by Jack Lasenby
Mr Carter’s white-faced cow was staring into the ditch at the far end of the paddock, which meant Ken Carter and Jean were playing in there. They were so busy building a dam and stuffing holes where the water kept breaking through, they didn’t see me as I crossed further down. I climbed the other side, slid under the fence, and wriggled behind the grassed hump of clay still left from the olden days when the ditch was dug, before there were any farms around Waharoa.
I crawled till I could hear their voices in the ditch below. Mr Carter’s cow had been watching me, and now it stamped and backed away.
“Whooo-ooh!” I went, my face pressed down in the grass. “Whooo-ooh!”
“What was that?” said Jean.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said her brother.
“Whooo-ooh!” The grass smelled fresh. I crossed my eyes and watched a beetle trot past my nose.
“You heard it that time. It’s the ghost!”
“It was just the cow.”
“Whooo-ooh!”
“It was not the cow. I’m going home!”
“Whooo-ooh!” I thumped my hands on the clay hump.
“It’s just the cow stamping. She’s always doing that.”
“She doesn’t make that noise!”
“Whooo-ooh!” I beat my hands and groaned. “Ahhhahhh!”
“Wait for me!” Jean screamed. “I’m going to tell Mum you ran away and left me!”
“Whooo-oooh!”
“Ken!”
The cow frisked and ran as well. It threw its head up and down as Ken grabbed Jean’s hand and they tore across the paddock to their gate. Ken was having trouble getting the latch open, so I moaned louder and hammered the ground really hard, just to hurry him up.
Once they disappeared shrieking, I slid into the ditch and had a look at their dam. What it needed was a couple of branches to stop the water washing bits away. Further up the ditch, I found a tyre, and that helped. The water rose behind the dam, and there wasn’t anything else to do to it, so I splashed on up the ditch past Carters’ place. I went to stick my head over the bank, but thought Mrs Carter might be looking, and kept going. Near the church at the other end of Ward Street, I climbed out.
Somebody called my name. “Jump up and I’ll give you a dub home.” Dad stopped beside me, and I climbed on the bar of his bike, taking care not to bump the billy of milk on the handlebars.
“Do you remember, when you were little, I had a seat bolted on to the bar, and you used to sit on that?”
“I can’t remember.”
“And once you wanted to get off in a hurry, and you yanked the handlebars and turned the wheel. I was carrying the billy then, too, and it jammed between the handlebars and my knee, and over we went – crash! And the milk came down on top of us.”
“Did I do that?”
“You certainly did!”
“What did I say?”
“You were too busy laughing to say anything.”
“And what did Mummy say?”
“She was angry because she had to wash all our clothes. But when you kept laughing, she had to laugh, too.”
“Didn’t I cry?”
“Not once. You weren’t sorry. You said so.”
I grinned to myself. Dad couldn’t see me.
“Don’t you go doing it now!” he said.
“I won’t. Was I a little imp, Dad?”
“I suppose you were. We used to call you that sometimes. Always getting into mischief of one sort or another.”
“More than Freddy Jones?”
“Freddy Jones was an angel compared with you when you were little.”
I liked Dad saying that. As we went round the corner, he waved to Mrs Carter, but I just looked straight ahead and took care not to spill the milk. I felt safe there on the bar of his bike, with Dad’s arms around me as he gave me a double home.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can I wash Mummy’s beads? Her amber ones.”
“If you want to. We’ve got plenty of milk.”
“Why do you wash amber beads in milk?”
“It’s supposed to be good for them. My mother used to do it, and she left her beads to your mother, and they’re in pretty good nick still, so there must be something to it, eh.”
“When can I wear them?”
“I’ve told you. When you’re eighteen.”
“That’s ages!”
“It’s when my mother was given them, when she was eighteen. And her mother before her. Had any adventures this morning?” Dad asked.
“Not really.”
“Well, cheer up, and we’ll have some lunch.” The gate clicked shut behind us, and we rode up the path along the side of the house. A sugarbag of Poorman’s stood on the back porch.
“Mr Bluenose must have called,” I said.
“I’d forgotten,” said Dad, “we’ve got to make the marmalade. Have you sorted out the jars from under the tankstand?”
“I’ll do it this afternoon. After I’ve washed Mummy’s beads. Dad, we can use the same milk for the chooks to clean the burnt saucepan, once you’ve made the marmalade!”
“Who said I’m going to burn the saucepan? We’ll use the old copper boiler, and put in the big marble to stop it catching on the bottom. By the way, Mr Bryce was delivering some groceries, over in Blackett Street, and he gave me these, said he owed them to you for something on tick. I thought we might eat them now.”
I knew without looking inside the bag what they were. Besides, I could feel them through the paper.
“Oh, Dad! You know you can’t go eating boiled lollies for lunch every day!”
24
Two Moreporks Pay Me a Visit, the Epidemic is Over, First Day Back, Golden Delicious and Boy Traps, and Summer’s End.
Something scratched on the outside of my window. If I kept my eyes closed, it wouldn’t be able to hypnotise me. It squeaked, as if it was rubbing its nose up the glass, and it moaned.
“Dad!” I tore into his room, but he was already running into mine, and we collided in the doorway.
“Watch out!” Dad gasped. “Where is the thing!” He sounded bad-tempered, but I knew he was feeling in the dark for the light cord. He pulled it on and rubbed his middle. “You just about knocked the wind out of me.”
“The morepork’s trying to get in my window!”
“You should try banging it with your head.” He rubbed his middle again.
“It was running its nose up and down the glass, and it moaned.”
“Dad pulled up the blind. “There’s no morepork there.” He pulled down the blind, and said he’d have a look outside. I heard him go out the back door and saw the flash of the torch so, when he licked his finger and rubbed it on the outside of my window, I knew it was him. I pulled up the blind and he was standing just outside the window with the torch stuck in his mouth making his cheeks all red. Then he held it under his chin so he looked like a monster.
“Morepork!” he hooted. “Morepork!”
“No morepork out there,” he said when he came back. “Just a monster.”
“Can I’ve a drink of water?”
He brought it and sat on the edge of my bed. I gave him the glass back and must have gone to sleep because I remember him tucking me in, but not pulling the light off.
I told Mr Bluenose about the morepork when I went down to his place next morning.
“Perhaps you should set a trap,” said Mr Bluenose. “When it scratches on your window again, let up the blind, shine the torch under your chin, and hoot, “Morepork!”
“That’s a good idea!”
“First, though, you should tell your father. Just in case.”
But I didn’t tell Dad. I waited till the morepork scratched at my window that night. I sneaked out of bed, out the back door, around the tankstand, held the torch under my chin and hooted, “Morepork! Morepork!”
The two of them went shrieking down the side of the house, straight through Dad’s potato patch, and I chased them, hooting and flas
hing the torch. Dad jumped out his window and joined me, roaring, but they cleared the fence in one leap and were gone, still shrieking.
“I wish you’d woken me first,” Dad said. “I’d have put a sheet over my head and sneaked around the front, so they would have had to run into me. We could have scared them silly!”
“You came out your window pretty fast,” I said.
“I had a fair bit of practice when I was a boy. Now, back to bed! I don’t think you’ll have any more visits from the morepork tonight.”
I ran down and thanked Mr Bryce for the boiled lollies next morning. “I hear you were visited by the morepork?” he said.
“How did you know?”
“You’d be surprised how fast stories get around Waharoa,” said Mr Bryce. “I suppose there won’t be as many once you’re back at school.”
“School?”
“It’s in the paper,” said Mr Bryce. “The epidemic is over, because of the weather getting cooler, they reckon.”
“What about all the people who died?”
“We can’t do anything about them. It’s the ones the infantile crippled who’ve got to be looked after now.” Mr Bryce turned to somebody who’d come in behind me.
I thought I’d got past Mrs Dainty’s place, but she was hiding near the gate, and she jumped out and yelled, “I see school’s opening next week. Not before time either. There’s been too many hi-jinks going on around Waharoa. Moreporks! Ghosts!” I got such a fright, I went for my life.
“School next week,” said Mr Bluenose as I gave him his share of the boiled lollies. “You are going to have to work hard, making up for all the time you had off.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “We’ve still got to make our marmalade.”
“I do not think they will close the school for that. But when I first came here, they used to close so the kids could give a hand planting and then digging the potatoes.”
“True?”
Mr Bluenose nodded. “First Riwai Day, everyone called it, and Second Riwai Day. And they used to finish up with a dance in the hall. The Riwai Ball.”
“It must have been more fun in Waharoa in those days,” I said.
“We had some fun this summer,” said Mr Bluenose. “Horse is going to miss you when you go back to school. He will forget how to push the wheelbarrow, and the ghost in the tunnel will miss you, and the pigs.”
“I suppose we did have some fun,” I said to Dad as we ate our tea that night.
“Some people might call it that,” he said, “but I’ve had a pretty tough summer, keeping on side with the neighbours. I’ll be pleased when you’re back at school. Tomorrow we’d better make the marmalade. Have we got enough sugar?”
“There’s a whole new bagful in the bin. Remember you brought it home on your bike last week.”
“I must be going barmy! What with moreporks and ghosts and cannibal wardrobes, I’d forgotten it.”
Monday morning, I waited outside our gate for Ken and Jean. As we walked along, Billy and Freddy joined us.
“I’ll bet I know what Mr Strap is going to make us do,” said Ken. “He’ll tell us we have to write a composition called, ‘What I Did During the Long Holidays.’”
“It should be ‘What I Did During the Infantile Paralysis Epidemic,’” said Billy.
“Why do they always make us write compositions?” said Freddy, “on the first day back?”
“Because they want to know what we’ve been up to,” said Billy. “Grown-ups are always trying to find out what you’ve been doing.”
“Good morning!” It was Mr Bluenose on his way to the station with some barrels of apples. We stood around his wheelbarrow, putting off going into school. “When do the apples finish, Mr Bluenose?” asked Freddy.
“Not for ages yet,” said Mr Bluenose. “There are the Golden Delicious just ripening.” He looked hard at Freddy. “And then there are the Granny Smiths.”
“I love Golden Delicious!” said Freddy, and we all swallowed and felt our mouths water.
“I know you do,” said Mr Bluenose. “That is why I have set boy traps all around my orchard.”
“Boy traps?” Freddy backed away.
“When a boy steps on one of my traps,” said Mr Bluenose, “the sharp steel jaws catch him by the foot and hang him upside down till all the blood runs to his head.”
“Have you ever caught a boy in one of your traps, Mr Bluenose?” asked Billy.
“Just last week,” said Mr Bluenose, “a boy from Matamata put his foot in one as he tried to steal a Golden Delicious. I did not see him hanging upside down for several days. That boy is still over in Waikato Hospital, hanging the right way up to make the blood run down to his feet again. The doctors say his hair will probably stay red-coloured the rest of his life.”
Jean had red hair. She tried to hide behind her brother.
“Goodbye, Mr Bluenose,” we said. He picked up the handles of his wheelbarrow and pushed it towards the station, and we went in the school gate as Mr Strap rang the bell. It was only nine o’clock, but it felt like summer was over.
Some Fascinating Biographical Information About the Curmudgeonly Old Author.
When I was a boy, Waharoa didn’t have Daylight Saving, so there were twenty-four hours in each day, which meant we got lots more sun. Every year was a leap year, so we all got two birthdays, which is why I now look twice my age.
It only rained enough to fill the creek, so you could swim and jump in off the bank. Summer never ended, and winter was fun because of the wolves, and because you sat around the open fire listening to ghost stories.
School was on Sunday, and the weekend went from Monday to Saturday. There were no dental nurses, no drills, and doctors didn’t use needles.
There was nowhere you had to keep out of; you could pinch apples and plums off everyone’s trees, and nobody chased you. Nobody told you off for getting dirty, giving cheek, or coming home late.
Instead of growing older, I might have a go at growing down to being a boy again. It was better then.
Also by Jack Lasenby
Charlie the Cheeky Kea 1976
Rewi the Red Deer 1976
The Lake 1987
The Mangrove Summer 1989
Uncle Trev 1991
Uncle Trev and the Great South Island Plan 1991
Uncle Trev and the Treaty of Waitangi 1992
The Conjuror 1992
Harry Wakatipu 1993
Dead Man’s Head 1994
The Waterfall 1995
The Battle of Pook Island 1996
Because We Were the Travellers 1997
Uncle Trev’s Teeth 1997
Taur 1998
The Shaman and the Droll 1999
The Lies of Harry Wakatipu 2000
Kalik 2001
Aunt Effie 2002
Harry Wakatipu Comes the Mong 2003
Aunt Effie’s Ark 2003
Aunt Effie and the Island that Sank 2004
What Makes a Teacher? 2004
Copyright
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the written permission of Longacre Press and the author.
Jack Lasenby asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
© Jack Lasenby
ISBN 978 1 77553 120 3
First published by Longacre Press, 2005
30 Moray Place, Dunedin, New Zealand
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the National Library of New Zealand.
Cover and book design by Christine Buess
Cover illustration by David Elliot
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group, Australia
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