STATE LIBRARY OF SOUTH AUSTRALIA
J. D. SOMERVILLE ORAL HISTORY
COLLECTION
OH 456/15
Full transcript of an interview with
BILL RESCHKE
on 15 May 1997
by Rob Linn
Recording available on CD
Access for research: Unrestricted
Right to photocopy: Copies may be made for research and study
Right to quote or publish: Publication only with written permission from the
State Library
OH 456/15
BILL RESCHKE
NOTES TO THE TRANSCRIPT
This transcript was donated to the State Library. It was not created by the J.D.
Somerville Oral History Collection and does not necessarily conform to the Somerville
Collection's policies for transcription.
Readers of this oral history transcript should bear in mind that it is a record of the
spoken word and reflects the informal, conversational style that is inherent in such
historical sources. The State Library is not responsible for the factual accuracy of the
interview, nor for the views expressed therein. As with any historical source, these are
for the reader to judge.
This transcript had not been proofread prior to donation to the State Library and has
not yet been proofread since. Researchers are cautioned not to accept the spelling of
proper names and unusual words and can expect to find typographical errors as well.
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TAPE 1 - SIDE A
AUSTRALIA'S RURAL HISTORY PROJECT.
Interview with Bill Reschke at Coromandel Valley on Thursday, 15th May,
1997.
Interviewer: Rob Linn.
Bill, to begin with, where and when were you born?
BR: I was born in Adelaide actually, but only for that period. 1926, on July
28th.
Who were your parents, Bill?
BR: William Robert Murray Reschke and Mary Josephine Mauviel. She was
from the family which ran a property at Wongulla at the mouth of the Marne.
And that was their property for fruit, for mixed farming and for fishing. Very
significant fishing. Bill, my Father, was the son of Elizabeth Reschke and
Frederick Rudolph Carl Reschke. Otherwise known as Rudy. Now, he was
one of a family of seven. They lived in the house that my Mother - well, on
River Lane, number 3. My Father was then working with an engineering firm,
Mason & Cox, and went back soon after I was born to Mannum. So then that
was the beginning of my Mannum career. I was about two and a half when I
took up residence in Mannum.
What are your first memories of the place?
BR: First memories of Mannum that are really firm are - centre around the
steam boats. They were fascinating to me, of course. But particularly the
rowing and the carnival atmosphere that was part of the great regatta series
which extended from Murray Bridge, Mannum and up to Berri and Renmark.
And of course, all the Adelaide clubs came to these. They were tremendous
things. And my earliest memory is of the steamer being tied at the recreation
ground used by Captain Arnold for his entertainment - he was the Patron of the
club - used by him for all the VIP's. And of course, the marvellous pageantry of
the rowing. Wonderful. You know?
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Apart from that, I loved the boats. I learnt to handle a canoe. I learnt to row. I
learnt to handle a boat. All these things were a marvellous interest. Never
bored. The native things of the river came to me through - from both families.
The Wongulla family and my Father's family. They were also part and parcel of
the river.
I suppose the next thing that was very significant to me was the hunting. They
were hunters. They weren't shooters. They weren't sporting shooters. They
were hunters. And they hunted
for food. And they hunted according to a very strict code, which had to be
observed. I think - I don't think, I know - that this passed down from the
European family, because at one stage my sister picked up a lot of data on the
German side in Europe and they turned up a coat of arms, which was a hunting
coat of arms. We've never done anything about it because it's not ours.
(Laughter in voice) But that - I can see that hunting thing - the hunting ethic and it was a true ethic. You took as much game as you could reasonably eat
and you husbanded the rest.
And the fishing. Fishing, of course, was spectacular then. The Mauviel's, they
fished intensively. That, too, was part of a saga, which I was involved with up
until 1947.
Mannum itself, I don't have a great deal of memory of Mannum apart from - my
first years - until probably when I went to school. I can remember quite clearly
after that. But prior to that I was engaged with my Grandfather, my uncles, my
Father and my Mother. And of course the Wongulla family.
Now was it your Grandfather, Rudy, who introduced you to the Aboriginal
people of the area?
BR: Well, that happened naturally. They lived across the river. You could
hear them. They were just across the river. They were always laughing. They
were swimming, splashing about. We were closely watched to make sure we
didn't go to the water unless we were - this is when we were very young. The
river was an enemy in that respect. Learnt canoeing under supervision.
Practised canoeing with others. Jack Trewartha(?), who was the baker's son,
and the others who lived along that road. What was it called? River Lane then.
That was River Lane. The only part we knew was River Lane then. And of
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course, I suppose we naturally went to the Aborigines when we were mobile
with the canoe, with the dinghies. We swam with them. Had competitions
diving for mussels. We could never beat them. But admired them
tremendously actually. It was a matter of envying them many things. (a) it was
their tremendous skills in the water. And these were about the same age as
we were, you know, and just a bit beyond.
Do you remember some of them?
BR: The Masons. Principally the Masons. In fact it was called Henry Mason's
camp. It was directly opposite the bowling - where the bowling green is now.
The other fact, too, which impinged upon us, when we had to go to school,
which we did at the age of four and a half - I remember that quite well - was
that they didn't have to go to school. (Laughter in voice) They didn't have to
go to school. We were really a bit griped about that. (Laughter) We had to
abandon our nothing to do but go on the river. Watch the steam boats. Go out
and make sport in the paddle wash, which was highly dangerous and which got
us into trouble. But still, it was one of the great challenges of our early life was
to survive these things.
Then of course, the Aborigines. I suppose the last memories I have of the
Aborigines in camp must have been in the early 1930's when we had a sailing
boat, and my uncle - I went sailing with him. And you probably realise we get
ferocious westerlies at Mannum, which still are the
same as they were then. But we were blown ashore. We were just blown
ashore in the cat
boat. It was a cat boat - 13' cat boat. And the Aborigines were there. And the
wind was roaring through these trees. The trees there now were saplings at
the time and perhaps four to five feet high. But I shall never forget that
because we went in with them - they had a little wurlies, and they were singing.
Singing all the time. Wailing almost. And we sat there out of the wind, waiting
for this squall to go away. But that - it epitomised for me I guess what
happened to me in my early life with them. They were generous.
Henry Mason would make boomerangs and bull roarers for us. We'd break
them and go back. 'Henry, the boomerang's broken', or 'the bull roarers -', you
know. Without any further ado, Henry Mason would make another one. If the
same thing happened with our parents, or grandparents, or uncles, there'd be a
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great argument about how did you come to break it and, you know. But they
were indulgent. Indulgent and friendly and always - they always seemed
happy. That was the thing about it that was different.
And, Bill, your Mother knew the people well from Wongulla life, didn't
she?
BR: Yes, she did. She had pretty much the same experience as I did, in that
generation. They lived opposite Manunka(?) Mission, and the natives then - or
the Aborigines - used to call them natives then. It's frowned upon now - they're
Aborigines. But they used to come across there, of course, because they
came for tobacco. They came for clothes. They came for food that they
obviously couldn't get at the Mission. The (couldn't decipher word) was all
over Australia, they got it. You know, it was handed out to them. The tobacco
was particularly the desire of their so-called Queen. And I don't know that I
could sort of call her a so-called Queen, but we called her - she was called
Queen. Jenny Christmas. She was a great leading character and she was the
one who used to lead them across the river and perch on the front of Wongulla
homestead. So Mum got to know them very well, as I did in Mannum. I can't
remember their names now. Karbee(?) is about the only one.
Did your Mother ever have a story about white people shooting
Aborigines?
BR: My Grandfather had that. Yes, that came from Rudolph, that story. Mum
might've mentioned that to other people but if I was told the same stories - I've
thought about it a lot since. You don't question things when you're very young.
But that was a very early tale, and I think it came from my Grandfather's
brother, George. See, they were all on the steam boats. That story,
particularly, I think related to an incident when the Aborigines - and I don't think
that any Aborigines were shot - were killed. They were fired at, or fired over,
but they also, in this particular encounter, were warded off. Apparently they
were trying to get aboard the steamer, and they were threatening. They were
warded off also with boat hooks, which are a pretty lethal weapon, as you may
realise. And blood was certainly shed but my Grandfather never mentioned
anyone being killed.
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Was this down towards where the South Ryan(?) comes in?
BR: Yes. It was up in - above Mannum. But there was never any fear that
passed to me from my Grandfather on my Mother's side, and my Great Uncle,
that they had anything but happy relations with the Aborigines.
That I'd gathered.
And certainly your experience, Bill, confirms that, you know.
BR: Oh, yes, I discussed this in later years with people who also were in
Mannum at my time. You know, when we've met. Because the Aborigines
were a great pre-occupation for us. They went about their business. They
killed their - they trapped their water rats, killed the possums, and skun them,
and sold their skins into the woolly(?) nagel, the fowler - the skin men. They
lived at one stage in (sounds like Lee-oh-da-vil).. They were - I've been, and I
still am, 100% for Aborigines. I think they're the greatest under-used resource
that Australia has. You know, since they lost their role as stockmen.
And Bill, what was the town of Mannum like in the 30's as you were just a
school boy.
BR: That was quite - reflected to a degree my thought about no boredom.
They had David Shearers. They had the David Shearers factory - the new
factory it was called still. Up on the hill where it is now. They had the share
shop. It was known as the share shop down in the main street. This was one
of the noisiest industries that I think you could have anywhere on God's earth.
We heard it all over the main street, and you heard it on a quiet night. This was
later on during the War, because they didn't work night shift until the War. But
they had a drop hammer because there they'd forge their plough shares. And
that thing was absolute sheer hell. It was like a gun going off. What a Gatling
gun might've sounded like, you know. Bang, bang - Bang, bang - Bang bang Bang. And I don't know, looking back on that, they were the princes of industry
in Mannum. There's no doubt about that.
They were followed by the Walkers, although the Walkers were there before
them. The Walker family, they were very highly thought of actually. They ran
the mill. The mill was a very busy outfit with the flour going all over the
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Adelaide Hills and all the way up the river. By that time the wheat boats were
rare, and so, too, were the barges taking out flour.
We had the butter factory. That was naturally a key to the whole district
because it bought in the cream from the roadside, and all those farms from
Towitta - as far as Towitta. Around the - on the eastern side of the river.
Milendella, Angas Valley, Wongulla - for heaven's sake. And beyond
Wongulla. The cream was carried into the butter factory.
So these farmers would have perhaps cereal farms or BR: Really there was no such thing, I don't believe, as anyone as a cereal
grower at that time.
He was a farmer, and he ran a self-contained outfit. He had cows and pigs
and, you know, the
whole thing. It's small farming, isn't it? Mixed farming.
On the European model.
BR: Absolutely. That's it. From the origins of agriculture. They had the milk.
They had the pigs, and the calves, and that's how it went. And the cream went
off to Mannum Butter Factory. The skim milk went to the pigs and the calves.
So that was it. It was a natural.
Apart from that we had, of course, the farmers of the town - the farmers of the
district - who were regarded as a bit of a - well, they were highly regarded. Let
me put it that way. I suppose this came about to us as children because (a)
they were Councillors. A farmer is usually a Councillor, you know. And
Councillors are important in those days, you know? They'd come to the town
for their Council meeting, and they were walking up and down the town looking
at what had to be done. You knew they were the Councillors. It was sort of a you know, they were important people.
Then the sales - the markets. Mannum was a market town, and this brought
tremendous waves of people into Mannum.
Now, where was the market at that point? Down by the ferry?
BR: No. The market at that point was up on the hill.
Where the water towers are?
8
BR: Yes. The sale yards, we called them. And then of course, this brought
tremendous trade to Trewartha's bakers shop, which had a restaurant. Tea
rooms, you'd call it then. The bottom - what we called the bottom bakers shop,
which also had tea rooms.
And Perring's wine saloon, which ran a very, very, very high class restaurant.
It was a wine saloon where the Lady in Mannum is now. And they had very
attractive daughters. George Perring and - doesn't matter. They had very
attractive daughters and, of course, they were nicely dressed as waitresses,
and it was all linen and service. Marvellous.
You know, it was a very much a big day, sale day. That was an industry for
Mannum really - the sales, I suppose. It was for most country towns. The
hotels, of course, also managed to get some of this trade but I think the other
establishments were run very well.
Bill, I don't know if you would even have recalled this, but was there a
sense of unity in that community?
BR: Oh, yes. There was a rivalry. They were friendly rivalries. There was - I
suppose looking back on it, there was the picture show, which of course is
another industry. That was
run by one AFR (sounds like Axer) - Micky Axer(?) - a tremendous character. I
was only discussing him yesterday up at Mannum with some people. He was a
tremendous character and he ran the picture show. And Arthur Vivian, who
was situated directly opposite the
Institute where the pictures were shown - have you heard any of this before?
No, I haven't, Bill.
BR: He ran the shop and he dealt with the crowds at interval time who dashed
across the road to drink, to eat lollies, to eat icecream, to - you name it. And
that was a bit of a social occasion, too, because he would have several people
there behind the counter who'd he bring in as casual labour to deal with this
tremendous flood of people. But between the two of them, they ran the picture
show but they were not exactly happy with the relationship to a degree. They
were businessmen in opposition.
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Micky Axer(?) had the newsagent where Barrie Reschke's now running the
show. And he had petrol bowsers, and he had a motor bike agency, and he
was a real entrepreneur in a way - Mick. He was given to great generosity
also. We were discussing this yesterday. He was very kind. He would decide
he wanted to go for a ride to Adelaide in his car. Not many people had cars.
And he would get some of the local lads and put them in the car and take them
down to town just for a drive in the evening, and come back. You know, take
them down to Adelaide. They'd drive around Adelaide, which was a city after
all, and back they'd go. Things like this which meant a lot in those days.
He was an ingenious entrepreneur. He set up his own cool room for his
icecream. He was always taking - there were lots of - I suppose what you'd call
them, they were travelling salesmen. And they'd be selling anything from neon
signs to new signs for this and that, and Mick was a great one to engage them
and get the latest gimmicks for, you know, his trade.
I look back upon him now in - and you know I look as I do - then he was just Mr
Axer(?) and he was there in the shop. But now I look back on him as being
pretty indicative of the resourcefulness of those people.
People in Mannum who - were remote to a degree. You know, the bus went
down in the morning and came back at night. But the Post Office opened up at
quarter past seven at night so he could get the mail from the bus which arrived
at half past six. Little town like Mannum, and the Postmaster would open up
the Post Office so to get the evening mail, you know. I think Mannum was well
served. It was self-contained.
The boats died. The river boats died and those men came ashore. They
worked in pumping stations. My Grandfather did that. He worked in the first
pumping station at Mannum, after the boats. These are the - it was always a
town in flux.
Bill, just digressing a minute from Mannum and into more your
knowledge of rural Australia from your travels in later life, is
resourcefulness a key to many rural communities?
BR: I think it always has been. I think that if you - I always thought - you'd see
farmers modify an implement or a machine. They'd do it because they had to
do it for their particular patch of ground, or their problem. They would be there
with a problem, no-one to turn to except their peers, and they weren't so
10
accessible in those days. They'd devise something to get them out of their
problem.
I think this gave Australians - this is a long bow - but I think it gave us a
reputation as being highly resourceful during the War in soldiery. We did have
that reputation. There's no doubt about it. Even the Americans conceded to us
that they didn't know how we got out and got along with what we had, because
we had nothing compared to them in equipment. But, you know, this was the
thing that seemed to come through to me.
And I've often thought about it afterwards because there was a great hunt for
heritage, we call it now. But before it was called heritage, it was called pioneer
settlement. It was called, you know, what we might call an on site museum, or
things like this, you know, which was emerging all around the world actually.
All over the world they're coming to this.
But there was a great looting went on, and you realised that talking with people
at pioneer settlement when that was forming. They came into South Australia
and they were chuffed with these things they'd got which had been modified by
farmers in South Australia. The things that had been done. They were highly
original modifications, or something which was a - modification is the term, an
engineering term. But it made that thing valuable. And I became very
indignant about this at the time, and said, 'You are taking it away like Britain
took the Elgin marbles. Like the Cleopatra's needle. You're taking that away
from where it is significant, where it belongs'. I got very cross about this
because they had a lot of stuff in there from South Australia. From the Mallee
in South Australia. I got very cross about that. (Laughter in voice) Didn't
make any difference. You know, it was considered clever.
I came across it, too, at Monarto when they declared Monarto - perhaps I'm
digressing there.
No. That's something else I do know about. It definitely happened at
Monarto.
BR: Yes. Oh, very much so. I was greatly pained by that. To me, it was a
betrayal. A betrayal of a people who had farmed there for generations at that
stage. Good farmers, and it was like the Murray swamps. It was highly cost
effective farming in the Monarto district. But like the market gardens down here
11
on the plain, it had to give way to urban demands - government demands urban government demands.
But I think the conduct of some of the people who went in there to work for the
government - to act for the government - in acquisition, and in surveying and in
the rest of it, some of those acted reprehensibly. And in fact, I was amazed
that a people so independent in spirit and activity could be worried by them to
the extent they were. You know, some of the housewives - the farmers wives in some of those farms, seeing men come in in a utility or a van or a four
wheel drive, walking about their property without even knocking on the door,
was a major invasion of sovereignty and privacy and everything you could think
of. It made me very cross at the time. I laid off Monarto a bit.
TAPE 1 - SIDE B
Bill, there was one aspect of Mannum life, too, you were going to speak
about.
BR: Yes. It was part of the folk lore really. It was known as The Shoot. It took
place on a Sunday, which was normally a day of peace, and you were not
allowed to shoot on a Sunday. Not allowed to carry weapons - loaded.
Sorry,Bill. We were talking about the Sunday.
BR: Sunday Shoot. It was a part of the vermin control thing. The townspeople
and farmers, if they were interested, from other areas, would gather at
Mannum, down in front of the Police Station, which was then above - on the
hill, where the motel is now. There was a huge gum tree there and they would
all meet under that. And they'd go off in convoy to the scrub - certain parts of
the scrub - in turn, and they would shoot whatever they found. It was
principally vermin. Rabbits, foxes, but they would also get kangaroos. They
would also get hares. Either way, they were all classified as vermin. The
kangaroo hadn't become the way we see it today, except on the coat of arms.
This was a tremendous effort. When I think back now, the men who were
there, they would come back - they'd go out, and had beaters. It was a highly
12
methodical system. But they'd come back at the end of Sunday and there'd be
a divvy up.
Now, it served two purposes. It certainly did control vermin for the farmers but
also food went to people in the town. This was Depression time. Food went to
people in the town who really needed it. It was also a marvellous social
regulatorer, if I can put it that way. It kept the farmers and the townspeople
unified in this sense, and it also was a camaraderie. It was a bonding thing, I
think, too. I know because of the way it was spoken about in my own family. It
was a social event.
You said it had a levelling effect and you knew this from your own family.
BR: Oh, yes. Well, actually my family went because they were hunters.
(Laughter) They had their own resources. We had boats. And we had duck,
lobster, fish, hare. Only part of the 'roo they ever ate was the tail. I remember
that. I don't remember them eating any kangaroo. But they still shot kangaroo.
And people took the kangaroo for hide. You know,
they made mats on the floor. That I do recall.
But the Shoot, as it was called, was a folk loric thing there. I would imagine
that it probably ended because I was involved deeply with War when the thing
started. I think it probably died out during World War II because of the recall of
arms - weapons - and everything froze.
Did you end up serving in the Forces, Bill?
BR: In the Air Force, mm.
Did that take you out of Australia?
BR: No. Well, no, not from - not in technical terms. I served with a Catalina
squadron but it was late in the War and so that was it. But it was a - well, it
seems irrelevant really - but the War was a very commanding thing for all of us.
We were fed the latest on the War from Japan. Invasion of China and
Manchuria. From there on there was always a war. Then Spain. And then the
real big do. So by the time World War II started, we'd seen a fair bit of how this
carry-on went on.
And in a country town in South Australia?
13
BR: And in a school where the teachers, each day, discussed the current
affairs. The day would start and we would be told some aspect. For example,
when Hitler burnt the books. We had a discourse from the teacher on that, that
morning, when the news came to us. How this had happened. How lucky we
were to be living in a country where this sort of thing could never happen. All
this sort of thing. And I often look back at it now, and we were fed to the gills
for war. It was the only thing we wanted to do, was to get into it. I kid you not.
That was it. And I had two uncles who were in the Air Force, and fellows were
going like flies into the Services.
There was the other thing, too. As boys, we knew - we loved the steam boats
and we revered the skippers - the captains - but we knew we'd never be
captains because the boats were tying up, and even our own families had
abandoned the river - the river boats. So you thought about the air. You
thought about being a pilot. You thought - you were inspired by Smithy and
Jean Batten and Mollison and Jimmy Melrose. Well, I suppose - he was a
Queenslander. We can forgive him for that. But Hinkler was another one.
See, we had all these people. They were our heroes. So I wanted to fly in the
Air Force.
It was hilarious really. I think, as training goes, we probably had longer training
than anyone else that ever went to the War. I had two years in the training
corps (Laughter) and then two years in the service - in operational service training all the time. But eventually it worked - it came out. I finished up with a
squadron, which was, you know, in those terms I felt that the exercise was
redeemed. (Laughter in voice) That was it. In actual fact what we did, by
that time we were - our job was really bringing back POW's and the poor devils
who were on the railway in Singapore/Changi. Catalinas were used to bring
them back in as fast as possible. So, you see, that was it. That was that. That
was the War.
Did you come back to Mannum at first after the War?
BR: Yes.
Had things changed at all?
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BR: No. That was an artificial period. It was good. You came back. You saw
who hadn't come back. Those who came back were determined things were
going to be different. Determined that you had to live - you had to enjoy
yourself while you could. I think that was the thing that came out of it, to me.
That you were here, back in this place - what I did realise when I came back
was how much you loved that patch. The people were there. The
shopkeepers were there. Suddenly it was all normal, you know? And you
thought, well, from now on nothing's going to interfere with life.
Is that one of the things that perhaps, in you, instilled this deep love of
the River Murray?
BR: Well, I had the love of the River Murray because we were always on it. I
taught - I was brought up in the hunting code. There's no doubt about that.
Hunting lore. I'm glad I was but I couldn't hunt now. I couldn't hunt after I
came back from England in 1960. I decided I couldn't shoot anything any
more. But the War - after the War was a different thing. We were all full of fun.
It was a salad day. It was the true salad days of my life I suppose. And we did,
we had a lot of fun.
Work. Work was everywhere. In fact, I'd only been back a week and the baker
- Bill Trewartha - came down and knocked on the door, and he said, 'Are you
doing anything today?' And I said, 'Not in particular'. He said, 'I was
wondering if you could take old Roly out for me on the float. One of the boys
can't come to work, he's sick, and there's no-one to drive the float with Roly'.
(This is delivering bread around Mannum.) I said, 'I haven't the faintest idea
where you customers are'. He said, 'Roly knows'. (Laughter) 'Don't you
worry about it', he said, 'Roly knows. I'll get one of the boys to harness up,
we'll load the float, and you come up about 10 o'clock and you'll get away.
You'll have no worry'. See, this is Bill Trewartha, a scream of a man. He was
the baker. And wonderful character. Wonderful character. Rich character.
And of course I did. And that was a wonderful experience because I'd only
been back a week, and suddenly I was there with the bread for all these people
I'd known as a child, going in as a boy. And of course it was a prolonged
business. That was a wonderful return to Mannum. No doubt about it.
However, Roly was patient. Roly, the moment I stepped onto that float, would
walk on to the next customer, and stop. So that was how it went.
15
However, I finished the run and got onto the float, and Roly was off.
(Laughter) Down he went, roaring around that monument corner - you know
what they call the monument corner?
Yes.
BR: And we're coming down to the monument corner and I'm braking, you
see, with this float and - I'd ridden Roly. I'd never driven him in a float As a
boy I rode Roly, with Jack Trewartha, the son of the family. So I went around
that monument corner and I could feel that
float - you know, heeling. (Laughter) But we got down there. Got down to
where the shop is. You know, the old bakers shop there. And he's down
around the corner there - sharp corner it was, and the hill wasn't sealed - and
backed up into the thing and that was it. That was it. A day that I shall
remember for the rest of my life.
What was Bill Trewartha's bread like?
BR: Good. Oh, not to be measured against his pasties and his pies and his
London buns and Kitchener buns, and wonderful streusel cake - German
coffee cake. Deutsch der Kuchen(?), it was called. He had an establishment
that was really one of the generators of busyness in the town. He had two
daughters who worked in the shop and his sons, of course, all worked in the
bakehouse, and the place was always busy. It was always well patronised
because his products were good and they were fresh, and everyone was
agreeable, and it was a very well run outfit for a family affair. It wasn't because
they didn't have their own ideas on life but it was a good team. I've looked
back on it now with joy.
However, he had another aspect. One of the institutions of Mannum's social
life was the Test matches, and he had a huge room down underneath the vast
complex that's there. Was called the Big Room. Very simple, very
straightforward. And for Test nights, when the Test was played overnight,
people would - he had short wave radio, you see - and the people would come
down and gather there to hear the Test. They'd be there all night. Well, to 3
o'clock in the morning. And Bill Trewartha would cook up chickens and make
soup and, you know, the whole thing was a wonderful social occasion.
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So you paid so much to come?
BR: Well, you didn't pay.
Really?
BR: No, no. It was all - this was - oh, no, I think - I didn't ever know anyone to
pay. It was just all there and you, you know Great fun.
BR: Well, it was. It was the sort of thing that changed my period after the War.
They were all there except Micky Axer(?). He'd died and his son, Ron, had
come back from the Army - compassionate discharge - and he was running the
show, because we were friends. We had grown up together - all of us.
But suddenly there was a change of ownership of businesses in the town, and
that feedback into the town's good will and what have you, which was
epitomised by the Club with its tremendous disbursements of profits - you
know, that was a real wonderful thing for Mannum in those times. The Club
was always giving away money for this or that. You know, different
figures from what we have today but still equally significant in a town which was
depressed because of Shearers, for one thing. Shearers laid off men like flies.
There we were and, of course, it was a bit of a blow to me. Suddenly, several
of the shops changed hands and those people had their noses to the
grindstone to fulfil their own ideas for what they wanted for the business, and to
pay back the money they'd borrowed to be in business. You know, it's an old
story, isn't it? So there was a bit of a tightening up of free money in Mannum.
I was involved with, what we called, the EFS. I joined up in that. We all did.
You know, a bunch of us - contemporaries. And we had to go around the town
and raise money to finance the EFS. To get a unit. To do all the things you
had to do. Fred Kerr was then the man who was running it for Tom Playford.
And we found the money tightened up very much after that. That was the
beginning of the change of character for Mannum as far as I was concerned.
Bill, what spurred you on to go overseas in '51/'52?
BR: Well, as I said, I wanted to be a foreign correspondent.
So you went into Reuters?
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BR: Yes. I went into Reuter with a sense of achievement. It was an ambition.
It was the ambition. The Air Force - the pilot ambition died in World War II.
Very much so. That's an interesting thing from your rural Australia, but I'll get
on to that later. I wanted to do this. I went to Tasmania. I was a local reporter
in Mannum for some time and I was stringing for the Advertiser and stringing
for the News. I was doing quite well actually.
I did a course in dairy technology under the CRTS - Commonwealth
Reconstruction Training Scheme. For that, of course, I worked at the butter
factory in Mannum. I enjoyed that. I revered the man who ran the factory Archie Scofield. I thought he was a wonderful man, and shall.
But the opportunity to go, and go into journalism thoroughly, came and I
couldn't deny it. I had applied in 1946 to the Sydney Mirror for a position. They
wrote back and explained that it was a flooded vocation. They'd had to take
back all the men who'd gone to War. But to get back to though - they were
impressed by my qualifications and what have you, and all the rest of it, but
please come back to us in six months when, you know, things have settled
down. Well, in that time, two reporters were shot in Sydney (Laughter) and
I'd heard a bit more about the Mirror and Ezra Norton, the man who ran it. I
lost my interest in going to Sydney and haven't had it since. But that's because
I'm a country boy. No other reason apart from the - how would I put it? ephemeral moods of newspaper proprietors. Sydney's worse than any.
Bill, if we leave out the Reuters period, which for this project I think I'd
better, you arrived back in Australia in 1960 unsure of where you were
going to end up, and as you said to me, you looked like favouring Perth,
and Mary(?) and your family'd be there. But you in fact come back to the
Sunday Mail under Ken Parish here, and you're made Chief of Staff. But
all the writings that I've read of yours, your great love was for the rural
areas, and particularly the Murray.
BR: Still is. I came back to it. It was a triumphant period for me because I'd
tasted what I'd wanted to do, realised that the cost of it was not what I wanted.
I wanted a wife and a family, and so suddenly here was this State, which was
really popping, if I might use an old fashioned term.
I went to the West Coast. I was running into these names that I'd known as a
boy. People who'd been here and gone. Left the mainland, as this was called.
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Left the mainland and went to the Peninsula. They could talk of the Mallee.
They could talk of - the whole thing became absolutely fascinating because I
got back to the independence and the spirit that I'd come to know so much in
the Depression in our own land - in our own little bit of the Murray Plains. They
worked damn hard. They had nothing. The farmers there were - at Mannum at
that time - were not making anything from farming. They were making more
money from leasing their spring drays to their Council and working on the roads
with the Depression labourers.
I went across to the West Coast and here were these same - the same ilk.
These people with huge properties working like billy-o, but successful. Going
like billy-o, growing all the time. It was unbelievable. Shaun(?) Neilson over at
- beyond Ceduna. Dear, oh, dear. Penong - beyond Penong. The Ashbys are
out there.
You and I have both had a blank.
BR: It'll come to us.
Eucla?
BR: No. Coorabie. Coorabie. They were huge. Vast. And bulk handling was
just coming in, and this brought tremendous challenges. The man they
appointed to resolve all this tribal warfare, which was going on, was Perc
Sanders of Co-operative Bulk Handling. The Black Prince, they called him.
And we crossed swords a bit but I came to enjoy his confidence and company.
Were other parts of the State in a similar BR: Oh, yes, the riverland was growing apace with the cannery, with Berri
fruit, with the fruit juices. They had their terrible hiccups because of over
production. Not over production, under demand. Periodically, of course, we
had these invasions by Americans and American fruit. American fruit juice was
coming into the country. All these things were conspiring against the
riverlanders who - they were a wonderful breed.
They grew apart from Adelaide. They grew apart. That was like an island.
They talk about the mainland over there. When you wanted to drive to
Renmark you - three to four hours driving. To Berri was three or four hours. It
was It took me all day, as a boy, in the 30's, to go
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from Murray Bridge to Renmark by train. All day, in the blooming train.
The boats were the principal conductors for the development of the riverland.
That was what they were doing when I was a boy.
Now, with those two areas, plus the south East, which was considered settled
and rich and traditional and beautiful, I had a marvellous time. A wonderful
time. And of course, this is probably reflected in what I wrote, in my approach
to it. These were people who I respected and understood, I felt. You know,
from my roots. And I was not sad to come back to my roots in that respect
because over there in the machine sheds and where they park their cars, there
were caravans appearing. They were getting fridges. They were getting
power. They were getting - all these things were coming.
I remember at the peak of it - incredible as it may seem - actually the farmers
out there, if they had a break down out in the middle of the paddock they could
call up - ring up - someone in Port Lincoln or up the coast and a spare part
would be flown out to them. You know, they had their agencies. They had
their - spares were all within a bull's roar because they were in a big scale. It
was exciting in the utmost. These big ships are coming in and taking bulk
wheat. We're building these terminals. You know, it was go, go, go, growth.
Good. Wonderful. I didn't miss being at Reuters. I didn't miss - well, I missed
(mumbles). That's another matter. But I didn't miss anything that made one
happy.
Was there that sense of division between rural and urban communities
that we spoke about earlier?
BR: Well, always there was the - I think at the beginning - I was fortunate there
with Ken Parish. Because, as I say, he was a round man and he knew what
the country was worth. You can think of it in terms of circulation. They say, we
sell so many papers, and so, do you worry about the country? He didn't take
that into view. Your job was to be there. It grew, I think, '48/'49 - you know,
there were good times. Then we had the Korean War, and all these things
generated a demand, and particularly for wool. Affected prices, I should say.
Yes, I know what you mean.
BR: And of course, I suppose in a way this created the picture of the wool
baron. You know, the rich wool baron, and their Mercs, and all this sort of jazz.
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I came back here in 1960 and I met Joe Honner(?) - not Joe - Anthony's
Father. He had a Mercury but he would never drive it into - a Mercedes - but
he would never drive it into - forgive me.
That's alright.
BR: He lives at Brentwood. They lived at Brentwood. He wouldn't drive it into
town - in the township - because they might think he was 'bunging on side'. He
had a town house in North Adelaide and he drove the Mercedes when he
drove to the town house (Laughter in voice)
Things like this, you know. They were still pretty simple, pretty straightforward
and they were doing well. And a lot of them were involved in politics and that
brought them to the city. But it only served to make the townie - they used to
call them townie - a little bit envious of these wealthy cockies. And why should
they be - you know, if the drought came, well, that's what - they're farmers, they
should know this. There wasn't a great deal of sympathy. It slackened. And
they'll(?) come back.
And this, of course, is not definitive, but politics change. We had urban minded
people running South Australia. They wanted to take Monarto and make it into
a satellite city. A dormitory, really, was what it was going to be. That was the
sort of thinking that, more and more, made farmers think. Plus this fact.
Farmers always wanted to give a fair go. Time and again I was called out to
look at a problem. It was a problem with government. It was a problem with
regulation. It was a problem with anything you like to think about in a way with
farmers. However, when the chips were down, and you said, 'Right. Too right,
you've got a complaint. You've got a wonderful story. Now, someone's going
to have to put the flag up. Can I use your name?' 'Oh, well -' There might be
half a dozen people met - farm, you know - to discuss this problem. 'Oh, well,
we want to give them a fair go. You know, give them time to -' The
reasonableness was there all the time. They were not aggressive. They were
strong. They weren't aggressive.
Tape ceased.
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