by Stuart Kells
I have had a specially hard week’s work. The job I was engaged on – hay harvesting – was not particularly hard per se but such things as the weather make a big difference. It was terrifically hot all the week, so hot that the ‘persation’ as Clive calls it – or ‘perspersweat’ as I have heard other people call it – was simply running off us. One could not help but to drink like a fish all the time during the day. I am sure I drank a gallon of water and half a gallon of tea, besides occasional glasses of water and lemon drinks, and I would have drunk double the quantity.
For the past week my hours have been as follows. 5.15am rise and light the fire. Call the boss at 5.30am, and then catch my horse and run in cows and horses. By the time I arrived back, breakfast was ready – the boss and I had ours early, together; the rest of the family had theirs later. We usually finished this by 6.45am, then I milked, chopped wood etc., and started ‘work’ about 7.30am. I said that the boss cooked the breakfast. Well, he usually did, but he likes his bed and yesterday I called him at 5.30am and he answered me as I went off to get the horses. I was not back till 6.15am and he was still in bed. I called him again, but he still stayed in bed. I had the breakfast all cooked and everything ready before he made an appearance.
I am feeling very tired now and think I will go back to bed. It is only 7am and as the cows are milked I need not get up again until 8am, so here goes. So, I went back to bed and read the first page of the Western Daily Press that had been sent me because it contained a couple of photographs taken at Long Ashton during Tasting Day. I had read it all before, but I thought I would like to look at the photographs again and read North Somerset’s account of it all, and having commenced I did not leave off until I had read every line of the paper – advertisements and all. After this, I picked up a favourite book of mine, The Breakfast Table Series by Oliver Wendell Holmes (of which I am, at present, reading the ‘Professor’), and I read this book until nearly 8am. Then, after dressing and lighting the fire, I had several odd jobs to do. Breakfast about 9.15am, then I helped the boss to carry some tarpaulins and corrugated iron to the top of an unfinished hay stack – this I shall have to spread out if it rains. My next job was a messy one, that of putting grease in the differential of the car. As soon as I finished this the family went off in the bus to Clifton’s; they left Lloyd behind, and Miss Thompson in charge of him. Since then I have done little save have a shower, several drinks and curse the hot weather. In Australian ‘slanguage’ it’s ‘a cow of a day’. So bad is it that I haven’t enough energy to eat. I can drink and that’s all. All the writing I feel like doing is the recording of dull, uninteresting events of the day, a job that requires practically no brains. I fell asleep over this a couple of hours ago and have just woken up feeling fit for nothing. There is now a north wind blowing and it is impossible to get a decent breath of fresh air. Oh, how I long for Bristol again, Coombe Dingle and Leigh Woods, green grass, flowers – and not so much of this blankity sun. As it is 2.45pm, I suppose I had better go and get something to eat. I don’t feel like it, but I believe there is some stewed fruit I might be able to swallow and a few more drinks, just to keep me going for a few minutes. How I hate lukewarm water. Oh, Yea gods, for Somerset Cider.
I received a delightful letter from Auntie Annie last week.
I appear to be suffering from every complaint that most of the patent medicine manufacturers guarantee that their concoction will cure.
The weather is changing from bad to worse. A bushfire is burning many miles to the west and the wind has shifted to that quarter, and we are also experiencing a sand and dust storm. I have just been along to try and fix the tarpaulins on the haystack, but it was some job. They each measure twenty-one by fourteen feet; at least two measure that, and a third is twelve by fourteen feet. We also have to use four sheets of iron, eight by two and a half feet, to properly cover it. The only thing in the immediate future that I have to look forward to is that I hope to leave here in just over three weeks’ time.
Sunday, 6 December 1925
Somewhat similar to my last entry, this is being written at 6.30am and I am sitting on the edge of my bed but, unfortunately, I have not yet milked.
I have had a terrifically busy week working from early morning to late at night. One night it was 8.45pm before we started to wash up; it is nearly always 7.30pm before we knock off. I rise at 5am and give the boss a call. I light the fire and then call him again. Saddling up my horse, I then proceed to fetch the horses and cows. Sometimes when I come back after this he is up, and also sometimes he is still asleep. Two or three mornings last week I had cooked the breakfast – steak – laid the table and even poured out the tea before he arose.
I received a letter from Miss Rowlands yesterday morning. She wants to know what day and what train I shall arrive at Mandurama by, and how long I expect to stay there. I don’t know what to say in reply to the latter question, as I have no idea myself. After writing very nearly one page of ‘nothing’, I must now proceed to go and start work. We worked all yesterday afternoon and shall be hard at it today, sewing up and stacking wheat bags in the blazing sun.
Monday, 7 December 1925
I commenced writing after dinner yesterday and, as I stated, I had to go and do some work. So, from 3.30pm to 7.30pm I sewed wheat bags and stacked them. I had a break for ‘afternoon tea’ at 6 .30pm, when I had a mug of tepid water and a couple of biscuits. Oh, this is the life, alright. I was working by myself as the boss went for a drive to ‘Morock’.
Another hot day again, today. Nobody up here seems to remember such a long spell of hot weather. It’s simply killing. As Mr Brown says, ‘This is a black fellow’s country and yet they talk about a “white Australia”’. It is very annoying to think that, while we are sweating away in the blazing sun, three miles away from here there is a black fellow’s camp – ‘Forky Mountain’ – where dozens of blacks laze about doing absolutely nothing and are supported by the government.
I wish I did not get so beastly tired every day and did not feel so ‘done up’ in the evenings. I have only one working shirt, which I tore this afternoon – this means mending it at 4.30am tomorrow morning. I sometimes wish I had the energy to place, in writing, a list or collection of my thoughts during an average day. What I think of people, places, weather conversations etc.
I have just read an article on ‘Science and Religion’ by the Bishop of Durham in the last number of John O’London’s; very interesting it was and it gave me something fresh to think about, but I really haven’t the energy to give my views on this subject.
Now the blessed lamp has gone out, damn it.
Friday, 11 December 1925
Yesterday Mrs Thompson left for Sydney. Mr and Mrs Brown and Clive accompanied her as far as Gunnedah and they returned via Clifton’s, where they stayed for the night. They returned here late this afternoon. While they were away I did all sorts of odd jobs, from moving strainer posts to making wire gates.
Some of the Shakespearian quotations on my calendar have been very appropriate lately. After a hard day’s work and a sleepless night due to the hot weather, I woke up feeling fit for nothing, to find greeting me the words: ‘The best of rest is sleep.’ I felt worried, as I do not know what to do after I leave here and I wondered who I might turn to for advice, when one morning: ‘There is no soul more stronger to direct you than yourself.’ Nearly a month ago, I remember reading: ‘To business that we love we rise betimes and go to’t with delight.’ This is the kind of business that I want to take on as, at present, there is not delight at all in going to work. Again, I see: ‘Your face is as a book where men may read strange matters.’ This I consider, only to a certain extent, true as only some men have the art of accurately reading another’s face. Mr Rowlands is one who delights in judging character from facial expressions.
Tonight I went down to Mr Bearseley’s, who owns a property a couple of miles from here. The rabbits here move in mass formation and are rarely seen in ones or twos. He, however, practi
ces rather a good stunt. Instead of working during the heat of the day, he rests, and in the evening he starts up his tractor, on which he has powerful headlights fitted, and works into the night. Of course, he is not always able to do this as on such jobs as harvesting it is advisable to work during the day as well as part of the night, but for ploughing and following – which operations occur during the hottest part of the year – this stunt is quite successful.
Lights out – so now it’s time to go off to bed. My bed, by the way, has not been made for four or five days. I don’t get time to do it myself and nobody else does it, it just remains unmade.
I have been here four months and, so far, have only drawn one pound. This is fairly steady living and now, in order to try and save a few shillings, I have given up smoking. How long for I have not yet decided, most likely until tomorrow night when I hope to be in town and shall have the opportunity of buying some tobacco.
Sunday, 13 December 1925
As regards the last sentence, since Saturday is now come and past, I might add that I did go into Coona and that I did not buy anything. So, you can see, I really am saving up to come home.
Yesterday afternoon I stayed in by myself and read Rookery Nook by Ben Travers (and published by The Bodley Head). I enjoyed it very much. The whole story, which occupies over 300 pages, chronicles the events and happenings of a certain family, plus their friends and relations, during the space of roughly thirty-six hours.
There is something about the atmosphere of this place that is not at all conducive to writing, perhaps it is that everything is plain and bare – nothing at all romantic about the place. Here, we have stern reality. A mouse is a mouse, not a ‘wee sleekit cow’rin tim’rous beastie’. A bird is a bird, not a ‘blithe spirit’. Here there is no ‘breezy call of incense-breathing Morn’.
One night, about a month ago, while I was bringing back the herd I witnessed a very curious sight. Although the sun was setting, it was not that that was so beautiful but the effect of the rays of the departing sun on the clouds in the east. It looked as if a gigantic explosion had occurred in that direction, the clouds were in a semi-circular formation and the fringe was all of billowy white clouds. Towards the centre it grew darker and darker till, low down on the horizon, it appeared quite black. Out of this formation a solitary cloud drew apart from the rest. It assumed, in almost perfect proportions, the shape of England and it gradually floated on until the sun, having departed, everything became dull and grey.
And I went on my way, thinking.
Mrs Thompson, whom I might even yet chauffeur, was in many ways a queer sort of a customer. In some ways she was terribly fussy. She liked her tea to be the second cup poured out of the pot, weak but not too weak. It had to be a certain make of tea and she insisted on having boiling milk – even on the hottest of hot days this milk had to be specially boiled for her. And as regards sugar, she would place in first a half spoonful and then a quarter. Then she would either let it stand until it was drinkably cool or else cool it with cold milk. Her memory was shocking and sometimes it took me all my time to prevent myself laughing at her. Typical conversation:
When I was in town I met Mr, er, what’s his name? Er, um, you know, Arne (ie. Mr Brown), you saw him talking to me outside whatyoumecallit’s place. You know, surely you know, you were talking to Mr, er, Thingamebob from er, where is it? Of, you know, down south. No, not south, north. Is it north, Arne? Or is it south? He lives close to the place that Mr Whatshisname used to live. Oh, you know him, he used to go to school with, er, Henry. No, not Henry, who was it? Arthur? No, not Arthur …
and so on, for a considerable period, until she had forgotten all about how it started. Poor old Mrs Thompson, she’s so particular about being in plenty of time for everything that I am sure she will be waiting for death long before her time is up, and as soon as she crosses over she will make a dash for old Charron and try to secure a seat in the ferry boat.
In the front section, on the driver’s side of most side curtains on a car, there is a small aperture with a loose flap, this being for the driver if he wishes to place his hand outside the car, signalling when turning, stopping etc. Mrs Thompson one day asked Mr Brown what this was for. He replied it was for the driver to expectorate out of. ‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘they don’t allow you much room.’ And, after a pause, ‘Why isn’t there one my side?’
Again, in Brisbane one night before dinner Mr Brown had a cocktail, all complete with ‘cherry and toothpick’, and Mrs Thompson wanted to know why they provided such small straws. I think she knows less than she thinks she does. She argued the point with me once as to whether grape vines had flowers or not. In the end, for the sake of peace, I assured her that vines never had, and never will have, anything which has the slightest resemblance to a flower and that the grapes ‘just come’.
I think you would smile if you were to see me while I am writing. Rain having come at last, it is very cold and instead of the solitary shirt and pants I have been in the habit of wearing I am now arranged in such extras as sweater, coat and a rug over my knees as I sit on the edge of the bed, writing. In various positions on the floor and bed are scattered a copy of John O’London’s Weekly, the Golden Treasury, The Professor at the Breakfast Table, Benham’s New Book of Quotations and the Concise Oxford Dictionary. I appear to be reading them all at once, as well as occasionally scribbling down a few remarks here.
I remember, shortly after the war was over, some person or persons from America presented one of our political leaders with a cabinet of cigars and the rumour was circulated that the individual concerned had decided to burn the lot, but a rider was added in the shape of ‘one at a time’. Now I have just come across the same story in The Professor at the Breakfast Table. The young fellow, John, says that sometimes he has ‘got tired of his cigars and burnt ‘em all up’. The Model wishes that all men would do the same and mentions that she would like to burn them ‘all in a heap out in the yard’. ‘That a’n’t my way,’ said the young fellow John, ‘I burn ‘em one ’t time – little end in my mouth and big end outside.’
This has been a very peaceful day. With the exception of the usual odd jobs I have had no work to do. The kids have been reasonably good and the weather cool. I wouldn’t like to go so far as to say that I have enjoyed today, for most of the time I have been by myself and I cannot really enjoy life in this state. But I would rather read and write by myself than sew up wheat bags in the same state as I was doing last Sunday. But, unfortunately, no inspirations have come to me today. Still, I think in some ways I shall be able to write more about ‘Bective’ when I am at ‘Millamolong’ – or elsewhere.
Last night, Miss Herbert came to tea. She is from London and is here as a ‘school marm’. For her it is really an educational tour, she stays in one town for a few months and then applies to the Department for a change. It is some sort of a scheme and all the States are in favour of it save Queensland. She has been out here just three years and has spent most of her time in Victoria. This week she leaves for a holiday to Brisbane, and then to Mildura where she has a friend. The next post she hopes to occupy is at Broken Hill. She leaves for England sometime next year and anticipates travelling there via New Zealand and Canada. She is a fine type of English womanhood and as she enjoys the life she is leading she should be a great advertisement for Australia when she returns home.
Saturday, 19 December 1925
At the present moment things are very ‘umptedoodledum’, to use an expression Mrs Withers was very fond of. The threads of life that stand for the actions of the Cliftons, the Browns and myself seem inextricable tangled up. Here are a few of the facts or threads.
The Cliftons are in Sydney. The Cliftons, having returned to ‘Hillgrove’, are desirous of visiting ‘Millamolong’ for the purpose of buying some rams and intend to accompany some back on the train. This visit is planned for the first week of the New Year. The Cliftons want Mr Brown to go with them to ‘Millamolong’ and he is anxious to go as he
also wants to purchase some rams. Mrs Brown wants to go down to Sydney on or about the seventh of January. The Brown family want to go for a holiday to Terrigal about the third week in January.
I want to go to ‘Millamolong’ and stay there for a fortnight. Also, Mrs Thompson is making arrangements for ‘our’ motor tour, which will commence in February. So, the Cliftons and Mr Brown want to be at ‘Millamolong’ the same time that I am there. This cannot be, as who will then look after ‘Bective’?
At any rate, I shall have to come back here after Christmas to manage the place while the whole household (Miss Thompson included) go away for a holiday. Needless to mention, I shall have to batch during this period. When they come back I shall be about due to take up my appointment as chauffeur.
Although I intend to go to ‘Millamolong’, I really cannot afford it. The railway fare, second class, will be £4, plus meals on the journey. I only travel second class because there is no third, and if I go I shall have to buy a new pair of shoes (about thirty shillings) and several odds and ends (collars, socks etc.), so the trip will cost me at the very least £8. I must allow a few shillings for presents; I haven’t the cheek to go there for Christmas empty handed.
I have just finished reading The Professor at the Breakfast Table and I consider it one of the best books I have ever read. Oliver Wendell Homes has a most astonishingly clear method of explaining anything. This, I think, is a gem:
It is so hard to prove a negative, that, if a man should assert that the moon was in truth a green cheese, formed by the coagulable substance of the Milky Way, and challenge me to prove the contrary, I might be puzzled. But if he offers to sell me a ton of this lunar cheese, I call on him to prove the truth of the caseous nature of our satellite before I purchase.
Talking of this book reminds me that, a few days ago, I was speaking to a person who informed me that although he had not read The Professor at, he had seen a book, The Aristocrat of the Breakfast Table, which he thought was by the same author.