Down a Country Lane. Gary Blinco
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our wild frightened-animal eyes. As he gazed at us I thought I saw his look change to one of sympathy and resolve.
‘Now Norm’, he said firmly, as he climbed into the car. ‘If you won’t send them to Tummaville School, and I know its four miles.’ He eyed Dad closely. ‘Then you must enrol them in the correspondence school. I’ll wait two weeks before I make out a report. This will give you both time to get them enrolled, in which case no prosecution will be actioned, understand?’ Dad and Mum simply nodded. I was amazed. Nobody ever spoke to Dad like that, but he just nodded and accepted the censure in the man’s voice. As the car drove off Dad lit a cigarette and spat angrily on the ground. ‘Your bloody sister I’ll bet’, he roared, turning on my mother. ‘That’s who dobbed us in, the bloody interfering old bitch.’
‘Now, now love, we don’t know that, he never said who it was.’ Mum soothed, rubbing his back in an effort to calm him down. ‘And anyway, the man’s right. They really should start school of some sort, let’s try the correspondence thing he talked about. We don’t need to get them all dolled up for that and it will get the government off our back.’ She was thinking no doubt of our lack of money to pay for school clothes and books. ‘And him a bloody returned man, an ex-army officer he said.’ Dad sneered, ignoring her comment. ‘Pity some Jap hadn’t lopped his bloody head off.’
He went to the shed and collected his fishing rod, dug a handful of worms from the worm-bed and tramped off to the creek, his straight back the final word on the subject for now. He often did this when he was upset. The amazing thing was that not one kid followed. The word ‘school’ had us all frozen in our tracks and not even fishing with Dad could break the spell. The thought of having our happy and simple lives cluttered up with going to school was painful to consider.
Trevor vowed that he would ‘piss orf into the scrub’ should he be thus sentenced, and the rest of us were inclined to join him. When we queried my mother on the prospects of school she gave us her stock answer, used whenever she was uncertain of something or did not want us to know the truth. ‘We’ll see’, she said. We did soon enough.
CHAPTER SIX
Only a Mum with a weary frame,
Always willing and always game;
To take on a task two times her size
And reap resentment as her prize.
For in those days when we were young,
We each did wrong, and each one hung
A wrinkle on her brow.
Only a Mum and she understood,
Said, ‘it’s all a part of motherhood’
To do for her own the best she could,
And see them on their way.
Gary Blinco
Soon after the visit by the man from the education department Trevor and Gay began school at Tummaville. The school was about four miles from the farm and they walked or rode ancient bicycles across the big bridge and up Crane’s Lane. They were most unhappy about it, but as they had both attended school for a while when we lived in town they settled down fairly quickly.
It was legal to leave school at age fourteen in those days and Trevor must have been getting close to that. As we sat at the supper table Trevor softened his earlier resolve to go bush and compromised. ‘I’ll be out of bloody school the day I turn fourteen’, he growled. Dad looked at him and grunted. ‘You’ll stay until I say you can leave young fella.’ But we all knew Trevor was right.
Dad did not think much of school for some reason, perhaps because his own education had been limited, and he took little interest in our learning apart from what he taught us about farming and various practical things. ‘This is real useful training’, he would say as he tutored us on some aspect of farming. ‘Something that will help you survive in the real world.’ I could see his point, but I also wondered if his perception of the real world was somehow flawed – if it was the real world that he was trying to avoid.
I was always keen to find out what my older siblings had learned at school, I could feel a great gap in my mind that yearned to be filled with knowledge and experience. Gay usually obliged with a quick review of what she had covered during the day. To me school sounded pretty good and I wondered when it would be my turn to go. With my constant questioning of Gay and my nagging Mum about school, I must have become a pest at times, particularly for my mother who faced demanding choices every day. Send me to school where I should be, preparing for my future, or keep me home so I could help my father. One choice was long term; the other had to do with our immediate survival so it became a no-contest.
In the end, for some conveniently rationalised reason I was deemed too young to start school, although I must have been about seven or eight years old by then. But Dad had other ideas. He felt I was better employed on the farm and school could wait until I had learned something useful and paid my way for a while.
The school issue meant a removal of Gay and Trevor from the available labour force for most of the time. As a result my time to work had really arrived. I was now regarded as old enough to work and soon had a long list of daily jobs to perform. We always kept a few fowls and Dad had built a small run for them where they roosted at night and hopefully, laid a few eggs. I loved the chooks, they all appeared to have a different personality, and of course each of us kids adopted one or two chooks as a pet. We were not allowed to take them out of the run, but agreement was reached as to who actually owned each chook.
Eggs produced from ones own chook became a status symbol and the produce would be identified at the meal table. The cry of ‘George’s chook laid that egg’, caused me to swell with pride in my adopted bird when its offerings were thus identified. Eggs became a welcome addition to the garden vegetables and camp pie that had previously been our diet. When a recalcitrant chook failed to produce an egg just one day too often Mum sentenced her to the cooking pot. Mum did not carry out the sentence herself; one of the older kids took the role of executioner. We captured the sorry creature from the run amid much squawking for mercy and clouds of feathers.
Chooks are not very bright, but when we arrived at the pen with the axe they seemed to know what was happening. What they did not know was whose time had come, and I do not think they had a very high regard for the fairness of our justice system. An innocent fowl stood to suffer termination if we inadvertently caught the wrong chook.
The chooks screeched and clucked for mercy until what we hoped was the right one had been selected. Then, selfish creatures that chooks are, they lost interest and got back to their chook business. Dad said the threat would keep them on their toes, but I do not think they saw it that way. The condemned bird loudly protested its innocence, with no support from its peers, until it was taken to the wood heap. There its sorry head was laid on the chopping block and, to my amazement; it stretched out its neck and closed its eyes as if to say. ‘Ok, let’s get this over with.’
The axe arched down uncertainly and an instant spurt of crimson blood signalled the demise of the creature as the lifeless head fell away. The child holding the chook took fright and released the body, bringing squeals of delight as the headless chook dashed around the yard. Mum emerged angrily from the house to cuff the ears of any kid she could catch. Not that she felt any compassion for the chook; she was more concerned about the mess from the blood trails and any damage to the chook that was destined to be our supper.
This behaviour seemed cruel to me and I cried at this first execution, somehow remembering the old dog, Pluto. My sympathy was always with the fowl that had laboured to serve us for so long. Seeing my tears Mum counselled me on the subject and I soon learned where we were situated in the food chain. The introduction of the chooks to our meal table extended our diet somewhat. I think we sometimes felt deprived in the food stakes compared to some of our town dwelling relatives or the more affluent farmers who were our neighbours. On reflection our diet of fresh vegetables, eggs, chicken and the occasional fish from the creek provided a healthy menu by any standards.