Outback Penguin

by Stuart Kells

  Several days, or rather nights, this week I have tried to do some writing but somebody has always turned up to prevent it. One night Jack Waters came across and spent the evening with me. Another evening Tommy Woods came to enquire after Mrs Withers and stayed until 10 o’clock. His father came around two nights after, to see the boss. So that evening I only managed to do a page. Last night we went into Renmark to get the letters. We called at Mr Smith’s on the way back and did not arrive here until 9 o’clock. And by the time that I had read my letters and glanced at the papers I had received it was time to retire.

  The quotation on my calendar a couple of days ago was rather good: ‘There’s a good time coming but it’s a good time coming’ (T. Jay). I wonder if that would be Mr Jay who writes the ‘Charivaria’ in Punch every week. Anyhow, it’s pretty true.

  Renmark is passing through very bad times now. The worst it has seen since Chaffey went ‘broke’. The Chaffey brothers were the first two men to start irrigated fruit blocks in, I think, Australia. One brother started at Mildura and the other at Renmark. They planted and graded and made channels and roads, bought pumps and financed the whole undertaking. But expenses were very heavy and after a long, strenuous struggle they went bankrupt. Then Renmark was in a bad way. Blocks were sold for a pound. The whole place went ‘broke’. Then the tide turned, fruit began to fetch a good price. During the war and until 1920 were ‘boom’ years. Renmark was rolling with money. And, like good Australians, everybody spent the money as soon as they received it. High-water mark having been reached, the tide hastened to again turn. This it has done with a vengeance and left poor old Renmark high and dry, stranded on the rocks.

  Now the growers in Renmark may be likened to the little fish which may be seen in the channels after an irrigation. The sun is taking all the water away by evaporation. What is going to happen? Will the pumps start again and fill all the channels? Will the fish be able to swim away, and a few lucky ones find their way into an underground tank where they may ‘live happily ever after’? Or will all the water be evaporated away and all those poor little fishes die? It is hard to say. Perhaps we shall get a shower of rain in the shape of a government bounty. Enough to raise the water in the channels a couple of inches and prolong the agony. No, do not say that. Enough to give us another lease of life. Perhaps we should be able to last out then until the pumps start again.

  Sunday, 27 July 1924

  Mr Withers came back last Thursday and brought back fairly good news with him. The operation took place on Monday morning and was very successful. When the boss left on Thursday Mrs Withers had turned the corner and was going on well. He heard again last night that she was still progressing favourably.

  When the boss came back he brought me, as a present, a black exercise book for me to continue this ‘diary’ (or whatever it is) in.

  Last Saturday, or rather yesterday week, I went to Weste’s to tea. On Sunday I went to Mr Woods for the same function. And every night since, except last, I have stayed here. Last night we went to Mr Smith’s and had a game of Coon Can. As we were, or are, baching, Mrs Smith gave us a tart: a jam tart without any jam, but the pastry (I’ve never seen anything like it before) two inches thick! What do you think of that? No wonder there was no jam in it.

  The boss was very busy cooking this morning and for dinner we had roast mutton, potatoes and marrow and … jam tart and custard. For tea we had some trifle. Nothing very elaborate, mind you. The boss had found some old sponge cake somewhere, so he cut it up in slices, spread some jam on it, and filled the dish with custard.

  Before the boss left for Adelaide last time he made a custard; at least, that was what he called it. When I tasted it for the first, and last, time I asked him how much sugar he had used. This was meant to be an ordinary ‘custard powder custard’.

  ‘Sugar?’ he replied. ‘Sugar? What do you want sugar for in custard?’

  ‘You didn’t put any at all in then?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why? Don’t you like the custard?’

  ‘Oh yes! I’m not saying anything against it, but how much powder did you use?’

  ‘I don’t know, just a few tablespoonfuls.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit “powdery”?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, now you come to mention it, it certainly tastes as if I had used too much powder. Just a little too much,’ he added.

  Well, that was a wonderful custard. I kept it as a curiosity for a few days, but when it began to change colour I thought it best to give it to the fowls. Joey wouldn’t look at it and the cats walked away from it. Strange to say, the fowls haven’t been laying half so well since I gave them that custard. I am not going to say that the custard affected their laying, oh no. I just mentioned it as it seemed rather curious. This masterpiece produced out of common custard powder and skim milk was of a very rich colour. A glorious, golden brown. The day after it had been made its colour had greatly changed: it was almost copper coloured. Its third day of existence was marked by the fact that its shape changed. Quite naturally, I assure you. While the custard in the centre of the dish remained firm, that around the edges fell at least an inch. Where it fell to I really couldn’t say. It looked as if it had slipped down and pushed the centre up. The fourth day, the centre cracked. Looking into the cracks, one could see streaky red lines. Very pretty they were, too. Water now appeared above the custard, which had sunk. The next day, when I looked at it, I found that it had started to grow whiskers. Snowy white ones to begin with, but they rapidly turned green. It was then that I gave it to the fowls.

  A very strange occurrence took place that day. As I was coming up the block soon after 12 o’clock, for my dinner, I saw a fowl solemnly place its head on the ground and walk around it. I am pleased to state that it is quite all right again now.

  This afternoon I went for a ‘Block E trip’. What this is I will explain. The settlement is divided up into sections – I think there are seven. Each section is termed a Block. So, Block A, Block B etc. This is Block C. Block E is a soldier settlement and there Mr Smith’s son-in-law and daughter dwell. Occasionally, Mr Withers drives Mr and Mrs Smith over to see them. This is a ‘Block E trip’.

  It is about three or four miles from Mr Smith’s to Mr Barrington’s (usually known as Barry’s) and, as the weather was almost perfect, when I arrived there I offered to take the Barrington family for a drive. This offer was readily accepted. So you can picture your humble servant, in a white dustcoat, at the wheel of a ten year old Ford taking Mr Smith, Mr Barrington, Mrs Barrington, Master Edward Barrington, Master Joe and Miss Nora Barrington out for a joy ride. The last two are twins. We left Mrs Smith at Barry’s, taking care of the youngest ‘Barry’: Master Reginald Grenville Barrington. What a name to give a child! Why Reginald? Why not do the thing properly and name him after the famous and gallant old seaman, the brave old Admiral, Sir Richard Grenville?

  The drive lasted about three-quarters of an hour. We went through Block C to Chaffey, on to Ral Ral Avenue, through a small portion of Block F and back to Block E. The scenery was not very interesting. For most of the way there were blocks on either side of the road and our view was practically confined to them.

  Tuesday, 5 August 1924

  It is strange, even when one is baching, how busy one can be. Not only during the daytime but during the evenings as well. Last Saturday night the boss played bridge at Mr Roper’s and as I had nothing else to do I accompanied him. I played a game of dominoes called ‘Matador’ with Mr and Mrs Macintosh. It is really a jolly good game and requires great skill to be played properly. On Sunday evening we had tea at Mr Higgins’ and stayed there for the evening.

  We are at present pruning currants as fast as we can. Unfortunately, we do not start work until after 9am owing to all the housework we have to do. I have now two cows to milk. As there is practically no feed on the block we have to give them a feed in the morning and evening. Owing to this scarcity of feed, they are not giving much milk. We are only getting
about four gallons of milk per day. Not much, but we find that it is quite enough for our simple needs! We have two milk customers: one for two pints and the other for three pints daily.

  When we were around at the Higgins’ last Sunday evening they appeared much amused by my account of how we ‘batched’. There were present: Mr and Mrs Higgins; their four daughters, whose ages ranged from seven or eight years old to Lorna, who is just over twenty; her boy, Joe Dick; and the boss and myself. I started off by describing how we washed up after breakfast.

  ‘Had a good breakfast Dick?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Top hole. But the eggs were slightly too hard for my liking.’

  ‘Yes, they were. Unfortunately, after I put them on I forgot all about them for ten minutes and they were certainly rather hard boiled. Well, as we’ve finished breakfast I suppose we’d better wash up. What a nuisance this washing up business is.’

  We clear all the dirty plates, cups and saucers etc., from the dining room to the kitchen. The boss then looks around with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I wonder where my pipes gone to? Oh, there it is. Fancy it being there. Whoever put it there, I wonder? I must have, I suppose. Come along, let us get along with the washing up.’

  We place the washing up bowl on the table and pour the hot water into it. ‘I must just get my ’baccy. It’s in the sitting room,’ says the boss. ‘I must light my pipe before I start this job.’ He then disappears into the sitting room and it is not long before I hear him speaking on the ’phone. I wash up the glasses and perhaps the cups and saucers, and then suddenly notice that more wood is wanted on the fire but there is none cut. Just as I go off to cut some the boss appears. ‘Weste just rang up and says that one of our cows has got into his block and is eating the flowers in his garden. You had better slip across and bring it back.’

  So off I go to get the cow. I catch it, bring it back and place it in a different block. The boss is now feeding the fowls, and as Joey has not had his breakfast I give it to him. This consists of the scrapings out of the porridge saucepan. Joey does not like it thin or washy, the thicker and stodgier the better he likes it. The boss now comes back and prepares the cats’ breakfast.

  ‘Now, perhaps we can start to wash up,’ he says. ‘We’ve had our breakfast. The fowls have had theirs. So have the cats. So has Joey. So have the– Oh, no they haven’t. The chicks haven’t had theirs yet.’

  So off he goes and feeds the chicks. I notice that the fire is nearly out, so off I go and chop some wood. We eventually start washing up. The boss washes. I wipe up. He has not much system and washes whatever comes into his hand first. A cup, a saucepan lid, a basin, a plate, two knives, a milk bowl, a few forks and spoons, several plates, one egg cup, the rest of the knives, two milk basins, a saucepan, another cup and so on. Occasionally I refuse to wipe something as I consider it is not properly washed. More hot water is required, and as there is none hot enough the boss lights his pipe again.

  ‘What,’ he says, looking at the clock, ‘half-past eight all ready. I promised to ring up Smith soon after eight. I had better do it now.’

  I busy myself in trying to make the fire ‘buck up’, when in walks Mr Waters for his skim milk. We give him all we have left over. He and the boss then have a short talk, usually about dried fruit matters. After he has gone we start washing up again. The boss is now beginning to get desperate. ‘A greasy saucepan – that must go in soak. A jam jar – also to be soaked. Two more jars – the water’s not hot enough for them, they also must go in soak. So must this saucepan. And what are those three saucepans and those two jars doing in the corner, Dick?’

  ‘Those are the ones you put in soak yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, are they? Well, the waters too cold. I must do one, though, or we shan’t be able to have any breakfast tomorrow.’

  Friday, 8 August 1924

  That is where the boss fails in washing up. He likes putting certain articles – saucepans and jars especially – in soak. This is almost as bad a failing as having no system or method. There is a right way and a wrong way of doing everything. Certainly there is a right way and wrong way of washing up. But enough of this. Eventually we finish the job and start work.

  The baker calls before we come back for dinner; he pays us three visits a week. On the other three days (I do not include Sunday) the butcher calls and he also brings bread, so we are well-off in that respect. The butcher does not call until 12.30pm and by that time we are having our dinner, so we have no trouble about him. But we have to leave a message on a slate for the baker so that he may know what to leave. The slate we leave on the back verandah wall and he used to leave the bread on the slate. We came up the block one day last week and were surprised to find that all the inside of the loaf had been eaten away, the crust only remaining. It was not hard to discover who were the culprits, for now whenever the baker arrives the fowls rush to meet him. Needless to say, we immediately cancelled that arrangement and the bread is now left in a tin.

  Last Wednesday evening we went into Renmark to get the letters – the news about Mrs Withers was very satisfactory – and afterwards we visited Bob Beer. He has just bought a new car. At least, he has passed his Light Six Studebaker in and has taken out a Fiat (the balance to be paid next year). This is how most cars are purchased. Very few people in Renmark pay cash for their cars.

  We inspected his car, which really is a little beauty. The Fiat is an Italian car. His is model ‘501’ which has a ten horse power engine. Rather a light car, you may think, for these roads; yet but it’s not an American car. An English or Continental car will last out three or four American cars. And although they are usually a lot dearer, they are, in my opinion, well worth it. Let me quote a few car prices (all cars unless, otherwise stated, will have touring bodies): Buick Four £405; Buick Six £525; Dodge Four £390; Oldsmobile Six £375; Essex Six £385; Overland Four £250; Maxwell Four £385; Moon Six £475; Ford Four £199.10.0 (why not £200?); Studebaker ‘Light Six’ £445; Chevrolet Four £260. All these are American cars. Bob’s new car – a ‘501’ Fiat Four – costs £495. As I mentioned before, it is only ten horse power. A Ford is twenty-two and a half horse power. So horse power cannot mean a terrible lot. An Austin Twenty-four costs the same here as it does in England: £625. American cars, you will observe, are very cheap. But they have not the material, not half the lasting properties, that English and Continental cars have. With a fair amount of use on these roads, the best days of an American car are over in twelve months. Of course, they are not ‘done in’ in that time. But there is one large firm in Sydney who cater specially for the ‘Blue Mountain Trip’, a fairly strenuous trip. They use all Studebaker cars: ‘Big Six’, ‘Special Six’ and a few ‘Light Six’. A careful record is kept of the dates the cars are purchased and as soon as a car has completed twelve months service it is passed in and a new one taken out. And this one firm has over twenty cars. They have tried everything, but they find that the only way to make it pay is not to keep a car more than one year. Now, with an English car it is only just ‘run in’ in that period. There is one car – an Austin Twenty – which frequently visits Renmark and does thousands of miles on these roads every year. It has been about here nearly five years and the driver says that ‘it has just got over the stiffness’. It is now running perfectly. There is a Fiat up here, the same model as Bob’s, which has also done thousands of miles on these roads and has been up here three or four years. It is in perfect order now and the owner says he is getting over forty miles to the gallon out of her. As for oil, they are wonderful; about 1,000 miles to one pint. Our old ‘bus’ does about twenty to the gallon and goes about thirty miles to a pint of oil.

  There are two Fiats on the Morgan track now, both six-cylinder models. The owner of these cars has also two Packards: an American Six which costs about £800 or £900. They are known as the ‘Rolls-Royce’ of America. Lovely cars, certainly. The same firm also makes eight- and twelve-cylinder cars. The owner of these cars says no more Packards for him. Fiats e
very time. The last time that the boss went down to Adelaide he journeyed in a Packard both ways. He said they travelled splendidly, did forty-five m.p.h. without the slightest suspicion of a quiver. But after these cars have been on the track for twelve to eighteen months, new spare parts are required. Not so with the Fiats; the owner has had no trouble at all with them.

  Don’t think I don’t like American cars, because I do. The Dodge will stand a terrible lot of knocking about. The Studebaker is a splendid car in many ways. Is not the Ford ‘The Universal Car’? They claim it to be such and I see no course to disprove it. But still, I like English cars best. They have better workmanship in them. And can stand up to the test better than American cars.

  It is only quite recently, however, that English car makers have troubled about studying Colonial conditions. A car which may be almost perfect in England may not be half so good, or useful, out here. One thing, for instance, is the ‘tracks’ of a car. You may not worry what distance the wheels of a car are apart home, but out here there are very often tracks not roads (especially through sand) and if a car does not confirm to these tracks it has to make one for itself which, in heavy sand, is sometimes a very difficult job. I think the car track in this part of the world is four feet eight inches.

  Saturday, 9 August 1924

  It has been a miserable sort of a day today. A cold wind in the early morning was followed by chilly showers. But at least it was some sort of rain and that is what we require now. We have not had any rain worth recording for the past six months or more. The wheat around here is looking very sick and unless we have some real rain during the next couple of weeks the wheat will not grow at all. Quite a small shower will keep it alive for some time, but it will not grow unless it receives some real rain.