by Barry Heard
Let me explain. After leaving school, I worked a seven-day week, either on the farm or with Dad. This meant I had little spare time for courting. Nevertheless, my mind was continually clicking into overdrive with thoughts about women — like, how I would court them, speak to them, or tell them about myself, and even about what to do if it came to a bit of smooching.
The day came, and she arrived. She wore a very pretty dress and was quite a looker. Her name was Irene, and she was from Melbourne. It was her first visit to both the bush and a farm. As I expected, she took a shine to me straight away. Well, she smiled in my direction … and I took the hint. Let’s face it: I could drive a tractor and milk a cow, not to mention separate the cream, and so on — all earthy, man-like chores that set a fair maiden’s heart on fire, eh?
After lunch on that first day, with the boss away, I offered to take Irene in the Land Rover for a ride up to the hayshed to get some bales for the animals in the bull paddock. She came, and opened the gates as I drove, real cool, with a hand draped over the steering wheel. I bet Irene was impressed. I was only a sixteen-year-old boy. I chewed a bit of straw on the way back to the bull paddock. When we arrived at their gate, the animals were standing, eager for their treat. Irene was apprehensive, and asked if I could open the gate … no worries. Once inside the paddock, I put the Land Rover in low-low, a very slow gear, and told Irene to steer it as I fed out the hay — normally I would feed out, as the Land Rover simply wandered across the paddock with no driver. She was besotted — another tick to me. When I finished feeding, I asked her to jump aside as I took the controls. So far, so good — I could tell she was more than just a little interested in me.
Later that afternoon, like every afternoon, I headed for the milker’s paddock, and rounded up the cow and calf. With the calf locked up for the night, I gathered the eggs, split some firewood, and took in an armful of larger logs for the open fire. Irene followed me everywhere and, by now, I believed she was completely head-over-heels — even if we had only spoken eight words for the day.
At the dinner table that night, my manners were impeccable. It was during supper that it happened: the confirmation of my inner thoughts and desires. Irene asked what I did in the morning, when first I got up. I didn’t mention that I usually had a pee, but I explained the milking, the separating, and the calf- and lamb-feeding ritual that took up most of the morning before brekkie. She wanted to rise early and come along … wow. The next morning she was there in jeans — another wow — and she was beginning to ask endless questions … about the animals, not me, but I knew that would not be far away. However, of all the highly skilled tasks of mine that she admired or complimented me on, it was feeding the lambs and calves that set Irene’s love haw-moans pinging.
We had three lambs, all very cute; and when it was the last one’s turn, Irene begged me to let her feed the poddy lamb with a bottle. This was no big deal, although there was a preferred angle to hold the vessel, for the uninitiated: bottom end up. With that explained, Irene fed the woolly little lamb with affection and joy; she was really excited. I then returned to the separator room and got a bucket of milk for the poddy calf. Irene walked very quickly behind me as we headed towards the little feller, its tail in the air in anticipation. I could tell she was just trying to get near me — Irene that is, although the calf was keen, too. When it came to feeding the poddy calf, Irene was infatuated. She just sighed with admiration at my casual, but deftly crafted, method of putting my finger in its mouth to induce sucking. Admittedly, she would not have been impressed a week earlier, when I had to biff the little beggar for almost amputating my ring finger. It was a new calf, only five weeks old. Its mum had died during birth.
Perhaps I should explain the method. To feed a new poddy calf, you first let the calf suck your fingers. The calf is always hesitant when you first entice it to suck, but a little cream mixed with honey usually does the trick. Then, once the calf sucks with confidence, you stand behind the little fella, push its head into a bucket of milk, and it drinks by slurping the warm milk through your fingers. I was coolly explaining this to Irene while she just beamed at the way I was carrying out this demanding task involving our fluffy little calf. I bent over the little blighter, my knee behind his rump, and my other hand holding down his head. The calf, a cute little white-faced Hereford, slopped and gulped while Irene gasped with wonder. When it had finished drinking, I ruffled his soft fur and let Irene pat him. By now, I reckoned I had Irene well and truly hooked — I was her man.
With my shoulders back and my chin squared, I calmly picked up the empty bucket and turned to head for the house, when I realised there was a problem … a really big problem. Hell, I was thinking, Come on … do something. So, temporarily, I pretended I was injured. I held my thigh and limped, trying not to stir up the problem, but … bugger … that didn’t work. Then, just as I was desperately thinking of a way to get Irene to leave my side for a while, I got asked that bloody question again — yes, almost word for word, the same one that Curls had asked me in the Swifts Creek Mechanics Institute Hall at the movies that memorable night. Here we were, walking along, Irene and me — with me limping (I was going to suggest I had a torn bone), when she asked, ‘What’s that horrible smell, Barry?’
I declared I didn’t know, which was a blatant lie. Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed I was walking peculiarly. You see, there was a small problem with my right gumboot: it was half full of calf turd. The little blighter, unbeknown to me, had quietly filled my boot with disgusting, yellow, custard-like, stinking calf-crap. I reckon Irene worked it out after a while; she started to drift away from me as we headed back to the house. How embarrassing could life get? Perhaps she thought I never washed, never cleaned my teeth or, worse, never used toilet paper.
Anyhow, a potential blossoming romance with Irene had been nipped in the bud. In fact, for the remainder of the week she just giggled every time she saw me — particularly when I was in gumboots. Unfortunately, I had to put them on every morning. You see, they were the only boots I could wear in the muddy milker’s yard. In fact, after the turd incident, I scrubbed that right boot and poured boiling water in it, but the smell lingered for weeks. It was such a small matter, yet it shattered a budding romance. I guessed that was why Irene never visited the farm again.
chapter thirteen
Bob versus Bernie
FOOTBALL WAS VERY IMPORTANT IN THE OMEO SHIRE. THERE were only four teams, and the rivalry was intense, bordering on all-out bloodshed at times. I have seen decent, law-abiding men run across the boundary of the oval, shudder, and turn into mindless morons. Being in the country, most men were used to hard work, which consequently made them quite fit.
The four teams were Omeo, Benambra, Swifts Creek, and Ensay. Ensay was a very small town that harboured the essentials — a pub-come-post office, a small shop, a service station, and a large set of sale yards around the corner. It was just like Benambra, which was another small country town at the other end of the Omeo Shire. The only real difference between the two towns was that Benambra was ‘above the Gap’. This was a bit of a worry.
Omeo and Swifts Creek were much larger, and their town populations were measured in the hundreds. Consequently, when it came to a game of football, Benambra and Ensay usually had just enough locals to fill the team, with a few really old, or reluctant, players on the standby.
As it happened, up to the time we moved from Melbourne, I hadn’t seen a footy match. The sport didn’t appear to interest my mum or my new dad. Speaking of Dad, he was an unusual footballer. He had grown up in Melbourne and had played soccer most of his life. He was a plumber — or ‘turd burglar’, as they were known in the high country, where it was generally felt that most of their work involved clearing blocked turds from fouled sewerage systems. When we first moved to the area, he continued to work as a plumber. As a tradesman with no reputation, one of the best ways for him to fit in with the local community wa
s to play footy: Aussie Rules, naturally. After proving that he had a high level of fitness and no skills for the game whatsoever, he eventually got a game for Swifts Creek.
The team wasn’t low on numbers — just short of handy footballers. An entrenched local law had it that if you possessed above-average skills for the game, you were almost committed for life. The age-range in the team was amazing: the oldest bloke was 48; the youngest, sixteen.
In fact, even though he had a soccer background, Bob had slightly above-average skills. He was nippy and accurate — fast on his feet and a straight kick. The players trained on Tuesdays and Thursdays … well, they ran around a bit and kicked the footy to one another. However, it was hard to do a lot of ball-handling because, being in the winter, most blokes arrived at the ground well after five o’clock, when darkness had set in. So doing a few laps around the ground was the main mode of training. This suited Bob and a few of the others — those not keen on running long distances. As the players ran around the boundary, Bob and his mates would drop to the back of the pack, jog into the bush, and hide behind trees. The keen ones put in several laps. On the last lap, when most of the keen ones would be buggered, Bob and co. would rejoin the back of the pack, sprint to the front, and win the lap race, naturally, gaining praise from the coach. It was all done in total darkness.
Thursday night was pie night. After an evening of this sophisticated, intensive training, copious amounts of beer and numerous hot pies were the go. They were Fitz’s pies, of course, from the local baker — essential food, good for bursts of energy or for keeping regular, they reckoned. The liquid intake — beer — was required to maintain their high level of game awareness, and to encourage more fluid movements when chasing the ball, or something. I was too young to grasp that stuff.
The other thing was that, each Thursday night, the coach announced the team for the following Saturday. I wasn’t there when Bob got the nod, but we were thrilled for him when he announced this at home. We couldn’t wait; it was going to be really exciting. We would be going to a local footy ground, and watching our first game.
IT WAS A LONG DRIVE up the steep, winding road called ‘the Gap’ to Omeo and then on to Hinnomunjie. It was my first trip into this area. The views along the way were outstanding. The road from Omeo wandered along the top of rugged mountains, then dropped down towards the broad, flat plains of Hinnomunjie and Benambra. The first thing you noticed was a spectacular lake, Lake Omeo, which was like a scene from a fairy story. It was beautiful and huge. Once down onto the open plains, we encountered the first long, flat road I’d seen since Bairnsdale. About halfway along this strip of sealed road there was a sign: Hinnomunjie Racecourse.
We headed towards what looked like a farm. It turned out that the racecourse was a farm and a footy ground, as well as a place where people played a bit of golf.
Bob’s first game in the forward pocket is perhaps best left unmentioned; or, to be polite, let’s just say he really struggled. The club president was kind enough to walk over to him and say, ‘Jesus, you’re weak, Richards.’
Over the next few years, we made many trips to Benambra. Perhaps the one that stood out most was when we went to watch a regatta on Lake Omeo. It was more than a regatta: there were people water skiing, and sailing boats and motorboats — beautiful, sleek wooden ones.
I really enjoyed going to the footy; I knew most of the kids from seeing them at school sports and the like. It was great to tear out onto the ground before the game and play kick-to-kick. This also happened at half-time. Then came the drama of three-quarter time … it was like theatre. The players would be in a tight bunch, surrounded by local supporters and kids. The coach’s address was always an inspiration; it was one of the few times that you could hear quite foul language — strangely, its use seemed to be condoned.
The coach would start, ‘Look men, this is it … You back men, stick to ya frigg’n men. You forwards, git in frigg’n front. And put ya head over the frigg’n ball, okay? Try and run it out … look for a lead. Frigg’n Johnno, good on ya — you’re doin’ okay.’
There would be grunts of approval at this last comment. Then he’d continue, ‘Kick it long, okay? Frigg’n long. Now, when we go back out, I want you to hit ’em frigg’n hard, okay? Okay?’
Almost primitively, the team would grunt in unison, ‘Yeah!’
‘We’re not going to win — we’re going to frigg’n shit it in, okay?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Come boys, let’s frigg’n go get ’em!’
‘Carn the creek’ was the common chant from those supporters gathered around. This would bring grunts, cheers, clapping, and a lot of backslapping.
Bob became a permanent member of the Swifts Creek team. Over time, his footy skills never really improved much, except that he was a very accurate kick. But, following the examples set by the men bred in them thar mountains, he learnt to limp off the field at the end of the game, even if he had no injuries — this was a local tradition, apparently. His spitting reached the good distance of seven feet, and his nostril-clearing matched the best of them. However, it was his team spirit, or willingness to uphold the code of mateship, and other male-bonding attributes that strengthened. Within two seasons, he was able to perform advanced team skills. For example, he developed that ‘Are you look’n at me?’ stare, accompanied by a low snarl. He, like most, heaved and tugged at his jockstrap with vigour. Bob never shaved or showered for a week before the game, and refused to brush his hair. So our Bob filled a spot in a team that was short on handy players, and he reached the high level of Aussie honour that involves ‘laying ya life down for tha side’. He heroically displayed this at the Hinnomunjie footy-ground-come-racetrack in his third season. Unbeknown to Bob, he’d recently upset a Benambra player in a most unusual way.
It had happened when he was doing a job earlier in the week at Benambra on a farm. It was morning tea, and Bob, the farm labourer Max (or Rowdy, as he was known), Tiger Tomkins, and two old women were present. The women owned the property. As often happened in the winter during that repast, the topic of footy came up. Both Rowdy and Tiger played for Benambra. It is important to add now that Bob was from below the Gap — a bad slur on anyone in the Benambra area (more about that later). The conversation got around to the Benambra team. A bloke played with them called Bernie. Now, Bob had a description for Bernie’s type, but he couldn’t say this in the presence of ladies. So he referred to Bernie as ‘a cad and a bounder’, a well-known saying used by Poms that Bob had heard many-a-time in Melbourne. Apparently, everyone just looked blank, not realising it simply meant that Bernie was an undesirable … whatever. Rowdy, being a typical above-the-Gap gossip and dobber, couldn’t get down to the pub quickly enough after work to inform Bernie and the rest of the team what that bastard, Richards the Turd Burglar, had said about their Bernie … It was on.
So, the next time Swifts Creek were playing Benambra, there we were, stopped at the gate to the entrance to the farm paddock, paying our way into the game. Already, there were about 20 cars parked around the boundary; it being a typical winter’s day, there was frost still on the ground at 2.00 p.m. A lazy wind howled across the wide, flat area — the sort of wind that goes straight through you, and not around. Long sleeves and T-shirts were definitely the go. Naturally, like most footy ovals in the district, cake-like dollops of frozen cow-turd covered it from one end to the other. Iced-over puddles and potholes also dotted the oval for, apart from Saturday and the annual horse races, the oval was a paddock — part of a farm.
Before the game, the umpires and Bob’s team — known affectionately as ‘the Creek’ — changed in the jockey’s shed. Perhaps, more accurately, they jammed into the small enclosure with a dirt floor that was a bit short on room. This provided a major problem for the players — not the size of the room, mind you, but the fact that they would all be baring their snow-white arses in a very confined area. They all stared
at the ceiling as they lowered their dacks, put on their shorts, and pulled on their boots. High-country folklore has it that it’s a trip to purgatory if you’re caught glancing at another man’s arse. Naturally, the home team, Benambra, had a large room with a bloody shower at one end.
The Creek were playing those Benambra bastards for the third time this season, and there were a few paybacks and scores to settle. This was yet another silent tradition that was always carried out after the first bounce. More importantly, Bob was unaware of Bernie’s bitter demeanour towards him on the day.
The ump held up the ball and blew his whistle, and the game began. I have to point out here that I received several versions of what then happened. I was only a witness on the sidelines. Unfortunately, both sources of the following yarn were from ‘above the Gap’, and most of them struggle with putting a sentence together. I hope the next bit makes some sense. So here goes …
Typical of the Omeo League, the first quarter usually consisted of a bit of footy and a lot of charging shirtfronts, wild arm-swinging, and the biffing of any poor bugger who wore the opposition jumper. The locals loved it. Now, as if it were pre-ordained, our Bob, the Turd Burglar, was on this same tough-nut called Bernie.
To describe Bernie, let’s just say that he was a bit thick, slow-talking, and ignorant; nevertheless, he certainly recalled that, the last time they’d met, Bob had given him a bath. Well, not literally — those rugged, mountain men wouldn’t be seen dead washing a mountain man.
The fact was, the last time they’d played on each other, Bob had kicked four goals on Bernie. He’d given the cross-eyed bastard from Beloka a hiding. The thing was, our Bob was quick, and Bernie was as slow as a wet week. So now there were several reasons for retribution — it was Bernie’s chance for some payback. In the back of Bernie’s blank head was a confused thought. It darted around his skull as he wobbled around the windswept, turd-covered oval. Yes, our Bernie was going to take the slack out of Bob; slow him down a bit before the game really got going. In fact, he’d announced as much in the rooms before they jogged out. Later, one bloke was to comment that it was the longest sentence Bernie had ever muttered.
