1971
There was another dance at Gelantipy that night, and I expected that everyone would go home and kill time until it started, but no, not a bit of it. Two or three more jumping events were held before the sports were called off. The horses were skidding badly, but there was no sense of urgency, just the feeling, ‘Oh well, looks like we’d better give it away.’ Even then, most people stood around outside their cars and talked on. Lochie and a few of the stockmen-types leaned against the stock-truck that had been used to bring some horses to the meeting and out came the inevitable bottle of beer. It was soon thrown down and another one opened. When the rain became too much and most of the people clustered in cars for another session of talking, these men got up into the truck. There was a water-proof tarpaulin in the back, animal-scented and dirty. Six or seven men got under this and went on with their drinking. Every now and again a hand would reach out from under the tarpaulin and grab a fresh bottle from the sodden carton. Lochie could then be heard biting off the crown seal, and the empty bottle would be dropped out the back of the truck. The slithery tarpaulin kept changing shape like some low-grade organism, taking in beer at one end and dropping empties out the other. I expected some raucous singing, or perhaps a dirty-joke session to break out in the darkness under the cover, but this was a jaundiced and erroneous idea. These men were not the type to shuck off their individuality like that. Instead, the yarning, skiting and bull-shitting went on unabated. ‘How’s old Lumper in the woodchop? He thought he had it.’ ‘How was he; singin’ out, “I got him, I got him.” Jeezus.’ ‘Never in the race.’ ‘Tell you what, if I’d brought that little pony of mine, I’da give bloody whatsisname a go in that hurdle.’ ‘By Jeez, good horse he’s got, all the same.’ This was a male brotherhood, not a reversion to a lower type; they were drawing a terrific excitement from each other that left me amazed . . .
Then it came Lochie’s turn. He climbed into the crush, squeezing his legs between the beast and the mud- and dung-splattered rails. He was still wearing Percy’s coat and had a home-made cigarette on his lips. Right from the start he was gouging the beast with his heels and roaring at it. He almost forced it to its knees. Then the gate opened and out they came. He kicked it furiously, waved his hat, survived two or three bounds, then got thrown. A ripple of laughter came from the lines of people. After all that skiting! Then, before he could get on to his feet, the beast kicked up its heels and dealt him a horrible crump on the head. There was a split second’s awful silence while the beast made off down the arena and Lochie lay still, then he got up. He staggered to his feet. With the beast away down the paddock by now, Lochie was the focus of all attention. His head moved groggily while he made a gesture of looking down, then he said, ‘Where’s me bloody cigarette?’ It was perfect, right down to the bloody. Neither a stronger nor a weaker word would have done. It was a moment when the real Lochie and the self-created legend were one. There was general relief and the ignominious ride was transcended by his perfect embodiment of the hardy-bushman type.
Hail and Farewell: An Evocation of Gippsland, Heinemann, Melbourne, 1971