by Steve Bisley
There were also serials. There was Randy Stone, an American reporter who covered the night beat for a daily newspaper. He got into all sorts of trouble with gangsters and lowlife people and girls who spelt trouble with a capital T.
There was Reach For the Sky, the story of Ol’ Tin Legs, Douglas Bader, who had lost his legs in a plane crash. With courage, determination and a pair of metal legs, he became a World War II flying ace!
There were quiz shows and loads of music. The radio fuelled your imagination because you made the pictures in your head. You knew what the blonde that Randy had just rescued looked like. You were in the plane with Ol’ Tin Legs, in the heat of battle; you could smell the smoke from the engine of his burning plane as he plummeted to earth.
If Dad came home with fish and chips on a Friday night, we knew we were going to the drive-in. We’d have our dinner straight out of the paper parcel. Steamy potato chips and battered fish with vinegar and lemon squeezed over. Then we’d all get in the Jag for the ride to Newcastle.
When we got there the light would be fading and we’d park our car with its nose tilted up towards the big screen. Dad unhooked the small speaker from its pole and sat it on the dashboard. Tinny music filled the car. It was so exciting!
Gradually night fell and the big screen lit up. There was always a cartoon before the film started, sometimes Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck. We’d snuggle up under a blanket in the back seat, each with our own pillow, and watch. I don’t think I ever saw the end of a film, I always nodded off, but what I did see was pure magic.
The West
There is a huge, black steam locomotive waiting at a platform at Central Station in Sydney. Great clouds hiss from the lungs of the boiler. Men in faded bib-and-brace overalls feed the glowing firebox with square-mouthed shovelfuls of flinty black coal. Relief valves fizz with jets of steam. Mum and us kids are going on a holiday to our cousins’ farm. They live in Gilgandra, near Dubbo, in the west of New South Wales. It’s not even school holiday time, but some things happened between my parents.
Dad drove us to Sydney, but he’s not coming with us. He’s staying home to mind the farm and do what men do when they want to be alone. Or when they want to be with someone else. Dad wrestles our luggage from the car. We stand with our mother. Dad tells us to be good.
‘Yes, Dad,’ we chorus. We watch the Jaguar slice into the city traffic. I slide my hand into Mum’s as we watch him go.
We find our carriage and haul our luggage down the narrow passageway to our compartment. It’s a sleeper. There are two long padded seats that face each other and a silver wash basin set into shiny wood panelling. By night the seats become bunks, with two more that fold out from the walls. Above the bunks are stout wire racks for our luggage.
There is a picture of a train crossing a bridge over a river. I love our compartment. It’s like a cubby house, with all of us snug and close.
We unpack our books, comics and coloured pencils for later, and while Mum and Kris settle in, Rich and I head off to explore the train. We jump out onto the platform for another look at the loco. There’s a swarm of blokes all over it and it stinks of coal smoke. There are other boys watching too, all of us drawn by the power of it. One bloke, big and sweaty from the heat, grins at us and yanks on a greasy rope above his head. Jets of steam screech from the big silver whistle above. ‘Youse better git on – we’re leavin’!’
We streak back down the platform and leap onto the train as the guard yells, ‘All aboard!’ Two more blasts on the whistle and the big steel couplings take up the strain as the wheels spin and grip the rails. We lurch out of the station with me and Rich careering to our compartment.
I am so excited! Mum tells me to settle down, we’ve got a long way to go, but I can’t help myself. I’m on a holiday, on a train, in a sleeper, and I’ve got a new Phantom comic! And Dad’s not here! Who wouldn’t be excited?
Rich plonks down in the seat opposite me and gives me the finger. I laugh like crazy, ’cause he’s so stupid. My sister asks Mum to tell us to stop, but I want him to keep going forever, ’cause he’s just the best at anything in the world.
We head west through the sprawl of the suburbs and climb the steep Blue Mountains to clatter down onto the Western Plains. We play Fish with cards and Pick-Up Sticks and I Spy. We eat the curling corned-beef sandwiches and drink stewed tea from the thermos. We range along the snaking length of the train in search of other kids to tease and chase. I read the Phantom comic twice and wrestle with Rich till I say Uncle as he twists my ear. I snooze a bit and wake in fields of wheat in the late afternoon.
Later we go to the dining car and I get a mixed grill for tea and apple pie for afters. It’s all so special, me and my family having tea on a train. I think of Dukey the dog at home with Dad. Dad alone in his place at the head of the table with a frothy beer and his lonely dinner. I know that if he wanted to he could be here with us. He never wants to.
When we get back to our sleeper, the beds have been made with crisp white sheets and snuggly blankets folded back. Mum and Kris go to the ladies’ to change for bed, while Rich and me find our flattened PJs in our bag. He tells me to take the bottom bunk because he thinks if I have the top one I could fall out in the night and smash my skull open and my brains would fall out and I would die. I half believe him and crawl into the bunk below him for a last look at the Phantom. I flick my reading light on and open the comic. Someone has drawn a penis in pencil sticking out of the Phantom’s head and another one on his horse.
I want to get really upset but I am laughing too much. I kick my blankets off and shove my feet against my brother’s mattress above and push like mad. He’s bouncing like crazy and says if I don’t stop he will punch my lights out. Mum returns and we fall quiet. I snuggle down in my bed to the swaying of the carriage as the big loco hauls us deeper into the night. Later I wake briefly to the sound of my mother crying softly in the dark.
Next morning the train pulls into Dubbo. Uncle Les is there with his broad country hat and his too-pale skin. He calls Mum ‘Paulie’ and kisses and hugs her warmly. We head to the car to drive the forty-odd miles to Gilgandra and the farm. The country feels enormous out here; there is barely a tree for miles and the sky is huge and cloudless. Flocks of sulphur-crested cockatoos wheel above us in their hundreds. Dead kangaroos litter the roads and emus race along the fence lines. Fields of wheat stretch to the horizon.
We arrive at the homestead in a cloud of red dust. I’m barely out of the car and suddenly shy when my cousin Paul, who’s the same age as me, claims me in a bear hug and wrestles me to the ground with his maniacal grin and freckled face pushed into mine. ‘G’day, cuz!’ he screams. ‘Been waitin’ for weeks fur you to git here! Got something to show ya!’ With that, he hauls me to my feet and drags me full pelt into the house.
‘Check this out!’ We are standing in front of a large gun rack in the hallway. Six rifles are arranged in a neat row. He hauls the lowest one down and slides the bolt up and back then slams it back into the breech. ‘The old man bought it for me a week ago. I haven’t put one through it yet but we’re going after roos tonight, spotlightin’. You can use me old one – here!’ He reaches for the next rifle on the rack and thrusts it at me. He grabs a box of bullets from a cupboard and then we’re heading out the door. ‘Dad? I’m taking Stevie down the gorge to shoot some cans. Be back in an hour.’ I hear Mum protest but Uncle Les quietens her and we’re free to go.
Paul leads me to an enormous shed full of vehicles of all sorts. There are tractors and motorbikes, trucks in various sizes, several utes and a Land Rover with the roof cut off. He jumps into the Land Rover, reaches over and wrenches the other door open. ‘Git in, ya big sheila,’ he says, and fires up the motor. I’m barely in my seat when we swerve out the door and he points the Rover up a flinty track beside the sheep yards. Here we are, going flat strap in a car driven by an eleven-year-old, with two rifles and enough ammo to start a small war. It was only a few hours ago that I was worried about
somebody drawing a penis on the Phantom’s head. We crest the hill behind the homestead going full stick and I can’t stop the grin that’s plastered on my face. It’s probably a mix of adrenalin and joy with a pinch of the fear of death; whatever it is, I never want it to stop.
We come to a screeching halt above a gully where deep ruts of erosion cut the clayey soil to the bedrock.
Rusted car bodies litter the gully floor with bits of machinery, old bedframes, buggered mattresses, offcuts of wood, broken crockery, fruit boxes and a porcelain dunny. Crows pick through rotting food and hang like black rags above the dumped things.
We climb out of the Rover. Paul pulls the bolt back to expose the breech and drops the empty magazine into his hand, and by the time we have perched on the rim of the gorge he has slid a handful of bullets into the clip and worked the bolt to spear a round into the breech.
‘Gunna shoot with a scope tonight but for now I’ve just got to shoot it in. Let’s see how she goes.’ He passes me the box of bullets and brings the rifle up to press against the side of his cheek. ‘See that fuckin’ dead crow?’
‘Which one?’ I ask.
The gun bucks in his hands and one of the hovering black rags falls through its own red mist and feathers to the flinty ground. ‘That one!’ he leers. The sound of the gunshot spirals around the gorge. ‘Not too bad, just has to come up a bit,’ and he turns a knurled adjuster on the rear sights.
I’m still feeding bullets into my magazine when the second shot roars and misses.
‘Shit,’ says Paul and fingers the adjuster again.
I bring the rifle to my shoulder. I’ve shot before and know the deal. I avoid the crows and draw on an old chrome mirror on a rusted car door. I pull the rifle stock into my shoulder and brace for the recoil. I take a slow breath and hold it like I’ve been taught while the crook of my finger tightens lightly on the black curve of the trigger. The V on the rear sights finds the tiny pyramid of steel on the front of the barrel; my finger squeezes. The rifle bucks and the mirror explodes in a shower of bright shards.
‘Fuck the car parts!’ says Paul. ‘Get into the crows. We hate ’em out here ’cause they pick the eyes outta the lambs.’
I slide the bolt back and the shiny casing of the spent bullet spins into the dirt and the next one slides home into the breech. I feel the warmth of the wooden stock against my cheek as I breathe and hold again and find a crow in the sights. I track it as I pull the stock further into my shoulder and before I squeeze I let the gun drift till all I see through the sights is the colour blue. The gun bucks and the crow flies on. ‘Damn,’ I pretend.
We head back to the homestead. I get a big hug from Aunty Eileen and my cousin Robyn, who kisses me on the mouth and lingers too long. Kris is sharing a bedroom with her and Rich is with my cousin John. Mum looks really pleased to see me and gives me a rare hug.
It’s about the gun.
We all have dinner around the big table in the kitchen. It’s dark by the time Uncle Les leads us back to the big machinery shed. Just us, the blokes.
We all carry rifles, barrels pointed down for safety, the breeches gaping open and empty. There are others waiting in the shadows, professional shooters. No-fuss, no-mucking-around blokes. Two fresh carcasses swing from a rack in the back of a ute.
‘Bowled these two on the way over, Les. There’s a shitload down by the dam.’
We head out in a loose convoy. Uncle Les drives the flatbed truck with me, Paul, Richard and Johnny on the back. There is a padded bar that runs across the cab of the truck to rest the rifles on. I am in the centre with Paul, the bigger boys at either end. We track the fence line. The moon is high and bright now as we hit the downgrade. The dam below us shimmers. A night breeze rustles the wheat. The engines quiet as we roll forward. Everything stills. There is just the sound of the rifles being loaded and the roos feeding in the dark.
I feel the wild adrenalin in my chest as I lift the gun. The spotlights flare and shock the night awake. The roos are caught and blinded, helpless in the ravaged wheat. Gunfire cracking from all sides. Bodies twisting and falling from the head shots; a joey flung from his mother’s pouch stands helpless in the glare. The rank smell of cordite drifts in the night. A big red, wounded, escapes the blinding light and lurches awkwardly towards the boundary fence, the once powerful back legs weakened from the blood loss. He leaps, but is caught by the barbed wire and hangs there like a torn coat. They shoot him where he hangs and leave him for the wild dogs to claim.
Then stillness again as the wounded are quietened by bright knives and loaded onto the flatbed. We drive to other paddocks and shoot and shoot till the racks on the ute are full and the flatbed springs groan under the weight of the dead ones. I don’t know whether I’ve killed or wounded anything. I shot at things, I know that, so I own the killing like the rest and I feel bigger with the gun in my hands.
After, we drive home under a waning moon. I watch the hunters tear the skin from the shiny bodies and butcher them down to neat parcels. They salt the skins and hang them high for curing. We wash the blood down from the trucks and empty and oil the rifles.
It’s midnight when Paul and I head to our beds in the sleepout. We talk in the dark for a while. He tells me he has seen his sister’s pubic hair through a hole in the bathroom wall and, if I want him to, he will show me tomorrow. I tell him it’s okay ’cause I’ve seen plenty of pubic hair and, anyway, I know where my father hides his condoms. I slide lower into the strange bed. Paul’s gone suddenly quiet and I know I’ve got him with the condom line.
I wait in the now quiet room till I hear his breathing settle and I know he is sleeping. I creep from my bed and find my way through the darkened house to Mum’s room. She knows it’s me and calls my name softly in the night. I nestle in beside her, just me and Mum.
We stayed at our cousins’ farm for the next two weeks. The shearers came to shear the mobs of squat merinos. Lanky blokes in dusty utes threw their swags on rusty beds in the shearers’ quarters. They rolled skinny fags as they thought of things to say, and then thought better of it and didn’t speak. They stuck pictures of their kids and dogs and the missus above their beds, to ease the nights. They had their own way of standing, with one hip kicked out and the weight of them going back to leave the front leg resting and their boots drawing shapes in the dust. They never looked at you when they spoke and their words slid out sidewards and there weren’t many of them.
We sat at an open fire with them one night after tea, us kids. The fire caught us all and held us. They passed bottles of dark rum between them and told stories of other sheds. Of blokes not worth working for and other blokes who were, of a record set in a southern shed but that was with a wide-toothed comb on the shears so it wasn’t really legal, but either way, who’s counting. A tinny radio played country music and a girl sang about her truck-driving man and a screen door hittin’ somebody in the arse on the way out. I’d love to hit somebody in the arse with a screen door! They didn’t pay much attention to us, but I loved being around the quiet ease of them. We all did, you could feel it.
We’d go down and watch them at work through the day.
The sheds were buzzing in the heat.
The smell of lanolin from the fleece.
There was a row of nine of them, all bent at the waist, the clippers whirring in their hands. The brown kelpies worked the holding pens and drove the unshorn ones up the races to the waiting blades. Minutes later the sheep would leave the sheds naked and white without the wool. The fleece was then thrown across the classing table, checked for quality and stacked for cleaning. Sweat traced the muscle down a sinewed arm.
Smoko!
The big diesel quiet. Black tea out of a chipped enamel mug. A cheese and pickle sandwich and half a fag. Cicadas droning in the big river gums. The shed shimmering in the heat.
Then the diesel fires up and it’s on again till dusk.
On other days we swam in the dam where the water tasted like dirt.
A fo
ot below the surface it reddened and further down it went dark and cold. We covered ourselves in the red mud and slid down the banks to wash it from our slippery skins.
We drove for miles out to the front gate to check the mail and no one worried that we were kids. We rode horses and raced each other flat-out.
Some nights Uncle Les would set up a movie projector and we’d watch cartoons against the lounge-room wall. Or we’d have a concert. I tried to perform the song about the screen door hitting someone in the arse on the way out, but I couldn’t remember the words.
We had such fun!
Finally it was the night before we had to leave. Paul told me to be really quiet and he led me in the dark to the outside of the bathroom wall. As we got closer I could hear the sound of the shower inside. Paul put his finger to his lips and quietly removed a large nail and pointed to the hole. I pressed my eye to it. There in the glow of the light was my cousin Robyn. She was naked, and although I wanted to run from the shock of it, something held me firm to the wall and I knew in an instant that my life had changed – forever.
They all come to the station to see us off the next morning. Aunty Eileen has made us sandwiches and cakes for the trip and Uncle Les shakes my hand and says he’ll make a shearer out of me yet. Paul gets me in a farewell headlock and says he’s gunna miss me like shit and I believe him. I say goodbye to Johnny. I can’t look at Robyn ’cause my face gets hot and something happens in my pants. But she doesn’t know and kisses my lips, which makes everything worse, and I bolt onto the train.
We find our compartment as the train leaves and settle in for the trip home. Later, as we all lay in our bunks, I watch Mum reading. She catches my look and I see the sadness in her. I sleep to the rocking of the train as we speed under the inky black western sky.
Duke gets a lesson
‘Git here, ya bastard! Block up! Git behind!’