THE ARTFUL LIFE STORY: THE ORAL

HISTORY INTERVIEW AS FICTION

Ariella Van Luyn Bachelor of Creative Industries (Creative Writing) (Hons Class 1)

Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Final Submission

Supervisors: Mr Craig Bolland and Dr Kari Gislason

Creative Writing and Literary Studies Creative Industries Faculty Queensland University of Technology October 2012

Keywords

Arts-based research methods, creative writing, ethnographic fiction, fiction, hybrid novel, narrative, oral history, Oral History Association of Australia, practice-led, semi-structured interview

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction i Abstract

This practice-led PhD project consists of two parts. The first is an exegesis documenting how a fiction writer can enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia. I identify two philosophical mandates of the oral history project in Australia that have shaped my creative practice: an emphasis on the analysis of the interviewee’s subjective experience as a means of understanding the past, and the desire to engage a wide audience in order to promote empathy towards the subject. The discussion around fiction in the oral history project is in its infancy. In order to deepen the debate, I draw on the more mature discussion in ethnographic fiction. I rely on literary theorists Steven Greenblatt, Dorrit Cohn and Gerard Genette to develop a clear understanding of the distinct narrative qualities of fiction, in order to explore how fiction can re-present and explore an interviewee’s subjective experience, and engage a wide readership. I document my own methodology for producing a work of fiction that is enriched by oral history methodology and theory, and responds to the mandates of the project. I demonstrate the means by which fiction and the oral history project can enter a dialogue in the truest sense of the word: a two-way conversation that enriches and augments practice in both fields. The second part of the PhD is a novel, set in Brisbane and based on oral history interviews and archival material I gathered over the course of the project. The novel centres on Brisbane artist Evelyn, who has been given an impossible task: a derelict old house is about to be demolished, and she must capture its history in a sculpture that will be built on the site. Evelyn struggles to come up with ideas and create the sculpture, realising that she has no way to discover who inhabited the house. What follows is a series of stories, each set in a different era in Brisbane’s history, which take the reader backwards through the house’s history. Hidden Objects is a novel about the impossibility of grasping the past and the powerful pull of storytelling. The novel is an experiment in a hybrid form and is accompanied by an appendix that identifies the historically accurate sources informing the fiction. The decisions about the aesthetics of the novel were a direct result of my engagement with the mandates of the oral history project in Australia. The novel was shortlisted in the 2012 Queensland Literary Awards, unpublished manuscript category.

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction ii Table of Contents

Keywords ...... i

Abstract...... ii

Table of Contents...... iii

Statement of Original Authorship ...... vii

Acknowledgements ...... viii

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION ...... 1

1.1 Description of project ...... 1

1.2 Research question ...... 2

1.3 Development of the project ...... 2

1.4 The dialogue between history and fiction ...... 4 1.4.1 Historical fiction and history in Australia ...... 4 1.4.2 The value of interdisciplinarity in the dialogue between oral historians and fiction writers 5 1.4.3 Is oral history art or science?...... 7

1.5 Fiction writers acknowledging interviews ...... 9

1.6 The problem of ‘hybrid genres’ and Hidden objects: Wider context for the work ...... 10 1.6.1 Distinguishing hybrid genres ...... 11 1.6.2 Labelling Hidden Objects ...... 14 1.6.3 Reality Hunger ...... 15 1.6.4 Key terms ...... 16

1.7 Thesis Outline ...... 18

CHAPTER 2: THE ORAL HISTORY PROJECT IN AUSTRALIA ...... 20

2.1 What is the project of oral history in Australia? ...... 20 2.1.1 Defining ‘the oral history project’ ...... 20 2.1.2 The Oral History Association of Australia ...... 21 2.1.3 The place of fiction in the philosophical underpinnings of the Australian oral history project ...... 22

2.2 Emphasis on subjective experience ...... 23 2.2.1 Oral histories as interpretations ...... 23 2.2.2 Narrating the past in the present ...... 24

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction iii 2.3 Implied readership/dissemination and availability to a wider community ...... 24

2.4 What does this mean for a fiction writer working with oral histories? ...... 25

CHAPTER 3: FICTIONALISING ORAL HISTORY INTERVIEWS: ETHNOGRAPHIC FICTION AND THE ORAL HISTORY PROJECT ...... 26

3.1 The purpose of linking oral history with ethnographic fiction ...... 26

3.2 Fiction and the oral history project in Australia: A new practice ...... 26 3.2.1 Oral history as an interdisciplinary field ...... 27 3.2.2 Fiction and oral history ...... 28 3.2.3 Expanding the discussion ...... 30

3.3 Ethnographic fiction based on interviews ...... 31 3.3.1 What is ethnographic fiction? ...... 31

3.4 Why fiction? How the aims of ethnographic fiction writers align with the oral history project in Australia 35 3.4.1 Crisis of representation ...... 35 3.4.2 Fiction as a liberating practice ...... 36 3.4.3 The specific philosophical endeavours of the oral history project and fiction ...... 37

CHAPTER 4: THE KEY AIMS OF THE ORAL HISTORY PROJECT AND THE POSSIBILITIES OF FICTION ...... 38

4.1 Introduction ...... 38 4.1.1 Fiction as a means of representing culture ...... 39 4.1.2 A metaphorical rather than literal truth ...... 41

4.2 Emphasis on subjective experience ...... 43 4.2.1 From oral history as evidence to interpretation ...... 43 4.2.2 Ethnographic fiction’s emphasis on an interviewee’s subjectivity, emotion and lived experience ...... 45 4.2.3 Subjectivity through character ...... 46 4.2.4 A character’s interior: The distinction of fiction ...... 48 4.2.5 Fictional techniques for representing subjectivity ...... 49 4.2.6 Focalisation, subjectivity and the unreliable narrator ...... 51 4.2.7 The remembered and remembering self in oral history interviews ...... 51 4.2.8 The unreliable narrator: Fiction’s critique of subjectivity ...... 53 4.2.9 Fiction and the oral history project’s concern with subjectivity ...... 54

4.3 Accessibility and implied readership ...... 55 4.3.1 Need to present interviews in a way that is accessible to interviewee and a wider community ...... 56 4.3.2 Critical responses to ethnographic novels based on interviews: Who is the implied readership? ...... 56

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction iv CHAPTER 5: METHODOLOGICAL APPROACHES ...... 63

5.1 Introduction ...... 63 5.1.1 Other writers acknowledging interviews ...... 64

5.2 Practice-led research ...... 67 5.2.1 Self-reflexive practice ...... 71

5.3 Interview methodology ...... 72 5.3.1 Designing the interviews ...... 72 5.3.2 Encounters in the field ...... 73 5.3.3 Understanding the interviews ...... 77 5.3.4 The creative work ...... 78 5.3.5 Further reflections on the interviews ...... 82

5.4 Transcription ...... 82

5.5 Informed imagination ...... 87

5.6 Decisions about aesthetics: Marginal characters ...... 93

5.7 Decisions about aesthetics: Engaging readers ...... 96 5.7.1 Positioning the work: Hybrid fiction ...... 97 5.7.2 Appendix ...... 100

5.8 Conclusions: An ‘unruly story’ ...... 102

CHAPTER 6: HIDDEN OBJECTS ...... 104

CHAPTER 7: FURTHER DIRECTIONS FOR RESEARCH ...... 105 7.1.1 Conclusions ...... 105 7.1.2 Writing fiction as a means of transforming qualitative data ...... 107 7.1.3 Engaging readers and the educative qualities of fiction ...... 108

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 109

APPENDICES ...... 133

Appendix A: Fictionalising Oral History ...... 133

Appendix B: The Ethics of Fictionalising Oral History ...... 141

Appendix C: Training communities in oral history ...... 152

Appendix D: E-mail interview with Tobias Hecht, author of After Life, an Ethnographic Novel ...... 159

Appendix E: Synopsis, Hidden Objects ...... 161

Appendix F: Interview One ...... 163

Appendix G: Interview Two ...... 178

Appendix H: Interview Three ...... 204

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction v Appendix I: Interview Four ...... 259

Appendix J: Interview Five ...... 282

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction vi Statement of Original Authorship

The work contained in this thesis has not been previously submitted to meet requirements for an award at this or any other higher education institution. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made.

Signature: ______

Date: ______

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction vii Acknowledgements

This thesis would not have been possible without the dedicated guidance and support of my principle and associate supervisors, Craig Bolland and Kari Gislason. Craig has worked with me on postgraduate projects for over four years, since I came to him at the end of a degree in creative writing, asking if he thought interviewing people to inform works of fiction was maybe a good idea. Craig’s advice on my creative practice has been invaluable, pushing me further than I would have thought possible. Kari brought to the thesis strength in argument and analysis, and a rigour that, so deeply immersed in the literature, I often lacked. I would also like to thank my lovely family, Jarryd Luke and Helen, Richard and Jeanette Van Luyn. To the girls in my office, it would have been an impossible and lonely journey without you. Thank you, Liz Ellison, Tess Van Hermert, Lauren Carr, Sarah Kanake, Sasah Mackay and Kate Cantrell.

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction viii Chapter 1: Introduction

1.1 DESCRIPTION OF PROJECT

The Artful Life Story: The Oral History Interview as Fiction is a practice-led PhD project that consists of two related outcomes. The first is a 67,000 word novel set in Brisbane and based on oral history interviews and archival materials, titled Hidden Objects. The second outcome is a 42,000 word exegesis that examines how a fiction writer can enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia. The exegesis focuses on both writers and researchers who are producing works of fiction based on qualitative research, specifically semi-structured interviews or oral histories; employing novelistic techniques such as characterisation, narrative structure, description, imagery and setting, and where a deliberate process of imaginative invention has taken place. This practice appears to have occurred most prolifically in the discipline of ethnography, where researchers are producing ethnographic fiction based on oral histories and other fieldwork. To deepen the understanding of the practice of fictionalising oral histories and to understand how a writer might enter a dialogue with the oral history project, the exegesis draws on the more mature discussions in ethnography, where practitioners working with semi-structured interviews have turned to fiction as a means of re-presenting life stories. The early chapters of the exegesis serve as a scaffold for the extensive unpacking of my methodological approaches in chapter five. In this chapter, I identify a gap in the conversation from writers of fiction producing novels they explicitly acknowledge as being based on interviews: there is a lack of deep discussion of methodology. In order to address this gap, I draw on the practice of ethnographic fiction writers and the oral history project to demonstrate how I entered a dialogue with the field through allowing the mandates of the project to shape the design of my creative work. The novel, Hidden Objects, consists of eight chapters developed from oral history interviews I conducted with local Brisbane residents, and my research in the State Library of Queensland (SLQ) and National Library of Australia (NLA) archives. A frame narrative bookends these chapters; Brisbane artist Evelyn has been given an impossible task. A derelict

Chapter 1: Introduction 1 old house is about to be demolished, and she must capture its history in a sculpture that will be built on the site. Evelyn only has one photo of the house in its heyday to guide her. As Evelyn struggles to generate ideas for her sculpture, she visits the crumbling house on the corner of George and Mary Streets in Brisbane city. Inside, she finds three old shoes hidden away in the cavity of the fireplace. Without knowing it, Evelyn has stumbled on an ancient ritual kept secret by the Freemasons: deliberately concealing shoes to ward off evil spirits. After taking the shoes home, and then bumping into one of the former residents of the house, Evelyn realises that she has no way to discover who else inhabited its rooms. What follows is a series of stories, each set in a different era in Brisbane’s history, which take the reader backwards through the house’s past, from the most recent inhabitant to its origins as a grand manor designed by a police commissioner involved in shady dealings. When Evelyn returns in the final chapter, the reader discovers that the stories are a product of her imaginative attempt to engage with her research into the city’s history. Her notes form an appendix to the novel, adding verifiable detail to the stories.

1.2 RESEARCH QUESTION

The research question driving the investigation is: How can a fiction writer enter a dialogue with the project of oral history in Australia?

The sub-question emerging from this focus is: How can I draw on the mandates of the oral history project to guide the design of my fictive work?

1.3 DEVELOPMENT OF THE PROJECT

In 2008 I completed a practice-led honours project in which I interviewed my grandmother, Beth, about her experiences growing up in Montrose Home, an ‘institution for crippled children’, to use the terminology of the day. I transformed her story into a novella, written in a first-person voice that mimicked Beth’s storytelling strategies. An edited version on my exegetical account of this process was peer-reviewed and published in the Oral History Association of Australia Journal (OHAA Journal) in 2010 (see Appendix A). I felt I had just scraped the surface of this issue and had not yet grasped the full possibilities of my creative practice.

Chapter 1: Introduction 2 This PhD, which I began in February 2009, builds on the work of my honours project. In early 2009, looking for possible interview subjects, I visited the Queensland Police Museum. The curator told me that, although she had a number of oral histories on file, she had neither the staff nor the resources to make them available to the public. They were stored in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. I found that this was not an isolated phenomenon. Frisch (2008, 223) states that “oral history tapes [are]...precious documentation that [is] inaccessible and generally unlistened to”. Apart from their physical inaccessibility, the interviews themselves can sometimes be difficult to engage with. In general, oral history transcripts and audio recordings can seem rambling or irrelevant if not contextualised. They may contain strings of only tenuously connected narratives encumbered with extraneous details. Oral histories also appear to be limited to a particular audience, generally scholars and readers of history. As a creative writer, I wondered if fiction might offer a means—one of many—to address the twin problems of physical inaccessibility, and the need to edit and contextualise the transcripts. Early in this project, I was invited to work on an ARC Linkage Project (LP0882274: Respecting the Past, Imagining the Future: Using Narrative and New Media in Community Engagement and Urban Planning), conducting interviews and research in the Brisbane suburbs of Breakfast Creek and Newstead. My work with the Linkage Project partly directed the initial focus of my research and interviews. Around the same time, I became heavily involved in the Oral History Association of Australia, Queensland branch (OHAA Qld). After attending two workshops and committee meetings, I was invited by the current president to replace her on the executive committee. At the AGM in November 2010, I was elected as the president of OHAA Qld, a role I took on with some trepidation. In January 2011, I also took up the position of Chair on the editorial board of the OHAA Journal. In my dual role as oral historian and writer, I came to value oral stories as rich sources of personal, emotional and domestic experience. These details are often missing from other archival documents and conventional histories that are used to inform historical fiction. I saw that oral histories have the potential to imbue works of fiction with authentic and intimate details of a particular time and place, and to reveal vocal strategies that give oral tales their captivating quality. I felt that fictionalising oral history might engage a broader audience, particularly readers of fiction such as myself. In this task, I do not seek to replace or devalue the oral history transcripts or audios. Instead, I offer an understanding of them in a different kind of symbolic language.

Chapter 1: Introduction 3 From the very beginning the need to produce a work of fiction, informed by oral histories, that is accessible and engaging has underpinned the direction of the project. This later developed into a concern with revealing little known stories, or new perspectives, about Brisbane. It was only towards the end of the project, through writing reflectively during the production of the exegesis and in my journaling activities, that I realised how closely linked these desires were with the mandates of the oral history project, and how, unconsciously, my early engagement with the OHAA Qld has shaped my creative practice. The focus of my discussion shifted. I came to see that, through producing a practice-led research project, fiction has the possibility to contribute to the oral history project, and that oral history scholarship has underpinned and shaped my creative practice. I unpack this dialogical relationship, and explore its impact on the design of the novel, throughout this exegesis.

1.4 THE DIALOGUE BETWEEN HISTORY AND FICTION

1.4.1 Historical fiction and history in Australia The discussion in this exegesis occurs within a wider debate in Australia around the relationship between fiction and history. For some time, fiction’s capacity to legitimately represent the past has been contested. Clendinnen articulates this debate in her essay, The History Question: Who Owns the Past? (2006). Here, Clendinnen (2006, 15) proposes that historical fiction writers, in particular Kate Grenville, challenge historians’ role as custodians of the past. Clendinnen (2006, 16) states:

Novelists writing on historical topics and historians writing history used to jog along their adjacent paths reasonably companionably. More recently...novelists have been doing their best to bump historians off the track. Clendinnen (2006, 17) believes that Grenville’s The Secret River is a “serious attempt to do history, but value-added history: history given life and flesh by the novelists’ imagination”. However, Clendinnen doubts fiction writers’ capacity to authentically empathise with, or represent, historical figures. She (2006, 26) claims that, misled by their confidence in their imagination, fiction writers often “project back on their carefully constructed material setting contemporary assumptions and obsessions”. In response to Clendinnen’s assertions, Grenville denies she ever intended to write history; Clendinnen’s claim is based on quotes taken out of context (Grenville 2007, 66). Grenville (2007, 70) states that she never thought fiction was superior to history, or that her

Chapter 1: Introduction 4 novel was superior to the work of historians. Rather, Grenville (2006, 151) describes her book as “solidly based on history”. Like Grenville, I am producing writing ‘solidly based’ on oral history interviews. I rely on oral history methodology to conduct the interviews and, before writing, I listen to the audios and read the transcripts many times, paying attention to distinct vocal strategies, vocabulary, syntax and speech habits. I turn to oral history theory to understand the act of storytelling, a process that I describe in more detail in chapter five. I engage in imaginative acts to re-present the oral histories; I describe my work as ‘fiction’. At the same time, my work is constrained by the details present in the interview. Unlike Grenville, who bows out of the debate, I offer a different way of conceptualising the issue. I argue that fiction writers and historians can enter a dialogue, rather than jogging along adjacently or attempting to bump each other off the tracks, as Clendinnen fears. I focus specifically on the field of oral history because, as I argue in the following chapters, this discipline has similar concerns to fiction writers, most specifically a concern with accessibility and subjectivity.

1.4.2 The value of interdisciplinarity in the dialogue between oral historians and fiction writers In order to understand how a fiction writer might enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia, it is first necessary to address if a fiction writer can do so. In chapters two and three, I chart the field of oral history in more detail, determining some of the specific mandates in the discipline and mapping the limited debates around fiction, identifying a gap in the discussion. However, before this can occur, it is necessary to document the context in which fiction can enter a dialogue with the oral history project. In this introductory section, I turn to some of the responses to ethnographic fiction based on semi-structured interviews. Here—and throughout the exegesis—I use debates around ethnographic fiction as a means of predicting some of the possible critiques likely to be provoked when fiction writers seek to enter a dialogue with the oral history project. In the field of ethnographic fiction, writers are identifying their work as based on semi-structured interviews and as constituting some form of qualitative research. It is therefore possible to use these similarities of intention as a means of mapping debates and issues. As I demonstrate in this section, ethnographic fiction, and the writers’ claim that their work constitutes a form of research, has sometimes been rejected from the broader sweep of social sciences, which includes the discipline of history. However, as I document in section 1.4.3, as a result of less rigid understandings of the scope of the discipline, ethnography has

Chapter 1: Introduction 5 expanded its practice to include other forms of knowledge making, including arts-based ones. As I demonstrate in chapters two and three, oral history, like ethnography, has undergone a similar broadening of scope. It can thus be argued that it is within this broad understanding of the scope of the discipline that fiction writers can enter a dialogue with oral history. Some scholars take a limited view of the oral history discipline, arguing that oral history constitutes a form of historical studies (Baum 2007, Robertson 2006). These scholars may be suspicious of approaches that covertly alter the primary source, are not thoroughly researched, and do not adequately contextualise and check the veracity of primary sources, such as interviews. Such scholars are commonly concerned with presenting the past ‘as it was’, and view the researcher as having an ethical obligation to document rather than ‘re- present’ (see section 1.6.7 for the definition of ‘re-presentation’) the truth as they see it. Similarly, in anthropology, some scholars exclude fictional representations of ethnographic data from the sweep of the field. For example, Schmidt (1984, 12) notes Jack Driberg’s short story People of the Small Arrow, based on his ethnographic fieldwork, received rave reviews in other journals, but only one anthropological journal chose to review it. In this review, Yates stated that, ‘although there is much new ethnographical material in this book, the fictional form of its presentation, so useful in gaining reader’s interest, militates against its use by the anthologist’ (Schmidt 1984, 12). Although this is a relatively old example, there continue to be similar responses to ethnographic fiction from scholars. It is possible that oral historians holding these attitudes would dismiss fiction, arguing that the process of fictionalisation obscures truth and cannot count as oral history scholarship, nor enter a dialogue with the field. It is difficult to conclusively demonstrate such exclusionary practices, as much of the debate may be happening outside the public sphere. Editors of anthropological journals may have helped to disprivilege ethnographic fiction by refusing to consider it for review. It is only the articles that eventually do get published that have the capacity to point out such ambient attitudes. One such case is that of Hansen et al. (2007), who published a “collectively improvised story that emerged as authors set out to explore their experiences and thoughts concerning organisational stories” in Journal of Management Inquiry. Hansen et al. (2007, 12) state that the article was originally rejected:

Reactions from other readers have varied from intrigue and elation to disapproval and disgust. [One reviewer stated] ‘In my opinion, this paper is unsuitable for inclusion in an academic journal...The purpose of academic journal articles is to seek an objective

Chapter 1: Introduction 6 theoretical or empirical description of some phenomena—constructed, behavioral, or physical—outside of the scholar’s individual mind. The article was eventually published because the reviewer felt that the article was “an enjoyable and provocative read. Unlike many academic reviews, I did not put the paper down until I was finished reading it nor did I feel the need to wander” (Hansen et al. 2007, 13). It was because this reviewer did not have a traditional view of academic journal articles as ‘objective description’ of ‘something outside the scholars’ mind’ that the stories and accompanying description were published as valid research. This example demonstrates that fiction writers seeking to contribute to the oral history project can only do so if the field has inclusive definitions of its scope and function.

1.4.3 Is oral history art or science? The debate feeds into a larger concern over the social sciences’, including history and anthropology, status as science. There is ambivalence about whether the field should be governed by traditional scientific research methods. In understanding this debate, it is possible to gauge whether fiction has the capacity to enter a dialogue with the oral history project. In the field of qualitative research, Lincoln (2010, 3) and Bloch (2004, 96) note that the National Research Council (NRC) identifies the need for scientifically based evidence. Bloch (2004, 99, my emphasis) cites a 2002 NRC report, which states that:

At its core, scientific inquiry is the same in all fields. Scientific research, whether in education, physics, anthropology, molecular biology, or economics, is a continual process of rigorous reasoning supported by a dynamic interplay among methods, theories, and findings. The report concludes that six guiding principles underlie “all scientific inquiry, including educational research”. These are to:  pose significant questions that can be investigated empirically (p. 3)  link research to relevant theory (p. 3)  use methods that permit direct investigation of the question (p. 3)  provide a coherent and explicit chain of reasoning (p. 4)  replicate and generalize across studies (p. 4)  disclose research to encourage professional scrutiny and critique (p. 5) Such understandings of qualitative research, which includes ethnography, make problematic the practice of transforming research into fiction: producing fictive accounts

Chapter 1: Introduction 7 does not constitute empirical testing, nor can results be replicated. Rather they are idiosyncratic and individualised. The drive to emphasise anthropology as a social science may be catalysed by the mandates of funding bodies, particularly in health and education. As Brady (2004, 623), an ethnographer, observes, it is better to leave the domain of poetry [and fiction] alone, “if one expects to succeed and be rewarded for rigor in research”. He points out that the criteria for discovering and reporting are set with great rigor by funding agencies. This certainly seems to be the case for ethnographic research in health care, as Savage (2006, 389) argues:

Those who fund health care research, for the most part, have continued to shy away from ethnography. This is partly because, along with other qualitative approaches, it attempts to explain rather than measure, offers insight rather than generalisable findings and generates rather than tests hypotheses. There remains…a belief that ethnography, as a form of qualitative research, inevitably produces a lower order of evidence than more quantitative types of research. Although Savage (2006, 387) notes the growing interest in the potential that ethnography, and by implication, ethnographic fiction, has to offer as a qualitative method, she observes it is the more conventional and pragmatic forms that are attracting attention from funding bodies. However, both Lincoln (2010) and Bloch (2004) critique this narrow view of qualitative and anthropological research. Lincoln (2010, 3) describes the NRC report as a “silly piracy of the term science”. Certainly, ethnographers who are investigating narrative have “realised that the human sciences, instead of striving towards natural science, need to conceive of themselves as multiple sciences” (Tedlock 2003, 190). As David Stoll (cited in Beverley 2003, 327) states, “anthropologists have become very interested in the problems of narrative, voice and representation. The resulting fascination with texts threatens the claim of anthropology to be a science, by replacing hypothesis, evidence and generalisation with forms of introspection”. Brady (2004, 634) also critiques a narrow scientific view of anthropology, arguing that “the entrance point for modern ethnography is probably best centred on some combination of humanistic and scientific designs—in the realm of artful- science, not either extreme”. This much less rigid view of valid research methods opens up space for fiction as one means of exploring research in conjunction with other, perhaps more traditionally scientific, methods of data analysis. As Brady (2004, 634) goes on to argue, if ethnographers do not “deny their own cultural foundations, biases, and skews, and by flagging language as a proprietary function…it follows that skilled poets immersed in Others

Chapter 1: Introduction 8 can contribute significantly to our ethnographic knowledge pools”. This debate also demonstrates that claims fiction can constitute traditional research are deeply fraught. This shift from understanding valid qualitative research as producing data that is replicable and can be generalised, to producing research outputs that are subjective, and self reflective (as Brady says, “aware of their own cultural foundations”), parallels the debate in oral history. It is impossible to argue that fiction can constitute history, because of the rigours of the discipline. If oral history is understood as having an interdisciplinary focus, it is possible that fiction writers can borrow tools and concerns from oral historians to enhance their work. However, it is only in a broader interdisciplinary context that the two fields can communicate. As I explore in chapter three, in the field of oral history, understandings of life stories have shifted from viewing interviews as objects to be mined for generalisable data in order to find the closest and ‘truest’ representation of the past, to understanding their value as partial, collaborative sources that represent a subjective interpretation of the past. As I argue in the following chapters, fiction can become a site for exploring this concern with subjectivity. In chapter five, I document how my own fiction is driven by this realisation. In this respect, oral history and ethnography seem to be grappling with similar issues. Both fields appear to be open to the possibility of different kinds of re-presenting data, including fictional representations of interview data. This exegesis seeks to document in greater depth some means by which fiction writers can allow the philosophical functions of the oral history project to inform their design processes.

1.5 FICTION WRITERS ACKNOWLEDGING INTERVIEWS

Fiction writers are turning to interviews as a source of material for their books. Some writers, such as Anna Funder, Dave Eggers, Terry Whitebeach and Mick Brown, and Padma Viswanathan explicitly acknowledge interviews as being fundamental to the construction of their novels. In chapter five, I more closely document the contribution of these writers to the debate. Many fiction writers may use interviews to provide inspiration or authenticity to their work. For example, M. J. Hyland’s novel This is How (2009) is based on a transcript of an interview she read in Tony Parker’s Life After Life (1990) (Jordan 2009). However, this exegesis focuses specifically on works of fiction where the author has identified the interview

Chapter 1: Introduction 9 as shaping and limiting the construction of the text, as this most closely aligns with my own practice. Where I differentiate my work from that of other fiction writers is my explicit reliance on oral history methodology. As I document in chapter five, I relied heavily on oral history theory to design my approach to interviews and to analyse the outcomes of the data collection. This exegesis thus also serves to provide a case study of how creative writers can borrow the tools of the oral history discipline to advance their practice. I argue that, in this way, the disciplines can inform and enrich each other. My key contribution thus lies in my discussion of, and reflection on, my methodological processes. Fictionalising oral history interviews is, at one end of the spectrum, occurring in academic disciplines such as ethnography and, at the other, in fiction intended for a wider audience. As a result of the breadth of this practice, the scope and application of this thesis is intended to be useful to other fiction writers or researchers who share my intentions of producing fiction that seeks to adopt fictive techniques to re-present interview data.

1.6 THE PROBLEM OF ‘HYBRID GENRES’ AND HIDDEN OBJECTS: WIDER CONTEXT FOR THE WORK

The use of verifiable or ‘real’ sources in Hidden Objects, such as interviews and archival material, positions the novel on the borderline of fact and fiction and raises questions about how to categorise the work. The practice of basing fictive works on verifiable research is not new, although it continues to be treated with suspicion, particularly in some academic contexts, as is demonstrated in section 1.4. These concerns are also reflected in the mixed responses to ethnographic novels, which I document in chapter four (section 4.3). It is therefore worthwhile, in an introductory overview, to problematise the practice of fictionalising oral histories by pinpointing the general concerns over such borderline genres. In doing so, I come to a deeper understanding of the intentions and form of my own creative practice. In this section, I offer a brief overview of some of the concerns raised by works that occupy a similarly precarious position on the border between fiction and nonfiction as Hidden Objects. This discussion allows me to label my own work and, in doing so, position it within a wider context. It is acknowledged that the discussion about creative nonfiction and other cross-over genres in this section is not exhaustive. Rather, I briefly touch on these issues merely to

Chapter 1: Introduction 10 distinguish my work from creative nonfiction. In doing so, I position my work as a distinct kind of fiction, a ‘hybrid.’

1.6.1 Distinguishing hybrid genres Richardson and St Pierre (2005, 961) observes that in the 1970s “crossovers” between nonfiction and fictive forms “spawned the naming of oxymoronic [or hybrid] genres”. These genres, located on what Foley (2005, 239) describes as the “border between factual and fictive discourse”, include the documentary novel (Foley 2005); literary ethnography (Angrosino 2002); ethnographic fiction; creative nonfiction; faction; the nonfiction novel; true fiction (Richardson and Adams St Pierre 2005); fictocriticism (Kerr and Nettlebeck 1998); hybrid forms (Whiteman and Philips 2006, 6) and literary journalism (Ricketson 2010). This lack of consistency in naming conventions has separated disciplines that are, through various pathways, moving towards similar questions around using the fictive form as a vehicle to both re-present and explore research. In all these forms, novelistic techniques are used to tell stories that are based on verifiable experience, theory or research. The claim of writers of hybrid genres to be at once representing a verifiable event or aspect of research, while at the same time presenting it in a way that reads like fiction remains controversial. Writers of ethnographic fiction or literary ethnography, in particular, publish articles in academic journals, most notably Qualitative Inquiry, about how they have turned to fiction as a means of transforming qualitative research, as well as having published novels and short story collections based on their fieldwork. As I have demonstrated in the above section, and will explore in more detail in chapter four, focusing on the response to ethnographic fiction, these practices are often treated with suspicion, and as alternative and marginal by academics and reviewers. Some definitions of hybrid genres focus on the need for writers to tell ‘facts,’ which echoes oral historians’ restricted definition of the field as grounded in the historiographical need to uncover the most accurate representation of the past. This is the case for creative nonfiction and literary journalism in particular. For example, Talese (1996, 76) states that in creative nonfiction, “facts are presented in a literary style—a style drawing on narrative techniques yet with content true and verifiable”. Gutkind (1997, 17) believes that “nonfiction writers cannot alter facts, but can present them more dramatically”. Ricketson (2010, 156) states literary journalism is characterised by “documentable subject matter chosen from the real world as opposed to invented from the writer’s mind”. Shields (2010, 60), in his recent book Reality Hunger, revises these attitudes slightly, stating “[creative] nonfiction writers

Chapter 1: Introduction 11 imagine. Fiction writers invent”. Although Shields doesn’t overtly state the distinction between imagination and invention, he essentially encourages writers of crossover genres to use description, images and metaphors that may not be found in the source material but that are in keeping with the verifiable evidence. What this demonstrates is that creative nonfiction and literary journalism are bound by what Davies (2001, 270) describes as the “fidelity constraint”. On the other hand, writers of fiction, and other hybrid works including ethnographic fiction and my own work, are free to invent. Writers of ethnographic fiction, and writers who claim that their work is based on an interview (such as those identified in section 1.5), self-identify their work as fiction informed by research and interviews. At the core of the desire to label writing as a ‘crossover’ or hybrid is the need to identify the way that research and actual experience has informed, and even limited, the construction of the text. Crossover texts are informed and bound by verifiable facts. However, in these texts, unlike creative nonfiction, the author has engaged in acts of invention, such as:  Rolled a number of real people into one character, as Heather Piper and Pat Sikes do when producing composite fictions (Piper & Sikes, 2010);  Invented characters loosely based on real people, as Elizabeth Kiesinger does in Portrait of an Anorexic Life (1998b);  Altered the order of verifiable events, or imagined events to create a more compelling narrative;  Imagined a setting based on a real place, such as the fictional town of ‘Bantam’ in Mick Brown and Terry Whitebeach’s 2002 novel of the same name;  Attributed dialogue and thoughts to characters based on real people, when there is no way of confirming that was what the character said or thought, as Paul Stoller does in his novel, Jaguar (1999);  Filled in the gaps in an interviewee’s memory, as Dave Eggers does in What is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achek Deng: A Novel (2007b). Although authors of hybrid genres engage in these acts of invention, the process of creation appears to be limited by a desire to be symbolically, if not directly, true to the data that inspired the text’s production. As the controversy around hybrid genres demonstrates, it could be argued that any text in which a process of invention has taken place should not make a claim about its relationship to verifiable data, and should be referred to as fiction. However, this line of argument implies that fiction is not bound by a fidelity constraint, and is somehow plucked

Chapter 1: Introduction 12 from the writer’s mind, with little or no grounding in verifiable data. This concern over invention in fiction is at the heart of the suspicion about hybrid genres such as ethnographic fiction. Work that uses imaginative forms of representation sits uncomfortably in the academic disciplines of human sciences and history. The argument is logical: to invent is to take your representation/research further away from the research data, from what you have observed, read or been told actually happened. At the extreme end of this debate is the conviction that fiction writing is somehow untruthful. Carolyn Ellis (Davis and Ellis 2008, 113), ethnographer and author of ethnographic fiction, summarises this argument when she says, “I’m very interested in the angst that these issues seem to cause…Is my fiction a lie or is my fiction true?”. Banks (1998, 173) warns that “to break those conventions [of academic writing], especially to move into the realm of the fiction writer or film maker, potentially puts us into the realm of lies”. Ricketson (2010) frames the need to “keep faith with the reader” by “not making things up” as an ethical debate. Ricketson states:

Try telling Aborigines it is unimportant whether they were stolen from their families or rescued, as the former Liberal federal minister Peter Howsom claimed in June 1999. While it is impossible to deny the ethical responsibility to speak truthfully about historically verifiable data, framing the debate in these polar terms may be too simplistic. Rather, the question here is whether invention in fiction is really some form of lying. What kinds of truth can fiction tell? Davies (2001, 270-1) argues that truth through fiction is possible in four ways. Fiction can be a source of:  Propositional understanding: the events in the story may “implicitly or explicitly exemplify…general principles” that could have application in the real world.  Categorical understanding: the work may employ “novel categories or kinds, whose application may illuminate certain matters of fact”. Arguably, the quality of invention in fiction allows the production of novel situations that can demonstrate general principles or force the reader to re-consider the world as it is currently accepted.  Affective knowledge: the knowledge about what it is like to be in a particular circumstance.  Factual information: this is provided, for example, when historical fiction writers incorporate verifiable research into their work. The question here is how will

Chapter 1: Introduction 13 readers know what statements are based on research and which are not? I feel Hidden Objects’ appendix can contribute to this kind of knowledge. If this is the case, and fiction has inherent truth claims—even if they are still contested in some disciplinary areas—do writers really need to identify their work as ‘hybrid’? Isn’t all fiction essentially ‘true to life’, even if it is a symbolic rather than literal truth? Davies (2001, 265) argues that generally it does not matter whether fiction is based on true events/sources or not, unless the author’s knowledge of those events/sources shapes the construction of the text, as is the case in hybrid genres. Many writers who have used verifiable data to inform the construction of their work feel an obligation to identify the source of their writing, and that this can provide satisfaction for the reader.

1.6.2 Labelling Hidden Objects My awareness of the debate around hybrid genres, in addition to ethical concerns I felt early in the writing process (described in Appendix B), led me to describe Hidden Objects as ‘fiction informed by oral histories and archival material’. This label makes clear the importance of the research in the construction of my work, as Davies (2001) refers to in the case of hybrid genres. I use the term ‘inform’ to indicate the way I have presented the chapters based on oral history interviews in a way that captures the vocal qualities of the interview, mimicking the interviewees’ vocabulary, speech habits and attitudes, as well as other ephemeral aspects, such as settings and domestic detail present in the interview and also gathered in other research I conducted around the interview. At the same time, in producing Hidden Objects, I engaged in all the acts of make-believe listed on page 13, yet still felt compelled to retain some of the key details of the interviews and archival materials. Ricketson (2001, 151) observes that things that are “cheap and tawdry in fiction work beautifully in nonfiction because they are true…audiences not only accept events that are stranger than fiction but are thrilled by them”. My awareness of the thrilling potential of verifiable sources influenced my work in two ways. First, I was aware that readers of the novel would be interested in Brisbane-specific detail, and in marginal or untold Brisbane stories. I knew that many Brisbane dwellers had been drawn to Rosamond Siemon’s The Mayne Inheritance (2001), with its focus on well-known Brisbane landmarks and controversial theory about a prominent Brisbane family. For this reason, I retained significant details associated with the setting, such as the location and construction of buildings and significant landmarks.

Chapter 1: Introduction 14 I also wanted to capture the thrill for my readers by highlighting the source of the novel’s stories. I felt that the appendix that accompanies the novel might achieve this aim. The appendix also relates to Davies’s claim of fiction being a source of factual information (2001, 170); I felt that I needed to indicate what verifiable data I was using. I believe that the appendix, and the novel’s label, emphasise this distinction. The label of ‘fiction’ leaves me free to impersonate voice, to imagine and to invent. Ricketson (2001, 156) excludes composite characters, invented quotes and attributed thoughts from his definition of literary journalism. My work contains all these elements and may therefore sit uneasily in conventional understandings of creative nonfiction as representing verifiable information in creative ways, as described in the definitions above. For me, the term ‘fiction’ also alludes to the personal and idiosyncratic process of choosing the central themes that emerged from the historical materials I was encountering. When selecting stories to fictionalise, I noted which aspects of the story interested me most. I found that I was usually interested in certain aspects of a story because they spoke to some larger idea, or theme, that related to some aspect of living conditions in Brisbane.

1.6.3 Reality Hunger In 2010, David Shields published a book called Reality Hunger: A Manifesto. In this text, Shields (2010, 5) identifies an artistic movement, ‘albeit an organic and as yet unstated one’ that is characterised by:

A deliberate unartiness; ‘raw’ material, seemingly unprocessed, unfiltered, uncensored and unprofessional. Randomness, openness to accident and serendipity, spontaneity; artistic risk, emotional urgency and intensity; reader/viewer participation; an overly literal tone, as if the reporter were viewing a strange culture; plasticity of form; criticism as autobiography; self-reflexivity, self-ethnography, anthropological autobiography; a blurring (to the point of invisibility) of any distinction between fiction and nonfiction; the lure and blur of the real. I feel that my creative practice responds to this desire in readers for ‘reality,’ although it does not manifest in the ways Shields identifies. My work does not have the ‘raw data’ (except perhaps in the appendix) or ‘unartiness’ described by Shields, although it aspires to capture the “lure and blur of the real”. I distinguish my work from Shields’ movement in terms of my intention to highlight the constructed nature of my writing, through the use of fictional techniques and the labelling of my work as fiction. My work is, however, in keeping with his identified aesthetics and desire to produce a work that feels real.

Chapter 1: Introduction 15 Shields (2010, 47) observes that the fiction “that moved me was precisely that which had been made luminous, undeniably authentic by having been found and taken up, always at a cost, from deeper, more shared levels of the life we all really live”. I position Hidden Objects, informed as it is by life stories—stories that I have, as Shields says, “found and taken up”—within this category of fiction. In doing so I identify with other historical fiction writers, such as Padma Viswanathan and A.S. Byatt, who are deeply concerned with producing fiction that offers an account of the past that is heavily informed by verifiable, and rich, historical detail. For me and, I would argue, these authors, research and fictional techniques work together as a means to telling the most evocative story possible. Shields (2010, 41, my emphasis) argues that “every work of literature has a situation and a story. The situation is the context or circumstance, sometimes the plot; the story is the emotional experience that preoccupies the writer…the thing one has come to say. The facts of the situation don’t matter, so long as the underlying truth resonates”. Here is the key aim in my production of Hidden Objects: to tell a story about the history of Brisbane that evokes emotional and embodied experience because it is at once concerned with producing verisimilitude with the past, gleaned from research and interviews, while at the same time using fictive techniques and imagination to capture sensory, lived and embodied experience. This introductory chapter problematises the practice of fictionalising oral histories in order to map the contours of the debate, and to introduce the discussion of the following chapters. I unpack these concerns in more depth (chapters two, three and four) in order to demonstrate how these concerns have informed the design and creation of the novel (chapter five).

1.6.4 Key terms Brisbane Brisbane is the capital city of the state of Queensland, Australia. The region of Brisbane was originally inhabited by the Jaggera and Turrabal people. The site was first discovered by white settlers in 1823. Thomas Pamphlett, John Finnegan and Richard Parsons, and John Thompson, cedar-getters, were blown off course by a storm. John Thompson died, but the other three made it back to Moreton Island. The remaining men made a canoe out of a tree and crossed Moreton bay to what is now known as Cleveland. They then walked to the mouth of the Brisbane River (Newstead Board of Trustees 1987, 1). In November of that year, John Oxley, Alan Cunningham met the men. In 1824, Oxley established a penal settlement at

Chapter 1: Introduction 16 Redcliffe, and then moved inland to the current site of Brisbane in the same year. Brisbane was a penal settlement until 1842, when it was opened for free settlement. Brisbane was part of the state of New South Wales until 1861, when it became the capital city of Queensland. Hybrid Novel I use the term hybrid novel in this exegesis to refer to a text that “contains characteristics of both fiction and nonfiction” (Whiteman and Philips 2006, 6). In the hybrid novel, “the author is making direct claims about its reference to ‘reality’ and yet at the same time, asking the reader to indulge in make-believe. That is, empirical content is presented in a partial (or total) make-believe form for dramatic communicative effect” (Whiteman and Philips 2006, 6). I label my own creative practice as a hybrid novel. Oral History In this exegesis, I use the term ‘oral history’ to refer to the movement or discipline of oral history. The oral history discipline in Australia is described in more detail in chapter two. Oral History Interview The ‘oral history interview’ refers to the practice of conducting semi-structured interviews with an individual (interviewee) about their experiences and producing an audio recording and/or transcript as an outcome. The interviewer also conducts extensive research into the context of the interview and the interviewees’ individual circumstances. My application of oral history interview methodology is described in some depth in chapter five. Oral History Project I use the term ‘oral history project’ in this context to describe the aggregate practice and goals of oral history practitioners. In the Australian context, I rely on the aims of the Oral History Association of Australia (OHAA), as identified by their key publications, to determine the nature of the oral history project. A deeper discussion of the practices and goals of the Australian oral history project occurs in chapter two (page 20). Re-presentation The term ‘re-presentation’ has been used by a number of researchers to describe how they, as author or artist, alter oral history interviews to produce creative products. For example, Corrine Glesne (1997) and Laurel Richardson (2003) both describe how they re-present oral histories as poems; Mo Pei Kwan (2008) re-presents oral narratives as visual ones; and Marie-Louise Anderson (2009) re-represents oral histories as art installations. In this exegesis, I use the term to describe how my own and others’ writing at once represents,

Chapter 1: Introduction 17 through conforming to certain restraints imposed by the interviews, while at the same time edits, alters or transposes the interview into a different symbolic language. Reality Hunger I adopt this term from David Shields’ text, Reality Hunger: A Manifesto (2010). In this book, Shields identifies a new artistic movement, whose practitioners all “express or fulfill a need for reality, a need that is not met by the old and crumbling modes of literature” (Sante 2010). In relation to the novel, Shields (2010, 14) states: It was Henry James who tried to assert that the novel, as art form, must be a work of imagination alone…I see writers such as [V.S] Naipaul and [W.G.] Sebald making a necessary post-modernist return to the roots of the novel…‘nonfiction’ material is ordered, shaped and imagined as ‘fiction.’ Books like these restore the novelty to the novel, with its ambiguous straddling of verifiable and imaginary facts, and restore a sense of readerly danger—that tightrope walk between newspaper report and poetic vision. In the exegesis, I use Shields’ notion to argue that this movement has appeared because readers crave reality, and position my own work within this movement.

1.7 THESIS OUTLINE

This thesis consists of two parts: an exegesis and a novel. Chapters two through to five, and chapter seven comprise the exegetical component of the work. The novel appears in chapter six. Chapter one has provided a broad context for the work, introducing the research question and problematising the practice of fictionalising oral histories. Chapter two documents the oral history project in Australia, identifying the Oral History Association of Australia as the main body representing the philosophical mandates of oral historians in the country. Two key mandates are identified: an emphasis on subjective experience; and dissemination and availability to the wider community. It is acknowledged that these do not constitute the entire scope of the oral history project. Rather, I have identified these elements as relevant to a fiction writer’s capacity to enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia. Chapter three reviews fiction’s place in the oral history, identifying the current, if limited, discussion. In order to deepen this discussion, I turn to the field of ethnographic fiction, where researchers are drawing on semi-structured interviews, or oral histories, to inform works of fiction. This more mature debate illuminates the key concerns likely to be

Chapter 1: Introduction 18 raised in relation to claims that fiction writers can enter a dialogue with the oral history project. Chapter four returns to the two philosophical mandates of the oral history project identified in chapter two: the emphasis on subjective experience and dissemination and availability to the wider community. I draw on literary theorists, particularly Steven Greenblatt, Gerard Genette and Dorrit Cohn, to investigate how the specific narrative qualities of fiction are in sympathy with the identified mandates of the oral history project. I argue that fiction can enter a dialogue with oral history through provoking in readers deeper understandings of, and empathy with, fictional characters and, by implication the interviewee’s subjectivity. Chapter five documents my own methodological approaches as a fiction writer seeking to enter a dialogue with the oral history project. I draw on my self-reflective practice to demonstrate how the mandates of the oral history project and practices in ethnographic fiction informed the design of my creative practice. Chapter six consists of a hybrid novel based on oral histories and archival material, titled Hidden Objects. Chapter seven concludes with a brief discussion of further avenues for research.

Chapter 1: Introduction 19 Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia

2.1 WHAT IS THE PROJECT OF ORAL HISTORY IN AUSTRALIA?

In order to answer the research question, ‘In what ways can fiction writers enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia?’, I will begin by surveying the concerns of the field of oral history in Australia. In this chapter I will define what is meant by ‘the oral history project’ in this context (section 2.1.1). I will then use the discussions of the Oral History Association of Australia (OHAA), as evidenced from the national website and seminal texts, to reach an understanding of the oral history project in Australia (section 2.1.2). I identify two concerns and themes that have emerged from the oral history project in Australia (section 2.2-2.3), which have had a direct impact on the design of my creative practice. Sections 2.2 to 2.3 do not represent an exhaustive list of the concerns of the oral history project. It is beyond the scope of the exegesis to document them all. Rather, I have identified two major philosophical functions within oral history that have been seminal in the design of my own creative writing practice: emphasis on subjective experience and dissemination to a wider audience. I return to these ideas in subsequent chapters, offering a deeper understanding of how these notions are at play in the context of Australian oral history, and how writers fictionalising oral history interviews may enter a dialogue with these concerns.

2.1.1 Defining ‘the oral history project’ The term ‘oral history’ is used in two distinct ways both here, and in other texts on the topic. Because oral history emerged as a methodology for historians gathering evidence about the past, the term ‘oral history’ is often used to refer to the practice and products of interviewing. To be clear, when I refer to this aspect in this exegesis, I will use the term ‘oral history interview’. Oral history has also developed into a distinct field in its own right: the term ‘oral history’ can also refer to the body of oral history practitioners who reflect on, analyse, share and write about collecting and understanding oral history interviews. These practitioners may operate either in academic, government or community based contexts but broadly share the

Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia 20 desire to conduct and record in-depth, semi-structured interviews about an interviewee’s firsthand experience of a subject of historical interest (Robertson 2006, 2). Integral to the notion of the ‘oral history project’ is this idea of oral history as a movement: a body of practitioners who have shaped current trends and interests in oral history. The oral history project can be defined as the aggregate practice and goals of these practitioners. The OHAA is the key national body for such practitioners. Naturally, not all oral history practitioners in Australia are members of the OHAA and therefore the Association is typically, rather than exhaustively, representative of the oral history project in the country. However, the national body, with branches in each state, advocates standards for collecting oral histories that are recognised nationally and internationally. The OHAA offers the best and most readily available means of assessing the status of the oral history movement in Australia. For this reason, I examine the key documents and stated goals of the OHAA in order to unpack more deeply the oral history project in Australia.

2.1.2 The Oral History Association of Australia The OHAA was established in 1978, and is a “non-profit body whose members practice and promote oral history” (OHAA 2011b). OHAA membership consists of academics, professional historians, archivists, librarians, individuals, students, and other community groups with an interest in oral history. Each state branch of the OHAA is represented by a committee of volunteers who are principally responsible for promoting the best practice of oral history to its members. This promotion is achieved through disseminating newsletters, organising keynote speakers and conferences, and the facilitation of workshops. State newsletters are sent to members describing oral history based projects, identifying useful oral history related resources, and advertising workshops and seminars of interest to the oral history community. OHAA branches also run workshops educating interested parties, usually individuals and members of community groups, about the practice of oral history. In Queensland and Victoria, the OHAA branches work in partnership with State Libraries to encourage the archiving of interview audio and transcripts. The OHAA also moderates much of the discursive space of the oral history project through the publication of an oral history journal. The Oral History Association of Australia Journal is a part peer-reviewed journal which is published annually and sent to all members. Through the publication of peer-reviewed articles and project reports, this journal does much to promote discussion and best practice and to document the diverse and innovative uses of

Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia 21 oral histories in Australia. The OHAA organises a conference, held every two years, which aims to canvas the contemporary status of oral history in Australia. Through the regular publication of a national journal and state newsletters, the organization of conferences and speakers and the facilitation of oral history workshops for community members, the OHAA shapes and directs the oral history project in Australia. It is useful then to examine the key mandates of the organisation and from where such directives emerged in order to understand the nuances of the oral history project in Australia. The concerns of the OHAA are broad. The national website (OHAA 2011b) declares that the aims of the OHAA are:  to promote the practice and methods of oral history;  to educate in the use of oral history;  to encourage discussion on all aspects of oral history; and  to foster the preservation of oral history records. These broad aims reflect the attitudes of founding members of the Association and shape the attitudes of current members. The aims are more specifically defined in Beth Robertson’s The Handbook of Oral History (2006). I rely on this seminal text in attempting to unpack the philosophical mandates of the oral history project in Australia, as evidenced by the OHAA.

2.1.3 The place of fiction in the philosophical underpinnings of the Australian oral history project To understand how my fiction enters a dialogue with the oral history project, I have identified two key philosophical underpinnings that have emerged from the Australian oral history project’s identification with a social history agenda. Although these do not represent an exhaustive list of the concerns of the oral history project in Australia which, as indicated, is broad, they allow a narrowing of focus and a more nuanced exploration of how a writer of fiction may enter a dialogue with these concerns. Sections 2.2 and 2.3 offer a brief overview of the two philosophical underpinnings identified as key to responding to the research question. In chapter four, I explore these concerns of the oral history project in Australia in greater depth, documenting the ways writers producing works of fiction based on oral histories can potentially engage with these philosophical directives (chapter four) and my own response to them (chapter five).

Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia 22 2.2 EMPHASIS ON SUBJECTIVE EXPERIENCE

2.2.1 Oral histories as interpretations Thomson (2007, 50) argues that, since the OHAA was established in 1978, there have been four paradigm transformations, the first being “the post-war renaissance of memory as a source of people’s history”. This focus on ordinary people is reflected in Robertson’s (2006, 3) statement that the most important use of oral history is to “record the perspectives of disadvantaged people who traditionally have either been ignored or misrepresented in conventional historical records”. Significantly, Robertson (2006, 3) identifies social historian Paul Thompson’s The Voice of the Past as a seminal text. She quotes a lengthy section from The Voice of the Past in order to emphasise the aims of the oral history project:

Oral history is a history built around people. It allows for heroes not just from the leaders, but from the unknown majority of people…it brings history into, and out of, the community. It helps the less privileged, especially the old, towards dignity and self-confidence. It makes for contact—and hence understanding—between social classes, and between generations…In short it makes for fuller human beings. These statements highlight the oral history project’s social history agenda. Oral history is viewed as an enriching practice which can, through engagement with oral sources, produce more socially aware and, by implication, better human beings. This emphasis on the ordinary voice led to the second transformation: a deep interest in subjectivity. Thomson (2007, 50) identifies the second paradigm transformation as “the development, from the late 1970s of the ‘post-positivist’ approaches to memory and subjectivity”. Thomson (2007, 54) observes how, as a result of new understandings arising from post-positivism, “oral historians turned criticism of the unreliability of oral history on their head by arguing that…oral history’s strength was the subjectivity of memory”, because it “provided clues not only about the meanings of historical experience but also the relationship between past and present, between memory and personal identity and between individual and collective memory”. Robertson (2006, 4) echoes this sentiment acknowledging that the validity of oral history is sometimes questioned because memory is faulty and interviewees may be “prone to fabrication”. However, she advocates a more sophisticated understanding of oral histories as sources by arguing that “many researchers have come to appreciate that truth in oral history is not always found in factual accuracy”. Citing Barbara Allen and Lynwood Montell, Robertson notes that “historians should look for underlying truths contained in values,

Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia 23 attitudes, beliefs and feelings as expressed orally in exaggerations, distortions and seeming contradictions of historical fact” (2006, 4). In this view, oral history is valued for the truths underlying subjective experience.

2.2.2 Narrating the past in the present These “underlying truths” lie in the fact that the oral history interview is a source, created in the present, which seeks to narrate the past. In this way, the interview is “evidence of the ways in which history lives on in the present” (Grele 2006, 59). It is thus the interviewees’ act of narration, of making sense of the past, which is their key value. In this way, “interviewees are their own historians, capable of elaborate and sometimes confusing methods of constructing and narrating their own histories” (Grele 2006, 59). Alessandro Portelli (cited in Grele 2006, 59) argues that “the unique and precious element which oral sources force upon the historian, and which no other sources possess in equal measure (except literary ones) is the speaker’s subjectivity”. This approach emphasises the importance of “language and story in the formation of the connection between individual experience and collective behaviour” (Grele 2006, 66). Embedded in this discussion is a concern with subjective experience, the performative nature of orality and the centrality of metaphor. Thomson (2007, 65) adds, quoting Daniel James, that the importance of remembering lies in its embodiment in cultural practices such as storytelling.

2.3 IMPLIED READERSHIP/DISSEMINATION AND AVAILABILITY TO A WIDER COMMUNITY

Grele (2006, 55) observes that oral history practitioners have been hesitant to praise “academic uses of oral history” because of “the increasing abstract nature of the language used” and the fact that the “high prices of academic publication posed a barrier to effective politics”. The low cost of OHAA membership (adults pay $40 a year), which includes a copy of The Oral History Association of Australia Journal, reveals this concern in the oral history project in Australia. Thomson (2007, 56) notes that “two of the concerns that trouble oral historians are that the increasing theoretical sophistication is incomprehensible to, or ignored by, oral historians outside of the academy and that interviewees may be bewildered by the deconstruction of their memories”. Thomson warns against a “retreat into rarefied debate”, arguing that oral historians should produce texts “informed by our relationship with the men and women who

Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia 24 tell us their memories and by our efforts to engage in political debate and social change” (2007, 56). The oral history project is thus deeply concerned with producing research that is highly accessible and engaging.

2.4 WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR A FICTION WRITER WORKING WITH ORAL HISTORIES?

Having identified and summarised the two concerns of the oral history project to be investigated in this thesis, in the following section I will explore how fiction writers, and fictionalised oral histories, can speak to the key concerns in each of these areas.

Chapter 2: The oral history project in Australia 25 Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project

3.1 THE PURPOSE OF LINKING ORAL HISTORY WITH ETHNOGRAPHIC FICTION

This chapter links the limited discussion about fiction’s place in the field of oral history— where such practices are new—with the more extensive debate in the field of ethnography. In ethnography, the practice of producing novels based on oral history interviews has a longer history and, as a result, is a more mature discussion. The oral history project in Australia and discussions in ethnography share similar concerns around the two key philosophical functions identified in chapter two (section 2.2-2.3): an emphasis on subjective experience and an implied readership and availability to the community. Before going on to look specifically at these two issues, some light can be shed on the broader discussion of how fiction can contribute to the project of oral history in Australia by comparing the concerns of oral history with ethnography. The linking of these practices allows a more nuanced and pragmatic account of how works of ethnographic fiction based on oral history interviews have been received, which I draw on in my discussion of the capacity of fiction to speak to the oral history project (chapter four) and my own creative practice (chapter five).

3.2 FICTION AND THE ORAL HISTORY PROJECT IN AUSTRALIA: A NEW PRACTICE

The discussion about fiction’s role in the oral history project is relatively new. In order to answer the question about fiction’s place, it is important to map the current scholarship on the issue. As I shall demonstrate, this dialogue is quite limited. However, the oral history project’s openness to interdisciplinary approaches and the early discussion around fictionalising oral history in Australia, demonstrates that fiction writers can offer a more substantial engagement with the debate. In sections 3.3 and 3.4, I establish how discussions in ethnographic fiction can deepen the debate because they share a similarity of intention.

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 26 3.2.1 Oral history as an interdisciplinary field Thomson (2007, 61) observes the interdisciplinary nature of oral history from the 1980s onwards. This interdisciplinary nature is generally accepted although occasionally sits uncomfortably in oral history’s traditional historiographical framework. In a paper presented in 1983 and re-published in the Oral History Review in 2007, Willa Baum (2007, 14, my emphasis) states that:

The primary purpose and use of oral history is the collection and preservation of historically significant information for the use by future and present students in interpreting and writing history. Similarly, Robertson (2006), in her textbook advocated by the OHAA, positions oral history within historiography; its roots as a tool used by historians is evident in her emphasis on oral history interview as a means to uncover the past. The interdisciplinary focus of the OHAA in recent years is becoming increasingly apparent in Australia. In addition to opening up the scope of the journal, the OHAA also accepts papers from a variety of disciplines at the OHAA conferences. Increasingly, arts- based approaches are being documented alongside traditional historiographical ones in oral history journals and at conferences. For example, Marie-Louise Anderson’s paper ‘Travelling to Unknown Places: Oral History and Art’ (2009), considers her practice-led research, which is informed by oral histories. Anderson is an installation artist who has worked with a number of interviewees in Tasmania, Norfolk Island, South Africa and South Korea. In her paper, Anderson explains her interest in oral histories is not always in the facts. Rather, she is concerned with the experiential aspects of the interview, in order to imbue her works with a deeper emotional and thematic authenticity. Jen Brown is an artist interested in using oral histories in her new media installations. Her paper, ‘Blitz: Navigating an Intersection of Oral History, Politics and Sound Art’ demonstrated her desire to capture, in her artwork, the discourses of a particular time: the War on Terror. The OHAA conference held in Launceston in 2009 hosted a performance of Stella Kent’s play New Tasmanians. The play was based on oral histories of Tasmanian migrants. The work was a vivid and compelling re-enactment of the hope, anxiety and ambivalence felt by migrants travelling to a new country and encouraged an empathetic response from the audience. At the 2011 OHAA conference, held in Melbourne, an entire panel was dedicated to ‘Creative Approaches to Documenting Lives’ (session 3b, Friday 7 October 2011). On this panel, was Dr Janis Wilton, who presented the paper ‘Community Memories in the Art Gallery’ (2011), Jessica Tyrrell,

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 27 who presented the paper ‘The South Sydney Project: Oral History and New Media’ (2011), and myself, who presented the paper ‘Family Memories in Fiction’ (2011). These examples demonstrate the shift away from traditional uses of oral history in the Australian oral history project. In such contexts, oral histories are not valued so much for their factual content but as sources that are at once dynamic, evolving, emotionally and culturally authentic and ambiguous. This trend is also reflected in the slowly burgeoning acceptance of fiction as a means to explore and re-present oral history interviews.

3.2.2 Fiction and oral history In Australia, there are, to my knowledge, currently two writers of fiction who are producing fiction explicitly based on interviews in the context of the oral history project: writer and academic Dr Terry Whitebeach, and myself. Whitebeach, in collaboration with her son, Mick Brown, wrote a novel and a radio play, both called Bantam. Both forms offered a fictionalised account of Brown’s life in rural Tasmania, which he described to Whitebeach over the telephone. Whitebeach, former editor of the Oral History Association of Australia Journal, published a project report in the 2010 issue of the journal, titled ‘Place and People: Stories of and by Unemployed Youth in Australia’, describing transforming Mick’s story into literature. In this article, Whitebeach (2010, 48) states that she produced Bantam:

[I]n order to stand witness to a community’s memory and experience and also to ensure that particular individuals not be shamed– a dialogue which includes the conflicting accounts, attitudes, opinions and versions whose effective coexistence is essential to maintaining co-operative interdependence in small island communities. Here Whitebeach identifies one—and I would argue the least contentious—means by which fiction can enter a dialogue with the oral history project: by giving interviewees anonymity so they need not be “shamed”, as Whitebeach claims. This anonymity allows writers to tell their stories in a way that would not otherwise be acceptable. Implicit in Whitebeach’s argument is that individuals may feel shame as a result of having their name associated with the stories they tell, which may be contested when published publically. Fiction offers the freedom to change names and details so no one individual is identifiable. Penny Russell, in her review of Thomson’s Moving Stories: an Intimate History of Four Women across Two Continents (2011, hereafter referred to as Moving Stories), also recognises the complex process of negotiation oral historians must engage in when claiming to represent their interviewee’s subjective experience. Russell (2011, 56) asks: “How does a male academic historian represent the life story of four women, on their own terms, without

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 28 resigning his own critical or analytical faculties…?” Paul Thompson (2006, 27) warns, “history should not merely comfort; it should provide a challenge”. In Moving Stories Thomson frequently (and I believe successfully) navigates the tensions between the ethical imperative to affirm the women’s life stories and social history’s mandate to challenge or re- interpret them. Although, as Russell (2011, 56) acknowledges, Thomson does steer clear of the potential pitfalls; there are moments when “it’s a close run thing”, and Thomson adopts “the tone of an anxious host at an ill assorted party”. Thomson must negotiate between the social historian’s compulsion to produce an account that is analytical and challenging and the ethical constraint to write in a way that is acceptable to those he claims to represent. As Whitebeach’s discussion demonstrates, fiction can offer another way to navigate this tension. Because an author of fiction does not claim to directly represent the subject, they can tell stories that may otherwise be contested while still drawing on the oral history interview. Outside of the oral history project in Australia, researchers have used fiction as a means to present contentious issues in an acceptable manner. For example, UK researchers Heather Piper and Pat Sikes, in their text, Researching Sex and Lies in the Classroom (2010), use ‘composite’ fictions as a way of ensuring participant anonymity. The researchers interviewed teachers who had been accused of sexual misconduct but were later cleared of all charges. Piper and Sikes (2010, 567) felt that the people who had agreed to participate could not be adequately protected by standard strategies of pseudonyms. They fictionalised the accounts given, “creating characters, contexts and setting, inventing dialogue and crafting plots”, but at the same time they did not make up anything directly related to their research question: the experiences and perceptions of the allegations of abuse. In these instances, fiction has offered a means to represent interpretations of oral history that would be troublesome, even unethical, if the author claimed they were purely factual. As Thomson’s Moving Stories demonstrates, nonfiction representations of life stories must be negotiated with the interviewee. Because fiction does not claim to directly relate to the oral history, there is space to imaginatively explore possible representations, and in doing so dimensionalize rather than reduce the interpretative possibilities. However, fiction can contribute to the oral history project more deeply than just offering a cloak to protect participants. In their paper ‘Katrina Narratives: What Can Creative Writers Tell Us about Oral History’ (2008), Hirch and Dixon argue that creative writers can contribute to the debates in oral history because their training in producing fictional narratives can offer a deeper understanding of the similarities in narrative structure of oral stories. Hirsch and Dixon (2008, 190) state:

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 29 In the face of a world that is outrageously complex…we must, acting as creative writers, operate as a magnifying glass and work to bring into sharp focus (if, therefore, also slightly distorted like any discipline distorts its object of study) the nuts and bolts of an authentic, though fictional, human story vis-à-vis narrative structure. As I will argue in more depth in chapter four, the process of writing creatively through transforming oral histories into fiction may actually provoke insight about the storytelling acts within the oral history interviews. Although Hirsch and Dixon (2008, 188) seek to ‘springboard a larger conversation’ about how creative thinking and storytelling could shed light on both interviewees’ and oral historians’ acts of re-telling the past, their call has gone largely unanswered in the oral history community. Although peer reviewed and published in the prominent and credible The Oral History Review journal, I appear to be the only author who has cited it. However, opportunities for researchers from the creative writing discipline to explore oral histories are increasing. In 2011, for the first time, the OHAA’s conference Communities of Memory, held October 2011, included the sub-theme ‘Memory Work in Creative and Fictional Writing’ (OHAA 2011a). However, my paper seems to be the only one submitted to address this theme.

3.2.3 Expanding the discussion Although the oral history project’s acceptance of interdisciplinary approaches has opened up a space for writers of fiction to contribute to the discussion, the debate is in its infancy. How can this debate be expanded in a meaningful manner? The answer perhaps lies in the practice of interviewers in fields outside of oral history who are producing fictive works based on the interviews they are collecting. The practice of transforming interviews into works of fiction is more common in the discipline of ethnography, where ethnographers have produced novels and short stories based on interviews and documented their process. In the next section, I link the emerging discussion of producing fiction in the oral history discipline with the discussion in ethnography around ethnographic fiction, highlighting some of the similarities of intentions between ethnographers and the oral history project. I then develop these connections in chapter four.

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 30 3.3 ETHNOGRAPHIC FICTION BASED ON INTERVIEWS

Oral history and ethnography are two distinct fields of practice. As discussed earlier, oral history emerged within a historiographical context, from historians’ desire to capture the untold or marginalised stories in order to understand the subjective significance of historical events. Ethnography is more often associated with anthropology. Despite the term “not being used in an entirely standard fashion” (Hammersley and Atkinson 2007, 2), ethnography usually refers to “first hand empirical investigation and the theoretical and comparative interpretation of social organisation and culture”. In ethnography, fieldwork and case study are the primary means of data collection (Hammersley and Atkinson 2007, 2). Oral history and ethnography share one similar mode of data collection, namely the semi-structured, in- depth interview. One crucial difference in the fields is the practice of fictionalising oral histories, which occurs in the genre known as ethnographic fiction, literary ethnography or the ethnographic novel. Ethnographic fiction is an accepted practice in ethnography while, as discussed in section 3.2, it is a new practice in the discipline of oral history. As more fictionalised interviews emerge, scholars in the field of oral history will almost certainly find themselves debating the same issues emerging in response to the production of ethnographic fiction. Therefore, it is useful to unpack the debate in some depth in order to more deeply understand how fiction writers can enter a dialogue with debates within oral history. In the following sections I more clearly establish the link between ethnographic fiction and the oral history project. In order to do this, I first establish a clear definition of ethnographic fiction, briefly documenting the genre’s history, before providing a survey of ethnographic fiction work based on interviews. I turn to these writers’ discussion of why they have produced fictive accounts of the interviews they conducted, establishing the similarity in intentions of these writers and the oral history project. This leads to the more detailed discussion in chapter four of the key aims of the oral history project, identified in chapter two, and their relationship to ethnographic fiction writers’ claims for the genre.

3.3.1 What is ethnographic fiction? The terms literary ethnography, ethnographic fiction and the ethnographic novel all refer to the practice of transforming ethnographic data into a fictive account. Rinehart (1998, 204)

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 31 states that “fictional ethnography combines the realist goals of academic ethnography and fiction but with an eye to both instruction and feeling”. In providing a history of the form, it must first be acknowledged that ethnographic fiction is not limited to work that is based solely on oral histories. Because ethnographers use other means of data collection, including participant observation and fieldwork, these forms of data have also been incorporated into fictive works. However, for the purposes of linking ethnography with the oral history project, I will focus the discussion in this section on ethnographic fictions based on interviews because these works share some similarities with the concerns of the oral history project. Ethnographic fiction has been an established genre for over one hundred years. In her 2003 article, ‘Ethnography and Ethnographic Representation’, Barbara Tedlock maps the development of the ethnographic novel. She identifies the first novel based on ethnographic data as Adolf F. Bandelier’s The Delight Makers published in 1890. Bandelier was an archaeologist who studied the Pueblo Indians for eight years. He later wrote a fictionalised account of his experiences. Tedlock (2003, 175) states that although The Delight Makers was “recognised as a classic by archaeologists and anthropologists”, it did not receive public attention. Since the publication of The Delight Makers, there have been a string of novels published by ethnographers and anthropologists based on their fieldwork. While some of the work is only indirectly related to the fieldwork, others maintain close ties. It is useful to outline those ethnographic novels based on interviews, where the author has directly identified a specific interview or series of interviews as informing the text in addition to other ethnographic data. There are a handful of fictive texts whose authors are ethnographers or anthropologists and who directly acknowledge a specific interview or series of interviews as the primary source of data. These texts tend to be published by academic presses and are usually accompanied by theoretical discussion. In this section, I survey these key texts. The Smithsonian Institution Press published Michael Jackson’s Barawa and the Way Birds Fly in the Sky: An Ethnographic Novel in 1986. The novel was the first work of fiction the Smithsonian Institute had ever published. It was based on “oral and written history, legends and the author’s anthropological fieldwork in Africa” (McDowell 1986). At the time of its publication, Gail Grella the marketing manager of the Smithsonian Institution Press, stated that, “We’re publishing this work because we have a long tradition of pioneering anthropological research, and this novel offers a new form of ethnographic inquiry” (cited in McDowell 1986).

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 32 Catherine Elizabeth Kiesinger published her short story, ‘Portrait of an Anorexic Life’, originally in the academic journal Qualitative Inquiry in 1998. The story, with accompanying discussion about Kiesinger’s process, was republished the same year as a chapter in Fiction and Social Research: By Ice and Fire, edited by Anna and Stephan Banks. Kiesinger (1998b, 129) states that she used “lengthy life stories [interviews] and my own observations, field notes and reflections about each woman [who suffered from anorexia]” to compose “evocative narratives that expressed the ways these women experienced their conditions, understood their identities, and participated in close relationships”. In one instance, Kiesinger used interactive interviewing to elicit Liz’s, an anorexic, life story, transforming the data into the character of Abbie. Although Kiesinger (1998b, 132) “looked at the story’s emotion and used Liz’s speech pattern to create the story”, she also “collapsed events, often invented, downplayed or embellished actual dialogue and conversations” (1998b, 133). Michael Angrosino’s Opportunity House: Ethnographic Stories of Mental Retardation was published in 1998, as part of an Ethnographic Alternative Series, edited by Arthur P. Bochner and Carolyn Ellis and published by AltaMira Press. The Ethnographic Alternatives Series “publishes experimental forms of qualitative writing that purposefully blur the boundaries between the social sciences and humanities” (Ellis and Bochner 1998, 9). Opportunity House consists of twelve short stories written in the voices of community members at a residence for disabled adults designed to help their integration into mainstream society. The work is based on Angrosino’s taped interviews with men living in a similar facility and two decades of ethnographic participant observation. Angrosino distinguishes his work from creative nonfiction stating that his intention was to write “creative fiction” (1998, 98), hoping to explore what it feels like to be disabled (Davies 1999, 127; Dossa 2000, 453). By this Angrosino means using fictional devices such as “creating composite characters, shifting scenes, compressing action and reporting both imagined conversations and his characters’ interior monologues” (Davies 1999, 127). Interspersed with the stories are transcripts of Angrosino’s interviews with one of his students, designed to “contextualise his craft within the field of anthropology” (Peacock 1998, 11). Katherine Frank, an ethnographer and participant observer, published a number of short stories based on her studies of the sex industry. Frank worked as an entertainer in five different strip clubs and “conducted 30 multiple, in-depth interviews with regular male customers at the strip clubs as well as conducting shorter interviews with non-regular customers, dancers, managers, advertisers and club employees” (Frank 2000, 481). She has

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 33 published her short stories in an academic journal, Qualitative Inquiry, in 2000, accompanied by a discussion about “using fiction as anthropology”. Frank also published the stories in local adult entertainment trade magazines (Frank 2000, 483). Frank later published an ethnographic book exploring the same data, titled G-strings and Sympathy: Strip Club Regulars and Male Desire (2002). In this text, she “maintains a strict boundary between fiction and ethnography” (Frank 2002, 37). Brett Smith, in his article, ‘The (In)visible Wound: Body Stories and Concentric Circles of Witness’, published in a 2002 issue of Auto/Biography, wrote what he described as a “messy text”, which consists of a self-reflective discussion of producing a story based on the author’s “taped conversations, letters and informal discussion” with Kate, who suffered sexual abuse (Smith 2002,113), and his fictional account of her experiences. The story consists of a description of Kate in the interview, printed in italics, her words or imagined words (it is unclear which) and imagined flashbacks to the traumatic event. In 2004, Jane Gilgun’s short story, Yukee the Wine Thief, was published in Qualitative Inquiry in conjunction with a discussion of her method. Yukee is based on a story her informant told her about being raped as a child. Gilgun has previously published a book, Shame, Blame and Child Sexual Abuse (2009), based on interviews and other qualitative data. Tobias Hecht’s After Life: An Ethnographic Novel with Portions Based on the Narrations of Bruna Verissimo was published in 2006 by Duke University Press. In his introduction to the novel, Hecht described how, after interviewing Bruna over the span of a decade, he (2006, 5) realised that “though everything Bruna was telling me was plausible, a substantial amount happened to be untrue”. Reading over the transcripts again, Hecht (2006, 5) concluded that Bruna’s story, and her imaginative attempt to make sense of her experiences, were “more suited to fiction”. Comparing ethnographic fiction to historical fiction, Hecht (2006, 12) states that such works “infiltrate lives and events only that exist within the wider sweep of what is widely agreed to have occurred”. In 2010, as mentioned earlier, Heather Piper and Pat Sikes used ‘composite fictions’ to represent qualitative research and interview data about sexual misconduct in the classroom in order to protect the identity of informers. Piper and Sikes interviewed teachers who had been accused of sexual misconduct but were later cleared of all charges. In their text, Researching Sex and Lies in the Classroom (2010), published by Routledge, the first-person composite fictions are interwoven with more traditional academic discussion of the research findings.

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 34 In the same year, Margaret Vickers published an article in Qualitative Inquiry that included an extract from an interview transcrip as well as a poem and a scene from a short story based on the interview transcript to document her process in creating works of fiction. She concludes with a discussion of the value of a researcher creating fiction in scholarly work. All of these authors have written extensively about why they turned to fiction as a means of presenting oral histories. In the next section of this exegesis, I will analyse those motivations alongside stated goals of the oral history project in Australia.

3.4 WHY FICTION? HOW THE AIMS OF ETHNOGRAPHIC FICTION WRITERS ALIGN WITH THE ORAL HISTORY PROJECT IN AUSTRALIA

3.4.1 Crisis of representation The desire to use fictive methods to represent qualitative research, including interviews, appears to have emerged out of a crisis of representation in the humanities and social sciences. The field of oral history experienced a similar crisis. As stated in chapter two, Thomson (2007, 50) identifies it as “the development, from the late 1970s of the ‘post- positivist’ approaches to memory and subjectivity”. This crisis across disciplines resulted in an increased awareness of the constructed nature of traditional representations of research, and a willingness to embrace the subjective, rather than the objective, in exploring the meaning and value of interview data. Ethnographers came to feel traditional academic practices restricted their ability to convey their understanding of research as specific and individual, rather than generalisable. Norman Denzin and Yvonna Lincoln (2005, 19) describe what they call the “triple crisis in qualitative research: that of representation, legitimatisation and praxis”. Denzin and Lincoln (2005, 19) state that:

The first crisis is that qualitative researchers can no longer directly capture lived experience. Such experience is created by the social context written by the researcher: this is the crisis of representation. The second assumption makes problematic the traditional criteria for evaluating research. This involves a serious rethinking of such terms as validity, generalisability and reliability. This crisis has led some researchers working with fiction to argue that the writing techniques of social scientists and fiction writers are not as dissimilar as they may first appear. Nelson Phillips (1995, 625-649), for example, who uses fiction to explore the

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 35 qualities of organisations, states that, while there are obvious differences between fiction and social science, the:

[s]imilarities between the practices of the two communities are equally striking. On closer examination, we find that social scientists often do what writers do: they create rather than discover, they focus on the unique and individual, and they use illusion and rhetoric in an effort to make their case. Similarly, writers often act like social scientists: they test ideas against evidence, they generalize, they pose testable questions about the social world, and they try to remain faithful to details of external experience…What we find then, on closer examination, is not two solitudes, but two loose communities sharing a common goal—they both seek to model the world— while being separated by conventionalized understandings of their respective activities. Some have taken this attitude one step further, arguing that traditional means of representing their and their subjects’ experiences are no longer adequate and that the fictive form offers them freedom to more adequately capture their subjects’ experiences. Given that, as established in section 2.2, the oral history project shares a concern for the representation of subjective experience, it is possible to extrapolate that similar arguments about the liberating quality of fiction can be applied to the field.

3.4.2 Fiction as a liberating practice Researchers who produce ethnographic fiction do so because they feel that fiction can more fully capture the engaging quality, sensory detail and complexity of lived experience than can traditional academic representations. For example, Paul Rosenblatt is a researcher who has written an as yet unpublished detective novel based on his interviews with families who have lost a member of their family in a fatal farm accident (Rosenblatt 2003, 233). Rosenblatt argues that fiction allows him the freedom to “tell readers more than I would have while working within the constraints of conventional social science writing” (Rosenblatt 2003, 325). Similarly, Frank (2000, 483) states that, in her fiction, “there is a possibility of portraying a complexity of lived experience that might not always come across in a theoretical explication, even one that is concerned with elucidating the complexity of power relations and human interactions”. Some ethnographic fiction writers identify the techniques of fiction such as narrative, dialogue and characterisation as a way to more accurately represent their subjects’ experiences. For example, Stoller (2002, 300), author of Jaguar (1999), an ethnographic novel based on Stoller’s work with Africans in Niger and New York, states that his “use of

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 36 narrative and dialogue [in the novel] is an attempt to maintain the fidelity of the African ways of talking about social life”. Stoller (2002, 300) states that he wanted to write a text in “which the drama of social life was presented in the foreground, in which the personalities of characters were developed through both inner reflection and outward expression—in words and actions”. He claims these expressive goals were best achieved through fiction (2000, 300). Ethnographic fiction writers argue that not only do the techniques of fiction offer a writing style more closely aligned to their participants’ experience, they also produce a more engaging account. As Stoller (2002, 300) notes, the “constraints of ethnographic writing have a tendency to pull the reader away from the excitement and trauma of lived experience and limit the depths of characterisation”. Fiction, on the other hand, can produce exciting and engaging accounts. Such concerns are very much in line with the oral history project of producing publications that “appeal to readers’ imaginations” (OHAA 2011b), and are widely accessible to a broad community, as explored in section 2.3.

3.4.3 The specific philosophical endeavours of the oral history project and fiction Section 3.4 offers a very broad overview of the shared aims of the oral history project and ethnographic fiction writers. Both share a post-positivist concern with exploring subjective experience and both hope to produce accounts that are widely accessible and, by implication, engaging. Ethnographic fiction writers have argued that fictional techniques offer one means to achieve these aims. The next chapter develops this argument, identifying the specific and distinct narrative qualities of fiction that can contribute to the key aims shared by the oral history project and ethnographic fiction writers. As I explore in chapter four, these debates are far more contentious than the earlier claim that fiction can lend anonymity to textual representations of oral history interviews and ethnographic fiction writers do not always achieve their intended outcomes. Chapter four returns in more specific detail to the two key philosophical endeavours identified in sections 2.2 and 2.3 and identifies how ethnographic fiction writers are arguing that their work addresses these concerns. I turn to literary theory to deepen the discussion around the specific qualities of fiction. This discussion functions as a detailed analysis of how fiction writers can enter a dialogue with the oral history project.

Chapter 3: Fictionalising oral history interviews: ethnographic fiction and the oral history project 37 Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction

4.1 INTRODUCTION

In chapter two, I identified two key aims of the oral history project in Australia: emphasising subjective experience as a valuable means of understanding the past and disseminating oral histories in a way that is accessible to an implied readership. These key aims demonstrate the Australian oral history project’s embedded social agenda. In this chapter, I explore more deeply how these philosophical functions are played out in the field of oral history. I argue that fiction is sympathetic to those aims and can provide an analytical ‘toolkit’ for unpacking oral histories, most specifically for understanding oral history interviews as subjective and narrative sources. Fiction writers can engage with these concerns in the design of fictional work, as in the case of my own methodology which I describe in depth in chapter five. Nelson (2003, 125) argues that narrative is the medium of shared memories, collective memories and fictional creations. Rosenblatt (2003, 225) goes so far as to state that “we hear our interview respondents relating narratives about their lives that seem to be like what we read in novels”. In this chapter, I delve deeper into the narrative qualities of fiction, linking the fiction writer’s concern with subjective experience to storytelling acts present in the oral history interview. I argue the fictive form offers a means of exploring, re-presenting and mimicking the interviewee’s subjectivity in the oral history interview. Fiction’s specific narrative qualities, particularly the complex interaction between character, point of view, the implied author and implied reader, can enter a dialogue with the debates in the oral history project around the nature of subjectivity. I also argue that the specific narrative qualities of fiction have the capacity to engage audiences and deepen their understanding of an interviewee’s subjective experience, contributing to the oral history project’s social history agenda which manifests as a desire to present oral histories in a form that is accessible to a wide audience. Ethnographic fiction writers, in discussion of their own practice, have identified a number of specific qualities of their fictive works. Here, I continue the discussion of chapter three, linking the experiences of ethnographic fiction writers to the aims of the oral history

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 38 project. Ethnographic fiction provides a situated example of the possibilities and problems of making such claims for fiction. In order to bring a more complex understanding of the narrative qualities of fiction to this debate, I draw on literary theory, particularly the work of Stephan Greenblatt, Dorrit Cohn and Gerard Genette. In each section, I link literary studies’ conception of fiction to the debates in oral history and ethnographic fiction. In doing so, I argue that fiction writers can potentially enter a dialogue with the oral history project in a number of ways. Underpinning all these claims is an assumption that fiction can function as a means of representing culture and also as a means of analysing it. In section 4.1.1 and 4.1.2, I interrogate this assumption, investigating more closely the truth claims made by ethnographic fiction writers for their work, against the notions present in literary studies. In sections 4.2-4.3, I turn to the specific concerns of the oral history project, which I identified in chapter two. In each section, I more closely examine how these concerns are played out in the oral history project. I then investigate how ethnographic fiction writers have suggested their work can contribute to this debate. Finally, I turn to narrative theory to more closely unpack how and why the specific qualities of fiction can contribute to the concerns of the oral history project.

4.1.1 Fiction as a means of representing culture The assumption that underlies the research question—how can a fiction writer enter a dialogue with the oral history project?—is that, in some way, fiction can tell us something about what the world is like, more specifically, the ways people make sense of the world through storytelling. It is assumed that fiction can act as a vessel that holds a version or versions of the world, and that it is within the space of fiction that writers can enact their interpretation of the culture in which they exist. This assumption has solid foundations. Literary theorists have long argued that fiction is a means of understanding cultural institutions. In this section, I turn to the movement of New Historicism as a lens through which to understand how fiction can relate to the real world. Davis and Schleifer (1998, 502) argue that the importance of New Historicism is that practitioners of the form, investigating Renaissance and Tudor literature, believed that:

Since Renaissance writers were endowed with the subjectivity or selfhood at the point when they allied themselves with, or rose in opposition to...formidable cultural institutions [that surrounded them], their views were shaped by the cultural authority they identified with or resisted, and that they used their texts either to depict the

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 39 strategies that their allies might deploy to overcome figure of otherness, or to denounce the tactics that a power mobilised to expand its sphere of influence. As a result, critics of fiction could map the ways writers’ works are shaped by dominant ideologies present either in their reinforcement or resistance to those ideologies and codes of behaviour. In these ways, fiction is evidence for the way power was maintained and resisted in society. A New Historicist theorist, Steven Greenblatt, offers a demonstration of this assertion in his analysis of Shakespeare’s Henry IV. Greenblatt (1998) compares Henry IV with a contemporary nonfiction text, Harriot’s A Brief and True Report of the New Found Land of Virginia. Greenblatt links modes of maintaining colonial power evidenced in Harriot’s text with the ways Shakespeare demonstrates how the Monarchy maintains sovereignty in his play. In doing so, Greenblatt (1998) demonstrates that certain qualities in the fictive work reinforce power, just as representations in Harriot’s text do. Here, Greenblatt draws on Althusser’s notion that art makes us perceive ideology through a process of internal distancing (Davis and Schleifer 1998, 503). For example, Greenblatt (1998, 523-4) states that Henry IV:

Articulates the sacrifice [of becoming a ruler] not as a piece of historical rhetoric but as a private meditation, the innermost thoughts of a troubled, weary man...we are invited to take measure of his suffering, to understand the costs of power. And we are invited to understand these costs in order to ratify the power, to accept the grotesque and cruelly unequal distribution of possessions...the rulers earn, or at least pay for, their exalted position through suffering,and this suffering ennobles, if it does not actually cleanse, the lies and betrayals upon which this position depends. In other words, the specific quality of the play, which is presented as personal narrative with access to the interior of a character, functions as a means of reinforcing the monarchy’s power, the gap between rich and poor, the nobility and the lower classes. Greenblatt goes on to argue that in supporting dominant methods of maintaining the status quo, Shakespeare is also exposing them to the audience. Greenblatt (1998, 524) states “Henry IV seems to be testing and confirming a dark and troubled hypothesis about the nature of monarchical power in England: that its moral authority rests in hypocrisy so deep that the hypocrites themselves believe it”. Greenblatt (1998, 525) argues that fiction offers a space to “survey a complex new world, testing upon it dark thoughts without damaging the order those thoughts would seem to threaten”.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 40 Greenblatt’s discussion provides an example of a number of points that have direct bearing on the question of whether fiction can be linked to the real world and thereby enter a dialogue with the oral history project and, at this nexus, provide an account of historical stories that satisfies readers. Although many other arguments about the relationship between fiction and culture have long been made in literary criticism, it is beyond the scope of this exegesis to document them all. Suffice to say that what Greenblatt demonstrates is that certain qualities of fiction, for example the reliance on a character as a means exploring ideas, can be used to enact dominant social ideologies. At the same time, by representing an accepted code of behaviour, the distancing quality of fiction serves to expose modes of maintaining power which may be successful precisely because they are invisible. In this dialectic interaction between reinforcement and subversion, fiction operates as a ‘safe space’ where writers can test ideas about the world without destroying it. Fiction thus has a complex relationship with the real world. It does not directly represent it but rather, offers a metaphorical exploration of exploring specific modes of being. Fiction can thus explore the modes of being present in the oral history interview.

4.1.2 A metaphorical rather than literal truth Ethnographic fiction writers have come to similar understandings about the way fiction can serve to re-present oral history interviews. Ethnographic fiction writer Robert Rinehart (1998, 204) observes that:

Fiction comes to its truth almost incidentally, as an outgrowth of discovery of truths based on the motivations of characters, the story line (or plot), and the interaction of the elements of the story. Fiction might be based on actual events, but often, it is based on the writer’s interpretation of actual or imagined events. Inherent in Rinehart’s statement is the assumption that fiction’s specific qualities—it’s concern with character and narrative, for example—operate as means of coming to truths, or rather, as Greenblatt would have it, testing hypothesises about the world. Pavel (2000, 521) concurs, stating that “we use literature as a springboard for reflections about the human condition. It should raise questions, ask readers to ponder hypotheses and debate issues”. A work of fiction comments on the world by verbally reconstituting it and it aims to be consistent and credible rather than strictly faithful to the real world (Rorty cited in Dickstein 2005, 6). Thomas Hardy (cited in Wood 2008, 240) states that “art isn’t realistic because art is a disproportioning of realities to show clearly the features that matter in those realities, which if merely copied…might be overlooked”. Dickstein (2005, 7) describes this as “tricky

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 41 ways of seeing through art. Fiction is exaggerated, idiosyncratic and indecisive”. Therefore, it is the specific qualities of fiction, the form’s idiosyncrasies and open-endedness that offer one means of exploring reality. This stance acknowledges that imaginative representations may have as much ‘truth value’ and may say as much about our reality as do nonfiction sources. In discussing representations of the past, Hayden White (2004, 22), for example, argues that:

Viewed simply as verbal artefacts histories and (realist) novels are indistinguishable from one another...both wish to provide a verbal image of reality...the image of reality which the novelist constructs is meant to correspond in its general outline to some domain of human experience which is no less ‘real’ than that referred to by the historian. White (2004, 22) argues that the difference between writers of fiction and writers of history is that the novelist presents his or her version of reality indirectly, by figurative techniques. In White’s conception then, fiction can offer just as valid an image of reality as histories can although this is enacted in very different ways, as is evidenced by Greenblatt’s comparison of fiction and nonfiction texts. Figurative techniques offer a means of representing reality unavailable to other modes of discourse. As Dickstein (2005, 7) states, “the strength of this [fictive] approach is that it can capture the sensual, emotional and interior that is excluded from traditional writing”. Rinehart (1998, 204) has found, in writing ethnographic fiction, that although fiction does not represent the world literally, it can evoke a real world-like experience for the reader:

Through fiction, the reader may viscerally inhabit a world…Truth, in this type of writing, is not a realist narrative but rather a sensual, magical, lyrical truth. The feel of the experience-verisimilitude is what the writer is after. Fiction can thus sit alongside other means of representation, by offering a set of techniques not available to other modes of discourse, which uniquely captures lived experience. Genette (1980, 163) offers a more complex explanation of fiction’s ability to produce verisimilitude. Genette critiques Henry James’ statement that fiction shows, while other forms tell. Genette argues that the idea of showing is illusionary because all representations, including both traditional histories and oral histories, are mediated by language. Rather, “narrative can tell in a manner which is detailed, precise, alive, and in that way give the illusion of mimesis” (1980, 163). Genette (1980, 165) calls this the “realistic effect”. Fiction narrative mentions detail (such as sound) only because it is there, even if it is not necessary to advance the narrative

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 42 and “because the narrator, abdicating his function of choosing and directing the narrative, allows himself to be governed by ‘reality’, by the presence of what there is and what demands to be ‘shown’” (1980, 165). A fiction writer is not compelled to reach any conclusions or make an argument. They do not have to leave out detail because such detail would confuse or is unnecessary. Rather, such proliferating detail is what gives the illusion of mimesis, or reality. However, that is not to say that fiction writers can say anything. There still a need for narrative and cohesion in realist texts, as I will explore later in this chapter and when considering my own work in chapter five. In summary, drawing on Greenblatt’s conception of literature as having the capacity to reinforce and subvert dominant culture modes, I argue that an understanding of fictive techniques, particularly narrative techniques, can offer one means of testing hypotheses about the world and, by implication, oral histories. Although these are not direct representations of oral history interviews, they allow readers, and writers, ways of exploring lived experience, offering a verbal constitution of reality that is metaphorical rather than literal. Fiction’s specific qualities, which mimic ways of viscerally inhabiting the world, offer a discourse not available to other modes of communication and can thus operate alongside other representations in the Australian oral history project’s endeavour to understand and disseminate the oral history interview. In chapter two, I identified two key concerns of the oral history project. Having tested the assumption that fiction can construct cultural and historical phenomena, I now return to these concerns suggesting ways the specific qualities of fiction can contribute to the oral history project.

4.2 EMPHASIS ON SUBJECTIVE EXPERIENCE

4.2.1 From oral history as evidence to interpretation As mentioned briefly in chapter two, it is only relatively recently, during the 1960s, that oral history been recognised as “an approach in its own right” (Finnegan 1992, 47). Many of the concerns about the validity of oral history as a source are a result of the rigours of the historical scholarship in which it is positioned. The requirement of history is that it must uncover, as Grele (1991a, 203) has it, “the fullest expression of the past”. Oral history is often presented and contextualised as an historical account. In this context, oral histories are regarded as evidence (Finnegan 2006, 48). According to this view, historians value oral histories in so far as they verify or augment already known

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 43 facts. Interviews that demonstrate uncertainty, bias, distortion or contradiction are treated with caution. For example, in his article, ‘Can anyone over thirty be trusted? A friendly critique of oral history’, Grele (1991a, 203) warns oral historians that:

The excitement of fieldwork, the genuine friendliness of the people we interview, and the involvement we feel in their lives often leads to distortion. We begin to ask questions which our respondents are going to want to answer, and they begin to give us answers they know we want to hear...we avoid the hard questions and unsettling answers. As historians we should be interested in gathering material that is the fullest expression of the past, not in gathering material which is acceptable to the present. Here, Grele cautions oral historians against reinforcing interviewees’ accepted interpretation and encourages the gathering of data that can tell us as much as possible about the past. Others, such as Lummis (2006, 255), go so far as to claim that “the validation of oral evidence is divided into two main areas: the degree to which the individual interview yields viable information on the historical experience and the degree to which the individual experience is typical of its time and place”. In the context in which Lummis is working, a large sample space of oral histories is mined for quantitative data about a particular event in history in order to yield an overview of what is a “typical” experience. This is an extreme view, however. Important scholars, such as Alessandro Portelli and Alistair Thomson, emphasise different aspects of oral history: they value oral histories not so much for the facts they contain but for what they reveal about the ways we interpret the past. Portelli (1981, 100) claims that “the importance of oral testimony may often not lie in its adherence to the facts but its divergence from them, where imagination, symbolism and desire break in”. Tonkin (1992, 12) believes that “an oral testimony cannot be treated as only a repository of facts and errors of facts”. Rather, as Firsch claims, oral history interviews are evidence of the way we understand the past (cited in Grele 2006, 58). In this way, as Samuel and Thompson (1990, 5) explain, in The Myths We Live By, in listening to a life story, “the manner of telling is just as important to us as what is told”. In understanding the interviewee’s subjective experience in oral history interviews, it is their style of narration that is privileged. Returning to Moving Stories, Thomson demonstrates that oral histories are not static sources. Thomson uses his analysis of the women’s stories to demonstrate “how experience, memory, and history become combined in, and digested by, people who are the bearers of their own history” (Frisch 1979, 76). Thomson (2011, 305) emphasises, for example, the

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 44 transformative power of new ideologies, such as feminism, in one of the women’s re- interpretation of her life:

Phyl explains it was not until 2005 when she read Ten Pound Poms and noted its gender analysis of migrant families’ relationships that she began to rethink her family departure from Australia…Phyl now explains [her husband’s] homesickness as jealousy of her professional success. Thomson thus documents how imagination and interpretation shape oral stories, emphasising the value of understanding oral histories as evidence of individual and idiosyncratic interpretative practices. Like oral historians, ethnographic fiction writers have found that the interpretative qualities of the interviews are valuable, and argue that the fictive form allows an inclusion of detail about subjective experience, particularly an interviewee’s emotional response to, and metaphorical interpretation of, life events. They argue that the evocative nature of fiction can more adequately capture the interviewee’s subjective experience as evidenced in the re- telling of their life stories.

4.2.2 Ethnographic fiction’s emphasis on an interviewee’s subjectivity, emotion and lived experience Smith and Sparkes (2008, 24) state that fictional re-tellings of research “privilege the heart, the emotions and the moral centre of lived experience in ways that highlight people as relational beings and historically and culturally contingent”. Smith and Sparkes (2008, 22) state that the goal of fictional re-presentations of research is to move away from abstract theorising and explaining, towards “evocation, intimate involvement, engagement and embodied participation with stories”. The fictive form seems ideally suited to represent emotional, embodied experience. Angrosino (2002, 333) states that “fiction tends towards impression, and is the attempt to evoke feeling in addition to substantive information”. Philips (1995, 629) argues that narrative fiction allows us to experience and discuss emotions such as fear, humour, lust, envy and ambition that drive the behaviour he is trying to document in his traditional research. Some ethnographic fiction writers argue that creative responses allow a more real representation of their interviewees’ experience. Philips (1995, 628) believes that the narrative quality of fiction “creates a space for the representation of the life-world within which individuals find themselves”. Schoepflin and Kaufman (2011, 224) argue “traditional accounts fail to consider the feelings and emotions that shape our choices”.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 45 This focus on subjective experience is reminiscent of new understandings of subjective experience in the discipline of oral history. Smith and Dean (2009, 3) argue that “the novel may convey the impact of historical events on the lives of ordinary people in the ways which are difficult to glean from those [other primary and secondary] sources”. Such comments echo the turn in oral history to exploring historical phenomena through personal experience. Oral history transcripts are rich sources of these experiences in their own right and should be valued as such. Given this new emphasis, fiction based on oral history interviews can sit alongside transcripts and audios by drawing on the subjective and interpretative strengths of oral histories, while using novelistic techniques to augment these qualities. It is a fiction writer’s ability to imagine the interior world of their characters that allows the form to enter a dialogue with the oral history project’s goal of valuing the interviewee’s subjective interpretation of the past.

4.2.3 Subjectivity through character Literary theorists have dissected the specific qualities of fictional characters. Bennett and Royle (2009, 63), in summarising the discipline’s contribution on the subject, argue that “fundamental to a work of fiction is the requirement of character...The form privileges character as the means through which to tell the story (plot)”. Fiction can contribute to the oral history project emphasis on subjectivity through the ways character operates in fiction. I argue that realist fiction’s requirement of a life-like character can offer a means of understanding the complex ways fictional characters can speak to real people. E. M. Forster (2005, 37), states that, in fiction, characters can be flat or round. A flat character, usually used for comedic purposes, such as many of Dickens’, is one that demonstrates only a few characteristics and can be summed up in a few words. A round character has complexity, ambiguity and sometimes behaves in a contradictory manner. They are capable of “surprising in a convincing way” (Forster 2005, 37). Realist fiction, the focus of this discussion, requires life-like, and therefore, round characters. Bennett and Royle (2009, 65), like Forster, argue that, to be life-like, a character should have a number of different traits—traits or qualities which may be conflicting or contradictory. The character’s words and actions should appear to originate in multiple impulses. Forster’s requirement for characters to be convincing results in the need for “these tensions and contradictions to cohere to a single identity” (Bennet and Royle 2009, 65). A character’s credibility and their capacity to engage the reader, lies in the tension between the contradictions and the need for coherence (Bennet and Royle 2009, 65).

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 46 Fiction’s capacity to show characters that are at once contradictory and, at the same time have a coherent sense of identity, closely reflects storytelling acts in oral history interviews. Fivush and Haden (1997, viii) argue that “ways in which any given individual constructs a life narrative [in oral histories] are influenced by larger cultural frameworks available for understanding what a self is”. In unpacking this complex assertion, it is possible to document the ways fiction’s emphasis on character can explore how an identity is constructed in individual oral histories. Firstly, embedded in Fivish and Haden’s statement is the assumption that life narratives are a means of constructing self. In the telling of life narratives in the oral history interview, interviewees attempt to recall and tell the complexity and contradiction of their lived experience and their own motivations, attitudes and interpretations while, at the same time, presenting a coherent representation of themselves as individuals. Fiction can mimic this process of ‘telling self’ through narrative—which is Samuel and Thomson’s emphasis on the manner of telling described above—by presenting life-like characters that are at once contradictory and coherent; despite changing throughout the text, there is always a unified ‘I’. Secondly, Fivish and Haden identify that life narratives draw from larger cultural frameworks that dictate what an identity is. Fiction, as Greenblatt identified, is very much shaped by these wider cultural frameworks (see section 4.1). At the same time, fiction has the capacity to influence an individual’s notion of self. Bennett and Royle (2009, 66) describe this interaction as the paradox of character; “people in books are like real people who are in turn like people in books”. Bennet and Royle (2009, 66) state that “to know a person...involves understanding a mask...this suggests that there is a complex, destabilising and perhaps undecidable interweaving of the real and the fictional: our lives, our real lives, are governed and directed by the stories we read, write and tell ourselves”. Fiction’s capacity to influence oral history interviews has been demonstrated by Thomson in his seminal article on ANZAC memories. Thomson (2006, 245) observes that when interviewing ex-ANZAC servicemen, “some men related scenes from [the movie] Gallipoli as if they were their own”. This finding demonstrates the way fiction influences life narrative and, at the same time, fictional narratives’ capacity to represent lived experience in ways that are meaningful to those that internalise them. Fiction’s capacity to represent ‘life-like’ characters offers a means to mimic or enact an individual’s construction of self in an oral history interview and to analyse the cultural frameworks that shape those constructions. These cannot be separated but operate dialogically, each one co-dependent, and informing the other. Fiction can demonstrate the

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 47 paradox of character: in reading and writing stories, we can explore the ways in which cultural and fictional frameworks at once shape the way we see identity/who we are and, at the same time, enact the complexity and contradictions of character/people while attempting to achieve an effect of unity, which is expected in cultural and fictional frameworks.

4.2.4 A character’s interior: The distinction of fiction The fundamental attributes of character in fiction can enter a dialogue with the oral history project’s emphasis on subjectivity in another way: through fiction’s ability to represent the workings of a character’s interior. Fiction can then explore the ways this operation governs their behaviour in the fictional world, as means of testing hypotheses about the nature of an interviewee’s memory and subjectivity. Although fiction may be speculative, and cannot be verified, the form can offer an infinite number of metaphors about how a person might think, remember and feel. As Albright (1994, 39) asserts, “it is arguable…that metaphors are the only proper way to describe the remembered self, since memory itself is only a metaphor, a dim surrogate for a past time that can never be recovered, never embodied, never made to sit still”. Cohn (2000, 117) argues that the difference between fiction and biography—and indeed other traditional representations of oral history interviews—is that “a character can be known to the narrator in fiction in a manner no real person can be known to a real speaker”. Literature “can provide direct access to other people’s mind and hearts” (Gregory 1998, 29). Gregory (1998, 28) argues that it is this quality in literature that has the capacity to educate. He states:

The philosopher Gilbert Ryle provides a classic description of a persistent problem in the philosophy of mind…‘People can see, hear and jolt one another’s bodies, but ... direct access to the workings of a mind is the privilege of that mind itself’; in default of such privileged access, the workings of one mind are inevitably occult to everyone else. Gregory (1998, 28) argues that “literary experience, unlike life, does provide direct access to others’ minds, and in so doing yields essential data, which we use in order to sharpen the accuracy and to increase the depth of our inferential knowledge about the interior lives of real-life persons”. A fiction writer’s imaginative attempt to depict the interior of their characters, particularly if they are based from evidence of subjective interpretation apparent in oral history interviews, may provide a deeper understanding of, and comment on, the processes of remembering, interpretation and storytelling present in an oral history interview.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 48 In addition, the “inferential knowledge” about a character’s subjectivity gleaned through fictive imaginings may have greater impact in a work of fiction. Caulley (2008, 442) argues that “the qualitative writer has less latitude, less omniscience [than a fiction writer]…They might be able to infer what is going on in an interviewee’s mind, or an interviewee might actually say what is going on in his or her mind”. However, in cases where the interviewee, for whatever reason, does not articulate their emotions or thought processes, a fiction writer can imagine their thoughts and in doing so more deeply illuminate a theme, time period or character motivation. Whereas a nonfiction writer must indicate the inferred quality of their speculations, lessening the impact of their description, it is assumed in fiction that the writer has free reign to imagine. These imaginings may be more salient because they ask the reader to engage with the characters’ emotions as though they were real, rather than inferred. In this way, fiction is a source of “affective knowledge” (Davies 2001, 270). Fiction can provide readers with the knowledge about what it is like to be in a particular circumstance (Davies 2001, 270). While nonfiction can achieve this through auto/biographical depictions, fiction writers can allow the reader to see a character’s internal, emotional response because it is acceptable for them to invent characters’ thoughts. This ability of fiction to allow a reader to occupy the head of another and thereby, glean a deeper understanding of their subjective experience, relates directly to the oral history project’s mandate of exploring the significance of historical phenomena through subjective experience because fiction has the capacity to present internal cognitions in a way no other form can.

4.2.5 Fictional techniques for representing subjectivity In delving more deeply into fictive techniques for representing a character’s consciousness, we can see more closely how fiction can offer a means to explore the subjectivity inherent in the oral history interview. In this section, I offer an overview of the ways fiction can represent consciousness. I then draw on this understanding in the next section to link Genette’s notion of focalisation to the act of storytelling in the oral history interview, arguing this is one means fiction can more deeply re-present an interviewee’s subjectivity. Cohn (2000, 252-3) identifies three fictional techniques of representing consciousness in third-person narration:  Psycho-narration. This term applies to the narrator’s discourse about a character’s consciousness. The narrator mediates the character’s thoughts, which the reader does not access directly.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 49  Quoted monologue. This term applies to direct thought quotations. Cohn identifies twin dominators common to all thought quotations, regardless of their content and style. The first is the reference to the thinking self in first-person and the second is reference to the narrated moment in the present tense.  Narrated monologue or free indirect speech. Like psycho-narration, it maintains the third-person reference and the tense of narration but, like quoted monologue, it reproduces verbatim the character’s own mental language. Cohn (2000, 252-3) states that in first-person narrator, or ‘retrospection’, the same basic terms apply. Thus, when a fictive work is written by an ‘I’-narrator, the means available to represent their consciousness are:  Self-narration,  Self-quoted monologues,  Self-narrated monologues. It is first-person narration that most closely reflects the interviewee’s act of storytelling present in the oral history interview. In other words, in the same way a fictional first-person narrator tells how ‘I did this’ (past tense), ‘I do that’ (present tense) or ‘I will do that’ (future tense), an interviewee during an oral history interview speaks about an ‘I’ acting in the past, present or even the future. It is therefore the means of representing consciousness in first- person narratives that are of most interest to the oral history project, particularly the relationship between the narrator and the character who thinks. Cohn (2000, 254) observes that the parallelism between first and third narrator ends beyond the basic techniques discussed above. Cohn (2000, 254, my emphasis) states that:

There is a profound change in narrative climate as one moves between the two territories...[which] stems from the altered relationship between the narrator and his protagonist when that protagonist is his own past self. Past events must now be presented as remembered by the self, as well as expressed by the self. In the next section, I unpack this “profound change” by drawing on Genette’s notion of focalisation to more fully understand the relationship Cohn identifies between the narrator and their protagonist. I argue that an understanding of the narrator in fiction can function as a way of understanding the interviewee who narrates their own life story. In this way, fiction has the capacity to enact subjective experience as evidenced in the oral history interview.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 50 4.2.6 Focalisation, subjectivity and the unreliable narrator In understanding the idea of narration, it is important to unpack the concept of narrative perspective or point of view. Genette (1980, 186) divides this technique into two questions: “who sees?” and “who speaks?” Genette (1980, 187), goes on to identify the kinds of narrations available to fiction writers:  Omniscient or ‘god-like’ narrating. There are two types of these: those with, and those without, authorial intrusions.  First-person narrations, either I-witness (from the perspective of a character observing the action) or I-protagonists (from the perspective of a character who is the centre of the action).  Selective omniscient narrating; although still ‘god-like,’ the point of view is restricted, either to one character throughout the text, or multiple characters at different times in the text.  Objective narrating: the dramatic mode and ‘the camera.’ Genette (1980, 189-90) uses the term ‘focalisation’ to capture the complexity of the different modes of points of view. There are three kinds of focalisation:  Nonfocalised: where the narrator knows more than the character/says more than what the character knows;  Internal focalisation: where the narrator and the character are equal; the narrator only says what the character knows. This can be fixed on one character, or variable, shifting from one focal character to another, or multiple: where the same event is evoked different times according to different points of view.  External focalisation: where the narrator says less than the character knows. I have reproduced Genette’s concepts around point of view in detail here in order to demonstrate that inherent in these definitions is the differentiation between the focal character (who sees), and the narrator (who speaks). Genette’s discussion demonstrates that fiction has the capacity to shift the proximity of who speaks and who sees. This can shed light on the act of the interviewee’s narration present in the oral history interview.

4.2.7 The remembered and remembering self in oral history interviews Neisser (1994, 2) establishes four categories in autobiographical memory: 1. Actual past events and the historical self who participated in them.

2. Those events as they were experienced, including the individual’s perceived self at the time.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 51 3. The remembering self: the individual in the act of recalling those events at a later occasion (as the individual in an oral history interview does).

4. The remembered self: the self constructed on the occasion of recollection.

Neisser’s categories demonstrate the complexity of actual recollection and the slippage between the actual events and self, and the remembering and remembered self, which may be very different in each instance. Albright (1994, 21), in adopting Neisser’s categories observes that literature is suspicious of the remembered self. He uses a number of examples from fiction and poetry to demonstrate how the remembered self is made problematic. This is reminiscent of the complexity Cohn (2000, 254) identifies in his statement about first-person narrators: “past events must now be presented as remembered by the self, as well as expressed by the self”. Here, there is an evoking of Genette’s distinction between who speaks and who sees. I argue that Neisser’s categories can be transposed with Genette’s notion of focalisation, as demonstrated in Figure 1.

Genette: Who sees? Neisser: the remembered self

Focal character, as constructed by the In the oral history interview: the self who acts in narrator. the past, as constructed by the interviewee in the present day.

Genette: Who speaks? Neisser: the remembering self

The narrator. In the oral history interview: the interviewee, speaking in the present day.

Figure 1: The link between Genette’s categories of focalisation and Neisser’s categories of autobiographical memory.

As can be seen in Figure 1, I argue that Genette’s category of ‘who sees?’ can be equated with Neisser’s category of ‘the remembered self’, and that of ‘who speaks?’ can be linked to ‘the remembering self’. Genette’s categories can be used to map the way in which the self represented in the oral history interview is constructed by the interviewee. As Genette has identified with the concept of focalisation, the relationship between who sees and who

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 52 speaks is fluid and an exploration of this fluidity can give a depth to understanding oral narrative acts and the enactment of subjectivity present in the interviews. Genette (1980, 217) has observed that the ‘temporal position’ of the focal character and the narrator results in different kinds of narrative: subsequent (past-tense narrative); prior (predictive narrative, generally in future tense); simulations (narrative in the present contemporaneous with the action) and interpolated (between the moment of action). As is evidenced by the character of Pip in the Dickens’ novel Great Expectations (1861), in the temporal gap between who sees and who speaks, there is space for the character to revise their identity. Fiction, in offering a form which enacts the gap between remembered and remembering, demonstrating the complexity of this relationship through the concept of focalisation, can offer a means to explore how characters revise identity, mimicking this act by the interviewee in the oral history interview. In the oral history discipline, Frisch (1979, 76) notes how oral history is evidence of “how experience, memory, and history become combined in, and digested by, people who are the bearers of their own history”. This process of ‘digestion’ may be enacted in the fictive form as narrators construct and, attempt to make sense of, the focal character. Scholes, Phelan and Kellogg (2006, 260) describe how Proust rejects the notion that “real people can be apprehended without the assistance of aesthetic essences...since we are all makers, he suggests, creating our lives as we go, there is no incompatibility between the narrator as witness and the narrator as creator”. Fiction, specifically Genette’s categories of focalisation, makes problematic the notion that the narrator merely witnesses. Rather, in the flexible gap between who speaks and who sees, there is space to explore the imaginative act of constructing self through narrative and, in this way, explore the interviewee’s subjective narration of the past.

4.2.8 The unreliable narrator: Fiction’s critique of subjectivity As discussed in section 4.2.7, the first-person voice is the closest means of mimicking the storytelling act present in the oral history interview. Genette’s categories of I-protagonist, with an internal focalisation, serve to limit fictional representations of storytelling acts like those in interviews. Culler (2011, 91) states that an “unreliable narrator can result from limitations of point of view”. In this section, I argue that fiction’s capacity to represent an unreliable narrator closely relates to the oral history project’s desire to understand and analyse subjective experience.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 53 According to Culler (2011, 91), unreliable narration occurs “when we gain a sense that the conscious through which the focalisation occurs is unable or unwilling to understand the events as competent story-readers would”. As Scholes, Phelan and Kellogg (2006, 263) observe, “fictional narratives can accommodate eye-witness narrator’s inability to see or understand completely”. In mimicking the limited focalisation of first-person, internally focalised narrative, fiction can thus explore the nature of the interviewee’s blunted perception. Scholes, Phelan and Kellogg (2006, 256) state that ironic gaps open up to “the extent to which the narrating character is differentiated from the author...and to the extent that the narrating character is differentiated from himself as participant in events”. These gaps, between narrator and author and focal character/remembered self and narrator/remembering self, are the space in which this blunted perception can be explored. The implied reader is implicated in this act of understanding for the implied reader is always more competent and can identify the ironic gaps. Three points of view are possible in the narrative art: character, narrator and audience, and “as narrative becomes more developed there is a distinction between the narrator and author...Narrative irony is a function of disparity among these viewpoints” (Scholes, Phelan and Kellogg 2006, 240). The reader is thus given a privileged position in fiction: they are aware of this ‘blunted perception’ in a way they may not be when recounting their own life story or when engaging with oral history transcripts. Fiction’s quality of opening up an interpretative and ironic space for the reader, through the technique of presenting an unreliable narrator, is another means by which fiction can document subjectivity, demonstrating to the reader the limitations of human perception.

4.2.9 Fiction and the oral history project’s concern with subjectivity In summary, fiction writers share the oral history project’s concern with the subjectivity evident in the oral history interview through fiction’s distinct narrative qualities. Ethnographic fiction writers have argued that fiction is a form that emphasises subjectivity because the form has the capacity to document the emotional quality of lived experience. Literary theorists, particularly Genette’s unpacking of the narrative qualities of fiction, serve to deepen our understanding of the ways fiction can enact and explore subjective and emotional experience. The way character operates in fiction has a number of sympathies with the oral history project’s concern with subjective experience. The first is that life-like characters are required

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 54 to be at once contradictory while at the same time presenting a sense of a coherent self. This quality mimics the way the interviewee constructs self in the oral history interview. Secondly, fiction has the capacity to represent the interior of a character, which no other form can. Through the exploration of a character’s interior, fiction can offer a number of metaphors for the way interviewees remember and tell their subjective experiences. Thirdly, Genette’s notion of focalisation in fictive narrations mimics the process of an interviewee’s narration in the oral history interview. In the ironic gap between who sees and who speaks, fiction has the capacity to present an unreliable narrator and, in doing so, illuminate the limitations of subjective understandings at the same time that those understandings are being presented. Because presenting subjective experience is ubiquitous to the fiction form, fiction offers a medium for enacting and exploring subjectivity in the oral history interview. As the reader has access to the character’s interior, there is a capacity to more deeply understand their thoughts and motivations and, as a result, achieve a more empathetic understanding of their behaviour. It can be argued that fiction has the capacity to allow readers to ‘step into the shoes’ of fictional characters based on interviewees. This capacity has sympathies with the oral history project’s social agenda to foster understanding between generations (see chapter two). However, this claim is only valid if the work is made accessible, a concern which I address in the following section.

4.3 ACCESSIBILITY AND IMPLIED READERSHIP

It has already been established in chapter two that one of the key aims of the oral history project is that the interviews are presented in a way that means they are accessible to a wide audience. In understanding this discussion in relation to fiction, it would be easy to simply state that fiction is likely to engage a wider readership than oral history transcripts. The wider distribution and readership of fiction, compared to oral history, could be offered as a means to demonstrate this. However, the criticisms levelled at ethnographic fiction indicate that the case is not so simply made. Rather, as I document in this section, ethnographic fiction has met with mixed success, raising questions about the way the form can make claims to be at once ‘true’ or ‘analytical’ and ‘fictional’. A deeper analysis of the response to ethnographic fiction writers leads me to identify some of the concerns with the genre that the fiction writers might address in turning to fiction as a means to re-present and disseminate oral history interviews and enter a dialogue with the oral history project in doing so. In order to achieve this, I look at some of the critical reception of ethnographic fiction, which provides an

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 55 understanding of how these works are being read and the criteria for success (which is not always met).

4.3.1 Need to present interviews in a way that is accessible to interviewee and a wider community Fiction’s focus on the emotional and the personal offers an understanding of social phenomena from the individual’s perspective and vocabulary. Kiesinger (1998b, 128) observed that fiction was a means to document anorexic women’s “own ways of understanding and talking about feelings, relationships and experiences”. Smith (2002, 131) stated that his subject, who had suffered sexual abuse, felt that traditional academic discussion of her experiences was “dull flat, emotionless, antiseptic and elitist”. On the other hand, creative ethnographies “struck a chord with her body”. In these ways, fictional representations may actually be more meaningful than academic ones to the communities the interviewers/writers seek to represent. This is very much in keeping with the oral history project’s desire to “bring history into, and out of, the community” (Thompson cited in Robertson 2006, 3). Jones (2006, 70) has argued that “using arts-based methods to disseminate research will engage new audiences”. Not only does fiction speak in ways that make sense to the community from which it emerged, it also has the capacity to engage new audiences in reading and understanding oral histories. The next step in understanding who these new audiences are is to reflect on the responses to ethnographic fiction—which have often been quite negative—in order to understand the needs of the implied audience and how fiction can address them. In this way, I offer a deeper understanding of the way fiction can enter a dialogue as part of the oral history project’s mandate to disseminate interviews to a wider audience, which I later return to in a discussion of my own practice (chapter five).

4.3.2 Critical responses to ethnographic novels based on interviews: Who is the implied readership? One of the reasons readers may have difficulty in understanding the genre of ethnographic fiction is that it is an emerging practice and considered to be alternative rather than mainstream (Ketelle 2004, 20). An overview of the critical responses to ethnographic fiction based on interviews mentioned earlier (section 3.3) demonstrates some of the potential problems with fictionalising oral histories, highlighting the pitfalls authors have encountered in attempting to produce such texts. This section summarises the critical responses to ethnographic fiction based on interviews and seeks to identify an implied readership for such

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 56 works, including the way this readership might be reached, speaking directly to fiction’s capacity to enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia. Michael Jackson’s Barawa and the Way Birds Fly in the Sky: An Ethnographic Novel (1986, hereafter referred to as Barawa) received mixed reviews. Deluz (1987, 395) describes Jackson as “a poet as well as an anthropologist whose work on the Kuranko people in Barawa was high quality, abundantly documented ethnographic research” (my emphasis). Vivelo (1986) disagrees, stating that Barawa is neither ethnography nor novel:

The continuity of story, action and character we expect from fiction is not evident; the organization, description and analysis we expect from ethnography are equally absent. Vivelo goes on to describes how Jackson as author describes Jackson the fictional character, an anthropologist with a desire to bring to life the Barawa region by writing a book that would be a kind of allegory of cultures (the Kuranko and the academic) in contact. Although Vivelo acknowledges his intent as “sincere” and “laudable”, he states that the act is “wild” and “futile”. Jorian (1988, 574) also identifies Jackson’s choice of describing himself in third- person as “odd”, giving the book a “schizophrenic tinge that is at best uncanny and at worst plainly annoying”. However, Jorian does believe Barawa to be a “success within the strict boundaries it implicitly assigns itself: delightful cadenzas on an otherwise well-known anthropological theme”. This kind of critique indicates that readers of fiction are primarily looking for a cohesive narrative and overt self-reflection can be distracting. However, it is exactly this kind of explicit analysis that is required of ethnographic research. For example, Bochner (2001, 132) observes that the fictive form’s lack of clear analysis has caused some to argue that ethnographers should adopt the role of story analyst rather than storyteller. Such “storytelling” demonstrates a “preoccupation with the revelation of personal experience through confession and therapeutic discourse”. It is “a vulgar realism” and “hyperauthentic”, “misleading”, “sentimental”, “exaggerated” “naively heroic”, and a “romantic construction of the self” (Bochner 2001, 132). Atkinson (1997) has produced one of the most vocal critiques of works, such as ethnographic fiction, that present individual narratives with no explicit discussion or analysis. Atkinson (1997, 339) argues that:

Research that privileges individual narratives invites us to endorse a celebration of some but by no means all narratives. These are stripped of social context and social

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 57 consequences. They are understood in terms of an individualised view of self…this represents an almost total failure to use narrative to achieve serious social discussion. This discussion reflects similar attitudes in the oral history project. Oral historian Luisa Passerini (cited in Thomson 2007, 56) warns against “complacent populism” of oral history projects which encouraged members of oppressed groups to “speak for themselves” but did not see how memories might be influenced by dominant histories and thus require critical interpretation. Thomson (2007, 57) argues that “a reflective critical approach to memory and history undoubtedly makes for better oral history”. Thompson (2000, 57) also argues that “history should not merely comfort; it should provide a challenge, an understanding that helps towards change…a history that leads to action”. These practitioners call for oral histories not just to be presented ‘as is’, but to be accompanied by an embedded analysis of their qualities and wider cultural meanings. There is thus a tension between the oral history mandate for analysis and the claim that fictional techniques can engage a wider audience. Similarly, Charlotte Aull Davies critiques Opportunity House for a lack of explicit argument. Davies’ review of the book by Michael Angrosino appeared in The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute in 1999. Davies described Angrosino’s stories as “entertaining reading”, and “highly evocative of the emotions and experiences that emerge from Angrosino’s long-term involvement” with the group of men whose experiences his stories seek to represent (Davies 1999, 126). However, Davies (1999, 127) argues that his chosen genre “does not readily permit an explicit presentation of such understandings”. Davies points out that Angrosino claims that the fictive form avoids the objectification and distancing of the ‘Other’. She believes this is a “highly contentious assertion in a medium that allows authors even greater freedom to manipulate the actions, words and thoughts of characters” (Davies 1999, 127). Davies concludes that the work serves as a “warning against abandoning standards of ethnographic reporting based on evidence and argument open to critical evaluation by other ethnographers”. Here, there is an echo of Atkinson’s charge that fiction represents a failure to analyse because it not clear and explicit in its conclusions. Like Davies, Parin Dossa in her review of Opportunity House in Medical Anthropology Quarterly (2000, 453), argues that the reader is drawn to the “all too human characters” in the novel and that the work is a “brilliant and vivid portrayal”. However, Dossa too, points out a number of flaws in the text. She argues that Angrosino’s continued use of the term ‘mentally retarded’ and his statements in the interview sections of the book that the “mentally retarded are slow to process and quick to flare up” demonstrate his “disregard for

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 58 the substantive body of literature on the construction of disability”. Like Davies, Dossa feels that the lack of explicit presentation in the fictional form, which fails to “spell out in bold strokes [Angrosino’s] agenda for policy change”, dilutes his aims (2000, 453). In the responses to Opportunity House, there is the implication that researchers should be informed of the current literature around the topic in order to making convincing, not stereotypical, representations. As I discuss in chapter five, this is the quality of ‘informed imagination’ which many of the ethnographic writers describe. However, the evocativeness of the fictive writing is praised for its engaging quality. Rodgers (2007, 881) states that the prose in Tobias Hecht’s After Life is “rather stilted and even self-indulgent at times”. In an e-mail dated 5 December 2010, Hecht described the response to his book:

Some people like it very much and read it twice and others are very confused by it. It crosses the bounds of ethnography, with fictional characters and events, but on the other hand it lacks some of the architecture of a novel. A number of critics didn't even seem to realize it is fictional. Because it is being sold by an academic press it tends to be read by academics. The ambivalence of the critical responses to ethnographic fiction, the critiques of the works’ inability to combine the evocativeness of fiction with the strengths of the ethnographic research, and the inaccessibility of the novels to a wider audience because of their publication by academic presses, indicates uncertainty both about how to produce and how to receive and understand such texts. The aesthetic criticisms directed at the writing style highlights the problem of social scientists writing in a genre they are not trained in. Tierney (2002, 390) observes that his concern for ethnographic fiction is that “the vast majority…who are trained to write as social scientists are not able to simply transform our writing to another genre with much success”. Logically, this would create an opportunity for creative writers, who are trained to write fiction, to enter a dialogue with the debate both in ethnography and, by extension, oral history. As identified from the reviews, readers tend to respond to evocative qualities of fiction writing, including well developed characterisation, engaging narratives and a lack of overt reflection. However, as Kiesinger (1998b, 129) observes, although “the fiction-like qualities of evocative narratives make them interesting, engaging and accessible to a variety of audiences, the fact that they are so suggestive often makes the reader uncomfortable and, at times, concerned for their validity”. So who is the reader implied in this statement? Does some of the uncertainty come from a failure to correctly identify this implied reader? The

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 59 unpacking of this discussion will lead to clearer understandings of how fiction writers can align themselves to the oral history project’s mandate of engaging readers. Almost all of the ethnographic fiction based on interviews is being published in academic journals, or by academic presses, which tends to limit the readership to students and researchers. The exception is Frank’s stories published in local magazines, but because of their limited print runs and distribution, they are not widely available. However, many authors claim that they are writing with the intention of being read by non-academics (Smith 2002, 140), or emphasize fictions’ accessibility to a wider audience than is usual for anthropological and ethnographic writing (Ellis and Bochner 1998, 9; Peacock 1998, 12). This is in keeping with the oral history project’s implied readership; the mandate directs that oral histories are made accessible to other researchers and the wider community, namely those who would not normally engage with interviews. In mapping the trends in ethnographic fiction, the tensions between overt analysis and the desire to engage an academic and non-academic readership are evident and this reflects the tensions that would play out in the oral history project as fictional representations of oral history interviews proliferate. There is a trend, particularly when publishing such writing in academic journals, to accompany the work with a traditional academic discussion based on literature review and self-reflection. This may be because fictional works by themselves would not be published, nor peer-reviewed, in such journals. The novels too, usually have some preface or introduction that highlights the ethnographic foundation of their content, although this is distinctly separate from the rest of the fictional work, unlike Vickers’ (2010) and Smith’s (2002) “messy texts” that interweave theoretical discussion with fictive story. This raises questions about the intended audience of these works and how both academic reviewers and the general public have responded to ethnographic novels. There is therefore a gap between the intention of the authors, which is often to produce a work of fiction that is accessible, and the actual productions, which sit awkwardly in an academic context, and feel the need to justify the work with academic discussion. The awkwardness may come from ethnographers’ uncertainty about where the fictive form fits within the wider sweep of the discipline. This uncertainty also arises for authors seeking to contribute to the oral history project and was expressed most clearly on an autoethnographic mailing list. According to Davis and Ellis (2008, 108), an ethnographer called Dark, wrote, in relation to Ellis’ fictive works: “you’re a fine poet and lots of poets have sociological insight.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 60 What are you so afraid of if you just call yourself a writer and leave it at that? Why waste so much breath telling me it’s sociology?”. This is the key question raised by the responses to ethnographic fiction and can be applied to any fictionalised oral history: why constitute scholarship? It is commonly accepted that many writers of fiction draw on verifiable data when producing a book; such texts are still labelled fiction. Writers of historical fiction, for example, may spend hours in the archives researching details about the clothes, accents, attitudes and lifestyles of their characters. Writers of literature may draw on autobiographical memory to give their stories authenticity. As Ricketson (2001, 150) argues, when discussing literary journalism, “it is simplistic and misleading to define the two activities [of fiction and nonfiction] as mutually exclusive”. Why do ethnographic fiction writers seek to claim their work as at once fiction and nonfiction, both academic and designed for the general public, or as drawing on elements from both, if such claims cause so much confusion and controversy? In fiction, does it matter whether the events are verifiable or not? As Davies (2001, 265) asks:

Suppose we were to discover that all the events narrated by Joyce (in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man) actually occurred in the order they were narrated. Since the truth in narrative events does not, by itself, prevent the narrative from being fictional, why should the author’s knowledge of truth make a difference as long as the fictional intention is present? Davies (2001, 265) concludes that “it does not matter, unless the knowledge plays a particular kind of role in the construction of the narrative”. Writers feel they need to acknowledge this process in the dissemination of their text. As I document further in chapter five, this claim that a novel is ‘based on a true story’ is beginning to be a successful strategy in marketing such works to the general public. This is perhaps the key to the problem underpinning the mixed response to ethnographic fiction: the failure to clearly identify the implied readership. In an e-mail interview with Hecht, I asked who he thought was his intended audience. Hecht stated, “I wasn’t thinking very much about what the readership” (email dated 5 December 2010). Fiction writers seeking to contribute to the oral history project’s mandate must therefore clearly identify their target audience and allow that decision to drive aesthetic and dissemination choices. Here, I do not argue that an implied academic and general readership is mutually exclusive. As the critiques show, both care about complexity of representations, originality

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 61 and ‘convincing’ writing, although what exactly this entails is yet to be determined. Rather, that an academic audience may have stricter codes for analysis and rigour of argument than do general readers. It is therefore a highly fraught act for fiction writers to claim that their fiction constitutes a contribution to scholarship in and of itself and, in doing so, allow the dictates of academic scholarship and analysis to dominate successful narrative qualities. The other key conclusion to draw from the response to ethnographic fiction is that there are a number of successful ways to engage the implied readers which include offering a text that engages through the use of fictional techniques, such as presenting evocative scenes, life-like characters, employing an engaging and original writing style and a sense of narrative cohesion, while at the same time implicitly analysing subjective experience, through techniques such as the use of an unreliable narrator. However, it is as yet unclear as to how the qualities of being constrained by research while at the same time producing an engaging account may be reconciled. In chapter five, I turn to my own methodological approach to the task of fictionalising oral histories and at the same time contributing to the mandates of the oral history project. In doing so, I offer one possible approach to negotiating these tensions which, as I document, is not a complete solution. Rather, I turn to my self-reflective practice to deepen the debates around fiction’s ability to re-present reality, specifically in the form of the oral history interview.

Chapter 4: The key aims of the oral history project and the possibilities of fiction 62 Chapter 5: Methodological approaches

5.1 INTRODUCTION

In this chapter, I document and reflect on my own methodological approach to the task of using oral history interviews, practice and methodologies to inform the design of fiction. This chapter thus serves as an account of how I went about writing the novel. The previous chapters paint a backdrop for this process, highlight the concerns emerging from the oral history project (chapter two), which underpin the design process, linking the practice of producing ethnographic fiction to these concerns (chapter three), and drawing on theory about fictive techniques to demonstrate the sympathies of the form with oral history practice (chapter four). In chapter four, I also analysed the critical response to ethnographic fiction writers’ methodologies and their claims to be producing ethnographic research. As I demonstrate in this chapter, these considerations have significantly shaped the conceptual and aesthetic decisions I made while producing the novel, Hidden Objects. In this chapter, I emphasise the ways my work builds on and can be distinguished from other fiction writers who have conducted interviews specifically for the purpose of their novels and have acknowledged these interviews as a primary means of shaping the construction of the text. I argue that my writing is an extension of this practice, which currently lacks a deep analysis of methodological approaches when using interviews to inform works of fiction. I hope to address this gap in the remainder of chapter five. To achieve this, in section 5.2, I describe my approach to practice-led research. I demonstrate how the symbiotic relationship between creative practice and theory underpin the design of the creative work. The following sections move through the process of creating the novel, from drawing on oral history methodology and theory to conduct and understand the interviews (section 5.3); the process of transcribing the interviews to understand character and voice (section 5.4); augmenting and analysing the interviews to produce sections of the creative work using a process I describe as ‘informed imagination’ (section 5.5); aesthetic decisions

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 63 linked to the mandates of the oral history project (section 5.6), through to a concern with producing marginal characters. I conclude by considering how the creative work can be perceived and understood.

5.1.1 Other writers acknowledging interviews It is common practice for writers, whether they are working in nonfiction or fiction, to draw on resources such as interviews and archival material. Not all fiction writers feel so tied to their material that they need to disclose that it informs their work. However, a number of novelists feel an obligation to explicitly acknowledge interviews as primary to the creation of their book. These authors typically identify, either on the cover of or in a foreword to the work, an interviewee’s story as having a significant impact on the construction of their book. At the same time, this work is labelled as fiction. Some examples follow. Anna Funder, in the ‘sources’ section of her debut novel, All That I Am (2011), gives citations for certain incidents and states that the story has been “reconstructed from fossil fragments, such as you might draw skin and feathers over an assembly of dinosaur bones, to fully see the beast” (Funder 2011). Most specifically she has taken the first-person narratives, in the form of memoir and oral history interviews, of real people, Blatt and Toller, and ‘reconstructed’ them as first- person narratives of characters with the same name (Kavenna 2011). All That I Am is described as “based on a true story” (Penguin 2011), but categorised by the publishers as fiction. Neither the sources section nor the publisher clearly identify the extent to which, or the process by which, the interview informed the novel. Padma Viswanathan states that she based her debut novel The Toss of the Lemon (2008) on interviews she conducted with her grandmother about her own grandmother’s life as a Brahmin widow. In the introduction to the novel, Viswanathan “describes her grandmother’s faltering attempts to recount their family history” (Baird 2008). Viswanathan (2008) states, “the book that resulted [from the interviews] has many emotional and narrative ties to the story my grandma told, but also departs from it in numerous significant ways”. Most significantly, the novel is written in third- person and does not overtly attempt to capture any vocal strategies present in the interview. Dave Eggers’ What is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng: A Novel (2007b) claims to be closely based on the actual experiences of a Sudanese

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 64 Lost Boy, Achak Deng. Eggers (2007a) states in an essay on the book that he conducted hours of interviews, and telephone and e-mail conversations while producing the book. As the title indicates, Eggers blurs the boundaries between life writing and fiction, producing a work that relies on novelistic techniques but is drawn from Egger’s extended interviews, conversations and e-mail exchanges with Achak Deng. Eggers (2007a) claims that he wrote the novel in Deng’s voice. However, this claim has been criticised, one critic stating that Eggers’ voice was “all over the novel” (Siegal 2007, 33). As mentioned in chapter three, Terry Whitebeach interviewed her son, Mick Brown, about his experience living in a rural community in Tasmania and together they produced Bantam (2002). Because of the sensitive and personal nature of the story, names were changed and aspects of characters were altered and amalgamated. Whitebeach (2010) stated that the characters and town are fictional, but identifiable. The novel is written in Mick’s voice, using his vocabulary and perspective. However, her discussion around producing the novel focuses on the reasons she turned to fiction, rather than the process of fictionalisation. The practice of these writers is linked by a fascination with the compelling nature of oral stories and a desire to acknowledge the close ties between their fiction and the primary life history that informed it. While each writer may have different aesthetic approaches and purposes in writing, all share an intention to re-present interviews in a way that retains some key qualities of the interview, namely the subject’s point of view, narrative and/or voice, even if the re-presentation is imprecisely achieved. The writers are concerned with producing fiction that is historically authentic and which contains details that are verifiable. These writers capitalise on ‘reality hunger’, defined in chapter one. At the same time, they rely on the techniques of the craft of fiction, such as depicting scene, imagery, voice and narrative structure, to re-present the interview. Unlike creative nonfiction writers, they acknowledge that they have imagined and invented detail, scene, character and plot points. It can be argued that fiction writers explicitly acknowledging interviews as primary sources for their novels is a phenomenon that will proliferate if the trend towards reality hunger continues to grow. It is therefore timely for fiction writers to enter the discussion occurring in ethnography and oral history around fictional means

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 65 to re-present oral histories and to draw on methodologies from these disciplines to augment their own practice. While both Whitebeach, in her 2010 article published in the Oral History Association of Australia Journal entitled ‘Place and People: Stories by and of Unemployed Youth in a Small Island Community’, and Eggers, in his essay published in The Guardian in 2007, ‘It was Just Boys Walking’, discuss their writing process, there seems to be no other serious methodological discussion around the task of fictionalising oral histories coming from fiction writers engaged in this task. Whitebeach, in her article, focuses her discussion on the reasons she turned to fiction as a means to tell her adolescent son’s story. When Brown, her son, unemployed because of an injury and living in a rural town, attempted suicide for the second time, she began searching for strategies to stay in contact. She knew Brown’s oral storytelling skills were powerful. Brown “was and is an excellent raconteur”, Whitebeach (2010, 49) states. However, his time in school left him lacking the confidence to write literature. Whitebeach conceived of the idea of recording his conversations and transmuting his stories into fiction. In Bantam, Whitebeach and Brown “conceal the name and exact location of the town [where Brown lives], and made composite characters from real people” (2010, 49). Whitebeach uses the term ‘transmuted’ to describe her process of collecting, transcribing and transforming Brown’s story into literature. However, she does not unpack in any great detail how this process occurred. Similarly, Eggers in his article, spends much of his time justifying why he chose to tell Deng’s story as a fiction. Eggers (2007a, 2) states:

But after that first year of interviews and my first attempt to assemble the resulting narrative, we [Deng and Eggers] both realised that there were great limitations, in this case, to the oral history model. Valentino was six years old when he left his home and began his 800-mile journey to Ethiopia, and thus his memory of that time was very spotty. When we looked at what we had from our recording sessions, it was fascinating, but it did not transcend the many human rights reports and newspaper articles already available to the world. He believed that the “book needed to demonstrate, step by step, how the war unfolded, through the eyes of a tiny boy in a busy market town”. Eggers (2007a, 5)

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 66 knew the work had to have universal appeal and it had to represent the stories of all lost boys, not just Deng. The remainder of the article is spent describing Eggers’ visit with Deng to Deng’s home town of Murial Bai, the impact of the then new conflicts occurring in Sudan, the need to ask Deng’s permission to write fiction, and in considering the impact of the United States’ involvement in the conflicts in Sudan. Only once does Eggers directly identify stories from Deng’s interview as shaping the novel. On page five, Eggers describes how a story Deng had told him about being mugged became the fictive story that framed the narrative about the conflict in Sudan. There is therefore a gap in the discussion coming from writers explicitly fictionalising oral histories. On the other hand, ethnographers offer a proliferation of detail about their methodological approaches to fictionalising oral history, as established in chapters three and four. As a result there is a need, which I hope to address, to link these practices and to produce a detailed account of producing fiction by an author trained as a fiction writer. I will address this gap in the remainder of the chapter. I turn first to practice-led research as a means of both documenting and understanding the task of fictionalising oral history.

5.2 PRACTICE-LED RESEARCH

As mentioned in chapter one, I began this project with a desire to write a novel. Like the student described in Milech and Schilo’s article (2004), who, when first hearing about the exegesis, asked “what is an exit jesus?”, I was perplexed by the notion of documenting theoretically what I was producing creatively. However, by the end of the project, I found that naturally emerging from my deep engagement with the research, particularly oral history practice and theory, was a series of preoccupations and dilemmas that served as the foundation for my novel. As I have established in the preceding chapters, the oral history project is deeply concerned with analysing subjective lived experience and the difficulties around constructing the past from such subjective sources. Oral historians value interviews as evidence of the personal, emotional and interpretative significance of the past. In my case, these key concerns became the central conflicts of the novel. In each chapter, I wanted to show characters attempting to interpret the world through imposing narrative structures on their experience. These narratives often come undone in the

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 67 face of overwhelming events, and characters attempt, with varying degrees of success, to impose order on their chaotic universe through flashback and reminiscence. I give the novel’s protagonist, Evelyn, a task similar to that of an historian: she is required to use an imperfect form—in this case, a single sculpture—to capture the ‘essence’ or history of an old house. Like ethnographic fiction writers, Evelyn faces a crisis and concludes she needs to turn to other means of representing the world. Yet even these forms are imperfect; in the end, she pulps and destroys her stories. This interaction between theory and practice demonstrates the way my process reflects Smith and Dean’s (2009, 3) understanding of practice-led research:

Knowledge is itself unstable, ambiguous and multi-dimensional—research needs to be treated not monolithically, but as an activity which can appear in a variety of guises across the spectrum of practice and research. For me, this means understanding research and practice as operating symbiotically. I began with a desire to produce a work of fiction informed by oral history interviews. As Haseman (2006, 98) states, practice-led research “comes to the fore when researchers create new artistic forms”. As a result, my practice initially directed the focus of my research endeavours. After the first initial foray into the literature, I returned to planning the creative work allowing new theoretical considerations to heavily guide the process of production but also allowing my artistic impulses to direct new investigations and so on in a cycle of reflection, new writing and planning, and new research and investigation. In this way, my critical and creative thinking are enmeshed. Smith and Dean (2009, 10) describe this model as “the iterative cyclic web”. They state that the “web-like aspect of the model” is that “researchers can move in between phases and connect to any parts”. Smith and Dean (2009, 10) acknowledge the connections between their iterative cyclic web and Delueuze and Guattari’s 1987 concept of the rhizome as a metaphor for methodology: any point of the rhizome can be linked to any other and there are multiple entryways and exits. The theory-as- practice—the enmeshing of critical and creative thinking—of the cyclic web encourages “knowing through living enquiry” (2009, 10). This means that in deciding the direction and linking of my research, I take into account not only my cognitive responses to the research and writing of the creative work, but also my emotional and instinctual ones.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 68 Smith and Dean (2009, 13) state that fundamental to their model are two different ways of working which are found in both creative and practice-led research: a process-driven one and a goal orientated one. In producing fiction informed by oral histories I began with a series of goals and intentions, but also privileged the creative process as a means of understanding and valuing my own endeavours. In my adaptation of Smith and Dean’s iterative cyclic web, ideas are generated through a combination of research and creative and imaginative thinking. The process of writing and reflecting on the creative work is linked to the process of writing and reflecting on the theory in the exegesis. I have gone through three cycles of drafting and re-drafting both the creative and exegetical components of the work, which reflect the milestones of the PhD process. The feedback from examination triggered a fourth cycle of reflection, re- drafting and ideas generation. Self-reflection, in conjunction with feedback from my supervisor, associate supervisor, peer reviewers and colleagues that prompt new cycles and triggers new connections. The danger of the iterative cyclic web is that, like a fly, the researcher can become trapped in the sticky strings of drafting and re-drafting. Ultimately it is feedback from expert readers, such as the supervisory team, the confirmation and final seminar panels, examiners and perhaps ultimately editors and publishers, who will determine when the cycles of drafting and re-drafting are completThe most recent example of how this cycle operates, specifically in the production of creative and critical work, occurred during and after preparing and submitting the document for my final seminar. To produce the document, I investigated ideas and relevant theory in the fields on oral history, reading Portelli and Thomson; ethnographic fiction, engaging with the methodological discussion from Banks, Kiesinger, Angrosino and others, and fiction, reading Greenblatt and Genette. The research question that had been guiding this research and thinking was around the problems and possibilities of fictionalising oral history interviews. In consultation with my supervisors, I re- formulated the research question so that I could arrange my discussion, informed by research, into a more solid and logical argument; I changed the research question to ‘how can fiction writers contribute to the oral history project’. However, after receiving feedback during final seminar, and from readers on the editorial board of the Oral History Association of Australia Journal, I came to a new understanding of the kind of contribution to knowledge I was making and the

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 69 role oral history theory and methodology played in this practice. I came to realise that the interaction between my creative practice, and my engagement with the oral history project was not a one way process, and the very claims that dogged ethnographic fiction—that it was at once fiction and research—were also weighing down my creative work. This realisation operated to spark a process of reflection and re-writing, and development of new ideas. I firstly set about re-writing the novel. I had instinctively felt, and feedback from the final seminar panel confirmed, that the frame narrative I had written, which appeared after every chapter in the novel, was artificial. I decided to re-write the frame narrative, simplifying the story. Previously, I had the character of Evelyn return to her estranged grandfather’s house after he had died, to organise his possessions. Evelyn’s grandfather was a historian and in each room she finds another of his imagined histories. I had finished a complete draft by the end of March 2012. I was still unhappy; my journal was filled with folded pages and stories scratched out. The problems of the first frame narrative, the sense of artificiality the narrative had because it was required to appear before and after each ‘historical’ story and Evelyn’s lack of real and emotional motivation for reading her grandfather’s stories meant the frame narrative was not a successful piece of fiction. I decided to cut the entire frame narrative and start again. I addressed the sense of artificiality by creating a frame narrative that only needed to bookend the historical stories, and gave Evelyn a new motivation, linked to debates in oral history, as mentioned above: a need to capture the essence of a house for her artwork. The task of linking the stories, which was the primary purpose of the frame narrative, occurred because they were all set in the same place. Reflecting on this process, I realised that the reason the frame narrative was not working was because I required it to do too much; I wanted it to be a space where I could more explicitly address the concepts raised by research and to be a successful piece of fiction at the same time. This seemed to echo some of the problems ethnographic fiction writers had encountered in their attempts to claim their work as at once fiction and ethnographic research. Through re-working the frame narrative, I reached the understanding that I needed to privilege the demands of fiction which are to tell an authentic, engaging story through techniques of craft, rather than attempt to twist the form into overly abstract or conceptual shapes.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 70 This realisation had a direct impact on the re-working of the exegesis. I realised I could not claim that my work was historical research, nor was I merely making a contribution to the project of oral history. Rather, I needed to explore how the concerns and methodologies of the oral history project guided the design and aesthetics of my project. As the final seminar panel suggested, I changed my research question—and the shape of the supporting theory—to, ‘how can a fiction writer enter a dialogue with the oral history project?’.

5.2.1 Self-reflexive practice As demonstrated by this process, and indicated in Figure 2.0, my adaptation of Smith and Dean’s iterative cyclic web, self-reflexivity is central to the development of my practice-led research project. In the above example, I thought through feedback and design changes by considering their implications for the exegesis. In turn, ideas in the exegesis such as the problematising of claims for ethnographic fiction, served to shape the development of the creative work. Much of my self-reflective practice occurs in a reflective journal. For me, writing and self-reflection in journal form facilitates critical analysis and evaluation, encouraging the development of problem-solving strategies. I keep the journal nearby when I am writing fiction and the exegesis, scribbling down ideas and questions as I write. I also record discussions that occur during supervisory meetings and with other researchers, lectures, author talks and thoughts from reading theoretical and creative works. I reflected on my creative practice throughout the process of producing the exegesis and other academic papers. Often my engagement with theoretical notions altered the way I understood my own creative work and the process of ‘writing out’ theory and research provokes me to think about my own creative practice. Feedback from supervisors and editors was also valuable in promoting new understandings of my work. This document itself is an ongoing tool for self-reflection and development of new contributions and knowledge. Through writing about my engagement with the research, and the problems and questions arising out of my creative endeavour, I can develop a self-reflexive understanding of the process of fictionalising oral history interviews with the intention of contributing to a more thoroughly documented methodology that might be of use to other fiction writers working with oral history interviews. In the

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 71 following sections, I rely on self-reflective practices to document and understand my methodology, linking my process to methodologies and concerns from the field of oral history.

5.3 INTERVIEW METHODOLOGY

Section 5.3 is an edited version of my peer reviewed paper, titled ‘Obsessions with Storytelling: Conducting Oral History Interviews for Creative Writing’, published in Ejournalist in 2011. This section documents the way I relied on oral history methodology to guide the design and gathering of oral history interviews. The discussion is also a situated example of my application of Smith and Dean’s iterative cycle, described in section 5.1. In it, I demonstrate the way I set out with a particular goal of conducting interviews for creative writing practice; developed and re-worked the methodology as I continued to reflect on the interviews; allowed the interviews, and theory around the storytelling act to inform my creative practice while at the same time exploring the act of storytelling through writing fiction. In this way, embodied knowledge through creative practice and oral history theory are enmeshed. Understanding research as existing in multiple guises, as pragmatic, driven by practice and open to interdisciplinary methodologies is, for me, key to the consideration of how the fields of oral history and fiction can enter a dialogue. I demonstrate how this operates in specific detail in the remainder of this section.

5.3.1 Designing the interviews As the first step in designing interviews and finding participants, I clearly articulated the aims of my project. As I continued to refine the purpose of the project, I found that to successfully drive the project, the aims needed to be clear but broad so as to accommodate the diversity of responses present in the interview. Although I wanted the interviewee to partly direct the interview, I also wanted to discover their memories of a place. In my reflective journal (August 2009), I wrote:

What is it that I want from the interviews? I want personal stories around the area: here this happened to me or someone I know. I want the stories to be specific descriptions of events, not generalities. I wanted to hear a rich and nuanced account of place. Foster (2007a, 125) notes that both participatory research and feminist approaches to research recognise that there

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 72 are many ways of knowing the world. Foster uses poetry, short film and visual diaries of daily lives as part of research outcomes. Pascoe (2009b) describes how she used interviews to elicit sensory and emotive memories of a specific place. In her interviews, she encouraged participants to draw ‘mental’ maps of an area as they knew it as children. However, people were more likely to describe their neighbourhoods in social, emotive and phenomenological terms, for these are the types of associations which embed memories (Pascoe, 2009b). Hugo Slim et al. (2006, 149) also advocate use of visual techniques such as maps as ‘props and mnemonics.’ Felicity Morel-Ednie Brown (2009) questions the participants about their connection to the area, earliest memory and their feelings about the area now. I intended to ask similar questions in my interview. Drawing on all these strategies from oral history, I developed a list of questions designed to elicit specific stories that might inform the novel. I planned to asked questions around the smells, sounds, and sights of the area as well as asking the interviewee to recall their earliest memory of the place and how it had changed. The interview methodology and ethical considerations of the project are closely linked. Elsewhere (see Appendix B), I have focused on the ethical aspects of the project. Suffice to say I received ethical clearance after some trial and error. Having sourced interviewees from the Oral History Association, Queensland; Women’s Historical Association; and the New Farm Historical Association, I set off to their homes or workplaces, as I’d asked the interviewee to indicate the place they felt most comfortable for the interview to take place.

5.3.2 Encounters in the field In some cases, I followed the methodology described above with success. In the case of interviewing Rebecca1, I asked her to draw a map of the area of New Farm where she grew up (Image 1). She spoke about her memories associated with each part of the map. I could both hear and see the way this strategy assisted in her recalling certain aspects of place.

1 In accordance with university ethical approval, all interviewees’ names are changed.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 73 Later, Rebecca became the basis for the character of Evelyn. My short story, Evelyn of the Verandah, which was published in the One Book Many Brisbanes anthology in 2010, draws heavily on one of the stories elicited during the map drawing exercise. As Rebecca drew the bushes, indicated by the semi-circular lines around Crase Street on the top right hand corner of the map, she told me how she had found a homeless man passed out in this strip of vegetation. This is a key scene in Evelyn on the Verandah. Later, the character of Evelyn changed drastically to suit the requirements of the frame narrative, as described above. However, the Evelyn character that appears in the novel still has some links to the interview, namely her qualities of independence and self-awareness.

Image 1: Rebecca’s map of a suburb in Brisbane.

In other cases during the interview, the interviewees preferred to print maps from Google, refer to an atlas or, in the case of the architect, use maps in his archive and speak to them, rather than draw. The questions did not always elicit the response I intended. When asked about sensory details, a funeral director stated that “he was not that kind of person”, by which he meant he did not pay attention to these details. A boat builder stated that “all he knew about was boats”. Although the sample size at this stage was small, and no conclusive generalisation can be made, I realised that, in my case, these kinds of responses came from interviewees who had asked me to visit them at their work, rather than home. Perhaps their choice to speak in a professional rather than personal environment established the boundary and content of the interviews as public rather

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 74 than private. Rosenblatt (2003, 228) notes that “people often feel entitled to not tell the whole truth” in an interview. A former nurse, whose interview I drew on to create the character of Judy, who had lived in the outback, was very reluctant to share stories until I had read Mary Durack’s Kings in Grass Castles (1959), possibly because she felt the need for us to have a shared understanding of her life in Central Queensland in the 1930s, an experience I had no other way of accessing than through secondary sources. Transcribing the recording of the interview, I came to suspect that she may have drawn a few of her stories from this source. The interviewees were cautious about the idea of ‘fictionalising’. It was a term I found hard to describe. For me it was—and still is—in a process of evolving. I had worked on a similar project during my honours year, in which I interviewed my grandmother and created a work of fiction based on her narratives. I showed participants this example, stating this was what I intended to do with their interviews. I felt that I was ethically obliged to ensure participants were clear about my intentions. I suspect that this may have shaped what individuals chose to tell me, and the way they told it. One participant, after reading the story said, “Now I know what you’re after, we can get along better”. Another participant changed her mind about allowing me to use her oral history in my fiction after I stayed and had lunch with her, during which I talked to her about myself and my life. It seemed there needed to be a relationship of trust built on sharing of stories rather than just hearing them. During the interviews, I usually found myself abandoning the line of questioning I had planned. I let the interviewee speak uninterrupted for long periods of time, writing down questions that came to mind. Morrissey (2006, 161) states that “question-asking is an art, individualised and intuitive”. I found that this was indeed the case. To allow the interviewee to speak seemed to be the way to achieve my aim of hearing the storytelling strategies present in the interview. Yet, I felt some anxiety over this approach: I seemed to have drifted far from my original design which, on paper, seemed such an elegant response to my intentions. It was not until early in 2010 that I found a methodology that was close to the interview style I had intuitively developed. I encountered the notion of ‘steered monologue’ at the International Oral History Association conference in Prague; Stef Scagliola (2010) described how she used this German technique. The approach involved coming to an interview with a single question, in this case “tell me about the

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 75 war”. A similar method has been applied in the United States, where it is termed, rather clumsily, as ‘Biographic Narrative Interpretative Method’ (BNIM) (Wengraf 2001, Jones 2006). Jones (2006, 75), who uses the method to create both traditional and arts-based research outcomes, describes the procedure as “open ended and unstructured”. The interview technique is “in the form of a single, initial narrative inducing question to illicit an extensive, uninterrupted narrative”. Wengraf (2001, 113 and 119) elaborates: The BNIM interview is composed of three sub-sessions. In the first session, the interviewee’s primary response is determined by a single question…in this session, after posing the question, interventions by the interviewer are limited to facilitative noises and non-verbal support. The second session usually occurs after a fifteen minute break, and the third after primary analysis of the first two interview sessions (Wengraf 2001, 119). However, in my interviewing experience, I found that not asking any questions can sometimes make the interviewee feel uncomfortable if they cannot think of something to say. One participant urged me, “Come on, ask me questions”. I responded by asking about a photo in the album in front of us. I suggest that it is perhaps more effective in some circumstances to combine BNIM’s single narrative- inducing question with a more conversational, intuitive style which is characterised by a willingness to share stories, enter a dialogue or provide additional stimulus such as photographs, maps, pen and paper if the interviewer judges the participant is open to such strategies. The term ‘steered monologue’ seems to more accurately reflect this style where the interviewee does the majority of the talking during the interview (the monologue), and the interviewers task is to ‘steer’, depending on research aims. It seemed that attempting to predict the outcome only narrows the scope of the interview and my readiness to respond to new lines of enquiry opened up during the conversation. It helps to approach the task with an attitude of curiosity; I was learning from the other person. I demonstrated my interest in one case by creating a timeline of the participant’s life history. After seeing that I had taken the time to understand her life, she became more open. Asking interviewees for suggestions for material, such as books and films, which might create a shared set of references, helped in some cases. Like Thomson (2006), I was able to recognise common stories and themes. Reflecting on the interviews through writing notes in my journal after the interview and during transcription, I could see that the dynamics and forms of these

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 76 encounters were very different from what I had expected. It was clear that my presence and aims were shaping the outcome of the interview. The interviews seemed to be somehow incomplete; such a tangle of unsaid expectations and restraints; a curious mixture of memories, some vivid, sometimes partial; well-rehearsed stories, some borrowed from historical and, even fictional, sources such as films and books.

5.3.3 Understanding the interviews As Figure 2 demonstrates, my process can be described as an iterative cyclic web. Part of this methodology involves engaging with theoretical concepts to understand the creative practice. Practices encouraged in oral history informed my interview methodology. After conducting the interviews, I turned again to theory in oral history and qualitative research to shed light on my experiences interviewing in order to develop a more nuanced and authentic work of fiction. Atkinson and Silverman (1997, 309) describe America as the Interview Society. The Interview Society relies “pervasively on face-to-face interviews to reveal the personal, the private self of the subject”. When I began this project I was immersed in this discourse. I felt the interview would be straight forward, that I would be able to ‘mine the depths’ of my interviewee and leave satisfied. As shown, this turned out to be far from the case. Atkinson and Silverman (1997, 309) and later, Holstein and Gubrium (2003), critique the underlying assumptions of the interview society. Atkinson and Silverman (1997, 319) state that:

The authenticity of a life is not to be understood simply…There is no guarantee of biographical or narrative unity. Life narratives are always pastiche. They are pieced together, always changeable and fallible, out of the stock of mementos. Gubrium and Holstein (2003, 32) believe that the interview should be reconceptualised as “an occasion for purposefully animated participants to construct versions of reality interactionally rather than to merely purvey data”. They believe that the value of the interview data lies both in the meanings and in how meanings are constructed. Portelli (1981, 103) believes that oral sources have a number of intrinsic characteristics. He states that they are:  Artificial: oral histories are the product of interviewer just as much as interviewee. Grele (2006, 49) adds that the “fundamental, unresolved

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 77 theoretical and methodological issue in the practice” is that those who are using the oral histories are also creating them.  Variable: in oral histories, the same story is never told twice.  Partial: it is almost impossible to tell an entire life story. Denzin (2001, 25) adds that “when performed, the interview text creates the world, giving the world its situated meaningfulness. From this perspective, the interview is a fabrication, a construction, a fiction, an ordering or rearrangement of selected materials from the actual world.” In history scholarship, there is much angst over oral histories’ value as evidence about the past because of their problematic nature (Grele 2006). Traditional qualitative researchers might wonder about interviews’ worth as “vessels to be mined for data” (Gubrium and Holstein 2003, 30). The act of fictionalising, on the other hand, serves to draw attention to, and explore, the interviews as fabrications. As a result of engaging with this theory, I came to see that my novel needed to show characters in a process of trying to understand their present state by engaging with the past. Flashbacks, in which the character recalls their past experiences at a point in the central narrative that evokes similar feelings, occur in each of the stories. In Evelyn’s story, for example, she tries to understand the failure of her relationship with Matt by remembering the failure of the relationship between her own parents. Through using specific fictive techniques such as flashback, I engage with the idea that telling a life story is an attempt to construct a particular and acceptable reality.

5.3.4 The creative work Experiences in the field, and the literature, show that the interview is a messy, organic process with unexpected outcomes. The technique of the steered monologue allows for such open-ended outcomes; the interviewer comes to the interview with a single narrative-inducing question. I offer some strategies for steering interviewees’ monologues including the use of memory triggers, such as asking the interviewee to draw; talk to maps, photos, timelines and other memorabilia; make suggestions for books or films which they consider relevant; and describe sensory details. These strategies can be employed intuitively; their use will differ from interview to interview. The interview is based on a rapport developed through conversation and sharing of stories. In addition, during the interview the interviewer should pay attention not just to the words of the interview but other details such as the space in

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 78 which the interview takes place, keeping in mind that all these details may inform the creation of the creative practice. Qualitative and oral history theory may offer a lens through which to understand the interview and this understanding can be incorporated into the creative writing process. Indeed the notions briefly explored here, drawn from my reading, have become one of the central themes of the novel. In my writing, characters are engaged in acts of storytelling that are fraught with tension. The characters that tell their first- person accounts forget; reinvent; confess; hide; imagine; and borrow other people’s stories. Atkinson and Silverman’s (1997, 319) notion of pastiche is apt in describing the aesthetic of the work, which consists of short chapters set at different points in Brisbane history and are augmented with photos, newspapers and other historical documents. As I work with the interviews in creating fiction, I found that, while I analyse the transcript in great depth, I also draw meaning from other aspects of the interviewing experience. After I interviewed her, one woman gave me a small gift, a decoration she had made herself (Image 2). In some ways, the construction of such an object has many parallels to the act of storytelling: it is individual, idiosyncratic, intended for some particular context or audience; it is multi-faceted and can be viewed and understood from many perspectives. In an early version of the frame narrative, I had Evelyn piece together a necklace from her mother. Although I removed this explicit reference in the current novel, Evelyn’s current artistic practice stems from this fascination with the construction of objects.

Image 2: Decoration given to me by one of my interviewees.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 79 Indeed, as a result of thinking about the specific qualities of the interviews I conducted, objects such as the bricks, shoes, the swagman’s diary and the fountain at St Helena take on special, almost magical qualities throughout the novel. These objects, or talismans, serve to trigger new stories or understandings for characters. For example, Evelyn describes how, by researching the history of the brick she found underneath the Old Museum, she feels better about the failure of her encounter with a man she met on the train because such an encounter is made insignificant. When she sees bricks again at the old house, she interprets this as a sign that they are meaningful and will help her in her current predicament: the need to design a sculpture to replace the house. My decision to explore the magical qualities of objects in the novel was triggered by my engagement with interviewees who treated objects with the same importance, such as the decoration in Image 2. To further demonstrate how I incorporate these concepts into my practice, I conclude with draft extract from one of the chapters of the novel, which I ultimately removed from the final version, entitled ‘Delamere’. In the interview this chapter is based on, Barbara described her Mother driving across the outback. Barbara stated:

Barbara: That’s when Mum had to do that trip down by herself in the old tin lizzie. Ariella: Do you have many memories of that trip? Barbara: No, very little. I don’t remember anything about Mum packing up to go and I don’t remember much about the trip ’cause it didn’t worry me. I didn’t have anything to worry about but the cat and the dog in the car. One thing I can remember is Mum cranking the car and she came back and it had hit her in the face and there was blood everywhere. In the fictional account, I use stories from Durack’s Kings in Grass Castles, which seemed appropriate given her identification with the book, and other historical documents, as well as the interview itself, to understand the time and place. When telling stories, Barbara would sometimes summarise the main points and then expand each point. I mimic this habit in the structure of this extract; the narrator says they stopped five times, and then goes on to explain each time. In this extract, the narrator’s mother is engaged in an act of telling another’s story.

Extract from ‘Delamere’

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 80 My mother drove across the desert in an old tin lizzie. From Julia Creek to Delamere. Dad travelled ahead to arrange things at the station. Ma put me in the back seat with Boo and packed the bags in around us. Boo put her feet on a suitcase and stuck her head out the window, her tongue hanging out. She had to swallow all the time, as dogs do. The dirt was tossed up into her mouth and crusted the edges of her eyes. Didn’t matter. Boo still kept her head out. We stopped five times on the first day. Ma realised the dust was getting into the bags. She tied a tarp across the back—the fold-down hood wasn’t enough—so that put an end to Boo’s fun. I said I couldn’t see. Ma said, Nothing to see. So that was the first time we stopped. Ma wasn’t very good with knots and when we started driving again the tarp flew off. She slammed on the brakes, of course stalled. The tarp was carried farther and farther down the road. She ran out after it. Anyway, finally she retrieved it and tied the tarp down again with me and Boo underneath it, good and properly this time. You should have seen the granny knots. The car was covered with them. That was the second time we stopped. The third time, Mum had to crank the car. When she put her head back into the car I got the shock of my life: her face was covered with blood. The crank had come back and hit her, you see. She held a handkerchief to her nose and eyebrow all the way to Mt. Isa. She had to look out over the road with only one eye and her driving was very wonky after that. Yes, her driving had a lean to the left. We stopped twice more to crank the car and Ma tied some more knots. We drove awhile in the dark. When Ma got tired, we stopped and camped on the side of the road. Ma crawled under the car and wrapped herself up in a swag. I slept in the front seat, wedged behind the gear stick. Boo made a hollow for herself in the dirt, curled up in that. There was a hole rusted through the floor on the front passenger side. I could see half of Ma’s face through it. It must have been the side that wasn’t busted. I don’t remember any marks on her skin. I said, Ma, a story? She told me about her parents.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 81 5.3.5 Further reflections on the interviews After producing this paper, and having spent almost a year conducting oral history workshops for the Oral History Association of Australia Queensland branch (OHAA Qld) with Associate Professor Helen Klaebe and Bryan Crawford, I have had more time to reflect on my interview practice. As a result, I have identified a number of mistakes I made in conducting the interviews which may be useful for others hoping to successfully use oral history methodology. Most significantly, I did not record the audios at a sound quality high enough to be deposited in the State Library of Queensland (SLQ), or using SLQ permissions forms when gathering the interviews, giving the interviewees the option to have their interviews preserved in SLQ. It is only since my close relationship with OHAA that I discovered the importance of preserving and sharing interviews so that other researchers can access them at a later date. Others working with oral histories may wish to consider how they will record and preserve interviews at the outset of their project; such preservation aligns closely with OHAA’s identified guidelines of practice. Adopting the interview methodology endorsed by the OHAA is a clear means a fiction writer can contribute to the oral history project. In the next sections, I turn to the other identified philosophical functions of the oral history project in Australia—a lack of grand narratives, an analysis of subjective experience, and an accessibility to an inferred readership—documenting the ways my creative practice is sympathetic to these aims.

5.4 TRANSCRIPTION

After conducting the interviews, I set about transcribing them. I used Express Scribe software to support the transcription process. This software allowed me to upload the audio file, and play, stop, rewind and slow down the audio, using hot keys on the keyboard, as I typed the transcript. I felt I needed to fully transcribe rather than produce summaries, despite new trends towards cutting transcription costs and privileging audio technology in order to “alleviate some of the reliability and validity issues associated with written transcripts” (Stanley 2010, 26).

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 82 I fully transcribed the interviews because I was interested in the specific voice of the interviewee, which I would need to replicate in written rather than audio form. I wanted to be able to unpack the way the interviewees structured sentences and phrases, their vocabulary, their rhythms of speech and their values and attitudes revealed in their interpretation of life events. I found that transcribing the interview, which involved a process of slowing down, rewinding and re-playing the audio, made me consider the interview in a different way. Instead of listening to the story for an overarching narrative and for missing details or incomplete stories that I should follow-up with further questions as I did in the face-to-face interview, I was paying attention to each sentence, to the words used and the way they were arranged. This close level engagement with the audio and transcript allowed me to build up an understanding of how I should construct voice in the fictive work. Decisions about how to punctuate the transcript served as the bridging process between audio and fictionalised text. In transcribing, I had to consider where a sentence began and ended; where a small pause required a comma; where to indicate silences, ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’, and where to attribute dialogue. I replicated these punctuation decisions in the written voice in the novel. This physical act of transcribing allowed me to become familiar with the interviewee’s textual sentence structures and speech habits, as they would appear on the page in the fictional work. For instance, when I transcribed Barbara’s interview, I noticed several speech patterns, storytelling habits and indicators of attitude that formed the basis of the way I presented her fictive voice through the character of Judy. I noticed her repeated use of the word ‘however’ or ‘anyhow’, followed by a pause to indicate the concluding phrases of a story. In one section, after describing how she accidently threw out her father’s diaries, Barbara says:

It’s my fault. However, it’s no use crying over it. But it’s a great tragedy because he was a wonderful person. In another case, at the end of a story about a snake falling into the cook’s pan:

However when it was done, all was well. The steak was fine. Barbara also had a very distinct vocabulary, regularly using words and phrases such as:  jolly well,  nattering,

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 83  bloomin’,  howling and yowling,  kids round about,  gallop a horse,  all in/thrown in a fizz. Barbara regularly prefixed names and verbs with ‘old’ and used ‘’cause’ rather than ‘because.’ I became very aware of Barbara’s unusual phrases in attempting to spell and interpret their meaning, such as in the following section, when she says:

And one couple came down and they were having a real woo in the thing [elevator]…We had a good old giggle about that. I assumed that ‘woo’ meant kissing and cuddling. I tried to incorporate such words and speech habits into the story, because I perceived them as vivid and outlandish and I hope to capture the joy both I—and, I think, Barbara—took in using such language. I noted Barbara’s enjoyment of stories that demonstrated the toughness and ingenuity of bush people. She told these kinds of stories at length during the interview, describing how her father convinced property owners to invest in refrigeration for station managers by arranging for them to visit the station in the middle of the boiling Northern Territory Summer; her ability to hold alcohol better than the other nurses; and Matron ‘Matey’ Fitzgerald’s recognition of her as a bush girl and therefore more capable. In Judy’s chapter, I have her recount some of these narratives. This attitude is reinforced because Barbara was most vivid when describing the bush. On one of the days I went to interview Barbara in September 2009, there were dust storms sweeping across Queensland and New South Wales. This provoked a description of one of the stations where she lived, in which she evoked the wind vividly by describing a recent telephone conversation with her friend:

Out in the Quilpie district they had these great long—well, lots of areas out there—but there was ridges of red sand hills. But it might blow frantically for three days. You couldn’t see or smell or see anything. And when it cleared away the sand hills would’ve moved. They’d be somewhere else. And they’re still doing it…Now, she [a friend] rang me a week or two ago and I said, ‘Hello, are you seeing through the dust?’

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 84 And she said, ‘I haven’t seen my hand in front of my face for days.’ But she rang to get an address for something or other. I said, ‘All the sand hills shifting still?’ She said, ‘Yep.’ They’re always moving around still. She said, ‘Nothing’s changed from your days here as a kid.’ In other cases, Barbara describes the “great wide river that spread across the stone” behind their house in the Northern Territory and how her father was a couple of “flooded, alligator-ridden creeks away” when her mother came down with malaria. Her descriptions were vivid, but always specific, linked to physical objects and characterised by a sense of movement. This was in contrast to my own, more metaphorical, style of description. In the scene in Judy’s story when I want to evoke the house, creating a sense of strangeness about the place, I use these habits of description, pulling back from the more lyrical style of my earlier evocations of the place. In this section, I underline the sentence that is a direct quote from the interview:

They put the nurses in a kind of extension out the back, which ran along George Street. Our beds were much the same as the patients’, single, made with that heavy cast iron, and a mattress about half the height of your hand lay on top. At night, we’d come sneaking in through all sorts of backways. You never went a direct route to your room. I got to know the building quite well, found all the pockets and hidey-holes, the places where the wall turned at such an angle that you couldn’t be seen from the other rooms or down the hallways. I tiptoed past the men, asleep on their white sheets in their white pyjamas with the top tucked in. At such times I got the feeling that something was about to change. I had an impulse to yell out or to dance across the floorboards. Of course I never did. Here, I use the same sense of physical description grounded in concrete objects, and create a sense of movement. I invent a small ‘strange’ moment, when Judy feels she would like to dance, which is almost out of character, because in all other aspects, Judy is practical. This implies there is some strange force in the house. Judy resists and asserts her own character. It was the transcription process that allowed me to understand what was meant by ‘in character’ for Judy. As I was transcribing, I also noted Barbara’s habit of

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 85 rapidly moving through difficult events in her life. In one section, she describes her husband’s injury in the war:

But, it’s the luckiest thing that ever happened to him because his leg went bad, an infection, and they couldn’t clean it up. So there was he, and two other blokes, who were all on the DI, the ‘dangerously ill’ list, they were going to die. And they were sent this new stuff from England to try. And it was penicillin. In those days it came in a thing and they irrigated into the wound which was great, of course. No hurt in the injections or anything. But anyone that had it that way was most violently allergic to penicillin for the rest of their lives. This rapid summarising seemed to me to indicate a pragmatic attitude to life which was reflected in a number of abstract phrases I noticed while I was transcribing. During transcribing, I became aware of phrases, or attitudinal indicators, that revealed Barbara’s, and by extension, Judy’s response to difficulties and challenges. Barbara said, for example:  ‘You just got on’  ‘You just made do’  ‘You got better. Or you died. There were two options.’ Such a pragmatic, ‘no fuss, no worries’ attitude seemed to directly shape the way Barbara not only recounted life events, but remembered them. In the interview, Barbara said:

I mean, I didn’t take much interest. I took things as they came and didn’t worry about it, so it’s hard to remember a lot of things now. This evidence of Barbara’s subjective interpretation of the past and how her attitudes shaped the way she remembered life events, which I gleaned through transcription, became the foundation of the fictive character Judy. Transcription forced my attention away from overarching narratives and gaps in the story to line level detail. Decisions about punctuation and spelling needed for transcription became the bridge between audio and text in the fictive version. Slowing down and re-playing sections of the audio in order to transcribe them made me more aware of particular speech habits and structures. I observed key phrases that indicated attitude. These observations become the foundation for the fictive character’s voice. The next step in my process was to augment the interviews with archival research and

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 86 to fill in the gaps through imaginatively engaging with the transcripts, audios and research.

5.5 INFORMED IMAGINATION

Historical fiction writer Geraldine Brooks uses the term ‘informed imagination’ (2012) to describe her engagement with research to construct a novel. I have adopted this notion to describe the aspect of my methodology in which I retain specific qualities of the interviews and archival material while at the same time I evoke the past and fill in the gaps using fictive techniques and imagination. Similar methodologies appear to be common among ethnographic fiction researchers and fiction writers. Kitchin and Kneale (2001, 20), when discussing cyberfiction, a sub-genre of science fiction, argue that one of the genre’s key aspects it its ability to “provide an informed view of possible futures, given present trends—futures that are imaginatively constructed and free of the constraints of academic prediction making”. Kitchin and Kneale argue that, in writing cyberfiction, authors are constrained by the knowledge they have of the present, but can allow themselves to imagine the future in full and vivid detail. Brooks (2011) labels this quality “informed imagination”. Brooks (2011) describes her process of reading historical material until she can hear the voice of her character in her head; writing a draft; and then returning to archival material when she discovers a gap in her character’s knowledge. The process of researching and then imagining a story based on research appears to be similar between ethnographic fiction writers, writers acknowledging interviews in their research and my own creative writing practice but with varying applications depending on the purpose of the author. Eggers (2007a) describes how he feels responsible for telling a story based in reality but needing imagination to bring the story to life. Eggers began writing a work of nonfiction but soon discovered that:

Only with a bit of artistic licence could I imagine the thoughts in Valentino’s mind the first day he left home, fleeing from the militias, never to return. Only in a novel could I imagine the look on the face of the man who rescued Valentino when he became entangled in barbed wire one black night in the middle of his journey to Ethiopia. Only in a novel could I apply what I had

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 87 seen in the various regions of southern Sudan to describe the land, the light, the people. Here fictive imagination of the details of place and character become a means to augment the gaps in the interview. Sikes and Piper (2009), when producing Sex and Lies in the Classroom, took a very methodical approach. The researchers (2009, 51) describe how they sat down with accounts given by family members and read over them, looking for patterns and similarities. Through doing this they were able to construct a cast of characters and storylines that “could be used to enact experiences and perceptions”. Banks (2000) wrote fictional holiday letters drawing on his extensive studies of the form. Banks (2000, 401) drew on his knowledge of the conventions of letter writing, stating, “the content of holiday letters is overwhelmingly marked by references to six types of news: positive life achievements, adventuresome personal experiences, the passage of time, social relationships, mundane news of family life, and evidence of the writer’s (and the writer’s family members’) moral character”. He used these elements as “the content scaffolding for my fictions” (Banks 2000, 401). Kiesinger (1998a, 85) describes her process of reviewing all her research materials, including interview transcripts, and then extracting lengthy sections of discourse from the interviews. She then “began to turn these fragmented episodes into a narrative”. She used “shame as a central theme” and framed the story in terms of this theme. Kiesinger (1998a, 85) states that once she had “decided to structure the story around the theme of shame I made stylistic decisions consistent with my goal to write an evocative account”. Similarly, Angrosino (2002, 333) uses thematic order as a means of structuring rather than logical coherence “as defined in technical circles”. Kiesinger (1995a, 87), like Piper and Sikes, re-reads the transcripts several times. She also listens to the taped interviews, carefully considering all the major turning points and epiphanies. Kiesinger then spends several sessions imagining how her subject must have felt at each point (1995a, 87). Sparkes (2007, 522), on the other hand, is more experiential stating that his process of constructing a story is “inspired by partial happenings, fragmented memories, echoes of conversations, whispers in corridors, fleeting glimpses of myriad reflections seen through broken glass, and multiple layers of fiction and narrative imaginings”.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 88 Like Kiesing, and Piper and Sikes, once I had transcribed the interviews, I re- read the transcripts several times. I put them aside when I sat down to write, noticing what events and scenes stayed with me after I had finished reading. For example, I remembered clearly Barbara describing how she and the “Abo kids” played together:

We’d be round at the cubby houses, digging drains and ditches, mud pies, climbing up trees and chasing possums. Not anything that city kids did. We didn’t know about games like hopscotch or—never heard of them. I supposed that if such moments stayed vivid in my mind, they would also linger with the reader. This description, in particular, is vivid with the nostalgia of childhood games and is emblematic of Barbara’s habit of distinguishing bush people from city people, which I’d identified earlier through transcribing (see section 5. 4). Unlike the earlier sections though, there is a hint of conflict underlying this scene, a sense of isolation and not fitting in. Barbara develops this theme later in the interview when she describes how she was almost expelled from boarding school for fighting with other children and smoking used cigarette butts underneath the auditorium stage. These moments become the key scenes in the creative work. In Judy’s story, I have her and Molly digging drains and ditches in the creek—which I had noticed Barbara evoked vividly in the transcript—when Judy sees John Aubrey leave the Blacks’ Camp:

Molly and I once dug a ditch all the way from the crossing to the camps. We were getting the water to flow down it, and blocking it up again with rocks from the river…I was ahead of Molly, breaking through the dirt and watching the water seep away. You had to be quick or the water soaked through and you were left with mud. Molly was behind me, widening the channel, patting down the edges so they weren’t washed away. I looked up, saw the Blacks’ camp and I stopped digging. I saw Mr. Aubrey coming out of one of the humpies. I called out to him: ‘Mr. Aubrey!’ Molly ran up behind me and put her hand over my mouth. It was covered in dirt, all wet and slimy like cold porridge. And Molly in my ear saying, ‘Shhhh.’ I elbowed Molly’s arm, pulling her hand away from my face. Mr. Aubrey couldn’t have heard us…I don’t know why I remember this at all, except I have this very vivid image of myself standing in front of the mirror with a great muddy handprint across my face.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 89 The process of informed imagination operated in a number of ways to construct this scene. I attempt to capture the same feel of nostalgia and underlying conflict identified in the extract from Barbara’s interview. I focus on Judy’s enjoyment of playing in the dirt with Molly. I use details from other parts of the interview, such as the rocky creek bed Barbara describes. I had also augmented my engagement with Barbara’s interview by researching the gaps in her story. While Barbara mentioned the ‘lubras’ (Indigenous women in domestic service) and ‘Abos’ working on the station, she didn’t mention anything about their working conditions. I filled this gap through research, and read about conditions in the blacks’ camp in Ronald and Catherine’s Berndt’s End of an Era: Aboriginal Labour in the Northern Territory (1987). I juxtapose the blacks’ camps and the sexual implications of John Aubrey’s presence with the innocence of the girls’ game. I build on this tension using an image suggested by the original interview: the muddy handprint, which implies some momentary imprint of the exploitation of the Indigenous people on the station, which is quickly washed off. In this scene, as in the interview extract, the tension is implicit rather than explicit; the real purpose of Aubrey’s visit is left ambiguous. I rely on my understanding of Judy’s pragmatic attitude and its impact on her capacity to remember, based on the identification of attitudinal indicators in the transcript. Judy’s remembered self did not understand the implications at the time, while her recollecting self doesn’t want to acknowledge them. At the end of the story, she expresses concern for Molly, but doesn’t want to deeply reflect on the topic:

When I came back, on those first lot of Christmas holidays, Molly was gone. John Aubrey said he didn’t know where. But you hear these terrible stories, you know? I was never really one for taking much note of things. They just came and went. It was only just now I remembered her name. In this scene, I create an ambiguous space in which the reader can at once understand the implied abuse of Molly, while still empathising with Judy. Part of my process of informed imagination was to rely on details that were not the focus of the main narrative—Judy’s time nursing in the old house—to suggest fictive scenes. For example, I wanted to create a scene that showed the occasionally fraught relations between Barbara and her mother-in-law. Barbara had said that her mother-in-law had a habit of running her fingers along the shelves checking for dust, and “sticking her beak into every bloody thing”. However, Barbara hadn’t given any

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 90 other concrete examples. I felt the checking for dust story was too clichéd for my purposes and made the tensions seem petty, even though they had a significant effect on the way Barbara behaved and choose to raise her children. In one section of the interview, I asked:

Ariella: Sometimes you didn’t get on with your mother-in-law, did you? Barbara: No. Not really. I always felt that what with Mum wanting to know every single thing I was doing and Mrs Newt sticking her beak into every bloody thing round the place I knew I wasn’t going to do it to my kids. And I think they might have thought that sometimes I completely ignored them. I know the Bendees used to wonder a bit when Derek and Sandy—why I wouldn’t go up with Dick when he went to help with shearing. But I thought, ‘No the last thing they want is me there, wandering round and being my home for 28 years, it was theirs now and good luck to them.’ I didn’t care what they did with it. But Mrs Newt took a very dim view. She said, ‘It’s all yours, dear Barbara,’ but when dear Barbara dared to do anything— I was searching for some convincing moment that I could use to create a scene to show this tension. Then I read a section of transcript where Barbara was recalling her first memories. Barbara said:

I can remember Aunt Aggie coming to stay, Dad’s oldest sister. She was a wonderful cook and I can remember her sitting in the kitchen and the sweat pouring off her, beating like hell, making a sponge cake and letting me dip my fingers in. This struck me as a rich detail that evoked the time, the domestic space of Barbara’s childhood and the joy of the child eating the batter. I took this detail and transformed it into a scene in the novel, with Judy’s mother-in-law:

Once I remember—after Fred and I were married—trying to help her [Fred’s mother-in-law] by making sponge cake for dessert. There was a young cousin or something running around and while I was beating the mixture, I let her dip her finger in. Mrs Devine rushed over and snatched the bowl from my hands and poured all the mixture down the sink. Here, I take the authentic detail and emotion of the recollection and contrast it with Fred’s mother’s extreme action to demonstrate both the pettiness Judy perceives—and remembers in vivid detail—and Judy’s powerlessness in the situation.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 91 At other times, I used detail in the interview that belonged in asides or tangential stories to augment my chosen main narrative. For example, I use the detail on the wet plaster in the novel from the following section of interview:

And one day, me and someone else, I can’t remember who, were taking some of them out in canoes and [a wounded soldier] sitting there with a plastered leg up there, you know: this that and the other. And out on the river, I remember this day fooling round and we tipped over. This fella said, ‘Well, someone had better do something because once this plaster gets wet—’ On one leg [the plaster was] all the way to his hip and I think one shoulder and arm. He said, ‘I’ll sink like a stone.’ I take this detail and use it to augment the details of the sinking of the Centaur in the novel, because Barbara was not directly involved:

A lot of them had sunk with her. They wouldn’t have been able to swim and—have you ever seen plaster when it gets wet? Those in plaster casts would’ve sunk like stones. As can be seen in these examples, I rely on a mixture of quotes or key phrases copied directly from the transcript, as well as mimicking specific speaking habits and attitudes observed in the interview, which I adapt to augment my narrative and themes. These themes and the narrative itself are themselves suggested by the interview. In the case of Judy, I wanted to show the power of her narratives to erase detail that was disturbing or unhelpful. For me then, informed imagination involves a process of analysing the transcripts, searching for specific storytelling habits and attitudinal indicators to develop character and voice and amplifying the oral history interview with research. In the case of Barbara, this research showed a new point of view, that of the Indigenous people, which I incorporated as implicit tension in scenes. Like Eggers, I fill in the gaps of memory and create scenes using invention but it is an invention often suggested by details and stories present in the transcript. My work is thus fiction which is at once constrained and augmented by oral history interviews and research.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 92 5.6 DECISIONS ABOUT AESTHETICS: MARGINAL CHARACTERS

Having conducted and transcribed interviews, guided by oral history methodology, and engaged deeply with the interviews and other research, I needed to decide what kind of work I was actually writing, and its purpose. These decisions were vital in informing the aesthetics of the work. In chapter four, I identified that among other possibilities, fiction’s capacity to enter a dialogue with the oral history project emerged from the form’s capacity to represent subjective experience, and furthermore, the specific qualities of fiction could operate as a tool kit for exploring subjective experience. In this section, I document my own approach to producing a work of fiction that is concerned with stories about subjective experience and new points of view about events in Brisbane’s history. I explore the ways the representation of a character’s subjectivity in fiction can contribute to the telling of unknown or little-known stories in an urban landscape. Early in the project, I—as Evelyn does in the novel—encountered the nonfiction text, Radical Brisbane: An Unruly History (2004), edited by Raymond Evans and Carole Ferrier. Reflecting on my practice, I have been able to identify how reading this book significantly influenced the aesthetic decisions of the novel. Each chapter of Radical Brisbane is written by historians and archivists and documents an aspect of Brisbane’s reactionary, left-wing history. Radical Brisbane has, at its heart, a social agenda. Frank Bongiorno (2005), reviewing the book, states, “in historiographical terms, we can see this project...as part of an effort to recover a sense of social and cultural space in the history of radical and working-class politics”. The book does this by documenting instances in which Brisbane is in a state of change or when there are political forces at work that are disruptive or unsettling. It was this quality of Radical Brisbane that changed the way I saw Brisbane. The city was no longer the placid, calm, occasionally boring place I had grown used to. There was the possibility of revolution simmering beneath the surface, the chance of radical change. I wanted my fiction to engender the same response: to alter readers’ perceptions of the city. In this way, I imagine my writing as having a social purpose which is in keeping with the social history agenda embedded in the oral history project. As mentioned above, the oral history project’s concern with social history manifests as a desire to tell the stories of the marginal. In my own writing, I choose to tell stories

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 93 about unknown or little known episodes in Brisbane’s history or known events from marginalised characters. I hoped to use fiction as a means to “recover”, as Bongiorno has it, the social aspects of Brisbane’s history. Like Radical Brisbane, each chapter in the novel is set at a time of change: the beginning of the colonial occupation, the aftermath of the Shearer’s war, the end of the century, the Great Depression, the Second World War, and the Vietnam (American) War. However, unlike Radical Brisbane’s traditional, objective approach to documenting the past, in the novel these moments of revolution are made personal, filtered through the lens of subjective experience: that of a focal character. As Thomson demonstrates in Moving Stories, oral history interviews offer a means to explore historical phenomena through subjective experience. In personal narratives, domestic detail assumes significance to the interviewee. Similarly, the oral history project in Australia is concerned with marginalised stories, stories that are not traditionally considered ‘important,’ or are silenced for political reasons. Thompson (2000, 22) argues that “the challenge of oral history lies partly in its relation to the social purpose of history”. In advocating for social change, oral history forces traditional history to shift focus (Thompson 2000, 25). This concern is manifested in my fiction as an attention to domestic detail, as well as a desire to tell multiple stories from different, often marginalised perspectives. Each chapter of the novel tells an aspect of Brisbane’s past from a different point of view. This fragmentation of the past serves to unravel a sense of a larger, ‘grand’ history of Brisbane, instead showing the city in snapshots or vignettes. I also realised that, unconsciously, I had chosen as my focal characters those who are often those traditionally silenced in historical narratives: children and young people, women, criminals, people with extreme spiritual views, left-wing radicals and Aborigines. In this way, fiction offers the possibility of having a multiplicity of perspectives operating side by side in representations of the city. Fiction also has the capacity to invite readers to experience subjective points of view through empathising with the characters which closely aligns with the oral history project’s social history mandate. In the sections of the novel based on individual oral histories—Evelyn’s chapters and ‘Nursing in Brisbane’—I employed the first-person voice in a way that was designed to invite the sympathy of readers. As a character, Evelyn invites sympathy because she is made vulnerable by the enormity of her task. Her repeated confessions about her past relationship, her expressions of

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 94 emotional and cognitive distress, and her direct and seemingly honest story-telling style place the reader in a privileged position, with access to her interior. Evelyn’s voice is intended to create a sense of intimacy between her and the reader. As I argued in chapter four, the capacity for fiction to create this sense of closeness through the expression of a character’s interior is one of the distinctive qualities of fiction. While the interviewee does sometimes express inner thoughts in the interview, which I mimic, it is impossible to know what other cognitions are taking place in the interview. In my writing, I amplified the expression of inner-thoughts present in the oral history interview which forms the basis of Evelyn’s character, having her repeatedly remember, reflect and emote. As each of Evelyn’s chapters are written in present tense, the reader sees Evelyn react cognitively and emotionally to events as they happen, a quality which is excluded from the oral history interview. In this way, the reader is given a more immediate response which serves to heighten the sense of intimacy. Unlike the Evelyn chapters, but more closely mimicking the oral history interview, the narrator of ‘Nursing in Brisbane,’ Judy, reflects on past events from a distance. Reflecting on this chapter, I can see the way Genette’s categories of focalisation are at play (see section 4.2.6). The ‘who sees?’, the fictive equivalent of the remembered self, is a young woman embarking on a nursing career. She is mostly concerned with having a good time, has rigid notions about what constitutes heroism and does little self-reflection. The ‘who speaks?’, the equivalent of the remembering self, is an older woman looking back on her past. The ‘speaking’ Judy is more reflective, but not to the extent of disruption. She is content to leave the gaps in the story untouched and often forgets things that are unpleasant or that she evaluates as not useful. In the ironic gap between ‘who sees’ and ‘who speaks’, the reader is forced to read between the lines of the story, to recognise that acts of forgetting and silence have motives and that certain privileges might come at a cost. Despite being an unreliable narrator, Judy still invites empathy. I want to present her as charismatic, tough and with a powerful sense of humour. The reader may grudgingly admire her cohesive sense of self and firm ideas, even if they find these qualities abrasive. I invite readers to experience similar mixed feelings to the ones I experienced while interviewing Barbara. The empathic qualities of the narrators can be said to be one way a writer can enter a dialogue with the oral history project’s concern with telling subjective

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 95 experience. Fiction has the capacity to grant readers access to a character’s interior and, in doing so, invite readers to empathise with, and understand, their experiences and attempts to construct a coherent identity. In this way, fiction functions as a means of ‘walking in the shoes’ of characters, amplifying this quality of oral history interviews and speaking to the oral history project’s goal of fostering empathy with marginalised groups and communities. All these elements—the telling of unknown or little known stories, the focus on domestic detail, the presentation of the past through subjective and multiple points of view, and the empathic presentation of characters’ interiors and flaws—invite readers to see Brisbane in a different way, to re-engage and re-imagine the city. In this way, the aesthetics of my novel closely link with the mandate of the oral history project in Australia which encourages practitioners to value stories as evidence of subjective interpretations of the past. This decision closely relates to the second major decision I made about the aesthetics of the work: the ways in which to engage readers.

5.7 DECISIONS ABOUT AESTHETICS: ENGAGING READERS

As stated in the introductory chapter, I had always hoped that the work would serve to encourage new readers—readers of fiction—to engage with oral histories. However, as demonstrated in chapter four, there has been criticism directed at works of ethnographic fiction based on interviews. Reviewers were often unsure how to understand ethnographic fiction, some assuming it was straight ethnography or, in an academic context, criticising it for a lack of cohesive argument or analysis that was expected of ethnography. Others critiqued the works’ failing as a fiction, identifying poor writing and lack of originality as impediments to success. These critiques represent an unresolved tension in the producing of ethnographic fiction based on interviews and presumably one any fiction writer re-presenting oral histories might encounter. It is also a concern for the oral history project’s mandate to engage readers as, in ethnographic fiction practice, this has not always been achieved. With these criticisms in mind, in this section, I consider how my own practice attempts to address some of these tensions and how I can employ other techniques of fiction to engage readers. To achieve this, I argue that works of fiction claiming to be based on true stories, particularly oral histories, are subject to an unresolved tension between an

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 96 inferred readers’ desire for authenticity and to engage with specific details of place, and for the pleasures of fictive and imaginative storytelling.

5.7.1 Positioning the work: Hybrid fiction The first concern I address is one around positioning the work. As stated in chapter one, I have chosen to label my novel as ‘fiction informed by oral history interviews’ which in some way goes to address the confusion ethnographic fiction provokes. Like other fiction writers re-presenting interviews, particularly Eggers, I use textual markers, such as the subtitle, to indicate the work’s status. As is demonstrated by the advertising campaign to promote Anna Funder’s All That I Am, which recently won the Australian Book Industry Award Book of the Year 2012, publishers are increasingly using the tag line “based on a true story” as a way to sell fiction of this kind (Penguin 2011). As similar texts emerge, readers are likely to take the claim that a novel is based on a true story with the same scepticism, and awareness of the process of invention, that many viewers apply to movies making the same assertions about being based on a true story. However, when a text positions itself in this way, it opens itself up to a new line of criticism: the need for the work to be at once verifiable and accurate, and to be an engaging story. As Kavenna (2011) points out in her review of All That I Am:

The claims of authenticity, of ‘reconstruction’, are risky and complicating, as Funder seems to acknowledge as she urgently seeks to define the enterprise, each attempt raising further questions. Such as: if a novelist aims at drawing ‘skin and feathers’ over the ‘dinosaur bones’ of her sources, then what is the ‘beast’ she is allowing us to ‘fully see’? A reconstruction of the past, to be judged on how realistic or convincing it is? Or an impossible fantasy, to be

judged solely on the extent to which it entertains the reader? I would argue that Kavenna makes the point too extremely in claiming that novel must either be a reconstruction of the past or an impossible fantasy. Rather, as I have explored more deeply in chapter four, novels can offer space to explore the interviewee’s subjective experience. Krauth (2008, 13) states succinctly, “good novels are always investigative, always educational, for the writer as well as the reader”. Certainly, some ethnographic fiction writers have found that writing fiction offers new ways of understanding data. Laurel Richardson and Elizabeth St Pierre (2005) describes this as “writing as a method of inquiry” or “creative analytical

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 97 practices” (CAP) in ethnography. Richardson and St Pierre (2005, 967) argue that “writing is thinking, writing is analysis, writing is a seductive and tangled method of discovery”. The researchers (2005, 970) state that writing is at once a method of data collection and a method for data analysis. Richardson and St Pierre (2005, 970) encourage researchers/writers to collect “dream data, sensual data, emotional data and memory data”. In writing these details down, Richardson and St Pierre observe how they make “accidental and fortuitous connections I could not foresee or control…I doubt I could have thought such thoughts by thinking alone”. Like Richardson and St Pierre, Davies and Dormer (1997) identify the way, when writing creatively “our ideas shot off in many directions, demanding of us that we reconceptualise what we knew in ways that sometimes seem very difficult”. In this way, fiction can offer a means of working through and generating new ideas about oral history interviews. However, the point remains that the kind of novels that make claims to be based on real sources or people need to fulfil the twin functions of engagement and authenticity in order to satisfy the inferred reader, by which I mean the reader I imagined would take an interest in my novel. In my own writing I was very aware of the demands of my inferred readership. I supposed that my readership would be similar to those who enjoyed Rosamond Siemon’s The Mayne Inheritance (1997). The Mayne Inheritance won the Brisbane City Council’s ‘One Book One Brisbane’ competition in 2003 and was re-published in 2007 by the University of Queensland Press. Siemon’s novel is described as “literary nonfiction” (Yench n.d.), and uses a detective-like narrative structure to reveal a wealthy and influential Brisbane figure, Patrick Mayne, committed murder, stealing from his victim the capital to start a business. Mayne confessed to the murder on his death bed and his wife and children received the proceeds of his crime, which would ultimately fund the purchase of the University of Queensland’s St Lucia Campus. The satisfactions for the inferred reader of The Mayne Inheritance are threefold. Firstly, the story is told using literary techniques such as a reconstruction of the murder scene by scene in the first chapter; a narrative structure, similar to detective fiction, which is designed to engage the reader; and a concern with vivid imagery and metaphor. The second satisfaction for the reader is that they are told an unknown and controversial story about a prominent Brisbane family whose name has long been associated with scandal and rumours. As I discussed in section 5.6, I hope

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 98 to tap into this satisfaction by revealing untold stories about Brisbane, or known stories from a new point of view. As in The Mayne Inheritance, the hidden, secretive qualities of the stories seem to give the readers the same satisfaction as gossiping over the back fence. The third satisfaction of The Mayne Inheritance is its relationship with Brisbane landmarks. The book gives well-known urban spaces new meaning by revealing the stories associated with them. Radical Brisbane also has this special quality; at the beginning of each chapter, the site of the radical action is identified on a map of Brisbane. It is also in this way that The Mayne Inheritance has a social history agenda, similar to the one implicit in the oral history project in Australia. The imposing of little known stories, or stories told from new points of view, on highly visible Brisbane landmarks serves to imbue new meaning in the sites. In telling stories of the ordinary and working-class, as Radical Brisbane does, these sites are recovered for the ‘ordinary’ people of Brisbane. The sites are made important not because, as is traditionally the case, they played a role in the grand narratives of history. Rather they are made meaningful because of the subjective, personal experiences associated with them. I hope that my own writing could give readers the same kind of satisfactions, and, in doing so, align my work with the social history agenda of the oral history project. Both the quality of telling of the past through subjective experience and the special relationship with Brisbane landmarks rely on the novel’s authenticity, i.e. its relationship to verifiable sources, which Kavenna (2011) identifies as one of the tensions in producing fiction based on a true story. Kavenna (2011), speaking of All That I Am, states that she “doesn’t know to what extent [Funder] has quoted the originals [interviews] and to what extent she has rewritten them. It doesn’t matter if one is assessing her book as a novel”. For me as a fiction writer, this raises the question: is it possible to give my inferred readers the satisfaction of reclaiming Brisbane landmarks, if this special quality is reliant on verifiability? It could be argued that creative nonfiction could offer a toolkit of novelistic techniques and an emphasis on verifiability that would fulfil the requirements. However, as I argue in chapter four, the distinctive qualities of fiction, especially its capacity to represent a character’s interior and emotional response, serve to emphasis the subjective experience of marginalised characters. It is these distinct qualities of fiction that evoke empathy from the reader, contributing to the oral history project’s

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 99 mandate to foster “understanding between generations and classes…and to make fuller human beings” (Thompson, cited in Robertson 2006). As a result, I was in a bind: how could I use the specific qualities of fiction and demonstrate the verifiability of my sources? As I was writing a draft of the novel, this tension became apparent. I found myself getting enthused by the stories I was uncovering in the research. In Maud’s story, for example, I included an entire scene about Arthur Conan Doyle’s stay at the Bellevue hotel, based on my reading of his book, The Wanderings of a Spiritualist (1921), which was only very vaguely related to the main narrative about Maud attending Horace Leaf’s lectures. My supervisor picked this up almost immediately, asking me what the function of the scene was in the story. I couldn’t answer him. Yet, because of the reasons outlined above, I knew this detail would give satisfaction to my readers. How could I include these historically verifiable details in my story?

5.7.2 Appendix One solution, which I experiment with in the novel, is to do what Kavenna’s comment implies and identify the original sources and to what extent they have been re-written. Hidden Objects is accompanied by an appendix that identifies the primary sources, the page number of the novel in which they appear as fictionalised accounts and the extent to which they have been fictionalised. In this way, I hope that the novel will be able to rely on the distinct qualities of fiction such as its capacity to explore the interior of character and, at the same time, engage the inferred readership with site- specific, verifiable details of Brisbane. However, this aspect of the text is still a work in progress whose success or failure is yet to be determined. Reflecting on my decisions about the appendix, and other aesthetic choices in the novel, I come to a sense of the limitations of the fictive form and the impossibility of resolving the tensions between authenticity and fictive storytelling present in fiction informed by oral histories. In the first draft of the novel, I positioned the appendix as an extra-textual aspect of the novel, sitting outside the fictive narrative and commenting on what aspect of the story was fictionalised and what was not. However, expert readers, in the form of my supervisory team, believed that this made the appendix redundant and unnecessary at best and self-indulgent at worst. The fiction could implicitly contain evidence of the extent of my research and, by implication, give the same satisfactions

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 100 as The Mayne Inheritance or Radical Brisbane and to comment on it was an unnecessary intrusion by the author. To resolve this tension, the appendix either needed to be removed or included as part of the fictive narrative. To this end, I have the appendix appear as the fiction character Evelyn’s notes. The use of references to real books, articles and websites and the shift from description of scenes to a more reflective, abstract tone indicates to the reader the verifiability of this data. I felt that removing the appendix was not an option. I had decided the appendix was necessary because I had become increasingly convinced of the satisfaction such an identification of historically verifiable details would give the inferred reader. I began this project in the belief that fiction could offer a liberating practice and would be a complete solution to my desire to tell Brisbane history and fill in the gaps. However, increasingly, I found that my fiction was suffering from a proliferation of detail. The problem was I wanted to tell too many stories. While these stories fulfilled the satisfaction of telling little known aspects of Brisbane’s history, they were unnecessary to the narrative. They weighed down the story, slowing the pace and confusing the reader. In addition, they had no function: they did not advance the narrative, reveal character or develop theme. Thus, fiction was not the complete solution I had imagined it to be. Just as any other form of discourse, there were necessary conventions that could not be flouted without losing the engaging quality of the story, causing confusion about the status of the text, or worse, completely dissolving its meaning. I understood in a practical sense what I had theoretically: that fiction was a highly artificial means of configuring reality and that the very qualities that I had advanced also served to limit the scope of my practice. Ultimately, my desire to tell a series of narratives that engaged readers through the techniques of fiction determined the aesthetic approach I took to the text. The need for a cohesive narrative was problematic in relation to my desire to tell multiple points of view, which I documented in section 5.6. It is not unknown for novels to have multiple viewpoints, such as the multiple narratives in David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas (2004) and Jennifer Egan’s Pulitzer Prize winning A Visit from the Goon Squad (2010). However, in both these cases, the narratives are linked. In Cloud Atlas, the stories are ‘nested’; each section is revealed to be read by the focal character in the next. A Visit from the Goon Squad relies on the same pool of characters who are all related to each other in some way.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 101 My own stories lacked an overall framework. I wanted readers to engage with them all, not pick and choose. As a result, I chose to link the stories with a frame narrative. The form of this narrative was important. It had to encourage readers to keep reading. A S Byatt (n.d), discussing writing Possession (1990)—a novel which closely aligns with my own, as I stated in chapter one—describes how she relied on the generic conventions of the detective story to give her readers pleasure. Byatt (n.d.) states, “the pleasure in fiction is narrative discovery”. I too use a mystery story to structure Evelyn’s frame narrative. The reader is invited to continue reading in anticipation of narrative discovery, in hearing the unknown stories of the house. But, like truly recovering the past, truly knowing the history of the house and, for Evelyn, producing a sculpture of it, is impossible. As I did, Evelyn comes unstuck in the face of the inadequacy of her sculpture to represent experience; the meagreness of one form or another in representing any aspect of reality; humans’ inability to see beyond their sensory and temporal limitations. In the novel, Evelyn offers some resolution to this tension: it is not the discovery that is important, but the process of uncovering; it is the anticipation of discovery that gives pleasure and the possibilities of revised understandings: meanings shift, and deepen.

5.8 CONCLUSIONS: AN ‘UNRULY STORY’

The conclusions of the novel ultimately represent my own. I intend this work to be considered not as a solution, but as an experiment. As I document in chapter four, the qualities of fiction have unique sympathies with certain mandates of the oral history project. The fictive form thus can be considered a tool kit for writers and researchers interested in exploring subjectivity in oral history interviews and with re-presenting oral histories in an accessible, engaging manner, albeit with limitations and uncertainties. In this chapter, and in the novel, I respond to these mandates through practice and self-reflection. This response does not signify a conclusion but an opening up of discussion around fiction’s capacity to represent the past. The exegesis and novel embody a dialogue between oral history and fiction in the truest sense of the word: a two way interaction between the methods and practice of the fields. Although this is a work by a creative writer, intended for other writers, it links such practices with the oral history project’s concern with maintaining the

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 102 fidelity of oral sources and producing works whose construction have been shaped by a concern with the unique value and qualities of interviews. In a broader context, the tensions inherent in producing such a work may be reflected in debates in the publishing industry as more hybrid texts emerge. Readers’ reality hunger—a hunger for a particular kind of mediated reality, a reality aware of its own constructedness and of the slipperiness of the truth claims of subjective experience—may inflect the form. The tensions between authenticity and telling an engaging narrative using fictional techniques, which may include invention, may never be resolved. However, the possibilities for hybrid forms are endless and, as I demonstrate in the exegesis, the fictive form offers a space to experiment with the possibilities. Hidden Objects can thus be considered as an experiment. My concern with unpacking oral storytelling acts through the fictive form and my close attention to oral history theory and methodology, position the novel as one means by which fiction writers can enter a dialogue with the oral history project in Australia.

Chapter 5: Methodological approaches 103 Chapter 6: Hidden Objects

This section of the thesis is currently under embargo. Please contact the author for additional information: [email protected].

Chapter 6: Hidden Objects 104 Chapter 7: Further directions for research

7.1.1 Conclusions I argue that fiction’s distinct qualities, particularly the fiction writer’s capacity to imagine a character’s interior and, in doing so, evoke for readers an understanding of an interviewee’s subjective experience, can enter a dialogue with the oral history project. Oral history theory and practice can, in turn, enrich fictional work. However, the current trend of reality hunger requires a certain kind of hybrid fiction, which is at once verifiable and engages through novelistic techniques. These hybrid forms’ capacity to contribute to knowledge is contested and more research is required as to fiction’s ability to be an analytical and educative tool. Hidden Objects is an experiment in these hybrid forms, rather than a solution. Since the submission of this thesis in June 2012, the novel was shortlisted for the 2012 Queensland Literary Awards—Unpublished Manuscript Category. The Queensland Literary Awards, which replaced the Queensland Premiers Literary Awards after Premier Campbell Newman scrapped them in April 2012, ‘reward and recognise established and emerging writers’ (The Wheeler Centre, 2012). This external validation of the novel was encouraging, to say the least, and affirmed that some of my intentions for the work were successful. However, the prospect of having the book taken seriously by judges and possible publishers made me consider more deeply how I should contextualise and explain the text. I was brought face-to-face with a reality I had only considered theoretically in the exegesis: would the book really be accessible to a wide readership? As this exegesis demonstrates, in the wider publishing and bookselling world, boundaries between ‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction’ are generally maintained, albeit with notable exceptions, such as Anna Funder’s All That I Am. However, as I argue in chapter five, publishers are increasingly marketing fiction as ‘based on true stories’ in order to engage readers, although this claim is problematic. Scholes, Phelan and Kellogg (2006, 257) state that authors of a fictional eyewitness account want to acquire for their narrative:

Some of that passion for actuality which motivates the reader of a document that purports to contain the ‘real.’ The author’s problem is to choose from the whole world of imagination with enough restraint to maintain the illusion of actuality.

Chapter 7: Further directions for research 105 This statement emphasises two key issues that, since receiving the award, seem to me to be unresolved questions about the work: how to use the ‘lure of the real’ in the text and how to maintain an ‘illusion of reality’ in a form that is highly constructed. After I was shortlisted, I was asked to provide a synopsis of the novel (the full synopsis appears in Appendix E). I panicked. Should I emphasise that the novel was based on oral histories and research? Would that confuse readers? How would people understand the text? In the end, I decided left the information until the final paragraph:

Hidden Objects is a novel about the impossibility of grasping the past and the powerful pull of storytelling. Based on the author’s archival research and oral history interviews, Hidden Objects is a 67,000 word work of historical fiction, which will appeal to readers of A.S. Byatt’s Possession and Nicole Krauss’ Great House. I wanted to categorise the work as historical fiction, emphasising its themes primarily. Interestingly, the brief flurry of media activity that was generated around the shortlisting emphasised the oral history element; the title for the article in The Courier Mail was ‘These Books Are Made from Talking’ (21 August, 2012, 3). However, it remains to be seen whether this would make the book more or less attractive to publishers and readers. It concerns me that such as description may set up expectations about the style and form of the book that would align it more closely to conventional nonfiction texts. The other key issue when considering the book in this context is the lack of any work with a similarity of form in the Australian marketplace. I love and mimic A.S. Byatt’s and Nicole Krauss’ fragmented, discontinuous narrative style, feeling it captures the novel’s themes of the inadequacy of the narrative form to capture the past, and the interplay of personal, interpretative and grand historical narratives. However, when I came to writing a synopsis for the text that could potentially be published in Australia, I had difficulty identifying an Australian novel that shared a similar form. The appendix too posed a problem: how would publishers understand and market it? While Australian authors such as Anna Funder, Kate Grenville and Kim Scott included appendices in their novels, there were none that had the length and depth of the appendices in Hidden Objects. These problems pose significant barriers to the novel’s accessibility and marketability and represent an unresolved challenge of the hybrid form. Writers hoping to produce works of hybrid fiction will need creative and innovative approaches when addressing these challenges. My own practice demonstrates that the qualities of successful storytelling should be privileged above the demands of re-presenting data.

Chapter 7: Further directions for research 106 Also since submitting the thesis for examination, I have submitted an article for peer- review to the Oral History Association of Australia Journal. The article is due to be published in December 2012. However, before the work was considered suitable for peer review and publication, reviewers asked me to move away from claims that fiction could ‘contribute’ to the oral history project. In both the article and my research question, I altered the wording to more accurately reflect the two-way interaction between the disciplines. Independant reviewers’ discomfort with phrasing that claims fiction can represent a form of historical research demonstrates that practices of fictionalising still exist on the margins of social science and qualitative research. While these areas are still new, researchers engaging in such debates and practices will need to carefully substiantiate and moderate claims to fiction’s worth as research, focusing on its capacity as a space to test hypothesises and evoke sympathy with subjects rather than directly represent research findings.

7.1.2 Writing fiction as a means of transforming qualitative data This project raises the possibility of future research endeavours. As part of the ARC Linkage Project (LP0882274: Respecting the Past, Imagining the Future: Using Narrative and New Media in Community Engagement and Urban Planning), I helped to manage and edit the Imagining the City Short Story Competition and Anthology, produced by Associate Professor Helen Klaebe. The Imagining the City project contextualises my own work in a wider set of concerns about the value of, and methodology for, transforming research data into fiction. Competition entrants were invited to respond to one of six characters developed in an earlier phase of the Linkage Project. In 2009, researchers had used quantitative data, gathered by Brisbane City Council and other stakeholders, and performance-based workshops, to create six personas or characters to help inform the design of inner-city apartments (Foth et al. 2011). In 2011, writers, responding to the competition guidelines, developed these characters through the short story form by giving them a character arc and a narrative framework. The Imagining the City Anthology was published as a free iPhone application. Here, fiction was used as a means to extend research findings through the narrative form and imaginative engagement with the data. Working on this project suggested to me further possibilities for transforming research data into fiction. As I have demonstrated in this exegesis, fiction does have the potential to offer a space to explore certain kinds of data, specifically oral history interviews, and to re-present this data in a way that is engaging to an implied readership. There is a possibility of

Chapter 7: Further directions for research 107 extending this research further by investigating whether other kinds of data can be explored and re-presented in this way. In the area of design research, for example, fiction is beginning to be used as a means of posing design questions. Anderson et al. (2006) believe that some of the “facets” missing from computing design were “characters, lives and emotions”. In this context, narrative emerges as a way of communicating character and emotion. Certainly, narrative has become a means to engage communities in urban design processes, particularly through the use of personas and scenarios, as described above (Foth, Hearn, Klaebe 2007, 3). In another example, Galloway et al. (2003, 1) use the notion of “the invisible city”, present in Italo Calvino’s novel Invisible Cities (1972), to both understand how travellers first experience the city and to inform the design of interactive experiences. Calvino (1972) writes that travellers first visiting the city can see its shape, but to those who have lived there for a long time, the city has become invisible. Here, fiction is used to explore how people may interact in urban environments. However, this practice is relatively new and requires further investigation. It is possible that in this way, analysis of situated examples of researchers, such as designers, could be used to test whether fiction could offer a method for analysing data. On page 97, I identified that many ethnographic fiction writers had found fiction a useful means of ‘working through research’. It would be valuable to test these claims more deeply, bringing to bear an understanding of the specific qualities of fiction, identified by narrative theorists such as Genette, on understanding if and how fiction can offer a means of exploring research data.

7.1.3 Engaging readers and the educative qualities of fiction My claim that fiction can engage readers and advance the oral history project’s desire to educate readers about others’ subjective and embodied experience also bears further consideration. Embedded in this claim is the assumption that fiction can have an educational quality. Gerrig (1999), for example, in his book Experiencing Narrative Worlds: On the Psychological Activities of Reading has demonstrated that readers do gain information from fiction that they apply in their lives. It would be revealing to test this claim in relation to transforming data, such as oral history interviews, into fiction. This work would have application for the way history is presented in texts and in museum spaces.

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APPENDIX A: FICTIONALISING ORAL HISTORY

This peer reviewed paper, entitled ‘Fictionalising Oral History: Narrative Analysis, Voice and Identity,’ was published in the Oral History Association Journal in November 2010. It is an edited version of my honours thesis. I have reproduced it here as it appeared in the journal.

Appendices 133

Appendices 134 APPENDIX B: THE ETHICS OF FICTIONALISING ORAL HISTORY

This paper was presented at the International Oral History Association Conference held at the University of Technology, Prague, Czech Republic, in July 2010.

Title: Artful shaping: The ethics of fictionalising oral history Presenter: Ariella VAN LUYN Sub-theme: Theory and Method in Oral History: Legal and ethical issues

This paper describes the development of an ethical framework for the practice-led research project, The Artful Life Story: Oral History and Fiction. I am a creative writer, working with oral histories to inform the creation of a novel set in Brisbane, capital city of Queensland, Australia. I came to the field of oral history almost by accident. I had signed up for a vacation research project exploring the Arts in Health, facilitated through the Queensland University of Technology (QUT), and found myself interviewing three Sisters of Mercy at Brisbane’s Mater Hospital. I was fascinated by the compelling quality of the Sisters’ spoken stories. I hoped to be able to capture something of this powerful oral quality in my own fiction. Later, as I began my research in earnest as a PhD candidate, I came to see that, as Michael Frisch (2008, 223) claims, ‘oral history tapes (are)....precious documentation that (are) inaccessible and generally unlistened to.’ Early in 2009, I approached the Queensland Police Museum, Brisbane, to discuss conducting an interview with a retired police officer (a member of the public had approached the Oral History Association of Australia, Brisbane branch, of which I am a member, suggesting the interview). The curator informed me that while she had a number of oral history interviews on file, she had neither the staff nor the resources to make them available to the general public. They were stored in a drawer in the curator’s office. In their present form, as unedited audio tapes, they would make a poor museum display. As a result of these experiences, I set out with two aims for my research project. One is to offer one method for rendering oral history transcripts more accessible and engaging.2 I hoped to broaden oral histories’ appeal to readers of fiction by imaginatively filling in the gaps in the oral testimonies and inventing scenes, narratives and characters. The other aim is to draw on oral histories to augment my writing. Oral histories are rich sources of personal

2 For example, digital storytelling could be said to be another method.

Appendices 141 details of lived experience. These descriptions are often not present in traditional historical documents. Oral histories have the potential to imbue works of fiction with authentic and intimate details of a particular time and place, and to reveal vocal strategies that lend oral tales their captivating quality. What concerned me deeply as I was designing this project was the problem of writer as mediator. Although I had successfully gained ethical clearance from my university for the project, I felt I had not directly addressed this concern in my application. In the process of fictionalisation, am I intervening in someone else’s story, effectively silencing them? Am I essentially ‘stealing’ other people’s stories? To answer this question, I closely examine instances of writers engaged in similar acts of artistic re-presentation and invention, and consider some reactions their texts provoked. Examples of texts in which the writer is creatively shaping another’s life story include John Neihardt’s Black Elk Speaks (1932), Miguel Barnet’s Biography of a Runaway Slave (published in English in 1968), Mick Brown and Terry Whitebeach’s Bantam (2000) and Dave Eggers’ What is the What (2005). It is beyond the scope of this paper to examine all these works. Instead, I investigate two examples, Biography of a Runaway Slave and What is the What. Despite their disparity in publication date and geographical location,I found the issues raised in their production allowed me to develop an ethical scaffold for my own research endeavours. I examine why the author was engaged in the task of fictionalising oral history; some of the responses the texts provoked and what benefits, if any, resulted from their publication. Miguel Barnet’s Biography of a Runaway Slave In 1963, Miguel Barnet, a Cuban anthropologist and writer, interviewed Esteban Montejo, a former slave who had worked on a sugar plantation. Montejo was 103 years old at the time and could neither read nor write. Originally written in Spanish, the text was translated into English in 1968, under the title Autobiography of a Runaway Slave. It was re-translated and printed in again English in 1994, when the title was changed to Biography of Runaway Slave, which more accurately reflected the Spanish title and the complex process of shaping that occurred in the text. Biography of a Runaway Slave reads as though it is a first person autobiographical account. The opening lines (1968, 17), for example, seem to offer the reader unmediated access to Montejo’s speaking voice:

Appendices 142 There are things in life I do not understand. Everything in nature seems obscure to me, and the gods even more. They’re the ones that are supposed to give birth to all the things that a person sees, that I seen and that do exist for sure.

This rambling tone and emphasis on spoken habits such as interjection and repetition, is maintained throughout the text. Only when Biography of a Runaway Slave is examined on a meta-textual level do the ‘tensions at work beneath the polished surface’ as Feal (1990, 109) describes them, become apparent. Barnet (cited in Millay 2005, 121) describes how he went about producing the text in Biography of a Runaway Slave as a ‘decanted’ version of Montejo’s interview: (Biography of a Runaway Slave) is based on spoken language...but this spoken language is ‘decanted.’ I would never write a book by producing exactly what is on the audiotape. I would take the tone of language and the anecdotes from that tape; the style and nuances are always my own contribution. Millay (2005, 133) claims that ‘the resulting text represents a fictionalising of the oral narrative.’ In addition, Barnet deleted sections of the interview that could not be proved; he ‘extracted unverifiable material from the text to create the effect of realism’ (Millay 2005, 137). Barnet (cited in Millay 2005, 141) also describes how he wanted to achieve an effect of spontaneity, ‘as if it had come from the heart.’ Paradoxically, he uses an artificial process to achieve this effect.3 Barnet ‘inserted words and expressions characteristic of Esteban whenever they seemed appropriate’ (ibid). Prologues and headings in the work also indicate Barnet’s implicit involvement in the shaping of the narrative. Chapters are arranged chronologically, and material is placed under headings. Despite this, scholars such as Luis (1989, 478) note how the narrative ‘represents a collapse in historical time in which the past and present are bought together,’ which is a strategy of memory rather than historical discourse. As a result, there is a strong ‘oral feel’ to the work. Millay (2005, 141) suggests how this is achieved: Repetitions, interjections, colloquial sayings, flashbacks, epithets, allusions to multiple variations of myths, false starts, rhetorical questions, digressions, moralistic conclusions, onomatopoetic interjections, temporal imprecision, syntax and ellipses

3 Feal (1990, 101) notes a similar paradox: in order to create an authentic, literary version of a real life, the ethnobiographer, here Bartnet, must in a way be unfaithful to the original words spoken.

Appendices 143 are some of the means of achieving a mimesis of spoken discourse by creating a rhetorical effect of reality. Biography of a Runaway Slave can be read as a written performance of the stylistics of oral storytelling. Biography of a Runaway Slave has proved resistant to classification. Barnet (1996, 207) himself described the work as a ‘testimonial novel. ’ Barnet (ibid) claimed this form of writing ‘reworks several traditional concepts of literature: realism, autobiography, the relationship between fiction and history.’ Barnet (ibid) believed that the function of the testimonial novel is ‘to give back the original sound of storytelling to the contemporary novel.’ Echevarría (1980, 254) concurs, describing the text as a narrative de testimonio, ‘roughly the documentary novel; a literature that is both testimonial in the sense that of being a witness account and a kind of memorial.’ Biography of a Runaway Slave has been classified by Feal (1990, 101) as an ‘ethnobiography’: an ethnologist’s written version of an individual’s oral autobiography. In her description of the genre, Feal (ibid) notes the ethnobiography can be classified both by its closeness to the original oral discourse and the ‘remontage or reassembly of the material into a text that perhaps uses fictional devices.’ All these attempts at classification reveal the tension between literary and historical writing present in Biography of a Runaway Slave. As Nick Hill (1996, 12) claims, in writing Biography, Barnet ‘staked out the broad dimensions of the debates that have since taken place over the complex dynamics of literature’s relationship to history with regard to the voice of the oppressed.’ Why did Barnet choose to present Montejo’s narrative in this way? What was his purpose in creating a ‘literary version of a real life’ (Feal 1990,101)? In the postscript of the 1987 Argentine edition of Biography of a Runaway Slave, Barnet states that Montejo’s death in 1973 at age 113, marks ‘the abolition of slavery in Cuba...since Cuba was the last country to overcome this affront to the human condition...with this present edition, I want to pay modest personal homage to that action...a victory won by the oppressed, by the slaves (cited in Hill 1994, 13). Essentially, Barnet was claiming to be writing for the oppressed, not simply about them. He was deeply concerned with creating an authentic voice in the text. Barnett (1994, 207) in the Afterword, declared: Let the people, for whom I write, recognise themselves in my voice and discover there that their demons are pacified in the substance of time.

Feal (1990, 107) likewise notes that Montejo represents a collective experience, despite being a loner who escaped slavery to live in the woods. Gugelberger and Kearney (1991, 4) claim

Appendices 144 that testimonial literature is at once an authentic and empowering narrative, ‘told by a witness who is moved to narrate by the urgency of the situation.’ The mode offers a way for those on the margins of the empire to ‘write back’ (ibid). A highly edited, even fictionalised account, comes to stand for a collective experience and is at the same time highly readable.

However, I would argue that while Barnet no doubt had noble intentions, his claim of ‘writing for the people’ is highly problematic. Montejo could not read the interview transcript to confirm this was an accurate representation. As has been noted, Barnet paid greater attention to the ‘oral feel’ of the transcript, attempting to recreate a voice that, he claimed, was reflective of Montejo’s own. This claim, however, is impossible to substantiate; the oral transcripts of the interview do not exist. Barnet’s presence as an author is ever present. His name, not Montejo’s, appears on the front of the text.

An understanding of Montejo’s author-like role contributes to the debate on writing others’ life stories. The case demonstrates the need to preserve transcripts if re-shaping is to occur. Biography of a Runaway Slave also proves that in particular contexts, using fictional techniques to re-present another’s life story may, in fact, undermine the purposes and claims of the author to be speaking with their subject’s voice. However, I argue that in other cases, the process of fictionalising oral histories may work successfully to achieve a highly readable account that still retains some essential aspects and authenticity of the interview. Dave Eggers’ What is the What may be an example of one of these instances, and an examination of his methodology may shed light on my own task of writing fiction informed by oral histories.

Dave Eggers’ What is the What: the autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng: A novel

Eggers, author of novels such as A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (2000) uses interviews, conversations and e-mails with Valentino Achak Deng, a Lost Boy from Sudan, as the basis for his fictional work, What is the What. Unlike the previous example, Deng, through Mary Williams of the Lost Boys Foundation, approached Eggers to write the novel. Deng hoped to raise awareness of the plight of refugees in Sudan by relating his own experiences but he felt his written English was not up to the task (Larson n.d., 2). After trying to write Deng’s story as a work of non-fiction, Eggers came to the conclusion that the only way he could write the text was to write it as a work of fiction. He chooses to flag the fictional nature of the work in the book’s title, which, like the classifications of Biography of a Runaway Slave, contains a paradox: ‘autobiography’ and ‘novel.’ The oxymoron makes

Appendices 145 apparent the text’s blurring of the lines between fiction and non-fiction. In an essay published in The Guardian the year the book was realised, ‘It was Just Boys Walking,’ Eggers (2007) describes how he went about fictionalising Deng’s account.

Eggers (2007) states that ‘the first decision made…was to have Valentino narrate his story. His voice was so distinctive and powerful that any other way of telling it would be criminally weak by comparison.’ However, critics such as Lee Siegal (2007) point out the approximate nature of Deng’s voice. Siegal (2007) claims that ‘Eggers voice is all over the novel’ and even goes so far as to compare excerpts from Eggers’ earlier memoir, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (2000) with sections from What is the What, to demonstrate a similarity of rhythm, syntax and themes in the voices of both works. In fact, Siegal (ibid, 53) believes that Deng ‘does not really exist in What is the What.’ In an interview, I believe Deng effectively makes null Siegal’s criticisms, pointing out that the purpose of the novel was not simply to recreate his story but to create a highly readable novel that would alert readers to the plight of the Lost Boys. Interviewed with Eggers, Deng (2009) states that What is the What: is very close to the truth, but many things in the book are somewhat different than what happened in life. Some characters have been combined. Some time is compressed. They are minor things, but they were necessary. For one thing, I was very young when the book begins, so I could not remember conversations and small details from my early childhood in Marial Bai. It was necessary to reconstruct the chronology, and that is what Dave did. He took the basic facts and then created the story from there. Deng (cited in Thompson 2006) says that ‘I’m not only about myself in the book.’ By this he means that the purpose of the novel was not only to tell his story, but to create a universal and accessible account about the devastation so many people had endured (ibid). Deng gave Eggers permission to ‘do whatever he wanted’ with his narrative (ibid). Eggers (2007) also discusses his own concern, when writing the text, of the gaps in the story. Eggers (ibid) says that Valentino was only six years old when he began his journey to Ethiopia, and his memory of the time was ‘spotty…clunky, spare and full of holes.’ Nor could Valentino remember ‘who said what at almost any point in his life’ (ibid). Eggers (ibid) felt that without any ‘sensory detail or dialogue, the book would be parched, and likely to reach only those already interested in the issues of Sudan.’ Eggers (ibid) felt that the only way he could write Valentino’s story was through the use of fiction and imagination:

Appendices 146 Only with a bit of artistic licence could I imagine the thoughts in Valentino's mind the first day he left home, fleeing from the militias, never to return. Only in a novel could I imagine the look on the face of the man who rescued Valentino when he became entangled in barbed wire one black night in the middle of his journey to Ethiopia. Only in a novel could I apply what I had seen in the various regions of southern Sudan to describe the land, the light, the people. Eggers, in fact, felt that he needed to blur the lines of fact and fiction because he couldn’t write the book any other way. Eggers (cited in Thompson 2006) states ‘that it occurred to him that all the books we remember about war and the biggest events in the twentieth century are novels.’ If the aim of What is the What was to raise awareness of the atrocities in Sudan, it certainly achieved its purpose. The novel made the bestseller lists in amazon.com, Booksense, Chicago Tribune, New York Times, Northern California Independent Booksellers Association, San Francisco Chronicle and the Washing Post. Eggers also donated, and continues to donate, all the profits from What is the What to Deng, who used them to establish the Valentino Achak Deng Foundation in 2006. The foundation works to improve access to education in Southern Sudan. The creation of What is the What demonstrates one methodology for fictionalising oral history that minimalises some of the problems of the earlier example. Most importantly, the subject of the text, Deng, had input into the construction of the work and gave explicit permission for Eggers to write the text in the way he chose. Eggers acknowledges his role as author of this text, which essentially functions as a version of Deng’s story. Unlike Barnet, Eggers does not claim to faithfully represent his subject, acknowledging What is the What is a novel. Both Deng and Eggers agree that the aim of the work had wider implications than a simple representation of one person’s life. Rather, fiction was used to create both an accessible and universal account that draws on interviews to imbue the work with meaning and authenticity. What is the What created media interest in the plight of the Sudanese people, and generated opportunities for Deng himself to speak about his life story and the creation of the book. Unlike Biography of a Runaway Slave the text enabled Deng’s own voice (as well as an approximation of his voice in the text) to be heard.

A methodology for fictionalising oral history The two case studies were all written by people who saw themselves as authors of the text, and gave themselves license (acknowledged or unacknowledged as the case may be) to re-

Appendices 147 write, to essentially fictionalise, another’s life story. But what of historians who use oral history? How might their role in the production of the text be understood? Portelli (2006, 40) writes a great deal on the subject, stating that ‘the control of historical discourse remains firmly in the hands of the historian…Instead of discovering sources, oral historians partly create them.’ Portelli also describes how the historian (interviewer) shapes the narrator’s (interviewee’s) oral testimony; ‘the documents of oral history are always the result of a relationship, of a shared project in which the interviewer and interviewee are involved together’ (Portelli 2006, 39). In other words, mediation in both the creation and presentation of oral history texts is unavoidable. In conclusion, regardless of the discipline in which they are being explored, oral histories must be treated with respect because a process of mediation is unavoidable. In order to ‘do justice’ to oral histories an understanding of the historical and cultural context in which they occur is vital. The product developed from the oral histories should be scaffolded around this understanding. In my own project, I have developed a methodology where I conduct some initial research before the interview. During the interview, I encourage the interviewee to guide the direction of the conversation so they talk about the aspects of their lives they wish to talk about and then conduct close and well-researched readings of the interview transcript before sitting down to write. In approaching the task of writing, I experiment with a number of fictional strategies, writing my way through to a style that seems to best reflect the interview.

The examples also raise the question: how much control should the interviewees have over the final product? In the case of What is the What, Deng appears to have had a lot of input in the initial stages of the creation of the work; Eggers would interview, ring or e-mail Deng to confirm details (Eggers 2007). Deng then gave permission for Eggers to do what he wanted with his story. In order to maintain a balance between retaining the essentials of the interview and authorial intervention, it is essential to work with an interviewee who is happy to have their story fictionalised. Deng’s statement ‘do what you want!’ is the ideal interviewee attitude in a process of fictionalisation. In my own project, I would hesitate about working with interviewees who were in any way uncomfortable with the process. Trust is essential and can be established over the phone and during the interview. I also found that being open about the process and having an example of my writing (I’d interviewed and written a story based on interviews with my Grandma which I showed participants) was useful in conveying my purpose. I make sure that participants are aware of what I intend to

Appendices 148 do with their oral histories. I post or e-mail a transcript of the interview to participants, so they have the opportunity to review their words and delete anything they don’t wish me to fictionalise.

As the examples demonstrate, interview transcripts should be made available if any kind of process of alteration, for whatever purpose, is to take place. In my case, this ensures that the fictional text does not ‘silence’ the oral history transcript. Rather, an artistic representation such as mine augments rather than replaces the interviewee’s story. The events described are represented in two types of symbolic language, one an oral history transcript/tape, the other a fictional text. I intend to work in a similar manner. As with the example of Biography of a Runaway Slave, grandiose claims about speaking with the voice of a participant or a people can rarely be substantiated, especially if the subject cannot read what has been written. I do not argue that the projects should never have been attempted. It may be that readers would never have heard of Montejo’s plight if they had not been recorded and published. Rather, I feel that the process of fictionalisation should have been made overt and that some attempt should have been made to allow the subjects’ own voices to be heard, perhaps through the later publication of original transcripts or a statement endorsing the text. In my project, this means it is important to situate the creative piece in a context that explains that it is a work of fiction and that names have been changed.

Unlike Barnet and Eggers, I don’t make claims to empower through my oral history. Instead, I am interested in using oral history to explore a place: the city of Brisbane. As a result of reading these texts, I have changed the way I conceive of my use of oral histories. I had initially thought that oral histories were something that could be ‘used’ in fiction. Now, I see oral histories as sources that can imbue fiction with authenticity and details not often present in traditional historical resources. My methodology, particularly in how I conducted interviews, arose from these considerations.

Bibliography Barnet, M. 1994. Biography of a runaway slave. Willimantic: Curbstone Press.

Echevarria, R. 1980. Literature of the Hispanic Caribbean. Latin American Literary Review 8(16): 1-20. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20119207 (accessed 19 March, 2010).

Eggers, D. 2007. What is the what. New York: Vintage Books.

Appendices 149 Eggers, D. 2007. It was just boys walking. The Guardian. May 26.

Feal, R. 1990. Spanish American ethnobiography and the slave narrative tradition: ‘Biografia de urn Cimarrón’ and ‘Me Ilamo Rigoberta Menchú.’ Modern Language Studies 20 (1) : 100-111. www.jstor.org/stable/3195166 (accessed 19 March, 2010).

Gugelberger, G. and Kearney, M. 1991. Voices of the voiceless: Testimonial literature in Latin America. Latin American Perspectives 18(3): 3-14. www.jstor.org/stable/2633736 (accessed 19 March, 2010).

Larson, G. n.d. What is the What: Reader's Guide. http://www.valentinoachakdeng.org/images/WhatistheWhatreadersguide.pdf (accessed 27 January 2010).

Luis, W. 1989. The politics of memory and Miguel Bartnet’s the Autobiography of a Runaway Slave. MLN 104(2): 475-491. www.jstor.org/stable/2905149 (accessed 19 March 2010).

Millay, A. 2005. Voices from the fuente viva: The effect of Orality in Twentieth-Century Spanish American Narrative. Lewisberg: Bucknell University Press.

Pascoe, C. 2009. City as Space, City as Place: Proceedings of the Talk about Town: Urban Lives and Oral Sources in 20th Century Australia conference, August 2009. Melbourne: State Library of Victoria.

Portelli, A. 1997. The battle of Valle Giulia: Oral history and the art of dialogue. United States of America: University of Wisconsin Press.

Portelli, A. 1981. The peculiarities of oral history. History Workshop, 12(1), 96-107.

Portelli, A. 2006. What makes oral history different. In The oral history reader, eds. Perks, R. &, Thompson, A, 32-41. London: Routledge.

Appendices 150 Thompson, B. 2006. A heartbreaking work of fiction. The Washington Post. November 28. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp- dyn/content/article/2006/11/27/AR2006112701573.html (accessed January 20, 2010).

Valentino Achek Deng Foundation. 2006. History. http://www.valentinoachakdeng.org/history.php (accessed January 17, 2010).

Valentino Achak Deng Foundation. 2009. Interview with Dave Eggers and Valentino Achak Deng. http://www.valentinoachakdeng.org/interview.php. (accessed 18 January, 2010).

Appendices 151 APPENDIX C: TRAINING COMMUNITIES IN ORAL HISTORY

This is the paper presented with Associate Prof Helen Klaebe at Biennial Conference of the Oral History Association of Australia 2011, State Library of Victoria Conference Centre, Melbourne, 7-9 October.

Presentation Title: Training the public to collect oral histories of our community: the OHAA Queensland Chapter’s model

Presenters: Associate Professor Helen Klaebe, Ariella Van Luyn and Lena Volkova

Proposed Session Theme: Training Community Oral Historians

Introduction In a digital age, the skills required to undertake an oral history project have changed dramatically. For community groups, this shift can be new and exciting, but can also invoke feelings of anxiety when there is a gap in the skill set. Addressing this gap is one of Oral History Association of Australia, Queensland (OHAA Qld) main activities. This paper will report on the OHAA Qld chapter’s oral history workshop program, which was radically altered in 2011.

Previous models The OHAA Qld chapter has a strong history of delivering oral history workshops for its members and the wider community. This has often been achieved by relying heavily on the key committee members, particularly Lesley Jenkins, author of Talking Together: A Guide to Community Oral History Projects (1999) and Sue Pechey, both well known in the Australian oral history community for their expertise as practitioners, and their leadership within the OHAA Qld organisation. However, changes in the core committee group and individual circumstances meant that the organisation had to change their approach to running workshops. We took this opportunity to re-think the possibilities of the workshop format.

Appendices 152 A new direction A change in the committee meant that new members from an academic background felt that they could inject their interests in theoretical approaches, and innovation in the field, into the design of the workshop. Facilitators saw their role as re-framing research outputs and trends in a way that was useful to community groups and professional or amateur practitioners. During 2010, OHAA Qld’s approach to running workshops was typically ad hoc. The branch would run workshops, facilitated by Helen Klaebe, only when there was sufficient demand, or an invitation to from community groups working on specific projects. OHAA Qld secretary, Suzanne Mulligan, collated valuable feedback from these workshops. Overwhelmingly, participants pointed out the value of the training, but commented on their feelings of being overloaded by information. Facilitators were concerned participants would return to their communities lacking the confidence to get started. Klaebe, with OHAA Qld committee members Ariella Van Luyn and Lena Volkova, re-designed the workshops to cover five fundamental topics, to be facilitated by key committee members in a sequential manner throughout the year, biannually.

Aims The workshops were designed with a number of aims in mind. The first was to reiterate best practice and ethnical standards, emphasising models established by the State Library of Queensland (SLQ). The second was to encourage participants to fully utilise the digital resources available to them, including the OHAA Qld’s own equipment (funded by the Gambling Community Benefit Fund) and offered to members as a loan. The workshops were also a place where participants could meet others involved in oral history projects, and be inspired by the many and innovative ways oral histories are being gathered and presented. Summary of the Workshop Series Workshop one: Oral History Basics Workshop two: Ethics and Photography The workshop was broken down into two halves. The first three hours were dedicated to discussing ethics, copyrights and permissions. Participants worked with facilitator Ariella Van Luyn to consider and discuss the ethical implications of their project; and to examine example participant information and release forms from SLQ and the Queensland University of Technology (QUT). The afternoon was dedicated to a session on photography for oral history projects. Bryan Crawford showed participants what photography and video equipment was useful for

Appendices 153 oral history projects; how to choose a location to take video and photos; what to look for in light/location and background and how to make the best of the location and light available. Workshop Three: Recording and Editing Lena Volkova’s session was designed to give participants an introduction to:  The basic equipment needed for an oral history project;  Combining audio and images: Why you should take a scanner to the interview.  Sound editing: audacity and its applications.

To achieve this, participants engaged in two activities. In the first, a practical exercise in recording interviews, participants worked in pairs to conduct a three minute interview. In the second, participants edited their interview on Audacity. The afternoon session with Ariella Van Luyn introduced the problems of transcribing audio. Then, using a style guide and their three minute interview, they produced a transcript using Express Scribe software.

Workshop four: interviewing

In the morning session, Klaebe focused on the theory of oral history interviewing, discussing:

 Oral history as a qualitative research methodology (semi structured interviewing);  Memory studies;  Storytelling and the hero’s journey;

Van Luyn took the afternoon session, discussing the pre-interview meeting and some suggestions for interviewing techniques. Afterwards, participants got into pairs and interviewed people in the room, using strategies discussed in the earlier sessions. Klaebe, Volkova and Van Luyn walked around, offering suggestions.

Workshop five: What to do with your material In this session, Van Luyn discussed some of the ways participants can present oral history materials, with an example for each of the suggestions, including:  Academic articles;  Digital stories;  Exhibitions;  Blogs;  Websites;  Family chronicles;  Creative nonfiction;

Appendices 154  Theatre;  Fiction. In the afternoon session, participants briefly interviewed a partner. Participants could then choose to re-represent the interview either as a short story (fiction) or a factual account that incorporates an oral history (non-fiction). At the end of the afternoon, participants read their drafts and received feedback from Van Luyn and Volkova. This workshop was designed to offer a taste of each of these forms, rather than a comprehensive overview.

Feedback and reflection Problem with venues OHAA Qld had originally planned to run workshops at SLQ to further strengthen our connections to the library. However, this became difficult after the January floods, which caused the library to be shut for a number of months. Klaebe arranged for workshops to be held at the Queensland University of Technology (QUT), but the university environment was sometimes problematic. Although the venue was secure, the problems of after-hours access, and the need for security staff to open doors, made the space difficult to negotiate. OHAA Qld is still looking for a more suitable venue. Advertising and managing expectations Initially, we offered a very brief outline of what each workshop would cover. Because of the generality of the statement, one participant attended expecting discussion on ‘the art of storytelling, its usage, history and current forms,’ while facilitators had a more practical, project-related emphasis. This lead to a decision to manage expectations by providing detailed outlines of the workshop on the OHAA Qld website before each workshop. Although we advertised to the public via the OHAA Qld website; flyers in libraries; mailing lists and the SLQ, some participants didn’t find out about the workshops until halfway through the series, leading to problems with having to re-visit content. Van Luyn found, in particular, that although the ethics workshop only had four participants, there were many ethics-related questions raised in later workshops, which lead to her sending her slides on ethics in emails following up the three workshops that followed. This could be because potential participants may not have realised the value, or been interested in, an ethics workshop, despite such considerations being fundamental to all oral history projects. Demographics

Appendices 155 The workshops were generally attended by between five and eight participants. Participants ranged from professionals working in a military museum and recording oral histories for training purposes; community historians producing traditional research outcomes such as academic articles; and research students from universities. Three participants attended all five workshops. Two were professionals at a military museum and the third was a researcher embarking on her PhD project. Because of the facilitators’ academic backgrounds and the participant’s dedication and enthusiasm, we were able to provide support to the research student over the five months of the workshop series, which saw a development in the research project. The participant stated: ‘I found the workshops were well structured and presented to provide an overview of an extremely complex topic. Having attended the whole series I thought there was a natural progression.’ She also stated that she ‘found the [workshop content on] planning an interview and ideas on how to modify my strategy have made a huge difference.’ The benefit of having the series of five workshops was to capture that complexity, an understanding needed for work in an academic context. However, participants who ‘picked and chose’ the workshops missed this sense of progression and were left with only part of the picture. The gap between the aims and needs of professionals, academics and community oral historians was difficult to bridge. In addition, although the format meant there was more time for discussion of individual’s projects, the facilitators found it was extremely difficult to tailor the workshops to suit such a diverse range of participants. For the series of workshops to be fully effective, participants should be encouraged to attend all five. Decision not to run the series biannually Although we originally thought the series would be run twice in a year, because of lack of numbers and a loss of momentum for the facilitators, OHAA Qld decided not to run the second series. However, Klaebe and Van Luyn provide advice and support for members working on oral history projects via phone and e-mail throughout the year.

Outcomes The facilitators were able to produce a teaching pack, which consists of PowerPoint slides, suggested readings, hand-outs and classroom activities that can be shared with members and other facilitators. This teaching pack can also be tailored to develop workshops for specific groups.

Appendices 156 Groups outside of Brisbane took an interest in the workshop series we were advertising. After Cyclone Yasi struck the town of Cardwell, destroying the historical museum and the Historical Association’s recording equipment, the Cardwell Historical Association (CHA) contacted OHAA Qld requesting a two-day workshop similar to the ones we’d be advertising. Because Klaebe, Van Luyn and Volkova had already developed the teaching pack, Klaebe, Van Luyn and Crawford were able to deliver a weekend-long ‘emergency’ workshop, teaching Cardwell participants to use OHAA Qld’s equipment, as well as ethical considerations and interviewing theory. We also supervised CHA members while they conducted three interviews with residents at the nursing home struck by the cyclone. CHA later received funding from a RADF grant for Klaebe, Van Luyn and Crawford to return to Cardwell and conduct a follow-up workshop on transcription and digital storytelling in September. In May 2011, OHAA Qld received funding from the Gambling Community Benefit Fund to conduct oral history workshops in rural Queensland. OHAA Qld asked if workshops could be run in partnership with rural communities. Klaebe is currently working with organisations like the Townsville and Mackay Libraries, Cunnamulla and Toowoomba to organise workshops in early to mid 2012 run by key committee members.

Future Directions The reflection on, and feedback from, workshops emphasised the difference between professional and academic approaches in oral history projects, and the need, on one hand for hands-on basics training in an non-university, community centred environment, and, on the other, the desire to explore and express the complexity of the oral history interview and developments in the field in an academic one. For Klaebe and Van Luyn, the cross-over between research commitments and service to the community has been a difficult one to negotiate. The workshops series encouraged us to re- consider the role of OHAA Qld in providing specialist training, and how best we can utilise our skills and resources. In 2012, we plan to trial a new approach to training. OHAA Qld will return ‘back to basics,’ conducting two basics workshops a year for individuals and community groups, outlining what an oral history project entails. We will encourage organisations looking for more in-depth experience to request workshops tailored to their individual projects.

Appendices 157 For individuals, Klaebe and Van Luyn plan to co-ordinate an intensive CPE/university based unit dedicated to semi-structured interviewing and oral history theory as a qualitative research method. We also hope to strengthen the partnership with SLQ by hosting public lectures on oral history related topics at SLQ venues.

Appendices 158

APPENDIX D: E-MAIL INTERVIEW WITH TOBIAS HECHT, AUTHOR OF AFTER LIFE, AN ETHNOGRAPHIC NOVEL

Dated 5 December 2010

What has been the response to your ethnographic novel, both from the academy and the general public?

Some people like it very much and read it twice and others are very confused by it. It crosses the bounds of ethnography, with fictional characters and events, but on the other hand it lacks some of the architecture of a novel. A number of critics didn't even seem to realize it is fictional. Because it is being sold by an academic press it tends to be read by academics.

Who was your intended audience?

I wasn't thinking very much about what the readership would be but I think if someone had asked me I would have said that it was for readers who enjoy novels but don't have such a rigid idea of what a novel is that they won't try something different. And I thought it might appeal to scholars of Brazil, street children, and childhood.

How would you position the work in the broader field of ethnography?

It came about through ethnographic means but it wasn't expected to be read as an ethnography. My idea is that it had to be ethnographically plausible, like a historical novel is build on and among historical facts. There isn't a consistent tradition of ethnographic fiction, so the book neither follows tradition nor breaches it. I think it fits more in the genre of the testimonial novel. Here the difference is that the ethnographer wasn't written out of the strory.

What do you see as distinctly fictional about the work?

Some of the characters, for instance Zoë and her mother, are not based on real people. The book contains a lot of things that didn't happen or that weren't true.

Appendices 159

What do you see as distinctly ethnographic?

What is ethnographic about it is the method of data collection that made it possible. I also think that it portrays the setting and characters in a fashion that would not in fact clash with a cut-and-dried ethnography. It isn't true but it easily could have been.

Appendices 160 APPENDIX E: SYNOPSIS, HIDDEN OBJECTS

Brisbane artist Evelyn has been given an impossible task. A derelict old house is about to be demolished, and she must capture its history in a sculpture that will be built on the site. Evelyn only has one photo of the house in its heyday to guide her. As Evelyn struggles to come up with ideas and create the sculpture, she visits the crumbling house on the corner of George and Mary Streets in Brisbane city. Inside, she finds three old shoes hidden away in the cavity of the fireplace. Without knowing it, Evelyn has stumbled on an ancient ritual kept secret by the Freemasons: deliberately concealing shoes to ward off evil spirits. After taking the shoes home, and then bumping into one of the former residents of the house, Evelyn realises that she has no way to discover who else inhabited its rooms. What follows is a series of stories, each set in a different era in Brisbane’s history, which take the reader backwards through the house’s past, from the most recent inhabitant to its origins as a grand manor designed by a police commissioner involved in shady dealings. We hear about Murray, who is a member of Brisbane’s Communist Party, at the time their headquarters were blown up by Nazi party members in 1970s. Judy is a former nurse, who worked in the house when it was converted to a military hospital in World War Two. Edith’s husband’s discovery of the shoes in their chimney sparks some unpleasant memories of the Depression era. Maud attends a lecture on Spiritualism in an attempt to understand why her dead brother visits her in the night. Dr Lilian Cooper is Brisbane’s first female medical practitioner and the most famous resident of the house. Billy’s connections with Cunning Folk means he knows secret rituals to ward off evil. Alec is a unionist who is imprisoned on St Helena Island for attempting to start a civil war. Two Aboriginal girls are stolen from Fraser Island in the mistaken belief they are survivors of a shipwreck. When Evelyn returns in the final chapter, the reader discovers that the stories are a product of her imaginative attempt to engage with her research into the city’s history. Her notes form an appendix to the novel, adding verifiable detail to the stories. Hidden Objects is a novel about the impossibility of grasping the past and the powerful pull of storytelling. Based on the author’s archival research and oral history interviews, Hidden Objects is a 67,000 word work of historical fiction, which will appeal to readers of A.S. Byatt’s Possession and Nicole Krauss’ Great House. The form, a series of

Appendices 161 inter-linked narratives, is reminiscent of Jennifer Egan’s A Visit for the Goon Squad and David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas.

Appendices 162

APPENDIX F: INTERVIEW ONE

An interview with a 21 year-old woman who has lived in New Farm/Newstead area since she was two years old. This interview formed the basis of a short story that was published in the One Book Many Brisbanes short story anthology, number 5 and was foundational in creating the character of Evelyn. Interviewees’ names have been changed in accordance with the ethical standards of the university.

Interviewee: Isabel Interviewer: Ariella Van Luyn Date conducted: 9 September 2009 Location: New Farm Annotations: Ariella Van Luyn is referred to as A. Isabel is referred to as I. Words in brackets and italics indicate actions.

A: If you want to start off with, sort of, describing your connection with the area? I: Ok well, um, my name is Isabel and I’ve lived in New Farm my entire life. Actually no that’s a lie. The first year I was born I lived in East Brisbane but then we moved to New Farm when it was quite a run down and um, not the trendy area it is today, I guess. So, I went to New Farm State School. And we used to live on the Merthyr side and then we moved to the Teneriffe side ten years ago. One side of the street is New Farm and our side of the street is Newstead so technically I’m in Newstead now. And, I don’t know--I’ve watched the area change as I’ve grown up...a lot, yeah, it’s a lot more gentrified and, I don’t know, kind of a bit influx of what I would call yuppies, or maybe not but property developers and real estate agents, it’s the new trendy place when they wouldn’t have looked at it ten years ago. But I wouldn’t really want to live in any other suburb in Brisbane. I don’t find the suburbs of Brisbane exciting or really interesting at all but here it’s like—I guess it’s like a village I’ve always lived in which is a bit weird. And I’m 21 and I am still living with my parents in this big village. A: Why do you say you’d only ever live in this area?

Appendices 163 I: Um, just because there’s life and culture that I haven’t found in many other suburbs. Even, you know, Brisbane used to be regarded as a country town and in some ways still is but I, you know, I put the emphasis going out for coffee, and eating and there’s always places to go here: Powerhouse, there’s always arts and culture and there’s the boardwalks, there’s the river. It’s lively and it’s interesting and it’s still got a mix of like a weird, sort of—There’s the prostitutes up on Kent Street and like, the deros on Merthyr Road. And then there’s the police coming. And then the yuppies round the corner in Teneriffe. So, I don’t know. I like it like that, I guess. And yeah, it’s not too suburban, which is good. And that’s kind of stopped me from kinda, moving to Sydney or Melbourne sooner, I guess. A: So what’s your earliest memory of the area? I: Um, hmm, that’s bad, I’ll have to think about that. I guess I’ve always had a strong connection to, um, New Farm park. Like, it’s, you know, it’s a big family place. When we were little we’d always go there for barbeques and the river. And, um, I started playing soccer very young, so I had a girls’ soccer team so I always remember things like an Italian soccer club. So—And I had a group of girls that I went to, um, primary school with that I played soccer with and that sort of thing. Yeah, I really strongly connect with, I remember my state school and preschool so I went to the preschool at New Farm state school. And, um, it was a very small school there was only like a hundred kids at New Farm State School, a lot of Indigenous kids and Chinese kids and I learnt Chinese from a very young age so, I don’t know, I just remember the multi-cultural sort of mix. But as for memories, yeah, I can’t remember much else—I have this really bad memory. Um, I’ll come back to you on that. A: Yeah, just have a think for a moment. Even not your earliest but just something that sticks in your memory. I: Yeah. I remember—cause like my father is an architect and used to be a builder I remember I was always playing on the scaffolding, like in our house, which was probably very unsafe in retrospect. But, um, it was always a building site so from when I was three years old and then Dad would always take me, cause he was always working in New Farm so I’d always go to different housing sites and climb on the scaffolding in my pyjamas when I was like four years old. And drink the builders’ coke and do weird stuff like that, which I don’t think many other four year old girls did and I used to wear like those work man boots as well. A: So your Dad used to take you along when he was working?

Appendices 164 I: Yeah well, he’s like a workaholic and he’d started his own business and I was young. He was always working under the house. He had an office in there and so that was a big part of my life, I guess. A: So why did you decide to moved from the New Farm side to the Teneriffe side? I: Well, I guess that wasn’t really my choice but I guess it was strategic on my parents’ behalf because basically Dad always needs a new project. So—He renovated and renovated our old house for ten years until there was this crazy mix of rooms and hidey holes and stuff. And then I guess they were looking for a new project so looking for a new property, so they were looking to sell that one and capitalise on it because it had started to become a bit more trendy and there were still a lot more dilapidated properties in Teneriffe that I guess my Dad saw as potential that hadn’t been exploited so—When we went to look at the house it had like needles all around the garden, syringes, ‘cause it was like a junkie’s house. It was a big Queenslander with like, I don’t know, big bedroom and three bathrooms, whatever, it was like this crazy share house. And all of downstairs was padded, the wall, because they were musicians downstairs with like junkies upstairs. A: Wow. How bizarre. I: Yeah, yeah it was pretty weird. A: So then your Dad did it up? I: Yeah. And then he fell off the veranda like in the process. He’s like a bit of a shoddy builder. Like, he’s very well known in New Farm. He’s very social and he’s been working there a very long time. He had redeveloped a lot of New Farm. But he’s a bit of a shoddy builder in my personal opinion. Careless with fine detail, I’d say. When he was building the veranda, like when I was 12 he fell off the veranda on, like, two metres on to his head and spilt his head open and got like 30 stitches in his head. So then things took a back track and then his memory got a bit worse and so. But yeah the house building kept going. He was doing all these projects. He just built a big vegetable garden. Yeah. It’s like a village. Our neighbours have chickens. A: Oh really? I: Yeah, you wouldn’t think of like chickens in New Farm but they have their own chickens. A: So can you describe for me the area when you first, sort of, came or as much of it as you can remember? I: On this side? Or on the Teneriffe side? A: Um, on the Teneriffe side.

Appendices 165 I: I guess when we first went there the wool store area was pretty barren. Like, they used to have, they still had the tram tracks were there. And I remember when I was very little going to Paddy’s markets, which was this old shopping centre, supermarket, in the Wool stores. And, um, because I was always obsessed with food. So one memory I have was when I was very little and we’d go to Paddy’s market and it was menagerie of, it was like, pet shops and weird—I don’t know, nothing like it in Brisbane. Warehouse, supermarkets. So I asked Mum to bring we back like a treat because I was always, like when I was eating breakfast I was like always ‘what’s for dinner?’ because I was always in search of food. So Mum bought me back like this fridge magnet that had like resin with jelly beans in it and I was very angry because I couldn’t get into it. It was so unfair. So anyway, we moved over to—that’s pretty sad that that’s like my strongest memory—but we moved over to Teneriffe, but the wool stores had just been redeveloped. So it was pretty barren. But round our street, Kingholme Street, there’s still a lot of established family houses. And my best friend lives three houses down. She lives in the Chicken House. It’s this dilapidated house that hasn’t been looked after and um, her Dad’s a lawyer and they have money yeah but they’re very humble so their house has always been very run down and—but apart from that the area has still always been like the most suburban probably, of the neighborhood like pretty safe. Oh but we got robbed twice. A: Oh really? I: I guess there’s probably a lot less share houses then there are now. A: So when you got robbed, did anyone steal anything or--? I: Yeah, they stole everything twice. What was most annoying was that they took our passports—I have dual citizenship—and they took our English passports too. Which are hard, kind of, get back again. A: How did they break in? I: I don’t know. We have a big old front door they somehow they smashed open. So then we got a dog and an alarm and we haven’t had any break-ins since. Yeah and the area’s changed a lot. Every developer has capitalised on the land. Every share house has been renovated and like sold as a family home, which is sad, because if you push us out—like the younger or people who don’t have money, like students and stuff like that. A: What I might get you to do is actually draw a little map of the area on the Tenerife side. Like that’s where your house is and the streets— I: I’ll try. A: As your drawing, if you think of something that happened in the area, I’ll get you to have a bit of a talk about that

Appendices 166 I: That’s Merthyr Road, where we are (draws road at bottom of page). There’s a little Chinese restaurant where I used to go (draws square). Very standard Chinese food, which has been redeveloped. Everything’s being redeveloped. A: What’s it been redeveloped into? I: I don’t know yet. It’s got scaffolding all over it, so—Here is Kingsholme Street, which is kind of the big suburban houses (draws street). And my street is this weird backstreet that— it’s weird. But there’s this house on this triangle block here (draws intersecting lines). ? street here and then the wool stores are around here. And my house runs around the back (draws house). And my street’s very weird. It’s called Cray Street. No one ever really goes in there. It’s like the ? And this street, there’s like this big house which is a boarding house but used to be a hospital, a war hospital (draws square for hospital). A: Oh yeah. I: And— A: How did you know that it used to be a war hospital? I: Oh because it’s always intrigued me and I’ve asked questions. And it’s got a weird feel about it. My best friend always thinks she can feel a ghost there. Like she’s a very practical, down to earth person, you’d never expect her to say anything like that but, I don’t know, it’s a bit weird. There’s all this bush across the road here (scribbles bush). And like there’s no houses on one side, it’s just bush. And when I was little some of my friends thought it would be fun to go into the bushes and throw rocks at a bees nest in there(?) too, I guess. And then they found this guy like passed out in there. And that always used to be where the prostitutes would go. A: Really? I: Yeah. But it’s pretty clean now. We have this like party which is for the whole street(?) But in there’s like kind of been cleaned out a bit. And up here if you go this way through you pass the State School (draws line and then square to indicate school). This is the worst map I’ve ever seen. Yes, that’s all, I don’t know. A: What do you remember about going to the school? I: Well I was a very good student. I think I was nurtured. I went to ? High School, like a private school. And I was just like—I never really liked it as a result because it didn’t have the small community feel that New Farm had. A: What’s the strongest memory you have of like your time at school? I: I guess it involves—like I had the some classmates for ages. Yeah, they were just crazy. A lot of Indigenous kids. There was always someone getting into trouble, someone would throw

Appendices 167 a chair out the window and pretend to be sick so the teacher would have to carry them down the stairs or—I turned out to be the captain of the school so I was like this little perfect thing in primary school and then went a bit off the rails in high school. And then came back on track afterwards. A: Why do you say you went off the rails at high school? I: I don’t know, maybe because I have like this very strong independent streak and I didn’t like the structure of the school. And there was a lot of money there. Opposite to my primary school so, I don’t know, I kind of—if I don’t like something I tend to do the opposite of what people want me to do. So I didn’t do any work. Then once I left school I could be independent again and I kind of, you know, went back up. So, yeah.A: Yeah, I hated high school (laughs). I: Yeah (laughs). A: So, this is Merthyr road here (points to map)? I: Yeah it turns into Macquarie street. The boardwalk (draws line) where I walk my fat dog. And there’s all like the gym and the joggers and everything. And then there’s these weird little steps that go up here (draws steps: two parallel lines with horizontal lines connecting them) which, um, you know you used to find needles on but now there’s joggers up and down, doing work outs and ? don’t like the joggers doing work outs because it’s just too loud. A: Who banned them? I: I think the residents in the wool stores houses complain, so—and I work at, like when I’m looking for casual work, when I’m at uni, at this place here (draws) called Vespa pizza and we ride vespas and deliver all the takeaways to like the wool stores. Yeah. A: And what is this bit over here? I: Yeah (laughs). And there’s like um this goes down to James Street (draws line). My best friend lives here (draws square for house). That is the chicken best friend. And there's like all these problematic people ... it’s starting to feel like.. then I came back and I'm very comfortable at New Farm and it's like wow, it’s like a little town but I won't be here for like the next few years or so – I need to get out. A; So was there a big change your perceptions – when you came back from overseas? I; Um, when I left I was hating it – sort of the small town thing – boring. I lived in Hong Kong for six months, studying and then I came back and I don't know, I'm just content to live in the village. Like do my own thing. Its comfortable, I don't feel any need to move out from my parents. I'm moving back to Hong Kong in November to work but I'm not really stressed about anything right now.

Appendices 168 A: I might just write down all the street names and everything so I can come back and go… I : Do you want me to name them for you? I guess I'm confusing A: How do you know everyone on the street? Did you used to go out a lot – how did you meet them? I: Umm, mainly primary school or the soccer club, the other school is Holy Spirit, more like an Italian Catholic School. A lot of those people played soccer and my soccer coach Fabio – he was like 'the famous Fabio’ (laughs) A: That's good. (laughs) I: I feel really bad for Fabio because back then we were like terrible little 12 year old girls heckling him and he was like nineteen and thought he was like this big adult but really he wasn't that old and his Dad had just died and he was like coaching the soccer team and we were like 'Fabio you suck’ and you know we were so mean. A: Was there a reason you heckled him or is it just because he was your coach? I: We were all very boisterous girls, all my friends, always having been in this area, loud and independent, all done very different things. We all had very different friendships but we still keep in contact. Stuff like that – which is nice. All my friends around here are pretty crazy. A: What makes you say that? I: Oh I don't know – like some have had depression and others have had eating disorders so.. all kinds of weird stuff. I don't know what it is about this area but there's unique people that come together. A: In what way are they unique? I: Um, well one of my good friends, Theo .... who lives with his Mum, he grew up in PNG, his Mum's Greek but he's like white Australian but his Dad lives in PNG and he's just very unique like he'll stay up all night researching photo blogs on the internet and you look at him and you'd think he's a homeless person who hasn't showered for three days and he's got like blonde hair and he'll grow this red beard and it’s like so terrifying and he studies journalism at UQ because his Mum told him to but really he's like a creative writer and he's so good at writing but he does really badly at journalism 'cause he doesn't care about it at all – he's like up for academic disqualification 'cause they kicked him out of UQ so he wrote this long letter and they've let him back. I don't know – he just spends his life sitting around smoking and reading photo blogs.. oh, and like also people have tried to gay bash him cause he looks quite..he's not gay but people just always think he is because he's tall and thin and wears very tight jeans and in New Farm and the Valley, especially the Valley - the Valley, we go to the Valley for clothes but not that much anymore for clothes - people tried to gay bash him like 3

Appendices 169 times, same with my brother – he's like not gay at all but he's like a nice boy. I guess Patrick, my brother, he dresses in, he's adopted this like 50s Rockabilly sort of fashion and people tried to gay bash him up on Brunswick St. A: Oh no. Were you there when that happened? I: No, but we've been very protective of him. Yeah. I guess some people still see the area as unsafe. Well I don't walk anywhere in Brisbane after 10 o'clock at night on my own. A: Yeah. I: But I don't really feel more unsafe here than anywhere else. A: Have you ever felt unsafe anywhere in Newstead? I: No, not really. Some guy tried to pick me up, he thought I was a prostitute, on my way to work, like a couple of years ago. It wasn't pretty but I don't feel unsafe. A: Did he try to get you into his car? I: Yeah, it was a convertible. I was standing outside my house, but on my way to work. I was waiting outside, like in broad daylight and this guy in a convertible like drives past slowly then comes back and just waits there and asks me for a price and I was like pwuuuu (?fuck you?) That made me a bit crazy. Yeah, weird area. A: So how old were you when you moved here? I: When I moved, yeah, I was eleven. A: Eleven, ok, and where were you before? I: I was at the other end of the river and I think there's quite a divide between the Merthyr and the Teneriffe side. The Methyr half, particularly the heights, is less developed, more share houses, more daggy, I guess, but it’s still nice. New Farm's pretty big, I guess. This is where I lived – llew... and I had two gay neighbors. Glen and Graham. Next door to us were like old people who used the house to write up old people meetings, I don't know what for – maybe for war things and all I can remember is their old house, like shit, derelict and all you could hear was the typewriter. (Makes noise of typewriter) A: Really? I: Once a week they'd go in there and write up their newsletters and there'd be this little dog barking and barking and then next to them is Glen and Graham, they're like two gay guys who were basically like my godparents when I was little. I would go over there a lot and they would give me presents, chocolates and I would sit on their bed and watch Foxtel, which was a luxury. Their house was quiet and nice, and our house was not like that you know. A: Did you call then Uncle Glen and Graham? (laughter)

Appendices 170 I: No. No. Just Glen and Graham. They had a hairdressing salon on Methyr Rd and my Dad's old office was like there. So… A: And did you used to play in that area? What other things did you do? I: Um, yes, I used to go to Dad's office a lot. Mum and Dad were both working and I would go there. There was this little back area where I would read (?) magazines and I would sit around. We'd have a babysitter sometimes to. She'd come over to our house – we had a really big backyard – wild and fun. A: So what would you say are the distinctive sights of the area? I: Mm. well the park, firstly, that really hasn't changed much. I guess with the drought it’s not as nice but you know it’s still the hub of the community. Umm, the Powerhouse now, that's only after the redevelopment. A: What was that like before the redevelopment? I: It just sort of had an abandoned warehouse feel. I guess the other iconic place would be the Village Twin, on Brunswick St, the old cinema. They're trying to redevelop that, the ceilings are heritage listed. They've had some problems with ceilings caving in and it would cost millions and millions of dollars to restore and so they've stopped construction. I used to go to movies there when I was little and they had these painted ceilings that were like pretty cool. They were like straight out of the 70s and some of my friends bands have played like guerrilla shows in there – now, while its all boarded up, they bring a generator in – which is incredibly unsafe, the roof could collapse. I haven't gone. A: I was just about to ask that. I: Yeah. A: So is a guerrilla show where they haven't asked permission, they just go in there.I: Yep, Yep. I used to, like, when I was 16, 17, 18, 19 I had an ex-boyfriend who was in a band and I used to put on shows. And we did some guerrilla shows like, I had one in an abandoned carpark in the Valley, with a generator, next to the Valley pool and my friend Samson? was touring, up from Melbourne in a punk band and three bands would play. Everyone would meet at the Jubilee Hotel and then someone leads them, like, to the location, you know, tell them where it is or whatever. Then we'd see people play, then we'd all leave and then the cops came just after that, like when there was one guy left. Like loading the stuff up, but yeah, the police usually came and don't take too kindly to those things. yeah, and there's a lot of punk shows and stuff round here as well. (Section unclear: we were in a coffee shop and someone turned the espresso machine on!)

Appendices 171 A: So any more…what about the wool stores? How about that area, has it changed at all, or…? I: It’s just like before it was abandoned and completely industrial but now like, I don't know, trees and apartments and babies?? I don't pay that much attention, it’s not.. There's some good restaurants where I mainly go there. A: Yeah. I: I eat out a lot. I cook a lot. I have a food blog and food is like a big part of my life and um I get – you know the IGA up on Brunswick St, it used to be the Tivoli Theatre that was like this old warehouse where they used to get artists. I always remember that. It was like a big shed – another place that got redeveloped, sadly, by my Father. Shame. He gets commissioned to do a lot of stuff, probably like, what I'm opposed to but its his job, so. A: Do you remember seeing a particular artist there or…? I: No. I just remember like the big, dark, cavernous space and its like really dusty and junky looking but really big, colourful canvases and props from stuff, like big crazy objects. Pretty interesting. (Aside discussion about coffee etc) A: I think its good – I like the guerrilla bit. I'm wanting to get a sense of what it was like – that type of thing. I: There used to be a lot more Vietnamese and Chinese, stuff like that, like China was always very.. Chinese was always very common for me, I started learning it when I was ten. um because they choose what language you're going to learn based on the biggest migrant population in your area. So. A: So did you actually learn Chinese at school? I: Yes, we had Chinese lessons twice a week and um the neighboring school, Holy Spirit, they did Italian cause they had the Italian community there. So we had like Chinese, Vietnamese and the Italian um, my neighbor is an old Italian lady who like (section unclear) I studied it at high school but I hated it and its just now that I've started learning it at UQ and I learned Mandarin(?) as well. They speak like Mandarin, the mainland Chinese um but I still learnt mainland Chinese there. I guess my connection, growing up here, sparked my interest in China, everyone’s like why do you want to learn Chinese and now it’s such like a current thing (?) The China-Australia relationship and a lot of business development and stuff so ....?? A: So did you have friends that were Chinese?

Appendices 172 I: Yeah, yeah, quite a lot. Um Chinese friends and there were some African kids and really there were only Africans in New Farm, there's a lot more in Brisbane now. Massive population. And I've always been intrigued by (?) Like there was one or two at our school. Like just Chinese and Indigenous kids. A: What kind of games did you play? I: Um, we were athletic, we were pretty boisterous. We, I don't know, typical Australian, a lot of sport – cricket and that sort of stuff. Then there were kissing games in grade 7. There were like 5 boys and I'm still friends with a couple of them. I kind of lost the connection with going to a different school (?) but after that everyone came back together kind of. A lot of people still live around here. I don't know, we went on indigenous camps to South Stradbroke Island, no, North Stradbroke and you'd make boomerangs and ... A: Yeah, I’ve done that. I: Yeah. A: This might be a bit of a tricky one but do you remember a particular place or an area where you felt a distinctive sensation, in terms of something that smelt really bad, sounded strange or…? I: Ummm. I guess a lot of my memories are from the primary school and they had like this weird room which was like science lab with all these pickled snakes and stuff and I always remember going in there and like awww. I've always been intrigued by obscure things and I guess um the prostitutes always intrigued me as well. But my Mum is always like “don't look, don't look,” and they'd be like waving at you um and as for smell um I don't know – batshit and possums – the smell of so many possums on the roof all the time – like fighting yeah.. And that I was very scared of (?) A: Was there a place where you felt negative emotions? I: I guess there's occasional domestic violence that you get around or like, I always had kooky(?) neighbors in Teneriffe, you know, I heard fighting and we had to call the police. My neighbor was like getting beaten up by her boyfriend when I was like fifteenand I was like, “Mum, Mum we have to call the police” and she was like “go to sleep, go to sleep.” And I was like “no”, so yeah, they were our craziest neighbours. My next door neighbour, the one after that, he was this Argentian guy and he used to smoke a lot of weed, right through when I was at high school and all I remember is the shuffle of his feet (?) up and down and like him coughing and this stench of weed through my window and I would always wake up very sleepy, so… A: (laugh) Bit of passive smoking going on there.

Appendices 173 I: I make it sound really bad but it’s not. I don't know. I don't think it’s that bad, just interesting. A: I guess these are the things you remember. I: And I always played the piano and we had a pianola, you know that you'd put the rolls in and peddle yourself and that plays the song – really weird music. A: Is there anything you can think of that you particularly associate with positive memories?I: Um, this is my favourite coffee shop now, this is very recent memories, but for the last two years, my friend works here, I come here nearly every day to read the paper. Nice, peaceful environment and I always see somebody that I know. I love drinking coffee or tea, so. And when I was little I used to go to, my friend Chee(?), her Mum used to take us to the Valley and we would have like babycinos, so I've always had that cafe culture I guess, arcades, and I always liked the delis, very Italian, and I'd always have, like a foccaccio and the sound of the coffee machine and it would be like lively. A: So where was that? I: The New Farm deli. Its changed ownership now so but its still been going for a long time?? But my main memories revolve around food. A: So what's your favourite thing that you like to eat? I: Last Friday I ate moussaka. There's like this Greek takeaway at West End that I totally like. Ah, I like Peking duck, there's a new Peking duck restaurant in Brunswick St that used to be at Darra, but it was so trendy that the New Farm people kept going down to Darra to eat Peking duck so they opened one here. I don't know, I like lardy(?) comfort food really. I always cooked when I was little, my Grandma, maybe she was very old-fashioned but she used to give me little measuring things for my birthday. Maybe she was trying to turn me into some sort of housewife. Not what my mother would like – but. Yep, yep, cooking. I used to love Chinese food but after living in Hong Kong I really don't like it anymore. Yeh, cause we used to go to Chinatown Mall for Chinese New Year and I remember the sound of the fire crackers, so loud and I was really terrified of them actually. Growing up there were always fireworks, Brisbane went through this weird fireworks stage and from our house you can see them all in the city – Riverfire every year, the nice fireworks and the rockets and then you go to the Valley for the Chinese firecrackers and it's like aahh. A: I've never been to Chinese New Year so what's it like?I: I only went when I was little – but every restaurant is full and there's dragons, the dragons dance at each restaurant and you have to put lettuce in their mouth and that always like freaked me out a bit. I was like, I just want to eat my food. And I'd use(?) chopsticks all the time and when I go to China people are

Appendices 174 like, “oh you can use chopsticks.” and I'm like yep. They have quite an insular view – they ask me, 'which Australia do you live in, the one in Europe or the other one.” In Austria. Their knowledge isn't that good but we like to think our relationship with China is important(?). So yeah, New Year's was always big, round tables of shared food and on Saturday mornings we always used to go for Yum Cha so they'd bring the trolleys around and you'd delicious (?). Weird, I guess everything looked so alien to me – a lot of the stuff and that's why I liked it. In the Valley they have all these Chinese grocers and roast duck hanging in the windows, always loved that. Weird, I guess if you want to go into the Valley, all the weird smells of the Chinese ingredients, weird things like lotus root and all the fish, shrimp paste – they're really strong smells. A: Why did you like Chinese New Year so much? I: Um, I really liked it cause it was a nice family event. It was always busy and it involved eating so I was happy and the food was yummy(?) so you didn't have to wait for it. But now I guess it’s kind of depressing in the mall because it’s gone downhill - the Chinese restaurants are pretty bad, I don't really eat there. I go to Sunnybank if I want good Chinese food and um yeah. You get a different perspective of the Valley when you start using it for different reasons – drinking. A: The Valley at three o'clock in the morning is not nice. I: Pretty nasty. A: So have you had a bit of a think about an area where you felt happy? I: No, forgot about that actually. No. There's always the park, always go back to that, playing sport, umm I don't really like, I never really liked (?). it’s very like good community bonding always playing at the park was always like a healthy activity, the endorphins make you feel good, at least like, it was very regular like twice a week training, once a week games, so I was always there three times a week from when I was nine years old or something. That was always like, yeah, fun – get your frustrations out by kicking things and Mum taking me from like when I was really little, preschool, they had chickens there and they had little grassy knoll patches things like awesome, magical and I used to eat berries of the trees which probably wasn't very safe in retrospect and um we'd dig in the sandpit for things(?) they used to hide rocks in there, painted rocks. A: The other kids? I: No, the teachers did. So they were happy places. Otherwise, I don't know, our back verandah was where everyone would come for barbeques. The thing I love about, or that I used to notice as lot more, was Queensland storms and tropical summers which to me

Appendices 175 epitomises some of the best things about being in Brisbane. Like, when you're sitting high up on a balcony and you can watch the storm and its warm and you can smell, like we had a paw paw tree and the mango tree and the banana tree and the rain, on the tin roof, lashing and then there's bats and you know. A: I was going to ask you before, why do you think you like food so much? I: I guess, I've tried to work that out myself and what I've come to realise it I'm like, I have an indulgent personality, umm, my mother blames it on my star sign, she's always into astrology, she says cause I'm a Taurus, I like indulgent things and you know. Like why are we here? Food and friends, the times when I'm happiest is communal eating, like enjoying something, just simple pleasures where you kind of make everything, so really good food and (?). You start out with very basic things, the little basic things that make you happy, so, that continues and you develop your taste. Yeah. I went to this really great restaurant called Crosstown (?), I took my Dad there for Father's Day, in Wooloongabba, really simple food, they call it modernist food and tapas, big plates of really weird stuff I wouldn't usually eat, like ribs and like mushrooms with really creamy, like mozzarella cheese and this big share plate, so tasty and comforting and uh, the best I've eaten in a long time. A: Is there an area where you’ve felt negative things? I: Mmm. Not really in New Farm, maybe in other parts of Brisbane. Like, I don't know, I strongly connect with everything around where people have been, so there'll be a house where people who I don't talk to live or something like that. I guess that's why I like New Farm cause I don't really, I have very few negative emotions about it. I've been very lucky to have like a stable family life and that’s probably made me like less crazy than I could have been. So, that's the good thing about here, there's very few negative feelings or emotions and now there are so many memories here that I don't even think about them anymore cause I live in them every day, but probably if I came back after three years I'd be just, everything would remind me of something. Cause I'm leaving in November and trying to work in Shanghai next year and then go to Europe and I won't be back for a few years and no doubt it will be redeveloped further so I'll probably be (?) cause I get sick of the same old stuff, like the apartment buildings going up and so yeah. Very, very few bad memories. A: Are there any other significant events you’d like to talk about? I: Umm. I guess when my dad fell of the verandah. That was pretty bad.A: Did you see that? I: No, I just heard it. Like I heard all this swearing and then it was so disgusting cause you could see his skull. And he just sat there and it's one of those moments when you're very aware of your own mortality, kind of, because he was lucky, he's always been very lucky.

Appendices 176 Um, so that was pretty stressful and then they found his had this disease, it’s just something you have to take medication for – it’s got some weird name like Hashimodo's disease, that makes you more vague and stuff. I don't know, but…And I guess the domestic violence next door to me and this girl I went to school with, she was a year younger, she always playing in our street and a few years ago she just like hung herself in her house, when she was like really young and then I watched the family move out from there. But you know, whenever you go past that house you always think about that. Yeah, you just watched the family deteriorate I guess. A: So how did you find out she'd died? I: Um, probably Chee, my neighbour with the chickens, who knows everything about everybody, she probably came and told me. Yeah. It’s just like here, it’s no different from a village with goats and island roads, you know. It’s like the same little village and someone will find out. It’s nice to have that community support because I go away and I forget about New Farm and I come back and all these people are like “oh, how were your travels?” People like you haven't talked to in ages but just know somehow. But, yeah, I really wouldn't want to live anywhere else in Brisbane now. I’d probably move interstate. A: Is there one driving reason why you would only ever live in New Farm? I: Maybe I'd live in West End. It’s the diversity of the culture and the acceptance. Here I feel like you know, comfortable wearing whatever I want to wear. You know, I would feel less comfortable in you know, Ashgrove, walking around at night I think it's safer because there's more people.

Appendices 177 APPENDIX G: INTERVIEW TWO

Interview with a local architect who has worked in New Farm, Newstead, Fortitude Valley and surrounding suburbs. Interviewees’ names have been changed in accordance with the ethical standards of the university.

Interviewee: Ken Interviewer: Ariella Van Luyn Date conducted: 30th September 2009 Location: Fortitude Valley (work place)

Annotations: Ariella Van Luyn is referred to as A. Ken is referred to as K. Words in brackets and italics indicate actions.

K: This is just a map of the area. A: Yep. Great. K: We’ve got a flood map of the area, which is also relevant. And then what I’ve got here is...these are, these are, um, higher res things. They’re a snap shot from 1930s. A: Oh really? K: And what they are is they did a series of plans for draining, sewerage planning at the time. And So what they’ve drawn like you’ll see an area now there’s Alston Road, Sydney Street. And they’ve drawn all the houses so you see what house was there at the time, whether it had any cute verandahs. and they’ve got levels on them as well. So we use them a lot because they go down to—I’ll show you an example here of, a snap shot, when you go down to...182, 184 (map numbers) if I go down, um—there’s a bit of a branch in Merthyr Road. That’s where the ferry is down there at the end of Merthyr Road. That’s where, um, that’s where— what do you call it? (David comes in with printed map) Oh thanks for that David. Thanks very much. So we’ve got that one there as well. So anyway, what this does is actually show you—so that’s an area where, um, there’s a set of units there at the end of Merthyr Road which is just typical there’s old houses. That house is

Appendices 178 still there: Amity . There’s three old places there, there’s an old place that was knocked down. And that’s the sugar refinery. But you go along—now you come up to, at this stage, like that’s where we live in Craise Street, which is on top of that wool store. So there’s a wool store there and a wool store there (points on map). And then there’s—that hasn’t changed much. It’s all—except that there are wool stores here now, so the houses are gone. A: Ok. K: But the interesting this is that when you get up towards—a bit further (flips through maps). Now there’s—(continues to flip through maps) a bit further—Now we you see here, there is Chermside Street. Hang on, Chermside, no. Now those houses are still there along Chermside and that’s where it comes up Walker Avenue, up Teneriffe drive. So that hasn’t changed much. So some areas haven’t changed at all. I’m just trying to—once we get down a bit further there, so we get down to Florence Street for example. So you know where, you know where the shops are, where Broken...um, there’s an Italian restaurant there in the corner and there’s restaurants in there and that’s Florence Street. See that was all houses through that area there. So that’s where all those wool stores are now. So there’s some wool store stuff. There was an early 1907 on there. And then there was stuff, all the railway lines that come along here to ? All the wool stuff. So the wool stuff was half done. So they were all houses there and they were all knocked down. And as you go further along to 197, 196 (map numbers). So you see here Commercial Road, Masters Street, that’s now, it’s not called Francis any more, it’s Helen Street. So it’s just all house along Commercial Road. And so there’s, um, there was no wool store there at the time. So there was a big house here called Stratton which was one of the big, one of the notable houses here which is on the corner where, um, what’s-his-name is there now: Wallace Bishop, they’re in there. So that was where the big Stratton house was. And there’s another big house here. And there’s another big house here. And you’d find that every little hill top— there’s a little hill top there—and there’s about seven hills in the Teneriffe-New Farm area, and they all had significant houses on them. And you see the big houses there: big house, big house, big house (points them out on map). And so you get Stratton Street down here which was named after that house. A: I did big a little camera, so I can— K: Yeah, so you can actually photocopy these if you want. A: Oh that would be great.

Appendices 179 K: And now that’s Kent, sorry Kent and ? Terrace, they haven’t changed much. Craise street: those houses still very much as they were. Wyatt. Now there’s an area there, there’s your area where you’re looking at – A: With Longland Street. K: Longland Street ends about there. So there’s Doggett and there’s Masters and it’s all housing houses through there. So this is 1914 is it? Or is it 1926? A: I think it says 1914. K: Ok so that was when they started doing this stuff. And you can see now there these were all just worker’s cottages basically. A: Yep. K: And all through there. So that part of Brisbane went from workers cottages to industrial now back to residential again. So it’s actually just in its third transformation. A: It’s interesting why it’s... K: Yeah and it’s just purely industry and economic forces really. And economic forces are now pushing industry out because they can’t get trucks in, it’s too ? transport is now much bigger scale. They don’t use the railways anymore. This used—this relied on the railway. A: ‘Cause the railways came right down into the gasworks site. K: Yes. There’s the gasworks thing here. Longlands, that’s it here. And you can see the State Sawmills. Now this is a bit of the history of socialist Queensland. So this was state owned sawmills and down further in Ethel streets there’s a, it’s not a wool store, it looks like a wool store, it was the state Jam factory. There was a period in the 1920s were Queensland was an incredibly socialist state. And there was state farms and butchers shops, state sawmill, state ? and it was all owned by the state. And it was all in line with the kind of, you know, revolutionary thinking coming out of Russia at the time. And so the labour party in charge of Queensland was incredibly socialist. And it’s interesting that all those, a lot of those assets passed into the hands of the state SGIO—the state government insurance office—which became Suncorp. And even Joh Bielke-Peterson he used a lot of those services too, to generate funds in the state. So they still were agrarian-socialists, rather than being, they weren’t blue ribbon conservatives like Menzies. They were interventionist, social agrarians. And so was where, you know where that big Futijsu building is there near the Bank? A: Yes. K: So that was the State sawmill there and the gasworks was there. And there was another gasworks things there, like for example, in Doggett and ? And there was a big gas thing up there so all those houses were demolished. And then a big gas tank was built up there. And

Appendices 180 then that was demolished and now there’s a like commercial estate up there. You drive in and there’s all these commercial tenancies. So that area went from res to utilities like gas, and its gone from gas to commercial. And it could go from commercial to residential. It could be changed again. Because it’s low scale enough that it could be knocked down again, changed into high scale, seven or eight storey residential. Which is the new plan for this area through here (indicates map). A: Ok. So what’s the sort of time frame on how it’s all changing? K: These are all generations basically. So you take, you go back to, when you look at New Farm, when you look at the New Farm area around Newmart? Boundary Street to Moray Street, ok? So you get. So take this area here, right, in this there’s Moray Street (indicates map) where the little ? centre is, you know where the little cafe is there? A: Yep. K: Now there’s a big house on that estate there called Burr? And over there were the nursing home was Merthyr house which was where, um Premier of the State, what’s his name? Chief High Justice, the man who wrote the constitution? What’s his name? Samuel Griffith. And he originally, so this is 1913 (looks at date on the map) and at that stage he was still living there. He died in 1917. He died broke actually. But he originally had the land from there to the river, Sydney Street to there. And then this subdivision was done in 1912, 1913. And in fact these maps can be a bit off putting because in fact they drew them then but kept adding in houses later, anything up to the 1920s. Cause that house was built in 1916 ? So then what happened was that he then began subdividing because he was short of money, cutting up land. What happened then, there’s that house, there’s that big house which is now owned by the Church of England. There’s a Deserted Mothers home there. There’s a big house here, which was built by Mr. Graff, a very successful businessman. There’s another big house in Moraybank. And right through Moray Street was a series of large households, which most of which didn’t survive one generation. Wealthy people, or people who came to Queensland, made a lot of money, built a big house, and their children, none of their children were wealthy enough to take up the same holding and they started chopping them up. And so there’s a place farther up there, right up to one sixty two. This place here was one sixty two, so that’s… So that’s it up there. That where Lindenlee apartments are now. A big sandstone house that is. And that stuff was knocked down in the seventies. So see this place here, it’s now called Trinity, it’s the house with the big steel cables, and they used to own all of that, and he was a German, um… German immigrant, who had lived in Honolulu before this, and he brought a lot of frangipanis, and there’s some left-over frangipanis too on that street,

Appendices 181 which were planted here over a hundred years ago. A couple of bits of it still left. And so he built this house, but his family moved away, now, what happened was that it was turned into a boarding-house in nineteen ninety, and then after that it became… the land was chopped off and sold by a family, by kids, and, um, and eventually it ended up being there, and so it was still a boarding house until the nineteen eighties, and was bought, and then someone turned it into a house again. And then it’s been sold a couple of times, and then the group that owned it last time, they want to chop off the back and build units in there. And then that failed because the lady complained about it in court and they lost the court case. But, so, um, the continual cycle still goes on, so you have changes, um, you have this great money being made in the eighteen eighties and so one generation brings you up to nineteen ten, that’s when that became a boarding house. So the next generation’s nineteen ten to nineteen forty, so that’s just boarding houses, so kids were living elsewhere, so New Farm was no longer their suburb—they moved to Ascott or they moved out to Chelmer, moved to areas like that. And then, um, after the war then you got the second stage of it where you had a lot of Italian and Greek migrants out here. So they kind of got grungier. And then in the seventies and eighties you started getting them knocked down and building big buildings, especially in good spots, so a couple of people were doing that. And Alfred Pacelli just died there last week. He started in nineteen sixty one, so he was selling those sites too. And then, um, then, then you had the urban renewal period, which came in the early nineties. So then you’ve got these houses being, you’ve got an upgrade, so you’ve got newer apartments being built, so you’ve got another layer coming in in the nineteen nineties. So you had a layer from sixty to ninety and you had a layer from ninety which is going on now. So these layers are, they’re about a generation long. And they survive the people who have the ideas at that time. But the interesting thing about New Farm is that very few families survive the generations. As you say, you take the, the, Calvicis who live on that one—there’s a set of apartments, there’s a house, that house is gone, but there’s a brick house from nineteen fifty-nine, and there’s a big set of story apartments on top of there, and the grandmother lives in top of that and the family built that, but they built the house in fifty-nine first but she wouldn’t allow the house to be demolished until she saw what the penthouse was like when she went in to it, but their parents were building these big ones down there, so, they were nineteen-twenties immigrants, Italian immigrants, who came quickly from the cane fields off from Stanthorpe, and so, so that house is from nineteen fifty-nine, so that son was an accountant, he was second generation, then the third generation are solicitors and the fourth generation are, well, one of them works here actually. So they’re a very rare to find four generations in New Farm. It was

Appendices 182 inevitably a place of transience. So it was transient by just money was transient in the first place and then it became the apartment place and most people in their fifties and sixties who came from the country, they probably stayed in New Farm. For six months, in a flat somewhere. Before they were married. So, you get, just one more, one more little quick story, and then we’ll move on. If we go to James Street, and there’s a house here that’s almost the history of Queensland. A: Oh good. K: So it’s a house at… James Street. Here. One eighty nine. Okay, so there’s a house here. Is that right? Next one up. So that’s… One ninety. That’s two hundred. The council have these, so you can go and get them. Here we are. Okay. So there’s this house here it’s by itself. This is a nineteen-thirties map I think this one. Anyway, and so this is a house which has been called a number of names, but it’s… it’s um there’s a school and there’s a little rug shop on the corner and then down here there’s this little stone house. It started off as a stone house that big and it was built in eighteen-sixty one and remember that the James Street and Gibbon Street, at the top of Gibbon Street you’ve got Teneriffe Drive and Teneriffe House, now Teneriffe House, is probably one of the first houses round there—it was built by a man named James Gibbon—and he was a speculator from Sydney who was spying land up here before statehood and he bought a lot of valley, so he owned a lot of valley and he owned a lot of Woolloongabba. And he lived up here, and he—so at that time that was virtually his driveway, it was all paddocks—now that was, so, Teneriffe House was built, must have been about mid-fifties, eighteen fifties, late eighteen fifties, so this was built in eighteen sixty one, so this is kind of very same period, and so this was built by the Ken-Cross family in eighteen sixty one. And they lived there for one year, and they moved across the river, to Bulimba House, which is one of the stone houses there, and so from then on it was never lived in by its owners, almost, so eighteen sixty two, so it was then rented out to people in notary—notable people in Brisbane. Um, there was people like the fellow who came and set up the Courier Mail, the editor, he lived there, um… A: What’s his name? K: So if you go through the postal records of that you’ll find this list of names. There was a colonial secretary who lived there for a while. There were all these odd people, ‘cause it was a high class rental property. And it had all this land here. And then in eighteen sixty three it became the Catholic orphanage for six years before they shifted out to Nudgee, to set up the Nudgee orphanage, so they were there for six of seven years. Eighteen ninety-one then it became St. James Hospital. And the hospital expanded back to there. And it was where nurse

Appendices 183 training was first established in Queensland. And then in about nineteen eighty, nineteen ninety, it was bought by Miss. Mitchely and her brother, and she set up a girl’s school in there. So it became a girl’s school then for thirty years, and they had fishponds and they had all this farmland at the back, and then in eighteen-thirties then it became an estate flats, and it’s still flats now, but someone bought it a few years ago and they lived in one of the flats and they were going to convert it back into a house but then they moved on. No one’s ever stay there, ‘cause it’s kind of a… A: Oh, so what was the name of that place? K: It was called St. Clare, and it was called, um, it didn’t have a name on here. So it never sort of had a name, as I said it was a couple of private schools, and Miss Stevenson’s school down in Merthyr, it was down there for forty or fifty years. And so these were private schools set up by individual teachers. So you get these little stories around places, you know, and every house has got stories, but some of them are more public than others. A: Well tomorrow I’m interviewing a guy whose grandfather owned Montpellier, which was that house in Bowen Hills, which went through various incarnations… K: And they all went through that same pattern of the original family who were rich enough to build them and then, they were built on hills because in Brisbane because of the heat the hills were breezier, so it was much nicer to live on the hill than to live down in the valley, and so you had the rich—so you go out through Windsor there and you see all those houses there and they’re on the hills, and then the slightly bigger middle-class houses around the middle of the hill, and then the workers’ cottages in the gully. A: That’s great. K: So that was the pattern of Brisbane settlement. Rather than having Brisbane… Brisbane that already had a nob hill in the way, until Ascot sort of established, even Ascot had a sort of flats period in the fifties and sixties, with a lot of flats through there, a lot of these houses were turned into flats, and then they became family houses again, so that there is this sort of, this, this notion of, um, your rich people scattered, as opposed to all in one place. A: And what sort of work have you done in the Newstead and Teneriffe area? K: We’ve been up in… I as a builder first used to do a lot of work around Red Hill in the seventies and eighties, but from eighty nine as an architect, I’ve been living and working in this area. So we’ve worked on probably in one way or another about 800 sites in this area. So a lot of houses. Everything from putting in pipes in the bathroom to multi-million dollar apartment buildings. So we do things like, that’s the bunk thing there, that’s the Geelong one.

Appendices 184 That’s our office, yes, there’s nothing much there, but… We do… That’s in Midvale lane. Have you seen those boarding houses? A: I think I have actually. I have done a bit of wandering around there. K: Yeah, there’s a lovely little lane that comes out behind and looks out to the sea. The yoghurt stand’s across the road. And there’s four Queenslanders in the front. They used to have long backyards, and so we built these in from the back, and the cars come in from the road… A: So they’re sort of quite narrow plots. K: Well they’re ten meters wide, which is a standard ten meter block. A: Oh well that’s, yeah… K: These houses are up to three hundred square meters each, which is sort three times the size of ours. A: Yeah, you should see the little box I live in. K: Ok, so, so in terms of the flood, it has an impact in here, and if you have a look at, um, there’s New Farm, so if you have a look at where it floods in New Farm, so it floods up Longland Street, up Stratton, into that area there at the back of James Street. So that’s one creek through there. There’s another creek that runs out into New Farm Park that comes from… Moray Street is a ridge, and so originally Moray Street was the track where the convicts came to New Farm, so they used to… Where the gardens are was the first farm, very rich soil on the river corner, and then they set up the New Farm in this corner down here, and so this is the way, and the track probably goes back to almost Aboriginal times, the track came round the ridge, and it followed the ridgeline down along, and it came down and it wound down too, and it would have gone across to there, so it was a dry track, so it was always out of the water, and so all of that was a catchment then, for that area there, so round Wellsby Street and Sydney Street it floods quite badly in there, and you can see there’s a bit of a creek comes in, you can see it comes in beside the Powerhouse, you can see that little bit there, so that was badly flooded there, so those houses at the bottom of James Street there flood badly, and then it goes up into this way here. And in fact when they, um, when they first built the Merthyr centre there in the early nineties they, um, the deli was—New Farm deli—was in the back. And um, there was just heavy rain, and then this, they used to drive in this, just underneath the deli almost, it was going under the car park, so there was this sewer manhole in the slope and it blew out and there was just shit everywhere right throughout the hole area about four weeks after that happened. A: Not going to that deli!

Appendices 185 K: Yeah, and then you can see Passion Creek on the other side of Bulimba. Yeah, Passion Creek goes up through the same thing, you know, so these were a series of little creeks that fed into the river and then they were ignored by the lads who put the pattern over the top of it, the street pattern. A: And then up here in Newstead there’s the gasworks. K: Yeah, so there’s the gasworks there, that’s that area there along that street. And there would have been a bit of a creek coming through there. And the creek would have come right back up into the Wandu Street there. And in fact in Wandu Street there are dips there and a friend of mine one afternoon he was driving home and he drove into Wandu Street and drove into a puddle about that deep. Went over the top of his bonnet and that was the end of his new Mercedes. A: Oh no! You don’t expect that, you know. K: No. Friday afternoon, you know, and it’s raining, and you’re just driving along and shhhwoooshh. So that’s the top of the, top of the creek area there that would have come out there in just in, um, in, um, it’s the next road, so there’s Wyandra, Helen, Commercial Road, just there, that would have been where the creek came out of Commercial Road. Yeah, where the ferry is there. So that’s the topography, and then in, um, in… I’ve got a pen here somewhere… A: I’ve got a pen. K: So in the, so there’s the biggest hill in New Farm, is where Teneriffe house is, just there. So that’s forty four meters high. Second biggest hill in New Farm is just there. There’s a vacant block, there’s been a vacant block there since nineteen eighty, in fact. There’s three story brick flats around the corner of Molten and Bowen Terrace, which is a source of a number of novels, have been written out of there. Um, and there’s this, was this, big house there that was knocked down in nineteen eighty and nothing’s ever been done with it ever since, so that’s the second highest point. And then the third highest point is there, and then it goes over to just near where we are, in Crase Street. There’s little New Stead Hill there, and then it goes down and then there’s a hill just then where Stratton House was, I showed you those photos there. And then, um, the next one is Moray Street there, where the Merthyr House is. So that Merthyr was that area. Teneriffe was that area. There was, um, some other areas though, a lot of names that died away. This little, this little, um, there as another little hill in there. And so those little hills were where these early people built their houses and then there’s this, as I said this, this Moray Street, there’s this kind of pathway that came down to

Appendices 186 the New Farm. So that’s a sort of topography. And so over the year’s what we’ve done is, we’ve worked on lots of those houses, so you (incoherent).

A: What kind of stories? K: Stories? Um, oh, well, it was interesting reading that New Farm, you know that New Farm… A: The Recollections of New Farm there that… K: Yeah. That, that um, that um, that now I didn’t know a lot of those stories. They’re sort of, they’re the kind of personal stories about shopkeepers and things like that. Whereas my stories are more about, um, the later stages I suppose, you know, so, ‘cause I didn’t grow-up here, like I went to school at St. James school in the valley. Started there in nineteen fifty- nine. And at that stage there was a lot of Italian kids in my class and they all came from New Farm and Spring Hill. And so they, all those names are all at home, familiar, and sort of, so you have the sort of, the sort of, the, the local barons of New Farm now. So you have Alf Sobello, who’s Merthyr Centre. And he you know he started as the chemist down there in the corner, and sort of did well and became more and more miserable as he went along you know. And then you get the cinema like the Village Twin, like the Village twin was an original cinema built in the nineteen twenties and, and then the other more prominent cinema was the one on the corner of Kent Street where the IGA store is. So that wall was the, that was the roofless cinema originally, it was the open-air cinema, and it was sort of, and in the original ads for it you see, about nineteen fourteen or thirteen, you see, you know featured movies, so and so, weather permitting, you know? And it said a tram passed the door every three minutes. And so the tram became, you know the tram lines, because the tram came down, um, the tram followed the buses, so that there was the tram that went down Brunswick and turned into Merthyr and it stopped there on the ferry and the ferry went across. And then the other tram went up Parker Street and around there and it went down to… that ferry. And the ferry went across to there. So each tram where it hit the ground it would end up in the ferry and they would go across. And so those trams, like, I used to, um, used to go to Gregory Terrace, but then I finished off and I used to row down at Moray Street there. And then we used to walk down there and catch the tram, and we’d, yeah, come back up. But the, um, and then so the 199 buses that was that tram and the one nine six was the other tram. So where the trams went it always got kind of, um, you got that pattern of developments, and where the tram stops where you get shops, little groups of shops. About four hundred meter centres, you get the sort of. The place where you can really see it is in Riding Road in, along Riding Road

Appendices 187 there. Every four hundred meters there’s this group of shops. And that’s where the tram stops were. So the same on Brunswick Street is that there was, you know, there was a tram stop there at the Village Twin and then there was a tram stop down at Merthyr Road and there was a tram stop at back about here, just where the other cinema is, you know where the IGA store is? A: Yep. K: Where the pub is, you know, it’s out there. So they were the tram stops. And then they generated a certain amount of activity. And you go up to New Farm State School, you know, which was built in nineteen hundred. And prior to that these private schools were, you know, people had private tuition or they went to the valley. Catholics would have gone down to the valley, St. Patricks just down at the bottom of this street. And then they, um, but that school in, there’s that lovely picture there from nineteen twenty nine where it shows thirteen hundred kids in the school. With half the buildings there is now. And there’s three hundred children there now. And so the kids used to have to swap classrooms, you know half a day. And they had classrooms under the house, and it’s just they’d have sixty kids… When I started at St. James in nineteen fifty nine we had seventy five kids in a class. Cause there was these big giant classrooms, you know, that there was still room around the edge. And you know one thug kind of running it. With a strap. A: It’s a little different now. K: Yeah. So anyway, and then you’d have that sort of, all that maritime stuff along the river. So you had Julia Street and Julia Street is, is, sort of Moray. And it’s got the seven blocks of units in it. Seven nineteen-thirties blocks of units, which are all state heritage listed now. Cos it’s probably the most intact block of units… and they show the development of fire rating in buildings. So one of them’s totally timber, one of them, the eldest one, and then the youngest one has got, er, cement through the middle where there’s—they’ve still got timber floors but like a concrete through where the fire stairs are. A: Yeah, cos I was reading somewhere that the reason that the Woolstores often catch on fire and just burn completely was because, like, the oil— K: Lanoline. A: Yeah, in the— K: In the, in the timber. A: Soaks into the walls. K: Yeah, cos there’s been two massive fire burnings there. They were pretty amazing. A: Did—you wouldn’t have seen them, or…

Appendices 188 K: Yeah, yeah. I saw those. A: Oh really? K: Yeah, they happened, both, one supposedly Kerry Packer dodged around. A: Oh, what? What’s the story behind that? K: Well, oh that’s just little hearsay. A: Yeah, oh no, but tell anyway. K: Yeah, yeah, but, he owned, um, some Woolstores out where, um, where there’s the Woolstore beside Commercial Road, um, there, I forget whatever it’s called, McFerson’s, McSomeone’s. And then there’s car park, and the shops, where the gym is. And then those units along that section there, and they had proposal to build twenty story buildings there in the nineteen-eighties. Apartment buildings. And, um, but, they were kind of thinking then the Woolstore burned down, so it was all quite convenient, but then the eighty nine crash came, so nothing happened. So there you go. So that would have been along… but, then, so that, sorry I got distracted there, so there’s was a… Woolstores? Yeah, I had another track, but I’ve lost that. Um… A: Yeah, well, we were talking about the Woolstores burning down. K: Yeah, but the Woolstore down there, the other Woolstore was the one up at the far end, which is at the corner of, um, just where the long street comes in up there. That one burned down. And, the man who owned it was so contrary, cause the council wanted him to rebuild—at that time it was before urban renewal—they wanted him to set back off the street. To build an office building or something. And he was so contrary, and he wanted all the land and everything, so he built a replica Woolstore and it was an awful looking thing. And then it’s been converted now, it’s had its bricks plastered over and converted into a block of units called Nouvelle or whatever it’s called. A: I think I’ve seen that on the internet, yeah. K: And so that was a converted version of the rebuilt Woolstore. Which would have been built with concrete floors and stuff like that. And then the last Woolstore, which is the nineteen fifty nine one, which is that one at the end of Craise Street, which is where the council have got there archives. It’s all concrete floors and everything. And there was that, um, that group at the top. But anyway, so, it’s, it’s sort of, um, no matter where you go there’s little stories. So there’s the New Farm State School. So here’s a great story. Here’s the um, this is from our times, this as well, so there’s the New Farm State School, there’s Hawthorne Street. At the moment Hawthorne Street stops there. And Heel Street is a dead- end there. But before you could drive around it. And so the school only had this one little

Appendices 189 bitumen play area. And then the main road zone, all those houses and all those houses and all these, and what they did was, when they built this Southeast Freeway, the plan that that came from was the nineteen sixty three Wilbur Smith plan. This was when the car started to dominate. Okay, so what there was, so there was a… so that there was going to be a freeway, okay, so main roads basically owned all of those houses right through there, and because it was the nineteen sixties, um, the state had to buy all these houses, you know, to, for the freeway. So what they did was they zoned all the area along that path Res A, which was housing, and they wouldn’t allow apartments there, cos it would up the price of the land, and they’d have to pay more. And they did the same thing in Petrie Terrace, so Petrie Terrace was going to have a freeway right through the middle of Petrie Terrace, and they zone all that land Res A too. And so, um, what happened was that the, um, so where it crossed the river here it was apparently exactly halfway between Churchie and Llewellyn Hill. It must have come across over there, but, well, and so that they, cause they didn’t want to upset the Catholics or the Protestants, did they? So very political decision, and it would have gone through, apparently, no it would have gone over there cause it went through New Farm park on elevated piers. Ok. And if you go right up here to just there St. Paul’s Terrace, you’ll see some underpasses underneath the road there where, and they were for the underpasses for this road to come up and join it onto the freeway. And that was where in nineteen seventy three the start of the first freeway, um, demonstrations happened. And there were some people living in a house there that were the anti-freeway people and there was a first stage of an anti- freeway thing, you know, which was like, you can imagine the, you had the left-wing kind of stuff going on at uni in the late sixties and then environmental stuff started in about nineteen seventy,seventy one. There was the greenies over there and the lefties over there and then this freeway group, the anti-traffic group started. And they were another offshoot of the gang. And they had a house here, and they had sit-in demonstrations and police and everything. And they actually single-handedly stopped this freeway system probably. A: Wow. Just through their sitting there. K: Just through, just through continual action, and all of a sudden people said, oh well we don’t really want a freeway going through our place. Anyway, so in the, where the school is, it went through the back of the school, so it went through the area, it would have gone through there, right inside the school, and so Don Lane, who was the Minister for roads at the time, and Lane, who was the turncoat liberal who joined the National Party to give Joe absolute power in nineteen seventy-four. He did his only one good deed of his whole life, is he gave that land to the, they decided by then the freeway was a dead duck, and so they, they

Appendices 190 created, that’s what the school oval is there. And then it was all joined up, and so that was Don Lane’s good action. And his two dreadful legacies left behind are the, um, the Roma Street, that big awful building on Roma Street Station, which is called the Transit Centre, and the one over Toowong, the top of Toowong. A: Oh yes! (Laughter.) K: Yeah, yeah. And the people who developed those got their land for almost nothing and it was very dodgy the whole thing. But this was his one good act. A: Ok. K: So it was Don Lane’s payment to New Farm, because the local member, state member for this area. When we were joined to Ascott at the time, so it was Ascott, New Farm was the state electorate, but now the state electorate is, um, East West and North South. So anyway. That was the sort of, that’s the story of that area there and, and, so that was… that was a boon. But it would have been, that freeway, and even now, we still fight, cause in the current, current New Farm plan, this area through here is still zoned low density, as a result of that thinking, even though, and even though there’s bits of units and stuff, and so we have all these fights with council all the time about why, especially down here through Merthyr and Wellsby, there’s, um, why you’ve got to have low density stuff there when it’s close to the shopping centre, close to everything, and it’s because of that thinking that went right back to creating a cheaper freeway forty-five years ago. A: It just hasn’t changed. K: No one even knows why it’s there. A: How interesting. K: Yeah. And that’s the sort of impact of town planning. A: It’s great. Ah, so where—you were up on Craise Street, you said. K: Craise Street, which is, it’s just, it’s a funny little street that goes, it goes up here, it has a dogleg in it. And then it goes on here, and from that little street there you can almost step on top of that Woolstore. Cos it’s the same height as the top of the Woolstore. And then it comes back along, um, Hastings Street, and down to there, back on to King’s Lane again, so it’s a little circuit, it’s a nice little hill up there, very quiet little spot, and then across the road in, um, Beaston Street is those… there’s a set of apartments there they call Elridge or something like that. Ellington. Um, there’s about a hundred and fifty apartments there. But they’re five story high apartments and yet their roof is still lower than the road. In Cray Street. They’re on Craise Street but the, the roof is lower because um—that’s Ellington there, those ones—but that road there is higher than their roof. Cause it’s just this giant big in their. Cause it’s a big

Appendices 191 gully that went through there and the gully’s twenty meters deep. So it’s an awful little hot hole in Summer. Cause there’s no breeze in there. But they are near Newstead Park, which is, is, well it’s not Teneriffe Park really, which is the great treasure of New Farm. And that’s where the, so then there’s the Americans and things. So this is more, so the Americans were here during the war, so it was a really big scene here. A: Oh, tell me about that. K: So, in the Merthyr there was a big submarine base there, where the, where um, I forget the name of the apartments now, but it was then called HMAS Morton, it was this shed there, it’s been knocked down. And that was the American submarine bays. And then the, the echelon of the Americans lived here, so… for a while General McArthur lived in a little house there in Morayfield. And then, in Maxwell Street at the back of him, which is on the river, um, there’s a house—there’s Moray Street. Here we are. So there’s where, so, just there, that one, one sixty three, there’s a lovely little arts and crafts house there, which is inside Julia Street. Julia Street’s there… So there’s that little house there. Lovely little arts and crafts house. I think that’s where, um, McArthur lived, in the war. For a while, and then I think he shifted again. But, the second in command lived in this house that’s actually here, it’s not marked on this, it’s called, um, Naxus street is a dead-end street and there’s a little laneway that goes up to Moray there, and Lindenlea’s there and there’s a big awful twelve-story block of flats there and there’s another twelve-story block, but all those houses were gone. Anyway, and um, this house is called Neville Court, and it’s a really lovely example of a America Spanish-mission style house. Not as nice as that lovely one in the corner of Sydney and Moray, which is called… It’s the classic Spanish-mission house. But this one was Neville Court, and it was built by wealthy butchers in nineteen thirty two. And it was named after their two-year-old son Neville. And this, and um, we did it, we built a new house in, in there, in um ninety two, at the end of Caxton street, and the fellow that we did it for, he used to trade in cars a bit and he reckoned that he met Neville, and Neville gave him some photographs, and there were some lovely photographs of here, sorry, cause the story bridge is just straight down the road there, and you can see the story bridge half-built on the other side. Anyway, and so, what happened was that Neville’s family, I don’t know their other name, they then, um, the house was requisitioned by the Americans in nineteen forty one or forty two and so the second in command over there, so there was three characters over there, one was, um, Chuck Jager, speed of sound man, first speed of sound man, and the second one was General Marshall, who was the Marshall plan in Europe, and the third one was, um, went on to become the head of Chevrolet or something, anyway. But so they lived there, and at the end of the war the

Appendices 192 house had such a bad reputation that the family never moved back in again. And then, the Centenary House was also requisitioned by the Americans and they had a, there’s this lovely area out the back that’s known as the casino and they, they ran a big casino out there, and you can see it’s this sort of derelict kind of folly out the back of Teneriffe House. And then, so the Americans were very much, they were right through this area. A: And I understood they also had, like, some igloos or something? K: There was igloos. There is igloos around in Stratton street and things like that. But they were actually came from Northern Territory. They were bought by the Americans in Darwin. And then someone at the end of the war bought them and dissembled them and reassembled them here. So there used to be some other igloos in, opposite the Queen’s Arms Hotel, in Arthur Street. And there they’ve been knocked down, I think they were, I’m not sure whether they were built or whether they were thing…. And then there’s the famous igloo down there at Riverside. Riverside… what’s it called? Function rooms. Beside the Merthyr Bowls Club. They were, that was built by Americans, and so they had camps down there, so there were soldiers living down there. While the boys were requisitioning flash dancers. A: And doing things that caused them to have a bad reputation. K: Yes, yes. So you imagine they had a good time, cause they were here for nearly a year. Before they just shunted on to Manilla, to go and fight the Japanese. A: Plenty of time to earn themselves a reputation. K: Yeah, they’re kind of… So there’s those periods and then there was a lot of little, there was a couple of famous brothels that were opposite the Morton, where the submarine base was just down there, on the corner of Merthyr road. Those houses have just been done up there on the corner, between the Merthyr café and the, there’s a couple of little houses there. They were, they were really notorious brothels. It carried on into the eighties. Left over from the… cause the sailors, the HMAS Morton was still there until the late eighties, so there was still Australian sailors there. A: Oh, that’s great. I’m glad I talked to you. You’ve got all the good stories. K: Yeah. So anyway, so, um, so you had all those kind of big houses and families, and so you had like the Clark house down here on the Oxley Drive, this bit in here is the pearling lugger. King, and so he used to moor all his pearling boats down there in the summer season. And then in winter they’d go up to North Queensland and they were fishing for pearling and so he made all his money out of that. There was the, um, the, the, there was the most exquisite Japanese house which was in, um, Morton Street I think, or, it was either Morton or Langshaw, somewhere around there. It’s got, now, but it was a Japanese house. It was

Appendices 193 dissembled in Japan and brought back here and set up and it was, I’ve only seen one little picture of it. It was the most exquisite looking thing. And it was a, it was by some excentric person. And there was the uh, the pawpaw ointment doctor. Yeah the, pawpaw ointment, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it, it’s a thing that was a great Queensland product that people used to put on sores and cuts and bruises. A: So one of those cure all things. K: Yeah, cure all. Like tea tree oil. And it was, he was, he was in a place in New Farm here in Langshaw Street. His house here. A little story about him recently in the paper. But, so, it, it was always had a lot of interesting characters. We’ve got, we’ve got a new interesting character up here, um, on top of Moray Street. Alex Mackay. He’s, you know where you come down the park and then the Moray Street turns off there. The second house is a new house, it’s a new greyish house. It’s here somewhere. We designed it. But Alex, he’s a solicitor at Toowong, but he’s got now Australia’s largest collection of erotic art. And he’s built this house as his, um, it’s got one single bedroom and nothing else. It’s just a gallery. It’s a private gallery, a little mini, mini, uh, GOMA. It’s fabulous. It’s this big high thing that looks out over the top of the cliffs there. So there’s still, we’re still collecting eccentrics, you know. A: Do you have any eccentrics around where you are? K: Round us? We’ve got, well there was Cray Street, two doors down from us, was a hospital during the war. So there was lots of hospitals during the war and lots of sick people, amputees and things. So, not, not a great deal, um, I’ll have to think through those, um, the… hmm… A: I’m just bringing it back more up to the gasworks… K: Yeah, I know, that’s more your area of interest isn’t it? So- A: Although this stuff is great as well. K: Yeah. But the, the sort of, um, I suppose there’s the, the little stone cottage, um brick cottage down at Doggett Street there, which is a famous historical house. Which was, um, done by a stonemason, who worked on some of the area down there. Little Doggett cottage. Um, there’s not much through, that’s a dull area through there. A: Yeah, that’s kind of what I found when I was doing my research on it. Cos there wasn’t a lot of stuff. K: And it had all those little houses, so, in Helen Street… we’ve had lots of fights in Helen Street with people and things, we’ve, we’ve designed a great little place in Helen Street which is for a woman that, she was a, a occupational therapist and she bought a legal works,

Appendices 194 so she had a two story office in front, it was behind a warehouse but it, and it had a three story house in the back of it, and it was, um, it’s now the, the, that union of gay councils that bought it, so it’s their centre now, so they use it as offices, but… that’s just sort of recenty stuff now, but, um… Chermside Street and Florence, but it’s that sort of, um, Longland Street, well there is, there is the great source of issue there, which was the old gasworks. It was gasworks there, which used to burn coal, which managed to be, it was very lead-heavy. And it was used to fire half the houses in this area as a fill. But, anyway, that’s sort of come and gone, cause everyone used to go and get it for free, you know? And you have the, in here you have the Angelo’s Pizza, Angelo’s Pasta. Have you seen that place? A: No I haven’t, actually. K: It’s in Doggett and Wandu. So they own quite a big chunk of land in there. Giant area, and there’s this lovely couple who started under their house in Gimp Street, no, Annie Street. Started under their house in Annie Street, and they, they’ve got this, this big giant empire making pasta—Angello’s pasta, you buy it in Woolworths and Coles, and things like that. And it’s still made there, and it’s the most beautiful, inside the factory it’s the most exquisite, and so the old couple are still there, so, they still run it, so Angello’s mid-seventies and goes down at five O’clock every morning and, and, Aunty Bahl is there, who runs the books and her daughters work there as well and the son. And they, but the last thing they installed was a twenty-two meter long, um, pasta making machine that you put flour and stuff in, but they were still breaking eggs into it, so a person was still breaking eggs into this big giant tub, and in the end of it it was frozen and there was a big giant freezer. So it went straight from, it was a full process. A: What an amazing place. I’ll have to check that out. K: It’s the most beautiful place. It’s like you go in and you can buy pasta down there off them. You go down on Fridays you get it fresh, the rest of the time it’s frozen. But you go to the little office down there, and, um, they then, so she’s a, she’s an aunty of the Calvizis I was talking about in, in Moray Street, so. And she’s, they’ve, they’ve been here, so that was the sixties, they started. But they still, and you know, they’re trying to get rid of them now, with industrialisation. They still employ a lot of people there and stuff. So they’re the last big employment place, cause James Street was the Coke factory. Where James Street, all that James Street stuff is, was the big, the very big giant Coca-Cola factory. There was all about three blocks, three big blocks. And, um, it was, um, so that was still there when we came, the Coke factory. It was pretty derelict, yucky place, and so if you ever have a thought that that stretch of James Street was a big stretch.

Appendices 195 A: Yeah, cause now it’s so, like, posh. K: Twee and such. A: Yeah. K: But and then they managed to get them, the, the trees actually touching across here, there wasn’t a touch of green down there before, it was a total brown zone. But, so that’s happened, and so that, and the sugar factory of course, moving out where Cutter’s landing is. So there was the, the sugar factory, there was, um, Coca-Cola factory, there was James Hardy’s asbestos people. A: Yeah, that was, and there was a James Hardy on the gasworks site as well. K: Yeah, James Hardy was down where that state sawmills was. So they took over from the state sawmills. That was that site. They, the Hardy’s was up here, and then the railway zone, a lot of that land in there as well, left over from the railway line. That was the Bulimba line, and it came along there. All the way along. And so you can still see bits in front of the Woolstores. You can see bits of track. If you ever look, if you ever look, a couple of those Woolstores in the middle zone, you know where they’ve got kind of sidings, where there’s a café I think, between Beaston Street and that area. If you go in there you’ll see bits of railway line. Left over from the tracks. And, um, um, and then where the Coke factory is, prior to that the Story Bridge was assembled, down there. So there was a lot of, um, a lot of lead and a lot of, um, a lot of contamination they had to get rid of. A: Yeah, cos I think the gasworks site was really contaminated. K: Oh it was putrid. Cos they used to dig these holes and bury tar, they had these tar pits. It just went down and down and down. Tar baby stuff. A: So the tar was like, um, a by-product of the gas? K: Yeah, cause, cause the coal, the way the gasworks work is, a giant big oven, and you had big coal loads, and then the coal would get shoved up and it would fall into these ovens and it would burn and out of the burning they got the gas from the coal. And then all the residue came out the bottom. Which is all that ok. A: Ew. And then they buried it. K: They just buried it, and very likely they dumped some in the river there. A: Oh, yeah. I actually talked to the lady whose daughter was an architect who dis…like, helped get rid of, take all of the bricks out from the, the place. And she used the bricks from the gasworks to make this drive in her garden. And there were all these bricks with kind of brickmaker’s stamps on them, and one had this love heart. K: Oh yeah.

Appendices 196 A: Yeah, and I just thought that was really interesting, actually. K: Yeah, there’s a, there’s a famous, um, love heart. Robin Dons was a famous Brisbane architect and he, he appropriated the love heart symbol, and you can see it on the church house in St. John’s cathedral. On the hand rails. Have a look there, you’ll see a heart, and Robin Dons has done that. But he appropriated that from an English architect Voysee. Cos he worked with, um, Macintosh in Scottland, but, and Voysee did a house for H. G. Wells, who refused to wear his heart on his sleeve and he didn’t want a heart emblem, because Voysee used to put a heart emblem on all the houses. And so he turned the heart upside-down and he made it a spade. It’s called a spade house. And so there’s a heart still here, on that. But, um, there was a brickworks, Campbells, that, in Julius Street, here, this was a… here, so this was a big timbermill, um, and originally, if you have a look, if you walk down, um, you can’t see it, but if walk along the boardwalk here, look across here, you’ll see these kilns, these brick kilns there. And they were for making lime, for cement. And they were, um, um, there’s a, a block of flats on top there, and, um, it was, so this was all, that, all that block there, was, um, originally Campbell’s Hardware, and then, um, it was… then it was a… Julius Rosenfeld, I think, had a big timber out here, and it burned nineteen thirty-one. And so this land became vacant and in nineteen thirty-one, um, flats were the big go, because the depression was on. And so, um, what happened was a lot of people moved in from the country, cause there was jobs were disappearing in the country, cause they couldn’t sell primary produce. And so they came into the city, and so, and most of these flats were built and owned by women who were wives of ex-publicans. And the business they knew, they came from the country, so that the, often the husbands had drunk themselves to death, you know, at the pub. And so, these women knew about running boarding houses and flats and so there was this Miss McDonald here in Drossen and there was a Mrs, um hang on, sorry, this one here, um, Green Gables. And there’s, uh, Drossen was another woman who was a publican, ex-publican, I think St. Carpia was as well. It’s the oldest ones that are little, it was a boarding house for, for gentlemen and gentle ladies, no gentle ladies. And, um, and this was, this one Emma Court was one of the last ones who was, another one who’s got the concrete. But the, um, and so, and so, these, this was the, one of the few business that was actually moving in the, in the depression period. A: Of course, because there’d be, you know, people coming in. K: People coming, and there was need for cheap accommodation. And a lot of these apartments were built by, um, so Amberley was built for gentlemen, you know, it was a gentlemen’s residence, so they, some of them were a higher quality, and some of them were a

Appendices 197 lower quality. But they were all, and they were all themed on different, sort of, Euro styles. So that’s a Spanish-mission, Spanish style, and this one was Green Gables, so it’s very Englishy sort of thing, and, Emma Court was the sort of, it was more American style. These were more… and St. Carpia was the more cutesy, timbery sort of stuff. Yeah. A: So, so that was the brickworks, there as well. K: That was when there was a brickworks there, yeah. And so Campbell’s bricks had their own stamps on bricks, on the frog. Cos the, in a brick, the old bricks had the thing called a frog in the middle, and the stamp was usually in the frog. A: Oh, okay. Yeah, yeah. K: And the frog was, you turned it upside-down and so the, the mortar went into the frog and so it acted as a key. A: Okay, cause, the ones they, some of the ones had stamps from companies. I think one of them was Dalgety’s or something like that, and there was… and I was able to find a history of those companies because they were still running, but I was really, I couldn’t find anything about that one. K: Campbells was one of the great, great Brisbane companies. And they, so they stopped, um, they used to Campbells, they’re in where Bunnings is in Albion. That was a Campbells shop. And there was these big brickworks, but there was a number of brick places around. So it was PGH was one of the big brick ones. But anyway, but so, um, you can see all these big houses, tennis courts and things along the river here, you know, they’re gardens, all terraced down to the river. And they were kind of, so they’re all big buildings. Now that’s where those, um, that’s where those two Glen Eagles towers are now, where they’re fighting, where Dooley’s just kicked out all the old people. And that was built by the Pod fellows that built the aged care place in nineteen sixty three. And now they’ve just been turfed out, so. A: So what’s happening there, why are they turfing them out? K: Oh, they’re turned into flashy apartments. A: Oh right. What are the old people going to do? K: Yeah, so it was purpose built aged care accommodation. Alternative choice in the sixties, you know, which was really rare to have, you know, stuff built so that people in the area could live in there. So it’s a shame that a couple of the, the strident people have died recently. That’s why I think that they’re more vulnerable to… Cos there was a couple of old publicans in there who were very, very stroppy and very big on their history. Yeah, so anyway, that’s the sort of, that thing. And that was the maritime services authority. There’s a little left over from them. Part of the lighthouse.

Appendices 198 A: Oh, what is… Oh, part of a lighthouse. So that would be where the light was shining? K: There would have been about four or five of those joined together, to form the… A: So where’s that from? K: I got it from here, from that, that warehouse. They had a big auction in the warehouse, and they sold that lot of stuff, and we bought some lamps and in fact there’s a lamp on top of that house in Maxwell Street we designed. There’s a, a eight octagon in the middle of it and there’s this, an old lamp that came from Cape Capricorn up in, off Rockhampton. So they sell, they have a hundred years’ worth of stuff in this place and they just sold it by auction, which was a tragedy because it should have been, it should have been, um, preserved, as a sort of, um, it should have been, a lot of it should have got into museums. There was a whole, there was a whole lighthouse assembly in ten crates, that came from Darwin, you know. And in here there was a house, there was a set of houses, there was a very colourful house in here as you walk along the boardwalk you can see its blue and purple and red colours. But it was, it was a, um, quarantine station. So the quarantine doctor lived in the top house, and then there was these, these, there was a fumigation shed we actually made into a kitchen. Cos the fumigation pipes, you know. And there was a little thing, and so we assembled this whole little group of buildings into a house there. A: Oh wow. So that’s on Maxwell. K: Maxwell, yeah. It’s just on Maxwell Street. Maxwell goes up to a dead-end there. But most of these are all gone now, all those houses. That house is still there. And that house is still there I think. Yeah. A: Hmm. When I was at the gasworks, or like looking at the gasworks site the other day there was, it looked, I don’t know if you know anything about it, but I think it was a quite old house up on the hill and I think it was called Avalon, or something like that. K: At Bowen Hills? A: Yeah, somewhere, like, heading towards Bowen Hills. K: Yeah, ‘cause there’s a, there’s a couple of big houses. There’s one called Cintra house up there. And there’s a couple of big houses up there, cause that was a notable hill, as you can imagine. And there was probably a house where the Cloudland was as well. A: Hmm, yeah, I think that was Montpellier? K: Was it? A: I think so. K: Could well have been, yeah. A: Um, cos I know there’s the Montpellier Street down there.

Appendices 199 K: Yeah. So they were those houses on hills, you know that, that created names for areas. Yeah, so anyway, so, um, that’s my… contribution. As I said, I don’t know a great deal about that area down there. Cos it’s mainly been, but, there would have been… the lives of all, you know, as you say, if you get these, these things, here, um, Arthur, Commercial, hang on, so if you get, you got some of these, like that area there, that’s, that’s adjacent, there’s part of that, see there’s little houses even there, at that time. A: I wonder what they were. K: They were the workers’ cottages. That’s a worker’s cottage, that’s slightly bigger. That’s a slightly bigger version. It’s got a side veranda as well as a front veranda. That one had a little bay window at the front. And then you had, um, all these there, the classic, these would have been built by a developer, you know like there would be five or six houses exactly the same. The workers’ cottages. And then you see some, even these tiny ones here, so these would have been… And this is the swamp area in here, this was really the low wet area, so there were the really daggy little houses. But they were all houses through those streets, you know through Masters Street. And you have a look here, from, that’s that other one. So that’s the, that’s the gasworks, so do you wanna take a copy of that? A: Yeah, that would be lovely. K: And that’s the… um, Jane, so what’s that… um, where are we here… Johns Street, this is the, in fact this is our street here, Brett Street, so there’s Brett Street there, at that stage it was all houses. A: Oh, so that’s interesting. K: So there was a house here, there’s one house left now, there’s one house just two doors up, two doors up. That’s the only house left, which is, we would be… I think, is that right, no hang on, Morgan… yeah, that’s, that’s St. Patrick’s. Yeah, this is Beret Street, it was called Johns Street then. And, it had the tea place there, that was Bushell’s Tea, where the youth rights centre is. And then there was a, there was a pub there in the corner. Oh no, that was all, all terrace houses there. So there was the valley hotel there. But these were all houses, so… Um… that was probably the house where this place is here. So, you can see how this would have been different. So it was, that’s where these thirteen hundred kids came from and the New Farm State School. Cause all of these would have had five or six kids in the family. And then this is, um, then down in Commercial Road, Leopard Street, okay so there’s all the houses right through that area there. Um, Alice Street, yeah that’s where, that’s, that’s where all the, the Angello’s Pasta is now in there, all that area in there. So that was all houses in Wandu Street. Houses in James Street. There’s, uh, there’s James. There’s the little Fortitude

Appendices 200 Lane, Fortitude Street, which runs down this way. Yeah. So that’s little, they’re little snapshots that sort of… And then this is, um, Commercial Road, and there’s Anne, uh, Commercial Road, oh so that’s running down to the river, so that’s all, you can see all, houses there. So that, so that area there would have been… so if you’re chasing up stuff in that, if you come across anyone whose family lived in a house down there, because these would have been knocked down probably in the thirties. Or even in the fifties. A: Yeah, cos I haven’t been able to find anyone really at all. Um… K: Yeah, but there was a whole community down there. A: Mmm, and then, I guess, yeah just got knocked down. K: Yeah. A: For the industrial stuff that took its place. Hmm. K: There was a, um, one of the last remaining of these houses was on, near the corner of James and Anne Street. There was a, there’s a little rounded bank on the corner, where, uh, what’s his name, the photographer used to be there, and next door to it was a house that was knocked down about only ten years ago. And it was owned by Mrs. O’Dempsey. And she had a son, well she had about ten kids I think, but she had a son called Vince. Vince O’Dempsey was rumoured to be, um, responsible for at least fifteen murders in Queensland in the seventies and eighties. And his claim to fame was that they never found one of these bodies. A: Well you wonder where they are. K: And so when he went, when he went to jail and they, you know he eventually got into jail for one reason or another. Some circumstantial evidence about his family disappeared in the Dam up at Warwick. And um, but he was so feared in jail that a couple of Gimpy detectives had been put in jail for distortion or something, and they did an arrangement with him to look after them so they wouldn’t be, cos they’d, they’d beaten up a lot of people, so they were going from high end to nothing and so Vince apparently had so much power in jail that they weren’t touched. And his Mum lived there and he had some sisters who were nuns and things like that. And so he was just this big, heavy Catholic family and his Mum was still living there until about ten years ago. So she was a part of, they were that sort of valley scene, you know they would have been a lot of, um, very working class families, with a mixture of kids. Everything from policemen to criminals. A: To nuns. K: Yeah. A: So that’s, that’s probably what this area would have looked like.

Appendices 201 K: That, that, a lot of this area was like that. And, the area that took over from this was the area in the back of the Pineapple Hotel in, in, um, Kangaroo Point there. A lot of them shifted over there because the, that was the painters and dockers then, because there was a dry dock there and… So they’re all sort of gone now, but in the seventies and eighties they were, it was all painters and dockers lived right through there, and, um, and they were kind of, most of them were sort of semi-criminals and that. And they used to have, they used to have a little clubhouse where you came over the story bridge, just before the back of the dry dock, before they built all that stuff there. So it was there the painters and dockers kind of club room, and they used to meet there at five in the morning and swap things that they’d stolen, you know, during the night. Have a swap and shop, you know. A: That’s great. K: And, um, yeah, so we were doing a job for a guy who lived up a bit farther down the Pineapple and he, he was a notorious painter and docker and he, um, we had to go and do some work on his house because he’d just been arrested because he was in his kitchen counting out this fishing rods he’d just stolen the night before, and the valley, one of the detectives was going there for breakfast and they were there a bit, twenty minutes early and they thought, oh, let’s drop in and see if Terry Lehman’s done anything, you know. Walked in the back door and he’s got these two hundred fishing rods at his table! Okay Terry, where’d you get them? A: Just doing a bit fishing! K: Yeah, so there was that sort of, that’s part of… and, and you would imagine that these were, cos these were all servicing the docks you see, and the docks were working. Cos the emblem of the New Farm State School is a rose and a ship. So the rose is from the garden, from New Farm park, and the ship’s from the harbour. So the, this would have been just classic, they would have been off working at the docks, those guys. A: Oh, that’s great. K: Yeah, so you imagine it would be tough territory. A: Yeah, yeah. And- K: So there’s probably a whole lot of stories in there. Like the Vincent Dempsey story. A: Yeah, I, I just, you know, I wonder how to access them, you know? Cos there’s not really anything there at the moment. K: Well in terms of, and you’d have to find, you’d have to find people in the, in the, if you went to the, um, Mount Oliver Hospital, you know the, the, the um, on Kangaroo Point, it’s the, what do you call it, where you go to die, the hospice. So there’s a lot of old Catholics in

Appendices 202 there. You know that, so you’d get someone who would be able enough that, would possibly live down here, in that area. But I suspect there’s a ton of stories down here. A: Yeah, I think there is too. I just don’t know how to… K: Huh. And if you got to… the um… the, the, probably the Valley, St. Patrick’s records, down the bottom there. A: Oh, okay. That’s probably a good idea. K: Uh, there might be, you look at the births and deaths there, there would probably be births through this area. There would be heaps of births that would be in these streets. And there, there Helen Street and Wyrandra Street and Commercial Road, and things like that. Might find some names that might have a certain resonance. A: Yeah, that’s a good idea. K: Yeah, but that would be, like it would be, it would have been… Cos that school at St. Patrick’s down here would have had thousands of kids in it at one stage. The Mercy Convent. You could talk to some old Mercy nuns. A: Yeah, I have talked to some Sisters of Mercy actually, at the Mater Hospital. Um, yeah, they’re great. K: Yeah, you might find someone that taught down there in primary school. St. Patrick’s, in the valley. Second recording: A: I, I heard about this gasworks, and then it was, it was there for a while with the buses all around it. And I found this picture. You’ve got the gas-o-meter, and then the buses, like parked underneath it. K: Yeah, cause they had a tennis court in the, in the, and those trams used to come in here too, there was a tram, tram depot. So it’s that, that’s the one down in your territory, in Longlands, and then that’s, uh, Helen Street Wyandra Street. And that’s just, uh, Pro. See that’s Pro, Chester, Doggett. James. Ah, there’s St. Patrick’s there, yeah, so it’s that street… Harbour… No let’s go farther into it… You can have that if you like. A: Uh yeah, that would be good as well. Cos that’s got all the hills. Oh, I might take that one too actually.

Appendices 203

APPENDIX H: INTERVIEW THREE

Interview with a woman whose grandmother lived at Boyd Street and who has childhood memories of Newstead. She also talks about her mother growing up at Mt Coottha. Names have been changed in accordance with the ethical standards of the university.

Interviewee: Denise Interviewer: Ariella Van Luyn Date conducted: 9 September 2009 Location: Hill Crest

Annotations: Ariella Van Luyn is referred to as A. Denise is referred to as D. Words in brackets and italics indicate actions. Reference numbers beginning with PA refer to photographs taken on the day: a list in included in appendix 3.1

A: Oh, and this is the… Yeah… D: Yeah that’s interesting too, if you’re into early… A: Yeah actually I’ve been meaning to get this, because I, they mentioned it a lot. D: Yes. A: Um, yeah, I’ll write that down… I didn’t realise it was… cos he was quite big in that area. D: Yeah, and did you read that? Of, um, Diane’s? A: Yes, I’ve got that one. D: Yeah I thought you might have seen that one, talking to her. A: Yeah. She was lovely. D: Yeah. Um…That’s another photo… Bits and pieces all over the place… This is, this is the family that lived at Dun… in Dunlop Street. A: Oh okay. D: Right. That’s my great grandmother, great grandfather. That’s my grandfather. And his sisters, and this lady, my great grandfather, and that two boys were all dentists. A: Oh okay. D: Mm. This lady was very very clever. She became the first registered female dentist in Queensland.

Appendices 204 A: Really? D: Yeah. And, um, she spoke Russian, Greek and Chinese, and she helped a lot of migrant people. They were a very, very religious family. They used to be Salvation Army. He was a bit of a naughty fellow in his youth. He had a, a hotel and, what was the other thing, picture theatre that he won from gambling. And he absolutely adored antique stuff. And when they moved to Dunlop Street he went out and he had all the money that was supposed to be bought furniture cos they’d lived in little tiny places and moved a lot and they didn’t have a lot and they had all this money saved up to buy furniture. So he ran away and he bought all this antique stuff. (Laughter). This is, this is one of the antique… (indicates pictures) That’s one, and the other one’s in the back here. Sorry. That’ll disturb you. Sorry about that. This is not a very clear picture, but that’s the Goddess of Peace with the lion and the snake and they’re all lying down together. A: How beautiful. D: It’s beautiful. It’s alabaster. And it’s about that round and that high. My brother’s got that. A: Oh, how gorgeous. D: Yeah. A: And you’ve… I love the way you’ve put them all so beautifully, put them all together. D: Um, um, I’ll start at the beginning and then I’ll… A: That sounds like a good idea. D: Yep. That’s my Dad. He tried to compile all this—he kept most things. This is my great great great grandparents. On my great grandmother Lovelock’s side. And that’s their daughter. A: So where, were they living in… D: They lived in Yorkshire, near Leeds. Part of it is what where they lived is Leads now, but it was country then. And then they had this daughter, and she got married in this church in Guiseley, up in the north of England. A: In eighteen fifty two. D: Yep. And this is the church. A friend of mine was over there recently and took all these photos for me. A: Oh, how lovely of them. D: That was fantastic. That’s all inside. And this is the marriage certificate of, um, their parents. You know Wuthering Heights, the Brontes? A: Oh yes, yes.

Appendices 205 D: Well this is the Brontes’ marriage certificate. Of their parents. And these are just little places that were near the church.A: Mm. Oh how beautiful. D: Hmm. This is where they came from. Just all now part of Leads. In eighteen fifty three they came out and they settled in this little place called Taradale down in Victoria. That’s on the Cobb and Co coach line to the goldfields, near Bendigo and Ballarat. That’s my great great grandma with great grandma. That’s the one that lived at Bowen Hills. That’s her when she was about ten. A: She’s very severe isn’t she. I don’t think they smiled in those photos then did they? D: No, the camera took too long. It was ages, you know. This is Tarredale as it was in about nineteen seventy-one or something. That’s a Cobb and Co Coach there. A: Oh, how interesting. D: That was at some of the old shops. And that’s great grandma. And this is her bible. I’ll show you. (Gets up to find the bible). A: So this is the great grandma that then went and came and lived at Bowen Hills? Or is it the one after? D: No, great great grandma. The one after that… Oh, thought I had the bible out here to show you. It’s beautiful… Don’t know what I’ve done with it… I’ll find it later. (Returning.) It’s a beautiful little bible, it’s got all the family history, that’s one of the pages with all the kids’ names. A: I brought a camera, is it all right if I take a picture? D: Yeah, yeah! A: That’s great. Just so I have, you know… D: Where do you want it (refers to picture)?

A: Um, well, so this one was, she, she was still living in Victoria though? D: Yeah, yeah. It’s her daughter. A: Her daughter there? D: Yeah. That’s her when she’s old and grey. This is where they’re buried in Tarredale. And they’re all the funerals, and this is her brother. There were about five of them in the family. A: So where’s this (refers to picture)? D: Um, that’s in Melbourne somewhere. A: You can tell by their coats. D: But, they’re, they’re out from Canada. Someone in the family lived in Canada. Yeah… That’s just the family tree (refers to picture PA150046). And then… um…

Appendices 206 A: I might, I might take a picture of that so I’ve got… D: Probably not able to read it. Do you want me to pull it out so you haven’t got the shine on it (pictures were behind plastic sleeves)? A: Yeah, if, if, I’ll let you pull it out though. D: I could give you a copy of this… A: That’ll be okay. Just so I can get a, an idea. It’s so much easier when you see it written down and you can visualise it. D: (Pulling out documents.) I don’t know if you can read it. I can easily give you a copy. A: (Taking photo.) Hmm. I don’t know if I will either, but that’s okay. D: (Putting documents back.) Then we’ve got the Lovelocks (refers to PA150047?), so we’ve got, and they came from in the south of England. Naughty. Great great grandpa was a convict. He got done for breaking a shop window. And he came out on this boat, and that’s the boat when it’s getting demolished. It only made one trip. That’s a convict ship. And before that it had seventy four guns, I think it had on it. And then they changed it into a women’s prison. And it was on the Derwent River. And then the convict fellow got married to an Anne Dunne. And they had all these kids, plus the first two were twins. And one of the twins died and the last kid died. And one of them was my great grandfather. This fellow here. And this church here is in Launceston, where, um, all the kids were christened. A: Oh yeah I was in Launceston quite recently actually. D: Right, yeah he got his ticket of leave. He got off pretty soon, he must have behaved himself. And this is the oldest photo I’ve got now for him, it’s their shop in Launceston. When you get a magnifying glass it’s got Cadbury’s Coco and all sorts of stuff up there. And then, um, the, the little girl back here, the Austin. This’s little Austin. Great grandma where is she? Uh, sorry about this flipping business. This one, right, great grandmother married, married the printer. The son of a convict. Um, she went to work for this lady in Victoria, at Taradale. And she took to a church meeting and she joined the Salvation Army. And she became a Salvation Army. And that’s the two great grandparents. It’s these two. When they were young and they got engaged. A: I might take a picture of those ones. The two great grandparents (refers to PA150047?). D: Probably give you a copy… And this is when they got married, they got married on Christmas day in Salvation Army uniform (laughs). A: Wow, they were serious weren’t they? D: Yeah! That’s more family tree. That’s them there. And… that’s a letter from William Booth, who founded the Salvation Army. Um, written to my great grandfather. They went all

Appendices 207 over the place. They were in charge of um, Newcastle down south, um, somewhere in Melbourne, and they did a little while in New Zealand. And South Australia. And all this went on before he became a dentist. So we’ve got Salvation Army papers coming out of my head. I sent them a copy of this and told them who, who there were and next thing I know they sent me all these Salvation Army and they had bits and pieces about him. A: So you were, it was in… D: Yes, that’s him there. A: In the band of the Salvation Army? D: Oh, mostly just preaching I think. That’s someone’s idea of a drawing of him. A: I like these bits, the squiggly lines coming off there. What does that mean (refers to picture)? D: (laughing) I don’t know! That’s great grandma when she was a bit younger. A: Oh, I might take a picture of that. Hmm, take the flash off… D: Are they coming out? A: Yeah, they’re, it’s actually, I’ll just show you. D: Oh that’s good. A: Yeah, yeah. D: You’ve got a good camera. A: Yes, I borrowed it from my sister. D: And William Booth’s son, he stayed with them in, um, in New Zealand. And this is Auntie Lizzie, this is this one. She was the eldest. A: Oh, as a baby. D: And then Harry. This is him. A: I might just, um, take the flash off the camera. So it doesn’t have that reflecting. See how that goes. Oh, yeah, that’s all right. D: And this is my Grandfather. Lovelock. He was born in Auckland and that’s Auckland in the year when he was born. It was a big, busy city by then. These are just more Salvation Army bits and pieces. A: So why were they in Auckland? D: With the Salvation Army. He did a lot of work with the Maori people. They were only pretty primitive. A: (reads from newspaper cutting) The commissioning of the Maori expedition. D: Mmm. And then he became a dentist. While he had these two more girls after that. He became a dentist and they went to live in a little stone cottage in Brisbane. And it’s now

Appendices 208 covered by the Southeast Freeway. And then they moved into this place, called the Edwards Building. And it was next door to Mac and Easts (MacDonnell and East Ltd). I don’t know, would you remember Mac and Easts and all, it was a good Emporium in George Street? A: No, I don’t remember that. D: Oh, it’s all been demolished. But, they lived here, in this little bit. And that was the original McInnis building. It’s an old wooden building. A: So, was he doing his dentist practice there, in that building? D: Yeah, um, great grandpa travelled. He left great grandma here with the kids, and he travelled in a horse and sulky as far as the Gympie goldfields and called himself the Sydney dental company. And then when the kids grew up they all practiced dentistry, except the two younger girls. So this place stayed a dentist’s surgery for about fifty years. And great grandma was a herbalist, so she had a herbal shop under here, until they, for a few years, until they started doing the dentistry. A: I’d love to take a picture (refers to appointment card, image PA150051). D: I can give you one of those… They haven’t got their name on because there were four of them, so… You can have this one, there you go. A: Thank you. That’s great. D: Yeah, I came across a whole box of them! I’ve been goin the rounds with the rellies. And this is Bopeep and Fairy (refers to PA150052). They’re circus, ex-circus horses. And that’s great grandma and Auntie Lizzie and Uncle Harry and Auntie Myra and this is outside the Mayne’s House at, where Wesley Hospital is. On Coronation Drive. So then they went and lived there for a while. And the kids went to this normal school. My dad went to the valley one and he was um… It’s normal school. That’s my grandfather in school. (Laughter.) A: It’s so amazing that you have all these pictures. D: Thanks to my Dad. I’ve put them all together, but he kept them all, thank goodness. That’s great grandma, great grandpa. Auntie Lizzie. Grandpa and Harry and the two younger girls. I love that photo. It’s so old-fashioned. Lace collars. Didn’t I send you any photos? A: Yeah, you did. I remember BoPeep. There was definitely BoPeep. I just wanted to, sort of, get a sense of what’s there. D: And then they moved, um, to Bowen Hills. This is the house in Dunlop Street (refers to PA 150056). You know where Gows are now on the corner? If you look straight up the road and there’s a timber place there and that’s what was there. It’s had three hundred steps to the front door. There it is looking up the road there (refers to PA150057). That’s the garage. And this is all terraced all the way. This is the back terrace up to the clothesline (refers to

Appendices 209 PA150058). And great grandma lived there when she was ninety two. And she had a walking stick. And she’d go out visiting lonely people in hospitals and she’d come home on this tram and my Dad’s workshop was down on Brekky Creek road and she’d get off the tram—my Dad knew when she was getting off—and she was so darn Victorian and independent, he’d got out to meet her and try to help her up all these steps up the hill and she’d wave the walking stick and she’d go, ‘Get back to work young man!’ Poor Dad was so embarrassed he didn’t try it too often. That’s Mygunyah. That’s Mac and Easts. And that’s the fern garden that my great grandparents had in their yard (refers to PA15059). They had all kinds of exotic plants from all over the world. There’s a lot of colour isn’t there? A: That’s beautiful isn’t it? D: Yeah, they were pretty well travelled. A: There’s the family there, in order of birth. (Pause. A takes photograph. PA150060). This is early Brisbane. That’s the road to Buderim. That’s the road being made with a horse-drawn steamroller. This is Queen Street. That’s Queen Street. That’s City Hall being built. This is great grandpa’s boat, The Marvel (refers to PA150061). That was moored in Brekkie Creek. And they used to make trips over to Stradbroke Island, and up north. They did a lot to help Aboriginal people, and the other uncle worked—this is the other uncle, Harry, on his boat— at Southport (PA150062), and he’d, he’d, um, used to go and do dentistry at Boggo Road Jail and on St. Helena Island. And on Sundays he’d go back and preach. (Laughs.) A: So when you say your grandad helped the Aboriginals, how was he doing that? Was he preaching to them? D: Mostly preaching. Yeah. Yeah, they were very religious. Which I suppose they could have been doing worse. That’s Auntie Lizzie with her friend (PA150063). They’ve got the hats. Their bathing suits. This is them on Straddie Island (PA150064). They were hunting. They had their rifles with them. Which was allowed. This is, um, this was my great grandma’s. There was a fabulous view from there, after three hundred steps. There was a view all over the reach of the river and Hamilton. And this is the tennis courts (PA150065), um, Dad’s people moved to Sherwood for a little while, in the old- fashioned wheel. That’s onboard the boat. This is great grandpa with his ? And this is some of them at work; great grandpa in his Salvation Army uniform, preaching. At the dentist with Auntie Lizzie. And they did a lot of union work, preaching on the beaches. They had church Sunday school beaches during school holidays. And this is Auntie, uh, um, Elwyn. She was

Appendices 210 head matron of the, um, Bowen Hospital. The women’s—you know, it became the Royal Brisbane Women’s Hospital. A: Was there a women’s hospital that then later became a nursing home, or something, in that area? Do you know anything about that? D: There was a Salvation Army hospital up, I think it was Wilson or Winston. A: Oh, okay. D: Yeah, it’s, it’s been sold I think. My niece was born there, and her cousins’ kids were all born there. Yeah it was a very old home. It was a very nice home. I don’t know what they use it for. This is great grandparents’ trip overseas. They travelled a great deal. Had some wonderful holidays. They went to the Rockies, England and Canada. Scotland. Great Grandma onboard ship. (Laughs.) A: She looks very elegant doesn’t she? D: This is just great grandpa, a few different photos. And this is about Lizzie. I tried to put it in order of the children. This is some of her Chinese friends. A: Oh, because she was the one who was helping the migrants? D: Yeah. A: So how did she, how did she, um, help, like, was she translating for them, or, what kind of things was she doing? D: She was teaching them English, but she was also establishing Churches. I had a, a letter. I had a letter from a Russian Minister, only a few months ago, and its seventy years since the Russian Baptist church was organised in Brisbane. And he wanted to write it up for a newspaper. For the Baptist newspaper, and this is the outcome. Except they’ve gone and put Auntie Lizzie as second from the left, and she’s third. (Laughs.) So that was the write-up about that. There she is at a Christmas party, and that’s my Mum. Mum’s stepmother and my father-in-law. A: She still looks healthy, doesn’t she? D: She was, oh, she had the most beautiful hair. It was way down here. And even though it was white, oh, it was so thick and it was just gorgeous. It was really beautiful. She wanted to be a missionary but she had health problems, and they wouldn’t have her. And this is Harry, the second child born. And that’s Harry’s wife, Ellen. A: Oh, isn’t she beautiful? D: And their daughter, Hazel. That’s them on the steps of great grandma’s. And that’s, um, Auntie Helen when she got old. We called her Nell. And this is four generations. That’s Nell, her daughter Julie, and this is Hazel’s baby, Joyce, and this is Joyce’s sister. Um, that’s Ellen,

Appendices 211 she lives down in Geelong, and Ellen’s little girl, who is now a grandmother. (Laughs.) This is at Gatton (In an earlier conversation, a had mentioned she grew up in Gatton PA150066). A: Oh, really? Can I take a picture of that? D: Yeah of course. Auntie Lizzie went to Gatton to do some dentistry and she met this bloke, and of course she introduced him to her brother, so... A: And then they got married. And she’s from Gatton too. Isn’t that funny? D: Yeah, and this is her parents. Their farm. This is down at Southport. My Dad’s in there somewhere... that’s him. Dad and the two little girls. This lady’s still alive, Joyce, she’s very old now. Well in her nineties. That’s what Joyce wrote for me. And that’s her—these are the people who lived at Gatton. This is Harry, his death notice. Now this is my grandparents, and lived on the other side of Bowen Hills, round near Boyd Street. And this Dad’s mum and dad. Sister and Dad. This is their house. It’s still there. A: So this is the house at Boyd Street (refers to PA150070)? D: Yeah. They’ve taken the fence, and they’ve put a driveway up so the cars can park here. And this has a little balcony outside there. A: Is that, like, on the other side up the top where Cloudland used to be? D: Yeah, right next door to the Cloudland exit. A: I saw that the other day. D: Oh yeah. A: I was up there looking at it. Cause I talked to Doug C, whose family owned Mountpelleir. D: Well they (refers to great grandparents) knew the C--, yeah. A: Oh, really? D: That’s the plans for the house (PA160071 & PA150072). A: ‘Cause they would have been neighbours, wouldn’t they? D: Yeah. Um, nineteen sixteen, in January, they moved there. Um, that’s the plans. A: I’ve been thinking it would be lovely to have a setting with that house. (Takes photo.) D: I spent a lot of time in that house. Dad’s business was down in Brekkie Creek Road and I went to Clayfield college, so when I came home after school I used to get off at Dad’s workshop, and if he was busy I’d walk over the hill and stay at Grandma’s till he was ready. A: So what was it like inside. How had your Gran and Granddad decorated it? D: Um, huge chairs. He was a big, big man and he looks quite slim there but he was about eighteen stone. And the lounge room had—in fact my daughter’s just go rid of one of these chairs—great big armchairs. And the most gorgeous sideboard, I would have died for. It was

Appendices 212 fantastic. And they had a lot of, um, those two paintings came from there. Grandma’s sister did those. They had a lot of oil paintings like that that she did. A: Oh so your Grandma painted those? D: Her sister. Mmm, she used to sell her paintings to Trittons (in George Street—it sold furniture crockery, curtains and bed linen—it was a very upmarket store). And her husband designed and played the pipe-organ in the city. And when they first got married in nineteen thirteen they lived in this house. That was at Newstead Terrace, near Newstead House. And this is what the house in Boyd Street looked like (PA150073), when they first had an open verandah and the steps there. Then it changed to this. And that was a more recent photo (PA150076). A: That’s interesting, to see how it’s changed, as well. D: Mm. A: Going from sort of the dark wood panels to... D: Yeah. A: The coloured one at the bottom. D: And that’s Dad with great grandma, my great grandma. And this is their house in Sherwood. They rented this out for a short time, we lived in Sherwood. My mouth’s dry from talking. A: Would you like to take a seat? D: No I’m right. You can sit if you like. Can you see, shall I get you a cushion? A: Oh no, no that’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. D: Yeah. (Pause while her son comes in.) Um, that’s her house at Sherwood. This is, um, Dad’s sister, and their cousin Hazel, Harry’s daughter, down at Southport. And the funny thing is, we’ve got a photo of my daughter and her cousin sitting in a boat that looks just like that. It’s just incredible. This is Dad with his cousin on Christmas day (PA150077). Sitting on the verandah. A: With their fans. (Laughs.) D: This is a farm. They had a friend. This is grandpa’s motorbike (PA150078), with my Dad and my Mum sitting in it. When grandma and grandpa got married grandpa had a Harley Davidson with a sidecar, and grandma used to sit in there with Auntie Firth, Dad’s sister, and when Dad got on the way she said, “No way, I’m not having two children in this sidecar.” This is Dad’s sister. On her wedding day (PA150079). And this is Harry’s daughter Joy. And this is just a friend. And that’s Uncle Fred and Auntie Firth. A: I love their dresses.

Appendices 213 D: She died of TB after the third child. This is my Mum and Dad (PA150080). Dad was born in that house in Bowen Hills. This is grandpa and grandma (PA150081), you can see how fat grandpa got. This is my cousins, Helen, Peter and David. He’s got eleven grandchildren. (Laughs.) A: So where are they standing? D: Uh, I think that’s the Baptist Tabernacle. Um, I think it was the day that his father got married. This is four generations; this is great grandma that lived in Dunlop Street. Her son, who was my grandfather. His son, who is my father, and my brother, bawling his eyes out (laughs). They were at a wedding, and Mom said, “Oh he never cries,” and he howled his head off. This car, here, we called this Old Amy (PA150082). Dad bought this car from Uncle Harry. That’s myself and my brother sitting on the running board. And the car, um, was used to drive Amy Johnson, the aviator, the flyer. Um, that was used to drive her around Brisbane. And, Dad’s uncle bought it and then Dad bought it from him. It was my job to run around the back and switch the tail-light on. (Laughs.) There was a switch on the back of the car. This is the four generations. This is my parents home, Dad and his mum. That’s grandpa when he was young. I saw this photo on my grandmother’s dressing table when I was young. I said, “Wow grandma, this that a good sort!” (Laughs.) My Dad. This is Dad’s business. Down on Brekkie Creek Road. Yeah, all done up for the Queen. (Laughs.) A: Oh, I wondered what that was. D: Yeah, it was called Red, White and Blue bunting. The Queen was passing, she came on the Britannia, and she passed along Brekkie Creek Road. A: And so that was like a wire? D: He made that, that was all steel. That was his job, that’s what he did. He’d make chain wire for fencing, steel gates and handrails. A: You said that in that piece that you wrote that you remember going there. D: Yeah. That’s mum. She died about two years ago. Ninety-two. And this is the second wife of Auntie Firth’s, took Auntie Firth’s husband. He just died this year, he was nearly one hundred and one. So they’re not really, they’re related by marriage. Now this is the second last daughter of this lot. It’s Auntie Elwyn (PA150084). She was the head matron of the Royal Brisbane Women’s. A: With the white blouse. D: Which was Bowen Hospital then. Her husband was, uh, a sergeant in the war, World War 1, and he also fought in the Boer War, and they were given this land at Maleny, so they came

Appendices 214 into Maleny. And didn’t have any children. And this is the youngest of these five, of great grandma’s. This is Myra. Her husband had a motor mechanic workshop next door to Dad’s on Brekkie Creek Road. They got married, um, down at Brekkie Creek somewhere. This is their family, their boys. One’s dead, and this one, Austen, he’s still alive, he’s a lovely man. She was his first wife and my Mum’s sister. This is him with his second wife. And these are his kids. Here he is at the beach with his second wife. This is his son and wife. They’re a lovely family. That’s great grandma (PA150086). That’s her grandchildren, and with her great grandchildren. There’s me. A: That’s look like that’s at New Farm park or something. D: It was Botanical Gardens. And great grandma had just turned ninety-two. And my Mum sat up in bed every night for ages turning fondant roses for the cake. And she made a two- tiered cake, it was like a wedding cake, it was gorgeous. And we went down the botanical gardens with all the families. And at the end of the day we said, oh, poor old great grandma she must be worn out the poor thing, she’d be so tired. You know, she went home and she rang all her friends and she went down the very next day and had a party with her friends with the leftover cake, we couldn’t believe it. A: Very enterprising. D: That’s Bowen Hills area, it’s not a good photo. A: You’ve marked... D: Yeah, I’ve got it on the back. This is Mygunyah, I think. And these are places where we’ve had something to do with. It’s not a very good picture. Now I took this photo to Diana Hill. A: My batteries died. D: Oh. Um, we think that some of these are the Perry family. They were very friendly with the Lovelocks and they often went fishing. A: He almost looks like he’s got a Russian hat on. D: Yeah, maybe it’s one of Auntie Lizzie’s Russian friends. Lizzie was her proper name. Her mother wanted her to be called Elizabeth after herself, and after her grandmother, and great grandpa rushed out and registered her as Lizzie. That’s the cover of a little book that was given to my grandfather (PA150089). A: Oh how beautiful. Just going to see if I can revive my camera. D: This man’s captain Firth (PA150088?). He’s who Auntie Firth, Dad’s sister, was named after. That’s a letter from my great grandmother (PA150090). To me, that I’ve kept for years. A: Oh wow. Look at it. I love the schoolbook as well. It’s revived again for a while, so...

Appendices 215 D: That’s had the sticky tape all over it. A: How great. I just like the way it’s all been taped up as well. ‘Cause obviously it’s very... D: That’s the 400 George Street where they owned the premises for about fifty odd years. That’s a letter from my Dad (PA150091). I was staying at Bowen Hills at my Grandma’s at the time. I was so miffed about that, they all had an extra week’s holiday and I had to go to school, so I stayed at Grandma’s. A: And he’s drawing a picture of the fish. “We went fishing and Mummy caught a big fish. Mine got away.” D: This is a little booklet that came from Mygunyah. A: I’ve seen this. D: Oh okay. A: It was at the State Library. D: I’m trying to get another copy, but I couldn’t. A: Um, there is a copy at the State Library. D: Oh, okay. Interesting. A: Do you know anything about Joss House? D: Not a lot, um, they recently—when I say recently it’s probably a few years ago now— revamped it, it had gone to, um, you know, to wreck and ruin, so... A: Yeah, that’s all I’ve heard about it as well. I haven’t been able to find anyone else to talk to, so... D: Yeah. I’m sure you’d be allowed in there, if you went down there and spoke to... A: Just go down there. D: Yeah. A: I was just looking...you’ve marked it all out, where they are. D: I probably shouldn’t have scribbled all over it. A: I think it adds to it. Particularly since you’ve used such a lovely colour. So there was your grandparents’ home on Boyd Street. D: Yeah, yeah. My great grandparents in Dunlop. Dad’s business in Brekkie Creek. You know where, when you, there’s houses and there’s Dunlop Street, um, and there’s a garage, about where the garage is is where Dad’s business. A: I interviewed Alasdair Gow last week actually. D: Oh wow. Oh, the Lovelocks knew the Gows too, but not this generation. It would have been... A: The time before.

Appendices 216 D: Yeah. And that’s a little book on Newstead House. A: Oh, that’s beautiful isn’t it? Was Newstead House, it probably was a tourist, by the time you were there it probably was like what it is now. D: Yeah, yeah. I never lived in Bowen Hills, see I only knew the area from grandma being there. And my great grandmother too. My earliest recollection of being at grandma’s, the lady next door always wore a black dust coat, and my cousins and I reckoned she was a witch, because she just always wore black. So when we saw her coming we used to hide in Grandma’s shrubs. (Laughs.) It’s just a little leaflet about the Brekkie Creek there. A: Yep, I’ve seen that one too. D: Right. And this one’s about the Valley. You’ll probably, um, find a few, few things, um, like the Valley School and stuff like that. There would be a lot of people who lived in that area would have gone. Dad and his sister went to the Valley School. A: Hey, that’s a good idea. D: Yeah. A: Oh, that is a good idea. D: Yeah. A: Because there isn’t any schools in Newstead, and I was thinking, they probably went to New Farm maybe, but how would you know? But the Valley School. D: Yeah, the Valley School was where a lot of them went. Um, my cousins, when they lived with Grandma at Bowen Hills, they went to, um, they went to a school called St. Michaels, but I’ve no idea whereabouts down there it was. Could have been further out near Clayfield or something. I think it was an Anglican school. A: Yeah, I haven’t heard of that one. D: Mmm. And Lunar Park. What do you know about Lunar Park. A: I only know what you’ve told me, about how it was... D: Did I tell you about my great grandparents ending up with the carriages in their tank in the garden? (Laughs.) A: Woops! Do you…cause I suppose it would have shut down after that. D: Yeah, yeah it didn’t go. It never got up running as far as I know. A: Oh okay. So they would have had—what kind of things were there? D: Oh, wouldn’t have a clue. All I know is there’s a rollercoaster, so I don’t know what else was built. (Laughs.) And that’s, um, Dad and his two cousins, or his sister I think and one of his cousins down at Southport. Mm. A: I love the way they’re all wearing matching hats.

Appendices 217 D: Yeah. (Laughs.) A: He looks very unconvinced though. D: Yeah. That’s about it on the Lovelocks. A: Mm-hmm. That’s great though. D: (Goes to get something.) I just take that out of there. A: Thank you for showing me those. D: Oh it’s fine. We’ve got—Dad saved all these, cos they, they were reprints of the old newspapers. And they were fantastic, there were heaps of them, and they were all, um, but, um, they’re all the old early papers. Fabulous stuff in them. And this is what I’m currently supposed to be working on, but I never get round to. Um, never got enough time. This is early Brisbane. We’ve just started on this. The old commission stores. That’s Ivan looking in the, you know the big reservoir things? (Laughs.) A: Always gotta have a sticky beak. D: He actually got inside them, um, when he was at school. They took them down inside them. A: Oh wow. D: Yeah. And these are just articles on trains and cars and stuff. A: Have you been to St. Helena? D: No, I’d love to go, it’s one of those things on my to-do list. A: Well apparently there’s a ferry that goes from New Farm. D: Oh is there. Oh I knew you could go from Wynnum. I’ve got a heap of stuff on the City Hall. (Laughs.) A: Oh, what’s this behind here? Can I just pull that out? Don’t wanna... D: Yeah. That’s an exhibition, we were at something and they asked us did we know where they were. A: The Townsville Memorial Pools. D: Mm, yeah. A: Shingled roof. D: Yeah, this hasn’t been made up yet. They’re all just bits and pieces, chucked in. Whole lotta pictures of Brisbane. Need a magnifying glass. (Laughs.) Whole lot of bits and pieces that I’ve got. All these old postcards. These come from the John Oxley Library, they’re really good. They often have bits and pieces. A: Yeah I’ve been in the John Oxley. D: Yeah.

Appendices 218 A: So where do those postcards come from? D: From there. From their little shop. Just an old Courier Mail. Some awful drawings that I did. (Laughs.) Early age. A: I like Snugglepot and Cuddlepie. D: Yeah. These are all just little ads. A: They’re kind of interesting though, aren’t they? D: Yeah. Um, that’s, um, that’s interesting, that’s the Boys Grammar School where the railway is. They moved it brick by brick. A: Really? D: Yeah. A: And you’re, you said that your Dad was one of the first people to attend. Was it the Boys Grammar School? D: No, um, Brisbane Boys College. A: Oh, the College. D: Yeah. Yeah, the year it opened. And I went to Clayfield College which was where Brisbane was. Just have a look. (Goes and looks.) Don’t know where I put that lot. I thought I put it over there. This is the first day opening of Brisbane Boys College. A: Oh, my goodness. D: That’s, where is that. Need my glasses. I think that is Dad. A: Oh yeah. D: Mmm. A: And they’re teachers. D: Yeah, and the matrons from the boarding school. A: She looks very severe doesn’t she? D: Oh yes. No nonsense, or she would be wagging it. You’d have a headache or something if you didn’t, I don’t think she’d take it too kindly. A: No. Some of them look very unconvinced. Like this ones like ohhh... D: Yeah. Would have been the original photo. I had a few copies made of it, so... It’s getting a bit long in the tooth. Mmm. And these are just little ads... Yeah. A: What, what are these pictures of? D: Um, that’s the story bridge being built. A: Oh, wow. D: Mmm. A: Yeah, of course, cos there, now you can see the...

Appendices 219 D: Yeah. A: Oh, how amazing. D: Full on isn’t it? And that’s down near, um, Brekkie, Brekkie Creek (PA150093), in the Hamilton reach. Used to be all wharves along down near, um, Newstead House. A: Do you remember the wharves, or…? D: Yeah I do. Yeah. Mm. A: Cos your Dad had a boat as well, didn’t he? D: Grandpa. A: Oh great grandpa had a boat. D: Yeah. He kept it moored down there. He owned about six houses in Newstead Terrace at one stage. A: Oh really? D: Yeah, he rented them out. Mmm. A: That’s a good picture of the wharves. D: Yeah. A: I might take a picture of that one if my camera will let me. (Takes photo.) That’s better. Cause you can kind of see the Woolsheds or something down there. D: Yeah. A: It’s got something at the back there. D: Mm. Yeah there were a lot of wharves down round Hamilton. I remember Dad taking me down to see the flying boats. A: Oh. D: Planes, actually. But they were called flying boats, from the war. They’re all berth down there. Going down there soon actually, with some cousins. There’s about twelve of us and, oh, two get togethers a year, plus a weekend away. We have a wonderful time. A: That sounds great. D: All girls, my age. (Laughs.) A: Sounds like you’d have a lot of fun. D: Oh we do. We had a, we had a dress-up on the weekend. We stayed in a penthouse up in Alexandra Head. A: Oh, nice. D: And we had a ball. (Laughs.) Yeah, we had some good times. Yeah. That’s about all I can tell you about Newstead, I think. Um... (Looks for something.)

Appendices 220 A: Cause you sent me all that stuff about your earliest memories and, oh, and all the memories that you have with visiting your grandma and that sort of stuff. D: Yeah. These are all just early Brisbane photos. Old train tickets. A: What- is that an elephant? D: Yeah it’s probably Taronga Zoo. These aren’t all recent. Yeah. I had a ride on the elephant at Teronga. That’s on the bottom of, um, Royal Brisbane Hospital. Downstairs. They left some of the original rock. And a aboriginal guy carved all this into it. A: Oh how lovely. D: Yeah, it’s beautiful. It’s all in a little area down in the Mayne, the Mayne Inheritance. Yeah. That’s camping down the coast. The old-fashioned tents. (Laughs.) That’s in the botanical gardens. And these’re some of Mum’s old things at her place. GPO. Horse-drawn trams. A: If you get rid of the horse-drawn trams it hasn’t changed that much. D: No, not at all, no. That’s, um, the women’s, um, the convict women’s factory used to be there, on that side. And that’s how Brekkie Creek Road started. They put the factory and, um, some, um, farm thing that the convict women had to work on, out at New Farm, or somewhere down that way. Um, it was an eagle farm, something like that. And that’s how Brekkie Creek came to be, the road, that’s where they’d all be going. A: Oh, of course. I heard about the experimental farm. D: Queen Street. A: Oh, wow. That’s amazing isn’t it? D: Yeah. Yeah, so that’s how that all came about. A: Yeah, I heard about the experimental farm because they were, they were trying to plant rice, but they got mixed up because it was the kind that was meant to be eaten, not grown. So they put it in the dirt. Oops! (Laughs.) D: These are just more ads for Michael. More old stuff... A: I think Dad’s got a tin like that. D: Yeah there’s a few of them come back in now too. They’re reproducing a lot of those. They’re worth a fair bit of money too, the old tins. Yeah, that’s about it in there. Been gradually going through them to get the scrapbook. (Laughs.) Um, I had a, this is, um, oh that’s the book. Um, this is, they auctioned of all the, the number plates (PA150094). A: Oh. D: Um, which one was it. One of these was Uncle Harry’s. There it is there. Q63 was his old dodge. My Mum went to the auction. And Russ Hinz, you know the parliament pole, he was

Appendices 221 doing the auctioneering thing, he was there opening it, and he said, “I had thousands of letters from all over about this,” he said, about all Brisbane’s old cars. But he says, “I just read this one, it’s my favourite.” My mother nearly fell over, it was her letter. Stefan got number one. Q1 plate. We got a photo of it, um, on the car in Mum’s street actually. There’s a bit about Stefan. A photo of my kids standing in front of it. Don’t know where it is, but it’s somewhere around. A: What did your Mum write in the letter that, that..? D: I think she actually wrote about old Amy, about that, um, car that we had. Yeah, so she got the shock of her life. She was hoping to buy that but it was too much money for her, and, um, a motor company at Albion bought it. And they sold it within a couple of weeks for about another three thousand, on top of what they paid. This is great grandma’s, great great grandma’s bible. A: Oh wow. And she’s written about the family. D: She’s written all the family in it. A: Oh, can I have a look? D: Yeah. A: See what she’s written. D: Got all the kids. A: “A token of esteem and respect to Elizabeth Robinson. June 1852. For good attendance.” (Laughs.) D: That was just before they came to Australia. A: Wow. D: Mmm. A: She’s written it all. D: Mm. A: Amazing handwriting. D: Yeah, lovely... Our family tree in the back. There’s a better one if you... might be good for a photograph...(PA150095-PA150101) A: Yeah, that’d be a good idea. (Takes photo.) Maybe if I do it in two parts. D: Mm. There’s more on the other side too. A: Three parts I think it’s gonna turn into. Yep, that’s gonna work. I can work that out. That’ll just make it all... make sense. (Turns page.) Oh wow. What an amazing family you have. (Takes more photos.) I think the one I just did is blurry... That’s better. D: They’re beautiful, aren’t they?

Appendices 222 A: It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? D: Mmm. A: So intricate. D: One of the boys died, I think it was two, two years or something and she’s written it all out in years and months and weeks and days in the back there, she must have really been sad about him going, I think. I don’t know what happened to him. A: “Age one year, eleven months and twenty-six days old.” D: Yeah. Don’t know what happened to him. Little girl didn’t make it either, she was only a few days old. A: “Mary Austen, born in 1868, aged four days.” D: Mm. A: That would have been hard to deal with, wouldn’t it? D: Yeah. Yeah, it’s hard when children go. Mm. And this is grandpa when he became a dentist (PA150105). This is grandma and grandpa, it’s not a very nice photo. Grandma, grandpa and Dad and his sister. A: So there he is there with the cross underneath him. D: Yeah, and Mum. Prostrate on the wall. Got mad with her and ? Invariably she’d have the wrong information as well, poor old dear. A: So that’s him there? D: Yeah. A: Yep, so that’s the- D: That’s Dad. A: Yep, and he’s the one on the right, standing (PA150106). D: Dad was born in that house on Boyd Street. Ok, that’s right. That’s grandpa’s optometrist (PA150107). He was an optometrist before he was a dentist. A: Wow, it was just the place you came to for everything. D: Yes. And that’s his, his dentistry (PA150108). A: Oh. D: And these are all birth and death. Oh there’s the other school photo that I had done. These are all birth and death and whatever. Certificates. Yeah. And there’s some more scrapbooks if you want to know about the rest of the family. (Laughs.) Thoroughly confused you. A: That’s all right, I’ll type it up again and then I’ll understand. (Laughs.) D: Oh dear. This is grandma Lovelock’s ? That’s the lady that lived in Boyd Street. A: Oh, okay.

Appendices 223 D: This is about her people. A: If I put that there will that get it out of order? D: Yeah, no, that’s all right. I’ll get you some lunch soon. A: Oh, that’s great. D: This mob were German, and they pioneered Redland Bay. A: Oh. D: Great grandma grew up in Redland Bay, and came from Germany, all around here. Um, this is the trees, and their coat of arms. And grandma’s mother and, and her parents came out on this boat, from Germany. Took a hundred and, I don’t know, a hundred and five days. A: Yeah. D: On board there. And great great grandma had four kids, another one born on board the boat. This was the doctor that was on the boat. He worked up round Gatton area. Round in the valley up there when he came on the boat. This is, um, great great grandma and grandpa, his brother and wife and little girl, and they had another girl, a seven-year-old, and she got accidentally shot dead when they arrived here. A: Oh no, how did that happen? D: Yeah, it was awful. Well they were registered to be shepherds at, uh, uh, a sheep station at Roma. A: Mm. D: And they went—this photo was taken in Ipswich just after they got off that boat—and they had four kids and another one born on the boat, and they had these two girls. And they met up with a whole lot of people in Ipswich, and, um, they went in all these horses and drays and whatever. There was a whole mob of them going to this station. And people who’d come to meet that lot there. They camped overnight at a creek. And I think it was her brother who was with them. He had the same surname as her maiden name, anyway. And he was cleaning his gun and he accidentally shot this seven-year-old. Shot her dead. He got tried for murder, it was an awful start. And this is my great grandma’s sister. And she had about ten kids, and then she up and died, and left twins. The twin boy died, and the other one was adopted by my great grandma, on top of her nine children. (Laughs.) That’s great grandpa’s brother. He went to America. Two of the brothers, one came here, two came here, one went to America, and they were supposed to write home and say which place they liked better. And the ones that came here thought it was terrible but they stayed anyway. (Laughs.) And when great grandpa came he worked for the railways in Ipswich, on some of the early railways. Then he went to the gold mines. Then he went as a farmer down at, um, Eagle Beak, and he met great

Appendices 224 grandma and they got married. There they are there. This is the grandma that lived at Boyd Street. That’s her parents. They lived in this house. A: And that’s in Redland Bay. D: Yeah. And they pioneered Redland Bay, it was all farms. Had about twelve farms in Redland Bay at that stage. That’s a picnic—look at the hats. (Laughs.) A: It’s not ideal for sitting on the picnic blanket is it? D: No. Not a very relaxing time, if you had to hang onto that hat in the wind. That’s great grandma’s first aid certificate for helping the red cross (PA150109). And grandpa’s allegiance stamp. It was like a, becoming nationalised, Australian. A: Can I just take a picture of that? I just think that’s really beautiful. D: Yeah. She was such a hospitable person that when she died the whole Redland Bay, the whole of Redland Bay came to, um, say Farewell. This is their oldest daughter Lina. She crocheted twenty-two booty sets for me when I was born. That’s their beautiful home at Kelba. Mount French, and they lived in this little slab house for a while. That burned down. A: Oh no. D: Mm. And the husband in his nightie. (Laughs.) That’s their, one of their sons. This is her at, er, um, twenty-fifth anniversary of Redland Bay State School. Great grandpa established Redland Bay State School, and the Baptist Church. Um, this is the second child Albert, and his first wife. And the third one, William. Bill, as they call him. And that’s Fred’s, oh no, Fred and William. Fred’s five daughters. Only four of them left. That’s old Albert’s first wife and child. They’re buried in this cemetery. A: “Serpentine Creek Cemetery.” D: Yeah, I went there, they’ve got a huge stone, it’s the, it’s over here. It’s all the trustee names, great grandpa and his son and all them. It’s photos, all braised up. It’s beautiful. That’s Uncle Bill and his family. That’s my grandma that lived at Bowen Hills. Uncle Bill. Auntie Annie and Auntie Minnie. That’s her old home at Red Hill. That’s the one that did those paintings. Auntie Annie. She made it to about two weeks off her hundredth birthday and so did Uncle Bill. That’s the hundred year celebrations at Redland Bay State School. And he lived to a hundred and two, Uncle Ernie. On the original farm. A: Wow. D: These are gran’s, some of the older grandchildren, of our great grandparents. A: Mm. With their hair in rags or something. D: Yeah. That’s Auntie Ninnie. There’s some of her paintings. This is her husband, who helped make the organ in the City Hall. And that’s their daughter, she’s ninety-seven there.

Appendices 225 A: It seems strange to look at, like, when they’re young and then think of them when they’re ninety-seven. D: Yeah. A: Oh, so this was the organ. D: Yeah. He was in charge of a lot of stuff around Brisbane. A: I’ll take a picture of that, cause that’s beautiful too. I just like the way it looks. D: Mm. A: Don’t know if I’ll use it for anything, but... D: There might be a copy there. That’s a copy if you want it. A: Oh yeah. So he... D: There’s the little girl, Auntie Ruth, that’s ninety seven. We’ve got a spot ready for when she dies. (Laughs.) A: Don’t show her that. D: No. This is my grandmother, lived at Bowen Hills (PA150111). A: Oh. So is that her house at Bowen Hills? D: Yeah, the back of it. Mm. A: I’ll take a picture of that too. I’ve, yeah, cos it’s got that really distinctive colour, hasn’t it? D: Yeah. A: The black. D: She always had maidenhair growing along there. If ever you went to her place and she didn’t have any flowers there was always maidenhair on the table. They called her Jimmy. When she was young she used to get the pigs drunk on fermented fruit, and the boys called her Jimmy and it stuck all her life. She was called Jimmy even in her, um, funeral notice. A: Why did you know why they called her Jimmy, or? D: Hey? Cause she was a tomboy. A: Oh right. D: This is her with all the family. That’s her parents. That’s her wedding day. And these are all her brothers and sisters, bar the eldest one, who didn’t come ‘cause she lived way out at Kalbar. A: So where’s this? D: That’s at, um, my great grandparents’ original home at Redland Bay. It’s the first house to have glass windows and a wooden floor. (Laughs.) A: Wow. D: These are some of grandpa’s old cars. Grandpa that lived at Bowen Hill. That’s me.

Appendices 226 A: Aw. D: Mum and Dad and my brother. And that’s Dad with his sister and parents. That’s Dad on a ship at Redland Bay. That’s me having a hayride at Redland Bay. There’s grandma and grandpa again with more cousins. And the house in... That’s Peter’s wedding. This is Uncle Ernie, he was one of the nine kids. He lived till a hundred and two. A: Wow. D: And he stuck in the bath at the nursing home. He was only in the nursing home for about a year. And he stuck in the bath at the nursing home and they were flat out getting him out, so he says to the nurse, “You’ll just have to get in with me, won’t you?” (Laughs.) This hedge, that’s the top of a lamppost sticking out up there. And this is at the original farm at Redland Bay, and, um, when we were kids we used to get in trouble for climbing on it, and so did my Father’s generation, and when I was a child I was probably about that high. And these are my kids on it. (Laughs.) Plus a whole lot of others. A: For some reason, you know, that’s what they wanna do. D: Yeah. This is youngest of the nine kids, george. He was the youngest one to die, he had something the matter with him. But down at Redland Bay he planted all these big trees, his wife planted all these trees, she thought they’d only grow to about that high. (Laughs.) A: Oh well yeah, that was an error of judgement, wasn’t it (picture of tree several metres high)? D: Yeah, and they’ve made that a park in his memory now. A: So they must be, they look like Morton Bay figs. D: Yeah. A: Yeah. D: Yeah. This is great grandpa and his neighbour Mr. Collins, that Collins Road’s named after. Neighbours. Original great grandpa. Auntie Ruth, the lady that’s ninety-seven, she took one look at this photo and she says, that’s hooker. (Laughs.) A: Oh, they didn’t. D: Imagine it now. A: I wonder what that horse has been up to, to get out there. D: Yeah. They owned all this land in here, on Collins Road. A: Oh wow. D: That’s my other great grandma Lovelock that lived at Dunlop Street. And that’s grandma’s house. A: Mm, at Redland Bay.

Appendices 227 D: These are all the tombstones down at Redland Bay. Half the family. All the obits. Write- ups about the... That’s about the school, which he established, with a few other people. These are first day rolls. These are all his kids at the school. There’s grandma... That’s grandma there, with the girls, wedding reunion. She’s in here somewhere, they did them a card up. This is Uncle Ernie’s daughter. She lived at Enoggera for a while. This is one of the girls that I go out with for the weekend. (Laughs.) She’s my age. That was their shop at Newmarket. This is Mum and Dad’s cousins. Stuff at their house. That’s my Mum. That’s Auntie Muriel. She’s gone now. My Dad called her Punk. She love pumpkin, and pumpkin became Punk. That’s a painting by the high school kids at Redland Bay, about the pioneers starting off. A: Oh isn’t that nice. D: It’s on the uniting church fence. (Laughs.) I went click click click click and hoped I got it. (Laughs.) That’s church at Redland Bay, with the hats in there. Great grandma’s in there somewhere. A: Look at all their collars, and... D: Yeah. A: This one there’s caught in there. D: Yeah. That’s the stained glass window. One of the Collins boys drowned in the bay down there trying to rescue somebody, and that was the glass window they had in the church. My grandpa established that church too. That’s just a reunion. That’s me and my daughter when I was a bit skinnier. (Laughs.) That tree’s about a hundred and seventy years old, still there. A: Wow. D: And this is the cemetery on Serpentine Road, down there. And they had all this on the stone. Great grandpa and his son. A: The whiskers that they had. It’s unbelievable. D: Yeah. That was, they’re all descendants of all those trustees. The Collins family and all the original families down there. They had a great day. A: Mm. Oh I like the tree. D: Yeah. A: That’s well done. (Laughs.) D: Mm, there’s Dad’s cousin. He just died a few months ago. They used a laser, and that’s where all the, all the graves in that cemetery were marked. A: It’s kind of spooky that you walk over it, and there’s all these... D: Yeah. Mm. That lady’s gone too. She had cancer. Mm. A: So is there anything your granddad didn’t established in Redland Bay?

Appendices 228 D: (Laughs.) No, he’s pretty well known. This is fifth generation Muller at the Redland Bay School. There’s some of the previous ones, but there were more. A: Oh and is that the school in the background? D: Yeah, the old school. In part the original. Yeah. Some of the old desks, with the... A: Ink stains. D: Ink stains! (Laughs). Auntie Marge. And this is on the corner, down there where the trees are, and they put all this up, for great grandpa. A: “Former councillor, chairman of the Tingalpa division of board trustee, founder of the conservatory on Serpentine Creek Road, the Redland Bay Primary School and the Baptist Church.” D: This is Uncle Howard’s farm. It’s just been cut up. It’s the last of the Muller farms to go... This is backing paper. A: Oh it’s beautiful though isn’t it? D: It’s too nice to cut up sometimes! That’s the Collins family thing down at Serpentine Road. The eighteen-year-old that died. I couldn’t bear covering that. A: No, I can understand that. It’s beautiful isn’t it? D: I love sunsets and sunrises. I’ve got many photos of them, it’s crazy. (Laughs, goes to get more photos.) It just goes on and on and on. A: What else have you got? D: This one’s Mum. (Laughs.) A: Wow. D: They don’t work for you anymore. A: No, no I think it’s really interesting. D: This is Mum’s family. She grew up at Mount Cootha. This is what Diane read the book on Mount Cootha that Mum wrote and she wrote to me and she said, “Oh, would you have any photos of this lady?” She didn’t know the connection. A: Were you like, Yes! D: Just a few! A: Here, have this! I bet her eyes popped when she saw that. D: Yeah she hasn’t seen the book yet. And they came from England. That was Mum’s Father and his brother. This is the brother. And he married a direct descendant of William Shakespeare’s.

Appendices 229 A: Oh really? D: They came out on this boat. There they are there. She’s the Shakespeare. Not a very good photo. A: She looks a little.. D: Yeah. This is Mum’s Father, who came out on that one. And her Mother came out on that one. And they lived in South Brisbane. That’s one of the first houses in South Brisbane to get the plague (bubonic) when it was on. It’s a policeman there minding it so that people don’t come or go. A: The plague? D: Mm. A: I didn’t know Brisbane had the plague. D: Yeah. That’s Mum’s Father and Mum. That’s her older sister, and then there was Mum and then there was another sister. You might have seen that, that’s in the bathroom. That’s my Mum, and her two sisters. Mum was catching a butterfly. A: And they look like they’re in the, the fern house or something. D: They had a bath in that tub till they were 14. And they had to share the water because there was no water at Mount Cootha. They used to have a fight over who was going first. A: Yeah. D: That’s them with their grandma. And this is the old picture theatre that was at Cannon Hill. A: Oh. D: They lived at, um, when they were born they were born in South Brisbane, then they moved to a property at Dawson’s Parade at Grovely. Um, I knew old Mr. Dawson (a main road at Grovely is named after this man. He was pioneer there. It’s now a busy suburban street). Then their Mother got sick and they moved to Cannon Hill with grandma. This is a painting of their old home at Mount Cootha. This was the road up to Mount Cootha. A: Oh, and so that would have been where the botanic gardens are? D: Down, down the hill. A: Down... D: Down the hill and then... A: And that’s where they are down there. Oh okay. D: That’s Simpsons Road. The house is gone. It’s only vacant lot. That’s in the dams, in the, don’t know if you know Mount Cootha at all. A: Oh yeah I do a bit actually.

Appendices 230 D: This is the original cafe on the top. A: Oh my goodness. That’s amazing. D: It’s just scones and tea. (Laughs.) This is a car race that was on Mount Cootha. That’s Mum’s parents’ house. I think Mum’s on the verandah. She got a hiding that day. She said, “I can race those cars,” and she tore across in front of one, and she felt it flicker in her skirt, and she went... Her father gave her a hiding. (Laughs.) A: Yes. D: That’s their old home. That was when it was, just before it was demolished. That’s all about Mount Cootha. That’s the restaurant. That’s the tree where it got its name. One Tree Hill. That’s the mango trees, and down the bottom I think some of them have gone... This is about the goldmine. I thought it was funny, boys finding a secret goldmine. Mum’s Father was goldmining up there years before. That’s at church where they went as kids. Sunday school at church. Um, this is down in the Mount Cootha Park. See these trees? That’s them there. The respectable one’s gone. There’s that one, the sister. A: Yeah. They’re just about ten times their size. D: Yeah. They called those trees after themselves. Mum’s Father was, um, head costing clerk for the government printers. A: That’s, that’s on, um, in the city isn’t it? D: Yeah, near George Street. Yeah. A: Cos I’ve seen that gargoyle thing before as well. D: Right. Yeah. Um, that’s a joke that gargoyle. A: Yeah? D: The person who made that made that after some parliamentarian guy, he couldn’t stand him. And he hated him and he made the face in the likeness of him. A: Oh really? D: (Laughs.) And, uh, grandpa, his best friend, um, he, there used to be two, there still are I think, two gargoyles sitting up the top. And they used to joke and say it was them. A: (Laughs.) Oh how great. D: This is Toowong State School when Mum went. It was just, Mum’s Mother died really young with TB. Mum was only seven, when she went. And that’s their Stepmother. A: Did they get on with the stepmother? D: Oh, she was very strict, but taking on three teenagers can’t have been easy, and she lost her fiancée in World War One. And, oh, she was awfully strict. I remember going to her place and she’d just had it painted, and you’d be standing about this far off the wall and

Appendices 231 you’d get, “Get off the paint girl!” (Laughs.) Yeah. I don’t think Mum particularly got on with her, but, um the elder sister lived with her, um, all, until she died. But she was very, very house fussy. Um, she wouldn’t let you go out if the house hadn’t been dusted or the housework done or the washing done. You weren’t allowed to go out. She was very strict. A: Who’s this? D: That’s Mum’s Father and her Stepmother. A: Oh the stepmother. D: Yeah. A: Where—that’s a lovely picture, where’s that? D: Yeah, that’s their wedding at Milton. Hmm. That’s them on Honeymoon. I think she might have been all right if her husband lived longer. He only lasted about ten years. He was the third person to die of Leukaemia in Australia. That’s just friends. That lady’s nearly a hundred. I write to her. (Laughs.) That’s their house at Rainworth. When they left Mount Cootha they went to Rainworth. That house is still there. Mm. Mum with some friends. Mount Cootha. A: That one looks like Redlands somewhere. D: Yeah. Don’t know where that is. A: A beach somewhere. D: That’s Nan going to England. She had quite a few trips back. In the days when you held streamers for the boat. In Egypt. Yeah. She had a good time. That’s her Mother. She had eight kids. Her husband was a butcher. The old map of the railways. A: With the advertisements around it. That’s amazing. D: Yeah. Auntie Ede Mum’s elder sister. A: Typing away. D: Mm. She became, um, head secretary for Queensland Treasury Department (It was quite a high position—she was one of the last persons to tally up government monies for Queensland before being accounted for in Canberra). In Brisbane. A: There you go. D: Mum worked for the cancer trust, in St. John’s. She met Flynn of the Inland in there. He used to come in and pick up supplies. That’s Auntie Silv, the younger sister. That’s Mum. A: Isn’t she gorgeous? D: Mm, she was asked to be on Cadbury’s Chocolate box, and she asked to be a model for players (sportswear shop). She was only seven stone when she got married, she’d leave me for dead. Couldn’t get her wedding frock over me shoulders when I was about eight years

Appendices 232 old. That’s a friend. She took a photo of, um, the Queen Mother before she got married up at Mount Cootha. Became rather famous, apparently. There’s the government printing office, that’s where they used to joke about the gargoyle thing. That’s the first building in town to get electricity. A: Oh. D: Mm. There’s Les Herdsman, that was his best mate. He gave Mum away at her wedding. A: Oh. D: Mum’s grandma. That’s Mum, two sisters and her stepmother. Mum hated that picture. Auntie Ede went mad at her for wearing that shirt. Mum and Dad’s wedding. That’s me, with my only car. (Laughs.) I managed to put it over the fence next door, coming down the steep driveway I put it over the fence with me in it. A: Do you think that incident’s related to... D: That’s probably why I never drove. A: Yeah. (Laughs.) A warning. D: This is Mum’s younger sister. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard about the Betty Shanks murder, at the Grange? A: Yes, I did. D: Well, he was the lecturer who drove Betty Shanks partway home. A: Oh. Yeah, but I was reading—do you read the Jack Simm, all his books? D: Yeah, aren’t they fabulous? I’ve got his book on that. A: Yeah that’s where I read it. D: Actually he lives up at Sunny Bank Hills. A: Oh does he? D: Yeah, and I wrote to him because I picked up a book at a library and it was a Lovelock who was a, um, prisoner, and he was a great escape guy apparently. And he’d written about it, and I’d got the surprise of my life to see the Lovelock name. I don’t know whether he’s related, I never worked that out. But, um, I wrote to him, yeah, and told him about grandpa working at Boggo Road Jail with Uncle Harry, so... Yeah. A: Oh, there you go. D: Yeah, so that’s Auntie Sill with her eldest child. All her kids. Marion’s a grandma with about six kids. (Laughs.) This is Auntie Ede’s house at Rainworth, they moved from Elizabeth Street at Toowong to Rainworth. That’s me on Dad’s shoulder. Seeing Nan off to England again. Postcards that Nan sent back. This is Nan’s nephew, um, he was the historian and the mayor of the little village in England. Very interesting, I’ve got a tape in there that he

Appendices 233 sent us, it’s all around where he lived, his home. Letters from Ede, Mum’s sister. Sydney, Auckland. Mum’s sister and Nan. That’s Nan, Auntie Ede, Mum’s elder sister and my eldest son. Auntie Ede with her first car. She was sixty-two when she got her license. Just Mum and he sister. When they sold the house at Rainworth they sold it to this guy, and he was in a crash, a helicopter crash soon after he bought it. This little boy, he’s not little anymore, he used to live next door to Mum. He used to get into Mum’s toothpaste. She had to hide it when he came. He loved peppermint and he’d eat it when he came. He was about three. (He was born blind) (Laughs.) Dad’s funeral. This is where, Mum lived here, and Auntie Ede came and lived just round the corner, so that was really good for them both. That was after Dad died. It was good. That’s Auntie Ede’s picture that’s up there. The strings and that are horsehair from our paddock at Oxley. (Laughs.) That was Mum’s house. It’s gone now. A: Oh, and that looks like something your Dad might have made. D: Yes, and this door, Ivan’s cut it up, and he’s had it powder-coated black, and he’s put it around the gazebo out there. He’s just in the process, still building it. That’s in the lounge. That’s really old. That came from the Lovelocks. This is all stuff out of Mum’s house. Got wallpaper and bits of pieces in there. This is all inside Mum’s. It’s been demolished, that’s why I took so many photos. They’re Mum’s paintings. Those two are in the lounge. That’s me. A: Aw. (Laughs.) D: Taking off a slide. They’re my boys. That’s Bruce there. That’s my daughter. This is my niece and nephew, and nephew. Um, they’re all Mum’s grandkids. There’s Mum with her sisters. That’s Mum and, Mum’s sister and her husband. He was an allergy specialist on the Terrace. Very grumpy, horrible bedside manner but a very, very clever man. He started the cystic fibrosis thing for children, and did a lot of work for MS and asthma and all sorts of stuff. A: Wow. D: Uh, that’s my cousin and her granddaughter. That’s my niece. That’s all my family, that’s Ivan, that’s my son-in-law, my daughter, that’s Bruce, Mum, my granddaughter and my eldest son. This is Mum digging the sandcastles down the coast with Mum’s cousin. This is my niece. Mum, she had an accident with her neighbours and the taxi man saved her. That was her last trip up to Mount Cootha. She’s riddled with cancer. That’s my family and that’s my brother’s family. She’s an amazing person. She’s ninety-two, and she nursed her older sister who had cancer and she never let on she had cancer. She’s incredible. She used to love

Appendices 234 doing things for people. She’s just an amazing person. That girl grew up over the road from us. She’s a uniting church minister. Won’t bore you anymore. (Laughs.) A: Oh no, that’s great. D: You’ve had enough. A: But, yeah no, but I do like the Brisbane—and you know, like, I think, you never know what I’m going to do in the future, you know, like, all the stories in Mount Cootha and stuff is really interesting. D: Yeah there’s a lot of stuff there if you want info on Mount Cootha. There’s hoards of it. (Laughs.) A: Yeah. D: Yeah, there’s a lot more under my bed too. A: Oh, yeah. D: The kids think I’m nuts. A: Oh no, but if you put it all in the- D: I don’t know if I’ll chuck it out or what will happen, but- A: Oh. I’ll record it. D: Oh dear. A: I’ll turn that off. Other documentation associated with Denise’s interview.

PA150046 Austin-Lovelock family tree

PA150047 Great-Great Grandparents on the Lovelock side

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PA150048

Grandmother Lovelock

PA150049

Lizzie and Harry

PA 150050 Harry, Harle, Elywyn and Myra: Lovelock children of Elizabeth and Pete J. Lovelock.

PA 150051 Appointment card, Lovelock Dentists

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PA150052

Great aunt Lizzie—beside Lizzie on far side is great grandma Elizabeth, Harry (boater hat, back to camera) and Great Aunt Myra. “Bo-peep” and “Fairy” are the horses on Coronation drive (outside Mayne residence now part of the Wesley hospital). PA150053

The normal school class 1894/5. B. Harle Lovelock in back row five from left

PA 150055

Left to right: B. Harle 1888-1953; Elwin R 1891-1945; Peter J 1859-1926; Elizabeth Anne nee Austin 1861-1953; Lizzie 1884-1978; S. Harry Elizabeth—herbalist and homeopathic medicines

Peter, Lizzie, Harry and Harle—all

Appendices 237 dentists and Elwyn was matron at the Lady Bowen hospital.

PA150056 House at 2 Dunlop Street where Lovelocks lived

PA150057 Dunlop Street, looking up from the road. Gows funeral parlour is now on the left corner of this photo.

PA150058 Great-grandma on steps at the back of 2 Dunlop Street

PA15059 Great Grandma’s Elizabeth Lovelocks exotic fern house at Dunlop Street

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PA150060

Family in order of birth: Lizzy, Harry, Harle (dentists), Elwyn and Myra (registered nurses)

PA150061 Great-grandpa Peter’s boat, The Marvel moored at Breakfast Creek

PA150062

Uncle Harry on boat Enid

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PA150063 Auntie Lizzie and her friend

PA150064 Lovelocks on Stradbroke Island. Duck hunting (quite legal then)

PA150065 Tennis court at great-grandma’s house, Sherwood

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PA150066 Gatton—old man in front of the car on his farm at Gatton is Harry Lovelock’s father-in-law

PA150067

PA150068 Harle Lovelock

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PA150069

PA150070 11 Boyd Street

PA150071 House at Boyd Street, Cintra

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PA150072 House at 11 Boyd Street, Cintra

PA150073 11 Boyd Street

PA150075 11 Boyd street

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PA150076 Boyd street more recently

PA150077 Denise’s father with his cousin

PA150078 My parents before married in Grandpa (Harle) Lovelock’s motorbike decorated for a fate.

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PA150079 Firth Lovelock (Bride), my Dad’s sister. Left Bridesmaid Joy Lovelock (Harry and Ellen’s daughter). Right bridesmaid Leona Davis (a friend). Leona was born in China—her parents were (Australian) missionaries there.

PA150080

PA150081 Grandma and Grandpa, possibly on the day Denise’s father got married

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PA150082 Denise and her brother sitting on the running board of “Old Amy”

PA150083 Fred and Mary (nee McLeod) Warren married 1950

PA150084 Elwyn Lovelock, head matron Royal Brisbane hospital

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PA150085 Myra (nee Lovelock) and her husband John Renton (married at Bowen hills 1920)

PA150086 Elizabeth Ann Austin aged 92 years 1953 at the botanical gardens with her great grandchildren (D standing back left).

PA150087 Bowen Hills

Appendices 247 PA150088 Captain Firth—a friend. Dad’s sister named after him.

PA150089 Cover of a children’s book presented to D’s grandfather by Salvation Army in 1894

PA150090 Letter from Great-grandma to D

PA150091 Letter to D from her father

Appendices 248 Tugun Thurs. Dear Denise, Glad you and Grandma arrived home safely. It has been very cold here and we have not been to the beach since you left. We went to see the animals at the zoo and also saw the birds fed. About 200 of them eat out of plates in your hand. All gaily coloured. Yesterday went fishing and mummy caught a big fish (picture of fish). Mine got away. Taking you to see the birds with grandma sometime. Hope you are looking after Grandma. See you Sat. All my love to grandma too. Daddy PA150093 1898 Brisbane from Bowen Terrace, the wharves near Newstead

PA150094 Numberplate for old Dodge, uncle Harry Lovelock’s car. Plate auction off by Russ Hinz.

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PA150095 Family tree

PA150096

PA150097

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PA150098

PA150099

PA150100

Appendices 251 PA150101

PA150105 Grandpa when he became a dentist, seated second from left.

PA150106 Lovelocks of Boyd Street: Back row: Auntie Firth, grandpa Harle, Fraser (Dad). Seated: Martha (Grandma aka “Jimmie”).

PA150107 Grandpa B. Harle Lovelock’s optometry certificate (before he became a dentist/

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PA150108 B Harle Lockelove’s dentistry certificate

PA150109 Great grandma’s (Martha aka “Jimmie”) first aid certificate for helping the Red Cross

PA150110 Programme for a benefit concert to aid

Appendices 253 the Brisbane General hospital on Novemeber 2nd 1891. The conductor was Samuel G. Benson—a professor of music. He married Martha (“Jimmie”) Lovelock’s sister Minnie.

PA1500111 Grandmother at 11 Boyd Street, Bowen Hills

Letter written by Denise to Ariella Van Luyn When I was a school girl my Dad used to drive me to Clayfield College. As I got a bit older, I caught a tram to and from school from (or to) his workshop at Breakfast Creek Road. I loved to see the tram cross Breakfast Creek Road (near Montpelier Street intersection). A man would walk out ahead of the train waving a red flag and ringing a loud bell. When crossing Breakfast Creek Bridge of a morning I often saw a man in a rowboat towing one or two horses across the river to exercise them. They were probably racehorses from nearby stables at Albion Park raceway. A well known character around Breakfast Creek was a man who lived in a houseboat there. The poor fellow was a widower and her demise had upset him so much that when he went out

Appendices 254 he dressed in his wife’s clothes. He was extraordinarily tall and stood head and shoulders over men—heads turned when he went by in a frock and hat and handbag. (Today he would be mistaken for a ‘crossdresser’ or drag queen or whatever the term is). Another point of interest which you seldom hear spoken of—maybe due to its failure—is Luna Park, which began where Cloudland is situated. My great Grandparents were not at all happy about it being next door—particularly when the rollercoaster was erected next to their fence. One day during a test run the carriages derailed and ended up in my great grandparent’s tank and garden! I do not know much of it was built or how long it was there. My great Aunt Lizzie used to tell me about the huge trees that grew there. They were taken to the saw mill in the Valley. The Indigenous people used to put their dead in the hollow of the trees. Bowen Hills was the camp of the Brisbane tribe (Turrbal) where the R.N.A. (showgrounds) are was a tribal place—I think it was a fighting ground or corroboree or both, and I vaguely recall reading there was a Bora Ring there. Back in my school days—if my father was busy when I arrived at his workshop, I often went to see my Grandmother in Boyd Street, usually spending a few pence at the ‘lolly shop’ near corner of Dunlop Street on the way. I was told never to go to Great Grandma’s place as she had an afternoon nap. (She would have been 90-91 by then). I loved going to Grandma’s. She was always very pleased to see me. Grandma was an excellent cook and there was always homemade cookies and homemade ice cream. I stayed overnight at her place when my family had extended holidays and I had to return to school. It was always very noisy as Cloudland was right next door. The steam trains started up early and on Sunday early morning Mass at the RC (Roman Catholic) church nearby brought more traffic. Christmas at Grandma’s was one week early as my parents always had a big ‘do’ Christmas day at their own home—my cousins and my brother would save their toothpicks from the cherrios they ate and then afterwards would count them and see who ate the most! The table was always laden and so much so that one Christmas the extensions in the middle of the table collapsed. Grandma’s been gone since 1970, but I’d give anything to have one of her Christmas trifles— no one can make them like she did! After we’d eaten, 5 of us cousins would walk to the corner to see the view over the river and then go and scramble up a very high brick wall (on private property) and sit on it to watch the dancing in Cloudland. I enjoyed being in my father’s workshop too. Chain wire fences were very popular then and my Dad had three big machines that ‘knitted’ the wire. I loved to see it go in as a single

Appendices 255 strand of wire and then come out all ‘knitted’ into fence wire. Dad would sharpen my lead pencils on the grinder. I don’t think another kid in Brisbane had lead as long as my pencils! Another episode that took place that is still vivid in my mind—I had toothache after school one day (the Lovelock dentists were already demised, except great aunt who was retired) and Dad took me to a dentists across the road whom I had never been to. As he was busy he spoke to the receptionist and left me in the waiting room and returned to work. The receptionist was to phone him when I was ready to go. But I wasn’t having that. As soon as the receptionist had turned her back I was off like a shot! Poor Dad had to roam the streets looking for me. My brother gave them ‘grief’ in that he ran away a great deal when he was young. My father spent a whole weekend covering the backyard and side fence and gates in barbwire to stop him running off. He was only about three years old and he always wanted to know what was on the other side of the mountain (Mt. Cootha, where the TV towers are now. We lived at Alderley). He threw a sack over the barbwire and got a stepladder and still escaped. One day when he was about five he wrote a letter to Grandma and kept asking Mum ‘when will the postman take it?’ He went missing and so did the letter. Mum phoned Dad at his work, but he’d already left and arrived home saying ‘this little boy waved to me near the hospital’ (RBH)—Alan got as far as Grandma’s and part back down the road before they caught up with him—he’d put the letter in Grandma’s box but didn’t go in! All he could say was ‘but I knew the way.’ Another funny incident that happened to my Mum at Breakfast Creek Road—one weekend we were in our Dad’s old commer van. It had something wrong with the front passenger door and Dad had tied a bit of rope around the door and the pillar and the backdoor as well—so no one could open the doors on that side. He stopped opposite his work and went to pick up something there while we wanted. It was a very hot day and the windows were down. My mother gave an almighty sneeze and her false teeth flew out the window on to the pavement! We couldn’t get out on the road as the traffic was so busy. We just had to wait for Dad to retrieve the teeth. My brother and I thought it was a huge joke but poor Mum was terrified that someone would tread on them. Dad’s sister died of TB in 1945 soon after the birth of her third child. Their oldest child went to a paternal aunt—the second child with my parents and the third—who was a sickly boy and needed much care went with Welfare care. When their Father had sold their farm and sorted out things the family lived with my grandparents at Boyd Street. When my grandparents went on a six week holiday my parents went there (My grandparent’s home) to

Appendices 256 look after the cousins. The youngest, David, and myself (both about one and a half to two years old) were found one day sitting on the white bedspread, everything and ourselves, covered in chocolate. We had got hold of grandpa’s heart tables. The local doctor was called—but we had sucked off the chocolate coating and spat the rest out! David kept saying, ‘But Deadley (Denise) say eata (eat up).’ The property and the one to the right (as you face it) of my Dad’s work were both owned by my great Grandpa originally. Dad’s uncle (in law) worked next door as a motor mechanic. Another incident that happened to me: there was a tram stop near Dunlop Street. I was waiting on the kerb for the tram to school and a truck with a high load of wool bales was passing. Several bales fell off the truck. The lamp post saved me as one rolled right up to it. A young fellow with a push bike was bowled over. The following is extracted from things Dad wrote about his childhood: (x=notes added by Denise) Every Christmas the family would assemble for breakfast at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s (x Peter and Elizabeth) place at Dunlop Street, Bowen Hills. All the presents were piled up on your plates and your eyes would stick out like organ stops when we sat at the table which you couldn’t see over. 1922- I was six years old when I commenced school having lost a year to diphtheria when aged five. Two or three things always vivid in my memory: the school in Brooks St, Valley, was next door to the police station and the teacher would put the fear of God into us by threatening to send us to the police if we didn’t behave. I wore trousers held up be braces with 6 buttons and in case of an accident a belt was added for good luck. If an emergency arose I would try and find my sister—who was by now at the girls school next door (x Brooks Street consisted of three divisions: infants—girls—boys). One day, having not found her I tried to make it home—alas the inevitable happened! (x the six buttons—3 at the back and 3 at the front, buttoned the trousers and the shirt and would have been difficult to undo the back ones). I came across a Chinese fruiter—who when seeing me waved a big knife and let fly a string of Chinese. I covered the last 400 yards uphill in about 10 seconds flat! This was a glorious era—girls still played with dolls until about 12-13 years old. Boys did not care about girls one iota, and the only difference you knew about that girls were dresses, boys didn’t.

Appendices 257 Many hawkers carted their wares around suburban streets. Carts were drawn by half staved broken down nags and the raucous voice of owners yelling out their products and value rang through the quiet suburban streets— Pineapples 5 for a bob Clothes props 2 for a bob Fresh fish (as dead as Jonah’s whale) Ice (hard to come by—and no fridge existed) The grocer called to your home and laboriously wrote down all your wants and needs. The next day he delivered it in a horse and cart with 1c worth of boiled lollies for the kids. There was always a fight as no body liked the green ones. They tasted like castor oil—this was standard medicine for all complaints (x even as an adult he couldn’t abide green sweets. I was very fond of green eucalyptus lollies from the shop near his work and he’d say to me, ‘what do you want to buy those awful things for?) Schools were overcrowded—40-50 in the average x He goes on to talk about school—but he refers to the Sherwood State school. When Dad was about grade 3 or 4 the family rented the Bowen Hills home and lived in Sherwood for several years. Dad was at Brisbane Boys College the day it opened at Toowong was his first day there. I have a photo of BBC—the whole school was probably taken that year. He moved back to Bowen Hills in 1933. Dad left school early as he got an apprenticeship. As there was a depression he was lucky to get it. He went on to Tech (Night College) and by 19 had an engineering business in South Brisbane. His business at Breakfast Creek must have begun in the 1940s. When I was about 17/18, Dad had a heart attack and I had to close his business down as the work was too heavy for his condition. It’s thanks to my Dad I have some knowledge of our past. He would be pleased to think it went down in history. Dad passed away in 1979 aged only 62—he had a inoperable brain tumour. My mum outlived him 30 years. They were wonderful parents. I thank God for my ancestors. I hope some of this info is of help to you

Appendices 258

APPENDIX I: INTERVIEW FOUR

Interviewee: Dennis Interviewer: Ariella Van Luyn Date conducted: 9 September 2009 Location: Newmarket

Annotations: Ariella Van Luyn is referred to as A. Dennis is referred to as D. Words in brackets and italics indicate actions.

D: -three. A: Mmm. D: Uh... Just to give you a bit of a bearing on it. A: I've just got the recorder on there. I just wanted to let you know. D: All right. That was his ninetieth birthday. A: Oh. Which one's you? D: And that's me! (Both laugh). A: Oh aren't you cute. What are these hats they're all wearing? D: Oh it was Christmas wasn't it? Oh yeah, Christmas. A: Christmas, yes. Oh yeah, so they're- D: Christmas '24. A: Yeah. D: So I was eighteen months there. And he was, er, ninety. About ninety. The old feller. A: So which one's your grandfather, in this picture? D: The old feller. A: Oh. With the best hat on. D: Yeah, they must have crowned him. Uh... A: I've got a little camera that I can take a picture of that, if that's okay? D: Yeah, that's all right. I'll give you copies of them. I'll make copies if you'd like them. A: Um, yeah actually that might be better. Cos what I really wanted to ask you was is there any stories around Mont Pellier that you could tell me? Um, what... Cos I'm, I'm quite interested by, um, because I, I also found this... I'm interviewing somebody else, um, uh, the

Appendices 259 Newtons, and they were, there's, they have this diary um from their grandmother, Catherine Newton. And it says here that they're staying in Mont Pellier. And I, like, so was it used as, and they call it some kind of, um, like, a, what do they call it, like a... It's like a... a 'private hotel kept by ladies.' D: (Laughs). A: So I don't know, is this the same Mont Pellier, or is it- D: Well- A: Do you know anything about that? D: I don't know anything about that. I think that's how it would, er, strike people. It was a very big house. A: Yeah. D: Uh... And... the women, who were the daughters, never worked. They worked in the house, but apart from that, there were servants in the house. Always the cooks and the maids and all that idea. Uh... So... As far as getting there, in, in, the early days, well, we went there by car. A: Yep. D: Uh... That's the... that, that's the front and side of the house. The tree blocks it. That's a view from the house. A: Mm. 1915 that's got there. D: Yes. Er... But, you, you've will have read this, or seen this- A: Yeah, I ha-have had a look at that one, yeah. D: In Dianne's book. And it's got a few of those photos in the family. A: Yeah, yeah. D: And... Er... Uh... And then she got me. They're the three kids from here. A: Oh. D: My, uh, sister brother and me. A: Oh okay, so where... how old are you in that picture? D: Uh... he was born in 1930, so that'd be, uh, what 31, 32? So I'd be... what, eight or nine? H: He's only about, he's only about eight months there darl. D: Eight months. Okay. Well then I'd be seven. And my sister would be ten. Round about. Seven, ten, he was six years younger than I was. But, er, well that, that's gran, that's, er, no, that's the wife of the second eldest child of James Calshaw. A: Oh, okay. D: And this is, er, grandmother.

Appendices 260 H: We're all big families in those days. D: But, er, there were... that's part of the early house. H: This is the sort of luncheon they had, or party back then. A: Wow! Isn't that amazing? D: Yeah. Just on, on the verandah. A: Oh, so that's the verandah there. D: Yeah. A: Wow. Just a small luncheon. (Laughs). D: Or was that one of the weddings? I, er... A: Oh it's the, the Calshaw wedding. D: Yeah. A: It's wedding. Oh no, so it's not just a luncheon. H: But that was the number they could seat, and did seat. Um, for, uh... D: And of course, they had, you know, the meals were provided or cooked in the kitchen, which was massive, and... But, they didn't do it exactly. They entertained and, er, uh... well this is one of the daughters. That uh married that feller (unclear). A: Oh yeah, I think I remember reading about that. D: Yeah, uh... In, in the early days, it was all horse and buggy to get there. The, uh, grandfather was born in 1834, and he came up here as an adult, and, er, he bought Mont Pellier, he didn't build the original part of it, but he bought it, and extended it, er... A: And he was, um, involved with the gasworks company. Is that right? D: Yes. A: What was, do you know anything about his involvement with that? D: Well I'm sure he and his brother were original directors of the gas company. Er... his brother was George, who didn't marry. Er... and then that continued on. James's son Thomas Owen Calshaw became a director. I think he was the chairman of the gas company. And then the next generation George Calshaw, he also was, er, a director of the gas company. I think he, again, I think he was the chairman. And, uh... he was the chairman when, uh, the gas company was sold. A: Oh, so- D: To, uh, to Boral I think. A: Yeah, that's right. D: Yeah. A: Yeah, yeah.

Appendices 261 D: So, uh, so there were three, three Calshaws, you know, different, er, what do you call them? H: Generations. D: Eras or generations, who ran the gas company until, from the start to finish. So, er, but the house over here where I was born, that was all gaslit in the early days. That was built in 1915. And... er... it was just gas. There was no electricity here. Er... A: It's hard to imagine, isn't it? D: Yes, yes it is. Er... I don't know... There're all sorts of... Er... Sorts of, er, pictures. And this is only half. My sister Pat's got books and books of these. Have a look at this here. It might give you an idea of (clears throat). Er... that's the house. This was the, er, building attached. The house was sort of on the ground like that. And James Calshaw bought it and built all this business to make it a really big house. This remained, oh, the, the dining room, lounge, the front verandah and the side vernadah where they had those, those things. Well this is on the way up, to the, that's the stable. A: Oh, that's an impressive stable, isn't it? D: Yes, yes. A: It's bigger than where I live. D: Yeah, that's right. Now that's the stable. I, uh, er... It came up from the street and the driveway did that A: Mm-hm. So it did a little... D: And up on... this here was the stable, and then there was a hairpin bend there, and then around there to the back of the house. The front of the house, there was no, er, well you only could arrive at the back of the house. The front was garden, and then it went downhill very quickly to, er Newstead way. So er... A: Okay, so that- D: Er... (Fetches something). A: Oh... D: That's the first bend in it. Now the stable was back here, on this flat area here. And, er... A: Sort of in the bend. D: Yes, well, back from the bend. That's the, the road down there. A: And, and that road comes onto... somewhere in Bowen Hills, then? D: Yes, yeah, that's, uh, might have to get the, the map out. I'll, uh, tell you what it is. Well that is the, uh, the house, again, with the attachment down here that James built. This is the original house.

Appendices 262 A: Oh what a lovely picture. D: So, uh, it was, they're, uh, they're painting of course. But, er... A: Was there ever any sort of family stories about what James was like? What was, do you know anything about his character, or... D: Uh, well he was a very successful man. Uh... In, in those days, I mean it wasn't like the kids today. I wouldn't dare say anything out of place. Or if you, er, you went to, er, oh, well, Mont Pellier. Not Mont Pellier, Oakwall, at Windsor, is, er, one of, er, well that was Amy's house, she was the eldest daughter. And, er, Amy Kapper. Er... H: That's still there. D: What's that. H: That is still there. D: Yes, Oakwall the house is still there. And er... a Kapper still owns it, coming down a few generations. But I can remember going there for afternoon tea with the family, and, er, well you'd just come up to the the front stairs and the the front verandah, and then at afternoon teatime walk down the hall and sit at the dining room table, and it would all be laid out, and, er, and we kids we wouldn't say a thing unless we were spoken to. And the, er, Aunt Amy would, er, I've seen her ring the bell and the maid would come in and she'd be all done up in her black with white apron and a little white cap and 'Yes Maam', you know, and, oh, 'Some more hot water please.' Go out and bring hot water in for the, the tea, and, you know, e- everything was so old-fashioned, compared with today. You, you wouldn't get kids just to sit down, and, er, well my kids too. They were born 50 years ago. But, er, you know just to sit quietly and not, not to say a word out of place... A: Very unnatural thing for a child to be doing isn't it? (Laughs). D: Yeah, yeah, but that's, I suppose, how, uh... H: Not in those days it wasn't. D: Well how we were brought up. But, er, well James Calshaw was, er, oh... Cos when we knew him, well, he was 90 on. 90 to... well his 95 I think when he died in '29. Er... We'd go over there for Sunday afternoon, afternoon tea, and, er, well Pat sort of tells her stories. You get there, and grandfather would say, go and get the, uh, er... lollies. Lollies. Brain's going. Lollies... er... little red lollies that suck. Hard lollies. What are they? A: Oh, like boiled lollies? D: Yeah, boiled lollies. Yeah. You know, 'Go down to my room and get the jar of, er, of lollies.' And, she'd do it, but she was dead scared all the time, going down this long, er, corridor. And the ceiling would go high and there were doors here where she knew her

Appendices 263 grandfather's bedroom was. And, er, you know, she'd walk down and get it. Wouldn't dare run of course. And come back, oh, she was, you know, perhaps six or something like that at that stage. And, er, but he, er... I'd say he was a dominant sort of feller. Er... very successful in his architecture. And, er... well, I don't know how else to describe him. I wasn't there that much. A: Of course. Um, and so there were no sort of stories in your family, your parents sort of never talked about him, or... D: ... No... not that I can think of. I just, sort of, didn't seem to be done then. But, er, er... H: There probably where earlier on. But, you know, from Dennis's time of knowing him, er... D: Yes, I... H: In the, the Queensland Gazette, they were the great stories about him in that. Um, Pat's got copies of that, cos I read them not so very long ago. D: Yeah, but, but that's all strictly business and what he did... H: Oh, yes I suppose so. D: There's nothing... I don't know whether... Well, I, I never knew if he ever played any sport. I don't know what sport you'd play back in the 1800s. Probably go shooting. A: Well I know there was a bowls club. (Laughs). At Newstead. D: Yeah, at Berugamin. Yes, well my Father played bowls at Berugamin and New Farm and New Market. But, er, James, well to my knowledge he never played bowls. That was... H: But he was decrepit by the time you remember him. D: Yeah, yeah that's right. But I never heard of him playing bowls. He'd, er, you know I do know that when he was, er, working or going to the city. That was by coach and horses, and, er, they had a, permanent, er, you know, feller there looking after the horses and the coach etc and he'd be called up to pick up James at a certain hour and then they'd go down that winding path and then into town. And he'd, er, either wait if it was a reasonable time, or go away. It was more like waiting, until he was ready to come home. Er... But that was... H: It all had to be pre-arranged, because there were no telephones to ring up and say, 'I'm ready.' You know, 'Come and get me now.' D: No, that, that- A: You couldn't just whip out your mobile, and... (Laughs). D: No, not quite. Er... No, in those, it, it's changed so quickly. I think my father was the only... man who had a motor car when I was going to the New Market State School. And that was in the '20s. And, er, the end of the '20s. And I think he was the only one who had a motor car.

Appendices 264 A: Wow. So why, why did he have a motor car? D: Oh, well, he was, er, a dentist, a retired dentist, and, er, I can, er, well, he, he, just er, living here, he married in '15, he retired in, er, '25, and, er, so once he was here... I don't know... There was a er, a er, tram, horse-drawn tram, from Hearston Road into town, in the early stages. That's where it, er, went to, or from, and it gradually came out to, you know, Ashgrove Avenue, and, and er, which was a three mile scrub road, and out to New Market School, and then out to Alderly. The tram line was in the early stages horse-drawn. It was there, and it was the same going down to Mont Pelier. But father, when he lived there, er, always travelled by train. Get out at Bowen Hills and walk the rest of it up the hill to the house. And, er, which was, was, a fair walk I suppose. Er... I, er... A: So... D: Well I don't know. Ask my questions, I, I- A: Yeah, no, I was just, I was just... So, what happened to Mont Pellier once your grandfather died? D: Uh... Well, it was sold fairly quickly, and even then it was too big for any of the family to take, take, er, take it over. And, er, there was a bit of an argument I think, or, about, about the place, but nobody... well, nobody was capable of taking it over I don't think. It was a massive house, it was a massive property, and, er, well my Father built this. He had four allotments. Er, this was part of the allotment, and one on the other side of the house. Er, and, you know, he wasn't broke by any means. But, er, it was one thing... about an acre and a third area he had here, er between this and that house, to going up to Mont Pellier, which, er, oh, well, I don't know, would have had five acres. It might have had more than that, and a massive house. And yet neither team of servants to run the house, well, uh, he always had, er, one servant down here. Started off at two, at cooking and cleaning, and then there was a, another one there for most of my early life. So, er, whereas here, I never had somebody living in the house to be a cook, you know. We just seemed to go downhill. You know, it, er, and it, it wasn't done so much. There're probably still people in Brisbane who are wealthy enough to have servants living in the house. I don't know any of them. But, er, so, the, the house was, well the property was sold and the, er... Cloudland was built there, a dance hall up on top of the hill. Er... Thomas Calshaw, the eldest son, he built in front of Mont Pellier, and his property went down a great slope to, er, New-Newstead Road. H: Breakfast Creek Road, isn't it. D: No... what's the road down to Breakfast Creek? A: Yeah that is, that's Newstead Road.

Appendices 265 D: Newstead Road. Yeah, well his property went down to that. That was his entrance, to walk up a, quite a steep hill. And the house was on extra high stumps at the front but on the ground at the back. A: Oh, cos it was on the hill. D: Yeah, because it was quite a hill. Well now, that property went to R. M. Gowe, the, er... A: Uh-huh. Yeah. D: Er... Funeral director. A: Yep, yep. D: Er... on the southern side of where Gowe's are, that had a, er, well sort of train thing up to Mont Pellier. From, er, and up to Cloudland. A: Mm. And when, about when was that that Cloudland got built on it? D: Er... Oh... A: I can find out if you can't remember. D: Yeah well it, uh... It'd be in the '30s somewhere. Er... my sister Pat, as I said three years older than I am, she went to the opening of Cloudland. The opening dance. There... it was, uh, probably, more, just after the war that that was, say in the late '40s, that I can remember going there to balls, and, dancing, and, all that. It had a wonderful floor on it, a sprung floor, and with all the people on it, it would, er, spring, float up and down. Well then, er, I couldn't tell you when it was sold then. But, er, there's a, er... H: Was about the '70s, in the '70s, wasn't it? D: What's that? H: That was in the '70s, wasn't it? D: I don't know. H: When they demolished Cloudland. D: There's a monument down in the bottom of C-- Street, about Cloudland and, er, the Calshaw house and all that. You've probably been there, have a look at it. You can walk from Newstead Road. There're steps up to it. It's a dead-end for traffic. But, er, well you come round the other side near the theater, and, er, the street goes there but goes up a bit but then it just goes down in a slope, and you've gotta turn around and go back again. That, that doesn't go anywhere. But, but that, it's quite a good monument, with photographs, and, er, it'd give you the dates of the... A: Mm. I've seen pictures but I haven't actually been there to have a look at it yet, so... Um, so, and so, Mont Pellier got demolished when Cloudland was built on it?

Appendices 266 D: Yes, yes. They retained one part of one, that brick wall, and incorporated it in the building. But, er, I never knew just where it was, but, er, they did that, but, er, the, the house was demolished, yeah. And then, er, in the same way Cloudland was demolished. To everybody's horror. A: Yeah, done in the middle of the night. D: Yes, yeah, that, that's right. Er... A: So the people that bought it allowed it to be demolished. Is that how it worked, or... D: Yes, yeah, I, I forget who owned Cloudland. I can't remember who, who it... But it, er, apparently became uneconomic to keep it going, and, er, whereas the property was worth a lot of money, as you can see by the housing that's been built all over the, the hill. So, er, yeah, they sold it all, and, er, put houses on it. See, er, you know that, that things have changed so much, with all of us. Er... See the Thurlows, my mother's people, they lived on the back, this, this is a block. Davison Street, Free Street, Thurlow Street, named after them. A: Yeah, I did notice that. D: Yeah, and, er, Enoggera Road, here. Now apart from that corner up there, there was a house there, there was the church on the corner down there. The Thurlows owned the rest of it, the whole block. Well, because they, er, had a wholesale manufacturing and grocery business, selling etc. And they had horses everywhere. It was all horse-drawn work and they had horses here, and... er... So people needed more, more property. You know, I couldn't have half-a-dozen horses in my yard. A: No. D: And yet 1200 meters is big for a, er, a property today. A: Yeah. D: When they sold nextdoor they cut in half across, halfway down and put two houses on. A: Yeah, just squish people in. D: Yeah. A: So, when you were, just going back to James Calshaw, I don't know if you, how much you know about this, but he came as an adult to build Mont Pellier. Do you know where he got his money from? Cos he was an architect beforehand, is that right? (Pause). Cos, yeah, he was directing the gasworks company, you'd think he'd have... D: Uh, well... Yeah, but he must have built that before... he, er... he went chasing gold at one stage. He was born in Sydney, and, er, went chasing gold, but that didn't do any good, and then he studied architecture in Sydney, and after that he came to Brisbane. Now, I don't know how he started. Er... his father could have helped him. I don't know, but, er, his father, like

Appendices 267 James, had a team of children, so, he was only one of them. Er... Of course, in those days, there was no income tax. You know, what you made was yours. And, er, that made a big difference to. You get up, up a bit in your income today, and, er, it's er, 45, 47% tax. A: Mm. D: You only got half of what you, what you earn. (Laughs). Well that didn't happen in those days. They got the lot. It's like, er, the Mayne... people. You know, the oldest won't talk whether he snitched 300 pounds from the poor fellow that was murdered. Then he came to town and he had a butcher shop, and his son built Brisbane Arcade, which I think is a beautiful building. From Queen to Adelaide Street, and upstairs, all that, it's er, they all made money. As I say, what they made was theirs. Er... No I can't tell you where James got his money or how he started, other than by building, and, er, he must have been a, er, well he built a lot of the buildings about. There are, you know, stories of him, what the buildings were. I could find that for you if you were interested to find that out. Are you, the buildings? A: Yeah, yeah that would be interesting. I'm seeing what's out there at the moment, like what, or how much information I can sort of get, and just taking it all in. (Laughs). D: Yeah. Yes, well, er, he wasn't the only architect in Brisbane of course, but he did the grammar school, boys' grammar school great hall. It's a big building, and he followed that. And he, er... I don't know, I think he organised, organised Oakwall for his daughter. One of the places at, er, New Farm or, er, there's a place there which is a, er, for, er, functions and things. Quite a big yard. I'd have to find it. Er... Well, you'd, you'd like to see... It's been printed, er, showing the places that he, er, you know, did. You'd, you'd like to see... A: Oh, I'll have a look at that, yeah. D: It's not, er, here. I'd have to go down... My sister's down all this. She took an interest in it all her life. A: She's done a beautiful job hasn't she? D: And er- Oh yes, there's a lot of stuff. That's our Redcliffe house, which I still own, down at Margate Beach. It was on the frontage. This is Pat and I, when we were kids. Er... well then Cintra house. He bought that for his, er, daughter or he helped her do it. A: I've seen that house. I didn't realise that was Cintra. D: Yeah, well it's still there. It's sort of boarded o- Oh, it was nextdoor to Mont Pellier. A: Yeah. D: Er... but you came round another street to it. My Aunt, er, Hilda owned it and lived there for a, a long while.

Appendices 268 A: So how many, he, who did he marry and then how many children did he have? What was the...? D: He married Charlotte Owen. O-W-E-N. And, er, he had... six or seven. Amy... Thomas... er... (long pause)... I can't remember. A: Never mind. D: I'll have to, er, get that to you. Well, you'd be interested in a, er, a, er... A: I was just sort of wondering where they all ended up actually. D: Where they all ended up? A: Yeah. D: Well, none of them are alive now, these children. A: No. D: Er, my sister and I are the last of the next generation. A: Mm. D: Er... George... Amy, Thomas, George, Hilda... Percy comes into it somewhere, Percy and Eric. Yeah, there were six children. A: And, one of those was working at the gasworks sight, cos Thomas... D: Thomas was working at the gas company, and then Percy's son, also an architect, he, er, he was one of the leaders. I think he was chairman of the gas company. Cos I remember him talking about trying to get the right price for the, when he sold the building, when it was to be sold, no doubt, or the company was to be sold. A: And they think they sold it to Boral. Do you know why the ended up selling it? D: Why? A: Yeah. D: Well, I suppose Boral came along with a better offer, and I assume that the, er, gas wasn't, er, as profitable, because electricity had taken over. A: Yeah, that's my understanding of the situation as well. D: Yes, yes. Just, er, they didn't want it. Although we've still got gas in the street here. I've got a gas stove. And there's still a gas pipe runs up the street here. Whether it comes, goes to the new suburbs or not I, I've got no idea. A: Oh, well I'm at Indooroopilly and we have still have a gas to heat our hot water, so we do pay a natural gas bill as well, so... D: Yeah, yeah. A: I don't know about the newer newer suburbs. (Laughs).

Appendices 269 D: No, well I don't either. Er... Well, Amy married a cousin, Joe Kapper, er... Thomas married a cousin. Er... Kate Kapper. Er... Thomas was a solicitor. He was a director of the, er, Brisbane telegraph. That was following on from James and George. They, they both were involved in the Brisbane telegraph. Er... James, er, Thomas, he followed on at the Brisbane telegraph, but then it was taken over by er, by er, well I think it was taken over by the Courier Mail at first, and then by the, er, uh, oh that worldwide feller, got all the, the er, the papers. A: Oh Bill Gates. D: Er... What was that? A: Bill Gates? Was that? No? D: No, not not Gates. Er... er... oh, I'll think of it in a minute. Er... but he then took over the, the papers here, the Courier Mail which, er, had already taken over the telegraph. Thomas the solicitor. Percy was, er, an architect. Following his father. Er, and his son George was an architect. Who, as I said, followed the Calshaw name at the gas company. Er, and George, George went to Sydney. I don't know what he did. No, I'll have to find that out. I don't know. And then Eric, my father, was a dentist. But he, er, he went to America to study. Cos there was no dental university in his day, in 1902. He graduated in 1905. So, er, er of course now there's the dental school and the university, and dentists everywhere. But, er... And then as I say, the ladies never worked. Oh no, couldn't be done. (Laughs). A: Wow. D: What are we up to? Anywhere, or? A: Uh, well no, that, that sounds pretty good. I was also going to ask you if you yourself had any memories of the Newstead, Teneriffe, Bowen Hills area at all. Cos, um, what I'm really trying to do in my writing is get a sense of what it was like, and how it's also changed, so I'm just wondering if you've got any memories or stories about, um, those kinds of things. D: (Long pause). Well not really, as I say, I was, what, six when James died. Er... in the early '30s I had the run of this district and, you know, because it, it was different then. Kids could move about. I had a bike and I could be all over the place. But, er, no I never had that at Mont Pellier, I was too, er, too young. Er... I, er... no I don't know. You've, you've read Dianne Hacker's book about- A: Yeah, yeah I have yeah. D: It's, er, very interesting I think. A: It is isn't it, actually, and very, very, um, well researched. D: Yes.

Appendices 270 A: Yeah, so what I'm doing, I don't want a sort of, um, uh, you know I'm not doing the same thing. I'm doing it a little bit different with my, my fictionalising stuff, so... it's good to get, particularly, yeah, see the big houses that were there and what the history behind them was, and that, you know that's quite interesting as well. D: Yes, yeah well... A: Mm, and the connection the gas company's interesting as well. Very interesting. D: Yes I can't tell you much about, er, about the gas company. I just know that both Thomas Owen, he was the odlest son, and then Percy's son George. And Thomas gave it away or died, and George took it over. Er... but I, er, I never went to the gas company, that I can think of. A: That's okay. Yeah. D: I went into the telegraph at odd times, when Thomas Owen was there. A: Mm. Cos that building was quite close. It was on... what street was it on? D: Which, the? A: The Brisbane telegraph. It was there at Newstead though, wasn't it? Or am I making that up? D: Oh, no, no, it was Queen Street. A: Oh, just totally making it up then. (Laughs). D: No, it was Queen Street. And the, the facade of the telegraph building is still there. If you look where, er, Myers used to be, on the other side of the road, er, if you look at the buildings that are still there. I think Myers is underneath them, but the frontage of the building with the hotel and the Brisbane telegraph and all that is still there with their names on, and, er... Er... I really can't think, er... A: Did you know either of the two men who were working at the gas comp- did you know them very well at all, or... Probably still a bit young actually. D: Well, I, er, Thomas, he, er, he lived at Newstead as I said. And I, I spent quite a bit of time with him, writing, er, oh he was dictating and writing about wills and things. The family will that, that was James's will that went on and on and I used to go over and write for him. He'd sort of pace up and down and be talking and I'd have to write it out. I, er, er... you know, he and his wife, um, Kate, she was a very pleasant person, er, I'd say Thomas was more of a cranky sort of feller, but I, I got on all right with him. Er... and then George, that is Percy's son who followed to the gas company, er, an architect, he was a, er, a director of the, er, er, Brisbane building and banking company that became, er, the Queensland... became the Queensland National Bank, or the, er, or Suncorp I think. Anyway, he, er, he was the director of the bank and he worked or did work for the commercial banking company of Sydney, er,

Appendices 271 which, where I started work in 1940, it was on the corner of, er... Queen and, er, Charlotte Street. There were four banks on the corner there. The Queensland national bank was there, the English Scottish and Australian bank was there, the Commercial Sydney was there, and the, er, Union Bank was there. And the er Bank of Australasia was up on the next corner of Wharf street. Er... but I knew George, oh if I saw him in the street we'd say G'day, and have a few words, but I never sort of hobnobbed with him, because, well, he was almost a generation... he was my cousin, but he was almost a generation older than I. He, er, er... my father was the youngest, and then he married quite late, and, er, he, you know, the, George, well he, he would have been, oh, 20 years, 25 years older than I was. Er... so, you know, he was never, never a sort of friend of mine. He was never an enemy, when we met we were quite friendly, but I never er, never er had anything social to do with him. So I can't help you there much. Except he was there, I know that much. A: Yeah. D: Er... When, er... When my father was born, James took his wife Charlotte to England because she wasn't well. I think that was after the birth. And they took Thomas. He was number two son, with him. Well I think Amy was 18 at that stage, and they left the baby with Amy, and went off to England. And, er, because they, they doubted that he'd live I think. His heart wasn't wonderful, and, er, but Amy was the, er, Amy looked after Eric while they went off to England for a trip. And of course going to England, well, it took you three months to get there for a start, in a sailing ship, and three months to get home, so that was six months you were away. And, er, I always thought it was a bit tough on him, you know, an 18 year old. But again, you know, she would never have washed a nappy, or, never of, er, I doubt if she ever bathed him. She just oversaw everything and the maids'd do the work. But, er, she must've, er, got them working okay, because my Dad abused me. (Laughs). A: Yeah. He'd managed to survive all that. D: Yeah. Well you know even that, to me it's not the sort of thing you'd do, er, today. But then, it, it's not the sort of thing that you'd have 18 years apart, is it? A: Well that's it, such a big gap isn't it, you know? D: Yes, quite a big gap. Er, well, my—what's it—my brother's six and a half years younger than me, and my sister's nearly three years older, so there was nine, er, nine years between her and me younger brother. But that's not 18. A: Hmm. That's, yeah, she's, you know, grown up. D: Yeah, that's right. So er... But no I, I guess I say I probably had more to do with T. O Calshaw, Thomas, who lived at, er, well, Newstead I suppose, off Newstead Road up the big

Appendices 272 hill, than, er, any of the others. Percy died before I, er, knew anything about him. George lived in Sydney. He came up here... I can remember coming up the house once in my life, just a big, great big feller, and he sat down in the... in the, er, lounge chair and talked and I was about this big and, you know, oh I had to meet Uncle George yes and then I'd sneak away as far as I could go. (Laughs). Er... so I, er, that generation, I didn't know. Percy's children George and Jim, Jane, er, I knew them quite well but again, they were a generation, virtually a generation older than I was. Er... so... no, can't help you much on that. A: So you spent some time at Thomas's house, in Newstead. What was his house like? You said it was on the back of the hill, and had the, what was it like inside? D: Oh, today it would be an old-fashioned house, and it would be, oh, like, er, you know, on the order of this, er, my Gunya. It had a front verandah, except it was much higher than that, that's on a bit of a slope there. But, er, this is the, you know the Women's Historical Association. A: Yep, I've been there. D: Yeah, well er inside it would be big rooms and high ceilings. Er, the kitchen was part of the house, it wasn't attached as a lot of them were. But, er, then again, not that I sort of ran around the house any, I, well I was grown up when I was going there. And I had to go over to, er, work for him, and, er, you know, talk to him, and he was getting old and his idea was, you know, it's much easier to, to think and talk than just to, er, sit down by yourself. He wanted to talk what he was thinking. And, er, that's how it, er, how I got roped into working for him. Just writing. And, er, er. A: So you were writing wills and stuff for him. D: No, no, not, not writing wills exactly, but, er, of course wills in those days they were pages and pages long. Not the wills of today, which they've simplified into normal language. Pages and pages and pages, and he is the, er, er... er, had to, you know, organise the will, it had been hanging on for 20 years or something like that, since grandfather had died. And they wanted to wind it up, and he had to study it, and, er, you know, write or decide what James wanted. And you really had to study it in those days, to, er, to understand a will. They went on with all this legal, er, talk. I, er, I've got wills in there, I don't know if there's any here... A: So there'd been sort of disagreements over the will, that they had to work it out, or, people weren't sure what the terms were? D: No, I wouldn't say that there were disagreements over it, but it was to get it right, so that there wouldn't be disagreements over it. And, er, you know, it didn't just, just happen, er... A: Cos this would have been some years after James died, that you were doing this.

Appendices 273 D: Yes, at that stage it would have been, er, well if James died in '29... '39... '49. It'd be close to 20 years, that I, I'd be, er, help, helping him, and as he said it just helped him to talk to somebody, rather than sit there and look at it and worry about it. He wanted to talk. And then I'd, you know, write down a bit here and there and he could come back to it and all this idea. And, er, cos he, he was an old man at that stage. Er... but he got it sorted out in time. (Laughs). A: It only took 20 years! D: But that's how wills were, they, I don't know why they made them so complicated in language. A: Yeah, that's a bit, that's quite crazy really, to spend that long working out what it meant. D: Yes, yes, that's right. I, er, probably got some in there, if I can think where they are. A: Oh I'm sure I can find some if I need to... Yeah.... Okay. D: They, they didn't talk English to me, they... well it was English, but, the, you know, the sentences were this long, with ifs and buts and all that sort of thing in one sentence, and so it went on, page after page. Not a good idea. I'd much rather have today's wills, where they have simplified in language. A: You wonder who the solicitor was who wrote and then couldn't tell you what the guy meant. (Laughs). D: No, no that's right. Well I don't know. I, I think James probably had his will made, not by T.O, he would have had his will made a lot before that. So, er, no I, I, I don't know that the houses were different, totally different. We were, well, I, I wasn't brought up, sort of, to that. Er... Well, here I did what I was told, I'd, I'd never not do what I was told. But I did have, the, the run of the place. Go to school, come home, have a bit of bread and dripping or something like that, jump on the bike and go to one of my mates somewhere, across to Willston or all around the district here, or the Loves were in the next street, and, er, they had houses and cows and things, and I, er... A: Everything you could want. (Laughs). D: Yeah, that's right. As a kid we used to go down bring the cows up across Enoggera Road. What do you think at, say, four O'clock today, er, they had three cows across the road in the paddock there. And Bob Love and I would go down and bring them up to the gate, and hold them there. And I'd go up the street and look up the long hill until there was no traffic coming down. And then we'd open the gate and bring that, the cows across. Well it didn't matter what time you looked across the long street today, the long hill today, there were cars going both ways. But you know four O'clock in the afternoon you could do that, and you, you might see,

Appendices 274 as the Loves had, horse-drawn vehicles for their carrying business, so if they were halfway up along there you didn't have to worry about them, because you could get the cows across well before they came down the hill. And it doesn't go like that today. A: No, you can just imagine, I just imagine trying to get a cow across Enoggera Road. (Laughs). D: Yeah, that's right. A: It's impossible. D: Yeah, but, you know, bring them up, learn to milk a cow and learn to separate milk and all that, and it just, it, it happened that way, and the, er, milkman lived down the bottom of Parker Street. Davidson almost goes to Parker Street, across the road there. And, er, he was there, er, he'd, er, bring the milk up in a billy and you'd, er, put a billy out for him and he'd pour it into a measuring thing, either half a pint or a pint, pour it in, and none of this bottle stuff. It was just twice a day, he'd deliver milk to the place. The, er, the grazier was up, er, opposite where New Market Road hits Enogger Road, but it was just on that side of the joint. Well, he'd ride his horse down, hitch it onto the, the big gate there, come down, talk to my mother and Mrs. Seat, the lady, about what they wanted, and that, he'd write all that down, he'd go an get on his horse and go up. They'd, er, get the order to together. And of course, nothing was, er, they, they bought rice or oats or anything in bags, you know, and they all measured it out themselves, weighed it, and put it in paper bags, and turned it down. Anyway, they'd get all the stuff there. Big basket, cane basket on his arm. Big like this, he'd have the groceries there. Get on the horse, come down, bring em up, put them on the, deliver them to the kitchen table there. And off he'd go. Well, that, that's how you got your groceries. Well, gee, you wouldn't, er... A: That'd be nice, wouldn't it. Instead of going to Coles. D: Yeah, well it would be nice, yeah. Coles and you've got people everywhere, and you have to line in the queue and you can't find what you want and all this. I just goes on and on. A: Yes. (Laughs). D: So, er, you know that, that is totally different. Of course, Brisbane Cash and Carry started this, and, er, they gradually swung over to it, everybody. A: Yeah, and I suppose it's... D: Gotta do your own work. A: Yeah, as it got bigger you couldn't really do that, you know, delivering groceries. D: No, no, you couldn't. That's right. It'd be impossible. Groceries and the milk and the, in the '30s people would come up the street, horse and cart with the, er, clothes props on it, you

Appendices 275 know, cos there were no hills hoists back then, they were just a couple of lines of wire stretched up there, and there was a, er, a, er, piece of wood, you know, a tree, as long as it had a U in it up top it went over the wire. You had to, er, have the wire down low to put stuff on, then you'd prop it up in the air with this, so it had a chance to dry. Well, er, you know a totally different world. A: And it's those, those, you know cos when I read about, you know, what it was like, you know I read Boo Raven, and it doesn't have those details. You know, about you know, what it looked like, well you know, what people did to hang their washing up or anything like that. D: Yes. A: Which is, you know, that kind of thing is really interesting to me. D: Yeah. Well that's how it was here, and that's how everybody went. Because, no hills hoists, well the feller designed it and made a fortune. Because, it didn't take up so much space, and, er, so, er, everybody started to use them. And, er, the, the washing, there were no washing machines. Even when I got married there were no washing machines. And that was, well, more than 50 years ago, and, er, er, you just lit a fire under the copper and boiled all your sheets and towels and everything else. Hooked them out of the boiling water and drained them, and if you wanted to blue the sheets, you put them in Rickett's Blue, put that into the water and, er, er, made the sheets, er, whiter. I don't know why blue made the sheets whiter but it did. (Laughs). And, er, the, the, that's the way it was. A: What a nightmare. I just put all my washing in the washing machine and press start. D: Yeah, that's right. Well, that, that's what you do now. And we haven't got a dishwashing machine. My daughter has, and my son has, but er, er, we still wash up here, the, the plates and things. But they've both got, er, wash, er, you know, crockery washing things. It's all right if you use a lot. And, er, if you've gotta wait a week to get enough in to turn it on. A: It's not very useful is it. D: No good, no, not worth it. So, er, yeah well, I, I don't know. A: No, that's, that's lovely. D: Well now, what do you want me to get you? A: Well, these, I'm just wondering about, who did these paintings, actually? D: Er... Well those out there are, er... oh I should know. This is, er, the name there. A: 'Leo... Rees'? D: Rees. Loyd Rees. A: Oh Loyd. It stays Loyd. D: Loyd Rees, he drew that.

Appendices 276 A: I might just a picture of that if that's okay. (Takes picture). It says 1915. D: That's 1915. A: (Looking at a new picture). Looks like it says 'H'. D: Yeah, Mont Pellier H. But that's just the initials. A: Yeah, cos I think there's a picture of it at the State Library website that looks very much like that. D: Yeah. No, I don't know who did that. A: They're very beautiful though aren't they. D: That's the driveway. Loyd Rees was a famous pen and ink drawer. A: Yeah I've heard of him. I don't know why I didn't recognise it. D: Yeah, he, er, went pretty well there. Er... A: Now, so I actually had... These are the ones I found in the State Library, so, that's... Oh, that, see, this is the one that looks like that picture out there that I found in the State Library. D: That's right, yeah, well that's the same spot as that painting. So, you know, you've got that, that shows what it is. This is the, the parlour. Gee, there's so much furniture in that. A: That's mad isn't it. It just looks so cluttered. D: Yeah, yeah that's right. Well I'll get you, er... (Gets up). Now are you interested in the family tree or, or that? A: Um, well both actually because I, I just want to see you know, cos I'm interested in the gasworks site in particular, so I'm, I'm interested in the, the people. Do you know, what's this big house up here? Do you know? D: No, I don't. A: Sticking out like a sore thumb isn't it? D: Yes, yeah, it's a big place. I'll, uh, no I don't know... Er... A: What else have you got in here? It's so beautifully put together. D: Go for your life, if you want to have a look. Er... A: (Looks through pictures). The Grant monument... The handwriting's just amazing. Learned testimony of George Calshaw... Mm... Like a little diary here... There's a list of the children: Marjorie, Thomas, George, Hilda, Eric and Mable. D: Oh yeah, I forgot Mable. She became Mrs Little. A: Wow. From Gravesend to Sydney. Imagine leaving from a place Gravesend. (Laughs). You'd be a little bit... oooh. Nervous. D: Yeah, that's right.

Appendices 277 A: There he is, in the Australian Dictionary. Hmm, I'm sure I could find that somewhere. Yeah, so, yeah maybe these pictures, that would be, cos this one in particular, and these ones are... D: Oh no, that's here I think. A: That's your house. It's Davidon Street. D: Yeah. A: So now it's moved on. And this one's quite a good picture as well. D: Yeah, well you'd like that would you? A: Yes please, if that's all right. D: Oh yeah, well you can have them. What's that say? A: Ah, it says 'Christmas at Mont Pellier 1924.' And there's a list here of who they are. Oh you've actually got that this is the lounge. Here's the same picture that's in the State Library, and it says 'lounge.' I don't know what the difference between lounge and parlor is, but... D: Oh, I don't think there's much difference. A: And actually this picture of the servant wing's really interesting because you can see the servant with her white apron. On there as well. That'd be, that'd be good. D: The servant's wing. A: Yeah, and his bedroom, cos that's not on the State Library either I don't think. D: That's his bedroom. A: Oh this one's a desciption: 'He had the bearing of a patriarch with his fine stature and his flowing beard. And his head was that of a nation builder.' (Laughs). I love the way they look at their, what's it called, physiognomy and go 'oh well that means he's really intelligent and...' D: That's right, yeah. A: 'His political career is too well known to be more than mentioned here.' So this one might be useful as well, because it's got the extract from the Queenslander. D: Okay. Queenslander. That'd be 1930. A: Yeah, cos it's got descriptions of the gardens, and... that kind of thing as well. D: That, that follows on, that, that, er, hairpin bend up there. A: And then it goes up. D: Yes. You come in from the road, and, er, come up like that, that's the hairpin bend and then it swings round there and that's the back of the house. That's the only way you can approach the house. A: Oh. What a crazy driveway. D: Yeah, well it's on top of the hill.

Appendices 278 A: Yeah, I guess you just have to. D: And it's the only way you'd get up the hill with horses would be to, give them, er, a chance. They couldn't go up like that. A: That's true, yeah. There's a picture of you. D: Yeah, yeah, that's us. There... A: Mm. Could have these, a copy of these too, if that's okay? So Mont Pellier, and view from Mont Pellier. Which direction is that looking out in? That must be... I'm terrible with directions. D: Well I think that would have be towards the Wes- towards the South. A: Just wondering what's there. Hmm. D: Do you reckon that's to the South? H: Not too many landmarks. What's the big building over there Dennis that would have been there then? Um... That, that's a very big building over there. D: Probably the hospital. A: It does look a bit like a hospital. D: Going down to the South. H: Although... that's not going down to the South. That'd be looking, looking West. D: Well, South-West that's right on the edge of it. H: That'd be North-West. D: No... H: From Cloudland Hill D: Yeah... H: The hospital... D: Yes... To the South isn't it? H: I'd say slightly North... There's nothing else around you could identify. A: No. It's hard to tell isn't it? Not sure. H: Unless it's, it's looking, you know, from the front of the house, but from the back of the house, but then you, you should have the river not too far over but what's street's that? A: It's quite wide actually isn't it? H: No it can't be looking East. D: No it's not, not East. H: Cos the river's there, not, although I don't know... is that a ship? A: Hmm. I don't know. Could be. H: Take your pick.

Appendices 279 D: (Laughs). A: Yeah, just choose. Just make it up. D: Er... A: So that's, that's for your dad, or no? H: Hmm. A: Yeah? Eric. H: (unclear) A: Yeah, yeah. H: But all these old things are, you can spend days, not just hours but days looking at them. A: Yeah. D: This is one of the early forbears. He was the gamekeeper for the duke of somebody, and he started the family way back I think that's his wife back there. A: 'Gamekeeper to the Duke of Devonshire.' D: Yeah. H: Well dad's father, er Dennis's father's name was Burgoin. He, he had it in his, in his, he was a Christian then, that was the family name before the Calshaws. A: And this is... Oh this is his wife. D: That's his wife. H: And the Owen has been carried forward, um, they're all Owens. Within their Christian names. A: Yeah. And then you've got the streets named after you as well. D: (Laughs). A: You've got, yep- D: Calshaw Street, Thurlow Street there. H: Mont Pellier's over in Willston there, and there are several Mont Pelliers I've been into. Look in the Refedex, it's surprising. Yeah. A: Cos I was just saying, I found this diary of, er, this is someone else I'm interviewing, and they say they stay at Mont Pellier, and they saw it as this, um, house run by women. And I don't even know if it's the same Mont Pellier, or... It's somewhere in Brisbane, but how many Mont Pelliers would there be, but then you're going there's- H: Oh probably only one, but that's going back a long way. A: Yeah, well this is in- H: '83 to '66.

Appendices 280 A: Yeah, so this is in 1912 when she gets married, so you'd think it'd have to be, wouldn't you. D: Hmm, I think it would be, yeah. H: It was, it was a feature of Brisbane. And, uh, everybody knew where Mont Pellier was, so, you know, there wouldn't be another big home that was of note, I wouldn't imagine, of the same name. A: That's what I thought, and I just sort of wanted to check. D: Yeah, no, well I think that, that would be right. H: And she was a friend of, of the Calshaws. A: Oh, yeah, it didn't really say. Um, cos this is its, um, she's, er, Catherine Newton, she's just got married in 1912, and this diary was written by chaperone at the time, and they stay there but they don't mention the family living there at all. It's as though they're in some kind of hotel or something, and that's why I was a little bit confused about what it was. D: Yeah. H: Well it might have been a few years after, er, when she was married? A: 1912. H: In 1912. Oh well, it was before grandfather, um... D: He died in '27. H: Yes. So it certainly was a family home then. A: Mm. How interesting. Hm. I'll have to- H: Unless she was a friend of the family they just didn't mention it. A: Mention it, yeah. Yeah, it could be, it could be. I was just wondering if anyone knew anything, but, hmm. H: What are you researching for? You're writing a book are you? A: Ah, it's, it's actually going to be a number of short stories. So, I've got, there's two prongs to the research thing. I've actually got the details here that I can leave with you. Um, where I'm, firstly for my own PhD my backgrounds in creative writing, so I'm doing a number of short stories about the Newstead area, informed by oral histories and historical stuff. The other part I'm doing is, I'm working with an, well I've sort of attached myself to an ARC Research Grant, and they are working with the building company FKP, who are building at the gasworks site, and they want some history of the area, just so that they know, they don't really know what they're going to do with it yet, but they just want an idea of what information is out there and what sort of went on...

Appendices 281 APPENDIX J: INTERVIEW FIVE

Interviewee: Barbara Interviewer: Ariella Van Luyn Date conducted: Throughout November 2009 Location: Retirement Community Annotations: Ariella Van Luyn is referred to as A. Barbara is referred to as B. Words in brackets and italics indicate actions.

Duncan M--, Barbara’s Father A: I was reading in those newspaper articles that you gave me was that Dad was that he was appointed to inquire into the affairs of the Queensland British Food Corporation. What do you know about that? Because I looked it up on the internet and saw that after the war that Britain had, as far as I understood it, not enough food and so they'd set it up in Australia but it was really badly organised. What do you know? B: Well the only thing I know is what I heard Dad talking about. He was put on the committee to investigate. I've forgotten what they grew—say pigs. It doesn't matter. And so it was something, I can't think, and they'd send them all the way from there into Rockhampton to have something or other done to them and they went all the way back to have something else done. So they what they had was just a complete shambles of bad planning and not so much ignorance as plan lack of knowledge. They wound it all up because it could have been a wonderful but it was badly managed. If they'd rustled up someone bright-eyed they could have made a handsome profit. They hadn't a clue. And they ran up horrendous debts. As far as I remember it was a complete shambles. Where it could have been a really good idea, where they could produce food and send it off to England. So Dad had a whole thing of winding that up. He said, ‘Look, if you don't get a new manager, you'll have to wind it up.’ And it ended up being wound up. A: So your Dad is like when the British come in and don't really know what's going on, he was the person that they asked? B: Yes. I'm really sad about this. Dad kept wonderful diaries, right away from when he left school and went out bush ’til he went to the war. Then there was a blank. Then he came back. And all those diaries—I did a terrible thing—I...after Mum died, I cleaned up the big house in

Appendices 282 Sydney and Dad was going to move into a unit. And the house, it was on a hill, under the house was garage. There were great big boxes of stuff to go off to the Smith Family, or whatever, including a huge tea chest. Do you know what I tea chest is? Like a big box that size (indicates with hands) that your tea came packed in and they were used to store all sorts of things including all Dad's diaries. So they were taken away by the Smith Family. And when I discovered, I nearly died. I rushed off and tried everything but too late, they'd gone into the shredder. Oh dear. They could have gone into the Stockman's Hall of Fame. But, of course, they're gone. It's my fault. However, it's no use crying over it. But it's a great tragedy because he was a wonderful person. People wanted to write books about him. They wanted his diaries. A: So did you read his diaries? Did you get a chance to do that? B: No, I didn't. It's infuriating to think. A: What shame. Reading all those newspaper articles, he seemed like a really interesting person. B: Oh yes he was a very good person. Liked by everyone, everywhere. The kind of person, as someone said, ‘you should be shot because the one person who there should be really a good book written about is your father and you buggered it up.’ And I said, ‘yes.’ Oh well. A: He wouldn't have been able to do it without the help of your Mum though, I reckon. B: No. ~ A: By that stage (when Barbara and Dick were getting married) your Dad was chairman of Grazcos? The Scottish Australia Company (and president of the Poll Shorthorn Society)? B: He was General Manager of Scottish Australia Company, yes. A: And then later he went to Sydney? B: Well he had to go to Sydney when he became general manager. Mum stayed in Brisbane and kept the house on until we were married, and then she packed up and shot off down there. And they lived in Sydney for the rest of their lives. They didn't like it much after the bush, but they had a big house. First of all, Dad said, ‘Bessie's been working hard all her life, now that she's come down here she's going to be able to take it easy.’ And they bought a very nice home, or the company bought it for them, at Pymble (named after a North Shore Seacoast). Three bedroom, blah blah blah. But things didn't change, all that happened was that Mum and Dad slept in their swag in the laundry while all their bush friends came to visit and filled up the house! So they went and bought a really big house at

Appendices 283 Pymble, and it was lovely, but it was on quite a steep slope. Underneath there was room for a three car garage, and a laundry, and a great big room, you know, bedroom sort of thing. And so that was good, they could have lots of people to stay, and they had wonderful bush parties there, especially at show time, and all those sorts of things. Dick and I and the kids used to go down there at Christmas time, have Christmas with them, which Mum loved, making a fuss of the kids and all this sort of thing. And we'd leave the kids there and belt off to wherever the Davis Cup was, which was our treat to ourselves for the year. And, stop, what was next? What were we on about? A: We were talking about your Dad and what he was doing when he was down in Sydney working for this company. B: Well of course he was very busy and he became General Manager, and it was the first time in Australia that the company had had a General Manager who was, you know, familiar with the bush. So that was that. So he got organised, and it was Australia's biggest pastoral company in those days. But he ran it with himself, and a competent secretary, and someone in the office, and that was that. This was, by the by, after he retired, the fellow who took over ended up with an office staff of ten, and heaven knows what, and very soon afterwards the company went broke. But that's by the way. Dad had a horrible time for the six months, or whatever it was, ’til Mum could come down, living in a boarding house, which he hated, an old bushie. And she came down and they moved into the three-bedroom, nice house at Pymble, and, in due course, into the big house. Well he was very busy as I say, the Scottish Australian was the biggest pastoral company, but it was entirely owned by English and Scottish people. A: How many properties was he managing? B: Oh, I don't know, probably owned about thirty. Very big ones. Bowen Downs, which is famous to this day, and Neive Downs. Famous names in the day, all very big ones. ~ B: Dad made sure that all the Scottish Australian places that didn't have them, got electric light plants very quickly. And then after he had the directors out...I told you about that? How they had them out and took them all round? A: Yeah I think that was...I don't think I got that bit either. B: Didn't you? A: No. You'll have to tell me again (laughs) B: At the end of the war. Dad was, you know, concerned about the comfort of the station managers and their wives. He knew what it was like. But after the war there wasn't going to

Appendices 284 be the staff that people had before the war. He didn't know how he was going to talk these old boys in England to...anyhow he had the bright idea, he wrote to them and said, ‘I think that you people ought to come out here and just have a look at all that you own. Now you've had a terrible war and a horrible time and why not have Christmas...why don't you come out here?’ So they wrote back and said, ‘that's a good idea when do you suggest we come?’ Well, six weeks over and six weeks over again, so he said, ‘I think you should have Christmas in England and come out on the first boat after Chirstmas.’ Righto. Mum said, ‘You'll kill them, Duncan. What are you thinking of?’ And he said, ‘Well, I want them to see what its like.’ And so out they came. Three of the directors. Old Mr. Eggar and I can't remember the other two, plus there wives, who were dumped in Sydney with Mum. She reckoned she was the sufferer. So Dad loaded them up and they were coming to us (at Bendee). I said, ‘First night?’ And he said, ‘No second or we'll never make it in one day with them.’ And they stayed at Tamworth I think. Or Armadale or somewhere. And then on to us. And we organised a pack of the Bundells and Goodrich families to come and make a dinner party for these fellas. They hadn't been in a bush house before. And Bendee was pretty upmarket compared to a lot of bush houses. ’Cause we did have one in-door toilet, for one thing. Anyhow they had a wonderful boozey dinner. They said, ‘Is this a typical Australian party?’ And Dick said, "This isn't a party, this is just a humble get-together." ‘Oh, well! Isn't that beaut!’ I leant over to Dad at one stage, quietly when I thought they were all busy talking and said, ‘what time are you aiming to get off in the morning?’ ’Cause knowing Dad he'd have left by daylight, headed West. ’Cause you don't want to be driving into that hot Western sun in the middle of summer in the late afternoon. And he said, ‘Ah pfft (noise of disgust) look, if you can get us on the road by 7 o'clock you'll be doing well.’ And one of them said‘7 o'clock? We won't be up at 7!’ And Dick said, ‘Well I'm afraid you will when you're going bush, because you'll regret it if you're not.’ So anyhow we did get them on the road at about half past 7 or so. By the time they got half way to Goondawindi they were wailing ‘when where they going to stop?’ and this that and the other.

Appendices 285 They got to Goondawindi and stopped and had they morning tea or some lunch there and went on but, of course, then they were driving and, of course, there was no air conditioning in the cars and no anything. The best thing you could do were little side flap windows in front of you. You could turn them in. And that was good. But the dust came up through the floorboards. So by the time they got to...I couldn't remember it the other day. When you'd gone I remembered it. Now I've forgotten again. The Scottish Australian place they were going out at Bollon. They'd had it. We'd persuaded them the leave some of their pigskin luggage and waistcoats and tweed coats and things with us at Bendee. And then they were persuaded to leave some more at...I'll just say Bollon. A: Yeah. B: Then they went off, they were going up to Nieve Downs which was North of Augathella, Charleville and Augathella and then out at Nieve Downs, one of Scottish Australia's big sheep properties. But on the way of course it rained and they were stuck at Windorah. Windorah is nearly as close to the Simpson Desert as you can get. But there they were. Of course, everyone knew Dad was coming with visitors. And people came because it was a rare thing to have visitors and this dreadful old pub, a wobbly verandah, a couple of dormitory type rooms, a loo down the back yard and a shower and there they were stuck for a couple of days but everyone had come into town to see them. So, they were kept full of booze. But while they were there they were prevailed upon to shed more of their thing and they bought kaki shorts and shirts and socks and things. Their stuff was packed up and in due course delivered to Nieve Downs who had to send it back to Sydney. Like the Bollon lot had to send their stuff back. But Dad took them round all the stations, everywhere. They got bogged. They nearly died of the heat, of course. ’Cause this is February, March. Eventually got back to Sydney, very different people. And Dad had no bother with then. He said he wanted everyone had a decent sized electric light plant, and they wanted cold rooms and Agar stoves and they got them. For all the Scottish Australian stations. No argument. That was one of his finer efforts, I think. A: What did they cook on before the Agars? B: Oh, great big open ranges. Hot as Hades. We had one, and the remains of the thing are still up there at Bendee. I cooked on it all through the shearer's strike. A: And the cold rooms, how are they kept cold? B: Oh, they all had electric light plants. A lot of them had little 32 volt light plants. A lot didn't, they used Carbide lights and central gas pump-up lights. But after that, within over a period, they all had large power plants, like we had at Bendee.

Appendices 286 A: How did they keep food before they had cold rooms. Like, if you killed an animal? B: You ate like hell for twenty-four hours of fresh meat and the rest was salted and thrown out. A: So Scottish Australia was quite a big company. It owned...?B: Scottish Australia in those days was Australia's biggest pastoral company. A: Yeah. And it...how many properties did it own? B: Goodness knows. There were fourteen or fifteen in Queensland. Some in the Northern Territory then over in South Australia, NSW and they owned coal mines. What else did they own? No I think that was all. I wouldn't know how many..how big they were. ~ A: I was interested to read as well that your Dad was in the legislative council of the Northern Territory. B: Yes. A: Do you know anything about his role - that was in the 1960's? B: That was much later. Long after we'd left Manbullo. We'd come back to live in Brisbane or Sydney or somewhere. Yes, well the people up there wanted him as their representative on the council, so he used to have to fly up there. A: I read in the article that you said sort out Vestey’s problems. What sorts of problems were going on there? B: Oh they were an English company and .. how did they come to latch onto Dad? They didn't know what was what and one of their, one of old Vestey's nephews was managing things up there and he hadn't a clue, he was a Johnny-come-lately, he wore smart jackets with the leather patch things and all over the place but didn't do any work. They didn't know how many cattle they had or how many anything else they had.

Bessie M-- nee. C-- Barbara’s Mother B: The women were all wonderful in those days. When my mother-in-law, in nineteen hundred and eleven, she was married, young Lady Verney. She came out on a ship and her aunt came with her... and she had a frightful old father. His daughter married someone who was nothing but the Governor’s Aide and private secretary. So dear old Colonel Newt had to become a land owner. So they bought a block away north of Richmond... you know where Longreach is? It's away north of that.. and they were 80 miles beyond that. They bought a block and she came out and lived in the house just like that one and all the way out on the ship she spent at the time she was terribly pleased with herself she now knew how to boil

Appendices 287 water and make a cup of tea and she'd learnt how to boil an egg. She hadn't done anything in her life before I never heard her complain. And my mother, she was quite a few years later, she was married in 1920. She went off out and she never complained. She worked with Dad in the Northern Territory. No mail, no doctors . They never wailed or moaned. You hear people complaining now just because they have to wait ten minutes to get a train to get to school or something. A: Yeah, ’cause I noticed in the letter to the editor that you wrote, in the Stockman's Hall of Fame (see scan), that you gave me, you talked about how your Mum really supported your Dad and all the things that they faced, so what kind of things did she have to face when she was there? You said there were no doctors... B: Well she had to face everything. Like coping with staff, aboriginals, Chinese cooks and things: got on the opium and went mad. When Dad was away she used to sleep with a service revolver under her pillow always and she just had to do everything. I can remember her saying that the best person she ever had in her life was when Dr Cecil Cook, who was head of Medical Services, who became a great authority on malaria with the World Health Organisation for a long time. He came down and the best service she ever got was a couple of sutures to sew people up, just slides through. A: ’Cause there would have been a lot of you know, just reading the books you gave me, were a lot of diseases and things that they faced. They talked about the sandy blight and diptheria and those kinds of things. B: Yeah you coped as best you could. A: So what was there, do you remember any experiences that she had with those sorts of diseases or…? B: I can't remember ever having anything, ’Cept accidents you know, horses and things like that. No she kept me free of diseases and my sister was six years younger so I don't remember, I don't think Liz had anything. A: There were accidents and stuff…’cause I was reading a lot as well that children would wander off and get drowned in the creek…? B: In the creeks and things. Yes that it'd be in that oh... A: Well it was in the Kings in Grass Castles and also in Heartbreak Corner they both talked about that kind of thing. B: Yes, that was the generation before mine. A: It didn't happen as much when you were growing up?

Appendices 288 B: I think so. It didn't happen to me. Mums greatest fear for me after we got to up to the Northern Territory and I had my seventh birthday we left Cork and I had my fourth birthday at Thylungra and I had my seventh birthday in the Northern Territory but the fear there was I might wander down near the river and get eaten by a crocodile because they were there, masses of them, take your stock, poor things. And it would be and about 12 years ago, I can't think, the time gets away – someone said, ‘its all right you can swim in the river there's no saltwaters now, only freshwaters.’ And I said, ‘Well, I wouldn't trust it because when a flood comes and there'd been one just a few years before we were there and just a year or two there was a huge flood in the Katherine River - covered over the whole town and everything -and crocs would come from ever after we were there come from everywhere and when it wasn't in flood there were plenty of waterfall things where they wouldn't get up, you know.’ A: And in that article you've written for the Stockman's Hall of Fame you also talked that a croc had taken your horse. B: Yes. Stock at night would go down to drink and the crocs would come and they'd grab them by the nose and haul them in and you see crocodiles roll them over and take them down and drown them. That was in the Northern Territory. ~ A: I did up a timeline based on just reading what you said last time and also the from the things I've got - I just want to check I've got the times right. So I've got - that's when your Dad's born, but I didn't know when your Mum was born. Did she have stories of her childhood? B: She was '88. I don't think so. She was the second oldest of four. She was born in Sydney and a brother, her and her sister and then another brother. A: And her father he was? B: A bank manager. Bank of NSW it was in those days. Yes, Dad joined up as soon as war broke out and they sent him back and said, ‘Your doing something more useful than those in uniforms’ so he went back out and came in later. (Mr. M-- joined the war in 1915). ~ A: Do you remember what year your Mum was born? B: Yes, she was born in…when was Dad? A: In 1891 B: Yes, well Mum was (18)92.

Appendices 289 A: OK. And then she also had her accounting degree as well. She would have got that at Sydney, or? B: Oh yes, before she was married, before she ever met Dad. A: Did she ever work with her Dad in the bank or…? B: Not that I know of, oh no I don't think so. It wouldn't have been done in those days. A: But I'm sure the accounting degree would have helped with your Dad. with managing. B: Oh yes, she looked after all the ...2000 square miles that's a lot of country. To go off to Sydney, now there's a thing. You’d go 80 miles in one of the very first cars to get into Winton, to get a train and you'd get to Longreach and then to Rockhampton and then to Brisbane and then to Sydney. This was when she was going down to have me. She stayed with her family in Sydney, I don't know how long she was there but I got whooping cough when I was two weeks old and nearly died but didn't. They've been trying to kill me ever since but haven't. (laughter) Um and then eventually she came home - same ghastly sort of trip on the way home. Mum of course, when they were married…they were married in Sydney and they got back to Brisbane and then it rained out bush, which is a thing that it didn't often do and Dad had to get back. And I think they got as far as Longreach or perhaps Winton on the train and Dad had to leave Mum and go by horse of out of Winton, which would be 80 miles on way. South-west of Winton and Mum was left to come on the mail which was an old bullocky wagon with a drunken old bullocky. Took about 10 days to get there with all the rain. She never complained, except for the mosquitoes and sandflies which ate her alive, which were always a lot in the country after rain. Well, then they went to Cork and that was an improvement. It was a smarter place. You've done a good job considering the rattly sort of procession - but I gave you that stuff to read which helped. How Barbara’s parents met A: Did they talk about how they met or anything like that? B: Oh, yes I know how they met because um let me think, where was it…? A: I think it was Arno, was where they met in 1920 is what was said. B: Yes they met in Albilba I think. A: So the newpapers got it wrong? B: Oh well it could be .. so it said they met at Arno? A: Yeah, that's what it said. B: Well it could have been for all I know because both Albilba and Arno were owned by this fellow Roger Barton who was married to my mother's aunt and she had one daughter, Robyn,

Appendices 290 who was…let me see…several years younger than Mum, but Mum was invited out there for the picnic races, just to sort of chaperone and be a companion to her young cousin Robyn and that's where she met Dad. A: Did they ever talk about how they met, or what it was like or…? Any more details? B: Oh yes, well for a little bit they'd go into a dance at, what was the name of the nearest place? I can't think. (Corfield) But old Nana and Robyn, this was during the Picnic Races and Mum would be staying in the pub at…gone blank, tiny little place out in the back of beyond Windorah, it will come to me in a minute and my Dad would ride in about 30 miles from the station for the dance at night and then ride back all night to be at work all day. A: Wow (laughter). B: Arno, yes that's right. (Albilba, and then Arno). Childhood Cork Station, Winton (1924-1927) B: Is that number one Cork? (referring to an envelop of pictures) A: So this is where your father was originally. B: When I was a baby, yes. A: Wow. It really is just nothing isn't it, with the homestead in the distance. Oh and that's like a thatched sort of… B: A woolshed that's called. That's a good one of what that house was like and that was quite a smart one compared to some other ones out there. Mum used to grow a garden with bore water A: Yeah, so your Mum sort of looked after the garden. Is that you? (reading caption on picture) ‘The first time I stood alone’ (Note: This was actually at Arno. Then the family went to Cork when Barbara was a toddler). B: There's a car (refers to picture—see scans). That was one of those smart upmarket cars. A: Do you know what those men are doing there? Are they digging a bore or something like that? B: Goodness knows. A: They're parked in the middle of nowhere. (laugh) They're just staring at the ground. B: That's the jackeroos quarters (refers to picture—see scans). ~ B: I've got very few memories of Cork. I can remember one day it must have rained somewhere. It must have been 1925 (or 1926), in my rocker, and Dad was walking up and down the verandah singing at the top of his voice. He was so excited about the rain and I was

Appendices 291 rocking away. I can remember that. I can remember Aunt Aggie coming to stay, Dad oldest sister. She was a wonderful cook and I can remember her sitting in the kitchen and the sweat pouring off her, beating like hell, making a sponge cake and letting me dip my fingers in (laughs). Thulungra, Quilpie (1927-1931) M; Thylungra next. We went form Cork to Thylungra and that’s when Mum had to do that trip down by herself in the old tin lizzie. A: Do you have many memories of that trip? B: No, very little. umm, I don't remember anything about Mum packing up to go and I don’t remember much about the trip 'cause it didn't worry me. I didn't have anything to worry about but the cat and the dog in the car. One thing I can remember is Mum cranking the car and she came back and it had hit her in the face and there was blood everywhere. There were no roads or anything and no traffic, so no telephones and whatever. You just made sure you had plenty of water with you. Did the best you could. I don't know how long it took — must have been a week to get down there. I know Dad was just as relieved a she was when she arrived. You don't know what’s happened to them. You've got no means of knowing, or no planes to fly over and look for them. So people went off and they were resourceful and looked after themselves. Either they got where they were going or they didn't. That's all there was to it. A: Yes. That's it. You either got lost in the bush or not. Ok, so then you went to Thylungra. B: We went to Thylungra, yes. Well that was that trip that I wrote about. A: Here's some pictures of Thylungra here. This one looks like a flood? B: Certainly it was in flood. A: Ah, two men with the camels, do you know who they are (refers to picture—see scans)? B: I don't know. One of them would be Dad doing some work with an Afghan. They used to travel round the west it was a big thing when the Afghans used to show up. A: Oh, ok. So they were like travelling salesmen. B: Yep. It was very exciting when they came along about twice a year. A: And now the camels are a big problem in the Northern Territory. B: Yes. (laughter) A: And is that you in the canoe (see picture in newspaper clipping)? B: That's me in the canoe with the jackeroos they put me on the creek at the back of the house. A lovely big swimming hole. To me it was sheer bliss after coming from Cork, of course.

Appendices 292 A: Yes. All that water. Who's this? Who's the head sticking out? B: One of the lubras probably. One of the black girls. A: Making sure you're Ok? B: Mmmm (agreeing). A: So what was the canoe made out of? B: Tin. A couple of bits of tin and a kerosene tin at the back. You know what they are, four gallon, sealed up and across the back so the back was flat and that was sealed up so. A: And is this you on your horse (referring to picture)? B: Oh that's Lucky, a little Shetland pony that we bought from an Afghan, from one of the Afghan fellows. A: And that's the house in the background? B: That's old Thylungra House, yes. It was a mud brick house. A: Yes, I read about that. And you've got a lawn and that in that garden there. B: Oh yes, well you see there were huge creek to water there. Mum had organised a beautiful garden there. A: So what did she grow in the garden? B: Roses, as far as I remember and bougainvillea trailing over. A: Did you have a vegie garden as well? M; Oh yes, there was a huge vegetable garden down the creek with an old Chinese .. the old Chinamen lived there. You see, Thylungra was a huge place. There were always 12 jackeroos and a couple of overseers and people and Mum and Dad. There were half a dozen cottages just down the creek where married ones lived and men's quarters. I wouldn't know how many people were on the place but a there were about 180 to 200 thousand sheep and so there was a lot of men. There would have been a population of about a hundred round the place. Different now from what it was run like. The boss and his wife, an old family friend. A: So, do you remember how it was run in the days that you were there? B: Well that what I was saying. Dad was the boss and there were overseers and there was the head stockman. And then the jackeroos (and the bookkeeper). A: So inside the house, how was that? Cooks and that kind of thing, or did your Mum do it all? M; Oh, no. She couldn't have cooked for all those people. No there was always a cook and a couple of lubra house maids. There was a covered way, a path going out to a big kitchen outside. Because you see a lot of the time the stock camp was out. The jackeroos, the oversees were out on the run for weeks at a time. But when they were all home there could be

Appendices 293 18, 20 of them for meals. Sitting around the table at night. At breakfast they were all up and gone in different directions and lunch was usually cut lunch. But at night there'd be 18 to 20 sitting at the table and at weekends, visitors from across the road (actually was 20 or 30 miles away) would come and be with us or we'd be with them. The house was like all houses, small bedrooms down the middle with huge verandahs all around, and then there was an outside area, another big kitchen outside, where they cooked for all the outside men and there was a cowboy and a wood-and-water Joey and huge staff which mum had to organise and look after, keep in order. A: Who was on the household staff? Do you remember their names? B: There were lubras, and I don't remember the cook's names. A: We've got another photo; it doesn't have names B: That's dad and someone or other, leaning on the rails A: So that's your dad (pointing to the picture)? B: That will be dad, yep yep. That was one of the owners, or directors, or something. A: Yeah ’cause your dad was managing that property. B: Yes, he was the manager. A: And this one (refers to picture)? B: That's me again on Lucky the Shetland pony. And that's Bob Philp, one of the overseers. A: Ah yes. That’s a lot of weight for that little horse isn't it? B: yes they're strong little devils, our kids had one. That's called Lucky also, in some of the photograph albums. You've got to be a good rider to ride a Shetland. We used to have a lot of fun in Bendee, our kids did. We'd bring Lucky up and various fellas who rode in the local camp drafts and all sorts of things, they'd invite them to ride Lucky. No one ever could, Lucky just put his head down between his knees and go backwards. A: So you didn't so much ride it as just sat on the horse (laugh)? B: It was fun, yes. I rode there, but I haven't got a picture of it anywhere. There was a great big, pensioned-off old stock horse, I can't even remember what it was called. I used to have a spot of bother with him because it used to tear off and gallop, although it was pensioned-off and old. It was very big and I was never allowed to ride with a saddle until I got older. And I'd go out with the cowboys to get the house cows in and we'd be coming home and this thing would start to get faster and faster and faster. You know, you couldn't pull it up, and I'd pull and pull and pull and I went over it's head and fell off. Or you'd give it it's head and let it go and it arrived home in a lather of sweat up at the yards. And when I say home it might be two or three miles away. To be met by one of the overseers or head stockman or Dad or whoever

Appendices 294 was there and be given a good spanking, ’cause you never gallop a horse back to the yards. (laughter) A: I didn't have any control over it! B: And they'd say, "well you should, don't let it start." A: Oh, there’s more camels there (referring to picture). B: Yes, that's a way west of Quilpie. A: And this one is...? B: I don't know what year that would have been, it doesn't say on the back does it. A: No it just says the flood. B: Would have been about we went down there in the ’20s. about '29. ~ A: What kind of...cause I remember as well you talking about when there was the big dust storm last time I was here, I was wondering about the dust storms that came through. What sort of weather conditions were there? B: Well it would be hot. And dry. And very windy. That's all. A: And the dust? B: Well out in the Quilpie district they had these great long — well, lots of areas out there — but there was ridges of red sand hills. But it might blow frantically for three days. You couldn't see or smell or see anything. And when it cleared away the sand hills would've moved. They'd be somewhere else. And they're still doing it. Because...stupid, I can't think ofher name. It doesn't matter it doesn't have to be on there. Barabara Thingo and her husband at Thulgungra. Now, she rang me a week or two ago and I said, ‘Hello are you seeing through the dust?’ And she said, ‘I haven't seen my hand in front of my face for days.’ But she rang to get an address for something or other. I said, ‘All the sand hills shifting still?’ She said, ‘Yep.’ They're always moving around still. She said ‘nothing's changed from your days here as a kid.’ And she also has kids, the same age as my kids, a bit younger. About the same age I suppose. ~ Manbulloo, Northern Territory (1931-1937) A: So this is at Manbulloo. I'll have a look at your Manbulloo pictures as well. B: Ah, ha. Yes, well Mum got this malaria and that was dreadful and Dad was away somewhere, he went by horse, you know. But I can remember that is actually, yes when we

Appendices 295 first, soon after we got up there and I can remember Mum reading to me y'know before I went for an afternoon sleep and Liz was just a toddler and she (Mum) kept dozing off and I kept trying to wake her up and she was talking nonsense when she woke up and then the lubras came along and they said, "missus sick" and I couldn't do anything about it and they used to cart me off and look after me and I don't know, I s’pose they gave Mum drinks of water and wet rags on her head or whatever you could do but fortunately the book keeper, Aubrey Brown his name was, came home because he couldn't get where he was going because of flooded rivers and he took one horrified look at Mum and he thought, ‘Oh my god,’ cause he'd not been accustomed to married women around the place and he didn't know what to do and it was just before we moved up to Manbulloo, we were at Burnside, at Brock's Creek waiting for the Newmarches to get out off—that was Lord Vestey's nephew and his wife and their kid to get out of Manbulloo and they were a bit slow off the mark and we were waiting so we were at Burnside when this happened. (It was the Wet Season). Anyway, poor old Aubrey Brown didn't know what to do and the only woman for donkey's miles away was old Fanny Haines in at the pub at Brock's Creek. There was the railway siding and the pub which was just a tin thing. And old Fanny was huge and fat and she always had mango juice running down her chin and her front. So he thought he'd have to go and get old Fanny but anyhow, in the meantime, he got one of the - this is where the aboriginals in their natural state are so wonderful- got one of the Abo boys on the place and wrote a note to Dad and stuck it in a wedged stick so ... and gave it to this boy and said, "go get boss as fast as you can." And Dad was a couple of hundred miles away and a couple of flooded creeks away too but they got to him within about, I understand, hours. Just running and they'd send smoke signals on and they'd hand the stick over and they just ran and galloped all the way. Dad managed to get home by swimming these flooded, alligator ridden creeks and got home and in the meantime, old Aubrey Brown, had rung Darwin, rung Dr Cook, and he said, "I'll send a car up." And Darwin had a car, a great big old Dodge, open of course, a fold down hood. So it managed to get up just after Dad got home and the aboriginals packed up our things and we were packed into the car. Mum sort of in the front seat and delirious, nattering away and Dad in the back with two kid and he'd never been - never had much to do with the kids and we were both car sick from the moment we started. (laughter) We travelled non-stop for 24 hours to get 150 miles to Darwin. When we got there Dad didn't know what he was going to do then and he was like…bloomin kids being sick and yowling

Appendices 296 and howling and carrying on for all this time and he didn't know what to do. So he thought the first thing we'll do is go round to the old Victoria Hotel and at least have a shower or at least I'll have a shower ’cause he'd been sicked on that was making him nearly sick too, of course, because he wasn't accustomed to this. He walked into the pub and the first person who saw him was one of the only people who would have known him was old Mr Yarrington and he was the manager of Jolley and Co the only big general store on Darwin. He and his wife lived up there and he mentioned that their daughter and her little girl had come up on the boat with us and the old boats, they were coastal steamers. They only had room for eight or ten passengers. But Mrs Reimers, I couldn't think of her name the other day, and I can't remember her daughter's name, about the same age as me, so she and Mum were together on the boat and when we got to Darwin we met the Yarringtons, of course they were there to meet their daughter. So old Mr Yarry said to Dad, ‘What are you doing here?’ So Dad told him. He said, ‘I just don't know what I'm going to do now. I'm wondering, we're a Presbyterian family but I'm wondering if we went round to the convent would they take the kids or something?’ They'd tipped him out and Mum had been taken straight up to the Darwin Hospital. And Mr Yarry said, ‘never heard such nonsense in my life. We'll take them.’ Which they did. So Liz and I lived with the Yarringtons in Darwin for 3 months. Gosh, they were wonderful people. I used to go with Mr Yarry every morning for a swim and there was very big tides there, up and down, there was a swimming thing at Darwin built out into the harbour. Be about the size of this whole house I suppose, with sort of stone walls underneath and then netting on top. When the tide was out there'd be nothing but a bit of water then the tide would come in and it's be full. We'd go for a swim. Mum, of course. was very sick and nearly died. ’Til the day she died she had scars on her rump from the terrible injections that Dr Cook had to give her, and in that thing I wrote about Sheila Piggot, the nurse, she was wonderful. A: Your mum, she didn't like young things, or something like that. B: No, she was always a bit sniffy. So. ever afterwards, I used to say to her whenever she sniffed at someone, I'd say, ‘Think of Sheila Piggot, Ma.’ (laughter. Earlier we’d talked about how Barbara’s mother had taken a dislike to Sheila because she was young and flighty—Sheila was returning to Darwin after leave from her nursing on the same ship as Mrs. M--)

Appendices 297 Yes, so anyhow, Mum recovered. But she had beautiful teeth and thick, beautiful blonde hair which was done in a huge bun - all her hair got loose and stringy and her teeth got loose. Anyhow off we went to Manbulloo. A: So now we're at Manbulloo and you've given me some pictures of it. So here's the creek crossing there. B: yes, well of course, Libby hadn't started schooling when we left the Northern Territory. A: You talked about your correspondence school where your Mum had to lock you in or something. How did that work? B: Well, you see it only came up on the boat. You got the mail every, between eight and ten weeks apart, you know. So it would all come, eight or ten weeks work. So we'd sit down and it would get done and sent off. And I learned nothing, of course. Mum did teach me to read and that was about all. A: Let’s talk a bit more about Manbulloo, because we have some more pictures. I just want to ask you what these were and what it was like to live there. B: Well as far as I was concerned, it was great. I mean you didn't think about much, you might have played with the Abo kids round about, and I went out riding with the head stockman, or anything if they were at home - the camp was off a long way out. And every now and then in at the hospital, which was just a couple of rooms in an old house on stilts, manned by one of the sisters, who'd come down from the Darwin hospital for three months, then go back and someone else would come. But they used to spend a lot of time out with Mum because there weren't really any other women. And there were two pubs in Katherine, and a police station, and a Chinese family that had a - I don't know what they had, can't remember them. There was a fellow called Mr Solomon, I think, Boyd Solomon, he had a general store and a pub, and they were all-in-one, and then there was another pub a bit down the street. It was the rough pub, so I don't know who had it or who went there. But there were no women except Mrs Woods, the Police Sergeant’s wife, and they had one little boy, they'd had him very late in life. So there was him, then there was the drover - his name was Rooney - and his wife, and they had two sons and a daughter, who was about my age. But the policeman's kid, the three Rooney kids, and three or four Chinese kids, all used to have school in a little old tin hall under Miss Elliott, who was a retired school teacher. And she was employed by the Government, and she lived in Boyd Solomon's pub. I don't know why she ever came out to Manbulloo or anything, something nobody seemed to have any clue about.

Appendices 298 But on weekends, or when the stock camp was in, or things, the sister would come out from the hospital. Someone would go and get her, the book-keeper, or the head stockman or someone, then we'd go to the crossing down below the house. (looking at photo) This great wide river that sort of spread out and ran over stones. And that's Dad standing there. A: So how far was the crossing from your house? B: Oh, a couple of miles. Whatever that is in kilometres. (refers to photo) There's Mum's old Chinese cook and some of the house girls. Yes, there we are. A: So when you say you played with the Aboriginals, what kind of games did you play, or what did you do? B: Oh, we'd be round at the cubby houses, digging drains and ditches, mud pies, climbing up trees and chasing possums. Not anything that city kids did. We didn't know about games like hopscotch or…never heard of them. A: You're in the creek there (referring to picture)? B: Swimming down at the crossing. And there'd be someone standing there with a rifle in case of crocs. A: So that would have been one of the jackeroos or…? B: Yes one of the stockmen or one of the aboriginal stockmen. There we are on the road to Darwin once. Swags and things which are sitting on there. You didn't get to Darwin in a couple of hours like you do now. It was a couple of days. That's old Stardust (looking at picture of a horse). She was beautiful. She was taken by a crocodile. That's one of the stations at Delaware probably. And I think that bigger looking one is Wave Hill. It was away down towards Ayers Rock. They were all Vestey's places, which Dad was supervising. A: So how much of Vestys lands was he looking after? B: Well from a bit south of Darwin, Mataranka, which was near Adelaide River. Mataranka was a big buffalo place. There was masses of wild buffalo and they'd be killed and the skins. That's Manbulloo. A: So that's what the house looked like? B: Things in the middle and a big verandah all around. A: So inside there would have been the bedrooms, the kitchen? B: No, four little bedrooms and the huge verandah, then underneath the storeroom and a big dining room and then away out through a covered walkway to a big kitchen which cooked for

Appendices 299 the inside, depending on how many were there. I thought there were some other ... (refers to photo) that's the blacks camp at Manbulloo. Where they lived down on the river. A: So that was a bit away from the house? B: Oh, yes about a mile away from the house. But that's what they liked. They camped on the ground. Where were we? A: I was asking how big the properties were that your Dad managed? B: Oh lord, I don't know. All the way from Mataranka all the way down and inland as far as Wave Hill and then right across to the Northern Territory Western Australia border. Two thirds of the Northern Territory. A: So, he would have done a lot of riding around to all those stations? So he probably wasn't home very much? B: No. He and the book keeper weren't home very much. No, a lot of the time it was just Mum, with the Chinese cook and masses of aboriginals, of course. A: So what would have been a typical day for you at Manbulloo? B: Ha. Hard to remember now. When you got up - everyone got up very early because of the heat, of course. There'd be breakfast and, I don't know, I'd just nip off out into the bush, running around with the Abo kids and playing about. I'd come home at lunch time and those who had time would have a bit of a sleep in the afternoon, if they could. Mum always hunted me off for a sleep and Liz..I don't remember much about Liz because she was just a toddler. As she grew older she was a bit of a monkey because when anything didn't please her she'd roar and bellow and blame me and I'd get into trouble for it, whatever it was. (laughs) A: Sisters. B: Yes. But as I say, the six years difference just made a difference. And then of course I went off to boarding school. But a typical day was just messing about out in the bush, climbing trees, chasing possums, digging goannas out of holes. A: So these are the girls that ran the house (looking at picture)? B: Those are actually the ones at Burnside. I haven't got any of the Manbulloo girls. They must have all got burnt because a lot of some of those you'll see have cut off edges. A: They were burnt? B: Well there was a house fire at Manbulloo. There are some of the Marakai ones? A: Were you there when there was the house fire at Manbulloo? B: Yes. A: What happened?

Appendices 300 B: This bloke was up from Sydney, the silly old fool, he was supposed to be the company supervisor or something. I think he was a Vestey relative or something. A: Oh that's right the kerosene. B: Mmm (agreeing). But he was up there sitting back. There were lots of funny stories about him. But on this occasion he came downstairs and there was a big outside staircase, down the stairs to dinner and suddenly: ‘Boss, missus, quick!’ The house was on fire and he'd left a curtain flapping over the lamp or something. So they raced out there and were all passing buckets of water up the stairs but these things were on Mums desk. A: (looking at picture) So these are buffalo? B: They'd take the animals to be skinned and then they'd take them into the lagoon and scrub them. Then they were folded up and packed up and sent away. A: Beautiful horses. B: Mm. These should be the Cork ones. There's an artesian bore. A: In terms of the fire - how did you put it out? B: Oh buckets and soda syphons and whatever contained water. Racing all the way up and down these outside stairs. A: So did you have any particular friends when you were at Manbulloo? B: Well there weren't any to have. Only the aboriginal children and Monny Rooney the drover's daughter. But her family were often away with him when he was on the road. Sometimes she was there, I think I told you how I was green with envy when she was there and occasionally she'd come out to spend a weekend and her mother would have her all dressed up and she had this black satin hat. It was the envy of my life. I always had an ambition to own one of those hats while I was young, (laughs). A: Ok so the other thing I wanted to ask you, just backtracking a little bit is how you were talking about going on the ship when you were going from Thylungra. So how did that journey work? B: Well, you've got the 80 odd miles into Quilpie, then you caught the train to Charleville and changing got the train to Brisbane and then you got on the boat in Brisbane and away you went. As far as I can remember you stopped at Rockhampton and Townsville and Thursday Island and then Darwin and then it went on up to Singapore, turned round and came back. A: And you would have came back by that same boat when you went to boarding school?

Appendices 301 B: Yes, same way, it would take three or four weeks to get there. I remember on one occasion, I can't remember which or when, we went through a cyclone. That was very exciting. A: Did you get sea sick? M; No. I never got sea sick in my life thank goodness. I remember being, on this occasion, shut in a cabin and told by one of the seamen staff to stay there. The waves splashing against the port hole - it was very exciting. So, but I don't remember a great deal. I mean I didn't take much interest, I took things as they came and didn't worry about it so it’s hard to remember a lot of things now. A: It’s a good attitude to have. B: Well yes. And then when my kids were growing up Mum used to try to be so protective. She didn't have much cooperation or help or anything. But she really did and it used to bug me when I was young. If you were long in the bathroom – ‘are you all right now? Have you got a tummy ache? ‘You couldn't do anything without being questioned about it and that bugged me a lot. Then when I got older – “Who were you talking to on the phone? Oh. Well what did he ring up for?” Well that's a stupid question, I don't know. When you’re about 14 or so, why? All this sort of things. And I used to think, God, if I ever have kids I'll let 'em alone, but I sometimes think that my kids feel that I didn't take much interest in them. That I made a point of not doing so, so perhaps they might have cause for complaint too. I did, when they were small, because I had four in six years, Beth had to start school. A is for apple. And I remember sitting on the front verandah with her and I think ‘an’ was the word-- ‘a’ ‘n’---spell ‘an’ and loosing my temper and thumping the table and saying, ‘Will you never get this? An:‘a’ ‘n.’’ And of course she was pig-headed and digging her toes in. I've never forgotten that and I've never asked her if she has. I must. She'll be here on Friday. I'll try and remember to ask her. But I thought then, I said to Dick, ‘I can't teach. Because it’s dreadful. It's not fair to the kid.’ So I always had an au pair of some sort, helping round the house but I thought those days are gone: it's got to be a governess. A: But you never had a governess when you were growing up? B: Nup. Where would you get one up there? Oh no, the only one that would have been any good actually, Kath Bothwick as far as I remember, was thinking about coming with us to the Northern Territory as sort of companion to Mum and governess to me, but she didn't in the

Appendices 302 end. I don't know whether it was because she got married then. I don't know why. Kath Bothwick was a sister, well, an aunt of one of those books that were ... Frankie Bowla, who was Frankie Rutledge. She was Kath Bothwick's niece. Married Rutledge, anyway doesn't matter. No there was no question of governesses. So it was just back to Fairholme. A: So what were the hazards and dangers of living in the Northern Territory? B: Snakes, crocodiles. Oh, and the normal things we didn't even think about. Being tossed off horses and accidents, things like that when there were no doctors or anything. A: Did you Mum ever have to, or someone in the house, if there was an accident, do you remember any particular accidents and how they were treated? B: I can remember on really bad one. Before we left there we got Dr Clyde Fenton, a flying doctor in his little Tiger Moth. He'd always wanted to be, well he was a doctor, but he'd always wanted to fly. And he managed to save up and get this Tiger Moth and the AIM, the Australian Inland Mission, flying doctors. They'd started but they didn't come in, they only came where there was a sort of registered airstrip and that blah, blah, blah. Well of course there were none of them in the Northern Territory. And Clyde Fenton came and he came down to be posted at Katherine, which was fun. Well, it was great for Mum to have someone there. Also good for the sister at the hospital: a companion and someone extra to come out and play tennis on the weekends and things. I thought he was great fun but what set me off on him? A: I was asking if there was a really big accident? B: Before Clyde, before they'd decided to station him Katherine, he was in Darwin trying to get himself organised and there was this awful accident. Albert the camp cook was tossed off a mule. Now, I don't know now what…broke a hip, I think, and smashed up his face. And I remember Mum getting the Abos, or someone, to go out and get Dad from wherever and getting the Abos to get a big board or a door or something and lie him on that and wrapping up his face in towels and tying his legs together and Clyde Fenton was going to come down and get him. So that was great excitement. I can remember them trying to get him in, cause they'd landed in a paddock in front of the place, where there was a tiny bit of dirt and not many trees and bushes. With broken legs and hips and things and trying to get him in with the legs stuck up in the air and flying him off to Darwin. And I don't remember any more till years later when I was, must have leave or something and anyhow we were all in Sydney, must have been just after they'd left the Territory and being taken to see Albert in hospital. This was years later, he was still there. They never did get him put together, I don't think. I don't know what happened to him. But other accidents, well

Appendices 303 Mum just fixed up and tied and them together with bits of this and that and when necessary, tried to stitch them together with the sharpest needle she could find until life was made blissful by Dr. Cook bringing her a couple of suture needles. A: Did you ever have a really bad accident? B: Not really. Smashed my knee up once. Lived with it ever since. That was just golloping, racing, doing what I shouldn't have done with a couple of the stockmen and crashed into a tree with my knee. And the Abos, there was no disrespect, we all called them Abos and they called themselves Abos in those days. You'd be shot these days if you referred to them as Abos. The Abos made me a couple of crutches. Cut a couple of forked sticks out of a gumtree. I hobbled round and it got better. Years later, after various other things Doctor said, “Good heavens, who put this together?” And I said, “Nature.” (Both laugh). You know, you got better. Or you died. There were two options. A: Speaking of flying doctors, I remember you telling me about the pedal radio, but that was the bit I didn't get recorded. B: Oh right. Well now this was while we were at Manbulloo. We'd been there for a while. And, as I say...(aside about the magpie). Yes, well, you know, a visitor was terrific excitement. And this fella, Traeger his name was. I can't think of his first name now (Alfred). The inventor of the pedal wireless anyhow, was coming to try it in Tropical conditions because he'd invented it all in South Australia. And he came. And he was at the place for I wouldn't know for how long, messing about and fiddling about. And then one day he said, ‘Right he was ready to try it out.’ And everyone was at home, you know, the stock camp wasn't out at the time. It was probably wet season. Anyhow Dad loaded him and all his equipment into the utility. Dad's sort of houseboy fella that went everywhere with him, Smiley his name was, Dad's boy. Went everywhere and worked on the old utility. It wasn’t old, it was a smart utility in those days. And all the spare Abo blokes from round about all piled in the back and they all went two or three miles out into the bush. Everyone saw them disappear. And the lubras where all at home, hanging round. Mum was in the underneath part that was the office and she'd been given all sorts of instructions. She had a seat and a thing that she had to pedal and she was given very precise instructions about this. And watches were all set. And at a certain time she was to have to

Appendices 304 start pedalling. And so she started pedalling at the right time and there were crackles, and all sorts of, well you wouldn't know, terrible noises you used to get on wireless in those days. And presently, first Dad's voice came through and said, "Are you right, Bessie?" And Mum said, "Yes." And the abos girls' hair stood on end. And then Traeger came on said something. Mum started pedalling like billy-o and talking. And then the girls all heard their boys yabbering in the background and things and they said, "Debil! Debil!" (devil! devil!) You know, they're out there. How can they be talking? And they all whipped their dresses over their heads and threw them down and went bush. So Mum had no household staff for a week. And they were convinced it wasn't the 'debil debil', it was just Mr. Traeger playing round with his new instrument. And but the same, of course, had happened at the other end. When they heard Mum's voice. So there was no staff really on the place except Mum and Dad, the book keeper and the head stockman and you know, a couple like that. The old Chinese cook. So it was very quiet for several days. ’Til they gradually started coming back. A: So, that's 1934 that you went to boarding school. B: Yeah. A: And then later on your Dad then became the Pastoral Superintendent for Scottish Australia Company. B: Bowen Downs is a very famous place at Arramack. And we came back to Brisbane. You were asking at one stage, about Mum and Dad and pictures. That's the whole family, but that's not the one she you're interested in. They're of Mum and Dad. A: So where was this one taken? (reads back of phot) 'Captain's cocktail party. Not very good of either. Dad has an olive in his mouth.' B: Those were in the latter years, you know. When Dad was president of Poll Shorthorn, all sorts of VIP things. There's a picture of him in his work clothes. How did that get there? A: This one of him in his workclothes must be at Katherine, Manbulloo. 1932. B: I don't know. A: So they were all travelling round in cars to visit all the stations that he was looking after or...? B: Oh the utility where he could get. But a lot of the time it was by horse. A: I imagine the roads the roads wouldn't have been all that great.

Appendices 305 B: There wasn't any roads. No. There was a road from Katherine out to Manbulloo. One from Katherine to Darwin but that was it. No there were no roads. ~ A: What meal times were like in the Northern Territory, in Manbulloo? Because I know that this is a little bit before but there was in the books that I was reading they were talking about maybe they didn't have any refrigeration, there was lots of trouble getting food. So I just wondered if you could tell me a bit about that? B: Well, at Manbulloo we used to kill twice a week. That's a bullock twice a week. And so for twenty-four hours you had fresh meat but that was all. That was all that would keep. And the rest would be salted but I mean, with some of the Aboriginals on the place and things it would get eaten. But you'd kill and that was great because you had—it wasn't really great now that I look back on it, because you had meat killed and eaten straight away is pretty tough, I can tell you. But still it was fresh meat. Because you've have steak, sometimes sort of spare ribs and then a roast and then cold meat from the roasts and things like that for several days and then corned beef. When all else failed, you had corned beef. We had huge sort of tubs and the coarse salt was rubbed into it from the tubs and when it came out it was sort of grey and all dried up and you soaked it for ages and scrubbed it and cooked it. And I always remember one story I particularly remember was, I s’pose it was when we were in Sydney, Mum and I and Liz staying with Granny and Grandpa before I went up to Toowoomba to go to school and Granny was thinking, that poor deprived little girl up there and insisted on taking me into Sydney for all sorts of things. Well I wasn't interested in much except going up and down the escalator, which I thought was rather fun. Then she took me into David Jones for lunch. And there was all sorts of things. And after reading all this out I nearly broke her heart by saying, ‘haven't they got any corned beef?’ And the waiters said, ‘Well yes we have.’ So he bought some fancy looking pink silverside and salad and stuff and I said, ‘But that's not corned beef!’ It wasn't like the old grey chunky stuff I was used to. A: And would your Mum have had a garden or was there some...oh there was the Chinese garden that would have supplemented with vegetables? B: Yes well they tried. And Mum always tried to have a bit of a flower garden but without much success really. But she tried. But the heat of course was terrific. There was no fans or anything like that. In the dining room there was the punker. Know what a punker is? A: No.

Appendices 306 B: I don't know if you've read any Indian books or stories much? They all have punkers. It's a thing that hangs from the ceiling, a great long thing with a frill at the bottom and a rope that goes through pulleys outside and one of the old Abos would sit there with the rope tied round his toe just like that and wag backwards and forward over the table. All sorts of things used to sometimes fall out of the punker, in the way of animals and things. There was one occasion that I do remember very well, not to do with the punker at Manbullo. We were having breakfast and there was often someone there from town, you know the Sister or and doctor or the head stockman were sitting round having and there was suddenly a terrible commotion in the kitchen: ‘Boss, come quickly! Come quickly!’ And all the Abos were shouting and jumping up and down and old Cookie was yelling. What had happened was a great snake had appeared on the range that he cooked on would have been from the end of the book case to the end of the wall, a huge thing, great beams up above and there was this snake. So Audbrey Brown nipped out with his shotgun. We all ran out to the kitchen to see. He shot the snake and it fell down and there was this huge pan cooking steak for about twenty blackfellas waiting outside the window to be handed it. And it fell into the vat with a terrible splash. Fat all over the place and fire everywhere. So Cook was beating that out. However when it was done all was well. The steak was fine. The snake was flicked out and examined and it wasn't a ‘cheeky fella.’ So they ate it along with the steak. A poisonous snake they wouldn't eat: ‘cheeky fella.’ I always remember that. The excitement about the snake set them all them yelling. Then they shot the snake and great excitement then. But I always remember that splat and fat going everywhere and catching on fire. Cookie dancing round. A: When did they get electric stuff in? When did they get the 'mod cons'? B: After the war. A: Yeah, after the war? B: A few places might have had little private electric plants. But after the war. But it wasn't town—they made their own power. But it was after the war, always. Boarding at Fairholme (1935) B: Then, of course, it would have been in '34, I'd have been sent off to boarding school. I was ten years and Mum came down to get me ready for boarding school and left me there. Boarding school of course to me was hell at first. I liked it afterwards but I wasn't used to playing with anyone except the aboriginal children and if you had a fight, well you had a fight. You fought it out. Got a couple of bloody noses and that was that. That didn't go down well at a girl's school.

Appendices 307 A: No, I can imagine. (laughter) B: And I cursed and swore at people and you know. (laughs) And of course the smoking was a problem. All the time I was up there (in the Northern Territory) I never saw an aboriginal smoke. They chewed this black plug tobacco. They'd have this black lump down the side of their mouth and they'd chew it up and spit it and mix it with ash and chew and chew it. I s'pose the head stockman and book keeper and everyone would smoke I suppose. Dad smoked. So we used to grind up the tobacco and roll it in a bit of paperbark and smoke it. If I took a puff of that now it's blow the top off my head y'know. But I've been smoking ever since. When I could, we'd pinch tobacco from Dad and that, we always got caught and always got spanked and I went off to boarding school and I really missed my cigarettes and smoking. Not that you smoked all the time but - a smoke a day probably. And I think I told you this before, I used to sneak around to the drive at Fairholme and see if anyone had dropped a cigarette or thrown away a half smoked one until one day one of the gardeners popped out and said ‘gotcha!’ I thought here we go again. He said, ‘You’re young to be smoking. Where do you come from?’ And I said, ‘The Northern Territory.’ ‘Gawd,’ he said, ‘what's your name?’ I told hiB: M--. ‘Maffeson,’ I would have said cause I couldn't say my r's. That something I always had a go at Mum about afterwards. Oh but it's so sweet, she’d say – ‘Mawy Maffeson.’ ‘What did you say it was?’ And I used to get mad. I said, ‘Mum why didn't you ever stop me?’ ‘Oh it sounded so sweet.’ Well it didn't sound to bloody sweet when you got to boarding school. (laugh) ‘M--,’, he (the gardener) said, ‘did you ever live at Thylungra?’ And I said yes. ‘Oh, I know you. You’re the little kid who used to always be out with the book keeper and with the cows and getting tossed off that big old stock horse - over its head.’ And I said yes.

Appendices 308 So that was wonderful. We had a great old reunion and he kept me in a cigarette every now 'n' again. And of course, talk about naive and silly, trying to find somewhere I could go and have it. Smoking under the stage of the Assembly Hall, crawl up sitting on the bars and I thought no one would find me here smoking away in bliss, and the smoke was floating up to where old Ms Culpin the headmaster was having the Prefects in for a meeting. However after a time, I got used to it and enjoyed boarding school. A: What happened when you got caught smoking? B: Well I probably would have been sent away if Fairholme was closer to home. Probably have to wait two or three weeks for the boat, and then a few weeks on the boat. So they couldn't send me home. Anyway, my worst plague at boarding school was the fact that I was sent to Fairholme because all Dad's family had come from the Downs. There were plenty of aunts there and the youngest of them, Aunt Nancy, was the senior house mistress at Fairholme. So she caused me far more trouble than anything else because I just had to be so much better than anyone else because I was a M--. Yes, she gave me hell. But one of my worst things - but you know she meant well, she meant well looking after dear little Barbara and all the rest of it, and she told Mum all the things to buy to get ready for school. Combinations - have you ever heard of combinations? Wool things, and there's a flap at the back that you pull apart to sit on the thing and it's very hard to have to pee without wetting them. Oh, dreadful things. But Aunt Nancy knew that I would feel the cold, so she said to Mum, she must get combinations for me. The humiliation of those combinations, no one could realise! They couldn't understand that I would rather freeze than be humiliated in one of those things. But humiliated in them I was, and there were plenty of bloody noses for taking me on about them at first. Oh I'd thump them. I knew how to thump them and they'd never been called upon to defend themselves before or to thump back. A: They were probably really shocked when you did it. B: Nancy used to sit me down and lecture me and carry on. But that was alright I got to really enjoy boarding school. Made a couple of friends. There was this girl, Evelyn Crowther, who's family had a farm out on the Downs at Cambooya about fifteen miles out of Toowoomba or there abouts. And I used to spend a lot of holidays out with her. Yeah, so boarding school was fine. ~ A: So we might skip back to the boarding at Fairholme. Who were your friends there? Did you have any particular friends?

Appendices 309 B: Yes, I had this one particular friend, Evelyn Crowther, whose family owned a property out on the Downs and I used to spend a lot of time there. And she was as keen about horses as I was. And we were allowed to keep a horse at Fairholme, you know. There was a paddock there. So she had one of hers and my Aunt Ken, Aunt Katherine Kennedy, the only one of Dad's sisters that married. She didn't have any kids but she and Bob Kennedy lived down there. But she had a white pony called Idle Boy which she used to ride in shows and things, which she gave to me, so I had it at Fairholme, so that was fun. We spent all our time down with the horses and in the holidays, a lot of people that road in shows in things and their horses had been turned out for the winter and spellled. They didn't like riding them until the rough was out of them so they used to be sent out to the Crowthers and Evelyn and I used to ride them, which was great fun. And when we'd knocked the stuffing out of the horses a bit, they were sent back to their owners. (Both laugh) A: And then...? B: Fairholme, I think, there were only about 30 boarders there. A: So how big was the whole school? B: Oh I don't know then. Not terribly big. I s'pose there would have been 100 day girls. I don't really know. A: And what would a sort of average day at Fairholme have been like? B: Well you got up very early and had a cold wash and got into combinations. And put up with all the thingo and then down to breakfast and then back to make your bed and tidy your room. And then into school. Then would be lunch and then after school were the various things. Sport of any sort, which interested me. School work didn't. Playing sport and spare time, sneaking around trying to find a cigarette butt. Disgusting now, come to think of it. A: And did you have any favourite teachers or teachers you especially liked or disliked? B: No. I just took them all, come and go. There was one, old Miss Jackson who was the domestic science teacher. We all liked her because she never had an unkind word for anyone. Never got anyone into trouble or did anything. Used to give you the bits of leftover icing to chew and things, we younger ones. 'Cause I s'pose Evelyn and I would have been the youngest boarders. And they'd go up to the Prefects. And as I say, there weren't a whole lot there. Small in those days. It's a big school now. A: I grew up out in Gatton so I do know Fairholme and that area. B: Yeah. Well it was very small in those days. It was just the old original house and then assembly hall thing. That's all apart from the kitchen and the laundry. But now, of course,

Appendices 310 there's all...you see both my Grand-daughters, Samantha and Eliza went to Fairholme. And Dick and I went up once for something or other that was on there. And we were popped eyed at how much it had grown. Extra buildings and things. And it’s grown a lot since then. So it’s a big school now. A: What did the classrooms look like? B: (silence) Where were they? They were all in part of the assembly hall part. Well, they just looked like any classrooms does look. Individual desks. A: Individual desks and you would have had exercise books that you were writing on? M; Yes. Exercise books. And for writing I think I was supposed to be past it by the time I got there in correspondence. You had copy books, they were called, were you had to do your work. Yes, just exercise books and... A: And what subjects or lessons did you learn? B: Reading, writing and arithmetic. History. Geography and that was it. Nothing fancy. No, well all the time I was at Fairholme I was scratching to catch up, you know. My only advantage was that I could read. Wasn't too hot with the spelling. No good with the Maths. Still not. A: Me neither. I'm terrible at the Maths. B: Well don't worry about it. You can get through life quite well. A: That's what's I've found so far (laughs). B: Although nursing taxed me a little bit because in my days you didn't have everything ready mixed. The morphia was in little tablets and you had to get one out and mix it with so many things of water and measure it and blah blah blah. So you had to smarten up your maths a bit there or you could make a nasty mistake. A: Yeah. That's not the kind of mistake you want to be making (laugh). B: No. A: It's not like getting a sum wrong in an exercise book. B: Yes. So no, school was most ordinary and as I say, I was bit miffed when they decided to...Mum thought she'd love to have little...(interrupts to yell at a crow). Living in Chelmer, Brisbane (1939) A: So what were you saying? You were a bit miffed when your Mum said...? B: Well Dad had been, come down to take over as Pastoral Superintendent for Queensland Scottish Australian Company. So they were going to have to live in Brisbane. So Mum thought, 'I should have little Barbara at home.'

Appendices 311 But, of course, little Barbara had managed to escape from all this constant supervision and things. I'd had four years at boarding school. So that wasn't a great success. But anyhow that didn't matter. I just did my thing. Took me away and Liz and I went to Somerville House. Because being the sort of Presbyterian school and things. But to me, that was sheer hell 'cause we lived at Chelmer. So I had to get a train in, for swimming for example, I had to get a train into Central and then a tram to the Valley. And then with all the others, trams all the way back to school and things. And I used to leave home as far as I can remember, at 6 o'clock, half past 5 or 6 o'clock to get to the swimming training and things. And I can remember Mum saying, "It's a pity you're not as interested in your school work as you are in your swimming." But I wasn't. (Laughs). So that was that. But however this was a real bore, this business. And it wasn't much fun for Liz 'cause she'd been stuck at home the whole time with Mum. Especially in the Northern Territory when she was little because I'd be out the minute Mum's back was turned and clear off out with the kids. Out in the bush and things. Very lonely for Mum. So she had Liz the whole time. And still had Liz at this stage, until Liz was to start school. So it wasn't easy for her. But so she used to have to go with all the other people on the train, get the train into town and walk across and get the train into Somerville House. Then trundle down the hill in the Tram to wherever the junior school was there, I can't think. Me, I was in old Fanny Walker's class. It was 4D. A, B, C, D. All the duds. And I sat beside Margaret Olley. (Both laugh). A: In the dud's class as well! That's great. B: Yeah. So there we are. A: So you didn't really like schooling there either? B: No well that was the thing. But anyhow, we were bunged off to school there and Mum had moved into this house. Dad was coming and going out bush. And then she discovered meeting people round the district, that everyone went up the road to St. Aidan's. Which was the obvious place to go. So through various friends that she'd met and people that were there, we got organised and our uniforms from Somerville House, fortunately bush people from the Winton-Longreach District, they were friends of Mum's and Dad's, with kids coming to boarding school. So they were able to take over Liz's and my uniforms. So we went off to St. Aidan's. We were both much happier about that. A: So when did you got to St. Aidan's?

Appendices 312 B: Ah. I'm just tryin to think. 1939? 38? 39? Can't think. '38 I suppose. A: Round there. B: Left at the end of '42 and went nursing. A: And how was St. Aidan's different from Somerville? B: Well it was lot closer for one thing. And in due course then the Glasgow boys went off to the war and Mum was able to buy their bikes from their Mother. And we each had a big sort of boys racing bike really. We were able to ride to school. And Liz made various friends and did her own thing. But I didn't know, you see, there's six years difference. But it suited me fine. There was no swimming at St. Aidan's, that was the only thing. So I had to turn things to other things. But I ended up in the netball team and the athletics team, you know. I enjoyed life there. A: You did quite well at swimming when you were at Somerville...? B: Yes. I did. Not that I registered that I was anything in particular, but apparently I was. Or I could have been if I'd stayed and had coaching. But it runs in the family, you see. Chris at school was a very good swimmer. Now who's that Commonwealth games champion who fetched up at Southport? And he said to Chris, "Oh cripes, I can make a swimmer out of you." Chris was like me? He swam because he enjoyed it. You've met Chris, haven't you? A: Yes. I didn't know he was a swimmer though. B: Oh well nothing special. He just swam. Everyone swims. (Both laugh) A: Some just a little bit better than others. B: Some yeah. Yes, there're pictures further through in that book of he and Robbie on their ponies in the dam. A: Oh good. We'll have a look at that. So then...almost as soon as you left St. Aidan's you went into nursing? B: Straight away. Yes. Nursing A: And why did you make that decision (to go nursing)? B: Well I'd always had it in mind. I used to want to know what went on behind the screens. Visiting people and things like that and I used to wonder what was going on. There was only way of finding out. And Mum again said, "Yes but oh darling, how lovely to have you...have a year at home and we could just be together at home."

Appendices 313 She could never see. Why, why she would want me at home with her for a year when I was nothing but a menace to her. So I messed about and I had to get the references and I went to see old Mrs. Hartland, the headmistress and I said, "I've got this problem. I want to go nursing but Mum wants me e to have a year at home." (Adopting voice of headmistress) "Now Barbara, your Mummy is very wonderful woman but you've got to learn to do your own things," she said. "Leave it to me." So she organised old Matron McDonald, old Matey McDonald, a First World War nurse who was in charge of the big Red Cross convalescent home at Chelmer. Where from Greenslopes, which had just opened, for you know, boys coming back from the war, they'd be sent over to Chelmer to recuperate between operations and things. So Matey McDonald and Mrs. Hartland fixed up my references to go nursing. And got it all fixed up. And I said to Mum, "Well, it's all fixed. I'm signed up to go nursing. And I expect to be called up in two or three weeks or something." Which I was, very quickly, because suddenly the war was roaring on and they were getting short of nurses. And they started taking us in lots of 30 every three weeks. And they were cutting down the training from four years to three years. That really pushed us because we had to work really long hours and we didn't seem to get much time. I was alright because I was capable of burning the candle at both ends. But anyone that was you know was given to getting very tired or anything, its all they did. As I say, I burnt the candle at both ends. I had a great old time during the war. A: I'll get back to that, 'cause this is the bit I didn't get on my recorder. B: All right. A: I know you told me some of this stuff but we'll try and get it again. So, where did you do your training? B: At the Brisbane General. A: And what was the training like? B: What was it like? A: Yes. What kinds of things did you have to do...? B: Tough. Hard work. You got a much better training than the girls who went to private hospital, who possibly worked just as long, hard hours but had it easier. No, when you went in you did three weeks in the preliminary school. I was in school everyday. Rammed all the basics down your head. What you had to do and you learned how to make beds and take temperatures and heave people on and off bedpans and things.

Appendices 314 And then at the end of three weeks, you were allotted to a ward. And, you know, there were good wards and bad wards, and lousy Sisters and stinking Sisters, and good ones. It was all the luck of the draw. Didn't much worry me because I'm happy to get on wherever I'm dumped down. But I did go first to a Surgical ward, which I liked. Which a lot didn't because you get squashed up accidents and all sorts of things coming in. And it was all a pretty bloody business in those days. It’s just so different now. It’s hard to imagine. But I liked it all right. And after three months you go shifted to another ward. And, of course, word always went ahead of you, roundabout: ‘oh look out, you'll get so and so coming. She's a pain in the neck. She's lazy and will always try and get out of her work.’ And all this sort of thing. Well, I didn't have any of those problems. I didn't have any nasty thingos, so. But as the war went on and things got more crucial and staff where, you know, we didn't have any Wardsmen, they'd all been called up and gone to war. So we had to do all the heavy lifting and things. And any of us from the bush were all ok at that but a lot of town ones weren't. And they had bad back, or said they had bad backs. I used to think some of them were bunging it on. But you know, it was all right as far as we were concerned. But you were, you did work very hard. And then you had all your lectures which had to fall in your own time. At the beginning of each week, you had to hand to the Sister for the following week when your lectures were. And she'd organise your times so that you were off for your lectures. And so, we had two particular--I s'pose there were some other spare ones--but two particular tutor sisters: the senior tutor sister, Sister Scanlan. And it turned out that she came from Winton, she'd been bought up in the Winton district. And I trotted home one weekend and told Mum and Dad about this, and they said, "Oh crikey! Old Scanlan, yes. Old Scanlan was the butcher in Winton and he had some pretty rough kids." Dad said, "I think", because of course, they were a lot older than me. She was the tutor sister. He said, "Her brothers were both jockeys, I think." Said, "I can't remember much about them." But anyhow, he said, "Oh well, she'll be a tough old nut to crack." And I said, "Yes, she is. I think she's a good tutor sister but oh ow..." So we had her and, I can't remember the name of the other one. She was nice, gentle creature. See, you don't remember them. (Both laugh).

Appendices 315 I forgotten what she taught us. Easier and simpler things like bed making and things. But anyhow, we went off to our lectures. Three or four lectures a week. All through your first year and your shifts were organised round them. We were supposed to do, I've forgotten what we were supposed to do, we but used to do 12 hours a day. But of course we often did a lot more. A: And then you would have sat exams and stuff like that as well? B: Exams? Yes. And I don't know, I think they tended to shove you through whether you'd passed or not. I didn't have any troubles with exams, because I've always said anyone can do anything they wanted. I never passed an exam in my life in school I don't think but I was always near the top of my year at nursing 'cause I was doing what I wanted to do. So that was all right. So I chuffed off through various things. You got moved 'round to all sorts of places. But, because of the shortage of staff and having to get the maximum amount of the minimum few, they tended to send you where you were most useful. And, of course, I liked surgical nursing and I did all my nursing in surgical. Never liked medical nursing, still don't. And I think I told you this before, if you fell down in a fit now I'd have to scratch my head and decide whether you were in a diabetic coma or a something or other else. I'd work it out in the end but, you know, it doesn't come natural to me. But if you suddenly took a carving knife and sliced a big chunk out of yourself, it wouldn't worry me at all. I'd have you fixed in no time. (A laughs). A: Do you remember any cases you dealt with that stick in your mind? B: Not particularly. Oh well, the night they found, when the Centaur was sunk (May 14 1943. See http://www.awm.gov.au/encyclopedia/centaur/index.asp) 'cause they didn't find them until the following 24 hours after it was sunk. They were bought in and we were all hauled out of bed in the middle of the night to go down to the wards. Someone came and woke me up. I said, "I can't. I've had days without sleep on account of my burning the candle at both ends." Well you've got to get up because there's been some sort of a tragedy and so up we got. That was in ‘42? ‘43? I don't know. I was a fairly junior nurse. I didn't have a great deal to do with it. But we got quite a number of them in the surgical wards, of course. A: And so, you were talking about 'burning the candle at both ends'. So you sort of, also went out and partied a bit? B: Always. All sorts of various friends, can't think were I met them all. One particular boyfriend was Jeff Joynton Smith. Father owns Smith's weekly in Sydney (see

Appendices 316 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smith's_Weekly). But he was a lefttenant on a ?fairmile? and they were little boats with a crew of about 14, I think. They were so little they were big tourists boats in the, you know, up in the reef now. Barrier Reef country. But there a flotilla of six of them and they'd go into, you never knew where, of course, up into Japanese waters and things. Sneaking round, sabotaging Japanese ships. And every now and then they'd arrive back in Brisbane with holes blown in them all over the place. And they'd be there for a while getting patched up before they went off again. I think I told you this, there were no telephones, there was no means of contact or anything at the General. There was one public telephone down near the front gate. Now there was one thousand on the staff at the General. A: (laughs) What a nightmare. B: One public telephone down at the gate. But anyone wanting to get in touch with you would ring the Switch and they would have a message put on the message board. There was a message board the size of that wall in the dining room (points to wall opposite, about three metres square). And it was very easy to miss a message or that sort of thing. But, you know, you'd count on someone to say, 'Oh, there's a message for you.' But Jeff would always get in touch with me when they were in. And we'd gather up a few and go down to the boat for a party. I think I told you about that? A: Yeah but that was the bit I didn't get recorded though either. So I might get you to tell me again. B: Well this night, they were in and I got this message and I rang, I used to go home, a tram into town, a train out to Chelmer. Mum said, "Oh darling, how lovely to see you." I said, "I've really only come home to do some ringing up. I'm back on duty in two hours or something." He said, "Could you muster up a few? We'd like to have a bit of a party on board." So, this night, this particular day I mustn't of...I can't remember exactly how we got there. We get a tram into town. And I think they used to organise a taxi to get away over round to the South side, Bulimba there. And there'd always be a destroyer or two tied up so you walked across them and on to a plank on to the next one and then down onto the Fairmiles and across. We had some lovely parties there and I think I told you there about their thing. They'd be issued with grog, of course, but Gordon's gin. Used to tip a third of it out. Down their necks, I suppose. Fill it up with lemon juice and the pared off rind and screw it up and shove it down the bilge for a few months. Beautiful! A: Yeah I can imagine (laughs).

Appendices 317 B: We used to have that. The thing I most remember about those parties is the loo. Tiny little place stuck in a corner of these things. Cause they used to just hang over the side to go to the loo. But there was one there. But (to flush) you had to go up and down with one hand and in and out with the other (demonstrates action). And if you got it wrong, you got your own back. So when any of the girls went to the loo I had to take them and do the pumping afterwards (because I was the only one that could). That's what I most remember about those parties. A: And I think you mentioned as well, someone fell off the planks? B: Yeah, Jolly Elsa Craig. Her father, old Mr. Craig, was a great friend of Dad's and he was head of P & O in Sydney. Don't know why Elsa came to be in Brisbane. I s'pose he and Mrs. Craig were parted, so perhaps, she was the youngest of the family, perhaps she was living with her mother. That's how she came to be nursing at the General. She was called 'Jolly.' She was big and hefty and always laughing. And we'd taken her this night, and a couple of things: I remember her sitting down on or in something and getting stuck and having to pull her. She sat on a bucket or something. I don't know, just sat down and it was the wrong thing and got stuck. She laughed. But anyhow, coming back afterwards, getting off and we were all fairly full of booze, but some of us, not necessarily more full than the others but less accustomed to it. But old Jolly was singing and dancing and she slipped and fell down the plank too. I'll always remember the efficiency of the navy. Within seconds there were fellas there with great boathooks fishing her up, because she could have got squashed, you know. (Both laugh). She never liked me reminding her of that. I can talk about it now because I think--it's awful the way you loose touch--I think she died last year. A: And what did your parents, or your Mother in particular, make of you going out all the time? B: Well she never knew because I was out nursing. She used to embarrass me because people who knew what I was up to and she would say, "Well, of course I don't have to worry about Barbara. She's at the hospital. They keep an eye on them there. You know, they've got..." They did. They had a funny old thing, Mrs. Fuell-Smith, she was old retired nursing sister. She wore a veil, 'cause we all wore veils, she had one right down here. And she used to get about with torch at night to make sure everyone was in on time. Well, I mean, there were two six storey high blocks of nursing thingos so she had them all connected in between the things. But you'd come sneaking in all sorts of back ways. You never went a direct route to your room. All sorts. And you'd suddenly around a corner and there use was. "Stop nurse! I know who you are."

Appendices 318 But of course she didn't and you went for your life. All sorts of things. With a bit of luck you'd dive into a broom cupboard. But I remember doing that once. And she'd got tired of walking about so she decided she'd stay there for a bit. And I was stuck in that bloody broom cupboard for over an hour. (Both laugh). I had to get home to my room to get to bed and have a bit of sleep before it was time to get up again. Oh dear. Yes, Mrs. Fuell-Smith. Poor old girl. A: So you mentioned you wore veils and stuff. What was your nursing uniform like? B: Well it varied. In the first year ones you had blue and white striped things. They came back stiff as billy-o. And belts, and you'd put your studs in, you know. Buttons. And they were done up to the neck. And they had short sleeves. And you wore black shoes and stockings. In your second year, you had plain...I can't remember, did we go into white then? No you didn't go into white until, can't remember. Perhaps you still had the same uniforms but you gave up the black stockings. Which wasn't so easy to get any other sort of stockings anyhow in wartime. And then, but you had caps were we didn't have them right down there. They just sat on your head. Can't remember where it is, I might find it, there's a picture of me somewhere in one of the boxes, in my uniform. A: Yeah, that'd be good. I don't know if it’s in here (looks at '45 photo album). That's probably a bit late. The other thing I was going to get you to tell again, because it was during the war time, so you were looking after at some point some soldiers? A: Yeah, in my time off I used to go and work in the Chelmer convalescent home. B: That's it. A: Yes. B: So can you tell me about that? B: Well that was great fun because you know, it was basically to kept them entertained. And I remember taking, people gave...the people that owned Sportscraft. You know sportscraft now? A: Yeah. B: It started during the war. It was a lovely shop. It had lovely clothes. I can't remember the name of the couple that owned it, but she ran a sort of land army. And she used to go to Chelmer and they had a big paddock. There was the thing up on Laurel Avenue and then this thing down at the back and then on to the river. Her land army girls had a huge vegetable garden there. But she organised all sorts of things: canoes.

Appendices 319 And one day, me and someone else, I can't remember who, were taking some of them out in canoes and (the wounded soldier) sitting there with a plastered leg up there, you know: this that and the other. And out on the river, I remember this day fooling round and we tipped over. This fella said, "Well, someone had better do something because once this plaster gets wet”-- On one leg all the way to his hip and I think one shoulder and arm—He said, "I'll sink like a stone." So anyhow, I was there holding him up, you know, and I said, "Well I'll keep your head out but (laughs) someone had better go and get someone." So someone did and they got a rope and hauled it out and we tied it round him and hauled him in and he's still holding his head up out of the water. But we had a lot of fun. There was another occasion, I don't think it was the same fella but also a leg in plaster. We took them bike riding and somehow they got too close and he stuck his foot through the spokes. And one of the others went A over T. I remember that was up at Graceville, just near where you went under the railway line, somewhere up there. Oh we had a lot of fun with those sorts of things. But other times, you know, when I wasn't taking them out, me and I'd take a couple of friends from the hospital with me, you know, if they were off duty too. And we were always welcome there to entertain the boys or else sit down and peel pumpkin by the hour. My Mother used to go down and cook one day a week for the cook's day off. Which she was very capable of doing but she had to cook for 80 or 90 people. And ah, she used to tell people what I relief it was she didn't have to worry about Barbara because there she was at the hospital. They kept them an eye on them there. A: If only she knew! (laugh). So you were still living in Chelmer with your family at that time? B: Well, no you lived in at the hospital. You weren't allowed to live out. Anyone married, if you were going to get married, well you had to get out. You lived at the hospital. So the family where there at Chelmer, yes. They stayed there right up until in, I s'pose it must have been the end of 1945, Dad was appointed general manager of Scottish Australia. And they were going to have to go and live in Sydney. So Dad had to go on down. He lived in a boarding house there. Poor old darling, didn't he hate it. Until Mum could come down. She stayed in Brisbane until after we were married and if you'd like to hand me that book there... A: This one? B: The photograph album. Because I was very tickled at just, this year, this bit (looking at album)...two things in the paper, yes here we are. (points at picture of their house) That's

Appendices 320 were we lived in Chelmer and that is a picture of it right now where it was the other day, up for sale again. A: Oh really? Isn't it beautiful. B: It was lovely. And at the back it sloped down very steeply, down to the river. There's a picture of the back of it now. It's all been yeah. It wasn't there. A: What a gorgeous house. What was it like inside? B: Well there was the front verandah, and you went into a hall and there was a front bedroom and a second bedroom and a long on this side was the sitting room. And then behind it, the kitchen-cum-dining room. And then a little hallway went up where there was another room, which became Dad's office. And a bit of a back verandah, out at the back, which they closed in and that became a...let's have a look. ~ A: What were the nurses living quarters like? B: Well you at least had your own room, such as it was. Its roof didn't go all the way up, there was just a bed and a dressing table-cupboard, you know, all-in-one. A chair you had, you had to sit in a chair. And they all opened out on to a big balcony. A: And where you sharing with other nurses? B: Yeah, at the end of the corridor were showers and baths and loos. A: And they would have made all the food for you in the hospital...like, what did you eat? What happened at meal times? B: Down in the dining room? Oh it was a huge kitchen that they had. I never saw into them. But the meals, well, much like wartime meals anywhere. For breakfast there'd be porridge and as much bread as you could eat and golden syrup. Occasionally butter. And for lunch it was always cold meat, if they could, if, you know, there was any and salad, of a sort. And spuds. There were always plenty of spuds, which I liked. It was ok by me. And dinner at night was a hot meal of some sort. Nothing very exciting. And bread and butter pudding and steamed pudding which you could chock up a car with, you know. They were all pretty ordinary, the food I think, I can tell you. Because there was not much you could do to augment it because it was pretty severe rationing all through the war, as far as food went. Meeting Dick A: The other thing I was going to ask you about was you were friends with the Tullys as well? B: Yes. A: And you ended up staying at...’cause I think in one of the stories I missed...?

Appendices 321 B: I went back and stayed there just at the time when Dick and I met up, you know. That would have been in 1944, I suppose or '45. The boys were all still away: POWs except for Cam. The youngest one. One of the books had pictures of them all sitting on horses and things (M refers to one of her books about the Tully family). A: Yeah, I saw that one. B: Yes well Cam died late last year or early this year. And I'm not sure about Jackie. She was the next one up from Cam. She's lived with a minder up on Tambourine for ages and has been a bit gaga for donkey's ages. (looking at picture) That's Roy Devine. He never did marry. When he did come back from POW, he didn't marry Jill. She married on of the Tullys after all. A: Yeah. That was the story you were telling me. B: Then he married Barb. A: So Jill...you were training with her as a nurse? Was that the story? B: Well, I'd known her as a kid at the Quilpie thing. Only she was older than me. And then she went nursing. A: That's right and she didn't like it. B: She'd been at home during the war and she'd had enough. She felt she wanted to do something. Why she picked nursing the Lord only knows. But she did. ~ A: We didn't really talk about how you first met Dick, and then the courtship.

B: Well I first met Dick when I was nursing. And then this friend of mine, Jill Pegler, who was older, I think you saw her letter there (this letter is scanned, with transcript). She'd been at home during the war, cooking for shearers, and she got fed up with it and thought she'd go and do something. And she decided to come nursing. Which was a great mistake because nursing in those days you needed to go straight from school, where you were used to being bossed about and kicked about and those things. But she'd had four or five years more or less running the property, her parents were old, and everything else. Anyhow there she was, so we met up, which was very surprising, that you got your call-up every three weeks, they were calling, and Tutor Sister Sclan came along and called my name. And I realised someone pulled out and sort of looked, then went on a bit, and then ‘Pegler here,’ and I pulled out and looked. And it was Jill. Extraordinary, I hadn't seen her for... well, since I was seven or six and went to the Northern Territory, and she'd been older but we'd been, you know, she used to stick up for me in the Quilpie District when all those Tully kids had decided to beat me up.

Appendices 322 And anyhow, that was alright, she was there for a year but she couldn't take it. She said, ‘I'm off.’ And she was, she went off home. And then in due course, I got that letter from her. ’Cause she was engaged to this fellow, Roy Devine, who'd been a POW in the Middle East. And the letter says all about this fellow, Dick Newton, who's a great friend of Roy's, and he was back, he'd been badly wounded in Alamein. He'd spent months and months in hospital but he was now hobbling round on callipers and crutches, and was coming out to see her, and if I could get my holidays I should come at the same time. They were trying to have a polo, the first one since the war. ’Cause some of the boys were back, all the Tully and Watts boys were still POWs. Anyhow, got organised, and that's what happened. Didn't go out on the same train as Dick, I went out a bit earlier because Dad was doing a thing all around his stations, all over Queensland, Northern Territory, South Australia. He said I'll go that way and drop you off in Charleville, and you can take the train to Quilpie. So I was with Jill when we went in, sixty or seventy miles in on dirt roads, gates, and heaven knows what, to meet the train that got into Quilpie that got in, well you never knew when it got in, late at night anyhow. And that's when I met Dick, on the Quilpie railway station. And that was that. And we were not going home to... what was the Pegler's place called? ‘Nickavilla.’ We were staying in town on account of a couple of day's scratch polo. So we were all staying at the pub. When Dick and I met we clicked straight away, we sat on the bed on the verandah and talked most of the night. So that's where I met him, and that was that. After the polo, two days of polo, he went off to stay with Jill for a few days and I went off to ‘Ray’ Station to stay with the Tully's. But we wrote to each other. You know, you did your courtship those days mostly by letter. So that was that, in due course. A: When did you meet up with him again after that? B: Well, I'm just trying to think. I think he came down to Brisbane for something or other. Funny, you forget. A lot of people don't forget, but I do. I was never one for really taking much note of things, they just came and went, and happened and worried me way or the other. Some people take great note of everything that happens, but I never did. Well I can't quite think. Oh, that's right! Then I was bidden to go and visit Bendee. And I don't quite know how it was organised, but I think Dad must have organised my means of getting there, oh and John Rogerson, who was a member of the Queensland Club, as was Colonel Newton and Dick. John Rogerson from Pikedale, which was next to Bendee. Bendee used to be part of Pikedale

Appendices 323 before the first world war. He and someone were going up, and it was organised so they gave me a lift up to Bendee. I had a weekend up there. And then soon after that, blow me down, was when Dick was moved to get on a horse, and got tossed off and broke his leg again. So I got this message. Wasn't easy to get a message at the general in those days, there were no phones, but a huge notice board the size of that wall. And you encountered odd friends to say, ‘There's a message there for you.’ Take you ten minutes to find the thing, saying what had happened. And I was shattered. I thought, ‘Oh, well I've got days off coming up, I must get out there.’ And I started fishing around among my friends trying to figure out how on earth I could get up there and see him. And there was some sort of a ball on at the City Hall. Another friend of mine, can't-think-of-her-name, was engaged to one of the Coroney's boys - the Coroneys owned the pub at Charleville, and their cousins owned the pub at Quilpie. And her family were all in a fizz about her getting engaged to this Greek boy, and he had done medicine, he was a doctor. Anyhow there were going off to the thing. I can't remember how all this happened now, but somehow or other I found out that the Courier Mail truck left Brisbane about ten o'clock at night, great covered thing, and it went to Toowoomba, and then on to Stanthorpe. And it stopped throughout with great bundles of paper to Gatton, and Helidon, and then on to Toowoomba, and various places. And I could get a lift with them if I liked, but they said ‘you'll just have to lie on top of the papers,’ and it was this huge truck thing. And I said, well that's alright. The fellow I talked to said there might be other people, and I said, well that's alright. And there was, there was a very amorous yank, but as we were wedged tight between the newspapers and the ceiling, nothing could be done about it! And I had some nice quiet, shy fellow on the other side of me, and there we were, flat out. And that didn't change until Toowoomba because they kept throwing papers out from the back. We got to Toowoomba, and this fellow had to get out, thank goodness. He said, ‘I hope we meet again.’ And I said (in a sarcastic tone), ‘Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn't it?’ And then I went on, and I got to Stanthorpe. I thought, ‘Here, right-o,’ cause I'd also sent a telegram, though you never know, but Dick had got the telegram, and he was tickled pink. I got to Stanthorpe and went to the Country Club Hotel, and they said Dick's parents had been away when this happened, they'd gone for a trip down to Sydney or something. They said, Dick rang us up and told us you were coming, wasn't it nice of you to come in, we've got a room for you here, and they told me how to get to the hospital and that they'd keyed up the thing. So they were all very nice, and up I went. And that was when we thought, oh well this

Appendices 324 is it, you know, we're engaged from now on. But the Miss Sheahans were terrific. There were a number of them, and they were big old Stanthorpe, well-respected Catholic family. But three of the girls, Margaret, and Molly, and see I forget, but another sister was the Matron of the Mater (at the Country Club Hotel). So they were wonderful to me, the Miss Sheahans. Anyhow I was only there for a night or something, and I had to get old bold thing-o with the wobbly taxi and get out to the border to get that bus from Tenterfield at 7:30, and wobble all the way back down. And I still can't remember their name - it infuriates me when I can't remember names. Get the atlas. Where's New South Wales? Woodenbong, that's the place I'm trying to think of. You came out of here, Woodenbong and across to Kilarney and then inland, and you fixed up here, and Stanthorpe was here. Woodenbong, why couldn't I think of that before? Yes so then we were engaged, so that was that. He told his parents, I don't know what they said. I told mine. A: Did they approve of you? Were they happy? B: Well they realised I'd come out of the right sort of thing-o, I was a daughter of a member of the Queensland Club. Dad was a respected, well-known leader of the Grazier’s Association, and blah blah. A: And how did your parents react? B: Well Dad was tickled pink because he knew old Colonel Newton in the Queensland Club, and they'd meet there on occasions, and any distinguished soldier was okay with Dad. Dad himself had fought through France and things. He'd been decorated. And Mum said, ‘Oh darling, yes, you've got your whole life ahead of you, it would be lovely to just have a year at home,’ and Mum was always on about this, but she and I could never get on. She'd always try. A: She was flogging a dead horse there wasn't she? B: Yes! So that's alright. We announced our engagement at my twenty-first birthday party, that my parent's had. And that was in August, and we were married the following April. We were married in St Andrew's Presbeterian Church. I'd have been quite happy to get married in Dick's Church of England church but he couldn't kneel down, or do anything. So that was that. It was a busy time leading up to it, because Dick's sister Florence, who was called after Florence Nightingale, who was her mother's Godmother, was engaged. Hilary and Charles Russell had been married a year or eighteen months before. They had their reception at Government House, that was a turn up for the books too, because Mrs. Newton, rushing

Appendices 325 around in her enthusiasm, half fell and broke her leg just before the wedding, so couldn't go to it! So she wasn't at the wonderful reception at Government House, which the Governor then was Sir Lesley Wilson, and his wife. And Sir Lesley, and Colonel Newton, and Mrs Newton's brother Ray Verney, were all aids at the same time in Queensland, New South Wales and Canberra. So anyhow, so there were so many parties and all sorts of things, wouldn't be in that book, but in this other one. These little hats stuck over one eye, there were the in thing. Well that was a special one, because the Courier and the Telegraph would be chasing you around, taking photos of me. And I was appearing in the papers with this. A: So you must have been quite a society girl, if the Courier Mail was taking pictures of you? B: Yeah. What a horrible thing-o. But yes, that's what it was. Both families and all their connections. ~

A: What was Dick like? B: What do you mean 'what was he like? A: Oh what kind of person was he? Was he adventurous or...? B: Well I don't know. He was very highly regarded by those who served with him in the war. He was quiet and always...(looking at the album) bloody show pictures. Dick was show president at some stage. I'll always remember that: Old Artie Fadden. Dick got up and talked for five minutes, introduced him and old Artie talked for forty minutes. A: What did he talk about? B: God knows. Politics I suppose. ~ A: So how did Dick injure himself? B: Oh, blown up in a land mine. You'd go off and they'd blow you all to blazes. He was very badly wounded. They didn't think they'd carry him out alive but they did. He was taken to a British hospital which was the nearest thing. Which, I think I've told you this before, which was very fortunate because although what he had to say about British nursing and the hospitals doesn't bear printing but they did get he and two others who were on the DI: dangerously ill list. They were going to die anyway, so they got this penicillin to try to use it on the ones that were going to die anyhow. And they didn't, it saved ’em. In those days it was just great stuff that you poured in and so that saved Dick's life. Then he came home and had to have all these operations to try to sort out his leg. Honeymoon and marriage

Appendices 326 B: Yes well, we were married then we went up to the coast. We blew all Dick's deferred pay that he'd acquired while he was still in the army and in hospital. So we went up the North Coast and then we went down and had a week at Mt. Buffalo were I'd been skiing at school and then to Melbourne, to Fol and Jubby. They'd married a month before us and were living in Melbourne. Then we went and stayed with Colonel and Mrs. Ogle, who was Dick's and he was, they were stationed at Cootamundra, I think it was. He was a big electrical boss of all the thingos there, so they took us for a trip all round, which was great fun. A: (referring to picture) So this is now you coming back? B: Dick's parents they moved down to Southport, to Jimbour cottage, which was...you haven't been here long enough to have known Jimbour cottage, it was a very famous thing about four blocks down from Surfers on seaside of the highway there. It was beautiful granite stone building built by Charles Russell who owned ‘Jimbour House’ out at Dalby. Famous old historic home. He married Dick's sister. It's a seaside place. But when Dick and I married, Colonel and Mrs. Newt lived there. A: Sometimes you didn't get on with your Mother-in-law, did you? B: No. Not really. I always felt that what with Mum wanting to know every single thing I was doing and Mrs. Newt sticking her beak into every bloody thing round the place I knew I wasn't going to do it to my kids. And I think they might have thought that sometimes I completely ignored them. I know the Bendees used to wonder a bit when Derek and Sandy, why I wouldn't go up with Dick when he went to help with shearing. But I thought, 'No the last thing they want is me there, wandering round and being my home for 28 years, it was theirs now and good luck to them. I didn't care what they did with it. But Mrs. Newt took a very dim view. She said, "It's all yours, dear Barbara," but when dear Barbara dared to do anything… A: That's a lovely picture (Dick and Barbara at the Falls). B: That's the Falls, on the border between New South Wales and Queensland. To get there you had to ride. You couldn't drive to there. A: So how did you met Dick? B: That goes back to this letter, right at the very beginning from Jill Peggler who was engaged to Roy Devine, who was Dick's best man. Roy had been taken a prisoner. Jill was older than me. She'd come nursing, so that was where we met up. After a while she couldn't take it. Nursing in those days was something you had to do straight out of school when you were used to being booted round, treat like a kid.

Appendices 327 But she wrote—she'd gone home—and she wrote (there is a scan and transcript of this letter: Jilly's letter to Barbara) and said her fiancé’s great friend, Dick Newton, who'd been badly wounded in the war in the Middle East and had eighteen months in hospital being carved up and put together was coming out to visit her. And if I could jolly well get some leave I could come over. As it was I'd already been there for two years with no holidays. I think I must have been going to get leave, but she said, see if you can organise it and I can try and get you to come on the same trian. So I can pick you up at the same time, cause it's eighty miles into Quilpie to pick someone up. Lot's of gates to open and things. So that's how we met. We met at Quilpie railway station. We didn't go out together on the train in the end becuase Dad was doing one of his trips out bush. So, I went with him and he dropped me off. A: And Dick had been wounded. So what kind of...how was he wounded? In the battle at Alamaine he was, a landmine blew him up and his legs were really shattered. And he was taken to a British army hospital which was the nearest place there was. And while he was there what he had to say about British nursing doesn't bear printing. But, it's the luckiest thing that ever happened to him because his leg went bad, an infection, and they couldn't clean it up. So there was he, and two other blokes, who were all on the DI, the 'dangerously ill' list, they were going to die. And they were sent this new stuff from England to try and to try. And it was penicillin. In those days it came in a things and they irrigated into the wound which was great, of course. No hurt in the injections or anything. But anyone that had it that way was most violently allergic to penicillin for the rest of their lives. Well then of course, by the time I was nursing--when did I start nursing? '42? '43? We got our first lot of penicillin at the Brisbane General and it came in a big glass phial, you know about that size (raises thumb and forefinger about 15cm apart to indicate) with all these orange crystals in the bottom and you put in ten mills of water. So there was this syringe about that full of water. And you injected it every four hours with a needle that you'd be ashamed to stick in a horse. They weren't as bad as the ones my Mother had stuck into her, poor old Dolly. But they were not funny. A: What they they injecting into your Mother, do you know? B: Quinine of some sort. A: Ok. ~ B: Yes we got married in Brisbane. And we went all over the place up the North Coast and then down the South. Then came back to Bendee. We arrived home and Colonial and Mrs. Newt gave us lunch, got in the car and away they went. We were there then.

Appendices 328 A: (looking at pictures). That's where you were on your honeymoon (honeymoon_mtbuffalo.jpg and honeymooning_noosa and colundra.jpg). Additional Note from Barbara: We stayed with Dick’s Coloniel Ogle and his with Hazel—he was an electrical engineer and after discharging from hospital (he’d been badly wounded at El Alamein too) and the army, he became head of electrical supplier in the South West area of New South Wales. B: Anyhow, they (Colonial and Mrs. Ogle) were great fun really and took us, Bob had to go on one of his trips round to all the big towns and things, up to Dubbo and down to nearly the Victorian border and they were checking up huge power things. So we went along. So that was fun. A lot of pictures of them somewhere, probably not in that one. A: There were a few. There was some of Mt. Buffalo and Caloundra and Noosa and you with Colonial Ogle. B: Oh yes they were are back home. How did we come home? By train, of course. That was the only way to Stanthorpe. And then we went off out and we came home and Mrs. Newt met us and we went out to Bendee and had lunch. And they said goodbye and hopped in the car and off they went. And there we were. So that was good. They went down, Charles Russell from Jimbour house, was married to Hilary, Dick's sister, had this lovely…Jimbour cottage, pink stone thing on the corner of View Avenue and the Esplanade, I can't think, down at Surfers. It was a well known house. And Colonial and Mrs. Newt were going to live there, which they did. So there we were. But there were several things that were, you know, I was always thought people should give some thought to. Mrs Newt was wanting to be helpful, bless her heart, and she bottled me, she had a terrific lot of bottles, of Fowlers bottling system, you know? A: Yeah. I've seen some. B: She'd filled up every bloomin' bottle you could think of. There wasn't one left. So I didn't, it was about three years, you know, I was all keen and anxious to just to do all these things then but it was all done. She'd done all sorts of other things, painted things and made new bedcovers and all sorts of things that I would like to have done. So, I was never much of a one for housework. So, as I didn't have anything to do in the house, I used to be out all the time with Dick, which is what I liked best, you know. It was one thing I was good at: horses and all that jazz. So then they'd come up to stay and she'd be highly indignant, running round with her finger and saying, ‘You haven't dusted. And you haven't done this and you haven't done that.’ However.

Appendices 329 Life at Bendee, Stanthorpe A: Was Bendee a sheep station? B: Yes. A: How big was it? B: Well still is, there only small in this area. 10 000 acres or something like that. (looking at pictures) These are various people staying with us. Poor old Paul Delpratt and that mate of Dick's of course. This is Sister Paul and Sister Claire. Both dead now. Most of these people are dead. We've got to here. Yeah that was having a house party. Poor old Paul Delpratt. Roy Devine, Dick's mate. Peg Wilkie (later she was Peg Taylor). Beth. A: So who's this? B: Margery Hitchcock. Margery married Dick Boyer. R.J.F. Boyer. You hear about the Boyer lectures and all sort of things. Also a well known family. A: So what was the house at Bendee like? B: I don't know. Like all bush houses. It'd started off as just four rooms with a verandah all round. And the kitchen at the back and it'd been added on to over the years. There was out the back from the kitchen was what we called the bachelor's quarters. Um...which was two bedrooms with bunks in. And just outside the door, an outside shower and toot. Inside there was a wing had gone down off from the side verandah, it'd gone down there, which had two bedrooms and a verandah 'round the corner into a third bedroom in there. A: And it wasn't as big as Manbulloo so you wouldn't of had the same sort of staff that was there? B: No well, of course, before the war Mrs. Newton always says she had a cook and a housemaid. But after the war nobody had anything. You were lucky if you had a station hand who had a wife who'd come up and do a bit of this and that. So I had, when I was having babies, I had usually a, you know, a school friend, had a couple of school friends who were Tresillian nurses, do you know what they are? A: No, I don't. B: Know what a Karatinae nurse is? A; No. B: How long have you been in Australia? A: I've always lived in Australia. B: Always? That's funny. No a Karatinae and Tresillian nurses are the two baby nurses, the trained baby nurses. A: Oh yes.

Appendices 330 B: Karatinae was the New Zealand one. The Tresillian was the Australia one. A: Yep. B: They're the same thing. A: I've always just called them midwives. B: No. They deliver babies and things. They are...you've taken the word away. It's gone away from me now. The thingo baby nurses look after new babies and nursing mothers. So when you're having a baby you hire one of them and she comes home with you. A: Ok, yeah. B: Washes the nappies and does various things that you'd otherwise have to do yourself. So yes, I always had a thing. But up until the war there was always a household staff. A cook and a housemaid anyhow. A: Yeah. B: And of course the big stations, the big property, people, places like Thylungra and even Cork were big properties. Bendee. And all the ones out on the Downs and South East Queensland were comparatively small properties compared to those big places. But, of course, it's much, much easier climate than out there so you can make the same sort of living off small one as you do off a big one out there. A: I just looking at your map...going to find Bendee...'cause I'm not 100 per cent sure. (finds Bendee on map). B: Pikedale was the big orginal station here. Bendee was hacked off it away before the first war. (looking at map) And you go down here to Texas. A: Yep. B: And then there's Goondiwindi. A: Yep. B: Yeah well there's Bendee and to me it was very suburban. The nearest I'd ever been to anywhere. I'd come from... A: All the way out there (looking at atlas) B: To start off with Blackall, Longreach, Winton, away up there. Then there's Charleville and Quilpie. And there's Thylungra. It's actually marked on the map. And then (traces route on map with her finger and makes a noise: choo-chooo-choo woooah) A: Ok that makes sense. B: So to be at Bendee was very, very suburban. B: Yeah. Compared to where you'd been out there.

Appendices 331 A: And what was it like living there when you first...? B: Where? A: In Bendee. When you first got there, how did you...? B: Oh like living anywhere else: lovely. A: Enjoyed it? B: Yeah. Except I had to do all the cooking and things because there were no thingos and I'd always been taught how to do things when I was nursing but you never actually had to do it. So the first few meals I cooked, the pudding was ready and the vegetables might be ready and the meat was ready after everything else had been eaten almost. It took a while to get it all together. But no, it was no hassle. If you have to up and do it, you just up and do it. I find it surprising, the things that...The sooner I fall off my perch the better. I'm getting a cranky old thing. The young people these days they don't seem to have a clue about getting out and doing some work. Of doing without things. That's another thing: they always seem to have to have everything at once. Instead of thinking ‘if you can't pay for it, you don't have it.’ If you can't pay for it. All our kids were brought up that way too, thank goodness. A: I'm must say I agree with you. B: The whole lifestyle has changed and it's not for the best, I don't think. A: What were you farming? B: Not farming, grazing. Sheep. Wool growing. Yes, we often used to often top the Queensland wool market. We grew beautiful fine wool at Bendee. Still always have right up til now when they've leased out most of the sheep country. Because they've got the orchard and by the time, when Dick and I were Derek and Sandy's ages we'd been retired for ten years down here. But they were finding it just too much and they didn't really want to leave ’cause they like it there and all their friends are there. Still on properties or in retirement villages in Stanthrope or Warwick or whatever. So they leased out all the grazing country and just kept the orchard. So there they are, I think probably hanging on ’til Tom decides whether he wants it or not, I don't know. Well, I haven't a clue. It's not my business or I don't ask. B: But anyhow, so there we were (after Dick and Barbara first moved in). It was great fun, as I say. Except for the slight problems with the mother-in-law and my Mother was no better because she drove Dick mad, you know: ‘Don't do this and you should...’ Ahhh. And Mum meant well also but she sort of smother mothered you but she'd been stuck out in the Northern Territory with me and Liz as a toddler, ’cause Liz is six years younger than me. But you never seemed to have any privacy, you know.

Appendices 332 If you went to the loo and you were in there: ‘are you in there? What's the matter? Why are you so long?’ Every mortal thing you did was sort of questioned. So between the pair of them we were glad we didn't have them too often. Bless their hearts. They were wonderful women, both of them. They meant well but they were a bit of a trial. So I think I said this before, I think my kids have sometimes wondered and thought I didn't care, but I was just determined to keep me nose out of their business. When they were young and at Bendee and when Derek and Sandy went there, I kept away as much as I could. Dick used to go up at shearing time and help, you know. At the busy times. I'd stay at home down here and have a great old time doing all sorts of things. Working in my garden and getting the place going here. I only ever went up if there was any need. If there was a shortage, you know. Cook had broken his leg and Sandy had to go up and cook at the shed and I'd do the house or vice versa. So you know, I'd go up. But I didn't go there very much because I said to her, ‘It's yours now. Do what you like with it.’ Which is what Mrs Newton said to me, but all hell broke loose when I did. A: Typical Mothers-in-law. B: Bless her old heart. So no, I just kept right out of it. I'd rather have them think of me as a neglectful Mother-in-law than an interfering mother-in-law. But, no well of course, I loved my horses and things. I used to do a lot of riding and all that sort of thing. I don't know what else then. A: What I was going to ask you about Bendee was how many people needed to run it? B: Well it was very small in that area. 'Cause I'd been bought up in the places where there were hundreds of square miles. 8000 acres and there was whatever family...before the war it had been Colonial and Mrs. Newt in the house plus and cook and the housemaid. And down in the cottage there'd be a station hand and his wife. And possibly a young station hand living with them or a Jackeroo living in the house. Well, depending how many people there were, but there'd be eight or ten horses, you know so, some spelling, some in work. And we had shearing once a year. Then we did crutching - that's when you're half way between the shearings - that's when you shear the wool round their eyes and round their tails. So that's always quite a business. A lot of mustering. Getting them in and putting them all through the shed. And of course, the shearers there to be fed and looked after. Although they, the shearers, would come in a team with their own cook in those days and still after the war, although we had no household staff or anything. And there was only a Station-hand, so it meant a lot of extra work. But then I

Appendices 333 used to work outside too. And I got through it all and then there was drenching, because its wormy country up there, the sheep had to be drenched about three times a year which means mustering them and getting them through the yards and all that. A lot of work. Flat out working all the time. And you'd have a downpour of rain and because Bendee right, sort of, on the water shed, you know, we didn't have any permanent running creeks. They were all just ones that came up in a hell of a hurry. There were the ones to the West ran down and fetched up in the Darling eventually. The ones to the East went and ran into...what's the river at Warwick? A: Can't remember. Doesn't matter. B: No. You should, you go to Warwick a lot. I think it goes round by the forty mile and eventually ends up down the thingo. But anyhow, so that whenever there was a downpour of rain, you know, the flood gates where all the gullies were, the fences and then these floodgates, which are hanging things that rise up. So there's always a lot of fencing to be done. You worked flat out the whole time. And of course you had your chooks and things. We never bothered trying to grow vegetables. Why would you when by taking a leg of lamb in you could go to an orchard and get all you wanted? So I don't know, what else do you what to know? ~ A: Apparently I have to ask you about the time you saved the blind poodle (this was after Derek and Sandy moved).

B: Right-o. The blind poodle. Yes, well our next door neighbors, Bill and Joyce Hay, who were a bit older than me and Dick, but they lived beside us, and they had no children. There was one occasion when I nearly made a terrible boo-boo. We were talking one day, sitting round having drinks on our verandah, us and various ones. And some of our kids were there and things, but they didn't have children, they had Simon, the poodle. Something cropped up and Bill said, ‘Oh, you know, we were married and then blah, blah, blah, and I was in camp waiting to go overseas, and I got mumps.’ And I nearly opened my mouth to say, ‘Well that's why you haven't had children.’ But of course, I remembered in the nick of time to shut my bloody mouth. But that's why they didn't have children, obviously. Because that happens, you know, when blokes get mumps sometimes. Anyhow, they had this poodle. They'd been in New Guinea. Bill was brought up over in Northern Rivers, New South Wales there, on cattle properties, but for a reason I don't know they were in New Guinea, and he owned the bus service for Port Moresby that ran all

Appendices 334 over the place. And they were there, but they had this poodle. Well then they were retiring, and coming back, and in the meantime the house next door to us had been built, supervised by a friend of theirs, and it was all ready for them. And they arrived back, but Simon had to go into quarantine for quite a long time. And, oh, those two carried on! It was pathetic. However, after six months, Simon was coming home, so Dick said, ‘Well thank goodness we won't have to hear any more about their miserable life without Simon.’ And I said, ‘We might have a miserable life with Simon, we haven't met him yet.’ Anyhow, I did the right thing, I fished out a bone and tied a ribbon round it, and put it just out of their kitchen, on their little front verandah porch, and said “Welcome Simon.” Well, they were so excited, you'd think I'd given them a something or other. So that was okay. Simon was there, and he didn't worry us. But he was thoroughly spoilt. They treated him like a kid and all the rest of it. But he got older and older, and then he got blind, and they used to have to look after him more and more. But one day, Bill was out somewhere and Joyce had washed Simon and put him out on their front lawn. But their lawn, instead of sloping down like ours did, it was higher up, it was flat, and then there was a drop down of about six or eight feet to a bit of lawn, and then into the river. She'd put him out on the thing to dry, in the sun, forgetting, I suppose, that he didn't know what he was doing, and he'd obviously walked over the edge, hit the ground, got up, walked around, and walked into the river. Well, the river was in flood at the time, which was right up, you know, so there, that was that. Dick and I were going off to Pug and Judy Douglas' something wedding anniversary, fiftieth I suppose, might have been sixtieth, that's the parents of the PRD Douglas boys. Judy had been brought up near the Newton place. We'd known them forever. Anyhow, we were all dressed up and Dick was in the car, and I said, ‘Look, wait a bit, I've just remembered. We were calling at Janet Ramsay's house.’ That was the Governor, and his wife, who had bought a house round the corner, to drop off some flowers. She was having a party that night. I said, ‘Look, I've just realised there are three enormous flowers out, and I'll just pick them and drop them off as we go past the Ramsay house.’ And Dick said, ‘Alright, well, hurry up.’ Anyhow I went round to pick them, and while I was picking them, I glanced out at this hurling great river roaring past, and I saw this thing bobbing along. There are always things bobbing along. And I thought, ‘That's a dog.’ And then I looked again, and I thought, ‘My God, it's Simon.’ So I raced over and bellowed at the top of my lungs, “Joyce, Bill!”

Appendices 335 Joyce came and I said, “Simon, he's in the river! He's bobbing along, you better do something.” I said, “Get Bill!” “He's not here! What'll I do?” I said, “You hop in and go and get him.” She said, “But I couldn't swim that far.” And I thought, oh my God, she's been skiting to me for years about what a splendid athlete she was, and how well she swam. And she said, “Do something, do something! Oh, help! Do something!” And I thought, oh Christ almighty. So I said, “Go and tell Dick to go on without me.” But she didn't, of course. So I stripped off my dress. I'd done my hair carefully, I'd done... so I stripped off my dress, kicked off my shoes, and dived into the river and got hold of Simon. But of course, Simon didn't want to be got hold of. He fought and he struggled, and the water was running fast, and we were going down stream, and I thought, ‘You bloody minded thing, I ought to push you under and drown you, put us all out of our misery.’ Anyhow, I struggled and banged, and tried to push him in the opposite direction to where I wanted to go, which worked of course, ’cause then he came the way I wanted him, and I eventually got him about three houses down. And Joyce was running along the front. There were vacant blocks there still in those days. There was a vacant block, and then the Albert's house. I eventually got him near the edge, and I'd had it, because I'd been in the water, I suppose, about ten minutes or more. Dick, in the meantime, had come looking for me, and no one was there. And eventually I said, “Did you tell Dick?” “Oh, I forgot.” But I said, “Come and get Simon. Come on, I've had it.” Because I was struggling in this fast running stream for about ten minutes, and I used to fancy myself as a swimmer too, but I was a hell of a lot older since those days. “I couldn't get down there,” she said. “There's sharp stones.” “Oh come on, Joyce, for goodness' sake, come and get the bloody dog if you want him.” So she eventually, tentatively, climbed down, got Simon. Never mind me, away she went. So I struggled across all these great slippery stones and got out of the thing, walked all the way, collected my clothes, tottered up to the house, and went out to look. And Dick was storming up and down the thing, and I said “Joyce was supposed to tell you to go on without me.” He said, “What have you?”

Appendices 336 "Fishing that bloody dog out of the river,” I said, “Look, go on. Apologise for me, I'll get there later." So away he went. So I went in and got under the shower. You know that flood water, it makes your eyes sting. And I'd just stepped in when Bill came rushing in and said "Barbara, Mary where are you?" And I said, "Right here, wrapped up in a towel." He said, "I don't know how to thank you," and I said, "Well, never mind that." He bought me two great big bottles of rum, a great big full one and one part-used, and he said "I just don't know how to thank you." I said, "Well, not to worry. Just trot off, pour me a rum now, I could do with one. Then trot off while I get dressed, and if you really want to thank me then you can drive me to wherever the Douglas' whichever son's we were going to for this party." So that's what happened, but so as far as I was concerned I had no further neighbor troubles. Because whatever happened, they had to remember that Barbara had saved Simon. But you know if it had been much longer we'd have wanted someone to save Barbara, because I don't care how strong a swimmer you've been or anything, when you get old it's not the same, and in a swirling flood, with a struggling dog. But I often laughed about it later, the way she said, "But I couldn't go down there! There's rocks!" I said, "Well if you want your dog come and get him, or I'll let him go!" And she screamed, "Argh!" So she got the dog and off she went, never mind a "Do you want a hand up?" Poor old Joyce. However, so there was Simon, he tottered around, I suppose he died naturally, I can't remember what happened to him in the end. Anyhow, he eventually died. And he was buried in their garden. Under a, whatever those things are, not a hydrangea, a poinsettia, went on top of him. And there he still is. But dear oh dear, there I arrived, not nearly as smart as I'd been originally. Yeah, I was wet. But I arrived at the Douglas' party and could tell them all why I was late. And Angus, or Gordon, said "God that silly girl, she's mad! Why didn't she let the bugger drown?" I arrived and said, "I couldn't agree more." We went to lots of lovely parties. A: So was that all to do with Dick's RSL stuff that he was involved in? B: What? A: All the parties you went to, did you know them through the RSL?

Appendices 337 B: Not all of them, no. We'd go back to Bendee with our various neighbours. People having fiftieth wedding anniversaries and we'd go up to them. Or one of our birthdays. Lots of parties, lovely big parties, they were great fun. But then, when Derek got engaged, and him and Sandy were getting married, we came down here in '74, I suppose. Would you like a rum? Finish that bottle, if it's not enough open the next one. ~ A: Did you say before that there was a shearer's strike at Bendee? B: Yes. A: When was that? B: What year was the shearer's strike? Oh lord. '53? (The strike actually took place in 1956. See http://www.abc.net.au/rural/content/2006/s1745345.htm for more details) Somewhere around there. I was lucky, I had a very good governess, this au pair girl, looking after the kids. But while the strike was on, all the local graziers, anyone who had sons old enough, big enough, had to learn to shear and do it, and blah blah blah. And we had three sheds, ours and Pikedale, and another one quite forty-odd miles away, that didn't concern us. But round our shed and the Pikedale shed, everyone around had to bring their sheep to those sheds to be shorn. A: Was this a national strike? Was it everywhere, all over Australia? B: Yeah, yeah. Everywhere. A: What were they protesting about? B: Come to think of it, I can't remember. It doesn't matter. Partly something to do with the sort of shears they used. New Zelanders were using something else. There was a thing about that only recently, where in New Zealand they had wider clippers or something, but here they didn't. But the graziers eventually got fed up with the shearers, always striking. So they said, ‘Alright, strike, see if we care, we can do it ourselves.’ And we did but, boy oh boy, what effort. So, because we were one of the sheds, where five properties had to shear, and our shearing always took about a fortnight. And the others, about the same. But in the house we had staying there - oh, I've forgotten his name! – never mind, but he was a hard case, and of course me and Dick, and our au pair girl, and four kids, and three various young lads from round about who were shearing. So, I had ten to cook for there. And I'd whack the breakfast on, and get in my car and roar up to the shed a mile away, and this great thing, as wide as those two doors over there, this great you know, oven stove thing, get it all stoked up and go for my life. Someone would get it all stoked up, and throw on all

Appendices 338 the chops and blah blah blah for their breakfast, which they had to have had by eight o'clock, and at half past eight they were over there shearing. Then there were smokos: scones, there they are, those bloody scones. I'd throw sultanas in there and call them rock cakes or something. And then lunch, which you organised to have cold meat and masses of spuds in their jackets, and you know, any greens you could get. Then you had to have something left for their dinner. I used to leave a huge pot of soup or something, and they'd do the rest for themselves at night. But there'd be about ten people camping up at the shed, so ten up there, and ten at the house. But other grazier's wives would come and help me half the time. They were hard times, we were tired. A: And the shearing, because it was done by amateurs, did it take more time? B: Well it did. Towards the end, they all got quicker from experience, but it did take long. Of course. Especially as they had to be careful, because when you tried to be quick then you'd start cutting sheep all over the place, and nobody liked that much. But we got through it all, and it was fine. A: Do you remember how long the shearing strike lasted? B: Three or four months I think. A: Are sheep shorn in only one time of the year?B: You shear 'em once a year. So it lasted at least until they were shorn, and then I suppose they thought, well golly, we've missed out. So we'd better get our act together. And sort it out, yes. You see that's where I'm at a dead loss because a lot of people could tell you, oh the thing-o, but I couldn't care less. A lot of people used to keep minute diaries and that sort of thing, you know. Yeah, but not me. A: You're either a diary person or you're not. B: Oh, I wasn't, no. I did what I had to do and when I didn't have to do it, I sat down and had a drink, and forgot about it. But we had a lot of funny things that would have been... that would have been before the strike, when we had a shearing team come, depending on the size of your shed, five or six or seven shearers and a wool classer and a cook. On one occasion, we were shearing, and someone came tearing down from the shed and said, "Mrs Newton, can you come up there quickly please?" And I said, "What's the matter?" And he said, "I don't know, but you're to come as quick as you can." So I nipped out into the car and up I went, and I said, "What's a-cooking?" Dick said, "The cook's gone mad, he's locked himself up in his room, and he won't come out." The shearers, of course, nothing worried them. But if they didn't get their smoko they'd say, "Right, down tools, we're off!"

Appendices 339 He said, "You've got to get them some smoko, somehow." So I thought, for God's sake, so I raced into the kitchen. Great bags of flour. And it called itself baker's flour. And I thought, "I wonder what that is", you know? And I thought, well, you can but try. So I knocked on the door. "Yeah?" "Look, it's Mrs Newton here. I'm wanting to make some scones or something. Is baker's flour self-raising flour or plain flour?" "Any silly bugger ought to know that." "Yes, well I'm a silly bugger, and I don't know." "Ah. Well it's plain flour and you'll find the baking soda or something in the thing-o." And I said, "Well, thank you." So that was alright, we got smoko over. And then I had to start thinking about lunch for twelve or fourteen. Meantime, Dick had rung the police, and they'd said, "Oh, can you load him up and bring him in?" And Dick said, "Well, I suppose so, I hope so." Anyhow, we got all organised for Dick to open the door and say, "Come on, you're coming with me." And Dick had the most faithful and beautiful dog, Meg, who was a purebred Border Collie and she used to go everywhere and she'd sit on the floor under his legs. So he loaded him in there with a great spanner beside him, ready to dong him. And he came out, without any argument, and he said, "I don't think I'll get in there, I don't like dogs." And Dick said, "She won't hurt you, if you don't hurt me." Anyway, he took him in and delivered him to the police station. A: What was wrong with him, why'd he lock himself in? B: Oh I don't know, he'd just gone bonkers. A lot of them were DTs, you know, DTs (delirum caused by withdrawal from alcohol). You wouldn't be doing that job otherwise. On another occasion, we had the most wonderful cook. He was beautiful. And he cooked on one of the P & O ships for years. And I always went up when a new team arrived, went up and introduced myself, and said to the cook, "I hope you've got everything you want" and blah blah blah, you know, bunging on. And we got talking, and after that I didn't do any cooking for the three weeks or whatever it was that they were there. ’Cause he sent me down the most wonderful food, you know? Beautiful! So you go from one extreme to the other. But Paddy and Scotty Walker down at Glenlyon same year that we had our cook that locked

Appendices 340 himself in and wouldn't come out, they had a cook that went mad, and we never quite discovered if it was the same cook or not.

Children B: The kids started to come along. We had Beth. And then Derek or was it? No, it was Beth yes, that's right. We had in Stanthorpe a wonderful fella could Dr. Hecker. He was a trained obstetrician and gynaecologist and had degrees and London degrees and everything else but he just liked the bush. But he'd been in the army when he came back, he came back to Stanthorpe and it was wonderful having someone like that, you know, a great surgeon and all sorts of things. But when I was having Beth he said...Which are the ones with only a year between? Chris and no, Derek and Chris. It was when I was having Derek but he's said all along, ‘Look, I don't care what you do while your having your baby. You can go on riding for as long as you can get your bulge onto the thing. Your body's used to it.’ But he said, ‘I expect you to do what I tell you after you've had it, for a while.’ So I said to him, ‘Righto.’ I had Beth, then I had Derek. And he'd said ‘Now, no riding, no, none of that nonsense until I say so.’ But however, I'd had a young horse not long broken in and I was dying to get on it and see how it is ’cause no one else had ridden it or wanted to ride or been game to ride it. ’Cause it didn't like men, for one thing. This great big thing. Anyhow, when Derek was about a couple of months old I thought Oh. Dick was away for the day somewhere. I snuck down to the yards and got Monty in and saddled him up. Oh it was lovely. I had a beaut ride round. But I was careless as I came back to the yards. I wasn't thinking what I was doing, looking at something else and something flew out of there and gave him a fright and he shot from under me, you see, so I landed on the ground with a thump. That was alright. I got up and dusted myself off and went home. But then I was sort of feeling sick sometimes, not feeling well. And I said, oh, I said to Dick, ‘Better go and see the old devil. Tell him what I've done.’ So in I went and I told him. And I said, ‘I'm sorry I did it. And I had a buster.’ I said, ‘I didn't hurt myself. Just had a buster.’ After a while he looked at me. He said, ‘You've had a buster all right: you're pregnant again.’ I nearly died 'cause it was only a year between Chris and Derek.

Appendices 341 Got home and Dick said, ‘Ah for goodness sake. There's an RSL meeting tonight. I can't go in and face all that mob. What a rubbishing I'll get.’ I said, ‘Yep.’ Anyhow, that was alright so we had Beth, Derek and Chris and that was three and then we discovered what caused it and then three years later I had Robbie. Yes, but we were lucky to have him, because he was a brilliant surgeon and he did a good job on one of Dick's legs which he'd had operated on sundry times - stretched and re-broken and all kinds of things. It was quite a bit shorter than the right leg and anyway one day, this is before we were married, he'd done the same thing, decided he could get on a young horse and got tossed off and had to be carted off to hospital and Cyril Hecker got hold of him and stretched an extra half inch into that leg and when he was setting the break again. So he did a good job there. ~ B: (looking at pictures of M's children) Beth and Derek and Chris. Awful boy. We were all set to go into town to get the photos taken. Mum and Mrs. Newt were both at me about having this done. Just when we were getting ready to go, Derek went and got himself stung on the eye with a bee so his whole face swelled up. So we had to put it off. By the time Robbie came, I said no, had enough photos thanks. I'm just looking for that nice one of Robbie's. There's Beth with the poddy lamb. And poor old Dick's dog who gave up being a sheep dog and took to being a kid minder. B: (looking at more pictures) They were always on their ponies and horses and things, as all bush kids are. A: That's Robbie in there. And Beth. B: Oh yes. (looking at pictures of flooded creeks) Down at the Falls in flood. Here are the kids in the dam on their horses, swimming round. There's Robbie. What's she? She's on someone's shoulder. That's when we did some aerial top dressing (looking at picture of a plane). A: So you went up in that plane too? B: Well it was a little tiger moth or something like that. I did go up one day sitting in the thing where they put the super phosphate. For a quick ride. ~ B: This is what I was looking for. There's Robbie with old Bully boy. Look, isn't it lovely? He's got her hat. There she is with him. He grew into the most enormous big black bullock you've ever seen in your life. There they are in the dam again swimming. Who was it?

Appendices 342 Someone said she couldn't swim and I said, yes, she always had a horse to hang on to. Here they are at school. On holidays the house was always full of kids of all sorts. A: What's this in the Brisbane river? B: That's the Britannia. When the Queen was out in whatever year it was, '60? And I did all the flowers at Government House. A: So how did you come to do the flowers at government house? B: Well, the Governor and Lady May used to stay with us when came up to the thing. And I did all the flowers in the big halls. She invited me to go and stay there during the Queen's visit and do the flowers. So that was very nice. I did. We had a lot of fun times then because Dick came then. The Stanthorpe RSL were giving the Queen a basket of fruit. Huge basket of fruit. It really was something. But I'd already gone down to Brisbane. Dick was coming down with Robbie. The others were away at school. And bringing the fruit. And they had to take it to Britannia. So I met them somewhere in Brisbane and went along to check the basket of fruit. So this basket of fruit, a lovely basket and wired all over the handle was the most evil looking pink and blue plastic sweet peas you've ever seen. I nearly died. And Dick said, ’I knew you'd want to do something. I can't imagine what though.’ They'd come straight from Stanthrope. All I had was a pair of nail scissors in my handbag to cut all these things off. And then going along down to the wharves we passed a big high wall which had ivy growing all over it. So I said to Dick, ‘pull up there, you know get out and get some.’ Which we did but of course it was all dirty so we had to spit on it. (to Robbie, who has just arrived) do you remember trying to get those awful plastic flowers off the Queen's basket of fruit? And then all having to spit on our handkerchiefs and then clean the ivy leaves? So I tied them on the basket. So away they went. Dick and Robbie with the basket of fruit via officer on watch or whoever it was, in charge of thingos. He met them and invited them on board so away they went on Britannia and had a lovely look 'round, didn't you (to Robbie). R: We did. B: I sat in the car trying to retrieve my spit which had all been used up. R: I think you were at government house doing the flowers that day, weren't you? B: Well yes. But I came to meet you because I wanted to check the basket of fruit and it's a good thing I did. And then you were going to drop off the basket of fruit and drop me back at Government house and drop you to, I think. I don't know where Dad...where Dick was going

Appendices 343 off to. But yes, well you were dropped off and you went down to the swimming pool, didn't you? R: But I went on the Britannia. B: After the Brtiannia I mean. Yes. And Dick dropped you and me off at Government house. Lady May Abel Smith asked would you like to go down to the swimming pool and away you went. I went on minding my own business and doing flowers, and doing all sorts of things. In the meantime the royal couple had come back from wherever they'd been and were inside and getting dressed up and things. They were going somewhere or other. And Sir Henry said, ‘now all you staff can come and line up the stairs.’ So the long stairs go...(to A) have you been to government house in Brisbane? Additional note from Barbara: Lady May was the Queen’s cousin. Sir Henry Abel Smith was a very, very distant connection of my father’s family. A: Yep. B: Yes, those front stairs. There you can all get a good look at the Queen, at her majesty. So that all came to pass. But Robbie was not long up from the swimming pool in her swimming togs and her hair was still wet. We were standing there and halfway down the stairs Sir Henry suddenly spotted us. ‘Ah your majesty,’ he said. ‘Now come here Robbie.’ And poor Robbie was pulled out and she didn't know whether to bow or duck or what. And he held Robbie there with her dripping wet togs and hair and explained to the Queen about correspondence school and all the rest of it. Governesses: B: They came in droves, good, bad and indifferent. Robin could probably tell you more about governesses than I could. I don't know, could you? R: I remember who you started off with, with Beth, and Derek. B: Beth and Derek, yes, well. It's funny, I can't think. Oh well we had a spot of bother about that, Marge Elliot said. ‘Oh, you must have a good governess, it's so important.’ And ‘you can't do this, and you can't do that.’ And so she recommended some governess to us, who was a dead loss as far as I was concerned because we were shearing or doing something interesting. And she insisted on exact school hours. Additional note from Barbara: The Elliots were an old Western Queensland pair who returned to the Stanthorpe district. Mary Elliot was obsessed about kid’s education. And I said, you know, ‘They can do school any time.’ And we had a bit of a thing.

Appendices 344 And I said, "Look, my house, my kids, my way or off." So, off. Marge rang me up and said, "I think you're mad, what you're doing to those children!" Well Marge was always trying to send me governesses for years and years. But look at her kids. Johnno was the only one who had enough sense to get the hell out of it. R: We won't put that in. B: It doesn't matter. Keeps it interesting. Why not? Tony was alright, he was a cheerful, happy-go-lucky fellow, and he because she'd decided he didn't have enough brains in him to teach. Johnno had gone to Geelong Grammar or something like that, I can't think. And then poor Beverley, the daughter, and she was always in trouble. Because Margaret Anne Russell, you know cousin Margaret Anne, she always came top of the class, and Bev always came second. And I always used to say to Marge, "What the hell does it matter, so long as she's doing her best?" But, "Oh, it's so important!" But poor old Bev, she went completely bonkers. Well, she did, you know, she had a dreadful life. She eventually got engaged to someone, and poor Marge, it was going to be the greatest wedding that ever was, blah, blah, blah. Which threw Bev into a fizz, and a few days before the wedding she had a breakdown, so the wedding was off. She eventually did marry this fellow. And I think they had a couple of kids, I don't know, but they're both dead now. So you know, it was all so sad. R: We had heaps of governesses, let me think. One that arrived that was very very pregnant, she hadn't mentioned that. B: Oh, yes! That's right, and dyed black hair. R: That was before I started school, but I knew that she got the short shift. She was about to have a baby. B: No, I didn't need her. R: Then Betty Gray came, a Laidley woman, and she stayed for a long time. B: Oh Betty Gray was wonderful, she came from a... R: She was only about fifteen or sixteen. B: Yes, farming family on the Downs. And she was good. R: So she was my first governess, up until Chris went to boarding school, then she left. A: So how long did the kids have governesses, before they went to boarding school? B: Well, they all went to boarding school at ten. So from six to ten. But a lot of people would say, ‘No, you've got to start them at five!’ But I said, "No way!"

Appendices 345 And look what happened with the Blundell boys! Peter and James were alright, but it was tough on Pete, and his mother, another Majorie, she was Marge Blundell, Pete's wife. She started the kids early, and she'd been the secretary of a Parliamentarian in England for a while, so she had all sorts of degrees herself. Started them off, but when Pete went to TSS, Sandy was married, so we were living at the Coast, and I'd gone back to relieving sister over at TSS. I was there when Pete came to school. And it was so sad for him, because he was a year younger than all his mates, because of his school work. And he had a miserable time really, because he was just much younger than everyone else. And they got up and up, and they were in various teams and things, and he was just missing out cause he was too young. R: It was really hard though, when we went to Negs, and then came back to Queensland, so I lost that year. And then, I was a year older than everyone. B: Yes. R: So I tried to be friends with the girls in the next grade, and that didn't work. B: No, because Robbie and Beth were at Negs, and then when Bethie left, Robbie was stuck down there, so we got her into St Hilda's. And we got her in simply because Ms Granowski was very good and understood my problem, but she said, ‘I just haven't got a place next year. But if you can take her away and bring her back in the third term, I can fit her in there, and then she'll be here next year.’ So poor old Robbie, it must have been sheer hell for you I think. There was one old girl, I remember, she sounded good in all the things, blah, blah, blah. And I said to Paul and Clare Delpratt, must have been up having a weekend with us or something, "Oh, I've got a new one actually, she comes from your neck of the woods actually, she comes from Tambourine." And Paul looked at me and said, "Not poor old Aggie, whatever-her-name-was!" and went into howls of laughter. And I said, "What's so funny?" And he said, "Oh, you never know, she might be good." She arrived and she looked about twice as old as she'd given me to understand. She arrived in her car, looked all around and said, "I don't fancy this much," but she parked it right out on our front yard near the tennis court, and put a tarpaulin over it. Dick saw it and said, "That's got to go." And she came in, and the first thing she said was, "Well, this doesn't suit at all. We'll have midday dinner." Really, it took me a fortnight to get rid of her! Well some of them walked in the front, and

Appendices 346 walked out the back door. There was one New Zealand girl who came, she sounded good. You wouldn't even remember her I don't think, I can't remember where she fitted in. She came, and then suddenly I discovered all my rings were missing. And I mean, there'd been no one else in the house apart from the family and her. So I said, "Listen, I'm just missing some of my jewellery. You wouldn't know anything about it?" And she said, "No, but it wouldn't surprise me if someone pinched it all with what you pay your governess." And I said, "Fancy. Well, I'll tell you what, you're one governess that's not going to have to worry about that." And I've forgotten what happened, but I said, "When you go out of here, Dick will drive you into town, my husband will drive you into town. The police will know about you, and if I haven't found my jewellery by the time they get to town, the police will be there to meet you." So, of course, I found my jewellery. No, we had a lot of funny things like that. But between all these duds, you'd now and again get a good one. A: Thank God! The poor children! B: One of the early ones that you wouldn't know was - dear, the way I forget these names! - quite a well-known sort of family, and when I was nursing at TSS, some of her nephews and things were there. But she came, she was a keen golfer, so she went off every weekend. But she and Beth couldn't hit it off at all, and she kept coming and telling me that Beth had pinched her chewing gum, or Beth had done this, or Beth had done that. And it's an awkward one, this, because if people doing these things haven't got the support of parents, they can't do a good job. But on the other hand, you don't want you kid being messed about. She stayed about three months, but then I said to her, "Look, you'd better go." So she went. And I'm sorry I can't remember all of them, some people would remember all of them, but I can't! A: You're doing alright. B: It was so vital to them, but to me it wasn't at all! You were busy, you were too busy, you were getting on with life. There were various English ones that came as au pairs, and some of them were good, and some of them were useless, and you know, you wouldn't know. One I remember arrived, though she wasn't an English one, and we were having a tennis party, which you have in the

Appendices 347 bush, you know, and all your neighbours are there. You have lunch and play tennis all the afternoon, and everyone queues up all over the place for whatever showers and bathrooms you have, and clean up, then you have dinner and you play poker or whatever. But she was arriving from somewhere, and I suppose Dick, or perhaps if we had a jackaroo in those days, someone went in and bought her out from town. And I can't remember, and you see this is what's silly, because for a lot of people this is vital, but to me it wasn't. She came in and was obviously absolutely impossible, and I just say "Don't bother!" A: In what way? B: I can't think now. But I said, "Don't bother unpacking, you're going! You aren't what you said you are in the thing!" "Oh well, but you have to say, you know, blah blah blah to get a job." And I said, "Well, not here mate." So whoever went out and picked her up had to load her in and take her back! And put her on the bus back to Brisbane. I can't even remember her name, or what exactly what it was. There was another one - I was confusing her with the pregnant one - and she seemed rather nice. She had dyed, jet-black hair, which left thing all over the pillow slips and that. And she turned out to be really no good at all. Her room was absolutely revolting, you know, and when she had her period she didn't go to the bathroom or anything, she changed in her room and left all her... I discovered this, and I said, "I'm sorry, you're going to have to go." While she was with us, the several weeks she was there before all these bad things started turning up, we had the Fletchers, who was the Minister for Agriculture or some bloody thing, so he and his wife stayed for the weekend because there was obviously something in town, and the VIPs always stayed with us. There was us, Pikedale and Glen Lyon by then, because all the old people had gone. There was us, and Glenlyon, which was an extra thirty miles on, so we were nearest to town for VIPs to stay. We had them to stay. And she made herself very pleasant to Enid Fletcher, and Enid said, "Well, if you're ever in Brisbane, do give me a ring, come and see me." But then after that, all these bad things started turning up, and I thought, "Oh, I'll have to get rid of her." Anyhow, one day one of the kids came round and said, "Hey Mum, Miss Thing's stuck in the window." And she was in the room off the end of the house. She'd decided she'd better escaped, and instead of walking out - which she could have escaped - she tried to get out the window and got stuck! Oh, it was the stupidest thing!

Appendices 348 And Dick used to say, "Look, you mind your business, and I'll mind my business with the station, don't drag me into this!" A: I think you got the rough end of the stick there! B: Oh, I don't know, he had his troubles too. Anyhow, we pulled her back into the thing, and loaded her off. But the outcome of this was, I got a phone call a couple of weeks later, and it was Enid Fletcher. And she said, "That woman - whatever her name was -" And I said, "Yes, we threw her." And she said, "Well she turned up here with all her luggage and said I'd invited her to come and stay with me!" I said, "When did this happen?" And she said, "Now! She's here! She's down in my entrance with all her luggage, what shall I do?" I said, "Well I would tell her to get out or you'll call the police." She said, "Oh, I couldn't do that, she seemed so nice, and I did ask her to ring and come and see me." And I said, "Well look mate, it's up to you, but I advise you to get rid of her as fast as you can." And she got away with quite a lot of our stuff, nothing that really mattered, but you know, bits and pieces. And left that bloody hair dye, not to mention all her personal droppings all over the bedroom and things. I've forgotten what Enid did in the end. She said, "Well I can't do anything about you now, I've got an important lunch engagement, if you'd just make yourself comfortable here in the hall," she says. She said to me later, "I locked all the other doors and sort of left her in the entrance." And there was a jug and some pikelets or something. And she said, "When I came back, I came back once and peered in, and she was still there, so I went away and came back, and eventually she'd gone." So we don't know what happened to her. Then we had that nice English - no, Scottish - girl, do you remember her? R: Yeah... B: Oh dear, she was delightful. She was with you and Chris I think. R: Yeah, I think she might have been before. B: She was a darling. But she'd come out from Scotland, I don't know, whether it was a ten- pound migrant or what, I wouldn't know. And, what happened then? She went off somewhere or other. Perhaps you were going to school or something, so away she went. And next thing I

Appendices 349 heard from her, and she was in terrible trouble. She'd met this sailor, and now she was pregnant, and what on earth should she do? And I couldn't answer. I said, "Well, I only suggest you ring the Salvation Army." Which she did, and they took her in, and she had her baby. Then she was floating round again, and she said, "I'm looking for a job again, I've learned my lesson." And I didn't have anyone but Beth Goodwich, so I said, "Look, I want someone to come and... just have someone round about." So Beth took her in, but she was pregnant again! A: Looks like she didn't learn her lesson, then. B: She took her back to Brisbane, and handed her over to the Salvation Army, and we haven't heard from her since. But it was sad, she was a nice girl. Oh yes, life was never short of interesting things happening. R: Obviously, I've lead a very boring life really! That was our education. Towards the end, I got this lass, Maggie Falkner, and her parents had come out from England and he'd been Lord somebody-or-other's pig farm manager, from up in Yorkshire. They came out, I suppose they were ten-pound migrants, and they were on a - I haven't a clue how this came about, but they had a little couple of acres of dirt, just four or five miles out of Stanthorpe, and put a cottage on it. And Maggie, I think, was about fifteen when we got her, and she came out just to be general help, and she turned out to be a tower of strength. Dear, she was good. She used to do the work around the place and things, there was no one to teach them, I think they'd gone to school and things, you know? Maggie couldn't teach. But she was always there. We were plagued, a lot of the time, with relatives from England. Various families, and one kid had been playing up, and ‘Oh, what do we do with him?’ "Send him out to the colonial relatives!" We'd always been plagued with these high-powered things. We had one that arrived once, again, on a weekend, and we were having some sort of, you know, general tennis and you know, party. Someone bought him in from the train in Stanthorpe. Bought him out, this tall, big, good-looking thing, and the first thing that he did, he said, "Oh, how do you do?" and handed me a sock full of wet porridge to shake. And if there's one thing I can't stand it's a floppy, you know, I like a good firm shake. And I thought, "Urgh". Anyhow, that was alright, I took him in and didn't stop to introduce him, even though I took him all through the house. And I said, "Now, look, you'll be sleeping out here. It's called the bachelor's quarters." "Oh," he said, "well I suppose it will be adequate, if there's nothing better."

Appendices 350 And I thought, "Oh, you pompous poof!" Anyhow, that was alright, I didn't say anything, I said, "Hang up your things, and come on out, we're getting near lunchtime, come and have a drink." He had just turned eighteen, and he'd just left school. So took him out, introduced him to one or two people. And like me, a sloppy hand held out to them. And then we went out to the barbeque, which in Bendee was all outside, and Dick said, "What would you like to drink, Charles?" That's right, Charles. "There's punch, or there's beer, or there's any soft drinks." "I'd never drink anything but scotch." And Dick said, "I'm afraid you don't drink scotch here, that's not for teenage kids." He drew himself up and said, "You dare to speak to me like that?" And Dick said, "My word." The hide of him, you know! Anyway, there he was, and he flopped about. But Maggie was the one, she used to get into him, they'd come in, Dick would cart him off to the shearer's sheds, or off to the yards. He'd come back at lunchtime and he'd walk languidly in, and walk straight into the sitting room and sit down in a chair. And Maggie would say, "Get out of here! Get your dirty carcass out of here, you expect Mrs Newton to feed someone as dirty as that? Go on, get out there and wash yourself!" She was wonderful, our Maggie. He stuck round only for a short time, and then, the family had sent him out because he was impossible, they couldn't do anything with him. And his father was a Colonel in the Grenadier Guard and all sorts of things, and wasn't terribly happy with this pompous old thing-o. But he sneaked off on one occasion, he said, could he go into town, he wanted to get a couple of things. So he went into town, we gave him a lift in, and he went off somewhere. Rang his parents, and said could they please send him the money for a car? Because, he said, "Dick and Barbara are so kind to me, it's awful imposing on them when I need to go anywhere and do anything." So without checking with us, they sent him the money, and first we knew about it was our mechanic in our main garage in Stanthorpe said, "Is it ok by you if we sell this thing-o, second-hand Holden, to this Charles?" And Dick said, "It's news to me." And he said, "Oh yes, he's come in, has the money, and wants to buy it." And Dick said, "Well, I can't stop him." So he bought the car, and away he went. And came back, and said, "I've got a car and I'm going."

Appendices 351 So we said, "Well, alright. Good luck to you." I said, "I think there's one thing you have to do, I don't care if you don't do another thing. You must, when you're down at the coast, go see Dick's parents because Mrs Newton's so besotted about the English, just you know, she was a young lady who didn't even know how to boil an egg when she came out here. You must go and see her, or she'd be so disappointed." And I said to Dick, "I've told him he's got to." And Dick said, "Well, I don't know if that's wise, she'll probably be more disappointed when she does see him." And I said, "Oh no, she'll pick out the best parts of him." He went along there in due course, went along to the coast, and went to see her. And, I don't know what Mrs Newton thought, but I know what Colonel Newton thought! After about half an hour he told him to just move on, “Yes, we've had enough of you." We had a lot of funny ones. Anyhow, that's by the way. Talking of Maggie, amongst other things. All the VIPs came, but on this occasion, it was the first time that the Abel-Smith were coming, and he'd only just recently become Governer, and the Stanthorpe Show was always the first in the show circuit, in the end of January. And they were coming. And, of course, the entire state of Queensland was in a state of high excitement because May Abel-Smith was the Queen's cousin. And anyhow, they were coming, and they were going to be staying with us for two or three days. We hadn't a clue what we were in for, ’cause Dick and I always said, "We'll do our best, and if they don't like it, they needn't come again." As it turned out, it was good, because over the years a lot of people, when they heard someone like that was coming, would get out of their bedrooms and say, "You can use that drawer or that drawer and that half of the cupboard." Lady May said to me once, "Look, we'd rather have a tent in the back yard that we could call our own. It's so embarrassing, you can't remember which drawer they've told you, and you pull one open and everything pops out, and we're trying to stuff it all back in." Anyway they came, and that was a huge success. But, in those days, the Vice Regal of the State was much more than it is now. They were coming by car, so they'd go from Brisbane to Warwick in the Vice Regal car with a police escort, from Warwick to Stanthorpe with a police escort, and then from Stanthorpe out to us with a police escort. But about an hour before they were due to arrive, someone shot in from the kitchen and said, "There's the most terrible pong coming through the kitchen window." Stuck my head out and the bloomin' thingo had blocked up, you know. "What are you going to do?"

Appendices 352 I said, "There's only one thing to do, go and unblock it." And it went in a pipe under the road up the side of our house to our garages and back yard, and then came out way down there. I said, "I'll just have to lie on my stomach and shove a wire up and down the thing." Which we did. And someone said, "Where's Dick?" And I said, "Well, he can't get down on his poor old knees anyhow. So don't worry him about it, he's probably out raking the front path or something." Anyhow we got it sorted out, but we couldn't get rid of that damn smell in the kitchen window and everything else. Anyhow, they arrived, and all was well, and we had a dinner party that night. They were great, and in due course I told them about the drama, and they said, "Oh, don't tell us, we know, we all have those sorts of things." Well over there they all live in houses that are a hundred years old, and they all have drain problems. Yes, later, when Beth was in England, and she was staying with the Abel-Smith for something or other, for the Windsor horse show I think, I've forgotten what happened, but the cook got sick or broke a leg, or went mad or something. So Bethie rolled up her sleeves and went into the kitchen. That impressed them that someone like this would just go in there and do it. Australians do very well over there, because they have initiative. But we had various governesses over the years, you know, normal things happened and didn't happen, and there was the time there was a terrible old thunderstorm, and everyone had come over for a barbeque and party after the show, about eighty people. And this terrible storm came, and everyone was there, and no one could go. So we had things like that. But the Abel- Smiths were wonderful, they were very good to all our kids. A: Lindie said there was story about you giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a dog, as well? (This is at 35 Cowfer Street). B: Oh that was that dear dog. What was the name of that big black Labrador down the street? He was a gorgeous dog. Of course whenever a crisis popped up, it was always because Sir Jack and Mary Leggo were there. And they were a bit posh, or they thought they were a bit posh. And if anything awful happened, it was always while they were there so they could look shocked and horrified. At this particular night, years before, soon after we moved in, there were no houses, it was just bare. And we could see all the way down. There was a thunderstorm, and a terrible clap, and a tree just across the road at the golf course got hit. And, oh I wish I could remember his

Appendices 353 name, he was quite young then, was wandering up and down the street, watering every tree as he went past. And bang! And he just took straight to his heels, and he came straight up and straight through before I could do anything about it, straight through the laundry door. But anyhow, on this occasion, we were all sitting down round the table having our dinner and this, that and the other. And suddenly we heard a car scream up, and then crunch, bang, and on it went. And we thought, "Oh, I wonder what he's hit?" The next thing, there it was at the door, looking pathetic, and it was poor - black Labrador, whatever he was. And I leaped up and went out, and at that point he collapsed. So I thought, "Oh God, I can't bear it." I gave him a couple of pumps and put my hand round there, blew down, and he started breathing again. But I wish you could have seen Jack and Mary Leggo's faces. L: I wish I could have seen them, yes. I think that would be classic. B: I can't think who else was there, but Paul and Clare probably, probably Bill and Joyce next door, I don't know. All laughing their heads off of course, and saying "Oh good on you, you've saved him."

I went and wrapped him up in a blanket, put him aside where I could keep an eye on him, and went and washed up and went on with serving up the dinner. Yeah, he lived for a long time. The people he lived with, down the road, they'd been dairy farmers up near Tambourine, they'd moved down here. But they had a daughter who was nursing, out at Mt Isa, and she'd acquired this black Labrador pup, and she had him out there. The time came when she was being moved to somewhere in Brisbane, some hospital where she couldn't have the dog, so she handed him over to mum and dad up at the farm. Just when they were on the point of retiring. He sure made life lively for them, cause he was always chasing the calves into the dam. He didn't hurt anything, he just licked them, and loved them to death, more or less, and drowned them. So the pair of them had a terrible time, and when they came down they brought him too. And there were only three or four houses in the whole street, including us, so we got to know them, and we became good friends. So there we were. **Bibby**, of course, was in our lives. He was a little Border Collie cross that belonged to the **Romano** twins up there. He owned that restaurant. But the twins had this dog, he was a darling. It came the time for them to go off to school. They always had an au pair girl helping them, ’cause their parents worked a lot, both parents. And in due course it became the thing that this lass would take the kids off to school and **Bibby** would run the four or five house distances down the street, and then wheel into us, and he'd spend the day with us. And

Appendices 354 he was much addicted to Dick. In the afternoon after lunch, Dick would go off to have a snooze in his chair, Bibby beside him. And at about three o'clock - you could set a watch by him - he'd start to twitch, twitch, twitch, and Dick would have to let him out. And there he would be when the car went past, and run home with them. Lovely dog. That's all, I don't think we can think of anything else, can we?

Travelling with Dick A: I was going ask, when you said, 'lets keep doing the interviews', you talked about going on your travels with Dick? B: Travels? A: Yeah, did you travel with him a bit? B: Yeah well when the kids got older—we didn't go travelling when they were young, beyond us going down to the coast went down to have Easter or something with Col. and Mrs Newt and we went at Christmas time down to Sydney where my family, my parents, were then living at Pymble ’cause Dad had become general manager of the Scottish Australian Company. So that was the only travelling when they were little. But when they got older and started going to off to boarding school and we had time for other things and Dick was rising up and up and up all the time with the RSL, eventually became District President of Western District. Which meant going from us all the way out to the Central Australian border. And North as far as Tambo. Do you know where Tambo is? Not the faintest, no. A: No. B: Between Charleville and Longreach, you know. Big area. But he used to have to visit all those place and then Toowoomba once a week, for district council meetings and things like that. But then we'd...what did we do? I can't think now, going back. In the meantime our friends, Dick's great friend Roy Devine, who was best man at our wedding and things. He married Barbara Hopwood, who came up from Tasmania as an au pair girl looking after the kids at one stage. They got married and they went back to live in Tasmania, so we'd go down and stay with them. And things like that. We went to Western Australia. That was terrific. The Rats of Tobruk’s 25th reunion was held in Perth and there were fellas from thingo's army, the German army, and the Poles and some English. So that was a terrific trip. But we went by train. The gang from Queensland. Which was fun. You got on the train here. You got to Sydney, you had a day in Sydney. Mum and Dad met us. We hopped off at Hornsby and the Sydney show was on, so we spent the day at the show. Left them and got a taxi back to the railway station where we met our particular

Appendices 355 mates on the thing and we went off to the dining car and had dinner. This'd be about nine o'clock at night. Next morning in Melbourne. And Pru Blundell, I've forgotten her married name now, next door neighbour. She met us.’Cause there were three. There was Peter and Pru and Bill were the three next door. Then of course, in due course, Peter grew up and married and had Peter and James, the singer, James Blundell. A: Oh yes. Yeah. B: And so on. So Pru is James aunt. She met us in Melbourne and we had lovely day there floating round. And we were meeting someone for lunch. This always tickled me. We were downstairs in this place in Melbourne. Don't ask me now what it was. Sitting there waiting and watching the escalators come down. And one couple came down and they were having a real woo in the thing and then they didn't realise that we were seeing them all the way up and then they arrived safely. Anyhow that was ok. We had a good old giggle about that. Down came a pair...a fella with what was obviously a youngish woman on his arm and as they came into view, to our horror, it was the secretary of the Maryborough sub-branch. We knew all the RSL people of course. All over Queensland. More travelling: we used to go to the state conferences and things. And we thought, ‘Oh hokey smoke!’ So we put our heads down. Anyhow presently he spotted us and came over and said, ‘fancy seeing you here.’ And it was his niece. And we said, ‘Thank goodness. We put our heads down because we thought perhaps you were having a day out with your floozy. Didn't want to embaress you.’ Anyhow then after the day in Melbourne we got on the train and overnight again to Adelaide. Then it was a business. You went on a small train up to Port Augusta or somewhere or other. And from there onto the Transcontinental. Which was great fun. A: And how long did it take to get to Perth on a train? B: All up: 1, 2, 3...5 days. 'Cause each day, a day in Sydney, a day in Melbourne, a rather wasted day round Adelaide fiddling round and getting the local train up to where ever you got on the transcontinental and two nights on there. That was fascinating, crossing the Nullarbor and some people say 'oh how boring.' We didn't think so. We thought it was lovely. And we had comfortable compartments on our own. And we got to, one evening, late in the afternoon we got to Kalgoorlie and we stepped out onto the platform and they said, ‘we'll be here for an hour.’ Additional note from Barbara: Years later, Dick and I and Keith and Freida Lower did two round Australia trips and loved driving across the Nullabour.

Appendices 356 Some of the boys wanted to go and see, there was a famous flop house that they'd heard of. And they wanted to go and look at this and that and the other. We stepped out on to the platform and nearly died. The heat hit us. 'Cause out of an airconditioned train. The heat hit us. It was about 110, you know. Boom. And then on to Perth. And of course we had a wonderful week or so in Perth. And then came back the same way. 'Cause, you know, flights weren't so easy, cheap. So that was a wonderful trip. We really enjoyed that. What else? A: And then you said there was some conferences you went to as well? B: Every year. The state conference would be Toowoomba or Cairns or maybe Brisbane or something. And then the national conference, which would be in Canberra. So we went to that once or twice and things like that. But I mean you don't want...I can't give you all the details about them anyhow. They were just organising the RSL business. And then in due course as the kids got older, those sort of last years at school, Beth was leaving school whatever year it was. And we thought, 'this is the last time we'll have them all' and we went for a trip and did the Snowy scheme, which was in its early days then. So that was wonderful. We had a terrific trip. Drove to Cooma where we stayed and then you got on a bus and were taken all around all sort of places, which is fascinating and lovely. Years later, many years later, Dick and I and Keith and Freda Lowe, great friends of ours, from Maryborough, we did a trip down. Keith was a wine buff and every now and then he'd want to go and drink all the wine that was down there. So they'd come down from Maryborough, have a night we us and we'd pile into whichever car, usually ours, whichever one was going to be used and away we'd go. Do all the wineries and things and we did the Snowy scheme again. We did a lot of fun trips together. We once went after, where was the state conference? Must have been in Townsville I suppose. It might have been Cairns, Mackay. But anyhow we went up together. We were in our car that time. We picked them up at Maryborough. And after the conference, which was always fun, 'cause the women would go and do all sorts of things. Go out to the reef and this, that and the other. Away we went inland. After the conference, we went all the way round, right up to the Gulf of Carpentaria. And stayed there. There was nothing there but a big, government, or I suppose it was owned by some fishing firm or something. A place where you could stay. But it was just dormitories. But we stayed there. And, of course, we were a chatty mob. We'd talk to everyone and we went over to the big canteen place to have a few drinks and then eat. And we got talking to this fella, he was an American and he was out there working on one of the fishing boat or something and the weekends, or whatever day it was they'd all be in, all the trawlers, all the prawn trawlers and

Appendices 357 things. Got talking to him and he was interesting, he'd been to all sorts of places and he ambled round and he started telling us...that's right he'd come out here because his marriage had broken up and he was feeling miserable. He said, ‘She was a wonderful person. She was prostitute, you know.’ And our jaws all dropped. And he said, ‘ She was a jolly good one, I'll have you know.’ Well we could hardly contain ourselves. Those sort of things were great fun. The morning we were leaving, we were having breakfast in this great thing and we said there were two New Zealand girls, twins, Maoris, waitressing. And we said to the one looking after us, ‘We're going off. Is there any sort of food we can get here to take for lunch along the way becuase it'll be a long trip 'til we get to Mt. Isa or wherever we were going...Cloncurry, I think.’ She said, 'Oh would you like prawns?’ And we said, ‘Would we like prawns!’ And she came back with this huge thing of beautiful fresh prawns. They were almost still kicking. And a great stack of bread and butter. So away we went. And we pulled up for lunch near on the Georgina River. There again, you wouldn't know, way up there, it flows into the Gulf. And of course a million thousand flies descended on you. You were trying to...And we got to, yes, to Cloncurry and we'd dropped off Keith and Frieda there because they had a married daughter, in Cloncurry. He was a, I don't know...a Winchcombe representative there. We dropped them off and we went on. And we went down to the Winton district and stayed with some of the Douglas family. And then home. So, you know, we did a lot of trips like that, which were fun. We did two round Australia trips. This was after all the kids were grown up. A: Yeah, you were free. B: First one, I can't think. I know, of course, we decided we'd get a rent-a-car. So we had a big Holden Stationwagon. And away we went, staying with friends all the way. Dalby, Chinchilla, Morven, Charleville, Augathella, all the way we had RSL friends and things. Went eventually got all the way right up to Darwin. And we had two or three nights at Katherine. Cause I wanted to visit my old childhood home: Manbulloo. I said, ‘You can all go where you like, stay where you like, organise anything but I want to couple of night in Katherine.’ Additional note from Barbara:

Appendices 358 Tuesday 20th April 2010, I’m just about to write to Grandson Tom for his birthday (30th April 1979). Dick and I and the Lowes were on one of our round Australia trips and on this date we were having a night with Bill and Di Hedger, away out from Longreach on a huge property which Bill managed and during dinner we go news (by radio—no phones) that Tom had arrived—a boy after 2 girls—great excitement and lots of celebratory drinks.

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