‘Why aren’t they at home with your good man?’ Captain Gladys barked at Beryl.
‘…fifty-six…fifty-seven…fifty-eight…’
‘Where’s your Daddy, rosebuds?’ she asked the boys.
‘He’s gone to heaven,’ said Dawgie. A single glistening tear, sliding from a violet eye, melted the heart of Captain Gladys.
‘He’s gone to heaven in a sheep-truck and we’ll never see him again till it comes for us,’ said Augie. ‘And it’s none of your bloody business.’
Captain Gladys, a muscular and practical Christian, would prove a far more effective provider to Beryl and her family than either husband had ever been. Every last benefit was winkled from a grudging State, and, even more important:
Gladys had taken over the petition started by Beryl’s kindly neighbours asking that a nicer and bigger house be provided for the young mother—preferably in another part of Southside.
…
One year after Beryl’s conversion Captain Gladys decided the time had come to introduce Augie and Dawgie to the joys and undoubted benefits of the Southside Corps Sunday School. They took to the experience with boundless energy and much better than ducklings to water. Augie and Dawgie were more than ready to put their strong right arms to the service of the Lord. Sadly, the Sunday School was less than ready for Augie and Dawgie, strong right arms and all. They lasted for two weeks.
On their first week they brought home seventeen songbooks, a tambourine and most of the money from the collection plate. For the next seven days they practised a stirring rendition of ‘When the Roll is Called up Yonder’ in preparation for their second visit.
The second, and final, Sunday morning proved even more fruitful. Mind you, there was less in the collection plate because only half the little soldiers had turned up and three teachers had come down with a nasty ’flu virus. This made it much easier for Augie and Dawgie to march back up Southside Hill waving the Corps’ greatly prized and hand-embroidered Blood & Fire banner. Dawgie bore a large, oval, oak-framed portrait of a bewhiskered and grimly serious General Booth. ‘I reckon he could be our grandad, Mum. It’s a wondrous work of art,’ he said, later. Augie also carried another prize. The best one yet. Resting on his other shoulder, rather like a machine-gun, was a slide trombone.
Not even Captain Gladys Knight could win this one. The mark of any successful officer is knowing when to beat a strategic retreat, and Gladys was certainly a successful officer. Firm action was called for if she wanted to be left with any soldiers to lead. ‘I’ll teach them at home, Beryl. Privately. They’ll not miss out,’ she said. ‘You mark my words, Beryl. One way or another I’ll hammer the word of our Lord into the little…’
I greatly admire the spirit of Captain Gladys and her superhuman efforts to instil a range of goodly and godly values into Beryl’s three sons. Equally I admire the loving and forgiving nature of Beryl herself. Maybe I did my best to emulate both in my parenting and teaching. I fell short of the mark on many occasions. For any number of good reasons—tolerance and economic necessity included—Beryl would never have picked up the television set and hurled it in a fit of exasperated rage in the direction of her sons as once I did. Of course Beryl could never have afforded to pay the penalty I did: replacement of the cursed appliance with, naturally, a more expensive model!
At the very end of the trilogy, Beryl is entertaining Gray Black to a good home-cooked dinner. It may be that Gray is hoping to succeed Messrs Porter and Booth in Beryl’s affections and life. In commenting on her sons, he says:
‘Nuthin’ that a good strong right arm can’t put right, and I’m just the…’
‘Oh, no-no Gray,’ Beryl broke in, softly. ‘That’s not it at all. No way. You know, dear,’ she said to him. ‘I’ve never been able to give my boys all that much, but one thing I can give them plenty of, and it’s the one main thing any child needs—and that’s love!’
‘And food, Mum,’ said William Bramwell Booth. ‘You give us food.’
IX
The job of a mayor does have a few highlights. Very few, really. Most of the necessary work is not newsworthy, seldom noted—but for all that, significantly crucial to the running of a community. Many of the decisions made are less than popular and the reasons behind the making of them seldom understood. If you wish to keep at least a small regard for your person and reputation, don’t raise the rates. I was a little disconcerted one night when I went to the Ohakune Club to enjoy a drink with a few friends. There in the entrance to the club, chalked in bold letters on a blackboard was a simple message: Hang the Mayor. I doubted that the instruction would be carried out on the spot—well, I certainly hoped it wouldn’t—and barged on in and ordered a double whisky.
Before the re-organization of local government in the mid-1980s, many of the old boroughs, cities and counties had more than a few peculiarities. Ohakune was no exception. Top of my list was the cemetery. The town has one of the most beautiful old cemeteries in the whole country. However, it wasn’t in the borough. It was sited just outside the town in the adjacent county, alongside Lakes Reserve—two tiny ponds, really, enclosed by native bush and very lovely—the governance and upkeep of which was also vested in the borough. The wee lakes of the reserve are the southernmost craters of the Pacific Rim of Fire. Ownership of these two properties gave the borough a vote in the county elections. The mayoralty meant I held the rights to the vote as ‘Registered Occupier’ of the cemetery. Quite clearly, the hundreds of other ‘occupiers’ of the place had moved beyond the state where the casting of a vote was possible.
I took full advantage of my status as cemetery occupier. Along with a couple of huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ mates on the staff at the school, we enjoyed quite a few late-night expeditions spotlighting possums and rabbits around the reserve and the magnificent avenue of old trees leading up to the cemetery. None of the permanent ‘occupiers’ ever voiced concern. We actually ranged far and wide in our nocturnal hunting expeditions, until the town clerk had a quiet word with me one day: ‘The cops have said to let you know it wouldn’t look too good if they had to arrest the mayor for poaching.’
I only had myself to blame for the town now having sufficient cops to allow them time to keep an eye on the mayoral relaxation. The town had become woefully unpoliced, particularly during the winter tourist season, and I led a delegation to Wellington to campaign for more cops. We met with then police minister, Ben Couch. I must either have excelled myself in oratory, or taken the poor man by surprise, because after I had finished my heartfelt spiel he leant over to me on the sofa where we were sitting in his office, patted me on the knee and said, ‘There there, boy. Don’t you worry, it’ll be all right.’ My success on this occasion was greeted with great joy by everyone in the community, apart from my two sons and their mates who considered that even one cop in Ohakune was evidence of over-policing.
It isn’t easy for any kid to have a parent in public life. Particularly so in a small town. Particularly so when you only have one parent rearing you. Too many eyes are upon you and your activities. That my two generally coped well is to their credit rather than mine. Robin fell by the wayside only once. Sadly, it was a peccadillo of some significance. At age fourteen, I feel certain it was simply a need to assert himself rather more vigorously than necessary as ‘one of the boys’. Let’s face it, he was the son of a poacher! He led a gang of similarly aged reprobates on a burglary expedition. Oh , what a pity they had to pick my school as target. And oh, what a pity that the principal of that school always got very quick attention from the cops.
Oh, what an even greater pity that he was scheduled to appear in the Ohakune Court on the very day that daddy was due to be sworn in as a Justice of the Peace. The latter event was rescheduled, the miscreants were dealt with by a sympathetic judge—I think rather leniently—and the prime criminal settled to a life, blotless and blameless for many years, excelling academically every year, almost as if in atonement. Poor old Julian, frequently in very minor hot w
ater during those years, would often say to me when I took him to task: ‘Why am I always the one what gets caught?’ generally looking at his brother as he spoke.
It was around this time that they decided, quite rightly, that enough was enough, and they would no longer be photographed with me for newspaper or magazine interviews. The catalyst for this had been a for-television news piece about my life in Ohakune as mayor of the place, principal of the school, solo-parent—and writer. The TV people wanted to have me interact with my boys. What could be nicer than seeing us having lunch together? The fact that we never lunched together was beside the point. Robin never ate lunch, and Julian did his level best to ensure that his lunches at home on school days did not coincide with mine. It took a good four or five ‘takes’ for the cameraman to satisfactorily capture Robin arriving home on his bike for our ‘lunch’. It took even more effort to get Julian to satisfactorily set the table while I stirred a pot of soup. Robin didn’t eat soup—but I made him! We managed a stilted ‘And how was the morning for you, Julian?’ and ‘Is it soccer practice today, Robin? Did you get your shorts out of the dryer?’ All the while slurping soup and smiling. As I say, who could blame them for wanting out of this farce?
On possibly the wettest day in the history of Ohakune, a town well-used to wet days, the Ohakune Carrot was unveiled. The whole of the population of the town and rural hinterland seemed to be in attendance. The ceremony proceeded to the musical accompaniment of the Waimarino Brass Band—all five members of the ensemble doing everything in their power to counter the percussion of the deluge.
To the best of my knowledge, I am one of only two people in the whole world to have unveiled a statue of a giant, ten-metre-tall reinforced fibreglass carrot. The other carrot unveiler? The local member of parliament and soon to be Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Jim Bolger. We performed the task in tandem. The object of our exercise stood solidly and stolidly in front of us, veiled in a patchwork cape of sewn-together heavy-plastic carrot sacks. Until its ceremonial undressing, the carrot would have been the only dry thing in the place. A patchwork cape of carrot sacks is not something to be taken lightly—indeed it possibly weighed in significantly in excess of the joint weight of the unveilers. The logistics of the exercise were significant. A helicopter was required to assist with the unveiling process, hovering in the darkened, looming skies above. At a given signal, the MP and the mayor were to pull on a rope that hung down from somewhere, quite likely from the top of the veggie. As Bolger and Taylor swung on their end of the rope, the chopper was required to do its bit, and whisk the carrot-bag cape off from above…
I had a dream the night before. A dream? A nightmare? I dreamt that while things didn’t quite stuff up, the order of the process reversed and it wasn’t the carrot-bag cape that wafted up into the watery skies, rather it was Jim and me at the end of our rope, off and away, never to be seen again. Hang the mayor, indeed!
Oh, ye of little faith. Everything clock-worked to perfection. The Waimarino Brass Band tootled as loud as they could—but it’s quite a call for a band of five musicians to drown out the drumming of the rain, the roar of a helicopter and the cheering of hundreds of carrot enthusiasts.
There it stood in front of us in all its orange glory. The Giant Carrot. Mr Bolger and I congratulated each other on a job well done, and then, I believe simultaneously, we both spotted the inscription on the carrot. A brief message scrawled in rather shaky black lettering: Wanker it read, with eloquent simplicity. Smiling, I turned to Mr Bolger and said, ‘They’re not talking about me, Jim.’ The best off-the-cuff comment I think I have ever spoken.
The ceremony out of the way, we took off to the Carrot Luncheon. Among the delicacies served was a giant loaf of bread fashioned into the shape of a carrot. That night we all went to the Carrot Ball, where we were entertained by that great old group, The Yandall Sisters.
Life was certainly more than bread and carrots. It was an endless round of meetings, of greetings and very many openings of new ski lodges. I realized my days in local government should be brought to an end when I found myself saying, as I toured another new ski lodge, ‘Oh, what splendid toilets!’ I was also discovering several hitherto unrealized and unappealing behavioural traits in myself. It is easy to become rather too-used to having doors opened for you, getting your own way—and also taking a position for granted. His Worship was getting up himself. Dear God, someone else even had the temerity to stand against me in my third—and final—election to the mayoralty. How dare they? However, the job was not so dear to my heart that I actively campaigned. Let’s face it, the trees growing around the rubbish dump proved I was true to my word. My opponent, a local businessman and member of a well-established local dynasty, certainly campaigned—quite vigorously. It didn’t do him any good. I won, albeit by only five votes.
More to the point, local government was now well into the process of being overhauled, and I had no desire to put my name forward to play a part in governing a much wider district. I had done what I could for this great little town. Development had proceeded; the council buildings had been remodeled; a larger library created. We were a nuclear-free community and, not only that, we had denied use of the borough facilities to either All Blacks or Springboks in 1981—not that either side had expressed any interest in visiting the place, or training or playing there! I had assuredly articulated the needs of this community as often as possible and in as many forums as possible. Often quite strident articulation, it is true. The press had been kind to me, I think because they realized that my sympathies always lay on the side of the reporters, the writers. From time to time I certainly provided them with some good copy in return for them having to report on yet another less-than-gripping council meeting. Certainly the erection of a giant plastic carrot in the town earnt me significant coverage locally, provincially and nationally. I must be honest and admit that my initial lack of enthusiasm for the monster vegetable was well recognized and well documented. In the long run, of course, good political animal that I had become, I was eventually convinced of the truth in the old adage: ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’
Even good political animals deserve to get their fingers burnt when they don’t heed another old adage: ‘When you’ve got nothing to say, keep your bloody mouth shut!’
I provided perfect copy for the reporter from the Wanganui Chronicle at yet another joint authority meeting to promote the great advantages to the wider community of establishing an airport to serve Ohakune, the Waimarino, and the wider mountain tourist area. I shuddered again only recently when I read a report in our local press, a quarter-century later, on just the same subject. They are still reaching no agreement.
But back to my meeting. It was the usual turgid stuff about where to site this damn thing that was unlikely to be established anyway. I came up with what I thought was the perfect suggestion for every good reason, particularly economic. ‘Why not use the main street of Raetihi? It’s certainly fully sealed and it’s long and straight and good and wide. All you’d have to do is raze the buildings up and down both sides. Leave the old Regent Theatre, it’d make a great terminal building…’ My suggestion served to enliven the somnolence of the meeting for a few moments before being deservedly discarded, and, I thought, forgotten. It was only forgotten overnight. I think it got a front-page headline in the Chronicle: Ohakune Mayor suggests… I didn’t visit Raetihi for some time afterwards.
There was one civic responsibility I took very seriously indeed: Anzac Day. A quarter-century ago the observance had not quite grown to its present-day almost pop-culture status. In these rather strange times it seems to be more enthusiastically observed and marked than Waitangi Day—maybe deservedly so. The young turn out in their droves for dawn parades and morning ceremonies. Little kids are even to be seen sporting long-gone great-grandad’s war medals. I’d bet my last dollar those kids’ parents didn’t turn out a generation ago to honour grandad’s efforts while the old bloke was likely still alive and kickin
g—and probably a rather cantankerous old bugger! Over the span of my years as mayor of Ohakune there were still significant numbers of returned servicemen and women from World War II, and even a tiny number who had experienced the horrors of World War I. Services were respectably attended back in the 1980s, but not in the hordes of the righteous we see turning out today.
I dreaded the dawn services most of all. Certainly not because I had to get up early, but quite simply because I knew I had to get through the rest of the day. The hardest of all to endure were when the dawn service for the Waimarino would be held in Ohakune and the Royal New Zealand Navy would turn out. Ohakune, one of the most inland communities in the nation, had an unusual relationship with the navy, who by the nature of their trade had a more natural affinity with the sea than the mountains. The Royal New Zealand Navy had a shore station in Waiouru, HMNZS Irirangi. Somewhere along the line, Ohakune had bestowed the Freedom of the Borough on Irirangi. From time to time, the officers and personnel of Irirangi would exercise their right and parade through Ohakune, generally accompanied by the band of the RNZN. Irirangi would also provide the mayor of the town with an aide, a young officer, whenever required, indeed whenever asked for. They didn’t have to do anything other than turn up and be decorative. I got through three of them during my span of years as mayor. They didn’t last long, I guess because the sea was in their blood and they didn’t relish staying around Waiouru for too long. One plaintive aide once asked, ‘Please give me something to do. Anything.’ I pointed out that there was really nothing at all I could think of for him to do apart from carry my umbrella. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, and grabbed the brolly.
Telling Tales Page 17