Old Drumble

by Jack Lasenby

  “Crossing the Plains, we get the sheep as far as Pipiroa. It’s been howling from the nor-east, and a scow’s got herself blown into the mouth of the Piako and stranded fair in the middle of the channel, so the ferry can’t get across.”

  Jack nodded. Harry Jitters and Minnie Mitchell were watching from behind their gates as he drove the mob past. Up at the head, Old Drumble’s tail stopped, and the sheep in front stopped, too, as a lorry carrying posts and battens rattled along the main road through Waharoa.

  Andy nodded at the lorry. “Going out Wardville, to Percy West’s,” he said. “Jerry Patch’s bull flattened half the boundary fence between their places, strainers and all. Tore them out of the ground, smashed and tossed them around like kindling wood. That old Jerry Patch, he’s too mean to do anything about fixing the fence; besides, he’s scared of his own bull, so Percy reckons he’d better do the job himself.

  “ ‘I’ll take the cost of it out of Jerry’s hide,’ he told me. ‘Run my herd on his paddocks, while I’m doing the fencing. It’s going to cost him twice as much in grazing as it would have done if he’d coughed up his share for a few chains of fence.’”

  “What about Old Drumble and the Pipiroa ferry?” Jack asked.

  “Taihoa,” said Andy. “I’m coming to that.

  “Well, you know, sheep aren’t all that keen on swimming. You can put them across a river, but you want a shallow beach to get them into the water, a shallow place the other side, to get them out, and you’ve got to have a current that carries them in the right direction. Besides, these ones we’re driving across the Plains, they’re carrying a bit of wool.

  “When we reach Pipiroa, the tide’s high and just starting to turn. In a few minutes, she’ll be ripping out. Put the sheep in there, they’ll finish up on Waiheke Island.

  “Old Drumble leaves the mob bunched up, and goes to have a talk with the ferry skipper. ‘We’ll never get them across on the ferry,’ he comes back and tells me. ‘Not till they shift that scow, and she’s got a deck-load of sand that they’ll have to barrow over the side to lighten her.’

  “The dirty-brown water moves and swirls down the channel, carrying a mangrove berry, twigs, leaves, grass, and a drowned ewe from upstream. Luckily, Old Drumble spots it and turns the mob around facing the way we’ve come, till the carcass vanishes downstream. He’s got a pretty wise head on him for a dog.”

  Andy grinned down at Jack and said, “While he’s got the mob looking the other way, I says to him, ‘We can’t muck around here, waiting for them to get the scow out of the way.’

  “Old Drumble nods. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he tells me. He turns the mob again, and moves it forward till they’re standing above the river, baa-ing and stamping, a bit nervous. They hadn’t seen the carcass drift by, but they don’t like rivers, sheep, and you can’t blame them, specially if they’re carrying a bit of wool.”

  “I wouldn’t blame them,” said Jack.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Why the Seagulls Fell Dead Out of the Air,

  Why Andy Gave the Swagger the Marmalade

  and Ginger-Nuts, and Why Townies Don’t

  Know How to Look After Themselves.

  “A COUPLE OF THEM cunning blighters of sheep,” said Andy to Jack, “they’re standing on the bank of the Piako, looking as if they’re about to turn and stampede away from the river. I’m keeping me eye on one leery old ewe, when there’s an almighty, thundering bark shakes the ground under me feet.

  “You might find this hard to believe, Jack, but that thundering bark’s so loud, a couple of seagulls fold their wings and drop komaty out of the air, and the Piako River gets such a fright, it stops dead in its tracks. Upstream, there’s a colossal wall of water thirty feet high; and all that’s stopping it collapsing is that thundering loud bark.”

  “Whew!” Jack whistled, and Andy nodded and winked.

  “Like I said, I’m keeping an eye on that leery old ewe, and Old Drumble’s bark is so loud, the wax shoots out of her ears. She takes off down the bank, the rest of the mob following, and me running after them.

  “We’re galloping across the dried-up river-bed, one eye upstream in case that colossal wall of water collapses on us; Old Drumble’s keeping up his thundering bark; the sheep are baa-ing; and I’m yelling to keep going or we’ll all be drowned.

  “A man’s foot skids on something slippery, and I just have time to bend down and pick up several and stuff them down me shirt, and we’re scrambling up the other bank, and running scared stiff but dry as a bone, up the road where it comes down to the ferry landing from Kopu.

  “It’s only when we’re a couple of chains along the road that I realise I’ve lost me pipe,” said Andy. “It must have fallen out of me gob as I yelled and ran across the river-bed.”

  “You said you picked up several things and stuffed them in your shirt,” Jack told him. “Maybe you lost it when you bent down.”

  “I’ll tell you about that in a minute,” said Andy. “I’m looking round and patting me pockets, in case I’ve stuck me pipe away in one of them and, as I do so, Old Drumble stops his thundering bark.

  “There’s a spooky silence; the back of me neck goes cold, and there’s a whispering sound—the rustle of wool standing up on the backs of all the sheep’s necks.”

  They were passing Dunlops’ place. Jack looked in, hoping the Dunlop girls might notice him driving the sheep.

  “The next moment,” said Andy, “that colossal wall of water totters and collapses into a bellowing torrent of waves bucketing downstream between us and Old Drumble still on the other bank—”

  “Ahhh!” The scream came from up the front of the mob. Jack stared and saw a man leap into the air, waving his arms and throwing himself back into Mrs Dickey’s hedge.

  Andy whistled, but Old Drumble was already taking charge, moving the front of the mob to the other side of the road.

  “A swagger,” said Andy. They followed the mob past the man who had half-buried himself in the eleagnus hedge.

  Jack saw a thin-faced man in a broken felt hat, a broken old suit jacket, a collarless shirt with a stud stuck through the top buttonhole, baggy grey trousers fretted at the heels, and his bare feet stuck into broken grey sand-shoes without laces. In his arms, he clutched a sugarbag. Jack could see it didn’t have a length of rope to make it into a proper swag, and the man didn’t even seem to have a billy. His face was unshaven, and an old striped tie held up his trousers.

  The swagger ignored Jack but looked nervously at Andy. “Don’t suppose you know of any work going?” he said, coming half out of the hedge then pressing back into it again, as Young Nugget trotted up for a closer look.

  “Not round here. The factory’s already got more men than they want.” Andy took his time thinking. If anyone knew of a job going in the district, it would be Andy, Jack remembered his mother saying.

  “I come through the Hinuera Valley last week, and there’s some paddocks still closed up,” said Andy. “They’re a bit late getting in their hay this year because of the rain earlier. You might pick up a few days’ work.”

  The broken-looking man looked down at his hands. Jack saw a scratch across the back of the right one, black with congealed blood that made the skin look white. Jack turned away.

  “Do you know Hinuera?” Andy asked. Jack heard a shuffly noise and knew the man was shaking his head.

  “Keep heading through Waharoa to Matamata. Bear south out of there, in that direction,” Andy pointed, “and you can’t miss it. Follow the signposts. Hinuera.” He repeated it slowly. “You’ll get there tomorrow and, with any luck, they’ll be mowing their hay. They’ll be in a hurry to get it in so, if you get taken on by the first cocky, you could go on from farm to farm for a week or so, as long as this weather lasts.”

  As he spoke, Andy was taking the jar of marmalade out of the pikau behind Nosy’s saddle and handing it to the swagger who took it without a word, sliding it out of sight into his sugarbag.

  “Here, you m
ight as well have these,” said Andy, and he took out the Bushells tea tin, and gave most of the biscuits to the swagger.

  Mum’s ginger-nuts, Jack thought. She wouldn’t be too pleased with Andy giving them away.

  “Keep bearing south through Matamata,” repeated the man. The sound of his voice made Jack uncomfortable, so he looked away at the sheep, then glanced back.

  The man was slipping a couple of ginger-nuts into the pocket of his jacket, and he put the others into the sugarbag with the same furtive gesture he’d used before. He shrunk away as Young Nugget came a bit closer, sniffing the biscuits.

  “When you get to the factory,” Andy gestured up Cemetery Road, “don’t cross the railway lines, but follow the road to the right: you’ll find yourself on the way to Matamata. Same thing when you get there: don’t cross the lines, keep to the right of the F.A.C. building, and the road’ll carry you past the district high school, Braeside Hospital, and clear of the town, then it’ll cross the lines and you follow it. The Rotorua road goes off to the left, but you just keep going straight ahead. You’ll see the A.A. sign for Hinuera.”

  “Keep going straight ahead,” the swagger repeated. His eyes were a bit shifty, Jack thought. He didn’t like him.

  The swagger ducked his head and mumbled something. “And for the biscuits and jam,” Jack heard. He felt like saying it wasn’t jam but marmalade, but walked on, feeling the man’s eyes on his back.

  Down the road a bit, Andy said, “Might be an idea if you leave it to me to tell your mother what happened to her ginger-nuts, Jack, me boy. And me marmalade. At least I can return your mother’s tin, but she’s going to go butcher’s hook when she finds out I’ve given away her jar.”

  Jack looked at him. “I felt sorry for the blighter,” said Andy. “Those soft hands aren’t going to get him a job on a hay paddock, not unless they’re short of someone to lead the horse up and down.

  “Townies, get them past the end of the tramlines, and they don’t know how to look after themselves. Never had the chance to learn how, I suppose. And those towny clothes aren’t going to be any use as the weather cools.

  “Poor devil, didn’t even find it easy saying thanks, and I can understand that. Out the monk under that hedge of Jim Dickey’s, and he wakes to find half a dozen sheep standing over him. Probably thought they were going to eat him!” Andy chuckled, but Jack could hear something else in his voice.

  “Old Drumble,” he said, and he had to cough to clear his throat. “Andy, you said Old Drumble was still on the other bank of the Piako. At Pipiroa. How did he get across?”

  “Now where was I up to? Something about that colossal wall of water collapsing, and looking for me pipe, and Old Drumble still on the other bank.” Andy turned from looking back at the swagger making his way up the road towards the factory.

  “How did Old Drumble get across the Piako?” His dry leathery brown face crumpled and creased and grinned at Jack.

  “Where we just got across dry-footed, there’s a torrent of dirty water thirty feet deep, and them huge waves bucketing downstream between us and Old Drumble on the other bank.”

  “How did he get across?” Jack asked again.

  “I asks meself the very same question,” said Andy. “How is that Old Drumble going to get across?”

  Chapter Twenty

  How Old Drumble Got Across

  the Flooded Piako, How He Made a

  Proper Pig of Himself at the Copper Maori,

  and Why He Couldn’t Bark Again

  When They Got to Pipiroa With the Steers.

  “NO TROUBLE to Old Drumble,” said Andy. “He takes a deep breath, grabs hold of his nose with one paw, and dives head first into the flood.”

  “Did he get drowned?”

  “Old Drumble’s too cunning for that, Jack. He dog-paddles across under water—all them rough waves are just on the surface of the river, you see—comes to the top, scrambles up the bank our side, shakes himself and takes up the lead, and the sheep follow him towards Kopu.

  “We stop up the road, once Old Drumble’s dried out, light a fire, and fry half a dozen big flounder—that’s what I picked up out of the dry river-bed and stuffed down me shirt. You see the water’s tidal there, so the flatties come up on the incoming tide.

  “ ‘That wasn’t a bad idea of yours,’ I tell Old Drumble, ‘holding the river up with your bark,’ and he winks at me and helps himself to another flattie.

  “A few days,” said Andy to Jack, “and we’ve turned out them sheep on the new grass up the Tapu Valley. The cocky’s that pleased to see them, he puts down a copper Maori for us: wild pork, kumaras, pumpkin, and spuds.

  “Now pumpkin’s one of Old Drumble’s favourites, specially hangied. Come to think of it, if he’s got a fault, it’s that he’s got no self-control at all, not when it comes to pumpkin out of a copper Maori.

  “The only trouble with pumpkin,” Andy told Jack, “it holds the heat. Many’s the time I’ve warned the greedy old fool to give it time to cool but, no, he’s got to get stuck into it, stuffing it down his gob with both paws before the cocky has time to uncover the rest of the hangi.

  “Not only that, but the old guts is tearing into the pork. There’s more wild pigs up the Tapu Valley than you could point a stick at. The cocky’s put several weaners and a couple of fat maiden sows in the copper Maori, and Old Drumble’s scoffing away, lips drawn back off his teeth, so he can rip into the pork without getting them burnt.

  “Before the old coot’s finished feeding his face, he’s bright orange with pumpkin all over his coat, and greasy with pork fat from the tips of his ears to the white tuft on the tip of his tail. His table manners aren’t the best; I know your mother wouldn’t approve, Jack. In fact, you could say Old Drumble makes a right pig of himself.

  “The cocky can’t believe how much pumpkin Old Drumble puts away. He shoves his hat on to the back of his head and speaks in a slow sort of voice: I can still hear him.

  “ ‘I wouldn’t of believed it,’ he tells me, ‘if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes!’

  “We sleep off our big feed and, first thing next morning, we’ve got the steers moving on their way up to the Auckland sales. Old Drumble’s burnt his throat, stuffing down all that hot pumpkin, so he’s not going to be doing any barking in a hurry. I’m only surprised he didn’t burn his paws, too, but they seem okay—at least, he’s not limping any.

  “You know,” said Andy, “I’m riding Nosy behind the steers, and still finding it a bit hard to believe the way Old Drumble got the sheep across the Piako at Pipiroa. But it happened all right, I know.”

  “How did you know?” asked Jack.

  “I know,” said Andy, “because, as we’re driving them steers down the Thames coast, my ears are still ringing from that thundering bark he used to stop the river. Nearly time for you to leave us, Jack.”

  “Tell us the rest of the story before we get to the cemetery? ”

  “Then we’d best take it easy.” Andy whistled and, up ahead, Old Drumble slowed the mob.

  “As we head towards Auckland,” said Andy, “there’s heavy rain all the way from Kopu, and a cloudburst up the Plains, Ngatea way, so the Piako’s going to be carrying a fair bit of water, but we expect they’ll have shifted the scow, so the ferry should be working and we can get the steers across.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, Jack, but we get the steers as far as Pipiroa, and they’ve dumped the sand over the side of the scow, but the flood’s lifted and swung her hard in, and jammed her rubbing strake under the ferry’s rubbing strake, what you call the belting. The noise is something dreadful, the two boats screeching, grinding, and tearing bits off each other. Nosy sticks her fingers in her ears; of course, a horse is fairly sensitive in the ear, as you know.”

  Jack nodded.

  “The crew’s just used the scow’s punt to carry a hawser across the river, taken it round a big macrocarpa this side and made it fast; and they’re going to try and winch the scow off the ferry, but t
hey can’t do it till the flood’s gone down. It looks like we’ll have to get the steers across the Piako ourselves, if we’re going to get them up to Auckland in time for the sales. That cocky up the Tapu Valley, he’s not going to be too pleased, if we don’t get him a decent price because we’re late.”

  “Did Old Drumble stop the river with his bark again?” Jack asked.

  Andy shook his head. “I told you how he burnt his throat. The useless old coot’s not going to be doing any barking for a couple of weeks.

  “Not only that but, as we was bringing the steers down the coast, he disappears at Puru, north of Thames, and he doesn’t show up again till we’re coming past Totara Vineyards, several miles south of the town. I’ve just whipped into the vineyard and bought meself a bottle of Stanley Young Chan’s port wine to rub on the inside of me throat for the rheumatism, when Old Drumble catches up with us, and he looks a proper shambles.

  “Would you believe it, the wicked old sinner, he’s done a pub crawl along Pohlen Street! Had a beer in every pub, he reckons, all eighty-six of them. Then he thinks for a while and croaks, ‘No, I counted a hundred and twenty.’”

  “A hundred and twenty pubs!” said Jack.

  “He’s lying!” said Andy. “There might have been a hundred and twenty pubs along Pohlen Street in the good old days when the Thames was flush with gold and kauri, but there’s nothing like that number now. All the same, Old Drumble’s had a skinful.

  “Like I was saying, Jack, we gets to Pipiroa, and Old Drumble can’t bark, and no wonder. Not just with scoffing hot pumpkin out of the hangi, and then tipping all that booze down his gullet. That’s not all by a long shot. He’s been smoking, too, and tobacco’s harder on a dog’s throat than hot pumpkin. Old Drumble’s got no show of stopping the river with his bark.”

  “Did you swim the steers across?” Jack asked.