Apart from his best-known book, "My Crowded Solitude" which is set in the early 1900s when he returns to Australia and starts a coconut plantation on Cape York, Jack McLaren's other autobiographical book "My Odyssey" is about the nineteen years he spent in the South Seas.
So much of his writing I can relate to, such as when he writes in "My Odyssey": "I had always wanted to go to the Islands. Like many a young man before and since I was intrigued by the idea of palm-shaded, coral-bound lands set in seas blue as sapphires, where promise of Adventure lay always in the middle-distance."
In the same book under the heading "My First Visitor", he tells of how he had set up a trade store in the village of Adele in the Purari Delta in the Gulf of Papua, where "with the unheeding exuberance of youth, I revelled in those first few months at Adele. Apart from the fact that I was thriving financially, I thrilled to the knowledge that I was truly a South Sea trader living in a thatched house among mop-haired, brown-skinned people, several days' sail from the nearest white settlement."
"But there came a time when glamour receded before familiarity ... " when "... all these matters were mere circumstances compared with the loneliness that came over me at times - a terrible, devastating loneliness which made even the temporary companionship of some of my own skin and speech the most desirable thing in the whole world. As the next best thing I made companions of the people who live in books. But for the fact that I had well formed the reading habit, I would never have stayed at Adele so long as I did."
What happens next you can read for yourself:
I, too, was besotted by Joseph Conrad's books, including "Heart of Darkness" and "Almayer's Folly", which were made into movies, but I'm left wondering if my own beloved library will also end up in a furnace.
I have a much-read copy of Jack McLaren's "My Crowded Solitude", but the other one, "My Odyssey", is a little more elusive and only available on ebay from a couple of sellers in the U.K. who charge large sums in postage. Perhaps I wait and see if my friend at Vinnies can find a copy.
P.S. By sheer coincidence after a bit of GOOGLE-ing, I came across this FOR SALE advertisement of the very plantation which Jack McLaren had established in 1911 and which he wrote of in "My Crowded Solitude":
For more on this sale, click here. And, as they say, "... but there's more" here and here.
And, courtesy of my friend Hubert in Cooktown, here's the tree described in the opening lines of "My Crowded Solitude": "On a mighty blaze on a mighty tree are cut two initials and a date. The initials are mine, the date is when I began an eight years' lonely residence among the most backward race of people in the whole of the tropical South Pacific, which is a place where backward peoples abound."
And here's an article from 24 June 1933 in THE WEST AUSTRALIAN of a visit to Jack McLaren by a Veronica Glascock (click here):
"The publication of Jack McLaren's latest book, 'Blood on the Deck,' which was reviewed in 'The West Australian' last Saturday, has wakened memories of one of the most interesting events of my life. We, my husband and I, were living on Thursday Island at the time that Jack McLaren was living in what was afterwards to be his 'Crowded Solitude,' at Cape York, North Queensland. He was growing coconuts and pawpaws and writing for the Sydney 'Bulletin.' One day he came over to Thursday Island for stores and heard that some new people had arrived with half a dozen cases of books, so he called to see us and have a literary talk. He was rather a shy young man, good-looking, very sunburnt, with vivid blue eyes. He had a whimsical way of talking which was very charming. Before leaving us he said: 'Do come over to Cape York and see the house I am building, and my coconut plantation, and stay the weekend. Bring a couple of mattresses and pillows if you want such luxuries.' We promised to go over the next weekend by a launch which was taking out his stores.
Cape York is about twenty-one miles from Thursday Island. We started at midday on the Saturday with our mattresses and pillows. Our launch was called La Ventura. She was bringing back bananas and coconuts. The boat was manned by a halfcaste Malay and a Torres Straits Islander. The engine was too large for the boat and nearly filled the little cabin, so we seated ourselves on the roof. The tradewinds were blowing and for the first few miles it was very beautiful. Suddenly the boat began to pitch and almost stand on end. Some cross-currents from the numerous islands we were passing seemed to be upsetting things. The first great wave filled me with terror. We spent about an hour climbing those awful waves, making very little headway. Cape York seemed very far away. I did not greatly fear drowning, but the number of loathsome sharks which we could see swimming round the boat, suggested a more unpleasant death. After a time we passed into calmer waters, but it took six hours to reach Cape York. We were fearfully sunburnt, and tired out.
Jack McLaren was on the shore to meet us, clad in khaki pants and panama hat. He usually wore only a lava-lava (native form of loin cloth). He welcomed us to his house, which was still in a half-finished state. It consisted of one very large room, and a tiny room, boarded off at the end, with a broad verandah at front and side. First of all our host supplied us with some cream for our painful sunburn. Then we had a rest and a few delicious cups of tea. Afterwards we went out to see his plantation and then went fishing in the bay for supper. That meal was the most enjoyable we have ever eaten. We had fresh fish, yams from McLaren's garden, a damper made by himself, and pawpaws and bananas from his plantation. I was allowed to use the one china cup that the establishment boasted. After the meal we had a long yarn, seated on the verandah, overlooking the moonlit bay, then went to bed. I put my mattress on a rough, homemade bedstead in the tiny room. There were no doors to the house. The full moon shone down on the graceful coconut palms and the restless waves of the bay. It was a wonderful night, too beautiful to sleep. The swish of the palms and the murmur of insect life in the bush made music for me and I lay and listened. Suddenly something touched my face. It was something unwholesome. I called out to the men, who were sleepmg on the floor of the verandah.
'Don't worry,' said McLaren. It's only the flying foxes and bats; they won't hurt you.'
Reassured, I settled down again, and tried to sleep, but the horrid thingss kept swooping in and brushing past my face. Being unable to sleep, I got up and went for a walk under the palms. Suddenly out sprang two dogs, which McLaren kept to guard his place against wandering blacks. They regarded me as an enemy, and went for me. Again I shouted in alarm. My husband sprang up from his bed, and managed to slip through an unfinished part of the verandah, bruising his shins badly. Our host called the dogs off, and, returning to our beds, we once more settled down to rest. Sleep was not for us that night. A fearful noise behind the house brought us from our beds again. We had left some fish in the outhouse, and several wild cats had got in, and the two energetic dogs were once more on the war path. McLaren, in his haste, fell over the dogs. It was a funny sight — wild cats and dogs and men all mixed up with one dim hurricane lamp to lighten the darkness, and one white woman looking on.
Shortly afterwards the sun rose. Feeling rather fed up after the adventures of the night, we decided to get up and have a bath, if such a thing existed in that wild part of Australia. McLaren took us to his bathroom, of which he was very proud. It was just a tiny, three-sided shed, open to the world. After a hasty shower, we wandered round the plantation and ate delicious pawpaws. At breakfast time we had another jolly meal of fish, damper and tea, with bananas for dessert. We spent the rest of the day yarning with onr host. He was not a brilliant talker by any means, but he had a whimsical way, all his own, of telling us about his interesting life of wandering. I asked him if he ever felt lonely.
'You see that post,' he said, pointing to one nearby. 'When I feel a fit of loneliness coming on I put my hat on the top of it and sit down before it and have a good, long talk, and soon feel all right.'
He told us many interesting things about his boyhood; his father had been a missionary, and the great Dr. Paton, of the New Hebrides, had been his godfather. But McLaren was not a missionary type by any means; he ran away from school when quite young to live his own life in his own way. He also told us of his meeting with Beatrice Grimshaw, the noted woman-writer of New Guinea, and many other interesting episodes. He told me that I was the first white woman to visit his home at Cape York, and I shall always feel proud of that.
The day was drawing to a close, and we wished to get back to Thursday Island before dark. The half-caste Malay had our launch ready, and McLaren had packed a huge basket of pawpaws and bananas for me to take home; but I didn't like the idea of facing those awful waves again. I asked Jack McLaren if he knew another way home. He replied: 'If you like to wander down the eoast for about two thousand miles, you'll reach a little place called Sydney. You can take a boat from there. Will that suit you?' So I decided to risk the waves and go straight back to the island, which we were fortunate in reaching in just over three hours.
Our last picture was Jack McLaren standing on the shore, waving farewell and begging us to call again soon. So ended our visit to one of the most charming men and one of the most interesting places that it has been my good fortune to see."
And here's a more recent article from the TORRES NEWS:
