Wool Away, Boy!

by Alan Blunt

  Before the breakfast bell rang the story had spread through the camp. There were a couple of sly grins and choked chuckles over breakfast, but nobody made any smart-alec remarks: the odds were that the Busted Oven would blow his stack and pull out if some drongo made a gig of him in public. However, it was later often related that after being chastised by the big Malboona stove, Knobby rarely addressed a fridge or table, or even reprimanded a messy sauce bottle – and he never spoke to a stove at all.

  The caper was still drawing cackles of laughter as the team relaxed at smoko that morning. Darkie puckered a devil’s grin as he suspiciously sipped his tea. Gazing at the joking culprits, still smugly basking in attention, he drawled casually, ‘Old Knobby’s no one’s clown, yer know. ’Course, I wouldn’t give any babbler a bad name by saying he might o’ pissed in the tea urn to get square – but all the same, this brew is bloody bitter. Maybe it’s only Epsom salts. I happen to know old Knobby always carries a couple o’ packets o’ salts for special occasions – like if someone don’t pay proper respect. If yer get the runs yer’ll know it’s Epsom salts, otherwise draw yer own conclusions.’ He threw another dessert spoon of sugar into his pannikin, and advised, ‘If yer double up on the sugar yer’ll find it kills the bitter taste.’

  A unique drama added to Snowy Hales’ legend on the shearing board one morning. Fourteen shearers were bent over, toiling their way through the flock of big, rugged merino rams. The two pressers were filling in time playing chess while waiting for wool, when chaos, punctuated by the waning thumps of the diesel motor, erupted on the board and summoned their curiosity. Along the line shearers shoved half-shorn rams back into the catching pens and joined the gathering workers mesmerised by the scene unfolding on Snowy’s number-one stand.

  Like many overseers, Sack ’em Jack Butler was a lonely man. Unlike his namesake, the original Sack ’em Richie Jack, he was devoid of self-deprecating humour (or humour of any kind) and made no attempt to form an acquaintance with any of the team. If laughter and camaraderie had ever graced his character they had long been banished by his sour attitude and the slings and arrows of out rageous fortune. David referred to him as ‘Cassius of the lean and hungry look’; and if the nom de plume of Sack ’em wasn’t enough to condemn him in the court of the working class, the rumour that he had been overseer on the notorious Aboriginal concentration camp of Palm Island put him beyond redemption. But whatever the truth behind his reputation, his courage couldn’t be doubted as he stood chest to chest with a shirtless, sweating, bag-booted Snowy, swapping angry, embittered words before the goggle-eyed team.

  Snowy had tangled with an angry ram – one of those rare beasts which kick, fight and bite – in a death but no surrender struggle from go to whoa. A man of iron self-discipline, who never struck a sheep in anger or frustration and rarely used profanity, the gun shearer had spontaneously done his block and with one incredible heave hefted 200 pounds of half-shorn ram arm’s length above his head and suspended the monster upside down along the spinning shaft of the running gear.

  While the onlookers were astonished and amused, the boss-of-the-board didn’t see the funny side. Sour Jack rushed up in a portly trot, shouting, ‘You’re sacked, sacked, sacked, you bloody madman!’

  Eyeballing the overseer from six inches, the shearer fired back, ‘And you’re a cranky old fool. Run a shearing team? You couldn’t run guts for a slow butcher. I’m not sacked, I quit! You silly old bugger!’

  ‘Get that ram down! Get him down, Hales. Get him down at once!’ Sack ’em squawked repeatedly. But Snowy never acknowledged him. Turning his back he stuffed his combs and cutters into his tool bag and left the shed.

  Snowy had heaved the large ram aloft and lodged him in three seconds flat, but it took a couple of station hands aided by young rousies fifteen minutes (and two forty-four-gallon drums and a plank to stand on) to extricate and lower the ram, unhurt.

  Snowy had been a popular, larger-than-life figure and the team’s spirit was depleted by his departure. While the shearing continued without a hitch through to cut-out, Snowy’s mighty lift of the big ram and his dramatic exit entered shearing folklore; and for years afterwards blokes who hadn’t been within cooee of Malboona shed claimed to have witnessed Snowy’s unique feat.

  4

  MAD JACK AND THE BIRD OF PASSAGE

  Following the Malboona cut-out the team was split. I pressed in four- and six-standers until Provo Bob presented an opportunity to test my ability pressing for eight shearers at Oxton Downs, near Julia Creek.

  Our cook, who turned out to be a champion, went by the name of Jack. He wore a cherubic smile or satanic smirk as he chose, and he was as volatile as a carbide light – likely to break into wild laughter and a crazy polka while his chops sizzled, or joke of ‘ladies of the night’ he had ‘managed’ and the capers of crooked race-horse trainers he had touted for. The boys dubbed him ‘Mad Jack’.

  The shed flowed peacefully until the third week. Carrying the empty tea urn and singing cheerfully, I strode into the mess for dinner. As I entered through the gauze door the babbler snapped, ‘Can’t you bring the f—in’ tea-billy earlier, Presser? How am I expected to make the tea on time when you’re f—in’ bludging on the job.’

  The outburst shocked me. I explained vehemently that I was paid to bale wool, not to trot the tea urn to and from the shed, but it was the wrong answer. As I sat down to tuck into a hearty feed of roast mutton and veggies, Mad Jack crept up behind me, let go a blood-curdling scream and drove a vegetable chopper into the pine table by my plate. Growling like an enraged bear, Mad Jack jerked the chopper free as I dived under the table and galloped on all fours through the gauze door.

  ‘The cook’s gone bloody troppo. He’s got a knife and he’ll use it!’ I warned the approaching shearers and rousies. Mad Jack confirmed my assessment by yelling murderous threats and performing a whooping Indian war dance in front of the kitchen door.

  The rep, Allan Hundy, was a game ex-digger who still suffered from World War II wounds. He advanced cautiously with the overseer, Bob Kelly, while Mad Jack carved the air into sections. Bob was one of nature’s gentlemen. Trying to pacify him, he suggested Jack drop the knife and talk things over as friends. In reply, Jack advised, ‘Youse can all go and get well f—ed with the rough end of a pineapple. And get another cook, too. I won’t cook for you crawling mongrels.’

  We were glad to hear it.

  It was against shed protocol to dob anyone into the police for anything short of murder, so a taxi was phoned and the overseer handed Mad Jack his cheque from the safety of arm’s length. Jack’s mood changed amazingly once he collared his cheque and boarded the taxi. Waving through the window, he shouted a laughing, ‘Hooray, suckers!’ as the taxi sped away. Realising that we’d been conned and that the babbler hadn’t suddenly suffered a mental breakdown, the team sent him on his way with obscene salutes and various vulgar opinions of his character. Evidence was soon found that the babbler had quaffed Bob’s bottle of sherry and two bottles of lemon essence – enough to send anyone mad.

  A few years later Jack surfaced around Longreach. Spotting him, I proffered a grin and a hand. Jack denied we had ever met, but he shook hands with a wink and said, ‘The name’s Joe. Have I got a twin brother?’ He informed the team, ‘I’ve been a commission agent for ladies and bookies of good reputation, and have advised punters and would-be smarties at race tracks for a few years.’

  The word went around that ‘Joe’ was living with a notorious murderess who had served a life sentence for conspiring to kill her husband. Naturally, the relationship was a point of gossip about the town and the butt of a few jokes. Joe’s red-headed paramour worked as a barmaid and at first she drew more curious customers than she frightened off, but the regulars quickly made acquaintance, appreciated her pleasant efficiency and agreed she had paid her price and should be given a fair go.

  Joe and I worked a few ten-standers together. Cooking for twenty-odd men was a big job, but Joe cruis
ed through, sharp of tongue but in good humour. Once in a while he’d whisper with a satanical grin, ‘I left my tablets in town, Presser, an’ I feel another turn coming on. Anyway, my friend, these zombies need a charge to wake ’em up. Look out when old Joe goes off!’

  ‘That so, Joe?’ I’d say and would join the babbler’s conspiratorial chuckle. But at the mess table I always ensured I had a view of Joe in front of me. And whether the babbler was really on drugs for a mental disorder I never discovered.

  After Oxton Downs cut-out Provo Bob employed me as a piece-picker and reserve wool roller at Carandotta for sixteen shearers, so that a back-up presser would be on hand if one of the two pressers broke down.

  ‘Where’s Carandotta?’ I asked Darkie.

  ‘Two miles west of sunset, son,’ Darkie replied as soberly as a doctor delivering a death sentence.

  ‘Are you going?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘No bloody fear! I was there twice in 1938 – the first time and the last time. In fact, I was the only survivor. The wild blacks speared seven blokes for chasin’ their ladies, and the babbler – “Poisoner” Johnson – did for the rest with hoop snake poison. Believe me, son. I was there!’

  The boss-of-the-board, Charley Thompson, and Tom Murphy, his brother-in-law, a hardy presser who still sported his World War II flying officer moustache, drove the 600 miles from their home town, Charters Towers. Travelling with them were the babbler, the Busted Oven and the classer, Arthur Cox, known behind his back by respectful rouseabouts as Old Dry Balls.

  With the bulk of the team I boarded the Inlander, the new air-conditioned diesel train running from Townsville to Mount Isa. Provo Bob had laid down the law that no grog was to go to Carandotta. It was going to be a long time between drinks, so some of the boys got stuck into the booze. The roisterers rambled the length of the train, stirring the girls in the service car and drinking the cold room dry before they were halfway to Cloncurry. There, we threw their swags and ports on to a semi-trailer and climbed aboard to rough-ride the tray for 170 rugged miles to Carandotta.

  The six weeks at the big shed on the drab plain dragged. At weekends we lightened our boredom with fishing trips to the Georgina River, cricket on the claypan, and the usual card games, boxing, betting on the races, draughts, chess and two-up. One Sunday morning as I stood looking at the remains of a burnt tank stand, a bow-legged, leathery station hand interrupted my pondering. ‘I was here when she burnt, mate.’

  I reckoned the ringer looked old and brown enough to be an original de Satge offspring and asked what happened.

  ‘It was the babblin’ brook done it. A cove they called The Bird of Passage. He made the biggest billy of tea ever brewed.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of him,’ I said.

  ‘A top babbler, an’ sure to fly if anyone was silly enough to hurt his feelings – which was easier than catchin’ cold. Anyway, him and the slushy have been cookin’ for sixty men for four weeks and no trouble, when the babbler gets a complaint that the tea is too weak. The Bird of Passage says, “I’ve been makin’ the same brew for the crying bastards every day. Strong tea they want! I’ll give ’em strong tea.”

  ‘The boys haven’t seen a pub or a woman for over a month, and they’re gettin’ stale and cranky. A couple of days later the rep and committee man have to walk from the shed to the kitchen to chip The Bird again. They’re not happy, but the team has made the bullet and the rep has to fire the gun. They tell The Bird that there wasn’t enough tea to go around at smoko. “Is that so?” says The Bird.

  ‘Just before the dinner bell rings at the shed, a rousie looks out the window and yells, “Fire!”

  ‘They take off like a Melbourne Cup field to save their gear – but it’s not the huts burning, it’s the tank stand. She’s ablaze, and standing beside her is an empty tea chest. The Bird and his offsider have thrown sixty pounds o’ billy tea into the tank, shoved half the woodheap underneath and lit her up! They’re disappearing in The Bird’s T-Model Ford, and on the kitchen table is a note reading, “Send my cheque to Charleville. PS: I hope this is enough tea and it’s strong enough, you bastards!”’

  ‘That’s a bloody good yarn, old mate,’ I enthused.

  The ringer placed a work-worn hand over his heart and declared, ‘Too bloody right! I was there. Fair dinkum – saw it with me own two eyes!’

  Carandotta cut-out at long last and we eagerly climbed on the semi-trailer to return to Cloncurry, where half of the boys tumbled off before she stopped rolling and rushed into the nearest pub. They got half-charged in a hurry, and a few simmering tensions exploded into brief punch-ups, before they boarded the Inlander. The locals dropped off at Hughenden, but a few cashed-up shearers rode impatiently to Townsville, where they caught a plane south. I boarded the famous ‘Sunlander’ train to Brisbane – and a family Christmas.

  The family had moved to West End – a spacious Queenslander overlooking Davies Park and the Brisbane River. There were hugs with Mum and a handshake with Dad, who couldn’t disguise his pride that his weedy shiralee had grown into a husky wool presser. Mum was relieved her prayers had delivered her wandering boy home safely. On Christmas Eve we gathered around Dad, who sat in our large lounge room beside a bushy Christmas tree, beneath which a pile of wrapped gifts had been added to for days. He jovially read the labels and handed out the presents to claps and joyous clamour; then it was midnight mass. Come Christmas morning we boys hiked to Davies Park to join a game of cricket while Mum and the girls sweated in the kitchen.

  As ever, it was a cracker Christmas feast: Mum said grace, and then came love and laughter and jokes over ham, roast chooks and salad, followed by Mum’s scrumptious cold Christmas duff with whipped cream and fruit salad. Then it was washing-up time: the boys’ turn in the kitchen.

  In the New Year I travelled to Longreach with my brother Barry, and Nellie, a kelpie/collie crossbred sheep dog. Nellie was brick red with alert ears and a white tip to her tail. On the road droving she could be relied on to silently steady the leading sheep, work on the wing or hurry the tail along. Penning up in the shed she would run over the backs of woollies barking her commands. As a pup she had come to me five years earlier when I was a station hand on Yarrawonga station, St George, and I had learnt to love her as only a lonely boy can love a dog.

  I had a new green Volkswagen, and Barry, who believed he was world champion race car driver Jack Brabham, took the wheel over most of the journey. He was bound for Jundah to take up a job with the post office and to board with the sergeant of police Jack Williams and his wife, Betty – long-time family friends. Barry had arranged to catch the Jundah mail at the Longreach post office about sundown, so we left Brisbane at 4am to drive 700 miles. Beyond Roma the so-called highway was mostly dirt road, but we arrived in time to have a cafe meal and find Max Cramb loading his three-ton truck for the 140-mile overnight run to Jundah. Barry got into the truck and gave me a wave, before heading off with Max.

  I pointed the VW towards Hughenden, 210 miles north, and camped beside the road.

  Early 1959 found me pressing and penning-up for six crutchers who were shearing the wool around the sheep’s tails to inhibit blowfly strike, at Aberfoyle station. There Nellie whelped nine pups. I gave eight away after selecting a stumpy-tailed blue and black pup I named Zulu. He was the image of his cattle-dog sire, a Smithfield/blue heeler cross.

  After Aberfoyle, sixty miles south of Torrens Creek, I drove 400 miles to Lucknow, sixty miles from Boulia, and then 300 miles to a run of sheds in the Longreach district. No wonder shearers said, ‘Work with UNGRA to see the world.’

  After returning to my family in Brisbane for the mid-year break at West End, Dad and I drove back to Hughenden for the second half of the year. On the way we called at Boomaroo station, owned by Frank Morrison, an old mate of Dad’s. Frank saw Nellie at work in the sheep yards and offered twenty-five quid for her, a good home and the work she loved. I was sorry to part with her, but I knew that two dogs would be difficult for me to h
andle and reluctantly let her go.

  Dad and I worked in separate runs until November, when we joined up at Tarbrax station, south of Gilliat, before completing the run at Oxton Downs. This time the babbler was sane – as shearers’ cooks go. But Fred wasn’t in Mad Jack’s class as a cook or entertainer.

  A big jovial bloke of middle years, he claimed to have been a Brisbane boxing trainer, and took me in hand for a six-round main event in Julia Creek. I had always boxed off the back foot, but my new trainer insisted, ‘A bloke who hits as hard as you do, son, should tear in from the first bell and get it over with.’ My opponent, Mike, had the same plan, so the crowd of some 300 got a humdinger of a brawl. Mike had a couple of inches and a stone weight advantage; he was wavy-haired and had a face more akin to a Hollywood hero than a tough bush worker and scrapper.

  Tearing in, I nearly did get it over in the first round. I copped some wicked punches early and had to duck and dodge to stay upright. But I got my man’s measure in a slugging third round and carried the fourth, staggering him seconds from the bell. The promoter-cum-referee then stopped the fight – two rounds short of the scheduled distance of six rounds – and declared Mike the winner on points. The shearers had backed me with good money. Reckoning their man was finishing the stronger, they raised a ruckus, but the referee held fast, claiming an error had advertised the fight as six rounds instead of four. ‘That’s bullshit,’ the cook bellowed, and issued a challenge for a return bout. Bruised and bloody, Mike wasn’t interested; and nursing broken ribs and a battered nose I wasn’t sorry, despite my attempt at false bravado: ‘Any time, any place.’