The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  Because Bob was the only plumber in the entire shire, we found ourselves in places with wonderful Australian names like The Blue Duck, Bindi, Bingo, Reedy Flat, Uplands, Shannon Vale, Cobungra, Mount Hotham, Dinner Plain, Tambo Crossing, Dargo, Glenn Wills, and the Omeo Valley. Some days it would take hours to get there. At places like Dargo, we would camp with the people, and we’d stay there until the job was finished. If not, we returned home only at weekends. The people were always friendly and welcoming, and they served up some enormous meals. Rarely would Mum have to make us a lunch as we headed out to a job. Always on arrival there’d be prolonged lunchtimes or morning teas. Sometimes, I’d see Bob spend ages talking with our hosts.

  The plumbing work was unusual. Not that I’d worked with Bob in Ringwood, but not too many places in Melbourne had windmills, water troughs, septic tanks, and slow-combustion stoves, or wanted us to make their water tanks. Making the tanks was okay, but getting them up onto wobbling tank stands, or high stands like the one at the back of the Swifts Creek police station, was damn scary. I recall we’d made a couple of very long skids, and hauled the 2000-gallon tank up with a rope. When it finally reached the top, and was tilted and plopped down into place, all I had to stand on was a small space that was half as big as a doormat. Looking down, I was 25 feet off the ground. New septic tanks required a hole almost six feet deep. Sometimes, the ground was so hard that even with a pick or crowbar I could only dig down an inch at a time.

  I learnt a lot of practical skills over those first months — a little about plumbing, and a lot about improvising. All too often, Bob had to invent ways of solving problems that required certain materials or fittings. There was no hardware store just down the road when we were out the back of Benambra. This meant he devised ways around problems. He was a good plumber, but plumbing didn’t suit me. Perhaps if I’d worked as an apprentice I might have seen a future for myself in the job. However, there were times when I found the work frustrating; I would have been happier on a farm. Mind you, I was working weekends on our bush block and enjoyed it, and my parents were about to buy a sheep farm at Tongio. Apart from playing cricket on Saturday afternoon, I was working the other days.

  As winter approached, the coach of the Swifts Creek footy club told me that he wanted me to make an effort to get fit, as he felt I could hold down a position in the senior team. I’d been a school captain in my last year and, although I hadn’t excelled as a player, we’d beaten those Omeo blighters — which was the ultimate credential for a new footballer for the district.

  Then, from out of the blue, I had another job. Dad and I had arrived home, I’d done my chores, and we were at the dinner table. The conversation was about the bush block and things that needed doing when, quite casually, Mum informed me that I’d be working on a farm at Ensay in the next district. It was down the road a bit from Swifts Creek, about fourteen miles away, on the way to Bairnsdale. This was certainly a surprise. However, it was exciting; this would mean my first wage, independence, and work on a farm that I was positive I would really enjoy. I’d have my own bungalow or room; it sounded perfect. It would also mean leaving home and living on the farm from Monday to Friday every week.

  chapter ten

  Ensay

  I WAS VERY EAGER WHEN I RODE OFF ON SANDY MAC, my horse, for the farm job that first Monday morning. Admittedly, I had to ask Mum which house to ride up to. On my back was a haversack with my pyjamas, a spare jumper, a raincoat, and extra socks in case my feet got wet. I also had spare hankies, a toothbrush, a comb, and some comics — Phantom comics. Sandy Mac was despondent about the extra weight when I mounted up. It didn’t take much to make this horse unhappy. As payback, he plodded along slowly — unless I was prepared to kick him in the ribs every step of the way. Knowing this would be the case, I’d left very early.

  I was really an amateur farm labourer. I didn’t have a stockwhip, a dog, an oilskin coat, or a big hat. Although my parents owned two farms and were about to buy another, their farming methods were simple. I always felt that they treated the enterprise more as a hobby than a business. Neither had come from a farming background; and yet, somehow, we managed. For me, what this meant was that, although I’d been hired as a farmhand, I had no experience other than milking cows, killing sheep, putting in fence posts, and making butter.

  I arrived at eight o’clock in the morning. I’d met the owner before, but not his wife. The bungalow where I’d be sleeping from Monday to Thursday was a small one-bedroom hut, with a large window. I would return home at weekends. There was another adjoining bungalow, both out the back of the homestead, and each had a single bed and a wardrobe. I threw my haversack in the door, led Sandy Mac over to the saddle shed, and hung his saddle on a rest inside. The shed was clean, and there were a number of beautiful saddles, bridles, halters, and stockwhips hanging on the walls. On a shelf were brushes (or currycombs), cleanly washed saddle blankets, and canvas horse-rugs for the winter. In a corner there were bags of chaff, a barrel full of oats, and a container of molasses. I’d never seen such a shed before.

  I led Sandy Mac to the bull paddock, gave him a leaf of hay, and let him go. I bet he thought that was a treat. He walked over to the two other horses, and they sniffed each other. He didn’t go near the bulls or the rams. My new boss drove me around the farm in the old Land Rover, then down to his brother, who lived with his mother on the family farm. The two brothers owned the farm where I’d be working. We had morning tea — or, should I say, my first of many sumptuous morning banquets — while we were at the family farm. It was scones, blackberry jam, and cream. Their mother was a dear old lady whom I became very fond of over the years, and not just because of her cooking; that was a bonus.

  Although the new job looked exciting, very early on I realised I was lucky to be working on such a well-managed farm. However, I was hesitant about one thing. The boss had another job as a stock-and-station agent. This meant he’d be away for part of the week, and I’d be on my own. However, he allowed for this, and I always had something I could do while he was away. But, after a couple of days, a problem I hadn’t anticipated at all became very apparent …

  It was like the feeling I had when we moved from Ringwood. It was a blunt shock; nowadays, we’d probably call it a ‘culture shock’. It happened at the end of the first day — a most unexpected problem. No, they didn’t speak German at the dinner table, drink blood, or eat raw meat. I believe I could have almost managed that. The trouble was that the people on the farm were completely different in some ways from my parents. For a start, these people didn’t swear, whereas Dad had the most colourful Aussie language, which often got him into trouble. Admittedly, I didn’t swear either. Ah, if only it had been that simple. This new job took me into a new way of life that I didn’t even know existed. It challenged my upbringing in a very embarrassing but unintended way.

  It all started when I’d left home with only the clothes I wore on that first Monday morning. The day had been exciting, and I knew very quickly it was going to be a good job. Then something occurred when I went to tea on that first night that I will never forget. Not only was it a three-course meal, but everyone had had a bath, shaved, and got dressed up for tea. I was still in my work clothes, though I had washed my hands thoroughly and had brushed my hair. I sat very quietly in my seat.

  An ironed tablecloth covered the table. There were napkin rings, lots of knives and forks, a round spoon called a ‘soup spoon’, a plate called a ‘bread and butter’ plate, and a butter knife. My positive feelings about the job took a serious jolt. I was very embarrassed. There were times I felt so nervous that it made me nauseous. What could I do? Suddenly, I had a plan. I would sneak home straight after tea — at least get some other clothes, even if they were not good ones.

  But after tea, no such luck; we went into the lounge room, sat in beautiful chairs, and listened to 78 r.p.m. records. The boss spent a lot of time on the phone talking to clients. I
looked at the carpet. His wife was a beautiful person, in both looks and personality. Several times, she encouraged me to talk, and tried to discover my interests; little did she know that escaping from this scene was the immediate one. About 9.30 p.m., we had a nice supper and retired to bed. It was too late to return home. In fact, looking back, I would have gained very little had I dashed over to Doctors Flat. A change of clothes? There were no good clothes to change into.

  I’d had no idea that there was another way of living out there. Certainly, our move to the country had brought about a different way of life for me. The kids at the Tongio school were poles apart when compared to city kids. However, after accepting, and finally adopting, their way of life, I didn’t realise I was only seeing a section of the community. At the Swifts Creek school, the kids’ parents worked at the mill, on farms as labourers, drove trucks, and struggled on small farms. Like me, most of the kids left school as soon as possible. As young teenagers, any parties, get-togethers, or the like were at mill houses, the Church of England hall, at woolsheds, or club rooms during and after footy. After the Tongio school burnt down, I was quite shocked that a couple of the kids didn’t move to the Swifts Creek school like the rest of us: they went to private schools in Melbourne. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were going whether the school burnt down or remained standing. Yes, after primary school, if the parents could afford it, their kids went away to finish their education.

  When we’d moved from Ringwood, the only things that really stood out and took ages to adjust to were the strange jobs and the open spaces. Certainly, within the household, Mum treated water and basic foodstuffs differently. There was no corner store. If you lived away from town, as we did, then a cow, a vegetable garden, chooks, and trapping rabbits became the norm … or so I thought.

  We had a large pantry in the kitchen. Many foodstuffs were in large containers. There were constant reminders about turning off taps and conserving water; even so, it took me a long time to break habits that were entrenched from city life. As a plumber, Bob had a good income, but it went initially into a house and a good vehicle, and then a farm. He bought his first new Land Rover in 1960. At Doctors Flat, we were in a very small, old house that had no lounge, two bedrooms, and a kitchen. It only had one water tank — a 1000-gallon tank. Admittedly, we were right next to the Tambo River; but, because of the Weeping Willow trees, its water wasn’t really suitable for drinking. As mentioned earlier, Friday night was wash night, when we took it in turns to hop into the large, galvanised tub. I lived this way when I moved to Ensay and the farm in 1961. Although Bob had started to put on new rooms and, finally, installed a new tank that was filled from the river, this was after I’d left. As for good clothes — I had none. There was no use for them. On the odd occasion when I went to a dance or party, there was a jumble of clothes that I shared with my brother Robbie and Bob.

  As a result, my first week in the new job at Ensay was turning into a horror story. I was getting more embarrassed every night as I turned up wearing the same clothes. Then, on the Friday, something happened — the boss’s wife stepped in. We drove to Bairnsdale, and I came home with a set of good clothes. This included several shirts, a nice sports coat, and shoes. Suddenly, I felt normal. I returned home to Doctors Flat on the Friday night, full of stories about the farm.

  During those initial weeks, my first jobs involved a lot of stock work, mainly with sheep. I learnt how to dose, drench, and inoculate sheep. Chemicals like copper sulphate, carbon tetrachloride, and five-in-one became common to me. As well, in the stockyards, I treated flyblown sheep, and removed grass seeds from their eyes. I learnt to mix chemicals such as Kill Ester and 24D, and to spray horehound. It was fun pulling a super spreader around the paddocks with the Fordson tractor. The most difficult thing was to reload the spreader. Each bag of superphosphate weighed about 180 pounds but, with a bit of swivelling and sliding, I could empty its contents into the spreader. The old, blue Fordson Major was the first tractor I’d ever driven.

  By the end of that first year, I’d ploughed many paddocks, harrowed them, then sown down grasses like cocksfoot, phalaris, wimmera ryegrass, and a variety of clovers. On the tractor, I operated a mower, a slasher, and a hay rake. Discing was like a test for me. My furrows had to be dead straight. I took great pride when the ploughed paddock looked like a page from a writing pad. Oddly enough, many times while ploughing I would have a visitor. Jack Campbell, the farmer from up the road a bit, would slowly saunter across the turned turf to have a yarn. His company was great. It was as if he’d adopted me, wanted me to understand life and to grow a little wiser. He did this by telling me a dirty yarn every time he visited. Most, I am sure, went straight over my head. Dave and Mabel were his favourite subjects. Once, when I asked him what the yarn implied, he nearly passed out with laughter. Bear with me, and you may understand my enquiry …

  Dave and Mabel had just married. They were on their honeymoon. The topic of children came up. Dave assured Mabel he knew how to make them, as his mum had offered him some advice — ‘It’s simple, so. Jist put your private parts together, and you will know.’

  Mabel nodded as Dave explained. He asked, ‘What’s your private part, Mabel?’

  ‘My bottom,’ she replied.

  Dave reckoned his was his ear. So there they were, Dave’s ear pressed against Mabel’s bum, when Mabel asked, ‘What do ya reckon, Dave?’

  ‘Aw, they’re coming alright, Mabel … I can hear them — they’re on motorbikes!’

  Now, at the time, I reckon that begged some explanation.

  MANY JOBS required carting hay, cutting firewood, or working with fencing materials. It meant I had to learn how to back a four-wheeled trailer, which was difficult, as its two front wheels swivelled. However, even though I was learning many new skills, there was one glaring omission — I didn’t have a decent sheepdog.

  Most mornings or late evenings, even if he was going on the road for work, the boss would muster the sheep into the yards and I would do the sheep work. At home, on Mum and Dad’s farm, even though we had a very small mob of sheep and a few cattle, pretending we were the dogs was how we did most sheep or cattle work. I would run this way and that, attempting to muster the stock. It was difficult and frustrating … until I got my friend Rover. After that, when it came to stock work, it was a breeze. However, Rover wasn’t the only unique animal I met on Kanangra. Let me tell you about Swanee.

  chapter eleven

  Swanee

  AS I MENTIONED EARLIER, MANY PRACTICAL SKILLS, EQUIPMENT, and attributes are required to be a competent farm labourer: there’s stock work, operating machinery, fencing, spraying, hay carting, and woolshed and cattle-yard work, just to mention a few. Then a good horse and dog, and gear such as a whip, saddle, a broad-brimmed hat, and drover’s coat are important. A pocketknife is essential. I had some of this equipment and several of these skills, although I hadn’t grown up on a farm. I had wagged school and worked as a rouseabout in a woolshed when I was thirteen. (You may recall that, at the time, this allowed me to go on my first date with Curls.) Like most country kids, I could do all the chores around the house and yard, but I brought few real skills to the job.

  On this farm, like most, stock work was carried out with a dog and on horseback. This mean there was just one useful skill which I thought I not only possessed, but also had had a lot of experience at developing: horse riding. Little did I realise that I was about to be proven wrong. This may seem confusing, as I’d been riding my first horse, Sandy Mac, for over five years. Sandy Mac was a ginger gelding with a gentle and tolerant nature — a good, quiet, first horse for a newcomer. I was almost eleven when Mum bought him for the bargain price of five pounds. Quickly, I learnt to ride him, in no time going into the bush exploring, and chasing emus and kangaroos. I admit it was hard to get Sandy Mac interested in any of these earthly pursuits. He would only move in a forward direction if I continually kicked him
in the ribs. When I stopped, he stopped. Eventually, it dawned on me why Mum had only had to part with five quid for this good-looking animal. Sandy Mac was slow, lazy, uninterested, and vague. He had the personality of a boiled egg. He didn’t walk; he plodded. After a ride, while I’d be exhausted, Sandy Mac would be content. He’d proved to me repeatedly that there was little point in riding him. Still, I could ride a horse.

  When I started work at Kanangra I was keen, waiting for an opportunity to show off my horse-riding skills, whether to the boss or any others who cared to watch — I wanted to show I was okay at something.

  How foolhardy and naive of me. Little did I know that I was about to meet Swanee, the ‘spare’ horse on the farm. He was certainly different. In time, after several months and many death-defying feats, I worked Swanee out. This is how I would describe him. Swanee looked like a horse. He was a bay, which meant he was mid-brown, with a black mane and tail. He could walk very fast. Trotting didn’t come easily to him, but he had a rocking-horse canter. When it came to a gallop, bolt, call it what you want, Swanee had a burst of speed that almost defied explanation. It was a frenzied, frightening burst of acceleration. This usually terrified anybody who tried to ride him. However, that was only a small part of his arsenal of surprises.

  I said Swanee looked like a horse. True, but that’s where it ended. He had a spirit the size of a road train, the strength of a diesel locomotive, and the stubborn determination of a donkey not feeling up to a day’s work in the paddock. His larrikin demeanour reminded me of a bloke who played footy at Ensay and was continually dressed down by the coach for smiling and having fun. Combine all of these attributes and you have one very powerful animal — Swanee. You didn’t ride Swanee; no way. He let you ride him. He was the master, no question. He set the exam. A pass meant you had permission to ride … for the moment. A fail meant — well, it varied. Some trials or exams saw the candidate injured, or sent off with the blood rule. Others who failed displayed facial expressions that I would describe as being like someone who had had a near-death experience. To be allowed to ride him, Swanee demanded more than a good pass — you’d need honours at least, if not a distinction.