The View From Connor's Hill

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The View From Connor's Hill Page 5

by Barry Heard


  Then there was the lavatory. Smith Street had had one with a chain that you pulled when you finished your business. It not only flushed; it made a low, hollow, bopping noise for ages. However, at Ringwood there was a whole industry involved around the humble lavatory, which was in a small room out the back. Once a week, at dawn, a man wearing a beret and a strange-looking leather cover on his shoulder would appear. He would run into our backyard carrying a can, open a rear flap to our lavatory, and remove the can inside it. Then he would unlatch the lid on the empty can he carried, attach the lid on the full one, and put the empty one under the lavatory seat. Closing the rear door, he’d heave the full one onto his leather-covered shoulder. The full can seemed to be very heavy. The man would sprint to the truck — commonly called the ‘night cart’ — shove our can onto the tray, and then the truck would move to the next house. There would be two men operating either side of the street; I watched them every time they came to our house for the first few weeks.

  Suddenly, our life changed yet again: our mother re-married. His name was Bob and he was a plumber — a dark-haired bloke from two streets away, near where we had first moved when we came to Ringwood. It was weird; I had never noticed him before. Mum continually prompted us to call this new man ‘Dad’. This seemed strange to me, because life seemed complete and without any need for this drastic alteration.

  I gather, from our relations and others, that we three boys were very close at the time. Robbie, my younger brother, was born in 1946, a year after me. Ian, my older brother, was more than four years older than I was, and yet we stuck together like glue. I know that, for me, it was a confusing time having a new father.

  After the move to Wilana Street, I started at the local kindergarten. This was located at the back of the Church of England, about three streets away, just near the railway underpass.

  Then it was Ringwood Primary School. For me, it was just a short walk up to the end of the street, a right turn, and the classic old brick building was down at the end. School was great — particularly the playground, which boasted a slide, a rocker, and monkey bars. I had never seen these sorts of things before. The school was large, with many grades split into different levels. I made several good friends, most of whom lived just around the corner from us. We often played on the street and visited one another’s places after school. The street was home to many team games; depending on the season, there would always be boys playing football or cricket on Wilana Street. Since few houses could boast a motorcar, traffic wasn’t a problem on the sealed road.

  The first highlight after our big move to Ringwood was to attend a Guy Fawkes night, more commonly called ‘firecracker night’. Over a period of weeks, locals would arrive with barrow-loads of wood and branches from gardens, and dump them just down the end of Wilana Street on a vacant block. The odd truck would also stop by with a tray load of off-cuts. Then, with all of this combustible material piled into a big heap called a bonfire, come the fifth of November, the entire street celebrated beside this blazing inferno. There were firecrackers, skyrockets, jumping jacks, penny bungers, tom thumbs, sparklers, double bungers, and Catherine wheels, just to name a few. It was better than any New Year’s Eve I have ever seen — except for a nasty accident.

  It happened at my second Guy Fawkes night: the same street, the same vacant block, and a bigger bonfire. A young girl had a skyrocket aimed at her, she ducked, it landed in her hair, and she was rushed off to hospital. It was frightening. Quickly, the adults got into a blaming game. The girl, in my grade at school, wore a turban-like top for the rest of the year.

  Just one block away from our street was a large park on Greenwood Avenue. Again, it was full of kids with footballs or cricket bats, with makeshift teams playing a game. Another craze at that time was kite-flying. A windy day would see half a dozen kites flying. Some kids were quite skilled, and their kite could swoop and dive. The kites were all hand-made with the help of parents or friends. Kids appeared to have few individual toys, and playing with friends occupied most of our time. Robbie and I shared an old, three-wheeled bike, and that was about it. Then someone made a billycart for Ian, and we all shared rides in it down Greenwood Avenue.

  Every year, there were annual billycart races held in Ringwood. I cannot recall where, but I remember them being keenly supported, and many races were run before a winner was announced. One time, my brother Ian won, I believe.

  Every day after school we went over to our grandparents, on my mother’s side. As mentioned, they lived right next door. There was a convenient hole in the paling fence. Nan was wonderful — she gave us gifts and surprises that my mother was unable to afford. Nan’s second husband, Pop, or ‘Uncle Jock’ as he preferred, was the typical doting grandfather. He worked at a brickyard. At home, he devoted most of his time to his two passions: the vegie garden and we three wee boys.

  By 1950, I had a half-brother, John, and the following year Jeff was born. My stepfather, who I now called ‘Dad’, drove an old ute. Now, that was exciting. The privilege of riding in a car was something we bragged about at school. He also had a Pommy bloke called Duncan work with him in his plumbing business. He was a kind man who joked all the time.

  Time just seemed to rush by in those early years at Ringwood. Nothing much happened until, umm … some men may want to skip the next two paragraphs.

  About halfway through Year Two at school, my mother kept me at home one day. I was dressed up in a grey coat with grey shorts and tie. Next, she walked me to the station. Once on the platform, Mum changed into her cat-cleaning-a-kitten role. One of her habits that always bugged me was when she pulled out her hanky, liberally licked it, and then vigorously rubbed it over my face. This seemed to happen every time we went near that damn station. Suitably cleaned, we caught the train and got off in Melbourne.

  Then, via a rattly tram, we arrived at a very large building that Mum said was a hospital. We went inside. Told nothing, the next thing I remember vividly was lying on a large table, surrounded by people in white uniforms with masks on. It was very scary, with a bright light over my head and with no one around who appeared interested in my welfare. The people in the room all seemed to be talking at once, until someone put a washer, or flannel, with horrible, smelly stuff over my face. A head with glasses and a white mask told me to count to ten, and the next thing I heard was, ‘Wake him up now.’ This really frightened me, as I was already awake. I remember being wheeled to a room and spending the night in hospital.

  The next day, my parents arrived and took me home — in a pram. I couldn’t walk. Believe me, circumcision is a very frightening thing for a young boy.

  The next week was agony, particularly the act of trying to have a pee. The end of my willy was covered in gauze of some kind, which allowed me to piddle without having to take the dressing off. This meant my wee splashed and sprayed in many directions — mainly over me. The ordeal was alarming, I had no idea why it was done. Not until years later was I told that the same thing happened to many boys during that era, because circumcision had suddenly become fashionable. I was simply thankful that my sausage regained its original colour after a week. I don’t think I could have faced life with a purple willy wearing a lace bonnet.

  For some reason, Nan and Uncle Jock then moved to Warrandyte. It was during my second year at school and, initially, we boys were very upset. However, it turned out that there was no need for us to worry as it simply meant a trip to Warrandyte every school holiday and on many weekends.

  Every break, we three older boys would catch the bus at Ringwood Station, hand over our ticket, and enjoy the adventure of seeing some countryside while riding on the Warrandyte bus. I would kneel on the back seat with my nose against the big window. It was a 20-minute trip.

  The driver would drop us off at Selby’s store, just a five-minute walk from Nan’s along a narrow, dusty roadway. They lived in a tiny miner’s cottage perched on the side of a hill. Th
eir block was at least two acres, and one side of the property bordered the bush. The bellbirds sang their normal rowdy welcome every time we ran along the narrow dirt track to the wooden front gate. After waving to our grandparents on the veranda, the next thing we would notice would be Uncle Jock’s garden. It was huge: there were rows of potatoes, and mounds of pumpkins and melons. He must have spent ages in that garden. After rushing through the creaky front gate, we would tear up the narrow path and jump the front steps two at a time, straight into the warm arms of Nana Roy. Sitting on their veranda, they would have been watching us since we’d got off the bus at the store. We always hoped this greeting would be as brief as possible, as we had another agenda on our tiny little minds — feasting on Nan’s cooking.

  She was a tireless cook, and she would have all the baking tins full with fresh paddy cakes, butterfly cakes, biscuits, and jam drops. It was wonderful — I suppose partly because our mother was never a cook. Meals at home, while always plentiful, were simple, and rarely would a cake or pudding hit the meal table. At Nan’s we would pig out on cakes and the like, with every meal except breakfast. Then would come the final treat — a supper of pancakes with treacle and cream. Is there a better way to satisfy the taste buds? We loved the evening. There we all were, around a warm, open fire after tea. Uncle Jock would start to tell yarns in his broad Scottish accent. One of us sat on his knee, and another at his feet or on the arm of the chair. He’d been a soldier during World War I, and he could tell amazing stories, mostly army tales. They were wonderful recollections about the horses, the trip on the ship, the mischief, and pranks that seemed to follow the soldiers wherever they roamed.

  Quietly, Nan would put a subtle stop to these seemingly endless adventures by setting up the card table and producing a crib board. Then we boys became spectators to a ritual that happened every night for as long as we visited Nan’s. I had no idea about how the game worked. Nevertheless, I recall a chanting of numbers, and matches being moved along a board full of holes. The highlight of the game was watching Nan shuffle and then deal the cards. They would snap in her fingers and float through the air as she dealt. Uncle Jock reckoned she was lightning fast.

  Come bedtime, there would be a warm cocoa, another biscuit, and then bed. We slept in the sleep-out on the veranda, beside the small lounge-room.

  Uncle Jock used to work Saturday mornings. He would be home by 1.00 p.m. with a packet of Allens barley sugar in his sports-coat pocket. After making us a scrumptious meal of hearty sandwiches, Nan would don her best apron for the kitchen. Saturday was her cake day, and we would be in the care of Uncle Jock. It was always an adventure of some sort, mostly down at the Yarra River, a quick 20-minute walk away. He wouldn’t produce the Allens sweets until we were around the corner and out of sight of the house. It was our secret.

  Just getting to the river was an adventure. The swampy, lush bush, the odd snake, the trees with their flaky barks, and the dense canopy made it like a walk through a rainforest. Then we would emerge on a sandy bank near a bend in the river.

  That first summer, Uncle Jock taught us how to swim in the muddy Yarra River at Warrandyte. It was great fun, and many kids gathered at the local waterhole for a dip. When we returned to Ringwood after those holidays, we would be full of stories of our adventures about the snakes, the flimsy rafts on the river made from bulrush reeds, and the remarkable amount of wildlife in the bush around Warrandyte, particularly the birds.

  DURING MY THIRD YEAR at school, I joined the Cubs. Most of the boys in my grade were in the local pack. We learnt to ‘dib, dib, dib’ and ‘dob, dob, dob’ together. I gained my first star, to be worn on the Cubs’ cap. The star meant that, as a young wolf cub, I now had one eye open.

  At the baths, I gained my Herald swimming certificate, which hung proudly in our bedroom. It seemed I was never home; I have little recollection of our house.

  Life was an adventure.

  I had a mate around the corner called John Gray. We spent time exploring the nearby pine forest and the Ringwood Lake together. By the age of seven, we had started to go to the Saturday-afternoon movies with my older brother and some mates.

  The movies, called ‘the matinees’, were held in the town hall in the centre of Ringwood. They were a treasure, featuring characters like Superman, Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, and many others. Every week, there was a serial. If we missed an episode, the kids at the school kept us up to date.

  The move to Ringwood was great. My enjoyable memories of Smith Street, Collingwood, soon faded now that we had more freedom, choices of entertainment, good grandparents, bigger meals, and then, of course, school. It all seemed to agree with us three boys.

  Then, suddenly, our family changed again. First it had been a new father; now I had no older brother. I often asked my mother, many years later, what happened to him. To me, he just seemed to completely disappear. Mum was reluctant to talk about him — I guess it was too painful for her. In years to come, other extended family members spoke about him in glowing terms. They said he was very energetic, had a paper run before school, and other errands as well. However, the one thing they all emphasised was his role as the older brother. Apparently, he devoted a lot of time to being a good eldest brother, and Robbie and I adored him.

  Ian was born in 1942. In July 1952, he was killed in a hit-and-run accident one afternoon. He was riding his pushbike home, having just finished his weekend job. It was his pocket money that he would use to take us to the matinees. All I recall about what happened is a phone call that my parents received at a friend’s house, telling them the sad news. My Uncle Cliff said there was a very moving funeral down Whitehorse Road in Ringwood. The Boy Scouts and Cubs apparently formed a guard of honour along the road in his memory, yet I remember nothing of it.

  For me, something changed. I can’t describe exactly what, but even at that young age I sensed that a difference had come over our family. We must have coped somehow by not mentioning his name, or the accident, but I just didn’t understand. Perhaps the only way Mum managed was to never talk about him at all. As for me, I remember nothing of my lost brother.

  About fourteen months after his death, we left Ringwood, and Melbourne suburbia, for the wilderness. It was just before Christmas 1954 — the year that Queen Elizabeth II visited Victoria. I caught a glimpse of her at the rear of a special train as it moved slowly through Ringwood.

  It was another move for us. At first, I thought we were going on a holiday or the like, as Mum said nothing about a move — just about us going on a ‘big trip’. Having travelled little in a motorcar, I thought Warrandyte was a really big trip, but this turned out to be a seven-hour drive from Melbourne. It was a very long day. Robbie and I were in the back of the Chevy ute, so we couldn’t ask, ‘Are we there yet?’

  The final stretch of the trip from Bairnsdale to Tongio was mainly gravel — dusty, and heavily corrugated. It was dreadful. It was a winding, rumbling trip that, even a decade later, I never mastered. I got carsick every time I went on that road until I finally got my driver’s licence.

  chapter three

  Entering the wilderness

  NO MATTER HOW I TRY TO DEPICT IT, I ALWAYS RETURN TO THIS description: our move to the bush in late 1954 was a shock. Overnight, my world changed to a district 20 times bigger in size than the entire Ringwood area, and 10,000 times bigger than Wilana Street.

  We moved to a shire — not a town, a street, or a road, and not really a home, but a district. Every house had a name. For instance, we’d say, ‘That’s the Giltrap’s joint’, or ‘That’s the Harding’s joint’. Families were ‘bloody Micks’, ‘Methos’, or ‘Pressies’. Every man of the house had a label: ‘bloody good footballer’, ‘top shearer’, ‘lazy bugger’, ‘womaniser’, ‘likes his hops’, ‘tight as a fish’s arse’, and so on.

  Compared to the city, where I’d had my family and a couple of schoolmates for company
, at Tongio we were completely on our own. Standing on the front veranda of our new house, the only indication that other humans inhabited this open, wide area was a chimney in the distance. Yet, quickly, I realised that the local people all knew one another. It was very different from Ringwood, where even my schoolteacher was a stranger outside the classroom. Who knew where she lived, whether she was a Catholic, or what sport, if any, she played? We may have known our neighbours and a few families who lived in Wilana Street but, outside that small world, I knew no one much. Very quickly, I discovered that in the country it was the complete opposite.

  Tongio was in the Omeo Shire, in East Gippsland, Victoria. It was an isolated farming district commonly called ‘the high country’. It turned out that my mother had grown up there as a young child. Swifts Creek was the nearest town from our place, four miles down the road.

  This tiny, timber town had a pub, a post office, and a number of shops. The nearest school, in the opposite direction, was at Tongio. It was an hour’s walk for Robbie and me. In fact, it was more than a walk; it was like travelling through a war zone. Plovers — very mean-looking birds that, at first, we thought were seagulls — would screech and charge at us when they were breeding. The kids at our new school said these birds had poisonous barbs on their wings, and were capable of slaying us. To avoid them swooping, we would cut across paddocks that contained cattle, sheep, and big bulls. That was really scary.

  Being the eldest and expected to lead this expedition, I was petrified. I believed that every bull was a candidate for the ring, and I would try to put a fence between the animals and us whenever possible.

 

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