by Stuart Kells
Both of the letters deal with three distinct times: past, present and future. The past is but a memory sweet, the present makes my pulses beat, but future really is the meat. I feel like writing it thus.
The past is but of memories sweet,
The present makes my pulses beat,
But future really is the meat … Of Life
I think it looks much better, don’t you? … NO. But even in trying to be poetical I have not wandered far from the truth. The past must be of memories, the present, as I have stated before, makes me want to go and do ‘something’, but it is with the future that I am most concerned. The past in this particular case deals with school days at Oldbury House, holidays in Devonshire, rides with Allen on the Douglas, days on the Bendigo, early days in Australia and the commencement of the Renmark–Adelaide car service. The present can only deal with the present, but the future – that is what sets me thinking and imagining. I wonder where I shall be in four or five months’ time. Perhaps in Renmark, perhaps in Adelaide, perhaps in New South Wales, perhaps on a homeward bound liner and perhaps in England.
I wonder how long it will be before the agents for the Moon car come and take our car away from us? I would not, could not, blame them for taking it, for two payments are already overdue. Mr Withers rather ‘slipped me up’ over the first payment. He said that he would … But I will not enter into the details of our partnership, all I will say is that, in hard cash, all that he has paid toward the car and extras is one pound and I have paid well over £60. I have also worked on the block for the ridiculous low rate of 23/- and keep per week, the basic wage for permanent hands being £3.16.0. I have also not worried him about paying me; at the present time I am paid up to the end of November. Why? Just because I am sorry for him. So, another thing about the future. When shall I be paid my wages?
Mrs Withers and John came home yesterday. We are rather a full house now as Sister Roger’s sister, Mrs Ogilin, is staying here; also her husband and child, and an unmarried sister. I have been turned-out of my room and am at present in the room which was occupied by Harold two years ago. It is not a bad little room, but has no ceiling, only an iron (corrugated) roof. Also it has no proper window, only mosquito wire and shutter. Also it has no furniture, but it is well filled without that as it contains seven empty petrol cases, two leather trunks (one mine), several cardboard boxes, a wire stretcher with bedding, several small wooden boxes, the side boards of the trolley, two sweet boxes of peaches, one of apricots and one of prunes. I’ve a good mind to turn all this out, except the bed, and bring all the furniture across from my other room. I shall then be out of range when Jack wants to give an evening concert. And whatever ‘wave length’ he uses I don’t think his ‘broadcasting’ will reach me as I shall be ‘turned in’ not ‘tuned in’.
I am half expecting a letter from a Mr Rowlands, who Uncle John and Auntie Annie met on the Empress of France when on their recent trip to America. He is, I believe, a sheep farmer somewhere in New South Wales. I have heard quite a lot about him and am greatly looking forward to hearing from him. How much I mean by ‘greatly’ nobody, save myself, really knows.
To my young brothers and sisters (the plural makes it sound more effective) let me give a word of advice. When you are shown a young baby for the first time and you do not know its sex, do not make a guess for you will be sure to be wrong. If you say ‘What a dear little chap’ or ‘What a bonnie boy’ it will be a girl, and if you say ‘What a dear little girl’ it is bound to be a boy. ‘What a little angel’ will pass, so will ‘Oh, the little dear’. But what I do is to hold up my hands and arms as if in rapt adoration and with an expression of serious amazement on my face say slowly and very distinctly ‘What a baby’. Then say ‘How like its father’ and after a pause ‘And how like its mother’. This seems to please everybody. It doesn’t always succeed, however, for when I saw Jack for the first time I said ‘What a baby’ and Mrs Waters, who was present, coldly looked at me and said ‘Of course it’s a baby. What did you expect it to be?’ But Mrs Withers said ‘Yes, isn’t he a bonnie fellow’ or words to that effect, so I felt satisfied. It’s the mother you want to cater for, not other visitors.
Sunday, 1 March 1925
I state that the weather is warm and give it as an excuse to my not being able to settle down to writing, but that is not the real cause. I will make a clean breast of it. I am too excited. No, I’m not in love, but I have just received a letter from Auntie Annie and she says that she would like me to meet some people who she met on the Empress of France. They live at Mandurama in New South Wales. That’s what I’m excited about. I think that there is just a chance that I may be asked there for a holiday. And Mandurama is roughly 150 miles west of Sydney. What a trip! If only I could. Melbourne, Sydney, perhaps see the Blue Mountains, just what I have longed for, for years. Still, at the present time it is rather a case of building castles in the air. And even if I did get an invitation, I could not possibly get away for a couple of months and, yet, I am quite excited. And believe me, I do not get excited over any little thing.
Perhaps it is the enclosure in Auntie Annie’s letter that makes me feel that there really is some chance. And Auntie Annie’s letter, just perfect, one of those letters that one can read again and again, one of those letters that it would be a sacrilege to destroy.
Now the sun is setting, soon it will be dark. Everything is peaceful. ‘All the air a solemn stillness holds.’ A solemn Sunday stillness. There are very few clouds in the sky. Close down on the horizon is a slate grey cloud, above it a cloud whose colour might almost be described as fawn. Further westward – I am looking south west – the slate grey turns, oh so imperceptibly, to dark grey and the fawn disappears but in the centre of the grey cloud is one sharp streak of pink. As the sun sinks lower and lower the light-coloured clouds take on a pinkish hue, from pink to a rich dark gold, from dark gold to light, shining gold. It all radiates peacefulness. My excitement gradually fades away and its place is taken by solemn thoughts. I am feeling lonely. Is there no one who will stand beside me so that I may enjoy the wonderful scene even more? I am enjoying the sunset, yes, but in a lonely way. I cannot enjoy anything really worth enjoying by myself, yet were I in a crowd looking on this selfsame scene I should long to get away by myself so that I could be lonely-sad. I am very much a person of moods. Before me lies an open book, it is Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. It is so dark that I can hardly see the printing, but it is open at Grey’s ‘Elegy’, one of my favourite poems.
‘And leaves the world to darkness and to me.’ No pink, no dark gold, no shining gold, all, all is grey and dark, but still the peacefulness is there and I am very sad and very lonely.
Saturday, 7 March 1925
I have been so very busy lately that I have had no time whatever for writing. This is rather annoying as I have quite a lot to write of, and about.
I am surprised at the late hours I now keep. The average number of hours I have spent in bed for the last week is roughly six and three-quarters and for the last two nights five and a quarter. I have to rise at 6am in the morning irrespective of what hour I retire, and when one is engaged in the strenuous job of fruit drying – the picking is quite easy – five and a quarter hours of sleep per night is not enough. I am feeling very tired and want to sleep. The weather lately has also been very relaxing. When I rise in the morning, after going to bed at 1.30am, my knees feel very weak. I feel very much like the ‘morning after the night before’.
On the whole, the weather during the first two months of this year has been very cold. In Adelaide the temperature has not reached 100°F this year. It has in Renmark. It must be well over that today; we did not have a real hot day all the time we were picking currants. It was while engaged on this job two years ago that the shade temperatures once reached 122°F – the warmest I have ever known.
Sunday, 8 March 1925
Having got so far yesterday afternoon I fell asleep and when I woke, an hour later, I had no time for writin
g.
Among the many subjects I want to write about is the cold dip. I have told you elsewhere that before sultanas and lexias can be dried they have to be dipped in a solution of boiling caustic soda which cracks the skin of the grape so that it shall dry quickly. Now everybody is trying the cold dip, which is composed of carbonate of potash and water and a small quantity of olive oil. The tins of grapes are left in this solution for anything over three minutes whereas in the caustic dip three seconds was far too long, as the boiling solution would cook the fruit and make it go dark. Some very fine results have been obtained with the cold dip, the colour being far lighter, the skin not cracked (which prevents ‘sugaring’) and it is far more pleasant to use the cold dip, for dipping with the caustic dip on a hot day is not a pleasant job. This is the first year that the cold dip has been tried in Renmark and, naturally, everybody is talking about it. I was talking to Wally Mount last night and he is composing a poem about it which he is sending to The Pioneer. It is jolly good and I will copy it in here when it appears in print.
Another late night, last night. It was 1.45am before I arrived back this morning, but I had a very interesting evening. I went to the pictures with Don and Wally Mount, and then we walked out together. Wally was talking about his experience in the army. Did you know that at the Khyber Pass the rifles of the sentries were chained to them? Did you know the cause of the mutiny in India after the war? The reports in the paper on this were absolutely false. Do you know what the fighting in India was like? Do you know that, in India, a rifle is worth far more than a man?
It really was a most enlightening talk. One afternoon he was playing hockey – an inter-platoon match – when the ‘Fall in’ bugle sounded. Within three hours they had started on a 300 mile march to the nearest railway station, then three days in the train and then they marched to their destination. For four months they were on the march, fighting day and night. They did not have any fresh clothes whatsoever; he was wearing, when he arrived back, a shirt with no sleeves, the scanty remains of a pair of shorts, puttees, the relics of a pair of boots and a much-battered pith helmet. Out of the 800 who left the camp 200 returned, the rest had either been shot or left at various places with fever. All their casualties were through snipers. It was one long fight, all day long. He was only just over nineteen at the time and when he returned to camp he was a wreck. He should never have been sent there, as there was an order that no man under twenty-one should go to the East. I gathered from his little talk that it is not all fun fighting in India.
What a difference pictures make to a room! When I first occupied this room there were no pictures or photos in it at all. Now it is quite an art gallery. It is a photograph that occupies the most prominent position in the room, and it is a photo of Allen. Next to it is the last calendar I had from home, a watercolour by one of Mr Watson’s daughters. Above it, a calendar which is Nora’s own unaided work and which looks very smart. Then a picture of two kittens sitting in front of a beehive and bees buzzing all around them: ‘Where innocence is bliss.’ On the next wall is the charming picture, ‘A June Garden’. The old thatched cottage, climbing roses, old cobblestone pathway, beautiful flowers in the foreground and majestic trees in the distance. The whole picture is brimming over with peace and cheerfulness, a June garden. Then two more photographs: one, Father wearing his Chain of Office as President of the Cornish Association; and the other one, the family, taken at Marsh’s when I was young. Then a coloured reproduction of ‘The Avon at Clifton’ by Sutton Palmer. Suspension Bridge, Observatory, Leigh Woods. Oh, the pleasant memories the picture brings back to me. Nightingale Valley. ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s there!’
There is one more photo: ‘Her Crowning Glory’. A camera study by Monte Luke. I took it off one of last year’s calendars and it helps to make the room appear bright and happy. All the pictures and photographs have some message for me. They mean quite a lot to me; the room would be unbearable without them. I have just come back from milking and am waiting for tea, it may be ready in five minutes or it may be half an hour, but the chances are ten to one that it will be ready in five minutes for the simple reason that I want to do some more writing. I have just thought of a good subject to write on. Most likely the subject came to me because it is a Sunday.
‘Faith, Hope and Charity, and the greatest of these is Charity.’ I can’t quite agree with that. I think that charity should be the least of the three. I don’t mean to say that I don’t agree with charity, far from it. But what would life be without hope? What if one had no faith? No faith in anything, no faith in a friend. I hate to think of existence, leave alone life, in such a state. No hope for the future. Surely a man without faith and hope is far worse than a man without charity? For even if a man has not charity that does not mean to say that he is not generous.
Tuesday, 10 March 1925
I am in just the same position now as I was when I started writing the above few lines two days ago. I have just milked and, incidentally, had a bath and am now writing until tea is ready. It may be five minutes and it may be half an hour. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the ‘faith hope and charity’ mood has passed away. Those moods only come occasionally. Don’t you think I’d make a good clergyman!
Now tea is ready.
Saturday, 28 March 1925
Such a lot has happened since I last wrote that I hardly know where to commence.
Firstly, I received the sad news that Uncle John had passed away. Then came a letter, followed by several telegrams, from Murray Turner concerning the car. In the end the car had to be delivered to them in Adelaide within three days. Last Sunday I left for Adelaide, and returned via Paringa last Thursday after spending a most enjoyable time in Adelaide. I also sustained another loss – only a temporary one. I fell off a rack, sprained my right wrist and lost the use of it for a couple of days. I had to drive down to Adelaide with one hand.
Uncle’s death came as a surprise to me. I did not fully realise how much Uncle had done for me until I heard the sad news. Then I spent days during which I continually thought of all the pleasant times I had spent in his company at Clifton, Bristol, Bath, London and Brighton. And the more I thought of him the more I realized what a remarkable man he was, what marvellous energy and vitality he possessed, what a lot he had done for the literary world, and how many budding authors and artists he had encouraged.
I was very sad for many days. Then while working on Wood’s block, in lifting a wire on the rack up one notch, the wire broke and I fell on to my wrist. This was sad. Then came the sad news that the car would have to go.
Don Mount came down with me when I returned the car, and we had quite a good time down there together. We were in Adelaide Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. On Monday we lived at the rate of £1,500 a year; Tuesday, £1,000 a year; and on Wednesday at the rate of £52 a year. I visited and passed through several new places to me this trip. Blackwood, Panoramic Hill National Park, Mount Lofty (which is 1,600 feet above sea level), Alawoona, Murray Bridge, Tailem Bend, Wynarka, Noora, Karoonda and many small places not worth mentioning.
Don and I spent two evenings with the Potters at Glenelg and went for a swim one afternoon. One evening we spent at the Theatre (Kid Boots, a musical comedy) and the other evening we went to the pictures. We had oysters at Cominas and ‘Welsh rarebit’ at the One Hand in Rundle Street, and I visited every secondhand car dealer in Adelaide – Ern Bateup, Goodman Bros, Auto Auctions, City Auctions and many of the small dealers, besides visiting many private sellers – but I did not bring back anything save a pile of ‘visiting cards’ from the various dealers. While engaged on this job, I wore away a quarter-inch of shoe leather, two pairs of socks and gained two blisters on my big toe. I think all the dealers are expecting telegrams, phone calls or letters from me during the next couple of days. I inspected an Austin single-seater for £55 cash; a Chevrolet five-seater for £65 terms; a Chevrolet single-seater for £60 terms; an Oakland six single-seater for £75 terms; an Oakland five-seate
r for £65 terms; a De Dion Bouton single-seater for £75 cash; a Ford five-seater for £75 terms; a Ford single-seater for £60 terms; a Fiat four-seater for £250 cash; a Star five-seater for £40 terms; and many other cars. All the above ones I can clearly remember. The last car I mentioned was a good bus; low bonnet, brake lever on the outside, four cylinder, two blocks of two, a real solid car, the hood was strapped to the front mudguard. Don described it as looking like two ‘bath chairs’ and the description rather suited it.
Coming back via Paringa was rotten. From Tailem Bend to Paringa we travelled in a motor train, one of Webb’s ‘Roaring Bulls’ which is a cross between a train, a tram, a bus, a car and a boat. The part which resembled a boat being the siren, which was sounded at every crossing and every time anybody was seen walking on the line. The ‘train’ had a radiator, brakes operated something like those of a car, gear lever with three forwards and one reverse, clutch, accelerator, ammeter, oil gauge and speedometer.
Now my wrist is beginning to give out and it is also time to milk.
Sunday, 29 March 1925
I was reading a very interesting book recently, called A London Book Window, when I came across a chapter on ‘Diaries’. This, I think, was the best chapter in the book. All was very true. A person will write in a diary what they would be frightened to write in a letter. A diary can be very intimate. I often think of my diary as being ‘friendly’, rather a curious word perhaps to use in expressing ones relationship with such a thing as a diary. But I can open up my diary and pour all my troubles upon its many pages and it does not rebuke me for doing so. I write for my own amusement; were I to write for other objects, such as publication, it would be very different. But this is my very own diary, I have sold its copyright to no one, so, in it, I shall say what I like. I shall speak my mind and I am sure that my diary will not say me ‘Nay’.