Pat Ritter. Books

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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 50:

‘You lucky bugger. Probably will die here.’
‘I want to tell you something, and I don’t want you to tell anyone else.’
‘Like you’re not Joe Ryan. You were in the bar at Eulo Queen that night but it was your mate who punched me and escorted me to Cunnamulla with Constable Fitzgerald the following morning.’ Billy admitted with a slight smile.
‘What gave it away?’
‘Your eyes, the other fellow had blue eyes and youse are green. Eyes don’t change and I thought you were different when you first came in here.’
‘I’ve done my time and now time to leave and get on with my life,’ Joe finished.
‘You want to tell me how you came here in place of Joe Ryan. If I remember I think your name is Gibson.’ Billy questioned.
‘Yes it is. I swapped places with the real Joe Ryan after the strike finished because the police were coming to arrest him. Never in my wildest imagination I’d end up in this hell hole.’
‘Why did you do it, sounds bloody stupid to me, but obviously not to you?’
‘At the time I thought I was doing the right thing by Joe and Hannah, but after I was locked up Hannah came to see me and wanted me to tell the police I was Joe Gibson and not Joe Ryan. I told her to ‘get on with her life’ and asked her to take care of the horse and saddle.
‘Smart girl by the sound of things, either you’re bloody stupid or courageous. I think the latter would suffice. Great to meet you. This girl Hannah, she sounds a wonderful girl. Make certain you catch up with her.’ Billy finished.
‘I intend to.’ They shook hands. Billy was the only person to know the truth about changing identities, ‘your secret is safe with me,’ were his parting words.
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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 51:

Chapter 6

Joe rolled his swag. A wagon drawn by a horse with a cage holding a man in shackles off in the distance. He recognised Constable Fitzgerald in the driver’s seat. In the cage, his friend Joe Gibson, who’d taken his place only a couple of days before, his head bowed. I should be there instead of Joe. Too late now. He continued rolling his swag.
When the wagon past from sight Joe walked along the track leading to Nardoo Station where he hoped to join a shearing shed. Late in the afternoon he arrived at the front gate and sighted sheep in the yards behind the shearing shed.
‘G’day mate. How're you going?’ He shouted to the first person he sighted. A tall stranger slowly strolled toward him, ‘Joe Gibson, pleased to meet ya.’ Joe jutted his hand out to the stranger in warm bush welcome.
‘John Cartwright. Pleased to meet you.’ They shook hands. ‘Where’re you heading?’
‘I’m working my way north. I’m a shearer looking for work.’ Joe told the stranger.
‘You’re not one of those bloody shearers who went on strike. Are you?’
‘No. I’ve got papers to show I’m not in the union,’ Joe took the papers from his pocket and handed them to the stranger. ‘What do you do here?’
‘Own the place, I don’t want any of those union shearers on the place,’ his eyes scanned the papers, refolded them and returned them to Joe. ‘Drop your swag over in the shearing quarters, go to the cook and tell him to give you a feed and start 7.30 sharp in the morning. Welcome Joe Gibson, pleased to have you on board.’ The stranger walked away.
Instantly Joe felt strange going under a different name because he was used to his own name, thank goodness that part is over, I’ve got to remember I’m now Joe Gibson and not Joe Ryan. He continued onto the shearer’s quarters, dropped his swag on the veranda and walked to the kitchen area. A huge man wearing a white stained apron stood in front of the stove. ‘I’m Joe Gibson, the boss told me to come to the kitchen to get a feed. Where are the others?’
‘Take a seat, there’s only a couple of us since those bludgers went on strike’. He spoke with a soft voice directed Joe to a seat at the end of the table. ‘Here is some stew, cooked this afternoon, get your ing gear around this lot.’ The cook placed a plate of food in front of Joe, ‘make your own tea,’ he pointed to the kettle on the stove. ‘You a shearer?’ He asked.
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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 52:

‘Yeah, just arrived, how long have they been shearing here?’ Joe asked between pushing food into his mouth.
‘Only started today, low on shearers, you’re not one of those bloody union shearers, are you?’
‘No mate. Got my papers right here if you want them.’ Joe put his hand into his pocket to retrieve the papers.
‘Don’t worry, as long as you’re not one of those bloody union shearers. Since they went on strike we’ve had nothing but trouble, no work and when there is work, not enough men to do it. Everyone was out on strike.’ He kept on cleaning, wiped the table.
‘I’m here to work. Boss said to start in the morning.’
‘Breakfast at six.’
Joe finished his pannikin of tea, stood and said. ‘Didn’t catch your name?’
‘That’s because I didn’t give it.’
Joe left the kitchen and walked to spread his swag on the veranda, sighted a young lad walking toward the quarters, ‘how ya going? I’m Joe Gibson, a shearer.’ Joe extended his hand to shake the young lad’s hand as a sign of greeting.
‘Pleased to meet ya. Harold Reardon’
‘You related to Jack Reardon?’
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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 53:

‘He’s my uncle. We don’t talk about Jack. He's one of those shearers who went on strike. You go on strike?’
‘No – ah no, I knew Jack when I worked at ‘Tilbooroo Station’, great shearer and a good bloke.’ Bloody hell I didn’t know the strike affected everyone. Honestly I thought I was doing the right thing. Joe thought. ‘How many here?’
‘Only you, me and the Boss, the cook. You meet him?’
‘Yeah. No other shearers?’
‘You’re it. I’m the ‘tar boy’, roustabout and the Boss is the wool presser. That’s it. The Boss don't want any of those union shearers on the place.’
‘How many sheep in the yard,’ Joe asked.
‘Two thousand,’ Harold answered.
‘Bloody hell, I only shear about sixty a day. We’ll be here til Christmas if we don’t get any more shearers.’ Joe exclaimed. Twelve months since I shore a sheep, he thought.
‘Can’t do anything about not having shearers If they didn’t go on strike and bugger up the country, we would’ve been right. Serves them right. You camping on the veranda?’
‘Yeah, I can’t stand those stuffy rooms; love to sleep in the open.’
‘Wonder what the cook's got left. I'll turn in myself. Bloody big day tomorrow.’ he walked along the veranda toward the kitchen.
Joe lay on his swag pondering the affect the strike had on the country. Never in his wildest dreams he thought the strike would’ve caused this much trouble. The sun sank below the earth surface; I sure miss Hannah and Ma. If only I didn’t stir up those fellars to go on strike, Hannah and I could’ve been married by now and settled down. She must be close to finishing her teaching studies and with me shearing we would’ve made it. Joe closed his eyes, his mind filled with failure.
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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 54:

Sound of a clanging noise woke Joe the next morning. ‘Come and get it.’ He heard the call from the cook. After dressing, shaved, washed his face and walked to the kitchen where Harold was seated, the cook served up his breakfast. ‘How did ya sleep? I slept like a log.’ Joe said entering the kitchen.
‘Yeah I know, and snored, the bloody dingoes heard you,’ Harold ed.
‘Smells good,’ Joe sat in the place he sat the night before. The cook served bacon and eggs with Johnny cakes. Joe ate to his heart’s content, ‘tell me what happens today Harold?’
‘Seven-thirty start, the Boss normally set to shearing, but you’re here now, I’d say he’ll leave the shearing to you. My job to sweep the floor, gather the wool, carry it to the Boss and he packs it into the wool press. Pretty simple really.’ Harold kept eating.
‘Three men team.’
‘You could say that, with you working the hardest.’ He smiled in between eating.
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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 55:

Both men finished their breakfast, thanked the cook and left the kitchen. ‘Morning smoko at 9.30,’ the cook shouted when they left.
John Cartwright waited for Joe and Harold to meet him inside the shearing shed. The shearing was similar to Kahmoo Station with seven stand shed, Joe thought before John said, ‘you ready.’
‘Ready when you are Boss.’ He said with a slight grin on his face. Opening his bag he extracted five pairs of shears from inside and laid them on the floor near the first pen. He hooked his canvas water bag on a wire dangling from the ceiling. Walked into the catching pen, grabbed the first sheep, turned it onto its back and dragged it onto the board.
Hope I remember to do this, bloody hell, two thousand sheep, got myself to blame. This won’t get it done. Joe removed the belly wool from the sheep, continued on to finish the fleece while Harold quickly gathered up the fleece in his arms to carry to the Boss who operated the wool press. Everything appeared to go in slow motion until Joe regained his self-confidence with each sheep. Nine-thirty bell rang for morning smoko.
‘What’s your usual tally for a day Joe,’ John asked before they left for smoko.
‘About sixty, particularly these wethers. Why, am I going too slow?’
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'Click Go The Shears' - Page 56:

‘No, you’re doing fine, much quicker than I am, just wanted to work out how long until we finish the shearing.’
‘If I can keep up this pace, should be finished in about five to six weeks if we go seven days a week.’ Joe answered thinking how was he going to keep up the pace.
‘With three of us, pity those bloody shearers went on strike. You were lucky not to join them. Catch up with you both in half-an-hour.’ John walked away heading toward the homestead.
Joe and Harold walked to the shearer’s quarters and took up their usual seat in the kitchen. The cook served up hot scones with strawberry jam. After morning smoko Joe said, ‘I'm going for a walk before I start again.’ He told Harold.
He didn’t want to venture too far from the shearing shed and walked to the head of a bore. Water spewed from an opening of a huge pipe from underneath the ground into a pond, the water hot, enough to scold a pig. Water in the pond cooled before it flowed along bore drains to different parts of the property to water the stock.
I'll soak in the pool after I finish today. My bloody muscles will be sore and tied. Joe returned to the shearing shed in time to start shearing sheep until lunch time.
After six weeks, with a couple of days break in between of continued shearing Joe dragged the final sheep from the pen. ‘We should’ve shorn this one first Harold, we wouldn’t have any left.’ He said with a smile.
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