The weekend after my first meeting with Ethel and Perc, at the Sunday afternoon tennis party, a fellow around my age introduced himself as Paul Williamson. He’d never been to the tennis before but told me he knew from gossip that I attended each Sunday, and he’d come just to meet and talk with me. Paul was from the third sheep property along the Limbri Road, only a little over three miles from the village, but I’d never seen him before.
Our talk was mainly about rugby. Was I a player? Was I thinking of joining a team for the upcoming season? I answered that I’d have liked to, but explained I had no car. That was no trouble to my new friend. He would pick me up on the coming Saturday morning, take me to town and help me sign up to the Tamworth Rugby Union Club. So, I now had something to look forward to.
The busy week passed quickly. From my veranda camp on the Saturday, I saw Paul’s car pull up. On getting in, I was introduced to my friend’s father, George Williamson, a chap in his eighties. They were in a classic Holden ute, so we three sat side by side across the bench seat. We chatted as we drove, about an hour into Tamworth. All of us had shopping to do, so we dispersed then met up again at the Tudor Hotel in the main street. We had a drink and a quick lunch in the upstairs bar, which was to become my favourite spot in the town.
After lunch, we drove George to visit one of his married daughters, Joan, who lived in West Tamworth. There were four daughters: Joan, married in Tamworth; Margaret, married and living on a property near Rowena in the Pilliga Scrub; and two yet unmarried, Elizabeth and Barbara, who were both practising nurses.
After dropping his dad off, my new friend and I continued on to the rugby club in a side street across town. As it was registration day there were many would-be players, and the afternoon became a chatty time. Introductions were made, new friendships commenced, and old friendships fired up. I met forty or so people. They were especially approachable, enjoyable company, and I felt relaxed and hopeful that any future with this lively group could only be pleasant.
The club was to field two teams in the regional rugby competition, so it needed every one of the players who came to register that day. With fifteen a side and a couple of reserves, the club needed a representation of at least thirty-four players each Saturday. Clubs were also expected to supply some officials, especially sideline judges, for each game. Accounting for expected injuries and winter sickness, a forty-strong playing group would just about cover the necessary numbers.
The competition included some of the larger towns in the north and north-west of the state, so during the season we would travel for games at Narrabri, Armidale, Walcha, Gunnedah and Quirindi. This would give me the chance to meet numbers of convivial country folk from all these centres.
Later in the afternoon on registration day, groups of young women began to arrive at the clubhouse: the girlfriends and wives of the players. The club had a bar serviced by volunteers, although there wasn’t much drinking as many players lived out of town on farm properties and had to drive home. Socialising was the norm after training or after any game, and later I learnt that a small orchestra might be brought in for dancing. But that day the entertainment was supplied by the members present.
As is well known, rugby has lots of songs, many ribald but all fun, which all players can sing, whatever the quality of their voice. Among the group present were some who had excellent voices, and they led the singing, encouraging everyone to join in. Later in the year, I attended musical theatre produced by the Tamworth Amateur Theatrical Society to hear the good rugby club singers in quite demanding roles. Sometimes I wished I’d been located closer to the town so that I could have auditioned for a role in these productions. Singing had always been a normal and expected part of my life, and I enjoyed singing in a group, so the rugby club, that first day, was almost like coming home—lots of music, lots of songs, lots of young people enjoying themselves.
One song I heard for the first time that registration day I found bemusing. A group of guys started softly but increased the volume as they got into the song, first tapping out then stamping out the rhythm. The song concerned New England—lots of stress on that—and its seeking of separation from New South Wales. Words that came through included ‘rousing’, ‘marching’, ‘fight’, ‘battle cry’, ‘liberty’. It was a call for statehood: ‘We will raise the banner of New England.’ I thought the song humorous and satirical, and was later much surprised when others spoke to me of the serious intention of some folk to raise the standard and fight for New England, a new state. How extraordinary, I thought.
On our way back to Weabonga, George and Paul questioned me about my living arrangements and listened quietly to my responses. I held back a bit as I didn’t know how close they might be to the O’Callaghans, and I didn’t want to seem too critical of the only family who would take me in.
George asked if I’d like to spend the night and next day visiting with his family on their farm property. Through politeness I suggested I might not, hoping my response would be dismissed. It was, and so we continued through the village to their homestead, just off the Limbri Road.
It was so late when we arrived that there was only just time for me to meet Barbara. She was one of the two unmarried daughters, a qualified nurse, off work and staying at home to care for her elderly father and run the household.
My bed was comfortable, with a soft mattress and feather-stuffed quilt spread. In the morning I was shown how to light the chip heater so I could shower and shave with hot water in a fully equipped bathroom. Breakfast was served by Barbara at a table set up on a side veranda, which overlooked a small house paddock through an autumnal Virginia creeper; beyond the paddock was the Swamp Oak Creek, lined with she-oaks. We ate fresh scrambled eggs from the chooks that scratched around in the adjoining field, with lots of toast and pats of butter from the Jersey cow giving us the eye and occasionally mooing through the fence. Marmalade and blackberry jam were on offer, made last season by our hostess.
After we’d eaten, while we enjoyed our second or third cup of tea, Paul said the family had something to propose for my consideration. I didn’t really know what to expect.
George said, ‘Peter, we’ve been thinking, and we’d like to suggest you come and live with us here for the remainder of your stay in Weabonga.’
I couldn’t restrain myself. ‘Yes, yes! Of course. How wonderful of you to offer. Of course. I’d be over the moon. How marvellous.’ But I then backtracked, ‘Are you all sure? Do you all want that? It would be wonderful for me but I don’t want to put you out in any way. Are you certain?’
Paul said, ‘No worries, we all agree. We wouldn’t have made the offer if it wasn’t genuinely meant. We’d be very happy for you to live here.’
Barbara added, ‘We discussed it while you were showering, and it’s a unanimous decision. Please come to live here with us.’ I confirmed my acceptance and thanked them as wholeheartedly as I had ever given thanks in my life. The stars, from whatever friendly galaxy, had again truly shone their light on me that morning.
Later in the day, Paul drove me back to the village to gather my things, give my thanks and say goodbye to my landlords. These farewells weren’t easy, and I didn’t want them to feel I was rejecting them. Of course I was doing just that, and there was really no way to soften my message.
I didn’t blame Lawrie and Jill. After a while I’d come to understand more about and empathise with their difficult, rather hand-to-mouth existence. I’d grown to appreciate the fact they had taken me in at all. Jill, in particular, had tried to do what she could to make my life easier—it was just that she had so little with which to work. The family ate much the same as I did, and I felt a concern for them. Lawrie took whatever work he could, but it was obvious most of his employment was with his dad, and many of his siblings had to be supported from the one income the family’s small property might derive. How significant my monthly cheque had been to the household finances couldn’t be hidden.
I’d also come to appreciate that the O’Callaghans desperately wanted their boys to receive an education. Without their accommodation there would have been no school, and I would never have come to Weabonga.
Packing was easy and quick: I just had to shut the lid of my suitcase and take off.
Patricia was very relieved for me when I told her of my changed circumstances in our next phone call. She’d also recently established better, longer-term accommodation by moving into a South Yarra share flat with two young women, both of them likeable and reliable, and they’d all settled in well.
Patricia told me that one flatmate’s job gave her access to food supplies meant for TV production crews, and she would sometimes bring home leftovers to share.
‘Dining on two Sargents pies each isn’t sophisticated but saves us money and work. We might have a glass of white and pretend and have a good laugh.’
Yes, I thought, when you’re young you just have to make do.