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    Great Australian Shearing Stories
    Great Australian Shearing Stories
    Great Australian Shearing Stories
    Ebook252 pages3 hours

    Great Australian Shearing Stories

    By Bill Marsh

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    About this ebook

    A selection of stories from shearers in South Australia, New South Wales and Queensland.In late 1999, Bill 'Swampy' Marsh began to collect shearing stories. When he was interviewed by ABC Radio broadcaster Colin Munro on SUMMER ALL OVER, dozens of people phoned in with their own tales. this book is a collection of those yarns.the world of shearing is filled with outback stations, larrikins, roustabouts, sagacious dogs and babbling brooks whose blood is worth bottling.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins Publishers Australia
    Release dateApr 1, 2011
    ISBN9780730495970
    Great Australian Shearing Stories
    Author

    Bill Marsh

    Bill ‘Swampy' Marsh is an award-winning writer/performer of stories, songs and plays. Based in Adelaide, he is best known for his successful Great Australian series of books published with ABC Books: More Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories (2007), Great Australian Railway Stories (2005), Great Australian Droving Stories (2003), Great Australian Shearing Stories (2001), and Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories (1999).

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      Book preview

      Great Australian Shearing Stories - Bill Marsh

      A Dog’s Best Friend

      As a shearer’s cook I was never in the class of the big gun-cooks of the old days, you know. That’s back when they had to make their own bread and cakes and everything like that. There was the Mitchells, the Plums, old Sam Gilbert, who was the king of them all. Then there was old Ernie Roy; ‘the old veteran’ they used to call him. And there was another feller. I just can’t think of his name right now but he was a rattling good cook, he was. He ended up owning a pie shop in Longreach after his days with the shearing was done. But he was a beauty too, I can tell you.

      Then in later years there was ‘the great master’, as I used to call him, Tommy Code; poor feller, he got killed in a bus smash coming home from Brisbane back out to Longreach. And I can’t forget me great old mate, Bud Daly, from Muttaburra. Oh, he were a beauty, he was. Though of course, the funny part of it is, and I was only saying this to the wife just the other day, all these people have now passed on. It’s a shame you know, isn’t it?

      But I can’t complain much meself because I made a pretty successful life out of being a shearer’s cook. I done a bit of cooking out in New South Wales, and I went over to Tassie. Then as soon as I came back to Queensland the Grazcos Company put me in the big sheds again. Grazcos was the big shearing contractor at that time. Very big they were. The biggest.

      Now while I was with Grazcos, most of me work was done under the great old general, Stumpy McMahon. He was a great old feller was Stumpy. A very kind and faithful sort of chap he was too; stick up for you through thick and thin he would; always willing to help out when you was in strife. Course these days, Stumpy’s amongst the missing too. Terrible thing it is, like I was saying to the wife. But they tell a story about old Stumpy, and it’ll give you some idea what sort of bloke he was.

      See, Stumpy was in Victoria one time, cooking in the shearing sheds, like. Then when he got a break he went down to Melbourne and, like most of the shearers used to do back in them days, he stayed at the Federal Hotel. Anyway, old Stumpy had this beautiful red dog, Blue, or something he might’ve called it. I can’t remember exactly. But anyway this dog was like a shadow to Stumpy. Wherever Stumpy went, that dog was right there with him. Side by side.

      So, anyway, one day there was Stumpy in the Federal Hotel in Melbourne, and he’s drinking in the bar and right there at his feet was this beautiful red dog of his, Blue or something he called it. So Stumpy’s drinking away with this dog laying at his feet when someone from the hotel, a boss of some sort or other he must’ve been, well, he came along and saw the dog. So this boss bloke from the hotel, well, he gave the dog a bit of a dig in the ribs with his shoe and said, ‘Get outside dog.’

      But when Stumpy saw what this bloke just did to his dog he said, ‘Hey feller, cut that out.’

      ‘Oh,’ said this chap, ‘dogs aren’t allowed inside the pub.’

      Now this was kind of like de-scrimination to Stumpy because Stumpy thought of his dog as being another human being. So Stumpy said, ‘Well,’ he said to the boss bloke, ‘if’n me bloody dog isn’t allowed inside the pub then I’m not neither.’

      Then Stumpy picked up his beer, right there and then, and he walked outside, and of course his dog got up and followed him. And that’s where they spent the rest of the day; Stumpy sitting on the outside step of the pub drinking and watching the traffic go by, with the dog laying there, right at his feet.

      A Family Affair

      Make of this what you will, but it might just give you some idea as to the rivalry that goes on in all these shearing sheds. It doesn’t matter who you are, family or not, the competition’s fierce. It’s like a rite of passage where you have to prove yourself. What’s more, it can be bitter at times, even cruel. But if you can handle it and not let it get to you, it’ll make a ‘real’ shearer out of you. See, that’s what spurs you on, the competition. The ring shearer, the gun, the bloke on number one stand, sets the standard for everyone else in the shed, so you take that on board and use it as a challenge.

      Now, when I was a young lad there were two types of shearers that came off Kangaroo Island, just off the South Australian coast, south of Adelaide. First you had your ‘cocky’ shearers. Now cocky shearers shore in their spare time while they still helped run the family farm with their fathers or whoever. But I must say that, as far as the cocky shearers went, there was a good deal of pocket money to be earned locally. It was the same out there on the west coast of South Australia. And the thing was, when it came to shearing, you’d go and help out the neighbour and the neighbour’s son would come back and help you. So there was never that intense rivalry between the cocky shearers because you were generally good mates to start with.

      But the second type of shearers we had were the ones who’d leave the island and go up on the northern run, up into the station country, through South Australia, New South Wales, and into Queensland. Some even went over to Western Australia. Now these blokes were far more professional. They’d latch on to a team and they’d go away and you wouldn’t see them for three to six months, maybe longer.

      So it was always known over here on KI that if you wanted to become a real fair-dinkum shearer then the best thing to do was to go away on the northern run because it straightened out your technique. And, what’s more, you did your time and you learned how to deal with the pressure of the tougher competition.

      Anyhow, this incident occurred back when I was a ‘real’ learner shearer, over here on the island. Mind you, these days I wouldn’t even classify myself as being a ‘real’ shearer, let alone a ‘real’ learner shearer because, for some strange reason, the sheep don’t seem to fit around my body like they did back then. Odd that, isn’t it? It’s strange what a few years of good living can do to you.

      Now this was in the days of the narrow blades, and it happened in one of the first sheds I worked in, just a four-stander it was. Now, being the learner, I was on number four stand. Then there was a wily old feller who’d been shearing for most of his life, he was on number three. Then there were a pair of cousins on number one and number two stands.

      Now, the cousin who was on number one had been away shearing. He’d done his time on the northern run. That’s why they gave him the ringer’s stand, because he was considered to be the better shearer, the more professional. But this didn’t go down too well with his cousin, who’d been given the number two stand. In actual fact the feller was quite shirty about it. Even though he was just a local cocky shearer, he still reckoned that he was the better of the two. And what’s more he was damn determined to prove it, once and for all.

      I suppose you know how the shearing day is divided up into four two-hour runs. The first goes from 7.30am to 9.30am, then there’s a half-hour smoko. The second run goes from 10am to midday, then there’s an hour’s lunchbreak. The next run goes from 1pm to 3pm, followed by a half-hour smoko. Then the last run of the day goes from 3.30 to 5.30, before you knock off.

      So, anyway, on the first day the cocky shearer on number two stand bored in and he shore, say, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight sheep on that first run. But at the end of the run he discovered that his cousin on number one, the ringer, did either twenty-eight or twenty-nine—one more, like. Now this only got the cousin on number two more riled up and he bored in again on the next run. Flat out he went, trying to prove that he was the faster shearer. But when they counted the tally after that second run, the cousin on number two had shorn, say, twenty-eight, and the cousin on number one had gone one better, yet again.

      See, what was going on was that the cousin, the ringer, on number one had this bloke’s measure, good and proper. He’d done his time up north and he knew what the game was all about, so he just goaded him, pushing him to his limit, by making it seem that he just got pipped at the post at the end of each run.

      Of course, the old feller next to me immediately twigged to what was happening, and he told me. So we all knew, except for the cousin on number two who had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker, and was getting more and more angry and really belting into the sheep, going flat chat.

      So this continued throughout that first day. The ringer would sit on his cousin and he’d pace him, sheep for sheep, then in the last five minutes of the run he’d just put one around him. He’d put the accelerator down and he’d shoot that one or two sheep ahead, every time. Then, to make matters worse, during smoko and lunch, the ring shearer would sit back with a self-satisfied smile on his dial which, of course, only riled his cousin more. And the angrier and more erratic the second cousin became, the calmer his cousin got, which only worsened the situation. Terrible tension it built up too. Terrible.

      Now this goading didn’t stop after that first day. Not on your life. It went on day after day, after day. Then finally on the eleventh day the cousin on the number two stand was absolutely working his guts out, and he was halfway through a run when his wrist snapped on him. His tendons went. It’s called a ‘squeaky’ wrist, which is quite a common complaint amongst shearers and it’s caused by bullocking, pushing too hard. Instead of relaxing and shearing with style, you try to shear with brute force, and it doesn’t work. And it didn’t work this time either.

      Anyway the bloke completely cracked. He chucked his handpiece on the floor and screamed at his cousin, ‘I cannot understand it.’ He screamed, ‘I shear thirty, you shear-thirty one. I shear thirty-two, you shear-thirty three. I just cannot understand it.’ And with that he broke down and burst into tears.

      Now, the cousin on number one stand, he didn’t even look up. He completely ignored his cousin and just kept on shearing, nice and steady, with a wry sort of self-satisfied smirk on his dial.

      Then, as the cousin who’d just broken down stormed out of the shed, the old feller next to me, the feller on number three, well, he really laid the boot in. ‘And what’s more son,’ he called out after the broken-down cousin, ‘if you were shearing fifty, yer cousin’d be shearing fifty-one.’

      A Female on the Board

      I’m a local girl from Kangaroo Island, in South Australia. I love it here. It’s isolated. It’s country. There’s also a fair bit of work, fresh water, fish, beach, sea. I’ve got a house and a block out the back, not too big but big enough, and I’ve been shearing now for about eight or nine years.

      When I first began, I started off by doing a bit of roustabouting. Then I got sick of that so I gave it away and I did lots of different work until the abattoirs opened up here. That was at the start of the 1990s, right in the middle of equal opportunities and women’s rights and all that. So they sort of had to give me the job at the abattoirs because if they didn’t, I could’ve taken them to court or anything. Though, mind you, I wouldn’t have because I’m not like that.

      But, anyway, when I applied for a job they said, ‘Oh bugger you,’ they said, and they stuck me on the hardest job in the whole place; that was pelting, chopping off the sheepskins. So right from the start I knew that they were thinking along the lines of, ‘Oh, she’ll only last three hours and she’ll be out of here,’ you know. Then a couple of days went by, then a week, and I was still there, like, five months later.

      So I ended up being the chief pelter and was teaching all the blokes. But, to be honest, a lot of them were absolutely bloody useless. One bloke lasted three hours and this other bloke lasted a week and a half. Too much for them it was. Still and all, a couple of blokes stayed there for as long as I did.

      But the thing I didn’t like about working at the abattoirs was that we were all getting paid by the hour and some of these blokes were hung-over a lot of the time, and others were putting in bugger-all. And there I was, working me arse off while all these drunks and bludgers were getting paid the same amount as me. So eventually I said, ‘Oh stuff this. I’ll go back roustabouting.’

      Anyhow, that’s what I did. I went back roustabouting. And then while I was roustabouting I started thinking that there’s blokes here in these shearing sheds who are bigger dickheads than me and they can shear a sheep.

      ‘Bugger it,’ I said. ‘If these blokes can do it so can I, yeah.’

      So I started off by asking the shearers if they minded if I took a belly off while they were having a fag. Then after a while they were asking me. They’d say, ‘Do yer wanta take over fer a bit while I have a fag?’ And then I got better and I’d finish the sheep and they’d still only be halfway through their fag so they’d say, ‘Christ, I haven’t finished me bloody fag yet, yer may as well shear another-ie.’

      Then soon I was shearing two sheep while they were having their fag, then three, and so it went, you know.

      So I gradually got better until I reckoned that I could shear okay. Then I bought a handpiece and away I went. But I tell you, it nearly killed me there in the beginning, it did. It was such hard work. But at least I was getting paid for what I done and there were no drunks or bludgers on the same hourly rate as me who were getting paid for doing bugger-all.

      Still and all, I must say that back when I started, not only was it hard work but I also got it hard from a few of the blokes. I had a young guy one time who was a bit too sure of himself. He thought that he could shear a few, or so he reckoned. So I rocked up at this shed on the first day. I was just there as a fill-in, like, and this young dude, he got stirred up by the other shearers who were telling him that he’d better watch out or I’d take his stand.

      Anyhow this young dude came back at about half-past six the next morning and he rolled his swag up, packed up his gear, and he pissed off before I got there. He wouldn’t even shear with me because he thought that I might’ve rounded him up. And I reckon that I could’ve too, given half a chance. But he was a bit sure of himself, he was, a bit of an ego boy, a young lad who was paranoid that I’d beat him. So that was the end of him and I got his stand after all.

      Then there was another time I was travelling with the old man, the hubby, like. He was a shearer too. Anyhow, one weekend we drove 120 kilometres over to Ravensthorpe, over in Western Australia, to do some crutching. When we got there the old guy, the owner, well, he wouldn’t let me in the shed because I was a female. He said, ‘No, I won’t let her in the shed to do any crutching.’ So that was it. Me and the hubby, we had to turn around and drive all the way back again. And that really pissed me off, I can tell you.

      There were a few of them like that, fellers who wouldn’t let females in the shed. But most of them put up with it these days. Ten years ago a female shearer was a new thing, a novelty, and they didn’t like us in the sheds that much. They just weren’t used to it. ‘She won’t last,’ they’d say. ‘She won’t cope.’

      But I did. And I’m still coping. But the thing is that you’ve got to prove yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re a female or a male. You know, I’m not a big person or anything, but I’m stocky. I’m only just over 5 feet, 2 inches tall, so I realised right from the start that I had to use skill more than brute force. So that’s what I work hard on, my skill. And, I’ve been at it for eight or nine years now.

      A Shearer’s Life

      Well mate, you could say that I’ve been shearing for far too long. That’s how long I’ve been at it and I guess that I’ll continue on with it for a while longer yet, as least as long as my body holds up. But no, I must admit that I’m well past the best of me years. Well past. And I know that I should’ve given the game away years ago. Me mate Ted’d even tell you that. A lot of people would. But I didn’t and that’s it. But that’s just the way it is with shearing.

      See, shearing gets in your blood. It’s a way of life; a good way too, I reckon. I mean, you’re out there, there’s the freedom. You’re with your mates. You don’t have anything to worry about except the next sheep coming up the race so you just get stuck into it and do the job. Basically it’s as simple as that, really. You take them as they come, one after the other.

      Mind you, it’s pretty hard work too. Don’t get me wrong. It’s very hard work. Bloody hard. But see, I started in the sheds when I was a youngster of around fourteen. And when it’s all you’ve done since leaving school, you just don’t know any different, do you? I mean, imagine a bloke like me working in some office in Perth, or a factory for instance, even in a bush town over here in WA. You couldn’t, could you? It’d bloody well kill me.

      But no, you get to meet some characters alright. There’s the good

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