The Water Joey
The Water Joey.
A small segment of story number 3 in the new book Butchers Creek coming soon. Tells a story of the Water Joey, who was responsible for providing water to keep the mill operating. He is from those years of the threshing mills that were seen during those early years, travelling from farm to farm in New Zealand and Australia
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Of course,
there was always the mill boss. Each
time the Joey nodded off in the shade of a wheat or barley stack, waiting for
his water tank to empty, the boss would order him to help the straw walloper,
the stacker, or the band cutter. Then,
while everyone stopped for their lunch, the Joey was expected to climb aboard
the engine and keep an eye on the steam gauge.
If his
hands became blistered he was soft, if he discussed his work with anyone, he
was a know all, if he didn't, he had no interest in the job.
Whatever
happened to delay work on any given day, it was the Joey’s fault. Mill-hands, all in the name of good humour,
liked nothing better than to poke fun at the Joey, particularly if he was a
young lad.
As to who
was the most reliable between a young Joey and an older man, the mill boss
found it difficult to judge. Some of
those older Joey’s tended to have, more often than not, a fondness for alcohol.
They worked
well when sober; yet, struck with a bout of the dry horrors, they had the
instincts of a homing pigeon. Instead of
heading to the creek to pump water, the older Joey, on occasions, could vanish
in the twinkle of an eye. He seemed to
be able to smell booze in the air, even though he was a mile or two from a
pub. If he failed to return with a load
of water, the boss could lay a bet, he was in the nearest pub.
By the time
the boss discovered the water cart missing,
the Joey had downed several shots of whisky and was on his fifth beer, while
the horse stood hip-shot in the dray shafts, at the pub door.
Exercising
a few words of wisdom, the boss went looking.
Even though he was caught knocking back a beer or a whisky, the Joey would
swear on his mothers Bible, that the horse had lost its way. He would claim it
was only by a stroke of good luck; he came
across this pub.
He
was there to seek directions.
Then,
why are you drinking alcohol, when you should be working, asked the boss?
“Drinking
alcohol? No fear. You have misjudged me, Sir.
I am merely taking my medicine.”
“Medicine! What bloody medicine?” The boss inquired. “What’s that for”? .
No flies on
this particular Joey. He claimed he was
consuming a lubricant; doctor’s orders, to heal the cracks in his skin.
With a wry
smile, the mill boss shook his head in disbelief, and suggested the Joey had
missed his calling in life. He could have been an excellent politician.
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