A Paper Inheritance

Image of Dymphna Stella Rees Dymphna Stella Rees is the daughter of writers Leslie Rees and Coralie Clarke Rees and now manages her parents’ literary archive. For many years she was Principal Officer: English and Humanities in the New South Wales vocational education and training sector. During her time in TAFE, she created the first Diploma of Aboriginal Studies and drove other innovations in post-secondary curricula. Dymphna holds a Master’s Degree in Aboriginal Studies and postgraduate diplomas in education and counselling. She is an elected member of AIATSIS (the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies). Dymphna has also been an advocate for families affected by mental illness and has worked as a counsellor with women and children escaping family violence. She lives in the Hunter region of New South Wales and delights in her large family.

Published Works by Leslie Rees and Coralie Clarke Rees

Works by Leslie Rees

Children’s Literature

Digit Dick on the Great Barrier Reef (1943)

Gecko the Lizard Who Lost His Tail (1944)

The Story of Shy the Platypus (1944)

Digit Dick and the Tasmanian Devil (1946)

Karrawingi the Emu (1946)

Sarli the Barrier Reef Turtle (1947)

Mates of the Kurlalong (1948)

Bluecap and Bimbi, Australian Blue Wrens (1948)

Shadow the Rock Wallaby (1949)

Kurri Kurri the Kookaburra (1951)

Digit Dick in Black Swanland (1953)

Two-Thumbs the Koala (1953)

Aroora the Red Kangaroo (1953)

Australian Nature Tales (1956)

Koonawarra the Black Swan (1956)

Wy-lah the Black Cockatoo (1957)

Digit Dick and the Lost Opals (1957)

Russ the Australian Tree-Kangaroo (1964)

Mokee, the White Possum (1973)

The Big Book of Digit Dick (1973)

A Treasury of Australian Nature Stories (1974)

Bluecap and Bimbi, Gecko and Mokee (1975)

Digit Dick and the Magic Jabiru (1981)

Digit Dick and the Zoo Plot (1982)

Billa, the Wombat Who Had a Bad Dream (1988)

The Seagull Who Liked Cricket (1997)

Drama and Theatre

Australian Radio Plays (editor) (1947)

Modern Short Plays (editor) (1951)

Towards an Australian Drama (1953)

Mask and Microphone (editor) (1963)

The Making of Australian Drama (1973)

A History of Australian Drama (1978)

~ Vol. 1 The Making of Australian Drama

~ Vol. 2 Australian Drama in the 1970s

Young Adult Fiction

Quokka Island (1951)

Danger Patrol (1954)

Boy Lost on Tropic Coast (1968)

Panic in the Cattle Country (1974)

Here’s to Shane (1977)

Autobiography

Hold Fast to Dreams: Fifty years in theatre, radio, television and books (1982)

Plays

Sub-Editor’s Room (1937)

Lalor of Eureka (1938)

Mother’s Day (1944)

The Harp in the South ~ with Ruth Park (1949)

Works by Coralie Clarke Rees

Plays

Shielded Eyes (1928)

Wait till We Grow Up (1947)

Poetry

Silent His Wings (1945)

Children’s Literature

What Happened After? Nursery Rhyme Sequels (1972)

Collaborations between Leslie Rees and Coralie Clarke Rees

Adventure Travel

Spinifex Walkabout (1953)

Westward from Cocos (1956)

Coasts of Cape York (1960)

People of the Big Sky Country (1970)

Australia the Big Sky Country (1971)

For my Dear Ones who have gone before – they have shown me the way

and

for my children and grandchildren – this is part of their story, too.

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

– Christina Rossetti

What a reminder to future generations of the significant heartbeats of the past!

– Leslie Rees in a letter to Coralie Clarke Rees

Contents

Prologue

1. My Paper Inheritance

2. Genes Worth Having

3. Mod and Tin Pot Alley

4. The Dawn of Women’s Rights

5. Love Must Wait

6. Letters from the Ship: 1929

7. The Girl He Left Behind

8. Full of Love and Literature

9. Betrothed

10. Luxury and Freedom

11. Seven and Sevenpence, Please

12. Coming Home with Eileen

13. On the Air

14. Searchlights over Sydney

15. Two Writers – One Typewriter

16. My First and Second Mothers

17. Patience Rewarded

18. A Writer for a Father

19. An Outback Explorer

20. Peripatetic Parents

21. Collaborating: A dicey business

22. The Perils of Literary Coupledom

23. Valentine’s Day, 1972

24. Sheer Gallantry of Spirit

25. The Dream Museum

26. Small Volumes

27. A Place in the Sun

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Biographical Timeline

Select Bibliography

Prologue

Shellcove: that place of tender memory and delight. One sunny winter’s day, through circumstances I would not have chosen, I walked right into the setting of my early life. I could not remember the last time – how many decades – since I had been on foot in this part of the world, the geography of my childhood, etched like a Google map upon the landscape of my heart. Neutral Bay slopes down to the harbour from its junction with Military Road. I was born right there, on the corner of Yeo Street and Wycombe Road ‘under a jacaranda tree’, as my mother would wistfully recall. She was always prone to hyperbole.

Shellcove Road forks off to the left several blocks down the hill. There’s an Anglican church called St Augustine’s on the corner. My sister, Megan, and I both went to Mirradong, the nursery school in the basement, and less than thirty years after that we sat in the church above with our father, sharing our frozen disbelief at our mother’s funeral service.

But the road has a more public history. It once had a work of literature named after it: a stage play by Alex Buzo, a satirist, who sent it up as one of the most expensive streets in Sydney. My father thought that a great joke, an absolute irony. He and my mother had lived there for almost thirty years, paying what they described as ‘a peppercorn rent’ for the privilege. They would have hated the idea they might be considered among the plutocrats. To them, any sort of social pretension, any class stratification, was anathema. And their lifestyle was determinedly, brazenly non-materialistic. They’d never had much money anyway. My father had grown up in threadbare poverty and both had lived through two world wars and the Great Depression. They had learnt to live on just enough and, despite that, to create a richly interesting lifestyle.

However, there’s no getting away from it. Shellcove Road is a favoured street. That is because, as you move down to the lower end, the left side of the road fronts that narrow finger of water called Shellcove that fits between the two promontories of Kurraba Point and Cremorne Point on the northern shores of Port Jackson. It is one of the most desirable small bays of Sydney Harbour. The western side of the road boasts gracious homes with formal lawns and plantings while those on the water side have gardens rambling down to a boatshed, jetty or harbour pool. These properties look across the bay to the Cremorne side, which has, from midway down the incline, a bush reserve that stretches down to the rocky shoreline and provides a winding pathway right along to the point, a place that was so much a part of my early world.

Hardly a weekend would pass without taking that bush walk at least once with our father. Along its length is where he taught my sister and me the musical names of trees – angophora, lilly pilly, casuarina – where we learnt about the different banksias and ti-trees, where we watched for small scrub birds and identified their songs. It was here we grew to savour the colour and texture of Hawkesbury sandstone, the feel of the glowing rocks scattered along the shoreline, their small crevices alive with crabs, periwinkles and filmy sea lettuce. Once, but only once, I even took that walk by myself. I was probably only eight when I trundled my doll along its leafy length and as far as the ferry wharf on Cremorne Point. At the small kiosk, I handed up my sixpence for a roll of LifeSavers. On the way back I cautiously eyed several passing strangers who must have hidden their smiles at this small child walking alone, head down, through the filtered afternoon light, pushing an old doll’s pram with a rubbery-limbed faux baby inside.

More than half a century later, here I was, wandering along Shellcove Road, pointing out to my companion the various places that held memories for me: where a school friend would invite me to play; the portico of a Spanish-style mansion where our father, on one of those weekend walks, had ushered us in to shelter from a sudden downpour, much to the surprise of the owner who cautiously opened the front door and gazed suspiciously at a man and two girls dripping onto the quarry tiles. I would like to report that we were invited in for tea and cakes but that did not happen. She surveyed us wordlessly then shut the door firmly in our faces.

Getting to the lower end of the road, our walk brought us to No. 9, the property where I spent my first twenty years. On the face of the sandstone block wall fronting the footpath I was surprised to see a brass plaque. It read, in raised letters:

Coralie Clarke Rees and Leslie Rees, writers, lived at Flat 1, 9 Shellcove Road, from 1937 to 1966 with their daughters Megan and Dymphna. Relaxing in the flats’ harbour swimming pool on Shellcove between typing drafts, Leslie wrote thirty children’s books including the Digit Dick and Shy the Platypus series, and histories of Australian drama. Coralie collaborated on travel books and radio scripts, and wrote Silent His Wings and What Happened After.

North Sydney Council

North Shore Historical Society

The plaque was dated 2003 but until that moment I had no idea of its existence.

Like most kids, I always thought my childhood was ordinary. While I now know that everyone’s beginning is unique, not all families score a historical society plaque on the front fence. AA Milne, the creator of Christopher Robin and Pooh Bear, was emphatic when my mother interviewed him in his study: ‘One writer is enough for any family!’ But we had two in ours. My parents wrote separately for years and then together. Establishing themselves as individual names was hard enough, but then they collaborated on a series of works and found that a dicey business. Nonetheless, they became a power couple – ‘one of Australia’s best known literary partnerships’.

When I was a child they were part of the thriving literary community, which included that lady of letters later to grace our ten-dollar banknote, Mary Gilmore; the novelists Dymphna Cusack, Miles Franklin and Frank Dalby Davison; collaborators Marjorie Barnard and Flora Eldershaw; and the playwrights Betty Roland and Max Afford. There was the poet and literary editor Douglas Stewart; Gwen Meredith, writer of Australia’s longest-running and most popular ABC radio serial, Blue Hills; the critic Tom Inglis Moore; and Pixie O’Harris, a writer as well as an artist. Ruth Park and D’Arcy Niland, another literary duo, were close friends – their older children came to our birthday parties and we went to theirs. Vance and Nettie Palmer in Melbourne appointed themselves our honorary grandparents, and in my parents’ home state of Western Australia Katharine Susannah Prichard, Henrietta Drake-Brockman and Mary Durack remained friends of long standing.

Two of those writers, Miles Franklin and Dymphna Cusack, were to become my literary godmothers, for they bestowed the gift – or burden – of their names upon me. In 1938, Sydney celebrated its sesquicentenary with great pomp and fanfare: a hundred and fifty years since HMS Sirius sailed into Sydney Harbour and planted the English flag on Gadigal land. In response, Dymphna and Miles produced a book they called Pioneers on Parade – a satire that ruthlessly sent up Australia’s colonial past and its reverence for the British aristocracy, which was still clinging to positions of power and authority. At the end of 1940, my parents produced a second daughter and decided to name me after their friend, Dymphna Cusack. Her erstwhile collaborator, Stella Miles Franklin, strenuously objected.

‘Give the child a decent name! Call her Stella.’

So began my life – as Stella Dymphna Clarke Rees.

1

My Paper Inheritance

My mother, Coralie Clarke Rees, was a beautiful and alluring woman. More than that, she was blessed with intellect, vivacity and grace. She used her talents to become an actor, playwright, editor, overseas correspondent, broadcaster, poet, travel writer and intrepid adventurer. She might have reached greater heights in any of these fields had not chance intervened in her young life, demanding of her not gifts but deep wells of courage, dignity and endurance.

My father, despite a rough beginning, had true good fortune. He had buoyant health, prodigious energy and an inquiring mind. But his greatest blessing was finding a partner who could share his passion for literature, theatre, travel and family life – who would be his devoted lover, critic, champion and ‘word friend’. Of course he was talented and determined – even driven. But my mother’s support, belief and generosity of spirit played no small part in the life he devoted to the written word. He started writing as a boy of twelve – an adventure story of finding gold nuggets in the Yukon – and published his last new title, The Seagull Who Liked Cricket, when he was ninety-two and a great-grandfather.

Leslie Rees was a prodigious and versatile writer across genres. He produced journalism, plays, radio documentaries, adventure novels, travel books, autobiography and a tower of literary criticism including four weighty volumes recording the history of Australian drama from its convict days. Most celebrated was his contribution to children’s literature: twenty-six titles, the first appearing in the early 1940s. Many were published again and again in various forms and editions over decades. The most recent versions appeared in 2016 – translated into Russian.

During my childhood, my father enjoyed enormous popularity as a writer of children’s books. He was very well known – and my identity was forged as ‘Leslie Rees’s daughter’. Digit Dick on the Great Barrier Reef, his first book, was a fantasy about a tiny adventurous boy, set on Sunshine Island and in the waters of the Reef with all its colour and life. The book immediately became a bestseller and was quickly followed by another, becoming a series.

My father’s publisher, John Sands, then invited him to try writing stories about Australian indigenous creatures, accurately depicting their life cycle and habitat. Walter Cunningham, a talented artist, would supply the illustrations. There were few Australian children’s books available during World War II and in the period of austerity that followed. Certainly there were no others that celebrated our wild animals and birds – or not without turning them into caricatures of human behaviour. Blinky Bill featured koalas in frilly aprons and referred to them as ‘bears’, while May Gibbs delicately transformed eucalyptus caps into kewpie dolls and banksia cones into bogey men. Most Australian kids were more familiar with animals of the English woods: rabbits, badgers and squirrels. The Wind in the Willows introduced us to otters and moles, while Peter Rabbit might have seemed cute to English children, but in Australia he was an introduced pest to be shot on sight.

Suppressed resentment about this cultural cringe foisted upon the young no doubt led to the reading public’s delight when Shy the Platypus came out of her burrow in 1944. Shy was the first of a series of animal and bird biographies that changed the nature and context of Australian children’s literature and had influence for years to come. Karrawingi the Emu, Sarli the Barrier Reef Turtle, Two-Thumbs the Koala and the other titles that followed went on being read and published throughout last century and into this. Children treasured them; teachers and librarians lapped them up. They were books remembered and loved.

What makes a book endure for decades, even centuries, when the majority of titles have a shelf life of months? What in a book influences people and changes their lives? When Shy, now considered a classic, was republished in 2012 by the National Library of Australia, a man at the launch rose from the audience and spoke – his eyes glistening with tears – of how my father’s books had led to his life as a conservationist and environmental scientist. Writer Jackie French spoke of how, as a child, she borrowed Sarli the Turtle so frequently from the local library it practically fell apart. When growing up in Africa, Mem Fox was sent a copy of Shy the Platypus. In 1990 my father had received a letter from the self-described ‘44-year-old writer of a book called Possum Magic’. Mem Fox went on to write:

Well, I thought you were dead, the hero of my youth, the man who turned me on to books, to reading, to Australia, to writing […] I owe you my love of literature, my present fame, my wish to become a writer – and JOY of JOYS, today I discover that it’s not too late to say thank you – a million times over! Dear Leslie Rees, my eternal gratitude!

Delighted with this letter, my father responded by inviting Mem to a meal at his home – by all accounts a joyous meeting.

What made my father’s books so popular and timely? Was it the scrupulously researched detail depicting native creatures in their own environment? Or was it because all the stories follow a pattern? They are constructed within the arc of the universal life cycle, with its dangers, triumphs, challenges and adventures, so they mirror the trajectories of our own lives. Importantly, they also shadow the dark side: the desecration of habitat through human interference, the ruthless two-legged threat that has led to species’ vulnerabilities and extinctions.

But they do more than that. They shine with engaging narratives and beautiful writing – often lyrical and poetic. Although written for a certain age group, they assume intelligent reading. My father never watered down his vocabulary for children. Nor did he romanticise the bush. But his enchantment with the Australian natural world and its creatures, his awe and reverence for our landscape in its many forms – what he called his ‘intoxicating faith’ – is everywhere apparent.

My mother was also a successful writer, though my father’s reputation tended to overshadow that fact. Her gender was against her, too, as were her time and place. And, unaware, she carried a genetic marker that would have a grievous impact on her work and her quality of life.

Coralie Clarke Rees also showed a versatile talent. As a young woman who had already written and performed in her own play, she established herself as a journalist and editor and went on to create one-act plays, short stories, works for children and a book-length elegiac poem. A scriptwriter over decades, she also collaborated on a series of travel books.

My mother’s style was quite different from my father’s. He was a narrative writer, like a Robert Louis Stevenson tusitala, a teller of tales. My mother’s writing had more psychological depth, with subtlety and sensitivity, though she was also capable of flashes of showy brilliance. I sometimes thought she was the better writer – though of course I never said so.

Towards the end of his life, my father anointed me as manager of their joint literary archive. ‘You’ll have to deal with all this when I’m gone,’ he announced. This meant taking care of their publishing contracts and manuscripts, and protecting the copyright of their works, which continues for seventy years after the creator’s death.

When the time came, I found myself burdened by the impost of this bequest – weighed down by the sort of resentment a person inheriting the family farm might feel. This uncharitable response was heightened by a sudden and painful awareness that my own hourglass was rapidly filling. What about all those elusive possibilities: floating down the rivers of Europe, exploring more Australian deserts, playing my piano instead of just dusting it, devouring all the books I never had time to read, even polishing my own manuscript that loitered under the bed? Instead I found myself the recipient of a diverse literary archive reaching back nearly a hundred years. But I had no idea what riches I would expose.

My most precious discovery was the love letters between my parents in the years 1929, 1930 and 1936. Suddenly I was privy to their early life. I could witness how passionately they loved each other as they explored their dreams of a literary partnership. But finding these letters carried its own dilemma. This was private correspondence. My parents never thought their letters would see the light of day – let alone be read by their future offspring. How could I justify my overriding urge to transcribe them, to bring them out of the darkness of their dusty envelopes and into the light of the twenty-first century, to share them and make them integral to my parents’ story? How could I smother the guilt of a filial voyeur?

The letters were buried in the unmanageably large and disorganised assemblage of paper my parents had amassed over their lifetimes. Books, press cuttings, photographs, manuscripts, radio scripts and notebooks all spilled haphazardly out of bookshelves, drawers and a tower of cardboard cartons. Though my parents had strenuously resisted gratuitous consumerism, it was clear this did not apply to anything containing the written word.

I was tempted to hand the material over to the Mitchell Library in Sydney where my father had already begun the Coralie and Leslie Rees Collection, depositing his correspondence with George Bernard Shaw, Somerset Maugham and other famous writers, along with some of his own memorabilia.

But I was patently not ready to share this collection, let alone give it up. It was my precious link with a lost world.

~

Holding on to my paper inheritance proved to be the right decision. Raking through my parents’ literary archive, I’ve come across jewels of discovery, some that light up my smile for days, others that leave me questioning or digging for answers.

It is true that all writing has its pitfalls, but writing about one’s parents can be truly hazardous. One should be careful not to elevate the dearly departed into sainthood, nor – if from a challenging upbringing – to paint them as unreservedly evil. One has to grapple with finding the right emotional distance to describe what is an intimate relationship. In this work, I have tried to avoid the risks – where possible – by letting my parents tell their own stories.

This book is about Coral and Les, their writing partnership and literary lives. In my authorial role, I’m looking over their shoulders, observing, narrating. For other parts, I’ve transcribed firsthand accounts faithfully from the faded ink on paper so dry and crackly it almost falls apart at a touch. Every biographer and researcher knows that primary sources are gold. And, given that both my mother and my father were highly accomplished wordsmiths, it would be presumptuous of me to assume I could relate their experiences better than they could themselves, particularly the earlier parts of their lives that I did not share.

So their story is told – not by one writer or even two – but by three of us.

2

Genes Worth Having

Coralie Clarke and Leslie Rees had very different childhoods. Leslie’s was such that he couldn’t bring himself to speak or write about it till nearly the end of his life. Coralie, on the other hand, needed no encouragement to reminisce about hers.

The Clarkes were a large, riotous, expressive family who lived in a sprawling Federation home in the suburb of Mt Hawthorn, its wide verandahs overlooking the dusty paddocks towards the small city of Perth. Sylvia and Guildford Clarke (known to their irreverent brood as Syl and Gil) produced six children. Coralie was the first born, arriving an embarrassingly short time after their marriage in 1908. She used to say that position in the family makes a significant difference to one’s experience of growing up, no doubt because in her childhood ‘there was always a baby crying somewhere’. But she was not complaining. The family had great fun together.

It was before television was in every home, even before radio. Words were their currency, music filled the air, laughter shook the walls. Gil sang in a rich baritone, Syl played, and on Sunday nights they would gather about the piano for a singsong, or play pencil and paper games round the kitchen table. There were weekend picnics up in the hills, first in a sulky pulled by ‘that reluctant nag’ Sparkles, then, as the family grew, in a motorbike with an enormous sidecar, four of them crammed inside. When that became overcrowded, they moved to a Model T Ford with a canvas waterbag hanging off the front bumper bar.

The Clarkes adored nicknames, the more cryptic the better. The youngest sister, Roma, was known as Chas (originating from Charlie Pushcart). When they were older the children called their father Bass (short for Bassendean, the Perth train station before Guildford, his real name). I never heard the derivation of my mother’s nickname. Fancy reducing Coralie to Codge! Nor did I hear why two of Sylvia’s sisters, Helen and Rose, were called Toss and Rid. Cousin Beryl bore the unfortunate moniker of Bedge, while another cousin, Margaret, was forever known as Pidgee.

As they grew up, all the Clarke children developed into engaging and eloquent speakers, writers and raconteurs, oozing wit, wordplay and the family hallmark: sardonic humour, preferably self-deprecating.

This was not surprising as Sylvia, their mother, relished language and was a hive of colourful expressions, rhyming slang, acronyms and hyperbole. An uncommon event was ‘rare as Halley’s Comet’, an angry person had ‘thin lips’, a person of inner strength was ‘SUV’ (steel under velvet), and an old person had ‘one foot in the grave and the other on