steer — tearing down the road, bellowing in fear, which could crash through any fence and cause many problems for the drovers. Old-timers told stories of such scenes. It would only take a car horn, a slamming door, or a loud shout to ignite the pent-up jitters of these calves. No one would dare …

  Rover, as I expected, was alert. Like a champion footballer, he anticipated movement. Working in yards at the sales was familiar to him. Many months before, I had used him in several sales, and he had done well. However, this was our first time droving a large mob; the packhorse had another young fellow leading him. Yes, now I would be a drover with my own section to look after.

  The gates creaked open and the calves ran out — but they didn’t rush. Alan Taylor had to count them as they ran out onto the road. As mentioned, always, at the start, some calves would attempt to run off, play the leader and, invariably, others would follow. It happened this time, too, and a drover quickly headed them in the right direction. A stray calf ran off, and Rover immediately earned his colours. It was exciting. A few whips were cracked, but only when necessary.

  After some order was established, we headed the mob across the plains past Hinnomunjie and down to Omeo. It was a striking sight. The calves sold in these sales were always in prime condition, of good breeding and, apart from the odd one, always Herefords. At Omeo, there would be more calves from that sale. Within a day, Rover was a veteran. I kept looking, learning, and receiving instructions. Again, we were camping out and cooking our meals around an open fire. Several drovers mentioned Rover that first night. The boss liked what he saw.

  From Omeo, it was down the Gap to Swifts Creek and then on to Ensay, all the way picking up more calves from annual sales. By now, the mob had swelled into the hundreds.

  After Swifts Creek, Rover, Swanee, and I felt at home in the middle of the mob. I was enjoying looking after my own small herd. Already I had detected some calves that had certain traits and characteristics. There was a leader, a wanderer, a dopey one that walked into posts, and a couple that hung back, seemingly enjoying being near my two mates and myself.

  However, as we went further, Rover’s paws became a problem. At first, I thought it was a thorn, or maybe a small pebble, that had lodged in them. But, on inspection, it was worse. His front paws were very tender, the pads so worn that one had started to bleed. As I probed and tried to look for something foreign, he pulled away, ran off, and sat under Swanee. Concerned, I spoke to the boss. Poor Rover — I had to hold him very tight as several of the blokes had a look. They all came to the same conclusion: because there were now more sealed roads, his poor old feet were bleeding from twisting and turning on the bitumen. He was a tireless worker those first few days.

  It was time to rest my dog. I picked him up and sat him up on Swanee. Initially, Rover had his ears back, sitting warily. He had been up on Swanee’s back before, but always in my arms; this time, he was on his lonesome. Swanee made no protest; maybe he sensed there was a problem with Rover. In fact, the horse walked somewhat more slowly than normal. This must have been hard for Swanee, as he more often than not churned out a walk that took a good jog for me to keep up with. The dog soon settled. However, Rover’s feet were a concern. There was still quite a way to go. From Ensay, there was a long and winding road through the bush to Tambo Crossing and on to Bruthen. Bairnsdale was the final leg, but that was another five days away.

  The new calves settled quickly after the Ensay sale. It was the last sale; the new calves picked up there were well and truly outnumbered, and in no time swayed along to the pleasant pace we’d established. For the first time, we were leaving the open farming country and entering the bush. The bellowing had stopped, the rhythmic plodding was almost trance-like, and the whole scene had the characteristics of an army march. This meant the drovers could take it a little easier. It also meant I could walk along leading Swanee, my horse, simply flicking the stockwhip occasionally. Rover, still with sore feet, confidently sat in the saddle having a well-earned rest. If needed, he could work for half an hour, particularly if we lost a calf over a steep bank. However, he spent most of his time up on Swanee. This somehow appealed to people driving along the roads. They would stop their vehicles, get out, and want to take photographs of this likeable dog. It was odd, but they always asked his name. I would tell them it was ‘Rover’ (such a rare name for a dog) and then add that he was such a good dog he had been promoted — to a stockman — and he could ride a horse. I’m sure Rover smiled at that remark.

  Just before Tambo Crossing, the day after Ensay, one of the drovers hailed down a local in his ute, and they discussed the problem of Rover’s paws. Several remedies were offered. The bloke in the ute drove off, indicating he would return later. That night, after counting the calves into a paddock just past Tambo Crossing at Sandy’s Flat, we attended to the horses and fed the dogs. By this time, it was dusk. I rolled out my World War I canvas sleeping bag and put the saddle at the head. This was my pillow. Within minutes, Rover was asleep on the bag — my own electric blanket. After a generous stew, followed by the perfect cuppa (one of many through the night), Jim sat beside me. His mate in the ute had turned up.

  ‘Call ya dog, mate,’ he said.

  Rover trotted over. The next half-hour saw a curious Rover lifting one front leg, then the other. By midnight, between the three of us we had made four canvas boots — or booties. All it had taken was a few crude measurements, a canvas pattern, scissors, a waxed thread, and some darning needles. Not only did they fit, but they were held in place with a bright orange leather thong. It was quite a fashion statement.

  That night I curled up, very pleased, my head on the upside-down saddle, and Rover on my feet. If it got too cold, he came in the bag with me. Mind you, it had to be pretty damn cold for me to let him in — I reckoned he saved his best farts for that bag. (Two nights before, I’d let him into the bag, and he didn’t hesitate as it was very cold. He dropped a clanger. This foul fart almost choked me. It ended up in a standoff, as Rover was very reluctant to leave the warm sleeping bag. I weakened, but warned him he only had one more chance!)

  The next morning, with my packing done and the calves let out, I knelt down and put Rover’s booties on him. In disgust, he’d chewed them off, and I got a dirty look. I reckon even Swanee shook his head; well, we did try!

  ROVER AND I did several trips to Bairnsdale over the years, but his paws always gave him trouble. I would work him in short stretches, particularly at the beginning. Having both Rover and Swanee made a formidable combination when it came to droving. They were both outstanding with stock. I knew I would have work for as long as I owned both of them.

  The love I felt for this wonderful dog only came to the surface when tragedy stepped in. I was a rouseabout in a three-stand woolshed. As the only shed hand, I was flat out. Typically, Rover was asleep on a wool pack having a well-earned break. However, whenever I needed him, after a short whistle from me he would run to the swinging doors, ready to fill the catching pen.

  On this morning, just before smoko, I was about to pick up a fleece when I noticed Rover moving towards me. He was staggering, losing his sense of direction, but determined to get to me. Farm dogs normally
never cross the woolshed floor. I quickly dropped the fleece. He reached my feet and tried to sit as he usually did, but this time he fell over. I reached down to pat him. He shook, his eyes fixed on mine, and then he went limp and died.

  The shearers turned off their machines. Someone turned off the petrol engine. The woolshed went quiet.

  I picked up my sweet dog, hoping he would lick my face and be Rover again. He was warm, soft, and beautiful. I looked up for something: a miracle, some hope. One of the shearers, Bill, had tears running down his cheeks. He used to sneak Rover biscuits at morning tea, while I pretended not to notice. Tom, another shearer, walked outside shaking his lowered head as he reached for his handkerchief.

  Time stopped.

  I put Rover on his favourite wool pack. Both Bill and I patted him with tender, loving strokes.

  ‘What happened, Baz?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s only a young dog,’ I replied in my strongest tearful voice.

  ‘I reckon the vet should see him, just in case it’s dangerous,’ the farm owner said.

  I carefully put Rover in the boot of the farmer’s car, and he drove off. It would be a long drive to Bairnsdale. Bill and I had put several blankets under my Rover to make it more comfortable for him. I watched the boot as the car disappeared in a cloud of dust down the long dirt driveway.

  The vet said it was ‘hard pads’ disease, caused by the constant paw trouble Rover had had from droving and mustering. Somehow, his infected paws had poisoned his blood, or something like that.

  Rover returned to me the next day. I brushed him, wrapped him in a warm blanket, and took him down to the creek where I had dug a hole the day before. I buried him with affection and dignity, and then raked the mound neatly. I cut a branch from a Weeping Willow tree, drove it in the ground, and hung a sign that simply said: ‘My good friend Rover.’

  TWENTY YEARS LATER, with a wife and three kids, I was driving up the same winding road I had driven cattle on with Rover. I was telling them about my precious companion, when I found myself saying, ‘Let’s visit the old fella.’

  I hadn’t been up that remote road since Rover had died. We parked just above the small stream. Staring at the creek with tears in my eyes, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. My family surrounded me. They thought the grieving was for Rover. But it was something else that had triggered my reaction: a magnificent Weeping Willow tree had grown from the small branch I had stuck in the ground all those years ago. It is still there today.

  Rover deserved that.

  chapter two

  A kid in Melbourne

  WRITING ABOUT MY PRECIOUS DOG HAS, INEVITABLY, TAKEN me way ahead of myself. It’s time for me to take you back to the start, a long time before Rover, to the haziest of all my beginnings.

  I was born in Melbourne in 1945. My father died when I was barely eighteen months old. Sadly, I don’t remember him, the funeral, or the grief that surrounds such an event. Our family lived at the corner of 23 Smith Street and Little Victoria Street, Collingwood.

  Before his death, my immediate family consisted of Mum, Dad, my older brother Ian, and me, a bub. Under the same roof lived Nana Heard, my father’s mother, and her five adult children. It was the Heard family house, rented by Grandma Heard. Grandpa Heard had absconded, cleared out, shot through — whatever term you want to use. However he thought of it, he offered no further help to his family. Perhaps, after the experience of the Depression, he did what many dads did. During that tough time, within a family — a poor family, that is — many a husband not only left home to hunt for work, but also promised to send money home. Secretly, many a husband stayed away during those times, pretending to have absconded, because deserted mothers had preference when it came to what little support there was available to poor households from churches and other aid organisations. Sadly, after the severity of the Depression subsided, some husbands chose to stay away — particularly those who had offered little help to their family. I believe my pop fitted into that category somewhere.

  The dwelling at Smith Street wasn’t actually a house. The entrance was by a side street, and the front of the dwelling was a pawn shop, or op-shop. Typical of so many families who had suffered through the Depression, my father’s family had been evicted four times; their stay in Smith Street became the longest they had ever stayed at the one address.

  World War II saw the young men in the Heard family join the services — my father into the army, and his brother Cliff, the navy. On return from one leave, he married Mum. They moved into the tiny room at the Smith Street house; Nana Heard now slept under the staircase. The other five Heards had to fit into the remaining two bedrooms, but that arrangement didn’t last. Baby Ian arrived, and my parents moved to the big bedroom downstairs.

  Dad was then posted to Townsville, and he was there when it was bombed. Darwin, Broome, and Townsville were all targets of Japanese bombing during that stage of the war. Yet, as so often happens, our politicians kept knowledge of most of this from the Australian public.

  It was during his time in Townsville that my father became very ill with a blood disorder. At the time, this was diagnosed as having stemmed from his multiple broken noses. He had managed to break it several times while competing as an amateur boxer representing the army in inter-service bouts. He was ill for many months. The army, unable to offer any further medical assistance, discharged him from the hospital and the service. He returned to 23 Smith Street. It was 1944; the end of the war was in sight.

  Not long after he arrived home, Mum became pregnant with me. Dad immediately returned to civilian employment, but his health never really improved or changed for almost two years. Consequently, he struggled to keep working as an upholsterer. Between them, the entire Heard family eked out a living that paid the rent and put food on the table, but nothing more.

  By early 1945, I was born, and Ian had a young brother. Now it was my parents and we two boys in the big room. In January 1946, Mum fell pregnant again. Within months, my father’s lingering blood disorder attacked a major organ — his heart. He stopped work, and his health deteriorated rapidly. His brother Cliff, who still lived at Smith Street at the time, vividly remembers carrying my dad through the house and along the street to catch a tram to the hospital. He told me that, at the most, my father would have weighed roughly six stone. He died within days. Although Dad was given the simplest funeral, I know from enquiries and from talking to family members that, when my father died, the entire Heard clan was almost penniless and destitute.

  Three months after my father’s death, my brother Robbie was born. He was a blue baby — for him to live after birth required a full blood transfusion. Life for my mother must have been hell.

  The Heards all rallied together — one of the plans had been to adopt us three boys into the other Heard families, since by now three of them had married or planned to marry. Then help came in the way of Legacy. My father, being in the army, had been away during a lot of the war. He didn’t go outside Australia, but somehow his circumstances fitted Legacy’s requirements. Mum got a pension, and we remained in Smith Street.

  Oblivious to all of this, I thought my life as a youngster had been good. I can still remember Nana Heard, the house, and the upstairs area — the tiny room, and the alcove under the staircase. They are all fond memories, yet most of the time we lived life as paupers.

  The following year, Mum, my brothers Ian and Robbie, and I moved to Ringwood. We would be living in a house near Mum’s parents, who had arranged rental accommodation for us. The address was on the corner of Great Ryrie Street and Bedford Road. Known as ‘Corbett’s Orchid’, it was our first real house. It was a half-acre block with a huge yard.

  They were an odd couple, my mum’s parents, Nana Roy and Uncle Jock. Uncle Jock, Nan’s second husband, was a tall, bonny Scot with a broad accent and a beaming smile. He enjoyed life and loved us kids. Nana Roy, Mum�
�s mum, by comparison was tiny, grey-haired, and always busy. Their house was always spotless. She continually nagged Uncle Jock, yet his smile remained firmly planted.

  After a brief stay in the Great Ryrie Street house, we moved to Wilana Street in Ringwood, right next to Nana Roy’s. My first memory of this new address was vivid. It happened several days after moving into our new old-weatherboard house. I would have been about three or four. I recall lying on my back on the front lawn, staring up at a huge, tall, dead tree. There were clouds rushing across the sky. It was quite windy. Suddenly, the tree started to fall. I got up, rushed inside, and screamed the news to my mother. We ran outside. The tree was big enough to hit the house if it fell in that direction. Yet, when Mum rushed outside, the tree hadn’t moved. I’m sure I muttered something like, ‘It must have gone back up, Mum.’

  It was many years later that I realised the tree hadn’t gone back up. Like another train in the station that makes you believe you’re moving when in fact you’re stationary, I’d imagined the clouds had stopped and the tree was falling. Such a fright for any youngster is bound to be one of their first memories.

  There were four of us living in this seemingly large weatherboard house (many years later, I discovered it was tiny) with a radio. Yes, it was just Mum and her three boys; I was the middle one.

  It’s funny, but in years to come the sound of the radio would always be my first recollection of that house. It was always switched on. Mum used to listen to the radio serials: D24, which was a Hector Crawford production, Hop Harrigan, and others.

  Ringwood was an outer suburb of Melbourne — the last major suburb east of the city, and a 30-minute train trip from Flinders Street Station. I loved this new environment. Nana Heard would also visit regularly, and we often returned to Smith Street. The train trip was always exciting. Ringwood was different from Collingwood in many ways. For instance, instead of us having to go to a shop to buy bread, milk, and ice at Ringwood, a horse and cart delivered those items.