Once a Pommie Swagman

by Thomas, Nick Arden

  “Ah, been expecting you two,” she said, adding to our amazement. “How was Mrs Hayes when you left her?”

  “Well … okay, I guess. She got a bit tired sometimes.”

  “Yes, I imagine she did,” and she shook her head in silent sympathy for a moment. “Now then,” she abruptly changed the subject. “Six shillings a day, all you can eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a straw bed in the boy’s barn.”

  It wasn’t so much an offer as a statement of fact, and neither of us knew what to say and could only stand there, desperately trying not to look at her heaving bosom.

  “Good,” said Mrs McDonald, interpreting our silence as accepting the deal. “You can start tomorrow,” then she looked around the tent and called to a girl about my age who was spreading tablecloths out on trestle tables as fast as two men erected them. “Carol, can you take these two boys and show them where they’ll be sleeping?”

  “Yes, Mrs McDonald,” said the girl dutifully, and as she came skipping over to us, smiling prettily, she reminded me of someone.

  “Come on, then!” she chivvied, amused by our nonplussed looks, and she set off briskly.

  “When you’re settled, come straight back here!” Mrs McDonald called after us.

  “Is she always that bossy?” I asked, running to catch up with the girl.

  “Oh she’s alright. She just likes things to run smoothly.”

  The ‘boy’s barn’ was one end of a disused stock shed, the rows of waist-high wooden pens with a couple of straw bales chucked into them being the bedrooms. The ‘girl’s barn’ was at the other end of the shed, separated by a hessian screen.

  “You can have any one of the pens without gear in it,” said Carol, and made to dash off.

  “Do you sleep in there, then?” I asked, nodding to the other end, hoping to prolong the conversation.

  “No, I have to look after the General,” and she smiled her lovely smile and skipped away before I could say anything else.

  “She’s alright, isn’t she,” I said, watching the girl running back to the marquee, her simple floral dress swishing in the breeze.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “I wonder who the General is?”

  “Search me. Come on, we’d better get sorted and go back.”

  “Hands out, please,” Mrs McDonald demanded as she walked down the line inspecting us. There were about a dozen of us, mainly teenagers, lined up outside the Show Secretary’s tent near the main arena. One or two were fully grown men and women but she spoke to us all like we were ten-year-olds, and Glen and I were not the only ones admonished for having dirty nails and told to “do something about them before I see you again tomorrow!” Then Mrs McDonald informed us we were free to go until six in the morning, when we would be dispatched around the show to do any job required for the first few hours. After that our main tasks were either to be waiters and waitresses serving lunch, morning and afternoon teas to the members and their guests, or helping in the kitchen washing up and clearing away before, during and after those events.

  Morning teas were served between 9am and 10.30am; lunch from 12pm to 2pm; and afternoon tea from 3.30pm to 5pm. “Having cleared away after afternoon tea, your time is your own until six the next morning.” Mrs McDonald finished the briefing. “Any questions?“ No-one dared say a word. Then she handed us each an apron, blue for boys, pink for girls and told us that when serving we were to wear them at all times. “And don’t get them dirty!” she commanded. “Report back here at six o’clock in the morning!”

  Despite being a bit of a tartar and the butt of many a joke — not that anybody was game to say boo in her presence — Mrs McDonald was a big softie at heart really. She wouldn’t stand for any nonsense and told us off roundly if we were late, and she made sure we were as tidy as our wardrobe allowed, but all in all she treated us well and we had a pretty good few days at the Proserpine Show, even if we didn’t get paid much. The food was great and there was plenty of it, and we got the occasional tip from farmers celebrating with a few bottles of champagne at lunchtime after their precious bull or rooster won a prize. At night, as promised, our time was our own, and Glen and I must have gone on every ride, tried out every dodgem car, thrown every coconut and seen every sideshow half a dozen times, the majority of which we didn’t have to pay for after we got to know the staff a bit better. Unfortunately there was no Jimmy Sharman, but there was wood chopping and at night either a rodeo or some other spectacle in the main arena. We had a great time, and the work was never really that taxing.

  To my disappointment I discovered that Carol wasn’t a casual labourer like us; her father was a show official, farmer and pig breeder, and one of the other girls told me that she worked with him most of the time and had only been helping to set up the dining marquee. Once or twice I caught sight of her, but either she was busy doing something or we were working, so it wasn’t until the end of the second last day of the show that I caught up with her again. Glen and I were heading back to the ‘boy’s barn’ about six o’clock, having finished the afternoon tea clear up. It was getting dark and we were earnestly discussing what rides we were going on that night when through the gloom I spotted Carol in the distance, heading purposefully towards one of the large animal sheds and carrying something in her hands. I left Glen standing as I ran across to her.

  To my surprise, the something in her hands were five toffee apples.

  “Like them, do you!”

  “They’re not for me.” Carol smiled, and suddenly I knew who she reminded me of; or rather what she reminded me of. It was the feelings I’d had when Judy Laverton had smiled at me.

  “They’re for the General, he loves them.”

  “Who is this General?”

  “You can come and meet him if you want.”

  Yes!

  General Eisenhower was lying in his pen, nuzzling the soft straw that cocooned him. He was an enormous large white pig, although I thought he looked more like a hippopotamus than a pig; I’d never seen such a massive animal before, and my astonishment had Carol smiling with delight, which had my stomach turning over with delight. God, she was lovely!

  “We call him Ike,” said Carol, bending down so he could sniff one of the toffee apples and immediately the huge creature hefted himself to his feet with surprising agility, gobbling the apple down in one mouthful. The other four didn’t last much longer, and afterwards he stood there looking at her dolefully and licking his lips.

  “He’d eat a hundred if I gave them to him,” said Carol, looking lovingly at her charge. “Wouldn’t you,” she said, bending down to hug his massive head, an embrace the huge beast was obviously used to.

  “But we have to be careful how much and what we feed him,” and taking the sticks of the apples away so Ike didn’t eat them as well, she went into the pen beside him.

  It was just like the ‘bedroom’ Glen and I shared, only Carol was there on her own.

  “You sleep next to him!”

  “Pigs need a lot of looking after, especially at show time, and we don’t want anybody getting to him. Oh, he farts a lot and shits everywhere, but I don’t mind, I love him really, and he should at least win Best in Breed I hope.”

  The long shed was full of a variety of animals with their minders and there wasn’t much privacy. Carol sat down, retreating into the seclusion of her walled pen and indicating I should join her. Next to her pillow at the top of her sleeping bag was a portable forty-five record player with a pile of records beside it, and she rifled through a few.

  “Who do you like?” she asked. “I’ve got Connie Francis, Doris Day, Cliff Richard, Ricky Nelson, Pat Boon … do you like Pat Boon?”

  “Oh, yeah!” and I sat down, as close to her as I could.

  “Really! Most boys I know hate him!”

  “No, I think he’s great. I’ve got most of his records at home.”

  I don’t know how long we sat there, chatting away like life-long friends while we listened to the music. She w
as easy to talk to, unpretentious and bubbly, and we laughed a lot.

  “Oh, I’d love to go to Sydney!” she gushed, when I told her about Sydney Harbour and Manly. “I did go to Brisbane once, but I was only five.”

  “Have you finished school, then?”

  “Yes, two years ago when I was fifteen. Dad doesn’t think girls need to go to school after that. He says education is wasted on them as they’ll only go and get married and have kids. Besides, Mum died when I was thirteen and he needs me to help him on the farm.” And she shrugged and put on another record.

  Her father owned a property near Monto where they grew fruit, vegetables and grains mainly, but he was also one of Queensland’s leading pig breeders.

  “We go to most of the shows around the state.”

  Just then a man arrived at Ike’s pen and went in, patting his rump.

  “Oh, hi Dad. This is Nick.”

  “Hi Nick,” the man grinned, leaning across to shake my hand. “Any problems?” he asked his daughter, bending down to inspect the General’s ears.

  “No. He’s fine.”

  “I guess I should go,” I said, standing up.

  “Come back again tomorrow after you’ve finished if you want. We could listen to some more records?” said Carol.

  “Yeah, sure,” I agreed instantly, and was about to say my farewells to her father when she leant across and kissed me quickly on the cheek, whispering in my ear as she did: “Good. I like you.”

  “On a day like today, I pass the time away

  Writing love letters in the sand …”

  Great singer, that Pat Boon!

  By the time I got back to the boy’s barn I was so tall I could hardly fit through the doors, although my euphoria was short-lived.

  “Where have you been?” Glen asked accusingly, and I felt like I’d cheated on him somehow. The next morning he was still obviously annoyed, although there was something about his mood that wasn’t just annoyance and he barely said two words to me all day. I didn’t take too much notice, however; all I could think about was Caroland her soft lips on my cheek. Normally Glen and I went to the showers together after work, but this evening I went charging off and was finished long before he got there, having used plenty of soap and spending ages combing my hair. I was going on my first date!

  General Eisenhower was looking very pleased with himself, standing in his pen surrounded by balloons, coloured ribbons and rosettes. Not only had he won Best in Breed but he’d come second in Best in Show, and a group of eight or nine farmers was gathered around, listening intently as Carol’s father explained the virtues of his wonderful beast. Winning Best in Breed was not just a thrill and a reward for the all the hard work and effort they’d put into Ike, but it would be financially rewarding as well, and both Carol and her father were beaming with pleasure.

  With the men obviously engrossed in serious business discussions, Carol and I were sidelined a bit, not that we minded; and a few minutes after I arrived, she called out, “Dad, Nick and I are just going for a look around, okay?” and he waved at her in recognition and went back to his dealing. On the wall of the pen beside her bed there were several keys hanging from a hook, and she took one down and grabbed my hand. “Come on. I know where we can go.” I didn’t need any persuading, and followed her as she skipped up and out of the shed. Outside she continued to hurry, leading me across to another shed, at one end of which was a padlocked door. She opened it and we went inside. It wasn’t a very big room; there was some straw on the floor, obviously recently used by someone as a bed, but what caught the eye were all the harnesses, saddles and bridles hanging on every wall.

  “It’s a tack room,” explained Carol, bolting the door behind us. “I’ve taken over from the girl who used to look after it. She went home this afternoon; nobody will come in here now,” and she turned and stood in front of me, smiling. “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  Jesus!

  I suppose the biggest surprise was the electrifying, almost desperate urgency that consumed her. In all my most erotic dreams I had never imagined a girl would be like that; so uninhibited, so hungry, but above all so knowledgeable. She must have realised from the beginning how inexperienced I was, but not once did she make me feel embarrassed or anything. I might have been a novice, but a little something in my trousers understood fully what was going on and was literally bursting at the seams to get out and into the action. I’m not sure how long we stood there kissing, my tongue emulating hers, and she must have felt me pressing into her, digging into her more like. Suddenly she broke away and stepped back a pace, as if to catch her breath.

  “I can’t go all the way,” she panted apologetically. “Not ‘til I’m married. I promised Mum.”

  For a second I didn’t have a clue what she meant, and could only gape stupidly at her.

  What is she talking about? All the way? Mum? All the way where? “But your mum’s not here,” was all I could blurt.

  “I know, silly,” she giggled beautifully, and in one quick movement she pulled her dress over her head and stood in front of me completely naked. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time,” and she pushed me gently down onto the straw.

  Jesus!

  It was only much later that it struck me she must have planned what we were going to do long before I got there; she’d come prepared, as it were. The word premature might be pertinent here, but it wasn’t really any of my doing. She undid my trousers and released me and for a second I couldn’t believe it was mine, it was so huge and engorged, I was quite proud of it. Carol seemed to like it too, and she knew exactly what to do with it. I may not have lasted very long, but boy it was fantastic.

  When I recovered, she lay back on the straw. God she was gorgeous, pert little breasts and hard nipples, and she guided my head down onto them.

  “Just lick them and flick them with your tongue,” she sighed, as instinctively my hand went between her legs, but I didn’t really know what to do when I got there, other than poke my fingers inside. She was all wet and warm, and then she placed her hand on mine and gently guided my fingers where she wanted them to go.

  “Not there; here. Yes … that’s it … there … now put a finger inside me as well, yes that’s it … like that … now together … oh yes … like that … like that … harder … harder … oh yes … yes! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” And when her cries turned almost to screams and went on and on, I had visions of her dad pounding at the door.

  Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms for twenty minutes or so, nuzzling and kissing, and then she looked at her watch. “Shit, I better get back. Dad will be wondering where I am.”

  “Have you done that before?” I couldn’t help asking as we got dressed, and immediately kicked myself, realising what a dumb question it was.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I often have to tug the General off to get his spunk.” Then she saw the look on my face. “But that’s just like milking a cow,” and she smiled and cupped my face in her hands. “It’s not like this. This was beautiful. Thank you.”

  She was thanking me!

  We strolled back to her pen in the dark, holding hands and kissing and hugging every ten yards. “Why don’t you come down to Monto,” she asked. “I’m sure Dad could find you and your friend a job on the farm.” When we got back to the General’s pen her father and his business friends were gone and the General was lying down, opening one eye in acknowledgment when he heard Carol’s voice as she gave me her address.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?”

  “No,” she sighed. “We’re leaving at five to go home.” Then she pulled me down into the pen and kissed me, her dress riding up above her thighs. “But you could come to Monto!” I floated back to our shed, consumed by one thought. If it was that good when you didn’t go all the way, what must it be like when you did!

  Glen was lying on his side, his back to my bed, but I knew he wasn’t asleep. I didn’
t say anything, just got under my duffle coat and

  lay down, my mind a whirl. Could we go to Monto? After about ten minutes I sensed Glen half turn towards me. “Did you do it, then?”

  For a moment I didn’t say anything. I’m not sure where it came from, but suddenly I was certain the answer to that question was crucially important to our relationship.

  I was aware my going off with Carol had pissed him off, but initially I just thought he was jealous; now something told me it was much deeper than that. It was as if I’d breached his trust, broken the oath of loyalty we’d sworn to each other in the bus shelter at Mount Gravatt.

  “No,” I said eventually, which was partly true, adding, “She goes home tomorrow,” as if that would somehow make him feel better. I knew that if I even suggested going to Monto it would be the end of us. The problem was I also knew that had Carol walked into our pen right then and asked me to come with her, I would have gone like a shot. It was my first lesson of just how powerful an emotion sex is. It was a long time before I fell asleep, with two visions swirling about. First the image of Carol’s gorgeous body, and then Mrs Hayes sitting in her chair, whisky in hand, warning us about a man’s penis and his principles …

  The next day was our last at the Proserpine Show, a great deal of it having already been dismantled and exhibitors and animals on their way home. I knew it was stupid, but I just couldn’t resist the urge to duck over to the General’s pen, just to make sure she’d gone, an action that didn’t improve my relationship with Glen. It was obvious that going to Monto was out of the question. Perhaps I could get there one day, but there was no way I could go with Glen. Nor could I just up and leave him. Like it or not we were in this together, whatever this was, and the least I owed him was to see it through together. Magnetic Island was our goal; Monto would have to be my dream.