Introduction: Perspective on Australia

Sailing away to Australia to live and work was an adventure. It was exciting, challenging and disturbing all at the same time. Although language and culture are derived from Britain, there are stark differences in day to day customs, geography and flora and fauna.

Perceptions, especially in the early days, were heightened by anxiety and this generated lasting imprints, images and impressions. The emotional sharpness then has kept memories fresh, crisp and visible until now. Now, I can reconstruct those memories easily and convert them into word pictures. I offer the product fondly to both characters and readers.

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Invitations to a Party (Christmas 1963)

The Beginning

 

          Jim invited Stan to his Christmas barbecue in December ‘63. It sounded as if the whole hospital and a large part of New Norfolk had been invited. “It’ll be worth comin’ this year”, he said. Smiling enigmatically, he added, “There’s some unusual entertainment”.

                Entertainment? Unusual? Nowadays, that promise would raise eyebrows in anticipation of something risqué but folk in Tasmania were more naïve then. During preparations Jim, a confident, cocksure Scot, would not say what his plan was but he enjoyed keeping up the suspense. He took pains to specify that the dress code would be extra casual. “If ye’ve got a bib and brace overall, it might not come amiss”, he confided mysteriously.

 

Jim Mitchell lived, with his wife Mary and 16 year old daughter Lesley, in a big, decrepit old colonial house on the hospital campus. It had a paddock that extended down to the narrow Lachlan River, making it easy for him to hold this sort of event. His neighbour, Mick Moore, shared the paddock with him and they both had livestock on it. The arrangement allowed them to share management of the animals if either was away.

 

          Intrigued, Stan waited for the weekend. It was his first ever barbecue and it would be interesting for that reason alone. The weather was set fine, making the venue in Jim's paddock above the river very suitable. He had asked everybody he knew and said that most were coming. John Baker and Bridget had agreed to come as long as they could put the children somewhere quiet to sleep. As result, Jim had brought the start forward into the mid-afternoon and had opened the invitation for other guests’ children. He said, “I’ll have two barbies running back to back. More folks can come an' the kids can sleep”. It was Christmas after all, he declared and it would be no extra trouble anyway.

 

          Stan thought that Jim's wife might have said otherwise but daughter Lesley and her school-friends had agreed to help. It did seem though that the scope of the party now resembled that of a village fête back home. Jim put Stan in charge of the beer kegs, bottles and ice. His faith was touching but unfounded because Stan had no clue how to keep the booze flowing, beyond using a bottle opener. He was to discover soon that barman at an Australian barbie was a largely redundant position.

Containing Geese

          Stan was not needed in the afternoon to do the soft drinks for the kids but Jim asked him to pen his flock of geese. He said that they were, “Awkward buggers”, and would scare children.

          After an hour long chase around his paddock, Stan could confirm how awkward they were. Whenever he went near, instead of moving in a single phalanx, they scattered. They went from the top of the wide paddock to the Lachlan River at the bottom. There was one goose that sported a grey flash on each wing. Each time the flock regrouped, she fixed Stan with a beady eye and hissing, neck outstretched with wings spread, led a charge, honking her dire threat.

Thinking Grey Flash was their leader, Stan caught and held her, pinning her wings under one arm while he dealt with the remainder. It was easy then. The flock simply followed into Jim's chicken-wire pen. There was an identical pen immediately adjacent, already full of geese belonging to neighbour Mick who was away in Tarraleah for a couple of days. Grey Flash seemed content tucked under Stan’s arm and now appeared to regard him as her friend. In turn, Stan felt he had bonded with her after their hour of confrontation and put her gently down with the rest of the flock when the gate was closed.

           When Stan told Jim he laughed and said, “Okay, but I really meant you to get some feed from Mary. That’s how she entices ‘em in”. He added, “You’re a braver man than me. I won’t go near ‘em. They scare me witless!”

          The children’s party went well considering the heat that afternoon, the kids finally reaching a level of exhaustion when they would sleep. Some of the parents took their kids home, while others put them down for the night in one of Jim’s spare rooms. They prepared the fuel for the barbie ready for nine o’clock. The main party and fun and games would then start.

            The Lull before..............

            As the sun went down, Stan and Jim relaxed on the veranda in the deep apricot light. Sitting, sipping wine and chatting, they waited for the others to arrive, collecting themselves after the afternoon exertions. The sun slipped behind a stand of cedars, the sky shaded from deep orange to purple and the stars flooded out. Insects jitterbugged in the warm air, highlighted by the remnants of citrus light slanting through the trees. Behind them on the tin roof, magpies gurgled their parting disputes of the day while all around, frogs and cicadas celebrated the beginning of the night. Mary was moving around laying small tables with peanuts, chips, pickles and the like and murmuring instructions to daughter Lesley. It was soon dark and a string of garden lights abruptly flicked on.

          “C’arn Jim. Get yer arse out o’ that chair an’ start up the barbie!”Mary ordered, sharply interrupting the tranquillity. “Cars are coming up the track”. Jim quickly moved to the brick built structure and lit the fire. Stan went to his station at the bar.

 

          Chili Chili Chili

          Evening guests were arriving. Mary directed them down to the veranda room where Stan was with the drinks and snacks. Sam Devine, the local police sergeant was first to arrive. Handing Stan a case of beer bottles, he said, “I’m not ‘avin’ too much booze. I’m on duty all night”. He winked meaningfully.

Taking peanuts and other nibbles from the table, he sat down with his bottle, asking, “How’re yer likin’ Tassie so far?” He popped a red chili from a bowl placed prominently on the coffee table into his mouth. Stan was about to answer when Sam’s eyes widened and his face turned puce. He clapped a hand to his mouth looking around with stricken eyes as if he had been shot.

          “Christ! Bloody hell! Shit! What was that?” He croaked. He gulped a deep swig of beer and pointed to the dish of small red pickles on the table. “What bastard put them chili peppers out?” His eyes were watering and his nose running.

He took another swig of beer, “Whoowh! Bugger! That burns! Jeez! I should’ve known”, he gasped, “Another o' Jim Mitchell’s bloody tricks!” He rushed off up the corridor to the bathroom where Stan heard him coughing, spluttering and cursing loudly. “Bastard! I’ll git ‘im fer that! Bloody mongrel!”

          Mary came in, grinning widely, “Got him!” she said triumphantly. “There’s plenty more folks to come. Just don’t let on”. Giggling, she went off to greet more party-goers. Gingerly, Stan tried a small piece of the tiny red chili. It was fiery!

Shortly after, when Sam came back, he was still red-faced and his nose was still running but he was smirking sheepishly. “Right!” he said, moving the chilis to the front of the table, “I’ve got to see Paul Sweeney take these!” Paul and Sam were old friends but were rivals in everything they did.

          For the next half an hour or so, an interested audience filled the veranda room where guests were caught, one by one. Each of them more or less repeated Sam’s reaction. By now they were agog, watching the victims take chilis, then galvanise as they took effect. It was a really rough trick to play on guests and Stan was impressed that everyone took Jim and Mary’s joke in such good spirit.

          When Paul Sweeney finally arrived, to Sam’s dismay, he ignored the chilis. Eventually Sam solicitously offered the bowl to him, “No thanks,” he said, “Never touch ‘em! I like ‘em but they just don’t like me.” Then he asked, smiling innocently, “Why don’t you have one though, Sam?” Sam’s face creased with disappointment for a moment. “Jeez! Can’t take a bloody trick terday!” he complained. Stan could see Paul mentally chalking a point up. They sat back waiting for the next victim.

           Godfrey’s hubris

           A cultured English voice from the doorway said, “Hey there, chaps!” It was Godfrey Moase, the  hospital pharmacist. A bachelor, of urbane Noel Coward mould, he was a man with the crispest sense of humour. He was popular for that, having proved time after time that his wit was more than a match for the locals. Stan thought he might get his come-uppance with the chilis tonight though.

          “Hmm–umm! Chilis!” he exclaimed. “My favourite!” He lifted three of the monsters from the dish, placed them in his mouth and chewed vigorously.

All in the room were frozen, coiled in anticipation! There was silence for a moment while Godfrey thoughtfully savoured his mouthful. Then, “I get through two jars of these a week”, he offered casually, adding, “Good of Jim to get ‘em in for me”.

 While engaging everybody in his sparkling conversation, Godfrey finished the entire bowl. Afterwards he wandered off to find more. It was unbelievable! While he was out of the room, they debated how he did it. John Baker opined that it would be possible to swallow them whole without too much discomfort if the skins were not broken. But he did chew them! They were all astonished.

And Now! - The Entertainment.

          Close to midnight, Jim whispered to Stan to go and let his geese from their pen back into the paddock. “Eh! Why? In the middle of the night?”. Stan exclaimed, looking at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “No questions! Just do it! Now!” Jim hissed. Stan shrugged and went off to the paddock. When he came back, he nodded to Jim who stood up and announced loudly that he’d like everybody to gather around the barbie. A couple of minutes later, he came back carrying a long handled axe. Everyone waited expectantly. This must be the entertainment he had promised.

          Jim placed one foot on a tree stump. “I haven’t bought any of ye a Christmas prezzie”, he announced. “But in the paddock behind the house are fifteen full grown geese. If ye can catch one tonight, ye can take it home as a wee gift from the Mitchells”. He went on, “There are two conditions though. Ye have tae catch ye goose first - in the dark! All lights are going off ...and nae torches are allowed!”

 

There were nervous murmurs. It would be pitch black as the paddock would be lit only by starlight. There was only a fingernail sliver of moon. Waving the axe above his head, Jim said, “The other condition is, when ye catch it, ye must bring it to me”. He pointed at the stump. “I’ll kill it there!” A couple of the women gasped but Jim ignored that and continued with his instructions.

           Leering, he added, “If ye don’t want to kill it, ye cannae have the goose! Tek off yer good clothes, ‘cause the paddock’s a bit rough and there’s plenty o’ goose shit about. Change into jeans or overalls now an’ I’ll blow the start whistle on the stroke o’ midnight, no later.” He added, “Ye’ve got ten minutes, so get moving!”

            “Wow!” Stan thought, “This is definitely unusual.” Frankly, he did not like the idea of beheading geese very much and neither did a few others. He wandered back to the veranda room to get another drink while the keen goose hunters changed their clothes. Robbie Cannell had taken Jim’s instructions literally and had simply taken his clothes off. He wore only a pair of Y – fronts. If he realised that he was the only one naked, he was unperturbed. It was a warm enough night for it though and he went back outside anyway to wait for Jim’s signal.

          Smoke of Battle!

          The whistle blew and the lights went off. Twenty men, clad in levis, shorts, sand-shoes and not much else, headed off into the pitch dark amid cries and shrieks of, “C’arn you bastards”, and, “Tally-Ho!” They were a motivated bunch. Of course, they had to locate the flock first. Stan thought that the yelling and screaming might make it easy for the geese to evade them but the charging drunks were undaunted.

           “Yee-oww! Oooh! Fuck it!” A cry of pain was heard as Sam Devine, the leading pursuer, ran full tilt into a water stand pipe waist high in the middle of the dark paddock. Naked Robbie barged into a flourishing bank of brambles, returning to the house with multiple pin pricks and gashes. Mary and Lesley tended his injuries with antiseptic and sticking plaster strips and he quickly went back into the fray still unclothed and courageously unbowed but reeking of Dettol.

          Paul Sweeney did not fare much better. “Banzai! Banzai! Amelican soldier he no good!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He had been drinking heavily all evening, as usual. Shirtless and in shorts, he had run into the night... to the centre of a bank of tall stinging nettles. “Owwww—ww!” Bloody mongrel stingers!” He tripped and fell, rolling about on the nettles.

           When he returned to the house, his face, his bald head and acres of exposed skin were covered in angry red blotches of nettle rash. Short-sighted Paul was a touch cross-eyed because he had dropped his bottle lens specs in the charge. The first aid team, undaunted, dabbed him all over with calamine. Paul spent his remaining conscious moments that night becoming unconscious on more of his favourite booze, wearing a delicate pink shade of lotion.

          The cries of conflict were growing fainter into the distance and the previously ebullient voices echoing from the direction of the river, were tinged with doubt as the hunt went away toward the river bank. “Where are the bastards?” and “Jeez, I can’t see ’em nor hear ‘em!” it sounded like Sam Devine again. He was really fired up, obviously having recovered completely from the chilis earlier.

           The sound of alarmed geese honked into the night from near to the river’s edge. “I found 'em! Bloody ‘ell! Come ‘ere!” yelled Sam’s voice, followed by a triumphant, “Yeah! Yeah! Got mine!” Then, “Christ! I’m falling! Ohh-ohhhhhhh!” followed by a long, echoing, “Ker-sploosh!” the sound of him plunging into the Lachlan River. He had not released his goose. Stan could only imagine this but the images based on his commentary were graphic enough. Sam had found the only deep part of the narrow river. Minutes later, he was back at the house, soaked, sore and bruised but finally victorious. He handed the now soggy goose to Jim.

          Jim had a worryingly triumphant glint in his eye as he summarily beheaded the poor creature. It was at least quick. Stan thought that this was what was always going to happen to the geese anyway at this time of year. Its last moments had been pretty fraught though. “I’m goin’ ter clean it now and I’ll give it ter the old folks’ home fer Chrissie”, Sam said with contentment. He went off and within half an hour, he had plucked and drawn it. In the meantime Robbie, complete with his own bird, had arrived back in James’s kitchen. Muddy, still naked and proudly wearing his sticking plasters, he looked as if he had enjoyed himself. Jim dispatched his goose as before and Robbie put it straight into his car.
 

            Orgy?

Robbie’s wife turned up a short time later after finishing a late shift on her ward. ‘Angry’ Arlene was known for her ill-temper. She took one look at the scene and sternly ordered Robbie to get dressed. She looked around at us, asking suspiciously, “What’re yer bin doin,’ ‘avin’ a bloody orgy or what?” She barely believed it when she was told. She snorted, “My bloody oath, that’s a likely story, I know!”  

          The truth was not the most convincing version of events on this occasion, particularly as Robbie was sitting in the veranda room when she arrived, still semi-naked but content, clutching a bottle in one hand while cradling the bald, calamine-pink and unconscious head of Paul Sweeney. Arlene shook him by the shoulder and spat, “Come on Robert, move it will yer. We’re goin’ home!” He looked up and grinned lopsidedly, “’Ello love, ‘ave a drink. I’m goin’ to”. Arlene turned on her heel and strode out. “Stay there then. I’m off! Bloody orgies!” Although Robbie got up and wandered after her, she was in the car and away. Robbie, still not concerned about his nakedness, poked at the dying barbecue embers and teetered unsteadily away with another beer towards the paddock. 

          By now the lights had come on and things were calmer. John Baker had come back gooseless and defeated. He had to get the children home. Stan could see his wife, frowning and gesturing to move him on a bit. Stan thought the entire night had all been a bit near the knuckle for her.

           Godfrey was still out there somewhere with several of the others including Les Campbell and Baz Wagner now, the geese were more visible in the house lights and had been chased back up the paddock towards the house. They were being caught more rapidly now. Looking out of the veranda room window, Stan saw a couple of birds, one with grey flashes on the wings, waddling into the light. Thinking this might be his previous adversary, he went down to look. It was standing next to some nettles, so he grabbed it. It did not resist. 

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin as a part-clothed Godfrey leapt out of the gloom like a wild man, shouting, “Bugger it Stan! I’ve been stalking that for ten minutes and you’ve just picked it up”. He was unlike his usual suave self at that moment. He was wide-eyed and dishevelled. “Hand it over”, he demanded, fiercely. 

For a second, Stan considered giving Grey Flash to him but since he was not going to kill it and Godfrey definitely was, he thought, “No! She deserves to live! We’ve come too far together for that. Godfrey can go to blazes!” Smugly, Stan replied, “Sorry Godfrey! Tough luck”. 

Stan spent most of the rest of the evening carrying Grey Flash around under his arm just to preserve her until the hunters had given up and left. It was only when Stan put her back in the pen he discovered that his shirt and trousers were covered in goose turd where she had relieved herself during his mission of salvation.

 

            Epilogue

         Godfrey’s Nemesis

   Two days later, Stan was in Godfrey’s pharmacy office on ward business. In a painful voice, Godfrey told him his throat was very sore and it hurt to swallow. Shining a torch, Stan saw right away that his palate was badly inflamed and swollen. Remarkably, his entire uvula was black instead of pink.   “It looks gangrenous to me Godfrey”, Stan said. “I reckon you should talk to the duty Doc. He’s just down the corridor”.

 Next day, now on a short course of penicillin, Godfrey told Stan that he was much more comfortable. When he looked again, Stan could see that the inflammation had subsided a lot. His uvula, however, had disappeared completely! Stan guessed that it had dropped off and he had swallowed it without noticing. It seemed to make no difference at all to Godfrey and he was back to his usual witty form.

It seemed most likely that Godfrey, with amazing self-control, had hidden his reaction to the pain of the chilis that night to enhance his image and impress everybody. They had inflamed his throat and it had become infected, compromising the blood supply to his uvula.

 

The result was that he had effectively performed a chemical amputation and no longer had his clacker!

Sam's Pain

Sam Devine had no luck that Christmas. The goose that he had chased, caught, plucked and drawn and for which he had taken a ducking in the river, was stolen from the cab of his police car in New Norfolk later, much to his embarrassment. The old folks’ home got their goose though because generous Jim donated one of the remainder of the flock as soon as Sam discovered the theft.

Rustlers? 

 
         There was a final irony when Mick Moore, Jim's neighbour, returned from his trip very early next morning. He had knocked on Jim's door accompanied by a shivering Robbie Cannell. “What’s happened to my geese Jim? He asked.”They’ve bloody gone! Robbie was there instead, sleeping. Did we have rustlers?” Jim went to have a look and it was true. Mick’s pen was empty except for a lone goose with grey flashes on its wings. 


           Evidently, Stan had released the flock from the wrong pen! It had been Mick’s geese, not Jim's that were chased up and down the paddock and then executed. Stan never knew how Jim settled it but at least Mick had what was a dead ringer for Jims flock leader. 

Looking back on that night, it had been the first barbecue that Stan had attended in Australia and it had been a good party for both kids and adults. It was clear that Jim Mitchell's role in that little society was a strangely surrealistic and dominant one. The mood had been relaxed, however and the company more unusual than Stan had met anywhere else in his young days. The shenanigans with the chilis and the geese had been on the margins of acceptability but Stan did not think he would have changed any of it. It was too bright and colourful for that. Whatever Jim's style faults, he had put on the best party of Stan’s life.

Above all, it was the night Stan fell in love with Australia and the country folk of Tasmania.

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First Summer Christmas, - December 21 1963 an illustrated verse (with gratitude to Mary and Jim Mitchell)*

Unseen by any person, insistent, urgent, three like thirty
Fretting loud cicadas sing evening shrill electric.
Frogs in far creeks hail other frogs with hopeful rhythmic chitter.
Magpies’ squabbling music rings hollow-burst cadenzas
’Neath previous sky shot tart-sharp apricot by its setting sun.
Now at day end in light’s receding wake,
Deep night draws shadow over all
In velvet-indigo



’Neath previous sky shot tart-sharp apricot by its setting sun.

Southern sky tilts akimbo, a fresh-up waning moon
That does not seek to dim the startle-brilliant galaxy.
Broad milky arc of random-matted star-crowds
Already arching high and bright, bright, bright,
From east to west horizons
Just completing.




Broad milky arc of random-matted star-crowds

Temperate bush grows tree-crowned tall with blue-grey gums.
Slim-smooth stems of muted-mottle bark,
Now flicker-limnéd ghostly up from cooking flames below,
Support few limbs below high canopy.
Sharp-tipped, pinnate-simple, fire-prone leaves,
Carpet-litter floor in crispy chaos,
Sending vapours, eucalyptus-evanescent,
Into pungent shade.

Slim-smooth stems of muted-mottle bark

Crazed night insects dash in camp light’s beam,
While eve-soft air buoys warm in silken eddies,
Fat moths on quests to chase up sparks
From embers of the fire.
Acacia smoke skeins, wispy-woven,
Haunt through one lone stand
Of alien windbreak cedar.

A Christmas party, begun in earlier light and heat and shimmer,
Only for the sake of some now-sleeping children,
Is well in swing.
The hotplate steel waits on for barbie prawns and snags and steaks,
Or oysters, mullet, bream—and crayfish even from the brackish water.
Shadowy guests, more Cab-Sav/Shiraz soaked than beer these days,
Are laughing-noisy-singing-happy,
And thus oblivious save for that within their fire-light globe.



The hotplate steel waits on for barbie prawns

One pale boy, come newly there from Albion’s winter chill,
Familiar else than this, looks on
Combining senses, sharp-focusing attention.
Perception training thought and early understanding.
His feeling then engaged, proclaims to all there with him,
“My word! This sure beats shovelling snow!”

'This sure beats shovelling snow'

* Mary Mitchell was married to Jim, a Scot who had been in Tasmania for several years when we arrived in New Norfolk in September 1963. He had collected us from Hobart airport. They gave us their take on some essentials of living there. Her most memorable words were, ‘This (living in a balmy climate and all it entails) sure beats shovelling snow’. I never forgot that simple observation and still use Mary’s words to describe any preferred activity today. Shovelling snow was something she surely would have been doing a little later than that time of year, had she stayed in her native Aberdeen