The Shearer

By Pat Ritter

In 1891 Australian history changed forever because of 'The Great Shearers Strike of 1891' when shearers from across the country went on strike for better working conditions and wages. Joe Ryan was one of those shearers. This is his story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pat Ritter
• Release date: Jan 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310718373

Pat Ritter

Hi Everyone,Let me introduce myself. My name is Pat Ritter. Since 1988 I have been writing and publishing books. In 2009 I decided to publish my books as e-books on this and other websites.Writing and self-publishing became expensive especially the marketing end of the business. I experienced little problems with my first book 'Closing The Gap' however after writing and self-publishing six other books the printing costs out-weighed the cost of production.At this stage of my writing I am converting from writing true life stories to fictional or better known - storytelling and it's difficult I can tell you. I'm giving it my best.Reading is a passion. When I read I try and place myself in the writer's seat and endeavour to work out how they wrote the story. I enjoy reading interesting stories filled with passion, desire with a happy ending.If you have a look at my website www.patritter.com.au all of my books are exhibited plus stories I have written and published.I'm happy to meet you.I'm also proud to be involved in Operation eBook Drop.Pat RitterAuthor/Self Publisher

Book preview

The shearer

Published by Pat Ritter on Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Pat Ritter

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyright property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents have been produced by the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or to any actual events or precise locations is entirely coincidental or within the public domain.

Acknowledgements:

Front and back covers:

Tom Roberts

born Great Britain 1856, arrived in Australia 1869, died 1931

Shearing the rams 1890

oil on canvas on composition board

122.4 x 183.3 cm

National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne

Felton Bequest, 1932

Permission from Jennie Moloney

Senior Publications Coordinator

National Gallery of Victoria

180 St Kilda Road Melbourne VIC 3004 Australia

Front and back covers. I want to express my gratitude to Melissa Smith. Thank you for doing a great job. If you want Melissa to create your next cover, I highly recommend you do: she can be contacted on [e-mail].

If you have enjoyed reading this book, or if you haven’t enjoyed it, still let me know. I would love to receive your feedback. You can contact me on my e-mail: [e-mail]. I’d love to receive your feedback.

Pat Ritter

Author/Self Publisher

www.patritter.com.au

TO READ MORE ABOUT PAT RITTER – AUTHOR: CLICK ONTO THE FOLLOWING LINKS:

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/pat48.

Chapter 1

A sliver of light crept through the crack in the wall and shone directly into Joe’s left eye, startling him awake. His throat felt full of cotton wool, his right eye swollen and unable to open; urine and excrement filled his nostrils. He coughed, tried to sit from a lying position, each muscle in his body tight and sore. His mind filled with wonderment–where am I?

A shearer’s stretcher where he laid, kapok mattress, thin blankets puzzled his mind. He couldn’t open his right eye. His left eye blurry, vision of solid wooden walls; faint light illuminated enough to fill the room. Steel bars positioned a third of the way to the ceiling told him that wherever he was, there was no escape. His head throbbed; fear enveloped his mind.

He pushed up upon one elbow and saw his surroundings through his blurred left eye. Where am I? Echoed through his mind, how did I get here? The stench of vomit, urine, excrement almost made him spew. He slowly swung his legs from the stretcher to the cold wooden floor. Each muscle in his body screamed in pain. His shoes, socks and belt discarded.

He gazed around the room, not much larger than a bush dunny with a steel door and small trap door positioned two thirds of the way toward the top. This is a bloody police cell. What am I doing in a police cell? Remember Joe.

‘You awake Ryan?’ a loud voice from outside echoed. A key turned in a lock. The steel door creaked on its hinges when opened. ‘Here’s your breakfast’. Joe couldn’t make out the voice; his voice sounded Irish with authority.

A steel tray contained a steel plate with two pieces of bread covered with baked beans and a pannikin with steam rising from black tea, filled the tray placed on the floor. ‘Enjoy,’ said the voice as the cell door closed and the key in the lock turned.

Joe moved from the stretcher toward the tray deposited on the floor. He leaned down to pick the tray up, almost falling, regained his footing and returned to the stretcher holding the tray of food on his lap making certain not to spill any of the contents, his mouth felt dry, and his throat, as if a steel rasp had been shoved down his throat through to his stomach. He couldn’t remember when he last ate food. He devoured the bread and baked beans, using his fingers.

He picked up the pannikin of black tea in his right hand lifted the edge to his lips, ouch – hot – my lips are swollen. He slurped the contents. The golden liquid passed through his mouth, down his throat and into his stomach. Satisfaction overcame once his desire for food finished.

He needed to remember how he came to be locked in a police cell and why. His thoughts returned to the past couple of days. I’m certain I live in Cunnamulla. I’ve lived here for the past couple of years. What happened to land me in this cell?

Stench rose from a bucket in the corner almost making Joe choke causing phlegm to rise in his throat. He quickly placed a hand over his mouth and nose to stop the vapour entering his nostrils.

Come on – get back to how I come to be in this cell, he ordered his mind - nothing. I’ll need to wait for someone to come and get me before I know why I’m here. He pondered.

After finishing his meagre breakfast, he replaced the tray and contents on the floor near the door and returned to lie on the stretcher. No thoughts entered his mind. Apart from not being able to see out of his right eye, each muscle in his body ached as if he’d been run over by a mob of cattle.

A noise alerted him. ‘You finished breakfast?’ A thick Irish voice echoed as the door opened to shine light into the small cell.

‘It was good.’ Joe had trouble getting the words out because of the soreness in his throat. ‘Why am I here?’ He choked on each word.

‘Don’t you remember? Last night you were pissed and your right eye came in contact with my right elbow. An accident. You were swinging your fists all over the place and called us all the names you could lay your foul tongue on. It was the only way to keep you down and took three of us to carry you from the pub.’

‘When can I get out?’

‘Now–if you want. We put you in here for your own safety. Actually thought you were going off your head. You’ve got to do something about your drinking or else you could land in here again.’

Joe dropped his head ashamed to have carried on like that. ‘Where are my boots, socks and belt?’

‘Over at the police station. We didn’t want you to hang yourself. Come with me I’ll release you.’

Joe followed him through the corridor of the cell block down steps and along a path toward the rear of the police station. ‘Up this way’, the officer beckoned. He followed him onto the rear veranda then inside of the police station.

‘Here’s your boots, socks and belt.’ He handed them to Joe who sat on a chair and put his socks and boots on. He fastened his belt through the loops in his trousers and tightened the buckle to hold his trousers in place. ‘Sign here and you can go. Next time don’t drink so much and get yourself into trouble again.’ The officer dipped a nib of a pen into the ink bottle, handed Joe the pen to scribble his signature in the property book. Joe scribbled something.

‘Ah…thanks.’ Joe stuttered and staggered from the police station, almost falling when his foot slipped on the top step. His head pounded as if a thousand drums were playing inside his head, his right eye closed, nausea surged through his stomach. He needed to get home and rest. Tomorrow was work, back to the only thing he knew how to do, shearing sheep.

Staggering across Stockyard Street toward the Railway Hotel, on the corner, he thought he’ll call in and have a "hair of the dog". Walking from the street into the bar he spotted the barman, Alex.

He shouted and looked angrily at Joe. ‘Don’t come in here Joe you’re barred until further notice. After last night you’ll never be allowed in here ever again.’

‘Sorry, Alex, what’d I do? I only want one drink. I feel bloody crook, mate.’ ‘Sorry mate, after last night - you’re barred. You and those other bloody shearer mates of yours cause trouble each time you all land in here after being out-of-town. You’d think you lot owned this place the way you all carry on. It’s not on – out!’ Alex pointed to the door.

Joe left and wandered home. His lodging was Ma’s Guest House, where he rented a small room, large enough for a single bed, small wardrobe and kerosene tin turned upside down to use as a bedside table to hold his meagre belongings such as tobacco, Tilly lamp and matches. His room was only used when he was in town on a weekend after working in a shearing shed during the week.

Ma looked after Joe like the son she never had. She washed his clothes, cooked and did odd jobs to make him and the other shearers comfortable in her boarding house. At different times she had room for up to six shearers or ringers from around town.

Mixing flour for her bread making, she heard a noise coming from the back steps. ‘Who’s there?’ She shouted and kept on mixing the dough.

‘Only me Ma – Joe’, he answered walking into the kitchen. Heat from the wood stove blasted across the small room as he entered.

‘What happened to you?’ She wanted to know.

‘I kind of run into an elbow Ma – I got locked up for me troubles.’

‘Were you drunk again?’ She asked, continuing to knead the dough to make bread.

‘I don’t know – must have been. I called into the Railway Hotel on the way home to have a "hair of the dog". Alex barred me from the place.’

‘Good on him, serves you right.’ Ma blasted. ‘When are you going to learn you can’t always drink? You going out to the shed tomorrow?’

‘Yeah – I’d better have a bath.’

‘Waters hot in the copper out the back – help yourself.’ Ma returned to her bread making.

Joe walked from the kitchen to the outside yard. The copper, a cast iron stand about three feet high, held a copper tub filled with water. Beneath the copper tub, wood burned to heat the water. Once the water was hot enough, it was bucketed from the copper tub using a four gallon kerosene tin open at the top with gauge eight fencing wire, fastened on either side to use as a handle.

A galvanised bathtub used to pour the water in before the person took a bath. This tub about three feet in diameter and half in height with two handles, one on either side of the tub to empty the water after use.

Placing the bathtub in a small room at the rear of Ma’s home, Joe poured two hot bucket loads of water into the