Peggy O'Neil

Peggy O’Neil

Raymond E MacRae 03.01.07

The July winter sun was drawing up the last of the mist from the pines early one morning as Peggy and I walked into the forest looking for a tree big enough to make a strainer post for the fence.

We knew him as Peggy O’Neil; he just seemed to be there when we needed someone to help with the fence. He told us he was a remittance man from Ireland and was paid a certain amount each week by his family in Ireland to remain outside his home land on account of what he had done, we didn’t ask and he didn’t say.

Peggy was now an old man by my reckoning then, but as I look back now I guess he was a well used sixty. He drank very heavily but had a heart which seemed to understand me as I was growing up. Well he seemed to understand me better than my father who was a drunk as well.

I knew my father loved me but the war had changed him and we could no longer say words like that. Our relationship was one of me unable to meet his expectations no matter how hard I tried or it seemed to me that way. I was young and did not know what war did to men.

Peggy pointed to a fine looking pine and said in his beautiful Irish Brogue,

“If we are careful we might get 2 or even 3 strainers from this one, remember what I told you, and take it easy.

Peggy was too old to fell a tree any more but he could saw and bark them like a first grade butcher. He loved trees and treated them like ‘gifts from God’ he would say. Peggy taught me how to fell a tree, I thought I knew how, but he had a special way with him as a teacher and I learned much more than how to fell a tree properly. The small time we had together I learned much from this wonderful man with no family, a wanderer.

It was 1954 and I was big for my 12 years as I had worked hard on the farm doing all sorts of jobs to help dad. Though I was born sickly in the city I began to grow like a weed in the country I was given a strong heart and body and enjoyed working the land.

With Peggy giving instructions on the best way to fell the tree and where to stand, I began. My axe was a “Plum” I had a “Kelly” as well. I preferred the Plum for felling, particularly in pine. The Kelly was more for tougher wood the pine was hard wood but was easier to cut whilst green.

Settling in for a 10 minute stint I found a solid footing. I looked at the beautiful tree and imagined a line 6 inches above the ground then took the first swing 3 inches below the line and sent the axe in on an up swing it fell back into my hands as I was already to swing an downward stroke 6 inches above the last.

Taking each stroke to the tree in a measured blow the large chips began to fly and then it was time to get settled on the opposite side of the tree and begin the final strokes to fall the tree across where I stood in the beginning. This is where I began to take the life of this magnificent tree. It fell exactly where Peggy and I had calculated, his hand on my shoulder Peggy said,

“You’re my best pupil, well done.” Then he handed me the water bag.

It was moments like this during my triumphs when I longed for my dad to be there instead of Peggy and for dad to speak in glowing terms of my work but these years were not for dad and me. God had sent me Peggy O’Neil instead, he was a wonderful gift.

We sat and enjoyed our work; it was moments like this when Peggy often told me of his life till now. Some times the stories were repetitive but I never asked if they were true, I guess some were.

Peggy left Ireland when he was a young man because of something he had done or was accused of doing. South Africa seemed to be the place he first went to at the turn of the century. He spent many years wandering around Africa trying to forget his past and I got the feeling there was a woman involved but as a 12 year old was not clear on how adults acted in these matters.

He had done all sorts of work when he was sober. The remittance ensured he did not have to, but he liked to work as it brought him in contact with people. It seemed this was the only way he could reach out. Peggy had a wonderful deep Irish voice and with the brogue he could bring tears to the eyes of the listener, particularly of my father who would leave with an excuse that he had other things to do. I just loved the words of the songs and the way he sang, it stirred something with in my Irish blood he was a man of great depth. I think I loved him.

Well he said,

 “We have cut the tree down; now its time we cut it up”.

He loved to use these funny sayings and cackled to himself as he went for his small axe.

Our first job was to remove the bark with the back of the axe. He had a special way of doing this that did not bruise the tree. In Peggy’s hands the bark seemed to come of in one large piece. He always explained we have to honour the tree and do as little damage as possible for it would stand for many years holding our fence and did not need more damage.

The tree lying there naked in the forest looked devastated and made me feel humble that it gave its life for me.

We then chopped of the limbs and began to measure for the saw blade.

“Yes”, Peggy announced we could get 3 strainers he seemed elated. I knew he did not like to waste timber.

The three posts were carried out to a skid attached to Smokey our all purposed horse. Smokey was used for rounding up sheep and chasing cattle; he stood 14 hands and looked like a racehorse according to Peggy. Today Smokey was our draw horse and pulled the skid out on to the fence line. Smokey and Peggy had a special relationship they seemed to enjoy each others company. Peggy lived in the stable with him so I guess they had many hours together, Peggy was gentle.

We off loaded 2 posts where we agreed to put the gate and the largest post was drawn to the corner as the main strainer. I watched as Peggy and Smokey walked of to take the big post up to the corner, they were happy in each others company, Peggy sang and Smokey made gentle noises.

Peggy always wore a striped shirt, no collar, waistcoat and thick trousers held up with leather police braces, his coat hung on the last post we stood at sundown yesterday. He always wore boots with no socks but the laces were always tied “he said you can tell a man by his boots and how he wears them. I can see it all even now years later and smell the freshly barked logs and the earth from the hole I was digging with crowbar and shovel.

We began to dig holes to take the posts we had cut and split yesterday. We took turns on the crowbar and shovel, Peggy always liked to use his muscles evenly, so shared the different strokes to spread the exercise.  Peggy would line up the post before we rammed them in. He stood back beyond the last 3 posts and was not happy until it was perfectly in line. We would ram them in with the crowbars other end designed for the job. Even when they were rammed he still lined them up and would ask me to ram a little from this side or that until he was satisfied.

We then bored holes in the posts to thread the wire, and these had to be correctly measured from the ground up,

‘Never know who might see your work’ he would say.

“If its worth doing at all its worth doing well” was his answer to an eager 12 year old who was always in a hurry. I can’t imagine why I was in a hurry as when that one was finished there was just another waiting. Youth?

Peggy did not use a watch, he could tell the time by the sun. The sun would control our meals and drinking. He did not like cold water and drank just enough to quench his thirst. He maintained it took too much energy to process excess water and food whilst working. When the sun had set we went to the little house on this part of the farm.

The log cabin on ‘Glencoe’ was built by my Grandfather’s father in 1880. It was in need of repair but still it was somewhere to have our evening meal. We trapped rabbits whilst fencing, they were our main meals plus 3 vegs that Mum would bring every second day from our main house’s garden. Mum left the veg during the day so I rarely saw her. Mum was from a cultured English-Irish background and never really considered the farm as home.

She longed for the properties of her youth on the Murray, Victorian side, they had dairy cattle and shares in the Kiewa Butter Factory. Her life was piano recitals, theatre and all things good. Whilst my father had come from money in Sydney it seemed to me then it was a funny arrangement and both would have a better life had they gone their separate ways. Today of course they would have and possibly enjoyed their lives instead of ensuring both had wasted lives.

The main house Craig Leigh was built in the 30s and was considered a mansion by Peggy. After having had holidays at Arncliffe in Avon on the hill, overlooking Botany Bay, Grandfathers home, I realised “Craig Leigh” was no mansion.

The evenings saw Peggy and I sitting by the fire after the meal and washing up had been done. He was a very clean person and from here I can remember his manners were wonderful for the circumstances, he was obviously from an excellent family. The stories Peggy told, whilst having just a small nip, his was whisky, not just ordinary whisky but best Irish, were based on common decency and do unto others as you would have them do unto you. His heart was his biggest part. He would have made a wonderful husband and father but it was not to be. He was my father for those wonderful weeks and I now appreciate the love he shared.

When bed time came Peggy would be off to the stable where he had built a small room for himself from wheat bags and branches we had cut during the day. I can remember some nights when I surfaced from sleep hearing Peggy crying or singing what ever it was, it was not a happy sound. His bed was a wool pack stuffed with straw and bags from the stable. He maintained if a stable was good enough for Jesus it was good enough for him.

Peggy was up before the sun, busily preparing our porridge which we had gristed the night before and left soaking. The sound of the dry pine crackling in the fire was wonderful and the smell of porridge and burning pine was fabulous, I can enjoy it now.

Peggy always looked fresh washed and in good spirits every morning. We took most of the rabbit stew from last night in an enamelled pot with a lid as our lunch in the paddock and a gallon of water in the bag. We did not spend much time in cooking or eating. Peggy was a very able cook for straight food he claimed.

Eventually the fence was finished and it was time for Peggy to move on. With hardly more than a handshake for my dad and me Peggy was out of my life. Looking back now I realise through the mist of time that Peggy left me with many of his qualities. Qualities I did not receive from my parents. They did the best that they could having had their lives torn apart by war.

Dear God, I guess Peggy now works for you. Please care for him as he cared for me. He was a good man, his family never knew it.