by Vicky Adin
“That’s a good one of all of us. Everyone’s looking at the camera.” Ben was pleased. “I’d like that one printed.”
“Me too,” Libby agreed. “It’s handy to have photos on the computer when you can see them every day if you want to, but I wonder if they will still be around for our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I mean, look at that photo there of your great-grandparents.”
Libby picked up the framed photo sitting on the Welsh dresser. Daniel and Emma looked back at her with severe faces. No smiles and little connection between them. A static picture of two people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, taken in a studio with a plain backdrop and blurred edges.
“Is that taken from the original in Len’s place?” asked Ben.
“Yes. I took it into a photo shop, and they came back with a negative I could print a new photo from. And that one was worse,” she said, putting the photo back and pointing to another one of Daniel when he was about eighty. “Probably taken twenty years later, so the processes might have been better by then but it was still a tatty photo and small, tucked into the corner of another frame. Now we have good clear black-and-white photos that look aged but are better than the originals.”
“They’ve come out very well,” agreed Ben.
“Digital photography is great, and there is so much you can do with it – or rather the experts can – but I still think it would be awful, with all the modern technology we have, to forget about something solid for future generations. At least with a photo, even badly damaged, you can still get a copy.”
“You do have these backed up, don’t you?” asked Ben.
“Of course. But will digital last forever?”
“Good question. I don’t know. So what you are saying? Do you want to get prints of all of these?”
“A few maybe.”
“Well, get them done if you want to,” said Ben.
“I love this photo,” she said as she studied the picture of Daniel and Emma again. Dressed in dark clothes, they sat formally side by side, the only piece of jewellery a bar brooch pinned where her collar joined. No earrings, a little bit of white lace showing. He wore a dark shirt, a slightly lighter coloured dark tie – badly knotted – a dark waistcoat and a suit jacket.
“With that long, drooping silver moustache of his, it’s hard to see what his mouth is like, but hers is thin and straight,” said Libby.
“Photos certainly tell a story,” said Ben. “Remember the day we called into the old courthouse in Foxton?”
“Yes, I do. I think it’s great they use it as a museum now. I loved looking at all the old photos.”
The walls had been lined with black-and-white photos of times past. There were scenes of bridge-building and drain-digging, of flax workers and buildings long gone, the floods and many other such events that had been part of Daniel’s life staring back at them. Ben had studied the photos of the two bridges built at Whirokino: the wooden one, with a central span so boats could get through, built in 1900, that Daniel would have known, and the trestle bridge built in 1939 after he’d gone.
Libby preferred the photos of prominent families of the time, both the formal ones and the informal, workaday photos. The clothes they wore had struck a chord with her. She tried to imagine what it would have been like to walk and ride in such heavy clothes, or to try and get up and down from a wagon, or do gardening and everyday activities. Another wall showed the many houses in the district.
Thinking about those photos reminded Libby to mention the houses to Ben. “I tell you one thing that’s been bothering me. I can’t find the houses that Daniel and Emma lived in. I read an article in the Manawatu Herald about Charles Adin putting an extension on his house at Whirokino around October 1899, so the men working there would have accommodation. Not sure what work the men were doing. Daniel seems to have been a flax worker for a few years, a drainage contractor for the council for many years, and a farmer. It’s probable the men may have been part of the drain-digging team.”
“I think he ran some sheep to earn a few bob more, but he wasn’t a serious farmer, to my knowledge,” answered Ben.
“Nobody seems to know any longer exactly where the house was either. Then when he applied for his medal he gave his address as Patrick Street. Len said the house was round about where it meets the main road now, known as Windy Flat.”
“Really? I always understood they were down by the bridge. Until much later, nearer the end of his life,” said Ben.
Libby shook her head. “Not so. Rumour tells me the Whirokino house was on Robinson property. Remember those Norfolk pines we saw marking where Herrington had once stood on the way to Foxton Beach? That was Robinson land. Herrington was part of the famous ‘square mile’. Did Robinson own lands down by the bridge too, I wonder?”
“Possibly,” shrugged Ben. “Does it matter?”
The house was long gone, and he couldn’t have owned the land or someone would know about it. The same with Patrick Street – the house there had gone too.
“I suppose I should stop tormenting myself on this one. There are more important things to discover. But I would like to have known what sort of house Emma kept.”
Ben laughed at her. “I couldn’t imagine you living in those times.”
“Nor me. We lead a lazy life in comparison. If I need something from the shops, I jump in the car, race down the road and I’m back before I know it. Emma had to walk everywhere. Probably better for your health, and I bet she was fitter than me, but imagine the time it must have taken to get anything done,” said Libby.
“That’s because women weren’t expected to do anything else other than look after the home and family. There was more time.”
“I doubt it. I do the washing every day with the push of a switch; she had to boil the copper and made a full day of it, once a week at least. You put the dishes in the dishwasher and push a switch; she washed them all by hand, after she’d boiled the water. If I am cold, I can turn on the heater with a push of another switch. In the early years she, more than likely, would have chopped the wood herself. The boys might have done it for her when they were older. Everything must have taken so long and was sheer hard work. And how they did anything in those clothes is beyond belief.”
“The pace of life was much slower then. People were more relaxed and didn’t care how long it took.” Ben put the muffins from the bench into the microwave and pushed the button.
“There were still only so many hours in a day to get things done,” she insisted. “Even putting food on the table day after day had to be a chore. I can pull something out of the freezer, like those muffins. She would’ve done her own baking and walked to the butcher or the markets every day to get fresh food, I suppose.”
“Possibly, though they used to put the butter, milk and cooked meat into the safe. I remember Nana having one,” said Ben. “Built into the shady side of the house with a mesh covering so the colder air could circulate through it.”
“I remember. Yuck. It might have worked a bit in the winter, but I can’t imagine what meat would have been like in there in the summer. I wonder if she made her own butter too, now I think of it.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Something else to look up, I guess.” Libby shrugged a shoulder. “I do wonder if we are any better off these days. What with so many gadgets supposedly giving us more time to do other things, but we worry about everything. How this will harm us? What’s in it? Reading the labels in case there’s something artificial we shouldn’t be having. I bet Emma and Daniel ate fresher and more natural foods in their time than we do now.”
The microwave pinged. “Well, at least they wouldn’t have had to argue with the kids about whether to have a Big Mac or not.” Ben sliced a muffin in half, buttered it, popped one half in his mouth and handed the other half to Libby. “Yum,” he mumbled. “There was no option then. Homemade was it, but these – homemade or not – are still good.”
Libby agreed. “How things have changed.”
Foxton
1910–1913
1910
How things have changed. Daniel pondered the forms lying on the table in front of him. Once, he’d have been happy to have a medal displayed on his uniform. These days he wasn’t at all sure. If his boys hadn’t seen the notice in the paper, he wouldn’t be looking at these forms now.
“Go on, Pa. You must apply. Last chance, they said,” said William.
“And there’s a few bob in it,” said Fred. “A ten-pound bounty an’ all.”
Daniel frowned in concentration. “Read it again, Chas. I’ve read it so many times I’m confused. Explain to me why I should.”
Charles picked up the well-handled newspaper that had been folded open at the page. Already months old, it had been read numerous times and by many people as they talked it through. He scanned the paper and the various cuttings that had been pinned to it with additional information, looking for the relevant bits. “It says the government has decided to allow further claims for the New Zealand War Medal. After stopping applications in 1900, they have been persuaded by the Veterans’ Association to open them up again for a limited time. You have to prove you were under fire.”
“Well, I was,” said Daniel.
“But you have to prove it, Pa. Someone has to say they saw you there, or something. It has to have been before 1870.”
“Which it was. I was finished with it all by then.”
“The Veterans have a petition before government to grant a ten-shilling-a-week pension, without the same rules being applied. But you have to have a medal to get it, and you need to be over sixty-five.”
“Well, I’m that – and more.”
“So, now you need the medal,” said Chas.
“Yes, Pa,” said Fred. “It’s time you stopped working so hard and gave yourself a rest. This extra money will let you do that.”
“He’s right,” said Chas. “And you know it. Go on. Fill out the form and let’s be done with it.”
Emma came in the room carrying a basket of washing. “Hello, my boy.” She gave Chas a hug. “How’s that wife of yours and your little one?”
“They’re fine thanks, Ma. The midwife says Nell is doing real well and has lots of milk, and little Nellie is gaining weight.”
“Good to hear it. Tell Nell I’ll come up to see her in a day or two.”
“Thanks, Ma. Must be off now.”
“Give my regards to the Edlins when you see them next.”
After Chas had gone and the other boys went off to do their chores, Daniel painstakingly completed the form answering all the questions and filling in the boxes. It took him a long time as he contemplated every question, remembering every moment, before he wrote down the barest of detail. His only comment: I now apply at the request of my sons. He signed it off Daniel Adin, late 3rd Waikatos, dated at Foxton this Wednesday, October 26, 1910.
While she folded the washing and boiled the kettle, Emma watched Daniel laboriously writing down his history. When he’d finished he pushed the forms into the middle of the table, got up and sat in the armchair. Laying his head back, he closed his eyes and sighed.
Emma made a pot of tea and poured two cups. Putting one on the table beside his chair, she sat down opposite him.
“You’re doing the right thing, Charlie. The boys are right. We could do with the extra money, but besides that, you deserve it. You did fight for this country, and the boys need to see you acknowledged for it.”
Daniel didn’t move or open his eyes. “I hope to Christ they never have to go to war.”
“So do I. You know my views. Wars are no good to anyone. I’d do anything to prevent any man ever going to war again, if I could. But that’s not the point here.” Emma was insistent.
“What is your point then?”
“I can’t change the past, nor probably the future, but the boys want you to get that medal. They need you to be recognised.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything that was daring. I was just there with all the others at Orakau Pa. Anyone who was under fire can get a medal. I’m not special.”
“I know you think that, but the boys think that was special enough.”
“It scares me, Emma.”
“Me too. But isn’t there a professional army these days? Ordinary people don’t have to fight any more. Not like in your day,” said Emma trying to find something positive to say.
“I was a professional soldier. I joined up when asked. I wasn’t forced to. It was after, when I saw people dying needlessly and fruitlessly, fighting to protect what was theirs, that I doubted my reasons.”
“The boys aren’t soldiers.”
Daniel sat up. “No. They’re not. And hopefully never will be.” He drank his tea while he gathered his thoughts. “Now that Chas is married and with a baby, at least he’ll never be called up.”
“There’s no war on now, why would you even think he might be called up?”
“Because there is always a war on somewhere. There is always someone wanting to fight someone else: for God’s sake, for power, for land, for money. It’s all about greed and race.”
“Shouldn’t we worry about the here and now, rather than what might happen?”
Daniel didn’t respond.
Emma changed the subject. “Speaking of Chas, I must say I like his Nell. She’ll suit him down to the ground.”
“Yeah. She’s all right.”
“Her folks, the Edlins, I like them too.”
“Ted’ll do.” Daniel acknowledged that Nell’s father, Edward Edlin, was a likable sort.
“And naming their firstborn after her mother, another Ellen, and me was nice. Ellen Emma Adin. Nice name. What with her great-grandmother being called Ellen too, our little Nellie is the fourth generation to carry the name. Do you realise she is already ten weeks old? Do you remember what our children were like at that age?”
“No. The babies were your domain. When was she born again?”
“18th of August.”
“I thought it was April.”
Emma tutted and shook her head. “No. That was their wedding. Chas and Nell were married on the 13th of April last year.”
“Oh. Right.” Daniel pulled himself to his feet. “I’m going to the pub.”
* * *
A month later, as arranged, an officer from the Defence Office turned up at the door to take a sworn statement from Daniel. The man asked lots of questions, which Daniel did his best to answer. Names. Dates. Companies. Regiments. Events. Daniel racked his brain to remember. He was sure he could remember every rifle that was fired and every bullet that whipped passed his head, but forty-five or so years later he was having trouble remembering names and dates. The man wrote everything down then read it back to Daniel to be sure he’d got it correctly.
Daniel Sampson Adin sworn saith: I have never had a war medal and have never asked for one before. I received a grant of 50 acres of land in Cambridge, Waikato, for my services with No. 10 Company of the 3rd. Waikatos. I served the time I joined for with them – three years − from 1863. I had joined directly on my arrival in New Zealand. During that time I was three times under fire − twice when on patrol duty. One of those occasions my horse was wounded. The other occasion on which I was under fire was at the taking of Orakau Pah. General Cameron was in command − Captain Blewitt of the 65th Regiment was in charge of our Company. We went with his men. A Bugler of the 65th, Gilligan, and Corporal Armstrong of our Company were killed. No one else wounded that I know of. We were in the rifle pits two nights. The pah was eventually stormed and taken. None of our Officers were with us that I remember. We were handed over to the Imperial Officers on that occasion. The Officers of our Company were Capt. Lloyd, Lieutenant Hamlin and Ensign McCaul. McCaul I know is dead. I don’t know if the others are still alive. A brother of Lieutenant Hamlin’s was Colour Sergeant. I was orderly to Colonel Lyons for about two years after Orakau Pah. I don’t remember what my number was. I have lost all trace o
f any of my mates and do not know if any of them are alive now. I have been in the Foxton District 30 years. I joined the A. C. Force − No. 6 Division − under Major Roberts soon after Von Tempsky was killed (1868?). I went with them on the Urewera expedition after Te Kooti. Our officers were Major Roberts (afterwards Magistrate), Capt. McDonell. I forget the others. Dr. Walker was with us. We had several engagements. First was an ambuscade at the Whakatane Gorge. Ohekerei, our guide was killed. Adamson was shot thro. the wrist − no others were wounded. Coming back we were also fired at from the hills but no general engagement. I got my discharge after serving my time – 3 years or so, – but have lost it.
D S Adin
Patrick Street, Foxton
29th November 1910
Daniel nodded. “Yes. That’s as best I can remember.”
“Very well, Mr Adin. We’ll try and corroborate your story and get back to you with our decision. It could be many months, so don’t expect to hear anything from us soon. We have to locate the people you mention, write to them and wait to hear back before we can confirm your story.”
“I understand.”
“Very good. Now sign here, please, and I’ll be off.”
Daniel saw the man to the door.
“Officious bastard,” he muttered, as he watched his retreating back.
“How did it go?” asked Emma when he entered the kitchen.
“All right. But those fellas annoy me. They think they know everything. He more or less accused me of lying. Said it had to be corroborated. What happens if he can’t? Wish I’d never done it now.”
“Sit down and have a cup of tea. Stop fretting. It’ll be all right. Someone must remember you.”
Daniel’s worries returned in May of the following year when a letter came saying that the commanding officer of the Armed Constabulary unit that Daniel had named, Colonel Roberts, had died. They would now have to search further for other people who might remember Daniel in the midst of the fighting.
Time marched by. More letters came saying that many of the other people the Defence Force had tried to contact didn’t remember or had died; they said it would seem his story could not be corroborated.