THE ELECTRICIANS' WIFE ©

     Many strange things happened at Giltraps' Hotel over the years. Like the time a 'blow-in' arrived in town with his old lady. He was an Electrician by trade. He walked into the bar and ordered a couple of beers and then told George Giltrap to send on out to the 'Sow Pen' where his Missus was sitting.

     He was a smallish and thin bloke with a full head of hair and a couple of days growth on his unassuming face.

     He was trying to be too friendly with a bar full of strangers, too fast. This put many people on the defensive so only a couple of local blokes would have a beer with him. Him and his missus walked into the bar at around 3 O'clock that afternoon and by 8 that night they were both pretty 'full'. Every hour or so he would go through to the Sow Pen to see how his old lady was getting on.   
     At around 8 O'clock that night they had a huge, drunken argument. The Electrician decided he was going to check out the towns other two hotels, on his own. As soon as he left, a couple of the younger blokes wandered into the Sow Pen to see how his old lady was making out.

     She was sat at a table with some of the local women who had acquired a taste for a cold glass of Aussie beer. She was not an ugly woman, by no means but she was no Mona Lisa either. She had a pleasant-looking face with shoulder length, dark brown hair.  She had large breasts that hung down on top of a couple of spare tires. Her butt was also not on the small side but she was pretty well-dressed and looked quite clean. Her age was somewhere around the 50 mark, the same as her old man.

     By the time 11 O'clock came and Giltrap was about to call, "Last orders", some of the blokes who  had been drinking with her, bought themselves and her a couple of last beers. One of the blokes asked when her old man would be back and she said, "Oh, he's probably outside one of the other hotels blind drunk and asleep in the car by now."

     How it happened, I don't know, but one of the blokes, who was staying at the hotel, took her off down to his room after the bar was closed down. To cut a long story short, 12 blokes went through her that night in rapid succession!

     At about 12:30 there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, one of the young blokes I knew, said to me,
"Ya want a root Yorky?"
"What the hell are ya talking about?", I asked, in a sleepy voice. "It's late mate. Is this your idea of a fucking joke?"
"No Yorky!", he protested. "I'm fair dinkum! Do ya wanna root?"
"What d'ya mean, Do I want a root?"
"Ya know that old Sheila that was in the Sow Pen?"
"Yeah, the blow-ins old lady."
"Yeah mate."
"What about her?", I asked.
"She's layed on the floor, on her back, in the top room, taking on all comers mate!"
"Fucking bullshit sport. Piss off, I'm goin' back to bed."
"Alright, please ya self Yorky. You'll hear all about it in the morning."
"Alright, wait till I get dressed. I'll believe it when I see it!"
     A few minutes later, I was dressed and walking down the, now-deserted, corridor towards the room. Once outside the door, he said to me,
"She's in here mate, but don't make any noise when we go in. The light will be off so be careful ya don't fall in."
"You're such a bullshitter!", I said as he opened the door and we walked inside the room.
     After the door was closed, he said very quietly,
"She's over there mate on her back. Just walk over and hop on, sport!"
"Fuck you. I can't see a thing. It's too dark in here 'cause the curtains are closed. Put the lights on so I can see."
"No mate, she'll git up and leave if we do that."
"You're so full of bullshit! I'm gonna put the light on."
     When mi hand found the light switch, I clicked it on and the darkened room exploded with light. My mouth fell open with shock when I found out that he was not kidding me. Right in the middle of the carpeted floor was the Electricians wife. She was laid on her back with a pillow under her head. Her skirt was hiked up over one of her spare tires. She had no pants on and her legs were spread wide apart.
     As I stood there, I felt like puking at the sight. When she said, "Well come on then, what are ya waiting for? Are ya gonna git on or just stand there with ya mouth open, starin' at it?"
I took a noisy swallow and then I heard miself say, "No thank you. I must be in the wrong room. I'm sorry, good night!"
     With that, I hit the light switch and bolted out of the room, leaving the bloke behind.
     The next day, I was the joke of the barroom again. The only way of salvaging my manhood was to say.
"I'm very superstitious. I would have had a go, but not the Thirteenth!"

TATTOO REMOVAL ©

     People who lived in the Bush towns around the 60s' were not too fond of tattoos. On many occasions, I would be asked, "Why d'ya git those stupid fucking tattoos on ya arms. Only criminals wear tattoos in Australia."

     After a few hundred times of being asked this question, I got pretty sick of it so I decided to wear long-sleeved shirts.

     This little decision made life more than a bit uncomfortable for me, especially during the long hot summer months. One hot Saturday morning, I went down to the local news agents shop for a look around his store. I happened to pick up a 'sleaze' magazine. As I scanned through the back section I noticed an ad for a new product called TATTOO REMOVAL. The magazine had some very funny stories in it so I bought it and stuck it in mi back pocket.

     Later that day as I was laid on mi bed, I started to read through the back section again. Once I came to the page that advertised 'Tattoo Removal'. I read the small print which said, 'Remove your unwanted tattoos painlessly and permanently with our brand new product. I pondered the thought that this new product, if genuine, would make life a bit more comfortable for me. The next time the Post Office was open, I bought miself a money order and mailed it off to the company, with my return address.

     14 days later I saw Big Tex in Blackers Hotel. Big Tex was about 6' 6" with jet black hair and a permanent 5 O'clock shadow.  He wore dark-rimmed glasses and spoke with a slow, Aussie drawl. Tex was 30 years old at that time and had worked for the Post Office since he left school at 15.

    He was always very respectful to me. Anytime a letter arrived he would, on many occasions, deliver it to the Hotel bar for me or he'd tell me where the mail was sent from and asked me what he should do with it.
"There's a small package for ya at the General Delivery, Yorky."
"Where's it from Tex?"
"It's from a company called TATTOO REMOVAL in Melbourne somewhere."
"Oh, I know what that is.", I said.
"Ya gonna get rid of your tattoos' Yorky?"
"I don't know how well it'll work Tex but I'm gonna give her a go, mate."
"If ya wanna go across the street with me to the Post Office, I've got the keys. I'll get it for ya now, if ya like."
"That's pretty good of ya Tex. Why not. Let's go mate. I'll buy ya a  beer when we get back."

     That afternoon, as I sat on mi bed, I opened the package to see what miracle it contained. Inside the small box was a tiny plastic bottle of white sticky liquid, a half-inch square of hard abrasive pad and easy-to-follow directions.
'That looks pretty simple to me.', I thought.

     I decided to waste no time. First of all I shaved the area between mi thumb and first finger where the 5-pointed red and black was. I scratched the top layer of skin away with the small, hard abrasive pad, according to the directions. Soon as this was done, I dipped a tooth pick into the white fluid and drew white lines on top of the black ink lines. As I was doing this, I noticed a slight burning sensation, probably from scratching the skin, I thought, as I plastered on more of the white liquid.
     After I had covered all the lines on both mi hands, I lay back on the bed to let the white stuff dry. I must have dozed off for a few too many minutes because a strong, burning pain caused me to wake up. As I sat up, I looked straight down at mi hands. I swear, a fine wisp of mist was coming out of the tattoos.
     'This doesn't look too good to me', I thought, as I stared at the white fluid which now seemed to be making its way under mi skin. I jumped off the bed and washed mi hands with cold water and soap.
     Once I dried 'em, I was astonished to see that the white fluid had eaten its way into mi hands about 1/16 of an inch. All I could see now was quite large open trenches in a star shape. When I looked very carefully into the open scars, there was still dark blue ink in the open flesh. I threw the white fluid into the trash can and made a couple of clean patches out of a white hanky to tape on mi hands.  It didn't take me long to work out that the white fluid had a high percentage of acid! No wonder it was slowly sinking into mi hands.
     Had I not have woken up, who knows, I may have been able to whistle through the web between mi thumb and first finger.

     The open scars took about 8 weeks to heal and to this day the scarring is raised and visible.  So much for the tattoo removal and so much for the the long-sleeved shirts.
     From that point on, I didn't have to deal with mi tattoos' again. Everyone else had the problem, not me.

IN THE RING visiting the show in1967 ©

     It was now 3 months into 1967.  I'd been in Lake Cargelligo for just over 3 years and by this time, I was shearing quite well.  I had also got to know most of the local people for miles around. It was about that time of year again when the Lake Show was due to return. The 'Yorky jokes would start up in the bar room as to whether or not I would be taking another trip on the ShowGrounds.  These type of leg-pulling sessions helped to entertain and pass the time for the locals. Who was I to deny them their little bit of fun?
     There was no chance in hell I would ever travel on the ShowGround again.   So, when the Show finally arrived, I decided to go and spend a few hours walking around.
     You can imagine the laughs and jokes that arose when I ran into Kevin Skippy and Stan Booth.
"Hey Yorky, maybe that little blonde sheila of yours is around here somewhere.", said Skippy.
"I don't think so Skippy.", I said as we walked around.
"Maybe she's got a young'un at foot!", said Stan Booth, with a loud cackle.
"Very fucking funny Stanley", I said, playing along with him.
"Keep ya eye out for some little show kids that resemble Yorky, Stan. We should have fixed a rams' harness on him. That way, we could have seen where he'd been." That was Kevins' little joke.
     More laughs and giggles came out of Skippy and Stan.
     For a change the show weekend was quite sunny which made walking around the tents a bit more pleasant. As we walked around one side, Kevin spied FRED DUFFYS' STRIP TEASE tent and said,
"Here we go Yorky. Which one d'ya like this year sport?"
"None of 'em Skippy. I'm not even gonna go inside for a look this year."
"Come on Yorky. Ya may change ya mind when ya see a big pair of bare tits!", said Stan.
"No way Stan. I'll just wait for ya outside. I'm not wasting a cent on that con job."
   
     As we continued walking around, we came to the Boxing Troop tent. This year, it was Roy Bells World Famous Champions.
"Here ya go Yorky.", said Skippy. You've gotta give us a little bit of entertainment mate. Soon as old Roy call for a local bloke go up on the board."
"Yeah, come on Yorky.", said Stan. "You could take on any one of those blokes one-handed!"
"Not on your life Stan. You go up there if ya want some fun and I'll come in and watch ya."
"Nah mate, I'm too fucking old for that caper. I used to have a go every year when I was younger."
"Did he Skippy or is he just  bullshittin' me again?", I asked.
"No mate, he's fair dinkum. Every year old Stan would go up and get matched to one of the Abbos."

       After 10 minutes had gone and no local Lake blokes had gone up on the board, I finally allowed Skippy and Stan to con me into taking on one of the boxing troop blokes. As Roy Bell was starting to panic a bit because no local residents would come up on the high platform so he could make a show, I stuck mi hand in the air and held it there.
"There's a game young bloke!", he roared over the mic. "Give him a big round of applause folks. He's the only one of you lot that's got any guts at all!"
     The crowd was now clapping and shouting the name of 'YORKY' as I reached the top rung of the ladder and made mi way to the center of the high platform.
"Good on ya sport." roared Roy Bell over the mic as he offered me his hand.
     Before he could say another word,  I leaned over to him and whispered in his ear,
"I worked for Jimmy Sharman for a couple of months, so I know the ropes Roy."
     He then whispered in my ear, "Good on ya mate. You've saved my weekend. Let's give 'em a fucking good show!"
     I played my part to the hilt too by ripping off my shirt and flexing mi hard-working muscles to the crowd.
"Have a good look along that board Yorky mate.", spruked Roy. "Which one of my champion prize- fighters are ya gonna take on first?"
     Roy stuck the mic in front of me and I roared out loud to the local crowd.
"I'll take 'em all on, one at a time, starting from any end of the board ya like and before the day's out, I'll knock 'em all arse over head!"
     The crowd now let out a tremendous roar as they looked up at the platform of fighters with Yorky Mate, right in the middle of 'em, shirt off and both fists held high in the air in victory pose.

     I must have had 8 to 10 fights that weekend. I made miself 30 bucks and saved the weekend for old Roy. Once some of the local Lake blokes saw Yorky up on the board and doing alright for himself in the ring, they mustered up a bit of courage to have a go themselves. Late Sunday afternoon, after my last bout, old Roy thanked me for my support and said, "Same time, same place next year Yorky? I'll keep an eye out for ya. Thanks for ya help mate."
   

FROM RAGS TO RICHES © CARAVAN FIRE

       It happened on mi way home from work one afternoon.  I was sat in mi motorbike, at the intersection of Lake Cargelligos' main street waiting for a couple of cars to go by. I didn't have a care in the world, sitting there smoking a home-made.  I was tapping out a beat on the handlebars and humming one of mi favorite tunes when all of a sudden I heard mi name being called.
"Hey Yorky!"
     I turned  around and a  bloke that I'd seen around Giltraps Hotel came walking over to see me.  As he drew close he said to me,
"D'ya hear about the fire mate?"
"What fire?", I asked.
"The big fire up at Jimmy Hargraves Caravan."
"Bullshit mate! You're having me on."
"No sport, I'm serious. There was a big fire there a couple of hours ago."
"How could there be? I'm staying up there at Jims' caravan."
'I know mate. That's why I'm telling you."
"Fucking bullshit mate.", I said, knowing that a lot of Bush people are always trying to pull each others leg.
"Alright sport, have it ya own way, but don't say I didn't warn ya!"

     As I rode across the intersection, I never gave it another thought until I pulled up outside Marks' old weatherboard house. Walking up his front path, I noticed what looked to me like a wisp of smoke. I made mi way around the side of his place. Once I got to the back of Marks' place, I looked up into the far right-hand of his yard where I was sure the caravan would be.
     No caravan! Instead there was a big pile of burnt rubbish. I could not believe what I was seeing for a few moments. It was only just this morning that the caravan was there. The very same caravan that I'd slept in last night. The very same caravan that housed 2 suitcases full of brand-new clothes that mi old step-father, Jim Bailey, had bought for me.
     My mind was still as I walked up to the big pile of charred plywood. Small wisps of grey smoke were still winding their way out out of the pile of black, smelly rubble. A couple of involuntary tears trickled out of the corners of mi eyes as I picked up a long branch and started to lift some of the charcoaled ashes. There was the remains of what used to be mi good pair of brown shoes and there was a piece of the collar of mi good shirt.

     As I poked and prodded at the soggy black pile I discovered enough pieces of the jig-saw to let me know that everything I had owned this morning was now turned to ashes. Just then I heard footsteps walking up behind me. When I turned to look, it was Dorothy, Marks' wife.
"I was hoping you would have come inside the house first like you normally do Yorky. I'm really sorry ya lost everything."
"How did it happen Dot?"
"I have no idea Yorky. I went down the street to pick up some groceries and on mi way  back I heard the fire truck. I was wondering where it was going in such a hurry till I got home and found it parked at the top our our block, hosing down what was left of Jims' caravan."
"Not much left of it is there Dot?
"Do you have any clothes left at all Yorky?"
"I've got what you see me standing up in, old working shorts and a pair of boots. I don't even have a pair of sock to go with 'em."
"Don't worry Yorky, when Mark comes home we'll go through his clothes. We're bound to to find something that will fit you."
"Thanks Dot. I appreciate that. D'ya know where Jimmy is?"
"Yeah, he's gone down to Twitcheys' for a beer. His nerves were really rattled when he saw what was left of his caravan."
"Ok Dot, I'll go down there miself and see him. Maybe he's found out how it happened?"

     I rode back down the main street to Twitcheys. When I waked into the bar in mi shorts and boots, Twitchey said over the bar,
"Ya can't come in without a singlet on Yorky!"
"I don't fucking own a singlet or a shirt or a pair of socks Eric, the whole lot just went up in smoke!"
"Were you staying up at Hargraves caravan"
"Yeah, me and mi clothes."
"Sorry mate, I didn't realize. Stay as long as ya like mate. Here, have a beer on me Yorky. I'll see Annette when she comes downstairs. I've got a swag of new shirts that aren't even out of the wrappers. There's bound to be something to fit ya."
"Thanks Eric, that's real kind of ya mate. Have ya seen Jimmy Hargraves around?"
"Yeah he just left to go to his girlfriends flat. He was lucky. He said she was doing his washing so most of his good clothes were out at her place."

     Before the evening was over I had more clothes then I knew what to do with. As each local came in for a beer, Eric told 'em about the fire. Their response was,
"Hey Yorky, don't worry about it mate. I've got a brand-new shirt for you. Mi missus bought if for mi birthday and I hate the bloody color of it. She's always pestering me to wear it when we go out together. I'll go home and get it for ya right now mate."
     If it wasn't a shirt, it was trousers. If not trousers, socks. If not socks, belts and ties. I think I counted 15 ties that evening.
     The funniest part is yet to come. Saturday morning, when I walked down the street in mi new gear, I met a couple of the blokes wives, and conversations went something like this;
"G'day Yorky. Sorry to hear ya lost everything in the fire."
"Oh, that's a really pretty shirt ya wearing. I bought one exactly the same for our Bill but he didn't like the color. Perhaps he'll start wearing it when he sees that you've got one the same!"
     Another woman said, " Our Sids' got a pair of shoes just like those. I bought 'em for his birthday, he says he loves 'em.

     That's the story of how I went from rags to riches in one evening.

     We never did find out how the caravan caught on fire. Some people said it was probably kids while others said that Jimmy had flown a few too many Kites, (he wrote a few bad cheques!)

THE HORSE DOCTOR ©

     I was 16 and my top teeth were giving me some problems. More and more each day they were starting to ache. As I laid on mi bed at Giltraps, staring at the revolving fan blades, the pain would become unbearable. I tried soaking mi gums with clove oil but as soon as it wore off the pain returned.
     Some evenings I would be laying there holding mi jaws, sobbing for hours asking the tooth fairy to please take away the pain.
     After 2 weeks of constant pain, I decided to take them out. As I was sat in Giltraps holding whiskey in mi now swollen mouth, a bloke told me there was a horse dentist staying at Twitcheys' Hotel.
     At that time, there was no dentist in Lake Cargelligo. The closest one was 100 miles away and by all accounts, he was not cheap. Owing to the fact that I didn't have too much money, I decided to go down to see him at Twitcheys' the following morning. When I walked into Twitcheys' at 10 O'clock Twitchey pointed out the drunk who was leaning on the bar with another bloke, steadily tipping down whiskey and milk.
"G'day,", I said as I approached him, my mouth throbbing with pain.
"G'day Cobber.", he said in a slightly drunken slur.
"Are you the dentist?"
"No mate, I'm a veterinary surgeon but I've been know to pull a few human teeth in my day. Why? What can I do for you?"
"Four of mi top back teeth are aching like hell and the front two are starting to go black down the edges."
"So ya want 'em out?
"Yeah, if ya can do it."
"When?" he said, with not much enthusiasm.
"Now, if ya not busy."
"I thought so.". he said in a disappointed  tone of voice.
"Alright, mi rooms upstairs. Number 18. The doors open. Ya can wait up there. I'll be up in a few minutes."
     As  I thanked him and started to walk away, he called out to Twitchey, "Give us a couple more doubles Eric, I need to steady mi hands."

     Room 18 was open when I got up stairs. I went straight in and sat on the rickety chair in the room (the only chair). Five minutes later the vet walked into the room. He was a smallish, skinny bloke with a haggard face. He was probably younger than his aged appearance. He walked over to the small table and picked up a head rest and then screwed it to the round back of the wooden chair.

"Ya can sit back down now.", he said as he placed the chair in front of the long dresser mirror which was hanging on the wardrobe. Then he opened a doctors' bag and removed all of his dental tools which he put on the collapsible card table next to the small hand basin. Once this was done, he turned to me and said,
"Which ones are aching mate?"
     I opened mi mouth and pointed to the 4 back teeth that were giving me hell.
"The front ones are not too good either mate but you could probably git a couple more years out of 'em if ya fill 'em."
"Alright, take the 4 back ones out and fill the front ones' if ya like."
"I'm not a fucking Maquarie Street specialist sport! All I can do is pull teeth. I don't even own a fucking drill. I'm a fucking horse doctor by trade. You'll have to go to Sydney to save those front ones if ya still want 'em."
"Give me a few minutes to think about it.", I said.
"Don't take too fucking long then 'cause Saturday's mi day off. Mi drinking cobber's waiting for me downstairs and it's my round."
"Alright, take 'em all out."
"Ya sure that's what ya wanna do? They could probably save those front ones in Sydney for ya."
"I don't have enough money to go to Sydney and if these fronts ones start giving me pain after you've gone then what will I do?"
"In that case you'd best have 'em all out. Alright, lean ya head back on the rest, while I fill up the needle."
     He stuck the needle through the rubber stopper of a small bottle and then pulled back on the plunger.  He gave the hypodermic a quick squirt on the lino floor and said, "Alright sport, open up."
As he stuck mi upper back gum with the needle, he hit a nerve real hard. So much so that mi head jerked back and knocked the head rest off the chair.
"Ahhhh!", I let out a great big yell.
"Sorry about that sport. I must have put it in a bit too deep."
"Is that gonna happen again?", I asked.
"I'll try not too sport but I'm gonna have to give ya at least another 6 needles."
      Out of the 6 shots he gave me, he hit the nerves 3 more times, by this time the tears were rolling out of mi eyes.
"That should do it mate. We'll give em a few minutes to work."
     While I waited for mi top gums to go numb, he messed around selecting some dental forceps to do the job with.
"How's that mate, can ya feel anything now?"
"No, I can't even feel the aching back ones."
     He put a metal dish on the table to my side and said, "Better hang on to the chair sport. Some of these back teeth can be pretty fucking stubborn at times."
     One by one the teeth clanked as he dropped then in the bowl. There were pieces of gum stuck to the teeth as he dropped each one into the dish and before long he said,
"That's it mate. Ya won't have anymore fucking trouble with 'em. Swill ya mouth out with this stuff. It tastes like horse piss but it's good for ya mouth. It'll keep it clean so it doesn't get infected. Ya want these teeth put in a bag to take with ya?"
"No thanks mate. They've given me tho much pain the the lathst 2 weekths, I'm thick of theeing 'em. How muchss do I owe ya thport?"
"Let's see how many we got in here..7,8,9,10. Just give me 30 bucks mate. 2 bucks a tooth and 10 bucks for the needles. Alright?"
"Thankths.", I said and very groggily got to mi feet.

     I paid him the 30 bucks and then went down to the bar for a packet of fags. Although I had a wad of paper hand-towels over mi mouth, the blood was oozing out everywhere. When I asked Twitchey for a packet of fagths, he  noticed all the blood, he almost threw up. He gave me the fags for free and told me to get out. He couldn't stand to see it!

     I decided to go up to my mates house. From the pain of having mi teeth out, I was feeling really insecure and shaky, plus the bleeding wouldn't stop.  Mark Hargraves, who was Jimmys' uncle was one of the best blokes I'd met in mi life. His wife, Dorothy, was a fair dinkum saint. When they saw what state I was in, they both did their best to comfort me.
     They put a mattress on the veranda for me and I lay belly down with mi head hanging over the edge so that the blood would not go down mi throat. Already I had swallowed too much blood and a couple of times the I vomited it up. It ran out of mi mouth in long, slimy dribbles and fell on the lawn, 2 feet below.

     Mark was about 25 at the time and Dot was probably 23. They owned a small beat up weather-board house at the top end of town. Nothing was too much trouble for them. They treated me like family. Mark would bring me cold hand towels to bite down on, trying to congeal the blood. Dot would wash 'em out and then put 'em back in the freeze box.

     I stayed at their place for a few days until I was able to swallow some cold soup that Dot had made especially for me. I soon figured out that if I dipped the bread in the soup I could suck it so I could swallow it without it getting caught in the back of mi throat.

     Over the years that I shore sheep, Mark and Dot remained dear to mi heart. Mark found work for  me as a shearer and many times Dot would wash out clothes for me in the outside copper.

      As the weeks rolled by, my mouth slowly started to heal. Eventually, it reached the point where I could chew crisps as I was having a beer. It took me 12 months before I finally got a good set of plastic choppers which made eating meat a bit more enjoyable. I must confess that little trauma took the joy of of eating for me. From that day onwards, I ate to survive, not for pleasure.


   

AN ENEMY IN THE SHED ~ Athel Cook & Roy James ear © Part 2

"Have you ever had ya balls tarred Chummy?", said Athel as we were driving along.
"No, why d'ya ask?"
"Cause that's what we do with first-time Rousies."
"Not this time Athel.", said Don. "I told you already to leave him alone mate!"

     Athel Cook was not a pleasant character. He seemed to take an instant dislike to me. As we were driving along, Bony leaned across and whispered, "Take no notice of Athel. He's a fucking yobo."
He must have had quite good ears cause he said to Boney, "What's that ya fucking say Boney?"
"Nothing mate.", said Boney, with a giggle.
Athel leaned across and twisted Boneys' ear and Boney, small as he was, got really pissed at him.
"Keep ya fucking hands to ya self Athel or I'll fucking jab you one mate."
"You and who's fucking army?", said Athel.
"Just fucking try it again ya fucking yobo and I'll show ya!", said Boney.
"Come on you blokes. Ya worse than a pack of mongrel shed dogs!", said Don.
"Yeah, that's right. You tell 'em Freeman.", said Gundy.
"Give us another light Chummy.", said Gundy with a twisted grin.

     The rest of the drive to the shed was done in silence as we sped along the dirt track road at 70 miles an hour. Half an hour later we pulled off the main Rankin Springs road and turned into the cockys property. Boney jumped out and opened the gate. Once it was closed again, we drove up a narrow, windy bush track and stopped in front of a big, old, somewhat dilapidated shearing shed.

     There was another 2 shearers cars parked out front and the yards were chock-a-block full of unshorn sheep.

     When we got inside the shed, Don introduced me to all the shearers and rousies and Boney filled me in on the board-boys job. Gundy was a really fair dinkum bloke even though he was a chronic drunk. I stood around and talked and joked with him as we waited for the bell to ring at 7:30.

     In a 4-stand shearing shed there are usually 4 shearers and 1 board-boy, a wool-dresser and a rousie to help skirt the fleeces, a wool-presser who's job it is to press the wool into large bales and sometimes a penner-uppa, his job is to keep the pens full. The contractors job is to grind up the combs and cutters, count the sheep out of each shearers outside pen at the end of the run, which is 2 hours and make sure everything runs smoothly between the shed-hands and the farm-hands.

"Will you teach me to shear Gundy?", I asked.
"Oh I might do Chummy. Lets see how ya go at roust-a-bouting first mate. Maybe ya won't like the shearing sheds."
"I already like 'em and when I can shear I'll be working for miself. That's what I wanna do."
"Alright Chummy. Look out mate, the bells about to go."

     The bell rang right on 7:30 and all 4 shearers went through the pen gate to grab their first sheep. Gundy was the last to finish and when he let his sheep go down the shute he straightened up and I noticed the look of pain on his face. As I moved the fleece from in front of him, he said, "Jesus Chummy, it's gonna be another hard day for me today."

     The board-boys job, which I was doing, could be pretty hard at times. I had to pick up the fleeces from 4 shearers and keep the shearing board swept clean of dags and loose pieces of wool. At the end of my fist day I was pretty tired from running about so much but I knew, more than ever now, that I was going to learn shearing no matter what it took.

     The shearers were always in a good mood on the way home from the sheds. They laughed and joked about the days work and talked about the first cold beer they were going to have at Giltraps hotel when we hit town.

     All the blokes from the shed drank at George Giltraps hotel that evening. George Giltrap was a big man. He had short-ish hair that was combed straight back with a touch of hair oil on it. His face was always pain-ridden from the amount of beer he drank. It was easy for him to drink cause he owned a hotel. Sometimes he would start drinking at 5 in the morning and at 12 O'clock at night he would be still going strong. Although he was a heavy drinker, he was not lazy. He always did his job behind the bar. He was a tall man with wide shoulders who always had a fag hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he pulled the beer. When the ash on the fag got too long he would simply turn to the side and blow down the cigarette. The ash would fly forwards and land on the floor.

     The bar-room at Giltraps was an L-shaped room with a pool table in the far corner. The bar was always well-stocked with shorts and liqueurs of all types. Giltraps was commonly known around town as the Blood House. It got its name from the amount of fights that took place in the bar. The fights at Giltraps were usually amongst the Abbos' or, in a lot of cases, a feud between the white fellas' and the black fellas'. There were many stories floating around town about those brawls. A lot of the local people were not too keen on drinking at Giltraps in case they got pulled into one of the evenings fights.

"Isn't Giltraps a rough house Gundy?", I said as we walked up the front steps.
"She sure is Chummy but it's not as boring as those other two places mate."

     Giltraps was packed, as we entered.
"Who's buying the first round?", said Gundy as we pushed our way to the bar.
"The first ones are on me.", said Don Freeman. "What'll you have men?"
     Once the orders were taken by Don, he called Giltrap over, who was busily drinking in 3 different schools.
"What'll you have Freeman?", said Giltrap. Don gave the order.
     Drinking booze was a part of the shearers world. It seemed to go with the job. Shearers lose gallons of sweat everyday so they put it back in of an evening as fast as they can.

     We all sat or stood around for the next three hours bullshitting and making jokes, taking the piss out of each other and generally having a good old time.

     The wool-presser at our shed was called Roy James. Roy James was a big, rough bloke who no one put shit on. He was about 6 foot 4 and weighted about 280 pounds, with not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. Roy was a good bloke who had a big heart although he was not overburdened with brains. His hair was swept straight back and covered in lanolin from picking up big armfuls of wool. He had a big cauliflower ear and an nose that had been broken too numerous a-times to remember. His good ear had a lobe missing. The jagged line that was left resembled a half-moon shape. He usually wore a blue singlet, stubby shorts and a pair of elastic-sided McWilliams riding boots, the flat-heeled type.

     As the evening progressed and every one got drunker, I found myself wondering what had happened to Roys' ear. So, in a lull in the conversation I said to Roy, "Hey Roy, what happened to your ear lobe mate?"
   
     A few people standing around must of heard me ask the question because the bar suddenly went very quiet. Roy casually downed his beer, the glass not too visible in his huge, calloused hand.
"What did you say Chummy?", he said.
He wort of turned sideways to glare at me.
"I was just wondering what happened to ya ear lobe Roy."
     As he stared down at me he said,
"I've killed bigger men than you for asking much less than that."
"Alright Roy, I didn't mean to be disrespectful to ya but what did happen to your earlobe?"
"I was in a fight at the hotel in Bourke. A little bloke was taking the piss out of me and as we struggled on the barroom floor he bit the end off mi ear and then spat it out!"
"Why didn't ya git it sewn back on?", I said with great interest.
"Cause when the bloke spat it out on the floor, the publicans' Jack Russell ran over and grabbed it and swallowed it."
"Fucking hell Roy, did that hurt?"
"I was too drunk to feel a thing but I felt it next morning after I'd sobered up! Who's round is it?" he said as the tension in the room started to dissipate.
     Roy walked out to go to the toilet and while he was out, Freeman said, "I never knew that's what happened to his ear."
Gundy said, "You've got more guts than anyone else in this barroom Chummy. There isn't a man alive in Lake Cargelligo who's had the balls to ask Big Roy about his ear and he's been coming to the lake each shearing season for years now." Everyone started to laugh as they joked with me.
"It's not that I've got guts, " I said to Gundy, "I knew there must have been quite a story behind his ear 'cause it caught my attention so much so that I couldn't  help but ask."

     George Giltrap came around the bar to where we were all in a group and he said to me, "Here Chummy, have a middy. It's on the house mate. That's the best bit a fun I've had for ages."
The bar erupted in raucous laughter but as soon as Roy entered the room everything settled down to its' normal volume.

     By the end of the evening everyone was well and truly full. I, myself, was feeling a bit of an effect from the beers I'd had. I went back down to Twitcheys' hotel for a shower and a good rest.

   




   

TWO MADMEN & THE WEDGE-TAILED EAGLE

 TWO MADMEN AND THE WEDGE-TAILED EAGLE  

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

     Once the ground dried up enough to get a tractor on it there was plenty of work driving, around the Lake. Anyone who could sit on a tractor was being wooed into work by the cockies that frequented Giltraps bar. I took a small job for good money. When that was over the cocky got me a job working with 2 brothers, miles out of Lake Cargelligo.

     The only reason I took the job was because the offer was so good. I was to be paid a dollar an hour for all driving done plus a fifty acre share of the crop. What this meant was, if the wheat crop averaged 10 bags per acre, my bonus would have been 500 bags of wheat which could have turned into a sizable amount.
     My luck, being what it was, things didn't turn out that way.

     The cockys' name was Dave. He had a younger brother called Bob. Dave was a big dumb-looking, retarded bloke who wore an old Bush hat, filthy clothes and a months' growth of whiskers. His teeth had never done battle with a toothbrush for years and if they had, they'd lost every round. His brother, who was about 18, was in a similar state. I say 'similar' because he was even more retarded looking.

     They lived in the Mali and very seldom went to town because a few miles away there was a garage/store where they could buy the basic necessities for survival.
     The living quarters were a small 14 foot caravan and a wooden hut which was precariously balanced on 4 - 44 gallon empty petrol drums. I used to sleep at one end of the caravan while the two brothers slept in the small hut which was about 8 X 6. After about 12 hours of knowing them, I decided to lock the caravan door each evening before I took rest.

     Their violent fits of temper used to haunt me, even in my dreams. I was never quite sure when one of them was going to explode. For example, if a piece of machinery broke down, they would set about fixing it. The first little thing to go wrong, they would explode.
"You fucking mongrel bred 4-wheeled piss-headed shit heap!", roared Dave at full volume. "I hope you get fucked and pregnant. If there was a way. I'd do it miself."
     He'd grab hold of a big iron bar and tell the, now-silent, tractor what he was going to do to it. He would explain in great detail to the tractor how and why he was going to give it a good hiding. Once he was satisfied that the tractor understood, he proceeded to beat the shit of of it. Ranting and raving, he would flog the tractor with the long, iron, jack-handle. Foaming at the mouth, he gave the poor old tractor the biggest beating of its life. The tractor, good-natured as it was, just stood there in silence as he flogged it. Its only protest was the sound its crunching body made as Dave laid into it with great zeal.
     He was nuts!
     Once Dave was completely exhausted, he would sit down on an old stump. Putting his big, heavy head into his hands with his elbows resting on his knees, he would stare at the ground. Sometimes he would cry and other times he would just allow the saliva to run out of his mouth into the red dirt.             After all of this was over, he would drop to his knees and put his hands together and then close his eyes in prayer, "Please Father, forgive me for what I have just done. (This was his opening line!)
     One day, I said to Dave, "Do you think he forgives ya Dave?"
"Oh of course he does Yorky. He loves me very much."
"What about the tractor?", I said.
"What about it?", said Dave. "I don't know what you mean."
"Well, look at all the dints you've put in it. Don't ya think you should ask it for its forgiveness as well?"
"Maybe you're right Yorky. I never thought of that."
     Immediately, he got up off the stump he was sitting on and went over to the tractor with his hands in the prayer position.

     One evening, after dinner (which was always cold mutton and mashed potatoes) he told me a story about his girlfriend.
"Yorky, she's an angel in disguise. She has blue eyes and long blonde hair with 2 red ribbons in it and her skin is like a porcelain doll with not a wrinkle on it."
"Shit Dave", I said. "You're a real lucky bloke. I wish I had a girlfriend like that. I wouldn't be out here in the Bush, miles from nowhere, driving a bloody tractor."
"She's got a sister, Yorky, who's only one year younger than she is. The sister's an angel as well."
"Where do they live Dave? Maybe we can go and visit 'em tonight?'
"Not far from here but I'm not allowed to tell ya where."
"Come on Dave, be a good sport about it mate. I haven't been around a girl for months."
"No, not tonight Yorky."
"Alright, if not tonight maybe another night."
"No, we've got to wait for a good while.", he said, with a deadly serious look on his face now.
"Alright mate. "I said, not wanting to upset him too much. "How long will we have to wait?"
"I've only another 6 years to go.", he said, as he lowered his voice into a whisper.
"Shit Dave, that's a long time mate."
"Not really ." he said, in a quiet voice. "I've been waiting twelve years already."  His whiskered face started to break out in a shy smile now.
"What d'ya mean Dave?", I said very gently.
"Well, she's only 12 right now but I've known her since birth. I've been waiting for her to grow up to 18 before I make mi move.
"Oh.", I said very understandingly. "And how old's mine?"
"She's 11.", he said. "So you're going to wait one year longer."
"Does she know you're planning to marry her when she's 18, Dave?"
"No, not yet Yorky. She wouldn't understand. She'd get scared."
"Well how d'ya know you're gonna marry her Dave?", I said, in a whisper?
     He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, even though we were alone. Then he put his left hand up to his mouth at a vertical angle, so no one could see his cracked lips move and said. "God told me when I first saw her at six months old."
     That evening, after he'd left the caravan and every evening thereafter, for the time I spent there, I not only locked the door, I slid the dead-bolt across and closed all the windows.

     Old Dave was as mad as a cut-snake. A few weeks later, I found out that there was a family who had 2 young girls that fit the description Dave had given me. Just in case Dave went completely overboard, I told the bloke at the garage to warn the cocky next time he came for supplies or petrol.

     One afternoon, I was doing some welding at the garage. Some of the tynes had snapped off the stump rake. As I was working away, a bulldozer driver stopped at the garage for a couple of drums of distillate. When he saw me welding he came over for a chat. Before he left he said,
"D'ya wanna young wedge-tail eagle?"
"How old is it?", I asked.
"4 or 5 days probably. It's covered in down so it can't be that old."
"Where is it?"
"It's in a box in the front of the Ute. Go and git it if ya want it mate."
"Where did ya get it from?"
"It fell out of the nest when I was clearing some dead trees off a blokes place."
"What would I feed it?"
"Oh raw meat. Just skin a rabbit and then cut pieces off for it. It should live on rabbit easily."
"Alright, I'll take it.", I said as we walked across the dusty garage courtyard.
     When I looked in the box, the wedge-tailed eagle was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen. It was snow-white, about the size of a small chook with a huge, black beak and jet black eyes. He was hungry.  As soon as he saw me, he opened his beak up as wide as he could and squawked out loud.  I put him in the shade of the garage till I finished mi job and then I carried him back out to where I was working.

     It was late afternoon so there were lots of rabbits hopping around in the shade or making their way over to the banks of the dam for a drink of water. As soon as I got back, I grabbed mi rifle from the caravan and set off across the paddock on the small tractor. It only took about 45 minutes before I had
a young, tender, juicy rabbit for him. As I was skinning it, his strong sense of smell detected that dinner was about to be served. He could hardly contain himself as he flapped up and down in the large, cut-down cardboard box.  Once I had the rabbit cut up into sizable chunks, I very carefully dangled a large piece of raw met above his gaping black beak. His mouth was open so wide, I could almost see daylight coming through his rear end.

'Plunk.' The piece of meat landed on target, straight in his mouth. I don't think he even swallowed as the meat disappeared from sight. The rabbit meat was 3/4s' gone now and he was still squawking for more. I decided not to give in to him as his crop was so big he kept falling forwards off his feet.
     Of  a night time, I kept him in his box next to my bed and during the day when it was brutally hot, he lived under the caravan where it was cool from the slight breeze that blew.

     Each day he grew a bit more and after a week he was easily eating a rabbit a day, which meant I had to ply my hunting skills to the max. His soft, white down was now disappearing as the black/brown pin feathers took their place. He was going to be quite a responsibility, especially from the feeding point of view. He was worth it, I had decided.

     Some evenings it could be quite hot and at those times I'd leave him outside, under the caravan. One morning, as I went to pull out the cardboard box, it was wet through and a piece of it came away in my hand. On closer investigation, I discovered that the whole box had been hosed down and the eagle was slumped in the corner, half-dead. Now I was really fucking cranky! I took off looking for Daves' dumb-shit brother. When I found him, he said he'd hosed down the eagle with cold water in case he got hot during the night. When I told him the results of his actions all he could say in his retarded way was, "sorry."

"Sorry, you fucking lame-brained retard!", I screamed at him but the words just bounced off. They couldn't penetrate his dumb mind. So what could I do? I just had to drop it.

     When I got home from work that day the eagle was in the same corner of the new, dry, cardboard box I'd put him in but it was too late. He was as stiff as a board, dead as a door-nail. As I stood there holding his stiff body, I realized it would have been very difficult to keep the food up as he grew. So all that was left was to get rid of his corpse and forget about the whole painful affair.
   
     Soon after the death of the young eagle, I left dumb Daves place and went back to the lake to look for more work.