Читать книгу Dare to Dream - Peter Cliff - Страница 11

The advertisement in the local paper caught my eye, ‘Motorbike in good order, £25’. My father prohibited it but by now what he thought was of no concern. A phone call later and I found myself walking out to the highway and hitch hiking to Bass. Ironically, Ernie Moore, the owner, was living in the oldest home in the district, built of bricks made by prisoners when the British settled near Corinella at the turn of the previous century. The bike appeared old as well but I thought it was beautiful. It was a green Arial, girder forks at the front, huge fish tail exhaust and a 500cc single cylinder side valve engine. I fumbled for the £25. It was mine – love at first sight.

After a brief lesson on where the gears were and, more importantly, how to start it, I rode home. One day soon after, I rode into Wonthaggi feeling pretty smart about my new found freedom. On arrival, I backed the bike into the steep gutter in front of Coles Store. After a short strut about the street, I returned and set the spark which was manually controlled. I gave it the best kick over I could because it was notoriously difficult to start. ‘BANG’ - there was a huge explosion and the bloody thing fell on top of me. A number of men ran to my aid and lifted the bike up. After a second try, I at last got going. The visit was not the success I had imagined.

We rode without helmets or even gloves. They were luxuries to be bought when we had the money. A number of other friends, including Roger, acquired motorbikes as well. In our spare time we roared around the district having many falls but miraculously escaped serious injury.

My relationship with my father during this time was strange. Although he continued to rant and abuse me, I was working and financially independent and was untroubled by what he thought. My concern was for Mum and the children. I did what I could to assist on the farm, even helping financially in addition to the board I paid. I came and went with complete indifference to Stan. I was independent.

One day Stan attacked me as I was kneeling on the ground while attempting to repair a small rotary hoe. A neighbour, Dick, witnessed the whole event. As I was crouched down over the machine and talking to Dick, Stan walked up, abusing me for the hoe being out of order and at the same time swinging a huge uppercut. I looked up to see the fist descending on me and instinctively swung a punch of my own as I stood up. It caught Stan right on the chin and knocked him out. I was as shocked as he was. He took some time to recover and while doing so Dick announced he was going home, predicting even greater trouble. On recovery, Stan became more circumspect and confined himself to verbal abuse and threats. Incidentally, I had not broken the rotary hoe.

In time, Bruce became the object of Stan’s wrath, but Bruce had matured and was also able to defend himself. Previously, he had not experienced the verbal and physical abuse I received. Nevertheless, Stan continued to hold us responsible for the misfortunes of the farm.

We had lost a number of cows through death and culling so more were needed to raise the farm income. Stan managed to procure a loan from his uncle, Horace Greenroyd, to buy more cows. Horace was married to Edna, Anne Cliff’s sister. They were childless and well off. Horace had been a successful builder before emigrating from the UK in about 1948. The additional cows brought the herd up to 35 head, which for a time did increase the income, but not enough to relieve the ever growing debt. Sometime later Horace asked Stan to account for what he had done with the money he had loaned. Finding the explanation implausible and ridiculous, Horace insisted on repayment immediately. After that, Stan was disinherited. The financial details of the farm, or what Stan had done, were never revealed to my mother.

Ross and Pam were now going to school and had many friends. A degree of normality crept into our lives. Bruce was doing most of the milking, assisted by Ross. I decided, on advice from an experienced farming neighbour, Frank Watson, I should plough the fern covered paddock in the gorge and plant it to millet as a supplementary summer crop. The land in its present condition was unusable because the old woody bracken ferns were a mass five feet high and blocking all light to the soil below. The paddock was also littered with the remnants of stumps from its tree clad past. This was an opportunity to recover about four acres of land and provide additional much needed summer feed for the cows since our hills dried out quickly at Christmas time because they were exposed to the prevailing winds of the south west.

During the early autumn, I harnessed the horses into the two furrow reversible disc plough that had sat idle under a tree and began turning the soil. At first it was difficult. The horses would lunge, first one and then the other, in an attempt to pull the load, which was great to begin with because the discs were rusty. After some time, and many false starts we became a team and were able to move off as one. The experience of ploughing that paddock became one of my most enduring pleasant memories.

I walked behind the horses in the deep furrow across the steep slope to reduce the load. The only sound was the gentle footfall of the horses and the muffled tearing sound of the soil as it fell away from the polished discs. At each end I swung the lever attached to the discs to return in the same furrow, always throwing the sod downhill. The sour smell of the opened soil and the sweating horses combined to complete a magnificent scene accompanied by a feeling of quiet achievement.

Having almost completing the ploughing, my hopes for a millet crop were dashed when Stan refused to buy the seed. It was unbelievable. I consoled myself with the thought I had at least reduced the crop of ferns on steep virgin country into tilled ground that could now support pasture.

Our neighbours, the Dakin family, treated me almost as another son and I was there every chance I had. I was included in the different projects they were engaged in, like the growing and harvesting of maize or quarrying stone from their pit for the tracks. Sam Dakin was a powerful man who, despite his direct and intimidating presence was remarkably tolerant of the crazy stunts their son Roger and I got up to.

At 16 I discovered the Saturday night dances at Wonthaggi, about 14 miles away. To get there, a pattern developed where Roger and I rode a motorbike to another friend’s place because he had a license and a brand new 1957 blue Holden FE sedan. John Slade, nicknamed Tex, was a year or two older than we were. Laconic, tall and possessing a great sense of humor, he enjoyed our company because he had an older sister and no brothers. Before the dance we went to Tabener’s Wonthaggi pub, which was doing a roaring trade in the back rooms, despite the rules of six o’clock trading. Wally, the owner, had the best poker face in the business, totally inscrutable. He waved us in after informing us we were the guests of …: He gave a name, usually the train driver who stayed in the hotel overnight. By knowing this name and denying we ever paid for the beer, we were safe if the police flying squad dropped in. After an hour or two, when suitably relaxed, we felt ready to tackle the main event of the night, the dance in the Town Hall, or alternatively, the dance in the Fire Brigade Hall.

In the beginning, the dance in the Fire Brigade Hall was my preference because it was aptly placed, given the steamy atmosphere generated by the occasional performance of a madly attractive woman who sang ‘Oh What a Night it Was’. She gave a new meaning to the song. The simultaneous release of collective sexual tension was addictive and we craved more. But the music stopped at midnight and the rush was on, hopefully, to take the girl of our dreams home.

My mother and I started going to dances and other social events regularly happening throughout the region. There were celebrations for every important occasion, the turning on of power when electricity arrived in different localities, birthdays, balls, and sometimes, simply to raise money for amenities like tennis courts. This was the way in which all young people learned to dance and it was great fun.

The older ladies would get us up to dance and soon we were able to do any of the common old time dances as well as rock’n roll. The larger ladies would grasp me firmly to their ample bosoms and propel me around as I grasped the bones of their corsets. It was most enjoyable and in many ways these well attended social occasions provided a welcome relief from the routines and isolation of rural life and a means of meeting other people.

Speaking of girls, at the dances I had developed an attraction to Sylvia MacKay, one of four daughters of Beth and Alec on their dairy farm in Woolamai. One Sunday I thought I would take a walk down there and see if I could further the acquaintance since her parents were such friendly, well known people. Just what I thought I would achieve I’m still not sure, but one has to try. I was pleasantly pleased when her father Alec greeted me warmly and asked me to have lunch with the family. Being new to this business it was a little more than I had envisaged because it is difficult to maintain a conversation with one girl in a large family when sat at a dinner table. Needless to say, they enjoyed my discomfort.

Alec, almost in passing, asked would I mind helping him after lunch. He had a job for men only. Anxious to ingratiate myself with him and impress his daughter, I willingly agreed. After the meal, Alec and I left the house and went to his workshop. He instructed me on how to sharpen a pocket knife, first by rubbing on the course side of the oil stone, then the fine side until, when satisfied, he removed the final edge with a leather strop. To demonstrate he proceeded to show me how he could shave the hair off his arm. Then he announced where I came in.

I spent the rest of the afternoon running down piglets and holding them while he castrated them. On completion, I was covered in mud and blood and disinclined to pursue his daughter further. Had this been a warning to me or was he simply an opportunist taking advantage of male help? I have seen the different family members many times over the years since and we all enjoy a laugh about my visit, but I’m still no wiser as to Alec’s intent that day.

One event we attended regularly for quite a time was Round Dancing that a group of people from Melbourne were teaching in the hall at Grantville. We met many wonderful people in this way, among them the Barker Family. Pop and Mum Barker, as they were known to all and sundry, were stalwarts of Grantville, he being a senior supervisor with the Country Roads Board in our region, and Mum, a mother to her large family and a friend to all. Both Mum and Pop Barker became the saviours of my mother for they began to closely monitor the threats and dangers Stan was fermenting at home on the farm. About this time Stan was asked to leave the Wonthaggi Masonic Lodge, because we were told, of his history of violence to the family. The only other official recognition of his problem was the recommendation by the Department of Veteran Affairs that he see a psychiatrist. Stan openly boasted he knew the answer to questions that might propel him in that direction. The true extent of our family’s problems was soon revealed to the Barkers and they kept a close watch on Mum thereafter.

One Sunday I was asked to take Ross and Pam to Sunday school at Bass. It was something I had done a number of times before but unfortunately, while driving home after the service, we had an accident. Approaching in the other direction was a utility which tried to cross the culvert at the same time. Being too narrow for both cars we sideswiped. The Holden utility, careered off the road onto its side and the Wolsely sustained damage to the right hand side. The other driver was panicking as I helped him out of the window and although no one was hurt, he insisted on informing the police.

The local policeman, Ivan Porter, was familiar with my use of the car and motorbike although he had never caught me. He was also aware of the state of affairs at home. In due course we arrived home and Stan flew into a predicable rage. When Ivan attempted to discuss the whole issue he was amazed to hear Stan accuse me of stealing the car, because if true, it would allow Stan to claim insurance. It was Stan’s turn for a surprise when Ivan turned on him saying it was a despicable lie and although unlicensed, I had not contributed any more to the accident than the other driver. Ivan knew I had been driving for some time and went on to give Stan a thorough dressing down. Mum was shocked and refuted the lie. She never forgave Stan for what she regarded as a new low in her assessment of him. The Wolseley was repaired but was soon replaced by a Morris Oxford utility. It had a bench seat in front but served as the family vehicle thereafter, kids in the back, of course.

The Young Farmers Organisation had a simple philosophy designed to promote the three concepts of ‘Agriculture, Culture and Social’. A balanced program designed by the education department for young rural men and women. There were many clubs throughout the state, all supervised by carefully selected regional managers. I joined the Dalyston club which was part of the Western Port District Council supervised by Mr. Bob Morgan. The meetings were run according to correct meeting procedures by the elected office bearers, supported in turn by Mr. Morgan and those parents, like my mother and others, who provided adult guidance.

We had a great time running a wide range of activities including, parties, dances, annual balls, debating teams, public speaking, agricultural trials and radio broadcasts. Despite our aim to be balanced in our program, we proved far more adept with the social aspects of it. Almost everything the club organised was well attended and always concluded with a sumptuous supper provided by the parents. There were a number of other clubs in the region and our social events, like dances and the annual balls, were attended by hundreds, each club supporting the others. The opportunity to meet a wide range of people was exploited by all.

When Bill Haley hit the airways with ‘Rock Around the Clock’, it started a revolution of both sound and lifestyle. Closely followed by Buddy Holly and Elvis, this intoxicating music had an incendiary effect on the teenagers of the time. The Young Farmer dances became alive with rock’n roll which went on into the small hours. A number of parents allowed our Young Farmers Club to use their homes for parties but none were more hospitable than Mr and Mrs Stuart Hollins of Dalyston who renovated their home with open hospitality in mind. The parties we held there were amazing for they had great sound and the space to dance. Mrs Hollins did express wonder as to how so many bottles managed to be in the garden the next day. Overall they were tolerant and felt, I believe, it was better to have us, including their two sons and a daughter, under some sort of supervision than none. It was a happy time and I was grateful.

All these events were happening for the most part at night because I worked at the factory seven days a week through the flush and for much of the season. I had been 15 when I had started at the Glen Forbes factory. By now I was 16, beyond parental control. Cheese making was hard and heavy work with no distinction made between what was done by a man or a boy, it was all the same to management. I was doing a man’s work so I spent my spare time and money in pursuit of a good time to distract myself. While on the surface I was apparently happy, inwardly I craved the guidance and intervention of a stronger hand because I knew I was wasting time that might otherwise have led to a productive, stimulating career. Like my fellow workers at the factory, we were resentful of the indifference and the poor conditions but opportunities were limited due to our lack of education and in my case, the need to be financially independent.

Another mutual friend of Roger and I was Ken McKenzie. Ken was about 10 years older than us and owned a taxi he ran in the bayside suburb of Hampton. He also owned a large beautifully kept Jaguar in which he frequently turned up at many local dances because his family lived in Grantville. Between dances we would retire to the car for refreshments and, as it happened, Ken always had a boot full. His generosity seemed to know no bounds. Thus began a ritual that went on for years and only ceased when girlfriends were able to provide more compelling entertainment. Long after we had cars of our own we would take girls home and then meet at different agreed locations to party on through the night. Ken even had a PA sound system in the boot of his car. The usual six to ten of us had a great time with music while drinking.

One Sunday morning Mum came in to see me as I was recovering from such a night. She knew when I had drunk too much because I was unable to start the motorbike when I returned from Roger’s place. They lived so high on the hill I could roll from there down the gorge to our gate and leave the bike lying on the side of the road. This morning she sat on my bed in tears, ‘You will become a drunk like your Grandfather,’ she said, and then asked who I had been with. I replied, ‘I was with Ken.’ She sniffed back a tear and offered the most amazing observation, ‘Ken,’ she alleged, ‘is employed by Carlton and United to recruit new drinkers.’

In about 1957, during the slow time of autumn, Ken, Rochfort Abrahamson (known as Tex) and I drove to Queensland in the Jaguar, sleeping at night in makeshift camps on the side of the road. The holiday was an eye opener for unsophisticated country boys such as us. We called into the new development of Surfers Paradise before arriving in Brisbane. I recall the steam train we caught at Roma Street to visit the beach at Sandgate. Overall it was a wonderful, informative time and Ken bore most of the cost.

By 1958, I was entertaining all manner of different career choices but none created more angst than my attempt to join the Navy. In response to an advertisement, I applied for the position of trainee engine mechanic and was invited for assessment at the centre in Queens Road, St Kilda. I passed the physical examination and was then assessed for aptitude before finally having a psychological exam in which I was asked, ‘How do you think you will manage the discipline?’ I hesitated on this at some length, but, was finally passed and invited to sign on for nine years. I was not yet eighteen and I had to obtain parental consent. Mum refused to sign and an almighty argument ensued. She refused to sign because she felt I could do better and maintained I would never manage the nine years. My protestations were ignored and slowly the opportunity passed. Then I saw an advertisement offering the opportunity to train as a herd tester. I applied and was accepted. During my holidays, I attended the three week training program for herd testing at the Burnley Horticultural College and qualified. Ironically, the butter factory offered me a course at Werribee to train as a qualified cheese maker, but it was too late.