Outback Penguin

by Stuart Kells

  Sincerely trusting that you will enjoy the following pages.

  I remain

  Your every loving

  Dick

  Sunday, 6 January 1924

  I have half promised myself to write a diary this year with not less than one entry per week. For the last twenty minutes there has been a great struggle going on: Conscience vs Body.

  Conscience says, ‘It is 6.30am on Sunday morning and you have not yet made a start with your diary. You know you will not have time to write during any other part of the day, so get up and make a start.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Body. ‘That’s all very well, but I’ve had a very busy week and it is the recognized thing to have a “lay in” on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Yes, I quite understand that,’ mumbles Conscience. ‘But the main point in my argument is: what other time will you have to make a start except now? Don’t be lazy.’

  ‘Well, I might have time tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Tomorrow evening you have to write home, so you won’t have any time then.’

  ‘If I am going to have a busy and tiring day today, replacing the reverse, slow speed and brake linings of the car, then I—’

  ‘What! On Sunday morning! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. But enough of this arguing, rise and make a start.’

  And so on, first one side winning then the other. In the end, Conscience won and poor old Body was expelled from the bed. Crestfallen and beaten, he could do nothing save pick up his pen and write. Having got so far, he discovers Conscience has vanished so he hops back to bed again.

  Sunday, 13 January 1924

  Once again it is Sunday. But it is not 6.30am; the time being 4pm. We did not replace the brake linings etc. of the car last Sunday after all. After looking closely at what would have to be done to perform this operation we decided that it would be useless to attempt the job unless we could procure a set of box spanners, and as we could not we did not attempt the job. We hope to do it sometime this week.

  You may think that it is hardly the correct thing to repair cars on Sundays. But here we do not regard that as work. It is one of our recreations and a pleasure. You know how fond I was of tinkering about with my old Douglas and so I hope you will understand. I am sure it is not worse than Sunday games.

  I have had a very quiet time during the past week. Cultivating most of the time; this is about the easiest job on the block. One gets rather shaken about on a disc, but on a cultivator it is like riding in a Rolls-Royce all day.

  On Thursday I went into town to collect fifty picking boxes. I called at the Post Office for the mail and there was a registered letter for me from Auntie Annie containing £2. Of course, I was very pleased not only for the notes but for the letter which was – well, you know what all Auntie Annie’s letters are like. As near perfect as possible. I read it as I was going back, seated on the wagon which Jimmy and Nellie slowly pulled along. On either side of me were sometimes vines, currants, sultanas and wine grapes; sometimes apricots, peaches, pears and almonds; and sometimes all I could see were ‘weeping willows’ and pepper trees. I passed by the distillery and over the ‘Big’ bridge which spans the creek. Turned up past the Tintra Tennis Courts (which are credited as being the best earth courts in South Australia) and over the Bookmark Channel. Around a couple more corners and I was in Chowilla Street, with the tall pampas grass on one side of the road. All the time I was either reading or thinking about the letter, and I think I must have been in England all the time – sometimes in London and sometimes in Bristol.

  Mrs Withers hopes to go for a holiday to Adelaide, starting at the end of the week. If she does go, the boss and I will have a fortnight’s ‘baching’. And as the peaches will be ripe by then we shall have a fairly busy time. Time to fetch Ann now.

  Saturday, 19 January 1924

  Last night I went to a political meeting in Renmark and saw, and heard, Sir Henry Barwell for the first time. It was unpleasantly warm in Arcadia – where the meeting was held – but Sir Henry is a remarkably good speaker and I thoroughly enjoyed it. There are three political parties here at present: Liberal, Labour and the Country Party.

  The Country Party was formed a few years ago by Liberals who thought that their party was not doing enough for the country districts. So they broke away and formed a party of their own. The Country Party is now working hand-in-hand with Labour!

  If a Labour Parliament comes into force at the next election (in a few months’ time), Heaven help South Australia. It would be impossible for Labour to govern South Australia. See what a Labour Government has done, and is doing, to Queensland.

  The weather this week has been terribly hot, several days over 100°F. Last Tuesday the shade temperature was 112°F – fairly warm! The sun has scorched the grapes badly. We have lost several tons of Doras this week. Our sultanas have also suffered.

  Peaches and nectarines are now ripe. Would you like some? Two pence a pound on small quantities, reduction on over £50.

  Saturday, 26 January 1924

  I am writing this in Mr J.M. Smith’s sitting room. The time is just 9.23pm. And the ‘four’ are playing bridge. The ‘four’ consist of Mr Roper, Mrs Roper, Mr Smith and Mr Withers. They play bridge every Saturday night throughout the year, usually in Mr Smith’s house but occasionally in Mr Roper’s. Mr Smith and Mrs Roper are partners, and Mr Roper and Mr Withers.

  They are all sitting in armchairs and the three men are pulling away at their pipes, two of which are out. Mr Roper is Secretary of the Renmark Irrigation Trust. Stout and sedate, he is a good bridge player but likes ‘playing the hand’ too much. Mrs Roper also likes to ‘play the hand’ and so, sometimes, they bid against one another with only medium good hands. She does not like losing. In fact, she is a very bad loser and gets extremely ‘ratty’ at times. Mr Smith is of much slighter build than the others. He was Chairman of the Trust for nineteen years and is senior J.P. in Renmark. He is a very cautious bidder and player. Mr Withers is as large as the other two men put together and so very jovial.

  I watched them play for a couple of hours, but after that I begin to feel sleepy and now I can hardly keep my eyes open. In fact, I can’t so I shall have to stop. I wonder if I can keep awake for one hour, for at about 10.45pm they cease playing and have a little light refreshment. Whatever can I do to keep awake for one hour? I don’t know.

  Monday, 4 February 1924

  I thought that when Mrs Withers was away I should have more time for writing, but I was wrong. We have been twice as busy and the watering was just the finishing touch yesterday. I was ‘at it’ from 5 o’clock in the morning till 7pm. The boss left for Adelaide at 7.30am and I had to finish the watering. We have been having rotten, stuffy weather lately and I am just about knocked flat out – ‘fair dinkum’ – so I am writing this as an apology for not writing.

  Sunday, 17 February 1924

  It is 10.30pm on Sunday night. I really ought to go to bed but my conscience commands me to scribble a few lines. First of all, let us talk about the weather. It has been rotten. For three days last week we had a north wind. A stuffy, ‘breathless’ wind devoid of any trace of freshness. While this lasted it was a physical impossibility to write. Also we were very busy with the pears which have been sold green. Sometimes we had to work till 6.30 or 7pm in order to pick and pack a load, which in our case was forty cases.

  We finished picking on Friday morning and the number of cases we sent in was 338. Kerosene cases not fruit cases. The Railways reckon thirty-five cases to the ton.

  I have been longing for an opportunity to do a little writing, but it does not seem to come my way. I really must make an opportunity this week. And with that resolution in my mind I will toddle off to bed.

  Saturday, 1 March 1924

  I am afraid all my good resolutions about writing a little every week in this book are broken. I have written about four pages in two months, which is not much per week!

  The weather at the present time is not at all conducive to writing. I
t must be well over the century, with practically no breeze and no clouds whatever. It has been like this for the last two or three days, and I simply cannot write while it is so hot. Also I contend that it is almost impossible to do any writing during the fruit harvest. The work is too tiring. Renmark is a very relaxing place. Also a tiring place.

  I arrived at this conclusion myself before I asked anyone’s opinion on the matter, and I found that they all agreed with me. Or rather that my views agreed with theirs. The only form of diary that one could keep would be the daily entry of short facts relating to ones’ work and pleasure. The same as we used to keep at school. During the first two or three weeks in January it would be:

  Went to school early twice, obtained full marks for trig; home work. Allen did not go to school as he was bad. John is also bad. Nora went to school. Mother made beef tea for Allen and John but would not give me any. She said I was not bad. I wished I was bad when I saw the things Father brought home for the invalids. Did homework, went to Bingham’s and played bagatelle. Went to bed.

  By February it was: ‘Went to school twice. Did homework, went to bed.’ And by March it was: ‘1st March went to school. 2nd ditto. 3rd ditto. 4th ditto’; and so on.

  Also I am beginning to realize that I should have accepted the invitation I had to go away for a holiday. I should imagine that in a relaxing place it would be advisable to ‘get away’ for a fortnight for the benefit of our health. I did not feel the need of a holiday at the time, but I am beginning to feel the need now. And it is the commencement of the fruit harvest too! Practically everybody in Renmark has at least a fortnight’s holiday during the year. Bosses, managers, teamsters, carters and, of course, everybody in the township have their annual leave. I cannot think of anybody around here who has not had a holiday since I have been here. There is one blocker, quite close, who sleeps in a ‘humpy’ you would not keep a dog in. As a matter of fact, it is a tent – mallee framework, and covered with manure bags. And yet every year he goes for a month’s holiday – to Sydney, Melbourne or Hobart if funds permit and if they don’t he only goes as far as Adelaide.

  We are now three-quarters of the way through the currants. There is a record crop of this grape in the settlement. And everyone is short of drying plant. New racks are springing up everywhere. I would not be surprised if we had to put up a temporary rack next week as we have only thirty-odd wire trays left. We are putting four boxes of fruit to each tray this year. So that means we have room for about 120 boxes of fruit. I would not be surprised if there were 300 more boxes to come off yet, so we shall have to make room for them somewhere.

  Last Sunday we drove down to Moorook to see Mr and Mrs Matthews. I always drive now. It was a very enjoyable trip in every way, the weather being almost ideal. We had to wait nearly half an hour for the punt at Kingston on Murray, so we did not arrive back until 8.30pm. It was pitch dark by then, and after changing I had to wander down the block to bring the cow up and, of course, milk her. We finished tea just before 10 o’clock. Time to milk now, so I must stop.

  Sunday, 9 March 1924

  Last Sunday we went ‘yabbying’, which is the elusive art of catching yabbies. What is a yabby? It is a shellfish, slightly smaller than a crayfish and, in everybody’s opinion who have tasted it, the tenderest and most delicately flavoured of all shellfish. Yabbies are most plentifully found in creeks. So it was to a creek that we journeyed last Sunday.

  A portion of meat, the higher the better, is lowered into the water on the end of a stick; or rather, one end of a piece of string is tied to a portion of high meat and the other end is affixed to a stick, then the whole is gently lowered into the waters of a creek. This is usually left for a few minutes to attract the yabbies. Then, very gently, the meat is raised, ever so gently, with one hand. The other hand firmly grasps a net which is lowered in the water to one side of the meat. Then as the meat is gradually raised, the net is brought under it. Slowly. Precisely. When the meat is about six inches from the surface the yabbies can distinctly be seen firmly grasping it. Now is the time.

  To be or not to be. Do not jerk the net but pull it up quickly, catching both the meat and yabby or yabbies. The former is dropped into the water again and the latter is emptied into a sack which is propped up by your side.

  Then repeat the operation. Continuously. Precisely. Cautiously.

  When you have enough … cease.

  The fun is fast and furious.

  And yet … slow and serious.

  Serious, for it you do not catch any yabbies you cannot eat them …

  Obvious. Mysterious. Conclusive.

  And … serious …

  Sunday, 23 March 1924

  A few days before making my last entry I had read If Winter Comes. If you noticed any change in my style (if I have one) of writing put it down to that.

  As I read very little, when I do happen to strike a good book I usually enjoy it. But ‘to have enjoyed it’ would be a very mild way of expressing the intense mental pleasure I received when I read If Winter Comes. Somehow or other I did not take on to the author’s style at once and my mental criticism of the first dozen pages or so would not have flattered Mr A.S.M.H. (Hutchinson). But before long I was deeply interested in the book and the interest never flagged after that.

  When I had finished I read If Summer Don’t by Barry Pain which is, as its name implies, a parody. This had been recommended to me as being especially good, but I did not think much of it. In fact, I did not consider it worth reading. But I hate to leave a book half read and as it only contains ninety-odd pages I finished it. I certainly do not recommend it to anybody.

  I need not mention that we have been very busy lately. Cela va sans dire, as I believe the French say. At the present time we are working on the sultanas which, however, we hope to finish this week. Then about two days for the Gordos and after that a solid month of Doras.

  I try to play bridge a couple of evenings a week – a game I enjoy immensely, but one which takes a lot of learning.

  The sun sets about 6 o’clock now, and we have to go down to the drying green as soon as she slides below the horizon to roll hessians and box fruit. This takes between half an hour and an hour. I can assure you that after an average day’s work one does not require much rocking to enable one to pass into the land of nod.

  Sunday, 30 March 1924

  No time to write. Yesterday afternoon, in glancing through the Pioneer, I saw that the Albert District Cricket Association was playing the Upper Murray Cricket Association in Renmark that day – Saturday – and that Mac was playing for the A.D.C.A. So when we were coming back from Renmark we stopped at the cricket ground.

  I very soon spotted Mac, who was fielding. He caught a man out almost as soon as we arrived. I had a few words with him when the player he had helped to dismiss was walking back to the Pavilion. He informed me that his side had made 180, of which he had contributed forty. Quite a respectable score! I think the Upper Murray Cricket Association won by three wickets and one or two runs, but as there was no scoreboard I could not be sure.

  We are terribly busy; of course, we always are. I have made an entry under a certain date and I’m afraid that will have to be sufficient for the present as that beloved quadruped, Ann, is waiting for me.

  Sunday, 6 April 1924

  Another week has flown by. The summer is nearing its completion. It is, the papers say, the coolest one in South Australia since records have been taken. But as the weather is good now I won’t grumble.

  Mr Withers’ birthday was last Tuesday, April 1st. What a rotten day to have a birthday on! It is being celebrated, however, today. He received several parcels. One, which was about three feet by two feet by six inches, was found to contain a pipe! He says he is always very wary of opening parcels on his birthday. He has been caught so many times.

  We finished the sultanas last Wednesday, for which everyone was thankful.

  Autumn is beginning to make its approach felt. Leaves are rapidly falling off the vine
s and trees. The sun rises later and sets earlier which naturally makes for cold evenings. Poplars are rapidly shedding their leaves, but the weeping willows still hold theirs.

  Red leaves can be seen in the pear block and all the trees of stone-fruit are losing their summer garb. The pampas grass in now at the zenith of its glory. The Pepper trees are also looking well with their clusters of red berries. The grand old gums never seem to change. They appear the same in the depth of winter as they do at the height of summer. They may change for all I know, but it is so gradual as to be unnoticeable. All the native trees are evergreen: the Red gum, Sugar gum, Box gum and all the other gums. Also all the mallees. The palms, too, never lose their leaves. But the vines, from the time they lose their leaves until they are pruned, look very untidy, especially the sultanas with their long, sinuous canes.

  Yesterday was election day. Or is ‘polling day’ the correct expression to use? At any rate all Renmark turned out to record their votes. And what a weird collection of conveyances and vehicles they turned up in. From six-cylinder Packards to Fords and even worse! And from wagons with eight-horse teams to dilapidated buggies drawn by cross-eyed, knock-kneed, pot-bellied old block horses. From motorbikes and side-cars to push bikes. There were buggies, sulkies, spring-drays, masher drays, traps, wagons, trolleys, Hilliards, Bettendorfs – in fact, anything that could be drawn by a horse or horses.

  The cars comprised chiefly of Buicks, Dodges, Studebakers, Chevrolets, Fords and a couple of Packards which are hire cars on the Morgan Track (commonly known as ‘service cars’). All American cars, you will notice.

  And what everyone was dressed in too! Men in light suits, dark suits, white suits, black suits, working suits of khaki, khaki pants with white, black, blue or khaki shirts. Dungarees with white, black etc. shirts etc. And the womenfolk and the ‘Sweet young things’? White, black, blue, yellow, pink? Yes, sky blue pink. And every imaginable colour under the sun. The sun blazing down on this gay crowd made it quite a pretty picture.