Читать книгу Dare to Dream - Peter Cliff - Страница 10

Mum reluctantly conceded the time had come for me to find work. I felt responsible for the misery because by now even the sight of me set Stan off. I applied to the Archie’s Creek Butter Factory and was offered a job in the butter room. I was assigned the position of box maker for four pounds seven shillings and sixpence a week. Mum arranged my board with a rural family over the phone. I would pay four pounds per week. Sight unseen, one Sunday shortly after the birth of my new brother Geoffrey I was driven to my new living arrangements in Blackwood Forrest about 7 miles from Archie’s Creek on the steep Loch to Wonthaggi Road.

It was mid afternoon as Mum and I drove the Wolsley over the hills to Blackwood Forest. The gravity of our circumstances weighed heavily on us. Mum was upset that I was leaving school so soon but I was relieved and excited to be starting work and free at last from my father. We arrived around four o’clock and I was introduced to an elderly couple, Bert and Pearl. I was hoping there would be some discussion as to how I would get to work the following day, but after wishing me well, Mum drove away and left me to see the bungalow I was to occupy.

It was a pleasant little room behind the house. Inside was a bed, a chair, sideboard with drawers and a one bar radiator. Bert and Pearl retired to the house and I was left to explore my surroundings and unpack my few belongings. I found the wood heap behind the bungalow and started to split some wood to fill in time before being called to dinner. I thought it would be appreciated since this was a chore everyone I knew hated.

As if by telepathy, Pearl offered me the use of her bicycle to go to work. After the meal, I pumped up the tires of the old ladies bike in readiness for the next day. Next morning, my alarm went off at 6 a.m. I had a generous breakfast and set off for work – not having ever been over the road before. The ride of about 7 miles proved exhausting because the bike had only a foot brake and no gears. The going was tough, particularly where the sand built up into thick piles on the side of the road and corners. The steepest hills I had to walk up. I arrived on time to start just before eight o’clock. My working life was about to begin.

The foreman was ‘Bluey Bayliss’, a pleasant, quietly spoken man who directed me to the ceiling space above the butter room where the boxes were made and put down a chute for use below. My task was to reconstruct both new and used cardboard boxes with staples in the bottom and then paste labels on the side before feeding them down the chute. For a change, I made wooden boxes by folding them up and nailing them together. I mention the detail of this because my loathing for the job was in a way the source of my determination to find something, anything that might possibly be more interesting. The loft was freezing when cold and stifling hot in summer. The factory’s appetite for boxes was insatiable – it was the only job on my horizon. I was told later, positions like this, where no alternative to survival exist are character building.

The Archie’s Creek Butter Factory was in a deep valley with a long steep road up the hills on either side. The nightly necessity of riding home after an arduous day was taxing me heavily. In winter it was dark before I got home and I had no light on my bike. I contemplated a change and noticed a long sign on the fence of Rupert Bethune’s pub across the road from the factory. It depicted a hen followed by three or four chickens and a rooster, under which was the caption, ‘You have to make calls to get results’. With plenty of time to reflect on this advice while riding home, I began to consider how I might improve my circumstances. Life with Bert and Pearl was to say the least, isolated. Although I was fed well and clean, I was lonely. There were no visitors and I did not use the phone at all. Apart from nightly excursions over the paddock to my friend Glen Payne’s house, there was nothing to do.

At work I had started playing cards with the other men at lunch time and my circle of contacts was growing. Among them was another lad my age, Arthur Rigby. He was a great character with an irrepressible sense of humour. He said his mother had room for a boarder. Without hesitation, I accepted.

The Rigbys lived in a small cottage in North Wonthaggi where I shared a narrow back room with Arthur and his young brother Tommy. Now, to get to work, all Arthur and I had to do was walk across a vacant block to the main road and catch the factory work truck. Arthur’s mother, Ellen was a large jovial lady with a heart of gold. His father Ralph, a coal miner was a little too fond of drink. However, Ralph was a happy and caring man who enjoyed the occasional mutton-bird for dinner. He was always kind to his family.

The talk of the time was the impending Olympic Games. Arthur’s mother decided to buy a TV on time payment. When Arthur and I arrived home from work one day, we found the front room was standing room only. It was the same every night for weeks because the neighbours crammed in to watch the Olympic Games. They even took votes to decide which channel to watch but Ellen was unconcerned. It was a happy time for me because I was well fed and cared for by this warm lady.

I was soon transferred to the Archies creek branch factory at Glen Forbes. Mum was pleased to have me back as it had been difficult for them to keep the farm going in my absence. I was assigned a bed in the narrow back room I would share with Bruce. I was independent and would come and go as I pleased. My board money was also welcome. During my absence, Bruce had stepped up to the regular milking with Ross as his assistant.

The factory at Glen Forbes had been making cheddar cheese since it was built during the Second World War. It was a convenient collection point for milk – destined for the Melbourne market. Milk was collected from farms up the Bass Valley as far as Loch, Lang Lang and Nyora. Only cream could be picked up from Phillip Island because of the 6 ton weight restriction on the old suspension bridge between the Island and San Remo. While the transition had started for the collection of bulk milk from refrigerated vats on some farms, most was still supplied in milk cans picked up by tray trucks. On arrival at the factory, the milk cans were emptied into a vat where it was weighed and sampled. It was assigned either to large collection vats for delivery to Melbourne or held for cheese and or casein production. The milk supplied had a total butter fat content of well over 4 percent, so some of it was run through a separator to standardise it to 3.8 percent. The cream taken was a bonus to the factory. At the time this was an illegal but standard practice. The cheese maker, Les Rintoule, was an energetic pleasant man to work with. He had been trained to make the new line of rindless cheese at the Dairy Research Facility at Werribee. On completion of the painting exercise, I was made his assistant.

One gallon of milk makes about one pound of cheese. Les and I made 2500 lb of cheese a day seven days a week throughout the season. It was hot, arduous work but I enjoyed the comradeship of men working together under trying conditions. There were no facilities for tea breaks or a lunch room, no phones and almost no supervision. We knew what to do and did it. The additional task we all attended to was the firing of the large boiler which was our sole source of hot water and heat. Hot water was obtained by running cold water and injecting it with steam. The boiler was coal fired and the water feed was via a steam injector which required constant supervision to maintain water levels. Occasionally, when this was neglected or left to the less able, sheets of iron were blown off the roof creating a dangerous potential for explosion when water levels fell below the glass.

The foreman, Sam Pearson, was as pressured as the rest of us and in addition, was responsible for the maintenance as well. He lived in the adjacent factory house and was on call at all times. I was surprised to learn many years later it was Sam Pearson who informed the Masonic Lodge of Stan’s mistreatment of the family. Thank you, Sam.

It should not be imagined we were following a chosen career path. To be financially independent at 14 years old necessitated taking the best paid position available. Once committed, the lack of education meant more enterprising career choices were unavailable. There is no doubt we were exploited by the factory. We knew it – but it was all there was. We received no allowance for overtime or penalty rates. I was not happy with what I was doing. Necessity was the driving force. The comradeship between the men and the ethos of hard work and taking responsibility ensured our work was completed to a high standard. To be known as a shirker or a bludger in a closed environment was a reputation to be avoided at all cost. We had such a creature in our midst and he was detested.

I was now 15 and getting about was difficult. I was used to walking or riding my bike to work but to go anywhere else, I had either to hitch a ride or perhaps catch the train. I frequently walked to see my friend Roger Dakin over the hill behind us and he had a similar problem. One day on an excursion to Wonthaggi with my mother, we were returning home and she stopped the car as we turned into the Gorge Road at Dalyston, 9 miles from home. She said it was time for me to learn to drive. We exchanged seats and I drove home. She didn’t say a word. Apparently I was considered able to drive. From that time on I did most of the driving whenever it was required. I would take the younger children to church at Bass, join the Senior Young Farmers organisation and drive to the meetings in Dalyston.

During the next down time at the factory, we were put to work expanding the building, pouring concrete floors and laying bricks. These skills were taught to me by the Italian men who were working with us and who it seemed, had a natural aptitude for the task. I enjoyed this relationship and even learned to speak a little Italian. We had some funny arguments and exchanged much ribald abuse. It could be very loud and always involved much exaggerated arm waving.

After work, I occasionally found time to fish in the Bass River with other local boys. Our principal catch was eels. We learned to skin them by hanging them on a nail. We would soak them in fresh water to reduce the muddy taste before eating. Done well, they could be delicious.