by Jack Lasenby
“I hope Mr Bluenose doesn’t think my customers are going to buy apples with a bite out of them. Specially not if they turn their tongues blue.”
“Oh, no!” I told him. “Mr Bluenose said all those apples are going to the pigs. In any case, that’s my bit about the invisible blue paint. I made it up.”
“Perhaps it was one of his pigs that climbed up and bit the apples.” Mr Bryce laughed and laughed at his own joke. I didn’t think it was all that funny.
“It wasn’t a pig’s bite,” I said, “it was a boy’s. Mr Bluenose said he could tell by the tooth-marks. And the boy had a front tooth missing.”
“I know at least three boys in Waharoa with front teeth missing,” said Mr Bryce. “How is Mr Bluenose going to tell which one is the criminal?”
I didn’t know the answer to that but said, “He’s going to try fitting the apples on to all the boys’ teeth till he finds the right one.”
“Here’s a boy,” said Mr Bryce as Freddy Jones dropped his bike right in front of the door. When he saw me, he hissed and backed away. He looked every inch a criminal.
“Give us a smile!” said Mr Bryce. “Ah, ha! One front tooth missing…”
“It weren’t me! Nobody seen me. I’m gunna tell my mother.”
“Nobody’s saying it was you.”
“It must’ve been the morepork!” said Freddy.
“What morepork?”
“Yesterday I hit a morepork with my shanghai and knocked out one of his front teeth. He must be the one who went down and took a bite out of old Bluenose’s apples.”
“It’s not a bad story,” Mr Bryce told Freddy. He pushed his glasses up on top of his head and looked at me. “It’s as good as some of those you tell me.”
“Everybody knows moreporks don’t have teeth,” I said.
“How do you know?” said Freddy Jones. “I’ll bet you’ve never even seen a morepork.”
“I have so! I know where a morepork lives, in the roof of our dunny, and I hear it hoot ‘morepork, morepork’ every night. And I hoot ‘morepork’ back to it, and it hoots ‘morepork’ back to me.
“It’s bad luck to hear a morepork hoot,” said Freddy Jones.
“Only if you’ve told a lie. It’s good luck so long as you haven’t done anything wrong. My father told me about a wicked boy in Te Poi who died because he heard a morepork hoot.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is so true! He raided somebody’s orchard and blamed it on the morepork. When the morepork heard about it, he waited for it to get dark, and came for his revenge. He hung on to the boy’s window with his claws, and hooted, ‘Morepork! Morepork!’ You know how moreporks have got those big round eyes? Well, this one stared with them till they hypnotised the boy, then the morepork ordered him to get out of his bed and walk in his sleep.”
I stared at Mr Bryce, back at Freddy, and heard my own voice gabble on. “The boy got up and walked in his sleep right across the room, and when he stuck his head out the window, the morepork pecked out both his eyes so he couldn’t see where he was going, and he fell out the window and broke his neck. So there!”
Freddy Jones grabbed his mother’s paper that Mr Bryce held out to him and ran for his bike. I held it back by the carrier. “I’m going to tell my mother on you!” Freddy shouted, looking over his shoulder and sticking out his tongue. If he hadn’t been doing that, he wouldn’t have ridden his bike flat out into Mr Bryce’s verandah post, when I let him go.
“Uh mabe me buy me tung!” said Freddy Jones. “Muhm!” he bellowed.
I decided it might be best to cut across the paddock to get home. I’d just got through the fence and into the pig-fern when, down the other end of Ward Street, I heard somebody bawling. He was trying to push his bike with one hand while he used the other to hang on to his tongue, which made him sound funny.
“That’ll teach Freddy Jones!” I said to myself. I knew what he was after, but he wouldn’t go making up stories again to tell to Mr Bryce, not after the morepork sneaked along and hooted through his window tonight.
As I thought that, I dropped into the fern. Mrs Jones was coming out their gate. She started running. “What have you done now?” she yelled at Freddy.
I sat in the fern, looking at the way it uncurls at the top, and waited till they’d gone through the gate in their hedge, then I bolted across the road and into the shed under the tankstand. Dad would find me there and tell me off, once Mrs Jones had been, but I didn’t mind. And, as I waited for him to come, I thought perhaps it might be safer if the morepork didn’t sneak along and hoot through Freddy Jones’s window, not tonight anyway.
13
Horse Gets the Sulks and Steals an Apple, the Skylark Sings, and What Happened to the Yellow Boiled Lolly and My Hanky.
“Mr Bryce said there’s three boys in Waharoa with front teeth missing,” I told Mr Bluenose.
“He told me,” said Mr Bluenose, “that he didn’t want any apples that turn people’s tongues blue.”
“I just made that bit up, to scare Freddy Jones.”
“It worked,” said Mr Bluenose. “Freddy Jones saw me this morning and went for his life.”
“I suppose he doesn’t want to be hanged.”
“Who said he was going to be hanged?”
“I told him the police were going to hang him for stealing apples.”
“Perhaps Freddy Jones has suffered enough.”
Freddy Jones had suffered all right, but he still had to have a visit from the morepork. That could wait though. Today I was going to get Horse to push the wheelbarrow, using Mr Bryce’s method.
“Where’s Horse?” I asked.
“Sulking,” said Mr Bluenose.
“Why’s he sulking?”
“Because he does not like me giving apples to the pigs.”
“It serves him right. You gave him a nice red apple, and he wouldn’t push the wheelbarrow for you.”
“I gave him the boiled lolly, too, and still he would not push it.”
“Can I try? I’ve got an idea that might work.”
“Try by all means, but I think you are wasting your time.” Mr Bluenose turned back to his digging.
The pigs heard the wheelbarrow coming, stuck their front feet on top of the wall around their sty, and stared with their clever eyes. When they saw I was going past, they squealed and ran to the other wall, still hoping.
“Not today,” I told them.
It took me ages to open the heavy hook on Horse’s gate. Mr Bluenose put it on after Horse worked out how to lift the wooden latch with his nose, slide it along, and push the gate open. He ate half a row of cabbages before Mr Bluenose found him.
Horse ran up now and watched, trying to find out how the hook worked, but I put my other hand over it so he couldn’t see. I pushed the wheelbarrow through, and locked the gate again. Horse puffed through his nose, and galloped down the other end of the paddock.
“It’s no use pretending you’ve never seen the wheelbarrow before,” I told him. “Look, I brought you some nice grass in it, tastier than the stuff you’ve got here in your paddock. There, isn’t that better? Of course it is. That’s a good boy. You like a bit of fresh grass, don’t you?”
He looked so silly, the ends of the grass hanging out of his mouth, I laughed. Horse doesn’t mind being laughed at, not like some dogs I know. “Look out!” I said. “You’ll knock me over!” Horse could smell the ripe red apple which I’d stuck down inside my shirt. He bumped me with his big nose till I had to get the other side of the wheelbarrow, then he followed me around and around.
“You pick up the handles and push the wheelbarrow a couple of yards, that’s all, and then you can have the apple. The barrow’s empty, so it doesn’t weigh a thing. Stop that! You saw me push it myself, so it shouldn’t be any trouble for you. Stop nuzzling at me! You’re not getting the apple till you’ve pushed the wheelbarrow. Ow! You stop that! Horse!”
I shoved his nose away, put the wheelbarrow in front of him, and s
aid, “Just push it a little. Don’t pretend you’re scared of an old wheelbarrow. Get away, Horse! I’ll tell Mr Bluenose on you.”
But he jammed me between the wheelbarrow and the gate. He nuzzled and grabbed my shirt with his mouth and pulled it out of my shorts. Before I could grab it, the apple fell. Horse’s teeth snapped it in midair like a dog killing a fly: “Skulp!”
“Munch! Munch!” He squashed the apple and dribbled juice.
“That’s not fair,” I told him. “Anyway, I had something special for you, but I’m not going to give it to you now. That’ll teach you!”
I pushed the wheelbarrow back through the gate, stuck the hook through the staple, took out my hanky, unwrapped it, and showed Horse the big yellow boiled lolly. “See! I was going to give this to you.” I climbed on top of the gate, laid my hanky on my hand, put the boiled lolly on it, and held it up so he could see what he’d missed by being greedy.
“A whole boiled lolly that I haven’t even licked yet. And it would have been yours, if you’d only pushed the wheelbarrow a little way. Just a couple of steps.”
His eyes on the boiled lolly, Horse came towards me, nostrils wrinkling as he snorted and sniffed the scent of boiled lolly.
“No you don’t. You haven’t done anything for it. I’m going to sit here and eat it myself. First I’m going to lick it all over, like this.” Horse stamped his foot. He knew what he was missing. “And now I’m going to crunch it.”
Somewhere a skylark was singing. Just for a moment, I laid my hanky on top of the gate post, put the yellow boiled lolly on it, and looked around the sky for the lark. Its song went on and on. Then I saw a little dot away up, much higher than I’d been looking before. It dropped straight down, still singing, stopped, and dropped again far enough for me to see its wings fluttering. It stopped singing, dropped a third time, slipped sideways, and landed in the grass. Larks are only little birds, yet their song fills up the whole sky. And when they come down, they run a fair way along the ground. That’s so you can’t find their nests.
“You mean pig!” I hadn’t even felt him pinch it. My hanky lay on the ground. Horse stood there with a gluttonous look on his face. I was so busy listening to the skylark, I hadn’t heard him crunch up the boiled lolly. Perhaps he swallowed it whole in one gulp.
“You’re a greedy guts. I’m never going to bring you anything again. You’re too lazy to push the wheelbarrow. All you ever think of is filling your face. Well, from now on, you can eat grass!”
Horse stuck his head down, picked up my hanky off the ground, chewed a couple of times, and swallowed it as well.
14
Why Horse Laughs and Eats Apples While Mr Bluenose Pushes the Wheelbarrow, and Mr Bryce Gives Me Four Boiled Lollies On Tick and an Idea.
Mr Bluenose took one look at my face, and went on digging. At the end of the row, he stuck his spade in the ground. “So Horse would not push the wheelbarrow?”
“He pulled out my shirt and pinched the apple I had for him. Not only that –” I took a deep breath. “I showed him a big yellow boiled lolly and told him he could have it if he pushed the wheelbarrow, but he took it off me while I was trying to see a lark away up in the sky, then he pinched my hanky and ate that, too.” I heard my voice wobble. “I only wanted to teach him to push the wheelbarrow.”
Mr Bluenose gave me his own big red hanky. “Blow your nose,” he said. “It will make you feel much better. That wicked Horse! For many years I tried to teach him myself, but I gave up. Some people just do not want to learn. That is why Horse laughs and eats apples, and I push the wheelbarrow.
“But some day,” said Mr Bluenose, “I am going to buy a cart, and then I will show Horse! I will put him in the shafts, load it up with barrels of apples and sacks of potatoes, and I will say to him: ‘Remember all the times you ate our nice, ripe, red apples? Remember all the times you stole our boiled lollies? Remember how you laughed and refused to push the wheelbarrow?’ I will tell him, ‘Now you are going to pull the cart whether you like it or not.’”
“That’ll fix him!” I told Mr Bluenose. “Serves him right, too.” And I tried to laugh.
Mr Bluenose took up his spade again. “In the shed is a kerosene tin of bad apples. Do you want to give them to the pigs? Pigs are always grateful, not like some people. They tell you so. Besides,” Mr Bluenose looked at my face, “that Horse, he won’t like to see the pigs getting fed. He thinks all the apples should be for him.”
I put the four-gallon tin of bad apples on the wheelbarrow and pushed it down to the sty. The pigs looked at me over the wall and grunted, and I grunted back to them. The pigs squealed. Their little eyes gleamed. They shoved each other and shrieked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Horse trot up to his gate.
“Look what I’ve got for you,” I said to the pigs in my clearest voice. “A whole kerosene tin full of lovely apples.”
Horse stamped his foot as I dropped some apples over the wall. The pigs squealed and fought each other; they crunched and gulped and gobbled. Pigs have no table manners. Behind me, I heard a whinny, and somebody stamped his foot, but I didn’t turn round. I picked up more apples and held them up in the air. “Lovely ripe apples! Full of juice!” I called so Horse could hear, and the pigs – their mouths full – squealed even louder.
I picked up the kerosene tin and tipped the rest of the apples into the trough. There were so many, the pigs stopped fighting. They stood with their feet in the trough, and gobbled with their eyes closed and a pleased look on their faces, while I grunted to them. As I pushed the wheelbarrow away, they stood up with their feet on the wall and grunted after me.
“Some people are more grateful than other people,” I said loud enough for Horse to hear. And he whinnied again, a sad whinny.
“Do you feel better now?” asked Mr Bluenose, and I nodded. I didn’t like to tell him how Horse had whinnied.
On the way home, I called in to say hello to Mr Bryce. I didn’t have any empty bottles, but thought I’d better tell him his advice about how to get Horse to push the wheelbarrow hadn’t worked.
“He pulled out your shirt and grabbed the apple?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“And he pinched the boiled lolly while you were staring at the skylark?”
“Yes. And he ate my hanky as well.”
“That horse is too smart for you. Now he knows he can get boiled lollies off you, I’ll be surprised if he’ll do any work at all.
“I’ll give you an idea,” said Mr Bryce. “When I was a boy, I had a horse that wouldn’t do any work. Everybody said he was too smart for me. But I fixed him.”
“What did you do?”
“I drew a picture of him being hanged, with his tongue sticking out,” said Mr Bryce. “Next time he wouldn’t work, I showed him my drawing. He was so scared, he turned into the hardest-working horse in the Waikato.”
I thought of the way Horse had whinnied. “It’s not very nice,” I said, “hanging somebody because they won’t work. Dad says I won’t do a hand’s turn round the house, but he doesn’t hang me.”
“I only showed my drawing to the horse,” Mr Bryce said, “that’s all. You try it on Mr Bluenose’s horse, and I’ll bet he pushes the wheelbarrow. Tell you what, I’ll give you some boiled lollies on tick. You can pay me back next time you find some empty bottles. One boiled lolly for you. One for your father. One for Mr Bluenose. And one for the horse if he pushes the wheelbarrow.
“Just think, if you’re successful, you’re going to have people coming from all over the Auckland Province.”
“What for?”
“Every cocky in the North Island will want you to teach their horses how to push a wheelbarrow. They’ll pay you a fortune. Enough to buy all the boiled lollies you want!” Mr Bryce ripped a length of brown paper off the big roll on the end of his counter. I watched it tear neatly along the sharp steel edge of the cutter.
“Here,” said Mr Bryce. “Take this home, draw a picture of Mr Bluenose’s horse hangin
g, and show it to him. If you draw his tongue sticking out, it’ll look more lifelike.”
I thanked him. He made a little cone out of a small piece of paper. “Four boiled lollies on tick,” said Mr Bryce. “One for you, one for your Dad, one for Mr Bluenose, and one for his horse – but only after he pushes the wheelbarrow, remember. Not before!”
I looked at Mr Bryce. “It’s okay,” he said, “I’m not charging you for the idea. It’s free.”
15
Dad Gives Me a Hand to Draw Horse Being Hanged, I Find Out What Getting Something on Tick Really Means, and Guarding the Boiled Lollies from Dad.
“What are you doing?”
“Drawing,” I told Dad.
“What’s it supposed to be?”
“Just something.”
“Where’d you get the paper from?”
“Mr Bryce.”
“The drawing looks a bit like him.”
“It’s Mr Bluenose’s horse. That’s his tongue sticking out because he’s being hanged, and there’s the rope.”
“Why on earth are you drawing poor old Horse being hanged? Come on, you’d better tell me about it.” Dad picked me up and sat me on his knee.
I cried and told him all about the big yellow lolly, and the ripe red apple, and how Horse had taken them off me and still hadn’t pushed the wheelbarrow. “He even pinched my hanky! The one with my initials on. And he chewed it up and swallowed it.”
“Never old mind,” Dad said, “I’ll stitch your initials on another hanky. Perhaps that Horse thinks he’s a billy-goat.”
I coughed and had to laugh, and that made me feel a bit better.
“I told Mr Bryce how he pinched the apple and the boiled lolly off me and still wouldn’t push the wheelbarrow. And he gave me this piece of paper and told me to draw a picture of Horse being hanged with his tongue sticking out, and he said to show it to him, and he’d be so scared, he’d push the wheelbarrow.