Warrigal's Way

by Warrigal Anderson

  I was up at about six and nearly suffocated myself getting the “nice-ah” stove to work. I think a bird had nested in the chimney, and the bloody smoke was rolling out of it like a London fog.

  Barry woke up coughing and Thommo woke red-eyed. “Kick that bastard to death, Ed, before it gets us all.”

  I was racing around the joint opening windows. We fled outside with my primus to brew up.

  “Christ,” said Thommo, “I feel like a first cousin to a side of bacon.”

  Barry laughed. “Bugger off, you’re too ugly. What pig would want you for a relation.”

  Thommo grinned. “You know, you could be right.”

  We couldn’t handle the boss’s right name, so he stayed “Louie” to us. He put me and Barry on the picking and took Thommo with him to pick up and dip. After baskets were filled, they were dipped in a concoction and then spread on drying racks of bird wire so the air could get all round them. After they were dry, they were sultanas.

  It was bloody hard work. Thommo was earning his quid even harder than us. Louie’s old granny, Momma Mia, showed us how to cut the bunches of grapes without damaging the vines. She looked a thousand years old, but around those grape vines she was a human chainsaw. No way we could keep up with her. It was like a cripple racing the Lithgow Flash.

  Louie told us he would give us a bob a basket, but it had to be all grapes, no leaves. We reckoned that wasn’t bad. The baskets didn’t seem all that big, until we came to fill them, then they turned into 44 gallon drums.

  At smoko Mrs Louie brought out a heap of scones and a big billy of tea. She was a nice lady.

  Thommo came over and said, “How you blokes goin’?”

  “Other than aching hands and a million cuts, not bad,” said Barry.

  “You want to know about my sore back as well?” I asked.

  “Nah mate. I got a beaut one of those,” he said, stretching.

  “How we going?” We must of made a hundred quid by now,” Barry groaned.

  “You got the tally book?” I asked.

  “Yep. Seventeen baskets at a bob each, seventeen bob—eight and six an hour. Good brass if you keep it up.” He laughed.

  “Geez mate. Do us a favour and rush over and stop us if you think we’re going too fast. We don’t want to scorch the vines.”

  “Yeah, righto.” Thommo laughed. “I’ll pour water on your fevered brow.”

  The day felt about three months long before we finally knocked off. Old Louie came over and we expected the bullet, but he told us most blokes didn’t even make lunchtime without pulling the pin. He reckoned if we hung in for about a week it would get easier. He was right, of course, and we did the six weeks picking season with him, putting on weight from Mama’s cooking and actually enjoying the last three weeks. Like Louie said, we got used to it.

  We had a tally up and we had made twenty six quid. You could buy a car with that and we did—an Austin A40. It was a bit long in the tooth, but went like a well-oiled clock. We used Barry’s pay to buy it and used mine for travelling costs.

  We set off for Queensland. We were headed for Brisbane first, then up to Gympie for the beans, then on to Bowen for the tomatoes, having a look at Rockhampton for the pineapples on the way. This would be quite an experience.

  16

  Back to the Sunshine State

  We left Mildura on a cold and drizzly day. With Barry driving the old Austin and me in the passenger seat, we headed out through Coburg, aiming for the Hume highway. Armed with a big box of roast chook and a cold box of VB cans, we reckoned the world was tops. We had decided to go straight through to Brisbane and check out the meatworks, thinking we might earn a bit more travelling money. There were two meatworks in Brisbane—Borthwicks at Cannon Hill and Brisbane Abbattoirs at Murrarie—so we had a good chance.

  It was a pretty uneventful trip, except for a couple of times in New South Wales when the highway cops pulled us up and asked their endless questions. As we owned the car we had nothing to hide. My knees were knocking a bit, but as Ed Robinson, Barry’s cousin, I was right.

  I really enjoyed camping alongside the car. The billy tea in the crisp early morning before we got on the road was heady wine to me. No cattle to worry about, just the camp. I had never been so free in my life. I could have gone on living like this forever.

  Much too soon for me we pulled into the outskirts of Brisbane. I was amazed at the size of the city. I had only seen it from the train and had not realised just how big it was.

  “I know a boarding house in West End. It’s nothing flash, but it’s clean and cheap,” Barry said.

  We got a couple of rooms and as it was too late to go out to the works we decided to have a feed and a look around. It didn’t take more than five minutes to see West End’s main street, so we ended up in the Boundary Hotel. I was doing my usual act, trying to look older than I was and trying not to panic.

  Barry told me to act like I owned the place. Instead, I acted like the floor was on fire and three-quarters of the Brisbane Police Force were going to rush in and put it out. I could not take my eyes off the door, but after about the third beer I started to relax. I wonder if they put fifteen-year-olds in jail for under-age drinking, I thought.

  We started having a yarn to the girl behind the bar. I told her that we were looking for a bit of work. She told us her name was Marge and that down at Paul’s milk depot by the river they had a casual walk-up twice a day, seven in the morning and four in the afternoon, loading trucks with milk. We reckoned we’d give it a whirl.

  The next morning Barry and I were pushing hand trolleys with six crates of milk across the loading-out apron up the strip and into the back of a huge covered trailer.

  “Geez, what do you reckon? My bloody back’s killin’ me. I never thought bloody bottles of milk could weigh so much!”

  “Just think of the money!” I yelled after him.

  “Two bloody quid, it’s criminal. Four hours as a galley slave for two bloody quid! They can stuff it! Meatworks tomorrow!” he yelled back.

  I felt inclined to agree with him. The walk to the car afterwards felt like the last mile. Sitting on the bar stool with a beer, Barry was still shaking his head. “Stuff that, mate. I’ll look at a bottle of milk with new respect from now on.”

  We were sitting on Borthwicks’ gate early next morning. I had seen the personnel bloke. (I gave him Ed Robinson, knife hand, sixteen) and was waiting for a call. Barry got a job boning beef, but I missed out. I decided to walk to Bulimba and get the ferry to New Farm and then a tram to town. I got talking to a bloke while waiting for the ferry, and he told me he worked for the Gold Top brewery in the Valley and they took on casuals. His name was Jim and he was a fitter. I fronted up with him and he gave me a knockdown to the line foreman, who told me to hang around until seven thirty, and if any of the crew didn’t front, I would be first cab off the rank.

  In no time at all the foreman was telling me I could start on the bottle line. We walked down an alley past a conveyor belt that was taking bottles somewhere. They were clinking and banging and I wondered if any broke. We came to an area that had a big white board behind the bottles, two seats attached to the line and a big square rubbish bin behind the seats. He introduced me to June, who was about five seven, with blond hair and blue eyes. I later found out she was nineteen.

  “June, this is Ed. Show him the drum, will you?” he said and walked away.

  “This is easy, love,” said June. “Sit here. As the bottles come out of the washer they come past that screen and we look for chips, cracks, or gunk that hasn’t washed out. Just pluck the bad ones out and throw them in that bin.” She gave me a demonstration. “Easiest fiver I ever made.”

  “Fiver? As in a big blue note?” I asked, amazed.

  “Yep. Five lovely big green one-pound notes. At least, that’s what I get.”

  “Geez, this is the go,” I said, and told her about our stint at Pauls.

  June laughed and said, “They usually catch everyone
new workin’ on the fly. You don’t see many fronting their gate regular. All the old hands have it sussed out.”

  The work wasn’t hard, just boring. The bottles clinked along the conveyor and sort of mesmerised you—one minute you would be looking at the bottles, the next thing your mind would be a million miles away. I was feeling guilty, but June told me not to worry about it.

  “That’s why they put two of us on Inspection. They know what it’s like. There’s another station up the line anyway,” she told me. “Are you coming for a beer at lunch time? They’ve got a good canteen here and you can get a decent meal for five bob. They look after their staff well here.”

  Four o’clock found me waiting for a tram, pretty happy with myself—a fiver in my kick, a couple of beers under the belt, and the best looking sheila in Brisbane coming to pick me up at about seven. I met Barry at the Boundary, and when he asked me how I was going I told him. I wouldn’t be dead for quids. “Tonight I’m gunna rage.”

  Scrubbed, polished and in my bag of fruit, I was ready and waiting when June pulled up at seven. She looked truly sensational in a skirt of blue, with a green top and white shoes and handbag. The skirt was a bit suss for those days, being about an inch above the knee. She said she liked them that way—they showed off her legs. And she had the legs to show off.

  Walking up the street with her on my arm, I felt every other bloke in Brisbane could eat his heart out. We went to Momma Luigi’s in the Valley for pizza, then up to Cloud-land where I walked happily over her feet all night. I had never danced in a place like this before—it was a bit different to country dances. We were on cloud nine. She told me she was nineteen and I said I was too. I was getting older every week without having birthdays, but I didn’t want her to think I was a silly kid. Anyway, four years was not much.

  Barry and Marge from the Boundary were getting on pretty well and suggested that we should all get a flat together. I thought it was a terrific idea. We’d be able to come and go as we liked and have friends around. I told June about it before work the next day, as I was waiting for a pick-up. She was a real fan for the idea and suggested that the four of us go out to dinner that night and talk it over. The outcome was that we would rent a house.

  So the next Saturday morning, armed with the Courier-Mail and jammed into Barry’s car, we went house-hunting. We looked at dozens, but none were right. Then at about three o’clock, just before Marge had to get back to work, we found it, in New Farm, a lovely old Queenslander down by the park, with its back veranda overlooking the river. It had a veranda all around, with the kitchen and bedroom doors opening on to it. We went straight back to the real estate agent, and paid the deposit and got the key. We retired to the Boundary for a beer and to make plans for shifting our gear the next day.

  It didn’t take much to shift our gear—about ten minutes to pack and we were on our way. Marge gave us a bit of a surprise. She had a four-year-old son called Danny and he was a top little bloke. She said she didn’t tell us sooner because she didn’t know how Barry would take it, and she thought June and I would think she was a harlot. We told her that was bullshit. It was a hard road for single mothers in the fifties and sixties. Barry took it well. Danny won him as soon as they looked at each other.

  It was a happy house and the babysitting worked out fine. With June and I both casual workers and Marge working broken shifts at the pub, there was always someone home with Danny. Barry had been put on for the season and June got a job with Marge at the Bulimba pub, just a ferry ride across the river from home. I was still working on the fly and preferred it that way, as I still had one eye over my shoulder. I used to leave with Barry at six each morning and do the gate from six to seven, and then still make the gate at the brewery. I was getting two or three days a week from each and earning twenty-five to thirty quid a week, so I wasn’t moaning. June had an FX Holden and was teaching me to drive.

  I was thinking the other day at work, how fast the time had gone. We had had a happy Christmas and the smile on Danny’s face said it all. But it was strange to think other kids my age were going to school and when I met one we had nothing in common. To me they were just silly kids.

  This driving was harder than it looked and it took me a while to get ready to take the test. The girls reckoned I shouldn’t be sprung upon a defenceless public anyway. But a car was the answer. Barry said that when I got my licence I could use the A40 and drop him off at work in the mornings. I could then hit the meatworks, the Stanley Street drydocks, the Cool Stores, the canneries. With wheels I could get around the lot.

  I came on the Cool Stores by accident. I was walking back to Bulimba from the abbattoirs one morning and noticed trucks going in and out of this gate with freezer containers. I wandered in for a look and got four days work loading boxes of beef. At fifty-six pounds a box it was no work for the faint-hearted. Loading the top four rows of the container really made your knees buckle. But the money was unreal. I could make fifteen quid a day and be on my way home by two or three o’clock, depending on how fast we filled a container. We got seven pound ten each container, and Clinton, one of the permanent loaders, and I could do two in seven hours, if we only had a ten-minute break for lunch. We worked well as a team, and if they were short he would ask Jeff, the loading foreman, to pick me up. They were often short, as the work was heavy and hard and not a lot would stick to it.

  Jeff offered me a permanent job, but I told him I preferred working casually. I explained the situation at home and our babysitting arrangements and he said he understood, but I would have to take my chances on the gate. Sometimes if one of the girls were home I would front Pauls’ afternoon shift as well, and because I used to work instead of hiding in the toilet Mike, the landing foreman, would always pick me first. The beef-loading had made me fit and tough so the milk was easy now. I didn’t enjoy it, but a quid was a quid and my bankbook was nudging the thousand quid mark, so I was going alright.

  I got a day on the knife with Barry on the beef chain at Borthwicks and two of the boys in the boning room were big wild characters—I’ll call them Clarry and Ben to protect their families. They had been doing all this Japanese stuff, like Judo, Karate and other assorted ways of ripping people’s arms off. Well, they had decided on a boy’s night out and wanted Barry and I to go with them. We were a bit iffy, as we knew only too well that they would blue at the drop of a hat and they were well out of our class.

  “What do you reckon?” Barry asked me at morning smoko.

  “I dunno. Depends what they want to do,” I said. They were good mates, but mad buggers with no respect for any kind of authority.

  “They reckon we should go on this dine and dance cruise on the Brisbane River. It might not be too bad. What the hell can they get up to on a cruise?”

  So we agreed to meet them at the terminal in town by the bridge at six o’clock on Saturday night.

  “If we’re going on a cruise dining and dancing, why can’t we bring the girls?” I asked.

  “What! Christ, man, we want to enjoy ourselves, not get pulled into gear every five minutes. Nah! No way. This is just for blokes,” they said.

  Marge and June were less than impressed and both threw a mental. They knew the boys too.

  “You must be bloody mad to even entertain the idea. You know those mad buggers. I’m not coming down to the police station to bail you out of jail. Bugger you. That’s where you’ll end up with them. Even science don’t want their heads. You go, you’re heading for a bloody great fall, you mark my words,” raged June.

  Barry was getting heaps of the same. I could hear Marge ripping into him in the front room, but the more they flew up us the more we were determined to go. So Saturday night, dressed in our bags of fruit and spiffed up and looking deadly, we met the boys. They had got the tickets so we fronted aboard, found ourselves a table and the boys monstered this waiter bloke for four bottles of beer. A fair crowd came on as we sat and had the drink, among them a Rugby League team, all built like Tarzan’s cousi
ns. They were pretty rowdy and having a great time. The tables were cleared back to the walls and a band started playing. Barry and Ben found a couple of girls to dance with, and Barry and I just watched.

  Ben came back to the table with a big grin. “Hey, that sheila fancies me,” he reckoned. We looked in the direction he indicated and sure enough she was smiling at him and tipping the wink. The only trouble was she was sitting with King Kong and his family, who sussed her giving Ben the eye. There were about twenty of them in their mob, and they all had fists like 44 gallon drums and they weren’t shy either.

  The boyfriend got up and came over to our table, and whacked it straight on Ben. “You tryin’ to crack on to my sheila, you little worm?”

  Ben didn’t say a word. He just stood up and smacked him straight in the kisser and he went down and out like a shot cow. Now that would have been alright, if bloody Clarry hadn’t got up and kicked him in the head. That started the dance. King Kong’s footy team got all warlike and started in our direction.

  “Christ, mate. If you get out of this, promise you’ll visit me in hospital!” Barry said.

  I was more than worried. Ben and Clarry were having great fun, biffing blokes left and right. I got lifted out of the seat by a giant. He did it with one hand and he was even too far away for me to get a lick in. His free hand landed full in the middle of my face with such force that I shot backwards straight over the side into the river.

  The water was freezing and the suit didn’t help. It seemed to take half my life to swim to the Bulimba ferry-landing by the cannery, where I shivered for about half an hour before the tram came along. I could have walked home, but I had had it. I got on the tram and gave the conductor a limp, wet, ten-bob note. “One section, please.”

  He gave me my ticket and nine and ninepence change, plus a funny look, but he said nothing.

  “Fell getting off the ferry,” I told him.