Fannie Bay to Flemington: Living Bush Legends

By Barrie McMahon

The soul of Australia is captured in its legends. Some we invent, like the Man From Snowy River while others, such as Ned Kelly, we anoint. Animals share this legendary status. Phar Lap and Red Dog have captured our hearts as compellingly as Crocodile Dundee or the Man with the Donkey.
Though we live in cities, our legends stem from our dying bush culture, from the cattle musters, the remote communities and the bush races. The story of Shane Clarke, bushman, horse breaker, trainer and Aussie battler, who arrived in devastated Darwin after cyclone Tracy, and reject horse Undue, illustrates that bush legends regenerate and endure.
Legends are made when the odds are beaten. Such was the case with Darwin trained horse Undue. Never taken seriously except on the Fannie Bay dirt oil track, horse and trainer captured ‘down south’, plundering the stake money and the bookies’ bags to become the only Darwin trained horse ever to win Group 1 races.
Perhaps bush culture is not dying and we are just looking in the wrong place. We need to look from Fannie Bay to Flemington.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barrie McMahon
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465883148

Barrie McMahon

Barrie McMahon loves a good story particularly one that reflects his lifelong interest in Australian history, communication and folklore. It is a fascination with how people’s lifestyles reflect and reshape their cultures.The same focus on culture and communication is evident in his work as a professional educator. As co-author with Robyn Quin he has written many media text books for teachers and students and with Jan McMahon captured the folklore of the Darwin racing culture in Fannie Bay to Flemington: Living Bush Legends (Vivid Publishing 2011).His novel Copyboy satisfies his passion for spinning a good yarn while at the same time examines how the immediate post World War II Perth community interacted with the dominant medium of the time, the newspaper, to engage with and reshape the traditional Australian ethos.Barrie is an old bloke, old enough to have faint childhood memories of that era. He has lived in Perth, Western Australia most of his life. He and Jan have two married sons, four grandchildren and through long term friendships are part of various extended families whose cultures they celebrate.

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Fanny Bay to Flemington:

Living Bush Legends

Barrie and Jan McMahon

Copyright 2012 B & J McMahon

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Foreword

The cyclone of Christmas 1974 coiled its murderous way through Darwin suburbs splintering houses in its path, veered into the city to mangle power lines and flatten businesses then took to sea to drown a fishing fleet. It briefly sent a population into retreat; thousands evacuated, others bunkered down in ruined buildings and decimated campsites.

The physical structures would take years to restore but the culture of the Top End miraculously escaped. In fact it was strengthened by the resolve of survivors, the return of evacuees and the arrival of adventurers seeking excitement and opportunity in what was effectively a frontier town. As Darwin went about its daily business, the culture that flourished inadvertently drew strongly from the bush culture that had underpinned Australian settlement and development from its colonial days.

In the almost forty years since the cyclone Darwin has flourished; most of its current residents were born or arrived post cyclone. Arrivals from other States happily adopted Darwin’s bush culture which merely re-invigorated the Australian mythology which still existed, be it in watered down form, across the rest of the continent.

This is a tale of some of the Darwin arrivals in the post-cyclone years, a group who came to develop a strong kinship. Their shared interests were a love of horses, horse racing and the punt. Certainly the career of Undue, the horse that realised many of their dreams, is on public record, a unique career for a unique horse. That career is recounted but it is the stories of that horse’s extended ‘family’ that have provided the narrative for this book. If there are any deviations from the literal truth in these stories then let us ascribe this to the characteristic of an oral storytelling tradition which generously accommodates culture and draws on mythology in its telling.

The characters in this book are based on real people, some larger than life. Undue’s connections – the owners, trainers, strappers, jockeys and supporters – are all part of the extended family. Names have only been changed where this was requested.

Prologue

It was late morning and Shane Clarke was killing time, having a drink or three with his nephew Dan at his sister-in-law’s house at Wavell Heights, not far from the racing centres of Doomben and Eagle Farm. The early morning tasks at the stables were long finished and there was little to do until the big race, little over a week away. The two trainers were mulling over their finances and wondering how they could get enough to place a decent bet on the horse that Shane had brought over from Darwin to run in the 2006 Doomben Ten Thousand. Shane was certain that Undue was a good each-way chance.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of crows in the tall gum tree in the middle of the school playground next door. Nothing unusual in that. Crows were social creatures and often made a racket. Even so, their calls had the pitch of sudden alarm which caught Shane’s attention. He looked towards the school yard to see one large crow fall from the tree to the ground. This created a frenzy in the murder of crows as they circled the tree and looked down on their fallen mate. He was obviously dead.

Craark! Craark! Their mournful calls rose to a crescendo.

Must be paying their respects to that old king crow, Shane remarked to his nephew. A man of few words, he put down his beer and jumped over the fence.

Hey Shane, that’s the school yard. You’re not allowed to go over there! Dan exclaimed in alarm.

I’m going to get that crow. As Shane walked across the playground the kids emerged from their classrooms for the lunch break.

What are you doin’ here? demanded one of the boys, picking up on the teachers’ instructions to be wary of strangers venturing into school grounds.

Shane bent down and cupped the bird reverently in his hands. Just pickin’ up this crow. He walked away and climbed awkwardly back over the fence without disturbing the cradled corpse.

Dan moved towards Shane as he approached, beer still in hand. What the devil! Is that the crow you’ve got there? Jesus!

No not Jesus. Don’t know his name. Could’ve been I s’pose. This is good luck, he told Dan. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate that his actions were the result of his love of medieval Irish legend in which the crow was regarded as a deity. We’ve got to look after this crow and give him a decent burial, was his only explanation.

Dan was not impressed. Well, I’m not in the mood for a funeral right now. What are you going to do with the bloody thing?

Don’t worry, I’ll look after it. Get me another beer will you? Shane walked around the back of the house and put the crow in the back of their covered ute. The bird needed to be buried back at the stables where its luck could be transmitted with maximum impact.

Shane returned to his new beer and to more terrestrial matters. He phoned his cabbie mate, Dennis ‘Slim’ McLoughlin, in Darwin.

Look Slim, Undue’s a big chance. Good track work this morning. Nothing too heavy but he’s ready. At his peak. Shane did not mention the dead crow. Slim was more a realist – a numbers man. The crow would not come into Slim’s reckoning. Trouble is Slim, I blew most of me kip on the BTC last week.

Yeah, me too! Slim had been with his trainer mate in Brisbane for the Group One race. Undue had run a respectable ninth but the bookmakers don’t pay out on respectability.

We’ve gotta find some money to put on Undue tomorrow. What can you rake up?

Dunno yet. We’ll find something. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.

A good each way bet at least. I’m looking at Saturday’s meeting. If we can get a few bob to invest there it should see us right for the Doomben. Shane looked across at his nephew. Dan likes Stephen Arnold’s mount in the fourth. He’s been watching him pretty closely.

Arnold in the saddle gives me a lot of confidence. Slim had been impressed with Arnold’s ride on Undue in the BTC Cup. I’ll see what I can do. Give Duey a pat for me. Cheers! Slim hung up and sauntered back through the queue of cabs at the taxi rank."

It was not until next morning when Shane and his young nephew were driving back to the stables that Shane remembered the dead crow in the back of his ute.

First thing, gotta bury that crow when we get to the stables. Shane was in the passenger’s seat because Dan reckoned Shane was better on the back of a horse than behind a steering wheel.

What? Where is the bloody thing? Dan’s voice registered surprise and alarm.

Back of the ute.

Back of the …Oh no. I took the ute when I went to that night club last night!

That’s all right. Nobody would pinch a dead crow. It’ll still be there.

That’s not the point. My swag was in there with the crow.

So?

So I got lucky last night. Met this lovely young lady and well, we slept in the back of the ute!

With the crow? Shane grinned. Don’t worry, it wouldn’t have noticed. Trust me, I know about dead crows.

God, she probably thought it was me that smelt a bit off. There goes my chance for tonight!

When the dead crow does its stuff for the Doomben you’ll be thankful it was there last night. You’ll see. We’ll bury it soon as we get to the stables.

You bury it. You and your bloody Irish superstitions! How long ago did our Irish ancestors come out here anyway?

’bout a hundred and fifty years ago, but the Irish in you never goes away.

It’s left me. You bury the crow.

When they reached the stables at the back of Doomben, with the same reverence he had shown in transporting the crow from the school yard, Shane buried the crow under a bush, a fitting place for an Irish deity.

Andrew Waters had taken his two young children to his brother’s house in Darwin. He was enjoying a coffee with his brother David and sister-in-law Jodie while the kids played on the lounge room floor when the phone rang. David answered, recognising Shane’s number.

All okay with Duey Shane? There was no concern in David’s voice, just a question in the form of a greeting. David had been talking with Shane’s wife Elizabeth at the Fannie Bay stables only two hours earlier. Following a conversation with her husband in Brisbane, she had reported that Undue was at peak fitness. David also knew that Shane predicted a place for him in the Doomben Ten Thousand a week later.

Thought I’d let you know, I buried a crow. Shane’s hushed tone suggested this was significant.

Sorry to hear that Shane. Do I know him? David thought he’d heard correctly but he certainly didn’t know anyone named Acrow. He frowned at Jodie and Andrew who were both straining to hear.

No. I buried a crow. A bird.

Shane, maybe you should start taking it easy. I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure in the lead up to this race, but there’s not much more you can do now. Just relax and have a coffee, or a beer if it’ll help. What do you mean you buried a bird? Andrew and Jodie were looking perplexed.

It’s good luck. You don’t understand. It’s bushman’s lore based on Irish legend that if you bury a crow it will bring you good luck. Duey will win no doubt.

David’s science background had made him a sceptic when he first came into contact with bush lore. But his experiences teaching in the remote Aboriginal community of Wadeye had convinced him that some things could not be explained by science. With a grin he passed on Shane’s news to Jodie and Andrew. Shane found a dead crow and buried it. Good luck in bushman’s lore. Reckons Duey will win the Doomben.

Jodie did not share David’s scepticism. She jumped up, almost spilling her coffee in the process and grabbed the phone from David. Shane, that’s fantastic! It’s telling you that you deserve the luck. I’m not going to jinx it increasing my bet. I’ll stick to my usual fifty each way on Duey. Gee, I can’t wait!

Andrew was lost in thought. Sure, you needed luck in the racing industry. You could be involved for a lifetime and never score a horse like Undue. Then again, Shane Clarke had done the hard yards over the past thirty years. In fact he had made his own luck, and now that hard work was meeting opportunity.

Andrew reflected on how proud his grandfather Ronnie would have been, his two grandsons having a horse in the Doomben Ten Thousand. Greatest weight for age sprint in Australia. Highest prize money too, Ronnie had told them hundreds of times as he and David were growing up in Scone. Well, Ronnie was no longer with them, but Andrew would have a bet for him – even if Duey was a forty something to one long shot. It figured. No Darwin trained horse had ever started in a Group One race, let alone won one. Maybe it would need the luck of a dead crow.

I

Myth is a widely and variously used term referring to a culture’s way of understanding, expressing and communicating to itself concepts that are important to its self identity as a culture.(O’Sullivan et al Key Concepts in Communication. Methuen, London 1983)

Australian myths form the basis for a collective Australian morality. (Anonymous)

Legends make plausible the disparate processes of our institutions. They legitimate, explain and justify.(Paraphrased: L Berger and T Luckman The Social Construction of Reality. Anchor Books, New York, 1967)

Today’s task might well be to develop those features of the Australian Legend which still seem valid in modern conditions.(Russel Ward The Australian Legend. Oxford University Press, 1958)

1

The ute dodged slowly around debris, sometimes backing up to find another path through the devastation. Cyclone Tracy had ripped the northern suburbs to shreds. All of Darwin was suffering from the hit but these areas had been reduced to streets of floorboards and rubble. Christmas 1974 was one that Darwin would never forget.

Even with his previous knowledge of the Fannie Bay race course, Shane Clarke was struggling to find landmarks to guide him to the former stable area. At least the power had been cut off so the tangle of power lines was not an additional hazard.

Shane had heard the news of Cyclone Tracy at his parents’ house in suburban Brisbane having shifted back there from Jindare station in the Top End at the onset of the wet. It was months before the wet season would be over and the young stockman was running short of money. This was not unusual for Shane. He had an easy come, easy go attitude, knowing he could always get part time jobs to tide him over until the land dried out and station hands were again in demand. There were bars to visit, illegal bookmakers to support and friends needing a handout.

The scale of the devastation shown in the images that flickered across the television screen signalled to Shane that there had to be plenty of paid work in Darwin. A massive clean up operation would be followed by insurance payouts and an injection of funds for reconstruction. Labour would be in high demand; there was bound to be enough work to get him through to the next dry season. When he announced his intentions at the family Christmas gathering, Shane’s brother immediately kicked in with a two hundred dollar loan to tide him over.

On Boxing Day Shane Clarke threw his swag into the back of his ute, loaded up with fuel, added a broom for good measure and headed for Darwin. News across the outback journey from Brisbane to Darwin was intermittent because the short wave radio signals during the wet were punctuated with messages from Indonesian fishing fleets and ear shattering static. In these circumstances rumour was rife but from the sketchy information he was getting from the roadhouses he dropped into as he drove towards Katherine, Shane realised that the devastation was even worse than was first thought. It appeared the death toll was mounting and a massive evacuation was about to get underway.

Shane knew he would need to rough it in Darwin and he was well prepared. His swag in the back of the ute had been tailored over years of camping in the outback as stockman, horse breaker and rouseabout. Plenty of water, tucker that would keep, not much in the way of clothing, a bottle of Bundy and a couple of his favourite books.

At one roadhouse Shane had heard a crackled warning about staying clear of Darwin during the State of Emergency that had been declared. Women and children were being evacuated by air and the volume of traffic on the road south to the Alice was so heavy it was straining resources at roadhouses, even the town of Alice Springs itself. Fuel had run out at some of the roadhouses he passed and the young adventurer wondered how he would fare at Katherine where he would eventually meet up with the Stuart Highway. Still if he was stopped and questioned about why he was heading north into Darwin instead of joining the south bound refugees, he could claim that the radio static at this time of the year was so bad that there was a better chance of picking up the messages of a foreign fishing fleet than news from the national broadcaster.

However, Shane knew that his chances of being stopped were pretty remote. If he could not get through the roadblocks then he knew every back track that would help him avoid the checkpoints. This would take longer and there might be a problem navigating the fast flowing creeks, but he had plenty of fuel in the back of the ute and patience was one of his strongest attributes, nurtured over the years by his long drives from remote camps to his home town of Brisbane. As it turned out he was able to persuade the authorities at the Katherine road block that as a stockman at Jindare Station he needed to be in Darwin and would be able to make a contribution towards the cleanup, though pointing to the broom in the back of the ute failed to trigger the policeman’s sense of humour.

The promise of Darwin for Shane was the choice of well paid jobs, way beyond the meagre $75 per week plus keep offered by station work. However, if he was honest with himself, and he wasn’t, this was not the major lure. Perhaps it was the same sense of adventure that had first taken him from his sheltered life in the comfortable Brisbane suburb of Kelvin Grove into the outback to break horses, ride the wings in the drafting camps and revel in the stark beauty of the bush. Even as a kid he’d loved spending holidays with his grandparents in their country home outside of Brisbane.

However, inextricably bound up with Shane’s chosen lifestyle was the strong sense of mateship that grew from sharing adventures and hardships with a mixed bunch of blokes in the isolated outback. Your mates were all important. Those who had drifted into Darwin for the wet might need a hand – if they were still alive. This was a pact that bushies shared but never articulated. To do so would sound soft. In particular, he wanted to connect with the Griffith family from Jindare station. With the onset of the wet, it was a fair bet that the family would have headed to town. It was even shorter odds that his mate John Griffith, the bantam rooster, would want to be in the thick of the action.

Shane had never been concerned about the perceptions of others. Back in his primary school days, he recalled, the convent school teacher had asked the class what they planned to do when they left school. Shane proudly stood up and said I’m going to be a farmer! The teacher, who had never been outside of Brisbane, laughed and the rest of the class dutifully followed suit.

It was at that moment Shane made two resolutions that would shape his future. The first was that actions would speak louder than words so he would keep his plans to himself until he could do something about realising them. Secondly, if farming was beyond his reach, then he would look to wider horizons. He would go west, beyond the farmland, even beyond the Queensland border to places his teacher and classmates had never heard of, to a live a life they had never dreamt of.

As soon as Shane finished his final year at Marist Brothers he set off to pursue his dream. Now, after living the dream for more than five years, it was time to fulfil a commitment that had grown with his lifestyle. If your mates are in trouble you lend a hand. But that generosity of spirit could not be acknowledged, even to oneself. It was not what men of the bush did. ‘The money’s good’ was a more acceptable explanation for the Aussie bloke.

Shane did acknowledge to himself on the long drive into Darwin that a passion for adventure had been a common driving force throughout his short adult life. It was the same feeling he had when he won the lottery and was drafted into national service while Australia was still committed to fighting in the Vietnam War.

While others took to the streets in protest Shane relished the prospect of a tour of duty, drawing on the images he’d grown up with at the Friday night pictures. In the American movies shown at the local theatre, combat was only mortal for the enemy. Shane pictured himself as a young John Wayne, an invincible force against whom the enemy was helpless. However, this image of military life was short-lived as he discovered