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
