by Barry Heard
Sprinting along the bank, I could see that there was a fair bit of low bush I could hide in, and even some big trees I could climb up. But then, on second thoughts, as sure as eggs, I reckoned I would be found in those places. I left the river and headed for the main road. It looked the best option. Quickly, I found a culvert under the road … perfect. I crawled up inside. It was dark, wet, and smelly. A car arrived some 20 minutes later, and I heard Susie’s mum shouting from the window.
My parents would have been horrified — Dad would be in full muttering mode very quickly. In the past, I’d heard him describe Susie’s mum as ‘a bit wet’, ‘loose’, and ‘as thick as a brick’ (whatever that meant), so he wouldn’t have been impressed. The car doors slammed. Then, as I would have expected, everybody ran around giggling and shouting. I could hear things like, ‘Susie’s here, lover boy’ and, finally, Bob saying, ‘I think the bugger’s cleared off.’
They headed down towards the river, and I stayed put. After some time, the shouting jibes stopped, and threats took the place of the merriment. But I stayed put.
It was dark when I emerged from the culvert and snuck home. I didn’t go inside; I just attended to my chores. Susie and her mum had left in disgust, and the dogs weren’t happy about the late feed — I usually fed them just on dusk. Then it was difficult to find the milker’s calf in the dark as a light fog had already descended. Finally, with all my chores completed, I went inside. That took courage. I copped a lot of smart-arse comments and snide remarks, but that was how my family handled awkward situations. I put up with the rubbishing but, believe me, it was better than getting married.
Unfortunately, the incident was the highlight of the week when it came to local rumour and hearsay. The local gossips apparently had a ball. Worse was to come. Over the next week, I vomited regularly and had a splitting headache. Naturally, I lined up for footy the following Saturday against Benambra. Looking back, I probably had concussion; but, in those days, smelling salts cured any footy injuries except for multiple broken bones and missing teeth — that required a sniff of the salts and a dash of the cheapest brandy donated from Cossie’s Pub.
The next Saturday at the footy, Susie was there. I didn’t see her on arrival, but word got round. I hadn’t forgotten the culvert incident, but I hoped that Susie had moved on, as it were. However, within five minutes of being on the ground, above all the local cheers and abuse I heard a very high-pitched voice: ‘You’re a weak-kneed chicken, Heard,’ bellowed Susie.
‘Yeah!’ echoed her squealing mates. They kept up this and similar insults all day. No, I didn’t get decked or thumped that day; I managed to get very few kicks, and my efforts resulted in a lot of attention from the opposition footballers, and no cheering from the females. Consequently, although what I am about to say may seem obvious to the average, well-bred Aussie male, to army officers, politicians, and those from other countries, my advice is: gauge the amount of battering you want to receive on the footy field. Whether you get a kick or not is irrelevant. If you want to pull the chicks, get flattened. Remember, they only go stupid over pain … it took me quite a while to recover from that heavy knock.
Benambra, as I mentioned earlier, was a cold bugger of a place in the winter. After a couple of seasons, I was enjoying playing with Ensay, and I always looked forward to playing against Benambra, even though they were ‘above the Gap’. They seemed less savage than the Omeo blokes and perhaps a tad simpler. However, I hated the weather that seemed to pervade that place for eight months of the year. Most days, before the game started, kids would run onto the ground and lift all the dry, frozen cow-pads, leaving the wet or fresh ones. True to form, the Benambra blokes would run onto the ground in sleeveless sweaters. They were either tough or stupid — the latter sounds the most logical.
On one particular day, the game had been going about ten minutes when Big Pete, our rather well-built centre half-back, accidentally ran into a goal post and it snapped off at ground level. A well-meaning Benambra supporter named King slowly strolled over and volunteered to hold the post in position. Admittedly, it was a big post — probably fifteen feet tall and eight inches through at the bottom. Although this appeared a kindly, well-meaning act, in fact it enabled this bloody Benambra supporter bastard to win the game for them single-handed. Let me explain: as the game progressed, every time his team had a shot for goal, King would lean the post outwards to their advantage so that the opening would almost double in size. The umpire, even though he was aware of this foul deed, ignored the bastard. Yes, the ump knew his life would have been in danger from those inbred bushranger mongrels up there in and around Benambra if he’d opened his mouth. It’s a well-known fact that the high altitude that one experiences growing up in areas like Benambra causes both intellectual stunting and cannibalism (Bob often muttered about this at home).
Nevertheless, Ensay were playing well, and perhaps our side could have overcome the distinct advantage Benambra had with the broader opening to their goal. But during the next quarter, bloody King would do the opposite when our team kicked towards its goal: he lent the post inwards, to the point where it was almost impossible to score a major, and we lost.
The ump was shouted free grog and a feed after the game that night by the victorious Benambra mob.
chapter fifteen
‘You’ll pay for this ...’
BY MY SECOND YEAR AT THE FARM IN ENSAY, I HAD WELL AND truly settled in, and I loved the job and my life generally. I became involved around the area in many activities, the first of which was with the Scouts. I recall one day after a footy game, Tom Cook came up to me and said that the Scouts needed another leader, and I was their man. Although it appeared I had little or no choice, I wandered down to the Scout Hall on the Friday night, liked what I saw, and attended every Friday night for the next three years. The kids were great — typical country larrikins, full of life, and always into mischief. We regularly went on camps, and these kids were at home in the bush.
The Scout Hall was very old and tiny. Most nights, we would have about ten or twelve kids, and the hall would be at capacity. Apart from school, it was the only thing available for boys around Ensay when it came to entertainment. Every boy attended. The scoutmaster was Big Pete.
As the year wore on, I became increasingly involved in community activities. By 1963, I was on the cricket club committee, the grounds committee, and the football social club committee … we put on a hilarious pantomime that same year. Like all locals, I’d been involved in fighting bushfires; they’d been bad that summer. However, perhaps the most intriguing of all my community involvements came about when an enterprising farmer formed a small group of volunteers to run movies. After organising the equipment, we had to have training, and then work as team, learning to overcome problems immediately — or face the wrath of an engrossed crowd — and, at times, see a bit of the show. It was a first-rate idea, and now we had our own movies at Ensay every other Saturday night in the Ensay Hall. However, the biggest problem I found when operating the projector was that I often became absorbed in the movie that was showing. Yes, I know, you’ve worked it out already … like the nose on your face, you could have guessed I would blow it one night, and I did. Without a doubt, it was the highlight of my brief career as a projectionist.
It all began one night when, with the lights turned off in the Ensay Hall, the show got underway. I was in charge of the first projector. As usual, there would be a lot of coughing, shuffling, and grunting in the hall during this initial period. The first film was always a short clip of Her Majesty the Queen riding side-saddle along a crowded London street. I’d set this up earlier. Everyone in the hall would stand — this was serious stuff. Up in the projectionist’s room, after I had the Queen jogging off down the street, still on her horse, I turned my attention to the other projector, ready to flick it into action following the two-minute royal homage. I didn’t notice that my shirt-tail had hooked in the pro
jector as I turned.
The first indication of something going wrong was from coughs inside the hall and someone sprinting up the stairs to our little projection room. Turning, I looked through the small, square hole in the wall that enabled the operator to watch the screen. Oh dear. The Queen was jerking up and down in a way that looked like either she or her horse was having an epileptic fit. Worse, Her Royal Highness suddenly froze, buckled, and then distorted before melting in front of the entire audience … there were gasps, small squeals, a little laughter, and many tuts. Finally, the screen only showed folds of black smoke. I had murdered Her Majesty.
Actually, the reel had jammed … poor monarch. There was panic in the tiny room, and it took fifteen minutes to repair the projector. I wonder how many kids had nightmares that night. It’s strange but, after that small incident, I was relieved of my projector duties, and instead was asked to work in the hall canteen selling sweets before the movies and at intervals.
I HAD ALSO TURNED EIGHTEEN in 1963. This meant I could get my driver’s licence and use the family car. Owning my own car was out of the question; in fact, most young men of my age simply couldn’t afford one. However, I did upgrade to other modes of transport during those early years at Ensay. This came about gradually. As mentioned earlier, when I first started work on the farm I rode Sandy Mac. To put it plainly, he was a slack horse. The boss referred to him as ‘docile’. To his credit, I always thought that this horse was on a mission: he wanted an early retirement.
Almost six months to the day that I’d started work at Ensay, I made a decision. It was after a tiring, Monday stroll to work with this damn horse demanding a snack every fifteen minutes. It was time to modernise; to speed things up a bit. So I pensioned off Sandy Mac, a good kid’s horse, and I got some wheels.
Updating to a gleaming, second-hand pushbike was thrilling. It hummed along the partially sealed road, and I used less energy pedalling it than I did when riding Sandy Mac. The bike was a 28-inch fixed-wheel Malvern Star. Thirty minutes was all that it took to get to work on Monday mornings; then 20 minutes to come home on Friday afternoons. Going to work was very hard at first. The journey included a long, uphill drudge that made my calf muscles twitch with protest. Connor’s Hill added the extra ten minutes to the journey. It wasn’t steep, but it was a steadily increasing climb, about a mile and a half long. The hill led you up, out of the Tambo Valley, and into the Ensay area. There were times when I considered dropping off Rover, my dog, and making him run beside the bike. But after I gathered a rhythm by counting to myself, Rover would sit quietly on the bar between the seat and the handlebars, listening to the transistor radio.
Yes, I was now proud to own a pint-sized radio that had taken three weeks’ wages to buy. It was my first gift to myself. As a rule, the radio reception would be reasonable as I pedalled to work — until we hit that bloody long climb, that is. The damn radio reception would disappear when I rode into cuttings while climbing Connor’s Hill. Rover, annoyed at the loss of sound, would pat my hand firmly with his paw. He enjoyed the radio. However, once out of the cutting, the radio would come back on and he would thump my tummy with his tail as a sign of approval. Then it was downhill all the way to work. However, sometimes I would stop and simply admire the spectacular view from the top of Connor’s Hill — it was beautiful.
By comparison, going home on the bike after the week’s work on a Friday night was a joy. At the top of Connor’s Hill, both Rover and I would lower our heads over the handlebars, narrow our eyes, and then, like a rodeo rider, I would lift my legs in the air to avoid the spinning pedals — the curse of the fixed-wheel bike — and away we’d go. Once we reached full speed, the only complaint I had about this thrilling experience involved Rover’s tongue. The bloody thing flapped up and down, and flicked warm drool all over my face. However, that didn’t stop the laughter and shouts of, ‘Hi-ho Silver! Away!’ and ‘Steady big fella, steady.’ Both sayings I got from my Lone Ranger 78 r.p.m. vinyl record, which starred my hero, the Lone Ranger, and his Indian friend, Tonto. Silver was the Lone Ranger’s trusty horse. I’d also seen movies of them both at the afternoon matinees in Ringwood.
Back to the downhill bike ride … Occasionally, the bike would get up so much speed it developed the wobbles, particularly if I had to swerve to avoid a pothole or something on the road. I might add that this fixed-wheel bike had no brakes, other than by putting my boot on the tyre at the front — mind you, I rarely used this sophisticated method, as I got a fright one time when smoke started to pour from under my boot. No matter, Rover and I would sool down the hill so fast that at the bottom I wouldn’t have to peddle for the next half a mile. I believe we must have got up to speeds of 20 to 30 miles per hour.
This was highlighted one evening on the way home. Rover and I were in our low-profile positions, and the bike was simply humming. We shot through the first cutting and came around the slow curve when I spotted the Lands Department truck inching along. It was returning to the work depot at Swifts Creek after the crew had spent the week spraying weeds on the roadside down Ensay way. The sedate speed of the truck was a compliment to Tom, the driver. It ensured they would arrive at the depot exactly at five o’clock — knock-off time — and, boy, they were really crawling along. This would be fun. Tom, like many country drivers, didn’t use the rear-view mirror very much. Traffic was a rare thing on the road in those days, and overtaking was almost unheard of. Therefore, the habit of checking out what was behind you as you were driving was never a required skill.
On this particular evening, with the bike hurtling along at just below wobble-inducing speed, I explained the plan to Rover. I didn’t want balance to become a problem (I’m almost sure the dog understood), so both Rover and I lowered our heads even further. As I approached the vehicle, I tried not to giggle — this would be a real hoot. As I shot past the truck, I shouted, ‘Up the mighty Bombers!’ followed by, ‘Creek bastards!’. That was only fair, as Tom and one of the other occupants in the truck were Swift Creek footballers. Then Rover … well, naturally, he barked in approval. Tom got a hell of a fright. I could just hear him shouting abuse as I sizzled past on the mighty Malvern Star, my fist punching the air.
The next day at the footy, Bill, an Ensie supporter, told me I’d ‘frightened the crap out ’uv ’em’. The story of me roaring past the Lands Department truck became a highlight of the night at the Albion Hotel in Swifts Creek. Apparently, poor Tom had hit the brakes when he’d first heard my yells. With that, the truck jerked and Cliff, in the middle, hit his chin on the dashboard and stubbed out his cigarette. Meanwhile, Les, the other worker, spat out his false teeth in fright. They reckoned I was doing 45 miles per hour … Come on … but how slow was the truck going? I loved that pushbike, and so did Rover.
There was no doubt that stepping up to faster transport after Sandy Mac was a bonus. I was home earlier and enjoyed the freedom of the bike. There were some drawbacks, of course. Punctures, loose gravel, and swooping magpies I could tolerate. But one morning I suffered the curse of the fixed-wheel bike … again.
Be warned: some Aussie men might want to skip the next page.
Like most eager but over-enthusiastic young men of my era, I’d caused myself severe physical pain at times due to having dumb accidents — to this day, my wife reckons nothing’s changed. Once, for example, I tried lassoing my first steer, and got dragged 200 yards up the paddock. Then, of course, there was Swanee and his tests of my manhood. However, if you measure pain by how long your eyes water, an incident that occurred while I was riding my Malvern Star to work one morning took the record.
It was Monday. Rover and I had just started to climb Connor’s Hill. It was a cold and frosty winter morning, there was a headwind, and I had on a balaclava and a thick jumper. Rising out of the saddle, my skinny legs were pushing the pedals like mad while Rover’s head was swaying side to side with the bike. Suddenly, with a jerk, my pants caught in the chain sprocket
. The pedal slammed the back of my leg, Rover leapt off, and my family jewels slammed down on the bar. Both my agates shot up into my stomach and dinged around like a pinball machine as I flew off the bike. Rolling around on the dirt clutching my crotch, I wondered if I’d become a eunuch.
When I went to get up, I realised the bike was still a part of me. Gingerly, I wound my pants back through the chain sprocket, then sat on the side of the road while tears softly rolled down my cheeks. This was far worse than the bow-legged pommel treatment. Then it dawned on me, I would be there for quite a while — walking was out of the question. Sitting in gloom, I decided that my days of bike riding were definitely over. Luckily, after a 20-minute wait, Mick Bryce, a local farmer, came along and gave me a lift to work. He flinched when I told him what had happened; then, gritting his teeth, he told me his story. Yes, most men have a story of crushed nuts, which they tell while gritting their teeth.
Later that week, I sold the bike to a schoolkid. ‘Good bike, mate,’ I assured him, and went back to riding that bloody pensioned-off horse, Sandy Mac — boy, was he browned off when I threw the reins over his head and swung the saddle up onto his back. Rover wasn’t happy, either; he had to run to work. Fortunately, the agony of riding Sandy Mac only lasted two weeks.
As luck would have it, there’d been talk around the district about a city bloke who’d had a motorbike accident. It had happened just up the road from us at Reid’s Corner. The story went along the lines of: new motorbike, gravel road, inexperienced rider, mug from the big smoke. Tut, tut were the comments from the local old bikers, and there were plenty of them.
