Christmas in the Never Never –

Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s Epic Story
of an Australian Bush Christmas

‘There never was such a Christmas as the Christmas on the Elsey Station, and there never will be another like it,’ said ‘The Quiet Stockman from ‘We of the Never Never’ today. Outside of Mrs. Aeneas Gunn’s memorable Australian bush yarn, the stockman is Mr J. McLeod, who has long since given up stock riding and taken to a garage at Angaston, where he was referring to the mighty Christmas dinner described by Mrs Gunn on the Elsey Station. Not many remain today to tell the tale of that great feast out in the bush. In South Australia, they are ‘The Quiet Stockman,’ ‘The Dandy’ (Mr H. Bryant, also of Angaston), and ‘Mine Host’ (Mr T. Pearce, of Aidgate). Mrs. Gunn is in Victoria, and Tip in Pine Creek, ‘Irish Mac,’ 70 years of age, is prospecting for gold.

Cheon, the cook, who served the Christmas sausages without their skins, went back to his native China to die. ‘Scotch Mac’ (Mr. J. McLennan) is dead, ‘Tam O’Shanter’ (Mr. Jack McPhee) died of thirst in the bush, and ‘The Maluka’ (Mr. Gunn) is buried on the Elsey. But the memory of that far-away Christmas dinner in the bush is still fresh to the survivors, and as fragrant as Cheon’s plum pudding with its 48 eggs, its dancing lights, and crown of red mistletoe. Here is the story just as ‘the little Missus’ (Mrs. Gunn) set it down many years ago, when all on the Elsey Station were young and Christmas was Christmas, even out in the big bush: —

At earliest dawn we were awakened by wild, despairing shrieks, and were instinctively groping for our revolvers, when we remembered the fatted fowls and Cheon’s lonely vigil, and, turning out, dressed hastily, realising that Christmas had come and the pullets had sung their last ‘sing-out.’ When we appeared the stars were still dimly shining, but Cheon’s face was as luminous as a full moon, as

greeting each and all of us with a ‘Melly Clisymus,’

he suggested a task for each; and all. Some could see about taking the vealer down from the gallows, six native women were gathered for the plucking of the pullets, while the rest of us were sent out, through wet grass and thicket, into the cold, grey dawn to gather in ‘big mob bough and mistletoe’ for the beautifying of all things. How we worked ! With Cheon at the helm everyone was of necessity enthusiastic. The vealer was quartered in double quick time, and the first fitful rays of sunlight found their way to the creek crossing to light up an advancing forest of boughs and mistletoe clumps that moved forward on nimble legs. In gleaming, rustling procession the forest of green boughs advanced, all crimson-flecked with mistletoe and sunlight, and prostrated itself round us in mighty heaps.- at the head of the homestead thorough fares.

High above the roof rose the greenery, and over the edge of the verandah, throughout its length, hung a deep fringe of green, reaching right down to the ground at the posts, everywhere among the boughs trailed long strands of bright red mistletoe, while within the leafy bower itself, hanging 4ft. deep from the centre of the high roof, one dense, elongated mass of mistletoe swayed gently in the breeze, its heaped up scarlet blossoms clustering about it like a swarm of glorious bees. Cheon interrupted the decorations with a call to ‘Bressfass’. Duck cully and lice,’ he sang boldly, and then followed in a doubtful, hesitating quaver, ‘I think sausage. Must have sausage for Clisymus bressfass.’ He said it emphatically as he ushered us to seats, and we agreed with our usual ‘Of course!’

But we found fried ball of minced collops, which Cheon hastened to explain would have been sausages if only he had the skins to pack them into. ‘Him close up sausage!’ he assured us, but that anxious quaver was back in his voice, and to banish all clouds from his loyal old heart we ate heartily of the collops, declaring they were sausages in all but skins we persuaded him, and, satisfied that we were satisfied, he became all beams once more, and called our attention to the curried duck. The duck discussed he hinted that dinner was the be all and end all of ‘Clisymus.’ and, taking the hint, we sent the preparations merrily forward. Every chair and stool on the run was mustered, two tables were placed end to end beneath that clustering mistletoe, and covered with clean white table cloths — remembering the story of the rags and hobble rings, we refrained from serviettes — the hop beer – was set in canvas water bags to keep it cool and Cheon pointing out that the approach from the kitchen was not all that could be desired, an enormous teut fly was stretched away from the roof of the verandah, extending it halfway to the kitchen, and further greenery was used, decorating it within and without to make it a fitting passageway for the transport of Cheon’s triumphs.

Then Cheon’s kitchen decorations were renewed and added to, and after that further suggestions made and attended to. Everything that could be done was done, and by S o’clock all was ready for Cheon’s triumph, all but our appetites and the time of the day. By 9 o’clock Mac and Tam arrived, and after everything had been sufficiently admired we trooped in a body to the kitchen, obedient to a call from Cheon. Triumph after triumph was displayed, and after listening gravely and graciously to our assurances that already everything was ‘more better’n Pine Creek last year,’ Cheon allowed us a glimpse of the pudding through a cloud of steam, the company standing reverently round the fire trench in a circle, as it bent over the bubbling boiler. Then scuttling away before us like an old hen with a following of chickens, he led the way to the waterbags, and asked our opinion of the hop beer. It looked remarkably still and tranquil, but we hoped for the best, and half an hour later we were back at the waterbags, called thither to decide whether certain little globules were sediment or air bubbles. Being sanguine, we decided in favour of bubbles, and in another half-hour were called back again to the bags to see that the bubbles were bubbles indeed, having dropped in at the kitchen on our wav to give an opinion of veal stuffing and bread sauce, and within another half-hour were peering into the oven to inspect further triumphs of cooking.

Altogether, the morning passed quickly and merrily, any time Cheon left us being spent in making our personal appearance worthy of the feast. Scissors an mirrors were borrowed, and hair cut, and chins shaved, until we feared our Christmas guests would look like convicts. Then the Dandy, producing blacking brushes, boots, that had never seen blacking before, shone like ebony. After that a mighty washing of hands took place, to remove the blacking stain and then the quarters settled down to a general ‘titivation,’ Tam ‘cleaning his nails for Christmas’ amid great applause. By 11 o’clock the Dandy was immaculate, the guests satisfied that they ‘weren’t too dusty,’ while the Maluka in spotless white- relieved with a silk cummerbund and tie, bid fair to outdo the Dandy. Even the Quiet Stockman had succeeded in making a soft white shirt look as though it had been ironed once. And then every native woman being radiant with soap, new dresses, and ribbons, the missus, determined not to be outdone in the ribbons department, appeared in cream washed silk, lace fichu, ribbons, rings, and frivolities — finery, by the way, packed down south for that ‘commodious station home.’

Cheon was enraptured with the appearance of his company and worked and slaved and chuckled in the kitchen as only Cheon could, until at last the critical moment had arrived. “Dinner was Ready”, but an unforeseen difficulty had presented itself. How was it to be announced? Cheon queried, having called the missus to the kitchen for a hasty consultation, for was it wise to puff up the quarters with a chanted summons? A comporise was decided on as the only possible course, after the booming teamster’s bell had summoned the quarters.  Cheon, all in white himself, bustled across to the verandah to call the gentry to dinner by word of mouth. ‘Dinner ! Boss ! Missus !’ he sang — careful to specify his gentry, for not even reflected glory was to be shed over the quarters. Then, moving in and out among the greenery as he put his finishing touches to the table here and there, he glided into the wonders of the Christmas menu :

‘Soo-oup! Chuckie! Ha-am! Roo-oast vealer !’ he chanted.

‘Cauliflower ! Pee-es ! Bee-ene ! Toe-matoes ! (with a regretful ‘tinned’ in parentheses) — ‘Shweet Poo-tay-toes ! Bread sau-cee !’ On and on through mince pieces, sweets, cakes, and fruits went the monotonous chant, the Maluka (Old Man) and the missus standing gravely at attention, until a triumphant paeon of ‘Plum-m-m poo-dian !’ soared upwards as Cheon waddled off through the decorated verandah to his soup tureen. But a sudden, unaccountable shyness had come over the quarters, and as Cheon trundled away, a hurried argument reached our ears of

Sketch – State Library Victoria

‘Go on! You go first!’ or ‘No you!’ ‘Here! None of that’ – and then, after a short subdued scuffle, the Dandy, looking slightly dishevelled, came through the doorway with just the suspicion of shove from behind and the ice being thus broken, the rest of the company came forward in a body, and slipped into whichever seat came handiest. As all of us, with the exception of the Dandy, were Scotch, four of us being ‘Macs’, the Maluka chose our Christmas grace from ‘Bobby Burns’ and quietly and reverently our Scotch hearts listened to those homely words —

Some ha’e meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we ha’e meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

Then came Cheon’s turn, and gradually and cleverly his triumphs were displayed. To begin with, we were served clear soup— just to tickle our palates, the Maluka announced, as Cheon, in a hoarse whisper instructed him to serve ‘little-fellow-helps,’ anxious that none of the keenness should be taken from our appetites. All served, the tureen was whisked away to ensure against further inroads, and then Cheon trundled round the table, removing, the soup plates, inquiring of each guest in turn if he found the soup to his liking, and informing all that girls were on guard in the kitchen, lest the station cats should so far forget themselves as to take an unlawful interest in our dinner. The soup finished, Cheon disappeared into the kitchen regions, to reappear almost immediately at the head of a procession of girls, each of whom carried a ‘piece de resistance’ to the feast — Jimmy’s Nellie leading with the six pullets on one great dish, while Bett Bett brought up the rear with bread sauce.

On through a vista of bough and mistletoe came the triumphs — how glad we were the way had been made more worthy of their progress. The girls, of course, were with them, but we had eyes only for the triumphs. The the triumphs ranged themselves into a semi-circle at the head of the table, our first impulse was to cheer, but, obeying a second impulse, we did something infinitely better, for, as Cheon relieved his grinning waitresses, we assured him collectively and individually and repeatedly that never had anyone seen in Pine Creek so glorious as even the dimmest shadow of this feast. And as we reiterated our assurance, I doubt if any man in all the British Empire was prouder or more justified in his pride than our Cheon.

‘Chruckle !’ he sang, placing the pullets before the Maluka and despatching Jimmy’s Nellie for hot plates. ‘Roast vealer for Mac,’ and as Mac smiled and acknowledged the honor, Rosy was dismissed. ‘Boilee ham’ was allotted to the Dandy, and as Bertie’s Nellie scampered away, Cheon announced other triumphs in turn and in order of merit, each of the company receiving a dish, also in order of merit. Tam-O’Shanter contented himself with the gravy boat, while from the beginning the Quiet Stockman had been honoured with the hop beer. Long before the last waitress was relieved, the carvers were at work, and the company was bubbling over with merriment. ‘Have some veal, chaps!’ the Sanguine Scot said, opening the ball by sticking a carving fork into the great joint, and waving the knife in a general way round the company. The higher the plates were piled the more infectious Cheon’s chuckle became, until nothing short of a national calamity could have checked our flow of spirits. Mishaps only added to our enjoyment and when a bottle of hop beer went off unexpectedly as the ‘Quiet Stockman’ was preparing to open it, and he, with the best intentions in the world planted his thumb over the mouth of the bottle and directed two frothing streams over himself and the company in general, the delight of everyone was unbounded — a delight intensified a hundredfold by Cheon, who, with his last doubt removed, danced and gurgled in the background, chuckling in an ecstasy of joy.

But the plum pudding was yet to come, and only Cheon was worthy to carry it to the feast and as he came through the leafy way, bearing the huge mottled ball as big as a bullock’s head — all ablaze with spirits and dancing light and crowned with mistletoe — it would have been difficult to say which looked the most pleased with itself. Cheon or the pudding, for each seemed wreathed in triumphant smiles. We held our breaths in astonishment, each feeling like the entire ‘Cratchit family’ rolled into one and by the time we had recovered speech, Cheon was soberly carrying one-third of the pudding to the missus. The Maluka had put it aside on a plate to simplify the serving of the pudding, and Cheon, sure that the Maluka could mean such a goodly slice for no one but the missus, had carried it off. There were to be no ‘little-fellow helps’ this time. Cheon saw to that, returning the goodly slice to the Maluka under protest and urging all to return again and again for more.

How he chuckled as we hunted for the ‘luck’ and the ‘wealth’ like a parcel of children, passing round bushmen jokes as we hunted. Undoubtedly our Christmas dinner was a huge success — from a blackfellow’s point of view it was the most sensible thing we whites had ever organised, for half the vealer, another huge pudding, several yards of sweet currant ‘brownie,’ a new pipe apiece, and a few pounds of tobacco and gifts for the children had found their way to the camp and although headaches may have been in the near future, there was never a heartache among them.

All the afternoon we sat and chatted as only bush folk can (bush folk are silent only when in uncongenial society). From discussing ‘learning’ we slipped into ‘courtship’ and marriage, and on into life — life and its problems — and chatting,, agreed that, in spite of, or perhaps because of its many acknowledged disadvantages, the simple, primitive bush life is the sweetest and the best of all — sure that although there may have been more imposing, or less unconventional feasts elsewhere that Christmas day, yet nowhere in all this old round world of ours could there have been a happier, merrier, healthier-hearted gathering.

No one was bored. No one wished himself elsewhere. All were sure of their welcome. All were light-hearted and at ease although no one so far forgot himself as to pour his hop beer into the saucer in a lady’s presence. But enamel cups were no hardships to the bush folk, and besides, nothing inconvenienced us that day — excepting, perhaps, doing justice to further triumphs at afternoon tea and all we had to wish for was the company of Dan and Fizzer. To add to the general comfort, a gentle north-east breeze blew all through the day — besides being what Bett-Bett called a ‘shady’ day, cloudy and cool — and to add to the general rejoicing before we had quite done with ‘Clisy-mus’ an extra mail came in — a mail sent out to us by the ‘courtesy of our officers’ at Katherine seeing some of the packages felt like Christmas. It came to us on the verandah. Two very full mail-bags borne by two very empty boys, and in an incredibly short space of time the situation was reversed. There, were two very full boys, and two very empty mail-bags, for the mail was our delayed mail, and exactly what we wanted and the boys had found all they wanted at Cheon’s hospitable hands.

But even Christmas days must come to an end, and as the sun slipped down to the west; Mad and Tam ‘reckoned it was time to be getting a move on, and as they mounted amid further Christmas wishes, with saddle pouches bursting with offerings from Cheon for ‘Clisymus supper’, a strange feeling of sadness crept in among us, and we wondered where we would all be next Christmas.’ Then our Christmas guests rode out into the forest, taking with them the sick Mac, and as they faded from our sight we knew the memory of that Christmas Day would never fade out of our lives for we bush folk have long memories, and love to rest now and then beside the milestones of the past.

THE MEN OF THE NEVER-NEVER MEET — After more than fifty years the four survivors meet in Adelaide. Messrs. J. McCarthy (‘Irish Mac’), T. Pearce (‘Mine Host’), J. McLeod (‘The Quiet Stockman’), and H. Bryant (‘The Dandy’).