The View From Connor's Hill (11 page)

DURING THAT FIRST YEAR
at Doctors Flat, we started to attend events other than the odd movie — like the footy, the cricket, or the Scouts, and annual events. Due to its isolation, the Omeo Shire had almost no electric power. The townships of Swifts Creek and Omeo had 240-volt electricity, but the rest of the area had almost none, apart from household lighting plants that provided 12-volt or 32-volt power. For most of the shire, this meant no television, and poor radio reception. However, there was always something happening during the year like the Omeo Show, the Omeo Rodeo, or the Boxing Day sports at Swifts Creek, Omeo, and Ensay.

The Swift Creek and Omeo days were for athletics, sheath tossing, mini races, and novelty events like the greasy pig chase, during which a greased pig was given a short head-start in front of a hundred eager teenagers. The winner was the one who caught the pig, and got to keep it.

The Ensay Boxing Day, on the other hand, was mainly for horses and sheepdog trials. There were also annual horse races at Swifts Creek and Benambra, while the annual sheep and cattle sales held at Benambra, Omeo, Swifts Creek, and Ensay were major events, too. Then there were golf, badminton, and tennis tournaments, fishing clubs, and rifle clubs throughout the area.

An hour's drive up from Omeo was Dinner Plain and Mount Hotham, both ski resorts where we visited and tobogganed down the slopes.

However, it was my first visit to the Omeo Show that I recall with wonder. It was a display of all the talent and skills found in the district. There were men in Fletcher Jones Harris tweed sports coats, and wearing squatters' hats, wandering the grounds. Other men wearing dustcoats would be judging sheep, cattle, wool, horses, and cuts of beef and mutton.

In the pavilion, the women displayed their skills in cooking, sewing, weaving, and other homely pursuits. There was a keenly contested competition that decided who was the champion shearer; at times, the winner would be one of the best in Australia. Wood chopping was also a highly sought-after prize and, like Tasmania, East Gippsland boasted world-class axemen.

On the arena were horse events. However, with all this entertainment, only two things appealed to me: the caravans and the sideshows.

The caravans, arrayed in a long line, sold fairy floss, hot-dogs, toffee apples, bags of lollies, and showbags full of wonderful goodies. The other magnets were the numerous sideshows, and the boxing tent. This area was packed. It was the first time I had seen sideshows. There were wooden clowns with heads swivelling, waiting for balls to drop into their mouths. Another tent had a large painting and a sign, which boasted that inside was a person who was half-man and half-woman.

Nearby were a merry-go-round, dodgem cars, and a long walk-through tent that showed snakes. Several times during the day a snake handler performed daring feats outside, to much applause. The man with the snakes was world-class, so the man with the megaphone said. Other tents offered great prizes if you could throw balls, coconuts, and rings accurately. I had never seen anything like this before in my life; it was a real thrill.

To top all of this off, and totally out of character, Dad gave me ten bob (one dollar) to shout us kids to some of the rides, and to buy some sweets. The four of us — Robbie, John, Jeff, and I — were beside ourselves with excitement and expectation. This was a real treat.

We stuck together and headed for the sideshow alley. A kindly man with a pleasant smile invited us to try his game. ‘No, thank you,' was my quiet reply. The man then added that we could, with a little luck, make a lot of money. He then explained the game — all I had to do was throw four darts at a board, and score less than twenty-one.

The board was square, quite large, and covered with fine netting, with each number encircled. It was two shillings, or 20 cents, for a throw of four darts. If you got less than 21, you won a pound, which was two dollars. Easy — I could do this. We gathered in a tight little circle, my brothers egging me on. I handed over the orange ten-bob note, and pocketed the eight-bob change. My first three darts registered 21; the last dart was a four.

‘Next time, mate,' encouraged the man.

I parted with another two bob. This time I managed 26 — I was home and hosed. Quickly I handed over a further two bob. After two darts, I had eleven, then a nine. I looked for a one, then realised I couldn't win even with a one. Okay, I had it worked out — three of six or less, and then the two or the one. But when the first dart hit the two, it bounced off, and my free throw hit a nine. Damn, this time …

I was stunned when it dawned on me that I had parted with the full ten bob. The bloke handed me a card with a photo of Hopalong Cassidy.

I felt terrible, and wondered how I could tell Dad. I didn't but, to make it up, I took the boys to the crowd that had gathered outside Bell's boxing tent. It was truly entertaining. The ringmaster had a group of world-class boxers on a stage about six feet off the ground. It was the front of a large marquee with flags flying on the top. He introduced each of his boxers as a champion in his own right, and stated which country they had come from. This included a ‘Red Indian' from America and a ‘Negro' from darkest Africa. During the introductions, one of the boxers beat a large drum. Then the ringmaster turned to the crowd. ‘Roll up, roll up, welcome to Roy Bell's Boxing Troupe — to the greatest boxing show on earth,' he called out.

The drum-beat got louder and louder. He shouted into a funnel-shaped loudspeaker, encouraging the onlookers. ‘Are there any men out there man enough to go three rounds with one of my boxers?' There were rumbles in the crowd, then a man put up his hand and asked what it was worth.

‘Two quid a win; five quid a knockout; nothing if ya get done.'

‘I'm in,' said the bloke.

‘Come on, any other men among ya?'

Several in the crowd nominated blokes who could go a bit or had reputations as pugs. Roy Bell urged the crowd on even more — various men were getting pats on the back as comments abounded about their strength or prowess. It was great fun. However, today, my guess would be that alcohol helped the contestants decide to have a go — sorry, I forgot to mention that the outdoor bar was the most popular place for the men at the Omeo Show. In no time, there were three locals up on the dais on Roy Bell's stage. The crowd, absolutely pumped, pushed towards the entrance as Bell announced ‘fight time'.

It was five bob to get in, but I had another plan. I led my brothers around the back and waited until the crowd had entered the tent, and the first bell had sounded. We quietly poked our heads under the tent and tried to have a look. All we could see were a lot of trousers, and hands holding hats behind their owners' backs. Suddenly, there was a bloke tugging at my leg; he wasn't happy, and he swore at us.

Going home later that night, I was very pleased that Dad didn't ask us boys what sort of a day we had had.

THE OTHER THING
I really enjoyed attending was the local dances. Mum and Dad could both dance, and we kids, along with many other kids, would sit around the hall watching the adults dance. This happened every Saturday night after the footy or cricket. They were truly old-time dances. At times, there seemed to be a competition between the men as to who was the most suave dancer. With their heads arched, and adopting a look of superiority, they offered themselves and their partner to the crowd, which followed their every move.

One night, a local grazier who considered himself a light-footed dancer was swinging his wife around in a rather risky-looking move when, spinning the wrong way in the wrong direction, up came a schoolteacher who couldn't dance. The teacher zigged when he should have zagged, and all four ended up on the deck. The schoolteacher was slightly primed, and snapped at our local, wealthy grazier. Suddenly, it was on: the two of them were outside, they shaped up, and were ready to biff the hell out of each other. But, as usual, a well-meaning do-gooder stepped in and stopped the fight, and we all went back inside. Pity — it would have been fun.

Alcohol was the cause of many a problem on the dance floor. It was funny but, no matter how inebriated the dancer, he somehow remained upright and able to perform while the music played. Stop the music and, well …

One night the music stopped, and somebody jumped up on the stage to make an announcement. However, I'm sure no one was listening, because there was a distraction: old Fred had stopped dancing, and he was swaying slightly as he tried to listen. Mind you, it was well known that when drunk he could only stand still for about five minutes. He always sat on a stool at the bar. The announcement had been going on for about seven minutes when old Fred's legs started to slowly spread apart on the highly polished dance floor. It was fascinating. He just kept sagging until he was almost doing the total splits — something you would only expect from a gymnast or a ballet dancer. Then Fred fell forward very slowly, softly coming to rest on the hard floor. The speaker didn't miss a beat, because suddenly he had everyone's attention — Fred was asleep. People continued listening until the gentleman on the stage announced, in a long-winded way, that there would be a working bee at the footy ground the next day. The Haywood's band started up. A couple of well-built young men grabbed Fred and hauled him to his feet. Poor Fred: he looked around in bewilderment, wondering what had happened. Then he continued dancing.

But local dances had something else of great appeal for kids of our age — supper. It was a true test of endurance when the announcement of ‘supper' pierced the air. A drum roll usually heralded it. The adults would saunter into the supper room, have their cup of tea, and stand around holding a plate, which they continually refilled from the abundance of food on the tables. A supper at a country dance was something to behold. It was as if the local ladies would try to outdo each other when they arrived with their plates of goodies. There would be sandwiches of endless varieties, which were normally sampled first, and then came the sponges, lashed with cream and local fruit on top. It was a terrific treat. Fresh scones, along with jam tarts, slices, apple, blackberry, and numerous other pastries were jammed onto a long table. A third table would have cakes of many varieties — fruit, tea, lemon, ginger, marble, orange, and chocolate. Finally, in a corner of the room, was an open window attached to another room that was the kitchen. From there, the women briskly served cups of tea from large teapots — coffee wasn't on the menu, as it was almost unheard of in the Omeo area. The tea-pourers would be chatting merrily. It was truly a banquet.

Finally, the band would start playing again, and the adults would stroll even more slowly back into the hall. At a given signal, it was time for us kids. There would be dozens of us, and nothing — not a crumb or skerrick of food — remained on those tables when we finished. I have very fond memories of those suppers.

The Swifts Creek Hall had many uses: it was the venue for movies, dances, badminton, plays, debutante balls, and amateur evenings that boasted some outstanding singers and musicians — and some pretty ordinary ones as well. There were school break-ups, community meetings, Country Women's Association meetings, and special concerts like Slim Dusty's. It was also the locale of a secret meeting.

Held in the supper room once a month, Bob, my stepfather, used to attend them. It was the lodge meeting of the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffalo: a very serious and secretive gathering that held mystical rituals and other unusual goings-on. At school, I had heard that those involved dressed strangely, muttered weird sayings, and regularly rode a billygoat. Word had it that the door to the supper room had a guard. Of course, when you waved that sort of information in front of your average country kids we became full of curiosity and simply had to see what was going on in there. With a plan devised, I somehow became the ringleader.

One wall of the supper room had three windows. They were quite high up, well out of reach, so you couldn't just peep in through them. Our plan involved not only a test of courage but also demanded strength. At the designated time, about eight of us turned up. The tall blokes — I was one of them — would stand with their backs to the wall, and hoick a mate up while the others pushed.

The first kid to reach window level was Bloss Higgs. No sooner had he started to sneak a look at the mysteries of the Buffaloes than a noise erupted from inside, and all hell broke loose: someone had spotted Bloss. We took off like rabbits.

The next day at school, Bloss gave us a very vivid description of what he'd briefly seen. There were two goats — one really big. One bloke wore armour and, Bloss reckoned, he wielded a sword or a spear or something. That was damn scary, I thought. However, when Bloss said they were about to behead an intruder — from ‘above the Gap' — I lost interest. That was stretching the truth a bit, I reckoned. Still, I never dared ask the old man what went on in there.

AFTER TONGIO
, the move to Doctors Flat turned out to be a blessing. I had the river, a school bus, neighbours about half-a-mile away, and the bush. Sheepstation Creek was only 300 yards from our house. It ran into the Tambo River after a short but rapid journey down from the Angora Ranges, a long, high line of mountains to our west. From the mouth of Sheepstation Creek to the bush was a distance of just over two miles.

During that first year, Robbie and I each got a horse. Fizz was Robbie's horse, and mine was Sandy Mac. They were both docile animals, ideal for a first horse. It made me feel normal to get a horse. Every other farm kid in the area had one; the Reid boys even rode their horses to school.