go back some time later and help himself to one or two and possibly share it with the local cop. Dad was always generous with the “hot” sheep and he never denied any callers fresh meat. He always said, ‘It does not hurt to keep in the bastard’s good books,’ meaning the local constabulary. Some could get really tough on the drovers for various reasons, in particular the young cops. Dad found them a bit too keen regarding the law. The older, longer serving cops were kinder and had empathy with the drover’s and their lot. Most drovers did not push the barrier, being aware how difficult life could be by upsetting the law, and the same applied to the Stock Inspectors.
We were travelling to a job one day and driving through Dirranbandi with the truck loaded up with six horses, kids and the usual gear carried for droving. As Dad drove along a young cop drove straight across the road in front of the truck. With much cursing Dad jammed the brakes on, the horses were stumbling in the back, trying to keep on their feet and Dad managed to stop within an inch of the driver’s door. Dad jumped out the cabin and checked that he did not hit the car and shouted to the cop, ‘What did you do that for, you stupid bastard?’
The young cop said, ‘I wanted to check your brakes.’ He spoke like it was the normal thing to do.
Just as well he was in the police car or Dad would have jobbed him, deservedly so.
Dad loved people and when he went visiting, he would drag Mum and us kids with him, except for Col being the minder of the camp. Taking us on the trip made it easier to keep an eye on us as we were mostly kept in the back of the truck and our beds were there so we were set if we went to sleep. One time we were quite a distance out of town and Dad decided he would go and visit Mr Brummel as he had heard he was not too well. We were all loaded up except for Col and off we went in the old rattly truck. It rattled because of all the stuff hanging inside – hobbles, chains and other gear that was necessary for droving.
Mum, Dad and Emmie went inside the Brummel’s house. This particular time they were having a long visit and we probably went to sleep and then woke up. We were bored so one of us decided to go to the toilet, the outside dunny behind the house. As toilets were a bit of a novelty, all four of us went: Mary, Les, Mike and I. We were climbing the fruit trees and cuddling the cat and the dog and having a great time. Eventually, when we got back around to the front of the house, the truck was gone – disaster. Were we going to cop it!
When the parents arrived back at the camp, they called for us to get out of the truck but there was no answer. Called again, no answer. They thought we were pretending to be asleep and Dad got up into the truck and realised all the beds were empty, so they had to make the long trip back to Dirranbandi and pick up a mob of sheepish, scared kids. Thankfully, we never got the flogging we thought was coming and we never did all go to the toilet at once again. I think my parents learnt a lesson too because they always checked we were in the back before driving off!
Also living in Dirranbandi was a Hawker, an Indian called George Box who had a brother in the fruit and vegetable business. They had a shop in town and also an old truck. Once a week Mr Box would fill the truck with goods from the shop and drive to surrounding districts selling his wares to station owners and drovers as he came across them.
He had boxes of fruit and vegetables, chewing gum, lollies and odds and ends such as sewing cotton, torches and other necessities. He would also barter for old wool, sheep and cattle hides that would be left to dry out hanging over fences. We loved to see Mr Box driving to meet us on the side of the road. The first thing he did was cut apples in half to share amongst us kids and then he would do business with Mum. One day as he was driving away from the camp, a box full of oranges fell off, the wooden box disintegrated and we kids ran madly behind his truck shouting, ‘Mr Box, Mr Box, a box has fallen off.’ He heard us after a screech or two and pulled up. We helped him gather the oranges and placed them in the truck. He gave us an orange each for helping him. An orange each was like winning the lottery as usually, Mum would cut an orange into quarters and share that among us.
One time we were left in the camp while Dad and Mum went to town to socialise and look for work. Col had a brain wave, and we cut the dry grass into a huge pile and made an emu nest out of it. We sat in the middle and sucked on cigarettes that Col had stolen out of our parents’ supply. They were the “roll your own” kind and we all had a puff but Col and Les got right into it. When the parents got back to the camp, Les told on us all for smoking and we all got a hiding, except for him as he had told. He was a “brave boy” for dobbing, which he did on a regular basis.
Dad was a red head and Mum a brunette and though we were all born blonde, Col and I grew into brunettes while the others grew into red heads or “carrot tops” as they were often called. Les was the only one to be born a red head and he was favoured from the start. Even at a young age, he was a cruel ratbag to us “young ones”. If we complained about him pinching us, rough teasing or stealing any treat we had, he would deny it and the parents would believe him so we never had a case.
Across the river from our camp. the Aboriginals had their humpies and campsites. We could shout out to them to say hello but mostly we got insults back. It was always done in fun, the black kids having a way with words. Quite often their parents would have a go too. At the end there would be a wave and lots of laughter. If the Aboriginals were serious they could easily swim over and sort us out but they were as lonely as we were for a bit of chiacking around. If they tried to get us going when the parents were home we did not take them up on it, as much as we would have loved to. They would yell out to us, ‘You yella dogs, go on ’ave a go, go on, scared of your mummy and daddy.’ We would just walk around doing our thing, managing to ignore them. But when our parents drove out of the camp, before the dust had barely settled it was on again. We would chant back to them, ‘Sticks and stones will break our bones but names will never hurt us.’ Normally we would be in our “attitude” stance, hands on hips and poking out our tongues and a few rude hand signals.
When we went into town we were never allowed out of the truck so eventually a lot of the Aboriginal kids would come up and stand at the back of the truck for a chat. They would have a bag of hot potato chips, lollies or chewing gum and tease us by offering a piece and not handing it over. Sometimes we might barter something that was in the truck but we could never let Mum see we had taken a treat off the other kids as that would have been deserving of a swat of the hand on any part of our anatomy within reach.
In 1956 we went to a property called Trafalgar (next door to Cubbie Station, out of Dirranbandi) to pick up a mob of sheep and the station manager was Bill and Alice Holmes. We had to muster the sheep before taking them, so we spent a week or more there while the men mustered. Spending time like this on a property was always like a holiday, not having to pack and unpack every day and quite often they let us stay at the shearers’ huts so that meant we had showers also. This made a nice change to bathing in the big round tub once a week, whether we needed it or not.
The Holmes were a family of five, two daughters Shannon and Cleone and son Bryon. Emmie became very close to the family and she and Shannon were pen friends for years. Emmie and Bryon married ten years after they met, when Emmie was eighteen. Byron used to joke that when he met us we used to run around with no pants on and were really dirty, much to Emmie’s embarrassment.
Over the years we met all kinds of folk, good and bad. One particular person who was a bit different to others was Gordon and he owned a station between Dirranbandi and Nindigully. When he was younger, he had been trying to knock down a tree with a bulldozer. It would not give, so he went at it full pelt and a limb fell on top of his head and tragically this affected him badly. After he recovered, he was never quite right in the head. For example, he was sick of the perfectly good house on his property so he bulldozed that one down and had another larger house built that he thought was more suitable to his station in life.
One weekend all the station hands and Gordon went to a circus in St. George. They walked around the site admiring all the wild animals that
