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.
CHAPTER 4
RUNAWAY
One Sunday night I packed a small bag before going to bed. At about three in the morning I rose and left the house. It was a cold, still night with a little cloud cover. There was just enough moonlight to allow a view of the road when my eyes adjusted to the dark. I walked down the familiar gravel road to the store, crossed the wooden bridge over the Bass River, past the butter factory beyond which the road wound for about three miles through the dense undeveloped bush to the highway. The only noise was the scrunch of my footsteps on the loose gravel road and the occasional thump of a wallaby crossing the road or moving in the scrub. On reaching the highway I began trying to hitch a ride from one of the few vehicles at that hour. Eventually, a large truck stopped. The driver was on his way to Melbourne. He seemed amused when I said I was looking for work but he agreed to drop me off in the city. I intended to catch a train to distant relatives, the Johnsons who lived in Pascoe Vale, I had been there a number of times and knew the way well enough.
There was great consternation on my arrival, especially since the Johnsons had no idea of my coming. They were getting ready to go to work but anxiously changed their plans and began to question me. They said I could stay for a few days but persuaded me they had to let my parents know where I was since I had left without notice. My mother and father set out that day and arrived relieved and embarrassed about my intrusion into the relative’s lives. The aunt and uncle, I am sure, had a suspicion things were not right in our family. Now Stan was concerned. He apologised and promised to be better if I came home. They needed me, and besides, I was not old enough to leave home.
Things did improve for a while. I found a little time to go fishing with local boys like Colin Turton and Allan Watson. We fished for eels in the Bass River and caught heaps. It was huge fun. We also caught minnows in the creek but it takes a lot to make a meal of them. This was valuable time with the neighborhood boys who took the opportunity to teach me the local folk lore. I was less enthusiastic over Colin’s idea of fun, shaking the tee-trees along the railway line until the possums pissed themselves.
As hay time approached I arranged with a neighbor to borrow his horse drawn mower – he had graduated to a new tractor and mower. I began cutting the hay one hot day when my uncle Bill was due to arrive. By late morning the horses were tiring so I stopped mowing and began to remove the horses from the mower with the intention of watering them and allowing them graze for a couple of hours. As I was doing so, Stan and Uncle Bill approached. Stan must have temporarily forgotten the presence of Bill because he immediately took a swipe at me and began a tirade of abuse. According to him, I had knocked off too early. He was furious. He snatched the reins from me and put the horses back into the mower. They refused to move. Stan, oblivious of Bill, and now in a terrible rage, began to berate me and the horses for being such ‘useless fucking bastards’ and thrashing them mercilessly with the reins and a stick he picked up. Bill was horrified and called out, ‘That’s enough,’ and, ‘I’m going home.’ Stan stopped as if struck. He had a dazed look of embarrassment and threw the reins on the ground before returning to the house with Bill. He had forgotten himself in the presence of a witness, a rare miscalculation.
The New Year of 1955 saw us all back to school, including Ross for his first year. Mum noticed something was not right with Ross. She felt he was unable to see or walk normally. A local doctor thought he had worms but she persisted. Something was not right. She returned to the Queen Victoria Hospital and consulted Dr Kate Campbell who immediately diagnosed a brain tumour from symptoms visible in Ross’s eye. He was promptly admitted to Prince Henry’s Hospital where Mr Curtis spoke with us in the foyer. By chance, I was with my mother that day and I can recall Mr Curtis telling us he held little hope for Ross’s survival but he would do his best to save him. Miraculously, Ross survived the heroic surgery. Mum stayed with her mother and stepfather at their home in Newport and travelled by train every day to and from Newport to Prince Henry’s Hospital. She was also pregnant with a new baby due in October. I
