The Bush Clown

Greg Ray

I was running helter skelter across the open paddock in pitch darkness. I couldn’t see my feet, let alone what lay ahead. But I knew the paddock well. It was flat, lightly grassed and treeless. There were no unforseen obstacles ahead. Nothing to avoid. It was a breathless night in mid autumn. The air was cold. A frost was in the making. I was high with excitement and challenge.

My race had begun only second before. We had been returning from a hunting trip along the forest line that bordered the isolated farm – three of us, bouncing across rutted ground in a Land Rover that boasted little of any merit other than a motor that ran and a set of spot lights powerful enough to illuminate centre court at Wimbledon.

It was Neville who sounded the alarm.

“Oh shit,” he yelled above the roar of the unmuffled engine. “Someone left the fucking gate open and the sheep are heading for the road.” As he said this, he swivelled the beam of the spot lights across the paddock to reveal a flock of thirty to forty prize sheep in full flight bursting through an open gate and heading off across open pasture in front of us.

“The fence is down,” Neville yelled. “They’ll get through to the road and we’ll never catch the bastards.”

I was sitting next to the passenger’s door – or where a door should have been – transfixed by the unfolding drama. Then came the order.

“Greg, Greg! Do you reckon you can run across and cut ‘em off mate? If we chase them in the Rover they’ll just run even harder.”

“Sure,” I yelled, anxious to help and more than a little concerned that it may have been me who had left the gate open. I leapt from the moving vehicle, hitting the soft grass and rolling twice before springing to my feet.

“Quick,” urged Neville. “Head off that way. But you’d better make it fast.” He moved the spot light to show the direction he wanted me to take. I charged off into the night. With the spot light alternately shining on me from behind and then across the paddock to the racing flock, I felt I was making good ground although I obviously needed to keep moving at full tilt. As I neared the point where I might be in a position to turn the mob, and with the spot light on my back throwing bouncing shadows across the grass like moonshine through a wind tossed tree, I thought I caught sight of what seemed like a dark line in front of me. But as the spot moved away again it melted into darkness.

Suddenly and without warning, I was running in space – suspended like a puppet on strings – my feet failing to make contact with mother earth. The spot light was back and I was staring down into an abyss which, in the horizontal beam of the spot lights, appeared bottomless. Like the poor, unfortunate wolf in Road Runner – my legs thrashing frantically to gain a footing in nothingness – I went plummeting down. My decent marked by a piercing cry of “Aaaarh shiiiit!!”

I landed, face first in ankle deep mud.

As I crawled in humiliation and anger from the ditch, spitting black slime and clearing it from my eyes and ears, I heard the unbridled peels of laughter from my so called “mates”. The Land Rover was now less than twenty feet away, its two occupants falling from its cabin and rolling on the ground in fits of hysterics.

As they continued to roll about slapping their sides and holding their bellies, I began to comprehend the elaborate trap they had set – a trap I had so willingly fallen into (excuse the pun). How was I to know that in the month since I had last visited the farm, Neville had dug a six foot irrigation channel across the paddock to drain an area of swampy land he had recently cleared and planned to put to pasture?

“I hate you bastards,” I yelled, which ignited yet another burst of hysterics.

My mother would have described Neville as a “scallywag”. And he was. A true bush clown. At the same time, he was a bloody hard worker with an impossibly intuitive nature. He could fix anything; make the most derelict motor run; drive anything from a racing car to a bulldozer; build fences; crutch sheep; yell profanities at his dogs in a voice that would terrify alien invaders; and tell more dirty jokes than Robin Williams in a strictly adults’ club. Neville was the quintessential Aussie farmer. As I chose to describe him – “All ribs and dick like a drover’s dog”. He loved that description.

In later years, when I joined the Australian Army and had the opportunity to experience elements of SAS training, I often thought what a wonderful Special Forces soldier Neville might have made. He was tough, resourceful, wily and uncrushable. He was also an excellent shot. Bush craft was an inherent part of his upbringing.

There were only two occasions on which I had the last laugh on Neville, while he had many on me.

We both loved cars – fast cars. He was obsessed with the V8 variety while my choice was the Mini Cooper, which Neville irreverently described as “a fucking toy”.

At the time, Neville owned one of those absurdly large 1950s Fords which boasted rows of open throated carburettors that spat out sheets of flame every time he started the monster up. By contrast, the Cooper had a miniscule motor, which Neville reckoned would be handy on a wheel chair.

Inevitably, there had to be a race. A quarter mile stretch on a back country road was agreed on as a sprint course. We lined up side by side. It took Neville several minutes to get “the monster” fired up. When he did, however, every bird and animal within a radius of several miles took fright at the horrendous noise. Only those creatures that were either deaf or under water remained unaffected. It was one of those times a platypus is at a distinct advantage. Neville wound down his window and yelled above the noise. “Just as well you’ll never get in front of me ‘cause that fucking toy might get sucked up into one of my carbies and blown out the exhaust like a small fart.” He screeched with laughter at his own joke.

I said nothing. Instead I built up the revs on the Cooper to around six and a half thousand. The engine screamed. Not to be outdone, Neville took the V8 to maximum revs. The big vehicle shock and rocked with pent up power. We looked to the starter. There was no hope of hearing his call of “ready, set, go.” The roar of the engines was deafening. The best we could hope for was to read his lips and wait for his arm to come down to declare “Go!” I watched as he sounded out “Ready!” I revved the engine even harder. Neville did the same. When he mouthed “Set!” the big Ford began to surge in an effort to break loose. I quickly dropped the revs on the Cooper back to two and a half thousand.

Then the arm fell, and it was “Go!”.

In a plume of blue smoke and the stench of burning rubber the big Ford sat virtually motionless as it tore up the road pavement in a brutal struggle to break through a few of the fundamentals of physics that govern motion. Conversely, I eased the clutch out on the Cooper and I glided off the start line without even the slightest wheel spin, gradually building speed till we hit the finish line – first! As I crossed to claim victory my rear view mirror was packed with the sight of “the monster” Ford as it fish-tailed its way down the road a good hundred yards behind. It seems Neville had forgotten the story of the hare and the tortoise.

I joyously refused his subsequent and frustrated challenge to race me over a ten mile stretch. “Mate, if I can do that to you over a quarter mile just imagine your embarrassment over ten miles.”

He did eventually see the funny side – eventually!

The only other occasion on which I had the last laugh on Neville was through pure happenstance. It was in the reflective period leading up to my induction into the Army which induced a personal need to revisit my country roots, if only for a few days. The beautiful farm which Neville managed on the east coast of Tasmania was the ideal setting for such introspection.

At dusk on the first day, we hopped on a trail bike and headed for the bush – Neville at the helm and me perched precariously on the pillion seat with a battery pack and spot light in a bag on my back. At that stage in my life, I loved hunting. Today, like many others in the twilight of their years, I now find the sport difficult to defend. Over the passing years, I have developed a deep respect for life of all descriptions as my own mortality becomes increasingly apparent. And my youthful love of firearms dissipated during my term in Vietnam. After two years of military service I decided never to fire another weapon as long as I lived.

After the hunt and on our way home, Neville asked if I had ever ridden a trail bike before. When I said “No” he insisted that I take the rider’s seat and with a few brief instructions we were jerkingly on our way. Things were running smoothly until we hit a small ditch – yes, another one! As the front wheel dug into the ditch wall, we were both propelled forward, Neville falling heavily against my back, which in turn pushed me further forward. The wrist of my right hand, which rigidly grasped the throttle, was twisted down by the transfer of weight. Suddenly we were at full throttle. The bike, its back wheel gripping and tearing at the ground under full power, came up out of the ditch like some sort of missile. It flew into the air. So did we!

Neville landed first – possibly because of the weight of the battery pack. I landed on top of him and the bike landed on top of me. It hurt like hell but bloody oath it was funny. We simultaneously cursed, howled in pain and hooted with laughter. The absurdity of it all was much funnier than the hurt from battered limbs. We limped and hobbled back to the farm house our shared mocking and ridicule mixed with shrieks of laughter audible for miles around.

Jan was a typical farmer’s wife – solid, competent and hard working. While Neville ran the farm, his authority stopped at the back door of the farm house. It was Jan who controlled and managed the household.

“What have you too bloody idiots been up too?” she asked as we struggled into the kitchen clutching one another for support. “And Neville what the hell have you got on your new overalls. I only bought those last week for God’s sake. Look at them. You’ve got stains all over your butt.”

“Ah, it’s only petrol,” declared Neville as he brushed at the stains. “It’ll all come out in the wash Darl.”

“Don’t you bloody ‘darl’ me,” she said. “Go in by the fire and I’ll get some supper.”

Like so many farmers’ wives, Jan was an outstanding cook. And she knew I had a weakness for lamingtons. They came out piled high on a silver platter. There were large tea cups to match, steaming with a fresh brew. We laughed and laughed as we recalled the “space journey” as Neville dubbed it.

Finally, when the story was exhausted, the lamos consumed and the tea cups drained, Neville declared it was time for a “shepherd’s supper” which, for the uninitiated, is an outside piss and a good look around. He stood up to leave, when to our collective amazement, his new overalls disintegrated before our very eyes. Small tufts of fabric fell to the floor like the stuffing from a busted pillow. He was left standing there, the top half of his overalls in tact while below the waist he was exposed right down to a pair of bright red undies and a couple of very white, very skinny legs. I thought I would explode.

It was not petrol that had stained his overalls but battery acid. Only Jan failed to see the funny side.

Many years later, on the 28th April, 1996, Neville and Jan, having established their own wildlife park on Tasmania’s east coast, were visiting Tasmania’s biggest tourist attraction Port Arthur with the expectation of gathering ideas on how they might improve their own tourist attraction.

That was the day madman Martin Bryant went on a killing spree, murdering 35 innocent people and wounding another 21.

Neville and Jan were in the car park when Bryant moved from the Broad Arrow Café to continue his slaughter. He shot Jan in the back. She lay on the ground mortally wounded. Bryant continued to kill as Neville and many others scrambled to escape. When the killer eventually moved on, Neville returned to find Jan clinging to life. Unfortunately Bryant also returned. He shot Jan a second time in the back and pursued Neville onto a nearby tourist bus. As he stood over Neville who tried to hide between seats Bryant said: “No one gets away from me.” He aimed to shoot Neville in the head.

I believe it was Neville’s innate sixth sense that told him when Bryant was about to pull the trigger. He dodged at the critical moment. The bullet struck him in the neck. Bryant left him for dead. Neville crawled from the bus to where Jan lay. She died in his arms.