One gallon of milk makes about one pound of cheese. Les and I made 2500 lb of cheese a day seven days a week throughout the season. It was hot, arduous work but I enjoyed the comradeship of men working together under trying conditions. There were no facilities for tea breaks or a lunch room, no phones and almost no supervision. We knew what to do and did it. The additional task we all attended to was the firing of the large boiler which was our sole source of hot water and heat. Hot water was obtained by running cold water and injecting it with steam. The boiler was coal fired and the water feed was via a steam injector which required constant supervision to maintain water levels. Occasionally, when this was neglected or left to the less able, sheets of iron were blown off the roof creating a dangerous potential for explosion when water levels fell below the glass.
The foreman, Sam Pearson, was as pressured as the rest of us and in addition, was responsible for the maintenance as well. He lived in the adjacent factory house and was on call at all times. I was surprised to learn many years later it was Sam Pearson who informed the Masonic Lodge of Stan’s mistreatment of the family. Thank you, Sam.
It should not be imagined we were following a chosen career path. To be financially independent at 14 years old necessitated taking the best paid position available. Once committed, the lack of education meant more enterprising career choices were unavailable. There is no doubt we were exploited by the factory. We knew it – but it was all there was. We received no allowance for overtime or penalty rates. I was not happy with what I was doing. Necessity was the driving force. The comradeship between the men and the ethos of hard work and taking responsibility ensured our work was completed to a high standard. To be known as a shirker or a bludger in a closed environment was a reputation to be avoided at all cost. We had such a creature in our midst and he was detested.
I was now 15 and getting about was difficult. I was used to walking or riding my bike to work but to go anywhere else, I had either to hitch a ride or perhaps catch the train. I frequently walked to see my friend Roger Dakin over the hill behind us and he had a similar problem. One day on an excursion to Wonthaggi with my mother, we were returning home and she stopped the car as we turned into the Gorge Road at Dalyston, 9 miles from home. She said it was time for me to learn to drive. We exchanged seats and I drove home. She didn’t say a word. Apparently I was considered able to drive. From that time on I did most of the driving whenever it was required. I would take the younger children to church at Bass, join the Senior Young Farmers organisation and drive to the meetings in Dalyston.
During the next down time at the factory, we were put to work expanding the building, pouring concrete floors and laying bricks. These skills were taught to me by the Italian men who were working with us and who it seemed, had a natural aptitude for the task. I enjoyed this relationship and even learned to speak a little Italian. We had some funny arguments and exchanged much ribald abuse. It could be very loud and always involved much exaggerated arm waving.
After work, I occasionally found time to fish in the Bass River with other local boys. Our principal catch was eels. We learned to skin them by hanging them on a nail. We would soak them in fresh water to reduce the muddy taste before eating. Done well, they could be delicious.
CHAPTER 6
LIBERATION
The advertisement in the local paper caught my eye, ‘Motorbike in good order, £25’. My father prohibited it but by now what he thought was of no concern. A phone call later and I found myself walking out to the highway and hitch hiking to Bass. Ironically, Ernie Moore, the owner, was living in the oldest home in the district, built of bricks made by prisoners when the British settled near Corinella at the turn of the previous century. The bike appeared old as well but I thought it was beautiful. It was a green Arial, girder forks at the front, huge fish tail exhaust and a 500cc single cylinder side valve engine. I fumbled for the £25. It was mine – love at first sight.
After a brief lesson on where the gears were and, more importantly, how to start it, I rode home. One day soon after, I rode into Wonthaggi feeling pretty smart about my new found freedom. On arrival, I backed the bike into the steep gutter in front of Coles Store. After a short strut about the street, I returned and set the spark which was manually controlled. I gave it the best kick over I could because it was notoriously difficult to start. ‘BANG’ - there was a huge explosion and the bloody thing fell on top of me. A number of men ran to my aid and lifted the bike up. After a second try, I at last got going. The visit was not the success I had imagined.
We rode without helmets or even gloves. They were luxuries to be bought when we had the money. A number of other friends, including Roger, acquired motorbikes as well. In our spare time we roared around the district having many falls but miraculously 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