Broken Dreams (2 page)

Back in Mitchell, we settled into a house with one of our aunties, and a week later my father returned to the bush, to work on Mount Owen station. We stayed with our auntie for a few months before we found a place of our own in Mitchell.

My father used to stay out in the bush for months at a time, coming back to town for a few days. Then back he would go to his beloved bush and the horses he loved so dearly. I have never known a man who loved horses as much as Dad.

I soon found that town life was very different to the peace and freedom of the bush. At Westgrove I'd had plenty of room to kick a football, but in town I was told to be careful and give some consideration to our next-door neighbour. I was guilty more times than once of kicking my football onto our neighbour's roof. It would land on the roof with a loud bang and I used to have about ten seconds to put my fingers in my ears—you
could be sure as hell that the old girl, my Mum, would crack up.

I was now in Grade Four at Mitchell State School. At first some of the other kids would pick a fight with me, but they soon left me alone when I showed them I wasn't scared of anyone and was ready to fight back—the lesson I'd learned from my father back in Grade Three.

A few months after our return to Mitchell, my father arrived in town with a little brown-and-white pony. Dad and I named this pony “Billyjack”. After riding the pony for most of the day, I asked my father if I could go for one more ride on him. “Take those two pieces of wood I've cut and put them inside, then you can go for another ride,” my father said. Thinking that he'd left the scene—I'd seen him walk off behind the bathroom—I muttered to myself, “Do it yourself, ya old bastard”. I nearly died as I received a kick up the arse (and they say Mai Meninga has a good right foot). “Did I hear you say something, son?” my father asked. I was a bit shell-shocked as I replied: “Would you like me to pick up the rubbish in the yard as well—it's no trouble.” For me, that was a lesson learned the hard way.

My dad toed me up the arse a few more times, but even today I have never forgotten that I was in the wrong always. Usually when any of us kids stepped out of line it was the old girl who pulled us back, using a strap. Mum was tough—but fair. I had to do my homework each night under her supervision.

When I reached Grade Six at school, I ran into one teacher I reckoned was a bit of a bastard, and probably he thought the same about me. He lived by the law of the blackboard ruler and I received my fair share of hits, together with the rest of the class. In Grade Seven, however, I met one of the nicest teachers going: Mrs Wichlacz. She was so caring, and treated everyone the same. Yet she wasn't soft: she faced facts and she took a
person for what they were. You couldn't help but like this lady. She made you really want to try hard to pass exams. I first met Mrs Wichlacz over the holidays, when I was on my way to the bush with my father. We stopped at Polana, the halfway point between Mitchell and Mount Owen—Mrs Wichlacz lived there with her husband. She was the only teacher I have ever trusted.

As a fresh-faced twelve-year-old I met a few of the characters working out in the bush. I loved to listen to their stories, and when they spoke of cowboys, stockmen and ringers, straight away the one person who came into my mind was my father, Billy Dodd.

My father, Billy Dodd, was very proud to be Aboriginal. He was dark-skinned, a very shy, quiet man. He was not very tall, not very broad—there was really not much to this man at all when you looked at him. But he was a very understanding man and very special to everyone in his family. He also had some old-fashioned ideas—he believed that necklaces, earrings and bangles were strictly for girls, that Slim Dusty was number one, and that the only type of haircut for a man was short back and sides. My brother Peter and I used to disappear at the mention of a haircut, but the truth was, my bloody ears were too big.

My father had a special way with horses, whether he was handling them from the ground or up in the saddle. Over the years he had carved his name as a horseman and a breaker. Men like Lyle Kearns, who worked alongside my father, tell me he was one of the best. They say he could tame a horse when the devil stirred inside it. He was afraid of nothing and would ride anything with four legs. He was a stockman made and born. I spent all the time I could with my father, watching him break in the young horses. I soon got to appreciate his riding ability, his coolness, and his patience. My father won my respect and admiration.

One day, Dad received a setback when he was breaking in a young horse. It lashed out with a back leg and caught him on the knee. He went away to Brisbane to have an operation, and after that he had a permanent limp. But he returned to the bush, to the only job he'd ever known. He was a lot slower at getting up on the young horses after that, but he'd grown up tough and refused to give in. I was twelve at this time, and had to wait for the school holidays to come round before I could go back to join my father in the bush. Like him, I was growing up around horses and enjoyed their company more than that of most of the people I met. During the next holidays, I noticed that my father was a lot slower—there were times when I found my hands over my face and my heart in my mouth, but somehow he managed to go on working with the horses. Around this time, he left Mount Owen to go contract mustering on Possession Creek station.

At the end of those holidays I returned to town and went back to school—it was always good to see my mates again, Alan Martin, David Nixon, Michael Cambarngo and Adrian Finlay. They were my closest friends. I used to go jogging each afternoon after school finished. I recall very well the day I returned home from one of my jogs, when another of my mates, Michael Kearns, whistled out to me. When I ran over to him, he told me that my father had died. I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't believe it. I just wanted to punch my mate and tell him it wasn't true.

Unfortunately, the moment I arrived home I knew it was true. My mother told me that Dad had stepped off his horse to throw a mickey—a young bull. After he'd thrown the mickey his horse trotted away from him, and when my father chased after the horse, he suffered a heart attack. This devastating piece of news was the biggest kick in the arse I ever received.

As a kid, I had been told that only sooks cry. I ran downstairs, out of the house, and sat on a log. I stared into space, picturing my father in my mind, remembering the shy man known to me as Billy Dodd, or simply “Dad”. My horse, Billyjack, was in the yard where I was sitting. I was okay until Billyjack walked over to me and started chewing on my hair. I threw my arms around my horse's neck, fighting back in the tears which I could no longer hold. I cried, feeling alone and unwanted. I never felt so sad in my life as I did that day. I had never thought my father might die; he was only forty-five and he seemed so fit and healthy. Unknown to me, however, he was a sick man. After that day, our family's strong spirit was broken and replaced by grief.

My mother told me stories about my father when he was a boy. At school he was nicknamed “The Inspector”, she said, because he used to turn up at school about as often as the school inspectors did. My father was a bugger of a boy when it came to school attendance.

He used to ride to school and hide his horse in the bush. He'd go into the classroom until he heard the bell for little lunch. Then he'd jump the fence, get on his horse and swim in the saddle across the Maranoa river. In those days, the police sergeant, who had the task of getting my father and any other truants to stay at school, rode a pushbike around the town. But by the time my father had swum his horse across the river, the poor old sergeant would still be pedalling flat out on his pushbike, just coming over the bridge. When my dad reached the other side of the river he would turn around and give the police sergeant the forks.

But like the saying goes, “every dog has his day”—and the poor old sergeant had his day, all right. This day, my father was doing his usual stunt. When the little lunch bell rang, he ran down and got on his horse. As he was
cantering away from the sergeant, the horse fell over and threw him hard on the ground.

It fairly knocked the stuffing out of him. My father lay on the ground for a while, winded. He couldn't get up in time to escape the clutches of the sergeant. The sergeant, pedalling hell for leather, was relieved when he saw the horse fall. He went over and picked my father up, then gave him a good talking to, a kick up the arse, and took him back to school.

Dad and his brother, Johnny, were at school together. What a pair of outlaws! One day they decided to wag school. Johnny hid their schoolbags under the floorboards of the house, while my father stood watch. “There, Bill, no one will find those bags,” he said ... then he looked around and to his great surprise he saw a size ten, brand-new shiny black boot: it belonged to the police sergeant. My father had seen the sergeant coming and bolted, leaving Johnny to talk his way out and enable the sergeant to break in one shiny black boot with yet another kick in the arse.

My father had left school after completing Grade Four. Then he started working with his father.

As time progressed, I found that many things began to fall apart following my father's death. I was allowed a lot more freedom; floggings and the strong discipline of home life ended. I don't think my mother cared any more. I now realise that a lot of young people take their parents for granted—they don't appreciate them until they haven't got them any more, and then it's too late.

After my father's death I didn't care about anything at all except my horse Billyjack. My horse was the only one who understood me, no matter what sort of a mood I was in. My horse was a true and faithful mate.

At the time Dad died I was still only twelve. When I
went back to school I found I had lost all my interest in it, and by the time I turned thirteen I positively hated going to school. I spent most of my time outside the classroom or down at the office. When I got to Grade Nine, I had a lot of fun wagging school to go horse-riding. I used to go to school mostly on Wednesdays, as that was the day we played sport, mostly rugby league. Out of all the teachers in high school I liked only one, a bloke named Jon Ikin. He took us for football and cricket training and you could have a bit of a joke with him. He was a good bloke. I made it to Grade Ten, but never completed the year. Before I left school I won the high school cross-country race and was senior boy champion in athletics. I received two medals from the Principal, Mr Burrows, who liked me about as much as I liked him—very little. It must have been hard for Mr Burrows to present me with two medals. For a change he had to be nice to me. This was the first time I'd put out my hand to him for something other than the cane. It was after this double feat that I decided to leave school.

After I left school I found myself a job looking after and tailing a mob of cattle and a few thousand head of sheep. Out in the bush, I used to lie awake each night thinking about my father. One night I set myself a goal in life: to become a cowboy, stockman or a ringer just like my father. If I turned out half the man my father had been then I would be happy.

I worked at this job for a few months and enjoyed it, even though I was paid only ten dollars a day. I understood that my boss was suffering from the drought and was forced to move some of his stock off the property, putting the cattle and sheep on agistment to try to save his livelihood. While I worked here I stayed in an old tin shed. I had to boil water to bathe, and the toilet was a big box tree. It was a rough camp, but I didn't mind. For me this was a good job. I gained a ton of experience, looking after horses, cattle and sheep. I really
understood horses and felt good working with them. My goal in life was slowly coming together.

Some four months later I left this job and came back to town. One night I ran into Michael Cambarngo and Alan Martin, a pair of outlaws at the best of times, but two top blokes. Later on, we decided to get on the grog to ease the boredom. Like a dickhead I took a liking to Port 99 and beer. With the result that around midnight, I found myself in more strife that I could handle. At the age of sixteen I had my first taste of jail. I was locked up in the watch-house in Mitchell, my home town. I can tell you that was one of the coldest nights of my life. The policeman who locked me up threw me a blanket, the roughest, prickliest one I'd ever felt. Even so, I bloody near froze. The temperature was minus 1° on the thermometer. To make things worse, I was woken at two o'clock in the morning to be questioned. The sergeant informed me that I had called him a “fat bastard”. I was giving cheek and when he came over towards me I apparently said, “Catch me if you can, you fucking copper,” and he did. I was too drunk to run away—he tackled me on the cement and put me in the police car. I couldn't remember saying or doing these things. To tell the truth, I think I'd hurt the Sarge's feelings a bit—he was in a really bad mood when he questioned me. He told me a few more things that I'd done, and then everything started coming back to me. Boy, was I in the shit! I'd told the police I was eighteen, when in fact I was still only sixteen. Then the sergeant decided to give my mother a ring. “Mrs Dodd, we have your son Bill here at the watch-house,” he told her. “It will be eighty dollars to bail him out.”

“Leave him there until the morning,” my mother replied.

The police kept on questioning me, then decided to call my mother again. The Sarge lowered my bail to forty dollars. But once again the old girl proved stubborn. “I'll
bail him out in the morning,” she said. When the Sarge found out I was broke, he lowered my bail right down to two lousy bucks, and finally offered to pay my way out of jail himself. He was pretty disgusted when I told him to keep his money and lock me up again—to tell the truth, I couldn't face the long cold walk back home. The Sarge just toed me up the arse and sent me on my way.

In the next few weeks, I rode a young horse around town to quieten it down for its owner and get it used to traffic. For this simple job I was given another horse for myself, a little brown gelding I named “Four X”.

A month or so passed without incident. Until twelve o'clock one night, when Bodge Burns, Adrian Finlay and myself were sitting outside the cafe, drinking stubbies. I got up to go around to the back of the cafe to have a leak. When I came back, I was just in time to see the two of them getting into a white car.

“Wait for me, you pair of bastards!” I sang out to my mates. And that was when I heard a familiar voice call out: “Grab that other bugger, too.” Too late I realised that I should have stayed at the back of the cafe—and the next moment I came face to face with the police sergeant. I decided to take off, and was lucky that I could run a bit. I streaked off down a dark alley. Bodge and Adrian were driven home in the police car.

A few weeks later, my horse Four X saved me from being locked up. I was riding my horse home from the pub, blind drunk, when I heard the police car come up behind me and stop. A policeman grabbed me off my horse and put me in the car. Since I had only one block to go before I got home, the other policeman said he would lead the horse home. But Four X was tired and didn't lead well at the best of times. I used Four X as a kids' pony, so he was also a bit spoilt. Now he found a sweet patch of grass, and that was where he decided to stay. He was bailing up the long arm of the law, refusing to move. The
second policeman let me out of the car and legged me back on my horse, and Four X and I were escorted home together.

At sixteen, I guess you could say I was very immature. I thought everything I did was always right, and could see no wrong in my wild ways. I enjoyed a drink and a fight. I refused to listen to anyone to take a single piece of advice. I had another trip to jail and seemed to be staring at a spell in Boggo Road when I got older. One of the Mitchell policemen, Mort Faddy, told me that if I didn't shout him a beer when I turned eighteen, in return for all the trouble I'd caused him already, he'd lock me up for sure. We shook hands on it—he wasn't a bad bloke.

This was the time when my Uncle John, usually known as JD, came into my life. I took a liking to him the first time I saw him, and willingly agreed to go out into the bush to give him a hand with some young horses. I was glad to have the chance to get out out of town for a while, for I'd certainly got myself into a fair bit of strife in a very short time.

So my uncle and I split the scene for a while. He took me to a place called the Womals, a few hours by car from Mitchell. We collected a mob of unbroken horses from some stations close to the Womals, and transported them to our camp. In the following weeks I was in for a shock or two. I came out to the Womals as a cocky sixteen-year-old, thinking I would be able to ride most of the horses for sure. A week later I was walking around wondering if I could ride any horse at all. Some of those horses at the Womals taught me a few lessons I've never forgotten. JD had educated a few other cocky kids. He knew I wasn't a bad kid if I was treated right, so he'd decided to take me under his wing as his offsider. I sure had a lot to learn, but he was willing to give me a chance.

The first day we ran the mob of unbroken horses into the yard we'd rigged up and threw a rope over the head
of a big chestnut gelding. After two days, the big gelding had been handled and quietened down enough to put my saddle on its back. Later that afternoon, the chestnut was ready for his first ride. I felt a bit uneasy as I grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself into the saddle. I felt my foot land in the opposite stirrup iron and knew I was on. All of a sudden I felt the gelding go down into a low crouch, and it was at that moment that I knew all my Christmases had come at once. The chestnut horse leapt high into the air and took off at a horrifying pace. The old bush saying, “He's dropped his head” was all I could think about as the horse began to buck. Just the way I'd seen it at the rodeos, I threw one hand high in the air—and guess what, I followed it and landed on my arse on the ground. I picked myself up out of the dirt and dust, wondering where the hell I'd gone wrong. After uttering a few threats and giving a shake of the head, I climbed back on and gave that chestnut a good workout, and stepped off him again without any further trouble. I'd learned my first lesson the hard way. After I'd taken my saddle and bridle off the horse and let him go with the others, my uncle and I decided to call it a day. We'd be back next morning to give the chestnut his second ride. My Uncle John was grinning like a shot fox when he saw me thrown off the chestnut—the old bugger, he thought it was a great joke.

That night I was restless, haunted by the day's events. I had ridden one horse and been thrown. How many more times would that happen?

Next morning I felt a bit winky as I checked my gear. I caught the chestnut horse and threw my saddle on his back once more. He just crow-hopped around the yard, no problem. A few more rides and that big chestnut never gave any more trouble: he was well on the way to being broken in. A month later he was quiet enough to be taken
home. His owner arrived with a horse float. In a way I was sorry to see the last of him.

The next horse I had to work down was a little grey Welsh mountain pony, a bit taller than a Shetland. I took one look at that grey pony and thought, this will be a piece of cake. A couple of rides, I told myself, and anyone should be able to ride him. I was fairly keen to get the Welsh pony going so that I'd be able to take some of the other horses for a ride. I put my saddle on loose to begin with and tightened the girth gradually, as most young horses are very touchy when you do this. I grabbed the reins up short and climbed into the saddle. As soon as I stepped on I knew the grey pony was going to buck. I could tell just by the way he was walking around the yard. He kept putting his head down. Like a sucker, I hit him on the shoulder with my reins. What happened next occurred in a split second. Once again I picked myself up out of the dust. I noticed that my saddle had worked its way too far forward; as a result I was pivoted straight over the horse's ears into the dirt.

I was thrown twice more off the little grey Welsh mountain pony, but eventually worked him down with a lot of time and effort. That Welsh pony left me with the feeling that he could have thrown me anyhow, anywhere, anytime.

Everything was going well for me—I enjoyed working with the horses and being in the bush. But our food supply was getting low, and it was time to go to town to get more supplies.

After being in town for a day I decided to ride downtown to get a dozen stubbies. On my way home I met a girl my own age and we began chatting. We were both under-age drinkers, and she said: “Go down under the bridge and I'll come down and have a beer with you.” So she jumped
up behind me and we headed down under the bridge on my horse. If I'd had a car everything would probably have worked out all right, but as I rode my horse down the girl's brother must have seen us and gone home to tell their mother. We drank the stubbies and I went for a ride.

Later that afternoon I was sitting on Four-X talking to my mates Adrian Finlay and Wally Fuller. All of a sudden I heard a car pull up behind me and heard a woman's voice: “You—Bill Dodd! I want to see you over at my place in an hour's time or I'll report you to the police.” She was the girl's mother.

So an hour later, Adrian and I rode over to the girl's home to see what her mother wanted. Adrian filled me with confidence. “Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on the windows just in case she pulls out a gun.” After that comment I was ready to bolt at the drop of a hat. If the girl's mum shot off a gun the way she shot off her mouth, then Adrian and I were two dead coons.

Out through the front door of the house came the woman, her mouth firing on all cylinders. (She first softened me up by telling me she could knock me out with a single punch.) She was giving me heaps. While I had put up with her ranting and raving, Adrian was killing himself with laughter. He thought it was a great joke. He made me smile every now and then, which made the girl's mother snap: “If you think this is all a joke then you can come down to the police station right now.” I can tell you I was happy to get away from her alive.

After that weekend, my uncle, JD, turned up at five o'clock on Monday morning to take me back into the bush. I was really pleased to get away, though at times I used to wonder what I was doing there, in the stillness and quietness. Sometimes I felt like a Queen Street cowboy, one of those blokes who comes out to the country from the city and gets all done up in cowboy gear when he hasn't even seen a horse, let alone ridden one.

At the Womals it was back to work. I went down to the horse yard and caught the Welsh mountain pony. After its few days off the little pony went really well, so I took off my saddle and decided to ride bareback. Everything went well until I rode past an old tin shed. Just as my pony and I walked around the corner of the shed, a big black chicken ran out from the dark shadows inside, and straight under the pony's belly. The pony's reaction was to take off and jump high in the air. I thought he was never going to come back to earth, and when he did—I left him. (Not by my own choice.) I picked myself up off the ground really quickly; I didn't want my uncle to see that I'd been thrown yet again. But the first thing I heard was loud laughter, and I caught sight of a number of people looking at me from the shed windows. I picked up my sore ego and jumped back on the pony. I don't know which of us had got the bigger fright—me, the pony or the chicken. By now, the workers in the shed had positioned themselves on the top rail of the fence, expecting more trouble to enjoy. They looked like a flock of prize parrots perched there. The little grey pony and I disappointed them. We continued on our way just as though nothing had happened. My uncle never said a word, just smiled to himself.

Next day, he lined us both up for a few days' work on another property. Our job was to muster about 1500 head of sheep for shearing. In the morning, much to my disgust, I was woken at five o'clock. I still felt half-asleep as I went down to the horse yards and caught a young bay mare that I had never had anything to do with before. I plonked on my saddle and tightened up the girth, then put one foot in the stirrup iron and climbed aboard. Everything seemed to be going well, but as I got down the road a bit I was in for a shock. The mare dropped her head and started to buck. I did not get very far down the road, and I was fully awake as I came into solid contact
with the hard ground. I was none too pleased when the station boss came over on his motor-bike and said: “Gee, son, you've got a graceful way of falling off!” After that I stayed awake on the big bay, but at the end of the day I was nearly caught off-guard again. Once more the bay mare dropped her head and started to buck. I was all arms and legs, but managed to stay in the saddle for a change. I took one look at the ground and it was too damn hard to fall off this time.