Billy and Old Smoko

by Jack Lasenby

  “There what’d I say I’m not wasting good food on that boy just for him to shove it under the lino from now on he can go without maybe that’ll teach him.”

  She bolted into Billy’s room, turned it upside down, and galloped out, waving his mother’s book. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “It’s my homework book,” said Billy.

  “Why’s it hidden under your pillow?”

  “It’s got all my spelling and tables. I sleep with it under my pillow so I learn them while I’m asleep,” It was lucky, Billy thought to himself, that his stepmother couldn’t read. “And it’s got the stories I tell you at bedtime,” he said because his real mother had told him he must always tell the truth.

  “A likely story you’ve always got an answer off pat for everything I don’t believe you not for a minute!”

  His evil stepmother was so busy sniffing, searching, and prying, she forgot to make him read the New Zealand Herald aloud and tell them a bedtime story, and she went to bed where she twitched and tossed and turned, not getting a wink of sleep all night, and making sure Billy’s dad didn’t get one either. Every time he started snoring, she elbow jolted him till his ribs rang bim-bam, ding-dong, ting-a-ling like a peal of bells.

  Excited at the thought of finding his real mother, Billy went to bed hungry. Then from somewhere far away he smelled good things to eat. He followed his nose out of bed, out the window, down the side of the house, through a hole in the hedge, across the paddock, under the fence, into the orchard, and between the apple trees to where Old Smoko stood with a shovel stuck in the ground.

  “I let out a bit of steam,” said Old Smoko, “knowing that you would smell it and follow your nose. Do not go sticking it into the ground. It will get burnt!”

  “But that’s where the lovely smell’s coming from.”

  “You know those two fat pigs that waddled right into the shed and gave us cheek during milking?” said Old Smoko.

  “I’ve been thinking of them hanging from the rafters in the cowshed,” said Billy. “I’d like to roast them, but my stepmother’s on the rampage. Every time Dad starts snoring, she jabs his ribs with her elbow till they ring, bim-bam, ding-dong, ting-a-ling like a peal of bells.”

  Old Smoko handed him a shovel. “I heard her screech and knew we would be unable to use the stove, so I put down a hangi.”

  “But we haven’t got any hangi stones. My stepmother made me throw them in the river.”

  “Where there is a will,” said Old Smoko, “there is a way!”

  Instead of stones, he had used some bits of railway line, cut-offs left over when Billy’s dad built a new cattle stop. They held the heat well.

  Together, Billy and Old Smoko opened the hangi, shovelling away the dirt, lifting off the sacks and cabbage leaves, uncovering the baskets of pork and vegetables on top of the bits of railway line that were still hot. “I feel like Bo Bo!” said Billy, burning his fingers on the steaming meat and sticking them into his mouth.

  “Pork tastes beaut, hangied,” he said “but there’s something missing.”

  “It makes a change,” Old Smoko agreed, “but hangis steam tucker, they don’t roast it, so there isn’t any crackling.”

  “Does that mean before Captain Cook hooked up New Zealand, there was no crackling?” Billy asked.

  “Before Captain Cook, there were no Captain Cookers.”

  While Old Smoko started slicing the bread to make sandwiches for tomorrow, Billy tiptoed into the house and looked at his real mother’s old School Journals in their cardboard folder. He found the copy he wanted, slipped it out from under the string, and tiptoed through the kitchen, stopping with one foot off the floor, as he heard his dad get another jolt in the ribs.

  “How dare you snore!” Billy’s stepmother told him when he stopped ringing. “While I can’t get a wink of sleep myself.…”

  “I’m sorry, dear. Please don’t hit me again. No! No!”

  Balancing on one foot, Billy listened to his father’s ribs go bim-bam, ding-dong, ting-a-ling, waited about five minutes, then put his other foot down on the floor again and took a step towards the back door.

  “Who’s out there stop at once stick your hands up above your head or I’ll shoot!” cried his wicked stepmother.

  “I was just getting myself a drink of water,” said Billy.

  “Don’t be so selfish bring me one too.” Billy took his stepmother a glass of water, then his father wanted one. “No water for you,” she told him, “or you’ll be getting up all night to pee and waking me and it’s not even as if I’ve got to sleep yet oh why I even bother I don’t know can I smell oil of wintergreen?”

  Billy had to go back to bed, climb out the window, and follow his nose again before he could rejoin Old Smoko out by their fire under the shelter belt and read him the myth of “Perseus and the Gorgon”.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Why Maggie Pined at Johnny Bryce, What Billy Saw in the Reflection of the Reflection, and Why He Felt His Toes Start to Warm Up Again.

  Billy finished reading the story of “Perseus and the Gorgon” and closed the School Journal.

  “It appears,” said Old Smoko, “that all you have to do is to pour the liniment on the mirror while your wicked stepmother is looking into it.”

  “But –”

  “But what?”

  “But what if I see her reflection?”

  “Easy! Just remember to look at what you are doing in the lid of the milkpowder tin.”

  “Would you like to do it, instead of me?”

  “Who ever heard of a horse being a hero?” asked Old Smoko. “Not only are you going to bring back your own real mother, but you are going to win the undying admiration of all the other kids for bringing back their mothers as well.”

  “But what if I’m turned to stone?”

  “Kia toa!” said Old Smoko. “Think of Harrietta Wilson.…”

  “I’m thinking hard of Harrietta,” said Billy.

  They buttered the bread Old Smoko had sliced, made hangied pork sandwiches without crackling, and talked over their plan again.

  “I just hope the echo’s right,” Billy said.

  At the Morrinsville corner, in the morning, everyone sat under the yellow A.A. sign, and Old Smoko and Billy handed round hangied pork sandwiches for breakfast.

  “Harrietta’s story gave us an idea,” Billy said. “What the wicked queen said to her mirror.”

  Johnny Bryce sniffed, and Harrietta looked at Billy, blue eyes shining.

  “The stuff about the mirror,” he said, “it fits with a myth in the School Journal about a boy called Perseus, a piece of advice my real mother gave me in a letter, and something an echo told me and Old Smoko.”

  “There’s a myth about a nymph called Echo,” said Maggie. “She fell in love with Narcissus, but he was too busy looking at his own reflection in the water.”

  “He must have been a mirror kisser,” grunted Johnny Bryce.

  Maggie grinned. She liked Johnny even if he did grunt and pretend to be tough. “Echo pined away with love, growing thinner and thinner till she disappeared and only her voice was left. That’s who’s calling when we hear an echo.”

  “Echoes?” said Johnny. “Myths? Mirrors? Reflections? If my father hadn’t gone lackadaisical, he’d say you’re letting your imagination run away with you again.…”

  Maggie stared at Johnny as if pining away with love for him. “… run away with you again.…” she echoed. Harrietta giggled and started everyone laughing.

  Johnny blushed and grunted, “Where’s our crackling, I’d like to know?”

  “We hangied the pigs last night,” said Billy. “That’s why there’s no crackling on the pork today.”

  “I miss my mum,” said the little boy. He sounded as if he was pining away, so everyone felt sorry for him.

  “If Billy succeeds, all your real mothers will be home tonight,” said Old Smoko. “And Billy will be a hero!”

  “What if he doesn’t suc
ceed?” asked Johnny Bryce.

  “Then he will be turned to stone.”

  “Are you going to cut off Medusa the Gorgon’s head with a curved sword?” asked Maggie, who knew by heart most of the myths and legends in the School Journal.

  “I’m going to tip oil of wintergreen over her reflection,” said Billy. “Witches hate it, so the Gorgon will, too.”

  “Our stepmother hates the stuff!” everyone said. “She can’t stand the stink.”

  “But it’s different to Perseus,” Maggie said. “You’ve got to avoid looking at the reflection in the mirror.”

  “I’m going to do it while I’m looking at her reflection in the mirror in the reflection in the lid off a milkpowder tin.”

  “Sounds pretty tricky to me,” said Johnny Bryce. “If you get turned to stone, can I have your sticking knife?”

  Billy swallowed loudly, and Maggie looked at Johnny and went, “Tsk!”

  “But is my real mum really coming home?” asked the little boy, his voice going very high which everyone knew meant he was near crying.

  “We’re doing our best,” Old Smoko told him. “But things can always go wrong.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny Bryce said. “People can get turned to stone.”

  “Are you letting your imagination run away with you?” Harrietta asked him, and Johnny was silent. The big kids climbed back on Old Smoko and pulled up the little kids behind them, and they rode to school. Nobody spoke. The Rotorua Express came whistling through from Morrinsville, saw them sitting silent in a row on Old Smoko’s back, and was so surprised it ran off the rails, and the stationmaster said, “It’s all the fault of the school bus.”

  On the way home, in the afternoon, Old Smoko stopped at the turnoff again and handed around a pikau full of hangied pork sandwiches for their tea.

  “Pity about the crackling,” said Johnny Bryce.

  “Thanks, Old Smoko,” said June Williams, taking hers. “As soon as the real Mrs Strap gets home, I bet she’ll put on her old All Black jersey and give Mr Strap a hiding.”

  “Poor, Mr Strap,” everyone said.

  Harrietta moved over beside Billy and said, “You watch out you’re not turned to stone.”

  “She’ll be right!” Billy said nonchalantly, a word he’d always liked since he’d first heard the prime minister say it on the wireless.

  Everyone stood and watched in silence as Old Smoko carried Billy and the Bryce kids away.

  Going around Griffiths’ corner, Billy looked back and saw Harrietta still standing at the turn-off, waving. He knew he mustn’t wave back or Johnny Bryce would say something, but he did put his hand above his head and give it a sort of flap or two. Nonchalantly.

  “What are you doing waving your hand around?” Johnny asked.

  “Just scratching the back of my head.”

  “Looked to me as if you were trying to see what it feels like when you’re turned to stone,” said Johnny. “Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  Old Smoko pig-jumped, and Johnny fell off. “Walk home,” Old Smoko told him, “and be grateful for my forbearance. I have wrung the necks of dog-scoffing boar pigs for lesser impertinences.”

  Lynda Bryce hung on behind Billy and said nothing all the way till they dropped her at Bryces’ gate. “I’m going to tell on you,” she told Old Smoko.

  “Who will you tell?” he asked. “Your wicked stepmother? Your lackadaisical father? Billy is going to risk being turned to stone, so that your real mother can come home, and all you Bryce kids can think of doing is telling on us and asking for his sticking knife. Talk of base ingratitude!”

  But, “Wahh!” Lynda was already bawling and running back to meet Johnny.

  That evening, Billy pulled out the cork and splashed oil of wintergreen on his stepmother’s mirror as she was looking at herself. Unfortunately, because he was looking at her reflection in the reflection in the lid off the milk powder tin, he got a bit mixed up, and the first splash went all over her.

  “Faugh!”

  Nonchalantly, Billy splashed it again and, this time, got it on the mirror.

  “Crawk! Crawk! Crawk!”

  In the reflection in the lid off the milk powder tin, Billy looked at the reflection in the mirror: fat round cheeks that sprouted bristles – writhing yellow snakes for hair – snub-nose – bulging blood-shot eyes – lolling tongue – tusks and grinders.

  Billy was so scared, he dropped the lid. He was a bit slow closing his eyes, caught just a glimpse of the tiniest bit of the reflection in the mirror, and felt his toes start turning to stone. He knelt on the floor, groped for the lid, held it up in front of his eyes, opened them, looked at the reflection of the reflection in the mirror, and saw something turning into a huge wild sow. Its enormous hindquarters just squeezed through the back door. It smashed the back gate, cannoned off the macrocarpa, careered down the hill, torpedoed across the Waihou River, and was joined by twelve other enormous wild sows.

  Shrieking like old-fashioned air raid sirens, the coven of thirteen monsters spread in a line from south to north. Lightning scribbled across the purple sky and thunder shook the Kaimais. As Billy watched, the enormous wild sows turned into gigantic four-legged witches, their knees bending outwards, as they plodded like nodding towers across the Waikato towards Auckland. Each witch stood several hundred feet tall.

  Forked lightning as jagged as barbed wire struck them so their arms jerked straight out from their shoulders, their hands dangled, and their flesh burned to ashes and blew away with a smell like singeing bristles. Their skinny skeletons were left glowing red-hot against the dark sky. Thunder shook like an earthquake. Billy heard rain hiss and sizzle as the skeletons cooled and turned to steel.

  “They remind me of something,” Old Smoko said, but Billy was bending down and feeling the stony tips of his toes warm up as they turned to flesh again.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Why Billy and Old Smoko Had Nightmares, What the Electricity Department Did With the Skinny Skeletons, and How They Knew Mrs Strap Was Not a Gorgon.

  Old Smoko pulled the konaki with Billy and a couple of shovels up the front paddock, and called down the hole in the ground, “Stand clear! We’re going to dig you out.”

  “Stand up, dear! They’re going to dig us out!” the echo replied.

  The first person to climb out was Billy’s real mother. “You’ve grown taller!” she said, then she kissed him and asked if he’d been behaving himself while she’d been away, then cried and kissed him again and said, “Did you miss me?” Billy was scared she might pick him up and give him a cuddle. He wouldn’t have minded it, but not in front of Old Smoko.

  “I started school and went up a couple of classes,” Billy said and felt his voice do something funny. “Heroes don’t cry!” he told himself, but he held his mother’s hand and rubbed his face against her and smelt her, and saw that she had one leg slightly longer than the other. “It is you!” His voice wobbled again, and he looked around in case anyone was watching.

  “That’s Old Smoko,” he said a little loudly to his mother. “He takes me to school.”

  “I’m not deaf, dear. I remember Old Smoko. If I didn’t know I was imagining things, I’d say he was digging with that spade.”

  “It’s not a spade,” said Billy. “It’s a shovel.”

  “Thank goodness! For a moment, I thought he was digging.” Billy was so pleased to hear his real mother speaking with proper punctuation, he didn’t worry about what she meant.

  As she hugged and squeezed him all over, making sure all his parts were there, Old Smoko helped Johnny and Lynda Bryce’s real mother out of the hole. Then came June Williams’s, then Harrietta’s, then Peggy Turia’s real stepmother, then the real mother of the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement, the Tarapipis’, the Ellerys’, the Rawiris’, and the rest of them.

  Without even stopping to thank Old Smoko, they swam the Waihou and ran home. The last to climb out was the real Mrs Strap.

  “If that husband of mine’s been dressin
g up in my old All Black jersey, I’ll give him what for!” She puffed smoke from her nostrils, did a racing dive across the river, and hurdled the fences towards Waharoa.

  “Poor Mr Strap,” said Old Smoko, but he was talking to himself. Billy’s mother was already halfway down the paddock, piggybacking Billy home. “They might have waited for me,” Old Smoko murmured and followed with the konaki. Behind him, the mad scientist stuck her head out of the hole, climbed out, swam the river, and ran towards Auckland crying, “Revenge! Revenge!”

  By the time Old Smoko got down to the house, Billy’s dad had a dog collar around his neck and was chained to the kennel under the big macrocarpa. “And I don’t want to hear another word from you!” Billy’s mother was telling him.

  Using vinegar and yellow soap, she scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom. She dragged everything off her bed, threw it over the fence, doused it with kerosene, and threw a match on it. She emptied the wardrobe and flung all the clothes on the bonfire. Old Smoko looked out through the darkness, and saw twelve other bonfires burning across the district below.

  Every now and again Billy’s real mum stuck her head out the door and screeched towards the dog kennel. “And I don’t ever want to hear that woman’s name mentioned in my house, or you’ll catch it!”

  Old Smoko took inside a couple of fat sows he’d caught and singed, and Billy’s mother slashed the skin for crackling and popped them in the oven. Tea was pretty late, but both Billy and Old Smoko told Billy’s real mum it was the best roast pork and crackling with apple sauce they’d ever eaten.

  She smiled and said, “If you’ve still got any room, there’s an apple pie and rhubarb crumble and golden syrup pudding with trifle, pavlova, and hundreds of thousands for afters.” They had it with fresh cream from that night’s milking and, since it was a special occasion, Billy’s real mum also cooked some fried scones and poured golden syrup over them because Old Smoko said that was his favourite after roast pork.

  When they couldn’t eat any more, Billy showed his real mum his list of interesting natural phenomena, and she read them aloud and said, “They’re real interesting, dear!” Then she said it was high time they were all in bed, and Billy asked if Old Smoko could sleep in his bed, too, and told her how he had helped him against the wicked stepmother.