Great Australian Stories

by Graham Seal

  Already a popular favourite in Australia, Darcy now became a tragic hero. His distant and apparently inexplicable death sparked rumours (still extant) that he had been poisoned by the ‘Yanks’, who were afraid their own hero would be beaten by an upstart nobody from Down Under, as a contemporary ballad about his death had it:

  Way down in Tennessee

  There lies poor Les Darcy

  His mother’s pride and joy

  Yes, Maitland’s fighting boy.

  All I can think of tonight

  Is to see Les Darcy fight,

  How he beats them,

  Simply eats them

  Every Saturday night.

  And people in galore

  Said they had never saw

  The likes of Les before

  Upon the stadium floor.

  They called him a skiter

  But he proved to them a fighter

  But we lost all hope

  When he got that dope

  Way down in Tennessee.

  When his casket was brought back to Sydney, an estimated half a million people turned out to farewell Darcy. Outside sporting circles, his popularity has waned, but on the fiftieth anniversary of his death flags were flown at half-mast in New South Wales and a memorial was built at his birthplace.

  Racehorses

  As might be expected in a country where people are known to enjoy a bet on the ‘gee-gees’, Australian horseracing is a mine of stories. As well as its own argot (‘ring-in’, ‘mug punter’ and so on), the turf boasts legends, yarns and songs about great—and not-so-great—horses, jockeys, punters, trainers and other characters, many with colourful nicknames like Perce ‘The Prince’ Galea, Harry the Horse and Hollywood George.

  Melbourne Cup Day is almost a national holiday: millions of Australians stop work to watch or listen to the race, and many place bets on that day alone.

  The country’s best-known racing legend by far is the story of Phar Lap. The chestnut gelding was initially thought to be a loser, not even placing in its first four races. But between 1928 and 1932 it won thirty-seven of fifty races, including the 1930 Melbourne Cup. As the hardships of the Great Depression began to weigh on Australians, Phar Lap became a national hero.

  On a wave of adulation, Phar Lap travelled to the US, but on the eve of his first race, in April 1932, he suddenly and mysteriously died. People immediately thought of Les Darcy, and rumours quickly spread that the horse too had been poisoned—still a widespread folk belief.

  The remains of the fabled horse were parcelled out: the hide to the National Museum of Victoria, the heart initially to the National Institute of Anatomy in Canberra, and the skeleton to the National Museum of New Zealand, where Phar Lap was born. The unusually large heart is the most popular exhibit at the National Museum of Australia, where it now resides, and the expression ‘a heart as big as Phar Lap’s’ has passed into the vernacular.

  Phar Lap embodies the culturally powerful image of the battler, the underdog who struggles against adversity—and sometimes triumphs. Such is the popular interest in his story that Australian governments have spent considerable sums investigating the rumours that the horse was poisoned. Tests done in 2006 found abnormal levels of arsenic in Phar Lap’s remains. How it got there has yet to be determined.

  THE ODD AND the eccentric, those who stand out from the crowd, are popular folk figures in all countries. They might be noted for their stupidity, their idleness, their cleverness or their cheek.

  In the idiot category, the French have Jean Sot (Foolish John), the Italians have Bastienelo, and the English have Lazy Jack. Sandy the Shearer is an Australian member of this low-wattage family. When told that some lambs are for sale at five shillings each, he complains bitterly that this is far too expensive. When the seller says he can have them for £3 (sixty shillings) a dozen, Sandy is overjoyed and buys the lot. Interestingly, fools are almost always male.

  Tricksters—also mostly male—use their intelligence to hoodwink and manipulate others. Typical examples include the Javanese Pak Dungu, Germany’s Till Eulenspiegel, and Turkey’s Hodja. Australian Aboriginal tradition has many mythical trickster figures, as well as the more modern character usually known as Jackie Bindi-i.

  Dopey or smart, characters are usually humorous figures.

  The drongo

  The fools of folklore are more than ordinarily dumb, so stupid that they acquire an almost heroic aura. The Australian version of this folk type includes—along with Sandy the Shearer—the ubiquitious drongo. (The name is said to commemorate a racehorse of the 1920s who was famous for losing.) The drongo is a congenitally naive figure who interprets literally whatever he is told. When the boss tells him to hang a new gate, the drongo takes the gate to the nearest tree and puts a noose on it. Asked to dig some turnips about the size of his head, the drongo is found pulling up the entire turnip patch and trying his hat on each uprooted turnip for size.

  When the drongo goes fishing, he has no luck. He asks another fisherman who is catching plenty what he uses for bait. ‘Magpie,’ the man says. The drongo gets his gun, shoots a magpie and returns to the riverside. He hooks the bird to his line and casts it into the water, but still he has no luck. The other fisherman cannot understand it and asks to have a look at the drongo’s line. He reels it in, revealing a sodden mess of feathers. ‘You didn’t pluck the bird!’ he says. The drongo replies that he was going to pluck it but thought that if he did the fish would not be able to tell what kind of bird it was.

  In another story, the drongo is working for a farmer when the boss decides it is time to build another windmill. The drongo agrees to help but asks the farmer if he thinks it really makes sense to have two windmills. ‘What do you mean?’ the farmer asks. ‘Well,’ says the drongo, ‘there’s barely enough wind to operate the one you already have, so I doubt there’ll be enough to work two of them.’

  Snuffler Oldfield

  Queensland’s own drongo is the stockman Snuffler Oldfield, about whom there are said to be thousands of stories. One goes like this:

  Snuffler Oldfield was droving one time. He always seemed to be the one who ended up rounding up the cattle each night, while the boss and the jackaroos took it easy or slept back at the camp.

  One night the cattle rushed and headed straight through the camp. The drovers had to clamber up trees to avoid being crushed. The boss called out, ‘Where are you, Snuffler?’

  From just above the boss’s head came Snuffler’s voice: ‘One limb above you.’

  Once, when Snuffler’s wife was giving birth, the nurse came out to tell Snuffler that he had a child. She returned to the birthing room but returned a short while later saying that he now had a second baby. ‘Christ, nurse,’ said Snuffler, ‘don’t touch her again, she must be full of them!’

  Tom Doyle

  Tom Doyle is said to have been the publican and mayor of Kanowna, in Western Australia’s goldfields. An Irishman, he didn’t always understand colloquial expressions. In one of the many yarns told about him, he attends a function for a visiting dignitary. For the first time in his life, he is confronted with olives. He gingerly picks one up and is alarmed to discover that it is moist. Just as the dignitary rises to speak, Tom cries out that someone has pissed on the gooseberries.

  In Tom’s days as a member of the local council, a debate is held on a proposal to enlarge a local dam. Tom declares that the existing dam is so small he can piss halfway across it. When a councillor tells him he is out of order, Tom says, ‘Yes, and if I was in order I could piss all the way across it.’

  Commenting on a dispute over whether to fence the town cemetery, Tom says, ‘Why worry? Them that’s in don’t want to get out, and them that’s out don’t want to get in.’ He also describes prospectors as ‘people who go into the wilderness with a shovel in one hand, a waterbag in the other and their life in their oth
er hand’.

  The widow Reilly’s pigs

  The Irish influence on Australian folklore has been profound. Irish people themselves are almost always portrayed as fools, albeit funny ones. This story first appeared in print in the 1890s, but was probably old by then.

  The widow Reilly had eight children. She struggled to provide for them by raising cows and pigs.

  One of her sows gave birth to ten piglets. As the piglets grew, the widow’s neighbor, whose name was Patrick, would admire them as he passed by on the way to work.

  One morning, the widow Reilly discovered that one of the piglets was missing. She informed the local priest, who, based on her suspicions, asked Patrick whether he had seen the pig. Pat, squirming a little, said no. The priest reminded Patrick that on Judgment Day, when all men would stand before the Good Lord, someone would have to answer for the theft of the widow Reilly’s piglet.

  Pat thought for a moment. ‘Will the widow be there on Judgment Day too?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ said the priest, ‘and so will the pig. What will you have to say then?’

  Pat replied brightly, ‘I’ll say to Mrs Reilly, “Here is your pig back, and thanks very much for the lend of it.”’

  Dad, Dave and Mabel

  Perhaps the best-known forms of Australian yokel lore are the Dad and Dave yarns. An invention of Australian author ‘Steele Rudd’ (Arthur Hoey Davis, 1868–1935), Dad, Mum and their foolish son Dave first appeared in The Bulletin in 1895. Four years later the sketches appeared in book form under the title On Our Selection, which spawned many sequels and subsequent editions. The books were best-sellers, also having stage, film and radio adaptations, and have inspired numerous humorous folktales which concentrate on portraying Dad, Dave and the family as country hicks.

  The other important aspect of the Dad and Dave yarns is the portrayal of Dave as a gormless fool, very much in the tradition of the popular ‘numbskull’ stories. In one typical exchange, Dave is leaving home to join the army. Mum, worried about her son in the big city, prevails on Dad to give him a fatherly lecture about the perils of drink, gambling and women. Dave is at pains to let Dad know that he doesn’t have any truck with such things. Dad returns to Mum and says: ‘You needn’t worry. I don’t think the army will take him anyway, the boy’s a half-wit!’

  In another tale, Dave gets a job driving a truck in the city. On the first day the boss asks him to deliver three bears to the zoo. Hearing nothing from Dave for a very long time the boss decides to find out what has happened to him. He drives along the route that Dave would have taken and sees him buying tickets to the cinema for himself and the bears.

  ‘I told you to take those bears to the zoo,’ the angry boss yells at Dave. ‘What are you doing at the cinema with them?’

  Unperturbed, Dave slowly replies that the truck broke down and as he couldn’t take the bears to the zoo he decided to take them to the ‘pitchers’ instead.

  Many Dad and Dave yarns involve Dad, Dave and Dave’s mother, but there are also others involving Dave’s wife, Mabel. In one of these Dave comes into a bit of extra money and decides to buy Mabel a present. He goes into the dining room, picks up the table and carries it down the street. On the way he meets a mate who asks him if he is moving house. ‘Oh no,’ Dave replies cheerfully, ‘I’m just going out to buy Mabel a new tablecloth.’

  The theme of yokel stupidity that lies at the heart of the Dave character continues in a number of stories about Dave and Mabel’s escapades in the hospitality business. Dave and Mabel decide to make some money by opening an outback roadhouse. The locals and truckies are quite happy with Mabel’s basic but sustaining cooking but the restaurant fails to attract any tourists. Eventually an American comes in. Dave sits him down and asks him what he would like to eat. The American looks around and notices a truckie demolishing a meal of steak, salad, chips and eggs. ‘I’ll have what he’s eating, but eliminate the eggs.’

  Dave bustles back to the kitchen to prepare the order but after a few minutes’ discussion with Mabel he returns to the American’s table. ‘Uhh, sorry, but we’ve had an accident in the kitchen and the ’liminator’s broke. Would you like your eggs fried instead?’

  In another story from the sequence, Dave and Mabel open a bed and breakfast. The rooms are pretty basic but eventually a couple arrive from the city to stay the night. When they see the room they complain that there is no toilet. Dave assures them that this is just the way things are done in the bush and provides them with a bucket to use if they need to relieve themselves during the night.

  Next morning Dave knocks on their door and asks what they would like for breakfast. They order a full bush breakfast and coffee. Dave dashes off but is back in a minute asking if they would like milk in their coffee. ‘Yes, please,’ chorus the couple. ‘Alright,’ says Dave, ‘but could you give us the bucket back so’s the missus can milk the cow?’

  When Dave and Mabel finally get married, Dave asks Dad for a quiet word before they leave for their honeymoon. ‘Could you do me a favour, Dad?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course, Dave,’ Dad replies, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Would you mind going on the honeymoon for me, you know a lot more about that sort of thing than I do.’

  Published Dad and Dave stories are mostly in this style, although there is a considerable number that rarely appear in print due to their overtly sexual nature. By modern standards, the bawdy element is quite mild, although many older Australians consider such tales unsuitable for telling in public or in mixed company. Folklorist Warren Fahey recalls being told ‘hundreds’ of obscene Dad and Dave jokes in the 1970s and ’80s, though believes they are now dying out in oral tradition.

  But Dad and Dave are alive and well in the small Queensland town of Nobby. This is ‘Dad and Dave Country’, where visitors can find ‘Rudd’s Pub’, named after the the author, who allegedly wrote there.

  Cousin Jacks

  Groups on the periphery of a community are often portrayed as stupid, whether the community is a city or a nation. This mocking of the marginal was perhaps more common before the twentieth century, when such groups were often physically separate from the mainstream. Just as America had its Okies and Canada its Newfoundlanders, Australia had Tasmanians— and Cousin Jacks, Cornish people who migrated to work in the tin mines of South Australia in the nineteenth century. While Cousin Jacks were not portrayed as inbred like ‘Taswegians’, they were endowed in folklore with the kind of idiocy city folk have long associated with yokels. Many Cousin Jack yarns poke fun at the Cornishmen’s distinctive accent.

  A Cornishman hires a carpenter, a fellow Cousin Jack, to erect a fence. When it is done, the boss Cousin Jack complains that it’s a bit crooked in the middle.

  ‘It be near enough,’ says the carpenter.

  ‘Near enough be not good enough. ’E must be ’zact.’

  ‘Well, ’e be ’zact,’ replies the carpenter.

  ‘Oh well, if ’e be ’zact, ’e be near enough,’ says the employer, walking away satisfied.

  Tom’n’oplas

  The central character of a series of tales told around Sydney during the 1980s is an Australian version of the trickster, a staple of folk tradition around the world. The teller in this case acted out the antics he described:

  The bank manager is sitting at his desk, round about lunchtime, when the assistant manager comes in and says, ‘Look, he’s done it again. Tom’n’Oplas—he’s put a thousand dollars in the bank. I can’t work it out.’

  And the manager says, ‘Well, what should we do? Do we have a responsibility to dob this guy in? Is he getting his money legally, or . . . ? What do you think?’

  The assistant manager said, ‘Well, why don’t we call him in and find out?’

  So come next Monday Tom’n’Oplas arrives, puts a thousand dollars in the bank. And the assistant manager says, ‘Mr Tom’n’Oplas, the manager would like to see you.�
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  He goes into the office. The manager sits him down, says, ‘Mr Tom’n’ Oplas, you’re one of our best customers, but I can’t work out why every Monday morning you put a thousand dollars in the bank.’

  Tom’n‘Oplas laughs. He says, ‘Oh yes. Well, I’m a gambler.’

  The manager says, ‘What do you mean? Is it something you can let me in on? A thousand dollars a week—that’s fifty grand a year. I could retire on that.’

  Tom says, ‘Well, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that this time next week you’ll have hair growing all over your back.’

  And the manager thought, ‘Ha, ha, ha. Obviously this fellow’s gone off the rails a little bit under a bit of pressure from me.’ He said, ‘Mr Tom’n’Oplas, that’s a bet.’

  Next day the manager checks his back. No hair. This is wonderful, he thinks. That night he sleeps on his back so it won’t grow because he’s putting pressure on it.

  Wednesday he wears a sweater because he thinks the only way Tom’n’Oplas can get him is to tape something on his back, or put something on his shirt, or whatever. It’s the middle of summer, and all the staff think he’s a little bit crazy, but he’s thinking ‘a thousand dollars’.

  Thursday, he doesn’t wear a shirt, just a jumper, in case Tom gets to his laundry and puts hairs in his shirt.

  Friday he’s getting a little bit toey. Saturday and Sunday he just locks himself away in the house.

  Monday morning arrives. He checks his back in the mirror and he can’t see anything there. ‘A thousand dollars,’ he thinks.

  Tom’n’Oplas arrives at the bank, and he’s got a Japanese fellow with him. The manager says ‘Mr. Tom’n’Oplas, in here.’ Tom says, ‘I thought you’d be wanting to see me. I suppose you think you’ve won your bet.’ The manager whips his shirt off and turns around—and the Japanese fellow faints. ‘Look, look,’ the manager says. ‘No hair. But . . . what’s happened to your mate?’