by Haynes, Jim
Thereafter, Miles became notable for her outrageous, disruptive conduct in public places, and her outspoken criticism of political and social authorities. Irresolvable differences over her behaviour and lifestyle occasioned the end of her long relationship with Brian Harper when she was thirty-eight. He wanted to marry, while she ‘despised men who got married’.
Henceforth, Miles had ‘no fixed address’.
Well-known in Sydney, she could be seen on city and suburban public transport wearing a green tennis shade, tennis shoes and a scruffy greatcoat. She had a number of ingenious methods of obtaining goods, services and daily support. One method was to give recitations from Shakespeare, with a threepence to three shillings price range.
She became notorious for refusing to pay fares, especially in taxis; cabbies often refused to pick her up. Sometimes, in retaliation, she would leap on their running boards, bumper bars or bonnet, or hurl herself against their sides, detaching doors from hinges. In 1955, however, she paid a female taxidriver £600 to drive her to Perth and back, which took nineteen days.
From the 1940s, her closest friend was a taxidriver called John Beynon, but this could not prevent the ire of unpaid drivers; she was assaulted several times in the 1950s.
Bea Miles was constantly harassed by police and she claimed to have been falsely convicted 195 times, and fairly convicted 100 times, though obituaries give lower estimates. She haunted the Public Library of New South Wales, reading many books each week, until she was banned from the building in the late 1950s.
The final years of her life were dogged by ill health, and in 1964 she entered the Little Sisters of the Poor Home for the Aged at Randwick. In old age, she reputedly claimed: ‘I have no allergies that I know of, one complex, no delusions, two inhibitions, no neuroses, three phobias, no superstitions and no frustrations.’ After renouncing her lifelong atheism and receiving Roman Catholic rites, she died of cancer on 3 December 1973.
As well as advocating free love, Miles was a fervent nationalist. At her request, Australian wildflowers were placed on her coffin, and a jazz band played ‘Waltzing Matilda’, ‘Tie me Kangaroo Down, Sport’ and ‘Advance Australia Fair’.
JH
SMOKY DAWSON
The Aussie Cowboy
When Smoky Dawson died on 13 February 2008, my generation of Australians lost a hero and I lost a friend. For more than six decades, Smoky and Dot Dawson made a wonderful contribution to the Australian entertainment industry and to the community.
Herbert Henry Dawson was born in Collingwood, Melbourne, in 1913, and grew up in difficult circumstances. His dad had never recovered from World War I and was erratic and violent. Herbert spent time in an orphanage and later, as a teenager, he ‘went bush’ for a while, where a youthful and disastrous experiment with an old pipe gave him the nickname that became his famous trademark.
Smoky tried many things before music: farm work, rough riding, working in a tannery and even cycle racing. In 1932, he and his brother Ted became the Coral Island Boys and started looking for work on radio. In 1933, at a radio station audition, he met Florence Cheers, better known as Dot. She was a few years older than Smoky, a very clever woman who had a successful career in radio and understood how the new medium worked. They married in 1944, and together set about creating the legend that became ‘Smoky Dawson’.
Smoky Dawson’s Pepsodent Rangers Show was a hit on 3KZ and, by the early 1940s, Smoky was writing songs and recording and performing regularly in Melbourne and Sydney.
After serving and almost dying in World War II and spending a year in Concord Repatriation Hospital in Sydney, Smoky picked up where he left off, touring as a yodelling, whip-cracking, knife-throwing, singing cowboy.
He headed to the USA and, in 1952, signed a record deal with a label owned by Roy Acuff and Wesley Rose. From December 1952, back in Australia, Smoky starred in his own radio show, The Adventures of Smoky Dawson, which stayed on the air for ten years until 1962. Sponsored by Kellogg’s, the show became the biggest networked radio program in Australia and later switched to television. Hundreds of thousands of Aussie kids became Smoky’s deputies, received their deputy’s certificates and pledged to be good and help Mum around the house.
Smoky told great yarns, and I remember him telling me about the night of his dreadful car accident in Sydney, driving home from the filming of This Is Your Life for his mate Slim Dusty.
Smoky’s car had gone over a bridge and he was in a bad way. He was admitted to hospital and was waiting for the doctor to arrive. He’d been in his stage gear for the filming and the stage clothes were now piled on a chair in the hospital room.
Smoky was only a small bloke and looked frail and skinny without his famous western gear and hat. Now he was in a hospital gown, bruised and battered, resting in the bed.
The doctor came into the room and leaned over the bed. ‘So, you’re the famous Smoky Dawson,’ he said.
‘No,’ the frail and bruised old man in the bed replied, ‘I’m Herbert; Smoky’s over there on that chair!’
I was lucky enough to record a duet with Smoky in 2004, when he was ninety-one. It was a song I wrote about him called ‘Smoky on the Radio’.
Smoky and Dot were still living in their home at Lane Cove, with a bit of help from carers, and my wife and I called to pick him up to go to the studio. Robyn walked him to the car while I chatted to Dot at the back door.
‘I don’t know how long it will take, Dotty,’ I said.
Now you must realise that they had lived together for sixty years and Smoky had a reputation for rarely, if ever, being quiet for more than a few minutes. He was already yarning away to Robyn about ‘the old days’ as they headed to the car.
Dot, who was ninety-seven at the time and sharp as a tack, looked at me and said slowly, ‘Jim . . . keep him as long as you like!’
JH
SMOKY ON THE RADIO
Jim Haynes
Each day was an adventure, when we were young.
We were always playing cowboys, out having fun.
At night we’d turn the wireless on, the family gathered ’round,
And when those valves warmed up we’d hear that old familiar sound.
Smoky on the radio, it doesn’t seem that long ago,
When you could tell right from wrong and go riding with a smile and a song.
To Jindawarrabel we’d go, with Smoky on the radio.
It was roping, riding romance in the great outback.
Righting wrongs and singing songs along a bushland track,
And a million little Aussies all came along for the ride,
And his old mate Flash would bring him back in time to say ‘goodnight’.
Smoky on the radio, it doesn’t seem that long ago,
When you could tell right from wrong and go riding with a smile and a song.
To Jindawarrabel we’d go, with Smoky on the radio.
I found that broken wireless out in the shed a while ago
And I plan to get it working because you never know
If I can fix those valves and bits and get it working well
I might just find that station known as Jindawarrabel.
Smoky on the radio, it doesn’t seem that long ago,
When you could tell right from wrong and go riding with a smile and a song.
To Jindawarrabel we’d go, with Smoky on the radio.
AUSSIE MYTHS
AND MYSTERIES
Myths and legends are the yarns that enable members of a society or a nation or an ethnic group to have a common, shared folklore and understand their heritage. Children especially want to know how and why things are as they are and a system of legends and myths is how most societies make an effort to do that.
In Australia, Indigenous myths and legends vary substantially from place to place but there are some common elements and a belief system based on the Dreaming was common to all Aboriginal people. The Aboriginal legends and myths included here have been adapted from one of the fir
st collections written by a European, the Welshman Jenkyn Thomas.
Some of our modern day Aussie ‘monsters’ are derived from Aboriginal stories of yowies and bunyips, and the legends that European settlers brought with them also had an influence on the types of myths and legends that developed among European communities, especially in the outback.
Stories like ‘Crooked Mick of the Speewah’ and ‘The Oozlum Bird’ owe a lot to the Celtic legends of giants, the Arabian Nights and the amazing adventures of Germanic folk heroes such as Till Eulenspiegel and Baron von Munchausen. Many so-called Aussie folk songs about heroes, fabled monsters and larger-than-life characters are adapted directly from Anglo–Celtic folklore and songs. To be honest, I lived in the bush a long time and heard a thousand yarns and stories told in pubs and around camp fires and I never heard one bushman yarn about the Speewah. Although writers like Julian Stuart and others have evidence that the yarns were told during the days of the shearers’ strikes, I suspect that the Speewah was more a creation of city-based academics and writers than anything else.
We are all fascinated by mysteries and unexplained events and I have included two of my all-time favourite seafaring mysteries in this section. The true story of the SS Waratah and the fascinating dilemma of the Mahogany Ship are mysteries than may one day be solved—but I seriously doubt it!
MEN COME TO AUSTRALIA
TRADITIONAL/JENKYN THOMAS
Many years ago, when this old world was young, all the animals now living in Australia were men. At that time, they lived in a distant land across the ocean, and, having heard of the wonderful hunting grounds in Australia, they determined to leave their country and sail to this sunny land in a canoe.
They knew that the voyage would be a long and dangerous one; storms would sweep across the sea and lash the waves into a white fury; the wind would howl like the evil spirits of the forest, the lightning flash across the sky like writhing golden snakes, and death would hide in waiting for them beneath the brown sea kelp. It was therefore necessary for them to have a very strong canoe for the journey.
The whale, who was the biggest of all the men, had a great strong canoe that could weather the wildest storm. But he was a very selfish fellow and would not allow anybody the use of it. As it was necessary to have the canoe, his companions watched for a suitable opportunity to steal it and start on their long and lonely journey.
But the whale was a cunning creature. He always kept very strict guard over the canoe and would not leave it alone for a moment. The other people were at their wits’ end to solve the problem of stealing the canoe, and they held a great council to consider the question. Many suggestions were put forward, but none was practical. It seemed an impossible task, until the starfish came forward to place his suggestion before the council.
Now, the starfish was a very intimate friend of the whale, so, when he spoke, everybody was very silent and attentive. He hesitated for a moment, and then said:
‘Unless we get a very big canoe, it will be impossible to sail to the new hunting-grounds, where the fire of the sun never dies, the sea sand is soft and golden, and there is plenty of food. I shall get my friend, the whale, to leave his canoe and I shall keep him interested for a long time. When I give you the signal, steal silently away with it as fast as you can.’
The other men were so excited at the proposal that they all spoke at once and asked: ‘How will you do it?’
But the starfish looked very wise and said, ‘Your business is to steal the canoe and mine to keep the whale occupied while you do it.’
Some days later, the starfish paid a friendly visit to the whale, and, after talking for some time, he said, ‘I have noticed what a great number of vermin you have in your hair. They must be very uncomfortable. Let me catch them for you.’
The whale, being greatly troubled with vermin on his head, readily agreed to the kind offer of his friend, the starfish. The whale moored his canoe in deep water and sat on a rock.
Starfish placed his friend’s head in his lap and proceeded to hunt diligently for the vermin. While he was doing so, he told many funny stories and occupied the attention of the whale. The starfish then gave the signal to the men who were waiting, and they seized the canoe and sailed off.
But the whale was very suspicious. For a short time he would forget his canoe, but then he would suddenly remember it and say: ‘Is my canoe all right?’
The starfish had cunningly provided himself with a piece of bark, and, tapping it on the rock in imitation of the boat bumping with the rise and fall of the sea, he would answer, ‘Yes, this is it I am tapping with my hand. It is a very fine canoe.’
He continued to tell funny stories to the whale. At the same time, he scratched very hard around his ears in order to silence the sound of the oars splashing in the water as the other men rowed away with the canoe.
After some time, the whale grew tired of his friend’s attention and storytelling, and decided to have a look at the canoe himself. When he looked around and found the canoe missing, he could hardly believe it. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Away in the distance, he could see the vanishing shape of his canoe. Then the truth dawned upon him—he had been tricked.
The whale was very angry and beat the starfish unmercifully. Throwing him upon the rocks, he made great ragged cuts in the faithless creature. The starfish was so exhausted, that he rolled off the rocks and hid himself in the soft sand. It is on account of this cruel beating that, even to the present day, the starfish has a very ragged and torn appearance, and always hides himself in the sand.
After beating the friend who had betrayed him, the whale jumped into the water and chased the men in the canoe. Great white waves rose and fell, as he churned his way through the water, and, out of a wound in his head which the starfish had made, he spouted water high into the air.
The whale continued his relentless chase, and, when the men in the canoe saw him, they said, ‘He is gaining on us, and, when he catches us, we shall all be drowned.’
But the koala, who was in charge of the oars, said, ‘There is no need to be afraid; look at my arms. They are strong enough to row the canoe out of danger.’
This reassured his companions, and the chase continued.
The voyage lasted many days and nights. During the day, the hot sun beat down on the men in the canoe, and, at night, the cold winds chilled them. But there was no escape; they must go on. By day and night, they could see the whale spouting in his fury, and churning the sea into foam with the lashing of his tail.
At last land was sighted, and the men rowed very fast towards it. When they landed from the canoe, they were very weary, and sat down on the sand to rest. But the native companion, who was always a very lively fellow and fond of dancing, danced upon the bottom of the canoe until he made a hole in it. He then pushed it a short distance from the shore, where it settled down in the water and became an island, just off the coast.
When the whale arrived at the landing place, he saw the men on shore and his canoe wrecked. He travelled along the coast and spouted water with anger as he thought of the trick that had been played on him, and of the wreck of his beloved canoe.
Even to the present day, whales spout, the starfish is ragged and torn, the koala has very strong fore paws, and men still roam across the wild wastes of Australia.
THE COACHMAN’S YARN
E.J. BRADY
This is a tale that the coachman told,
As he flicked the flies from Marigold
And flattered and fondled Pharaoh.
The sun swung low in the western skies:
Out on a plain, just over a rise,
Stood Nimitybell, on Monaro;
Cold as charity, cold as hell.
Bleak, bare, barren Nimitybell—
Nimitybell on Monaro.
‘Now this ’ere ’appended in ’eighty-three,
The coldest winter ever we see;
’Strewth, it was cold, as cold as could be,
Out ’ere
on Monaro;
It froze the blankets, it froze the fleas,
It froze the sap in the blinkin’ trees,
It made a grindstone out of cheese,
Right ’ere in Monaro.
‘Freezin’ an’ snowin’—ask the old hands;
They seen, they knows, an’ they understands,
The ploughs was froze, and the cattle brands,
Down ’ere in Monaro.
It froze our fingers and froze our toes;
I seen passenger’s breath so froze
Icicles ’ung from ’is bloomin’ nose
Long as the tail on Pharaoh.
‘I ketched a curlew down by the creek;
His feet were froze to his blessed beak;
’E stayed like that for over a week—
That’s cold on Monaro.
Why, even the air got froze that tight
You’d ’ear the awfullest sounds at night,
When things was put to a fire or light,
Out ’ere on Monaro.
‘For the sounds was froze. At Haydon’s Bog
A cove ’e cross-cut a big back-log,
An’ carted ’er ’ome (’e wants to jog—
Stiddy, go stiddy there, Pharaoh!)
As soon as his log begins to thaw
They ’ears the sound of the cross-cut saw
A-thawin’ out. Yes, his name was Law.
Old hands, them Laws, on Monaro.
‘The second week of this ’ere cold snap
I’m drivin’ the coach. A Sydney chap,
’E strikes this part o’ the bloomin map,
A new hand ’ere on Monaro.
’Is name or game I never heard tell,