by Stuart Kells
The Requisition for Shirts has been duly approved.
With all good wishes,
Yours faithfully,
[R]
State Immigration Officer
23rd February 1923
Mr R.G.W. Lane,
c/o Mr A.B. Withers,
Renmark
Dear Lane,
I am surprised that I have received no reply from you to my letter of 12th instant, and that the Agreements have not been returned duly signed.
Will you please comply with my request for the documents to be signed without further delay, as I desire to save any unpleasantness if it is possible.
Yours faithfully,
[R]
State Immigration Officer
*
May 1923
‘Baching.’ ‘Baching’ is a word that means … well, it’s very hard to say exactly what it does mean. Anyhow, I suppose the chief thing about baching is that you have to cook for yourself. I have been baching now for about three days and I cannot say that I am in love with it at all. If it hadn’t been for the cow coming in at a very inconvenient time, I should be in Adelaide now.
We got up at 5 o’clock on Saturday morning and the boss hoped to leave here at about 6.30am. We put four kettles of boiling water into the radiator and after about ten minutes hard work we managed to start the engine. It is quite fresh at that time in the morning, even out here. After the engine had been running about two minutes, the extra air attachment broke and of course the engine stopped. Then it wouldn’t start again, so we took part of the carburetor off. Then we took the commutator off. Then all the carburetor. Then we tried the sparking plugs and so on, for the whole of the day.
At last the boss rang up a friend who was at Duncan and Frasers (a very big motor works in Adelaide) for several years and he came and tested the engine with a battery. Soon after 10pm he discovered the trouble. The adjustable needle on the carburetor was a trifle too long, which he soon put right.
We rose at 5 o’clock again the next day and they left at about 7am. Harold went down with them and it is very doubtful whether he will come back or not. If he does not, I suppose I shall have to do all the horse work.
So far I have had two boiled eggs for breakfast and one-day coffee made with milk. Cold meat, bread and butter, and tart for dinner. And tart, bread and butter etc., for tea. And, of course, my usual tonic at night. I shall not do much cooking as it means such a lot of washing up – a job I don’t care for very much.
I have two customers for milk: one for two pints and the other for three pints a day. The rest of the milk I scald.
After tea tonight I was watching the fires where the farmers were burning the stubble and they brought back two memories to me. One, the lights of Bristol seen from Bedminster Down when I was coming back from Chard on my motorbike. After four hours of night riding in a damp fog. And the other was the lights of Cape Town, seen from the boat. Both these are very pleasant memories. And of the two which would I rather see? No doubt about it: the lights of dear old Bristol again. What a nice place England would be with the climate of South Australia.
I had a very old push bike given to me the other day. A ‘has been’, but it comes in very handy. For instance, somebody – the butcher, most likely – left the gate open yesterday and the horses got out. If it hadn’t been for the old bike I expect I should still be chasing them. I think I shall go into town on it tomorrow and get the letters.
Today is May-day.
Thursday, 3 May 1923
What a lonely game this baching stunt is. I shall not be sorry when I have finished with it. I have one cow, two horses, one cat and thirty-odd fowls to look after, but the hardest thing of all to look after is … myself.
I have plenty of things to cook but I am too lazy to do it. It takes me enough time already to wash up etc., and if I did any serious cooking I should not have any time for work.
Monday, 14 May 1923
I have only heard from Mrs Withers once since they have been away and she did not mention when they were coming back. They have been away over a fortnight now and so I should not be surprised if I have another week by myself. I am getting a bit more used to it now and also I am getting plenty of invitations out now that it is known that I am baching.
I bought a gramophone the other day and a little music greatly assists in passing the time away en passe le temps. How’s that, John? I’ve left the accents out, if any, as I never was good at them.
Yesterday I went down to the river and helped some friends put a couple of tents up. A lot of people camp down by the river, instead of going away for a holiday.
One day last week – or rather morning – I had a good appetite for breakfast so I had six boiled eggs and, as I had no butter, I used cream as a substitute on the bread. And another day last week I found a tin of sheep’s tongues in the cellar which I soon polished off.
Sunday, 20 May 1923
I have now been three weeks by myself. When I was in Renmark last Friday I had two letters from the boss. In the first one he said that he would be coming back today, but in the next letter he postponed his journey till tomorrow. He is bringing back a couple of passengers and also a parrot. I also had a letter from Mr Matthews and he said that in his opinion baching was good for one. He mentioned several reasons, one of them being that it made you appreciate ‘the dainty dishes which the ladies cooked for you’. I second it.
I have been very busy cleaning up today and I shall be doing the same tomorrow. I also buried a fowl this morning which had died.
On Friday evening I went over to Mr Waters’ house and enjoyed some music. Mrs Waters sings very well, in spite of her age. The previous evening I was over there to dinner. Mrs Waters has very kindly asked me over there on Friday evenings, to dinner and music, cards etc. afterwards.
Yesterday I had dinner, tea and supper at Mr Richards’. He used to work for Mr Withers but now he lives in a house two blocks away. Mrs Richards keeps the house beautifully clean. But they are both Australians – not a good word to say for anybody. Mr Richards is Harold’s uncle. He has an old Ford which we went into town on in the afternoon. In the evening he put on about thirty double-sided records. One song, sung by Caruso, was really excellent.
I am getting near the end of my lonely job now and I am not sorry. The last four or five days I have not been very well. Sick headache, dizziness, pains in limbs etc. I think it must have been the change of diet. Too many eggs and too much cream and not enough meat. Anyhow, I am better now.
Monday, 2 July 1923
It was quite a long time ago that I last wrote in this book. I finished my first experience of baching the day following my last entry. Since then I have been very busy. First we cemented the floor of the ‘mosquito house’. Then I ploughed a small two acre paddock and sowed oats. And then pruning commenced. We have done about ten acres so far.
Last Saturday afternoon I rode Nellie over to Mr Smith’s. Mrs Smith is unwell and Mrs Withers wanted to send a few cakes to Mr Smith. As the roads were very bad, too bad to risk the car, I offered to ride over for a little exercise. This was the first time I have ridden since I have been here. I arrived back after sundown and greatly enjoyed a hot bath and a hot dinner, for I was fairly stiff. Then we had a very enjoyable game of bridge.
We had about half an inch of rain on Saturday night.
Preface or Introduction
I am not writing this before I commence or after I finish this diary, but in the middle of it. This is to tell you just what the following lines are, to whom they are written and for what purpose they are being written. They are being written to Father, Mother, Allen, John and Nora. I think, and sincerely hope, that you will enjoy them. It is more of a letter to you than a diary.
My object in writing this is to send it to you as a Christmas present, as a surprise. Also I think the notes I make might be useful to me in years to come. The writing, I admit, is bad but over half of it is being written sitting in a chair with the book resti
ng on my knees. At the present time I am in front of a fire, writing in the aforementioned manner.
In the following pages I have many times stated that I am tired. It is true. The climate up here is not very bracing. Everyone complains of the lowering and tiring atmosphere and conditions that are often present. One should go away for some kind of a holiday at least once a year and nearly everybody does.
There are several ways of getting from here to Adelaide. You can go by train from Paringa, which is just across the river from Renmark. You can go by boat to Morgan and from there by train. You can go by service car to Morgan and either go by train or car. Quite recently a car service has been started from Morgan to Adelaide, doing the journey in two hours less than the train, at the same fare as a first-class railway ticket. Or you can go right through by car. This has an advantage over the car-and-car way. For if you go by car to Morgan, and from there to Adelaide by car, you are only taken as far as the Adelaide station, but if you go right through by car you are taken to your destination, which is a great consideration.
Last night I went out to a friend’s house. He is the proud possessor of a Pianola, so we had a little music. Now nothing affects me more than music. It brings back memories ‘of other days’ and it was even so last night. One of the first pieces played was We’ve Come up from Somerset which, of course, brought back memories of Somerset. Then Where the Cider Apples Grow – Long Ashton; the cider apples there; the cider house there; the days I spent in the cider house and the men there: ‘Erb’ Watts, the foreman of the cider house, and the feats of strength he used to perform, ‘Jack’, ‘Bill’, Cecil and ‘Purren’, ‘Sweet William’, the Professor and ‘Mac’ which, of course, brings me back to Australia.
Then someone singing a song. Memories of home, ‘Broomcroft’, a Sunday evening, the gas and fire lit, Mother at the piano and the rest of the family grouped around singing. Afterwards, perhaps, Allen and I would go for a walk and ‘star gaze’ around by Mortimer House. When I hear music, I almost instinctively think of home. Then, as long as the music keeps on, my thoughts are centred around Bristol.
While I was listening to the music I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. On the packet, in large print, is ‘W.D. & H.O. Wills’. Bristol again. Sir Frank Wills, Lord Mayor. Lord Mayor’s Chapel, a service there: a procession enters, gowns ‘lined with ermine’, silver mace, gold chain. Whenever I think of St Mark’s, I always think of a beautiful hymn which I heard there for the first time. I have heard it dozens of times since, but the first time I can remember hearing it was at the Lord Mayor’s Chapel. It is Hark, Hark My Soul. Thinking of churches brings me to St Mary Redcliffe: my favourite church in Bristol, in England, yes, in the world.
The Sunday evening before I left England. I can clearly picture all the incidents now. We all went to the evening service at St Mary Redcliffe. But a Sunday home is a Sunday. A Sunday here is not a real Sunday. We do not put on our best clothes and go to church, for there is not a decent church here.
The music stops, but still I think of Bristol and its environs. Coombe Dingle, with visions of a half built house. Westbury. Flax Bourton. The many pleasant trips I had with my motorbike. It must be three years ago, next Christmas day, that Allen and I watched the sun set from New Passage and were back home before lighting-up time. Yes, it was a great old bike. I expect I had as much fun and enjoyment out of the old ‘bus’ as I shall ever obtain from any other.
And our old trolley. What hours of pleasure we had riding on and pushing it. The thrills we experienced when descending hills at fifteen miles an hour and the thrills we didn’t have in pushing it up hills at two miles an hour.
But here I am wandering on, writing pages about nothing. Ah, time the enemy. Again he is beating me. Although I would like to go on, he says I must stop. Before I cease I must tell you this short story. It is perfectly true. I was talking to an Australian when I happened to mention something about W.D. & H.O. Wills’ place at Bristol. He looked surprised for a moment, then said ‘Oh, they have a branch in England, have they?’
I saw a short piece of poetry I was very much taken with in a paper few days ago. It is:
MY MASTER HATH A GARDEN
My master hath a garden, full-filled with divers flowers,
Where thou may’st gather posies gay, all times and hours.
Here nought is heard
But paradise bird,
Harp, dulcimer and lute,
With cymbal,
And timbrel,
And the gentle sounding flute.
Oh! Jesus, Lord, my heal and weal, my bliss complete,
Make thou my heart thy garden plot, true, fair and neat.
That I may hear
This music clear,
Harp, dulcimer and lute,
With cymbal,
And timbrel,
And the gentle sounding flute.
Anon
I think the last six lines are very beautiful indeed. Of course, the whole poem is, but the last six lines, in my opinion, really are worth remembering.
The following pages are at a very interesting time – from the readers point of view – for Renmark, at present, is in a very bad way. The price the packing sheds are giving the growers for their sultanas this year is £10 below the cost of production. For every ton of dried sultanas you raise, you lose £10. Not too good a game, is it? The government is helping the situation by a loan which is to be paid back next year if the price obtained for sultanas is over the cost of production. Their loan is thirty shillings per ton per month for six months, sultanas and lexias. Currants are slightly better than sultanas, but I wouldn’t mind betting that there are not a dozen growers in Renmark who will make any profit on this year’s crop. Most growers have lost money on their blocks for the last three years. They have run up an overdraft at the bank and they now find that if they were to sell their block they would not get enough to wipe off the overdraft. I should think that ninety per cent of the growers are in this position. They would like to ‘get out of it’ but they cannot.
So from a reader’s point of view this should be interesting. But not from a grower’s.
It is strange the different ways growers are trying to obtain a little ready money. Notices may be seen on four blocks, all within a stone throw’s of each other, on Renmark Avenue. One stating that ‘Fresh vegetables may be obtained here’; another ‘Clean chaff and wheat for sale here’; the third ‘Cool drinks for sale’; and the last ‘Cash grocer’. All these have appeared within the last few months.
Another way of obtaining a ‘little of the needful’ is by being an agent. One grower here is an agent for ‘wireless instruments’. He cannot afford to buy an instrument himself, but he has bundles of papers and descriptive pamphlets and he hopes for the best. So far he has not sold any. Several growers are agents for different insurance companies and they are always popping around to see us. Several more growers have obtained motorbikes and motor cars on extraordinarily good terms by becoming agents for them. And if they happen to sell one bike or one car a year they think themselves very lucky, and they are lucky. Other people, if they have a decent car, go on hire work. And many growers who have any trade or profession return to it for either part-time or (some) for whole-time. They then have to work their blocks on Saturday afternoons and Sundays.
Two blockers in this street have done this – one a baker and the other a plumber. Others have gone in for poultry, others for pigs. Some go out and cut wood, others go carting. In fact, there are very few growers in Renmark who have not some side line. Very soon, I am afraid, we shall be ‘taking in each other’s washing’.
Very many pleasant hours have I spent writing in this book. Sometimes, after I had done some writing, I would pause and smile. It may have been some special word, sentence or even article which would cause me to smile. It was not always because it amused me, but because I was vain enough to think that it would amuse you. What would I not give to have the pleasure of watching you r
ead this? To hear your exclamations and remarks? It would have to be something very valuable indeed.
But I do so hope that you will enjoy this. It is written to you and although it may interest other people slightly, the thought of it hardly entered my head when it was being written. I remember Father and Mother saying, when I was young, that they appreciate anything that I have done with my hands and brain, much more than anything I might buy them for a present. I am afraid I have hardly made myself clear, but I think you will understand. I have had the same feeling myself. I appreciated the little calendar that Nora painted and sent me last Christmas far more than any calendar she could ever have bought. And that is why I hope that you will appreciate this. It is all my own unaided work. And it is my Christmas present to you. That has always been before me while I have been writing.
I shall miss my diary very much. It gives me great satisfaction to pick this book up and see how many pages I have written. All for you. I will not promise to continue writing, but I may do so.
There is no doubt that, at the present moment, the most precious possession I have in Renmark are these two little books. It has taken me many, many hours of solid writing to write as much as I have. And the more I write the more I treasure the books. You know why. You will excuse me repeating myself. Because it is my Christmas present to you.