Wild Colonial Pig (Tasmania '64)

1) The Irish

Stan met Irishman Michael O’Reilly when he arrived in Tasmania in 1963. Michael was an orderly at the mental hospital where Stan worked. Michael and his wife Jenny were very kind to him then, a raw young migrant. They took him under their wing and showed him the ropes.

 A few years before, the couple had come from Eire where Michael had been a builders’ labourer. “Dere wuz nutten fer us in Dublin”, he said, ”So when Jenny got pregnant wit’ our first, she said we ought ter give it a go ‘ere!” he added, “Jenny’s sister wuz already in Queenstown, d’ye see?” Michael was a quiet, unassuming man and it was obvious that his wife was used to giving the orders.

“Tell da trut’ Moichael”, Jenny blurted, “We left Ireland ter git ye off da Guinness”, she crossed herself devoutly. “An’ tanks be ter God, ‘oi tink it’s neely worked”. Jenny meant that. She said that she was still uneasy even now when he drank, “But specially when yer wit’ dat Jack Pratt”.

Anxious to gloss over this, Michael said, “Aww-w! Jack’s arlroight really. Whoi don’t ye come an’ meet ‘im in da pub after work termorrer, Stan. ‘E’s ‘avin’ a little reunion”. Stan caught a troubled look in Jenny’s eye and said he would. After work next day, Stan was in the New Norfolk Hotel with Michael and a few of his new workmates.

 

2) The Irish, the English and the Australians

They were standing in the bar and Michael looked around, then signalled vigorously across the smoke-filled room. A short, wiry man wearing a sweat-stained bush hat and a bib and brace overall, wove unsteadily through the throng from the opposite end of the long bar. As he arrived, Michael said, “Stan, dis is me old colonial off-sider, Jack Pratt from Ballarat.”

 

 “Jack – Pratt – from – Ba – lla - rat”, Stan repeated slowly as they shook hands. He enjoyed the poetic rhythm of the name. It was like the beginning of a nursery rhyme. That struck a chord with Jack and he chuckled, “Yeah! Ballarat, Victoria, Australia - that’s where I wuz raised. But no worries, sport - they ain’t traced me to Tassie yet!” He raised his glass and said, “Stan, is it? Yer’d be the Pommie blow-in, I’d guess. Never mind but! Shout us a bloody beer an’ not only will yer be forgiven, yer’ll be me mate fer life, Stan.” Tickled to be accepted in this strange way, Stan ordered his beer.

 At first sight, Jack seemed the archetypal ‘Ocker’ Aussie; an unkempt but heroic bushranger – or possibly a raffish model of the swagman from Waltzing Matilda. He had tired grey eyes, a deeply lined, unshaved face and as he smiled, he placed one hand to conceal a large gap in his upper front teeth. Right then, Jack portrayed everything that Stan then imagined he could expect of a fair dinkum, honest digger. Sadly, the moment was brief. Stan was about to be disabused of that impression.

 They were studying the stars, relieving themselves in the outdoor dunny, when Stan’s new chums warned him to be careful of Jack. He was a scallywag, they said, the most manipulative crook and cheat in the Derwent Valley. “Jack seems a heckuva nice bloke ter ‘ave a beer with, Stan - but jeez, don’t trust the bastard cuz ‘e’s as bent as a dingo’s dick”. They explained that he was not a successful criminal. He had stolen three stainless steel sinks from an empty hospital ward right next to where he had been working. The local newspaper had reported that he ripped them out with a large hydraulic jack stolen from a road-train up in Queensland. They got him for that as well. “Behind ‘is back, they call ‘im ‘Hydraulic Jack Pratt from Ballarat’ now”, Stan's new pal sniggered. It appeared that Jack was also a figure of fun to him. It had only been a week or so since his release from the open prison farm up the valley. This evening was the ‘reunion’ Michael had mentioned.

 

When they returned to the bar, Jack was holding centre stage. Over more free beer, he was basking in his notoriety, mockingly protesting his innocence to a rapt audience. Stan found himself wondering if he had really wanted to get away with his crimes because he had been seen and heard doing them and the evidence had been found at his house.

 

Neither his insistence that, “Some drongo bastard dobbed me in”, nor his bluff descriptions of what he would do to, “The fuckin’ mongrel when I git ‘im!” restored Stan’s earlier image of him but his performance did generate several more rounds of Cascade Green Ale from the bar patrons. In contrast with his beer-fuelled proclamations of innocence, he also claimed that he was now going straight. Leering drunkenly, he slurred, ”Or as straight as a dinky-di Aussie should!”

 

The barman slid yet another beer to him “Too bloody right, Jack! Good on yer!” he said, “This one’s on the house”. Stan was sure that Jack would have continued to keep the bar entertained at the expense of his own dignity – at least until he was right under the table and helpless. But Michael suddenly intervened. A touch the worse for wear himself, he did no less than take Jack’s drink from the bar and downed it in one. “Come on Jack”, he said briskly, “We got plenty o’ beer at moi place. Let’s git yer back dere an’ we can arl ‘ave some o’ Jenny’s stew”. With that he propelled him by the elbow out to his car. Thankfully, Jack did not resist. Stan drove them home and helped Michael settle Jack down. Jenny looked on anxiously.

 

Both Stan and Michael had seen that Jack had been set up that night as a sort of grisly cabaret for the pub patrons. Stan believed that Jack could not be the full quid if he could not see how his vulnerability was exploited - but perhaps he no longer cared enough to avoid it. It was cruel, because Jack did have real charisma and gathered friends and associates easily when not in his cups. Since Michael O’Reilly was one of those friends and was looking out for him, that was good enough for Stan.

 

3) The Project

 During the next few days, Stan got to understand rather more of the arrangements that the man from Ballarat had with Michael and Jenny. From what he knew of Jack’s history, he wondered if all would be well with them. Michael and Jenny owned a plot of bush land on the slopes of the valley behind New Norfolk. They lived there in a small weatherboard house with their two boys. Jack shared the work on the land and frequently dossed down in the woodshed. In spite of their drinking, under Jenny’s supervision, they worked hard growing veggies, keeping chooks and raising a few young porkers.

With the formidable Jenny’s supervision, they were now starting the first phase of a pig breeding venture. The meat was for their dinner tables at first but soon, as Michael said to Stan, “We’ll build up our own pork factory an’ stud. Sure an’ arl, an’ we’ll be rich!” His eyes sparkled with joy. He did not have a business plan but to make up for it, he was alight with hope and burning with ambition.

 To that end they had mortgaged their homes and pooled their funds to put straight into stock purchase. They bought an expensive black and white stud boar and a more modestly priced breeding sow. Jack had bid in the livestock auction in Bridgwater, fifteen kilometres from their land. To keep costs down Jack had delivered the animals from the market, one at a time in the cab of Michael O’Reilly’s pride and joy, his nearly new 1962 Holden Special saloon car. Unfortunately, this followed another long session in the bar.

4) The Joke

A number of accounts of the auction day surfaced in the pub. While succeeding versions were embellished by each storyteller, there was a common theme, always fortified lavishly with expletives. It went, “When ‘e got back to the fuckin’ paddock, the fuckin’ car was plastered inside with fuckin’ pigshit, floor to fuckin’ ceilin’, door to fuckin’ door. Yer couldn’t see through the fuckin’ winders. Fair dinkum!” The storyteller added that Jack did not look or smell very clever either. The yarn fizzed and crackled with racy antipodean flair, imagination and emphasis.

It got worse because, since the animal resisted leaving the car at the destination, Michael had got behind the terrified, incontinent beast in repeated futile attempts to push it out of the soiled and slippery cab. He became liberally coated. “Fuckin’ shit ‘n piss everywhere! Streuth! Yer wouldn’t fuckin’ read about it!” the storyteller raucously proclaimed. “An’ ‘e still ‘ad to go back an’ git the fuckin’ sow! Shit was fuckin’ runnin’ out o’ the fuckin’ boot by the time they fuckin’ finished!” The words exploded home amid crescendos of helpless laughter.

5) Aftermath

Finally the story teller affirmed that Jenny had refused to be driven to the shops or to mass in that car ever again. Mortified, she had been tearfully watching her drunken husband trying unsuccessfully to unload the animals. “Oi’ll tek a taxi - an’ from now on Moichael O’Reilly, yer not comin’ back inter moi bed”. She was reported to have yelled at him, “Ye can just sleep in dat filty car wit’ yer foin drunken friend, Jack Ballarat!”  Whether true or not, she was deeply upset at what she must have considered a relapse in Michael’s drinking. She left next day with the boys.

Michael and Jack had to nurse their well-deserved hangovers in the bush overnight among their livestock. The car was off the road for a fortnight while they vigorously and repeatedly scrubbed and ventilated it. In spite of it, people were circumspect about accepting a lift in it thereafter.

 
   

Following the episode, there was intense interest in the boar’s progress and indeed, the continuing domestic ups and downs of Michael, Jack and Jenny. For a month or two Stan was kept updated. Michael had called the boar, ‘Wayne’ and the sow, ‘Darlene’ in keeping with the naming fashion of the time. As the ever sentimental Michael put it, “Cos dey’re family now, ain’t dey”.

One day, eyes glowing, he reported on the construction of new pig-pens on their land. He told us that Jack had had the ‘good luck’ to ‘come across’ some ‘free’ pallets of new cement blocks and other miscellaneous building materials somewhere. ‘De pig-pens’re neely finished”, he triumphantly announced.

Deciding not to comment on Jack Pratt from Ballarat’s stroke of ‘luck’, Stan asked instead how Jennie was. “Ohh…hh well! Oi tink dat we moight be arlroight soon”, he replied, sliding his eyes away evasively. “She’s bin wit’ ‘er sister in Queenstown fer a few weeks, so she has. Oi tink oi’ll be seein’ ‘er dis Saturday”. It was clear that things were not yet mended between Michael and Jenny. This had become a soap opera.

6) Despond

Then, like all good soaps, the mood changed. It had been unhappy before, but now there was serious gloom. First, Michael asked if anyone knew where Jack was because he had neither seen him nor the smelly car for days. “Oi dunno but oi tink ‘e’s buggered off in me luvly new motor”, he said, throwing up his hands. But there was more trouble than that. He solemnly reported that Wayne was not doing his job, even though Darlene seemed up for it. Evidently the boar was showing no procreative interest at all. A tight-lipped Michael summed it up, “Dey ain’t fucken’ well fucken’!”

In the bar, several pig breeding experts emerged, each anxious to propose remedies and opinions regarding impotent boars. As might be expected in that company, some solutions tested the bounds of anatomical credibility. Concern was genuinely empathetic though. Everybody knew the trio would not afford another stud boar and would be fortunate not to lose their mortgaged property if the bank did not soon receive repayments. Also, Michael was still desperately trying to persuade Jenny to come back to him. Stan was sad and ashamed to have joked before at their expense.

In spite of all best motives to advise, their capacity for pig diagnosis was limited. Inevitably the vet was called and his verdict was not long in coming. Moist-eyed and with voice cracking, Michael delivered his bulletin. “De fucken’ pig is nearly fucken’ blind – an’ gettin’ fucken worse!” he choked. He searched their eyes hopefully as if bargaining for salvation, “Fucken’ blind, he is! But to be sure an’ arl, dat don’t matter, eh?” Grimacing bleakly in painful recognition of his own irony, “’E ain’t fucken’ goin’ nowhere!”

 
  

Poor man! What could they possibly say to that? Michael’s modest dreams were being shattered right there. Stan mumbled a few hopeless words of support and tried to change the subject. The outcome was not good and Wayne died soon after. Along with the pig’s death, died the fond dream of prosperity in the Tasmanian bush that they had treasured. Jenny was still in Queenstown with the kids. Michael was quite alone and seemed defeated. It was Stan’s turn to look after him.

7) Epilogue

Then two months on, Stan was relieved to hear that Jenny had finally agreed to come back to Michael as a trial. He had hardly touched a drop since the auction day, looked incredibly well and was beginning to smile again. Michael had kept his day job at the hospital and as a result was keeping his head above water financially. Jack though was back in Risdon Jail doing a month stretch for stealing building materials from a Hobart supplier’s yard. The smelly Holden Special was found for sale at a Hobart car dealer. Stan never saw Jack again.

Much later, on a now rare visit to the bar, Michael told Stan that Jack Pratt was back in Ballarat, trying to rejoin his estranged wife and children. “Oi really hope ‘e makes a go of it dis toime”, Michael said, “Yer man deserves a daicent fucken’ break!”

Michael O’Reilly was truly a saint.