by Gavin Bishop
‘Anything, as long as it’s not too fatty,’ she replied.
I had seen his breakfasts many times before. This morning it was to be one of his favourites — lamb’s fry and bacon. And eggs, of course, and fried bread and home-made tomato sauce. It was good for you, he claimed, when anyone suggested otherwise. ‘Well, the sauce is made from our own tomatoes.’
By mid-morning, every corner of the house was filled with the smells of food. Memories of the fried liver and bacon dallied in the pantry. In the kitchen, they had been ousted by the heady aroma of roasted chicken and lamb — a delicious scent that made your mouth fill with saliva in anticipation. In the coolest part of the house, the bathroom, fruit salads, trifle and jelly were giving off their own delicate veils of smell. And, even though all the windows and the front and back doors had been thrown open to invite the sunny summer’s day inside, other more remote parts of the house had their own smells too. The boys’ bedroom recalled the oranges and peppermint candy that had been devoured at daybreak. In the parents’ bedroom, the air had a tinge of perfume from the bottle that was opened only for something special. And last of all, the grandmother’s bedroom, just off the kitchen. It collected all of the smells in a confusing concoction. If the old lady hadn’t lost her sense of smell, it would have given her a headache. And in that bedroom, lurking beneath the smells of the roast meat, the trifles, fruit salads and the morning’s breakfast, was the illicit smell of sherry. The boys’ father had bought a bottle of Penfold’s Sweet Sherry in Garston. Christmas was the only time of the year the old lady had ‘something to drink’. She had quietly sipped the sweet wine as she sat on her bed with the door closed. She didn’t want the boys to see her drinking. It would be a bad influence.
After dinner at midday, the afternoon grew lazy and fat. A mellow breeze floated across the tops of the willows by the creek and through the back door. The parents sat slumped, unable to move. They had eaten too much. They did it every Christmas and swore they wouldn’t do it again. The boys’ grandmother had gone for a walk down to the gate. BB was in the back yard, playing with his new crane, and Boy lay on his bed reading his new Cole’s Funny Picture Book.
The boys’ father stretched an arm across his full stomach and turned on the radio to get the news. A few moments of static cleared to reveal the final bars of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ sung by the choir of the Wellington Cathedral. Now there was to be a special broadcast from Waiouru by the Prime Minister.
‘Thank goodness Mum’s not here,’ said the boys’ mother. ‘She would hit the radio with her walking stick. She can’t stand Sid Holland.’
‘Ssshhhh!’ said the boys’ father. ‘He’s talking about something that’s happened.’
‘It is with profound regret that I have to announce that a most serious railway accident has occurred to the 3 p.m. express travelling from Wellington to Auckland …’ The broadcast was suddenly swamped by static.
The Prime Minister’s voice came back. ‘The disaster occurred at 10.21 p.m. last night, three-quarters of a mile north of Tangiwai …’ Again static cut in.
‘Barbara! She was on the train to Auckland last night!’
The boys’ mother jumped up and thumped the top of the radio.
The PM came back. ‘As far as can be ascertained, an enormous volume of water swept down the river …’
The PM was gone again.
The boys’ grandmother came through the front door and down the hall.
‘Come and listen to the Prime Minister, Mum,’ called their mother.
‘Over my dead body,’ replied the old lady. ‘I hate his guts!’
‘But Barbara could have been on that train!’
The old woman paused. There was something in her daughter’s voice that said this was serious. Without saying another word, she made her way across the room and lowered herself into a chair near the radio.
As if the radio had cleared its throat, the Prime Minister’s voice came back.
‘This is the most disastrous railway accident in New Zealand’s history … it has been attended by an appalling loss of life.’
The boys’ grandmother drew in a deep breath, half-gulp, half-sob.
‘Some bodies have been recovered fifteen miles from the scene of the disaster. I gravely fear that there is little hope of further persons being rescued alive.’
That was all they heard. The radio delivered a continuous stream of static.
The boys’ father slowly stood up and turned the radio off.
A cool draught from the lake flowed through the front door. The paper lanterns lifted and fell. A rustling ran through the crêpe-paper streamers, and three Christmas cards toppled off the mantelpiece onto the hearth. The warmth of the family’s Christmas was carried out the back door by the cool air, over the paddocks behind the house, to join the memories of Christmases past.
‘I must find out if my sister is all right,’ cried the boys’ mother. ‘I’m going down to the Bells to use their phone.’
‘What good’s that?’ asked the boys’ father. ‘You can’t ring Barbara. They don’t have a phone.’
‘No, but I can send a telegram.’ She took off her apron and headed to the back door.
‘No one will be working today. It’s Christmas Day!’
But she didn’t hear him. She was already hurrying down the gravel path at the side of the house.
The house cooled quickly. The old lady moved from room to room, closing windows and shutting doors. The sky turned grey. It cast a gloomy light, a light that seemed to shrivel the Christmas decorations and leach them of colour. The boys’ father shovelled some coal into the range and pushed the kettle into the centre to boil. When the boys’ mother returned, she came in and sat down without saying a word.
The afternoon dragged on. The three adults drank cup after cup of tea. BB brought his crane inside and played with it on the floor in the hall. A plate of Christmas cake sat untouched on the table beside Boy as he made a drawing with his new coloured pencils of a windmill with outstretched arms.
‘I sent the telegram to the Clarksons next door to where Barbara’s staying.’ The boys’ mother looked at her mother. ‘Just in case Barbara was on that—’ She burst into tears.
BB ran to his mother and buried his head in her lap. His big brother didn’t look up. He was too busy colouring a tiny detail on one of the sails of his windmill. Their mother found a handkerchief up the sleeve of her blouse and blew her nose. Then she took a loud slurp of tea.
‘We’ve done all we can do. We’ll just have to wait,’ said the boys’ father. ‘The Queen’s Christmas Message is on soon.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘It’s the first time one has been delivered from New Zealand.’
‘I don’t care. I just want to hear my sister’s safe.’
Yet another pot of tea was brewed. The boys put on jerseys and went outside to make a hut. The old lady went to her bedroom and closed the door. The boys’ father took a thriller by Carter Brown off a high shelf. Usually the boys’ mother objected to these books, but today she took no notice. She was trying to convince everyone that she was absorbed in an article in the Woman’s Weekly. But her mind was racing, overflowing with ‘what-ifs’. A large blowfly was eyeing the slices of Christmas cake that remained untouched on the table.
At 5.30 the boys’ mother stood up. ‘I’d better get something for the boys’ tea.’ She went to the pantry and took an old carving knife from a drawer. She opened the back door and walked across the yard to the vegetable garden to cut a lettuce to make a salad.
The boys’ father looked up from his book when something caught his eye through the window. He stood up and looked out to see what it was. John Bell was standing talking to his wife. He could see by the way her beaming face lit up the grey afternoon that she was listening to good news. John Bell turned and ran back down the path. The boys’ mother came hurrying inside.
‘She was on the train the night before! She’s sitting in
Auckland, safe and sound.’
The old lady came out of her room, a handkerchief screwed into the palm of her hand. BB came running into the kitchen.
‘Hey Mum, you dropped your lettuce.’
She turned, grabbed both her sons and hugged them to her. She cried until the tears began to wet their hair.
16
THE READER
1954
I GOT BETTER AND BETTER at reading. I read everything and read everywhere. I read over shoulders. I read under arms, on people’s laps and while I was lying on the floor. I read by daylight, by moonlight or by the light of a candle. I read inside, outside, on the train and on the bus.
Sometimes it was hard to read upside down —
Or sideways —
Often, while sprawled on the floor or propped up on the sofa, I read snippets of news in the Southland Times before being whisked away for a ride in BB’s truck or taken to bed for a nap. If I managed to end up back in the same place, hoping to read more of a particular newspaper article, I might find that the paper had already been used to wrap up potato peelings or to light the fire. My head was filled with unfinished stories.
And on top of the pile of stories to be finished was the adventure that poor Ruth Fielding was having. She was still in the clutches of the Gypsy Queen. I had to find out what happened next.
Boy had lost interest. He didn’t want to be seen, especially by his best friend, to be enjoying a book written for girls.
His grandmother had left the book in his bedroom and it remained unopened on the chest of drawers under the window. I was often dumped next to it. How I ached to be able to pull the red wool hard enough to open those big soft pages and continue reading. Ruth and her friends and all those gypsies were alive in there. But they were frozen to the spot, waiting to be given the order to continue their adventure. If only I could start reading the words that would bring them back to life!
Then, one very warm day, everything fell into place. My wish came true.
BB was playing with me in the bedroom when his aunt and uncle from Alexandra arrived for a surprise visit. He jumped up when he heard them talking in the kitchen. He pushed me roughly onto the chest of drawers where the book lay and ran from the room.
One of my feet pressed hard against the pages. The force was enough to push the book open. I could see the words on the broad, creamy pages clearly with my glass eye. But it was the wrong page. The strands of red wool, where the adventure was poised to start, were buried several pages down.
Just as I was beginning to feel sorry for myself, a stiff breeze hurried through the open window and turned a page.
The breeze continued to blow. Another page turned. And another. Until the page opened where the red wool lay.
Chapter Fourteen: Roberto Again.
I started to read. Ruth and the gypsies sprang to life. My foot held the page until I was ready to read the next one. All afternoon the breeze rustled through the book, and I gobbled up the story like a hungry bear coming out of hibernation.
Ruth was taken to a secret gypsy camp on an island in the middle of the lake. And, luckily, Helen was saved by Tom from the rapids. The following night Roberto drugged his grandmother, Queen Zelaya, and helped Ruth escape and return to the Red Mill. The next day, the gypsies left the island hideout and fled to another hiding place.
A week later, Ruth and Helen left for the new term at Briarwood Hall. On the train they heard of a new girl whose wealthy aunt had a fine pearl necklace, worth at least $50,000, stolen by some gypsies. It sounded like the one Ruth had seen in the hands of Queen Zelaya. There was a reward of $5,000 for its return.
Helen’s father visited the girls at Briarwood. He took them out in his car for a drive and happened to pass Roberto the gypsy boy, who was up a tree, knocking down chestnuts. As they watched, he fell and was badly hurt. They took him to a hospital, hoping he would tell them where the gypsies were hiding. But when he gained consciousness, he couldn’t speak.
Roberto’s broken bones gradually mended, and Ruth got him a job as an assistant gardener at Briarwood. She hoped to find where the gypsies had gone and claim the reward for the pearl necklace so she could return the $50 that Uncle Jabez had given her.
One night a candle set light to a curtain. Roberto climbed the fire escape and put the fire out. When Ruth told him she was worried about his burnt hands, Roberto spoke. It was clear he had been fooling everyone.
The girls sent a telegram to Mr Cameron, Helen’s father. He came the next day and took Roberto to New York where he helped the police track down the band of gypsies. The old Gypsy Queen was deported to Bohemia, the pearl necklace was recovered and the $5,000 reward was put into Ruth’s bank account. Roberto gave up his gypsy ways. He cut his hair, removed his earrings, put on a smart grey suit and became an American.
Ruth returned to school just in time for her next adventure.
I lay soaking in the afternoon sun as it streamed through the window. I could hear the excited chattering out in the kitchen. The boys were telling their aunt and uncle about their trip to Queenstown on the Earnslaw. They talked about the bakery where they ate mutton pies and Boston buns. I was not envious of their feast. Teddy bears can’t eat, but I felt as if I had just finished a plate of steak and kidney stew with dumplings, followed by a bowl of steamed pudding and ice cream. Reading a good story filled me up just like a big dinner.
17
OUT IN THE COLD
TWO YEARS ROLLED BY. I noticed BB was also losing interest in me. I was becoming invisible. Each day I vanished a little more from his world. I was left on the end of his bed and did not move from there except for when I was shifted to the chest of drawers or onto the floor each morning when his bed was made.
Then one day I made the move I was not ready for. I was taken to The Trunk, the place I had heard mentioned with dread by some of the other toys. I had seen The Trunk as I passed by with one of the boys, but I had never thought I would ever end up there. The Trunk was the home of unwanted toys. Toys no longer loved, no longer of interest to anyone in the family. As a gesture to the adoration I’d once enjoyed, the boy’s mother wrapped me in an old cot blanket before placing (throwing) me inside.
The family told themselves that The Trunk was a wonderful place, full of wonderful things for little children to play with when they came to visit. Actually, it was a graveyard, a bone house, a dumping ground. If a child ever wondered where old toys went when they were no longer loved, it was here, in the old tin trunk smelling of damp and rust that sat on the front veranda looking over the railway line to the glittering lake surrounded by majestic poplars that turned to gold in the autumn. It sounded idyllic, but it wasn’t. The toys could not see the view. The lid of the trunk was always closed and the interior was dark except for a few rays of light that squeezed through the rust holes. When these faded and disappeared, you knew it was night time.
My position in the trunk was uncomfortable. I was rammed head-first beside Mr Gee, a wind-up doll from the Caribbean whose legs still danced to an old carnival tune that played endlessly in his head. My glorious glass eye stared into Mr Gee’s black face. My button eye was caught in the rigging of Reacher, the battered tin crane BB had got for Christmas some years earlier. On my back sat a box of wooden blocks with the colour chewed off.
Days and nights melted until I could no longer tell how long I had been there. There were times when the rain, beating on the battered lid of the trunk, deafened us with its roar. Or the sun would heat the tin walls until the trunk became an oven. Seasons slipped by without anyone opening the trunk until one day I realised it must be spring. I could smell the lilac blooming by the back gate. That meant the front and back doors of the house were open. And when I heard a voice saying, ‘I had a lovely ride up on the bus, thank you. The driver was very nice,’ I knew it was definitely springtime. The boys’ grandmother had come for a visit.
18
THE NIGHT VISITOR
THAT NIGHT, WELL AFTER the last trickle
of light had faded from the rust holes, I heard a snuffling noise and a scrape of claws on the wooden floor of the veranda. The latch on the trunk squeaked. Someone or something was trying to lift it. It squeaked again, and then made a clunk as it fell back against the lid. I was aware of the trunk being opened but, lying on my face, I couldn’t see who was doing it. Perhaps one of the boys had decided I should be his friend again and my rightful place was in his bed? My heart started beating with excitement.
The box of blocks was pushed off my back and a tiny hand grabbed my blanket. I was tossed into the air. When I landed, I hit the veranda floor and rolled down the steps to the gravel path. I landed on my back and watched with both eyes, glass and button, as a small furry shape reached into the trunk and pulled out Mr Gee. With his feet still sambaing to the salsa beat, he was thrown onto the path as well. Reacher the crane followed, and just missed my head. It collapsed in a jumbled heap.
Board books, a blue flannel dog and one wooden block at a time came next. The din echoed around the garden and through the house. The front door opened and the boys’ father in his pyjamas shone a torch into the trunk.
Sitting in the middle of the remaining toys was a possum. For a moment it was frozen in the light, then it jumped and sprang over the veranda railing, scampered across the lawn and up into the willow trees at the side of the house.
‘What on earth is going on?’ The boys’ grandmother, wrapped in her pink candlewick dressing gown, appeared in the doorway.
‘A beast got into the toy trunk,’ said the boys’ father.
‘I thought you lot didn’t believe in beasts anymore,’ said the old lady. A tiny smile trembled at the corner of her mouth.
‘Well, this one was real all right.’