I’m not sure that my Greek grandchildren know the word antediluvian or whether they have heard of Methuselah, but they certainly consider me an ancient relic who occasionally tells tall tales and true from the legendary past. And from another land. Of course they are unable to conceive of life or domestic space without screens: even my youngest grandchild, who has just had her first birthday, knows when a Skype call is imminent, and coos accordingly.
Neither can they quite believe that I started life pre-TV. I tell them the stirring tale of the household actually acquiring a TV set, but they become bemused again when I inform them that way back then there were only three channels, and that the viewer had to cross the room to the TV set and use the manual dial.
It seems fairly useless to go on about how we were all in thrall to radio, as differences in time and culture are just too much: I doubt, for example, that the grandchildren would warm to any episode of Dad and Dave in Snake Gully. But radio was an enormous influence in the Australia of 1930 -70. The National Film and Sound Archive’s list of programmes broadcast during that period runs to more than 200 pages, and is studded with many a familiar title. My mother listened to radio serials while she did the housework, and was firm in her opinion of the characters: ‘What a scheming wretch that Delia is!’ And she and Dad listened to a radio play every Sunday night, and to English comedy shows and quiz programmes on other nights. Music was important, too: they once woke me up so that I could listen to the 1812 Overture.
Of course we also had our routines, my sister and I, and homework was fitted in around them. Our parents were teachers, so we were predictably obsessed with Yes What? a popular Australian series about a school fourth form, in which the character Greenbottle, noted for his idiosyncratic lunacy, regularly drove his teacher mad. This show, which lasted only a brisk 12 minutes every time, ran to 520 episodes.
Then there was Lavender Grove, a fairly anodyne series about middle-class suburban life, followed by the detective adventures called No Holiday for Halliday (cue rueful chuckle from our editor?) Last show of the evening for us was When a Girl Marries: for all those who are in love or can remember… This was definitely propaganda for the times: even our mother was wont to intone that ‘All any woman wants is a husband, a home, and a family.’
"It seems to me now, in this age of high-tech super-communication, that my grandchildren are rather deprived. Everything is presented to them in glorious technicolour and perfect stereophonic or quadraphonic sound: where is there room for imagination?"
I consulted a friend, who reminded me of the way things were in those bygone days. He said that he listened to Yes, What? but otherwise maintained that ‘we blokes didn’t listen to those girlie programmes.’ Blokes, then aged about ten, preferred Superman, Biggles, and Captain Marvel. The blokey exception to my listening was Hopalong Cassidy, ‘a knight of the range,’ played by William Boyd, who was considered to have a voice perfect for radio. When Boyd visited Adelaide in 1954, he was mobbed by a crowd of 100,000.
And then there was the Argonauts’ Club, which had a unique place in Australian radio, broadcasting for 28 years from the ABC and relayed via its regional stations. Children from the ages of 7 to 17 could join, and were duly presented with an enamelled badge of the ship Argo, and a membership certificate. They could contribute painting and writing and receive reward points. (I was the enthusiastic contributor known as Hippoclides 35, but never amassed a great number of points or rewards.) The Club had all cultural points covered, and various distinguished people had regular spots. Jeffrey Smart masqueraded as Pheidias and talked about art, Dame Mary Gilmore and A.D. Hope lectured on poetry, while distinguished actor Peter Finch was a guest speaker. There was always a serialised book, and segments on music and natural history: to children in remote areas the broadcasts were a vital part of life, a connection to a wider world.
Many famous Australians were members in childhood. Artist Ken Done and writer and broadcaster Robert Dessaix were members; Barry Humphries was another. His Club name was Ithome 32, which fact makes me feel connected to him, as Mt Ithome is not very far from where I live. Richard Bonynge and Joan Sutherland, later an internationally famous musical couple, were also members. Many people remained loyal to their memories, as I learned when I had to give a talk not too long ago. I had reason to mention the Argonauts’ Club, and people came up to me later, quoting their Club names: one very eminent retired judge said, rather shyly, ‘I’ve still got my badge.’
It seems to me now, in this age of high-tech super-communication, that my grandchildren are rather deprived. Everything is presented to them in glorious technicolour and perfect stereophonic or quadraphonic sound: where is there room for imagination? When we compared notes, the blokey one and I discovered that we had both played at being Hopalong Cassidy in the open spaces near our respective homes. We galloped around with our home-made lariats, our cowboy hats, and our cap guns, yelling ‘Giddyup!’ to Topper at regular intervals. We were Hopalong.
My contemporary enlightened me further. ‘We used to think (well, hope would be closer) that if we wore a cape, shouted Up, up and away,’ stuck our hands out in front of us we’d be able to fly. It didn’t seem to work. Similarly, if we shouted ‘Shazam!’ we’d turn into Captain Marvel. No luck on that one, either.
The matter of no luck didn’t seem important, somehow. I was hooked on the Argonauts’ serialisation of the swashbuckling novel The Children of the New Forest. I didn’t need the then new-fangled Cinemascope. Captain Marryat’s prose and my imagination were enough to turn me into a Cavalier child hiding deep in the forest while the Roundheads swarmed.
But perhaps I’m wrong about my grandchildren’s deprivation. My youngest grandson, who is eight, spent much of his Christmas holidays reading the Harry Potter series. Interestingly, he has never taken to the films. While various forms of chaos (siblings, cousins) erupted around him, he read on, shaken by an occasional laugh. My other grandsons seem addicted to watching sport but, when younger, would also spend hours building ‘aeroplanes’ out of the planks of wood and other bits and pieces lying around outside. They would take to the ‘controls,’ and never seemed to worry that their home-made machines never left the ground. I have to believe that their imaginations did the work.
Gillian Bouras is an expatriate Australian writer who has written several books, stories and articles, many of them dealing with her experiences as an Australian woman in Greece.
Main image: Chris Johnson illustration.