Martinup: Growing Up in the Australian Bush

By Dougie Macfarlane

The year is 1967 and Martinup, situated in rural Western Australia, is largely unaffected by the sixties revolution that is sweeping the rest of the world. High school is the focus of attention for Brian MacArthur and his friend, Trevor Stewart.
It is so different from primary school. They make their own entertainment in the bush.
Their science teacher, Paul Newton, is on his first teaching post, straight from Perth, missing his girlfriend and sharing a dreadful flat with an outrageous person who works as a primary school teacher. Life is unbearable and conflict inevitable.
Brian has reluctantly accepted the position of altar boy in the local Catholic church. The priest hides a dark secret involving church funds.
The Vietnam War rages on, threatening Brian's older brother, Roger, with conscription should he fail in his exams at university.
Brian and Trevor launch a hot air balloon which starts a bush fire and causes the deaths of hundreds.
Well, no. But it could have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528983037

Dougie Macfarlane

The author, Dougie Macfarlane, was born in rural Western Australia in 1954 and grew up in the bush. He attended the University of Western Australia from 1972 to 1976. He graduated BSc math in 1975 and DipEd in 1976. He has been a teacher in primary and secondary schools in two countries, a bartender, a private math tutor, a wine sales manager and a bagpipe maker. For thirty years, he lived in Scotland, but now he lives as a writer in the Netherlands.

Book preview

Martinup

Dougie Macfarlane

Austin Macauley Publishers

Martinup

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Synopsis

The Vengeance of the Mallee Root

The Wonders of Science

The Incarcerated Priest

The Glasgow Kiss

The Unfortunate Demise of Giovanni

Where’s My Farm?

Drug Addicts and Communists

An Outbreak of Conjunctivitis

A New Day Dawns

The Divine Miss Henderson

It’s a Pig’s Life Down on the Farm

Lord of the Manor

Testing Times

An Unlikely Hero

Epilogue

About the Author

The author, Dougie Macfarlane, was born in rural Western Australia in 1954 and grew up in the bush. He attended the University of Western Australia from 1972 to 1976. He graduated BSc math in 1975 and DipEd in 1976. He has been a teacher in primary and secondary schools in two countries, a bartender, a private math tutor, a wine sales manager and a bagpipe maker. For thirty years, he lived in Scotland, but now he lives as a writer in the Netherlands.

Dedication

For my wife, Bernadette. It would not have been possible without you.

Copyright Information ©

Dougie Macfarlane (2020)

The right of Dougie Macfarlane to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528983020 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528983037 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

My dad, Laurie, for teaching me to be honest and my mum, Kathie, who always had faith in me and her gift to me of The Children Encyclopedia.

Synopsis

The year is 1967 and Martinup, (pop. 5,000) situated in rural Western Australia, is much unaffected by the sixties revolution that is sweeping the rest of the world.

Brian MacArthur and his best friend Trevor are finding it hard to adjust to the strange new world of high school. As there is nothing to offer in the way of entertainment at home, they amuse themselves in the bush, but their apparently harmless activities have unforeseen and unfortunate consequences.

Paul, the boys’ teacher, coming to the town straight from the city on his first teaching post, struggles to cope with a demanding profession, separation from his girlfriend and life in a small country town. He has nothing in common with his housemate Jacko, a teacher from the primary school, and conflict is inevitable.

Father O’Neill, the parish priest, hides a dark secret and longs to leave the town. An incompetent altar boy, a recalcitrant confessional door, an incomprehensible housekeeper and an inquisitive Jesuit sent to investigate financial irregularities in the parish accounts add to his woes.

The Vietnam War is increasingly messy and Australian’s involvement beginning to be questioned. Roger, Brian’s longhaired, dope-smoking older brother knows he must pass his first-year university examinations or face possible conscription. Lured into an ill-timed anti-war demonstration by his extremist girlfriend Suzie, a riot ensues. Local aborigines ask him a question he cannot possibly answer.

Trevor and his mother see a massive change in their lives and Brian, with a foolish experiment involving a rusty bolt, inadvertently causes the deaths of countless people. Well, nearly.

The Vengeance of the Mallee Root

‘Whatcha doin’ this arvo?’ Trevor asked.

Brian had been daydreaming. The afternoon February sun glared down ferociously despite the fact that it was well after three thirty. The two boys were cycling home after what seemed an endless school day that they had with a double period of science in the morning and finished with a torrid double period of maths in the afternoon.

They were rapidly finding out that Thursdays at high school were a drag.

‘Dunno.’

Brian’s mind was still in Mr MacDuff’s maths class. It was so unbelievably awful. He had quite enjoyed maths at the Convent school but this was something else. Mr MacDuff was definitely a weirdo. He was a little old man with a peculiar high-pitched voice. When he scribbled on the board, his bald patch gave him the appearance of a faceless person with a chin beard. When he addressed the class, Brian’s attention would be drawn to his eyes. Framed by big black-rimmed glasses, the lenses had the same dimensions as beer bottle bottoms which made his eyes appear to be a series of concentric circular lights. But what was most disconcerting of all was his habit of apparently scratching himself inside his loose-fitting corduroy trousers.

Whatever he had been saying that afternoon about algebra, had been lost amidst Brian’s simultaneous fascination and revulsion. The nuns had never been like this!

And his oral hygiene was truly astonishing. A sharp intake of breath was necessary for survival whenever he ventured close, which fortunately wasn’t very often. Brian had quickly learnt not to invite him over to explain himself personally. The lad was quite pale and faint after Mr MacDuff finally left him on the first occasion the teacher had been called over.

Mr MacDuff was the only teacher to be awarded not one but two nicknames, pocket billiards and fart breath.

He put his reverie into words,

‘Why don’t we set fire to Mr MacDuff?’

‘He’d most likely do that himself if he had a box of matches in ’is pocket,’ was his mate’s retort prompting Brian’s: ‘an’ then his breath exploded and blow ‘is head off.’

This sent them both into hysterics and nearly dislodged Brian from his bike as the wheel caught a stone by the roadside. Side by side they swapped the endless inane babble of boyhood hilarity as they made their way homeward through the dust and heat.

The two boys were getting used to the new daily routine which was to be with them for the next five years. At the last siren, it was the mad rush to the metal lockers outside Room Ten for books and files and plastic lunchboxes which had that curious smell found nowhere else in nature. Then they would be swept across the Quadrangle with the hordes of other kids converging on the same exit. Different groups moved at different speeds. The faster ones were invariably bus kids from out of town who were totally reliant on the various privately owned buses outside the school to convey them to and from their farms. They were therefore always paranoid about being late. The sequence ended with a violent crush of bodies and bags and books in the main doorway, a scene relished by the school bullies and detested by the sole teacher on duty whose onerous task it was to prevent it.

Then to the bike racks and FREEDOM!

The trip home would take about twenty-five minutes as the boys lived on the other side of the railway line which effectively divided the town.

The journey would take them down the hill past the opulent homes of the retired farmers who had made a lot of money when wool sold for a pound per pound and then wisely decided to get off the land. They were the "nouveau riches" of Martinup, which is not quite accurate as all the riches were relatively"nouveau* in Australia anyway, having only arrived in the virgin bush a mere hundred years previously. They rapidly dispersed the incumbent residents who had been there a good bit longer and who certainly weren’t interested inriches, nouveaux"* or otherwise.

Farmers were known colloquially as cockies, a term of endearment if you were one of them or a term of contempt if you weren’t. The houses they chose for their retirement reflected their taste and style. Big. Preferably on two levels as most Australian homes were bungalows. Swimming pool because water was expensive. Spanish-style arches as some had been to Europe for the first time. Exotic palm trees and of course a two-car garage even if the missus couldn’t drive. And to top it off, the newest luxury in 1967, a TV aerial which needed to be about fifty feet high as the nearest transmitter was on the coast about a hundred miles due east. Channel choice was limited: you had a choice of the ABC. Unfortunately, the picture quality was invariably poor. It was a bit like having the radio turned up loud between stations while watching a snowstorm.

The two boys rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill and cycled past the seemingly endless rows of pastel­-coloured-galvanised-iron-roofed-asbestos-bungalows-on-stilts (the wooden stilts being for air circulation, a precursor of air conditioning) which were the temporary homes of teachers and other government officials who had been posted to the country either as an initiation or a demotion. Lifeless, soulless places, they provided little more than a roof over the heads of their tenants during the week. At the weekends, they lay even more silent as their occupants had invariably fled back to the city on the Friday night.

They crossed a wasteland called imaginatively The Park, then over the bridge of the Creek which had last seen water in the floods of 1963 but was now a tangled mass of kikuyu and old car tyres, then around the primary school (which was Trevor’s old school) and bumped and rattled their way across the railway lines.

All the while the afternoon sun beat down.

Sweaty and exhausted, the conversation between the two boys had tailed off. Home was in sight.

Trevor’s house was first.

‘See ya t’morra!’ he shouted as he free-wheeled his bike to the gate.

Then, ‘Wait a minute! I’ve got something to show ya. Just chuck yer bike over there.’

Brian leaned his bike against the fence and followed his mate around the side of the house as it was the custom in the country to enter by the back door rather than the more obvious front door.

He waited on the back step.

Trevor’s mum emerged from the gloom of the doorway opening onto the back verandah, the glow of her cigarette clearly discernible in the darkness.

‘C’mon in son. It’s bloody hot out there.’

Brian liked Trevor’s mum. She was the only adult he knew who swore and smoked. In fact, she smoked so much that she had a nicotine-stained face which gave her the appearance of a permanent tan even though she was rarely seen outside the house. Her dress sense was somewhat eccentric. She favoured old-fashioned floral cotton dresses which stopped mid-calf and set off the ensemble with work boots normally seen on men. And no socks. Brian mused that it was probably just as well that she didn’t go out much. He knew she liked a drink too because of the ever-present pile of empty Penfolds sherry flagons at the back door. Brian followed her through the fly-wire door and into the darkness of the kitchen.

It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the feeble light that struggled through the fly-stained net curtains on the only window. Newspapers and teacups littered the table. Dishes and other assorted crockery fought for space on the sink. Here and there ashtrays overflowed. Mrs Stewart may not have had the cleanest kitchen in the world, but for all that there was an atmosphere of comfort and tranquillity about the place and Brian always felt quite at home there.

‘Ya wanna cuppa tea, Brian?’

‘Yes please, Mrs Stewart, Milk and sugar.’

Trevor’s mum busied herself with the kettle on the cast iron range. The fire was always on but curiously never seemed to give out any warmth. It was always cool and dark at Trevor’s place despite the searing heat outside.

Trevor emerged from the greater gloom which was the interior of the house holding an open book.

Brian recognised it immediately. It was a volume of The Children’s Encyclopaedia. His Aunty Betty in Perth had a set but he hadn’t been impressed with his initial cursory glance at one of the volumes. It was very old fashioned, mostly about the might of the British Empire and how brave soldiers from around the world were set to crush the evil Hun on the Western Front. That and silly poetry and boring black and white photos of armless Greek statues.

Trevor cleared a space on the table with his elbow and set down the book.

The title caught Brian’s eye, "HOW TO MAKE A HOT AIR BALLOON".

He was immediately less cynical of the dusty tome and his eye quickly scanned down the page: tear-shaped pieces of tissue paper glued together at the edges would form the body of the balloon. A circular piece of tissue at the top sealed the structure. A wire ring at the bottom held the mouth open. The hot air was supplied by a burning wad of cotton wool, soaked in methylated spirits and held in the centre of the opening by another piece of wire running across the diameter. Simplicity itself! Brilliant!

‘I’ll definitely be into that, Trevor.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Trevor’s mum advancing on him with the cup of tea.

‘School science project Mum,’ Trevor interjected. Margaret Stewart, despite her inclusive attitude towards young folk, like all adults had reason to fear the combination of adolescents and things flammable. The summer had been long and hot. All it took was a stray spark to start a bushfire which could consume everything in its path. White Australians feared these savage infernos more than anything else although they had in fact always been a feature of the landscape. Indeed, the bush needed fire for regeneration.

‘Yeah. Science project,’ Brian concurred absent-mindedly as he sipped the tea, his eyes still glued to the page.

A hot air balloon out of tissue paper? Could it really be that simple to make?

Mrs Stewart casually remarked to her son that the firewood supply was getting low.

Brian suddenly remembered his own obligations. There were mallee roots waiting for him at home that needed his attention.

‘Sorry Mrs Stewart. I’ve gotta go. Me mum wants some wood chopped and it’s after four o’clock already. I’ll see ya later mate.’

Trevor followed him to the front gate.

‘I reckon I’ll have a shot at this balloon thing. I know we’ve got some tissue paper kickin’ about somewhere.

I’ll drop round to your place later on, prob’ly after tea.’

‘Rightio,’ said Brian easing his front wheel through the gate. ‘Oh, and tell your mum she makes a great cup of tea. Sorry I didn’t have time to finish it.’ With that, he pushed his bike homeward. He’d just lied through his back teeth. The tea tasted awful but Brian was beginning to learn the subtle art of diplomacy.

His mind turned to the hot air balloon that would soon lift gently from the silent, and dusty town of Martinup and soar ever upward and far, far away. Wouldn’t it be amazing to be aboard a balloon? He wondered what his home town would look like from the air. He wondered how far it would go. To the sea?

But that was over a hundred miles away. Over the sea? His imagination was running away with him.

He parked the bike at the side of the house. Brian’s home was bigger than Trevor’s. It was a rambling whitewashed brick bungalow with the regulation twin features of verandah and patch of kikuyu that served as a lawn. This ubiquitous African grass thrives in suburban Australia It remains green in the summer (provided the sprinkler is kept on regularly) but you could not have a picnic on it as its leaves are sharp enough to cut flesh. The front lawn served as a totally subconscious reminder to the descendants of white settlers from cooler climates of home. It was unthinkable not to have a front lawn (and a back lawn if the property was big enough as Brian’s was) despite the fact that the grass consumed precious water, needed constant mowing and couldn’t be sat on.

To the front of the house was the bush, a precious but fragile remnant of what the place used to be like. Tall gum trees towered over a tangled mass of smaller jam trees, white gum and thick grass, the vegetation so thick that the eye could not penetrate more than fifty yards of it. The White Man has a special fear and distrust of the bush and its indigenous inhabitants which was perhaps why it was cleared so quickly and ruthlessly soon after their arrival. Brian grew up knowing that it was not safe to walk through long grass or even to walk along the few paths through it without adequate footwear. The dugite, the local venomous snake, was particularly feared and although he had not personally encountered one, he had seen discarded skins and plenty of dead specimens on the road.

Brian walked around the side of the house under the shade of the trees (almond + plum trees) and ducked under the grape vine heavy with fruit that guarded the back door. His mother, as always called to him as he crossed the creaking Iino-covered floorboards of the back room.

‘Is that you, dear?’ the voice came from the pantry just off the kitchen.

‘Yeah, Mum.’

Brian dropped his schoolbag by the bed and started to change out of his school clothes.

‘Change out of those hot school clothes and have a cup of tea.’

Brian cheekily mouthed her words in the wardrobe mirror as he struggled with the knot of his school tie.

She had said the same thing to him every day after school since Grade One.

Brian had recently acquired the room. He was the youngest of a family of four boys. John, the eldest, was an accountant in Perth. He earned a lot of money and didn’t come home often. Then there was Richard, a weedy-looking chap with terminal acne and chronic short sight who was studying to be a priest at a seminary in Melbourne who was seen even less, which was a relief for Brian because they couldn’t stand each other. Roger, the previous occupant of Brian’s room was the most exotic. He was Brian’s favourite brother. An undergraduate at the University of Western Australia, Roger was also a hippy with long hair and outrageous clothes. He was a vociferous opponent of the Vietnam War in which Australia was becoming increasingly involved. His views would often bring him into heated conflict with his parents. Roger would be home at Easter and Brian was looking forward to it even though it meant giving up his room for a week.

Brian joined his mother in the kitchen.

‘Have nice day at school, dear?’

Brian thought for a moment, ’Did she really want to know the truth? Did she really want to know about Peter Haddow’s intentional or unintentional flatulence in science this morning? Or Kevin Shearer’s lunchtime joke about the new male sex drive pill which had to be swallowed quick or else you would get a stiff neck? Or worse still about Mr MacDuff?’ So he erred as always on the side of caution leaving Mrs MacArthur like so many mothers wondering about their offspring’s reticence to talk about school.

‘Yeah, it was alright.’

His mother had retreated into the pantry where she was preparing plums for jam.

‘There’s some mallee roots that need to be chopped up the back.’

‘Yeah, I know. I’m just on my way.’

‘Have you got homework?’

‘Yeah, a bit of science.’ The evacuation of the science lab that morning due to Peter Haddow’s intentional or unintentional flatulence flashed through Brian’s mind but again he kept his mouth shut.

‘I’ll do it tonight.’

He squatted on the back step and hauled on the heavy boots obligatory for wood cutting. His brother Roger had taught him the trade early, probably as an excuse for getting out of doing it himself, but it was a necessary chore and Brian generally enjoyed it. It was certainly better than picking up rotten fruit from under the trees in order to prevent blowfly infestation. That was not a nice job. But then, chopping mallee roots was a different matter altogether.

The wood heap was at the back of the house beside a corrugated iron woodshed. His father had built it with the intention of storing chopped wood, but as its open side faced south, where the rain usually came from, it proved rather useless as a storage area. So he built a bin by the back door instead. A lane ran behind the heap and a post and wire fence bordered the property. A well-worn stump stood embedded in what must have been millions of chips, the accumulation of years of his father’s and older brothers’ intimate encounters with the local varieties of timber.

From an axeman’s point of view, some of these varieties were better than others. Jarrah blocks split beautifully, cleaving under just a tap of the blade. Karri was good too but a little more effort was required. Red gum and white gum were harder still, especially so if the wood was still green. The grain was wavy and Brian knew from bitter experience that a hard blow would often result in the axe buried in the wood.

He spent many unhappy hours, attempting to part "chopper" from"choppee".

But the hardest of the lot was the mallee root.

The mallee root gets its name (perhaps not surprisingly) from being the root of the mallee, a rather nondescript shrub-like tree indigenous to the area. The cockies hated the mallee along with the rest