The match:
We’ve all experienced that moment of madness when we made a wrong decision. If only the clock could be wound back a couple of seconds and we could choose differently. When you think of it, its amazing that kids make it to adulthood considering the number of ‘close shaves’ they encounter growing up. Peter Robb was our next door neighbour and we all thought he was a fun bloke. He was older than us by a few years and he impressed us with his slug gun and his innovative games. It used to really set the adrenalin pumping when we played his version of hide and seek. Pete eagerly stood there with his loaded gun and would begin counting to 20 as we desperately scattered because the idea was to find us and try to shoot us in the backside. One day we found an old 44 gallon drum on its side and Pete immediately thought up a new game. This time we were all to line up and when the gun was fired it was the signal to run like hell. The winner was the first person to get inside the drum and retrieve the slug. Being older than my brothers, I took the lead early and seemed assured of victory as we neared the goal but that’s when the game went horribly wrong, as they often do for kids. Kev made a desperate lunge forward pushing me sideways into the rim of the drum. The result was not a pretty sight. My front teeth had been rearranged and I displayed an impressive mouthful of blood. Of course, Pete bolted for home and left us to face the music. This was not so much of a problem with Mum when we could show an injury. She was expectantly horrified as we limped into the kitchen leaving a trail of blood on the lino floor.
A few years later, I was coming up to my 15th birthday, so Mum asked me what present I would like. I remembered the fun we had with Peter and without too much hesitation, I replied – “a point 22 air-rifle.” Mum didn’t seem too happy with the suggestion and replied “Brian, isn’t that too dangerous to have around the house?” I assured her that I was getting plenty of common sense now and would be very careful, so my wish was granted. I had lots of fun with it shooting holes in Dad’s old cigarette packets of ‘Craven A’ and ‘Turf’. Then one day, Dad had a well earned day off from work so he decided to take me fishing. This was a great priviledge as none of my brothers could go.
Mum packed lunch which included the trusty thermos, we dug a few worms for bait and threw the fold up chairs in the back of the station wagon. We were almost ready to go when I remembered my gun. Dad wasn’t too pleased, but went along with the idea because he didn’t want the whinging. It was quite a long trip to the Yarra river out the other side of Wandin. Dad had special permission from a property owner to fish a ‘secret spot’. He was in a really good mood as we unloaded the gear and set up on the side of a quiet spot by the river. Dad was a picture of contentment as he happily lit a smoke and watched the ripples expectantly in the water. Like all young fellas, it didn’t take me long before boredom set in, so I looked for ways to add interest to my afternoon. I retrieved the gun from the back seat of the car and told Dad I would go down the river a bit. Dad was happy because he enjoyed these rare moments of solitude. I amused myself by trying to shoot small fish in the water but before long I was out of pellets. What was I to do? Being inventive I wanted to satisfy my curiosity about the possibility of firing a match with the gun. My first attempt resulted in the match barely making it to the end of the barrel so I looked around for something to add compression. I found an old cigarette butt and plugged the end of barrel with tobacco then dropped in a broken match. Stupidly I placed my hand over the end of the barrel and fired that fateful second of madness. Of course the match came out with like bullet speed and lodged deep in the palm of my hand. I felt instant pain and numbness and all I wanted to do was throw that bloody gun in the Yarra. I summoned my strength and made my way back to Dad. He was so content as he greeted me with a cheery. “How’s it going son?” “Not too good”, I mumbled, “I’ve shot a match into my hand”. It took a few seconds for the full ramifications of this to set in with Dad and then he got understandable mad. “You stupid idiot!”. Dad tossed all the gear in the back of the station wagon and we made our return on the long journey home. I can tell you, it was pretty frosty in the car and Dad’s face was flushed as he leaned forward over the steering wheel. The doctor was also disbelieving as he numbed my hand with the needle and made a neat incision. He tried for ages to retrieve the match and was concerned that it was too close to tendons but we were really relieved when he sighed. “Here it is!” When we got home, Mum soon knew not to ask Dad how the day went and I couldn’t wait to put an add in the local paper. “AIR RIFLE – FOR SALE”. The gun was sold the same day the paper was published and I don’t think I’ve ever fired a gun since that day. Ever since that incident I’ve got the reminder with three stitches in the palm of my hand and when I look at them I recall the grief that I caused Dad on his day off work..
Ruth Nelson, Joan Nelson, Kevin, Michael in front, Margaret Robb, John in front, Peter Robb with the gun and Brian