by Stuart Kells
At 8am, when the voting started, Mr Woods (Assistant Returning Officer) handed Mr Waters (Returning Officer) a voting paper and said in a dull monotone, ‘Have you voted here or elsewhere at this election’. What a farce …
The daily quotations on my calendar are really excellent. One I remember was: ‘A girl has little respect for a fellow who tries to kiss her, and fails to do so.’ Not too bad, is it? And again: ‘The man who blows his own trumpet is always out of tune.’ Today’s is: ‘“Wild Oats” take something out of the soil or a man’s life that no system or crop rotations can restore.’
Must ring off now as an interview with Ann is again necessary.
Sunday, 13 April 1924
At the present time the weather here is something like that of England: changeable. Last week I said ‘Autumn is beginning to make its approach felt’. I was wrong. It is winter that is making its approach felt. Autumn is already here. The mornings are bitter cold with a heavy dew. It appears as if the dew arrives just as the sun is rising. It is fine one day and overcast the next, raining the following day and then perhaps we get a terribly windy day. And we are trying to dry fruit in this terrible weather. It seems as if we shall never finish the drying season. The occasional showers we receive spoil the colour of the fruit which means that we receive a lower ‘crown’ or grade for it.
Colds seem to be the fashion just now. The boss had a nasty one last week which he passed on to Mrs Withers. She has been quite ill for the last week and has been unable to rise till after breakfast. It is a kind of ’flu with a terrible cough. Mrs Withers sometimes gets a fit of coughing which lasts for a couple of minutes, leaving her absolutely exhausted. Luckily I have steered clear of it so far. (At the time of writing I am fervently holding on to a piece of wood.)
A few weeks ago I mentioned that I thought If Winter Comes was a jolly good book. Since then I have asked several people who have read the book what they thought of it and I have been rather disappointed in their replies. One said that he thought it was ‘fair’, but in such a way as to suggest that he thought it was ‘medium bad’. A neighbour, who is a very well-read female, thought it was rotten or words to that effect. Another man thought that it was a long, drawn-out book, not badly written but no better than hundreds of books of the same type. Another person ‘did not like it at all’ and so on. It was rather disappointing to me. But, as I enjoyed the book, what does it matter if they didn’t? So cheer up.
Sunday, 4 May 1924
I certainly have been very slack in writing lately, but I have not been so in regards to work.
Last Wednesday I took the first load of Doradillos to the distillery. ‘Doras’ (as they are commonly called) are really spirit grapes but a very decent wine can also be made from them. They are light in colour although some bunches which are not shaded with leaves are almost golden. Doras are usually trained on one wire with a top wire to carry the foliage. It is not unusual, however, to see them trained on two wires with no wire for the foliage. They are very heavy and constant bearers, ten tons to the acre not being unusual.
They are picked into boxes and tins – the same as all other grapes – and as the trolley goes down the rows the boxes are handed up to a man who empties them on to the trolley top and then throws the boxes into the next row. Of course, side boards have to be used when carting grapes. The grapes are heaped up on top, sometimes almost to a point, and the trolley leaves for the distillery.
The actual unloading takes about twenty minutes; that is an average load, thirty cwt to two tons. But two days last week I left the block before 10am and did not arrive back till 4pm. The rest of the time I was waiting. Bar the waiting, this is what happens. The trolley is pulled up on to the weighbridge and weighed. In the case of drays and two-wheeled conveyances the horse is weighed as well. Then the trolley is driven into the distillery and pulled up as near as possible to a hopper. At the Renmark Growers Distillery – where all our fruit goes – there are three hoppers.
The opening in the hopper is about level with the top of the trolley and a sort of platform is lowered so as to rest on the side boards of the trolley. This is to prevent bunches of grapes from falling to the ground. A large fork and a huge shovel are provided and you throw your load into the hopper as fast as you can. If you go too slow, and there are fifteen to twenty teams to unload after you, the teamsters will call you all sorts of uncomplimentary things.
The hopper leads down to the crusher and at the bottom of the crusher is a large cement trough or tank. As all the crushed grapes fall into this trough, they are, or rather it is – for the white and golden bunches of grapes that go into the hopper fall into the trough a slushy, pulpy, liquid – pumped into large vats or tanks. In these huge tanks (which are made of concrete) the pulp ferments.
On one side, at the bottom of each tank, is an opening. When the fermentation is over – it all depends on the weather how long this takes – the stopper is taken out of the opening and all the juice runs into a little gutter which leads it away to another part of the building. After the fermentation it is distilled and filtered. (How it is distilled I will let you know presently, when I have found out more about it.) All the pulp which is left in the tanks after the liquid has been run off is taken away and pressed, so that more of the juice is lost.
Several notable events have taken place during the past week. Last Tuesday morning a boy immigrant at Bob Beer’s committed suicide. As I do not wish these few scribbled pages to be unpleasant I will not say anything about it.
On Wednesday I took my first load to the distillery. On Saturday I brought back our new trolley from Renmark. And this morning we boxed the last of our sultanas.
The leaves are all off the poplars now and the first twinge of yellow has made its appearance on the willows.
The approach of tea time compels me to cease.
Tuesday, 6 May 1924
I find that I have made no mention of how I spent Easter.
Sister Lucy, who had been staying with us for some months, had decided to leave Renmark for Adelaide with her ‘boy’ on Good Friday. They were going through by car, which was to call here about 8am. Her boy would be in the car, as he was to be picked up in Renmark.
8am: no car. 9am: no car. Lucy getting anxious. 9.30am: a telephone message for Lucy from her boy. The car had enough passengers without him and had left half an hour ago. He said that he could not even get a service to Morgan. What were they to do? The boss to the rescue: ‘Oh, all right then. If you can’t get a service car, I will run you through to Morgan.’ So off I went to get the car ready while the boss went down on the green to spread some fruit.
I put in a tin of petrol, placed another spare tin in the car. Put some oil in and placed a tin in the car. (‘Lizzie’ drinks oil – a pint every thirty or forty miles.) Threw Lucy’s luggage in. Changed, shaved and started off, all in less than half an hour. By the time we arrived in Renmark the boss decided that ‘Lizzie wouldn’t do it’. It is seventy-five miles to Morgan and the roads are fairly bad. The train leaves Morgan at 2 o’clock. And as our old bus is ten years old I seriously think she would have fallen to pieces. There are really no roads at all; they are all tracks. Anyhow, when the boss said ‘no’ that was the end of it. We brought back Lucy’s boy and talked things over, and finally decided that I should take them to Morgan the following day and start about 8am.
So Good Friday afternoon I donned my overalls and oiled, greased and generally prepared Lizzie for the trip. I left a few minutes past eight on Saturday morning. To be exact, it was 8.20am. There were two suitcases strapped on to the ‘running board’ and innumerable parcels, packages, bags etc. everywhere, on the seat in the back and floor. In front, they were carrying some and even then they left some behind. I had never been from Renmark to Morgan before, but I was told it was impossible to go wrong.
Everything went well till I was about five miles past Monash. Then at 9.20am there was a sudden bang and I found that there was a ‘flow out’ in the back tyre. Lucy’s
boy – whose name, by the way, is Mr Jefferies – knows absolutely nothing about cars. So I had to do all the repairs myself. I jacked up the wheel, took off the tyre, put in a spare tube (also a gaiter, for there was a hole in the outer cover), blew the tyre up and ‘off to go again’. This took me exactly half an hour.
At 10.20am there was another bang, and I found out that the gaiter had slipped and number two tube was burst. On taking the tyre off, I discovered that it was weakened for at least six inches both sides of the hole. This was serious. I put in another spare tube and two gaiters but I saw that the tyre would not last long. While I was doing this several service cars passed me. Started again at 10.50am.
I managed to get as far as Overland Corner where all the service cars stop for a few minutes. I saw that it was useless to go on so I transferred my passengers to a service car – a fine, six-cylinder Packard – and started back again. Mr Jefferies gave me thirty shillings, very generous of him considering that Overland Corner is between twenty-five and thirty miles from Renmark and that service cars only charge twenty-five shillings per passenger for the whole way.
I had only travelled about three miles on the way back when I discovered that the tyre was so swollen around the gaiter that it would have ‘blown-out’ again had I not stopped. But how was I to repair it? I had no more gaiters. The only thing that I could do was to let the tyre down, push the gaiter back into its proper place (the gaiter was, of course, inside the tyre), bind around the outside of the tyre with some wire, blow up the tyre to a small pressure and try it. It was quite satisfactory for about four or five miles, then the wire broke and the gaiter began to slip and the tyre to swell.
While I was patching it up in the same manner as before, it started to rain. There was a slight dust storm first, but it only lasted a few minutes. After I had repaired the second time I had no more wire left. But luckily it lasted me as far as Monash (which is about halfway between the Corner and Renmark). Here I had hoped to get another gaiter; the ones I had were only homemade ones and not too good. It was an awkward place, right on the side of the tyre. But I had no luck, all I could obtain was more wire.
Wednesday, 7 May 1924
So off I went again, stopping every four or five miles to let the tyre down, push the gaiter back into its proper place, bind with wire, inflate tyre, pack away all the tools. And half the time it was raining. Truly a pleasant journey.
I arrived back somewhere in the region of 3 o’clock rather ‘fed up’ with things in general. I gave the boss the thirty shillings but he only took a pound of it: for petrol, oil, and towards a new tyre. So for my first experience of track work I received ten shillings.
On Sunday morning – Easter Sunday – we decided to see what we could do to the old tyre. We did not want to buy a new one unless it was absolutely necessary. For one day the boss is going to buy a new car. After careful examination we found that it would be impossible to patch the tyre up with a gaiter, but it might be possible to place it over another old tyre which had a blow out in the centre of the tread and use it (or them) on the front wheel, and to place the tyre at present on the front wheel on the back.
According to Euclid, ‘Things equal to the same things are equal.’ Therefore, if one had two tyres of the same size it would be impossible to place one over the other. What the two tyres in our case were equal to was thirty inches by three and a half inches.
I am afraid old Euclid must be wrong, for we managed to do it after a terrific struggle lasting nearly three solid hours. We blew the tyres up. On Monday morning when we went to have a look at them we found that the front one (the wheel with two tyres) was flat. We took the tube out and mended the puncture – it had got pinched somehow or other – put it back again and blew it up. It stayed up half an hour and then went down again. As we had to go out in Lizzie in the afternoon, we mended it again. The same trouble. It was then dinner time.
After dinner, the tyre was down again. We mended it and started off on our engagement. Halfway there it gradually subsided. So we jumped out and mended it again. We were getting quite proficient at puncture mending by this time. It stayed up until we were nearly back again and then, with a sudden bang, it went down. We did not stop this time, but came back on a flat tyre.
On Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday we were too busy to do anything to it. The fruit harvest was still in full swing. But on Saturday we made another attempt. We had used all our patches by this time and had to borrow some more. The trouble was that the outer, outer cover (or outer tyre) pressed down on the inner, outer cover and made it very hard to replace the tube after mending the puncture. We mended the puncture, blew the tyre up and it stayed up!
We had to go into Renmark in the afternoon and halfway there it gradually went down. We did not stop but went on into Renmark. Here we purchased a new tyre. We were both sick of mending punctures so we came back on a flat tyre. We expected to ruin the tube by doing this and an examination on Sunday morning showed that we had succeeded. So we put the new tyre on the back and put the tyre which was on the back in front – it’s original place – and put in another tube.
Since then we have had no tyre trouble.
I received two copies of John O’London’s a few days ago, but I have not yet had time to read them.
On Saturday last I played bridge. On Sunday evening Mrs Waters came across for a friendly chat. On Monday we played bridge the same as usual. Jack Waters always comes over on Monday evening. On Tuesday I commenced writing in this little book, but Mrs Waters came over again about something or other and stayed for a couple of hours. And tonight I am doing a little more scribbling.
On Monday evening, about 5 o’clock, the agent and traveller for Dodge cars called here with the 1924 model and asked us to inspect it. After an interesting talk about the car we went for a short ride in it. The traveller was good enough to let me drive it. It was really a pleasure to drive a ‘proper car’ after having driven nothing save an old Ford since I have been out here. The Dodge is a fine car and after hearing the traveller talk about it for a short time I was firmly convinced that there was, or is, no car like it to be found on the Earth. Strange to say, I had this same feeling after hearing the Buick agent talk about Buicks. But believe me, there is no car like a Dodge.
When Mrs Waters comes across it is all up, or rather u.p., with writing. She is very pessimistic and sooner or later the conversation turns to A.D.F.A. (Australian Dried Fruit Association) affairs. This she soundly condemns till she leaves. The boss, supported by your humble servant, sticks up for it. So one can be sure of a good old ‘pow wow’ when she arrives. Last Sunday she started off (if I remember correctly) by talking about Dolores, the woman with the most perfect body in the world. I did not join in this discussion. Then she soundly denounced ‘shingling’. I quite agree with her. Then she spoke for a long time about the boy immigrant who had committed suicide a few days previously in Renmark. I will not say anything about this as it is a most unpleasant subject. The boy’s boss is a great friend of mine – ‘one of the best’. Of course the boy was mad.
She mentioned rather an amusing incident that occurred when she was having a few days holiday at Chowilla Station. She and a certain ‘Mrs Vine’ were the only two present who had come from England. The conversation turned to what would be the first thing they would do if they were to go back to the Old Country again. What did they greatly look forward to?
‘Well,’ said Mrs Vine, ‘if ever I go back again I should like to have something that it is impossible to obtain out here. My choice would be oysters and stout.’
A grand old dame, who had never left the shores of Australia, began to pull herself together at this. She sat quite upright, as if she were going to say something rather nasty. Mrs Waters noticed this so she said, ‘What I would like, if ever I go home, is the first cut of salmon with a certain sauce’. (I forget what sauce Mrs Waters mentioned – shrimp?)
The grand old dame looked stiffer than ever. After a pause she said, in a most pr
ecise and dignified way, ‘I think it shows very low taste, thinking of what one would eat. I should have thought you would have liked to hear some beautiful music, see some beautiful pictures, visit some certain beauty spot and admire the wonderful scenery. I think it is most uncultured and unrefined thinking of what one would eat’.
Mrs Vine and Mrs Waters felt quite squashed. It is very strange what different people want to do when they go back to old England.
The boss, who is quite a refined man (who, before he left England, moved in the best London Society) wants to have as much beer, drawn from the wood, as he can drink. And yet, out here, he never touches beer. It is all in bottles; ‘rotten, gassy stuff, full of chemicals,’ he says of it. Mrs Withers wants to have some haddock. And what do I look forward to? I want to see certain people, certain places. I want to hear certain music. I want to hear a real good band, a Guard’s band. And to eat? At the present time – 9.20pm – I should like a crust of fairly new bread, some real good tasty cheese (Stilton or cheddar) and a glass of real good cider.
Saturday, 24 May 1924
We are still busy with the fruit harvest, but hope to finish by the end of next week. During the past week I have carted about fifteen tons of grapes to the distillery.
Last Thursday morning, just as I was commencing to ‘throw off’ my load, part of the crusher broke and there was a most terrific bang, a crash and then an incessant clattering, nerve wracking, horse-frightening, jangling, clanging din. I immediately thought I had thrown something into the crusher, but I afterwards discovered that owing to the terrific and constant vibration part of the crusher had become unriveted and, consequently, fallen in. The horses began to dance, but fortunately I managed to get to their heads before they bolted. The crusher was stopped and the whole staff turned out to repair it.