THE EARLY SETTLERS OF CHINKAPOOK

 

Regular readers will have noticed that I am a bit intrigued by family history, and that the past has something of a grip on me.  Moreover, I recognise that some of my stories are known only to me, and that if I don’t share them they may as well have never happened.  History exists only insofar as it lives in the memory of someone still alive, or as a written record.

 

I was raised and grew up in the Mallee region of north-western Victoria.

My maternal grandparents had been pioneer farmers nearby to the emerging township of Chinkapook, later moving into the town and operating the post office, later again living long years of retirement in the town.  My paternal grandparents had also been pioneer settlers, and farmed a little north of Chinkapook town for some 40 years before being forced off the land by the droughts of the 1940s.  Likewise my parents, who share-farmed for a while at nearby Daytrap.  I lived a mere six years in the Mallee before my family re-located to Melbourne and I became a city boy.  Those few early years are barely remembered, but I have been fortunate in retaining lifetime Chinkapook connections, and have had plenty of opportunities to reinforce early memories. 

 

The dearest of those connections has been with my friend Philip Templeton.  That connection was deep and long, Philip having died only a couple of years ago, at age 93.  Philip was a lifetime resident of Chinkapook, and farmed nearby.  He was a Mallee man through and through; and he remembered it all.  His grandfather had been one of the earliest of the pioneers, pre-dating my grandparents by a decade or more.

 

I have no idea of the provenance of the following memorandum.  It has been in my computer for some years – with the notation “Unknown author, written before 1951”.  That doesn’t make it factual history, but who’s complaining after all this time?  A few years ago I showed it to Philip Templeton, and asked him to add any thoughts and recollections,  and memories absorbed from his parents and grandparents.  This he did, and I have included Philip’s contributions in italics.   And I have included some observation of my own; and made a few editorial amendments.

 

*******************

The Chinkapook district lies in the Eureka parish, which was the old Eureka Station.  In 1898 the government had thrown open the area for selection and settlement; and so passed another of the squatters, in this case a Mr. Anderson.

 

GA: I have been unable to ascertain when Anderson (or his forebears) squatted on the area known as Eureka Station, but by 1898 he was dispossessed by the government in furtherance of a “closer settlement” policy.  In pursuit of that policy the allocation of one square mile to each applicant brought population and communities to the Mallee – families, schools, townships, transport infrastructure.

 

PKT:  Grandfather Templeton selected land in 1898, and came back a couple of years later to commence land clearing.

 

After the government had sub-divided the Eureka Station one of the first settlers was Mr. J. Neilson, the father of the late poet, John Shaw Neilson.  It is interesting to note that the well-known poet resided here for one year, during which time some of his best poetry was written.  Other early settlers were Messrs. W. Tynan, A. Templeton, Castle and Fitzgerald.  [GA: The “back street” in Chinkapook, Neilson Street, is named for Shaw Neilson.]

 

GA:  In 1968 a slim biography of Shaw Neilson by H.J. Oliver was published in the Australian Writers and their Work series – confirming that Neilson’s father took up land in 1900, and was joined by the uneducated younger Neilson in 1902. 

The economic situation at the Neilson allotment (and later on a block near Waitchie) was dire, and Shaw Neilson eked an existence clearing Mallee scrub, and cleaning wheat.  All the time his eyesight was deteriorating; but not sufficiently to prevent him from writing his poetry by candlelight.  In his Introduction to The Poems of Shaw Neilson 

(1965, revised and enlarged edition 1973) A.R. Chisholm is effusive: “Among our Australian poets Shaw Neilson is, I think, the sweetest singer, whatever defects his verses may have; and these defects are too numerous to be overlooked.  His metre sometimes degenerates into jingle; certain poems lack the scrupulous revision that is indispensable for any form of literary work; he has occasional grammatical lapses, and falls back too often on “do” or “did”, plus an infinitive, to eke out his metre; his abuse of internal rhymes smacks of the balladists at their worst.  But none of these defects take away from the fact that he has written some imperishable masterpieces, and that throughout his work there is a sincerity, a deep humanity, a sympathy for all forms of life – even the humblest – that endear him to any lovers of poetry.  Once read Shaw Neilson, and you are his captive.

When the first settlers arrived the land was covered with dense Mallee scrub which had to be rolled and burnt before wheat could be sown. 

In the early days wheat was carted for 30 miles over a rough track to Sea Lake.  Bullock teams were used. 

The average, about six trips per harvest season.  Stores and mail were brought home on return trips.  

 

PKT: Ripe wheat can stay unharvested for months without spoiling – provided it doesn’t suffer storm or rain damage.  In early times the harvest could take many weeks to complete, so six trips to Sea Lake makes sense, a week apart.   These days the harvest is typically completed by the start of December, but through most of the Mallee’s history the farmers were “laughing” if they’d finished by Christmas.

 

Another of their hardships was the water supply, owing to low rainfall and drought periods.  This presented a very serious problem as the catchment dams were the only means of conserving water for stock.  Fortunately, Messrs. Hender and Henderson of Nandaly discovered a natural fresh water drainage, The Soaks, while droving stock to the Murray River for water.

 

GA: The Soaks were/are near the northern edge of Lake Tyrell – which, itself, is salt.

 

Often water could be obtained by sinking a shallow well.  The Soaks gets its name because after each drinking period there was not much water left in the well, but by the next drinking period they would be full.  

 

PKT: Not so “shallow” – more like five to six feet deep.  The so-called “drinking period” represented the time it would take for the Soaks wells to re-fill after water had been extracted.  The settlers had tanks fitted to sleds or drays, and typically filled up twice a week.  The Soaks were “buggered” by the droughts of the 1940s.  Three to four feet of sand drifted across the area, and the water was gone!

 

 GA:  Philip gave no explanation as to why the Soaks never re-filled.

 

In 1907-8 new arrivals came.  These included Messrs. E. Joyce [GA: my maternal grandfather, Edward Daly Joyce, known to all as Teddy], T. Wilson, A. Fletcher, J. & H. Sutherland, S. Magee, and P. & J. MacRae.  Not long after his arrival Mr. Joyce opened up the first Post Office, which was called Christmas Tank [GA: at his farm about two kilometres to the north of what was to become the Chinkapook township].  In 1909 the settlement began to progress. 

 

 GA: I have always thought that Fred Andrews, my paternal grandfather, arrived in 1910, or maybe a bit earlier.  The Andrews farm was located a little further north-west from the Joyce farm on what today is known as Christmas Tank Road.

 

The railway line was gradually creeping north, and in 1914 reached Chinkapook, so called because it is 80 feet above sea level.  [GA: A strange piece of information.  Wikipedia advises that the meaning of the place name Chinkapook is uncertain, although clearly aboriginal.  The name is variously said to mean “foot”, “red pool” or “red ochre”.  The roadside sign on the edge of town says “The Place of Red Earth”.  No mention of elevation.] 

 Now, the settlement went ahead and more settlers moved in, the main occupations still being wheat and sheep grazing.

 

In 1913 the State Rivers and Water Supply Commission had put down big catchment dams, and channels were gradually made throughout the district, the water mainly coming from Warangah Basin and Lake Lonsdale. 

 

PKT: The government catchment dams were an extension of the run-off dams that the settlers had dug from the outset.  They were superseded when the gravitation channel system was completed in the late teens and early twenties of the Twentieth Century.  Each farm had a dam connected to the channel.  The system was not for irrigation, simply for stock and domestic water.

 

By 1930 Chinkapook had a big depression, caused by the World depression that began in 1929 and lasted till 1937.  In 1939 came the World War which took many young men away.  Two of them, T. Waldron and G. Hancock, did not return.

 

The township was thriving well and had one bank, two stores

two fruit shops, a boarding house, wine saloon, garage, butcher, saddler, baker and blacksmith.  During the war the butcher shop closed and the bank moved to Manangatang.  Other businesses closed too, and at least one building was moved out of the township.  

 

PKT: The wine saloon and billiard parlour (known as “the pinky joint”) was bought for a home by a farmer at Chillingollah, and re-located.  It later burned down.  The billiard table was bought by a resident of Manangatang.

 

The silo was built in 1943.  In 1947 the schoolchildren began travelling to Manangatang Consolidated School.  [GA:  Which I was already attending, having for a year or so been bussed from nearby Daytrap, where my folks were share farmers.  The one-teacher one-room Daytrap School, as with all the small rural schoolhouses in the district, was in 1946 "consolidated" into the Manangatang township school, and students thereafter bussed.  My daily one mile walk to school was replaced by a one mile walk to the bus.]

 

Most of the early settlers have passed on, but Mr. and Mrs. Joyce and Messrs. J. & H. Sutherland are still living in Chinkapook, all being a great age.

 

GA: There is no tidy way in which to conclude this reminiscence of early times. Chinkapook to-day has fewer than ten permanent residents and fewer still habitable buildings.  Its decline has been long but inexorable.  The Catholic Church was deconsecrated and the building sold and removed long ago (although the little Uniting Church, long abandoned, may be about to be resurrected, albeit not as a place of worship). 

More efficient farming techniques have led to consolidations and larger farm properties; and, inevitably, fewer on-farm inhabitants.  There are fewer children, and no need for local schools. The improved roads and means of motor transport have seen the end of small-town shops and services.  The moving finger has written, and moved on.

 

 

Gary Andrews

 

 

SATURDAY BREAKFAST #31: SANDRINGHAM STATION PRECINCT

Visited 6 October, 2012 and 16 November, 2022

 

You are reading correctly.  We traversed this busy precinct a decade ago, but at the time my scratchy notes failed to coalesce into a blog; and recently, when about to turf those notes (and notes referencing several other breakfast excursions that have faded into irrelevance), we decided that Sandringham might repay another visit.

 

This time breakfast was at Port of Call in Bay Road, a very acceptable eatery, with quality Bircher – and of such sufficiency that a take-away box was scrounged for a later snack.  This was not the place where we’d eaten previously - and to our surprise we later rediscovered the Limoncello Café in nearby Station Street.  It was surprise enough that the place still existed a decade on, but the real surprise was that the décor had changed not a whit.  We didn’t sit down for another breakfast, but we did order takeaway coffees, and this enabled us to have a good squiz. Here is my note from ten years ago: “Drab interior and décor belied the splendid food and coffee.  Dark brown vinyl bench seat with high back along one entire wall.  Wooden ceiling, cinnamon colour.  Bagged brick walls, painted beige - so no splash of colour or relief from drab.”  My ten-year-old description of today’s décor was creepily accurate – which makes me regret that we hadn’t eaten there this morning, and partaken from the fare - also, hopefully, locked in its time warp: “Bircher excellent.  Porridge possibly the best ever, very loose with milk folded through.  Both dishes served with small dish of stewed apple/rhubarb compote.”

 

So much for the breakfast.  Do the environs of the Sandringham station precinct offer something of greater moment and diversion?  For starters, I needed to follow up an incomplete note from ten years ago: “Query war memorial in the foreshore park.  Odd design.” 

 

Odd design indeed.  It is not a war memorial, it’s a bandstand.  Trawl the internet and you will discover numerous pictures of bandstands – ornate, always round, elevated a little, frequently having seen better days – but you will find no other like the Sandringham Bandstand.

You can see what I mean – to my imagination, shaped  more like one of the invading Martian machines from War of the Worlds.

 

The upper level is where the band assembles, and plays; but the lower level is of no function except to provide shelter….although, as if to incorporate a bonus utilitarian feature, a drinking fountain has been installed in that underneath space.  And, while the underneath might provide shelter (although giving no view of the band above), the recital space itself most certainly would not provide shelter on a wet and windy day.  The roof, even with its generous overhang, is so far above the performing deck that the elements would beat in, unimpeded - although, on reflection, that must be a feature of bandstands everywhere!

 

The unconventional design of the Sandringham Bandstand triggers echoes of the architectural debate about “form” and “function”.  The late nineteenth century Chicago architect, Louis Sullivan, was one of the early proponents of the design principle that "form should follow function" – rather than the other way around.  Once the intended function of the structure is established the form that the building takes should serve that intended function.  Office blocks and apartment buildings are examples of function first.   And so are power stations and chemical plants.  A not so happy example of the opposite is Jorn Utzon’s Sydney Opera House, where the form of the structure came first, and its function as an opera house and concert hall had to be integrated as best as possible into that form.  Only now, after two generations, is the interior (function) being rejigged better to fit within the building’s spectacular external form.  This is not to denigrate the work of art that is the Opera House, merely to illustrate the architectural maxim……..and to query the relevance of that maxim to the Sandringham Bandstand.  Hard to tell.  Clearly the structure has every feature required for a functioning performance space, and these features could have been provided in a more conventional structure; but, at the same time, the form of the building has a difference, a modernity, a 1926 bling that in no way detracts from its function as a bandstand.  Best of both worlds; and who cares what came first in the mind of the architect?

 

From the Sandringham & District Historical Society website:  “The Sandringham Band Rotunda……was erected in 1926 to replace the original Rotunda on the same site built in 1908.  The present Rotunda contains a drinking fountain that was a gift to the people of Sandringham from Dr. Thomas Garnet Leary…….The Rotunda was designed by Sandringham’s first City Engineer, who pioneered the use of reinforced concrete for all types of construction.  It was a big project in 1926 and, when completed, band recitals became a popular feature on Sunday afternoons during the summer months.  The 46^th Battalion Brass Band and the Sandringham Boys’ Band were regular performers.” 

 

I don’t know whether the 46th Battalion Brass Band was in existence from the inception of the 46^th Battalion itself (a.k.a. The Brighton Rifles) but the band is long gone, and I suppose it didn’t outlast the Battalion.  The 46^th Battalion was raised as an infantry unit in 1916, served on the Western Front, and was disbanded in 1919.  Revived in 1921 as a unit in the Citizen Forces it became part of the Militia in 1929.  In the early stages of the Second World War the 46^th Battalion was deployed for defensive duties, and for training; and in 1942 was amalgamated with the 29^th Battalion.  The combined Battalion served in New Guinea and in New Britain, but was disbanded in 1946.  If the Battalion Brass Band had survived throughout the War it most certainly would not have survived the disbanding of the Battalion.  I can find no reference to the Band on the Australian War Memorial website.

 

Nearby to the Bandstand is an information board with more to say:  “Built in 1926 the Sandringham Band Rotunda could accommodate 25 musicians on the upper level……Throughout the late 1920s and 1930s, brass bands would play regularly on Sunday afternoons, drawing large crowds.  By the early 1980s, Council became concerned with the deterioration of the Rotunda and considered demolition.  At this point, the then Mayor argued that every city had its icon: Paris had the Eiffel Tower, and Sandringham had the Rotunda, which should be repaired and remain on the cliff top.  The State Government contributed $2500, while Council and others worked to raise several thousand dollars toward the cost of refurbishment.”  Although no doubt helpful as a record of the Bandstand’s history the inclusion on the information board of the Mayor's comparison between the Rotunda and the Eiffel Tower is an absurdity.

 

Despite the 1980s refurbishment, the Bandstand today seems to have no function other than to host yoga and meditation groups, and to provide drinking water for the tired and oppressed, and their dogs.

 

And what of the Sandringham Boys’ Band, which on the evidence of  today’s written record may as well never have existed?  The omniscient World Wide Web is silent – except for one passing reference…….and, by way of postscript, I’m happy to share the story that popped up when I was searching for information about the Band.  It is a sobering report from the 31 May 1926 edition of the Melbourne Argus, headed Brave Bank Teller: “In memory of Mr William Charles Almeida, the young teller [aged 22] in charge of the Hampton branch of the Commercial Bank of Australia, who was mortally wounded by bank robbers on November 28, 1924, an elaborate granite drinking fountain has been erected at Hampton by the Bank Officials Association.  The memorial……bears the following inscription – ‘In memory of William Charles Almeida…….who nobly gave his life in defence of his trust…….’.  There was a large attendance and the Sandringham Boys’ Band played……..Mr. Gullett [MHR, later Sir Henry] said that Mr Almeida’s act was one of supreme personal courage.  No memorial was needed to perpetuate his memory, but it was fitting that tradition should be followed…….members of the public in all parts of Australia had contributed….and two scholarships were endowed…….Mr Almeida was foully and wantonly shot down, it was one of the most brutal, deliberate murders in the history of Australian crime [by two members of the notorious Squizzy Taylor gang].  After he had been fatally wounded he seized a revolver, chased one of the robbers, captured him, and handed him over to custody before he collapsed into unconsciousness [and died the next day]…….. Mr Almeida had bequeathed a splendid example to Australian manhood – so long as there were men like him Australia would be safe.  The gathering that day met to honour his memory in sorrow, but with deep pride.  Mr Almeida was a gallant citizen.”  A solemn occasion for all but, in particular, for the young members of the Sandringham Boys' Band.

 

Gary Andrews

 

 

 

LETTER FROM GORDON ANDREWS TO HIS MOTHER

 

IT IS MAY 1946.  YEARS OF DROUGHT HAD FORCED FRED AND MARGARET ANDREWS OFF THE WHEAT FARM THEY HAD PIONEERED NEARLY 40 YEARS EARLIER NEAR CHINKAPOOK IN VICTORIA’S MALLEE COUNTRY SOME 250 MILES FROM MELBOURNE.   “THE BANK” HAD FORECLOSED ON THEIR PROPERTY.  MEANWHILE SON GORDON (AGE 32) AND HIS WIFE, GLORIA, HAD BEEN SHAREFARMING NEARBY, AND SUFFERING SIMILAR PRIVATION.  DROUGHT AND DEBT HAD FORCED THEM TO LEAVE, AND TO CONTEMPLATE A NEW LIFE IN MELBOURNE.  ONE OF THE FINAL ACTS: A CLEARANCE SALE OF THEIR MEAGRE CHATTELS.  CLEARANCE SALES CAN BE DESPERATE AFFAIRS, ESPECIALLY WHEN BUYERS KNOW THAT THE SELLERS ARE ON THE ROPES, BUT IT HAD RECENTLY RAINED, AND THERE WAS AN EXPECTATION THAT THE DROUGHT HAD BROKEN.  SO THE CROWD WAS SUFFUSED WITH AN ELEMENT OF NEIGHBOURLY GOODWILL TOWARDS THE VENDORS – BORN AND BRED LOCALS.  THE CLEARANCE SALE WAS “A SUCCESS” FOR THE YOUNG COUPLE.

 

MARGARET ANDREWS, GORDON’S MOTHER, HAD ALREADY MOVED TO MELBOURNE.  FRED ANDREWS, GORDON’S FATHER, WENT TO LIVE FOR A WHILE WITH HIS BROTHER, JIM, IN NEARBY MANANGATANG [KNOWN COLLOQUIALLY AS MANANG].

 

WHAT FOLLOWS IS GORDON’S LETTER TO HIS MOTHER TELLING THE OUTCOME OF THE CLEARANCE SALE.

 

Chinkapook

Sunday

 

Dear Mother,

 

Just a short note to let you know how things are going up here.

 

Well the sale is over, and the excitement has died down.  I certainly had a wonderful sale – everyone is talking about it.  Everything sold much better than I expected, the day was nice, and there was a terrible big crowd from far and near.  I will tell you a few prices to give you an idea.  Tractor 470 pds went to Mildura, Tess [ancient Dodge car] 90 pds, Lofty [horse] 32 pds, Bess [horse] 33 pds, pony 20 pds.  Horses averaged over 21 pds for the twelve.  Harvesters 65 pds & 12 pds 10 shillings & 3 pds.  Combines 31 pds & 5 pds.  Tank from the camp 9 pds 5 shillings, stand 1 pound 5 shillings.  Yellow cow 15 pds, black 12 pds, big heifer 12 pds, Star 11 pds.  Old Girl’s calf 10 pds, poddy 4 pds 10 shillings.  Cattle averaged over 10 pds for eight.  Scarifier 29 pds, cart 15 pds, gig 3 pds.  Bath heater 3 pds, Glory’s old bedroom suite 15 pds, lamps about 3 pds each, wireless 29 pds, dining room carpet square 8 pds.  Fowls 7 shillings and 8 pence per head.  Waggon 5 pds, stripper 21 pds, binder 8 pds.  

 

The sale realized 1522 pds out of which I have to pay 150 pds on the tractor, and about 100 pds for commission including after paying expenses up here.

 

I have been to Manang today and collected 1000 pds on account of sale, but haven’t had a final settling up yet.  I fought the final round with Cameron [the despised Commercial Bank of Australia bank manager] today (I hope).  If you heard a ticking noise down there it was my brain working.  It has been a battle of wits for the last month, but I think I hit him for six today, and I don’t think he will come up fighting any more.

 

He also gave me a document for you to sign, similar to the one he has already sent you [re the foreclosure on the parents' farm].  The one you have already got is no good, and it doesn’t matter about it if you haven’t already done so.  But he wants you to sign this one.  Dad signed his today, and I don’t think you have anything to gain by not signing this one as he [he, the bank manager] can’t now claim on stock and plant.

 

I don’t think I will be able to get down Sunday night as I have a power of business to attend to.  I have to go to Manang again, and Swan Hill, and have a lot of work out on the farm to straighten out things.  So don’t expect me until you see me, but I will try and get down on Tuesday if possible.  The boss [Gordon often referred to his father, Fred, as “the boss”] has gone up to Manang to stay at Jim’s for a few weeks until we get settled in in town.  I saw him up there today and he seemed quite happy.  He spends a good bit of his time yarning to the old boy that cuts the wood.  He slept in the sleep-out last night and never felt warmer in his life.

 

Well Mum it is nearly midnight and everybody else is in bed long ago, so I think I will draw this to a close.  Wishing you all the best of everything, and all our love for Mother’s Day on Sunday.

 

We received an invitation to the send-off on Saturday night.  [“we” being Gordon, wife Gloria, son Gary aged 6, and newborn daughter Margaret].  I don’t like the idea much but am getting used to these things.

 

Love to all from Gordon

 

Will see you all as soon as possible.

 

GORDON REINVENTED HIMSELF IN THE CITY, AND BECAME A SUCCESSFUL PASTRYCOOK AND SHOPKEEPER IN BRIDGE ROAD, RICHMOND.  THERE WERE TWO MORE CHILDREN.  GORDON DIED IN 1960, AT AGE 45.

Gary Andrews

 

 

 

TRAM CATCHER

 

The American writer, J.D. Salinger, is famous for two things: for writing The Catcher in the Rye, and for being a recluse.  He lived from 1919 to 2010, and published short stories and novels – although, given his long age, his output was sparse.  The Catcher in the Rye was his first novel, and dates from 1951, and it has earned for Salinger enduring fame and respect.

 

As to Salinger’s reclusiveness: in the near sixty years after Catcher, Salinger kept close to his home in New Hampshire (having moved from New York City in 1953).  As early as 1961 he was cover-profiled by TIME magazine as living the life of a recluse.  This is not to say that Salinger lived a hermit’s existence – he had marriages, children, and relationships - merely that he spurned the curiosity of his readers, the press, and the public at large.  He rejected numerous overtures for the rights to film Catcher.

 

The Catcher in the Rye recounts two days in the life of Holden Caulfield, a discontented 16-year-old senior student – on the loose in New York having been expelled from his elite college prep school for underperforming.  It is written in the first person, and Holden’s interface with the reader is direct and appealing.  From the start the book was a great success and, according to Salinger’s biographer, “became the book all brooding adolescents had to buy, the indispensable manual from which cool styles of disaffection could be borrowed”.  But there were accusations of immorality and perversion, and anti-religious sentiment; and the book was banned in some American schools, and in several countries (including Australia, from 1956 for a year or so). The mindset of the era is betrayed by one angry attack on the book’s “237 instances of 'goddam', 58 uses of 'bastard', 32 'Chrissakes”' and one incident of flatulence”.  I quote from Wikipedia, who note the irony of The Catcher in the Rye as having “the dubious distinction of being at once the most frequently censored book across the nation and the second-most frequently taught novel in public high schools” – the first-most being Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men (also for a time banned in Australia!). 

 

If the mark of a great book is simultaneously to earn the respect of the reviewers and critics, and to attract the attention and devotion of a wide readership, then The Catcher in the Rye is great indeed.  It has sold, we’re told, more than 65 million copies; and the words written about it must be numberless.

 

---------------------

 

 One day in May 1973 I was travelling from the city on an unusually crowded tram, while reading my Penguin edition of The Catcher.  I was distracted and amused by activity around me, so much so that later that evening I penned a short description of the journey and, given what I’d been reading, I wrote that description in what I perceived to be the manner Salinger had used for Holden Caulfield’s ruminations.  I then had the temerity to envisage it in print.  At that time we were blessed to have the weekly, Nation Review [published 1972 to 1981], and I submitted my essay to that journal for publication.  Time proved my wisdom in also sending a stamped return envelope – which was, in due course, used to convey my manuscript back to me, without comment!  I had called it Tram Catcher.

 

There’s a special feeling about a crowded tram - particularly during a train strike.  Well, there I was the other evening, squeezed up tight, with my head on one side trying to read The Catcher in the Rye.  Twenty-year-old modern classic and all that, so how anyone of my age could have escaped reading it till now is a real puzzle, believe me.  Anyway, there I was.

 

The people on the tram were pretty funny.  This group of pimply jerks were horsing around.  One of them raised a laugh when he sat on another one’s knee.  A third one hung out the door, and eventually got down on the running board……..until the conductor yelled out: “Get inside the car.  Get off the goddamned step.”  You can’t blame him for being a bit terse, what with all the extra people, and the trip taking twice as long as usual.  

 

And there was this guy who was a bit of a joker.  Well dressed and all that, but with quite a sense of humour.  Actually, if you want to know the truth, he was one of those people who plays up to an audience.  Boy, I hate that sort of thing.  His audience was mainly two women, middle-aged and plump and all, but sort of chirpy.  One of them had a real belly laugh, but she managed it through clenched teeth.  I’m not kidding.  As the funny man reached his stop he said: “Make way for the pregnant man.”  It wasn’t very funny, but the two women wet themselves.  Then everyone else started laughing too.

 

Mind you, not everybody felt like being amused.  Standing next to me was an older guy who mumbled his destination to the conductor, and was charged a higher fare than he expected.  I saw him blink, then mouth a protest, but the conductor had moved on and it was too late.  You can imagine the guy wasn’t too happy after that. People always get upset when they know they’ve done something stupid, and they usually try to get annoyed with someone else.  Sure enough there was someone else, this little kid about eight years’ old.  His mother had moved inside, but he stayed outside in the smoking compartment.  He really was little too, no height at all.  His head just reached everybody’s groin.  And he was the greatest old fidgeter of all time.  I don’t mind someone who wriggles – I do it myself pretty often - but this sour guy next to me was none too happy.  The kid just couldn’t stand still.  He bumped around, faced every direction in turn, and every time he moved this guy frowned or snorted or something.  I think he was having his feet trodden on.  What was really driving the guy crazy, I guess, is that the kid looked so dopey – all pale, and with thick-lensed glasses.  The poor little kid had nothing going for him, and you had to feel sorry as soon as you looked at him.  You know how it is.  The guy was probably annoyed by the fact that he was more embarrassed to tick the kid off than he was by the kid being a nuisance.

 

Anyway, I was reading the bit where Holden Caulfield has skipped school and has made friends with this lady in the subway.  He’s lying like a real phoney about who he is, and where he’s going, and she asks him how come he’s out and about when school doesn’t break for vacation until later in the week; and he says he has to have this operation.  It isn’t very serious, just a tiny tumour on the brain.  Well, that’s a very funny line, and it just about killed me.  Right at that moment the little kid decided to join his mother inside, and the sour guy muttered under his breath, ‘Thank Christ”.  I gave this almighty guffaw, and the guy thought I was laughing at him, and shot me a filthy look.

 

Looking back, it was a very funny ride.  I think so anyway.  As I said, there’s a special feeling about a crowded tram.

 

Gary Andrews

 

 

THEARTREGOING WHEN YOUNG - PART 8 of 8

42.    Katherine Dunham and Her Company

 

Katharine Dunham was a world famous “modern” dancer, and with her large company she entertained us at the Princess’s Theatre in May 1956.  But the programme notes do get a bit carried away – first the strange proposition: “Katharine Dunham a Dancing Scientist”; then the even stranger exposition: “Is Katharine Dunham’s reputation only the figment of a press agent’s mind?  Is she a ‘cool analytical scientist’, or is she a ‘torrid, sultry performer of hot rhythms?’  Is it authentic?  Is it theatrical?  Scientist or artist, why this tempest raging around Katharine Dunham?”  

 

Indeed, why this strange hype, sounding like a large dose of bullshit?  Anyone reading the programme note would have already bought a ticket, and didn’t need to be gulled.  Alternatively, anyone reading this stuff before buying a ticket would likely have been propelled into second thoughts.

 

Elsewhere, the programme notes detail Dunham’s determination and work ethic: from birth in Chicago, and public school (“where her life was uneventful save for the significant fact that she was elected to the Terpsichorean Club where her natural love of music was encouraged” – ugh!), to university - where her interest in ethnology was fostered.

 

Wikipedia gives us a much more appropriate view of Dunham’s life and career.  “Dunham was an American dancer, choreographer, creator of the Dunham Technique, author, educator, anthropologist, and social activist.  Dunham had one of the most successful dance careers in African-American and European theatre of the 20^thCentury, and directed her own dance company for many years.  She has been called ‘the matriarch and queen mother of black dance’.”  And there’s much more in Dunham’s extensive bio.  

 

Melbourne was privileged to have its visit from Katharine Dunham and her troupe; although not all of her lifetime of achievement had occurred by the time Dunham performed in Melbourne in 1956.  She died in 2006, at age 96, perhaps epitomising the Latin motto, mens sana in corpore sano.

 

43.   The Pleasure of His Company

 

Cornelia Otis Skinner (1899 to 1979), legendary – really legendary - American actress and writer, author of numerous pieces for The New Yorker collected into half-a-dozen or more volumes, and author of the delightful memoir of her post-Sorbonne days travelling Europe, Our Hearts Were Young and Gay - Cornelia Otis Skinner was coming to Melbourne.   Coming to perform in the play in whose authorship she’d collaborated with Samuel Taylor.   Taylor (1912 to 2000), in a long but sparse career wrote screenplays for Sabrina, The Eddie Duchin Story and Vertigo, and wrote stage plays Sabrina Fair and Nina; and also, the comedy The Pleasure of His Company.   Inconsequential stuff, concerning the long-estranged, disinterested, and reprobate father returning for the wedding of his daughter – and causing havoc.  Later, for Hollywood, the parents’ parts were played by Lilli Palmer and Fred Astaire; but in Melbourne, opening July 1960 - and, indeed, for the 474-performance Broadway premiere production in 1959 - the principals were Skinner and Cyril Richard.  Richard had won the Tony for his performance that year.  

 

Born in Sydney, Richard had an illustrious international career – ranging from a London stage debut in 1918 to Mary Martin’s 1954 Broadway production of Peter Pan.  He starred in Hitchcock’s Blackmail in 1929, and in the film version of Terrence Rattigan’s The Winslow Boy in 1948.

 

So, for once, Australia was not having to overpraise a cast of imported second-raters.  

 

From the theatre programme we learn of two prominent night-time venues of the day:  The Bamboo Room at the Chevron Hotel (cnr. Commercial and St Kilda Roads) “Australia’s Leading Hotel”; and The Embers night club in South Yarra, “the most exciting music and food in Melbourne – 5 course dinner 25 shillings ($2.50)”.  [The Embers had recently been re-built after having been “burned to the ground” just after the announcement of the next song, Fire Down Below.  Truth is stranger…..]  And Harry Belafonte is coming to the Palais Theatre on 10 August, 1960.  Pant.       

 

44.    For Amusement Only

 

For Amusement Only was an “intimate review” staged by J.C. Williamson’s at the Comedy Theatre from 28 November, 1958.  The cast of around a dozen included four of Melbourne’s light entertainment luminaries, as it happens two wife and husband teams – Toni Lamond and Frank Sheldon, and Tikki Taylor and John Newman. 

 

Born in 1932 (and with us still), Toni Lamond’s introduction to theatre and entertainment was both genetic and environmental – mother, actress Stella Lamond; step-father, comedian Max Reddy; half-sister Helen Reddy. Her extensive career in music included stints in New York and London, numerous stage shows in Australia, and years of television variety.  Lamond had starred in The Pajama Game before For Amusement Only, and starred in many musicals thereafter.

 

Frank Sheldon’s career was less notable, doubtless foreshortened – after twelve years of marriage - through his death by suicide in 1966.  Tony Sheldon, son of Toni Lamond and Frank Sheldon, has had a formidable career in music theatre.

 

Tikki Taylor and John Newman, too, were a notable Australian theatrical couple, and founded an entertainment dynasty.  Off stage they were married for 57 years, until Taylor’s death in 2011 at age 83.  On stage they performed together not only in The Pajama Game, but also Can-Can and Grab Me a Gondola.  Taylor performed in numerous other musicals, importantly the landmark musicals of the 1950s – South Pacific, Oklahoma, Brigadoon, Song of Norway, and later, Hello Dolly.  And they established Australia’s first theatre restaurant, Tikki and John’s; and subsequently, with the involvement of their sons, Squizzie’s, Crazy Horse, Dracula’s, and others.

 

I remember John Newman as the Master of Ceremonies at the Footlighters’ luncheons which ran for some 25 years – razor-sharp wit, not entirely choir-boy innocent, sartorially elegant; his microphone performance worth the price of the meal!

 

For once, the ever-knowing Wikipedia has let me down – I can find no reference to Newman’s death, and am hopeful that it has not yet occurred.  As recently as March 2020 he self-published his autobiography, Tikki and John: An Entertaining Life.  I am daunted from further enquiry by the fact that “John Newman” brings up 165,000,000 Wikipedia strikes.  

 

45.    The Sophie Tucker Show

 

In later years I have thought of Sophie Tucker as something of a triumph of perseverance over talent.  There seemed (in memory) to be little of “big name” aura – no glamorous good looks, and an unremarkable voice.  But reference to the numerous internet clips evokes something of the star quality that she undoubtedly enjoyed.  Partly, I guess, this was due to her longevity as a performer – she lived to age 80, with her final television appearance a few months prior to her death.   Partly, I think, it was due to the universality of her appeal.  What’s not to love in an aging trouper, still glamming up, and trotting out her hits of sixty years ago?  Well, a lot, really!  But, like an old familiar tune, Sophie Tucker stayed with us in reality as well as in memory.

 

Sophie Tucker’s family migrated to the USA from what is today Ukraine, in 1887.  They settled in Boston for some years, before moving to Hartford in 1893 and establishing a restaurant.  Sophie was born in 1886, and from age nine she was singing to the Hartford customers.  There’s an unattributed quote in Wikipedia that what with the onions and Sophie’s singing there wasn’t a dry eye in the house!  Elopement at age 17 [1903], and the short-lived marriage, led Sophie to New York, and to the adoption of the professional name Tucker.  There was a sparse professional career for a number of years – first theatrical appearance 1907, Ziegfeld Follies in 1909.  In 1910 Tucker recorded Some of These Days on an Edison cylinder.  [When she re-recorded the song on 78 rpm disc in 1926 it became a million seller.]  In 1921 she teamed with pianist Ted Shapiro for a cabaret act, and they performed together for the next 40-plus years.

 

And so it was in Melbourne in June 1962.  There were six supporting acts, including one after interval, hence Sophie Tucker wasn’t on stage for all that long.  But the admiring public were content with her famous songs, and that’s what they got.  Think I’m Living Alone and I Like It, Life Begins at Forty, and My Yiddishe Momme. These three together sum up the Tucker late life schtick – the first two, slightly risqué, suggesting that in maturity she’d shed the shackles of permanent male company, while at the same time welcoming the advances of virile younger lovers.  The third, My Yiddishe Momme, is a sentimental hark back to Tucker’s Jewish background.

 

46.    Maurice Chevalier

 

I conclude this series of reminiscences from my youth with the French singer, Maurice Chevalier.  Sadly, although Chevalier was brought to Melbourne by J.C Williamson’s as a star of the international stage, even in 1960 when he was a mere 71 or 72 I thought he was a has-been.  There were no accompanying acts, and he did the whole show supported by Fred Stammer at the piano.

 

The programme notes swooned that Chevalier would entertain us from a selection of twenty songs, and that although an intermission was “inevitable”, it’s length would be “indeterminate”.  Just what the heck were they trying to say?  That Chevalier was irascible. That he was unreliable?    That he was tired?  That he couldn’t count?

 

Maurice Chevalier was born in Paris in 1888, and from early age made a career as singer and dancer. He won fame performing at the Folies Bergere. Like so many others, his career and life were interrupted by the World War [the First, as it was later to become!] – perhaps providentially interrupted by being captured, spending two years as a German prisoner-of-war, and learning to speak English during his incarceration. Later, when performing in English, he adopted a strong “French” accent, although beyond the spotlight he was apparently accent free, albeit with a hint of American.

 

Chevalier had made a number of films in France during the teens and the twenties of the twentieth century, and made his first Hollywood talkie in 1928.  Romantic lead: can sing, can dance, good looks, has sexy French accent!  In the early ‘30s he was said to be the highest-paid actor in Hollywood.  Urban myth?  I don’t know, but clearly Maurice Chevalier was a big deal back in the day.  Then he returned to his homeland - to cabaret, and to a steady career in film; and it was some 25 years before his resurgent movie career in the USA. That career included two films prior to his visit to Melbourne [Love in the Afternoon (1957) and Gigi (1958)] and one that was likely made, but not yet released before his arrival here [Can-Can (1960)]. 

 

I must say that I have rarely seen such an extensive biography in a theatre programme as the one provided for Maurice Chevalier – hundreds of words detailing a lifetime parade of engagements in cabaret, theatre and film.  There is a quote from the London Observer: “Maurice Chevalier, by filling a theatre continuously with a solo act, has proved himself one of the greatest music-hall artists of the age.  With his superb timing of every word and gesture, his wit, his rhythm, and most engaging personality, he enchants as completely as in his youth.”

 

All this makes my take on Chevalier in Melbourne 1960 sound churlish.  So be it.  The sad truth is that I remember the evening at the Comedy Theatre as the performance of an old man [let me interject that I have nothing against old men per se]: an old man with ill-fitting teeth; a weary old man in a dinner suit, wearing a straw boater, doing a halting soft-shoe shuffle; a sad old man trapped in the time warp of his once-familiar tunes.

 

Gary Andrews

 

 

 

 

MILDURA ARTS CENTRE

 

The Mildura Arts Centre is a diverse cultural precinct near to the Murray River.  It embraces the historic Rio Vista homestead and the attached – literally attached - art gallery and performing arts centre, including a 400-seat theatre.  Plus a sculpture park. 

 

The back story to the Mildura Arts Centre is one of convergence – the juxtaposition of a grand mansion with a significant privately-owned art collection. Then its evolution, with the modern section of the complex focussed on its art collection (and the theatre and the amenities) and the saved and restored mansion able to be viewed virtually intact - a stunning example of synergy.

 

A little bit of pre-history.  A newspaper has been published in Mildura since 1888 – first The Mildura Irrigationist, later The Mildura Cultivator, both weeklies.  In 1920 the Australian Dried Fruits Association conducted a nation-wide competition to select a brand name for Mildura-region dried fruits – the result: Sun-raysed, modified to Sunraysia.  This initiative coincided with a change of newspaper ownership; and the new proprietor changed the paper’s name to The Sunraysia Daily, published thereafter four times a week.  It remains thus today.  There were financial problems, however, and in 1924 the business was bought by three investors, one of them being R.D. Elliott (later a Senator).  [The Lanyon family acquired the Sunraysia Daily business in 1950, and operate it still.]

 

R.D. Elliott died in 1944, and bequeathed his art collection to Mildura City Council on condition that the Council find a suitable place to house it.  That happened in 1950, and that suitable place was the Rio Vista (River View) homestead.

 

The story of Rio Vista’s origins is, in essence, the story of Mildura’s origins.

 

Alfred Deakin was one of the leading statesmen at the time of the federation of the Australian colonies in 1901.  After that federation he served as Australia’s second Prime Minister, from 1903 to 1913.  Prior to his term in Federal Parliament, Deakin had been a long-time member of the Victorian State legislature. 

 In 1884 Deakin had chaired a Royal Commission on water supply; and the next year he led a party to California to investigate irrigation and conservation schemes.  He met the Chaffey brothers, George and William.  Deakin was impressed by the Chaffeys’ achievements; and in 1886 George Chaffey (uninvited) came to what became Mildura to demonstrate the Chaffey methods.  In June of that year Deakin introduced into the Victorian Parliament a bill to promote irrigation.

 

The Chaffey story is colourful beyond the rainbow. George Chaffey (1848 to 1932), described as irrigation pioneer, engineer, inventor and entrepreneur, and William Benjamin Chaffey (1856 to 1926), described as agriculturist and irrigation planner, had been instrumental in successful irrigation projects first in California, later in Canada.  These projects included planned communities, concrete-piped water systems, and electric lighting.  The Chaffey entrepreneurial skills had so impressed Deakin that subsequent to George’s arrival in Victoria, Deakin arranged for 101172 hectares (250000 acres) of crown land to be made available on favourable terms.  William Chaffey sold their Californian interests, and joined brother George.  The Mallee country selected by George Chaffey in 1886 as the Chaffeys’ first irrigation venture comprised a derelict sheep station named Mildura.  [The settlement known today as Mildura was established and surveyed in 1887, with a Post Office in 1888.]

 

The drama and tribulations of subsequent years are detailed in the Chaffey entries in the Australian Dictionary of Biography; suffice to say that George Chaffey returned to the United States in 1897 financially broken – although later reviving his fortunes, and building an engineering career of great moment.  William Chaffey remained in Mildura until his death in 1926, dying a most respected and honoured citizen.

The principal Australian legacies of the Chaffeys are the Sunraysia area, and the city of Mildura……..and William Chaffey’s home, Rio Vista.

 

The term “half-measures” never seems to have entered a Chaffey mindset, and Rio Vista is grand beyond the likely imagination of strangers in a hostile land, or the likely caution of strangers embarking on a costly and high-risk pioneering engineering project.  But nothing ventured…..and the construction of Rio Vista began in 1889.  It remained the family home until the death of William Chaffey’s widow in 1950.  [Chaffey’s first wife, Harriet (Hattie), died in 1889 after the birth of their sixth child; and with his second wife, Heather (also Hattie, married 1891), Chaffey had a further six children.] 

I have extracted descriptions of the house from the pamphlet provided, and these, together with my accompanying photographs, might give a sense of its opulence.  Given that opulence, it is no surprise that construction extended over four years.  What mystifies is that a Mildura architectural firm was in existence when Rio Vista was conceived in 1889 while Mildura itself was barely so. The red gum and Murray pine timbers were sourced from a sawmill at nearby Merbein.  Other timbers:  karri panelling in the upper hallway, jarrah floorboards, cedar doors in the entrance hallway; and the grand staircase of blackwood.

 

 The floor of the entrance hallway is of Italian tessellated tiles.

 

 

The stained-glass windows were made and imported from England.

And pause to admire the following remarkable spaces:

Rio Vista was pretty run down when it was secured by the Mildura City Council for 18000 pounds ($36000) soon after Hattie Chaffey’s death in 1950.  The bequest of the Elliott art collection could be secured at last, and Mildura would have a public art gallery.  Display and viewing conditions were not ideal, however, and it wasn’t until the purpose-built gallery annexe was completed in 1956 that Mildura had a “proper” gallery.  Restoration of Rio Vista has been effected over the years – new ceiling and wallpapers in the adjacent drawing and breakfast rooms in 2006; major conservation of the hallway ceiling and cornices in 2015; reconstruction of the ground floor hallway in 2017.  There is much of the original Rio Vista house and outbuildings that has been re-purposed, built-over or demolished – or not restored.  But what we have is extraordinary - time has proved it to be not a folly, not a vanity, but a treasure for the nation.

For the curious: the fountain in the front lawn is a replica, installed in 1991.   The original fountain was the scene of the drowning of one of the Chaffey children in 1897, and it was then turned off.  In 1936 it was gifted to the people of Mildura to commemorate the 25^th anniversary of the ascension of King George V.  It stands in Deakin Avenue; and the replica is flowing happily, surrounded by the Rio Vista sculpture park.

 

By its own website admission, the Mildura Arts Centre collection is “one of Victoria’s best kept secrets.  The foundation bequest of Senator R.D. Elliott and Mrs. Hilda Elliott includes the largest single collection of paintings by Anglo-Irish artist Sir William Orpen [surely not in the world!]. Visitors are astonished to find a pastel by Edgar Degas, as well as works by Sir Frank Brangwyn and a number of important Australian artists”.  

Despite the gallery's boast there didn’t, to me, seem to be many Orpen paintings on show.  It seems the Orpen paintings are not presently being portrayed as the jewel in the gallery’s crown.  This is not surprising, perhaps, when a bit of research indicates that Orpen’s work has been in and out of favour over the years [he was born 1878, he died 1931].  However, as recently as 2019 a previously unknown portrait by Orpen was valued, on The Antiques Roadshow, at 250000 pounds.   Clearly, no gallery curator would want to vaunt the monetary value of a painting over its artistic merits, but equally clearly an enhanced dollar appraisal can do no harm to the public perception.  One wonders whether the gallery at the Mildura Arts Centre is playing to its strengths!

 

The principal gallery space was showing an assortment of items, including the (few) aforementioned Orpen paintings.  There were a couple of delightful pen and wash on paper works by Daryl Lindsay (one-time Director of the National Gallery of Victoria),

 and a fine portrait of “Billy” Hughes, long-time Federal parliamentarian, including Prime Minister from 1915 to 1923, and general burr under the saddle of Australian politics.  The painting is by Augustus John.  

 

The most interesting exhibition, in the upstairs gallery space, was a group of contemporary works by Valerie Robinson, this exhibition titled Camaldulensis (eucalyptus camaldulensis is the river red gum).   There is a heartfelt description of the riverine environment and vegetation, and the dominant red gum.  “Infinite varieties of marks and textures made by insects, splits, rubbings, hollows, bumps, burrs, seasonal and environmental changes, the bark of this species has provided stimuli and inspiration.”  These were the catalyst for Robinson’s inspiration. “Extracting colour (eco dyeing) from bark, wood, and leaves of Eucalyptus camaldulensis and applying it to paper, cotton and silk fabric” was the outworking of that inspiration. 

 

Valerie Robinson’s works were truly admirable, but there was an unnecessary sour note.  We were forbidden to take photographs, not on the long ago injunction that the artworks would be damaged by flash – what gallery bans digital photography these days? – but because the artist had requested it!

 

Gary Andrews