by Barry Heard
The river had small fish in abundance, called ‘sand trout’. They were easy to catch. Come summer holidays, we would swim and fool around for hours.
Just up from our house, along the river and around a bend, was Wilson’s Water Hole. It was a large pool that had been gouged out in a flood. It was perfect for diving, belly flops, and doing bombies. Parents brought their kids to the hole, and workers would come down after the mill whistle had blown ‘knock off’ at 5.00 p.m. The waterhole was always crowded.
The banks of the river were open, flat-grassed areas that had the odd Weeping Willow tree standing gracefully upon them. Some of these trees were over 80 feet tall. Swinging on their long, leafy branches out into the middle of the pool and plunging into the water was a treat.
Life was definitely starting to look up. Our new old house was located on a flat, from which it was only a short walk of about 80 feet down a small hill to the river. There was one small fenced paddock. It was too small for our two milkers, called Betty and Goldie, so they roamed the river banks, feeding freely.
The move from Tongio also saw us bringing our mob of sheep along. Yes, we had poddied four lambs since we had left Ringwood. By now, they were family. In no time, we had a new chook house, a cow bale for milking, and a huge shed that Dad built for making water tanks. The river flats, covered in bracken ferns and the odd rivergum tree, added a beauty we hadn’t seen at Tongio. These trees were huge, some well over 100 feet tall, and six feet through at the girth.
The soil on these flats was a rich, deep loam. Consequently, Dad decided to clear the flats by hand. A friend lent him a Trewallah tree-puller, and ‘Operation Clearing’ began. The tree-puller was a hand-cranked winch with a very long cable that rolled out. With the aid of an extension ladder, we climbed as high up the tree as possible and attached the cable. The drum end of the winch was connected by a shorter cable to the base of another large tree about 100 yards away, which provided an anchor. Then, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the handle on the drum swung backwards and forwards.
‘It’s easy ’til the tension takes up,’ Dad said.
The gearing on the winch was so slow that it took an hour to put three feet of cable on the drum. So, every night after school, there I was, clickety-clacking, until, finally, the huge monster of a tree started to shudder and creak, making snapping noises at its base as the roots pulled away and lost their anchorage. You could hear the tree crying out as we slowly ripped it from the ground. The last bit needed two of us to operate the winch. Dad and I took another three nights to finally get it to fall. Then we cut it into lengths about six feet long, with a crosscut saw. After that, with the aid of a crowbar, we rolled the tree away, down onto the river bank. From there, when we had our first flood — usually in early summer — the logs would wash away.
Unfortunately, rivergum is a sour, tight, sappy timber that attracts termites and is good for nothing much, not even firewood. By the end of that year, we’d cleared and sown five acres of lucerne. It was a successful sowing, and we baled thousands of short bales of hay off the paddock over the years.
Within a year, I’d not only settled, but I’d started to really enjoy the country way of life. At school, being tall for my age, I excelled in sports that suited my height: the high jump; hurdles; the hop, step, and jump; and the long jump. They were all a breeze. Yet I couldn’t run to save myself — I was too gangly.
At footy, I must have inherited some of the Heard genes, as I captained the school footy team. Both my father and his brother had had distinguished football careers in Victoria. (My father, recruited by Richmond, had played in the seconds as a teenager.) I had good ball skills, but didn’t like the rough play. Others who had little ability seemed to take great pleasure in injuring me in whatever way they could. I wasn’t very heavy (eight-and-a-half stone), but five feet and ten inches tall.
My brother Robbie was shorter, tougher, and more skilled. He seemed to thrive on black eyes, swollen lips, and bruises — another trait from our father, who was a champion amateur boxer.
At school, I discovered many new games. Most involved groups of kids. Marbles, skipping, British Bulldog, and Poison Ball were common. Skipping was fun. Around April each year, out would come the rope. It was about 30 feet long, and was given to the school by Grinter’s Transport. Two of the big kids would hold the ends of the rope and slowly swing it. Dozens of us, young and old, would bounce up and down inside the rope chanting, ‘All in together, this fine weather …’
Then, as it was winter, once everyone was warm the competitions would start. Sally Bock could French skip. It was hard. Two light ropes, pulled very tight, gave the perfect length. Then, with the ropes spinning in opposite directions at the same time, kids would run and then jump through very fast. Sally was the fastest. Then came the one-offs. Some would skip under the big rope and continue skipping with their own rope. It took perfect timing. Bystanders, enthralled by this feat, would clap in rhythm while the skilled ones did crossovers, doubles, and hot peppers. By the time the bell rang, everyone would be warm and glowing.
During those years at Doctors Flat, with the family more settled, Dad’s business increased and he hired a labourer named Andy Adams. Mum didn’t own or drive a car so, once a week, groceries and bread arrived in a tiny van. Although we didn’t get into the town of Swifts Creek very much, it was very exciting if we did — even more so if I had picked up some pocket money.
The Sandys owned the grocery store. Most things in the shop — flour, sugar, honey, crushed oats for porridge, Weeties, and biscuits — were in bulk. A scoop, or a set of scales, were used to measure out most orders. Then a brown paper bag, flipped and twisted tightly, ended up in a cardboard box with your name scrawled on the side. The shopkeeper would then return to the customer’s list and tick that item. For threepence, you could buy a large bag of broken mixed biscuits. They were the remains, or leftovers, after the large, square tin was finished. For poorer families, these separated bits of biscuits were a delight. In those days, most people expected unbroken biscuits.
Sandy’s store had a long counter with several people serving. There were no shelves where you served yourself, and no packaged rice, dried fruit, or washing powder. Some people brought their own containers, jugs, billies, and hessian bags. For many of the women, it was a social outing. Everyone would be chatting, tutting, and nodding. It was always busy. There were no queues — the assistants knew whose turn it was next, and called them by name to the counter. Before asking what was required, the shopkeeper always had a personal chat, asked after the kids, and finally asked for their list. In the 1950s, there were no packets of anything much, really. There were no rubbish bins ready for re-cycling — there was no rubbish to speak of, and certainly no rubbish collection.
Occasionally, we would head into Swifts Creek to the movies. Every Tuesday we would get off the school bus, and our first wish would be for Dad to come home at a reasonable hour. Then we’d complete our chores in record time, and behave ourselves with perfect manners. Sometimes it worked. The result was a quick tea, a wash, and a hair brush, and we’d pile into the ute.
During my youth, a night at the movies was a great night out. The movies started at 8.00 p.m. with a cartoon, or sometimes two, followed by the Movietone news, and then the first movie would begin. It would be a full-length film. At interval, David Jessup would be ready with his tray of lollies, standing out the front after the lights came on. He sold a variety: Columbines, milkshakes, Jaffas, jellybeans, Violet Crumble bars, barley sugar, and Fags — small cigarette-like candy, which even had a red tip. All the lollies were Australian-made by companies such as MacRobertson, Allens, Hoadleys, and Cadbury.
I recall with excitement when, towards the end of that decade, the local store introduced ice creams in a cone, and milkshakes. From then on, during interval at the Tuesday movies in the Swifts Creek Mechanics Hall, we would dash up the street at interval to the store
to order our milkshake and ice cream.
Interval was never at a set time. After the adults had enjoyed their chitchats, and the kids had settled, silence returned. This would be the cue for the projectionist, after which the second half would begin. There would be trailers advertising the next ‘Do not miss’ movies showing over the following weeks. Then the feature movie would begin. In all, most nights finished between 11.30 p.m. and 12.30 a.m. — usually after four hours of entertainment. Being a big night out, you simply went home to bed afterwards … so different from today.
DURING THAT FIRST YEAR at Doctors Flat, we started to attend events other than the odd movie — like the footy, the cricket, or the Scouts, and annual events. Due to its isolation, the Omeo Shire had almost no electric power. The townships of Swifts Creek and Omeo had 240-volt electricity, but the rest of the area had almost none, apart from household lighting plants that provided 12-volt or 32-volt power. For most of the shire, this meant no television, and poor radio reception. However, there was always something happening during the year like the Omeo Show, the Omeo Rodeo, or the Boxing Day sports at Swifts Creek, Omeo, and Ensay.
The Swift Creek and Omeo days were for athletics, sheath tossing, mini races, and novelty events like the greasy pig chase, during which a greased pig was given a short head-start in front of a hundred eager teenagers. The winner was the one who caught the pig, and got to keep it.
The Ensay Boxing Day, on the other hand, was mainly for horses and sheepdog trials. There were also annual horse races at Swifts Creek and Benambra, while the annual sheep and cattle sales held at Benambra, Omeo, Swifts Creek, and Ensay were major events, too. Then there were golf, badminton, and tennis tournaments, fishing clubs, and rifle clubs throughout the area.
An hour’s drive up from Omeo was Dinner Plain and Mount Hotham, both ski resorts where we visited and tobogganed down the slopes.
However, it was my first visit to the Omeo Show that I recall with wonder. It was a display of all the talent and skills found in the district. There were men in Fletcher Jones Harris tweed sports coats, and wearing squatters’ hats, wandering the grounds. Other men wearing dustcoats would be judging sheep, cattle, wool, horses, and cuts of beef and mutton.
In the pavilion, the women displayed their skills in cooking, sewing, weaving, and other homely pursuits. There was a keenly contested competition that decided who was the champion shearer; at times, the winner would be one of the best in Australia. Wood chopping was also a highly sought-after prize and, like Tasmania, East Gippsland boasted world-class axemen.
On the arena were horse events. However, with all this entertainment, only two things appealed to me: the caravans and the sideshows.
The caravans, arrayed in a long line, sold fairy floss, hot-dogs, toffee apples, bags of lollies, and showbags full of wonderful goodies. The other magnets were the numerous sideshows, and the boxing tent. This area was packed. It was the first time I had seen sideshows. There were wooden clowns with heads swivelling, waiting for balls to drop into their mouths. Another tent had a large painting and a sign, which boasted that inside was a person who was half-man and half-woman.
Nearby were a merry-go-round, dodgem cars, and a long walk-through tent that showed snakes. Several times during the day a snake handler performed daring feats outside, to much applause. The man with the snakes was world-class, so the man with the megaphone said. Other tents offered great prizes if you could throw balls, coconuts, and rings accurately. I had never seen anything like this before in my life; it was a real thrill.
To top all of this off, and totally out of character, Dad gave me ten bob (one dollar) to shout us kids to some of the rides, and to buy some sweets. The four of us — Robbie, John, Jeff, and I — were beside ourselves with excitement and expectation. This was a real treat.
We stuck together and headed for the sideshow alley. A kindly man with a pleasant smile invited us to try his game. ‘No, thank you,’ was my quiet reply. The man then added that we could, with a little luck, make a lot of money. He then explained the game — all I had to do was throw four darts at a board, and score less than twenty-one.
The board was square, quite large, and covered with fine netting, with each number encircled. It was two shillings, or 20 cents, for a throw of four darts. If you got less than 21, you won a pound, which was two dollars. Easy — I could do this. We gathered in a tight little circle, my brothers egging me on. I handed over the orange ten-bob note, and pocketed the eight-bob change. My first three darts registered 21; the last dart was a four.
‘Next time, mate,’ encouraged the man.
I parted with another two bob. This time I managed 26 — I was home and hosed. Quickly I handed over a further two bob. After two darts, I had eleven, then a nine. I looked for a one, then realised I couldn’t win even with a one. Okay, I had it worked out — three of six or less, and then the two or the one. But when the first dart hit the two, it bounced off, and my free throw hit a nine. Damn, this time …
I was stunned when it dawned on me that I had parted with the full ten bob. The bloke handed me a card with a photo of Hopalong Cassidy.
I felt terrible, and wondered how I could tell Dad. I didn’t but, to make it up, I took the boys to the crowd that had gathered outside Bell’s boxing tent. It was truly entertaining. The ringmaster had a group of world-class boxers on a stage about six feet off the ground. It was the front of a large marquee with flags flying on the top. He introduced each of his boxers as a champion in his own right, and stated which country they had come from. This included a ‘Red Indian’ from America and a ‘Negro’ from darkest Africa. During the introductions, one of the boxers beat a large drum. Then the ringmaster turned to the crowd. ‘Roll up, roll up, welcome to Roy Bell’s Boxing Troupe — to the greatest boxing show on earth,’ he called out.
The drum-beat got louder and louder. He shouted into a funnel-shaped loudspeaker, encouraging the onlookers. ‘Are there any men out there man enough to go three rounds with one of my boxers?’ There were rumbles in the crowd, then a man put up his hand and asked what it was worth.
‘Two quid a win; five quid a knockout; nothing if ya get done.’
‘I’m in,’ said the bloke.
‘Come on, any other men among ya?’
Several in the crowd nominated blokes who could go a bit or had reputations as pugs. Roy Bell urged the crowd on even more — various men were getting pats on the back as comments abounded about their strength or prowess. It was great fun. However, today, my guess would be that alcohol helped the contestants decide to have a go — sorry, I forgot to mention that the outdoor bar was the most popular place for the men at the Omeo Show. In no time, there were three locals up on the dais on Roy Bell’s stage. The crowd, absolutely pumped, pushed towards the entrance as Bell announced ‘fight time’.
It was five bob to get in, but I had another plan. I led my brothers around the back and waited until the crowd had entered the tent, and the first bell had sounded. We quietly poked our heads under the tent and tried to have a look. All we could see were a lot of trousers, and hands holding hats behind their owners’ backs. Suddenly, there was a bloke tugging at my leg; he wasn’t happy, and he swore at us.
Going home later that night, I was very pleased that Dad didn’t ask us boys what sort of a day we had had.
THE OTHER THING I really enjoyed attending was the local dances. Mum and Dad could both dance, and we kids, along with many other kids, would sit around the hall watching the adults dance. This happened every Saturday night after the footy or cricket. They were truly old-time dances. At times, there seemed to be a competition between the men as to who was the most suave dancer. With their heads arched, and adopting a look of superiority, they offered themselves and their partner to the crowd, which followed their every move.
One night, a local grazier who considered himself a light-footed dancer was swinging his wife around in a
rather risky-looking move when, spinning the wrong way in the wrong direction, up came a schoolteacher who couldn’t dance. The teacher zigged when he should have zagged, and all four ended up on the deck. The schoolteacher was slightly primed, and snapped at our local, wealthy grazier. Suddenly, it was on: the two of them were outside, they shaped up, and were ready to biff the hell out of each other. But, as usual, a well-meaning do-gooder stepped in and stopped the fight, and we all went back inside. Pity — it would have been fun.
Alcohol was the cause of many a problem on the dance floor. It was funny but, no matter how inebriated the dancer, he somehow remained upright and able to perform while the music played. Stop the music and, well …
One night the music stopped, and somebody jumped up on the stage to make an announcement. However, I’m sure no one was listening, because there was a distraction: old Fred had stopped dancing, and he was swaying slightly as he tried to listen. Mind you, it was well known that when drunk he could only stand still for about five minutes. He always sat on a stool at the bar. The announcement had been going on for about seven minutes when old Fred’s legs started to slowly spread apart on the highly polished dance floor. It was fascinating. He just kept sagging until he was almost doing the total splits — something you would only expect from a gymnast or a ballet dancer. Then Fred fell forward very slowly, softly coming to rest on the hard floor. The speaker didn’t miss a beat, because suddenly he had everyone’s attention — Fred was asleep. People continued listening until the gentleman on the stage announced, in a long-winded way, that there would be a working bee at the footy ground the next day. The Haywood’s band started up. A couple of well-built young men grabbed Fred and hauled him to his feet. Poor Fred: he looked around in bewilderment, wondering what had happened. Then he continued dancing.
But local dances had something else of great appeal for kids of our age — supper. It was a true test of endurance when the announcement of ‘supper’ pierced the air. A drum roll usually heralded it. The adults would saunter into the supper room, have their cup of tea, and stand around holding a plate, which they continually refilled from the abundance of food on the tables. A supper at a country dance was something to behold. It was as if the local ladies would try to outdo each other when they arrived with their plates of goodies. There would be sandwiches of endless varieties, which were normally sampled first, and then came the sponges, lashed with cream and local fruit on top. It was a terrific treat. Fresh scones, along with jam tarts, slices, apple, blackberry, and numerous other pastries were jammed onto a long table. A third table would have cakes of many varieties — fruit, tea, lemon, ginger, marble, orange, and chocolate. Finally, in a corner of the room, was an open window attached to another room that was the kitchen. From there, the women briskly served cups of tea from large teapots — coffee wasn’t on the menu, as it was almost unheard of in the Omeo area. The tea-pourers would be chatting merrily. It was truly a banquet.