by Jack Lasenby
“Pheasants don’t leave footprints.”
I went to say something else, but Mum shook her head.
“Nor rabbits,” she said. “Nor hares. Nor pooks. From now on, you’re to keep your eyes skinned. I don’t want to dig the spuds yet; they’re not really ready, and they won’t keep if we dig them too soon. But bandicooting can bring on the blight, and then you don’t get any potatoes at all.”
“We’ll have a look, every time we go up to move the steers,” we promised. We’ll ride around and have a look at the spuds, Mum.”
“What if they’re doing it at night?” Mum asked. “Mr Wilson lost a whole paddockful one night, during the Depression.”
“How?”
“A gang of men without jobs dug them up, bagged them, and got away with the spuds on Mr Wilson’s own pack-horses. Somebody said they muffled their hoofs with sacks. ‘Four and twenty horsemen, riding through the dark.’ A lot of hard-up people in Waharoa had a bag of spuds leaning against their back door next morning.”
“Did the police catch them?”
“Spuds are spuds.”
“What about the sacks?”
“Everyone’s got heaps of old sacks lying about in their sheds.”
“And the tracks?” asked Kate.
“There were always lots of hoof marks around. There were more horses in those days, of course; not many people had cars in the Thirties.”
“It must have been fun during the Depression,” said Jimmy.
“It was pretty miserable for a lot of people. You used to see swaggers on the road every day, looking for jobs, or just mooching along for something to do.”
“Maybe it’s a swagger, the one who’s pinching our spuds!”
“You don’t see any swaggers these days. They’d be called up, or manpowered into jobs.”
“Billy Kemp’s cousin, Flora, was manpowered into the ammunition factory over at Hamilton,” I said.
“Well, somebody’s got to do the work, now the men are overseas.”
“Maybe the swagger eating our potatoes is a woman!” said Betty.
“I told you, there’s no swaggers these days. No,” Mum said thoughtfully. “I think it’s somebody closer to home.” We glanced at each other. Did she still think we were pinching the spuds? She had some cranky ideas at times.
We kept an eye on the spuds, but the bandicooting didn’t stop. Mum got so annoyed, one Saturday night she gave us our tea early, and we all went up to the potato paddock to keep watch for a couple of hours. We hid in the loose hay of an old stack, half of one left over from when we had the cows. The steers hadn’t been able to get at it because it was fenced off in a corner of the potato paddock.
“We won’t stay late,” Mum said. “But you never know, we might just spot whoever it is.” We looked at each other and grinned. Hiding in a haystack was the best cranky idea Mum had come up with yet!
The outside of the hay was grey and felt too soft, as if it had started rotting. Further in, it seemed to be lighter-coloured and smelt like summer as we burrowed. Jimmy and Betty went to sleep at once. Blue lay with his head on my foot. I listened to Mum and Kate talking quietly, and must have fallen asleep, too.
I heard Blue barking in my sleep. By the time I woke, he was chasing something down the creek, shadows that were there one minute, and gone the next. Mum whistled him in, and he came back growling at being called off. I remember hearing everyone’s voices, and must have gone back to sleep again. Next time I woke, the sky was clear, and it was cold, Kate was tugging my shoulder, and Mum was saying, “We should have gone home hours ago!”
I struggled up out of the hay. Jimmy and Betty wouldn’t wake, so Mum and Kate piggy-backed them. Getting home seemed to take ages. I kept tripping as I followed the white tip on Blue’s tail past the shed and up to the house. Then we were inside and tumbling into bed.
Old Rosie woke me with her mooing. She wouldn’t stop till I milked her, so I dragged myself out with the bucket. Back in the kitchen, Mum and Kate said they’d gone to sleep last night, too, and were wakened by Blue’s barking.
“I thought I saw something.”
“You did,” said Mum.
“Was it the spud thief?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter. He won’t be back after that.”
“Why not?”
“Blue gave him a good hurry along. I heard him yelp, so he must have got a couple of nips as he ran. And Blue thrashed one of his dogs as well.”
Jimmy and Betty bounced up and down. “Why didn’t you tell us? Can we go and sleep in the hay again?”
“Did you see his face?”
“It wasn’t light enough for that. But I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea who our bandicoot is.” Mum wouldn’t say any more.
We had a few feeds of new potatoes, white and clear-skinned. The first couple of times, they were all we wanted to eat for tea, boiled and fresh-tasting. Mum cooked them with mint, and she let us put a bit of butter on them.
Then the leaves started turning yellow, the stalks opened up, and the skin didn’t come off the spuds when we rubbed them. Mum said they’d keep now. We went along the rows with forks, and dug and bagged them, dragged the full sacks on to the konaki, and Old Pomp pulled them to the barn. We must have dug spuds for about two weeks before they were all lifted and under cover. Mum was pleased when it rained heavily as we put away the last load.
“We got a much heavier crop than I expected,” she said. “And we dug them at just the right time, before the rain.”
“What does the rain do?”
“It can start new growth, then they go all mushy, and won’t keep.”
We made gobbling and swallowing noises till Mum threatened to crack us over our skulls. But we grinned. It felt good, knowing we had enough stored to take us through the winter. And we forgot about whoever had bandicooted a few of our new potatoes.
16
Wanting to Run
It was colder, getting up in the mornings. Once there was enough milk in it, I curled my bare feet around the bucket and shoved as close as I could get into Rosie’s side. I reckon you could sleep warm, up against a cow on a frosty night, so long as she didn’t roll over and squash you.
It was getting colder, too, riding Old Pomp to school. His breath steamed white, and we puffed ours and said we were leaving contrails behind the Lancaster as we flew into Waharoa each morning. Billy Kemp’s Messerschmitt 109 had trouble with icing up, and we shot him down three days in a row, before he went back to being a captured Spitfire. When we shot him down a couple more times, he changed to a Hurricane. Then he turned into a De Havilland Mosquito and shot us down from miles away. He downed us every morning for about a week till we fitted heavier cannons in the rear turret, and Billy Kemp didn’t know what hit him.
“You’re not playing fair,” he said and flew out of sight.
“Come back and we’ll play fair!” Jimmy called after him.
“It’s okay,” said Kate. “He can’t stay away for long.”
Then, one Saturday, Mum said we were to take some spuds along to old Mick O’Halloran. “Heaven alone knows what he lives on in winter,” she said. “You’d think he’d put in a few vegies round his old whare, but there’s not even so much as a scrap of silver beet growing!”
“Maybe Mr Orr gives him some. He lets him get his water from the cowshed,” said Kate.
Mum nodded. “A length of spouting along the back of his roof, and he could collect all the water he needs for six months, in one good shower. Not that he ever looks as if he uses much.
“Anyway, you can split a sack of spuds into two bags, put the pack-saddle on Old Pomp, and take them along to Mr O’Halloran’s. It won’t do you any harm to walk that far. You can fold the sacks over the hooks and ride home, but be careful not to get yourselves hung up. And don’t go near his dirty old whare, whatever you do. He won’t ask you inside anyway, but the place is bound to be hopping with fleas.”
&
nbsp; Kate showed me how to put on the pack-saddle and the breeching. We loaded one half-sack of spuds, but the girth wasn’t tight enough, the saddle slipped round under Old Pomp’s belly, and we had to take everything off and start all over again. Old Pomp stood till we got it right, with half a sackload on each side, then he looked round at us and showed the whites of his eyes.
“It’s okay, we’re not going to climb on top of the spuds,” Kate told him and stroked his neck the way he liked it. Old Pomp rubbed his nose against her, and blew through it.
We followed the track through the short grass beside the road. It was easier for Old Pomp, we told each other, besides you got stone bruises, walking on the metalled road.
A couple of pukekos stalked amongst the reeds past Kemps’ corner. “Pooks walk funny,” said Jimmy. “As if their heads are on the wrong end.”
“That’s why they fly backwards,” Betty told him.
Jimmy thought a moment and said, “Mick O’Halloran lives on pooks he shoots.”
“And rabbits and hares,” said Betty. “And pheasants, and ducks. Mum says he’s an old poacher.”
“Mr Kemp won’t let him shoot on his place, but Billy reckons he does it all the same.”
“Mick O’Halloran’s too cunning for everyone,” I told them. “Boy Rawiri says his father reckons Old Mick knows where every chook in the district lays its eggs, and helps himself when he feels like it.”
We came to the depot where the farmers dropped off their cans of milk. A truck backed into the stand as we passed; the driver climbed on the back and grinned and winked at us, as he spun and clanged the empty cans from the milkpowder factory in Waharoa. We watched for a while, then remembered Old Pomp.
Half a mile on, the road went past an unpainted, one-roomed whare, its weatherboards cracked and dry, and grey lichen covering the southern wall towards the road. Down both sides and across the back, the section was lined by tall lawsonianas. Everyone we knew liked climbing lawsonianas and sliding down their branches, but nobody ever climbed those ones.
Chained beside rusty forty-four gallon drums, two mongrel dogs set up a yammering. The Taranaki gate lay, a tangle of wire and battens that we dragged aside to let Old Pomp through. The dogs went mad, leaping straight up on the ends of their chains, threatening us with half-throttled barks. Blue wrinkled his nose back off his teeth, stepped high, and kept close to Kate, and we huddled beside Old Pomp.
The section was dirt baked hard, any grass worn out by the dogs. That’s all there was: the lawsonianas, the whare, one broken-down plum tree with bare branches, the skinny dogs, their rusty kennels, and the hard-baked dirt. They had no water.
Round the back, there was a door with a nail box for a step, and a small window with one cracked pane of glass, two pieces of cardboard where panes should have been, and the fourth space empty. Both door and window were closed. An empty bucket lay on its side, the one Mick O’Halloran carried up the long drive of Mr Orr’s farm across the road, filled with water at the cowshed, and carried back to his whare once a week.
A tall rusty bike leaned against the back wall, the leather seat cracked dry and broken, the tool kit missing. There was no pump, and both tyres were smooth. Tied along the bar of the bike was a shotgun, an old hammer gun. The butt was wound round and round with wire, which meant it was broken, Kate said later. The wood was worn and shiny, like the barrels.
“What do yez want?” We hadn’t seen the door open. Mick O’Halloran stood there, bending down to look out. His coat and trousers had once been black, but looked rusty like the old bike.
“Who said yez could bring that horse in here?”
Kate ignored him. “Mum sent some spuds, Mr O’Halloran.”
“Who told her I wanted spuds?”
“She thought you might like some.”
“Aaarhhh!” Old Mick cleared his throat, spat, and we watched the spit roll into a dirty ball of dust in front of our feet. He stood, head bent forward under the lintel, as we heaved at the first half-bag of spuds.
We had to take the weight and lift the sack to get it off the hooks, and that took some doing because Old Pomp was a fairly tall horse with a bit of draught in him. The bag came down with a rush, and some spuds spilled across the ground. Jimmy and Betty stuffed them back in, while Kate and I went round to the other sack. The pack-saddle shifted with the weight so it was easier getting it off.
“Yez can put them inside the door,” said Mick O’Halloran, the whare dark behind him. Kate grabbed my arm as I bent to drag one sack. She tipped out the spuds where we stood, went round Old Pomp, tipped out the others, and slung both sacks over the pack-saddle.
“What’s the big idea? I can use them sacks.”
“We’ve got to take them home. Mum said so.” Kate looked at us, and we got between her and Old Pomp. She took up the lead rope. “See you, Mr O’Halloran.”
Old Pomp clopped down the side of the unpainted whare. Blue growled all the way behind Old Pomp, then ran ahead and counted us through the gap on to the road.
Kate dragged the Taranaki gate to. I held it up while she tugged and pulled at a loop of wire, to get it down over the end batten.
“It was open when we went in.”
“I just want to make sure. There! Come on, let’s go!”
Mick O’Halloran’s dogs leapt on the ends of their chains; their barks sounded creaky, as if their throats were dry. Tail up, Blue trotted ahead, looked back, and trotted ahead again. Jimmy and Betty followed him. Then Kate and me leading Old Pomp who followed us, big hoofs clopping hard on our heels as if he, too, wanted to run.
17
To Last Him Through the Winter
Not stopping till we got to the depot, Kate led Old Pomp beside the wooden stand, folded the sacks, and padded the hooks. She got on, Betty slid in front of her, Jimmy behind, and I got on at the back. It wasn’t as easy as riding to school without a saddle, and the strap to the crupper pinched my behind, but we felt safer up there, especially when we heard a creaky noise and saw Mick O’Halloran on his bike.
“He’s coming after us!”
“Giddup!”
As he got closer, I heard, tick! tick! tick!
“Hoy! Pull up!”
“Don’t look back!” Kate told us and kicked with her heels. Old Pomp broke into a shambling trot. Betty grabbed his mane, Kate put her arms around her, and I put my mine around Jimmy and hung on to the back of the pack-saddle.
“Hoy!” The creaky sound was like the noise his dogs had made, only worse. It was scary. And there was the tick! tick! tick! noise that frightened me, too.
Old Pomp couldn’t go any faster; he hadn’t cantered for years.
“Pull up, I said! Dratted kids! Are yez all deaf that yez don’t hear me?”
The creaky noise came closer. I thought it was Mick O’Halloran’s skeleton creaking, his bones rubbing together. Then I looked down and saw the rusty chain on his old bike was loose, and his front wheel was bent so it rubbed against the forks each time it came round: tick! tick! tick! And his dogs were snarling and creaking along behind him. Bike, man, and dogs all sounded as if they needed a good oiling.
As I thought that, I felt alone, behind the others on Old Pomp. “This is what the tail gunner feels like,” I thought to myself.
I was scared Mick O’Halloran was going to grab me first, so I lifted my leg, ready to kick. Blue heard them creaking behind us, and he stopped, raised his hackles, and stood his ground. Kate dragged on the reins so Old Pomp stopped, snorted, and shook his head till the bridle jangled.
“Get out of it!” Old Mick’s dogs cringed and creaked away at his voice. “Why didn’t yez pull up when I sung out? Here, give this to your mother.” He reached into the pikau on his back, pulled out a pheasant, and handed it up. The white ring round its neck shone against the red, blue, and rusty brown flecked feathers. “Tell her I sez to hang it by the neck till its head drops off, and it’ll be gamey enough to be worth the eatin’, ’n yez can tell her I seen a few rabbits up the back
of your place. Near her spud paddock.”
We sat on Old Pomp, Kate hanging on to the pheasant by its feet, all of us staring down at him, silent. Mick O’Halloran peered at us, his toothless mouth grinned, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were faded blue. He turned his old bike and creaked away, the front wheel ticking against the forks, his dogs creaking after him.
At last Betty spoke. “He ponged!”
“They reckon he hasn’t had a bath for thirty years,” said Kate, “except when he gets caught in a shower.”
“It must be fun,” said Jimmy, “only having a wash when it rains.”
“You might get a bit sick of your own stink,” Kate told him. She passed the pheasant back, and I took it by the feet. Its long tail feathers brushed my nose.
“There was no dunny!” said Jimmy, and we all thought and said, “No!”
“I wonder where he goes?”
“Probably under the lawsonianas.”
“Poo!” We all laughed at the way Betty said it, and she and Jimmy kept saying, “Poo!” and shrieking all the way home.
“Why did Mum send Mick O’Halloran the spuds?”
“Just one of her funny ideas,” Kate told Jimmy.
“The old poacher,” Mum said when I handed her the pheasant. “I wonder whose property he shot that on. You’d better pluck it and clean it now. Heaven only knows how long he’s had it hanging. Be careful you pull out its innards in one handful; if you break them, they’ll stink to high heaven.”
“Is Mick O’Halloran a real poacher, Mum?”
“He’s been had up a few times, but what’s the use of fining him when he’s got no money? And nobody really wants to put him in prison.
“The ranger caught him years ago, coming out of the bush up the Kaimais, with a pikau on his back, his shotgun, and his dogs. He had an old brass pair of field glasses hanging round his neck on a bootlace. Mick O’Halloran walked straight up to the ranger, handed him the pikau and said, ‘That’s the luck, indeed! It saves me looking for yez to hand these in.’