Читать книгу Dare to Dream - Peter Cliff - Страница 8

It was Easter 1954. We could hardly contain ourselves as the car made its way out of the suburbs onto the South Gippsland Highway toward Wonthaggi. Skirting around Western Port Bay, we passed the fishing village of Tooradin, crossed the drains of Koo Wee Rup and went on to Grantville. We searched intently for the 63 mile post that would mark our turn to the east, away from Corinella. Mum’s stifled tears were the only dampener but we had little sympathy for her. Our childish self interest prevailed.

To my inexperienced eye, this was heaven. The country was unbelievably beautiful. The house was perched a few hundred feet above the Bass flats overlooking Western Port Bay with both Phillip Island and French Island clearly visible in the distance. Behind the house, and rising very steeply was a large hill while over the road was another, if anything even steeper. Alarm bells would have rung a distinct warning to any adult with experience of farming but Mum’s wail on entering the house was the only detractor from our awe. Her premonition of doom was compounded by the rudimentary weatherboard house that consisted of three bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and two living rooms. Only one room was lined with unpainted three-ply cladding. The rest sported at least one wall where bare noggins served as shelves.

In the kitchen was a traditional wood stove. The water supply was provided by two 1000 gallon tanks beside the kitchen, another on the bathroom, and a smaller one with a tap outside. To her credit, Mum’s tears stopped and she was soon directing the furniture to its chosen position. Bruce and I were more interested in the dairy and the old shed in a grove of oak trees that served as the hay shed, workshop, and storage for the heavy horse harness we found. I was instantly addicted to the sights and smells.

The inventory of the farm included 25 cows, one bull, two draft horses, a black kelpie dog called Prince, a two-furrow hillside disk plough, a six by four foot horse drawn sled and a rusted unusable horse drawn mower. Electricity was connected to the house but there was none to the dairy or the shedding. The simple bush timber dairy had six wooden head bails and a three unit ‘Eclipse’ milking machine driven by a vertical 3HP petrol Bamford engine. Hot water was provided by an old wood fired copper in the wash room. Only part of the yard was concrete – the rest was mud.

Only our extreme naivety could have allowed the optimism Bruce and I felt. God only knows what Stan was feeling. Mum somehow managed to put the house into working order. Stan seemed bewildered and uncertain where to start or what to do. For some time he made no attempt to milk the cows. I had just turned 13, Bruce was 11, Ross was 4 and Pamela 2. Naturally, our efforts would seem inept to an experienced farmer. By default, I got the milking machine going and with little difficulty solved the problems of milking. Mum had made it clear from the outset she was not going to work on the farm – she would be fully occupied with the children and maintaining the home.

The most immediate and vexatious of our tasks, apart from milking, was to maintain a supply of cut wood for the house and the dairy. To obtain sufficient wood it was necessary to drag fallen trees and limbs off the farm to a site near the house where it could be cut up with a hand saw and axe. To do this I would need the horses. Taking two bridles, I set out to catch the two draught horses quietly grazing in the paddock above the house. The previous owner had told us their names were Tess and Jess.

This was the beginning of my love of working farm horses. Luckily for me these horses were used to working hard and did not waste energy. They would stand where you put them and would work together when driven properly. I put their collars on, then the metal hames. By tying a short rope between their bridles and long reins to the outside of the bridles, they could be driven as a pair. I was able to drive them forward into place between the chain traces laid out in front of the wooden sledge. Once the traces were attached to the hooks on the hames we are ready to go. With a gentle flick of the reins and a click of the tongue we were off, gliding softly and silently across the grass behind the two gentle giants

Our daily routine evolved from necessity. I would get up before 6 a.m. to bring the cows in for milking. To begin, it was a task I really enjoyed. The first job was to light a fire under the copper in the dairy, our only source of hot water. We had arrived in autumn so at that early hour the hills were enshrouded with mist while the flats were invisible in the fog until later in the morning. The hills were so steep the cows would drift to the gullies out of the wind or lie down among the tussocks and bracken ferns that covered a great deal of the farm. The gentle breeze coming from the ocean in the south west was laced with the moist earth smell. I was truly enchanted as I strode along looking for the cows hiding either in the ferns somewhere on the hill or in the sheltered valley behind the Glen Forbes store. It was mystical and eerie to come across them quietly chewing their cud and exhaling their pungent breath in the mist of this beautiful place. It seemed a shame to disturb them. The sight of Prince with me would cause them to stand. Then, like most mammals after a nap, they would perform a luxurious stretch followed by a dump and a pee. Once yarded, I let six cows into the bails and tied a leg rope on each before washing their mud-encrusted udders.

The next step was starting the engine which meant filling the fuel tank, then closing the choke before swinging the crank handle as fast as possible. With luck and repetition, it was notoriously obstinate, it started. Put the plug in to the vacuum pump, assemble the milk releaser and arrange the washed-out milk cans under the cooler to catch the milk. During the milking it was necessary to keep checking the filling of the milk cans and to change them when full. On completion of the milking, the full cans were taken to the milk stand on the roadside. A full can contained 120lb of milk so the effort required was considerable for a thirteen year old boy.

Tying leg ropes could be a hazardous business. Our ropes were usually made from plaited baling twine and were fixed to the post against the cows inside leg. The free end was picked up, brought to the side where the operator stood close into the cow using his leg to move the cows leg back before leaning down and placing a half hitch on the cow’s leg above the hock. Simple enough if the cow is cooperative, but difficult if the cow is kicking with intent and perhaps having a crap at the same time. When annoyed or upset cows are prone to crap and pee obsessively with no regard for your person.

Toward the end of milking, Bruce would appear and take over. He would wash the machines and clean the dairy while I changed and had breakfast in time to catch the school bus at ten past eight. Bruce attended the local state school so he had a little more time before walking about a mile down the disused road that passed through the property. The Watson sisters, Pam and Mary, from their farm further up the old road, would appear on their old pony Whisky and perhaps accompany Bruce if he was on time. The girls rode behind each other in all weathers sitting on a folded chaff bag. A regular amusing sight arose when they had to pass through the old slip rail gate across the old road below our dairy. Whisky, for unknown reasons, would lie down and refuse to get up again until, with much vocal encouragement and some rib kicking by the girls, he was persuaded to resume the walk. I was a little apprehensive about going to the Wonthaggi Technical School because I didn’t know if the bus would stop as I stood by the side of the road, but it did, thus becoming the first of my many journeys to Wonthaggi. It was a drive through country unsurpassed for beauty at all times of year. The rolling hills gradually descending from the high to the low as they neared the sea. The ocean can be seen from Kilcunda to Wilson’s Promontory from different vantage points along the road. Every day it was different because the colours changed with the weather, seasons and farming practices. I quickly learned the names of every farmer on the 14 mile ride and took an intense interest in every change each farm made. This was the best part of going to school as far as I was concerned.

On my first day my teacher was attempting to teach us a song ‘Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes’ which he sang with a high, thin, reedy voice. I thought it was impossibly funny and began to take him off. He caught me – and he was furious. All the kids were laughing. I received two cuts in my first hour at the Wonthaggi Technical School. My previous schooling at Footscray had taught me many bad habits and exposed me to tricks he said were not going to be tolerated in Wonthaggi. In retrospect, I was a disturbed and rebellious boy. I saw no point in being there - I was needed at home.

There was a steady rhythm to running the farm and it could have been pleasant had we’d had some adult help. Stan was preoccupied with inconsequential things like pulling out the boobyalla trees that formed a wind break behind the house. Although they had grown to about 30 feet high and provided useful shelter to the house, Stan was determined to pull them out. He tied a rope around the branches about seven feet from the ground and attached the other end to the tow bar of the Wolsley. After starting the car, he would take off until the limit of the rope was reached and the boobyalla tree was bent like a fishing rod. This lifted the rear wheels of the car off the ground before springing back. Stan was beside himself with fury. He repeated the exercise over and over, eventually realising he had to take smaller pieces. We all kept clear because the task somehow become personal. Stan was determined to remove these trees. The vision I have of him going off his head is excruciatingly funny; a crazy ridiculous farce. The car suffered badly from this and other similar forms of abuse.

Stan began working for the Bass Shire so he left at 7 a.m. and returned after 6 p.m. Consequently, there was not a lot of time left to work on the farm. However, his attempts to milk cows on the weekend were short lived because the cows, accustomed by now to a gentle approach, were totally uncooperative for a man who yelled and used force as if their irritability was a personal matter. He could be merciless, on occasion thrashing them with the back of the shovel. As the excrement in the shed grew steadily deeper, the threats escalated until the ordeal was over. Perhaps it was a deliberate ploy, an excuse not to milk cows. In any case, for some time he rarely returned to the shed. Even Prince would run under the house and refuse to come out when Stan called him. Prince, we realised, was an impeccable judge of character. ‘Prince you bastard, come here, you fucking mongrel, come here! I swear I’ll shoot the bastard.’ His voice topped 100 decibels, his eyes wide and his body shaking with rage while the veins in his neck pulsed madly and spittle hurled from his mouth. No one spoke. Prince wisely crouched under the house, eyes just visible in the gloom. He wouldn’t budge. Stan would swing around looking for someone else to direct his anger at before loudly threatening to shoot the ‘useless fucking dog’ that would not work.

It was the same script he used when speaking to me. When he turned on you, as he did without warning, his face would be contorted by the full force of his rage and you got the hell out of there. Sometimes, he would simply throw a tool or whatever was at hand. I recall seeing him throw a claw hammer at Ross in this way. Stan had long established his prowess at throwing things but Bruce and I were nimble and luckily dodged many a missile.

Tensions in the home were reaching new heights. Stan’s wages were inadequate to meet the loans and the cost of living. We were now accumulating a large debt with the local store.

Ron and Ivy Yann owned the Glen Forbes store, the focal point of the community. They delivered the mail, manned the telephone exchange, sold petrol and provided a full grocery service almost all on credit. At night the store was a meeting place for the exchange of gossip and where many practical jokes had their origin. It was the nerve centre of Glen Forbes for both Ivy and Ron extended not only credit and good will, but provided an organisational function that held this tight knit community together. Of course, running the manual exchange made them a party to all the local drama.

The sense of community was unbelievably strong. In a short time even Mum began to appreciate the support and generosity of these people. She quickly became involved with the other mothers whose kids attended the school and also joined the Country Women’s Association (CWA). Mum began supplementing income by providing a hairdressing service to the ladies of the district. This furthered her sense of involvement in local affairs and the contact was essential to her because we only had the one car and Stan drove it to work each day.

Stan was increasingly violent. The frequency and volume of abuse to mum and me was increasing. We were without witnesses because our closest neighbour was at least 500 metres away on the flat land below. As his loss of control over the farm increased, Stan’s need to blame others escalated. Mum was blamed because we were in debt. I was blamed for everything else.

In June the cows started calving. When a calf was removed from the cow we had to feed it in addition to milking the mother. Gradually the milking herd grew in size, but one cow died of milk fever because we were unprepared. Experienced dairy farmers keep a supply of calcium solutions on hand and an injection kit for milk fever so that when a cow has the symptoms, the injection can be given promptly. Delay or failure to treat the animal can quickly lead to death. At that time we were ignorant of the problem and had nothing to treat the animal with.

Calves too died, some simply too weak to survive while others developed scours, or diarrhea exacerbated by infection. Poor Bruce had the job of feeding the calves but with no sheds, adult guidance on procedure or experience, progressively, most died. Stan became incandescent with rage over that and of course, it was our fault. Bruce’s teacher even informed Mum that when the children in his class were asked to write about their hobbies, Bruce wrote a pathetic tale titled ‘My Hobby Is Killing Calves’. Although we laughed, in fact it was a serious reflection of Bruce’s feeling of helplessness. He was only 11. It is no joke to be feeding calves in sometimes bitterly cold wet conditions without a raincoat, shelter, hot water, a clean environment, experience, electrolytes or antibacterial drugs.

That summer we assisted a neighbor, Cecil Eden, to harvest his hay. We were remunerated with hay for our farm but not before we had learned a great deal about harvesting. Stan lent our draft horse to pull the hay sweep while I was given the task of removing and stacking the bales as they came out of the stationary baler. Cecil forked the hay into the baler while his father Bill threaded the wire and tied the knots as the bales progressed through the bale chamber. On a hot day the dust created envelopes everything, which can be hell for those with allergies.

From our first day on the farm, my father, who had previously been a hard worker, became strangely more distant and lazy, perhaps confused and unable to cope with the practicalities of the farm. Outwardly, he maintained the façade of a friendly caring man in charge of his affairs and one who knew all that was needed to be a successful farmer. The reality was he alone had bought the farm and arranged the finances but had denied Mum any knowledge of what he had done. The bills arrived but were left unpaid. By the end of the first year we owed the Glen Forbes store more than £500. This was a huge debt, with little prospect of us paying it, and it was not our only one.

Although I was thirteen and helped by Bruce, I was running the farm by default. Without cash or the opportunity to shop elsewhere, we lived on the meat, groceries and produce delivered and supplied on credit. Mum and I seemed to be the only ones concerned about the increasing debt and inability to pay. I was concerned and ashamed because the milking and running of the farm had become my responsibility and I could see no prospect of improvement.

Dairy farm income was seasonal. It rose gradually from nothing during autumn to a maximum during spring and early summer before declining again. Our facilities were inadequate and worn out, the fences were poor to nonexistent and we had few tools. Stan had no idea of how to farm. In short, the farm was unviable – and remains so to this day. Our poverty was visible: we were unable to replace leaking rubber boots, there were no torches and our largely secondhand clothing was inappropriate for the work required.

My asthma attacks become more frequent and debilitating and were only alleviated by taking a large dose of pseudoephedrine, a bitter white substance that caused my heart to pound furiously but miraculously relieved the breathing. The asthma caused me to wheeze loudly and I struggled for breath for long periods which were painful, exhausting and frightening. The worry for the family, the insoluble debts, the abuse, the violence and the recurring practical problems of the farm were making me deeply unhappy. According to my father, it was my fault.

By this time, Stan was coming home from work after drinking but generally not drunk. He would find cause to accuse either Mum or me of insurrection, first with outrageous abuse and vile language and then invite me to fight him. The familiar routine began with berating me and then turning on mum who would attempt to defend me, or conversely mum and then me. By then Stan would be in an irrational frenzy and punch her with his fists so I would attack him until we would somehow wrestle our way out of the house into the yard and make our escape. I became so concerned about my role in all this I began planning to run away. The little children were terrified by the fighting and would stand helplessly pleading for Stan to stop. Mum was beside herself. It seemed to me it would be better for all if I were to leave. I was almost 14 and I thought I would get a job somewhere, anywhere.