An excerpt from Chapter 3 of THE FARAWAY LAND OF THE HOUSE AND TWO COWS: The bottom-end township

Remnant pylons from the Metropolitan Farm jetty, 2018

The bay of our grand Dame city, Melbourne town, gleams in the sparkle of tourmaline under a sun radiating this late Sunday afternoon. She’s unruffled by the commotion before her, as are the red-capped dotterels feeding on a bounty of succulent morsels lacing the seaweed and within the mudflats by the sluice gate and sand spits. It’s a stark contrast to the hubbub of drunken men behaving as sullied boys around the jetty, having arrived on the steamer Derwent, from Melbourne earlier that afternoon.

‘They’re a party of choice!’ says Agnes.

‘Despicable, Aggie,’ says Annie.

‘Gotta’ve been on the hard turps today,’ laughs Frank, having wandered over from the stables. 

Howls of laughter erupt from a tenant farmer’s yard.

‘They come ashore and at once, proceed to make things glum,’ says Annie. ‘Damn fools, riding Jack’s horses. He had ’em tied to the fence for feeding and watering. He’ll be far from happy when he comes in from the paddocks.’

‘We better do something to break up the drunken bums, or they’ll run amuck in Jack’s yard,’ says Frank.

‘Drongos’ve got too much to resist. They got a scratch race going,’ says Agnes.

‘Bloody ninnyhammers, look at ‘em falling off the horses!’ laughs Frank. ‘Fallin’ all over the bloody place. They’ll be sore tomorrow.’

Michael and George approach, having finished their shifts. 

‘Afternoon ladies and gent,’ says George, wiping blood trickling from a cut on his hand after laying water mains pipes all day. ‘A welcome spectacle we have here.’

‘They’re gonna come to blows,’ says Frank. ‘The old bloke wants ta fist-a-cuff his mate, after falling off the horse and onto him!’

‘They’ll be in our prayers tonight, Annie,’ says Michael. ‘Aye, they’ll need forgivin’.’

‘Especially the swaggie that got excited before and tried to ride our poor Jasy,’ scowls Annie.

‘You should have seen the foolish man, Michael,’ says Agnes. ‘Poor Jasy, quietly grazing in the paddock, until a drunkard charged in and proceeded to draw her milk into his mouth. He couldn’t kneel for all his swaying and draws not more than an ounce of milk from her.’

‘Then,’ says Annie. ‘Then, he gets on her back for a bit of buckjumping! Good god! Good old Jasy though, threw him off quick smart, probably most offended by his pungent breath.’

‘And there’s more,’ laughs Agnes. ‘Annie chases him with the dunny shovel! He went charging up the jetty faster than a rabbit being chased by your swiftest ferret, George. And expressing himself in a most choice language! Only to then teeter on the jetty edge and the bugger falls in!’ Agnes laughs into her cupped hands. ‘Hys-terical.’ Tears spritz from her eyes.

‘He bloody well deserved it too,’ chuckles Annie.

‘Abominable!’ Michael shares half a smile.

‘Looks like the constabulary are finally managing some order at the jetty.’

‘That order aint working in the paddocks.’ Frank lifts his hat and points to Jack’s paddock. He wipes the grime from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Men are scrambling for ploughs and rakes, broken jinker wheels, bridles and anything hanging from posts and collecting in corners in Jack’s shed, to pile them in sloshing swagger into the centre of an adjacent paddock flushed in fresh sewage. 

‘We need to get in there and stop them,’ says George.

‘Why? Let the scoundrels play in the watered paddock,’ chuckles Frank. ‘A paddock of higgidy-hock. With bloody unhooked draught horses scoffing into chaff and lucerne scattered all over other the place, bloody scoops tipped on their sides ….’

The steamer blows its whistle, signalling its imminent departure back to Melbourne. Sharp-tailed sandpipers flee from their perches on the end of the pier. Men swarm in crooked stagger back to the steamer as mosquitoes blinded in a heady high of intoxicated blood. 

The men in the watered paddock drop their utensils to murky splashes. One chap brushes at the mottling brown on his pale grey trousers. Another man heaves beside him.

‘Ha-ha, he’s chunderin’ his guts out, onto his shit stained shoes!’ laughs Frank.

The men scram from the paddock as though the Farm’s hefty bulls are chasing them.

‘The jetty’s going to fall into disrepute. It’ll be the end of the Farm,’ says Agnes.

‘We need the hotel and shops,’ says Frank. ‘It’ll work if we had them, no doubt about it.’

‘Rubbish! Not with all the objections opposing the hotel. A lot of councils thought it was questionable,’ says Agnes.

‘Fitzroy Council didn’t object ….’

Such shenanigans, Dear Daughter. The board’s finance committee tabled a report that recommended a hotel be built on the Farm. They’ve got rabbit pebbles in their brains if you ask me. Fancy selling liquor on the Farm. Councillor Russell from Hawthorn Council may have questioned the Board’s power to build it but ultimately, the Board do a lot of things they have no power to do. Commissioner Cowan moved to adopt the finance committee's report because the lease had been sold in accordance with the conditions stipulated. And of course, he wanted the Board of Works to pocket the rent at £23 a year. He knew the lessee had submitted plans for a building which could become a hotel. Such a fool, claiming the Board was under no responsibility and in no position to interfere with the proposal. And then Commissioner Dillon seconding the motion! Pompous twit-twats. The gall to blame the finance committee for not informing the Board when it was plainly in the report. Bugger me, men of so called influence and intelligence who cannot read.