Broken Hill was a city in the desert. It was a pretty big place according to the mailman and sported at least a hotel on every street corner. Mining, gambling, shearing, Two-Up and drinking were the main activities of this city in 1968. I was 19 years old then and everyday I shore, I was getting faster and cleaner.
The mailman told me of a bar where all the shearers drank at, but, he said, The Argent Hotel was the best place to stay, so I took him at his word. He dropped me off outside the Argent and I thanked him for the ride and offered to buy him a beer next time I saw him.
The owner of the Argent was a greek. Nick the Greek, they called him. He was a very friendly bloke. As soon as I spoke a few words of Greek to him, his face lit up and our friendship was established.
One of the characters I met in the argent was a black fella who went by the name of Soreback. Soreback was a short man and very heavy. He must have weighed 250 pounds, if he weighted a pound. He was totally bald on top and his eyes bulged out slightly, probably because of the amount of grog he used to consume. Old Soreback told me his name was Ralph Horton and that his mother was a Maori from New Zealand.
I had no reason to not believe him until a bloke told me he was a half-caste Abbo. His real name was Ralph Hampton from Uabalong, a town outside of Lake Cargelligo. The bloke told me Soreback had a brother called Buddha Hampton, who I had met on many occasions in Giltraps Hotel. Old Buddha was always in trouble with the cops when he got on the grog. So much so, it was rumored around the Lake that his death was caused by a severe beating from 3 big cops.The version the police put out was that Buddha Hampton had a heart attack in jail overnight.
I never said anything to Ralph as I really liked him a lot. It was obvious to me that, for whatever reason, he didn't want anyone to know of his past. As far as I was concerned, I met him as 'Soreback' and I called him Soreback over the years that I knew him.
Soreback normally lived in New Zealands' South Island, at a place called Cheviot. He had come over to Australia because a friend of his from Cheviot, who's name was 'Cream' wanted the experience of shearing Aussie Merino sheep.
Cream was just as big a drinker as Soreback. They both spent their time and money drinking for hours on end at the Argent bar. Cream had just finished his first Merino shed. As soon as he had a few beers under his belt, he could not stop talking about the shock he'd received when he tried to shear Merinos.
Over the next couple of days, fate arranged it that, I was to work in a shed with Soreback and Cream as a cook until the contractor could find one. Once he found a cook, he said he'd give me a pen, shearing. Soreback, Cream and myself drove out to a shed that was miles and miles out in the Bush. The place was called Milperinca. On the map of NSW, it's a tiny little dot, north of Broken Hill. Milperinca was the name of the sheep station.
There was nothing around us for hundreds of miles but Bush.
The first morning, I was up bright and early so I could light the wood stove. I made up a breakfast of bacon, eggs, lamb chops and toast. The bloke who was running the shed for the contractor told me that I'd done a good job at making breakfast but a few of the shearers were big, militant trouble-makers. By lunch time they were complaining about the quality of my cooking.
The bloke running the shed, Mick Rice, said to me,
"Tell ya what we'll do Yorky. It's pretty easy to see that those complaining bastards, for whatever reason, don't like ya. We won't tell 'em but I'll do the cooking for this evenings meal and we'll just let 'em think that you've done it. That way, we'll get through the shed with no complaints."
That afternoon, Mick cooked up a roast with potatoes, cabbage, onions and gravy. When dinner-time came, I served up the meal, just as if I'd cooked it. As soon as the meal was over, the same 4 blokes pulled Mick over to the side and told him the meal was shit and they weren't paying good money to eat rotten cooking. When Mick told me what had happened, I asked him why he didn't tell 'em that he'd done the cooking.
"Won't do no good Yorky. They've got a set on ya and they won't be happy until you're out of the kitchen. The following day, instead of cooking breakfast, I was given the job of roust-a-bout, for the rest of the week. I was much happier in the shed but I would have preferred to be shearing instead of picking up wool.
Old Soreback was having a hard time of it. Every time he got to the last side of the sheep he would straighten up his back for about 20 seconds, then he'd continue to finish the sheep. Between sheep, he would be in the catching pen, spewing up a colorless liquid and coughing like hell. I've seen a lot of shearers in pain in my days but none as bad as Soreback was.
"Hey Yorky."
"What d'ya want Soreback?"
"Shear one for me will ya while I pick up a bit of wool for ya?"
"I'd love to Soreback!", I said as I pulled out a sheep.
The biggest trouble-maker at the shed was a tall, black-haired bloke called Ron Cole. He was shearing on the stand next to Sorebacks. As soon as he saw me pull out a sheep he gave me a dirty look. I shore 5 sheep for Soreback and by the time I'd warmed up, I was now keeping up with Cole, blow for blow. He didn't like that one bit. At lunch time he complained to Mick Rice that soreback wasn't doing my job well enough. Rice had no other option but to tell me not to shear anymore sheep for Soreback.
The end of Milperinca shed found Soreback, Cream and myself, back at the Argent Hotel. There was a space at the bar next to two of the shearers, who had been shearing at the same shed with us. One of the blokes name was Bill. He was one of the roughest-looking characters that I'd ever seen. He was around 50 years of age. He had a nose that had been broken at least a couple of times and a long scar on his cheek.
"G'day Bill.", I said. "How're ya doing mate?"
"Not bad Yorky, Now I've got a few middys under mi belt."
As the Publican was pulling 3 middys for us, Ron Cole, who had been drinking at the end of the bar, casually walked over to where I was standing. From the look on his face, I knew he was going to start causing problems for me. The first words out of his mouth were,
"I don't drink at the same bar as pommy, fucking bastards!"
Before I could say a word, Bill put his middy down, took out his top and bottom false teeth and said to his mate, "Here, hold these for me and don't fucking drop em!"
He then turned to Cole and said, "Why don't ya put ya fucking beer down you Yankee fucking bastard, cause I'm gonna knock you arse over fucking head! I'm just about sick of you riding this young fella' for the whole shed!"
"Ya no need to be like that!, said Cole, as his face turned white and fear showed in his eyes.
"I won't tell ya again, ya Yankee, fucking bastard! Git out of this fucking hotel now and do your drinking somewhere else! Ya got half-a-fucking minute mate, to make ya mind up, then you'll be on the deck!"
Cole downed what was left of his middy and put his glass down on the bar. He turned around and walked over to where he'd left his drinking mate who, in turn, downed his beer in a hurry. Both of them walked out of the Argent Hotel together.
Bill turned to his mate and said, "Ya got me teeth there, Sport?" His mate handed him both sets.
"Good on ya.", said Bill, as he stuck 'em both in his mouth. "I didn't wanna keep 'em in, in case that Yankee bastard got in a lucky blow."
"Thanks a lot Bill.", I said. "That was real good of ya mate."
"No worries Yorky, I've been wanting to do that for the whole fucking shed. It's a pity the Yankee Bastard wouldn't step up. I was looking forward to stoushing that loud-mouthed bastard."
"Can I buy you and ya mate a beer?"
"There's no need Yorky, but if ya want to, I won't refuse! And while were at it mate, ya see that bloke, the other side of the bar, the one with the cast on his arm? He's a fuckin' con man mate! When he sees ya' on ya' own, he'll come over and put the bite on ya. Don't give the bastard a brass razoo."
"How come mate?"
"Cause there's nothin' wrong with his arm. He's a good-for-nothin' no-hoper. He puts that cast on his arm every shearing season and makes the rounds of the hotels spinnin' a bullshit yarn."
"Thanks for tellin' me, I'll keep mi wits about me."
Friday night in Broken Hill was a big Two-Up night. We all went round to where the game was on, to try out our luck.
Two-Up is an Aussie game that is played with 2 pennies. The pennies are placed on a flat stick. The bloke who tosses the coins has to throw 2 heads to win. If he throws 2 tails he loses his money and the bank. Two-Up was a very popular game in those days. Many a shearer has lost his full pay in a couple of hours.
Old Soreback was one of those shearers. Before the night was out, he was broke. He never had a razoo to his name. Needless to say, as soon as we left, I loaned Soreback a hundred bucks which he promised to pay back at the end of his next shed.
Before Saturday night was over, Soreback had blown the 100 bucks I'd loaned him on the afternoons' racing, so he bit me for another 50.
when I woke up the scratches were there!"
"Right mate! Pull this one, it's got fucking bells on it.
The weekend arrived again and mi shed was finished. From all accounts, work around Broken Hill would now be in short supply. I was having a beer with Soreback and Cream when Soreback announced, "I've had enough of this fucking place! I'm thinking I'll go home to New Zealand."
"Yeah, me too.", said Cream. "These bastard sheep are too good for me!"
"When ya planning on leaving, Soreback?", I asked.
"Soon as I get the shearing contractor in New Zealand to send me some money for a ticket." By now Soreback was into me for $300. I casually asked him about the money he owed me.
"Don't worry about it Yorky. Soon as I get working in Cheviot again, I'll send ya the money to wherever ya like. Ya know, you could come over to New Zealand with mi, if you want to."
I'd never thought about leaving Australia but as soon as old Soreback mentioned it, I considered the possibilities and said, "Yeah, why not mate! I can only think of going back to Lake Cargelligo and there's not lot of shearing around there this time of year."
The decision was made. Over the next few days, we booked a flight from Broken Hill to Sydney which arrived at 4 in the afternoon. The flight to New Zealand left the following day at 2pm.
Flying across NSW in a plane was my first air flight. It was an incredible experience to look down and see all the dry, bush country that I'd wandered around in for the past 4 years. I felt more than a little sad as the plane crossed the vast outback. City living was not for me. When the small plane touched down at Kingston-Smith airport in Sydney, life took on a completely different turn.
"Where we gonna stay tonight Soreback?". I asked.
"There's a cheap hotel at Kings Cross. I stayed there on the way over. I can't remember the name but I do remember the huge neon Coca Cola sign at the top of Williams street."
The hotel was a pretty clean place and not too expensive for one night, in the heart of Kings Cross. Once we'd dropped our gear off at the room, we all went back downstairs to look over the Cross. We found a comfortable bar with a big window. We could relax and watch the procession of prostitutes walking up and down the streets. Later on that evening we went for a good meal. Soreback suggested we take a walk around the brothels to see what action was going on.
In 1968, there used to be rows and row of terraced houses off of Williams Street. Every single one of those houses was a whore house. As we walked around the streets, women of all ages, sizes and shapes sat in the front windows of the houses. Most of them were clad only in thin, see-through negligees. Some of them were completely topless. As we walked around, with the hundreds of other people, some of the whores would smile and crook a finger in our direction. A lot of the women I was seeing were really hard-faced and wore tons of makeup, trying to hide the life of pain and suffering they were leading. Every now and then I'd see a decent looking woman. I guessed she mustn't have been in the business very long.
Old Soreback was 59 at the time. As soon as he saw a woman that he fancied he said,
"Jesus, look at the tits on that sheila. I think I'll go in for a closer inspection."
"You're not serious are you Ralph?", I asked.
"Course I'm fucking serious. I've got plenty money in mi pocket and we're only in town for one evening so why not? I'll see ya both back at the hotel later."
With that, Soreback headed for the front door. When the woman with the huge knockers saw Ralph coming, she climbed out of the window, opening her legs as she went. A few seconds later she appeared at the door and Soreback disappeared inside.
"How the fuck can he do that?", I said to Cream.
"I don't know mate. When we first came over from New Zealand, I went into a place miself. It was the worst experience of mi life but old Soreback loves 'em. He must have spent at least a third of his money in these places."
Once Cream and me had finished looking around, we headed back up the Cross to the bar where we'd arranged to meet Soreback. Cream, who's real name was John Burnett, was a very quiet bloke until he'd had a few too many beers. Once he was full, his personality changed quite radically. Not that he got violent or anything like that. The more beer he consumed the more stupid he became. His voice use to change and all these weird characters would start to come out of him.
Over the years I knew him, he only once flew off the handle. Old Soreback had him pretty well under control.
Around midnight, Soreback came back to the hotel bar where we were waiting for him. Cream and I kidded him about his sore back. When he was shearing, he always had to straighten his back before he could finish the sheep. I said to him,
"Hey Ralph, did ya have to get off and straighten ya back before ya finished her off?"
"Don't be silly mate. Mi back's never felt better in mi life. In fact, I think I'll have a few more beers and go back for another go. Maybe I'll try a different one this time."
Back at the hotel, we had a large room with 3 single beds in it. The following morning, I was up real early. When I looked around, old Sorebacks' bed was empty. He must have been up all night. At around 6:30 he arrived back at the room. He was pretty drunk. The back of his shirt was out and his dark, bulging eyes were bloodshot red.
"D'ya have a good night Soreback?", I asked.
"Shit yeah, course I did Yorky. Ya never know mate, I may never come this way again so I made the best of a night in Kings Cross."
Old Soreback had now gone through most of the money the contractor in New Zealand had sent him. He bit Cream for a hundred bucks and we all took off up the Cross to the Bourbon and Beef Steak for a hearty breakfast of T-bone steak and eggs. By the time the afternoon came, I was ready to go to the airport. I had a lot of fun walking around the Cross but it was not a place that I would've liked to live.
I was quite happy and relaxed as we made our selves comfortable on the Air New Zealand plane. The Pilots' voice came over the intercom and gave us a few bits of information like travel time and weather. Once he was finished, the seat belt sign flashed on and the Jet taxied down the runway. A few minutes later the nose of the plane was pointing skywards and were on our way to New Zealand.
