Passing Clouds

by Graeme Leith

Because my mother was a heeler

  I’ve just got the blues.

  I got the blues,

  I got the Queensland blues.

  Some folks are hooked on cocaine,

  Some folks are hooked on booze,

  Because my mother was a heeler

  I’m just hooked on shoes.

  I’ve got the blues,

  I got the Queensland blues.

  You folks may loom above me,

  But we both walk the same street,

  You folks are chasing money,

  I’m just chasing feet.

  I’ve got the blues,

  I’ve got the Queensland blues.

  Mister Blue was a great little mate—and an absolute pest. Any rope, any string, any electrical lead he’d play with behind your back, and take away and tangle. It was an hour’s work to get the simplest project underway, for as soon as you’d untangled the lead he’d have the hammer down at the creek, where he’d be fighting it, and then when you got the hammer back you couldn’t find the screwdriver that might reveal itself in the broken ground that was to be its grave. And by that time he’d be tugging and jerking and growling at the lead and drill, so you’d have to attend to that while he searched for a new game. Or we would feed the chooks, place the mash on the ground to open the gate and away would go Mister Blue with yesterday’s sheep shank in his mouth and the mash trailing along behind it.

  One night, having followed my car up the road, our little buddy died violently but quickly when he was about a year old. I was going to perform in a concert at Wedderburn. I made the point to one of the children who was staying with us that the dog should be kept inside so that he wouldn’t try to follow me. But Mister Blue accidently got loose. He followed the scent of my car and was killed by somebody who was actually going to see the concert at which I was performing. It was Sally the ‘topless cricketer’, a friend of Ross Reading’s, who was driving to the show. (During one of the ‘Kingower versus the rest of the world’ cricket matches Ross had organised, Sally had dispensed with all garments above her waist.) After consultation with Ross, they wisely decided not to tell me of the accident until after my performance.

  So my poor little mate Mister Blue went to god. The next morning how I wished he was there to make me angry at his puppy bad behaviour. I fed the chooks with tears in my eyes and misery in my soul.

  Bridgewater

  Bridgewater came to us from Ian Roberts during a time when he was thinking of growing some grapes and asked my advice on the scheme. I should have advised him against it, and perhaps I did, but he grew them anyway, and later on we made wine from them. Ian had a fantasy about having a few vines and a little shed in the vineyard from which he could sell a few bottles to passers-by on the Calder Highway. He had tractors and things, all heavy-duty stuff, but he couldn’t spray his grapes, so I would spray them.

  At this stage the battery of the Ferguson tractor had been kaput for a couple of years so I would start it by rolling it down into the dry creek bed. I would spray my vines and, with the tractor still idling, put it on the trailer and drive it to Bridgewater to ‘Misery Farm’ as I called it then, for Ian was a man of melancholy disposition and visage. Ian lived 15 kilometres from Passing Clouds and now I don’t quite know why I did it. I suppose it was my irrepressible desire to experiment, to make wines from different areas that drove me.

  Ian had been to New Zealand and been so impressed with the abilities of the huntaway breed of dog in rounding up sheep that he bought a pair, planning to breed them and corner the huntaway market in Australia. He explained to me that the huntaway was bred basically from Australian sheepdogs crossed with Scottish staghounds. This bit of genetic engineering was arranged because standard sheepdogs wouldn’t leave their master and cast away to retrieve straying sheep during a roundup. They needed to be crossed with another breed whose job it was to go further, to go beyond the call of its master, to contain and retrieve the sheep for its master’s purposes. So what better dogs than staghounds, whose job it had traditionally been to round up the wild deer and head them towards the hunter? In New Zealand the precipitous mountaintops provided refuge for the sheep but no access to the farmer, no matter how stout or bold his mount. To see these dogs head off on those rugged hills and return with the mob in hand brings tears to my eyes, tears of admiration for these magnificent animals.

  However, one of Ian’s breeders escaped and disappeared. It was the male and it was deemed too hard to get another one, so the female bred with Ian’s farm Queensland heeler and they had a lovely litter of pups. I wanted a pup, or Sue did, and I went to inspect them. I put them all into a convenient ditch and chose the one that displayed the most determination to make its way out and took him home. And that’s how Bridgewater came to Passing Clouds.

  I never could see much huntaway in him; he looked like a kelpie-heeler cross. But later, in New Zealand, I was introduced to a pack of huntaways. Some looked like staghounds, some like blue heelers, and some like border collies, but they were all called huntaways—maybe it’s a generic New Zealand term for ‘dog’.

  That pack of dogs was in the back of the utility truck in which my new friend Barry and I were about to cross the enthusiastically flowing Wilberforce River in the Rakia Valley in New Zealand’s South Island. I thought it significant that he unbuckled the dogs from their chains and leads before the crossing. Then I realised that the crossing was going to be challenging and unpleasant images of the vehicle being swept downstream, with the dogs still chained to it, flashed through my mind. It was an interesting crossing, with water up to the door handles of the ute, the tyres side-slipping on the ball-bearing-like stones that comprised the riverbed. Indeed, later, reading the book A River Rules My Life, I learned that over the years many men had died on that crossing, mostly shearers on horseback trying to get home to their families. I drove it several times after that with my friend Bob Stinson and it was always fascinating to wonder, as the ute proceeded at the rate of 3 feet forward and 1 foot downstream, whether we’d first reach the bank ahead or the rapids downstream—it was often disturbingly close. But the lure was that in a stream on the other side of the Wilberforce the trout were huge and challenging.

  In any event, the huntaways did not have to swim on the day of that first crossing. In fact, one of them was a labrador, so it obviously crossed with no fear at all. Being fat and water loving it could have survived the coldest torrent and, I would have thought, was likely to have been more successful in the water than rounding up sheep on the mountains. However, it was still called a huntaway.

  The young Bridgewater fitted in easily to life at Passing Clouds. It rained heavily not long after we got him, so that must have been in 1984 after the drought broke. Within hours the dry creek bed became a 30-metre wide torrent of big brown waves bearing all manner of sticks and branches and tree trunks upon their frothing bosoms, as well as old rusted-out petrol cans, broken plastic toys, sometimes a whole refrigerator—for the tradition had been long established then that when it rained enough for the creek to run, you chucked all unwanted items in the creek and they magically disappeared. The downside to this was that after the water subsided, it often revealed the dumped detritus from an upstream property, which lay in the creek bed outside your house until the next deluge. However, one man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure, I guess, and I once woke up to find a dead Simpson washing machine in the creek. Its wringer had a beautiful pair of rollers which I needed for the boat rack on the back of my ute. I can remember Bridgewater, a tiny pup, looking quizzically at all this flotsam going by.

  He became a handsome dog, in appearance more Queensland heeler than anything else—a magnificent chest, the fur silkier than that of the normal heeler but displaying those trademark spots or stars, a legacy of the crossing of the heeler with the dalmatian.

  He was intelligent, too, and I began playing a game with him at the cellar door when we were waiting for someone or other. The game was devised around three playthings: a stick,
a ball and a discarded piece of radiator hose from the Ferguson tractor, called ‘the rubber thing’. The idea of the game was that I would ask Bridgewater for one of the three objects and if he chose correctly I would then throw it for him. It only took about half an hour for him to discriminate between the three, for he wanted to retrieve whatever it was. It was an endearing sight to see him concentrating while his little doggy brain struggled with the problem posed by the three items, and so gratifying when he had it licked, as it were, and could select the appropriate thing to be thrown. I said to Sue: ‘If he ever gets to write his autobiography it could be called Sticks, Balls and Rubber Things, and could sell well in some niche markets, or maybe become a popular dog blog.’

  At this time Winifred was working with us. Four days a week she drove from Daylesford and worked ten-hour days. A ferociously independent and efficient Englishwoman, she worked tirelessly and seemed to survive only on white bread sandwiches. Bridgie would spend many hours in the vineyard with her and it was amusing to see her arm come up above the vines with almost metronomic regularity to throw yet another stick for him.

  Winifred had a dog of her own, a female German shepherd, which she would sometimes bring to work, perhaps once a week. Working together and having meal breaks together in the small kitchen at Passing Clouds meant we were often in close physical proximity to each other and the dog appeared to be friendly enough. I used to pat her, although I had lost any respect I might have had for the breed many years before. One attacked Protos when he was a pup for no apparent reason, and I had a quite terrifying fifteen seconds or so as I beat the snarling biting beast off with the closest thing I had to a weapon at my disposal, a rolled-up newspaper. But I was very surprised, frightened and physically hurt as I was approaching the tasting room where Winifred was working, and her bloody dog came up silently behind me and bit me savagely on the upper leg! I can only assume that some latent need to protect its mistress stirred in its hunnish soul at the time, but I have had difficulty in being close to one ever since, and I know what the reason is—fear!

  As Bridgewater grew older and more tired, he spent more and more time close to Sue, in front of her pot-bellied stove with her in winter, or lying outside her door in the sun, until he died of old age and another grave had to be dug beside the creek.

  Argen

  Then there was Argen, apparently so named after a child’s attempted pronunciation of the word ‘dog’, which came out something like ‘argen dargen’. When she came to us in 1977 Argen was getting on in years and had apparently endured a turbulent past. She was a scruffy little black terrier of some sort, stubborn, with a big heart, and she fitted into the domestic scene very well. Her background was obscure to us, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that when two children were fighting, usually playfully, she would always attack the larger child as if defending the smaller. It was also noted that if someone picked up a piece of electrical wire she would bolt with her tail between her legs. The irresistible conclusion was that she had lived in a situation of domestic violence, and had been beaten with a piece of electrical flex, probably when she went to the support of the female victim.

  After a couple of years the woman who had once been Argen’s owner rang to ask if she could visit and see her old dog. Of course she was welcome. When the woman and I were alone I suggested to her that her ex had physically abused her and had beaten the dog with electrical flex if it became involved.

  The woman’s face went white and she asked me, incredulously, ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘The dog did,’ I replied, and explained how Argen had transmitted that knowledge. The woman agreed that such had been the case.

  During the last year or so of her life Argen began cracking the tough nectarine seeds which lay in abundance around the place and eating the kernels within. A year later apricot kernels were being promoted as a cure for cancer by a doctor in Queensland—maybe she was keeping cancer at bay!

  When Argen finally succumbed to doggy dementia she was gently eased into the next world by the vet. Another grave was dug by the creek. But when she was fit and well she was very much part of the action, much loved by Ondine and Sebastian. Once when Ondine was working in Melbourne, I mocked up the following letter and sent it to her:

  Dear Oni,

  It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you, I thought I might take a little spell (and heaven knows, a girl doesn’t get a chance to take many) and put paw to paper as it were, to let you know how I’m getting on at Passing Clouds. As you know, Oni, the idea was for me to have a holiday up here for a spell while my new accommodation was being sorted out in Melbourne, but it’s not been exactly a holiday, I can tell you—there’s so much that a girl has to do here. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how they got on without me before this so-called holiday. I mean, getting-up time until bedtime it’s practically all go; and of course, a girl’s not getting any younger!

  I’ll describe a typical working day, and you’ll get some idea of what’s involved. Straight after breakfast it’s usually a good solid meal of ‘Good O’ rings. At first they tried me on some of that bulk Water Wheel dog pellet stuff that country dogs eat, but I soon let them know what I thought about that, I can tell you! I mean, there’s little enough glamour in a girl’s life here, and I think apart from the fact that Good O rings are advertised on television there is something very attractive about a full-colour box and a cellophane wrapping, don’t you?

  Well, as I was saying, breakfast is hardly finished when it’s time for driving supervision, and I’ve got to hop straight into the car and make sure we get Sebastian into the bus safely and on time. First, they expected me to sit on the carpet in the back of the wagon, which as you can understand isn’t exactly luxurious. I’ve got a proper eiderdown in there now—it’s surprising how quickly a few tufts of black hair discreetly left on the new car carpet made them see reason! And my goodness, it’s just as well I’m there to supervise—you know, the only morning I overslept, didn’t they hit a kangaroo? I really don’t know what sorts of trouble they must have got into before I got here.

  Anyway, as soon as we get back from Inglewood it’s chook feeding and discipline time. These fowls were so spoiled and arrogant when I first got here, you really wouldn’t believe it. Sue is not tough enough with them, and after she goes back to the house I usually have to return and knock them into shape. I find that it’s a good idea to go through their mash at the same time; it’s surprising what people will throw out to fowls at times, perfectly good chop and soup bones, often with meat on them. Sometimes there are so many that I’ve got to put them into one of what I call my ‘bank accounts’. I’ve got one behind the tank, another in the geraniums, and quite a large one in the creek. Oni, I always think it’s best to have something put away for a rainy day, don’t you?

  Then of course I’ve always got to be ready to mediate in goose squabbles; you just never know when they’re going to start a fight and Graeme and Sue don’t seem to be able to sort things out. A jolly good nip on the back of the neck does the geese the world of good and quietens them down, I can tell you!

  Well, by the time I’ve dealt with all of that and done my banking, it’s time for a lie-down. I usually take a little nap on the pink chair; well, it used to be pink, it’s more of a browny colour now. They should have it cleaned, really—heaven knows, it would be little enough trouble to put it in the car and take it to the dry cleaners! It might seem hard to believe, but I often don’t even get a decent nap. Sometimes it seems I’ve hardly closed my eyes and a strange car will arrive.

  There is a constant stream of potential burglars here; people who say they want to buy wine, that shifty-looking man who delivers the petrol, and some of those so-called friends. I wouldn’t trust any of them, so I give them all a jolly good barking at! Then of course there’s always Graeme to be helped with tractor cultivation; those tractors are dangerous things so I try to make a point of running up and down beside him, barking—you know, just in case
anything does go wrong. Winemaking keeps a girl on her toes, I can tell you.

  Twice now I have found a stray cat in the winery and what pandemonium has there been then! The cat trying to get away over all the barrels with me after it, Graeme yelling and forgetting to turn the pump off, test tubes and things getting broken, and wine flooding out of the barrel while the cat goes round and round the winery with me in pursuit. Honestly, Oni, if you could see the look on your father’s face and hear him yelling and swearing, you’d laugh yourself almost hysterical!

  After something strenuous like winemaking and tractor work, I usually go into the kitchen and get a spot of lunch from Sue—you know, just the ends of gravy beef or something light like that. Then it’s off for a little snooze in the car. I must say that there’s been a bit of trouble about that, but as I was saying to Bonny Sendy the other day, how is a girl going to get into a car window without scratching the duco? Especially if a girl has a tiny little weight problem? So that’s been a bone of contention. But still, if they won’t leave the car door open, they’ll get scratches on the paint, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not as if it’s a black car where the scratches would show, in any case. I think they’re just neurotic because it’s new; they’ll probably settle down when it gets a bit older. Come to think of it, it doesn’t really look new now, especially around the windows.

  Well, after a little snooze in the car I find it’s a good time to check up on Una, over-the-road’s cat. You should see it lying there in the sun! Well, it’s got no chance of getting sunstroke when I’m around, I can tell you; it’s in the shade under the house before you can say Dick Whittington. When I’m over at Una’s I usually check out the rubbish heap; the silly old dear throws good meaty bones away, too! Well, she’s always running out of the house and flapping her arms round and complaining about the paper blowing around, but how is a girl supposed to get the bones without spreading a bit of paper about? It would be so much simpler if she didn’t wrap them up; these country people are a bit thick, I can tell you.