by Vicky Adin
The days were long and the work hard, and after a full meal he could barely keep his eyes open. Tossing his shirt and trousers over the lone chair, he blew out the candle. No sooner had his head hit the pillow than he fell into a dreamless sleep.
1872
The weeks and months slipped by; a whole year passed. During that time Daniel settled in to his own place down at Wiro Kino.
Once a year his sister Elizabeth would write to him with news from home. He was a poor letter writer and rarely sent more than a few lines back, but he liked to receive her letters.
From them he learnt that she had given up teaching and become a full-time companion to Aunt Mary after the death of Uncle John. They now lived at 70 Old Road, Brampton, in Chesterfield, near Brocklehurst Piece. Daniel thought Uncle John must have had some private means, too, since he had left Mary with more than enough money, if Elizabeth was no longer working.
His mother and stepfather, John Winter, had turned their hands to being publicans some ten years since and were now living in Shelton, Newcastle-under-Lyme. They seemed to be thriving. That, at least, was an improvement on working as a slate layer on the railways, which John had been doing when Daniel was a boy, while his ma took in lodgers to help pay the bills. There was little else, other than some general news of what was happening locally, which didn’t interest him. He had his own life here now and didn’t relate to what was going on in the old country.
Whistling as he made his way along the road that morning, he waved out to the flax cutters who had already started work. Poor blighters. The land was a swamp and continually flooded. The men often worked in mud and water up to their knees, getting serial infections and rotten flesh because their feet were always wet. Even contending with the mosquitoes breeding in the swampy land was a trial. At certain times of the year, they found themselves covered in itchy, infected bites to add to their misery. He was far better off in the factory.
Daniel called out to one of the men. “How’s it going?”
“Getting better,” the man yelled back. “Starting to dry out now; should be able to use the wagons this afternoon.”
“Goodo. See yer later then.”
Daniel continued on his way, watching as the cutters swung their sickle-like reap hooks back and forth, back and forth in a continuous motion, or hacked at the flax with machetes. By the end of the day a good worker would have cut up to three or four tons. Further along, another man had stopped his scything to gather his cut flax into bundles.
Cupping his hands to his mouth, Daniel called out, “Looks like a good stand.”
“Yeah, not bad,” replied the man, moving closer. “There’s some good long lengths hereabouts. Makes the cutting easier, I can tell you.” Expertly tying up some bundles with short strips so they could be stacked, he asked, “Would you be able to drag this one over to that stack there for me? Save me one trip – my back is playing up something awful today.”
“Sure thing.” Daniel hopped over the fence and dragged the bundle to the edge of the paddock near the track before continuing on his way. If the ground was too wet to use the horses, the men would have to drag their bundles all the way to the mill. The work was back-breaking and time-consuming, and took them away from the cutting for too long, but today it looked dry enough for the horses to be put to good use.
The stripper made a strange sound that carried a long way. The high-pitched whine, almost a screaming noise, was easily distinguishable from the other factories and signalled it was time to start work. The demand for flax for rope making was high – often outstripping the supply – but the processing was much easier and quicker now, since Charlie Pownall had designed and set up his new machine a year ago. Daniel liked to watch it operate when time allowed. The noise was so great there could be little conversation. Yelled instruction was the best on offer as 750 gallons of water a minute washed over the fibre during the process. The green leaf was beaten between a revolving metal drum and a fixed metal bar. Beaters on the surface of the drum struck the leaf at great speed, stripping away the non-fibrous material and releasing the strands.
“Hey, Chas, where you been? Come give us a hand here,” yelled Tom.
“Just stopped to say g’day to a couple of the cutters,” he shouted, putting his back into lifting the wet fibre, then taking it out to the waiting wagons for moving to the drying paddocks. The tow, as the fibre was called, would be laid out in the sun to dry and bleach. Once dried, the scutchers took out all the short fibres and polished up the flax between two wooden surfaces to give a smooth finish. The processed tow could then be pressed into bales and tied with flax ropes for transport to market. Each man had his own role in the process.
Outside, the noise was less so the men could talk as they worked. “Maisy tells me Harry’s pa, old man Proctor, has a horse for sale. Want to come with me after work and see if it’s any good. I’m sick of walking all the time.”
“Sure, lad, I’ll go with you, but you know more about horses than me.” Tom removed his cap and wiped his brow.
“That’s as may be, but you can spot when someone’s pulling the wool.”
After his shift, often as not, Daniel could be found sitting in the sun learning from old Hemi how to strip the flax by hand using a mussel shell. The process was much slower. One machine could produce about a quarter of a ton of fibre per day, whereas hand stripping would produce around two or three pounds, but the old Maori still preferred to do it by hand, never mind how long it took.
“You people are all in too much of a rush,” said Hemi as he sat stripping a piece of flax between his hands. “We’ve always used flax. The skill has been handed down through the whakapapa – down through the generations. Slow it might be, but I can make something much softer and finer than that fancy, noisy machine of yours.”
“Can you show me how?” asked Daniel.
“Get the edge of the shell, like this.” Hemi picked up the shell and showed Daniel how to hold it, resting the flax leaf on a piece of wood. “Now push down, long and hard, and keep doing it until you only have the strands left.”
“So how do you make this stuff into something useful?” asked Daniel, fingering the stripped fibres.
“Not me – wahine, the women,” answered Hemi. “Weaving is the essence of our spiritual souls. There are many legends about flax, how and when it should be collected and how to process it. Weaving it into fabric for our bedding, clothes, for kete, rourou, our kahu and lining our whares, our maraes.”
“What are those things? What did you say – kiti? Ruru? And what was the other word?”
“A kete is a carry basket, rourou is a basket for food and a kahu is a cloak,” Hemi explained.
“Why are there so many superstitions about flax collecting?” asked Daniel. “It grows wild. What’s so special about it?”
“We do things the old ways. Nothing like what you do. You pakeha are laying bare the land without care. You will regret it, let me tell you,” said Hemi.
“What would you do, then?”
“Not harvest it in the rain, for starters. It’ll rot. And always put the trimmings and waste back on the plant to feed it and encourage it to grow again. Everything taken must be given back to Papatuanuku, the earth mother.”
Daniel found the arguments interesting, but now the flax industry had arrived, only the most modern methods would provide the work and the rewards.
He rose to his feet and stretched. “Thanks, Hemi. Gotta go now. Off to buy me a horse.”
Chapter Eight
Foxton
1873–1875
“So what do you reckon about all this lot, then?” asked Daniel.
“Dunno.” Tom sounded irritated.
“Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Yep. They are.”
The talk of the town was the official opening of the new Foxton wharf tram terminus, linking with Palmerston North. Daniel, in rolled-up shirtsleeves and braces, stood with Tom a little way from the crowds on a slight rise. Both m
en held the same pose – one hand in a pocket, a cigarette in the other. Their hands moved simultaneously back and forth bringing the cigarette to their lips and blowing smoke rings out as they watched the little ceremony taking place below them.
The bands marched to and fro playing stirring tunes, pennants and flags flew from every pole, and picnic blankets and hampers were laid out under every available tree, seeking shade. The ladies wore their Sunday best and newest bonnets, while the men discarded their hot jackets as soon as they could. Children skipped and ran around, laughing at the smallest thing, as only children can do.
Daniel tried to draw Tom into conversation. “Things should move faster now the government’s taken over the port an’ all. It’s taken away all them arguments over who’s going to control it. The new wharf’ll make it easier. It has to bring more people and more trade.”
Tom remained silent.
Daniel persisted. “I’ve got me a gut feeling, now Palmerston North’s become a town, Foxton’ll get pushed aside – never mind it’s a major road and rail junction. You’ll see.”
Still Tom remained silent.
“What do you reckon that lot are saying down there?”
The mayor, cabinet ministers and officials, along with the captains of industry in their throat-choking neckties and heavy coats, were busy patting themselves on the back, mopping their brows in the summer sunshine.
The bustling flax industry had grown rapidly over the last few years. In good years the fibre reached the heady price of £35, or even up to £40 a ton. Employment was steady, and the demand for rope increased daily. One after another, new mills opened, some with bigger and better stripping machines, some with only one or two strippers. All of them added to the booming township, each one providing work for twenty or more men. Acres and acres of drying paddocks and rows and rows of tow could be seen hanging over specially erected fences or spread on the ground outside the mills to dry. It was the mark of a flax town.
But Tom and Daniel were not enjoying the day as much as they could have. A few months back the market had taken a sudden turn, and prices slumped to an all-time low. It had been a great shock when several of the mills closed, including the Pownall mill. People were out of work all over town, and even Daniel and Tom were laid off. They had gone out and got drunk, hoping it would all be different in the morning. But it wasn’t. Fortunately, they soon found work again: Daniel with Captain Robinson, digging drains; Tom, on the railways.
Nevertheless, the town was still prospering, and today it was celebrating. It was almost time to cut the ribbon. While the recently opened tramway had been touted as the future of the town, the new wharf was considered a major step forward in making the transportation of goods to Wellington via the coastal route quicker and easier. From there it would be shipped on either to Australia, London or North America.
Daniel and Tom couldn’t hear all the words spoken from where they stood, but the body language said it all. A group of young boys waited, clustered around the entrance to the wharf, to be let onto its length to cast a line and try to catch something for their dinner.
When Tom spoke, his voice sounded angry. “They’ll be all puffed up, spouting forth something along the lines of how wonderful it will be for the community blah, blah, blah, and how much we have to thank the government and the big bosses for, blah blah. I’d thank them if they gave me more money in my pay. Instead, they spend it on making bigger profits for themselves.” Tom threw his cigarette to the ground, twisting his foot over it.
“Yeah, but if they don’t make the profit, they won’t have any money to employ people like us. We’d be sunk without them.”
“Maybe so, but all of this is for the rich folk, not workers like us. It ain’t no better for us than back home,” snarled Tom.
“Rubbish! It’s heaps better, and you know it. We got lots of work with fresh food aplenty. And the freedom to go anywhere and do what we like.”
“You might – I don’t.”
Daniel accepted Tom’s situation wasn’t good. “That’s as may be. But this is home now. It’s up to us to make what we can of it. What’s wrong wi’ yer today?”
“Dunno – just thinking. Missus is expecting again. Did ya know?”
“No, I didn’t, but Tom, that’s wonderful.”
“Don’t know as I want another kid. Five is enough for any man. But the house is too small. It’s only got the three rooms. I’ve a need to build an extra room on or something. The boys are getting too old now to be sharing with their sisters, and I don’t want any more in our room.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you. So will the blokes at the mill,” offered Daniel.
“Help isn’t the problem. Don’t you understand? I don’t have the money.”
Without another word Tom turned and walked away to join his wife and children on the green. Daniel watched, wondering what he could do to help. Life isn’t so good for everyone after all.
The pleasure of the day had gone for him. Deep in thought, he wandered away from the festivities to where his horse was tethered. He’d been pleased with his purchase last year and would tell Jock Proctor so next time he saw him.
As he let his horse wander aimlessly along a hill track, the trees and bush around him thronged with song. He enjoyed listening to the bird songs – strange and exotic birds to him, they were nothing like those he’d encountered back home. To begin with he’d found the sound of the bush disturbing. Not any more. Over time he’d learnt their strange names, such as kereru, tui, piwakawaka and the wet-loving pukeko. The prettiest song of all came from the bellbird.
Following the curve of the riverbank, he spied two mates from the mill sitting on the bank fishing. “G’day,” he called. “Fancy some company?”
George and Dick waved a welcome as Daniel eased his horse down the slope to where they sat. Once he’d unsaddled and tethered her so she wouldn’t wander, he sat beside the two men. “How’s the fishing?”
“Pretty good. Enough for supper tonight, any road,” answered Dick.
“Nice to get away for a while,” added George. “Things are changing too fast for me. I liked the old ways. I like it up ’ere where there’s peace and quiet to hear the birds. You have to come this far to hear them these days. Away from all the noise what’s chasing them away. If it ain’t the mill, it’s the railway or the quarry or something. Life’s got too noisy.”
“Maybe,” said Dick, “but we need better roads if Foxton’s to prosper.”
“I suppose so,” George grudgingly admitted. “Dr Ross were telling me last winter that at times, in some of the worst places where he tried to get to sick people, the mud were as deep as his horse’s girth. Often he couldn’t get through at all. That can’t be good.”
Daniel was keen on the bush tracks, like the one he had followed, but many were being cut back to make larger roads. Small quarried and crushed stones known as ‘loose metal’ were being laid along some of the larger and more important roads, making travel by horse-drawn vehicles much easier. “I admit many are being too ruthless in clearing the land,” he said. “Burning off the bush and scrub can’t be good husbandry in the long run, but the flax trade’s still growing again, despite the downturn last year.”
“But the flax is getting further and further away from the mill,” added Dick. “And it takes too long to get to it. I mean, they’ve even got shifts of men constantly clearing channels to drain the swamp to make it easier.”
“Don’t I know it,” Daniel said, swatting his neck. “At least there are fewer of these flaming mosquitoes. I hate them. They’re a real pain in the neck. They were so bad last year even the papers got in on the act, telling people how to light fires from rotting vegetation at their front and back doors to keep them at bay. Didn’t seem to make much difference. There was no getting away from them. Even the animals were bit.”
“What’s that got to do with the roads?” asked Dick.
“Nothing, I suppose. I was just thinking how much better it all is w
ith the swamp drained,” answered Daniel with a grin. “Now the railway has replaced that clunky old tram, we won’t be finding the old wooden tracks up in the trees any more with a bit of luck. And we’ll have less floods.”
“We’ll see,” muttered George. “We’ll see. You can’t control nature. If the floods are coming, nothing will stop them. Bog land is bog land, and that’s that.”
With no answer to George’s gloomy outlook, Daniel sat listening for the sounds of the birds.
“Got one,” shouted Dick. “Quick, grab the net.”
“Here take this.”
George handed his rod to Daniel and went to help Dick land his trout.
An afternoon of fishing had given him time to think, and he had an idea for helping Tom. He’d talk to the boys as soon as he got the chance. A little piwakawaka darted and dived around him before flying away over his head. He looked skyward to watch its flight, hearing the call of the grey duck further upstream. Life was still pretty good after all, he reckoned.
* * *
“Go, ye devil. Go, go, go,” yelled Daniel, jumping up and down on the spot as the horses flashed past him along the straight. The noise was deafening. Above the thunder of hooves the roar of the crowd reached a crescendo. Straining to see the winning line past the heads of the crowd in front of him, Daniel peered through the haze of sand that lifted and swirled in the breeze, kicked up by the horses’ hooves.
John Proctor slapped him on the back. “See. Wha’d I tell ya? That nag has good blood. And after running up and down them sand dunes down at the beach, he’s as fit as a fiddle. Nothin’ll stop him now.”
“Thanks, Jock. You were right again.”
George, Dick, Amos and John’s son, Harry, gathered round Daniel, their voices rich with enthusiasm.
“Great choice, Pa,” said Harry.
“Yeah, Mr Proctor. Thanks fer yer help and all,” echoed George.
“You were right, Charlie,” said Amos. “This is a fun way of raising some money. I have to say, I did wonder if you were feeling right in the head the day you suggested it. You know, how we could get some money together to buy off-cuts from the mill to help Tom build his extra room an’ all.”