Outback Penguin

by Stuart Kells

  Last night Mac McMinn called, and as we have not seen each other for twelve months we had quite a lot to talk about. He is contemplating purchasing a block: twenty-seven acres, for £2,850. The £850 to be the deposit. If I had £850 I am jolly sure I would not buy a fruit-block on the Murray. But his case is very different to mine. There is a girl he is very fond of and, although he did not mention it, he badly wants to have a place he can call home.

  He was staying chez her who he one day hopes to call his own in Adelaide for two months and he said he had the time of his life there, lucky fellow. Two months! I have not yet had one week’s clear holiday since I landed. He was rather excited, as his ‘own true love’ is coming up to Berri next week. I wish my ‘own true love’ would come to see me, but she lives in the land of dreams and visits, perhaps dreamy visits. I cannot picture her as she is not an ideal that I have always cherished. My opinions change so often that I simply dare not try to describe her. This may seem weak-minded, but it is a fact. I have never seriously considered whether my ideal has dark or fair hair, whether she is a ‘blonde’ or a ‘brunette’. Really, I have not had time to think about my ideal. I have thought about such things as the cold dip, compulsory pool, self-starters, carburetors, water pumps, fan belts, tyres, punctures, oil, petrol, grease and many other such things, and out of thinking about such things no ideal has risen. But were I to dwell among peaceful lakes, sweet smelling flowers, gorgeous sunsets and beautiful scenery I think an ideal would arise. All this points, at least, to one thing: my ideal is not a female track driver.

  In my heart I have a very poor opinion of Renmark girls, although, needless to say, I do not tell them so. During the last two months I have attended two social evenings. At each of them there were about twenty people present, the average age being slightly over twenty-one, and at each of these evenings they played such childish and idiotic games as ‘Coffee pot’ and ‘The Priest of the Parish’, games that are only fit for children under ten. The average Renmarkian has nothing at all to talk about save, perhaps, cold dip. He is absolutely devoid of originality. He is an overgrown kid, he has never grown up and he never will. He thinks of nothing beyond his life and everyday affairs. And he fairly gives me the ‘pip’. This is also true of the average female inhabitant of Renmark.

  But the educated Australian is quite a different type. He is not so conversant with the world in general as the educated Englishman. Unless he has visited England his idea of that wonderful island is very hazy, but he is more free, less conventional, than his counterpart in England. He often develops a ‘hail fellow, well met’ way. Once, I was talking to a man who I thought was educated in Australia and my opinion of Australian education went up, but it soon fell again when my friend started talking about his Oxford experiences. Australian education seems to lack finish and polish. The schools and colleges turn out the finished article from a mould and they do not seem to take the trouble to polish each casting. Perhaps the masters do not tell the boys how it is possible for them to polish themselves or perhaps the boys, on leaving school, exclaim ‘Now I am educated’ and do not worry any more about it.

  When I was passing through Overland Corner last Sunday, I struck a solid mass of locusts. The plague locusts are in Renmark, but they are not giving much trouble yet. But, at Overland Corner, when the river started to fall it left uncovered many acres of fertile land which was soon covered with various grasses. Upon this the locusts have swarmed. When passing them, they rose up like a cloud, they obscured the view, they fell in the car by the hundred and after I had passed through them the back seat was a solid, jumping, hopping, squirming, wriggling mass of locusts.

  Sunday, 5 April 1925

  It really is rotten being without a car. But still, we may have another before long. Last night I went into Renmark on a push bike for the sole purpose of seeing a Ford half-ton truck that I knew was for sale. And I thought I might be able to buy it cheap.

  The truck was standing out in the open with a bag over the bonnet and also bags over all the wheels. The tyres were flat, the seat was in pieces and the table-top was only a heap of various sized pieces of wood. But the component parts of a Ford were there and also one very valuable addition, a high tension magneto. Although the tyres were flat, three of them were in fairly good condition. The fourth having a nasty blow-out between the wall and the tread.

  I had a long talk with the owner of this bus. He wanted £50 for it and I offered him £35. When I offered this it was really on the boss’s behalf, but now I have a good mind to buy it myself. Or rather, to go half shares in it with Don Mount and to go to Sydney in it. I think it would be a very interesting experience, especially if we went via Adelaide and Melbourne. I did not think of the idea until a couple of hours ago. I went across to see Don and offered to sell him the truck. He replied that he was quite willing if I would go half-shares with him. So we have provisionally decided to buy the bus, drive it out here and fix it up in our spare time. At the present moment the petrol tank is not connected with the carburetor and there is no windscreen fitted. I am quite taken up with the idea.

  Don’s camp is quite a smart little shack. In the beginning there was a tent, then Don covered this with a palm leaf shelter. Then he built on a dining room, lobby, sleeping-out room, sitting room, a kitchen – all combined out of palm leaves and bamboo, with a few mallee posts to keep the place together. The Westes have recently bought a new carpet and they gave Don the old one, so now every room is carpeted. Over the entrance to this spacious mansion he has hung a section of a palm leaf bearing the name ‘Burraboorlagar’ (I think that’s correct). If it has nothing else, the shack has at least a very artistic name.

  I have had a very busy week, cleaning trays, spreading fruit, rolling hessians, boxing fruit and carting same to packing shed. I went out to dinner on Friday night at Bill Richardson’s. Don was also there to dinner and Wally came along afterwards. We sat and talked until nearly midnight and one would have thought, from the earnest way in which we conversed, that the whole future of the world hung on our words. We decided that Australian humour was very childish and that, in literature and art, Australia had not yet had time to settle down and make any style of her own. We also agreed, after a long controversy (Bill is an Australian), that the English and Australian labourers were about on a level as regards intellect and all mental qualities.

  We have been having very muggy weather for the last few days, and I have been thinking how nice it would be to be in England again. April in England is surely a glorious month. Leigh Woods must be looking glorious just now. How well I can picture the gorgeous bluebells the – Oh hang, here comes someone I simply must speak to, just for conventions sake. Just as I am beginning to settle down someone invariably comes along.

  The visitors who have just been here were Sisters Blair and Rogers.

  Had I but the time, what a lot I could write. A lot of what? I suppose the answer is a lot of rubbish. I could talk of spring, what a person in the semi tropics thinks of spring in England when the month is April, when the temperature is over 100°F, when the flies are annoying and when, perhaps, he feels slightly ‘home sick’. Oh, to be home in April. To wake in the morning, the room perfumed by the odour of spring, to rise and ‘meet the sun upon the upland lawn’, to walk through some beautiful garden, one blaze of colour, to inhale the exquisite perfume exhaled by dew-laden flowers. While I write this the flies are walking all over me. They even walk down my forefinger and try to settle on the nib of my pen. Blow flies are buzzing everywhere. I am damp with perspiration, the atmosphere is almost stifling – it is something like the first room of the Turkish baths. The leaves are falling off the vines, everything is looking parched. No wonder I say, ‘Oh, to be in England’.

  Sunday, 12 April 1925 (Easter Sunday)

  Our trip to the Blue Mountains is progressing very favourably. Last Monday I went into Renmark with the object of bringing out the lorry, but the bus had not been used for nearly six months and all that time she had been
out in the open so I was not surprised when she refused to be disturbed. I bought a piece of rubber tubing to connect the petrol tank with the carburettor, blew up the tyres, filled the radiator, put a tin of petrol in the tank and then tried to start her, but the magneto would give no spark. I had to turn it in soon after sundown. The owner of the truck discovered the trouble on Tuesday and on Wednesday I again went in. I arrived there soon after five, but the bus behaved like a real Ford. As she was short of oil, I bought half a gallon and tipped it all in. At last she started. We had travelled about ten yards when the exhaust pipe, becoming hot, burst through a portion of the rubber tube that was near it and petrol poured over the hot exhaust pipe. To fix this up was an awkward job. Eventually we had a piece of rubber tubing at each end with a length of copper tubing in the centre. We left Renmark half an hour after lighting-up time, with no lights. After I had started I found that, with the throttle shut right off, the car maintained a speed of about ten m.p.h., so every time I wished to go slower than this I had to change gear or practice what is commonly known as ‘slipping the clutch’.

  It was the funniest ride I had ever had out from Renmark. No windscreen, a very cold breeze, a car that did not want to stop, no lights, everything possible rattling, and too much oil which caused one of the plugs to ‘oil up’ and also caused clouds of dense fumes to come out of the exhaust. We eventually reached our destination. There was no switch to stop the engine, so we turned the petrol off. The owner, who came out with me for a ‘joy ride’, cycled back to Renmark – he brought his bike on the trolley – and I went in and had tea. All day Friday, yesterday afternoon and this morning I was busy with the car. Don has been helping, but he knows very little about cars. We have taken off the cylinder heads, intake and exhaust manifolds, exhaust pipe, transmission case cover, crankcase inspection plate, fan, carburettor and most of the body work. I have thoroughly examined the engine and pronounce it to be in excellent order, no replacements required at all. As soon as I had removed the crankcase inspection plate, Don crawled underneath to see the connecting rods, crank shaft, cam shaft etc. He had never seen these portions of a car before, but, unfortunately, all he got for this trouble was a bath in oil.

  Don did a very silly thing yesterday and he has not yet finished kicking himself for it. At his camp he has two kerosene tins: one for drinking water and the other for flour, bread etc. Yesterday he placed a loaf of bread in the tin of water and did not discover his mistake for two hours.

  Thursday, 16 April 1925

  I am beginning to realize that most of what I write is of no interest to anyone save myself. I think when I am an old man these books I have written will bring back many memories to me, but who wants to know how many trips I have made to Adelaide? Who wants to know that on a certain trip down I had two punctures and had as passengers three children, or that I travelled 200 miles in eight hours? Perhaps you think that my tales of track driving were rather exaggerated as I did so few trips. But, what with running about in Adelaide and going out anything up to ten miles from Adelaide to pick up passengers, an average trip was about 500 miles. Besides all the trips I mentioned, I went down in Bob’s Fiat several times. He drove on these occasions.

  It was rather curious when leaving Adelaide to say to Mrs Low, where I stayed, ‘Well, goodbye Mrs Low. I will see you again tomorrow night’ and to know that before ‘tomorrow night’ I had to travel all the way to Renmark and all the way back again. I did not have to do this every trip, but several times I have left Adelaide on Tuesday morning and arrived back again on Wednesday night. I like to think of all these things and at the same time remember that I am still only nineteen. An ex-track driver at nineteen. It is also pleasant when passengers I have carried ask me when I am going down again as, if possible, they would like to travel with me again. One man, whose wife and children I had taken down, offered me a couple of quid extra if I would bring them back. This I could not do as Bob was making the next trip. He told me straight that he would not like to let them travel with any driver, and that he would rather I brought them back than any other driver he knew. He may have been kidding, but before he left he offered me double fare if I could manage it. I could not manage it but, as a sequel, I might add that the driver who did bring them back took forty-eight hours on the trip. The weather and roads were bad certainly, but, still, it is a true statement. But who wants to read these sorts of statements? That is my trouble. I write dozens of pages of all sorts of stuff but it cannot be of any interest to anyone and, yet, when I send this home it will, most likely, be shown to many people who will, again most likely, wade through a portion of it and will feel bound to say, in respect to Father and Mother, that they enjoyed it or liked it or thought it was very good, while really they think what a fool the chap must be to waste his time writing such ‘truck’. Still, this does not mean to say that I am going to discontinue writing. It is only to let the poor reader, who feels duty bound to wade through this, know that I sympathise with him.

  Sometimes, when I see a decent view, I will jot down on any old piece of paper a few notes to enable me to clearly remember it when I wish to write about it in my diary. I have before me now an old envelope which is covered with notes. I will copy them out just as they are.

  ‘Pictures in my room; Reference library. Hansard. Australian education. Spettigue Phipp, Australian reporting on Fourth Test, ‘like playing against invalids who had not the power to defend themselves’ (Mailey), lucky bets (I won 9/- on the Fourth Test, the only bet I had right through the Tests). Cold dip (sulphur), Disgrace that English nation should be taught by Americans and Greeks. Let them dip as they like, Australian flavour superior to Greek colour, everybody has his or her own opinion. Put on boots in morning take them off at night, that is life (Withers). Evening at Harpers, coffee pot, Priest of Parish, Renmarkians have no originality, ruts, overgrown kids, talks with Don and Wally. Car service, luggage, sewing machine. Faith, Hope and Charity. Effect of lightening behind clouds, exquisitely perfect, delicate markings, billowy effect, metaphor and simile, Renmark Avenue, track, dusty, wide, suburban London, narrow swept daily.’

  Quite a mixed collection. Let me explain that all these notes were written on a very large envelope that was lying in my coat pocket for some considerable time. I have made use of some of the notes but a lot I have not troubled about. Again, however, a collection of odd notes like the one I have just set down bring back many memories to me. When I jotted down ‘effect of lightning behind clouds’ I was sitting in the car outside the Renmark Hospital watching an approaching thunderstorm.

  Tuesday, 21 April 1925

  A year, it is usually agreed, is divided into fifty-two weeks. All the weeks are the same, save when they are affected by special circumstances. For instance, the weather: a week in December may not be the same as a week in June as regards weather. Certainly it may rain, in England, seven days out of each week but that has nothing to do with the case. Then again, there are a few special weeks – Christmas week, Easter week etc. – which are acknowledged the world over. Again, there are special local weeks. Fair week, Show week, Safety-first week, Mission week, and Self-denial week etc. are only recognised locally. But to the average person nearly all the weeks are alike until, of course, they are past. But to myself, weeks are divided into two separate and distinct classes of even quantity. Ordinary weeks and special weeks, which follow one another regularly (at intervals of seven days) irrespective of the special weeks which are acknowledged universally.

  Six days of my special week are ordinary days but the seventh day is a Red Letter day and that is mail day, the day the English mail arrives here. I usually try to make an entry here on Sunday afternoons, but last Sunday morning I started tinkering about with my bus and I was so interested in the job that Sunday afternoon was spent the same way. Don was also on the job and I was very pleased with the progress. I fixed up a difficult control connection from the steering wheel to the magneto, bolted and nailed the sandguards to supports (they rattled in a real
‘Fordlike’ way before), fixed up a warped connection on the steering wheel with a screw and putty (the wheel had been exposed to the elements for many months and, being made of wood, had warped badly), borrowed a ‘stack and dies’, cut a couple of bolts for fixing the steering column to a wooden support and several small jobs not worth mentioning. Don was busy fixing-up the seat, or rather cushions; all we had with the bus were the seat springs. I put in an hour’s work on Bundy’s green, for which he gave me an old door. We want some more timber badly. So, no writing was done on Sunday.

  Last night I went to a surprise party given to Lorna Higgins. I played bridge while the young folk, all older than myself, played such idiotic games as ‘Coffee Pot’. It was Lorna’s twenty-first birthday. Still, I had quite a good game of bridge so I can’t complain. As long as these ‘overgrown kids’ leave me out of their games I am satisfied. I arrived back here shortly after 1 o’clock this morning and I was up, as usual, at 6 o’clock. So I am feeling fairly sleepy now.

  I was very interested in a cutting from ‘Local Notes’ (Western Daily Press) by Mr Powell about my diary. I am afraid Mr Powell piled it on a bit thick about me. I really could not believe some of the nice things he said about me, but on reading an extract from my diary I could not help but think what silly truck most of it was. Anybody could write the sort of stuff that I do.