The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  As I said at the beginning, I could only speak of this horse, Swanee, after I’d known him for many months. Initially, I had no idea he was a maniacal, bum-biting, flamin’ fiend, intent on killing anyone who tried to ride him. Therefore, when I started the job, I was a farm labourer in the true sense of the word. I didn’t have a ‘real’ farm horse, or a dog. I couldn’t work a sheepdog, or ride a horse. I could only labour.

  I’D BEEN ON THE PROPERTY several weeks, getting to know my way around and the routines to be completed. One afternoon I found myself at the bull paddock. I un-snibbed the gate and went in to catch my horse. Probably for the first time, I stopped and had a long look at the animals. After a cursory glance, I became fixated on an unattractive steed — an ugly, stocky-looking horse. It was Swanee. A funny, rugged part-brumby, with hairy fetlocks and chin, he looked more like a mule than a horse. He was beside Sandy Mac who was standing in the shade, sound asleep, which he did for 20 hours a day. Nearby was a pretty mare — Honey, the boss’s horse. On the dam wall stood a handful of merino rams. The four Hereford bulls stood near the far gate.

  I was intrigued. To me, Swanee not only looked part-brumby, but also looked to be a very ordinary nag. I recall thinking, Fancy keeping a horse like that. Honey, on the other hand, had a bit of class about her — I reckoned she’d be good to ride. I’d patted Honey several times during that week; on this Friday, when I went to catch Sandy Mac, she walked over for her usual pat. Swanee, however, just ignored me. Anyhow, I didn’t feel inclined to touch this inbred-looking nag. With Sandy Mac in tow, I led him to the saddle shed, threw on a saddle blanket and my own worn-out saddle, and mounted, ready for the arduous trip back to Doctors Flat.

  I returned to work on Monday, not knowing that the following day I was about to face a rather daunting task — riding Swanee. It was an unforgettable day that’s etched in my memory forever. I’d milked the cows, had brekkie, and just finished cleaning the butter churn. I made fresh butter every Tuesday. The boss and I were talking about some stock work that needed doing. He’d already asked me to do some minor stock jobs on the farm using Sandy Mac previously, but he was hopeless — Sandy Mac, that is; not the boss. Hence, I was a little surprised this particular day, when I went out the back and noticed Swanee saddled up and hitched to the ring outside the saddle shed. The boss was heading off for the day, as sheep sales were looming. He would be very busy. At the kitchen table earlier, he’d wanted me to open some gates so the stock had access to better water. I assumed I would plod around the paddocks on Sandy Mac, and even get to ride Honey one day. But … ‘Take Swanee,’ were his parting words.

  As mentioned, I’d really hoped it would be Honey, who was a superior-looking animal. Not deterred, I thought I might just try this rough-looking beggar called Swanee and, just maybe, he might turn out to be a bit better than Sandy Mac — though I doubted that very much. I guessed the boss thought the horse simply needed some exercise. In fact, I would humour the nag; so, with a smile, I walked up to Swanee, said g’day, and patted his neck. If there is such a thing as a horse’s glare, I got one. I shrugged my shoulders — oh well, that didn’t worry me. I’d show the blighter who was the boss. Then, taking the reins off the ring, I threw them over his head, put my foot in the stirrup, and attempted to swing my leg over. I had a cool swing, like a rodeo rider. Hmmm, that didn’t work — the damn inbred, repulsive-looking brumby stepped sideways every time I tried to mount him. Hello, I thought. A smart alec … I’ll teach this nag some manners.

  With authority, I stood him alongside the saddle shed, very close to the wall. After two determined leaps, I managed to get onto his back, and sort of half into the saddle. But, would you believe, I couldn’t get my leg down the other side. Crikey, what an ignorant brute. This unsightly, mountain-bred hack had jammed me up against the shed wall. With his ears laid back, he rolled his eyes, and snorting sounds burst from his nostrils.

  ‘Hah! You swine. Take care, mate — I don’t take that sort of rubbish from any horse,’ I told him.

  After much pushing, grunting, and shoving by both of us, I managed to get my boot in the stirrup. Frustrated, I reefed the reins and turned him towards the gate.

  ‘Okay, mate, we’ll see what happens to smart arses.’ I gave him an almighty kick in the ribs.

  My God, Jesus, Henry, Jonathon, Christ, and Holy Mary, Mother of God, and Moses! Let me warn you: never, never, ever kick a horse like Swanee in the ribs. This mad-eyed moron of a horse leapt into a gallop as if shot out of a cannon. Suddenly, I found myself groping for reins, mane, saddle, pommel — anything I could hold on to. It was very bloody scary. I had this insane, out-of-control freak under me, racing at break-neck speed. His hooves thundered on the gravel, and his mane flicked in my face. I had no idea what to do. Then, as I was wondering where-oh-where we would end up, unexpectedly, a gate appeared. I thought, My God, he’s going to jump it.

  I hung on for dear life, but no — he went from flat out to stop, in 20 feet. I ended up along this idiot’s flamin’ neck with my chin between his ears. He put his head down and I fell off, the bugger. For someone who claims he does not swear, all of the above was the extent of my foul language. Some more would have been handy.

  I stood up, brushed off the dust, and then noticed we were at the gate to his paddock. The equine swine had decided it was time to knock off. Without a doubt, he was the most bad-mannered, poorly trained, ill-tempered, ugly, inbred, mongrel-dumb horse I’d ever ridden. Someone should shoot the brute or send him to a knackery. You might guess that I was angry.

  However, there was something else to add insult to injury. As I led him warily back to the saddle shed, he tried to bite my bum on two occasions. The second time he pulled the seat of my pants so hard that I nearly came off the ground. I turned and walked backwards. Outside the shed, I hooked the reins over the ring. I went inside and sat on a bag of oats … I’d failed. I hadn’t even opened a single gate. The boss would be disappointed. I was at a loss, and thought I might just leave the prat, and go and catch Sandy Mac. Meanwhile, as I sat rather stunned on the bag of oats, Swanee put his head in the door-opening, made a throttling noise with his nostrils, and then, would you believe, I reckoned he smirked. Bad move, ya monster. Just you hang on — I don’t give up that easily.

  I went outside, reached up to the ring, slid off the reins, and put them over his head. It was like stepping into a boxing ring. We eyeballed each other. After he gave me several dirty looks and a sharp nip on my bum, I spent ages going around in circles as I persisted in my attempts to mount this crazy freak.

  Half an hour later, I’d worked out how to get into the saddle. You had to pull both reins very tight, stand beside his head — not too close, or he’d bite your backside — and then swing up. Swanee would walk under the swing.

  Ripper. I was up on his back. It was as if I’d at last won a round against him, and was sitting in my corner getting a well-earned towelling down. Now, I ask you, what do you do? I held the reins really tight. No way was I going to loosen them and ignite the fuel tank in this butane-boosted bloody fanatic. I sensed he was angry … maybe really bloody angry. His eyes had almost turned black. As I planned what my first move might be, Swanee, yet again, took over. He threw a wobbly and started walking backwards … he was, no doubt, a complete maniac. Great — so much for my horse-riding skills. What was I to do now — open all the gates going backwards through the paddocks? His nostrils flared as he snorted in frustration. I decided to release the reins ever so slightly. Good — he stopped walking backwards, but started dancing sideways. Thank God there was no one watching; this was scary stuff and, for the moment, it was definitely one-up to Swanee. The bout continued. Another gentle release, and he stamped on the spot frantically. His head was jerking up and down violently. By now, there was a strange, throttling noise coming out of his nostrils … the stupid, damn ogre. I was having doubts … he continued to stamp … I waited … I felt ready … another
tiny release of the reins, and … he jumped straight into a rocking-horse canter.

  It was a perfect canter.

  I hung on ever so tightly. He stopped at the first gate and pushed up against the strainer post, which enabled me to reach over and undo the chain. Then he pushed the old wooden gate open with his chest, spun around, and pushed it shut. I’d never seen a horse do that before — usually I would have had to dismount and tug a gate like that to open it. I turned him carefully, gave him another gentle, minute release, and he dropped straight into a canter. His action was as smooth as silk.

  We headed for the other gate. Same procedure: he pushed open the gate, then turned and nudged it shut. He was very good. What strange behaviour from a horse with a mad stare, knock-knees, and a gumboot-shaped head. Yet, if you managed to ride him, he had an air of class. You would never guess that by his looks.

  We continued. I left open the gates that the boss had indicated. I turned to head back to the house paddock and saddle shed. Swanee seemed to have settled a little. Again, he cantered off. However, by now my arms were aching from holding this unusual horse. I felt like I was hanging over a precipice, too scared to let go. Judging the tension of the reins carefully, I relaxed, just a fraction — whoosh! The wild-eyed thug bolted. Jesus, feeder of fish and bread — he was fast. A dry water-race appeared in front of us: it was fifteen feet across. The mad frigg’n bastard … he leapt it in one bound, skidding almost to a stop. Christ Almighty! My God, please, I thought. Again, I shot up his neck, thumping my precious parts against the pommel of the saddle. Oh, the agony. I wanted to groan and roll around, holding my crotch — which is the accepted ritual for crushed gonads. But I was on this whacko horse. The first thing to do was to get off. Too late — the mad, flamin’ mongrel just took off again. Now it was my head bumping on his rump. I’d lost the reins … suddenly I was upright … then he skidded to a stop … God help me, I thought.

  We’d reached the house paddock gate. I got off very slowly, opened the gate, and led him — with me walking backwards — to the saddle shed. I was walking as though I had a 44-gallon drum between my legs. I reckon cowboys ended up with bowlegs from pommel incidents, not from endless horse riding. Well, that was it. I’d had enough. Battered and bruised with two bite marks on my bum, I slowly took off the saddle, put it in the shed, and returned with a hairbrush, or currycomb. I brushed his back, which he seemed to enjoy. Unhooking his reins, I ever-so-slowly led him to his paddock — backwards, naturally. I opened the gate and undid the chinstrap on his bridle. Thank God, this saga was over. Reaching up, I slid the bridle over his ears. Shit a brick. (I don’t like using that word; but, believe me, in this instance it was appropriate.) Suddenly, I was on my stomach, tearing across the grass at water-ski speed, bouncing, jerking, and trying to get onto my knees. There were thistles, and sheep, horse, and cow dung thumping me in the face. The odd clump of phalaris grass lifted me into the air. Too stupid to let go — this is a pig-headed trait I have had all my life — the body-battering continued for ten seconds.

  What in the hell had happened? As I lay there exhausted, I worked it out. He’d reared backwards as I’d lifted the bridle over his ears. The bit had become stuck in his mouth, he’d bolted, and I’d ended up dragged across the paddock. God, was I in pain. Quietly, I checked myself out: no broken bones; a very, very sore crotch; no buttons left on my shirt; one boot missing; and my stomach and legs covered with gravel rash. It felt like my arms were six inches longer. However, my mouth was the real problem. It was full of a combination of soil, grass, dung, and other disgusting objects. It must have been an attractive mix, because a blowfly was already circling my head. I struggled to get to my feet; it was going to be a long, painful walk back to the saddle shed. I turned to glare at this four-legged idiot, when — did you know that a horse could smile? I swear on the bushman’s book of camp fire prayers that the ugly thug smirked at me.

  Game, set, and match to Swanee.

  I went to walk off — no good. Even slower, I shuffled back to the saddle shed. On the way I found my boot, but I couldn’t find the bloody sock.

  ‘How’d you go today, Barry?’ asked the boss later that night at tea. Have you ever been asked one of those questions? I could take half an hour, or tell him a little white lie.

  ‘Okay,’ I said with a grim, feeble smile.

  ‘What happened to your chin?’ he asked.

  Christ! I thought to myself. My bloody chin! What about the rest of my poor battered body? You should see my family jewels … they’ve changed colour for the second time in my life.

  ‘I slipped, getting some hay out of the shed,’ was my pathetic response.

  Several days later, the rematch was on. I collected the bridle and headed for the bull paddock. It took me an hour to catch Swanee, the hideous brute. No, he wouldn’t be bribed; neither food (I’d taken some oats) nor sweet-talk worked. He had ‘you must be kidding’ written all over his face. He could have toyed with me all day. This inbred, flaming tyrant had his head in a corner of the paddock, and just kept swinging his rump towards me. If I ventured too far up one side, the lout would turn and canter to another corner. Twice, he tried to nip me with his huge bloody teeth. Finally, in an act of kindness, or sympathy, he let me put the bridle on. I walked backwards to the saddle shed — you just couldn’t trust his bloody mouth. At the shed, I got a currycomb and brushed him before I put the saddle blanket on. He liked a brush. Then I threw on the saddle and tightened the girth as much as I could. So far, so good — Swanee stood quietly.

  Today, something was different; perhaps he was in a better mood. (If I could have read his mind at that moment, he would have been thinking, Ha! How gullible, you raw fool, Barry.) I was ready to mount up. Now, being very tender in the crotch area, this meant it was going to be a delicate manoeuvre. In fact, I knew from an inspection the night before that my private parts had not only changed colour, but the swelling was considerable. However, I also knew I would have to suffer in private. I’d considered visiting the bush nurse about the bruising, but it took raw courage to lower your pants in front of that woman. I didn’t have the fortitude, or the ego, to handle the gossip that would have rushed around the district like a bushfire. It was a grin-and-bear-it matter.

  Sorry … got waylaid. We were at the saddle shed; I slid the reins over his head, placed my foot in the stirrup, and took a deep breath. Like an old man of 80, I swung my leg up. Good, Swanee didn’t move. But God Almighty, Mary of Magellan County, and Moses the well-known water-parter — the bloody saddle did. I felt like I’d been zapped in the crotch with a cattle prodder.

  It slid and almost ended up under his belly. Shit! (My vocabulary was expanding rapidly during my time with this beast.) As usual, with most things I’d had to do with the ill-mannered horse, I ended up sprawled in the dirt.

  I looked up. The girth was loose — but I’d tightened the damn thing. I staggered to my feet, and I could have sworn the brute smirked again. I had a flare of anger, but didn’t react or do anything. A loose girth — and the saddle hanging upside-down underneath his belly? Not possible. Hang on … ah-ha! It took me a while to work it out. The cunning, sly bastard … it was so clever. When I went to tighten the girth after I’d put on the saddle, he must have taken in a very deep, slow breath, swelling his belly considerably. I hadn’t noticed. At the time, naturally, I tightened the girth and shook the saddle, which is the habit of most horse riders. Meanwhile, Swanee, with the girth tightened, quietly breathed out. The result? A loose girth, then crunch! and me on my backside yet again.

  After I’d brushed myself down, I grabbed the saddle and slid it around his stomach and back into place. Slowly, I pretended to tighten the girth. I waited and waited. I could see the ugly, flat-headed, evil fiend struggling as he tried to hold his breath for as long as he could. His eyes started to water — he must have been in agony, the dumb prat — then he started to let air out. Great … I heav
ed on the girth and did up the buckle. Swanee laid back his ears, rolled his eyes, and flicked his tail.

  Suffer, you four-legged freak. One to me.

  After that, the day went by almost without incident. I spent most of the time standing in the saddle to protect my you-know-whats. There were a couple of minor mishaps. The moron almost ripped my leg off as he cunningly cantered too close to a fence. Then the brute tried in vain to dislodge me under trees that had low branches. As well, the flamin’ inborn brumby idiot flicked me with his tail whenever I dismounted. Then came the final insult — he chewed a hole in my hat, which I’d hung on a hook near him while I’d gone and had a cuppa.

  Over the next few weeks, I rode Swanee regularly. He still appeared to have a sour demeanour and a mad stare about him. Every day and every time we headed off, there would be a new test for me. I was passing them almost bruise-free until one particular day.

  It was early morning. I had to ride the crazy freak down to my boss’s family farm. It was a pleasant, fifteen-minute canter to their property. Even though I hadn’t warmed to this inbred, mad beast called a horse, it was a joy to be on his back as he gently rocked along in a perfect rhythm. I rode alongside the road. It was early — a glorious day. There were parrots arguing in the trees … they are always arguing, those birds. The magpies’ burbles heralded good morning, and a wedge-tail soared on his breakfast run. There was frost still on the ground. It was the start of a beautiful, late-autumn day. Swanee’s canter was silky smooth, almost rocking me to sleep, when suddenly — thump! I found myself flat on my back with a very sore shoulder. The sly bastard had bided his time. We’d ridden on this track many times in the last fortnight, yet he’d waited until I slipped into a daydream. Then, the swine, he’d lined me up with a support-wire or guy-wire, hadn’t he? It ran from the top of a telephone pole to a concrete block in the ground. Luckily, it caught my shoulder and I was wearing a heavy coat.