Chapter Twenty-four

One morning an announcement came over the Tannoy asking for volunteers to help bring in the harvest, particularly those who had had farming experience. This, to me, seemed to offer some variety. Smithy wouldn’t be in it, stating flatly that he had been raised on a farm and he felt sure the English cockies wouldn’t be any different to their Australian counterparts.

In vain I pointed out the possibilities of (A) Romance! The Land Army girls must simply be pining for some male solace. (B) Good food. (C) Fresh fruit. Smithy stated he could get as much romance as he could cope with on the station, the food was good enough for him, and he knew whatever fruit I got I’d have to bloody-well work for.

Undaunted, I put my name down and after a few days was called in and received directions to a farm some twenty miles away. I got my train ticket, rations and leave pass and was off.

I spilled out of a slow train at a sleepy little station and looked hopefully around for my host. There wasn’t a soul in the immediate vicinity except a porter and myself. I asked directions and was advised the farm was situated on the other side of the village.

I thought, ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know I’m coming. I’ll walk.’ The walk turned out to be a two-mile effort, the day was hot and did I have a thirst by the time I located my objective.

The farm was situated beside the village and its tilled fields washed right up to the edge of the town itself, for, in the way of English villages and towns, there was no break of common land or reserves. The village ended and the farms began.

A cool little pub seemed to stand right next to the farmland itself, a handy little arrangement after a hot day in the fields.

It was just on two and closing time but the publican, a big, bluff looking man, condescended to pour me a couple of pints. I was sucking the second one down my parched throat when he asked, ‘On leave, Aussie?’

‘In a sort of way,’ I replied, ‘I’m giving farmer Giles a hand with his harvest.’1

He gave me what I could call a peculiar look. ‘Friend of yours?’, he asked.

‘Never met him before. I’m doing a few days helping with the harvest.’

He gave a non-committal grunt and gently emptied me out.

The farmhouse was a double-storied structure, cool and shaded. The farmer’s wife, a care-worn woman of perhaps fifty, welcomed me, asked me if I’d had lunch. When I said no, she set about getting me some.

Looking around the spotlessly clean kitchen, the thing that struck me most was the number of old-fashioned religious texts that adorned the walls, plus various illuminated addresses eulogising the services the farmer had given to the Ancient Order of Rechabites. He had served extended terms first as Secretary and then as President. This struck a dim chord in my memory. Must be a similar mob to the Ancient Order of Buffaloes, I decided.

Lunch over, she said, ‘Sam is down in the fields, stooking’. It was said in such a way that I gauged she didn’t really want me to go. The two pints and the lunch were amalgamating to produce a pleasant feeling of lassitude, so I felt it would be a pity to launch into my national service too soon; also I realised this woman was starved of someone to talk to.

Around 4.30 the farmer came in for tea. A tall, angular, stringy type who shook hands with me as though he had other things on his mind. Tea over, he said, ‘You can help Alf, stook barley till supper.’

We found Alf in a field, busily tossing stooks of barley on a single horse-drawn cart. He was the picture of the English yokel – buck teeth, round face, protruding eyes. He wasn’t as silly as he looked, however, as, after introductions, he continued to toss stooks onto the cart. This keenness persisted till the boss was out of sight, when he came to a full stop. He eyed me speculatively and then, in a guarded way began to cross-examine me as to why I wanted to work on the harvest for farmers in general and Giles in particular.

He seemed to have a suspicion I must be a friend of his boss and possibly planted as a spy. When I explained I had never met his boss before and had come of my own free will to work on the farm, he scratched his head in perplexity. ‘It just don’t make sense’, he said. ‘Farmer Giles, he be a hard man, he be mean, too. ’E’d skin a louse for its hide.’

On this basis I started to help with the work. I found the stooks unusually light for their size. We proceeded for perhaps twenty minutes on an easy working basis; Alf meditating in silence on the peculiarities of Australians. Then we stopped for a blow. During the ensuing discussion I found my companion bred rabbits as a sideline and learned to my surprise that nearly all rabbits sold in England were home-bred.

The small farmers could not afford to have wild rabbits on their properties so their warrens were dug out and the occupants eliminated. Wild rabbits were generally to be found only on big estates and were protected, and anyone shooting or trapping them could be had up for poaching, a particularly heinous crime, as a fat rabbit marketed at from twelve to fifteen shillings. Allowing for exchange, this was the pre-war price of an Australian sheep in many districts!

Rabbit-breeding, it appeared, had its problems and anxious moments, as only the previous night he had sat up till the wee small hours helping one of his favourite does in her labours.

The thought of someone sitting up ministering to a rabbit in the family way really made me laugh. Noting Alf’s lack of appreciation at my merriment I hastened to explain that in the western districts of New South Wales, where I had once worked as a jackeroo, I had seen the ground moving with these pests during a rabbit plague as, by some mysterious motivation, they moved east.

I explained how we made wire netting tunnels to let the water-crazed creatures into the wire-netted dams by night and next day, four or five men armed with clubs had killed as many as two thousand trapped animals in the morning. I told of trails of poisoned bran spread across the country and how they died in their hundreds of thousands.

I’m sure Alf thought I was pulling his leg with tall Australian stories. Still, the time passed pleasantly, the only sour note being when the farmer returned and rolled an unappreciative eye at the half-loaded cart.

He must have decided we were a badly-matched pair, for he remarked on the way back to the farm that I would be working with his Land Army girls in the morning. This seemed a step in the right direction, as I had heard their frolicsome laughter in the distance, but anticipation is a wonderful thing, otherwise there wouldn’t be half the marriages performed.

Even though I was up at dawn, I found to my surprise when I came down that everyone had breakfasted and departed for the fields. This put me at a slight disadvantage for I had to make my approach under the concentrated gaze of his three helpers. It would be unchivalrous to say what I felt when we met. Giles introduced us and they greeted me with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Apparently I didn’t come up to their expectations either. Bertha, the oldest and largest, topped my five foot eight and a half inches by a good three inches. She was broad of shoulder and beam and weighed, at a conservative estimate, between twelve and thirteen stone. She eyed me speculatively and declared in a disappointed, rasping voice; ‘But I thought all Australians were tall!’

Lizzie, her team-mate, tall, stringy and with the most muscular arms I’ve ever seen on any woman, grunted agreement. Peggy, the youngest, seemed a little more feminine, but as she also topped me by a good two inches, I could see I cut no ice in her eyes either.

They were, in fact, the toughest trio of amazons I’d ever met.

I was teamed with Peggy. Our job was to load a high-sided wagon with wheat sheaves. It didn’t take me long to find loading barley was child’s play to tossing these heavily-grained stooks that weighed anything from forty to fifty pounds.

It wasn’t so bad in the early stages when the load was low, but as it rose, so did the energy and sweat required to hoist the wretched things up.

My amazonian companion tossed them indefatigably and gracefully but, as the morning wore on and my energy wore out, I began to understand, in its bitterest and fullest, the old saying about the straw and the camel. By mid-day I had the biggest crop of blisters in England.

After lunch it was agreed the girls (if so feminine a term could be applied to them) should attend to the building of the stack. I was appointed teamer, which I found meant that I had to toss the sheaves down to my fellow workers. I thought anything for a change from this back-breaking loading. It sounded a nice, light unskilled job, not requiring any intelligence. I however, started off with both wrong feet, for the first sheaf seemed by some mysterious means to be wired to the truck. While I was wrestling manfully with it, Bertha rasped scornfully, ‘Get off bleedin’ end of it, dolt.’

After ten minutes of heated and slow progress, it was unanimously agreed I should be middleman and the redoubtable Bertha took my place.

In my new post I found myself placed below the truck as the first receiver, the idea being that as the sheaves came down I should deftly toss them back to the others behind me who would build the stack.

I took my place and the next moment felt the whole truck must have collapsed on me, for I was inundated with fully eight sheaves in as many seconds. After being dug out and shifted back on again, I found the cause of my sudden eclipse. Bertha’s method was a species of non-stop assault. The sheaves rained down like leaves before a southerly. Lizzie, now promoted to receiver, tossed them back with rapidity. By tea time I had been dug out a half-dozen times, and now had the biggest crop of blisters this side of the equator.

Those girls really dug me into the ground that day. I’d known hard work in my time. During the Depression I had cut ironbark sleepers, swung a banjo in a road gang under a notoriously tough ganger, cut scrub for a hungry station owner at a price that meant twelve hours solid work a day if you were able to make tucker, but all these faded into insignificance beside this work.

Giles worked harder than any of his hirelings. He was all over the place like a blue-arsed fly, stooking here, directing there, helping with the stack. He was a bloody marvel for his age and did the work of three men.

I always had some pride in my athletic prowess and it was probably this and ingrained male abhorrence of bowing to female superiority that kept me going. By 6 o’clock I’d had it and was wondering how the hell I could bow out with some shreds of male pride.

Fate came to my aid in an unexpected manner for, when staggering to the edge of the stack on rubbery legs to get down, I stood on what I thought was firm and somersaulted the twelve feet to earth with a bone-shaking thud. The amazons, I discovered, had a wonderful sense of humour, which found its fullest and most raucous expression at my predicament.

As I lay half-stunned, I thought ‘The bastards!’, then I made the discovery. I had a right shoulder, a relic of football days, which under some physical strain was liable to come out. On the football field my team-mates jolted it back into place and, except for a few moments of pain, I could continue with the game.

Giles was standing at the bottom of the stack as I hit the ground. The act I put on would have won me an Oscar. Luckily no-one knew the swift cure to my problem, so it took ten minutes to get it back into place. The excruciating pain I bore nobly with the odd, deep-throated groan. The shoulder back in place, I pronounced the arm as completely unserviceable, and requiring immediate hot foments. The farmer suggested a hot shower might fix it, and after that I could possibly apply myself to something not requiring a right arm. I smartly countered this by stating the pain was so excruciating I doubted if I could apply myself to anything.

On my way back to the farmhouse, a plan was already forming. I thought this bludger would find work for me if I had a broken back. I’ve got to get out of this place.

Back at the farmhouse his wife accepted my tale sympathetically. That shower was the most enjoyable I’ve ever experienced as I luxuriated my aching body under it for a prolonged period.

Safely in my room I dressed and then sat down. It would naturally take someone with a disabled wing a long time to dress. Through the day I had built up a prodigious thirst that neither water nor tea could assuage, but the plan had to come first.

Downstairs I explained to my hostess I was taking a walk to the village, which might help to relax my torn muscles. It was nearly seven, which meant I had two and a half hours to supper. I found the Post Office and put a personal call through to the sergeants’ mess for Smithy. His peals of laughter when I explained I wanted him to call Giles’ number as Adjutant and request my immediate recall, could be heard ten yards from the box. With some effort I got him to agree and explained I’d be back by 9 pm. My plaintive explanation that I’d had a bastard of a time only brought renewed merriment. I left the phone somewhat soured. It was the second time that day I had run into a misplaced sense of humour.

The pub was open when I came back. There was a woman in the bar and I’ll never forget the delight of those first two pints. At the end of my fourth, I was still as thirsty as ever. I felt as though I had swallowed a block of rock salt.

At the end of the sixth, or perhaps it was the seventh, the publican walked in. He goggled at me. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’, he asked. ‘I thought you were helping Giles with the harvest.’

‘I was,’ I replied, ‘but at the moment I’m trying to quench the biggest thirst I’ve ever had.’

His voice was almost plaintive as he ordered me out of his pub. ‘I’ve had enough trouble with him,’ he said, ‘him and his damned Rechabites.’

This struck a chord. I remembered the illuminated addresses on the walls and realisation came in a flash. Rechabites2 – temperance – life member – secretary – past president – and it was then I realised the publican’s predicament. That pub virtually in his front yard must have been an affront to Giles and his labours through the years.

I said, ‘What’s the time?’

Someone said, ‘9.30.’

In that convivial atmosphere it had simply bolted. I relieved the publican of my presence in a hurry.

As I walked into the dining-room I knew I had, in Giles’ eyes, committed an unpardonable sin. The farmer was sitting stiff-backed at the head of the table. The meal was ready for carving in front of him. He looked at me and said, ‘You are late. Supper has been held up.’ Then, in more forthright tones, ‘You have been drinking.’

At that moment the ’phone rang. He answered it and said, ‘It’s your station, it’s the second time they have rung.’

I jammed the earphone right into my ear and said, ‘Yes.’ A medley of drunken shouts and laughter smote me. Smithy said, ‘Where have you been, you bludger? This is my second call.’

I said, ‘Yes, Sir, Beede speaking.’

Smithy, screaming with laughter, said, ‘Cut out the bullsh, bludger and come home.’

‘Very well, Sir,’ I replied, ‘I will catch the first available train back.’

A medley of yells and suggestions welled out of the earpiece. Someone yelled, ‘How many of those Land Girls have you done?’

‘Yes, I understand perfectly, Sir,’ I said. ‘A general recall. I’ll find out when the first train leaves in the morning.’

Mrs Giles said, ‘There’s one at 7.30 and the next at 11 o’clock.’

‘There’s a train at 7.30 am, Sir,’ I said.

‘Get stuffed!’ said Smithy.

‘Goodnight, Sir,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll be there.’

I hung up the receiver with my right arm. That’s a blue, I thought.

As I turned back to the table the farmer finished his remarks. He said, ‘I have never allowed drink or anyone who drinks to stay in this house. As you appear to be leaving in the morning, I will speak no further on the subject.’

I felt like telling him what he could do with his supper, but I was ravenous and where would I get anything to eat if I walked out at this hour, so I swallowed my pride and sat down. After grace, he sat with bowed head, probably saying a prayer for my salvation.

After I was served, both he and Bertha watched me with keen interest but one slip was enough. I started to hack into my meat with my left hand till Mrs Giles said kindly, ‘Can I cut it for you?’

It was the most embarrassing meal I have ever sat through, for apart from this remark, not a word was spoken. After the meal was over, I thought, this is a poor show, this fellow has the courage of his convictions and I’m a low heel so as I was about to depart upstairs, I said, ‘I’m sorry this set of circumstances has arisen, Mr Giles, apparently you have your opinions and I have mine, but as we appear to be poles apart in our convictions, it would be useless to discuss them.’

This might have gained me a point, but as I finished, I gave a terrific hiccough. This rather spoiled my apology and as my host made no effort to meet me, I left with my tattered dignity.

Just as I was about to scramble into bed there was a timid knock at the door. It was his wife, wringing her hands and looking fearfully over her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘he’s a just man but he’s a hard one.’

I said, ‘Don’t worry, mother. These things happen. Go to bed and forget about it’, and added, ‘Don’t forget to call me for that train.’ As she stood there I gave her a little peck on the cheek. ‘Goodnight,’ I enjoined; ‘Sleep well.’

I slept like a log and when I woke the sun was shining and the birds singing. I looked at my watch. It was ten to eight. I thought, ‘Gawd, I’ve missed the bloody train. What a pickle.’ While I was trying to gather my scattered senses, there was the same timid knock on the door. It was Mrs Giles with a tray full of breakfast.

‘You didn’t call me.’ I said accusingly.

‘The war can wait for a few hours,’ she said. ‘I did come up to waken you but you were sleeping so soundly.’

As I ate she looked out the window at the yellow fields, then still not looking at me she said, ‘Do not think unkindly of my husband. His father died a drunkard. As a child he knew poverty, hunger and want. Liquor is an obsession with him. He hates it so much he drove his only son from home.’

I knew then that she wanted to speak to someone to unburden her heart.

‘Tell me about it,’ I said.

It was the old tale of an uncompromising father, a young man of eighteen, kicking against parental restrictions.

One night, some five years before, after a football reunion, he had come home drunk and been caught by his father. The ensuing scene had been a violent one and in the morning he was gone. Somehow, by falsifying statements, he had joined the Army and been transferred to the Middle East. Caught in the war, he was still there, had been a Rat of Tobruk. His name was never mentioned in the home, and letters to the mother had to be addressed to a close friend.

I realised that was why she had not wakened me. Just for a while she wanted someone to mother and look after. When my time came to go I found she had packed me some cakes, preserved fruit and other delicacies.

She said, ‘Keep along the hedge so Sam won’t see you. I would not like to fetch him’, and then, in defence of her spouse, ‘He’s a good man, but hard.’

I thought, ‘He’s an old bastard.’

As I sneaked along the road like a pariah, I thought of the farmer and the fact I had failed him as a worker and guest. Australians would be on the outer with him forever. I thought of his wife, her sorrow and her loyal defence of her helpmate.

Across the fields, the unmusical laughter of Bertha and her mates came to my ears. I decided, ‘What the bloody hell am I worrying about harvests for? If those girls are my criterion, England should have no fear for her fields. Why should I impede them with my amateur frivolings?’