by Stuart Kells
We took her back to ‘Werribee’ on Thursday. We arrived there in time for dinner and afterwards played rummy. In their sitting room they have a fine cabinet gramophone – His Master’s Voice – a topping pianola and a four-valve wireless set. We had selections on, or from, them all. We heard the American sailors marching in Sydney. The American fleet is paying an official visit to Sydney.
Sunday, 2 August 1925
Mr Rowlands arrived here shortly after 5am this morning and after breakfast he informed me that, while in Sydney, he received a letter from Mr Arnold Brown, who we visited on our recent trip to Coonabarabran, offering me a job as a jackaroo on his station at one pound a week and keep.
I think I shall accept it. I do not really want to go to Coonabarabran. I would much prefer to stay in this district, but I do not like to say nay. Up in that district there are all small stations, nearly all owned by ex-A.I.F. men, whereas here the stations are much larger and owned by men who have been in the sheep business all their lives. So in some ways I think I should learn more here. It will be with much sorrow that I accept. If only I had enough to pay my fare home I would start tomorrow. As a jackaroo, I cannot see much hope of getting home for a considerable time. Had I but £40 it would not take me long to decide what to do with it. P&O branch service, Commonwealth third class or steerage on any boat at all. In fact, at the present moment, if someone offered me a job as a steward on a home going boat I would jump at it.
Oh, had I the wings of a little dove
Far, far away would I fly: all the way home.
I only wish I knew the way to make money quickly. It can be done. I thought of going to Queensland sugarcane cutting, but that operation does not commence for four or five months. In the cities it is hard to get a job at all and this district is a settled one, most of the working men here have been with the same employers for many years.
There is one thing I am very glad of and that is that I came here. My visit has given me quite a new impression of Australia. My estimation of Australians has gone up considerably.
Here I hear a lot more of the Australian language which is slang. I like it a lot more than I did once. Some of it is certainly rather coarse. There is a certain doctor, not far from here, who is very ‘rough’, not many manners, and I heard a certain person say of him, when being asked what she thought of him, ‘Why I wouldn’t send my fleas to him’. This may sound terribly vulgar. In fact, I expect you wonder at my recording such a sentence. But at the time I made a mental note that I would and I have done it. This certainly will bring back to me the circumstances under which it was uttered. I don’t mind stating that it was at a dinner at which several really decent people were present and that the person who made the remark had been educated at one of the best schools in Sydney.
I only wish I could write, for then I would have a shot in that direction to make enough to take me home.
Friday, 7 August 1925
I am having absolutely the time of my life. I lay in bed in the morning – I am sleeping on the verandah – and watch the sun rise about 8 o’clock. I leisurely dress and stroll into breakfast and now, this morning, after scraping some of the grease off my field boots and polishing them I am sitting on a seat in the sun, writing. I am making the most of this holiday for I may not have another for a considerable time. Having broken all the secateurs and saws on the place I can do no pruning, but Mr Nunns and Mrs Rowlands have just gone to Sydney on holiday and the latter sent off a parcel of pruning instruments which will arrive here this afternoon. Mrs Rowlands has gone down to see, and console, some friend of hers who has just lost some relation or other, and Mr Nunns, who is the chauffeur and book-keeper of the station, has gone on private business.
I have accepted a position as jackaroo on ‘Bective’, Coonabarabran, Mr Arnold Brown’s station and leave here on Thursday night, arriving there at 2.35pm the following afternoon. Mr Nunns is purchasing several articles of clothing for me in Sydney which will come to approximately £3 and that leaves me £2 for the fare. I do not expect there will be any change and can only hope that the fare will not be more than the £2. Did I mention that, as the ‘boss’ owed me a few pounds, I asked him to pay a bill for me in Adelaide? I received a letter from him a short time ago and he said that he was sorry but he was unable to do so. The bill is for £5.12.6, so you can imagine that by the time I reach my destination my financial position will not be too good. Excuse me harping on my finances, or rather lack of them, but occasionally I cannot help thinking of them. Let me write about the conventional topic of … the weather. Today is a perfect day, sunny, with a slight cool breeze from the south. Writing is rather hard just now because Tom, a dear old tabby cat, is resting on my lap and keeps pushing his head under my chin.
About 100 yards in front of me winds Millamolong Creek. In one paddock, on the opposite side, a few cows are feeding, while further up and in a different paddock a mob of sheep idly graze. Everything is peaceful and restful, even myself. Now that I have made up my mind what I am going to do I feel more satisfied with life than when I was undecided. I hate to shift you, Tommy, but you really are a nuisance.
The past few months have caused me to completely change my mind and opinions of Australia and Australians. Renmark is hardly to be called Australian. It is far more English. And the Australians I met there are hardly typical ones. In my first two years’ residence in this country I learnt far less about Australians than I have learnt in the past two months.
Tommy, you are nearly as nice a cat as Marmaduke, but not quite. There is one thing I can say about you and that is that you are the nicest cat I have met in Australia. For nearly ten years have you battled with the troubles of this world and you well deserve the restful existence you now have. Down in the valley, the sound of the laughing jacks is re-echoed from hill to hill. This, in Australian, is all ‘bunkum’ so I had better go and do some work. Why ‘bunkum’? ’Cause there ain’t no echo in the valley where the kookaburras are. I was just making it up.
Saturday, 8 August 1925
I thought you might be interested in the construction of this house. I only know the size of one room and that is the billiard room, which is thirty-four feet by twenty feet. All the rooms of the original house have been turned into bedrooms with the exception of the office, which still remains the same. The billiard room, dining room, kitchen etc., were added on two years ago; this portion is much higher than the old building. Next year all the old house – bedrooms and office – will be pulled down and a fresh building erected in keeping with the new rooms. The garage, laundry, and engine and battery room is not yet completed. The electric plant, however, arrived here this week. It is a ‘Lister lite’ with ‘Tudor’ batteries. In the garage there will be a pit and work bench and plenty of room for the two cars. In the laundry, I think there is to be an electric washing machine.
Between the vegetable garden and the house is where a proposed verandah is to be built. It has been started but will not be completed for a couple of months owing to everybody working on the new garage. There is a small tank and an underground tank – all the water off all the roofs runs into here. The tank holds about 20,000 gallons. A windmill lifts the water to two overhead tanks on a stand. From here, the water runs into the kitchen, bathroom, wash house etc. There are five outbuildings or WCs. The wash house holds a copper and several wash-tubs. The meat room is, of course, fly proof and contains a couple of cool safes. When the electricity is installed they are thinking of installing a refrigerator. In the dairy there are large slabs for resting milk pans on and a separator. The bathroom contains both wash-basin and bath-heater. Of course, a shower is fitted.
In the old building are bedrooms, an office and a dressing room. This room is for the convenience of those who sleep outside on the verandah. I had the choice of sleeping inside or out and, naturally, chose out. The bed I sleep in is usually occupied by Doug. Between the flower garden and the verandah there is a thick shrub, a climber, which acts as a windbreak. On either side o
f the hall are hung dozens of pictures. In the billiard room, near the door, are bookcases well filled with real good books. This room is the ‘living room’ of the house and it is in this room that I am writing. Here there are half a dozen comfortable armchairs and a whole collection of stationery which Mr Rowlands bought on his recent trip. There is also a fine cabinet gramophone. In the dining room there are four china cabinets, all well filled with exquisite pieces of china and glass collected from all parts of the world. There is also a fine sideboard and a piano. The kitchen is white-tiled, four feet high all the way round, and contains one sink, a draining board, china cupboard and table. The pantry contains a set of shelves which hold a lot of everything. In the jam room, besides jam, there are hundreds of jars of bottled fruit. There is also a cloak or coat room. In the billiard, dining and cloak rooms are parquet floors and they are the most perfect floors of this description I have ever seen in a private house.
I think I have said something about everything now. I may add that I have written this especially for Father as I think it will interest him more than it will anyone else.
Monday, 10 August 1925
Only a few more days here, then off to Coonabarabran. It will almost be like leaving home again. However, there is one great consolation. I have been asked to celebrate my twenty-first birthday here, and I can tell you that it will have to be something very important that will stop me from doing this. For, outside home, I cannot think of any place I would rather spend it.
All around here can be seen a lot of dead trees or, as it is usually termed, dead timber. All these trees have been purposely killed. Why? Because in this country one cannot grow grass and trees. The killing of the trees by ring barking them greatly sweetens the grass. Even though grass may grow under trees it will not contain any nourishment. A few trees are left, however, for shelter. A few years after being ring barked a lot of the dead timber falls down. It is then collected into small heaps and burnt. Another two things that cannot be grown together are sheep and rabbits. This does not need much explaining, as they both require grass to feed on. If you don’t fence your property with wire netting and kill all the rabbits they will eat all the sheep’s feed and the sheep will starve. Trees or grass; sheep or rabbits.
Ring barking is just cutting, usually with an axe, a ring around a tree. This kills it. It takes a good many years to turn a tree covered hill into a grass covered one. The country is like this for miles in every direction. So you can see that there is a lot of work to be done on a young station. But again, I will tell you more of this when I know more about it.
All the sheep on this station are Merinos, which produce the finest of all wool; most of the sheep in this district are of this breed. Mr Fred Rowlands, however, runs a Romney Marsh or Kent stud; these sheep have not the fine wool of the Merino. No country in all the world can produce such fine wool as Australia. First class Australian Merino wool is, I believe, absolutely on its own. But perhaps I shall be able to tell you more about this after I have a little experience in the wool business. After all, two months ago I didn’t know what a ‘six-tooth hogget’ was. In case you don’t know and would like to know, I will tell you: it is an impossibility. A lamb is a ‘hogget’ – I am rather doubtful of the spelling – until it is a year old, then it becomes a ‘two-tooth’, then two teeth per year. So a ‘six-tooth hogget’ would be a three to four year old sheep.
When Mr, Mrs and Miss Rowlands were on their trip they sent cases and cases of glass, china, pictures and antiques home and if they had not confined their trip to twelve months they would have needed to build a new house. Luckily, hardly anything was broken and very little lost on the way here.
The billiard room has a full-sized table. At the present moment – 6.42pm – I am sitting in an armchair between the fireplace and the billiard table, this book is resting half on my knee and half on the arm of the chair. The clock in this room came from Dents and cost about £100. It is guaranteed to keep accurate time within a few seconds a year. Now, I am afraid I must close.
COONABARABRAN
Saturday, 15 August 1925
I’ve got that real ‘first day’ feeling. If you don’t understand what I mean I advise you not to try and find out. I wish myself everywhere except where I am – home, ‘Millamolong’, even Renmark. ‘Millamolong’ I now regard as the finest place in the world, except home, and even, in some ways, it is better than ‘home’ for the place to which I now address my letters home is unknown to me. If, at the present moment, somebody at ‘Millamolong’ was to offer me a job at ten shillings a week for three years and I had to milk, chop wood, kill the sheep, clean the boots, polish the floors and any other thing in or out of the house that had to be done, I would jump at it. But I am not writing what I mean to. If they offered me the job at nothing a week I would take it, like a shot. But – cheer up, Dick, you’ll soon be dead.
But, to get back to the events of the past few days. I left (I can very nearly call it home) ‘Millamolong’ on Thursday night. When I came into tea, about 7 o’clock, I found on my plate two large packets of Turfs and half a dozen small boxes of State Express 555 cigarettes. And just before tea Mr Nunns gave me a tin of Capstan Ovals. So I could not help but jump to the conclusion that they were glad to see the last of me.
I tried to thank Mr Rowlands and family for the splendid time they had given me, but Mr Rowlands said, ‘If you want to show your appreciation, come again.’ I should have liked to have made a little speech, but it was impossible. As it was, I said ‘But really’ or ‘But seriously’ a good many times and that’s about all. Now the standing joke of ‘Millamolong’, for quite a considerable time, has been my financial position (or, perhaps, crisis). I had £2 to pay my fare to Coonabarabran. The rest of my last ‘fiver’ I had spent in buying some working clothes, boots etc. On enquiring at the station what the fare was, I found out it came to £1.19.9. All ‘Millamolong’ wondered what I should do with the odd three pence. It was at length decided that nuts were the most nourishing food, so I was to buy three pennyworths of peanuts, sometimes known as ‘monkey nuts’. But a friend of Doug’s (and I hope I may call her a friend of mine) considered that it was ‘more blessed to give than receive’ and presented me with a large, very large, bag of Minties and peanuts. I think Minties are American. If so, you will know what they are. So armed with cigarettes, peanuts and lollies, and good advice, and with my heart almost breaking, I left ‘Millamolong’.
Doug drove me into Mandurama and there we were joined by Miss Smyth (the friend of Doug’s who gave me the peanuts). Here two more presents awaited me. One consisted of a quarter pound of pipe tobacco, a packet of cigarette tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers; this was from Miss Rowlands who knew I was out of pipe tobacco. The other present, a ticket to my destination, was from Mr Rowlands.
At 8.23pm the train left Mandurama and I can assure you that it carried away a heart that was very heavy and sad. The journey was practically uneventful. I had two hours to wait at Wallerawang, 1am to 3am. I dozed off occasionally in the train, but did not get a sleep. Breakfast, at somewhere or other, which was just an ordinary railway station restaurant breakfast. The coffee was of the ‘runniest’ colour I ever had seen and the flavour was the same as the colour. I hardly spoke a word the whole way. The last few miles I travelled on a motor train which was similar to, and as uncomfortable as, one of the Webb’s ‘Roaring Bulls’ which run on the Paringa line in South Australia. I am sure it was only the book I was reading that kept me alive. It was The Life of Chevalier Bayard. A great man and a great book, well written. The first time I heard of ‘Bayard the Knight’ was last April twelve months (April 1924) when, in John O’London’s, I read a short resume of his life. It being 400 years ago that month that he was killed. After reading the book, one feels sure that he was sans peur et sans reproche.
Anyhow, Tempus fugit et nunquam revertitur. (I am doing all this without the aid of any reference books.) I was met at Coonabarabran station by Mr Brown in his Dodge car an
d was soon at ‘Bective’. Mr Brown has three children. Dear little kids, how I love them.
This morning, having chopped enough wood to last the house for a day, I drove the horses into the yard. Mr Brown caught and saddled one for me and I went to fetch the mail which is left at the entrance gate, nearly half a mile from the house. The horse I rode is a famous ‘goer’ and has won several trophies locally, mainly for steeple chasing. I got to the gate alright and procured the mail alright, but the horse did not wait for me to get on. With only one foot in the stirrup, he tried to break the record for the half mile and, what is more, he succeeded. He jumped over the railway line which crosses the property and tore down the flat, approaching the house at a good sixty. I was holding on to the saddle for dear life and luckily held on until the horse stopped. It was the ride of my life. After breakfast I pruned vines and trees which, to me, was most interesting and instructive.
Thursday, 20 August 1925
I’ve been here nearly a week now and am beginning to feel more settled down. For the first few days at a new job I don’t enjoy myself at all. I say this as if I had had a lot of experience in such cases, but you who read this know exactly how much I have had and can judge for yourselves.
Today I received a letter from home, the first for nearly a month and I like to think of the long journey that letter has had. After leaving England it most likely travelled through the Mediterranean, calling perhaps at Marseilles. Or it may have travelled overland to that port, then Port Said, Aden, Colombo, Fremantle. From there by train to Adelaide, train to Morgan, by mail car along the track I know so well to Renmark. Perhaps it will be collected from box ‘185’ by Mr Woods and carried by him to his block in Tarcoola Street, then one of his sons rides across to Mr Withers and gives it to him. Mr Withers then readdressed it and gives it to ‘Bill the butcher’, who carries it back to the Renmark P.O. again. Then along the Morgan track again and down to Adelaide, overland by the Melbourne Express to that city, then by the Sydney Express to Sydney. By train it passes by the Blue Mountains, past Katoomba to Mandurama, from the station to the P.O. and perhaps from there to a smaller Millamolong P.O. about three miles from ‘Millamolong’. There it is picked up by Sam and placed in a chaff bag which, in turn, is placed on the front of the saddle. At ‘Millamolong’ it is tipped out on the office floor, readdressed and placed in the letter rack. Mr Nunns takes it from the rack and posts it in Mandurama. By train it goes to Coonabarabran. From the P.O. there it is taken by a ‘mailman’ and placed in his sulky. As he passes by ‘Bective’ he throws it in a box on one of the strainer posts at the entrance gate. I ride up from the homestead on my good horse, Sargeant, and collect it. Quite a long journey for one and a half pence.