Real Life Portrait

By Roderic Anderson

Real life Portrait is a literary novel ─ the compelling story of the author’s father, Wallace Anderson, a noted Australian sculptor from the 1920s to the 1950s. It focuses on art in war and in peace, following Wallace’s struggle to balance family responsibilities and creative fulfillment.

While serving a reluctant apprenticeship in his uncle’s engineering works he studied art at night school and became an art teacher before enlisting in the AIF infantry. He rose through the ranks to lieutenant and served on the Western Front before being appointed an Official War Artist, collecting relics and making sketches for dioramas and sculptures which he later worked on in the Australian War Museum studios and he was largely responsible for choosing and arranging the entire World War 1 art and relics collection in the Australian War Memorial.

Some of Wallace’s best-known works are Simpson and his Donkey at Melbourne’s Shrine of Remembrance, the Ararat War Memorial, the King George V Memorial in Geelong, and busts of the first 14 Australian prime ministers in Ballarat Botanical Gardens.

Part biography, part social history, part military history and part fiction, Real Life Portrait is an insight to the fascinating life of an accomplished artist, respected contributor to Australia’s art and military history, war veteran and a devoted husband and father in turbulent times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roderic Anderson
• Release date: Feb 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466069985

Roderic Anderson

Roderic Anderson's writing career started in Nigeria in 1978, when with Joyce Dafe he wrote a children's story book which Joyce illustrated. It was later published by African Universities Press as Omaka to the Rescue in the same series as books by Chinua Achebe, Cyprian Ekwenzi and Michael Crowder. AUP also accepted for publishing a series of chemistry text-books he wrote, Understanding Chemistry : a student's book and a teachers' guide for each year, Nine to Eleven, but `due to the political situation and financial constraints' they have never been printed. He is currently working on the last of a series of books. The first, Trailblazer, a novel based on the lives of his great grandparents, has been published in 2008 by Zeus Publications. The second, another novel, Real Life Portrait , based on the lives of his parents was published as a hard-back in October 2010 by Big Sky Publishing, and the third, Well of Life, is a memoir up to age 18, The fourth, Free Radical, another memoir up to age 36, he self published in 2006. All of these works are now available as ebooks. Besides writing, reading and listening to chamber music, being a long-term Marxist and socialist, he is interested in TV documentaries and current affairs and regrets that he is too old to participate in the Australian extension of the Arab Spring, hastening the end of capitalism.

Book preview

Prologue

France, the Western Front 1917

Published by Roderic Anderson at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Roderic Anderson

1

Wallace sprawled on the wide bed and inhaled the domestic fragrance of lavender and furniture polish, happy to be relieved from the terror and squalor of the trenches and freed of responsibility for the lives of his company. After the assault on the Hindenburg Line the 23rd Battalion was now taking it easy behind the lines. Though he could still hear the enemy guns and hardly one intact building was left standing, Bapaume was a haven of peace. Even in this town full of soldiers he could see through his glassless window Claudette, the pretty young daughter of the house, wearing a pink dress and spotless white apron, plucking a chicken while M Le Fevre, wearing a pale blue smock and clogs, was decanting white wine from a keg into long-necked green bottles. What a charming domestic painting it would make! Even in this war-torn town full of soldiers everyone was concerned with life and living, not killing and being killed.

He was pleased with his billet in a former auberge. Though to reach it he had to stumble over a mountain of rubble: broken glass, bricks plaster, door and window frames ─ all that remained of the upper floor and front part─ his back room downstairs was sound, clean and comfortable. After the mud, blood, rats and lice of the trenches he revelled in the luxury of a hot bath, clean clothes and a soft bed with freshly laundered sheets, not to mention the good food and wine. Under the tender ministrations of M and Mme Le Fevre he was recovering from the nightmare of the front line.

For the first time since he came to France he felt the urge to paint. On the SS Armadale and at Salisbury Plain he had done a fair amount of sketching and painting but ever since arriving in France he had been embroiled in the slaughter of the battlefield. Now with time on his hands he thought it might be interesting to explore the town for a suitable subject. He fished out his portable art kit from the bottom of his valise and prepared to set out. The watercolour sketchbook was almost filled. The few pages left would do for today but he would have to buy a new one as soon as he could.

With his gear, he strolled through the shattered town. Turning a corner he came upon the Ordnance Workshops where a team of men were dismantling and repairing damaged guns and gun carriages. Here, within sound of the artillery at the front, men in army uniform were working at usual civilian tasks: fitting, turning, blacksmithing and welding. The familiar smell of hot oil and metal, typical of any engineering workshop, took him back to his apprentice days at J.C. Brown’s works in Geelong. Always fascinated by skilled tradesmen or craftsmen going about their work he stood at the entrance and watched. What a wonderful picture it would make!

As he was setting out his materials, in a shadowy corner he saw another artist already painting, much too engrossed in his work to notice Wallace. Paintbox and sketchbook in hand, he went over to investigate. The other man was finishing off a picture that perfectly captured the atmosphere of the place. Men with sleeves rolled up, some smoking pipes, turning battered wrecks into serviceable gun carriages. Wallace hated being interrupted when he was painting or drawing but he was so impressed that he could not help exclaiming, `That’s superb!’

`What’d you bloody well know?’

The painter turned round. Wallace immediately recognised him but couldn’t think of his name. `I know you,’ he said, trying to remember where he had seen that alert sensitive face with the piercing eyes. He could recall the place but not the name. `Melbourne–Fasoli’s. Lionel Lindsay introduced us. I’m Wallace Anderson.’ He held out his hand.

The other man put down his brushes and shook it firmly. `I remember Fasoli’s. Who could forget? Sorry, I don’t remember you. I’m Bill Dyson.’ He resumed working on his canvas.

`Of course. I should’ve known. The world’s greatest cartoonist. How d’you come to be in this wasteland?’

`I’m sick of working in London, drawing war cartoons without actually having seen what the war’s like. I’ve come over here to see the bloody show for myself. Working for Charles Bean, the Official War Correspondent. He wants pictures to go with his written history.’

`So you’re an Official War Artist?’ Wallace looked again at Dyson’s painting of the Ordnance Workshops, so different from all the heroic or sentimental war pictures he’d seen that didn’t at all reflect what he knew of war. The reality of war was the day to day life of the common soldier. Some of it was heroic and some was sentimental but the real war bore no resemblance to how it was usually painted in glowing colours, with flying flags and splendid uniforms. `I’ve always associated war artists with pretentious portraits of generals and grand heroic battle scenes,’ he said.

`Not in this bloody war, mate. And certainly not if they work with Bean. He’s writing about the war from the angle of the common soldier and he wants his artists to do the bloody same.’ Dyson stood up and stretched his back.

`Good! The men in the mud and blood at the front’re fighting this war, not the generals in some comfortable chateau miles to the rear.’

Wallace put down his paintbox but held onto his sketch book. Dyson was watching. `So you’re a dauber too?’ he said.

`Yes, but I haven’t done anything in France. Sculpture’s my real metier anyway.’

`Some wonderful models here. I’d like to see some of these specimens of Australian manhood in bronze. What’s in that sketchbook?’

`A few sketches I did on the troopship and on Salisbury Plain.’

`Let’s see.’ Wallace hesitantly handed it over and watched as Dyson slowly turned the pages, casting a professional eye over each one. He closed the book but didn’t hand it back. `I like your work. A good eye for the essentials and the telling detail. You’ve captured that special quality of our soldiers whether playing two-up on the deck or throwing bloody hand grenades. I can see your bomb-thrower in bronze.’

`Thanks very much but I’m not in your class. I came here to sketch this workshop but you’ve done better than I could ever hope to.’

'Oh it’s largely a matter of practice. When you’ve been sketching as long as I have, your work tends to become slick and facile. Yours may lack some professional polish but it’s got a freshness that I feel’s missing in some of mine. Would you be interested in joining Bean’s team?’

Wallace’s heart leapt. `Of course, I’d jump at the chance.’

"I can’t promise anything, but I’ll submit your name and show them this.’ He held up the sketchbook. `I’ll do all I can to support your claim. Bean’s keen on getting serving soldiers as war artists so you’ve got a foot in the bloody door already.’ Dyson sat down again and took up his brushes. `I didn’t come here to jaw. Now I must finish this.’ He returned to his work.

'Me, a war artist!' thought Wallace. Ever since the day he had gone to enlist he had longed for the time and opportunity to depict his experiences –the squalor, horror and heroism of this war. And if he were appointed an Official War Artist he would be released from the ghastly life in the trenches: no more shells, mortars and bayonets, no more blood, mud, lice, rats and fleas, no more writing letters to the next of in of the men killed or missing.

Geelong 1898

The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves slackened to a slower rhythm and the cab drew up outside the house Wallace remembered so well with its white picket fence and wide veranda. Before they clambered out of the cab, while the driver was unloading their luggage, Mother reminded them all to be on their best behaviour.

Wallace was the last one out. He stretched and sniffed the air ─ a cool breeze brought the refreshing smell of the sea. After the stuffy cab it smelled delicious He turned to face it and the view over Corio Bay. On the dead calm water a wool-clipper, wearing every stitch of sail, edged towards the open sea. In the distance rose the peaks and humps of the Youyangs, their tops merging into the clear paler sky. The little park across the road smelled of wet grass and moist earth. Austin Park seemed smaller now than he remembered it and he hadn’t noticed before how much it sloped. Quite useless for cricket but he thought it would be all right for football, even if only kick to kick. He turned back towards the house. As he was reading the name, Lasswade, painted on the fanlight over the entrance, the door flew open and an old woman dressed all in black hurried out to meet them. At first he didn’t recognise his Grandma Naples, even though he had last seen her only a few months ago when he had come here to stay. Then, her cheeks had glowed with life and she was wearing a pretty dress of pink taffeta and white lace as she tripped lightly down this same path to greet him and his Anderson grandparents.

Now, like Mother, she was dressed from head to foot in widow’s black and her face was grey and haggard. She stretched out her arms to her daughter. `Nellie, m’dear,’ she said in her thick Scots accent, embracing her. ``Tis so good to see ye again.’ Then, holding her by the elbows, she took a step back and gazed into her face. `But what a sorry figure ye cut, darling, after a’ ye’ve been through.’ Wallace was struck by how alike they looked. The same medium height and slight build, sallow complexion and greying hair gathered into a bun at the back, though now Mother was wearing a big black crepe-draped hat. Mother’s stooped frail figure made them look much the same age, more like sisters than mother and daughter, like a pair of nuns –the sisters of bereavement.

`Mother,’ said Mother, `It’s very good of you to take us all in like this.’

`Think naething o’t,’ said Grandma, turning to the seven children lined up on the footpath. `Though `twill be a tight fit to accommodate ye a’. But we shall manage somehow.’ She focused her attention on ten-year-old Wallace in a suit too small for him, stuffing back an unruly lock of hair that had escaped from under his cap and fallen across his forehead. Put out by her close scrutiny, he felt such a fool squeezed into this suit he had grown out of. All knees, wrists and neck. He wished Albert would hurry up and grow out of his suit so it could be handed down to him. `I know Wallace,’ said Grandma, embarrassing him further by adding, `What a big laddie he’s grown!’ and kissing him on the cheek.

Mother introduced her to the other children in order of age: Twelve-year-old Albert, then Wallace’s twin, Helene, eight-year-old Florence, Jenny aged six, and the eighteen month-old twins, Myrt and Adele.

My, how the years fly by! `’Tis hard to believe ‘tis over five years since we were a’ together at Dean.’ Grandma noticed one was missing – the eldest girl. `Where’s Marion?’ she asked sharply.

`In Ballarat, boarding at Clarendon College.’

`That should be good for her. ‘Tis good there’re schools for lassies now. I believe Dr and Mrs Kennedy run a fine school. Well, ‘tis great to see ye a’ here. I ha' been so lonesome since Charlie died, rattling around in this empty house on my own.’ She turned a stern face on the children. `But afore ye set foot in my house let me tell ye this: save your tomfoolery and carrying on for outside. If ye want to do any shouting and running wild ye have the whole park to do ‘t in. Whene’er ye’re inside the house ye’re to be on your best behaviour. I know your mother’s brought ye all up properly with good manners and I expect ye to use them.’

This was exactly what Mother had told them on the train. `Now,’ she had said, `You must remember we’re going to stay with Grandma as guests in her house.’

`You mean we’ll only be visiting?’ Jenny asked.

`No, we shall be staying with her indefinitely. What I’m telling you is you must always bear in mind you’re in Grandma’s house, not your own. She’s an old woman who hasn’t had much to do with children for a long time and you must give her every consideration, not running wild all over the place like you’ve been used to at Loatta.

Wallace wished he was back at Loatta in Ballarat. Generally his life there had been happy. When Father was at home the house was full of laughter but as a member of parliament he had to spend much of his time in Melbourne and out at political meetings. When he was there, despite the streams of visitors, he always had time for his children, listening to their problems, settling them and joining in their games. When Father was away Wallace had missed him greatly.

But there were times when things had not run smoothly. Sometimes he had been confined to his room without any meals (but Helene usually managed to smuggle apples or bread and cheese in to him) and sometimes he had been walloped by Father. Like the time when playing football in the street he had accidentally pushed Albert onto a broken bottle, badly gashing his knee. Wallace carried on with the game, leaving it to Bob Stevens to look after Albert and take him home. When Wallace got there he had to face his father’s wrath and a caning.

But all that was over. With Father gone they were about to make a new home in Geelong with Grandma Naples. From what Wallace had seen of it, Geelong was only a country town compared to Ballarat but it did have the sea. He could hardly wait to get down to the beach.

Inside, the house still smelled of flowers ─ a small vase of boronia and daphne on a side table by the front door scented the whole house ─ but it seemed larger. The entrance hall had Grandma’s room on one side and the drawing-room on the other. Beside the front door stood an ugly cast-iron hallstand holding Grandpa Naples’s collection of walking sticks that had impressed him on his previous visit. The place wouldn’t be the same without Grandpa. Wallace recalled going with him to a Highland Society gathering in Eastern Park. In complete highland dress, sporting a silver-headed stick and with numerous rings on his fingers, he had joined in the dancing with great gusto, apparently restored to youth.

His flamboyance had delighted Wallace. Father had brought him up to consider such extravagant dress and manner vulgar, showy and in bad taste but Wallace loved him for it all the same. And Grandpa had taken him around the wharves and wool-stores where he was perfectly at home chatting to the workmen. Why did his father’s relations treat Grandpa Naples as an inferior? They had taught him to think that any expression of sentiment or even emotion was indecent. Well-brought-up people hid their feelings behind a stiff upper lip but Grandpa had freely expressed his.

A glass door at the end of the hall separated off the rest of the house. Behind this were the dining-room and the kitchen on one side and three bedrooms on the other. Wallace and Albert moved into the last of these, next to the bathroom. Across the back of the house was a central vestibule with a room for two maids at one end and at the other, a big pantry with a cellar underneath.

Wallace was the only one who had visited the house before. With a proprietorial air he was showing it to Albert. In the back yard, behind a small garden with a few fruit trees, a carriage house, harness room and stable faced onto a lane. It was far grander than the goat-shed they’d had at the bottom of the yard at Loatta, but he would sooner have been back there with Arthur Gooch and his other cobbers from school, racing their goat carts up and down Lydiard Street or tobogganing down the mullock heaps of the old mine workings at Black Hill. But there was no going back. He would have to make the best of it here.

2

This was the second major upheaval Wallace had gone through. He had been born at Dean, some twelve miles out of Ballarat, on the way to Daylesford where his great-grandmother, her six sons and a daughter had been pioneer settlers. For them life at Dean had been tough in the early days but by the time Wallace was born his parents, grandparents and uncles were all living in affluent comfort. Between them they owned over a hundred thousand acres of the best land in Victoria and thousands of head of prime quality sheep and cattle, a flourmill and three timber mills. Grandpa Naples was the postmaster and storekeeper and Father was the local Member of the Legislative Assembly and Chairman of the Shire Council.

Wallace had been born to wealth and influence. The whole estate was his domain and whatever he wanted was always at hand. He loved the domestic and farm animals, riding to a sawmill on the timber train and watching the great saws changing gigantic tree trunks into neat planks.

But when he was six his whole world crashed. His father and grandfather had to sell up and move to Ballarat to live under greatly reduced circumstances. He never knew exactly what happened but somehow in the depression of 1893 they had lost all their money. He couldn’t understand why his grandfather, who had the sawmills, was the only one of the brothers who was forced to sell out while the others kept the flour mill at Smeaton, a sheep station near Allendale and a big farm at Derby. The only thing he clearly understood was that while his cousins stayed on enjoying what he used to, he had to leave it all and move to Ballarat and a State School.

What he remembered most distinctly was vacating the house. After the heavily-laden furniture vans had left, while his parents were packing the last of their personal belongings into the carriage, he went back inside for a last look at the only home he had known. The bedroom he used to share with Albert was now just an empty shell, the bare uncurtained windows looking out on a cheerless neglected garden. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud and echoed through the vacant house as he crossed the passage to the schoolroom.

He had always hated this room where Miss Grimleigh tried to teach him the three Rs but now, without its blackboard, desks and slates the bare room was no longer hateful. At least he wouldn’t have to put up with that grim lady any more. But he hated how the other rooms had been laid waste. What had been his happy home was now just a barren empty house. Without living occupants the place was a lifeless skeleton.

In Ballarat his father had started again from scratch. Using his experience as secretary of the family firm and his commercial and political contacts, he set up an accountancy business. At first he had quite a struggle but year by year his circumstances improved and he continued with his political work campaigning for the federation of the Australian colonies, New Zealand and Fiji.

Wallace started at the State School that wasn’t as bad as he had feared. Having to share a teache with over forty other children was a shock but Miss Barclay was much better than old Grimmy and he soon made friends with several of the other pupils. By the time he was ten his father’s business was thriving and Grandpa said Father was likely to become Premier of Victoria. His family appeared assured of a bright future. But after returning from a big federation conference in Bendigo, Father became seriously ill. When Dr Salmon was called he diagnosed erysipelas or St Anthony’s fire. He told Mother the disease was highly contagious and she must re-organise her household. To prevent her family catching the infection they must not have any contact with the patient. So, while she stayed with the children and kept them away from Father’s room, he was nursed by Grandma Anderson, Auntie Geordie and a Sister Ross, making the whole house stink of carbolic. It wasn’t for long. After suffering terrible pain and a great red rash spreading across his face and down his neck for a few days Father died.

Wallace’s father, William Anderson

Grandma crept out of his room to tell them. Wallace was in the dining-room playing cribbage with Albert when she appeared in the doorway, her eyes red from weeping. `He has gone,’ she whispered. `A merciful release from all his pain.’ She paused to control her voice and wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. `In his last lucid moments he knew he was dying and calmly accepted his fate.’ The tears began to flow again. `I must find your mother,’ she said, trying to hide her distress as she hurried from the room. Wallace felt as though something inside him had died too – a numb hollow emptiness like after a bout of diarrhoea. Neither of the boys cried. They both sat perfectly still, wondering what was to become of them now Father was gone forever. Although they had never been very close he had always been a strong influence in Wallace’s background.

Grandma, Auntie Geordie and the nurse, having fulfilled their duties, departed and Uncle Tom came to make the funeral arrangements. On the day of the funeral the children were removed to their grandparents’ house but from the front window they could watch the hearse and the long cortege proceeding slowly along Lydiard Street. Now for the first time it struck Wallace that he would never see Father again and he didn’t know how he would manage without him. He wanted to cry but only girls cried, and Albert and his sisters were watching, so following Grandma’s example, he blew his nose.

Grandma Naples, herself recently widowed, invited Mother to come and live with her. This was why they had all moved to Geelong. Wallace was grateful for Grandma’s kindness but he felt uprooted. He was pining for his home and friends and most of all he was missing his father. He had appreciated Father’s masculinity – the rough feel of his serge suits and his beard, his deep voice and smell of cigars and Pear’s soap. Now he was stuck in a house full of females, except for Albert.

* * *

`And this is Kitty,’ said Wallace when he and Albert entered the stable. The chestnut mare eyed them warily. `She’s a real lady.’ Kitty lifted her tail and farted loud and long.

`Grandma wouldn’t agree,’ Albert said, giggling.

`Nobody’s perfect. I bet even Queen Victoria breaks wind. You’re making her nervous.’

`Albert! Wallace!’ called Helene from the back door. `Dinner’s ready. Mother says you’re to wash your hands before you come to the dining-room.’

They did as they were bidden and were about to join the others already seated at the big table when Grandma’s face clouded. `Wallace! I willna ha' ye sit at my table in that state.’

He looked at his hands. The nails were a bit grubby but otherwise they were clean. He checked his fly. It was securely buttoned. Delicious smells of baking were coming from the kitchen, making his mouth water. `Why? What’s wrong?’ he asked impatiently.

`Ye look a complete ragamuffin. Y’r hair’s like a birch broom in a fit, your collar’s a’ rucked up, y’r tie’s askew and y’r socks’re falling down o’er your boots. Please go to the bathroom and smarten y’rsel’ up. Ye might tak’ a leaf out o’ Albert’s book.’

On his way out Wallace looked at Albert, neat as a new pin, not a hair out of place. Yet in the bathroom Albert hadn’t done any more than he had. How did he manage it? He glanced at Mother. She was sitting with head bowed and hands folded in her lap, her mind far away.

On his return all spruced up, Grandma said grace and they all tucked into a great big steak and kidney pie. `I hope ye’ll a’ be happy here’, she said, looking round the table at the subdued sad faces.

`I’m sure we shall,’ said Mother, stifling a sob and plucking at her cameo brooch on a black velvet ribbon round her throat.

Grandma was concerned with practical matters. `We must get the older children into a school as soon as we can,’ she said. Her other daughter, Marion, and her husband, who lived nearby, sent their children to Ashby State School in West Geelong. `They could go to the same school as Marion’s two. Charlie’d be Albert’s age and Florence the same as Wallace and Helene. Perhaps they could go together, though ‘tis a fair step from here. I’ll telephone Marion this afternoon about making arrangements if you like.’

Mother’s thoughts were elsewhere. `Whatever you say, Mother. Do whatever you think best.’

`Come along dear and eat up,’ said Grandma. `You’ve hardly touched your meal. I’m pleased to see there’s nothing wrong wi’ the children’s appetites.’

Wallace hardly knew his cousins Charlie and Florence Brown, but he liked what little he had seen of them and he would be glad to have at least two familiar faces in his new school.

3

So Wallace went into Miss Wilson’s Fifth Grade at Ashby. Although he felt fate had played him a rotten trick taking him away from his old school and friends in Ballarat, he was prepared to give his new school a fair go. He had already experienced the problems of settling in , starting as a new boy, at Ballarat: he must avoid being noticed and not rise to any bait. Right from the start he got on well. He became cobbers with Bob Sewell, the Headmaster’s son, also in Grade Five - a big well-built boy with an untidy crop of straw-coloured hair. Handy with his fists, he didn’t have to use his father’s authority to protect himself or his mates. He took Wallace into his care, told him what he could, and could not, get away with and protected him from the bullies. Wallace also liked his new teacher who was capable, fair and understanding.

Since all school syllabuses were centrally controlled from Melbourne he found his new class at exactly the same stage as his old one and simply took up from where he had left off there. Helene, though his twin, was two classes behind. She had an extraordinary memory and understood what she was told, being able to repeat all the mathematical tables, list all the kings and queens of England, complete with dates, from William the Conqueror to Queen Victoria, and recite poetry by the mile. But she could barely read and write so she dismally failed every written test.

Wallace’s cousin, Florence Brown, was in his class and they often walked the mile to and from school together. She was lively, talkative and, for a girl, surprisingly open and eager to discuss things he didn’t think nice girls even thought about. One afternoon on the way home from school she led him behind some bushes to play I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. She was as fascinated by male private parts as he was by the female and equally interested in what grown-ups did in bed and where babies came from. But he was disappointed to find her as ignorant as he was. Florence, like Mother, had the Naples features–a rather long face with a long nose, black hair and olive skin. He thought Mother must have looked very like Florence when she was her age. But surely Mother couldn’t have had the same thoughts?

* * *

When summer came Wallace could go swimming. Although he had never seen the sea before coming to Geelong, he was already a competent swimmer.

In Ballarat they had lived near the fresh-water baths where Father had often taken him and Albert for an early morning dip and taught them to swim. He would jump in the deep end and, while he trod water, would make them jump in too. Wallace could still see himself standing shivering on the edge, looking at Father’s upturned face in the water, drops glistening in his beard, saying, `Come on, be a brave boy. I’m here to see you don’t drown.’ Ashamed to show how scared he was, he had held his breath and jumped in.

He and his friends swam in the baths at Eastern Beach. Nobody swam or bathed in the open sea because bathing in public was considered indecent, so they used enclosed baths, one for men and another for women. Men and boys swam nude, while women and girls wore neck to knee costumes with frilly skirts. Wallace was surprised to see what a difference clothes made and how changed men looked when naked. Changing-rooms were well named. Stripped of their finery some very important personages looked insignificant.

One day when he and Bob Sewell were sitting on the sundeck after swimming four times across the deep end, he noticed a short fat man who seemed familiar but he couldn’t place him. `Who’s Humpty Dumpty?’ he asked.

Bob shook himself like a dog to get the water out of his thick hair. `Who?’

`The fat little man with the tiny dick.’

`Manager of the Royal Bank. I forget his name.’

`And who’s that?’ Wallace pointed to a tall skinny man with knobbly knees and dangling balls.

`Mr Pickering, a king pin on the council.’

`Who’d ever pick these as our head sherangs? How clothes change a man!’

` "The clothes are but the guinea’s stamp;

A man’s a man for a’ that." ’ replied Bob, anxious to show off his knowledge of poetry,

`Clothes maketh the man,’ said Wallace, anxious to demonstrate his knowledge of Robert Burns. Though interested in the bizarre shapes of the human form, he was intrigued by the many splendid physiques that were normally hidden under rough working clothes but revealed here in all their glory. Striking in repose, they became spectacular in motion–swimming and diving. Marvelling at the human body, Wallace wondered, wouldn’t it be great to be an artist and capture that in paint, stone or bronze!

4

Wallace was now enjoying life in Geelong. After school and on Saturdays he played football in Austin Park and other ball games on Eastern Beach. When it was warm enough he swam in the baths. Unfortunately Sundays were devoted to morning service and afternoon Sunday school at Ryrie Street Presbyterian Church. Every Tuesday afternoon he had a piano lesson with Mrs Holmes and on Thursdays a singing lesson from Mr Noseeda, an Italian barber. Neither was impressed with him because he would never practise enough.

He hated practising boring scales and exercises when there were so many more interesting things to do with his valuable time and he hated Grandma’s ugly black piano. Whatever he played on it sounded like a funeral dirge and he blamed the piano for his own lack of skill. After he fumbled through the exercise he was supposed to have learnt the previous lesson, small sparrow-like Mrs Holmes looked at him severely over her steel-rimmed spectacles. You’re making the same mistakes as you did last week,’ she said. `Wal, unless you practise and practise you’ll never get it right. Learning to play the piano’s much like learning to play football. To become proficient you must spend a lot of time actually playing it. Practise and practise and then more practice. I’m pleased the way you’ve learnt to read music but you’ll never be able to play without the music in front of you unless you practise until you’ve memorised the piece.’

Mr Noseeda said much the same. `I think a you say you have a some Italian blood. I can’t hear it at all. All I can hear is the Scottish chill.’ He ran his fingers through his thinning black curls. `You must a sing with warmth and feeling. And you can’t a do that while you’re worrying about the right note and the right word.’ He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture of despair. `I can’t a learn the songs for you. I’m a pleased with your voice production but you must a practise at home until you know the words and music perfectly. Then you can sing from the heart.’

* * *

One day when Wallace came home from school Mother was humming a hymn, Rejoice Today with One Accord. She often hummed hymns but usually it was a sad one, like Abide With Me or Nearer My God To Thee. Today it was a happy one and she was smiling. Wallace realised she was pleased about something and was holding back from telling him about it. After presenting him and Albert each with their usual slices of bread and jam and glass of milk she waited until they had wolfed them down before telling them that she had a special surprise. Uncle Bob had invited them to stay at Stony Rises over the next school holidays.

Since as far back as he could remember Wallace had heard about his uncle’s sheep station but he had never seen it. Stony Rises had an aura of bygone days of Anderson Bros when his grandfather and father had considerable property. Now at last he would be able to see it for himself.

The rest of the school term dragged on interminably but at last the long-awaited holidays came. The two boys, taking with them a huge pigskin portmanteau that used to be their father’s, set off on the first journey they had ever taken without being escorted and supervised by an adult. Though Wallace was feeling very self-important and grown-up, naturally it was Albert who took command. A cab took them from the house to Geelong station where he bought the tickets, booked their luggage through on the train to Allendale and saw it safely stowed in the guard’s van.

Though a journey of only about a hundred miles, it involved several stages. From Geelong they had to take a train, black and sooty inside and out and belching clouds of smoke and steam, through lush farmland and small bluestone stations to Ballarat. Wallace wondered at so little sign of human occupation and development. The other passengers, with whom they exchanged only polite greetings, were a fat bonneted woman wearing a black cloak and nursing a sickly-looking two-year-old girl., and in the other corner, a tall bearded young man in a red and blue checked shirt, bowyanged trousers and a felt hat with corks dangling from the brim on strings. In the luggage rack over his head was a big rolled swag. He was probably an itinerant shearer.

At the big Ballarat Railway Station a porter, using a trolley carried their portmanteau over the bridge to another platform where they transferred to the Daylesford train as far as Allendale, this time through drier, sparsely-timbered country with even fewer settlements and then a coach to Smeaton where one of their cousins would meet them. At Allendale station they collected their luggage which a porter loaded onto the Smeaton coach. Having only six seats inside, it was completely filled by adult passengers off the train so the boys had to sit in front, up beside the coachman ─ seats they would have chosen anyway. The driver turned out to be an agreeable man who fed them boiled lollies out of a paper bag and let them hold the reins on a safe straight stretch of road while he filled his pipe. Wallace enjoyed being out in the fresh air after the noise, smoke and smuts of the train. On the road the air was clean, smelling of gum leaves.

At Smeaton Uncle Bob’s son Jim was waiting for them beside a dog-cart. Long and lean as a greyhound, he raised his broad-brimmed hat and greeted them warmly. `Hello,’ he said, his face breaking into a great grin as he shook their hands, `Albert, Wallace. I’m Jim.’ He heaved their bag onto the cart and they were off. They chatted easily about life in Geelong, the poor season, the low price of wool and the high price of labour as they drove the six miles to Stony Rises. Wallace immediately took to his cousin who, though old enough to be his father, was the first adult to treat him as an equal.

The sheep-station was certainly well named. Rock-strewn hillsides and outcrops stretched in all directions. Reaching the crest of a ridge, suddenly they came on the homestead, hiding behind a clump of big trees. A thrilling sight, though it wasn’t nearly as grand as Wallace expected. When he had lived at Dean his father, grandfather and uncles had all spoken of Stony Rises homestead as if it were Government House. He had always imagined an imposing mansion like ones he had seen in Ballarat and on some sheep stations like the Chirnsides’ Werribee Park but this, though quite big, was just a simple single-storey building. Yet its very lack of grandeur made it fit for its surroundings – tussocky grass, rough rocks and scrubby trees. A more imposing building would have looked completely out of place. In the strong light and clear air even the ramshackle sheds seemed entirely in keeping. How he wished he had the skill to paint the scene but, being no painter, it would have to remain in his mind’s eye.

As the cart pulled up at the front door a giant of a man with a grey beard, rather like pictures he had seen of the Prince of Wales, but much taller, came out to meet them, followed by two elderly ladies in hour-glass dresses with leg-of-mutton sleeves. He introduced himself as their Uncle Bob. Being their grandfather’s youngest brother he was really their great-uncle. The taller fair lady was his wife, the boys’ Aunt Margaret, and the other one, his sister, their Aunt Ann, generally called Aunt Smith.

She was the first to speak. Her Scots brogue was the strongest Wallace had ever heard, stronger than any of his grandparents’ or great uncles’ although she had been away from Scotland as long as any of them. She gave Wallace polite attention but could not take her eyes off Albert. `’Tis uncanny,’ she said, `he puts me so much in mind o’ Mither.’

`Ay there’s certainly a strong resemblance,’ said Uncle Bob. `His father was naething like Mither but young Albert here tak’s after her. He’s more like her than either o’ us or any o’ our brothers.’

Wallace looked closely at Albert. His great-grandmother had died long before he was born but he had seen a portrait of her that Auntie Geordie and Uncle Gil had hanging over their mantelpiece. Albert had the same ruler-straight nose that made Wallace secretly jealous. He was sorry he had inherited his mother’s nose with a bump at the bridge and flared nostrils. The boys at school teased him about his soft full-lipped mouth that they found girlish. He also had his mother's hair. At the front a great shock of it flowed out on either side like the bow waves of a boat but he couldn’t draw it back neatly into a bun as she did.

`That often happens in families,’ said Aunt Ann. `Features skip a generation or two and then re-appear.’ She was still looking at Albert, who resented being discussed like this, and she caught the same expression of annoyance she remembered in her mother. `But as ye say, ‘tis uncanny.’

`Ye’re embarrassing the poor lad,’ said Aunt Margaret, putting her hand gently on his shoulder, `Talking about him as though he was an exhibit in a show.’ She put her other hand on Wallace’s shoulder. `Come along inside and I’ll show ye your room.’ She took them down a long passage to a bright cheery room with two brass beds covered in white marcella quilts. On each were two pairs of moleskin shorts, neatly folded. It appeared that they were going to be well looked after. In Geelong, though Grandma Naples was always kind and so were Auntie Marion and her husband, Uncle Jim, Wallace always felt they looked down on him. They tended to be patronising and made him feel his position as a poor relation. He hoped his late father’s relations wouldn’t do the same.

Next day the boys discovered that each was provided with a docile pony for his exclusive use. Wallace’s horse, Sandy, was a palomino – tawny with a paler mane and tail, and Albert’s Billy was a bay ─ a big brown gelding with black points.

Having been taken away from Dean so young, the boys had no experience of riding horses and when they mounted them Wallace discovered it wasn’t nearly as easy as it looked. Sandy was an old mare that most of Uncle Bob’s family had ridden as children so she was used to inexperienced riders and she was easily managed. But all the same he found it hard to stay on her broad back. When she broke into a trot he bounced up and down like a ping-pong ball, bruising his bottom and chafing his bare legs. The first day was agony, far worse than being caned at school.

He was ashamed of failing so miserably but found some consolation in Albert’s not doing any better. They both returned to the house, barely able to walk. Sitting down was excruciating so they ate their evening meal standing up. Before they went to bed their cousin, Robena, gave them each a hip bath to soak their aching bottoms, telling them the hot water and bath salts would draw out the pain. Afterwards she massaged their sore legs. `Your legs are in a state,’ she said, as she rubbed the inside of Wallace’s chafed thighs with eucalyptus oil.

In spite of the pain the massage had an aphrodisiac effect that increased as he watched Robena’s breasts inside her blouse as the movement of her arms drew the cloth tight against them and the exertion flushed her cheeks with a rosy glow. As she bent over him he thought she smelled of roses. He took stock of her position. Why wasn’t she married? She was quite old – at least 25 and rather attractive. He liked the way she did her fair hair, piled up in a bunch of curls on the top of her head, and what bosoms!

When the eucalyptus stung a particularly raw spot he winced. `I’ll never learn to ride,’ he said, trying not to cry, as much from disappointment at being such a duffer as from the pain. `Everybody keeps telling me I’ll improve but I’m getting worse. I just keep falling off and the short time I stay on’s agony.’ He made a great effort to hold back his tears. `It’s harder than learning the piano and much more painful.’

Robena avoided looking at his face, pretending not to notice the tears in the corners of his eyes. `That’s what everybody has to go through at first,’ she said. `Then all of a sudden you get the hang of it. Just