by Stuart Kells
Saturday, 17 October 1925
Mr Brown has gone off today with Arthur, my predecessor here, to inspect a property the latter contemplates purchasing. Arthur is about my age, so if he buys this property he will be making an early start and should do well. If you have any money I consider sheep farming an excellent proposition. You are your own boss and, within reason, you can do what you like. Mr Brown has been into Coonabarabran four times this week, half a day each time, and he has not had anything special to do there. If he wants to go, he goes – that’s the end of it. He went to a ball one night and as he felt tired the next morning he did not rise until 11 o’clock. He is absolutely his own boss, but he could not have done this had I not been here, for such jobs as milking have to be done by someone.
My chief complaint against Australia is that it is too far from England, from home. The journey takes too long and it is, naturally, fairly expensive. The shipping companies are now advertising for a limited number of sailors, firemen and trimmers to work on ships travelling to ports outside Australia. I cannot apply for a job myself at the present moment for two reasons: one, that ‘applicants must present themselves at so and so offices in Sydney’, and the other that Mr Brown leaves for a week’s trip to Brisbane on Tuesday. It would be impossible to get away until he came back. So I must just carry on and trust that the strike continues so that I may have a chance of a job on a homeward bound vessel in a few weeks. I have made up my mind that I am not going to stay here long – Christmas, at the most. But I hope to leave before then and if I don’t get a job on a boat my next position will be to get enough money to enable me to return home, not a position to gain experience.
Sunday, 18 October 1925
Next Tuesday Mr Brown, Mrs Brown and Mrs Thompson are leaving here on a trip to Brisbane. Mr Brown wishes to attend a reunion dinner of the officers of the Second Division and the rest thought they would like a motor drive. It is about 500 miles each way. Mr and Mrs Clifton have also accepted an invitation from Mr Brown to accompany them. So next week I shall have a lively time as all the children are being left here. Clive, Mary and Lloyd (who is eight or nine months old, about the same age as John Withers) and they are real terrors. They – the two eldest – are always getting into my room and playing about with my goods and chattels. As long as they leave my letters, books and diary alone I don’t very much mind what they do. But if they tear this up I should be really cross, for it has taken me many hours to write even the small amount I have during the past year.
As I have stated elsewhere, I like and admire mountains. I like to climb them, as the view one obtains from the top is usually well worth the energy expended in getting there. From the house no mountains can be seen, but from the Hill paddock the Warrumbungles look very fine. Sometimes I have ridden up this paddock for the express purpose of enjoying the view of these mountains.
Most of the trees on this paddock are dead but in one corner there is a clump of green trees and through these trees the view of the Warrumbungles is really quite fine. The country is undulating all the way between yourself and the distant heights, and nearly all the slopes are covered with green trees. Were it covered with dead trees it would not look half so fine. The country is really like a lot of little hills which join one another so imperceptibly that, in some places, it leaves you wondering if a certain hill is only one or if it is several hills. But when the mountains are reached all this stops and the lofty heights appear to rise straight up from the ground almost precipitously. But it only appears to for, actually, the slope is quite gradual and in only a few places is it dangerously steep. On certain days, or under certain atmospheric conditions, the Warrumbungles are real ‘Blue Mountains’. It is not my imagination, they really take on a decided tinge of blue. So does all the country when these conditions are accentuated. When I was riding down from the front gate one morning the whole country, especially the more distant hills, appeared to be covered with a very light haze of blue. Nothing very vivid about it, but quite enough to make the visibility poor.
One of the best views I ever witnessed I did not write anything about – or at least I do not remember writing anything about it – and that was the view from the top of Lion’s Head, Cape Town. It is somewhat late to attempt to describe it, so I will leave it until I happen to visit there again.
A pretty fair description of this part of the country I think I used when writing to someone at ‘Millamolong’ a few weeks ago: ‘The homesteads here are very fine, both the two roomed and the four roomed variety. The dead trees here look as fine as any I have seen throughout the State.’ It is a great pity that the trees have to be killed so as to obtain feed, for dead trees are not very interesting.
Friday, 23 October 1925
It is just three years ago, tonight, that I arrived at Adelaide and I now find that it is true that first impressions live a long time. Well do I remember the crush on the boat as we were leaving, how it was nearly dark when we berthed, the rain that welcomed our arrival, and many other incidents that occurred during the first few days.
Now I am again in charge of this place; the boss, his wife and Mrs Thompson being, at the present moment, in Brisbane. Mr Brown is now attending (all being well) a reunion dinner of the officers of the Second Division and I expect he is fairly merry by now. I think if there was any intoxicating liquor here I would have some, for the children fairly drive one mad. I don’t really mean the first part of the last sentence, for I was in town today and did not avail myself of the opportunity of even a shandy. So I don’t think you need worry about me drinking myself to death. For one thing, I haven’t the money. But I can realize that children like the ones here would drive anybody to do anything. They are undoubtedly the naughtiest children I have ever known. Clive, the eldest, is really callously cruel (among his many vices). A couple of weeks ago he killed three fowls. One he killed with a stick, the second he chopped the head off and the third he drowned. But I am afraid I must close as the light has gone out. To be continued – amen.
Saturday, 24 October 1925
One afternoon I am quite satisfied with life, the next and I wish myself dead and so on, week in week out, for the last couple of months. But on the average I am far more dissatisfied than satisfied. I picked up a novel that was lying on the table a couple of minutes ago and on one of the first pages was a stanza from Omar’s ‘Rubaiyat’.
Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire!
Would not we shatter it to bits – and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Very good indeed, but like most people I think the ‘Rubaiyat’ is a masterpiece but cannot commend its philosophy.
The boss and party left on Tuesday morning, so this is really the fifth day that we have been left with the children. And I am sure that five days with these kids is enough to make any ordinary man a confirmed bachelor.
Besides Miss Thompson, the lady help, there is staying here one ‘Babe’ Cox who is in charge of the children. I must confess that I have never met anyone quite like her before. She is about eighteen years old, has shingled hair, skirts up to – if not above – her knees, smokes occasionally, can swear well when the occasion demands it and no one could say that she is an ‘oil painting’ to look at, but she bosses about the children like a person of double her age. She has lived in Coonabarabran nearly all her life and her conversation is limited to a few subjects.
Clive and Mary – but I see and hear quite enough of them and do not feel like writing about them just now. One can get too much of a good thing.
At present I am in a fed up mood. I don’t like the weather. The house is an oven on a hot day and a ‘cool safe’ on a cold night (today it is hot). The children annoy me beyond words. I hate the work I am doing. And I hate the room I sleep in at night – I am not even allowed the small comfort of a curtain over the window. If this is jackarooing, I hate jackarooing.
The only means I have of get
ting into town is to ride or walk. They are both good exercises, although I believe that in riding one only uses 12 of the 600 muscles the human body contains. As I have no money I am only wasting my time here, so – I want to go home. But the problem is how to make enough money to get there.
I had a pleasant surprise this morning as among the mail was a parcel containing a tin of fifty State Express cigarettes from Mrs Rowlands. This was very welcome, as in order to try and save a few shillings I had practically given up smoking. There was also a cheerful letter from the same quarter saying that Christmas would soon be here and they were all looking forward to seeing me then. I wonder if I can stick here another two months. I doubt it, for before then I expect I shall have had the sack. Still no rain. We have turned all the cows and about 600 sheep on to one of the largest wheat paddocks and I am afraid none of the others will be worth cutting. So this looks as if I shall not be required here much longer.
In a paper or book the other day I read an article by some famous man in which he stated that it was his opinion that every man was a genius at something, but what this something was very few men were able to discover. He stated that among the millions of unemployed there were men who had the ability to be as great as many of the most famous men now living.
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;
This reminds me of a pet theory of my own. Perhaps it is not original, but I like to think of it as my own. It is not that every man is a genius at something but that every man is better than the average man at something. This is almost a conviction of mine. But there is an exception to every rule and in this rule the exception is myself. I really cannot think of anything that I can do as well, leave alone better, than the average man. Having bluntly stated the outline of my theory I must depart, but I hope to write more about this later on.
Saturday, 31 October 1925
The holiday makers have returned home again. They said before they left that they would be back on Tuesday night. On Monday they wired that they would return on Wednesday evening and they eventually reached here on Thursday afternoon. They had a good trip. No trouble with the car, averaged about twenty-one miles to the gallon (very poor; I reckon I’ve done twenty-three in the Moon six-cylinder). The country was terribly dry, no feed anywhere. Roads good in New South but rotten in Queensland. They brought back some fruit – oranges, pineapples, bananas and mangoes. The pineapples were seven shillings a case (thirty to thirty-six).
While they were away I had a great time. Babe and Miss Thompson managed the children far better than Mr and Mrs Brown and during the few days instilled in the kids the first principles of elementary manners. I got on very well with Babe and we had some long and interesting talks together. Last Saturday afternoon I rolled the tennis court and prepared it for a game; it had not been used for nearly two months and was overgrown with weeds. So, on Sunday afternoon Babe, Miss Thompson, Wally Thompson and myself had a good game. Babe and I winning every time. This was really the first decent game I have ever had. I once played with Doug Gael on the hard courts at the Clifton Zoo. My second game was while I was at ‘Millamolong’ (this time it rained). Last Sunday was the third and best game I have had. It’s a fine game and I only wish I had the opportunity of playing more frequently.
This afternoon the weather is rotten. In my room, where I am writing (sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, which I have to make myself and get time to do it once a week), it is like a furnace and I am fed up with everything. These fed up moods of mine are getting far too frequent. The cause for them is quite evident – the conditions under which I live do not satisfy me. When Mr Brown and party were away everything in the house was clean and neat. Now, the same as before they left. Although everything is fairly clean, the place is not half so tidy as during those few days. Broken biscuits are to be found on the floor in every room and children’s toys again litter the rooms. One has not to go far to find used matches and cigarette butts (‘bumpers’). The children make far more row now than they did when Babe was in charge. This is one reason that tends to make me feel fed up.
In a couple of weeks’ time I shall have to send this off and I’m afraid that, when I do this, I shall still be here. Alas, that this should ever be.
Miss Thompson – do not regard her as a lady help from now on, she is a friend of mine – and Babe both think that I shall never make a success on the land. Babe reckons I should be in an office and Miss Thompson thinks that I could make a living with my pen. She also thinks that I would make a good – now what do you think? I bet you’d never guess – a good lecturer.
Even though I am fed up with most things, I must confess that there are a few decent things here. First, ‘Digger’, a bonzer dog that I really love. The ‘Moke’, the best horse that I have ever ridden or am ever likely to ride. People here who have ridden since they were kids admit that the Moke is the most comfortable horse that they have ever ridden. He has a slow walk, fast walk, amble, canter and a splendid gallop, but he rarely trots and never jogs. He is decidedly fresh sometimes, but no one can blame him for that. Then the boss has a fine rifle – a .32 Winchester. This is some slight compensation for all the rotten things I have to put up with. Last week when ‘we’ were on our own, Babe and Miss Thompson spring cleaned my room, cleared out a lot of the lumber and found a couple of curtains. I also hung a few pictures. So the place looks much better than it was. Last week, I might mention, my bed was made every day. Now it only gets a weekly and I must confess that a room containing an unmade bed does look untidy.
How the Browns could have lived here six years without making more improvements than they have I really cannot understand. They pay £450 cash for a new car and yet live in a humpy like this. It’s absolutely beyond me. I wrote to Mr Rowlands a few days ago and told him that I might shortly be leaving here. He replied that, although he did not all together approve of my leaving here, he would advise me to look out for a similar position in this district, if possible. However, were I to find myself in the cold (or hot) world I was to go straight to ‘Millamolong’.
Sunday, 1 November 1925
Every day, and in every way, I am getting more and more fed up; I know it’s rotten writing about it but, in this book, I write just what I mean and just when I feel like it. If I am happy and contented I say so and if I am feeling otherwise I also mention it. This morning I did a lot of odd jobs, the last one being mending the canvas rollers on the reaper and binder; I was on this job until dinner time. Directly after dinner I wiped up and, after this, washed umpteen greasy saucepans and dishes. As soon as this was finished, about 2 o’clock, I again tackled the rollers and finished them about 4 o’clock. Mr Brown sat down after dinner and rested all afternoon. When I finished, he came and inspected them and he did not even trouble to say ‘thank you’. This did not tend to make me feel any too satisfied, for Mr Brown did not rise until 9am whereas I had done a couple of hours work by then. As today was a Sunday – I am only a jackaroo and this is supposed to be a socialistic country – this is not right. I am not going to say that I do all the work on the place, but for the miserable quid a week I receive I work jolly hard. Harder than I have ever worked before in my life. And this evening Mr Brown told me that I shall have to do all the odd jobs before 8 o’clock. These include lighting the kitchen fire, milking three cows, separating, chopping a large barrel load of wood, emptying the pig bucket, filling up two kerosene tins of water from a fresh water tank, emptying three tubs which are used for washing, filling up the cool safe with water and, three times a week, getting the mail from the front gate. And, if I get time, make my bed, for nobody else does it for me. This is a lot to do before breakfast and I think I shall have to get up soon after 5am to enable me to do it all. The boss is not too bad a sort of a chap but he has a very quick temper and goes off the deep end over nothing. The part I hate most is that there is nothing to look forward to during the day. There is nothing to do in the evenings. The Browns don’t play cards,
the gramophone has been smashed up by the kids, and there are no ‘home comforts’ at all.
I can easily touch the ceilings in all the rooms that have them, and the house is only made of one thickness of half inch or three-quarter inch boards. Some doors won’t shut and others have no latches, handles or locks. The children are always making a row and they are the untidiest brats I have ever seen, their toys being littered all over the place. The property itself is in the same condition. Nearly all the fences are rotten and broken, and there is not a decent gate on the place. The sheep have tick and are lousy and, as regards wool, Mr Rowlands told me that he would not have a single one of the sheep here on his place. All the yards and buildings are in a tumble down condition; Mr Rowlands knows this, for when he was here he leant against one of the fences in the sheep yards and it collapsed – and it fell to my lot to repair it. Considering all these things, is it to be wondered at that I occasionally get fed up? Miss Thompson gets five shillings a week more than I do and Moseley – Mr Roy Brown’s man, who is younger than I and a half-caste – gets thirty-five shillings a week and keep, plus extra during harvest and every weekend off.
It is just 9 o’clock and, as I feel so rotten, I think I will go to bed and hope to wake up in a better humour. But I am afraid such a thing is impossible.