Lance left the Farm on the same day that a new boy arrived. I didn’t bother saying goodbye or swapping addresses with him. The new boy, Nick, was born in Greece and can’t speak English very well but he knows almost as much about farming as Henry. Since Nick arrived, two calves and eleven lambs have been born, including three sets of twins.
After two failed attempts to drive the truck down the road through the mud, Henry finally managed to pick up the bull to mate with some of our cows, just the ones whose milk supply was getting a bit low. Henry’s not only a farmer, driver and school caretaker – he’s a jack-of-all-trades who can do anything he sets his mind to, and the Three Sisters depend on him.
After picking up a new part for the wireless, Henry fixed it, good as new. Sister Ambrose carried the wireless into the classroom like she was making an offering to the Lord. She plugged it into the generator that sits outside on the verandah and then turned it on so we could listen to the Melbourne Cup. Phar Lap won last year and we all waited impatiently for the champion colt to do it again.
‘And they’re off in the 1931 Melbourne Cup!’ It was hard to understand what the race caller was saying most of the time – he was speaking quickly and there was lots of static. As the horses turned into the straight, running towards the finish line, Phar Lap wasn’t mentioned.
‘Where’s Phar Lap?’ I asked in disbelief.
There was more static then the race caller announced, loud and clear. ‘And Phar Lap finishes eighth.’ I was too shocked to say anything – I’d wanted Phar Lap to win so badly.
It cheered me up a little, though, to think of the money my parents must’ve won with the hot favourite losing.
Two days later, we were back in the classroom, listening to the wireless, and it wasn’t even raining. It was the first day of the Sheffield Shield match between New South Wales and Queensland. Sister Ambrose loves cricket and, like me, she’s one of Don Bradman’s biggest fans. The radio announcer took us through the highlights of the match, play by play. When Don Bradman walked out to bat, the big crowd at the Gabba stood up and cheered.
Wendell Bill had just been caught behind for a golden duck, and it was up to Bradman to put the first score on the board for New South Wales. He was facing Eddie Gilbert, an Aboriginal bowler from Queensland, and the fastest in the state.
‘Bradman easily blocked the second delivery from Gilbert,’ the radio announcer reported.
We waited expectantly for the next ball.
‘The delivery was short and clipped the top of Bradman’s cap, making him lose his balance and fall backwards.’
Sister Ambrose gasped but nobody said a word. I was sitting on the edge of my seat.
‘The fourth ball flew over Bradman’s head, straight to the keeper.’
I breathed a sigh of relief and edged closer to the wireless.
‘The fifth delivery from Gilbert was so fast that it knocked the bat right out of Bradman’s hands.’
Everyone gasped – we couldn’t believe what we were hearing. How fast must that ball have been going? I thought.
There was only one more delivery left in the over. You could’ve cut the tension in our classroom with a knife.
‘He’s out!’ said the radio announcer. ‘Bradman tried to hook the sixth delivery from Gilbert and was caught by Waterman, the wicket keeper. He’s out for a duck!’
‘He can’t be!’ I shouted, jumping to my feet. That was the second time in less than a year, I couldn’t believe it! Sister Ambrose started to cry and I almost did too. Our hero was out for a duck! It was a shock for me to realise that even the great Don Bradman has bad days and this one was worse than most. ‘He’ll come good,’ I said, with all the confidence in the world. ‘Just you wait and see.’
I got a letter back from Mum the following week and I read it while sitting under one of the flame trees eating my lunch.
Dear Joe,
I was very pleased to get your letter and to find you are well and that you are learning lots of new things. I wish I could be there to see you milking the cows and chopping wood. I’m so proud of you. The Sisters sound very kind and I’m sure that you have been learning a lot from them.
We have all been well except for your father. He had a couple of turns recently but is a lot better. The doctor says it’s his heart, and told him to take it easy and stay off the grog, which as you know is easier said than done. As soon as he was well enough, he went to see the Monsignor at St Bart’s. It didn’t go very well. I’m sorry, Joe, but you won’t be going back there next year. If your report from St Mary’s Farm School is good, you won’t have to go back there either.
I can’t wait to see you again – you’re probably as tall as your father by now. It will be a very special Christmas this year with all of us together once again.
Your loving mother
PS We’re all praying that Phar Lap loses the Melbourne Cup.
‘You little beauty! Good onya Dad!’ I said, looking up at the flame trees and the bright-red buds about to burst into flower. I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall when Dad went to see the Monsignor. I couldn’t wait to go home and find out what happened.
There was a lot of work to do on the farm before we could go home for Christmas: piles of wood to be chopped, split and stacked; charcoal to be dug up and new pits made; spring and summer veggies to be picked, and new seeds sown and seedlings planted; and all the stock checked and fire breaks made.
It was hard trying to keep the water up to the veggies and fruit trees. It had been a hot spring and early summer, with bushfires already raging and causing havoc in some parts of the country.
A gang of labourers was coming to help Henry on the farm for the six weeks we’d be away. Even the Three Sisters were going on holidays up to Manly beach in Sydney. Half their luck!
On our second-last day at the Farm, we had to scrub every inch of the cabins and shower shed, inside and out. I dragged my mattress outside to beat all the bed bugs out that had been biting me for the past six months.
We all pitched in to clean out the barn and stables, replace the hay, and then spread the old hay and manure on the veggie garden and around the fruit trees.
After lunch, Pete, Charlie and I moved all the desks out of the classroom. I took down Sister Ambrose’s charts and maps then washed the blackboard while Charlie and Pete mopped and scrubbed the floor.
Every couple of minutes, I’d call out in my best Irish accent: ‘Put a bit more elbow grease into it, boys,’ trying to sound just like Sister Agnes.
When Pete threw his scrubbing brush at me, the water fight was on. We tossed wet rags at each other, and then when I was about to throw my bucket of water at them, I slipped on the wet floor and went sliding into the wall.
‘I thought you boys were supposed to be washing the floor, not playing on it!’ Sister Agnes said, hitting her cane on the door frame. ‘I want this mess cleaned up now!’