On Friday night, after the shed had finished, Don Freeman said to me,
"We're starting a camping out shed on Monday Chummy so we'll be leaving the Lake on Sunday lunch time. Make sure you've got enough gear for the week, including booze and fags 'cause we'll be be way out in the bush, miles from anywhere."
"Where we going Don?"
"Down towards Hay on the One-Tree Plain. I contract that shed every year. We'll be there for roughly 3 weeks mate."
"OK mate, I'll be ready.
That evening, being Friday night and the end of a shed, Gundy was firing on all 8 cylinders already.
"Hey chummy", he yelled. "Come over and meet Cyclone. This is our pommy roust-about." said Gundy to Cyclone. "This is Cyclone, Chummy. He's a gun-shearer."
Cyclone was as bad, if not worse, an alcoholic than Gundy. Once he had a few bucks in his pocket he would not shear another sheep until it was all gone. Cyclone, like Gundy, was a hell of a good-natured man but the booze had him. He was his own worst enemy.
Very seldom, in the Bush, will one man tell another man what he should do. Everyone figures that out themselves. As soon as a boy starts to work, he's old enough to be his own master 'cause for one thing; he's working and living in a man's world.
In those days, women were not allowed to drink in the bar. It was the sole domain of the men.
At one side of Giltraps bar room there was a serving hatch that opened up into a large room with a Juke Box. This room was where some of the mens' wives did their drinking. It was called 'The Sow Pen'.
Sometimes after the bar doors were locked for the evening, whoever was living at Giltraps would invite 4 friends from the barroom as a guest. This way the bar remained open. We would all go to the Sow Pen and resume our partying.
When Sunday lunch time arrived Don Freeman picked up Boney, me, Gundy and Cyclone. We drove a long way down to the One Tree Plain. Boney and I had to sit in the back of the Ute cause there was no room in the front. The back of the Ute was filled with stores for the cook. A section of the back was reserved for me and Boney, along with the cartons of Grog and numerous flagons of Brown Muscat wine. Freemans' dogs had to balance on top of all the boxes. They almost fell out a couple of times as we sped along the Bush dirt roads at 80 miles an hour.
After a few hours of driving, we arrived at the shearing shed. There it was, a large corrugated iron shed sat on wooden pilons out in the middle of nowhere. The landscape was almost barren for as far as the eye could see, in all directions. The ground was hot and dry and every so often was a clump of rough dry bush grass.
It was called the One Tree Plain because nowhere in sight could anyone point out a tree of any size or shape. It was so hot that numerous whirly-winds chased each other round and round in circles as they sped across the barren land. There was nothing edible to the eyes that Merino sheep could live on and how they survived had got me beat. The yards were all ready full of big, rough-necked
wethers and a few hundred were packed in under the shed in case of a freak rainstorm.
Miles and miles, off in the distance, was a cloud of red dust. This probably was the Jackaroos' mustering another large mob of sheep. It would take a full day to bring them into the shed to wait their turn for shearing.
The shearers living quarters were about a hundred yards away from the shed so Freeman drove the Ute in that direction. There was no shade to park it in so it just stayed where it was stopped until it had been unloaded. Most shearers quarters at camp-out sheds are pretty clean and have good mattresses and beds. The beds are, in most cases, two to a room. Boney and me selected a clean room at the end before any of the other blokes arrived. The Shearers Union, the AWU, was very supportive towards the shearers which is the reason the quarters were in such good shape. If it was left to the Cocky he would not care if the Shearer had to sleep on the floorboards because, by his reckoning, the quarters were only used once or twice a year at shearing and crutching times, so why bother to make them livable.
Each room had a small set of cupboards between the beds for our clothes. The one window had a fly screen to keep out the bush flies and mosquitos. There were no fans to keep it cool and at night time it could be around 90 degrees in those tin rooms.
There was no electricity so the two refrigerators in the kitchen ran on kerosine. Half of one fridge could used to keep the beer cold but the rest of it would be wrapped up in wet heshen bags and stuck under the floor outside. Whatever bit of breeze there was would keep the beer slightly cool but nowhere near cold.
Boney and me helped Don to cart the stores from the back of the Ute to the kitchen. After we finished Boney said, "Come on Chummy let's go over to the shearing shed and check it out mate."
It was about 5 O'clock in the afternoon now and the heat was still stifling. Mirages of water appeared everywhere as we walked across the windy plain. The hot breeze made doing anything hard work. We took our time laughing and joking as we walked. Once we got to the big shed, we walked up the steep wooden stairs hanging onto the steel bannister rail. I was in front so I pushed open the small, corrugated door and we went inside.
"Gawd fucking hell!", said Boney as we stood in the shed. "Just look at all that parrot shit on the floor. It'll take us 2 or 3 hours to clean up that mess!"
"Yeah. Just look up there Boney!"
The shearing shed rafters were packed tight with Galahs. (A Galah is a gray and pink parrot about 9 inches high. They are very common around NSW and make an awful racket when they sit around the trees. Bush people even call each other, 'Silly Galahs!') As we walked around, I said to Boney, "Why are they all hanging around in the shed mate?"
"Cause there's no fucking trees around Chummy. They've taken over the shearing shed."
The shed had been closed up for months on end so due to the heat inside and the layers of parrot shit all over the place, the stink was awful.
"Fucking hell Chummy, we've got to get rid of these bloody Galahs and clean up this board before we can start shearing!", said Boney.
"Yeah, it's a real mess Boney. How d'ya reckon we should go about it?"
"We'll kill as many of 'em as we can because if not they'll come back at night and shit all over the place again."
"How we gonna do that mate? If we shoot at 'em and miss the bullets will put holes in the roof."
"Yeah, ya probably right Chummy. Give me a minute to think mate."
There must have been at least 300 Galahs in the shed. Some were sitting while others were flying around and squawking like hell. As I looked around, there was shit on the floor, shit on the wool table, all over the wool press. The wool packs were covered in it and it was even in the wool stalls.
"Tell ya what we'll do Chummy. Let's take that full bale of wool and roll it over to that end of the shed. After that was done, Boney said, "All right mate, grab that end of the wool table and we'll carry it over to the opposite side." As soon as the table was in place he said, "Here Chummy, take this."
"What's the straw broom for?", I asked.
"It's not a fucking straw broom Chummy.", he said with a big grin on his face.
"It looks like a straw broom to me, mate."
"Use your imagination Chummy. It's a double-handed shuttle-cock racquet."
"Where's the shuttle-cocks?"
"Up there, stupid!", he said with a grin as he pointed to the Galahs.
"Now I've got the picture mate. I'll use the table and you use the bale."
"That's the idea Chummy. You scare 'em down to my end for a while and I'll smash 'em with the broom. We'll take turns at batting. Let's see who can get the highest number."
He drew a line in the parrot shit and said, "That's your half and this is mine. We'll count up later."
I shooed all the Galahs down to Boneys' end of the shed and as they approached him he swung the straw broom with a double back-hander. 'WHACK' he knocked 3 Galahs out of the air in one blow. A double-handed forearm smash sent 2 more crashing to the floor. "Alright Chummy, your turn.", he said as he giggled out loud. "I'll shoo 'em down to your end now mate. You take a couple of serves. The double-handed forearm smash seems to be a good point scorer!"
As I stood on the table at the ready, the long handled straw broom was over mi shoulder, cocked and ready to serve.
"Here they come Chummy!", yelled Boney.
300 Galahs were now squawking like hell and flying straight for me. As soon as the live shuttle-cocks were in range I let fly with a powerful, over-head serve. One large Galah was knocked out of the air. An unconventional 2-handed upward reverse stroke sent 3 more crashing through the ether.
"Ok, your serve Boney.", I yelled amidst the loud squawking.
I shooed the Galahs back down to Boneys' court. A well-aimed side-swipe sent 3 old Galahs to bird heaven. A single-handed clumsy shot missed all-together and Boney fell off the big wool bale in a pile of Galah shit!
"FAULT!", I shouted from my end as he slipped around in the white shit, trying to scramble back up on the base-line pack. Another mighty double-handed back-hand sent 3 more Galahs to the deck.
"All right Chummy, your serve!", yelled Boney as he shooed them back again.
After half an hour of strenuous Badminton on center court, we called time out for a rest and a clean up. I wasn't too bad but Boney was covered in Galah shit and feathers. As he walked up to me smiling from ear to ear, "We'll take a breather and then swap ends Chummy. That wool pack is a bit hard to balance on. You've got the advantage on the table.",
"Alright mate.", I said as we laughed. "We'll swap ends and play one more game. Then we'll open the double doors and chase the rest out. I don't think they'll come back here in a hurry!"
At the end of the game we counted up the Galahs and then opened the 2 large doors. The remaining parrots flew out and were never seen again. It took Boney and me 3 hours to scrub the floor with hot soapy water we boiled in the big, outside copper.
By this time all the blokes had arrived. The cook made up some tucker and after dinner we sat around our rooms, reading, talking or playing cards. Gundy and a couple of the other shearers sat around drinking plonk till about 11 O'clock.
It was pretty hard to sleep that night cause it was so hot. We just lay on our backs sweating like hell, drifting in and out of the sleep state.
The following morning, being Monday, everyone was up bright and early. Even Gundy did not look too worse for wear. Breakfast was at 6 O'clock and Dons' brother Jazzer was doing the cooking.
Jazzer was a few years younger than Don which would have made him around 40 years old. Don was a fairly handsome sort-a bloke which was more than could be said for Jazzer. He was about 5 foot 9 and a thick-set bloke. Most of his bulk was comprised of fat. He had a mop of black curly hair, a pretty large beak and a ginormous set of choppers on him. His teeth wouldn't have looked too bad had he have cultivated the art of cleaning them but instead they were a greeny-yellow colour. He had a habit of standing with his mouth open and the teeth could be easily seen protruding below his top lip. He was also quite a heavy smoker. He used to grip the end of the tips in his large teeth. Have you ever seen a horse with its lips peeled back as it chomps on the bit? Well stick a fag in-between the horses teeth and there you have Jazzer. As far as his cooking skills went, he was rated at 'half a star'. Jazzer was also able to shear.
After breakfast, we all made our way over to the shearing shed. As we entered the shed Gundy noticed a large pile of dead Galahs off to the side of the steps. When Boney related the game of badminton, Gundy had to smile, which was unusual for him at 6:45 in the morning.
