Outback Penguin: Richard Lane's Barwell Diaries

2015

INTRODUCTION

My father, Richard Grenville Williams Lane, kept a diary that now serves as a priceless bridge between two very different histories: the history of Australian immigration, and the global history of publishing.

Richard Lane’s diary is one of the best records of the ‘Barwell Boys’ child migrant scheme, which, in the 1910s and 1920s, saw thousands of boys travel from England to South Australia to work the land as farm apprentices. The diary describes in fascinating richness what life was like for a boy migrant at that time. The story of the scheme is told not from the perspective of politicians or bureaucratic officialdom, but from the viewpoint of the boys themselves. We hear their voices when they are served unwholesome food on the voyage out, when they fight and barter and swear, when they are dispersed to their placements, and when they try to make the best of what was often a very hard and bleak existence on the land.

The diary is also important because of a remarkable fact: a Barwell Boy subsequently co-founded Penguin Books, the most successful publishing house of the twentieth century, and now a global icon and media powerhouse. As Stuart Kells has shown in Penguin and the Lane Brothers: The Untold Story of a Publishing Revolution, Richard’s experiences in Australia were the crucible in which Penguin’s cheerful philosophy of low-cost, high-quality books was forged. The diary is therefore of worldwide interest.

My father was a careful and candid observer of everyday life in rural South Australia and, later, New South Wales. During his coming of age in Australia, he worked as an apprentice fruitgrower, a track-car driver, a jackaroo and, briefly, a drover. He displayed levels of entrepreneurship and resilience that became a characteristic of all three Lane brothers, Allen, Richard and John. His diary captures the development of his literary taste, his approach to business, his role models and his aspirations in life and in love.

As Kells wrote, Richard Lane became in Australia:

a student of character and a connoisseur of human types. In his migration diary, he created a lively, vivid, observant chronicle of daily life, and an important document of antipodean social history. If Australia was Richard’s coming of age, then his diary was his bildungsroman.

The diary was created as a series of notebooks, which my father filled sequentially and then posted to his family in Bristol. It is a moving experience to handle those notebooks today: a pile of black student exercise books, which an antiquarian bookseller might describe as well used, somewhat battered around the edges, lightly foxed, covers worn and chipped, and with evidence of periodic invasions by silverfish.

When my father’s parents and siblings first received the notebooks in the post, they were equally fascinated and dismayed by their contents. They shared extracts with a journalist at Bristol’s Western Daily Press, who remarked on the novelty of a Bristol boy’s adventures alone in the New World.

A few biographical facts may help the reader as they navigate Richard’s diary and adventures. Samuel and Camilla Williams had four children, Allen, Richard, John and Nora, who were born at tidy three-year intervals. My father was born on 5 July 1905 in Bristol. The family’s cousins were Lanes, Colliholes, Puxleys, Smiths and, in California, Priddys. Richard’s closest boyhood friends were Doug Gael and Doug McMinn. The Williams family home in Cotham Vale Bristol, was called ‘Broomcroft’. Allen and Richard shared the ‘red room’, decorated with red wallpaper.

In 1918 the family experienced a profound piece of serendipity. A distant relative, also called John Lane, called on them and put forward a proposal: if Camilla and Samuel would agree to change Allen’s surname to Lane, then Uncle John Lane would take Allen on as an apprentice at the august publishing house The Bodley Head, which he owned and ran. Obligingly, all the Williamses adopted the Lane surname, and Allen started work in London alongside another young man, Ben Travers, who became a close friend as well as a successful author and farceur. From this unexpected connection to the publishing world, the three Lane brothers would found Penguin Books.

In the meantime, Richard travelled to Australia at the age of seventeen. The origins of the trip were simple. My father yearned for the sort of adventure that his father had experienced in South Africa at the time of the Boer War, and that his grandfather, also named Samuel Williams, had encountered as a Master Mariner, sailing ships such as the Speedwell to exotic ports in India, Siam and Patagonia.

With his friend Doug ‘Mac’ McMinn, my father thought of travelling to the Priddys in California but failed to satisfy the US Immigration Authorities. South Africa and Australia were the next choices. The boys read of the Barwell Scheme in South Australia. For the sum of £10 they could travel to Australia and find work as agricultural apprentices. Over the next few years, Richard got the adventure he was seeking. In spades.

He made the first entry in his diary on 6 September 1922, when he was leaving England on the TSS Bendigo. Over the following four years he filled eight notebooks. When each one was finished he sent it home to Bristol, Samuel, Camilla, Allen, John and Nora read of Richard’s adventures and his observations of rural life in Australia, and looked at the pasted down photographs of their son and brother.

Richard returned to London in 1926, having realised during his stay that he could not envision a life without books. In February 1926 Richard surmised: ‘To be absolutely candid, I am far more interested in books than in rams.’ After a brief stint as a Shakespearean actor in Egypt, he took a position as secretary to A.J.A. Symons at the First Edition Club. He then joined his brothers at The Bodley Head. Recognising the need for books that were accessible to everyone, in 1935 the brothers co-founded Penguin Books, a company and a brand that became one of the most successful in the history of publishing.

Somehow these old diaries have survived countless moves, between houses and between countries. (They even survived a near-fatal encounter with a Red Cross jumble sale.) In the mid-1950s the books returned to Australia – to Templestowe, in Melbourne, where we lived while my father ran Penguin Books Australia. Initially this was to be for a few months only, but as Kells documented in Penguin and the Lane Brothers, that was not the case. Richard’s older brother, Allen, had planned a somewhat different future for him.

My father was an intelligent, well-read, witty and delightfully reserved Englishman. He adored my mother, Betty, who matched him in intelligence and humour. Our house was filled with books. As a child, I loved going into his office and looking at all the treasures in the cupboards: his old naval uniform; a leather bag filled with ancient coins; boxes of letters and diaries from John Lane and his wife, Annie Eichberg; and of course the Barwell diaries. I delved into the notebooks to read of his time in Australia, and looked at the photos of my young and very handsome father.

After the death of my father in 1982 and shortly thereafter my mother, the diaries were again packed up and moved, this time to my home in Hawthorn. They did not see the light of day for thirty years. In 2010 the diaries beckoned again.

I contacted the staff of the State Library of South Australia to see what information it had about the Barwell Scheme, and to offer to share Richard’s diaries with them. They were delighted to be able to study them. I also managed to obtain my father’s records from the South Australian Immigration Department. Those documents were enlightening: it was apparent that my father had a tough time during his farm apprenticeship. The photo I obtained from the Immigration Department on the day the boys arrived in Adelaide, after the four-week trip on the Bendigo, shows a young, fresh-faced boy. By the end of his time in Australia, Richard Lane the man had emerged.

It is a delight to now see my father’s Barwell diaries in print with Professor Geoffrey Blainey’s eloquent introduction, and I am exceptionally grateful to him for his wise words and his interest in the book. Like Penguin and the Lane Brothers, the present book is the result of my daughter Louise and me collaborating with our friends and fellow book-lovers Stuart and Fiona Kells. It was under Fiona’s watchful eye that the newly rendered and edited words painted the evocative picture of my father’s early years in Australia. I am so enormously appreciative of Fiona’s work on these diaries, as whilst some entries have been updated for spelling and grammar, his handwritten words still shine through. All four of us are credited as editors, in recognition of our many hours of joint work, which was characterised by sincere commitment and shared enjoyment. Outback Penguin: Richard Lane’s Barwell Diaries is a fitting tribute to my father and to the other boys who featured in this fascinating part of Australian history.

Elizabeth Lane

November 2015

LONDON TO ADELAIDE

Wednesday, 6 September 1922

Went to London by 1.45. Saw Mrs Brewer in train with her daughter. (Mrs Bowen’s husband in Australian Army.) They got out at Bath and waved until train was out of sight. Empty carriage to London.

Dorothy met me at Paddington. We went to The Bodley Head and met Allen; we all went to Australia House. Allen and I went to The Lady of the Rose and had supper at a Lyons Restaurant. Did not go to bed until after 1 o’clock.

Thursday, 7 September 1922

Allen and I went to St Pancras; met Mac and Stevenson. Went to Tilbury, and went on board by tender. We started soon after 2 o’clock. The boat went around in two or three circles to test compasses etc. For dinner we had mutton, potatoes and beans (butter); for tea, beef, bread and butter and marmalade; for supper, biscuits and cheese. There was no vibration and no heaving. Had a rotten night – eight in a very small cabin with no porthole. Six out of the eight went on deck in pyjamas after 11 o’clock. Very stuffy and an awful din from adjoining cabins. We managed to get Stevenson in our cabin. One chap slept in his shirt. I had rather a bad fit of the blues in the evening. We saw the lighthouses both sides of channel. In the cabin, you could not tell the boat was moving.

Friday, 8 September 1922

A tug came alongside this morning; it took away the man who changed the English cash into Australian, and some letters or something in bags. The ship has commenced to heave but I am still alright. I had a telegram today; it must have come yesterday, but I did not apply for it. There are a lot of kids on board. While I am writing, one is making an awful din.

I cannot see any land while I am writing this, but there is a boat on the horizon. I gave my money to the purser this morning. The sea is lovely and blue now, and there are a lot of white horses (I believe this is the right term) about. We are only allowed on one deck here and I am writing this sitting in a borrowed (by French leave) deck chair. Several people around me are enjoying afternoon tea. They are a very mixed crowd here. The Bendigo is a new boat and this is her maiden voyage. Some say this and others say that it has been used before, as a cargo boat, and that this is her first voyage as a passenger boat; I cannot say which is right yet. I may find out later on.

6.15: I have just been sick – the first time this trip. Let’s hope it will be the last. I stuck up on deck as long as I could and then I went down to the cabin. I had to run the last part and I had not time to switch on the electric light before I was sick; it was about 6 o’clock. The ship is tossing quite well now, only too well. Even though this is only the second day of the trip, I have come across one of the worst evils of this world. I saw three pupils’ playing cards for money; one had lost several shillings. Needless to say, I did not join them. Thank you very much, Father and Mother, for trying to bring me up in the right way.

The babies here are awful; from where I sit I can see over twenty (more than fifteen of them under three years old). One is having a bottle. Why can’t the ship keep still? I shall be jolly glad when we reach Adelaide. I have got another fit of the blues. We had porridge, bacon and sausages, and bread, butter and marmalade for breakfast. For dinner, beef, potatoes and cabbage. I did not have any tea or supper.

Saturday, 9 September 1922

Last night I was dosed by Mrs Petheram; she gave me a mixture of brandy, peppermint and hot water. I had a bit better night last night but it is awful. Eight of us in a cabin a lot smaller than the red room at home – just think of it! The sea is very rough now. We are in the bay. The ship is tossing and pitching terribly. Some water has just splashed up on deck. I am sitting on one of the Petheram’s deck chairs writing this. It is 11 o’clock. I am reading A Cuckoo in the Nest by Ben Travers.

The sea is terribly rough now. We passed a boat just now that was tossing even worse than we were. When the bows went down, the screw was out of water. There is another boat passing now that is rolling equally badly. On the notice board there is a wireless message saying that they have received an S.O.S. signal from a German boat – S/S Hammonia – saying that she is sinking rapidly and that she has 800 passengers on board. The Kinfauns Castle has gone to the rescue and reports that she can manage without any more assistance. The Hammonia was going to Vigo and she was only 100 miles from there. We were quite close to where she sank.

Sunday, 10 September 1922

The sea has calmed down a lot and it is comparatively smooth now. For breakfast we had bacon and eggs, and for dinner, soup, beef (roast), potatoes, beans (butter), plum pudding and custard, and an apple. The tea we have is always terribly strong and the biscuits are not inferior to dog’s biscuits.

Monday, 11 September 1922

There are about eighty pupils on board and we have to attend roll call every morning at 9.30; it is going to start today. It is getting decidedly warm here and in the cabin it is intolerable. There is a life belt for everybody in the cabin, but there is no place to put them. When we arrived they were on the bed or bunk and there they have to remain. They are something after the style of that jacket that Allen and I made out of the corks we collected after the Royal Show; I daresay you remember.

Please excuse the writing as I do all of it sitting in a deck chair and, although comfortable, it is not conducive to good writing. I suppose you saw in the papers about the German boat Hammonia which sank yesterday. I have not yet heard what caused her to sink.

It is rumoured on board that we have two stowaways, that one man is in irons and that it is doubtful if a girl has fallen overboard or not – but I don’t think that either of the latter two is true. I have just been barged by a deck chair. The kids here delight in pushing deck chairs along the deck and barging everybody, accidently of course!

There is also on board a thing called a ‘Sammie car’. It has three wheels and a seat, and is a bit smaller than the average scooter. The owner of this contraption also delights in biffing into people. There are several scooters on board, and quite a number of cats.

The Captain has promised to try and let us have a swimming bath so that we can do some Neptune stunts when we cross the line. We ought to touch the Canary Islands tomorrow. We have had a very good voyage so far (touch wood) and with any luck we ought to arrive before we expected to.

They took out the ‘wanted’ baggage this morning. My trunk was rather badly knocked about and most of the labels were off. I took out my old sports coat – which I am now wearing – and put away the new one.

Tuesday, 12 September 1922

There is a man on board whose name is Tyler. He is going to Australia as a missionary and he is a very decent chap. He is very different from the other clergyman whose name is Father Wigram. His nickname is ‘George Robey’ and he is a scream. There was a concert, or rather two, last night: one on deck and the other in the dining saloon. They were held simultaneously, and after a performer or singer had done his bit in the saloon he would do the same thing up on deck.

The weather is beautiful today and the colours of the sea are indescribable. Last night I watched the phosphorescence of the sea. It was indeed superb. There is one thing that you notice very much in the evening, and that is that there is hardly any twilight. It is quite bright at one moment and, in a few minutes, it is too dark to read or write.

The Petherams are awfully decent to me. They usually have afternoon tea, and some cake and cocoa for supper, and if I am anywhere near they always offer me some. Mrs Petheram treats me exactly as if I were her son.

Wednesday, 13 September 1922

Yesterday afternoon we passed the Canary Islands. The Captain, who is a sport, brought the ship in quite close to the shore. I think the town we saw must have been Las Palmas. The mountains were glorious, both from a distance and from as close as we went in. We went very slowly and so we got quite a good view of the place. I took a couple of photos, but I am very doubtful if they will come out well as the sun was in the wrong quarter.

We are not allowed to go right up in the bows, but yesterday several of us did. The water was the clearest I have ever seen. The ship draws between thirty and thirty-two feet, and when the water was calm you could see the bottom of the boat as clear as if there was not water there. And the colour of the water was exquisite. I saw several flying fish here; they are simply wonderful.

Yesterday’s sunset was the most wonderful sight one could wish to see. The sun set over the hills of Tenerife and the whole sky was one large panorama of wonderful colourings. Had there been perfect quietness I could have written several pages about it, but one has to be in the mood for it and it is almost impossible to express on paper an impression of the atmosphere equal to that which we experienced last night. The whole appearance of the sky changed every second and it would be ridiculous to ask an ineloquent person like myself to attempt to describe the wonderful colours and tones of the ever changing miracle. From the dark, blue-black appearance of the sea close to the ship, to foamy white with patches of light green and azure blue.

Then there was a broad space of another shade of blue, slightly darker, terminating in a perfect line of white where the waves rolled up the beach or struck the projecting rocks. Then, the mountains – every possible shade of grey and black, intermittently dotted with the scarcely visible houses and buildings. The hardest part to describe is the sky, which was not the same for two consecutive minutes. One moment it was a fiery red and the next a wonderful yellow. The light, fleecy clouds, which are usually white, were all tinged with red, and between the streaky red and yellow were wondrous spaces of a beautiful green. Still higher in the heavens were the more common colours of light grey, light blue and dark blue, but no one could call them common in such a wonderful setting. All the colours were in perfect harmony. No artist could paint such a picture, for long before he had finished even one colour the whole scene would have changed, and even though he tried to paint it from memory some of the beauty would invariably be lost. The sight made me instinctively think of you all at home. I am sure you will all see the same sight one day, and I only hope I shall be with you so that we can enjoy it together.

I had a cold bath last night. The taps are so large and the pressure so good that you can have the bath filled with either hot or cold water (salt) in a couple of minutes.

I forgot to mention, in connection with the sunset, that the beauty of the water was greatly enhanced by the golden reflection of the sun on it.

All the cabins in our part of the ship can be knocked down in a few hours and the space used for cargo; this is what they will do at the end of the voyage. The cabins will be erected again when the ship arrives in England. The total number of people on board is 1,241. The passengers number 1,016, of whom 158 are children under twelve years, and the crew number 225. There are fifteen kids under one year old. The Captain’s name is John McInnes Borland and, as his name implies, he is Scotch.

For several hours after leaving Las Palmas one could distinguish a solitary light. It did not flicker like a lighthouse but it shone steadily, a silent testimonial to the wonderful sight we had seen there a few hours before, and then all was dark save the lights on the ship and the phosphorescence of the sea.

Thursday, 14 September 1922

Phew, golly – it is warm this morning. Last night I slept on deck. You would hardly realize what a terrific change this was from a stuffy old hole where you lie, by the hour, sweating streams and longing for sleep, to a mattress on deck with a couple of blankets and a delightfully cool breeze wafting with great celerity upon your fevered brow. At 5 o’clock a steward woke us up and said they wanted to scrub the deck, so we moved to the top of a hatchway. At 6 o’clock the chief steward woke us up and said we all had to go below. You are not allowed to sleep on deck (in your pyjamas) before 10pm and not after 6am.

The crew has been practising life boat drill this morning.

There are hundreds of flying fish about and I have seen several birds today. I saw eleven at one time, and one or two butterflies. We overtook one boat this morning; it was a long way out, but I think it was a cargo boat.

On the notice board there is the news of the last few days; it came by wireless. There is nothing startling – voting in USA, still trouble in Ireland and a lot of other usual news. Some men on board have arranged to have a sweepstake every day on the mileage. I have not gone in for it yet, and I don’t suppose I shall.

I have just had a game of deck quoits with ‘George Robey’ (the parson) and Mr Garvie. Just as I was writing ‘the parson’ in brackets the Very Rev. gentleman walked up behind me and started to talk about the game. I need not say he does not know that his nickname is ‘George Robey’. Mr Garvie is a very decent chap; he is going back to Australia from a tour of the world in which he acted as secretary to a fairly old lady. He is very keen on books and we spend several hours together discussing them.

I have just seen several dolphins; they must have been fairly large fish and they jumped out of the water very gracefully. At present it is raining slightly, but it is nothing to worry about. The sky line is very clear now. The surgeon has a very busy time on this boat. His hours are from 9–9.30am for the crew and from 10–10.30am for the passengers; the rest of the day he walks up and down the deck smoking, and occasionally exchanges a few words with somebody. Today he is dressed in a white drill suit, and he imagines himself somebody.

Friday, 15 September 1922

I slept on deck again last night. There was another beautiful sunset, although I do not think it was quite as good as the last one where it set over Las Palmas. It was very beautiful indeed. It appeared as if the sun was setting over a wonderful mountain, and on the right of the mountain there was a great forest and on the left there was a ruin of a castle with a very realistic forest fire in the distance.

We have just overtaken a ship; several passengers say they think it was a Union Castle boat.

It is terribly hot here in the tropics. Directly you go down for your meals you begin to perspire and long before you have finished you are damp all over. I do not think I will have any tea today, it is really too hot. There are herrings for tea.

Mr Tyler – who is the scoutmaster of a troop of scouts which has been formed on board – takes about a dozen of us for ‘physical jerks’ every morning at 6.30.

Father will remember the man at Taylors, in Baldwin St., making a couple of extra holes in the belt he bought for me. Now both are too big, and at the rate I am going on I shall be able to wind it around myself twice.

I can hardly hold my pen while I am writing because it is so damp through perspiration. The sea is very calm now but the boat is by no means still as regards rolling. It is just like a Turkish bath. I expect Father knows all about it.

Saturday, 16 September 1922

As per usual I slept on deck last night. Every day, and in every respect, it gets hotter and hotter. Yesterday you could get iced water in the main dining saloon. You can bet I had several drinks.

Mr Tyler is going out to Australia with a friend, Mr Tomlins. They are training to be missionaries. They will land at Melbourne and proceed upcountry for a couple of hundred miles to a college.

Sunday, 17 September 1922

There is a beautifully cool breeze here today, as it is a head wind. I expect we shall cross the line tomorrow, but I am afraid the swimming-bath idea has fallen through. At the rate we are going we ought to arrive at Cape Town on Monday 25th instead of Thursday 28th as we were first informed. If we do, I wonder if this will make any difference to the letters we hope to receive there. I hope not.

Monday, 18 September 1922

There was a notice on the board this morning which read: ‘The Bendigo will cross the line at 9.15 this morning.’ Now I have crossed it – I did not see it and I did not feel any bump.

There are some sports on board this morning, but I don’t think I shall enter for any of them. It is really surprising how tired one gets doing nothing. Now, I suppose, the Captain will try some fresh stunts with the clocks. The first day the clocks were put back one hour and every day they are changed every possible way – backwards and forwards, accelerating and decelerating.

There is a great and honourable party on board consisting of nine broad-minded men who call themselves ‘The Intellectuals’. Their names are as follows:

Father Wigram (a Cowley brother) (‘George Robey’)

Mr Tyler (Wat) a theological student

Mr Tomkins (Robin), a theological student

Mr Keith Garvie – this gentleman has been a private secretary, an actor, a dancing instructor, a book traveller, a clerk of works and several other things

Mr Morgan, one of the heads in the Y.M.C.A. – he is supposed to be in charge of us (I call Mr Morgan ‘Runabout’; there is a three-wheeled cycle car called a ‘Morgan Runabout’, so hence his nickname)

Mr McMinn (Mac), a farm apprentice;

Mr Askwith (Bill), a farm apprentice;

Mr Veal (Jim), a farm apprentice;

Mr R.G. Williams Lane (Dick), a farm apprentice and your humble servant.

Tonight I am to open a debate on ‘Sunday Observance’. It is really quite cool here today and there is a very fresh breeze. The sea is very calm. A lot of people have colds, but I have not yet (touch wood).

Tuesday, 19 September 1922

We did not have a debate last night, but instead we had a grand supper party. It consisted of all the Intellectuals except ‘George Robey’. One person brought a cake, another some chocolate biscuits, another plain biscuits, another fancy biscuits, another contributed some lemonade, and another a tin of sweets. When we had finished, some of us began to chuck the tin of sweets from one to the other. It fell several times and every time a few sweets tumbled out. Eventually someone threw it a bit too high and now, I expect, the sharks are enjoying them. I hope they get toothache!

It is very nice this morning, a beautiful breeze and not too hot. I sleep on deck every night now and have a cold bath nearly every day.

One of the pupils has gone mad. He will not sleep on the top bunk, as he is afraid somebody will stab him with a knife. A couple of nights ago he woke everybody in his cabin up and told them the ship was sinking. He then rushed up on deck with a lifesaving jacket on. Last night he prayed aloud for his cabin-mates and blessed them. He has seen ‘Sawbones’ (the doctor) several times, but he does not seem any better. Last night several pupils got drunk with whisky and soda. They are a lot of fools. All the Intellectuals have made a vow not to smoke until they get to Cape Town. Some of the weaker-willed ones have only agreed not to smoke for three days, but liable to extension with notice.

There are three Germans on board; they are all complete with short-cropped hair and spectacles.

Last night Mac and Billie Askwith were sitting on somebody else’s deck chair when, without notice, the canvas split in two. They are now looking out for the owner, to apologize.

Wednesday, 20 September 1922

The mad boy drank some Brilliantine last night, to oil his throat.

Mac and Billie got on very well with the owner of the busted chair. After looking out for the owner for quite a long time they discovered that it was a young girl of about nineteen or twenty. All she said was: ‘Accidents will happen.’

Thursday, 21 September 1922

There is a man on board called Mr Ker. He knows Devonshire very well, and his wife lived at Belstone for several years. Mr Ker gives first-aid classes to about a dozen pupils, three times a week: Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings at 10 o’clock. Most of the Intellectuals attend, including myself. We overtook a boat this afternoon. It was called the Tricolor and was laden with timber. We passed within a quarter of a mile of it.

Friday, 22 September 1922

It is very cold today; I am wearing my overcoat and have a rug. It is very windy and the sea is choppy. I saw an albatross this morning; it was very big. Last night we had a short lecture on South Africa. The lecturer was saying how one day, when they were motoring, the car had broken down miles from anywhere and so they had to spend the night in the car. The mad boy interrupted and said, ‘Yes, but I heard that story somewhere else.’ Also, when the lecturer said he did not know where to begin the mad boy said, ‘I will begin for you, if you like.’

From last night onwards nobody is allowed to sleep on deck. So I had to sleep in the cabin. I did not enjoy it. One man got drunk and wanted to fight the surgeon (‘Sawbones’); he was taken away by four officers and put in irons. There is to be a fancy dress display this evening. A lot of people are busy making preparations.

Saturday, 23 September 1922

We passed a ship this morning about 12 o’clock. The sea is awful; the boat is rolling terribly and I feel fit for nothing. It is terribly rough now and very windy. I feel awful. I don’t think there is much chance of it calming down before we get to Cape Town. I am absolutely fed up with everything. It is about 7 o’clock now and as black as it possibly could be. It is terribly cold. This afternoon I was nearly shivering with an overcoat on and several rugs. We ought to arrive at Cape Town on Tuesday.

Sunday, 24 September 1922

Felt rotten. Very rough. Stayed in bunk till after 2 o’clock. Sick all night.

Monday, 25 September 1922

I feel a lot better this morning. I am afraid we shall not arrive until Wednesday. I have seen several albatrosses; they are very beautiful and weird in their movements. They glide for miles without moving their wings. Sometimes they appear to touch the tops of the waves with the tips of their wings.

Nearly everybody is making a list of the things they intend to purchase at Cape Town.

I did not go down to any of the meals yesterday, but Mrs Petheram brought me up some tea, bread and butter and jam, and the best part of a rock cake. There was only one rock cake per person and so the Petheram family divided their rock cakes up so that I should have a good share. Don’t you think it was jolly decent of them? Mr Garvie came down to my cabin several times. He brought me some pills, which were quite good, and also biscuits and water. Mac offered to do anything he could. He made my bed when the lazy stewards forgot to do so, and offered to bring me in any meal or part of a meal. Also, he brought me a basin when I needed it. So, you can see how everybody did their best for me when I was bad.

I will not say much about Saturday night. I didn’t sleep for more than half an hour the whole night and I was sick at frequent intervals. When I could be sick no longer, I retched. First you would think the ceiling was going to hit your head and then you expected to land on the floor. It was terrible to try and walk up or down steps. Father will tell you what it is like. It is still quite rough, but not half as bad as yesterday or Saturday.

Tuesday, 26 September 1922

There was quite a big concert last night. I came out halfway through, as I was fed up with it. The selections were very bad.

I have just seen the Southern Cross; it was very clear. Venus was showing up very brightly. The moon was marvellously clear; so were all the stars.

Wednesday, 27 September 1922

Whole day at Cape Town. Watched the lights of Cape Town early this morning, about 5.30am.

Thursday, 28 September 1922

We arrived very early yesterday morning. I got up soon after 5 o’clock and even though it was fairly dark I could distinctly see Table Mountain and Lion’s Head. I saw the sun rise; it was very beautiful. The sky was pink in some places, then there was a screen of smoke over C.T., then the blue sea. The Bendigo was at anchor and, as she slewed around, one side was sheltered and the sea was perfectly calm, not a ripple or anything. Then, just before 7 o’clock, the pilot came on board in a tug called the Sleuthhound. Shortly after we started to enter the harbour. There were two other big boats there: the Arundel Castle, a Union Castle boat with four funnels, and the Euripides of the Aberdeen line. While I was watching the boat being made fast, the second steward was walking up and down the deck inquiring after ‘Mr Lane’. I told him that that was my name and he said that the port doctor wanted to see me in the office. (What’s up?) I went there, and the doctor gave me a letter which was as follows:

Cape Town

23 Sept 1922

Dear Mr Lane,

Colonel Beck, who received a letter from your Father, had unfortunately to leave for up country some days ago. He was very sorry to miss the opportunity of seeing you and asked me, as his brother-in-law, to do what I could to introduce Cape Town to you.

The good doctor has promised to take this on board for me and I hope to be on the wharf awaiting a chance of getting into touch with you. If you will hail the most unpresentable looking person you see, no doubt we shall manage to meet. Should this fail however, please ask to be directed to Portswood Road, quite near the docks. After passing through the customs’ gates you will see on the left-hand side, and across the patch of grass, a strange looking house with iron-barred windows. Approach it though the iron gates and ask for me. I believe the Bendigo will stay at Cape Town for twenty-four hours, so you ought to be able to see something of what is properly regarded one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Yours very truly.

G.A. Moore

When I had finished reading the letter the doctor pointed Mr Moore out to me and, as soon as I was able, I went down the gangway and met him. Mr Moore told me that Mr Beck retired at the end of last month and had gone upcountry for a holiday.

We took our places in the train, to take us to the town, but as it did not start right away we got out and took a taxi. This was about 9.30am. We booked two seats for a char-a-banc trip around Table Mountain, which started at 10.30am. I had my hair cut and, after buying a watch-key, it was time to start. We went right along the sea front to Camps Bay and Hout Bay, where we stopped and had some tea at the Beach Hotel. It was very strange to see white sand everywhere instead of the yellowish sands of England. The ride along the seashore was very beautiful. On the left there were hundreds of big, smooth rocks and, in the distance, Table Mountain. On the right there were a lot of bungalows and small houses, then the bays with white sand and the sea. There were hundreds of new and more solid houses on the left of the road. They all had verandahs.

After we had finished our tea at Hout Bay we went for a short walk and were simply pestered by dozens of small black children who wanted to sell us strings of shells. I was quoted two, three and four strings a shilling. I did not buy any as they were very brittle. We came back through the late Cecil Rhodes’ estate. We passed some natives breaking up stones with small hammers. I wonder if Father ever saw any when he was there. The scenery was indescribably lovely. We passed through long avenues of Port Jackson willows in flow. It must have been early spring, as all the oaks were covered with beautiful fresh green leaves and the peach trees were covered with burst and half-burst buds. The vines had been cut-off short and were just sprouting; they were not more than nine inches high and some of them must have been nearly as thick as a broom handle. I saw many fields of them.

I dare say Father has seen them at a more enjoyable time, as regards flavour. A lot of grapes are now dried and sent to England from South Africa. A few weeks ago they were three pounds per shilling, but the cheapest I saw were six shillings per pound. I saw a lot of fields simply covered with lilies, all wild. I bet Nora would have picked a few, if she had been there and had had the time, but I had nowhere to put them and the char-a-banc would not have stopped.

In the Cecil Rhodes’ estate there are a lot of animals in cages: lions, baboons, monkeys, peacocks and a lot of others. Does Father remember the wildebeest? Or for short, ‘gnu’. It is a very fierce animal, about the size of a big goat, and has a head something like a horse. I saw the Rhodes Memorial, right amongst the trees. I expect Father will be pleased to hear that I saw it as I remember him telling me, in Bristol, about it.

I think we passed through Wynberg, but I am not sure. There was a person on the boat called Barge, who lived there. There were three generations: grandmother, mother and daughter. I wonder if Father has ever heard of the name. I believe Mr Barge has something to do with a chutney factory. When we came to the end of the char-a-banc trip we got out and walked to the station where we went to the restaurant and had dinner. It consisted of soup, curried eggs and rice, roast beef, potatoes, jelly and cabbage, fruit salad and junket, toast and butter, dry ginger ale, coffee and Egyptian dates. It was served excellently and quickly; we never had to wait for more than fifteen seconds for anything. It was a topping change after Bendigo dinner. Then Mr Moore introduced me to Mr Kay, who is another brother-in-law of Mr Beck. After making an appointment for tea, we went to the gardens, passing by the Museum and Art Gallery, and Parliament House.

The gardens were lovely. I saw several cacti or cactus plants which were twenty to forty feet high, or at least that is what they looked like. I also saw some beautiful ferns in a glasshouse. The grass in the gardens was very coarse compared with that in England. There was a pond there absolutely full of goldfish. I saw a grey squirrel, and Mr Moore said that they were very warlike and had killed all the brown squirrels. They also do a lot of damage to the crops. I do not like the look of them half so much as the brown squirrel. Then we took a tram and fetched Mr Kay, and went to Cartwrights in Adderley Street and had tea.

Afterwards, Mr Moore bought me some fruit – pineapples were three a shilling; apples from thirty to ten a shilling; oranges from forty to twelve a shilling. There was hardly any fruit in season, but this afternoon I have had apples, oranges, slices of pineapple and a guava. Does Father remember guavas? I expect so.

Then I went to Mr Moore’s house, which is just inside the old convict prison. It has lately been used as a prison for white, young adults from about seventeen to twenty-five years of age, but has just been sold to the S.A.R (South African Railways) and so Mr Moore and family expect to be moved, perhaps to Johannesburg. He has two children, both boys, about seven and eleven years old. They are very decent little boys. I took a photo of Mr and Mrs Moore and, if it comes out, I will send you a print. We then went for a walk along the sea front and took the dog with