by Stuart Kells
Everybody has gone to the pictures (Mr and Mrs and Miss T) and so I am in charge of the three children. If Lloyd wakes, I have to give him a bottle; but so far so good (touch wood!). It is a terribly hot night and the insects are fearful – mosquitoes, beetles, moths, flying ants etc., etc.
On Thursday last, Mr Brown went to ‘Morock’ and did not return until Friday evening. (Oh, x– z– y– the baby’s waking. A sigh – all is still again, at least I hope it is.) And on Thursday afternoon Miss Herbert rode in from town and stayed to tea. Mrs Brown thought she would like to accompany her back to town, and I went to accompany Mrs B back again. In the end, Mr Roy came as well. I opened the first gate, which is a barbed wire one, and left it open as we intended to return the same way and there was no stock about. In getting on my horse again – I was riding the Moke – the stirrup and stirrup leather, or strap, fell off. This made the Moke fidgety and by the time I got off I did not know exactly where I had dropped it (oh golly – another sigh from Lloyd) and, it being a pitch dark night, I could not find it. I tied the horse up and procured a lantern, but met with no better success. Fortunately, I knew where there was an odd stirrup and, after a little search, I also found a strap that fitted it. By this time the rest of the party had gone on. I fixed the stirrup on the saddle and started to mount. Now the Moke, being a bit of a goer, is always a little ‘flash’ and directly you place your foot in the stirrup he is off. On this occasion, he walked on to the barbed wire gate and immediately reared up, pranced about a bit and then tore off at a full gallop in the direction of the river.
The stirrup I had found was a very small one and my foot jammed in it, so when the Moke started off I had one foot in the stirrup, my other foot I could do nothing with and I was leaning right across the saddle holding on to some part of it for all I was worth but, unfortunately, all my weight was on the one side and I thought it inevitable that the saddle would slip around. This would be the finishing touch for the horse and, with my foot jammed, I might have had rather a pleasant time. But before this happened we reached a fence and the Moke planted his four feet down on the ground at the same time and stopped dead. I just sat down on the ground, still holding the bridle. After a bit of a shake to see if everything was all right, I again attempted to mount. The horse’s heart was thumping like an antiquated steam engine and, needless to say, he was not too quiet. However, I was lucky this time and, having mounted, ambled into town, which I reached only about five minutes after the party. Miss Herbert eventually decided to stay the night at ‘Bective’, so, after a cool drink, we all rode back again, reaching the house just before midnight without any further incident.
There is a weed, very prevalent in these parts, called the ‘Darling Pea’ or, commonly, ‘Pea’ which some sheep go mad on and, having acquired a taste or liking for it, will eat nothing else. In time it makes them poor and also very silly. Sheep in this condition are termed ‘Pea struck’. We have a few in a lucerne paddock here. Literally tons of excellent feed there and, yet, they only eat just sufficient to live and they walk about just a bundle of skin and bones. They are practically worthless. Some sheep will feed on land covered with Pea and not look at it; others, as I have aforementioned, go mad on it. Pea-infected country is worth a lot less than country free of it.
Miss Herbert, talking to a sheep man the other day, kept on referring to ‘flea bitten’ sheep. On enquiries being made, it was found that she meant ‘Pea-struck’. This may not amuse you, but to sheep men it is quite funny. It being 10.30pm, I think I will adjourn. So, good night.
‘Millamolong’
Monday, 28 December 1925
Here I am again at what I consider to be one of the finest spots in Australia. I have enjoyed myself far more this Christmas than I have any other since I left home. This, by the way, is the fifth consecutive Christmas that I have spent in a different place. 1921: I was in Bristol; 1922: Moorook; 1923: Renmark; 1924: Adelaide; 1925: ‘Millamolong’; 1926: ? (I am not quite sure yet, possibly back in Bristol again).
I received a very welcome cable this morning: ‘Cabled twenty pounds Bank of New South Wales Best wishes no objection to working passage cable if insufficient, Allen.’
Tuesday, 29 December 1925
I don’t quite know where to start as I have so much to record.
After a week’s ploughing – five horse teams with a four furrow plough, in terribly hot weather, commencing before 6 o’clock in the morning and working on until sunset – I left Coonabarabran last Tuesday morning at 11.45am. It was an exceptionally hot day and I did not have anything to eat from 8am (breakfast) till sandwiches and coffee after 8pm in the evening. Before breakfast, I might mention that I did three hours’ work. Anyhow, I arrived at Mandurama soon after midnight but as I had informed the Rowlands that I should not arrive until 5am there was no-one waiting for me. So I secured a room at the hotel and was soon fast asleep.
About 5.30am the next morning, Mr Munro walked into my room. I could quite easily have embraced him, as he was the best man I had seen since I left here last August. Breakfast at ‘Millamolong’ was by far the most enjoyable meal I had had for four or five months.
On Christmas Eve we had a dinner party, which was great. Everything was fine: company, food, drinks and smokes. Among those present were Mrs T.H. Rowlands, charmingly arrayed in a dark blue dress with lace attached, and Mrs Bob Rowlands, in a pale pink creation with broad blue stripes running north and south. Mrs Yell was daintily dressed in fawn and other colours, and Miss L. Rowlands was daringly covered in a tight-fitting gown of cinnamon and cerise. Individuality was a keynote of Mrs O’Halloran’s dress, which was composed of various hues of violet with occasional stripes of black. Another exceptional costume was that worn by Mrs Johnson, who was exquisitely gowned in black, blue-black, soot black, stygian black and trimmed in other dark colours. Messrs T.H. Rowlands, D.K. Rowlands, R.G. Rowlands, G. Yell, P. O’Halloran, W. Johnson and R.G.W. Lane were all dressed in lounge suits.
To eat, we had – or at least I had – sucking pig, ham and goose, fruit salad, trifle, jelly and ice-cream. And to drink, Claret, fruit cup and Sauternes. To smoke, Abdullas, State Express and cigars. After a most enjoyable evening we gathered together at 11.45pm and, while Auld Lang Syne was played on the gramophone, we drank to each other’s health in sparkling Hock and nibbled small portions of Christmas cake. As the clock struck the hour of midnight, which heralded Christmas Day, Dame Clara Butt sang O Come All Ye Faithful to us through the medium of the gramophone. It was most impressive.
I really am having a most glorious time here.
Wednesday, 30 December 1925
And when I say a glorious time, I mean it. Of course, everybody’s estimation of this term may not be the same. In fact, cannot be the same.
Since I have been here, besides eating drinking and sleeping, I have done several things that some people would regard as work. Yesterday morning I spent in the orchard hoeing out couch grass. During the Xmas festivities I busied myself doing what is technically known as ‘odd jobs’. On Boxing Day I went hoeing and so on, but I enjoyed it all, every minute of it. Coming in yesterday morning, after the gentle exercise aforementioned, Mr Rowlands and I opened a bottle of lager, then to lunch which comprised of duck, vegetables (including French beans, grown on the premises) and a glorious fruit salad. There were also stewed gooseberries but, as I had half a duck, I could not tackle them. ‘The spirit was willing but—’
There have been two great additions to the house since I was last here. One, of course, is the electric light. The best possible plant has been installed here and all the fittings are excellent. I think it cost about £600 to install, so it ought to be good. The new garage is a ‘beaut’. It is, naturally, fitted with electric light, work bench, pit, charging board etc. The engine room, or power house, is just what it should be. The other addition is a wireless set that Mr Munroe has installed – he is a wireless expert and the set is mainly an experimental one. I tuned in to Melbourne last night and got exce
llent results. To get the best results, there are about fifteen adjustable parts to manipulate. I was very pleased to get any results at all.
On Christmas morning, before breakfast, the whole family gathered together in the billiard room where a stack of presents were distributed. I received 100 cigarettes, two ties, a pair of silk socks, a couple of packets of tobacco and a book, Treasure Trove by John O’London. This is a book I have been meaning to buy ever since it was published. And best of all, a couple of hours before I left Coonabarabran I received a letter from Auntie Annie in which a cheque was enclosed. I still have the pleasure of looking forward to some more presents, as Mr Ramsford sent the parcel he brought me from home to Coonabarabran. Oh, that wretched place. I am frightened to say too much about ‘Bective’, as this might get in the hands of the Brown family and that would be beastly awkward.
I am afraid I shall have to go back there, as the boss wants to go for a holiday and he cannot go unless he has somebody to take charge of the place. This means two or three weeks baching for me. It’s terrible to think of going back there after this, even though it will only be for a short while.
Still, the old question crops up about my future. What am I going to do? Several people who know what they are talking about have told me that they do not think I am cut out for the land. Why, they are unable to say. I don’t think that it is because I can’t stand up to hard work, for whatever else my boss can say of me I don’t think he is entitled to call me a slacker. Another thing that I have been informed of recently is that, if I go home, I shall never come out here again. What grounds people may have for making this statement I don’t know.
Mrs Bob Rowlands, who was here for Christmas Day, left on Boxing Day and on the twenty-seventh we received news that the Stork had called and left her a little baby girl.
I was glancing through a pile of Christmas cards sent to the Rowlands family and I was surprised to notice that they came from all quarters of the globe. England, Scotland, Italy, China, South Africa, Buffalo, Los Angeles, Canada, New Zealand, India and all parts of Australia.
‘Bective’, Coonabarabran
Saturday, 9 January 1926
As you see, I am back at ‘Bective’ again. Ye gods. But, to go back to my doings since my last entry. The old year passed out of our lives and the New Year entered, as far as I was concerned, in a very quiet way. I had intended ‘listening in’ to various wireless stunts at 12.00 midnight on the thirty-first of December. At 11pm I went to bed, meaning to rise again at about 11.45pm and tune in, but I fell asleep and did not wake until 1.30am.
Last Monday, Mr Arnold Brown, Roy Brown and Bob Clifton arrived at ‘Millamolong’. On the evening of the same day Mr Rowlands left for ‘Moorne’, a station quite close to here owned by some friends of his, the Grenoshies or some name like that. The place has been badly managed. As a matter of a fact, £45,000 has been spent on improving 3,000 acres. On Tuesday, Mrs Vandershar, a friend of the Rowlands who had been ill for some time, reached a stage when the doctors said she was dying. So after sending various telegrams and a phone message to Mr Rowlands, the Rowlands family went to the hospital to see her. It is rather a sad story, that of Peter and Greta and John, and I sincerely trust and hope that the doctors surmise was incorrect.
On Wednesday morning, Messrs A. Brown, R. Brown, B. Clifton, D. Rowlands and myself went to Lyndhurst where we trucked Mr B. Clifton’s sheep. 318 ewes, and two rams Mr A. Brown had purchased from Mr Rowlands. I was then signed on as drover and took my place in the train. The rest went on by car.
This droving game is not what it is cracked up to be. Sheep trucks are in two sections, top and bottom, and each ‘floor’ holds between fifty and sixty sheep. Now, one of the drovers most important duties is to see that no sheep lie down, for if they do they very soon die.
I will leave the rest for tomorrow, so tired now that I will retire.
Sunday, 10 January 1926
Well, I’m hanged if I know what to do. To stay on here, working as I have to, at one pound a week is not at all in my line. All right for experience, yes, I grant you that. But I want to go home, hang experience. I could obtain a job at ‘Canomodine’, the station I visited while at ‘Millamolong’, at £3.12.0 a week, and have to batch. The job would be thistle or burr cutting – one of the worst of jobs – at the hottest time of the year, and have to do all my own cooking etc. So I am not terribly keen on that. But rather that than this.
The only other alternative I can think of is to come home. I recently wrote to several shipping firms in Sydney asking for particulars of the lowest fare to England. The most promising reply was from Messageries Maritimes, whose boats only go as far as Marseilles. They say that on some of their vessels they carry ’tween deck passengers, in which case the fare, Sydney/Marseilles, would be £22 and from Marseilles to London 292.32 francs, at third class, which, at present rate of exchange, is about £2.5.0. I expect this would be fairly rough, but it would be £15 cheaper than any other line. But the only boat they mention that would carry ’tween deck passengers is the Céphée which does not sail until the twenty-seventh of April, over three months away. Far too long for this impatient soul to wait. Now, what am I to do? Stay here, at one pound a week, until the Céphée sails? Not if I can help it.
But, to get back to the events of last week. I left Lyndhurst station soon after 9am in charge of three truckloads of sheep. The first real stop was at Blayney, where the trucks were shunted on to another train. There were about a dozen sheep down and by the time I had straightened things up the train was beginning to move on, so back I went to the guard’s van. It is not too good a job lifting up sheep that have fallen down, for the trucks are only about two feet six inches high. At Orange, the train had started before I had finished going round the trucks, and the same thing happened at Wellington. I was unable to procure anything to eat, as the Railway Restaurants only open for passenger trains and I did not have time to go into the town. At about 6.30pm, however, we stopped at some small station for about half an hour and, after looking after the sheep, I dashed into the nearest shop and bought some fruit and biscuits.
At Dubbo, I found that the trucks would not be going on until 11.45pm and as it was only 8pm I decided to go to the pictures. It was a hot evening and as they had an open air show there I was only too thankful to be able to sit down quietly for a couple of hours. The picture, The Making of O’Malley, was also quite good. But, unfortunately, my head began to ache and it got worse and worse and, to finish up, I held my head tightly with my two hands and gazed vacantly into space, longing for a bed.
I arrived back at the station about 11pm and tried to doze on one of the station seats. I must have succeeded, to a certain extent, for at 11.30pm a man touched my shoulder and asked me what train I was going by. I replied the 11.45pm to Binnaway. ‘No train there till 5.30am,’ he answered. ‘What about the good’s train?’ I enquired. To which he somewhat startled me by saying that it had just gone out. I looked for the station master and enquired of him if it were true. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘It’s still in the yards.’
A porter showed me the way down to the yards and pointed out to me what he termed a ‘dog box’. And that’s all it was, too. About the same size as an ordinary compartment, but the seats had no padding and there was no light. I laid down on one of the seats with my head resting on my arm and after what seemed hours I again dozed off. The train kept on stopping and starting, and each time I thought my head would have split. At 2 o’clock the guard put his head through the window and asked where I was bound for. ‘Binnaway,’ I replied. And away he went again. I thought I was in for a cold or something worse, as one minute I was feverishly hot and the next shivering and all the time my head was going ‘thump thump’ like a blooming Ford car going slowly in top gear. About 3 o’clock I dozed off and woke up at 4 o’clock. It soon began to get light, so I sat up and had a look around. I was dying for a drink of cold water, but there was no chance of obtaining one until Binnaway was reached. I felt better
than when I had entered the carriage, so, remembering that I still had some fruit left, I rummaged about my pockets and discovered a couple of apples, which I devoured.
By the time Binnaway was reached, I was feeling quite good again; this must have been about 7.30am. Some of the sheep were looking very crook and I had a fair amount of trouble making those that had fallen stand up. They would lie down in the middle of the truck and let the other sheep stand and walk over them without trying to get up. If only they had laid down, or had had the sense to fall down, near the sides they would have got more air and less trampling on. On enquiry, I found that the next train to Ulamambri would leave at 7am the next morning. But, making further enquiries, I discovered that a ‘special’ was leaving at 1pm in the afternoon. Which was quite good news. I strolled into the town and discovered a ‘Dagos’, where I ordered coffee and sandwiches. Afterwards, I sat down on a very cosy and comfortable station bench and read Smith’s Weekly – one of the best of Australian weeklies.
At 1.30pm, after much shunting and general banging about, I started on the last lap of the journey. After proceeding one mile we stopped for two hours to enable ten trucks of ashes to be dumped. To do this, the engine must have started and stopped at least two dozen times. Ulamambri was reached about 4pm (it is only a few miles from Binnaway) and very soon after the trucks had been shunted they were unloaded. Mr Clifton had instructed Mr Dawson, a stock and station agent, to arrange to have his sheep driven to his property, ‘Hillgrove’, twenty miles away; they were to start the next morning. When the agent took them over I had nothing more to do and, having no luggage, I decided to walk to ‘Bective’, about six miles distant ‘as the crows flies’. I arrived here about 6.30pm, and as soon as Mr Brown knew that his rams were at Ulamambri he started off in his car to fetch them. I had a shave, shower and changed and, after a good tea, felt much better.