In Love with Betty the Crow by Robyn Williams

Author:Robyn Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ABC Books
Published: 2016-02-08T00:00:00+00:00

10 Successes

How can you tell?

How hard it is to predict what works. I do something on Saturday, even now, wait until Monday and . . . nothing. It is as if the show never existed. What is wrong? Have I lost any knack I once had? Another day passes. A euphoric note comes from Switzerland, then from New York and Manchester. I postpone suicide. Finally, a bunch of Australians send congratulations. I realise that not everyone is on a hair trigger as the show finally manages to make a mark about its possible worth. You just have to be patient.

But sometimes you know you’ve hit gold, however unlikely the hole in the turf.

In 1979 a round tin arrived from Perth. Its label said Richard St Barbe Baker, recorded by Barrie Oldfield. Barbe Baker, it said, was nearly ninety, had worked at the turn on the twentieth century with Baden Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts. Just what we need now, I thought (it was a rough day) — into the bin.

I then paused and retrieved it. My being thirty-five was no reason to jettison a fellow three times my age (these days there would be no hesitation from the demographic fascists). I opened the 7-inch battered tin and put the pink recording tape on my machine. There was Barbe Baker, out in the bush with the ever-so-polite interviewer Mr Oldfield, talking about planting trees in the desert. He recited a prayer as he re-enacted the ceremony. As I heard the words I also, somehow, heard music at the back of my mind: Vaughan Williams, Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis — the two came together like a charm. I listened to the end — it was half an hour or twice the usual length for an outside contribution. This was looking beyond extreme!

I did some edits, found the music, and put the combination to air the following week. What a response! It was simply incredible. But why?

Well, first, Barbe Baker, even before editing, had that measured, enunciated British elocution that was a joy to listen to. Second, he was talking about marshalling the help of ordinary people like children and grannies to plant trees where they are not supposed to be able to grow in a thousand years, using mulch, stones, even oil residues from the wells nearby — slimy black slurry that’s otherwise vile leftovers to be buried but now was being enlisted to create life. Third, his schemes were clearly working and, despite the evangelism, it was good news indeed. But above all it was emotional, moving. And then I added the Vaughan Williams and many a hard man listening turned to jelly. (The same piece was used by Peter Weir in the film Master and Commander when a seaman is lost [purposely] to the ocean and struggles vainly to survive.) As for the women — the organisation was called Men of the Trees, but only because they are so ancient. Everyone’s welcome.

That day of the broadcast, in Melbourne, a fifteen-year-old boy was listening.

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