Too tired to write you last night as I’d had a strenuous day. Started about 8.30am at the Field hospital1119 AGH at Adelaide River – launched off 3 paintings. The sun was blazing. Sweat just rolled off me. Knocked off about 5. A heavy day. Am getting quite used to over the shoulder lookers-on. Shall be able to paint with even the Pearl2Cyril Pearl, Carey, Lahm3Hottie Lahm gang anywhere.
One of the Sisters came over & said “You’re not Wep are you?” Said she thought she recognised my face. Met me at Romanos4Romano’s Restaurant in Sydney was frequented by Bill and Jess throughout the 1930s and 1940. Remember the night Arthur Mailey5Arthur Mailey was an Australian test cricketeer, cartoonist and journalist. Wep’s portrait of him was a finalist in the 1951 Archibald Prize. introduced us to a table full of Captains etc & nurses back from the Middle East. He & I were drawing.
Sorry this letter is so short. Breakfast is now ready & I’m off in a car at 8.15 back to the Hospital.
Lots & lots of love.
Bill.
Hospital TentField Hospital. Northern AustraliaThe Australian Women’s Weekly, 15 January 1944, p12Field HospitalField HospitalField HospitalField Hospital TentsHospital Tent, Field HospitalField Hospital
Notes:
1
119 AGH at Adelaide River
2
Cyril Pearl
3
Hottie Lahm
4
Romano’s Restaurant in Sydney was frequented by Bill and Jess throughout the 1930s and 1940
5
Arthur Mailey was an Australian test cricketeer, cartoonist and journalist. Wep’s portrait of him was a finalist in the 1951 Archibald Prize.
I was enormously pleased to get your letter, sweetheart – it did me a lot of good – picked the old soul up no end. Forgive me if my last letter sounded somewhat morbid. “Troppo” madness sets in early and I was too tired & weak to attempt good cheer. However you will overlook it – yes?
Letters do help – one has to be away to realize that. Poor Ivan – he must eat his heart out waiting for them.
I’m sitting down to work – have been fairly busy although my painting is not of any class as yet, it being overwhelmingly amateurish. Obviously I need much more practice. It’s mostly rough notes that I am compiling for a more or less free use when I come home to my cuddly snugglepot. Judging from the material I have gathered in less than two weeks it will take me at least 2 months back in Sydney working flat out to cover the space necessary for any sort of decent display. That’s good news, heh?
They’re still discussing this & that. It’s U.S. and Jap strategy now & I cannot help but listen. Destroys my thoughts.
A great call comes through for us to eat supper sandwiches. And at present that’s nothing to look forward to. We are on “tropical spread” a bloody margarine substitute – tastes like blasted coconut oil. Should be butter any time now. We have only had to bear the burden for a couple of days.
The poor old pate is sight to behold, huge shivers of burnt up skin float slowly off its tarnished dome. My face is a dried apricot with pimples on it. The bank roll is still well – I’ve only spent a tenner so far. You must apologise to the boys for me and explain that to date it is next door to impossible to buy anything up here. My only expenses are household – you can’t spend any on grog at other camps as each officer only gets so much ration & none is really left over for visitors to buy for them. I’ve just bought 18 large packets of Capstans. They seem to be all you can get. Also I let the office buy me a real kangaroo skin tobacco pouch for 10/-. Incidently (sic) I haven’t heard from them yet – touch wood.
You’d better go in and price that casserole doings as it’s a moral I won’t be home to consummate our tenth anniversary. Get it if you like & give a dinner to the Watso’s1King and Eleanor Watson & O’Deas2Tommy O’Dea out of it. Do me in style and don’t forget to leave an empty setting at table for me – don’t neglect my drinks either. Telepath me lots of lurv.
It’s no secret about McNulty3Clarence Sydney McNulty was Editor in Chief at the Telegraph. He was arrested in early 1943 in an embarrassing situation and gave Police a false name. I knew in Brisbane. No doubt King4King Watson & Cyril5Cyril Pearl resented his queer behaviour. Perhaps he didn’t like to let Cyril know that the estimable Brian6Brian Penton was to be his superior. The set-up has violent possibilities. Cyril will object to Penton’s policies & the daily night work. Pretty ‘orrid what!
We don’t do our own washing. Every day we change and one of the poor unfortunates chores for us all. Ironing is done as well. We do nothing but eat. None of these blokes are what you could call drinking men. Although there is at least 5 bottles Corio – 3 gin & 5 port, 1 hock, 1 advocat & 2 beer no one wants a drink. I’ll be glad to get out again. Am going down the road tomorrow – shall be away about 4 days finishing up at the last camp I stayed at. They’re having a do on Thursday 29th. Ray Stehr & Tom Izzard, prominent Sydney footballers, also 4 other leading Sydney Rugby players are in the unit. To my great despair I won’t see any of your letters until I come back, my pet. I’ll forward you letters from where ever I am.
Mindil Beach, DarwinMindil Beach, Darwin
All the gang have been on the beach this afternoon. It seems incredible that the water should be so warm and the weather so glorious. Dozens of soldiers turn out for a dip it’s all very gay and nude – the probeing & squealing is reminiscent of a schoolboys water carnival. An amazing assortment of Freds strike the eye. I retire with modesty – grander and stouter are encountered with every flick of the eye.7The scene at Mindil Beach provided an influence for several paintings by Pidgeon throughout the 1950s including The Sun Bathers, which was a finalist in the Sir John Sulman Prize in 1956 and again with The Bathers in 1957. Other versions in the later 1950s introducing the female form based on new wife, Dorothy following Jess’s death in 1953 of a brain tumour), adorned the walls of Wep’s home
Cards on a northern beach – The Australian Women’s Weekly, 26 February 1944, p1 The scene is Mindil Beach, DarwinPlaying cards, Mindil Beach, Darwin, July 1943Playing cards, Mindil Beach, Darwin, July 1943Mindil Beach, Darwin, June 18, 2023Sunset, Darwin area most likely near Mindil Beach, July 1943
W.E. Pidgeon (WEP) at work
Air Force Pool, Darwin
Yesterday I spent some time painting the delightful freshwater pool I wrote you of some time back. To my great satisfaction I had the spot alone for close on 1½ hours when 20 or there about soldiers came roaring down like wolves on the fold. I fled soon after. On the way back saw dozens of wallabies. The poor creatures suffer the fate of rabbits down south – dazzled by car lights they are struck & killed.
The blarsted typing has started again. So farewell for the nonce my love. It’s going to be a great thrill when we meet.
Lot & lots
Bill
Inside, not looking out
Notes:
1
King and Eleanor Watson
2
Tommy O’Dea
3
Clarence Sydney McNulty was Editor in Chief at the Telegraph. He was arrested in early 1943 in an embarrassing situation and gave Police a false name
The scene at Mindil Beach provided an influence for several paintings by Pidgeon throughout the 1950s including The Sun Bathers, which was a finalist in the Sir John Sulman Prize in 1956 and again with The Bathers in 1957. Other versions in the later 1950s introducing the female form based on new wife, Dorothy following Jess’s death in 1953 of a brain tumour), adorned the walls of Wep’s home
Am back again to the old home comforts. There are only 4 correspondents here at the moment, thank heavens. But those at present here are damned voluble – voceriferously arguing the toss on world social system. I’m too weak to join in. The mob down the road had a formal mess last night (as they go once a week) this seemed – or rather did – get away on us all. After beer and sherry – we settled down to some steady gin drinking. Unfortunately liquor has immediate and body shattering effect. Hangovers are pretty shaking in this here territory.
Last two nights have been plenty cold. To my sorry I had taken only 2 blankets with me. One to sleep on & the other to cover me. Not enough – your sweet hubby was always glad to see the dawn as most of the night I just lay and shivered.
This is a bugger of a place to write letters. One cannot continue a line of thought. Willy nilly the conversation about obtrudes.
Haven’t had any letters from you yet. What gibes? Too much social life? Am anticipating one tomorrow. I’ll break down & cry or go plumb “Troppo”.
Sorry to say that I’m too tired to write much tonight. I’d like to be home at the moment lying in my beauto bed reading a thriller-diller. Or just lying, yes? Are you being my good little sweet model wifie? Has Tommy gone north yet?
Lots of love and special juicy kisses. Save ‘em all up for me. No giving any away –
Farewell again. Relapse has hold of me – Pray for my liver my sweet. Tell King2King Watson I got his little note. Is Cyril3Cyril Pearl happy? Are you minding Tony4Tony Pearl & Pussy yet?
Spose I’d better write to the boys.
Am back in D.
no letters!!!!!
in a week!!!!
naughty Jessie
Later edition.
Things have quietened down. One still smashes the noise box, another silently struggles with a game of patience.
James (Jimmy) Frederick Smyth represented Sydney’s Daily Mirror and Truth; William (Bill) Caldbeck-Moore was feature writer for Sydney’s Daily Telegraph; Frank Tierney was correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald; Noel Adams for the Advertiser (Adelaide) see also; Noel Ottaway for Sydney’s Sun newspaper
(This is all very rough I’m saving myself up for the grand effort I on at present here.)
After next week I start on the air force – then may be something on the navy.
Blarsted sandflies are like pneumatic suckers & the mosquitos like blarsted bombers.
More love
Bill
(am feeling plenty sunburnt right now!)
Bill.
Have lost cig. lighter twice.
Have found cig. lighter twice after lapse of two days.
No grilled steak here.
Tea like stewed treacle.
Out of the mouths of babes & sucklings we had large helpings of prunes today.
Many years ago, my intellectual uncle, Cyril Pearl kindly found me an intact copy of Nathaniel Pidgeon’s journal of his experiences as the first city Missionary in Sydney in 1850 or thereabouts. Uncle Cyril was greatly taken by Nathaniel’s graphic descriptions of that pagan rum-sodden citizenry. Somewhere amongst these oozy woozy recollections of the past, I have interpolated a potted history of the Reverend Nathaniel Pidgeon and a couple of examples of his quite unequivocal prose.
Grandpa White’s family speak, not for themselves unfortunately but only through the errant dark and inexact tunnels of my fading memories. There is no point in expecting either sequence or chronological order in these effusions. If I am over-repetitious, it is because I lack a concentrated mind and was at any moment only seeking the immediacy of past feeling fingers.
None of the faces of memory are recollected now, or seem even meaningful. Such experiences as these shadows cast upon me are the purpose for these remembrances of things past and of no great consequence at all.
Most of the reminiscences of Paddington have been written spasmodically over a period of twenty years. True and what is a dream, I cannot tell, now. All the names mentioned are, or were, realities in the social scene. No offence to any was, or is, intended and I do not think that I have libelled or contemned any identifiable person. Some of the old ancient thinking of Paddington may be revived in the memories of old-timers, who may waste a little more of their time in ploughing through its content. Most people wish to identify themselves to their children and in a hesitant and long delayed way, I have attempted to give them some background of at least one side of their parent’s past. I included an extract from my Pidgeon history to help the rather overwhelming emphasis on the White family, who in my own case rightly deserve remembrance and honour. It is sixty years and a little since I began school at Glenmore Road. Memory has now no alluvial offerings – recollections have been submerged under current problems and there is no more to say, Perhaps one day while I stay at 290 Glenmore Road, something of no consequence will surface. –It will please me.
Now after all these years it seems to be very much a sentimental waste of time. An excursion backwards into nostalgic stations which have neither reality or purpose in the present age.
The unfolding tapes of memory sound off as the bones and vapourising odours of an age of smelling salts and the drifting fumes of alcoholic memories.
