by Barry Heard
However, after the first night of rehearsals, we soon learnt that there was more to this type of event than just dancing. We had to dance in unison, all turning together in a large, circular formation. After five nights, we’d mastered circular and formation dancing. Then came the complicated process of the presentation to the dignitary for the evening. This required walking hand-in-hand through an archway, up a series of steps, and then bowing, or giving a curtsey, to the honourable gentleman. After that you had to move to the left or right, and then form a semi-circle on the stage. By the tenth night, we had most things sorted out, and the rehearsal went quite well. The last two nights would be full-dress rehearsals.
After being given instructions on how to be prepared, we blokes were pretty well stunned. Surely this was an invasion of our Aussie male privacy? On the nights of our two last rehearsals, they told us to bathe or shower. Then our fingernails were inspected — our hands had to be spotless to avoid soiling the white gloves. Each boy had to be clean-shaven, and had to liberally apply aftershave, underarm deodorant, and powder in private places. My father thought this was hilarious, ridiculous, and a bit ‘queer’. However, ‘them were the rules’, and we turned up smelling sweet, and sparkling clean. The girls, rapt and excited, actually offered us compliments. The last two rehearsals were great fun. It was obvious we were ready … nerves might be the only problem.
In preparation for the last night, a haircut and neck-shave added the final touch.
The evening was a most memorable occasion. The girls looked superb — just beautiful. When we’d formed the semi-circle on stage, after presenting our partners to the high official, the crowd gave us a standing ovation. After that, we escorted the girls back down to the dance floor and led the audience in a slow foxtrot. Quickly, others joined in, continually swapping partners as the smiles of proud mums and dads beamed out over the floor. It was a great night.
From that evening onwards, tradition had it that the debs could then attend any public dance without a chaperone. Back at school, we now saw these girls quite differently. They became great mates, and we talked about the debutante ball for weeks.
However, apart from such highlights, I had no regrets about leaving when I finally finished Form Four at Swifts Creek Higher Elementary School. My results were poor; I’d failed all written expression subjects, and had only passed those related to numbers. I failed that year’s exams for what was known as the Intermediate Certificate. As I expected, though, these results didn’t worry my parents. They simply saw school as a place to learn to read and write. Like most parents in the shire, they were waiting for me to reach school-leaving age, to get a job, and to do my bit. Having decided that schooling and I were not compatible, my parents made me leave.
I thought it was a good decision to leave school, too. What a waste it would have been to stay, you know what I mean, keeping a fit young lad like me — who was capable of doing a man’s job — locked up in a classroom staring at a blackboard, or wading through some damn yarn about a share-market dealer called ‘Shylock’ who had worked in Venice hundreds of years ago. The spelling in that book was atrocious: hath, thou, doest, and so on. No wonder I didn’t master English.
Consequently, during that last year, I started to lose interest in school rapidly. During all my years at school, I never thought of myself as having any academic talents. In fact, only two people ever made comments about my abilities that were positive. One was my Science teacher, Mr O’Brien, who told me that he believed I had the potential to do tertiary studies. He based this on the ease with which I’d mastered the photographic process and learnt to handle a sophisticated camera. Consequently, he encouraged me to work harder at school, to do my homework, and to get better marks. But his opinion had no influence whatsoever. I had little time for homework or reading. Once I stepped off the bus, I was only interested in having a snack, doing my chores, having a kick of the footy, and reading comics. Also, my parents, like most at that time, believed that school — not home — was the place to learn. Homework was frowned upon, and I never dared ask for help with it.
The other person who encouraged me to pursue further studies was someone who only met me a couple of times. Our first meeting was unusual. My parents had just purchased a second bush block we called the ‘top block’. Like most properties in those times, it was a square mile in area — 640 acres. It was a better block than Dorrington’s or Sheepstation Creek; it had some undulating, open country suitable for both sheep and cattle. The initial problem was that there was no boundary fence; we had no real idea where the block was located. Admittedly, some of the better land had been fenced at some time, but those fences were no longer stock-proof, and needed replacing.
Through a series of indirect coincidences, I met a man by the name of Bruce Nicholson. He worked for one of the government departments, most likely Agriculture. One Saturday morning, as I was preparing to go to the bush block, he arrived at Doctors Flat early. Admittedly, Dad had mentioned that I would be helping a bloke do something on the property, but I didn’t understand or hadn’t listened, and I was simply prepared to help out in some vague way.
My guess now is that this happened in 1960. Over a cup of tea, Dad again explained what was going on. Earlier, there’d been an arrangement made between Bruce and Dad for Bruce to help locate the top block’s boundary. He was going to use a detailed map, the original title, a prismatic compass, and me. I would hold a stick, like a surveyor’s assistant, and we would peg out the boundary roughly. Only Mr Nicholson and I would be going out into the bush. Initially, I had to get him to the block and locate the only bit of boundary fence that existed. Fortunately, it was a corner, which meant that we’d have a start-point. We drove out in the four-wheel drive, and it quickly became obvious to me that this man loved the bush. He made comments about the trees, the rock formations, the grass types, the soil, and the general geology of the area. When we arrived at the top block, he showed me the map and told me what the plan was.
I have always been a questioning, curious person. With this in mind, when Mr Nicholson started to explain how we would use his map, I indicated I could read a map, and could use a compass. With that, it started. We discussed the map and its scale, and its added features that I hadn’t seen before. Then he produced his prismatic compass; it was a superb piece of craftsmanship with an eye-sighting mechanism that located the bearing. It was very accurate. I was fascinated, and we spent an hour studying the map in detail. Immediately, I had a deep respect for the man because he treated me as if he valued my intellect, and that was foreign to me. He teased out my comprehension and my thirst for knowledge, and complimented me on my enthusiasm and interest. The result was that, after a couple of tries, he let me trace the boundary, and he held the stick. I was so proud. During our time together we had brews and snacks, we sat and told yarns, and we did all those things people associate with the bush. More importantly, he told me about his youth, his studies, his job — and I was fascinated. I had never met anyone like this before. It really got me thinking … in a confused way.
Finally, with the top block completely pegged out, we returned home to Doctors Flat. It had been a big job. During tea, Mr Nicholson brought up a conversation that not only embarrassed me, but I also knew would be taken the wrong way by my parents. Earlier, out in the bush, while sitting and enjoying a cuppa, Mr Nicholson had asked me about my schooling — about subjects I did, and what I liked. So I spoke, probably for the first time in my life, about Arithmetic, Algebra, and Geometry. I cherished these subjects. I explained how sometimes I solved problems a different way to the teacher, but we ended up with the same answer. I informed him of how I liked playing with numbers in my head, and I showed him how quickly I could mentally decipher a difficult multiplication. As Mr Nicholson was an academic and had a degree, I guess I felt comfortable sharing details of the quirky habits I possessed. Then he asked me something that, for me, had always been a secret: if I could
do exactly what I wanted, what would that be? I answered that I wanted to be a veterinarian — an animal doctor. His response was that I should tell my parents, and pursue the idea, and that it would be hard work. ‘You could do it, Barry,’ he said. At the time, that was like telling me to grow wings and fly away. I don’t think I even responded to him.
Nevertheless, the topic came up again at the tea table at Doctors Flat. Mr Nicholson was quite glowing and enthusiastic. Dad glared at me, Mum smiled and shook her head, and very quickly they dropped the subject. Later, after Mr Nicholson had left, my parents suggested I mind my own business, try not to be smart with people, and to stop exaggerating. As it happened, my average marks for my last three years in the subjects I’d mentioned were 96 per cent, 92 per cent, and 97 per cent.
It was a brief and confusing moment in my life, that meeting with Mr Nicholson. To be truthful, it’s important I point out that I totally agreed with my parents. I thought he misread my secret ambition. In fact, it was only a dream. I had no desire other than to leave school … the quicker the better.
In 1960, with only three weeks to go until the Christmas holidays began, many kids in my class were starting to leave school. Some kids went to work in the timber mill, while others were going to continue their senior years of education at major private schools in Melbourne and Geelong. Other boys went to the technical school in Bairnsdale to learn trade skills. By third term, my parents said I would be leaving at the end of the year to work with Dad in his plumbing business.
Just before my school days ended, there was a lot of excitement in the air. Our Scout troop would be going to a jamboree in Sydney, in January 1961. The only problem with it for many parents was the cost. It was £30 ($60), which was a large amount of money — about two weeks’ wages. As a result, many working bees and the like were set up to help pay the expenses. The community decided it would raise half of each boy’s expenses. Robbie and I would both be going, and we decided to try to find our own money by taking on part-time work and other jobs.
I approached several neighbouring farmers and asked if I could pick the wool off their dead sheep. It wasn’t an idea I was keen on; in fact, I only did it because I knew I could get about one pound (two dollars) a bag. Finding dead sheep in paddocks was common. Many had died from fly-strike, during lambing, or from worms and other diseases. Few farmers could be bothered gathering the carcasses or burning them, so they were happy to take up my offer. Consequently, after finishing my chores on most afternoons and on every free weekend during my last weeks, I walked the paddocks collecting wool. It was a disgusting job. There were rotting carcasses, bloated stomachs, armies of maggots, and blowflies in plague proportions. I lugged the potato bag over my shoulder, and in my pocket I kept a handful of eucalyptus leaves. By continually rubbing the leaves between my palms, I managed to endure the dead-sheep smell. After four weeks of this, I had enough money.
My brother Robbie, though, had no such luck. He got a job on a local farm every afternoon after school for two hours a day. After two weeks, he asked for his pay, and the farmer gave him five bob (50 cents). Poor Robbie thought that was for one day’s work. But no, that was it — two weeks’ income. With haste, we came up with another plan: stripping wattlebark.
That first weekend, we sharpened our tomahawks, loaded up our horses with supplies, and headed for the log cabin on Sheepstation Creek. For the next three weekends we camped out from Friday night until early Monday morning, worked tirelessly, and comfortably made the required income. It was hard work, and fun. We collected the bark from the bush block and sold it to the tannery at Bairnsdale. However, one night during our time stripping the wattlebark we had an eerie experience. It was just on dark, and we were preparing tea when we heard the sharp, piercing squeal of an animal — a dingo. It was the first time I’d ever heard this animal, and yet I knew it was a dingo. I’d heard others describe its howl so many times as sounding like the bloodthirsty scream of a woman, or something similar. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a dog with us. The dingo circled us several times, repeating its scary call. At first, we thought we should catch the horses in the Five Acres paddock and ride home. Then I decided to get the rifle and fire a few shots in its general direction. This worked, but we were still frightened. After tea, we built up the camp fire until it was like a bonfire. This produced a lot of light, and I sat for hours hoping to get a shot at the dingo … but that came to nothing. Next morning we quickly bundled up the wattlebark, loaded up the horses, and led them home.
The Scout jamboree attracted thousands of Scouts from all over the world. We drove to where it was being held, on the outskirts of Sydney, in two vehicles. The first thrill was simply driving into New South Wales — that was a first for everyone on board. The site for the jamboree was in a huge park. It rained quite heavily while we were there, but we were one of the very few groups that wasn’t washed out. Yes, we were bushies. Our tent was pitched on high ground. We spent the first day digging a drain around the tent, and had ourselves off the ground with palliasses. The highlight for me, though, was collecting badges. Every day, there was a place in the centre of the large jamboree grounds where Scouts would gather and swap their badges. The First Swifts Creek Troop badge was a very rare badge, and many Scouts from overseas tried to collect it. It was good fun. After two weeks’ camping with thousands of others, we headed back to Swifts Creek.
BY NOW, after almost seven years in the area, I was quite familiar with the bush, snakes, biting ants, and numerous other problems and experiences that face newcomers to this type of environment. I now considered myself a country lad. I could shoot or trap rabbits, skin a fox, and scalp a wombat — that was very rewarding, as we still got ten shillings and sixpence for the two ears from the Lands Department.
On Mum and Dad’s bush block, I’d found it easy to fell trees with an axe, and I’d learnt to mark calves and crutch sheep. I was also developing the larrikin streak typical of bush kids. One time at home, while our parents were away, Robbie and I laced some wheat with whisky, spread it on the ground around our cherry tree, and watched with amusement as the parrots not only got very drunk, but had trouble flying and then couldn’t land properly. Many kept falling over as they walked. Funniest of all, many hung in the trees upside-down like fruit bats, hanging off one leg. In fact, we reckoned we heard some of them laugh.
Once a fortnight, I would cut a sheep’s throat and skin it, gut it, hang it on a gamble, and have it in the meat bag in less than 30 minutes. This didn’t make me exceptionally skilled. Most farm kids were capable of such tasks, and more. By now I’d experienced both city life and country life, and I was in no doubt that, for all its chores and demands, country life was better.
Apart from going to the debutante ball and getting my first-class Scouts badge, about the only exciting thing that happened to me in my last school year took place at home. It involved our jersey milker, Betty, who wandered in one day when she found the gate to the house paddock open. There were several fruit trees in this paddock, one of which was a quince tree that produced enormous fruit. They were too big for the horses or cows to eat, so I would dice them up into edible pieces while the animals stood at the fence watching me in anticipation. They loved quinces. However, on this occasion, having snuck into the house paddock, Betty decided to gorge herself on the quinces.
The first indication that something was wrong was when I heard a low honking noise, like the sound a tugboat makes. It was that damn milker. Not only had she gotten a large quince in her mouth, she was having difficulty swallowing the big, green fruit. It was huge — about as big as a grapefruit. It moved into her neck and then, unfortunately, it got stuck halfway down. Both my parents were out; what could I do? The cow was very distressed, cross-eyed, down on her knees, and groaning. Hmmm … I tried to put my arm down her neck and dislodge it — no luck. I pushed a hose down the poor cow’s neck and tried to wash it down. Betty started to roll her eyes … I knew she was going
to die, as she couldn’t breathe. I rushed inside, grabbed Mum’s mop, shoved the handle down the cow’s throat, and thumped several times. It worked — the quince moved slowly down into her stomach. Phew, that was a relief. The cow took a very big breath.
In fact, it was a very traumatic experience for the cow and yet, somehow, I managed. Maybe life in the country gives kids a sense of independence, even maturity.
By the time I was ready to leave school I was content, and eager to move into the next phase of growing up. There was no question of continuing schooling, or of where I would find a job. There were always jobs about, and I never knew of any person unable to obtain work. Life was simple, and I looked forward to living in and around Swifts Creek, playing footy with the local team, maybe working on a farm, and then probably marrying a farmer’s daughter — who knows? That wasn’t too much to ask, surely? Life was a treat. Tomorrow couldn’t come quickly enough.
WITH SCHOOLING FINISHED, I was about to start work with my stepfather. At sixteen, I was keen to learn how to thread pipes, flare copper-tubing, solder, and the numerous other skills I’d watched him perform with ease. I was eager to start. Dad’s surname was Richards, and mine Heard, which used to confuse some people. When asked to explain this, I would mumble a vague explanation, only adding to the problem. In those early months, the highlight of the work with Dad — who I will now call Bob — was travelling throughout the district and meeting people. I recall once going to a farm at Benambra to help Bob put in a slow-combustion stove. We arrived at the homestead, where I met two ladies in the kitchen. After we’d only been there a short while, Bob sent me out to the truck to fetch some tools. When I returned, the older of the two ladies stopped me at the back door, demanding to know who I was. Startled, I introduced myself, thinking she must have been the twin sister of the other old lady. I entered. Not long afterwards, I found myself back at the truck again and, yes, again I faced a challenge at the back door. What was going on? Finally, the other lady, noticing my distress, said that this dear old lady had ‘lost her mind’, whatever that meant.
