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,