Outback Penguin

by Stuart Kells

  Up and down, to left and right, I sped past the Bird in Hand, past the Alms houses where a quotation from Spenser is sculptured over the main porch – ‘Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas, ease after wane, death after life doth greatly please.’ On the left the ground slopes right away to the railway and on the right the green fields stretch up to Paradise. Down again, up again, now the engine is properly warmed up and is purring, oh so sweetly. On this last incline I often passed several of the men on their way to the Institute and there was just time for a ‘morning’ as I passed. Slow right down, drop into low gear and creep in between the green gates in front of the office. Push the old bus into the shed, on to the stand, which I kicked down, and then on with the ‘daily task’ which I thought, in those days, was work but which I now realize was play. Going home I passed a few different people. There was a man on a Rudge soon after I left the Institute. A man driving a Ford lorry, who was always somewhere near the school and who always cheerfully waved to me. Near the first bridge there was a man on a push bike who used to bid me ‘good night’. A few hundred yards further I usually passed a small eight horse power Rover; the driver of this car never recognized me. Near the second bridge I passed my first acquaintance of the morning on his Douglas. Going up Clifton Vale, I passed a man who always waved to me. I dubbed him ‘the Athlete’. He was about six foot three inches and of splendid build, usually dressed in a light tweed suit and carried a stick. Clifton Vale has a lovely ‘hairpin’ bend and I was always pleased if I could round this without any ‘footwork’.

  This hill was an ‘engine warmer’, all right. From the top of the hill it was a good run home. Soon the faithful and beloved bike was housed either at the garage or in the hall and very soon after that I was sitting down to tea in the best company in all the world – those for whom this little diary is written.

  Sunday, 17 May 1925

  Although progress on our car is quite satisfactory I have an idea that we, Don and I, shall not get very far on the Sydney track in it. It is not that I do not want to do the overland trip – far from it – but in my old age I look facts and figures in the face. One fact is that Don has no money. Also, he has no job. There is not much chance of a job in these parts and if he goes away it will take too long to make the required money. We had decided that after paying all expenses registration, insurance etc., that we ought to have £10 each.

  He might get a job at Port Pirie, where he has been before, but the railway fare from here to Pirie and back would be about £6. So if he went there we should not be able to start on our trip for at least six weeks. I cannot afford to waste that amount of time so, if necessary, the car will be sold and I shall journey to Sydney by rail or boat. Don is still very keen on the trip and has not yet mentioned anything about giving it up. He would rather start off with nothing and rely on getting work on the way to keep us in rations. Not so this little fellow. It might take up months if we were to start off with these intentions and I do not feel like wasting too much time. I have wasted two and a half years up here already and it is about time I settled down to something really worthwhile.

  In reading the extracts Mr Powell printed in ‘Local Notes’ from my diary some few months ago, I was quite surprised what a lot of nonsense I write and also what poor grammar I use. In the first six lines printed there were six separate sentences, most of which should have been connected. For instance: ‘Last night I went to the house of a friend. He is the proud possessor of a pianola’. Why not ‘who is the proud’? Certainly poor composition. Again: ‘the price … is £10 below the cost of production – ’ and in that sentence I did not mention that it was £10 per ton. Very poor. But I do not write this with the intention of having it published. In fact, I am sure no one would publish it.

  Luckily, we were able to cart the Doras to the distillery so I was not blamed for causing them to be spoilt. Now I must away, for it is time to milk. Bless the dear sweet cow.

  Sunday, 24 May 1925

  I can hardly control my feelings, to say nothing of my pen. I have been ‘going to Adelaide’ every day during the last week, but something always crops up to stop me.

  Yesterday I had to go over to Paringa in our flivver with a halfton load. Don came with me and Lizzie let us down. She refused to pull up the steep race or punt approach on the other side of the river and it was only the united effort of a dozen strong men that brought me to the top. Yesterday afternoon I adjusted the float of the carburetor, made a guard to keep the fan belt on and did a little ‘body work’. On the first trip in which a load was placed on the truck, the table-top swayed badly and we had to make some iron supports.

  Last night the Badenochs came up from Berrie and I was not able to continue my work on the car until 9.30pm, when I started to mend a puncture. The wheel, by the way, had two tyres on it. Two complete tyres, one on top of the other. To do this alone one must break the laws of Euclid. I did not finish the tyre until 11.30pm. At 5am short (in fact, ten minutes before) I was up and at the lorry again. I had to take a load of ‘something’ down to Adelaide and after blowing up and testing all the tyres I loaded up, packed a petrol case full of tools etc. (everything you can think of – dozens of spanners, wire pullers, pliers, pincers, chisel, three screwdrivers, hammer, jack, oil, chains, rope straps, nuts, bolts, nails, split pins, wire, vulcanizing outfit etc.), then I had breakfast and started off. Or rather we started off, Don and I. With a rattle and a bang we left Chowilla Street. The engine always had a slight knock but after about five miles this permanent knock was joined by a younger knock, an undeveloped rattling knock. I could not locate the trouble, so proceeded ten miles further. Another knock made its appearance, a distinct tapping knock. Just about this time my knees also developed a knock. I scented that, before long, we should have trouble and, sure enough, a few miles along the engine started to squeak. That was enough for me. I stopped again and examined everything and finally decided that one of the big end bearings was loose and that something was wrong with the oiling system. So, emptying a quart of oil, I turned back for Renmark which was roughly twenty miles away. The knocking became worse and worse. To me, the sound was excruciating. Don and I could hardly hear each other speak. At Monash we passed a Packard which was going to Adelaide, dark blue in colour, with a polished nickel bonnet. What a contrast to our turnout! I never thought that we should reach Renmark, it seemed inevitable that she must ‘conk out’ every moment.

  It was a slow and painful death to me. Don did not mind coming back very much, as he has a girl up here – ‘nuf said’.

  With a clanging crash and a clattering bang, if you can imagine such a row, we knocked our way into Renmark. People rushed out to see us and no wonder. I bet I would have laughed if I could but have seen myself, but as it was I was as serious as serious could be. The boss said that he heard us coming fully ten minutes before we were in sight. Over the bridge that spans the channel by the front gate, past the house and, with a final sickening knock, she came to rest in the gorge. I soon whipped off the crankcase inspection plate and with it came nearly half a pound of metal filings, broken bearings and shavings of every description. One glance was sufficient – choked oil pipe, the engine had run dry. I still marvel how we ever managed to reach Chowilla Street again.

  I am absolutely fed up with Fords and especially one. I will have nothing more to do with them. In my opinion they are one of the hardest cars to drive and one of the most expensive to run.

  I am very worried at the present time over a cablegram I received yesterday: ‘Hazel Whiteladies offers temporary job cable answer.’ The only Hazel I can think of is an auctioneer and if the job is auctioneer’s clerk I would rather not have it. On the other hand it may be something good, in which case I should be sorry to lose it. Again, Mr Rowlands wants to see me about a job. Whatever can I reply? I am certainly in rather an awkward position, and now Lizzie with three broken big end bearings.

  Saturday, 30 May 1925

  I seem to make fresh plans every few days �
� ‘complete change of programme three times a week’. At the moment I intend to leave Renmark on Monday, returning during the latter end of the week. While I am in Adelaide I shall try to book a berth on the Dimboola, one of the coastal boats, which leaves Adelaide on the 11th June for Melbourne and Sydney. If I am successful in this I shall leave Renmark again about the 9th and hope never to return again for any length of time. I have just been packing-up my trunk, which I hope to take down on Monday and leave in Adelaide while I go to Mandurama, and I find it very different to packing it just before I left home. Then, I could not find space to pack my clothes into. Now, even though one half of the trunk is packed with books, I cannot find enough things to put into it to prevent it from rattling.

  On Monday Mr Withers will be coming down with me. Our business in Adelaide is to buy a car for Sister Rogers, and, if it can be managed, to buy a car for Mrs Withers. The boss says that the next car he buys he will give to his wife, then she can pay for the petrol and all running expenses – quite a good idea! It looks as if I shall have to buy another book when I am in Adelaide to continue my ramblings in, so for the present I must cease.

  Thursday, 4 June 1925

  I am writing this in my town residence, situated in that suburb of Adelaide named Richmond. I left Renmark on Monday. The boss and I rose at 5am on that morning, had breakfast, harnessedup the horses and set off for Paringa. We started rather late and it seemed inevitable that we should lose the train. However, there was a motor trolley on the punt so we transferred our luggage to that and Don drove our horses back. I had a suitcase and my leather trunk and the boss had a suitcase and a case of fruit. As we were running things rather fine, the driver of the lorry started to move off the punt before it had actually touched the bank. We roared up the punt race and reached the station with nearly fifty seconds to spare.

  Don did not come with us as he had no money. We sold the trolley, our trolley, to Archie Braund for the same as we gave for it, £40. But Archie was only able to pay £20 last week and the balance next week. Don went into Renmark the day after he received his cheque to cash it. He paid a bill and bought several things he badly needed and found that he had only £5 left. This he placed in one of his pockets and started off for Chowilla Street. When he arrived there the ‘fiver’ was missing and Don has not heard or seen anything of it since. He informed the police and placed an advertisement in the Pioneer which he signed ‘Hard up C/- A.B. Withers’ and everybody thinks that it is I who has lost the money.

  On Tuesday I booked a berth on the Dimboola for Sydney. First class saloon, £7. She is due to sail a week today, the 11th.

  My real business has been car business. I have helped the boss to choose one car for himself and one for Sister Rogers. For himself, a Hupmobile five-seater, newly painted, electric lights, Bosch magnets, in very good condition and about ten years old. Sister’s car is an Oakland six-cylinder, electric light, self-starter, detachable rims, overhead valves, five-seater, about 1920 and in good condition.

  Tuesday and Wednesday I saw Mr Frayne; Mr Mount, dentist (also nurse); Mr Potter, who asked my advice on a Douglas motorbike he had been offered for £30 and which his son, Bill, is after; and Mr Bower, where I ordered a suit. I met McMinn in Miller Street and he promised to come and see me off next Thursday. Today the boss and I went to Middlebrooks in Hindmarsh Square where we bought some tools which we thought Sister would need. Afterwards I went to Heard’s where I bought myself a few necessities. Heard’s, naturally, reminds me of the ill-fated car service. Bob Beer lost most on it. Two years ago he had a Studebaker Light Six, which was only a few months old; now he has nothing. I lost next heaviest, just over £60 sterling. And the boss: one Ford car which today would be worth one pound sterling. The boss, in the last eight or nine months, has signed order-forms for four cars: one Fiat, which he afterwards told the agents he was unable to buy; one Moon, on which he paid no cash deposit; one Hupmobile, on which, so far, he has paid one pound as a deposit; and one Oakland, which he is buying for Sister and on which he has paid no deposit. So, to date, total cars, four, total deposit in pounds sterling, one. This goes to prove that it is not a hard job to buy a car in South Australia at the present moment.

  I hope to very nearly fill up this book by next November, when I intend to send it on to those to whom it is written. I would like to say ‘send it home’, but even though the house to which it will be addressed is ‘Broomcroft’ it is not the ‘Broomcroft’ I know. However, as I said before, when this reaches you I hope it will be nearly full of the doings, journeys, ramblings and incidents in the life of one who, in his own language, is a ‘bit of a dud’.

  My plans for the future are to leave for Renmark in Sister Rogers’ car on Sunday, to return via Paringa on Wednesday and to leave for Sydney on Thursday, but with me, sometimes, things do not go ‘according to plan’. When you read this I shall be where? I shall be settled down, where? I shall have done what? I shall have been where? Ask one who is not a – I must start a fresh line for this word – predestinationalist. How’s that for a word?

  The boss, in town, is impossible. He is a real 100 per cent ‘hayseed’. He strolls up and down the streets like a dog without his master. He aimlessly gazes into the shop windows. He positively gapes at high buildings. One would think he had never been in a city before and, yet, he lived most of his life in London, a city which has a greater population than the whole of Australia. Adelaide is quite a small city, its population being under 250,000. The boss once dressed in the height of fashion, now he is in a coat with bulging pockets, baggy trousers, dirty boots with socks hanging down over the top, collar and tie in a hopeless tangle, and puffing away at a dirty old pipe in which he smokes aromatic Havelock by the plug, portions of which he cuts off with a small knife which he mislays an average of three times a day. This is the boss in town.

  RENMARK TO MANDURAMA

  Friday, 12 June 1925

  7am in my cabin on board the Dimboola. My word, this is different from the Bendigo. I am travelling first class, alright. All the first class cabins on this boat have three berths, but I have been lucky enough to secure a cabin to myself. The cabin in which I was allotted a berth contained two other passengers, but another cabin just opposite contained none so that is where I am. A steward woke me at 6.15am and brought me a cup of tea and biscuits. Half an hour later he brought a plate of apples and a fruit knife; on the Bendigo, one apple per two weeks.

  If only I can keep well I am going to have quite a good time. In a book called the Barnet Picnician which was edited by Don Mount (you know the type of magazine: copies: one; circulation: all members of picnic club and a few friends; price: priceless; registered: nowhere, as nothing) I saw rather a good article on ‘Sea Sickness’. It was something like this:

  I am not going to be sea sick.

  I am not going to think about being sea sick.

  I am afraid I am beginning to wish that the boat would keep still. But I am not going to think –

  Monday, 15 June 1925

  I am writing this in my room at the Hotel Sydney in Sydney, but before I go on with the present I think I had better go back a few days. On Friday I did not feel at all well, and all I had to eat was porridge and toast for breakfast and a few dry biscuits for supper. Early Saturday morning we berthed at Melbourne and after breakfast I went into the city. I was not at all struck with the place but this might partly be due to the fact that it was a rotten day. The whole atmosphere seemed dank and clammy. I passed along most of the main streets in the city, saw the principal buildings and visited the Aquarium. I did not, however, see the ‘sight’ of that town: St Kilda Road. The Aquarium was very fine, some of the fish were quite weird in their appearance. There were also monkeys, seals, birds, a collection of war trophies, a museum and art gallery, and reproductions of an Egyptian Tomb and the Jenolan Caves.

  The cars in Melbourne are very quaint. In front of each car is a ‘dummy’ from which the car is controlled. There are no ‘drivers’, they are all ‘gr
ipmen’. They are not electric cars but chain cars, or rather cable cars as there is a cable under the road which is always moving and the car is ‘gripped’ on to this. I have an idea that the cars in Edinburgh work on the same principal. Melbourne is the only city in the Commonwealth, so far, that has electric trains, but Sydney is just starting to lay down an underground electric tube. I had a couple of rides in a ‘dummy’. The sides are not covered in at all and the passengers jump on and off while the car is going. In fact, the gripman only (usually) slows down for passengers and does not stop the car unless there are women passengers or a fair number of people to get on or off.

  We left Melbourne punctually at 12 noon and proceeded slowly out to sea. The approach to the city by water is very poor, mostly low lying, marshy land with noisy dredges going the whole time. Several fresh passengers got on at this stop and I was moved from the cabin I had to myself to number sixty, where I had a top bunk. My cabinmate was a man of nearly sixty, but hale and hearty in every respect.

  Yesterday I had quite a fine time. I was playing deck games most of the day: deck quoits, deck tennis and deck billiards. The ship rolled but I felt fine and did justice to the excellent fare. Last night I, with a couple of friends, went up and saw ‘Sparks’ at work, or, in other words, visited the wireless operator’s room. He was receiving messages the whole time, and also occasionally sending them. How marvellous it all is.