Once a Pommie Swagman

by Thomas, Nick Arden

  We promised.

  We spent the two days hacking down the weeds and clearing the little garden behind the hospital, but it was three days before Dr Richards came back and he was genuinely impressed with our work.

  “That’s brilliant, boys! I’ve never seen it looking so good! I’ll pay you for this.”

  “You don’t have to …” but he waved us away.

  “Of course I do. Besides, I have funds available for upkeep and so on. Now then, I have some good news for you.”

  Dr Richards originally came from Wagga Wagga in New South Wales and he still had many contacts down that way, one of them being his younger brother, John. His brother had bought a cherry orchard near Young recently. “He’s gone out on a limb a bit,” the doctor grimaced. “Borrowed heavily to get started, but he is hoping for a bumper crop. It’s been a good growing winter for cherries so far, apparently. Anyway, come early October he will be looking for two people to stay in the pickers’ sheds on the orchard to keep the birds away from the ripening fruit — crows mainly. For this he will feed you and pay you each two pounds a week. Then towards the end of October he will start picking. It will probably take three or four weeks and then you can earn anything up to eight, even ten pounds a week, depending on how hard you are prepared to work. However, he has said that if you do the bird scarecrow job first he will guarantee you six pounds a week come picking time.”

  “But it’s only August! What do we do now?”

  “I’m coming to that. John is friends with the owner of an orange orchard in Leeton, which isn’t that far away from Young, and he has arranged for you to work there first, picking oranges for three weeks or so. He can’t say how much you’ll earn. Again it will depend on how hard you work, but he says the average is at least five pounds a week. By my reckoning, in two months you could earn at least forty pounds each fairly easily. And remember, you will be fed and given somewhere to sleep on both jobs so it won’t cost you anything. What do you say?”

  Although for a moment neither of us said anything, I could almost hear Glen’s brain churning the figures over in his head: forty pounds! Say two pounds a week to rent a room, two pounds a week to eat, I could live on that for ten weeks! “Sounds brilliant!” he beamed.

  “But how do we get down there? It’s taken us over three months to get up here!”

  “Ah!” the doctor tapped his nose. “While I was in the police station the other day, Constable Masters received a phone call from a removal company who’d just moved a family from Dubbo to Mt Isa and were hunting about for a load to take back. In fact, it was hearing that call that gave me the idea to talk to my brother. So, after I rang him and organised the work, I rang the removal company and they are happy to give you a lift down there. You have to meet them at the roadhouse in Cloncurry in two days time. Three or four days to get down there, then it’s only a hundred and fifty miles from Dubbo to Young. You can do that in half a day with a bit of luck!”

  “But won’t we get into trouble if we leave? The sergeant warned us not to go anywhere.” For a moment the doctor was silent, as if choosing his words. “Life is not quite the same out here as it is in cities. The weather, the isolation, the distances, it can get pretty tough. Occasionally it is necessary for us to make up our own rules. Sergeant King often makes his up as he goes along. I’m just making up a few of my own.” He smiled. “I’ll take care of the sergeant. I’m sure once he knows you have left the area completely he will let the matter drop. Besides,” he smiled again, this time with just a hint of mischievousness, “I held an Aboriginal clinic in Richmond the other day and I heard something about one of them being beaten up. Of course the man concerned won’t make a complaint or say anything, but next time I’m in the police station I’ll let it slip that I’ve heard a rumour.” You just don’t expect nice, decent doctors to be so devious, do you?

  FIFTEEN

  J & J Bourke & Co.

  Jim and Joe Bourke were as outback in nature as they were in name; languid, wry and laconic. Joe was several years older, obviously the boss, and more reserved, but they were remarkably similar. Both were tall and slim, had reddish hair, freckles and walked with the same distinctive gait common to men who’ve sat in a saddle as often as a chair. They also dressed exactly the same — fleecy-lined check shirts, heavy boots and thick grey trousers held up with rope belts.

  They were the proprietors of J & J Bourke Removalists, their removal truck being a 1957 Ford Thames Trader with the back extending out over the cab like a big box, and it was up there, in a space six or seven feet wide, four feet deep and three feet high, on a nice supply of soft blankets, that we sat, slept, ate and played endless games of hearts. On each side a one-foot high sliding window provided fresh air and a reasonable view as we rolled and bounced through the vast, dusty nothingness, rarely going faster than fifty miles an hour and on the many rough sections of road often no more than twenty to twenty-five miles an hour. From Cloncurry to Dubbo via Winton, Longreach, Blackall, St George, Moree and Walgett — Jesus, it was a long way!

  Born and bred on their father’s sheep station near Walgett in Northern New South Wales, Jim and Joe Bourke had been too young for the war, and their father and older brother were exempt as they had to run the farm; so unlike the vast majority of men of that era, their family had not been affected by the war too much. Knowing their elder brother would take over the station when he was gone, their father insisted the two younger boys learn another trade, and from a very early age had encouraged them to repair and maintain all the farm equipment. By the time they were in their late teens, Joe and Jim Bourke could dismantle a truck or rebuild a tractor with their eyes closed. When their father died a few years after the war they began their removal business in an old Ford half truck, originally staying in Walgett, mainly moving goods about. But there wasn’t much work, so a few years later they moved to the larger town of Dubbo where they could access the lucrative Sydney market. Now, while still only small, they were one of the most respected and reliable removal firms in Central Western New South Wales. Joe was married, and his wife ran the office from their home in Dubbo and took bookings while they were away.

  All this we learned from Doctor Richards as he drove us from Julia Creek early in the morning. “They have a very good reputation and I’ve told them all about you,” he grinned, “so they know what to expect.” It was just gone seven o’clock when we pulled into the road house truck park just outside Cloncurry where the brothers were waiting. Their big, blue, rectangular removal van was easy to spot with their name emblazoned in big red letters down each side. After introductions all round, the doctor shook our hands warmly and wished us good luck. It was a fairly emotional farewell. He had been very good to us, but he waved our somewhat self-conscious thanks away. “It’s a pleasure, boys; been nice to meet you. Just get down there and earn some money,” he grinned. “And give my regards to my brother and his wife.”

  Inside the roadhouse we had a quick breakfast while the brothers gave us an even quicker briefing. “Empty trucks don’t make money,” Joe told us, adding that once they got going they would not stop too often. Taking it in turns to drive, they would sometimes do two four-hour shifts each before stopping for a sleep. “Usually we only stop long enough to have a piss and change positions. So I suggest you have a piss too whenever we do stop.” He smiled.

  “Yeah,” Jim chimed in. “We’ve got bladders like camels, but if you get desperate just belt on the roof. One of us should be awake!”

  “There’s a jerry can of water strapped inside you can use, but we will stop once a day for a good feed,” Joe assured us, ignoring his brother, “oh, and make sure you stub your cigarettes out properly. Start a fire in the back and you might be stuffed. That’s about it. As Jim says, you got a problem just belt on the roof or yell out the window.” That was it. After we’d eaten and gone to the toilet, we climbed into the back of the truck and scrambled up to our loft room. Joe shut the double doors and we were off, locked inside our big bo
x of a home — only one thousand two hundred and fifty miles to go!

  We drove for eight, relatively incident-free hours before we stopped for ten minutes not far from Winton. The only event of any

  note was encountering a huge herd of cattle we came upon strewn across the road south of Kynuna. It took us nearly an hour to get past them. There was so much dust we had to close the windows and it got a bit stuffy. Once we climbed down to stretch our legs in the cavernous main bay, which was more or less empty. The brothers had managed to secure a few items for the return trip, some crates they had to deliver in Longreach and an old Norton motorcycle to drop off in Moree. Other than that, there were a few wooden boxes of food and equipment and their rolled-up swags to sit on, but the truck bounced and lurched about so much that it was almost impossible to stay on our feet, or our seat.

  It is truly disconcerting being in the back of a truck in the semi-dark when you can’t see or brace yourselves for bumps and bends, and we got an idea of how frightening it must be for cattle and sheep to be transported like that. No wonder they crammed them in so tightly. Consequently, most of the time we stayed up on our platform above the cab. On long, straight stretches we were able to sit up fairly comfortably and play cards, but much of the time we just lay on our stomachs, staring out of our respective windows for hours at a time. When we did stop by the side of the road it was only for a quick brew of tea and a piss.

  “Everything okay?” Joe flung open the doors and we climbed down. It was like being let out of gaol. From one of their boxes, Jim pulled out a primus stove and within minutes we were all sipping sweet black tea and eating gingernut biscuits. Joe spent most of the break walking slowly round the truck, kicking tyres and looking underneath while Jim sat on the back and rolled cigarettes, which he did with great speed and expertise, placing them in an old tobacco tin when they were finished. By the time we set off again, he had thirty or forty ready to go.

  “Should last us an hour or so,” he winked, and began packing up the primus stove.

  “Okay,” said Joe, chucking the dregs of his tea away, “let’s get goin’. We’ll pull up for the night about fifty miles the other side of Winton. Ought to be hungry by then, eh?”

  It was dark when we passed through Winton so we didn’t see much, not that I think there was much to see, and within minutes we were out on the open road again. Hunger began to gnaw. It must have been about an hour later I suppose, and then everything happened so fast it was over almost before it began. For some time we’d been going quite fast, obviously down a good section of road, so the sudden braking was completely unexpected and we were flung forwards, then there was a loud bang and the truck shuddered and lurched violently, sending us both flying upwards and sideways; Glen crying out when his head hit the roof. It was pitch black. We had no idea which way was up or down and for a second I thought the truck had rolled over. Then a voice called up through the window.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah! What happened, for Christ’s sake!”

  “We hit a ‘roo! Hang on, I’ll let youse out,” then the doors opened and Joe was standing there with a torch. “Bit of a rude awakening, eh!” he said, calm as you like. “Might as well come down. We’ll stop here for the night now.” We followed him round to the front of the truck where we found Jim examining the damage. There was a large dent in the mud guard but fortunately the headlamps had been protected by the bull bars which were covered in blood and fur. One leg of the kangaroo was wedged under the front axle and Jim knelt down and reached in, dragging it out by its foot.

  “Big bugger,” he said, disparagingly flinging the leg to the side. “Reckon he’s dead?”

  “No need for a second opinion.” Joe nodded his head sagely as he removed a large blood-soaked piece of fur from the bull bar, although it was impossible to tell which part of the kangaroo this was, or even that it was, or had been, a kangaroo. “Didn’t see him ‘til it was too late.” He shrugged, as much to himself as anybody.

  “He can’t have been payin’ too much attention neither!” grunted Jim, as he crawled underneath the vehicle to check there wasn’t more of the creature caught up somewhere. They were both so calm and matter-of-fact, it was as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all. But despite their droll nonchalance, I think they knew just how close we’d come to having a nasty accident.

  They seemed completely unruffled, but Glen and I were certainly shaken up. Noticing this, Joe gave Jim a nod and took us by the arm. “Come on. Let’s light a fire and get some tucker on,” and while he helped us collect wood and start a fire, Jim positioned the truck off the side of the road so the headlights illuminated our campsite. By the time he joined us we had a roaring blaze going, but best of all he brought with him one of the wooden boxes from the back of the truck, the contents of which cheered us up no end. To begin with there was a large esky, and inside it on the top was a tray full of steaks, sausages and bacon. Beneath, in the ice, was half a dozen bottles of Resch’s DA beer. Also in the box were kerosene lamps, plates, saucepans, frying pans and other cooking equipment. This was the way to camp! Amazing what a bottle of beer, a nice hot fire and a big plate of sausages and beans can do for shock.

  After dinner Glen and I boiled some water and washed up. Since our fight on the beach we had agreed to do this together every night after eating, no matter what, and now we just did it automatically. Neither brother said anything, but we saw the little look of surprise they gave each other. While we did this they retrieved their swags from the back of the truck and began spreading them out by the fire. “You can sleep in the truck if you want,“ Joe told us, but the fire was nice and warm. Besides, we would be locked in there again the next day for twelve hours or more, so we got our gear out and made up our beds beside theirs. Then Jim got up and went to the truck to turn off the lights. He returned with a guitar which he kept in the cab, and for a while he sat strumming away although no particular tune. It soon became obvious he couldn’t play the thing very well. He just knew about six different chords, changing keys from time to time to suit his offering.

  “I woke quite early one fine day, the earth lay cool and still

  When suddenly a parrot perched upon my window sill.

  He began to trill and chatter, his greetings to the day

  A song to make our earth-born troubles simply slip away.

  He sang of far-off places, of laughter and of fun,

  It seemed his very chatter brought up the morning sun.

  I stirred beneath the covers and crept slowly out of bed

  gently closed the window and crushed his bloody head.

  Somebody should have told ’im, or given ’im a warning,

  I can’t stand fucking parrots and I’m not real good in the morning”

  Maybe it was in relief, I don’t know. All I do know is Glen and I laughed like we had never laughed before until tears streamed down our cheeks.

  “It ain’t that bloody funny,” Joe admonished, but he couldn’t stop grinning either. Laughter is like money. The more there is, the more it makes.

  “Bloke goes to the doctor, says, doc, I’ve broken my arm in three places!

  Doctor says, well don’t go to those places any more!”

  “How about the wild rover,” Joe grunted, pulling his head under his blanket, no doubt having heard it all before a hundred times. There was a pause while Jim strummed the guitar, searching for the right chords; then he began to sing in a haunting, gravelly, semi-baritone voice, flavoured with just a hint of the Irish lilt of his ancestors.

  “Oh, I’ve played the wild rover this many a year,

  And I’ve spent all my money on whisky and beer.

  But now I’m returning with gold in great store,

  Determined to play the wild rover no more.

  After searchin’ for months I’d found me a seam,

  As thick as four fingers, a prospector’s dream.

  Enough for my mother and father to see,

  The wild rover days were o
ver for me.

  But on the way home to a shanty I went

  And told the landlady my money was spent.

  When I asked her for credit, she answered me “Nay,

  Such custom as yours I can get every day!”

  So I drew from my pocket some gold nuggets bright

  And the landlady’s eyes opened wide with delight; And she said, “I have whisky and wines of the best,

  Those words I’ve just spoken were done so in jest.”

  So I rolled out my swag and filled up my pot;

  Relating tall tales and not thinking a lot.

  And in a whirl seven days, or it might have been eight

  Were gone in the haze of the inebriate.

  There was Kitty and Betsy and Margaret and Blue,

  And three or four more that belonged to our crew;

  We’d sit up till midnight and make the place roar

  ‘Til the gold in my pocket was in there no more.

  Now I’m a pauper, forced to repent,

  On a cold bed of straw I lie down to lament,

  I’d squandered my fortune, not once but twice,

  The wild rover paying the wild rover’s price.

  So I’ll go home to my parents and confess what I’ve done

  And ask them to pardon their prodigal son,

  And if they will do so, as so often before.

  I’ll promise I’ll play the wild rover no more.”

  Warm fire, full tummies, black sky ablaze with stars; we fell asleep with smiles of delight on our lips. What close, nasty accident?

  Next morning the brothers were up by four o’clock and we were woken to the sound of eggs and bacon being fried. Joe made us all egg and bacon sandwiches for lunch and before the sun was up we were on our way. We pulled into Longreach at about eight o’clock in the morning, where we helped them unload the crates at a factory on the outskirts of town. Then Joe said, “How about a comfy shit and a hot shower?” We parked not far from the main street and walked to the hotel carrying our towels and toothbrushes. “Stopped here on the way up,” Jim informed us as we went in. “Landlord said we could use the bathroom on our way back if we wanted. Best I check though, eh! Don’t want to end up in gaol, do we?” And both he and Joe chortled heartily. Oh, very funny! But there was no doubt it was more relaxing having a shower without looking over our shoulder at every noise.