A Fortunate Life (Puffin story books)

by A B Facey

  The next week brought us to the junction of the Gascoyne and Lyons Rivers. The Boss sent Stan on ahead to see what the crossing would be like for the cattle. Stan returned that night; found a place to cross where the river was about two feet six inches deep and about three quarters of a mile wide. The Boss decided to camp near the river and take the herd over in the morning. So, on the seventeenth of May, we crossed the Gascoyne and we now had about ninety miles to go to the Great Northern Coast stock route. From there on there would be two or three small watercourses to cross, then the Murchison River which was our only real worry. If we had another rain storm like that one when I got lost, we might have to wait until the water level dropped. Cattle don’t mind water so long as they can touch the bottom, but when they have to swim they turn to the nearest way out, which is mostly back where they came from.

  Towards the end of May we arrived at the Great Northern Coast stock route. The sea was a few miles to the west of the route, so the scouts had only the east side and the front of the herd to watch. Usually when the herd was spread out grazing it was at least one mile wide and a mile long. We had only one drover now on the coast side looking for strays. One evening in early June, the Boss limited our day’s travel to eight miles. He said the cattle were getting near prime condition and we must keep them that way. He expected us to be in Geraldton near the end of the month. We were twelve days covering the next hundred miles.

  We reached the Murchison River and Arthur picked out a good camping spot. Then the Boss took his horse and rode along the river to have a look at the possibilities of crossing and decided we would have to take the cattle east along the river for about four miles to where the river was very wide and shallow.

  Next morning the herd was driven along the river to this spot. We had a job getting the cattle across, and it was almost sundown before the crossing was completed. The men were swearing at one another and at the cattle, and this went on until the Boss made them cut it out. He ordered them to drive across a hundred or so head at a time, and that’s how we crossed the Murchison River. As usual we used a lead cow which had to go back and come over in front of each lot to show them the way—she must have crossed at least twenty times. We hadn’t crossed the Murchison any too soon, because two days after the crossing we got heavy rain, and even the small creeks were in flood.

  The day before we were due to arrive in Geraldton, the Boss rode ahead to make arrangements for the delivery of the cattle. Arthur and I were about two miles ahead of the herd when the Boss came back early next morning. He told Arthur to make camp in an old hut in a paddock, about two miles out of Geraldton. The cattle would be put into holding paddocks. The Boss explained that our job wasn’t finished until the cattle had been classed, valued or sold; he expected that it would take about two or more weeks to complete our contract. Then he said, ‘Anyone that goes into town without my permission will lose his share of the bonus. The only one who is allowed into Geraldton is Bert. He will go for fresh meat and bread first thing in the morning, so anything you need Bert can get it for you.’

  The bonus paid to the Boss was based on the number of head considered to be in prime condition on delivery, and also a percentage of the price paid above the set amount for each head. The Boss was allowed one head of cattle per hundred as a loss. If he lost more than that he had to make it up before settlement. Also, any cattle that managed to stray into the herd unbranded or not earmarked were considered the Boss’ property and could be sold by him. All these payments together made up the bonus. The Boss agreed to divide the total amount equally among the men that stayed through the whole drive, but I didn’t think that I would be in the bonus.

  Next morning I caught Dinnie and one pack mule, and set off to Geraldton with a long list of things that the men wanted. I went straight to Mrs Stafford’s Coffee Palace, and she was delighted to see me. I didn’t have time to tell her very much about the trip, but I promised to try and get one evening off.

  The sorting, grading and marking of the cattle took four days. We were all very busy while this went on—I had to go into Geraldton twice, help Arthur, and also help with driving the graded and marked cattle into their various holding paddocks. Then, on the fifth day of July, roughly six hundred head of prime bullocks were taken into the sale-yards. The Boss expected to hold three sales each week until the lot were sold.

  The Boss had given me permission to have the following evening with Mrs Stafford. I had dinner in the kitchen with Mrs Stafford, her daughter Jean, and Mary, and they wanted to know all about how I got lost and found—a hundred questions. I was usually very shy when talking to ladies, but not with these people.

  Mrs Stafford told me that Bill and May had married and Bill had got that job managing the cattle station about one hundred miles east of Mullewa, and they were very happy. I told her I had promised to go and see them when the drive had finished, but there was no way of getting to where they were, as I intended going back to Perth when I finished with Bob McInnis. Mrs Stafford said that she would write a letter to them for me before I left for Perth. All of a sudden I looked at the clock. The time had gone like a few minutes. It was close to midnight when I arrived back at camp.

  We were all woken early next morning. We took about nine hundred head to the sale. On our way back to camp Darkey told us that we should finish early next week. The men were growling about not getting any money until all the cattle were sold. Arthur said, ‘If them blokes get their money now they won’t be able to do anything because they will be blind drunk. The Boss knows that. He’s had trouble before over booze.’

  On the fourteenth of July we delivered the last of the cattle. It seemed there was a big demand for cows on account of the hundreds of new settlers down south. Two large stockbroker firms conducted the sales, and Stan remarked that the prices they had fetched were the best he had ever known.

  The Boss was pleased—it was the most successful drive he had ever had. He said, ‘Only for the kid getting lost and the stampede it would’ve been perfect.’ This made me feel bad; I didn’t get lost on purpose.

  Two days later the company agents came out to the camp, and they and the Boss and Stan sat around a table. They were there for about two hours and when they went away the Boss called us in and we got our pay. The blacks were paid first, then Stan, Darkey, George and Arthur. Then the Boss called me up to the table and said, ‘Well, Bert, this is the best day of them all—pay-day. You’ve been twenty-eight weeks with me. That makes your wages twenty-eight pounds. Now the other men and I think you should be included in the bonus so I have added twenty-two pounds. That makes your total fifty pounds. Are you satisfied with that?’ I said, ‘Oh yes, Boss, thank you very much.’ Just think of my amazement when he counted out fifty sovereigns. I stood there sort of stunned. I had never seen so many sovereigns all at once before. The Boss broke the silence, saying, ‘You’ve earned it, Bert. You are a good lad and, if you like, you can come and work on my place in Mullewa. Think it over and let me know tomorrow.’ Then he said, ‘You and I have a job to do in Geraldton, Bert. After that you are free to do what you like.’

  This puzzled me. As we rode along he said, ‘I suppose you are wondering what this is all about We have to give the police sergeant at Geraldton a full report about you being lost. They got a black tracker and were arranging a search-party, but you were found before they could get started. Just before the search was due to start, a policeman at Carnarvon sent a message through to say that a black man said he had seen a smoke signal to say you had been found. Now the police want a firsthand statement to show their superiors.’

  We arrived at the Police Station. ‘So this is the boy that was lost,’ said the sergeant. The Boss told him about the storm and the stampede and how I was found. The sergeant wrote it down and witnessed our signatures.

  The next morning I went to the Boss and told him I wouldn’t be taking the job he had offered me. ‘I will be going back to Perth for a few weeks, then I may come back if that’s all right with y
ou, Bob,’ I said. ‘You just do what you like, Bert,’ he said. ‘If you have trouble finding suitable employment just pack up and come to my place and you will have a job. I will treat you like my own son.’ I felt sure that he meant it. I thanked him again, then went and packed my few things together, intending to walk into Geraldton. Bob wouldn’t hear of it and sent one of the blacks to bring in Dinnie and another hack. ‘Take Bert into Geraldton, then bring Dinnie back,’ he said to him. With that he shook my hand and I rode away.

  I arrived at Mrs Stafford’s place just before lunch. The hardest thing was saying goodbye to Dinnie. I cried and hugged her and when I went into Mrs Stafford’s I had tears in my eyes. She noticed I had been crying and she kissed me and said, ‘I understand. You can become very close to a faithful horse.’

  I had lunch that day in the kitchen with Mrs Stafford and the girls. Mrs Stafford asked me what I intended doing. I explained about the job Bob had offered me and told her that I wanted to get some more learning. I said it was impossible to learn anything at all on the drive and if I could get a job of some sort in or near the city, that would give me a chance to take some lessons. I said, ‘I feel terrible out of place in any kind of company.’ She said that she understood and she thought I was doing the right thing.

  I went to the shipping office and made enquiries about the next ship to Fremantle. I would have to wait six days. So for the next six days I had a nice holiday. I had all my meals with Mrs Stafford and the girls, and tried my hand at fishing.

  Finally, having put forty pounds in my State Savings account, I left Geraldton on the twenty-fourth day of July 1909 on the Kenalpi, the same boat that I had arrived on nearly eight months before.

  Eleven

  I got very seasick on the Kenalpi. All through the night the sea tossed that little boat about like a cork; how it managed to keep afloat I will never know. Next day, early in the after-noon, we came into Fremantle. Wasn’t I glad when I stood on firm ground again!

  I made my way to Subiaco, but when I got there I found my mother wasn’t living there any more. I was told that she had shifted to West Perth, so I then hired a cab and went to Mother’s new home where I got another surprise—she and my stepfather were renting a large store with a top storey. The ground floor shop was stocked with ironmongery. My mother was looking after the shop, besides doing the cooking for all the family and the housework. She was so pleased to see me. She told me that my two older brothers were working for Bill, my stepfather, and that they were doing well.

  Mother showed me where I would sleep—I would share a room with my stepbrother Harry. I took a nap and the next thing I knew Roy was shaking me to wake me up. When I came into the dining-room they were all sitting at the table having dinner. I said, ‘Good-day,’ and they started asking questions all at once. I unfolded my story until bedtime.

  When I awoke the next morning my stepfather and brothers had gone to work. Mother was waiting for me in the kitchen and told me some bad news. My sister Myra had died two months ago. This news shocked me and without saying a word I got up from the table and went to my room and had a good cry. Myra was only two years older than me and we were always together when we were living with Grandma in Victoria. She was a pretty little girl and had lovely long, dark hair. She must have died during the time I was lost.

  Later that day my mother came to me and said how sorry she was. She said that when she married Bill he made it very clear he wouldn’t have any of the children from her first marriage living with them unless they could pay board, and so she had to put Myra into a home under the care of a religious group. That was where she developed pneumonia and then the consumption that finally killed her. ‘I begged your stepfather to let me bring her home but he wouldn’t agree, so what could I do?’ said Mother.

  After hearing this story I felt that I hated my mother. But the damage was done—Myra couldn’t be brought back. I told Mother that she should have let Grandma know because she would have done something to save Myra’s life. I was sure of that.

  Bill gave me a job helping two men dig drains, and paid me three pounds a week, out of which I had to pay my mother one pound for my board. I got along fine on this job; the two men I worked with treated me well and wouldn’t let me work too hard.

  At the end of August, Ernie Hickland, one of the men I worked with, found out I was a good boxer. He was helping to run a boxing school and he invited me to come to the school for two and sixpence a lesson.

  I decided to join, and after a few visits my shyness wore off and I really enjoyed myself. There were about thirty boys attending, separated into age groups. I turned fifteen the first week I joined, so I was put into the fifteen to sixteen age group.

  Charlie Burns, who did the teaching for my group, was very strict. He was also one of the nicest and kindest men I had met. He considered that defence was the first and most important thing about boxing and we had to practise foot-work, side-stepping and the art of avoiding being hit without having to use your gloves to block punches. I stuck with Mr Burns’ boxing school for six months, and also kept on learning to read and write, and arithmetic too.

  Then Bill finished the contract he had been handling in February 1910 and had nothing for me to do. One day Mr Burns told me about a job at a foundry in West Perth that made parts of various kinds, and gave me a letter to take to the boss there. Next morning I went to the foundry, saw the man and gave him the letter. ‘We will give you a trial for a few weeks,’ he said.

  The parts were made of cast iron and moulded in damp sand. My job was damping the sand, and packing it firmly around a sample part before it was lifted, leaving an impression for melted iron to be poured in.

  I had been at this job for about six weeks when the boss sent for me. He asked, ‘Would you like to be an apprentice to a trade here with this foundry? We are very pleased with you and there are several good trades you could be apprenticed to.’ I told him I would love to learn a trade and he then asked what grade I had made at school. He was shocked when I told him that I hadn’t ever been to school and he said, ‘Without proper schooling you wouldn’t be able to take a trade.’ He said he was sorry, and that he was afraid I would have a hard time. With that he got up and showed me out. So that was that—out again in the cold hard world. I went home and told my mother the sad news. She drew my attention to an advertisement in the newspaper for a lad to work on a farm at Lake Yealering, only a few miles from where I had worked for Charlie and Mrs Bibby. I went that morning to the address given, a firm called Coad and Tindle in an office in Perth. Mr Tindle asked me if I had any references and I mentioned Mr Bibby. He said, ‘Righto, lad, I know the Bibbys well. You have a job. We want you to go to Wickepin where our manager, Mr Kent, will meet you. He is managing our property at Lake Yealering.’

  Mr Tindle, his brother and Mr Coad had taken up four thousand acres of land west of the lake and were running fifteen hundred sheep on it. My job would be general work on the property. Mr Tindle then asked, ‘What about thirty shillings a week wages and keep?’ I agreed to those terms and was told that I had to leave the following Monday. I couldn’t help thinking how oddly things turned out. Here I was going back to almost the same place I had worked before I left to see my mother.

  I liked this job at Yealering. Mr Kent was a single man and a terrible cook but we got along fine. I had to ride around the boundary every five days to see that the dog-proof fence all round the property was intact. If the fence was broken or the limb of a tree had fallen on it, I had to put things right. The rest of my time was taken up looking to see that the sheep were all right. I learnt a lot about looking after young ewes, especially when the lambing was on.

  In September the shearers came; there were three shearers and they sheared about three hundred a day between them. In those days shearing was done by hand with wide-bladed shears like big scissors. Mr Kent showed me how to class wool and throw it so it would fall spread out over a special wool-table.

  In November that year, Mr Kent s
aid he would be away for six weeks, in South Australia on a trip. He asked me if I thought that I could look after the place while he was away and I assured him that I could. I felt terribly important—manager of a big property like that. The sheep flock had increased to over two thousand with the lambs. So Mr Kent went to Fremantle and from there by boat to Port Adelaide. Just before he got on the train at Wickepin, our nearest town, he said, ‘When I come back, Bert, I will have two big surprises for you.’ On the way back home I wondered what the two surprises were; I couldn’t think what they would be.

  I was kept busy. The weather was becoming very hot and fly strike to the ewes was bad at that time of the year, so I had to yard the sheep every week and spray them with oil. About every eight days I had to change the sheep into a fresh paddock. They were divided into two flocks—the ewes and lambs in one paddock and the dry sheep (non-breeders) and rams in another. The property was fenced into seven paddocks and the sheep were rotated, so that the grass and scrub could make new shoots. Two sheep dogs were the only company I had while Mr Kent was away. They followed me everywhere and were real pals.

  Just before Christmas Day I was thrilled to have a visitor—Jack Lander—the man who had given me the books for schooling at Mr Bibby’s. He wanted me to go to his place, about seven miles away, for Christmas dinner. I had to refuse, because I had promised Mr Kent that I wouldn’t leave the place except to get stores, and when I told Jack that I was in charge of the property, he remarked, ‘Fancy a lad of sixteen years being manager.’ When he finally left to go back to his place he said that he would have liked me to come for Christmas dinner, but he admired me for sticking to my word. So I got a pound tin of Christmas pudding and a pound tin of ham and that was all I bothered with. The quietness didn’t trouble me, and being kept so busy helped.