The School-bus Run
It was nineteen fifty-two in the Australian bush.
I was tired and I was hungry. Along with a group of others,
about twelve or fifteen at most, I waited at the big gate of the schoolyard for
the bus to pull up. Crows perched in the gum trees overhead talking together like old men on a park
bench after a lifetime of work.
As the ponderous vehicle that served as a school bus ground
its way up the last rise and settled itself off the road in front of the school
gate, kids jostled their way in through the little metal side gate for the best
seats. An uncle of mine, known amongst the children as Uncle Dickie, drove the
bus, and he and my father and grandfather had created this latest school bus, a
small truck that Dickie had purchased for the purpose. They’d made a large,
brown canvas canopy to cover the back and placed leather covered seats along
the sides and front end of the truck’s tray.
Dad made the little gate out of an old bed end by cutting it
up with a hacksaw and soldering on the latch. He must’ve made the steps too.
The bus route was thirty miles long in a rough circle starting and finishing at
the school. Dickie and his wife also owned the grocery store in the town a
couple of hundred metres from the school.
I was in the lower grades, about grade two or three, when
Dickie got the bus, and I was shy and in awe of the older kids. There was one
kid, very freckled with bright red hair, about eight years older than me. I was
fascinated by his unusual carrot top, and one day when he was squatting on the
ground, I put my hand out and touched his hair. I remember him looking at me as
if I was an alien, and I quickly dropped my hand. He was old enough to leave
the next year.
The back of the bus had been left open, with just a couple
of rails across to stop kids from falling out. As we pulled away from the gate
to start the journey home, the crows flew from tree to tree following along behind.
Everyone opened up their bags first thing to find leftover lunch. Apparently I
wasn’t the only one that was hungry, but hunger wasn’t enough to tackle some of
the sandwiches that had been drying out in our little hard school cases in the
heat. Without preservatives, bread improvers or any other additives, the
locally made bread became stale within a day. We had a baker in the town who
baked three times a week, Monday Wednesday and Friday. In a town of around
twenty people, we were lucky to have a baker.
Anyway, the crows didn’t seem to mind what the fillings
were,or how stale the bread was. Any sandwiches, pieces of cold sausage, or stale biscuits found beyond
redemption, were thrown over the back rails of the bus onto the hard dirt road,
where the big black scavengers soon swooped down to have them. When the bus had
travelled a few miles and the scraps dwindled, the crows were gradually left
behind.
Just out of town the bus crossed a small bridge over Sandy
Creek. That was the creek I always blamed for bringing the swarms of sand flies
to our school! A short distance past the bridge was Carter’s farm, and two of
the Carter children alighted there. Molly Carter was fond of the cereal
breakfast biscuits that I took to school and she offered to swap. Actually she
didn’t have anything to swap, but since I hated the Vita-Brits that Mum split
down the middle and buttered, I gave them to her anyway.
Further along the narrow boring road, Billy Henderson urged
everybody to sing. We all joined in singing, Good Night Irene. Everybody knew
the words or soon learnt them, because Good Night Irene was a favourite for the
bus kids to help pass the time. The trouble was Billy Henderson added his own
unique flavour – “sometimes I live in the bloody country… Sometimes I live in
the bloody town.” I was appalled and indignant, but too little to say anything.
When the bus finally got me home to Mum, I wasted no time in reporting Billy
Henderson’s disgraceful behaviour.
Mum sympathised but didn’t offer any solution to the problem. I think she said,
‘Ignore him’
After that it was
about 10 miles before we came to the Muller’s farm. They lived up along a side
road and the soil in this area was rather black and in wet weather very
slippery. If it was raining hard the bus slid around from side to side in the
black soil. In this circumstance the older boys whooped with joy every time the
bus went for a slide, while I sat there petrified, gripping the edge of the
seat and digging in my toes. Carl Muller was particularly vocal when the bus
got bogged. Uncle Dickie would order everybody off the bus.
“You big boys will have to push,” and with a wave of his arm
he gave permission to three or four of the boys to put their shoulders in
behind the bus and push to help get it out of the bog.
Having negotiated Muller’s Road, the bus proceeded on its
way to the next stop, a share farm, where the three Franklin children got off,
Nancy and her brother Brian, and their little sister, Katy.
The numbers on the bus were now dwindling, and after the
river children got off there were only about four or five of us left. At the No-Go
River three kids got off whose parents picked them up in a car before crossing the bridge back over the
river. The river marked the approximate halfway mark of the bus run, and the
last five of us now had the rest of the route on our own.
Our little group from the far end now burst into a rendition
of McNamara’s band, followed by A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts, and Daisy, Daisy
Give Me Your Answer Do. Tired of singing it was not unusual to have arguments
or discussions about school, or what some kid said or didn’t say.
By the time I got home I was almost too tired to walk up the
hill, but a ravenous appetite spurred me on. One afternoon in the middle of summer
I was halfway up the driveway to the house when a bee stung me on the bridge of
my nose. I found speed I didn’t know I had that day, and a voice too for that
matter. Of course Mum fixed it with the blue bag, and tea and sympathy worked
wonders.
The hardest time on the bus was winter time when the bus was
on the early route for me. That meant that I was one of the first to be
collected and had to be down at the gate waiting by 7 AM. In the Burnett region
where I lived the climate was one of extremes. Frosts were not uncommon in
winter, and I found getting out of bed extremely difficult.
One morning when we arrived at Billy Henderson’s farm, he
wasn’t ready for school so the bus waited at the gate for him. Uncle Dickie
started the bus when he saw Billy leave the house. Billy threw his schoolbag
over the back rails, but he didn’t jump over himself. He stood there waiting
for the bus to move off. I was nervous, because he’d done this before, and I
was scared that he’d get run over. As the bus started slowly moving forward,
Billy ran behind for about 20 yards before he swung himself up over the rails,
to the grins and claps of his mates. Inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief. Billy
Henderson was naughty – I wouldn’t do a thing like that!
If the bus arrived late to school because of being bogged or
having a flat tyre or whatever, we marched into school like conquering heroes,
confident that we were legitimately late, and couldn’t get into trouble. But
the teacher would be impatient to get us all seated, having got behind with the
lessons because of the delay.
