Uncle Trev and the Whistling Bull

by Jack Lasenby

  Uncle Trev looked at me, so I shook my head.

  “One day, Old Gotta said, ‘Trev?’ Now you know you can’t rush Old Gotta. It’s best to let him repeat himself a couple of times, or he gets shy and shuts up. It’s because of living alone.”

  “But you live alone.”

  “I’ve got Old Tip and Old Toot to talk to. Besides, in those days, Old Gotta only ran dry stock – to crush the fern – and they never have a lot to say for themselves. You can’t hold much of a conversation with a steer, you know.”

  I nodded, as if I knew.

  “‘Trev,’ Old Gotta repeats, ‘them women won’t let us join their Institute.’

  “‘That’s right, Gotta,’ I told him.

  “‘Don’t we need to cook, and knit, and sew, and darn our socks, Trev?’

  “‘We know all those things,’ I said to him. ‘We can throw a stew together, and bake bread in the camp oven. We can knit plain and purl, and sew a patch on our dungarees, enough to get by. I can darn my socks when I can be bothered. You could darn yours, too, if you wanted to; you just find it easier to borrow mine.’

  “Old Gotta thought of that a while, then said, ‘Gotta bit of tobacco, Trev?’ He filled his pipe. ‘Gotta match, Trev?’ He lit his pipe.

  “‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ he said, as I took my tobacco and matches out of his pocket. ‘Keeping us out of their meetings just because we’re men. It’s not fair.’

  “I didn’t remind him of the time he and Billy Burns and me squatted under the hall windows, listened to the women gabbling inside, and made gobbling noises like turkeys. Nor the time we threw stones on the roof while your mother was speaking.”

  “‘We give the vote to women in 1893, and that’s how they show their thanks,’ ” said Old Gotta. ‘What say we set up a Men’s Institute? We’ll show them.’

  “Next thing, he called a meeting of all the jokers in the district and put a notice on the hall door: ‘Men Only. No Women Admitted.’ Your mother was furious.”

  “Did she throw stones on the roof?”

  Uncle Trev shook his head. “Those women gave their husbands such a hard time, not one turned up at our first Men’s Institute meeting. There was only Old Gotta and me, and he had to leave early so he could get home and borrow a scythe off me.”

  “But you weren’t there.”

  “That’s why I had to leave the meeting early, too, so I’d be home when he rode over and asked, ‘Gotta scythe, Trev?’ So that was it. Your mother gave us a hard time. ‘How’s your Men’s Institute going?’ she’d ask, and she’d give that special little laugh.”

  “That wasn’t very kind of her.”

  “It wasn’t just your mother. Whenever Old Gotta and I came into Waharoa, those Institute women stuck their hands over their mouths, giggled, and rolled their eyes at each other. In the end, we drove my buggy over to Walton and got our stores there. And would you believe it, the woman in the Walton store, she stuck her hand over her mouth and giggled, too. Those Waharoa women had spread the word around the entire countryside.”

  Uncle Trev was silent a while. “You know,” he said, “the worst thing you can do to a woman is to ignore her. That really gets her ropeable.

  “Old Gotta and me, we drove my gig to Waitoa early one morning, before first light. We reckoned it was so far away, nobody would know who we were. We loaded the gig with sacks and sacks of sugar, flour, tea, and tins of Cocky’s Joy, laid up in a patch of scrub, and drove home in the dark. We’d show them, we said; we wouldn’t go near Waharoa again; we’d ignore them.”

  “Did Mum and the others feel ignored?”

  “We worked away for about six months till the tucker ran out, then we went in to Waharoa and called on your mother, but she just looked over her shoulder and sniffed and went on with whatever she was doing. She’d not even noticed we hadn’t been in for all that time, and nor had any of those other thick-skinned women.

  “I was a bit knocked back,” said Uncle Trev, “but poor Old Gotta was hit real bad. ‘I’ll show them!’ he said. ‘I’ve a good mind not to go into Waharoa for another six months.’ ”

  “What did he do for stores?”

  “Borrowed from me. ‘Gotta bit of flour, Trev? Gotta bit of sugar – tea – tobacco – candles – bully beef – condensed milk?’ I had to come into Waharoa or he’d have starved, and I couldn’t do that to him.”

  “Did anyone notice Mr Henry hadn’t been into Waharoa all that time?”

  “What do you think?” Uncle Trev shook his head. “Nevertheless,” he said.

  “Nevertheless?”

  “I fixed those Institute women,” said Uncle Trev. “Specially your mother.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I put a story around. I didn’t let on to Old Gotta what I was up to, because he can’t keep a secret. Instead, I told him the story, and he blabbed it to Squeaker Watson down the road, and Squeaker Watson told it to his wife, and she couldn’t get to the next Women’s Institute meeting fast enough. A couple of days, and those women had spread the story all over Matamata County, and as far abroad as Te Aroha and Cambridge.”

  “Gee.”

  “The story was that I’d made a soup so good that Aunt Daisy was trying to buy the recipe off me so she could broadcast it on her wireless show. Within the week, every woman in the district was stopping my gig and begging for the recipe. Word reached Aunt Daisy herself, and she said on the wireless that if anyone could give her the recipe for Old Furry soup, she’d broadcast it.”

  “Crikey.”

  “Requests for the recipe poured in from all around the North Island, even the South Island. The Waharoa post office had to put on an extra man to pick up the mail from the paper train each morning. My mail got that heavy, the Post Master General came and begged me to stop the whole business.

  “‘I can’t do a thing about it,’ I said, and gave him a feed of Old Furry before he bicycled back to Wellington.”

  “Did he like Old Furry?”

  “He no sooner got back to Wellington than his wife wrote and asked for the recipe.

  “Ever since then, your mother and every other woman the length and breadth of the Dominion has been trying to get my recipe for Old Furry, and I’ve kept it a secret. We got our revenge on those women not letting us join the Institute just because we’re men.” Uncle Trev took off his hat and listened. There was a click.

  “That’ll be the gate. Hooray.” He vaulted out my window, and I closed it behind him.

  Mum came in, sniffing. “Where on earth has that man gone? I had something I wanted to ask him.”

  “Mum, Uncle Trev told me about his secret recipe for Old Furry.”

  “Did he tell you what he puts in it?”

  “He wouldn’t because he said you’d torture it out of me.”

  “If there’s a God in heaven,” Mum said, “your uncle will be punished for all the lies he’s told on this earth.”

  “You could have let him join the Institute,” I said. “Him and Mr Henry.”

  Mum looked at me so hard, I slid down under my blankets.

  “If you’re well enough to listen to that man’s nonsense,” she said, “then you’re well enough to listen to somebody telling you something useful. It’s high time you were back at school.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Old Furry and the Rack

  “Tell us what you put into Old Furry?” I whined. “Go on.”

  Uncle Trev sighed. “I told you why the recipe’s secret.”

  “You can tell me.”

  Uncle Trev shut his mouth tight.

  “That’s not fair.” I turned my face to the wall.

  Something creaked in Uncle Trev’s throat, and I heard him shift his feet. “Promise you’ll keep it a secret?” he said.

  I rolled back and looked at him. “I promise
.”

  “You won’t go telling it to your mother?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not even if she tortures you? God’s honour?”

  “God’s honour,” I whispered.

  “I start off Old Furry with split peas and bacon bones,” said Uncle Trev, “but there’s a lot more to him than that.”

  “What?”

  “All the leftovers in my cupboards: any old bits of stale bread, broken biscuits, and the end of the sirloin roast I got sick of eating cold. Whatever I can find in the garden: celery, leeks, onions, spuds, kumaras, carrots, Brussels sprouts, pumpkin, parsley, puha. A handful of watercress out of the creek, and the eel I caught, cleaning the ditch.”

  “Eel?”

  “Old Furry wouldn’t be Old Furry without an eel or two. Frogs, tadpoles, tuataras, cicadas, grasshoppers, salt and pepper, mushrooms, neck of mutton chops and the scrag end, a spot or two of Lea and Perrin’s sauce to liven him up. I throw in a few lentils, barley, rolled oats, some tomato sauce, a lemon, a dash of vinegar, and a few huhus to thicken him up: I like to see their eyes looking up out of the pot. Pheasant, duck, and pukeko, in they go, and rabbit and hare. You see the odd kiwi and harrier hawk run over on the road. In it goes.”

  “What about hedgehogs?”

  “It’s a bit messy getting rid of their prickles, but they’ve got a nutty flavour. By now, Old Furry’s starting to smell promising. A bottle of beer, some cold tea, a nip of Old Puckeroo, some horseradish sauce –”

  “That’s hot, horseradish sauce.”

  “Just a bit for the flavour. And I’ll tell you what goes well when Old Furry’s been simmering and muttering away on the stove for a few days…”

  “What?”

  “I put in a string of Fred Keeley’s best pork sausages and move Old Furry off the heat and on to the back of the stove, where he sends up a bubble just now and then.

  “You take the lid off, have a sniff, stir him around, and those bubbles wink and pop. That’s how you know you’ve got just the right heat.

  “Leave him simmering like that overnight, with Fred’s pork sausages bumping around, swelling up bigger and bigger. Next morning, you have one of those frosts when Old Tip refuses to get out of bed, and you get the fire going in the stove, and Old Furry stirs and winks in his pot, and fills the kitchen with his smell. Next thing you know, Old Gotta Henry sticks his head in the back door, nostrils opening and closing, licking his lips.

  “‘Gotta bit of Old Furry, Trev?’ he asks, and sits at the table still in his sou-wester and gumboots. It wouldn’t do for your mother.

  “Old Tip can’t ignore the smell any longer, so he gets out of bed and comes in wagging his tail and walking sideways, and he cleans up a bowlful of Old Furry and a couple of them pork snarlers. Then Old Toot’s nudging the back door open with his nose and wanting some Old Furry to warm him up. And Old Satan starts bellowing in his paddock. There’s nothing like a frost to give everyone on the farm an appetite.”

  “What about the cows?”

  “What about the cows?”

  “Do they like Old Furry?”

  “It’s a strange thing, that,” said Uncle Trev. “I’ve yet to meet a cow, or a sheep, for that matter, who enjoys a bowl of hot soup. Of course, the pigs love Old Furry.”

  “But with pork sausages and bacon bones?”

  “Your pig, he’s a bit of a cannibal, you know.”

  I thought of that. “I’d like some for my breakfast,” I said.

  “I don’t know if your mother would let you.” Uncle Trev shook his head. “Old Furry’s not the sort of soup she approves of, if you know what I mean.” He tapped his nose with his finger.

  I gave a sigh.

  “Now, whatever you do,” said Uncle Trev, “don’t let on to your mother that I told you what goes into Old Furry. If she finds out, she’ll torture you on the rack till you tell her.”

  “The rack?”

  “A diabolical torture machine those women keep down in the hall for their Institute meetings. They keep it hidden under the stage. Anyone who doesn’t toe the Institute line, they strap them to the rack and turn the big wheel.”

  “What for?”

  “It stretches you till your joints crack, your tendons creak, and your eyes pop out. Nobody can stand up to the rack.”

  “I could.”

  “Not a show. They put Old Gotta on the rack that time we galloped our horses into the hall and broke up their meeting. We were wearing masks so they couldn’t tell who we were, but Old Gotta fell off his horse, and they grabbed him.”

  “Didn’t you rescue him?”

  “I only managed to gallop outside by the skin of my teeth. They barred the door, so I rode Old Toot alongside a window, but they locked the shutters from inside. I climbed on the roof and started ripping off a sheet of iron, but it was already too late. I could hear the sound of the ratchet clicking on the rack. It only took a couple of turns of the wheel, and Old Gotta was screaming for mercy. The ratchet clicked again, and he put the blame on me. ‘It was all Trev’s idea,’ he shrieked. ‘I give in.’

  “They let him off the rack, and I jumped off the roof on to Old Toot’s back as those women threw Old Gotta out the door. I helped him on his horse and led him back to his farm. Poor Old Gotta, he couldn’t bring himself to meet my eye.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was ashamed of giving in. Now, of course, they’re after me.”

  “What’ll they do if they catch you?”

  “Put me on the rack. And they won’t let me off easy like Old Gotta.”

  “Hadn’t you better get going?” I said. “Mum could catch you if you’re still here when she gets home.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Uncle Trev. “Hooray.”

  “It’s not fair,” I told Mum that night.

  “What’s not fair?”

  “Trying to catch Uncle Trev and torture him on the rack.”

  Mum looked at me. “If you go listening to any more of that man’s stories, I’ll put you on the rack myself.” She slammed out to the kitchen and banged the pots around. I hadn’t known whether to believe Uncle Trev or not, but now I realised he’d been telling the truth about the Women’s Institute and the rack.

  That’s why I’m lying very straight and quiet in my bed, not moving my legs, and trying not to breathe too loud. I don’t want to be tortured, and I’ll bet you wouldn’t like it either.

  Chapter Sixteen

  What Happened When Old Tip Got Above Himself

  “Old Tip’s getting above himself,” Uncle Trev said. He reached into the blue biscuit tin, took out a gingernut, and dipped it in his tea.

  “Mum won’t let me do that. She says it’s a rule in this house.”

  Uncle Trev grinned, and sucked tea and gingernut through his moustache with a noise like sloop.

  “Some people miss out on the best things in life because of rules.” He held up another gingernut. “Have you ever thought the Waharoa Women’s Institute is remarkably like the army?”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “When Old Gotta and I were called up,” said Uncle Trev, “the army told us when to wake, when to sleep, when to eat, even when to go to the dunny. They had a rule for everything. By the time the war finished, we’d stopped thinking for ourselves.”

  Uncle Trev dipped the gingernut in his tea, washed it down with another gulp, and I heard that sound sloop again. He nodded and said, “If those Institute women didn’t have rules to tell them what to do, they wouldn’t know whether to moo, baa, or cluck.”

  What if Mum came home and caught Uncle Trev dipping her gingernuts in his tea? Even worse, what if his terrible words were still echoing around the kitchen? Her remarkable ears picked up everything.

  “Mooo,” Uncle Trev went. “Baaa,” he said. “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”
>
  “She’ll give us both a hiding.”

  But Uncle Trev wouldn’t stop. “No one in the Waikato bakes a better gingernut than your mother, some say the best in the Southern Hemisphere. But does she ever allow herself to enjoy her gingernuts? Not on your Nelly. The Waharoa Women’s Institute’s Rule Three says no lady dips a gingernut in her tea. So your poor mother can never really enjoy her own magnificent baking. Mooo. Baaa. Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

  He grinned at my face, reached into the blue tin, took out another gingernut, dipped it in his tea, and mumbled and sucked it through his moustache even louder. “That,” he said, “is a real gingernut. Just the right amount of ginger to fill my mouth with dribble.

  “Like I was saying, your mother misses out on many of the finer things in life. Mind you, I wouldn’t go telling her that, or you might get a clip over the ears. She’d probably say you were getting above yourself.”

  “That’s what you said about Old Tip,” I gabbled, trying to stop Uncle Trev mooing, baaing, and clucking, and talking about the Institute.

  It worked. “You’re right,” said Uncle Trev. “Old Tip’s fond of a gingernut and he’d dip them in his tea if I gave him half a chance. He’s been getting above himself enough as it is.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Remember I told you how he went bolshie a while back, and wouldn’t bark?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s talking now of moving over to Hamilton and selling insurance – one of the rackets the smart boys get into, the ones with the bow ties and those nasty little moustaches, and they all drive American cars.”

  “How could he sell insurance?”

  “Old Tip can be pretty persuasive. Look at the way you believe anything he tells you…I’m afraid quite a few people would fall for his patter.”

  “But he’d need a car to get around the district, and that costs a fortune. Mum says we can’t afford one.”

  “Old Tip’s not short of money.”