Wool Away, Boy!

by Alan Blunt

  ‘I see what you mean!’ Darkie said to close the subject, but Johnny’s mate George wasn’t satisfied. A stocky, surly-looking character of dark complexion, he stepped back from the bar, hooked his thumbs in his belt and glared belligerently. ‘That so! Well, I don’t see what you mean. Anyway, we wouldn’t want to work with bastards weak enough to sign on under Gestapo rules. We won’t work with scabs, either.’

  At fifty-odd Darkie was twice the challenger’s age, and grey and stringy from a lifetime of hard work. Yet, confronting George, who looked rough enough to wrestle a grizzly bear, he was a picture of relaxation. With a fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, he drawled, ‘Hang on, mate, and I’ll show yer something.’

  Champing at the bit for a fight, but puzzled, George stepped close and waited while Darkie dug a World War II overseas service medal and ribbon from a scarred and shiny wallet. Darkie’s voice firmed with pride. ‘No Gestapo rules here, young fella! I fought the Nazis. I fought the Germans, too – and worked with ’em, before and after the war. Solid men, most of ’em.’ Extending the medal he said affably, ‘Your old man might have one of these.’ He laughed and added, ‘Big Bob’s trouble is he thinks he’s still a provo.’

  Johnny intervened. ‘You’re right, old-timer. Two of my uncles have got those medals, and a few more besides. We’ll buy these blokes a drink, George. No hard feelings.’

  I had often wondered why ex-diggers, peaceful men and boys whose courage had been tested in the crucible of combat, wouldn’t or couldn’t talk of their experiences. Later, having become mates with Darkie, I said, ‘I didn’t know you had that medal, Darkie.’ Sounding slightly embarrassed, he said dismissively, ‘There are plenty of them about, son. You just had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; and have enough luck and good mates to see yer through.’

  Another larger-than-life figure at Malboona was Snowy Hales. Yarnsters and mythologisers had spread word of his deeds and capabilities about the west well before he shook hands with me at Malboona. He was a gun shearer but his work was none too neat, relying on consistent raw power rather than the fine touch and rhythmic stamina that were the usual hallmarks of a ‘dreadnought’ (a man who could manage the rare feat of shearing 300 sheep in a day). When he wasn’t on the shearing board Snowy wore high-heeled riding boots, perhaps to top up his height but more likely because they reminded him of the carefree years he had spent as a young ringer (mounted station hand) and horse-breaker – jobs he still preferred at times. He was said to be the strongest man west of the Great Divide, a reputation he maintained by exercising regularly with weights, calisthenics and running.

  Snowy’s transport was a Holden ute. At some sheds he erected his tent a little distance from the quarters, preferring the solitude of wind and sky and birdsong to the close company of the huts. A quiet loner with a boyish, reassuring smile, Snowy always emanated a powerful presence – an aura similar to that of a dozing blue heeler cattle dog on guard on the back of a station ute. Occasionally he would break out on the booze and go on the tear, when it was said that he emptied public bars quicker than a striking taipan. It would take three or four brave and burly coppers to yard him.

  Snowy’s wife had died a few years earlier and he shore chiefly about the south-west to keep in touch with his two dominant passions: the student daughter he boarded at the Charleville convent, and opal gouging. Come weekends, be it chilly winter or blazing summer, he could be seen sitting outside his tent burnishing opals in the bright sun, clad only in shorts and riding boots. On occasion he shyly produced photos of his daughter to show proudly to the few folk he allowed entry to the outer perimeter of his personality.

  Less than a decade later word went around the bush telegraph that Snowy had been shot by his own hand. Some said that he’d fallen victim to the ‘Spanish dancer’ (cancer); others that a bad bout of the blues, following a prolonged breakout on the demon rum, had pulled the trigger. Doubtless there were other factors – and many combined on the fatal day.

  Malboona could boast only two shearers’ vehicles beside Snowy’s. These utes belonged to coves out to save a quid: shearers reluctant to go to town despite regular Friday night and weekend requests from eager workmates. Thus for most of the four-and-a-half weeks of the contract the team was confined to barracks and, when not working, had to battle boredom off their own bat. Poker was the bushman’s favourite, but other card games like five hundred, whist and cooncan also helped to fill the hours.

  I played chess with big Karl, my German mate on the Ferrier wool press, and with David, a gangly young learner shearer whose parents were dairy farmers from south of the border. He’d had a private school secondary education and was saving to study applied science at university – a resume which might have made him an outsider but for his sharp wit and reserved camaraderie. Snowy took the youngster under his wing, gave instruction and shore the difficult sheep while still nearly doubling his protege’s tallies. After David shore his first hundred, Darkie observed wryly, ‘I don’t know what yer want to be a scientist for when yer can earn a quid slaving over hot bodies with yer arse above yer head shearing maggoty sheep!’

  After tea on weekends blokes gathered in the warmth and flickering light of the traditional campfire. Horse races and shearing were the main topics, while debates on cricket, boxing, footy and women were prominent. Prime minister ‘Pig-iron Bob’ Menzies, ‘Black Jack’ McEwen and their Tory cronies were roasted, as was ‘warmonger’ Churchill, whose hand at Gallipoli was forever branded on the Australian psyche.

  ‘Old’ Snowy (dubbed old to distinguish him from Snowy Hales and Tall Snowy) often held sway with stories of drama and humour, but when it came to stretching the truth Darkie had no peer in a shed that boasted half a dozen shameless liars. ‘Now, Wingy Johnson,’ he’d begin. ‘He was a one-armed little blighter with an evil face; the dirtiest and worst cook on the Warrego, and so greasy dogs licked his shadow. It goes without sayin’ that he woulda been sacked on the first day except for his famous rissoles.’ At this Darkie rolled his eyes and smacked his lips. ‘Talk about be-yootiful. I can taste them rissoles yet! Blokes boasted about ’em for years – but Wingy would never disclose his recipe. He’d serve ’em up for breakfast and again for tea – and the boys would tuck in to the same burnt mutton and stewed veggies and blowflies in the soup every day and never think of complaining – as long as they knew them rissoles was coming. And then one afternoon a rousie runs to the huts to get a shearer’s pipe. He looks through the kitchen window, and cops Wingy mass-producing rissoles. A handful of mince shoved under Wingy’s stumpy armpit, a roll of the shoulder and into the pan went the tastiest rissoles ever made. It was a sad day: Wingy had to go, and his recipe went with him.’

  The newcomers not yet awake to Darkie’s phenomenal powers of exaggeration listened in wonderment, while the initiated chuckled and said, ‘Tell us another, Darkie.’

  Darkie didn’t crack a smile as he took his time rolling a smoke. ‘Wingy’s brother, Harold,’ he started, ‘was known as Poisoner. Judgin’ by his name yer might think Poisoner was a terrible and dangerous cook; in fact he was the best babbler on the Barcoo [cooks were usually referred to as ‘babblers’, an abbreviation of the rhyming slang ‘babbling brook’]. He got his handle because his hobby was keeping pet hoop snakes in a box in the kitchen. As all educated people know, a hoop snake puts his tail in his mouth and rolls after his victims. In fact, hoop snakes are the reason I gave up droving: a big hoop snake can outpace a galloping horse, spring off the ground, lasso a drover and have him fanged and dead in seconds. I happened to be there the day the Poisoner kicked the bucket.’ Fixing his gaze on the young rousies, Darkie declaimed, ‘Poisoner laid a lotta blokes in their graves with hoop snake venom – blokes who got offside with him, which was easy to do. But he was a babbler right out o’ the box, and most of his victims were rouseabouts, so they weren’t much loss.’

  Lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, Darkie continued, ‘As yer know, anyone can tell if a bl
oke has been killed by hoop snake venom: he kicks off his boots and puts his big toes in his mouth and rolls fifty yards or so before he keels over, as stiff as steel and bright blue. We were heading to the mess for dinner when the Poisoner comes rolling towards us like a runaway wagon wheel, and flops over, stone dead, stiff as steel and bright blue. We knew right away the Poisoner had accidentally been bit by a hoop snake. We couldn’t straighten him out, so we got bars and shovels and buried him in a circular grave right there. For years afterwards, as a mark of respect, rouseabouts in passing would piss on his grave.’

  When we weren’t sharing tall tales, the campfire philosophers would take a turn holding court. Perhaps sitting under an open sky watching the hypnotic heart of a campfire inspired spiritual contemplation; at any rate it wasn’t unusual for discussion to turn to the meaning of life and God’s role in creation. David declared that chaos ruled our lives because God was dead; a surprise to me, albeit the influence of my Catholic upbringing was well on the wane. Karl explained his belief in Duality: that God and Lucifer were opposing expressions of the same deity, locked forever in eternal struggle, and the good and evil in mankind’s soul was an inevitable reflection. Only later, when we had become close, did Karl confide to me that as a boy he had served a term in hell on earth as bombs and shells blew German towns and cities apart; of the stigma and shame his people had to bear as Hitler’s atrocities were revealed to the world; and the submission and abuse he had learnt to endure through the Russian invasion and occupation.

  With a full team in camp, Malboona was a lively place on the weekend. Saturday mornings we caught up on washing and personal chores. Frankie took SP bets and, after dinner that first Saturday, loaded ten or twelve starters on to his ute and headed to the Corfield pub forty miles away. They returned in time for tea, half full of beer and full of cheer, with a week’s supply of booze on board. Sack ’em Jack Butler, the shed overseer (also dubbed ‘Sour Jack’, as distinct from the original Sack ’em Richie Jack), noticed the booze, but was wise enough not to mention it as half a good team would be impossible to replace if they pulled out.

  After tea Darkie laid out a tarp and mustered four or five carbide lights, while Old Snowy produced the kip and pennies for a two-up game. The night was nippy and punters warmed themselves around the blazing fire. Laughter and shouts of ‘Two bob on the head’ and ‘He’s tailed ’em!’ were interspersed with ‘C’mon, back yerself or pass the kip.’ Now and then Old Snowy would call:

  He’s headed ’em twice but he can’t do it thrice –

  Take my word, boys, I’m a scholar.

  If you haven’t been set, I’ll cover your bet,

  I’m backing a tail for a dollar.

  At seventy-two, Snowy Robbins had seen life incrementally transformed by the railway, telephone, motor vehicle, silent movie and electric light. Now, Australians bought radios, gramophones and home appliances, went to the talkies and holidayed on the coast. Malboona and other big sheds were the tail-wag of a vanishing culture where isolated people had to find their own solutions to boredom.

  Old Snowy was one of those rare blokes who had entered life with the blessing of a joyous heart and glowing spirit, and a mission to raise morale in others. He had survived and prospered through good times and hard, including two world wars and the Great Depression. Lean and straight with wispy white hair, the retired dreadnought was a long-time legend. He was a Union man who proudly earned his living as a piece-picker, and freely exercised his right to criticise the Union and any other organised body. The old maestro was still capable of wrapping a rheumy hand around a shearer’s hand-piece (known as a bog-eye), and stylishly removing the fleece from a woolly to show a learner how easily it could be done.

  David watched him closely, learning all the while. He confided to me, ‘It’s lovely to see the way he does it: poetry in motion; he massages the wool away. And he’s a lovely old man, too – always ready to advise, and always smiling.’

  Years later it struck me that Old Snowy had consciously fallen into the role of a kindly mentor, a responsible survivor unobtrusively passing on socialist philosophy, principles and practice through example, story and song. On a few occasions the old entertainer pulled out an ancient mouth organ and a pair of soup spoons and rendered old familiar tunes such as ‘Two Little Girls in Blue’ and its sequel ‘After the Ball’ in a cracked but lyrical light tenor.

  Old Snowy would get the boys in chorus with war-time ballads: ‘Lili Marlene’, ‘Knees-up Mother Brown’, and the ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ – before whacking out a few songs that projected some of the real feelings of the front-line womanless diggers:

  I love you in your negligee,

  I love you in your nightie,

  But when moonlight flits across your tits –

  By God all bloody mighty!

  The lean and hungry days of the Great Depression still troubled the memories of many Aussies, and Old Snowy with his rebel heart cried out for social justice through his creaky, tuneful rendition of Buddy Williams’ popular historical song ‘Wingie the Railway Cop’ and Tex Morton’s banned ‘Sergeant Small’. He got a lively response with hand-clapping and calls of ‘You beauty, Snow! Bore it up the bastards!’

  When he moved on to Banjo Paterson’s iconic ballad, with a few boozy voices harmonising to his mouth organ, Karl queried, ‘What is this “Waltzing Matilda”? It is a good tune, but bloody sense it does not make.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, Karl,’ I agreed. ‘It mightn’t make much sense but it beats the hell out of tipping your cap and singing “God Save the Queen”.’

  On Sundays fighting men and runners still occasionally challenged for a wager. I pulled my gloves out, and most of the boys trooped to the wool room on Sunday mornings to encourage with cheers and boos. Tall Snowy claimed his mate, Dinny Carew, a young rouseabout, would have won the Australian featherweight title as a teenager if booze and a dislike of training hadn’t knocked him out. I called, ‘Bluey, how about a light spar, mate?’ to a laughing freckle-faced kid whose skin was almost as ruddy as his hair. The eighteen-year-old picker-up said he had never had a fight in his life but ‘I’ll give it a go – if you don’t punch hard.’

  ‘I’ll be as gentle as your mother,’ I replied, believing I could carry Bluey with one hand behind my back and display some fancy footwork, while treating the spectators to a lot of laughs.

  ‘You’ve never met my mum,’ Bluey quipped. He was half a stone lighter than me and nowhere near as fit or as strongly muscled, but he whipped into the fray like a southpaw whirlwind, weaved inside like a professional, and hammered me into a circling retreat. I tried to keep grinning as I ducked and dodged and gave ground.

  Giving voice to instinct, the twenty-odd onlookers rattled the old iron roof. ‘C’mon, Bluey, bore it up ’im! Punch the bugger clean out of his soul-case.’ After a flurry of leather bloodied my nose came cries of ‘Cop that young ’Arry!’ and ‘You little ripper, Blue!’

  Before the third and final round I concluded that Bluey’s carelessness with the truth concerning his ring experience freed me from my promise. I went after my man, putting real heft into my punches with hip and shoulder, but with little effect. Puffing like a loaded steam-train engine, Bluey slipped and rolled the weight out of the blows and buzzed in to attack like an angry red wasp.

  Officiating as ref, Snowy Hales called on the crowd to give a decision. A thundering cheer mingled with profane exclamations of admiration left no doubt that Bluey was the punter’s choice.

  I grinned through bloodied lips as we shook hands. ‘Too good, mate. Let’s do ’er again next Sunday.’

  ‘Yeah, any old time,’ the rousie puffed. ‘But only two rounds – or I’ll have to quit the fags.’

  ‘Anyway, ridgy-didge, where did you learn to box like Jimmy Carruthers?’

  ‘Me? Like I said, Presser – I’ve never had a fight in me life! I saw you jokers swingin’ and gigglin’ like girls in a pillow fight. I thought my sister could beat these pansi
es, so I says to meself, I’ll give it a go. I’m a bloody natural, ain’t I?’

  ‘Natural bullshit artist!’ I said, laughing. Later, loosened by a few beers, Bluey confessed he’d been runner-up in the New South Wales schoolboy titles. ‘The trainer at the Police Boy’s Club said I might have a future as a pro if I gave up the booze and fags, so I give up boxing.’

  As we strolled back to the huts, chatting, chiacking and joking, Karl said seriously, ‘What is with you blokes? I think you the presser’s mate – like me – and then to kill him you want, Bluey.’

  Most of the boys looked at him quizzically, wondering where he was coming from. Darkie grinned and shifted his drooping smoke to the opposite side of his lips. ‘Easy one, Karl. You’ll catch on. The newspapers like to write us up as the “classless society”. Maybe we ain’t got toffs like the mother country, but after you’ve been around the traps for a few years you’ll know that’s bullshit. There’s top dogs and underdogs here – like anywhere else – and most of us is for the underdog, because we are underdogs. There are dogs piled on dogs all the way down until you get to bottom dogs – they’re called rousies – like young carrot top here.’ He ruffled Bluey’s crop of rusty curls. There was laughter all round, and Bluey shaped up and said, ‘Keep an old man’s place or you’ll cop the same as the presser copped!’

  Darkie drawled on, ‘We’re like dogs because we have to lick arse now and then whether we like it or not. The fact is we’ve all got to learn to eat shit from time to time, it’s part of growing up – and it’s better than a biff behind the ear with a rifle butt like you’d cop off the Nazis or Commos. It’s getting to like the taste of shit that’s bad for yer character. And the good thing about Australia is you don’t have to get to like the taste of shit; you can tell the boss where to put his bloody job any time you like – whether yer can afford to or not.