by Jack Lasenby
The needle swung around the pressure gauge. Three hundred, four hundred, five hundred pounds per square inch. Six hundred pounds! We’d just started when, Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah! Ker-rang! Clank! Clank! the Model T shot past again.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” the Phantom Drummer beat his fists on his chest. The Sideshow Man leaned out, stuck his fingers in the corners of his eyes and his mouth and poked out his tattooed tongue. “Gruff! Gruff!” Banana Bob patted his enormous puku and licked his lips splashily at Alwyn.
We drove after them, catching up faster and faster. Steam belched from under the Stanley Steamer. A few more yards and we edged past. The Phantom Drummer sucked in his mouth, but we dodged and his spit went over the top of us. “Kreeg-ah!” he shrieked.
“Silly old Phantom Drummer!” Alwyn stood up, beat his chest, and yelled, “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
There was the Tower, the finishing line, the ribbon. There stood Mr Firth ready to wave the big black and yellow chequered flag. “We’re first!” Alwyn shouted. “We’ve beaten them!” and one of our front wheels came off.
“Everyone lean left!” Marie yelled. We hung on and leaned out until the Stanley Steamer balanced on two wheels, but the Model T raced ahead of us for the finishing line.
“Ha! Ha!” Banana Bob stuck his pointy head out the side and looked back. The Sideshow Man stuck his head out the other side. “Ha! Ha!” he shouted and poked out his tattooed tongue. The shadowy gorilla on the back ran his finger around the white collar he wore backwards. “Boom! Boom! Boom! Kreeg-ah!” he went and snapped his fangs at Alwyn.
“The Phantom Drummer must have loosened that wheel while we were all down at the Waterfall Creek,” said Uncle Chris. “It’s just the sort of dirty trick he’d do.”
We leaned even further to the left as the Stanley Steamer slowed. We cried and watched our front wheel bounce on by itself.
It picked up speed and whizzed past the Model T, even though the Sideshow Man leaned out and tried to push it over with the tea-tree stick and the lady’s hand mirror tied on the end. The wheel slid on its side, hit something, bounced, landed upright, and shot through the red ribbon that marked the finishing line. The Model T clanked across the line behind it. Mr Firth waved the black and yellow chequered flag, looked at his stopwatch, and blew his trumpet. The cannon roared on top of the Tower.
The three gorillas capered and shuffled around their Model T, shook each other’s hands, and slapped each other on the back. “Gruff! Gruff! Boom! Boom! Kreeg-ah!”
Our runaway front wheel bounded down Tower Hill towards Matamata. The Stanley Steamer was still skidding along on the right side where the wheel had come off. The bumper bent backwards; the mudguard crumpled. We turned end for end three times. Metal screeching. Steam hissing. The whistle blew, Woe – owe! and we climbed off, just short of the finishing line. The gorillas jumped up and down, beat their chests, and reached out their powerful hands for Alwyn.
Uncle Chris turned around crying and saying, “Sorry!” but Alwyn dived through a fence and ran away across the next paddock. He didn’t get far before the Phantom Drummer and the Sideshow Man caught him. They carried him back upside-down, dropped him head first into a banana crate, and Banana Bob nailed him inside.
“Give me your bottle of water,” Mr Firth said to Banana Bob, took a swig, and spat. “Are you trying to poison me? That muck’s not out of Waterfall Creek! It’s swamp water!”
“We think they filled it out of a drain,” said Daisy.
“Shh!” Uncle Chris whispered. “Don’t try to tell Mr Firth his job. He’s a very proud man.”
Banana Bob said, “The rules say first across the finishing line.”
“Line finishing the across first,” sobbed a sad little voice from inside the banana crate.
Mr Firth took our bottle and sniffed it.
“We filled the kerosene tin from Waterfall Creek,” said Jessie. “And we filled the bottle from that.”
“That’s why it smells of kerosene,” said Mr Firth. “Ugh!”
“But the conditions of the challenge didn’t say the bottle had to be filled from Waterfall Creek,” said Lizzie who wanted to be a lawyer when she grew up. “They said it had to be filled with water out of Waterfall Creek.”
“You’ll be a lawyer when you grow up.” Mr Firth took another swig. “I can taste something else,” he said, and his nose turned red.
“It’s one of Aunt Effie’s Old Puckeroo bottles,” Peter told him.
Mr Firth took another swig. “I know good water when I taste it!” He took another mouthful and smacked his lips. He put the cork back in and stuck the bottle in his pocket.
“The rules say the winner is the first one across the finishing line,” said the Sideshow Man.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” rumbled the Phantom Drummer, and flames came out of his ears.
“Kreeg-ah!” said Banana Bob and kicked the wooden crate so Alwyn squealed.
Mr Firth unrolled the scroll and read the challenge aloud. When he came to the bit at the bottom, he slowed down and read it very loudly and very precisely, like Daisy. “The winner will be the first car or part thereof to cross the finishing line. The driver must give the Judge a bottle filled with water out of Waterfall Creek. The Judge’s decision will be final.
“I hereby rule: the Stanley Steamer brought a bottle filled with excellent water out of Waterfall Creek.” Mr Firth took out our bottle and had another swig. “The Model T,” he said, “brought a bottle of waipiro – filled from the swamp.” He stopped and bowed to Lizzie. “The gorillas,” he said, “are disqualified.”
“An excellent decision! A Daniel come to judgement.” Daisy never lost a chance to show off her knowledge of Shakespeare.
“The first car or part thereof to cross the finishing line was the front wheel that came off the Stanley Steamer,” said Mr Firth. “I therefore declare the Stanley Steamer the winner! The Judge’s decision is final!”
“Final is decision Judge’s the!” called Alwyn.
Uncle Chris’s face went red. He giggled. His giggle turned to a splutter. His splutter to a laugh. We all giggled, spluttered, and laughed.
We pulled out the nails and tipped Alwyn, laughing, out of the banana crate. We laughed and laughed. We were still laughing, our sides were aching. We were begging Uncle Chris to stop laughing, but he was making us laugh even more.
“You owe us a case of bananas!” he giggled and told Banana Bob. “For winning.”
“Daisy-Mabel-Johnny-Flossie-Lynda-Stan-Howard-Marge- Stuart-Peter-Marie-Colleen-Alwyn-Bryce-Jack-Ann-Jazz-Beck-Jane-Isaac-David-Victor-Casey-Lizzie-Jared-Jess! What’s going on?”
Aunt Effie was carrying our runaway wheel. She was followed by Caligula, Nero, Brutus, Kaiser, Genghis, and Boris wearing pack-saddles and carrying a huge wooden crate. They panted from the climb up Tower Hill.
“I said, what’s going on?”
Without even giving us the case of bananas, the three gorillas, Banana Bob, The Sideshow Man, and the Phantom Drummer leapt for the Model T. Banana Bob cranked it and jumped for the passenger seat, his pot-belly swinging. Aunt Effie clouted his pointy head a good one with her umbrella. She walloped the Sideshow Man a beauty behind the ear. She swiped the Phantom Drummer across the backside.
Banana Bob reached across the top of his puku and took the wheel. His pointy head stuck up under the canvas roof, and Aunt Effie thumped it down with her umbrella. The Model T shook and took off down Tower Hill. Ker-rang! Clank! Clank!
“You don’t fool me with those disguises!” Aunt Effie shouted after it. I know who you are!”
A voice shouted something back. It sounded like, “We love you, Euphem–!”
“Don’t you dare call me that name!” Aunt Effie shouted so loud the Model T backfired.
She spun round. “Explain yourselves!” Her voice was quiet but cold.
Chapter Seventeen
Aunt Effie Takes Off Her Corsets and Drinks Tea Out of Her Saucer; the Governor-General Gives a Holiday to the Hinuer
a School; Rustle of Spring; Down Lake Waikato; What We Saw in the Rangitoto Channel.
Uncle Chris had disappeared under his Stanley Steamer. Mr J.C. Firth pulled up the ladder and closed the door of the Tower behind him. We heard the key turning as he locked it from inside.
“He must be another of Aunt Effie’s old husbands,” whispered Ann.
“So you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?” Aunt Effie shouted up at the locked door. “I thought as much!” She spun round and stared at us. “Has that Stanley Steamer got enough boiling water to make us a cup of tea?” she demanded.
Uncle Chris crawled out grinning, held the teapot under the tap beside the boiler and made the tea. We could see he was afraid of Aunt Effie, too. The rest of us unloaded the dogs’ enormous crate, took off their pack-saddles, and led them across to have a roll in a patch of sand.
At the other end of Tower Road, there was a bang as the Model T backfired and turned into Broadway. Three very small gorillas jumped up and down, shook tiny fists, and vanished.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish!” said Aunt Effie. “Where’s my cup of tea?” She pulled a bottle of Old Puckeroo out of her handbag and poured a dollop into her cup. “Now, what’s been going on?”
We started to tell her about the race, but she said, “Just a minute,” and disappeared into our travelling cowshed. She came back scratching her tummy and stretching. “That’s better,” she sighed, and we knew she’d be happier now. Aunt Effie always took off her corsets as soon as she came home from going to town or to church. She also liked to kick off her high heels and put on the comfy slippers she wore around home.
She took her cup of tea and poured it into her saucer.
“Somebody told us it’s rude to drink out of your saucer,” said Lizzie.
“Only if Uncle Chris does it. It’s perfectly all right for me.” Aunt Effie poured herself another cup of tea. “Well, I’m waiting.”
We told Aunt Effie about the race. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she told Alwyn. “I’ll give the three of them gorilla suits next time I see them!
“They didn’t give us the case of bananas,” Ann said. “It was in the rules.”
“That’s typical of the Phantom Drummer,” Uncle Chris nodded. “He’s always up to some dirty trick or other.”
Aunt Effie looked so angry, we tried to look busy, helping the dogs shove the huge crate up on top of the cowshed. “Handsomely!” cried Aunt Effie, putting down her saucer. “No bumping it. Fingers out of the way, everybody! Lower together. Now!”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Get those tramlines laid out in front!” Aunt Effie ordered. “Help Uncle Chris put his steering wheel back on. Straighten out the bumper and the mudguard. And the running board. Have we got enough water? Kerosene? Pressure?”
Uncle Chris drove between the tramlines ahead of the cowshed. Peter stood on the back of the Stanley Steamer and passed a tow rope to Marie.
“The flag’s flying half-mast on the Tower!” Lizzie called. She and Casey ran across and brought back a note someone had lowered in a basket.
Aunt Effie read it. “Another bottle of Old Puckeroo? Well, he was a good judge!” She sent the little ones back with half-a-dozen bottles to put in the basket. The rope jerked it up the side of the Tower. A cannon boomed on top. The flag flew from the mast. The Stanley Steamer whistled, and Uncle Chris towed us – not north towards Kiwitahi, but south towards Taihoa.
Farm dogs yelled, and little boys barked. “Look at the share-milkers shifting their cowshed!” they yapped. “It must be Gypsy Day!”
We ran, picking up the wooden rails and re-laying them in front. Even with Caligula, Nero, Brutus, Kaiser, Genghis, and Boris helping, it was hard work.
South of Matamata, we heard a long whistle: Whooo-Whooo!
“The Rotorua Express!” Aunt Effie climbed a fence, jumped up on to the ballast, and waved it down.
“It’s shrunk!” Lizzie cried.
“It’s because of those little wheels it’s running on,” said Peter.
The guard showed Aunt Effie his big leather bag of money that the passengers had paid for tickets.
“I’ll swap you back your big driving wheels,” said Aunt Effie, “for the little ones – and the bagful of money!” The venal guard handed over the bag. Spinning the handles of our timber-jacks, we took the big wheels off our cowshed. We jacked up the snorting, puffing engine, took off the small set of wheels, bolted the driving wheels back on, and lowered the locomotive on to the railway lines.
“That’s better!” said Lizzie. She and Jessie stared up as the great engine hissed steam and its insides grumbled, Borborygm, borborygm!
Aunt Effie said to the guard, the stoker, and the engine-driver: “With those big wheels back on, you’re much higher now. Remember to keep your heads down, going through the tunnels.”
But the driver winked at the guard. “Who does she think she is?” he asked behind his hand. “Telling us!” And the stoker sniggered and said something impolite about sheilas.
“Whooop-Whoooop!” they whistled and took off towards the tunnel this side of Tirau. “Keep your heads down!” Aunt Effie shouted after them.
A few minutes later we heard three sodden thumps and, “Ow!” “Ow!” “Ow!”
“The Tirau Tunnel,” said Aunt Effie, and she smiled with pleasure.
“The cowshed looks sad without wheels,” we told her. But some farmers came driving their grey Fergusson tractors, carting their milk to the Hinuera dairy factory. Aunt Effie showed them the little driving wheels off the train. “Put these on your tractors, and you can drive along the railway lines,” she said. “You can pretend you’re the Rotorua Express!”
The farmers couldn’t whip off their big rubber-tyred wheels fast enough. We bolted the little steel wheels on to their tractors and jacked them on to the railway lines. They drove off shouting, “Chuff! Chuff!” and “Whooop! Whooop!” Today tourists come in thousands just to see the Hinuera farmers hurrying to jack their grey Fergusson tractors off the railway lines before the Rotorua Express roars through.
We bolted the tractor wheels on to our travelling cowshed, and stacked the rimu rails on deck because we never knew when we might want them again. Besides, we remembered how long it took to pit-saw them, with sawdust trickling down our necks.
Uncle Chris blew the whistle on the Stanley Steamer. Somewhere past Tirau we heard three more sodden thuds and, “Ow!” “Ow!” “Ow!”
“The Putaruru Tunnel,” Aunt Effie chuckled.
Our travelling cowshed rolled much faster on the big, soft, tractor tyres. Dogs scampered away barking, looking over their shoulders, and colliding with fence-posts. The Hinuera school closed so the kids could watch us go by. “Are you the Governor-General?” a little girl yelled at Uncle Chris.
“Thank you,” he said. “You can all have the day off school tomorrow!”
“Hooray! Who’s that on the roof of the cowshed?”
“The Governor-Generaless!” said Uncle Chris. “You can have a second day off for her!”
“Hooray!” the kids shouted, and the teachers pulled nasty faces.
Up the Hinuera Valley we rolled, past Piarere to the banks of the Waikato River. But instead of the river, a long lake lapped the valley walls.
“They’re not supposed to build the Karapiro Dam till about 1947,” said Aunt Effie. “Still, it’ll be easier sailing.”
“What’s sailing?” the little ones asked, but she just shook her head.
“Remember I said all that rubbish will have to go before we put her in the water again,” Aunt Effie said to Peter and Marie. “The chimney, you can start with that.”
As the bricks, the sheets of corrugated iron, the clothesline, the stacks of tea-tree firewood, milk cans, the dunny we’d built for wet days, fence-posts, the lean-to kitchen, and the roof over the copper for use on washing days, as it all went over the side, we saw the shape of a scow reappear. “It’s the Margery Daw!” Casey said.
/> “Our old scow!” said Jared.
We rolled the big tractor wheels on deck and covered them with green canvas. Uncle Chris giggled and gave us a shove with the coffin nose of his Stanley Steamer. Bow first, the Margery Daw torpedoed down the slope and into Lake Karapiro. The splash went up the hills on the other side. You can still see how high by the line of dried mud.
“That’s the first floating cowshed I’ve seen!” Uncle Chris sat on his running board and giggled.
We rigged the rudder and centre-board, fixed the shear-legs, raised the masts, set up the standing rigging, bent on the canvas, and fastened the running rigging. Aunt Effie knocked apart the mysterious crate the dogs had carried on their pack-saddles all the way from Matamata to Tower Hill.
Whooo-ooop! Uncle Chris stood on the back seat and steered with the tiller back towards his farm at Wardville.
“Thanks for reading our hands!” Lizzie called. “Thanks for saving Alwyn!” Jessie called. “Thanks for the sausages!” we all called. “Thanks for telling us about letting out the witches!” cried Casey. “Bob Banana for out watch!” Alwyn yelled.
A laugh came back. First a giggle, then a splutter, then a screech: Uncle Chris’s laugh. It was so funny, we stood and waved and giggled, too. Whooo-ooop! We laughed till our sides ached and tears ran down our cheeks. But a new noise filled our ears.
Aunt Effie sat on a stool, reached out both arms, and swept her hands along the black and white keys of the grand piano the dogs had carried in the crate. “The Story of a New Zealand Film!” she announced. Caligula, Nero, Brutus, Kaiser, Genghis, and Boris pointed their heads up and howled, “Oooooowhooooo!” The little ones burst into tears.
Its lid propped open, the grand piano stood lashed against the mainmast. The stool was fastened to ringbolts in the deck. Aunt Effie swept her hands up and down the keys, smiled and nodded in time with the music, and a southerly breeze filled the sails.
“She’s playing my piece,” said Daisy. “‘Rustle of Spring!’”