by Derek Hansen
‘You should’ve seen your face when we let you out,’ he said.
‘You should’ve seen yours when I said I’d tell Dad.’
‘You were pissing yourself.’
‘So were you. At least I’m the only one who’s gone through the drain on his own. And I’ve done it twice. With the manhole covers on. I did it alone. When you did it you were holding hands with Maxie.’ Holding hands with Maxie. The claim was outrageous but perfect. It turned the tables.
We raced straight down Chamberlain Street to Eric and Maxie’s after we’d tidied up so we could let them know they were off the hook. To see Eric’s face you would’ve thought Santa had walked in the door. Of course Maxie wasn’t there but we knew where to find him. It took all our powers of persuasion to coax him out from under the clubhouse. His cheeks were streaked with tears and his nose was running. We pretended not to notice.
Nowadays people complain that time passes too quickly. It didn’t back then. Every day had its dramas. Friends could become eternal enemies after school but there was still time to become friends again before bedtime. It was the same with beltings. Once you’d been thrashed and said sorry, it was all over. Dad could belt me on Friday night and drive me to soccer on Saturday morning at eight o’clock. Saturday was a clean sheet and Friday was history. That was one of the great things about those days. I honestly believed that was the way the whole world worked and would always work.
That night when I went to bed I was keen to start thinking about my essay. Bedtime is the perfect time. Sometimes in that twilight immediately before dropping off, thoughts and dreams overlap. Dreams don’t have the boundaries and disciplines of thought and are free to fly off into fantasy. The commingling of both can be magical. Often the thought-dreams that would so intrigue me were gone by morning but that didn’t make the process any less enjoyable or worthwhile. Some vestige always remained which would come back to me later and inspire a twist in my tale. But this night, no matter how hard I tried, my essay just wouldn’t lock in. I threw the Catholic kids into the mix and even tried the stricken U-boat scenario. Nothing worked. Mack kept intruding.
Poor old Mack.
I felt as guilty as sin for letting him down. I wished I’d had the courage and the gumption to get off my bike when I saw Captain Biggs coming out of Mack’s front door. With the Captain there, nobody would’ve thought the less of me if I’d stopped. In fact, I’d probably have collected Brownie points. I could’ve gone in to see Mack, commiserate with him and let him know I hadn’t told anybody his secret. In my sleepy, woolly-minded way I thought that if Mack knew his secret was safe his problems would go away and he’d stop belting the bottle.
It’s a funny thing. I couldn’t think about the story I wanted to write but I had no trouble at all thinking about Mack’s. Once again Mack’s encounter with the U-boat rolled through my mind and again I looked for ways of reinterpreting it. I have to say I was pretty good at reinterpreting things. During the course of the evening hanging around with my pals, the whole business in the drain had taken on a note of bravado. I was the only one who’d done the return trip in the drain and I’d done it solo. Never mind the circumstances, never mind that I’d been pissing myself every single step of the way. Somehow we’d parlayed my paralysing fear into raw courage. My pals were complicit in this, so relieved I hadn’t told Dad they would’ve agreed with any interpretation. They were happy to go along with the illusion of my ‘raw courage’ just as they lapped up my comment about Nigel and Maxie holding hands.
Adept as I’d become at bending the truth, I had no luck with Mack. Everything came back to the fact that he’d done the wrong thing by putting his promise to the enemy above his duty. That made him a traitor no matter how I looked at it. Even worse, I suddenly understood that this was how Mack saw himself, no matter how he looked at it. Mack saw himself as a traitor. The realisation was like an arrow through my heart. No wonder he was drinking.
As I lay on my bed in the dark I knew beyond any doubt that I was the only one who could help him. But how? To help Mack I needed help myself. And to get help I had to break my promise and tell someone. It was the same problem I’d faced the night before but it was now more urgent. Who could I tell? Who could I trust? Who could I tell who wouldn’t broadcast Mack’s failure to the world? Once again I ran through the usual suspects and rejected them. As I tottered on the brink of sleep it occurred to me that there was a possibility I’d overlooked. Bobby Holterman’s dad.
Yes!
Bobby Holterman’s dad was a distinct possibility. I hadn’t considered him before because every kid for miles around was scared of him, including me. I’d overheard my mother refer to him as a tyrant. But he had a quality everyone else lacked. I knew for a fact he could keep a secret. There in that wonderful twilight zone between sleep and consciousness Bobby Holterman’s dad seemed the answer to a small boy’s prayer.
Bobby Holterman’s dad was a source of both wonder and fear. The Holtermans lived in Norfolk Street, three streets down from us on the other side of Richmond Road. The house needed a lick of paint but so did many others. Bobby was a fringe pal, someone who joined in our games at school but didn’t figure in them much after school or at weekends. He wasn’t allowed. The only other times I saw him were on club nights. There didn’t seem to be a lot of joy in his household nor too many pennies to spare. If he’d been born in Cumberland rather than Auckland I think he’d have been one of the kids wearing worn shoes in the snow.
Bobby Holterman’s dad was a legend because his Lancaster bomber had been shot down over Germany and he’d spent two years in a prisoner of war camp. That was right up there with an encounter with a U-boat. But Bobby’s dad wouldn’t talk about it. Not likely. Not to his family. Not to Captain Biggs. Not to anyone and definitely not to us. We’d grilled Bobby endlessly to no avail. Mr Holterman seemed the ideal person to confide in. It was an easy conclusion to draw that if he could keep secrets about himself he could keep secrets about Mack.
The war had cost Bobby’s father dearly. Somewhere along the way, getting shot down, baling out or on landing, his left leg had suffered fearful damage. Later in the camp it had been amputated. Bobby’s dad had sailed to England around the beginning of the war to join the RAF. All he’d ever wanted to be was a pilot and there was little opportunity to become one in New Zealand.
I’d only ever been around to Bobby’s place a handful of times and it was usually to see a plastic model plane he’d built or a new toy he’d been given for his birthday. Bobby’s toys never looked used. We played with them but I had to be careful. Bobby warned me and so did his mother. He played in fear, scared of what his dad might do if he broke anything. I have to say Bobby’s mother never made me feel particularly welcome. On hot days she might offer me a glass of cordial but never really did anything that might extend my visit. She always had a worried look about her and when she spoke it was usually only to tell us to be quiet, even though we hardly made any noise. In that household the biggest crime anyone could commit was to wake Bobby’s dad. Bobby’s dad didn’t need much of an excuse to fly off the handle and his rage was fearsome. The first time I heard him go off I dropped the Sherman tank I was playing with and bolted out the door. I even left my treasured Triang jeeps behind. Bobby had to bring them to school the next day to give them back.
I can only guess why Bobby’s dad was the way he was. His hopes and dreams had gone down with his Lancaster. He’d lost all prospect of a peacetime career flying planes the day he lost his leg. The compensation would’ve been meagre. I know his war pension was all they had to live on, and that would’ve amounted to next to nothing. He was also probably in pain a lot of the time. Bobby told me once that his dad was up all hours of the night. I know he’d tried a few artificial legs but hardly ever wore them because they caused ulcers. Instead he’d hobbled about on crutches with one leg of his trousers pinned up. The disparity between the optimism of the eager young man who’d set off for England and the bitterness of the man
who returned could hardly have been greater.
Somehow I’d got the impression that Mr Holterman, who didn’t seem to like anyone much, liked me for some reason. In those days the belief persisted that if you were prepared to like someone they’d like you back. It was a belief fostered at school and in church and sounded fine in principle. One time I’d taken a model of a Fairey Gannet I’d built out of balsa and tissue paper around to Bobby’s for its test flight. (I normally did this in Eric’s backyard but we’d had another argument.) The plane had a propeller, which was powered by a rubber band running the length of the fuselage. Bobby’s backyard was narrow but twice the length of most yards. It seemed the ideal place for a test flight, albeit at half power. I’d spent six weeks building and painting the Gannet so I was pretty apprehensive. The instant it left my hand it banked left and went into a steep dive, only saved from destruction by landing in a patch of parsley. I don’t know what stunned me most, the crash or the sudden burst of laughter from the back veranda. It was Bobby’s dad. I’d never heard him laugh before. I’d seen him smile once or twice during our excruciatingly bad concerts at the Church Army Hall when the rest of the audience had been doubled over by our ineptness, but he’d never actually laughed.
‘Bring it here, son,’ he said. I took him the Gannet even though I was scared of him. It seemed the safest course of action. He told Bobby to go and fetch a razorblade and some of his modelling glue. He altered the setting of the flaps on the trailing edge of the wings and also adjusted the setting of the rudder. He took his time and studied his handiwork as he went. I sat at his feet in awe. Here was a Lancaster pilot working on my Fairey Gannet. It was like having Stirling Moss drop by to tune Dad’s old ’34 Chev. I noticed Bobby’s mum peeking out at us through the kitchen window and I could see she was smiling as well. It was a big day for smiles.
‘Give that a go,’ Bobby’s dad said eventually.
‘Thanks, Mr Holterman,’ I said. I wound the propeller as fast as I could.
‘Let’s just wait and see what happens,’ he cautioned.
I saw Bobby stiffen. Up until then he’d been beaming with pride. It suddenly dawned on me what the consequences might be if the plane crashed. But how could it? Mr Holterman had flown Lancasters. If he couldn’t make a plane fly, who could? I gave the prop a few more winds than I had the first time, felt the increase in resistance against my fingers, and held it ready.
‘Point it slightly downwards when you let go,’ said Mr Holterman.
I tilted the nose down and gently pushed. The plane left my hands and levelled off almost immediately. It flew gloriously straight and true to the end of the yard where it gently dipped into a hydrangea bush.
‘Beauty!’ I screamed. I’d never had a plane fly straight and level before. They almost always ended up banking into the ground. I raced to get it. Bobby was beaming. His mother was beaming. And his dad had a really happy smile on his face. I let Bobby launch the plane next and between us flew it another half a dozen times with the same result. Now it was ready for the real test in the open spaces of Grey Lynn Park. I turned to Mr Holterman, my face flushed by the success.
‘Mr Holterman, will you come down to the park with us?’ I asked. ‘I can fly it from the top of the bank. I reckon it’ll go for miles.’ I’d forgotten about his missing leg and his need for crutches. The sharp intake of breath alongside me alerted me to my stupidity. But Mr Holterman just smiled.
‘Thanks, but no,’ he said. ‘Bobby can be my eyes. He can go with you and tell me all about it later.’
‘Can I really go with him?’ said Bobby eagerly. Here’s the funny thing. Bobby was rarely allowed to go down to the park with us, which was one of the reasons I’d gone around to his home in the first place.
‘Just don’t be late for tea.’
‘Thanks, Mr Holterman,’ I said. I was so overwhelmed I reached out and shook his hand. ‘Thanks for fixing my plane. You turned it into the best one I ever made.’ He smiled again in response. I think he was still feeling pretty pleased with himself. On this flimsy evidence, the fact that Mr Holterman had fixed my plane and smiled, and I’d shaken his hand, I managed to convince myself he liked me.
Now I managed to convince myself he was the ideal person with whom to discuss Mack’s predicament.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The plumber held his left hand out towards me, holding a two-shilling piece between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his right hand around the two-shilling piece and held his fist out to me.
‘All yours,’ he said.
I thought he was challenging me to force open his fist on the basis that if I succeeded I could keep the coin. His fist was jammed tight but two shillings is a big incentive. I levered his fingers apart one by one and…came up empty-handed! I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was no coin in his hand yet I saw him take it. He laughed, repeated the trick but instead of offering his fist to me, held it up to his mouth and blew through it. As he did so he opened his fingers. Nothing! The coin had disappeared into thin air.
AN EXTRACT FROM A THRIFT ESSAY, ‘HOW MY MONEY SAVED MY LIFE’
Saturday was a Mack-free day. It was a day apart from all the rest. Eric, Maxie and most of my pals went off to play rugby while Rodney, Nigel and I went off to play soccer. I hung around after my game to see if Nigel’s team was short and needed an extra player. Nigel hung around to see if Rodney’s team was short for the same reason. It was a rare day when we didn’t get to play two matches. Somewhere nearby Dad would referee a match between two senior teams. If everything worked out we’d all finish up about the same time and go to Blandford Park at the bottom of Grafton Gully to watch two first-division teams play. We’d get home wet and cold but with the day far from done.
First we’d have to face the inquisition if we’d lost or failed to score, stand shivering until it was our turn for the bath, hoping like hell there was enough hot water left and then get dressed for action. On a good night we’d get to go to a movie with our pals, on a bad night we’d get dragged off visiting with Mum and Dad. Mostly we’d end up playing Monopoly or Ludo at home alone with Eric and Maxie for company, swear with rare abandon and listen riveted while Nigel bragged about his latest exploit with the girl down the road. We’d try to stay up as late as we could. Despite our best efforts, by 9.30 our eyelids would be hanging down around our toes. None of us ever had trouble getting to sleep on Saturday nights.
It’s fair to say I’d forgotten all about involving Mr Holterman until I saw him in church. He was easy to spot. He was allowed to sit while everyone else had to kneel. I don’t know whether he attended the church out of spiritual need, out of habit or to accompany Bobby, who had no choice in the matter. Bobby also belonged to the Church of England Boys’ Society and, like the rest of us, if he didn’t attend church on Sunday he wasn’t allowed to go to club the following week. Bobby lived for the club nights. They were almost the only times during the week he was allowed out to play with his pals.
Mr Holterman was a different man around the Church Army than he was at home. He wasn’t a big talker but he used to enjoy listening when the men stood around chatting after the service. Mrs Holterman was also different. She smiled and socialised with the women. Church seemed to bring out the best in her but that might have been because it was one of the few times she was able to relax.
My parents attended church infrequently. Mum got the three of us dressed and packed us off so early we were always among the first there. Of course it was Nigel who explained why. It seemed my parents liked to do what a lot of parents liked to do on a Sunday morning without fear of interruption. I remember feeling horrified when Nigel told me. Suddenly Mum’s giggles when I got up early and took them a cup of tea in bed made sense. So did my Dad’s lack of appreciation.
On the few occasions my parents did come to church, Dad seemed to get on well with Mr Holterman. Dad always had a joke and was always carrying on. He was also prepared to run where angels feared to tread. I caught them once discussing
artificial legs, a subject which, like cancer, was only ever alluded to in the most circumspect way. Yet Dad was openly discussing it. With his toolmaking background, he was seeing if there was any way he could make Mr Holterman’s artificial leg more comfortable. Amazingly, Mr Holterman seemed to appreciate Dad’s interest.
Mack was also at church. I tried to catch his eye but he looked right through me. There was no affront or rebuff intended, he was simply distracted or hung over or both. I think he was there out of a sense of obligation to Captain Biggs or as the result of a promise to him. Mum liked to use the word melancholy and that’s the word that sprung into my mind looking at Mack. If he’d been Eric I would’ve put my arm around his shoulders. If it had been me, Eric would’ve put his arm around mine. I wanted to put my arm around Mack but kids didn’t do that for adults. I did nothing. Mack drifted off home as soon as the service concluded. His plight underscored the need for action.
I hovered around pretending to be occupied until the group of men Mr Holterman was with split up. He was standing alone propped on his crutches waiting for Mrs Holterman to notice he was ready to leave. I walked up to him as tentative as a tightrope walker on a high wire in a stiff breeze.
‘Mr Holterman, can I come and talk to you one day after school?’
‘What about?’ His eyes narrowed, which was usually a warning sign.
‘A secret.’
‘A secret, eh? I know what you’re up to, son. If you want to pump me so you can write another of your essays you’ve got another think coming.’
Mr Holterman knew about my essays? I was stunned.
‘It’s not an essay,’ I said quickly, although just the suggestion of hearing and writing Mr Holterman’s story set my pulse racing. As if it wasn’t racing fast enough already. ‘I want to help someone who’s in trouble. I need someone who can give me advice and also keep a big secret. I promised with God as my witness that I’d never tell anyone.’