Chapter Two
Changing Seasons
My beautiful natural world of trees, colourful birds, native fauna and wide-open spaces changed abruptly to the constraints of traffic lights, concrete buildings and plate glass. The new school I attended was an all-boys senior school in a leafy eastern suburb of the city. The uninviting buildings of the school sat on large, sloping grounds, quietly shielded from prying eyes by a variety of well-established trees and tightly trimmed hedges. There was a strange blend of architecture, with massive old ivy clad buildings sharing their Edwardian elegance with gaudy, poorly constructed barracks, distributed on strange angles throughout the grounds. A huge Norfolk pine tree stood guard at the old administrative building and was designated a meeting spot for us boys when we needed to catch up. The teachers would also use the spot for impromptu gatherings and announcements during the week.
This ancient tree was close to the pine tree John Struik, the school bully, clambered up as the whole school hunted him down like a weasel after he abused one of the small boys who had just joined the school. John's predicament was the result of an incredible social experiment where every single boy in the school took justice into his own hands and searched for him during their lunch break. We knew he hadn't left the school grounds, as all the exits were guarded and we were about to give up scouring the area when someone shouted, “Struik's up a tree.” John soon found himself surrounded by the whole school baying for blood at the base of the old pine tree. There was no interference or influence from any teachers, just justice delivered from the whole mass of students who found John's behaviour totally unacceptable. John sheepishly worked his way down the large tree to the ground. He wasn't physically harmed, but succumbed to the desire of all the boys to modify his behaviour and became a gentle little lamb for the rest of the year.
It came as no surprise that the teachers at this school were as violent as the previous school. In fact, they were even more sadistic, I found myself punched, kicked, hit in the head with fists and books. I was slapped, beaten with sticks, dragged by the hair, and had a chair kicked from under me. All I had to do to invoke the teacher's rage was smile. “Wipe that smile off your face.” was the last thing I would hear before the full force of an adult hand would send my head spinning.
Our South African physics teacher, Mr Butler would rant, “I'll beat you to within an inch of your life and I'm not a good judge of measurement.” He wasn't joking; he flailed into us boys with unabridged delight and there were very few boys in his class that escaped a flogging during the year. He would use the most trivial excuse to lunge at some hapless boy and drag him to the pit of pain. The embarrassment of touching our toes or bending over a desk in front of the class as he administered six or more blows from his rattan cane to our rear was extreme. Some adolescent boys broke into uncontrollable sobbing when beaten, but most of us didn't and I'm sure that increased the ferocity of his punishment.
It was a hideous experience, bending submissively in front of a classroom of adolescent boys, knowing every set of eyes in the room were studying your face for a grimace of pain as the sadistic teacher flailed into your flesh with a supple stick and unrestrained savagery. Getting 'the cuts' was a badge of honour worn by nearly every boy in the school. The teachers placed an insane level of importance on the lessons they taught, which in reality had little to do with life as an adult beyond the school environment.
I had endless detention and lines of ludicrous gibberish to write as punishment. The physical assaults and verbal vilification from the teachers was not limited to me; it extended to nearly every pupil in one form or another. I was boarding with my older, married sister and after school, I would return to a house in turmoil. There were arguments, tears, outrageous accusations, beatings and terrified, sobbing children. My sister sought solace from a fridge, overflowing with casks of mind numbing white wine.
Despite the persistent trauma, my grades in school were above average, I was popular with the other boys and I made some great friends. I would go to their houses after school and on weekends and hang out doing the things young adolescent boys do. We spent hours exploring the suburbs and surrounding foothills on our pushbikes, as well as frequent visits to the local cinemas and shops. The bikes were our ticket to the freedom we craved and we would pedal enormous distances in our quest for adventure.
It didn't take long before a few boys discovered we could avoid going to school for the day and we soon found ourselves in the heart of the city exploring, instead of lining up for our daily dose of derogation. Provided we missed school irregularly, we were able to enjoy ourselves undetected. It was exhilarating to escape the regimented drudgery of school and we would spend hours doing exactly what we wanted to do, with total freedom. All we had to do was arrive at school, be present for our first lesson and roll call, then slip out of school before we had to change classrooms for the second lesson of the day. There were plenty of concealed exits in hedges and fences around the school that made escape safe and easy. Once we were clear of the school grounds, it was simple to catch a bus into the city using some of our lunch money for the fare. Sometimes I would go alone and the experience was no less exciting.
There were so many wonders hidden in the malls and alleyways. The bright lights, the glittering products, the polished interiors of the shops, gleaming marble floors, the enticing scent of exotic food. Small sparrows dodging the constant tide of restaurant clientele, plump pigeons deftly pecking at crumbs, the sounds of leather shoes clacking and scuffing over the pavement, the military gait of the businessmen and women as they hurriedly marched to their appointments tightly clutching their cases and documents, beautifully scented women in their colourful dresses and high heeled shoes. The constant tide of busy people, rushing to and from large cement edifices – it was all very amazing, exciting and dangerous. People seemed so pre-occupied with their busy schedules; they never looked twice at a small boy wandering the shops and streets alone.
Back in school, the teachers were so disinterested in their pupils they didn't notice or care there were students missing from their classes and we were able to repeat our adventures several times during the year without detection. We found a sympathetic teacher who would let us use his classroom during the day to do our mountainous pile of homework and lines of writing as punishment. This form of punishment was bizarre and we found ourselves writing 100 lines or more on specially ruled paper saying 'I must not behave badly in Mr Ayers English class.” The teacher who let us use his vacant room had a free period during the week and a few of us would use this time to skip 'physical education' and free up our evenings for some adventure by doing our homework at school. Girls were less of a mystery and a lot of our time was devoted to them.
School was pleasantly broken with end of term holidays and I would find my way back to our distant farm. It was euphoric to see my parents, escape the sadistic, soul squeezing madness of the school system and my mother would spoil me with special food treats from her amazing oven. I never mentioned the abuse from the teachers and life during those breaks was ecstatic. It was a chance to catch up with my friends from the country, exchange news, have fun and enjoy unbridled freedom. We had horses, bikes, pre-war cars and many thousands of acres of forests and plains to explore. I would return to the familiar rolling hill near our farmhouse and gaze over the expanse below me. The Casuarina trees hugging the hill, would sigh wistfully as the wind brushed through their needle like foliage, the small Whipstick Mallee trees shivered in response to the breeze and the ancient Yakka bushes defiantly clung to their patches of deep red soil, their long, curved spines waving rhythmically as the wind danced playfully around them.
Depending on the season, the countryside would appear lush green during winter and early spring, or dry and golden brown during summer. As winter increased its grip, I would see the low areas of pasture disappear under clear pools of water. Towards the end of winter, the pools would join in vast lakes of shallow water, trapped between distant hillocks that ran parallel to each other and the coastline. These low hills were the remnants of ancient shorelines that had retreated as the sea levels changed over the millennia.
The shallow fresh water covering the plains was the place to find fat, transparent tadpoles, native crustaceans and other strange, slimy water borne creatures to bring home and add to an ever-growing collection of insects and animals. Splashing through the cold, clear water in rubber boots, hunting for strange water life hiding under submerged clover plants with their supply of clinging air bubbles, was a winter ritual for most of the local children.
After the chill of winter, the brief spring season allowed the whole area to burst into a reproductive frenzy, with plants and trees cloaking themselves in colourful, strongly scented blossoms. Millions of flowers, ranging from bright yellow to pale blue coated the ground in an artistic matte of bee attracting colour. The larger trees responded to the increasing warmth with their display of nectar dripping flowers that attracted parrots, ‘honey eater’ birds and a multitude of sweet-toothed insects.
As the weather warmed, our house became a bee magnet and it stood like a white, bee attracting beacon in a sea of green. Any bee worth his pinch of salt could find our house, in some ways it resembled a giant hive, shining brightly in the warm spring sunlight, just crying out for bees to land on it. Stepping outside our house usually meant taking evasive measures as bees jetted by on their way to the smorgasbord of flowers just a stone's throw away. As small children, we soon learnt that bees were incredibly bad tempered and our soft childish skin offered no resistance to their fiery venom delivered from their painful barbed stings. As the spring flowers multiplied, so too did the bees and it wasn't long before the wailing from our painful bee encounters shattered the peace and quiet of the countryside.
We never taunted the bees, we did our absolute best to keep away from them, but it didn't work. They seemed to lie in wait for us and when we least expected it; their diabolical stings would send us screaming back into the safety of the house. Occasionally they would terrify us even further, by swarming into the wall cavities of our house, leaving us with sleepless nights as they buzzed only a short distance from our heads. My father responded with a variety of lotions and potions applied to the exterior of the house where the bees were entering and within a few days, the swarm would leave. There would be peace for a few weeks before the next swarm would find a new way into the wall space. Eventually the entry points were plugged and our childhood games continued in peace.
Towards the end of spring one-year, we were horrified to discover a seething mass of bees hanging from a tree branch just a few steps from our back door. There was the central core of faithful workers protecting her Royal Highness and hundreds of scout bees departing and landing in a frenzied drone of activity. We decided to leave the bees to their buzzing, knowing they would move to a more secure residence in a few days.
It was at this point our father encountered a stupidity ray. A practical and logical man, he suddenly lost sight of all reason and embarked on a plan that staggered us with its idiocy. Sick of finding ways to remove bees from the wall space, he could see that getting rid of the swarm before they set up residence in the house was a good idea. All he had to do was shift the bees from the gum tree before they attached themselves to the house. How he planned to shift them was the problem. Even as children, we knew his plan was doomed to failure and we pointed out the obvious flaws in his strategy. All to no avail and we watched in stunned silence as he started to boil a large metal container of water on the gleaming cooker.
Several minutes later, the water had boiled and my father casually strolled out the back door toward the now massive swarm of seething bees. We watched from the safety of the back room as he placed the large, steaming container under the swarm and smoothly scooped up the boiling liquid with a metal jug. With a well-aimed arc, he fired his first salvo into the heart of the swarm and immediately bent down to reload his jug. From the safety of our room, we watched in terror as a large portion of the swarm fell to the ground and then, like an atomic mushroom cloud, they billowed into the air. The noise was horrendous as thousands of furious bees searched for their attacker. They didn't have to look far; he was just below them, bending over filling his jug for the second assault.
The reprisal attack from the bees was swift and inside the swirling black mass, we could see my father clutch his pants and neck as the first wave of bees unleashed their painful poison. He let out an involuntary yelp, dropped his dipper of boiling water and scurried toward the door with the whole swarm now intent on revenge. Our hearts stopped as we watched him try to outrun the aggressive black cloud of belligerent bees behind him. Somehow, he managed to slip through the door with only a few bees attached. My mother quickly removed the remaining bees and applied some soothing lotion to the affected areas. My father never did go near a swarm of bees after that, the bees still found amazing ways to get in our house, but boiling water was never on the agenda for removing them.
The spring weather would fluctuate wildly between freezing cold and pleasantly warm and farmers would use this brief transitional season to slice their pasture grasses for hay and silage. The farmers would roll out their tractors and reciprocating mowers and slowly move through their fields in ever diminishing circles with the scent of fresh cut grass drifting for kilometres. Farmers would allow the cut grass to lie for a day and then hook up their large grass rakes and push the severed grass into long, straight windrows. The grass was left to dry and then punched into tight compact bales of hay with an assortment of bright, red coloured hay baling equipment. The window of opportunity for successful haymaking was small, as cutting the grass too soon could result in rain damage and mouldy, ruined hay. Wet baled hay produced enough heat to become combustible and several farmers around the district stood in stunned disbelief as their hay sheds burned to the ground. Cutting the grass too late, would result in nutritionally damaged hay and reduced amounts of precious winter stock fodder.
Towards the end of spring, huge brown clouds of pollen would pour from the rye grasses of the pasture and the ancient yakka bushes would thrust their thick, phallic white flower stalks into the increasingly blue sky. Song Larks flew vertically into the air, trailing their bunched legs and beautiful melodies behind them and all the birds in the area used the bountiful supply of insects, blossoms and ripening grain to hatch their chicks. Eventually, winter would release its icy grip and the area would slide chaotically into the fierce heat of summer.
Southern hemisphere summer lasted from November to March and during the middle of summer, the heat was extreme, as hot northerly winds scorched the earth with hellish regularity. Most days, the temperature would hover at 45 degrees Celsius (113 degrees Fahrenheit) and often much hotter. The incredible heat quickly evaporated the shallow lakes of water that had provided so much entertainment for the local children. The hot, desert winds from the interior deserts of Australia literally sucked the life from the pasture grasses, leaving only the muted native grasses with a tiny trace of green near their base.
Walking through the fields in summer was incredibly noisy; with the sounds of dehydrated eucalypt leaves crunching underfoot like perfectly fried potato crisps. Withered pasture grass would rustle against our shoes and small branches and desiccated bark would snap loudly as we stepped on them. Fortunately, the noisy grass gave us an early warning system when venomous snakes were slithering in our vicinity. There were no shortage of deadly snakes, as the shallow pools of water during winter and spring, provided millions of amphibians for the snakes to feast on. The warm spring and summer weather provided the perfect environment for them to hunt, breed and multiply. We found the lethal reptiles on our back doorstep, in our bathroom and kitchen, our toilet, in the garden, our sheds, our vehicles and we even had one fall through the ceiling of our shearer's quarters, close to our heads.
When we worked on the water wells scattered throughout the plains during summer, dozens of deadly ‘Tiger’ snakes greeted us as we lifted the iron well covers clear of the ground. We had to be vigilant moving any object on the ground in summer time and be especially careful when loading baled hay onto trucks, as snakes used the bales as shelter from the roasting summer sun and would athletically force their lithe bodies into the tightly packed grass.
Venomous Brown snakes became incredibly aggressive during early spring and would chase us through the forest when disturbed. Scientists scoffed at the possibility of snakes chasing people, but as children, we nearly all experienced the terror of having deadly brown snakes chase us. Fortunately, the other venomous reptiles avoided us and their keen sense of smell and other highly developed sensors made them aware of our presence long before we were aware of them and they discreetly avoided large mammals.
The view from the hill near the farmhouse would change dramatically in summer, with blobs of green from the eucalypt trees, tea-trees (Leptospermum) and yakka appearing through the endless golden brown of withered grazing land. The relentless summer sun would rage in the cloudless sky for weeks and every morning would be slightly warmer than the day before. We were literally terrified to wake up in the morning, covered in sweat and realise the rest of the day would be infinitely hotter than the roasting morning temperature. It was so hot, it seemed as though we were only six metres from the midday sun.
It was impossible to use metal tools during noonday hours; they were too hot to handle if they contacted the ground or left on the trays of trucks. To avoid the intense heat, we would start our work before dawn and then work again in the late afternoon and into the night. A forced Siesta was the only way to cope with the oppressive heat and along with thousands of blowflies; we would try to find the coolest area of the house available. The large, brown flies that feasted on the abundance of livestock dung in the fields would settle in tightly packed patches of brown clumps on the shaded exterior walls of the house and roar into vast clouds of buzzing activity if we came near them. There was always the constant drone of different species of flies and insects in the air as they sought relief from the shrivelling tongue of the sun as it licked every last drop of moisture from the land.
People soon discovered it was too dangerous to drive vehicles through the tinder dry grass at midday, as sparks from exhausts were a common cause of massive fires that ripped through thousands of acres of farmland. A careless cigarette butt, bolt of lightning, or piece of broken glass could also be responsible for the vicious bush fires that raged across the land, incinerating everything in their path. During the day, we would always check the horizon for any sign of smoke, as early detection of a fire could save enormous effort and heartache.
The dry summer heat seeped through every crevice of the farmhouse and the incredibly dry air scorched our lungs with every breath. It was like placing our head in a red-hot roasting oven and taking a deep breath. The relentless heat seemed to suck the life from us, just as it extracted the life from the grass on the plains. With no electric fans or air-conditioning, we suffered the full force of the hellish conditions and would fan our trickling sweat with hand held fans and folded papers. We used wet towels and ice from our hard working kerosene fridge to try to stop our bodies from seemingly catching fire. We swam in the cooling water of the bore water tanks used for stock water, but the cooling effect of the water was only a temporary reprieve from the furnace waiting to devour us when we finished our swim and returned to work.
As the sun finally sank into its fiery retreat, I would see the trails of red tinged dust as thirsty sheep and cattle headed for their evening drink. They would walk resolutely in single file, heads drooped, along well-worn tracks in the fields until they neared the watering points and then race the last few hundred metres to the refreshing liquid. I heard the clunks and groans of the tired old windmills as they lifted cool, brackish water from hand excavated wells to quench the thirst of the parched livestock. The morbid sounds of crows calling each other, echoed through the hills as other songbirds sought shelter from the intense heat and fell into silence.
The distant horizon would shimmer in mirage and the unrelenting summer heat was broken with occasional sea breezes and cool changes from the west. Although we were a considerable distance from the sea, we could smell the salt in the air as the cool, westerly breeze pushed its way over the scorched earth. The cool changes were welcome relief from the incredible heat, but within a few days, the sun would be blistering in the cloudless sky and baking the land in its hellish fury once more.
During the crushing evening heat, huge summer storms would roll in from the north or the east and their intensity and raw power would astound me. I would see the thunderclouds building during the day, with layers of bruising blue, black and purple convolutions spiralling into the sky. There would be the distant rumbling and soon our hills would be reverberating with the earthshaking, deep roar of celestial artillery. The storms would last for hours as they aimlessly ambled across the valleys and plains. At night, the lightening was so frequent, it turned night into day and occasionally a lightning bolt would strike so close to our cottage I could hear it rip the air, followed by a deafening explosion and blinding flash of light. In the morning, we would find a nearby tree split and crippled by the blast.
The rain from the rampant storms would leave a strong, fresh smell of revitalised earth and sweet, soaked grass. The summer rain also produced clouds of small bush flies that relentlessly tried to climb in our eyes, ears and nostrils. Like the rest of Australia, we would perform the 'Aussie Salute' as we constantly tried to brush the small black flies from our face. The backs of our shirts were black with hundreds of annoying flies as they hitched a ride around the countryside.
The summer rain was an opportunity for the green blowfly to lay eggs in the sheep's damp wool and the hatching maggots would find their way into the flesh of the animal causing extreme stress and ultimately an agonising, foul smelling death if left untreated. We were constantly monitoring our flocks of sheep during summer to detect early signs of 'fly strike.'
The endless summer heat would finally relinquish its grasp on the area as autumn tempered the Helios inferno. A quiet coolness swept gently over us and eventually the soaking autumn rains invited hidden seeds to coat the ground in pale green. It was soothing listening to the dreary drumming of rain on our roof at night, knowing that the seasonal rains had arrived again. For just a few magical weeks, the weather was benign with mild days, cool nights and subtle breezes. The windmills sat motionless, cattle bellowed defiantly at gathering clouds and farmers readied seed drills for another season of planting and re-birth.
Every month the full moon would quietly tiptoe over our hills like some titanic, heavenly glowing sphere, flooding the farm in soft, bright light. The moonlight was intense and it was easy to walk outdoors without the need for lamps or torches. The moonlight in the country seemed considerably brighter than moonlight seen from the city, as there were no streetlights to reduce the reflected intensity of our largest satellite. The soft moonlight poured over the bushland in all its glory and was so bright, some native birds would become confused, thinking night was day and break into song.
The white limestone roads blazed translucently in the cold, misty moonlit air and we often drove through the area without having to use car headlights. The area was far too remote for other vehicles and no police officer in his right mind would venture into the middle of nowhere on a frigid, foggy evening. Our car would slice through shallow discs of sedentary fog as it formed in low-lying areas of the swamps and the light from the full moon was sufficient for us to see for a considerable distance ahead. The bright moonlight allowed us to see kangaroos or stray animals lurking on the sides of the road and give us time to take evasive action if necessary.
Our friends from the city, who came to stay, found themselves captivated by the serene beauty of a moonlight walk and were equally amazed at the sense of tranquillity the soft light produced. We spent hours walking through bushland, drinking the cool night air and immersed in the monochrome view of the moonlit world. The ghostly shapes of smooth barked eucalypt trees would rear out of the gloom, their large solid white branches forming a vaulted, Gothic cathedral over our heads. Tree branch shadows appeared clearly stamped on the white limestone outcrops like veins on a skin of earth. The cold night air amplified the scents of the bushland and the earth was alive with the aroma of various shrubs, trees and animals. Our friends experienced a natural rhythm of sun and moon, wet and dry, birth and death, hunters and hunted, sleeping and waking that seemed very natural and reassuring.
As the moon was waning, the night sky was ablaze with millions of points of twinkling light. The longer we stayed outdoors, the more stars we could see buried in the intense blackness and through study, we became very familiar with the southern constellations that became our sky map to help us find north, south, east and west when we were in unfamiliar territory, far from our farmhouse. We were able to track Venus, the evening star and several of the other planets as they weaved their way through the cold, dark vacuum of space. The wispy faint swirl of the Milky Way was an ethereal arch that stretched above us and the number of stars it contained astounded us. The stars became our nightly companions and there was rarely a night we didn't spend time marvelling at their distant magnificence.
I had always helped my parents with chores around the house, but now I was able to help more. I could saddle a horse, muster stock, drive a tractor, plough fields, load hay, help in the sheep shearing shed and assist with animal castration. There were always plenty of jobs for an enthusiastic teenager. I learnt how to construct buildings, use hay baling equipment, build fences, manufacture farm gates, repair engines, birth animals and listen to the incredible ramblings of my brother who had left school to work with my father.
As I matured, my brother's physical abuse subsided and the psychological abuse became more refined. He was still physically stronger than I was and would force me to have simulated sex with a chair while he watched and coerce me with physical threats and blackmail to go with him while he stole cash, tools, farm equipment and wool from neighbouring farms at night. It was my job to stand watch and use our coded animal call if people approached the target area. He would drive up to a farmhouse; run his car in neutral with the engine and lights switched off, usually stopping using the handbrake in a wooded area near the farmer’s house. Under threat of death, I helped carry his cargo of stolen goods to our waiting vehicle when he finished. He too, had found the advantages of muted moonlight.
It was a sickening experience, considering he would go to extraordin