The View From Connor's Hill (10 page)

Then there was their hut, or Margaret's hut, as Les called it. There were bellows for the fire, a poker, a rifle on the wall, and a Coolgardie safe jammed in the corner, right beside the doorway. What's a Coolgardie safe? That was one of my first questions to this funny old man called Les.

‘Keeps stuff cool, me lad. Water sorta runs over the hessian here, and stuffs gits cool, eh. Ya gotta leave it near a door or in a hallway ta git tha breeze, eh.'

He taught me to fish, and I recall catching a trout in the Tambo River. The highlight was when Les cooked it in the camp oven. It was delicious.

Sadly, my times with Les ended abruptly. Our school burnt to the ground, which meant we had to move. My parents found another house seven miles away, further down the Omeo Highway. I moved to a bigger school with many more kids, and had a couple of mates in no time. I soon forgot about Les, but not the school fire. It caused a lot of talk in the district.

‘Tongio school burnt to the ground!' was the headline in the
Omeo Standard
, our local paper. It was just before the long Christmas break, in November 1955; we had been at Tongio almost two years. Naturally, suspicions and gossip were rife — this is a characteristic of country life. Mind you, I would not have put it past a couple of the boys at the school to have done the deed; they often lit fires around the playground and paddock. Then again, one afternoon I remember the rubbish bin next to the teacher's desk catching fire and being extinguished. The teacher smoked a pipe and regularly emptied it into the bin. Whatever the cause of the fire, the immediate ramifications were frightening.

At home one afternoon, about two weeks after the fire, a shiny black 1953 Plymouth motorcar lurched into our dirt drive, and out stepped some men in trench coats. They wore felt hats, flipped open their notebooks, and removed pencils from their pockets as they crunched their way in their shiny shoes to our front veranda. Robbie and I peered through the hessian curtain in the lounge. They were detectives from Melbourne — heck, did they look important. They spoke to Mum briefly, and then she called out my name.

They asked me to accompany them to the vehicle, where I found myself inside, being grilled by three tough trench coats, one turning and leaning over from the front seat. It was really scary. I was sure someone had dobbed me in, and at the time I believe I would have confessed to anything — yes, I had watched matinees in Ringwood picture theatre featuring wily, square-jawed heroes like the G-Men (who were special American police). I had heard
D24
, a detective serial on the radio. I became very nervous. As one bloke took notes, I had difficulty holding back the tears. However, the trench coats only made a few jottings, and then told me to get out of their car. Then they drove off.

Poor Mum grilled me about what happened, but I couldn't remember much of it. The fact that they hadn't arrested me was a relief.

The Tongio school was never rebuilt.

AS I MENTIONED
, after the school fire my parents decided to move to a different location. Called Doctors Flat, it was a short drive of about seven miles to our new home, which was located back down the Omeo Highway, past Swifts Creek. They managed to procure a 99-year lease on a small house and several acres of land, very close to the Tambo River. This new home, roughly three miles from the township of Swifts Creek, meant we would attend the large local school, which had about 120 kids. Our new house was very cramped, as it only had one bedroom. Soon Dad busied himself adding new rooms to accommodate the family.

Then came a giant leap forward for humankind: a new school bus that serviced Ensay, Brookville, Cassilis, and Tongio was commissioned after the Tongio school fire. Great — it meant no more walking. What a wonderful surprise. The bus took fifteen minutes to get to school. So, once again, there were new kids to meet, new pecking orders to sort out, and new teachers to deal with. If Tongio was anything to go by, this was going to be hell.

Fortunately, the new lady teacher was a delight, and such concerns soon disappeared. Swifts Creek was a pleasant school. It had a mixture of kids from farms, and others who were from Ezard's Sawmill just down the road — a big mill that employed almost 100 people. A school bus meant more time on my hands before and after school. I still milked cows and separated milk, made butter, gathered eggs, collected and cut firewood, cut the wild asparagus, and picked blackberries when they came into season. However, for the first time, I could pursue activities that interested me. I spent time with my younger brothers, John and Jeff, and they were delightful. It was great fun having little kids around, and watching them walk, talk, and explore. I found an hour to kick a footy and to discover the Tambo River.

In fact, the river was astonishing. Dad built a small tin boat, and we paddled it along the banks, around small islands, and under low-hanging Weeping Willow trees. With experience, we braved the rapids, were often tossed out, sank, and received many a battering and bruises. Still, it was great fun. A sail rigged to a crude mast allowed us to tack for roughly 100 metres.

The river had small fish in abundance, called ‘sand trout'. They were easy to catch. Come summer holidays, we would swim and fool around for hours.

Just up from our house, along the river and around a bend, was Wilson's Water Hole. It was a large pool that had been gouged out in a flood. It was perfect for diving, belly flops, and doing bombies. Parents brought their kids to the hole, and workers would come down after the mill whistle had blown ‘knock off' at 5.00 p.m. The waterhole was always crowded.

The banks of the river were open, flat-grassed areas that had the odd Weeping Willow tree standing gracefully upon them. Some of these trees were over 80 feet tall. Swinging on their long, leafy branches out into the middle of the pool and plunging into the water was a treat.

Life was definitely starting to look up. Our new old house was located on a flat, from which it was only a short walk of about 80 feet down a small hill to the river. There was one small fenced paddock. It was too small for our two milkers, called Betty and Goldie, so they roamed the river banks, feeding freely.

The move from Tongio also saw us bringing our mob of sheep along. Yes, we had poddied four lambs since we had left Ringwood. By now, they were family. In no time, we had a new chook house, a cow bale for milking, and a huge shed that Dad built for making water tanks. The river flats, covered in bracken ferns and the odd rivergum tree, added a beauty we hadn't seen at Tongio. These trees were huge, some well over 100 feet tall, and six feet through at the girth.

The soil on these flats was a rich, deep loam. Consequently, Dad decided to clear the flats by hand. A friend lent him a Trewallah tree-puller, and ‘Operation Clearing' began. The tree-puller was a hand-cranked winch with a very long cable that rolled out. With the aid of an extension ladder, we climbed as high up the tree as possible and attached the cable. The drum end of the winch was connected by a shorter cable to the base of another large tree about 100 yards away, which provided an anchor. Then,
clickety-clack, clickety-clack
, the handle on the drum swung backwards and forwards.

‘It's easy 'til the tension takes up,' Dad said.

The gearing on the winch was so slow that it took an hour to put three feet of cable on the drum. So, every night after school, there I was,
clickety-clack
ing, until, finally, the huge monster of a tree started to shudder and creak, making snapping noises at its base as the roots pulled away and lost their anchorage. You could hear the tree crying out as we slowly ripped it from the ground. The last bit needed two of us to operate the winch. Dad and I took another three nights to finally get it to fall. Then we cut it into lengths about six feet long, with a crosscut saw. After that, with the aid of a crowbar, we rolled the tree away, down onto the river bank. From there, when we had our first flood — usually in early summer — the logs would wash away.

Unfortunately, rivergum is a sour, tight, sappy timber that attracts termites and is good for nothing much, not even firewood. By the end of that year, we'd cleared and sown five acres of lucerne. It was a successful sowing, and we baled thousands of short bales of hay off the paddock over the years.

Within a year, I'd not only settled, but I'd started to really enjoy the country way of life. At school, being tall for my age, I excelled in sports that suited my height: the high jump; hurdles; the hop, step, and jump; and the long jump. They were all a breeze. Yet I couldn't run to save myself — I was too gangly.

At footy, I must have inherited some of the Heard genes, as I captained the school footy team. Both my father and his brother had had distinguished football careers in Victoria. (My father, recruited by Richmond, had played in the seconds as a teenager.) I had good ball skills, but didn't like the rough play. Others who had little ability seemed to take great pleasure in injuring me in whatever way they could. I wasn't very heavy (eight-and-a-half stone), but five feet and ten inches tall.

My brother Robbie was shorter, tougher, and more skilled. He seemed to thrive on black eyes, swollen lips, and bruises — another trait from our father, who was a champion amateur boxer.

At school, I discovered many new games. Most involved groups of kids. Marbles, skipping, British Bulldog, and Poison Ball were common. Skipping was fun. Around April each year, out would come the rope. It was about 30 feet long, and was given to the school by Grinter's Transport. Two of the big kids would hold the ends of the rope and slowly swing it. Dozens of us, young and old, would bounce up and down inside the rope chanting, ‘All in together, this fine weather …'

Then, as it was winter, once everyone was warm the competitions would start. Sally Bock could French skip. It was hard. Two light ropes, pulled very tight, gave the perfect length. Then, with the ropes spinning in opposite directions at the same time, kids would run and then jump through very fast. Sally was the fastest. Then came the one-offs. Some would skip under the big rope and continue skipping with their own rope. It took perfect timing. Bystanders, enthralled by this feat, would clap in rhythm while the skilled ones did crossovers, doubles, and hot peppers. By the time the bell rang, everyone would be warm and glowing.

During those years at Doctors Flat, with the family more settled, Dad's business increased and he hired a labourer named Andy Adams. Mum didn't own or drive a car so, once a week, groceries and bread arrived in a tiny van. Although we didn't get into the town of Swifts Creek very much, it was very exciting if we did — even more so if I had picked up some pocket money.

The Sandys owned the grocery store. Most things in the shop — flour, sugar, honey, crushed oats for porridge, Weeties, and biscuits — were in bulk. A scoop, or a set of scales, were used to measure out most orders. Then a brown paper bag, flipped and twisted tightly, ended up in a cardboard box with your name scrawled on the side. The shopkeeper would then return to the customer's list and tick that item. For threepence, you could buy a large bag of broken mixed biscuits. They were the remains, or leftovers, after the large, square tin was finished. For poorer families, these separated bits of biscuits were a delight. In those days, most people expected unbroken biscuits.

Sandy's store had a long counter with several people serving. There were no shelves where you served yourself, and no packaged rice, dried fruit, or washing powder. Some people brought their own containers, jugs, billies, and hessian bags. For many of the women, it was a social outing. Everyone would be chatting, tutting, and nodding. It was always busy. There were no queues — the assistants knew whose turn it was next, and called them by name to the counter. Before asking what was required, the shopkeeper always had a personal chat, asked after the kids, and finally asked for their list. In the 1950s, there were no packets of anything much, really. There were no rubbish bins ready for re-cycling — there was no rubbish to speak of, and certainly no rubbish collection.

Occasionally, we would head into Swifts Creek to the movies. Every Tuesday we would get off the school bus, and our first wish would be for Dad to come home at a reasonable hour. Then we'd complete our chores in record time, and behave ourselves with perfect manners. Sometimes it worked. The result was a quick tea, a wash, and a hair brush, and we'd pile into the ute.

During my youth, a night at the movies was a great night out. The movies started at 8.00 p.m. with a cartoon, or sometimes two, followed by the Movietone news, and then the first movie would begin. It would be a full-length film. At interval, David Jessup would be ready with his tray of lollies, standing out the front after the lights came on. He sold a variety: Columbines, milkshakes, Jaffas, jellybeans, Violet Crumble bars, barley sugar, and Fags — small cigarette-like candy, which even had a red tip. All the lollies were Australian-made by companies such as MacRobertson, Allens, Hoadleys, and Cadbury.

I recall with excitement when, towards the end of that decade, the local store introduced ice creams in a cone, and milkshakes. From then on, during interval at the Tuesday movies in the Swifts Creek Mechanics Hall, we would dash up the street at interval to the store to order our milkshake and ice cream.

Interval was never at a set time. After the adults had enjoyed their chitchats, and the kids had settled, silence returned. This would be the cue for the projectionist, after which the second half would begin. There would be trailers advertising the next ‘Do not miss' movies showing over the following weeks. Then the feature movie would begin. In all, most nights finished between 11.30 p.m. and 12.30 a.m. — usually after four hours of entertainment. Being a big night out, you simply went home to bed afterwards … so different from today.