Outback Penguin

by Stuart Kells

  This morning, Mr Brown harnessed up five horses in a cultivator and drove into a lucerne patch which required cultivating. He intended to ‘get me going’ and then go into Coonabarabran where he had to deliver a parcel. The horses had not done any work for two months and would not settle down. So while he was quietening them down I drove the Dodge into Coonabarabran and delivered the parcel for him. When I came back it was nearly dinner time so I did not do much with the horses. But, after dinner, I took charge of them. I soon noticed that two of the horses seemed to be pulling hard, but not having much success. I mean that the result of their pulling did not appear to compensate for the energy they expended. To put it short, something seemed wrong somewhere. I thought I saw the trouble, but did not like to alter it until I was quite sure I was right. So I proved my deduction to be correct by arithmetic, algebra, geometry, statistics and common sense, then called to Mr Brown and expounded my theory. He at once saw my point and we soon made the necessary alterations. He wondered how it was that he had driven the horses all the morning without noticing it. He complimented me and as I went on with the cultivating I felt as happy as a schoolboy.

  It was entirely to having learnt statistics at school that I discovered and solved the problem.

  Sunday, 23 August 1925

  While I was cultivating yesterday afternoon – I do not always get Saturday afternoons and Sundays off – I thought out a plot for a story I might write one day. But I think the chances of it ever being written are about a million to one against it. To begin with, I doubt if I have the ability to write any kind of a story. But still, there’s no harm in thinking out plots. I consider it a lot better mind exercise than wondering what’s for dinner. Of course, this plot is absolutely in the rough.

  There is a hero – I think I shall call him Allen Williams – and a girl he falls in love with. I haven’t thought out her name yet – slight pause here while I think of one. Molly or Doris wouldn’t be too bad, but I think Esme for a Christian name and – another pause – how about Kirk. Esme Kirk, not too bad at all.

  Allen Williams is a fruit grower in Renmark. He comes from the Old Country and is one of those hard working Englishmen who are bound to succeed in whatever branch of life they take up. He travelled a bit before striking Renmark and his conversation is always interesting. He is, in fact, an ideal hero. I have not quite decided yet whether he batches alone or if he has a brother living with him. He has some kind of an accident.

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ said Allen as he helped the ‘lumpers’ to unload the last sweat box of fruit off his trolley.

  ‘That the end of your lot then?’ queried Sam Rogers, the classer at the packing shed.

  Before he could reply, a teamster sang out to him to move on as he was in a hurry.

  ‘Right–o,’ answered Allen.

  At the word ‘Right’ the horses, thinking it was intended for them, started off. Allen was standing at the end of the trolley and, as the horse moved off with a jerk, he lost his balance and fell. It was only a drop of about three feet but he came down on his head and remained motionless.

  That might be one way the accident happened. Anyhow, he is taken to the hospital and after he comes out the doctor recommends a holiday.

  ‘Don’t go straight back to your block if you can possibly help it,’ said the doctor. ‘If you do, you will only potter about and knock yourself up again. On the other hand, don’t go down to Adelaide and walk about the city all day. Either go to the seaside or else right in the country – on a station, for instance. In any case, take things easily for a month or so.’

  Allen decides to go and visit some friends of his in New South Wales who own a station called ‘Millamolong’ not far from the town of Mandurama. But before he leaves Renmark, I must introduce another character: the villain. It’s hard to think how anybody can possibly hate our hero, but the villain does, like fury. He is a half-caste Indian, name and job yet unknown. He is not very well educated but is not badly off. He is a fairly good cricketer but Allen is a better one. Allen beats him in everything, even in a motorcycle race they both enter, which is held after the summer meeting of the Renmark Racing Club.

  Allen goes away and on the boat – he goes from Adelaide to Sydney by boat – he meets Esme Kirk. She is a station owner’s daughter and has been spending a holiday in Adelaide. Allen falls in love at first sight, but his love is not reciprocated. Much to his joy, he finds out that her home is not far from Mandurama. I can, of course, describe Allen’s impressions of Sydney, especially the harbour. He might also visit Taronga Park. The Bowlands (or some such name), the owners of ‘Millamolong’, know the Kirks well and Allen sees quite a lot of Esme. His advances, however, are met very coldly but he gets to know her fairly well. (Rather awkward, this, but it’s got to be done somehow.)

  He has a fine time at ‘Millamolong’ where he stays for three months. As soon as he has left to return to Renmark, Esme discovers that she loves him and curses herself for not realizing it before. She does not know what to do. Luckily she meets – I am not quite sure where, most likely in Sydney, station owner’s daughters frequently visit Sydney – the Robinsons (rather a common name, this, but it’s not too late yet to alter it) who own a station on the Murray in South Australia. This station, ‘Chowilla Station’, is only twenty miles from Renmark. They ask Esme to come and stay with them and she accepts. I have not quite decided on the end of the story. Perhaps Allen sells up his block and takes up a job as jackaroo on Esme’s father’s station. He may become engaged to Esme and when they get married Mr Kirk gives Allen a station, all complete with homestead, as a wedding present. There may be a fight between Allen and the villain before he leaves Renmark for good. If so, this fight will take place one stormy night while Allen is irrigating. A great stunt can be made of this – Allen and the villain rolling about in the mud. Of course, our hero makes a mess of the villain. I don’t think he had better kill him, just make a mess of him.

  I am sorry but now I must leave off. Not because I want to but because everybody else is going to bed and, as I have nowhere to write in my room, I must do likewise.

  Tuesday, 25 August 1925

  Having got as far as writing down the date, I was disturbed by hearing a horse approaching at a gallop. It turned out to be ‘Wally’ Thompson who had come to visit us – I was going to say me, for his real object was to make my acquaintance as he is an Englishman about the same age as myself and is jackaroo on a station a couple of miles distant.

  I hardly felt like writing the date and nothing else so that is why I make this short statement.

  This is being written in my bedroom where the facilities for writing are very inadequate; the facilities for sleeping, however, are much better. I think I will now turn my thoughts and body upon them, so – good night.

  Thursday, 27 August 1925

  I have been having quite a busy time lately. On Saturday night I went to the pictures with Mr Brown. On Sunday I did some writing. Monday evening I accompanied Mr Brown to a Mr Stevenson’s, who lives about twenty-three miles from here – a pretty rotten track, with eighteen or twenty gates to open. The next evening, Mr Brown started off for Coonabarabran to attend some meeting but he ‘blew out’ the lights on the car soon after he started and, so, returned. Wally Thompson also rolled along that evening and interrupted me in some writing I had intended to do. On Wednesday morning, that was yesterday, after riding around to look at some sheep I ‘togged up’ and went with Mr Brown into town. Here I had a lot of shopping to do. Now I am going to make a somewhat startling announcement. Mr Brown did not come back to ‘Bective’, but went on to Sydney in Mr Stevenson’s car. So I am in charge of this place. Lambing started the day before Mr Brown left. This is different from when I was left in charge at Renmark with two horses, one cow and a few fowls to look after. Here, and don’t forget that I have not been here a fortnight yet, there are seven horses, nine cows, umpteen fowls and turkeys, two dogs and over 1,000 sheep, and lambing just starting.
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br />   To get back to yesterday, Mr Stevenson did not know until the last minute if he would be driving down in his own car or not; he thought he might be able to get a lift down in somebody else’s car. In case this happened, he wanted his car taken back to his place. So he brought in his brother-in-law, the arrangement being that if he did take his car I should take his brother-in-law back in Mr Brown’s car. He did take his car, so I had to journey out twenty-seven miles to take his brother-in-law back. He was quite a decent sort of a chap, a Pommy, only been out here six months. He used to play hockey in the Old Country and frequently played against Morton Park at the John Innes Ground. He has a brother who lives at the Officer’s Club in Lancaster Gate. His name is Mr Tid-swell. We left about 3.15pm and did not arrive at his destination much before 5 o’clock, pretty slow travelling but we stopped at Purlewaugh where he made some purchases and, also, don’t forget the gates. I had a cup of tea there and started back at 5.15pm. The sun set at 5.35pm. At 6pm it was dark and I had no lights, did not know the track and had ‘x’ gates to open and close.

  It was pretty tricky driving, through scrub, sand, across one river and over the railway line twice. I don’t know if it was a greater strain on my eyes or on my imagination to find out where the track was. However, I arrived here safely about 6.45pm, put the car away, and separated the calves from their mothers. In the morning, one sheep would not take to its lamb so we placed them both in a small enclosure. When I arrived back after my lightless trip I had to carry them both from this enclosure back to the paddock where they had been moved from. Tea, help wash up. I read a book of Australian poems Mrs Rowlands had sent me for a short time and then, to bed.

  Up at 6.30am this morning. It was cold, bitterly cold, everything was white with frost. Lit the kitchen fire – there is no maid here – and then, with only a cardigan on, I crossed the river to inspect the sheep in a large lucerne paddock there. All my working waistcoats and coats are in my large trunk which has been sent off from Adelaide, but which has not arrived here yet. In this paddock I discovered one ewe that had got its foot caught in a rabbit trap. Luckily no bones had been broken, so I soon fixed that up and then I inspected the sheep in the ‘home’ paddocks.

  The ewe that I had lifted out of the enclosure the night before was looking very bad; I’m afraid she has some internal trouble. She was still alive this evening, but I expect to find her dead tomorrow morning. Her lamb, however, had chummed up with another ewe that had lambed during the night and this ewe now kids herself that she has twins. This is quite an unusual occurrence. After this I chopped a barrow load of wood, then milked one cow, then caught and saddled up a horse – that is, my horse, Sargeant – and rode up to the mail box, brought back the mail, washed and had breakfast. After breakfast I helped wash up, made my bed, did a few odd jobs around the house and, saddling up my horse, again rode around the ‘hill’ paddock to have a look at the sheep. Then I rode down to Mr Roy Brown’s and found his gun – he has gone with my boss to Sydney – cleaned it, found a few cartridges and then had a few shots at the crows. I then rounded up the horses, kept two in the yard and drove the rest out. Noticing a lot of crows flying about and ‘cawing’ in one of the lucerne paddocks, I had a pot shot at them to scare them away and then walked over to investigate.

  Here I found a dead sheep that the crows were making a mess of. It cannot have been dead long, but besides pecking the sheep’s eyes out they had already made a start on its flesh. Vowing vengeance on all crows that came my way, I went and fetched some rabbit traps and set them around the sheep. I soon had the satisfaction of seeing one caught, the rotten cruel brutes (I didn’t call them this, but something far more Australian). Then away, as dinner was ready. After the usual odd jobs I harnessed up the two horses in the trolley and drove out to Mr Brown’s property the other side of the road. Here I cut a load of dry wood and brought it back just as the sun was setting.

  I let the horses go, and then saddled up Sargeant and rode out to look for the cows. Having found them, I separated the calves from the cows, fed my horse, lit the dining room fire, washed, had tea, odd jobs again, then I settled down to write all about it. Now it is just after 9pm and it won’t’ be long before I am in bed. I think you will agree with me that I have had quite a busy day and – ‘something attempted, something done, has earned a night’s repose’.

  Wednesday, 2 September 1925

  It is already 9pm, so I am afraid I shall not have much time for writing as they are early ‘retirers’ here.

  Mr Brown arrived back two nights ago with his new car, a ‘Willys Knight’; a very fine car indeed. Rather a nice colour too, ‘biscuit’ brown with blue upholstery. He only averaged twelve miles to the gallon for the first 400 miles. This, he afterwards found, was due to the back brake being on; it’s a wonder he didn’t burn out the linings. Since the brake was loosened he has averaged twenty-two m.p.h. – quite a difference.

  There is a range of mountains not far from here called the Warrumbungles and the other morning I started to compose a poem, mainly about the work I do. It was something like this:

  Where the Warrumbungles bungle

  And the weeping willows weep

  I’d love to be a Kangaroo

  And clear six foot a leap.

  But I’d rather be a Jackaroo

  And scrub the kitchen floor

  And hold the baby’s bottle

  And such odd jobs ‘galore’.

  To boot, to boot, O’Jackaroo

  To horse, to horse, I say

  So up I saddled Sargeant

  And off I rode away.

  Right up to the Mountains

  To the Warrumbungle range

  Where the sun in all his splendour

  Doth from red to golden change.

  But I think this is enough. Thank goodness it’s not often that I get these moods.

  Friday, 4 September 1925

  I have just received three very interesting communications: a letter from home; a letter from Mr Woods of Renmark, who I believe I have before mentioned, who has recently become engaged to Sister Rogers; and the School Chronicle.

  I was wondering tonight why it is that Dickens was so great an author. What is in his books that make them what they are? I wonder if it is, to a certain extent, his naturalness. His characters are so true to life. If a Dickens were to arise now he would not have to look far for material for his works. Since I left home I have met plenty of people whose lives have been quite interesting enough to become characters fit for a Dickens to write about.

  One character would be Mr Withers and another Mr Woods. The latter is a real Englishman. With him, honour is everything; one could not imagine him doing a dishonest or shady action. Mr Withers is more of a schemer. Now, if only he had kept a diary it would be worth publishing. Articled to a solicitor in London after leaving school, he soon grew tired of it and started to study medicine. He became a medical student and walked the hospitals. Then to the Gold Cost for twelve months. Back to London – this time speculating. He had an office in King William Street, he gambled on horses and swore that he made money at it, he speculated in stocks and shares and lived at the end of a telephone. When King Edward was to be crowned, he bought up windows and sold seats. He was connected with the Bowden Wire people when they first started to make brakes. He was a buyer at Barkers for some time, a racing cyclist for some considerable period – he won a few championships and many medals. He drove one of the first cars in England, was a guide to an Expeditionary Force in West Africa – here he bayoneted many blacks and was, in return, shot in the knee (he still limps from this) – a theatre manager, a manager of a travelling theatrical company, private secretary to one of the great actor managers, and dozens of other things and of all of them he has hundreds of anecdotes. He started telling me about his experiences soon after I arrived in Renmark and he kept me interested up until the last moment that I saw him. He is, as I have said before, a great schemer and thinker. I expect I know more of his life than practically a
nyone else, and I think I know his character pretty well. Here would be a chance for a Dickens. A book could be made out of his life alone. Why, I myself could write quite a lot about him.

  Then Mr Rowlands would be a good character to write about. He is always seeking for information. Always doing something and always on the go. In this respect he is like that character of characters, like that person of whom volumes could be written, Mr John Lane.

  Here, again, is a chance for a Dickens. If war experiences are required, Mr Arnold Brown is the man. He joined up as a private and when the Armistice was signed he was a major and had it lasted another month he would have been a colonel. His experiences are very thrilling. I wish I had time to write about them. I will just make time for one. He was in charge of a battalion, roughly 1,000 men, holding a line of about 1,000 yards. He had been fighting for either thirty-six or forty-eight hours, continual fighting, charges, attacks, counter attacks – to put it in Australian language, ‘Fighting like hell’. No sleep, scanty supplies, when the General sent along another battalion. Not to relieve them, but to support them. There was absolutely no place to put these men, to cram them in the one and only trench was equivalent to murdering them. He rang up the General and told him so. The General said, ‘I have sent the men out to support you. Use them’. And my boss, almost worn out with fighting, told the General to go to hell. He caught hold of the receiver of the telephone and tore it off then, after ordering the supporting battalion back to headquarters, he went back to the fighting. Soon after he was wounded and after he had sufficiently recovered he was court-martialled. He was not cashiered and, ultimately, was presented with a D.S.O. for this incident. General Birdwood also sent him a private letter telling him he was wrong to disobey orders, but he thanked him for doing what he did, in his own words, ‘practically saving the lives of a thousand men’. How he won the M.C. is also interesting. Hanging up in the sitting room is a photograph, or rather a group of photographs, of the officers of the Twenty-eighth Battalion. A Dickens could make a great thing of this, describing the characters of the men either from the photograph, character reading, or else being informed of their characters by one of them – a character of the book – in my case, my boss. Now, to bed.