Beckom, NSW

(Outback Towns and Pubs)

As a young kid I lived in a small town in the south-west of New South Wales called Beckom. Back then, Beckom only had a population of sixty-four. I know the exact number because whenever I had difficulty sleeping, instead of counting sheep, I’d systematically count the people in town. Of course, with so few of us, we didn’t have a library and so books were hard to access. Instead, people told their stories. Some were true to life. Some were much larger than life. Still, tragic or humorous, tall or tender, it became the craft of the storyteller to try and make their tales as entertaining as possible. And that’s how I grew up: sitting on the front step of the Beckom pub, waiting for Dad, and listening intently to those old masters, the likes of Bob O’Riley, Frank Langley, Terry Golden, Errol Foster and so forth, spin their yarns. So, I guess, my craft had its roots away back then. It’s been my passion ever since, and I’m still learning.

To pick the moment when I came to realise this is hard to pinpoint. But, in a funny sort of way, I’d say it all began during a cold winter in about the late 1950s. Our school teacher was a man called Mr Donovan and so when Mum found out that amongst his wife’s many fine qualities lurked a certified piano teacher, my fate was sealed. Week after week through black, frosted mornings I crunched my way to piano lessons — ears and fingers bitten from the savage cold — fumbling painfully for forgotten notes. Then, halfway through Lesson 10 of Practical Piano Grade 1, I was ordered to pull up my socks if I was going to play ‘God Save the Queen’ at the start of the town concert.

This was news to me.

Apparently a variety night was being organised to raise money to renovate Beckom’s leaning corrugated-iron War Memorial Hall. All acts were invited to perform and one of Goodtime Charlie’s singing mates, from his old ‘Wild West’ days, had agreed to be the star attraction. The star’s name was Rocky Rivers. Rumour had it that someone had even heard him singing over the wireless on a Saturday Night Country and Western Show. So it was to be a big occasion. So big, in fact, that even our publican, Bluey Saunders, had agreed to close the pub for the night and set up a bar in the hall to ensure maximum attendance. Mrs Donovan was to be the MC as well as play a classical piano piece, sing an opera song and organise the yet non-existent school choir.

There were fifteen of us kids attending Beckom Public School, ranging from five to fourteen years old, all of us having been weathered by life’s elements, even at our tender ages: washed by flood and rain, burnt by sun and bushfire, dried to the core by drought, frozen by frost, pitted in skin by dust and hail. But not a single one amongst us knew the first thing about the gentle art of song. Then, to make matters worse, Brownie, McCaughney and me bowed under pressure and agreed to perform the popular hit song of the day — ‘Donald, Where’s Yer Trousers’.

Six weeks isn’t a long time when even the basics have to be learned. The whole town suffered under a cloud of rehearsal fatigue. Sheep sales took a dive. The football team started its run of losses. Even the pub became a more contemplative place as men sipped on their schooners, their minds locked in silent rehearsal.

But above it all soared Mrs Donovan. She pranced and gesticulated, shouting advice and encouragement through her clattering false teeth at our retrogressive school choir. She galvanised the women of the area and had soon organised the printing and distribution of the advertising posters. She organised the cleaning, washing and decoration of the hall. She organised the mending and arrangement of the seating. She helped cook supper for the big night. Almost single-handedly she built the whole town up to fever pitch.

A certain quiet washed Beckom on the day of the concert. What wasn’t learned by now would never be learned. All us ‘entertainers’ were in the hands of the unknown, treading on virgin ground. Butterflies fluttered within our stomachs, breeding rapidly as the day gathered pace. By tea time any desire for food had been replaced by a deep hollow feeling of tense sickness.

News spread that Rocky Rivers had arrived in town and was renewing his friendship with Goodtime Charlie over in the pub. Adults and school kids alike drifted in the vicinity, hoping to catch a glimpse of that star whose voice had floated over the airwaves. There was laughter from within the pub but no one dared enter, for we knew now, from personal experience, just how temperamental some entertainers could get before a big performance.

I stepped out onto the stage, mortified with panic, and sat at the piano. The hall was packed to the hilt with over sixty expectant people. The eyes of the world seemed upon me. Mrs Donovan stepped into the footlights and hushed the throng. ‘I ask you all to be upstanding for God Save the Queen. To lead you on piano we have Bill Swampy Marsh.’

I somehow managed the opening chord, then my fingers refused to move. They dangled over the piano as strung skeletons, mesmerised by the daunting task before them — ten complete strangers to my body. Mrs Donovan began singing. The audience followed suit. Then, mid-anthem, my fingers inexplicably reared and began to first trot, then to canter over the keyboard. Two-thirds through I’d caught up with the cacophony of voices surrounding me. But, by now, my momentum was such that I galloped past them as if they were standing still, leaving them in my dust. I’d finished playing, stood up, and was heading off stage even before the audience had entered the last line.

‘And now the school choir to enchant you with Greensleeves.

I felt safer in a crowd of my own kind. United against a common foe — the audience — we stumbled on stage to take up our appointed positions. Mrs Donovan signalled our start and we carried the song off, sounding more like a lost flock of Border Leicesters than an enchanting choral group.

But we survived.

‘And to complete the school’s performance for tonight we have the Three Likely Lads with their rendition of Donald, Where’s Your Trousers.’

The instant we walked out on stage we knew it was a mistake. Dressed in mock kilts that’d been shaped from older sisters’ skirts, and with sporrans semi-fashioned from recently caught rabbits’ pelts, the wolf whistles and crude remarks echoed the tin hall. Brownie wet himself. McCaughney opened his mouth but not a word came out. So it was left to me, the veteran of ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘Greensleeves’, and I fled through the song like a chipmunk on fire before diving for the security of back stage, leaving my mates, wet and wordless, to sort out their own fates.

It was then Mum’s turn to grace the footlights. Mum’d dreamed of being a great performer all her life; reading all the entertainment magazines and singing along with the tunes on the wireless. But, unfortunately, the transition from kitchen to stage proved too difficult a hurdle for that lady of dreams, upon that icy winter’s night, and she fainted in front of a packed house.

Things started to improve after Mum was aided off stage, as each performer learned the necessary survival skills from the previous act’s mistakes. Porky Squealer gave us a grand performance of pig impersonations. From Landrace sow through to Wessex Saddleback boar he had their ‘oinking’ sounds down to perfection. Big Red Brewster stepped up and gave an unbelievable darts display whereupon, landing his first dart in the bullseye, his second and third darts lodged themselves tight beside the first. And all from a distance of five paces.

At Doctor Granger’s command, Buster, the town’s adopted dog, twice entered the audience to return on stage carrying a shoe between his teeth. The third time into the hall, Buster returned with a pair of lady’s knickers. This brought the house down and sent eyes darting in all directions in search of the owner. Bluey Saunders took time off from behind the bar to give a rousing rendition of ‘The Man from Beckom’. He’d changed the town’s name from ‘Ironbark’ which did nothing for the rhyming of the poem but the sentiment remained.

Following Bluey came Mrs Donovan. She broached the piano like she was stalking a stray wether. She sat, raised her hands ready for attack, then crashed, banged and walloped her way through a frenzied piano piece written by a German named Beethoven. She followed that up with a song from an Italian opera. No one understood the words but, still, she was given a standing ovation and we suffered through the encore, knowing that this night wouldn’t have happened but for her efforts. She deserved all our applause, and more.

Mrs McCaughney then appeared, unannounced, to perform a version of the ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’. As the women muttered their misgivings, the cheering and foot-stamping from around the bar raised such a dust storm that I remained only to dream of the nakedness I imagined behind those light, floating, coloured veils.

Amid this scene of careless profusion was helped the star of the show, Rocky Rivers. Dad propped the beer-sodden body upon a stool, guitar limply hanging in hand. Empty stool to his side. As we looked towards that derelict man — this star of wireless — our whole world stopped spinning. He lifted his head as if by winch, gazed at us as though we were miles away, somewhere over near Ariah Park. His bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets. As we waited for his first utterance you could’ve heard a feather drop. We sat, frightened, quivering at this drunken star’s mercy.

‘Wheeeeersh ssme ol’ mate ssCharlie?’

Dad rushed out the back to get Goodtime Charlie out of the dunny while Rocky Rivers struggled to get some focus on his audience. We, in turn, sat before him, mouths agape. Seconds passed like minutes until Dad and Bluey returned with Goodtime Charlie and helped him onto the vacant stool on stage. Rocky Rivers placed a loving arm around his mate and announced, ‘Shemeee ’n’ Charl’ wou’ like ter ssshing yer some sssshongs.’

Then he lifted his guitar. Started a slow strum. His mouth opened and out fell a pure velvet voice . . . ‘There’s a bridle hanging on the wall . . .’

Goodtime Charlie, as if called to heel by his mate’s voice, raised his head. His ears pricked. His eyes began to sparkle. Then he smiled and he joined in as if singing a diamond hymn. Apprehension washed from our hearts. They sang songs of horses, which brought the smell of sweated flanks to the nostrils. Songs of flood and drought. Songs torn out of blistered and bloodied hands. Songs of the raw earth being cracked by discploughs. Songs that’d erupted from deep within working-men’s souls. They sang songs of love that made the men look down at their riding boots and the women fumble for their handkerchiefs.

To this glorious sound, my leaden eyes fell into slumber. I was lifted, carried, and placed onto the back seat of our chilly car. Tightly wrapped in a blanket, I dreamed I was a singer, a storyteller, travelling the country; bringing hope to the despairing, laughter to the sad, love to the lonely. Then I dreamed that I had to play ‘God Save the Queen’ before every performance.

The Train

(Railway Stories)

I don’t know exactly how old I was when this happened, but it was at primary school. I recall our teacher standing in front of our class of five kids and announcing the news that, ‘Throughout the history of the modern world, the train has played an important part as a purveyor of free trade’. And that’s when Brownie, McCaughney and me came up with the idea.

See, we’d noticed that by the time the South West Mail reached our remote little settlement of Beckom, Pop. 64, the passengers were slumped into a deep, sedentary mental state and it was while they were in this vulnerable condition that we felt they’d more than likely be prepared to buy anything. This, we hoped, included our abundance of figs.

Just once a week that old passenger train huffed, puffed, clattered and rocked its way slowly into Beckom railway station, there to rest its tired parts for a while and take on much-needed water and coal. So it was during this respite that Brownie, McCaughney and me decided to open up trade links with the outside world. We calculated that from the first sight of smoke on the horizon to the South West Mail’s arrival at the station took about twenty to thirty minutes, depending upon the wind. And that’d give us enough time to pick a few buckets of figs and set up our little stall opposite where the passenger carriages stopped. We even painted a sign to announce our intentions. It read:

FRESH FIGS

1 PENNY A DOZEN

Now, old Tom, the widowed stationmaster, was all for it. He reckoned that our enterprise would not only help brighten up his week but our noisy arrival would also remind him that it was train day, an occasion he was apt to forget from time to time.

Anyhow, that first week of trade, all the figs sold immediately. You could see the keenness in the eyes of those weary travellers as they willingly exchanged their money for our produce. So relieved were these people from distant parts to look at a different human face for their brief time of stopover that, even after all the figs had been sold, they still crowded around us. They touched us to see if we were real and they tried to engage us in deep conversation by asking us questions like, ‘What are your names?’ and ‘What class are you in at school?’ Some even questioned us as to, ‘What the bloody hell do you do for entertainment in a place like this?’

By the next week, when that old steam train had ground to a halt in our carefully set trade trap, we’d boosted the price of the figs up to threepence per dozen. And even though there were a few muffled complaints about both the price and the quality of our produce, the lot again sold effortlessly.

Fig season soon came to its mushy end but in its place came oranges and almost-fresh ginger beer. Again, all stocks were snapped up eagerly, even at hugely inflated prices.

They say that success breeds success. And that’s true because before long I was giving a well-received, and paid for, rendition of ‘You Are My Sunshine’ with old Tom playing the gum leaf, while Brownie wrestled with three tennis balls in an act he described as ‘juggling’. Then McCaughney’s broken leg proved to be such a great attraction that long after it’d mended he still wore the plaster cast. Oh, how those poor, travel-bored souls almost tripped over themselves just to pay for the privilege of signing their names on that dirty, scrappy, bit of plaster. And McCaughney’s rendition of how the accident occurred was told so differently and graphically to each train load of people that, before long, we’d all forgotten how the leg was originally broken.

But the money kept pouring in.

Then one week the strangest thing happened. It was a still day and no smoke appeared on the horizon. Brownie jumped off the platform, put his ear to the railway track and reported that a train was definitely on its way. This we found hard to believe so we hopped down to join him and, yes, sure enough, an approaching train could be heard along the rails.

Then, echoing in the distance, there came a whistle. But somehow this whistle sounded different from the one we were used to hearing. This was more a sound of warning than of welcome. Together, we all stood at the platform’s edge, gawking out along the track. Then, from out of the shimmering mirage appeared a monster the like of which we’d never seen before. We scampered back behind our small stall and huddled there for safety as this metal monstrosity roared down upon us with all the fury of a wild storm. It completely ignored Beckom and thundered by as if we never even existed. It left us quaking in our shorts and sandals.

In search of answers we looked at old Tom. ‘Oh, that’s one of them new diesel locomotives,’ he said. ‘They don’t need no water or coal so there’s no reason for ’em to stop in a small little town like this.’ And I’m sure that I saw the tears welling in his eyes.

Turning back we witnessed the captured train carriages being dragged off, rudely, into the distance by this new diesel locomotive. Then we packed up our unsold produce and we walked home in stunned silence, amazed at just how viciously technology had severed our trading ties with the outside world.

The Haunted Cemetery

(Bush Funeral Stories)

It was quite common knowledge around town that our cemetery had a haunted ghost. Everybody knew about it and so nobody ever went into the cemetery at night for fear of what might happen to them. Anyway, there were these two old codgers. They lived next to one another in a street that was just the other side of the cemetery. Now, for years and years, every night of the week these two old codgers would meet up and they’d walk down the street, turn right at the southern end, then follow along another street that bordered the cemetery, to go on to the pub. Every night they done that, without fail.

So this night they’re in the pub. It’s the middle of winter. The weather’s terrible; it’s cold and rainy and windy, lightning and thunder, the lot. Like I said, it was a real horrible night. Anyhow, it might’ve been one of their birthdays or something because they’d really got stuck into it and they’d had quite a few more than they usually did, which would’ve been a hell of a lot to start with. Anyway, it’s getting late. It’s near closing time and the first old codger says to the second old bloke, ‘I’m done,’ he says, ‘I’m heading off home. See yer tomorra’.’

‘Okay,’ says the second feller. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll just have anotherie ’n head off home meself.’

‘See yer,’ says the first feller.

‘Not if I see yer first,’ says the second feller; you know, as a sort of joke.

So the first old feller gets outside. Like I said it’s a horrible, miserable winter’s night; rain, hail, wind, the lot. It’s as black as all black can get — that’s apart from the flashes of lightning that electrify up the sky. Anyhow, he starts to stagger off home. Down the street that borders the cemetery he goes. The wind’s lashing at him, rain and hail are biting at his face. ‘Bugger it,’ he says. ‘Not even a haunted ghost would come out on a night like this, so I’ll take a short cut through the cemetery.’

The thing is, there’s a funeral on tomorrow and they’ve already dug the grave. So this feller’s staggering through the cemetery. Next thing, down the hole he goes, straight to the bottom. Plop. So now he starts grappling at the muddy bank of the grave, trying to get out. But the sides are so slippery that he can’t get a grip, and before long he’s all worn out. ‘Bugger it,’ he says, ‘I’ve had enough. I may as well camp here in the back corner of the grave for the rest of the night ’n someone’ll get me out in the morning.’ So that’s what he does. He settles down for the night at the back end of the grave.

By now it’s closing time at the pub and so his mate’s heading home. Same as before; the wind’s lashing him, rain and hail are biting at his face. ‘Bugger it,’ he says, ‘a haunted ghost wouldn’t come out on a night like this so I’ll take a short cut through the cemetery.’

So this second feller starts staggering through the cemetery. Next thing, down the same hole he goes, straight to the muddy bottom. Splat. And now he also starts scrabbling, ripping at the side of the grave, trying to get a foothold, in an attempt to get out. And as he’s trying and trying, slipping and sliding, falling down and getting back up again, a voice comes from the back of the grave, ‘You’ll never get out of here, mate.’

Next thing — zoom — he takes off like a rocket shot out of Cape Canaveral. Straight up and out of that six-feet-deep hole he shoots, and he’s gone into the night. When he got home he locked all his doors and windows and he scrambled under his bed. And that’s where he stayed. No one saw him for a week.

Cato, NSW

(Outback Towns and Pubs)

Because my parents split up when I was young I was brought up by my grandparents. So I can only ever remember living with my grandfather and grandmother. But I never lacked for love or loving care or anything, and I just adored my grandfather. Grandfather’s name was Charlie. He wasn’t that tall but he was very stocky and, from my earliest time, I remember how, whenever any of his old mates from the bush or some relatives came down, they’d pat me on the head and say, ‘You know, Fred, your grandfather’s one of the greatest grass-fighters the back country’s ever seen?’

Grass-fighting’s different to in-the-ring-fighting in as much as, with in-the-ring-fighting, you wear boxing gloves. Grass-fighting’s the bare-knuckled fighting that happens out the back of dance halls or out the back of pubs. It’s the real fair-dinkum stuff. So it made me wonder how such a kind and gentle man, as Grandfather was, could even get involved in something like that. So much so that, in those very early days, I even thought that by ‘grass-fighting’ they meant that he’d lie down and punch hell out of the lawn or he’d roll around with a clump of saltbush or whatever because I just could not imagine him out the back of a pub having a bare-fist fight.

Anyway, I always wanted to work on the Broken Hill mine, with Grandfather. That never quite happened because he retired before I got a job there. Then, when I did, Grandfather always used to offer to drive me