One time we had a mob of sheep on the road between Dirranbandi and St. George and it was time for fresh meat. Dad was skinning a sheep and the St. George policeman drove past in his car, did a U-turn and came back. As the cop drove his vehicle over the tough black soil and large tussocks of dry grass, Dad quickly slashed the ears of the dead sheep’s head and threw them to Gus our dog who was panting nearby. The ears had the station owner’s branding on them so that made short work of getting rid of the evidence. Dad then cut the brand off the skin and stuck it up the sheep’s backside. Dad rolled the carcass back on top of the wool and casually lit a cigarette, waiting coolly to greet the cop.
When the cop pulled up, Dad had a chat with him and asked, ‘Do you want to wait around? You can have half the sheep.’ He continued to dress the sheep but the skinning knife was a bit blunt and as he walked off to sharpen his knife, the cop asked him what he was doing. Dad told him and the cop said, ‘Here, have my pocket knife.’
Obviously, he had no idea how to skin a sheep. After the sheep was cut in half and then quarters, the cop assured Dad he could cut the chops etc. so Mum found an old sheet that was kept for wrapping the fresh meat in. Dad wrapped it up and said to the cop, ‘It’s a bit hot mate.’
The cop replied, ‘It will be cool by the time I get back to the station.’
This always tickled our fancy as we knew what the double talk meant: “hot” meat was code for stolen.
Sometime after this the policeman had his young daughter with him. We were giving her a ride on one of the ponies and she was highly delighted with this treat. The cop asked Dad if he had any strays and Dad said, ‘Yes, but we will be putting it out of the mob tonight.’ He said this to let the cop know he did not condone stray sheep in his mob.
The cop surprised him by saying, ‘Why do you want to do that?’
Dad promptly caught the offending sheep, tied its four feet up so it could not jump around and plopped it into the boot of the car and away they went. Lamb chops for dinner!
A year or so later, Dad decided that Mum should get her driver’s licence and Dad drove into Dirranbandi and pulled up opposite the police station. The cop looked up from doing his paperwork and said, ‘What can I do for you, Mick?’
‘The Missus wants to get her driver’s licence,’ Dad replied.
‘But she’s been driving for years,’ the cop said.
‘Yes, I know that but she still wants it!’
‘Where is she now?’ the cop asked.
‘Out in the truck,’ said Dad. ‘You had better take her for a test.’
All through this, Mum had been in the truck scared stiff. When she came inside, the policeman stood her up against the wall and took note of her full name, height and age. He then copied this information onto another precious piece of paper and handed it to Mum with a flourish. ‘All legal now, Mrs Kemp,’ he said.
Dad asked the cop what did he owe him and the cop replied, ‘That will cost you a sheep, one of those “hot” bastards.’
These policemen became our best friends and often received some “hot” meat. The “good” stock inspectors also received legs of lamb or whatever was available as they never failed to bring our mail and loaves of bread when they passed by.
Being such a large family, Mum and Dad never went anywhere without a loaf of bread and a tin of fig jam, a tin of cream or possibly a nob of devon to help out with any invitation to a meal. Also, it was not uncommon to be asked to come for dinner and bring your own or a portion to add to the dinner being arranged. If we had a “killer” (a sheep to be killed to be eaten) the meat would be shared. Living on the reserve we had to be careful of killing stock in the area. If a killer was needed, Dad and Col would drive a few miles out of town, send a dog to round up a sheep, and they would kill it on the spot, hide the evidence and bring the carcass back. Dad would sometimes drive out to a property where he had worked and they would sell him a sheep. Dad was very protective of his reputation and although he never appeared bothered to steal a sheep, he didn’t want to get caught doing it. Most stations, whether sheep or cattle, carried their killers in the horse paddock so they were handy to get when necessary. Station killers were always fat lambs or no older than two tooth (two years old). If the station owner denied Dad a killer, he would 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.
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