Catching the Squeal by Ken Bishop

Catching the Squeal (Pocket Knives)

Killing and scalding pigs is a complicated business, well it’s not really, but if you don’t know what you are doing it can be disastrous.

So when someone was going to kill a pig or pigs, quite a lot of the neighbourhood turned up, just to make sure the job was done properly. More likely there was another reason, a lot of people made their own homebrew, some alright, some middling and some bloody vile concoctions that nobody could drink unless they had run out of the more drinkable variety. So most turned up with a demi-john of their brews.

There was a lot of thought to go through to do the job right. The knives had to be sharp, especially the sticking knife. This was a long slim knife as a rule, probably made from a bayonet or a cut down saw. Whatever it was it had to be sharp. Then there were the scraping knives which weren’t very sharp to shave the bristles off after the pig was scalded. Then the razor sharp knives to put the finishing touches to any bristles that had missed the scald in some way which generally occurred for various reasons.

Then there was getting the water to the right temperature. Very important this part was. This was either done in a copper, or perhaps a couple of 44 gallon drums over a fire and brought to the boil. Then there had to be the cold water to mix with the boiling water to bring it down to the correct temperature. This was very important.

Then there was the pigs themselves to inspect. This took a lot of thought and discussion. Their condition, their size, their breed, and finally how much they would kill out at. This was the estimated weight when they were killed, scalded and gutted or dressed to be exact.

This was also very important and such important decisions were generally accompanied by a drink from a demi-john which was also very important. There was the matter of rubbing a hand over the top to clean it before drinking and rubbing it again, then passed on where the whole procedure was then repeated.

While this very important procedure was being done the younger ones who weren’t old enough to drink were busy doing the other important work, e.g. getting the water to the boil, getting the bench on which the pigs were to be put on for scraping and the hooks to hang the pigs with the block and tackles to be got ready. The buckets to ladle the water with and very often, the horse or horses to be caught and harnessed up to the sledge to bring the pigs to where the scalding was to take place after they were slaughtered.

Very often the pigs were shot first with a pea-rifle (22) then stuck. This was the easiest way, otherwise they had to be caught, generally on a very slippery floor, turned over and held while they were stuck. With a big pig this was a very hard thing to do. But it was often done that way. They used to kick, thrash and squeal like a banshee.

But quite often they had a rope put on their front leg with a slip knot on it and let out into a grassy patch, tipped over and stuck there. With practise this was pretty easy as even a big pig couldn’t get far if one or two men held onto the rope, then he couldn’t put his foot onto the ground to get purchase to walk or run.

This was often the preferred method as it saved dragging the dead pig over to where the horse and sledge was. The sooner the pig was taken to the bath or trough to be scalded the better before they lost their body heat.

I was about four and often used to go to a pig killing. If I did a few chores and didn’t get in the way I was given the pig’s bladder. This was a great honour as a pig’s bladder when drained and a bit of bamboo inserted in the urethra and blown up make a marvellous balloon. It had to be hung up in a shed for a few days until dry then could be used even for a football if not kicked too hard. It made a very good basketball too.

Incidentally another use for the dried bladder was when the fat was rendered down. When it was still warm and runny a funnel was inserted in the end and the fat poured in, hung up in a corner of the shed.

The fat cooled and became solid, it was in an airtight container and would last for months, even years.

So on the day in question everything was nearly ready. Five pigs to do. Old Harry asked me if I had a squeal. “No I never had a squeal”.

“We’ll have to get you one. Hey you blokes, the young bloke hasn’t got a squeal. We’ll have to get him one, hell he can’t grow up without a squeal”.

Everyone agreed with that so the first pig came out, he was led onto the grass patch and quickly turned over and he started to squeal. Hell a pig can squeal. There was a confab going on from five or six chaps. After he was stuck he squealed more then it got gradually less and less.

Old Harry and Bob and three or four others got themselves scattered around, suddenly Harry yelled out, “Here it comes, get ready, over by you Bob, quick”. Bob made a grab at something. “Missed it” he yelled.

Larry said, “Here it is, here now”.

I was all eyes.

“Watch out you fulla” Harry called.

“Over here” the old blokes were jumping and kicking. Finally Bob said “The bugger got away, never mind, four more pigs to go. We’re bound to get at least ione”.

By now all swung into action, pig number one was despatched to the tub, lowered into the water. I wasn’t allowed near there. Too dangerous. After a few minutes the hog was pulled out, lifted onto the bench and everyone seemed to know what they were doing.

Then the next pig was led out. The same setup but there was less to try and catch the squeal. It got away again. Harry slapped his thigh and said, “by gripes young’un, I nearly had him”.

I asked him what they looked like. “Well you know what a frog looks like”.

“Yep”.

“Well they don’t look like a frog. You know what a mouse looks like”.

I nodded. “Well it doesn’t look like a mouse either really”.

“Is it half and half” I asked.

“No, its not that either. But when we catch one you’ll know”.

Anyhow soon all the pigs were slaughtered hung up in the shed and things were cleaned up. The younger ones went home to milk while the older stayed to talk about the day’s work and finish the demijohns off. They were getting into the worst brews and the hideous grimaces on their faces made me ask why they drank such awful medicine.

Tom said, “We are just so sorry not to get your squeal we are doing penance. But don’t worry, next time we are sure to get you one. However we have five good bladders here for you for being such a help and for not getting in the way”.

That night and for many nights I lay in bed dreaming of the day I’d get my own squeal. Then I’d be able to help scald the pigs.

Catching the Squeal by Ken Bishop

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Sam by Kenneth George Bishop

Sam

It was early May, I’d just come in from the cow shed when the phone rang, it was from my sister Janet. She is a good sort, a bit bossy but good and kind. She doesn’t waste much time coming to the point.

“Any objections to the kids and I coming up for the holidays? The house will be due for another tidy-up by now. We’ll be up Sunday and will bring some stores”.

“Hell no. I’ll be glad to see you. I’ve plenty of Tucker, going to kill a beast next week. What do you mean ‘tidy the house up’, it’s good and tidy.”

She laughed and said “I’ll bet it is, never mind, we’ll see you about midday Sunday”.

After I put the receiver back on the phone I thought, “Hell, what day is this, Thursday – no Friday. Hell I haven’t much time”.

Janet is good but she is a bit fussy, and she often throws clothes, hats and things out that have a lot of wear left in them. Luckily I’m aware of this so I make my preparations.

First I go through the pile of clothes in the wash house waiting to be washed when I get the time. People don’t understand, woollen shirts get worn and ragged under the arms from wearing overalls but the rest of the shirt is good, a lot of wear left in them. So I get a bag and go through the shirts, any that are a bit tatty I put in the bags, the same with singlet’s, tea towels and overalls that have a few holes in them. When the bag is three quarters full I take them over to the implement shed, jam some baling twine in the top and either throw the bags in a corner or hang them up on a nail on the wall until she goes home again and I can resurrect them again.

Anyhow I had a lot of things to do, I’m drying the cows off next week, the home-kill chap is coming Tuesday to do the beast and two pigs. Yes there are a lot of last minute jobs to be done before drying off.

I’d just got in on Sunday morning when Janet arrived, with all the gear that she deemed necessary for their stay.

The two boys were aged twelve and fourteen, Max and John, and had sprung up quite a bit since the Christmas holidays. The two girls, Sharon and Trixie were nine and seven. Actually I give Janet and Morrie credit, the kids were well mannered, but pretty gullible in many ways. Perhaps all town kids are, I don’t know many.

They were carrying all the gear in the house and I said to the kids, “Where is the kitchen sink?” They all looked at me.

“Haven’t you got one?” asked Sharon.

“Yeah I think so, but I haven’t seen it for awhile”.

Trix flew inside and came out and said, “Yes, you have got one, don’t you use it?”

“No, hardly ever, it wastes time”.

“Then how do you wash your dishes” Trix wanted to know.

“What do you think I keep dogs for?”

“Getting the cows in” Sharon replied. “Don’t try to tell us Uncle that the dogs do the dishes, dogs can’t wash dishes”.

“Now see here you kids, don’t dare tell your Mum , she has some funny ideas and might take you home again, but I put the dishes and pots out on the lawn there and when I let the dogs off they lick them as clean as a whistle”. They all looked at the lawn and screwed their faces up, “oooh Uncle, that’s gross”.

Just then Janet came outside and said, “Come on you kids, go and get changed into your farm clothes”. While they were away we chatted a bit on family news and complimented each other on how well we looked as siblings always seem to do. I enquired about Morrie, “Oh he’s good really. It’s football season you know”.

“Yeah I know, right in his element again eh?” Old Morrie is the expert on football, knows every player in NZ I think, good bloke though.

Sharon was the first to emerge, “Mum, Uncle asked why we didn’t bring the kitchen sink. It’s one of his jokes isn’t it?”

“Well,” I answered, “You seemed to have brought everything else, why not the kitchen sink”.

Janet looked at me accusingly and said, “By the look of it we should have brought ours. Have you been washing your socks in it again”.

“No, oh! Hell no, it’s the stain of the water that makes it look like that”.

“I hope you don’t let the stain colour your milking plant like that”. I stood up to my full height of 5ft 4” and said, “Certainly not. I’d get a grade if I did”.

“What’s a grade Uncle?” Max wanted to know.

“Well if the milking plant gets dirty, bugs get in the milk and send it off a bit, the tests at the factory pick it up and the milk gets down graded. You get paid a lot less”.

“It’s a pity the factory didn’t run tests on your house too, and graded your milk on that as well”. Janet can be a bit harsh at times.

“Your brother Dave’s house is spotless and he’s living on his own too now.”

“Yeah but look at his farm, damned disgrace. Broken gates and fences, thistles and ragwort everywhere, and that bird he’s got spends a lot of time up there. She cleans it up, I know that”.

“Anyhow, come and have some lunch. I brought some food with us”.

She produced some nice things to eat, filled rolls etc. I noticed the kids tried not to put anything on their plates, and grinned to myself.

“Did you really wash your socks in the kitchen sink Uncle,” Trix wanted to know.

“No, they fell in when I was carrying an armful of washing past the sink and they must have fallen in without my noticing it. Your Mum and Dad came unexpectedly and your Mum saw them”.

Janet gave me a squinty look and said, “I have grave doubts about that, I couldn’t find any other washing”.

“Well I suppose I’d better show the kids around. You want to come Janet?”

“No, I’ve a bit of cleaning up to do here first. Tomorrow perhaps”.

“Hell sis, you haven’t been here long enough to make a mess yet. Relax a bit, and come for a walk”.

I might have imagined it but a sort of spasm ran up her back and she quickly replied, “No. I’ve a lot to do here before I can relax”.

Well, I thought to myself, she always had a few funny ideas, and left her to it.

We walked down to the shed; the kids were like rabbits, running here, there and everywhere. “What’s this, what’s that, what’s that for” as town kids always seemed to do. My mind got pretty fuddled after awhile, answering their questions.

When they saw a heifer standing looking at them, who had poked her tongue in her nostril on one side, then poked into the other nostril, they all asked at once, “what’s she doing that for”.

When she did it again, I answered, “Well cows don’t have hankies and they have to wipe their noses the same as anything else”.

“Eeeeew gross,” all said at once. “Do all cows do that?”

“Yes of course, so do dogs, cats and lots of animals”.

I took some milk and meal over to the pig sties. I like pigs. I like to let them out of the sties for the afternoon and they all take off for a run, grunting and chasing each other. After a couple of minutes they often just collapse and lie down, pigs are the clowns of the domestic animals I think.

After a while they all got up and ran back to the sty to see what was going on. The kids were enthralled. This was exciting stuff. Pigs when run outside have a nasty habit of rooting up patches of ground and making a great mess. To counteract this most pigs have rings put in their noses, this doesn’t impede them in any way except they can’t root up the ground.

The kids noticed the rings and wanted to know why. I told them that they stopped them from rooting. John, the eldest gave a scornful scoff, “Don’t hand me that one Uncle. Rings in their noses wouldn’t stop THAT”.

I stopped and looked at him. Well, well, well, our John was now a man of the world. I got my tins and wandered off. The kids stayed a while but after a bit the two girls caught up with me. Full of questions about this and that and one thing and another, “Where are the ducks, where are the calves, where are the turkeys ... the sheep”.

By 3pm I was completely in a daze so decided it was time for smoko. When I headed that way the kids took off and when I arrived they were all talking to Jan at once.

I put the jug on for a cup of tea and shut off, when I came to all were looking at me and Jan said, “What stories have you been telling them now?”

“What stories?”

“Well, cows not having hankies and pigs unable to breed”.

“Hell and Tommy, of course cows don’t have hankies but I never said anything about pigs not being able to breed. Someone has got their wires crossed somewhere”.

Janet changed the subject, “How many pairs of overalls have you got?”

“Oh three or four, maybe more”.

“Where are they? Also your shirts and trousers, I can hardly find any”.

“Well it’s like this Jan. At this time of year when the weather is changeable I sometimes take some clothes off and leave them in a shed or something. Then later I find them and bring them home, wash them and put them away.” That would settle her down I thought.

“Well I’d better go and do my chores”.

The kids were outside and we all marched off to feed the pigs, chooks, dogs, ducks etc. It didn’t take long, but no hen eggs. Funny, there should have been at least a dozen. But there was a big yellow stain on the tractor shed floor.

Then Pixie, “I’m sorry Uncle. We were collecting them for you and I fell over and they all broke, the other chooks ate them.”

We had a bit of a yarn about collecting eggs and the pros and cons. When we got back inside, Janet asked me how long the bath plug hole had been blocked.

“Is it blocked? Well I didn’t know that, I don’t use it much. Only the shower”.

“It has course hairs in the plug hole?”

I daren’t tell her we’d scalded a pig in the bath a couple of months before. As I said before, Janet has some funny ways.

“I’ll take the pipe off in the morning and check it ok”.

She had made a nice dinner, she’s a good cook. The kids didn’t seem too keen on scraping their plates clean, in fact they seemed to go to a lot of trouble eating the meal without actually touching the plate with their knives and forks. I kept Jan talking so she didn’t notice.

Everyone gave a hand washing up the dishes, no they didn’t want me to give a hand. The dishes were very well washed.

After milking next morning which was a community job the tribe came away on the tractor with me to feed out and shift a few electric fences. All managed to get at least one shock, the two girls got bogged in a swamp and had to be pulled out. The job took twice as long as it usually did however it was company and we had a lot of humour.

Then the business of the blocked bath plug emerged. I got the stilsons and pipe wrenches and took it off. I tried to get the audience to go away but no luck. Sure enough it was blocked. I tipped the muck out and Sharon noticed some feathers in there as well as bristles. Janet came around for a look as well, “they look like fowl feathers and pig bristles to me, how did they get in there” she wanted to know.

I quickly had a problem with the pipe and mumbled something or other. That didn’t satisfy Janet.

“Now dear brother, tell me how do you get feathers and pig bristles in the bath”. I had to think quick.

“Well sometimes you get feathers on your clothes and in your pockets, the same with pig bristle when you are handling pigs”.

“So you have a bath with all your clothes on to get rid of feathers and bristles eh? It sounds a bit far-fetched to me. You’d better come up with a better excuse than that one”.

All the kids were eyeing me, waiting for my answer.

Dear little Trixie saved the day for me. “Oh Uncle, I’ll bet you fell in the bath by accident after a pig chased you inside and you had been plucking a chook and you had a bucket full of feathers. The pig thought the bucket was full of pig food”.

Everyone, even Jan had to laugh at that and she said “Yes so to save time, he ran the bath and sat in it and had a bath with all his clothes on – and the pig got in too”.

I remembered I hadn’t let the pigs out and had to hurry away to do that. Jan looked at me and shook her head. “Mum would turn over in her grave if she knew you were scalding pigs and chooks in her lovely clean bath”.

Later on when I came back and went inside the house was transformed. Janet had tidied everything, it looked very neat and clean.

That night Jan and I went through the farm books. She is the accountant. “I must say with all your untidy housekeeping the farm is doing very well indeed. It’s a credit to you”.

“Well the farm won’t make money unless it’s farmed properly and I don’t spend much time in the house, every hour spent inside is an hour not doing farm work”.

She agreed that that was right. Then the bombshell. “I think you should get a housekeeper to look after the house and you”.

I nearly choked, “What the hell would a housekeeper do that I can’t do”.

“Keep the house tidy”. Hell! Woman’s logic.

Next day she came for a walk around, I told her the water was getting to be a problem. With more stock about more water was needed. We talked about this and the kids raced back to tell us a cow was in the water hole where the pump shed was. We went over and a heifer had got in somehow and was bogged. She saw the point of the old fashioned water supply.

An hour or so later with the help of the tractor the heifer was out but the water was very muddy.

The kids decided water was off the menu which made me grin. I didn’t bother telling them the water for the house was filtered.

Next day I was pottering around waiting for the home kill chap to arrive. I had the beast to kill in a yard with a couple of other cows to keep him company. The kids were away somewhere, Jan came out and I asked her where the kids were. I told her the chap was coming to kill the pigs and a bullock and maybe she would want them not to see it.

She surprised me. “We saw Dad kill animals for meat, it didn’t do us any harm. If they arrive, let them watch”.

And so it happened. They arrived back as the truck approached. They stood back and watched. I had to grin. Jim the butcher is a master at his job. In twenty minutes the beast was shot, skinned, gutted , weighed and in the truck. They were astounded at the amount of offal that came out of the beast. Then the pigs were done. I had the water boiling and in no time at all the pigs were shot, scalded, gutted and were also in the truck.

Jim said, “Hooray” and drove away.

“What’s going to happen to all the guts?”

“That’s what we’ll live on for the next week” I answered.

They all looked at each other with rueful looks. I took a knife, got the livers from the pigs and other titbits and said, “time for lunch”.

They reckoned they weren’t hungry but young people aren’t good at fasting. I lit a fire, put some netting over it and waited.

Just then Charlie, our Maori neighbour, came in with his wife and kids. Charlie is a comedian. “This was real good kai”. He took over all the titbits, cut them off and put on the netting with an iron plate about 2ft square (a barbeque) and started to eat. He showed them how to get a piece which was cooked, hold it up in the air and lick the fat off his arm.

“Pai korry, real good kai this one”.

In no time at all, all were eating their fill. Jan was there, having a go too.

It was then that I stood up and said “the country life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know”.

After everyone had eaten their fill, Charlie took some other titbits, I got the fat and put it in sacks to render down.

The rest was buried.

The kids were amazed. They looked like Eskimos – grease from head to foot. John said, “Uncle I never knew meat could taste so good, when are you going to kill again?”

Charlie told the kids they hadn’t eaten anything yet. Wait till they tried some smoked eels!

Janet said to me on the side “I think it’s time I got these kids home before they become real savages”, but she gave me a smile and added “We don’t want them all like you but to be honest, they could turn out alot worse”.

Anyhow a couple of days later Morrie arrived. I didn’t have any trouble enticing him out to my brewery shed and having a few homebrews.

After awhile he said, “you know you old bugger, the kids have had a hell of a good time. They certainly learn some new things up here. But what’s this eating cow guts business?”

“Well Morrie it’s rather an old custom among some people. Nothing is wasted. The butchers don’t waste anything” and I explained what it is all about.

Anyhow Janet called out that they were ready to go.

Here things weren’t at all easy. Trixie was crying because she wasn’t allowed to take the three kittens I’d given her. Max was out of sorts because he couldn’t take the little eels in a jar. Sharon wasn’t allowed to take the bantam hen and her five chicks. John was sulking because he wasn’t allowed to take the cow skin home-made boots. They weren’t bad boots either, maybe a bit hard no doubt where the skin dried out. I got a lecture on my house keeping abilities and the need for a housekeeper. After all the goodbyes the car went out the gate and a great quietness settled on the place.

I went over to the house, it was tidy and neat. But hell I couldn’t find anything, all my notes and figures written on the back of Park Drive tobacco packets were gone. Notes here and there telling me where this and that were nowhere to be found. So I went over to the implement shed to get my clothes. Holy hell! All the clothes had been cut up into strips and a note TELLING me “the rags would make good cleaning rags to clean the tractors etc which were due for a clean”.

This was a real blow.

I was almost in a state of shock so I went over to the brewery room, poured a glass of plum wine, opened a bottle of beer and sat down for a quiet smoke and a drink. Hell, those clothes had another year’s work left in them, probably more.

Bloody waste of money.

I like Janet. She is a good woman and a great sister but she has some strange ideas. The town life had changed her and those kids were damned good kids but they’d be ruined before long I suppose. A pity she is so bossy though, she didn’t used to be.

Holy mackerel! What a hell of a strange idea in my getting a housekeeper. She’d be like Janet I bet, make my life miserable. I poured another big glass of wine, well I’d fight that great idea.

Women are strange creatures all right. They definitely come from another planet.

I rolled another smoke. Hell it was quiet. I’d finished the wine and went and let the dogs go. Even they were in a bewildered state, well work still has to be done. But hell it was quiet. I grumbled to myself, “bloody housekeeper – like hell!”

Mangatapiri 1952-1956

Mangatapiri

Mangatapiri was a good place to work on. It was owned by the Fernie family and ran half breed sheep. Half breeds were a Merino and Lincoln or English Leicester cross mainly.

Percy Hayden was the manager, a good bloke Percy but he had a wee problem – whiskey.

His wife Elsie was a real sweetie without a doubt. The loveliest person I’ve ever known, wonderful cook and very motherly. They were a childless couple which was a great shame but understandable as Percy would never have been sober long enough.

How he got his whiskey was a mystery, he would have been a bottle a day man at least and out of respect to Mrs Hayden, no-one would get it for him. But being an alky he was as crafty as a fox.

One way was to get if from a stock firm, which he did, but in those days you had to buy a dozen beer for every bottle of spirits. He was allergic to beer he reckoned and tried to sell it to us, but we were awake to that one, so he gave it to us.

None of the other blokes drank much but one cunning rascal used to get it and resell it, he finished up a very wealthy man in later life.

So Percy’s grog was an expensive item. He must have had another avenue of getting it, somewhere. He got me on the wrong side of Mrs Hayden more than once. He’d get me to drive him somewhere on some pretext or other. When we got to the Patangata pub, seven miles away, he had to go in and see someone. He only drank doubles and he’d order two. I had an understanding with the publican and only had singles. When we had a couple of nips he’d sneak around the corner and have 3 or 4 triples, then he’d come back and have 2 or 3 more doubles. Then around to the other bar again.

After a couple of hours I’d be as full as the family poe and he’d just be getting wound up.

How the hell we ever got home I’ll never know. He was a hard man alright. He never did a tap of work but always had good staff, some really good men worked there over the years.

Some real characters worked there, one was the cowman gardener, Johnny Gleadow. He was about my age I suppose, in his twenties. He wasn’t all that bright, very single minded, but always cheerful and often bloody infuriating.

We never had the power on, when I went there Johnny milked four cows but had milking machines run by a petrol motor. He was reliable, always on time, never broke into a run but he walked fairly fast.

Johnny milked the cows, fed the chooks, then separated the milk by hand. After breakfast he would peel the spuds for Mrs Hayden, then was the separator plant – all in strict order.

One morning I went up and took the covers off the cows, then asked him to make sure he put them on again at night.

Next morning I asked him had he taken the covers off the cows.

“No”.

“Why not?”

“They were already off”.

“How the hell did they come off”.

“Well as I was taking them off again this morning I didn’t do the front straps up and they came off by themselves”.

Entirely predictable. I just shook my head, I had no answer. The others laughed like hell, as I have said he was very infuriating.

Another morning while he was washing the separator, Mrs Hayden went out and asked him to go up to the woolshed and tell Percy to come down, he was wanted urgently on the phone.

“No”.

“Why not?”

“I’m washing the separator”.

“But you can finish it when you come back”.

“No I can’t”.

So the poor woman got in the car and went up to get Percy herself. She told me she could murder him at times. I knew the feeling.

When he finally finished the separator he went and asked her what the message was. She told him she’d done it herself, “Then why did you ask me?” He wasn’t cheeky, just matter of fact.

Another morning he came in for breakfast, a big grin on his face as usual. When he’d nearly finished he told us something had killed a lot of chooks, “What” I asked.

“I don’t know, I never looked”.

Three of us shot up to have a look and sure enough eight were dead, no doubt a ferret or stoat. Whatever it was would come again, they always do. Strict instructions to Johnny, “let us know”. He assured us that he would.

We had a big day and come in late after dark. We were having tea when Johnny came in, a big grin on his face again. Then after about ten minutes he informed us that something was killing the chooks again.

“What”.

“Well it looks like a little cat”.

I was already on my way with the 22 and a torch. The stoat was there alright with about 12 dead chooks lying around. The stoat, a big bloke, quickly joined them. “Well I told you didn’t I”. Yes he did.

Another little incident. He was the gardener, not a very good one. Maurice took an interest in the vegetable garden and possums were a big problem so Maurice showed him how to set a possum cage and he caught quite a lot. I used to shoot them for him and he’d dispose of them.

But I wasn’t always there when he caught them and he’d leave them in the cage until I came home, sometimes not for several days. So I told him if I wasn’t there to tie a rope on the cage, put the cage in the hole in the creek and put a big stone on the cage so the possum would drown.

A week or so later, he told me he’d put a possum in the creek about four days before and it hadn’t drowned. That was strange. So Maurice and I went down with him to have a look. The poor damned possum was in about six inches of water, a more sad and bedraggled looking creature would be hard to imagine. Maurice and I looked at each other, speechless, then started to laugh. Johnny wanted to know what was so funny. Maurice used to stutter like hell, poor bugger, and was nicknamed ‘statics’. “Wha wha what th the hell are you t t trying ttto kill the p poor bugger with, pneumonia”.

“Why didn’t you put him in the hole”.

“I couldn’t”.

“Why not”.

“Well I would get my feet wet”.

Maurice patiently showed him how to do it and we wandered away.

“I’d sooner you shot him Ken, I think it’s cruel this way”.

“Well there’s two very good reasons – one I wasn’t there, the second being I haven’t any bullets left”.

“Well you should get some more”.

“I don’t think I’d better”.

“Why”.

“Well I haven’t shot a man yet and I would be very tempted sometimes”.

He had a motorbike, a 350 Ariel. It was his pride and joy, he spent hours polishing it and it was handy, he used to do messages for anyone. He would go away to Waipawa three or four times a week and do his thing, whatever that was, go to the pictures, have an ice cream etc I suppose. But what used to annoy me was his habit of parking it just outside my window when he came home and sitting on it, ponk ponk poking it for a long time. Abuse, threats had no affect so one morning I told him if he did it again I would kick it over the bank. It was a steep bank and jammed with fern, blackberry and lawyer vines.

A couple of nights later he did it again so I got up, went out and pushed it over the bank. Next day he got it out again but it can’t of been easy, he had a lot of scratches and marks on him. But he didn’t get the message, “You’ll get sick of it before I do”. He was right.

One night he came home with a motor bike helmet, the first we’d seen. He paraded around in it, slept with it on I suppose, we were chalking him one night about it. He told us if you wore one of those helmets and you had an accident, you wouldn’t get hurt.

He told Maurice to hit him on the head with something. “What?”

“Anything. Try that boot over there”.

The boot was a very large hobnailed boot as heavy as lead. So Maurice hit him on the head with it, “See it didn’t hurt, do it harder”. So Maurice did as hard as he could. Johnny’s eyes glazed over and he went down, hell. This wasn’t good at all, we tried to get it off. No joy at all, we all got worried. So the four of us got and by prizing it with levels and god knows what, we finally got it off. After he came to we bathed his wounds with Kerosene and he was right next morning, a bit stiff but ok otherwise.

I said to Maurice, “You know, that was a bad moment and I had a vision of you being in court on a charge of murder. I would have to say you had an uncontrollable temp and wasn’t responsible for your actions, and instead of going to jail you would end up in an asylum for the rest of your life”.

He never stuttered and said, “you bloody bastard, you would too”.

Johnny told us one day he worked in a cheese factory near Woodville. He worked there for quite a while he said. When I asked him what he did there, he said he was the second assistant. “How come?”
“Well there was the manager, and the first assistant, and I was the only other one there so I was the second assistant.”

He also worked for his uncle, Pat Beachem, but they didn’t get on apparently. Pat told me they were working on a very steep fence line and he sent Johnny down to boil the bill. He took a long time and when he finally arrived back they sat down to have smoko. Pat poured a cup of tea and there was no tea in it. When he asked why, Johnny told him he sent him down to boil the billy he didn’t say to put tea in the billy as well. It’s a good man that does what he’d told but Pat didn’t see it that way. That’s when Johnny came to Mangatapiri.

But he was pretty good with motors and never had any trouble with the one at the cowshed and the one that ran the lighting plant, or the lawnmower. He had them running well as long as he was left alone.

He cut the lawn every Wednesday morning come what may, even if it was pouring with rain. After smoko in the morning he cut the lawn, even in a drought with no grass to cut.

He and Percy fell out over the lighting plant motor. Percy didn’t know anything about motors and there was a yelling match. Johnny resigned and went away.

I was him several years later at the Manganoka pub. He called in to have a beer, still the same old Johnny, still the friendly grin.

When I asked him what he was doing he told me he was working at the freezing works at Fielding. He was dagging sheep there. I didn’t know they dagged sheep there and I didn’t know Johnny could dag and he wasn’t any good at catching one. Oh he dags them when there are dead.

“What the hell for?”

Well he informed me when the sheep were dead and hung up on the chain, Johnny dagged them all. “Do the bosses know” I asked. “Of course he answered, I’m the best one they’ve got”.

He’d been there for years, he had a flash motor bike which he showed to me. “Did I want a ride on it?”

“No, not really,” that’s the last time I saw him.

Percy retired to live in Napier, I saw him once. Mrs Hayden was not a day older. Percy would be hunting for a whiskey up in the clouds somewhere I suppose. He was a good joker, old Percy. I am richer for knowing these blokes, I suppose we’ll all have a big muster up in the sky one day and we’ll all be there. It will be good to see them all again.

Mangatapiri 1952-1956

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Tanker Drivers – The Eyes Have It By kenneth george bishop

One day when I arrived in, there were three milk tanker drivers there. All good blokes, the season was winding down and they were on shorter hours, maybe there were on night shift. It doesn’t matter but later on the conversation got around to milk vats.

These days the tankers all have milk metres on and the tanker drivers don’t have to read the sight glasses which not only saves them a job but stops a lot of skulduggery as well.

Before milk metres, there were all sorts of tricks to get the sight glasses to read more than was actually in the vat. The cow cocky is an ingenious fellow in many ways and many and varied were the tricks they got up to. Whether they worked or not is beside the point, but the culprits believed they did and kept on with it.

The tanker drivers told us several tricks they’d spotted.

Years ago the tanker drivers used to collect from a certain area, all the year round except on his days off. He got to know a lot of cockies pretty well and there were a lot of rip-offs worked between them. As in any occupation involving people, some drivers got on well with certain cockies and some had run-ins. In those days having a run in with a tanker driver could be quite an expensive exercise, a driver could take a few litres of several he didn’t like and give it to one he did. One or two cockies have told me it is as good as three cows to get on with the tanker driver. That I well believe and as one good turn deserves another, both parties profited. Half a beast a year was a very cheap insurance. So was a dozen of beer now and again.

However in later years, the bigger companies anyhow, took a dislike to the drivers getting a few perks and the drivers only did a fortnight on a run. The cockies and drivers never got to be friends. The explanation was to stop the drivers getting bored. It’s great how people have to justify themselves, even big companies.

One of the smaller dairy factories I will not name, always had the drivers on a permanent run, right up until they got taken over by one of the bigger companies. The permanent driver and relief driver made a deal with a share milker I know. They bought 6 or 8 stove pigs cheap. The share milker had an old piggery down the hill from the shed, well away. The drivers used to leave enough milk in the vat for the cockie to feed the pigs. To save him work they had one of the engineering staff make a smaller hole in an outlet valve so a 1” hose could be joined on. When the milk was taken out for the factory, the other one was put on and the pig milk gravitated down to the pig sty. The vat was rinsed to get the drainings and went into a big container. Hey Ho. Nobody was any the wiser and at Christmas ham, bacon and pork aplenty. What make it more enjoyable was that all the mean grumpy cockies unknowingly contributed to the project – kiwi justice!

One of the drivers told how although they were supposed to look in the vat before and after they collected the milk, it wasn’t always done except by the conscientious, and the crafty cockies knew this and made it more awkward by removing the stand which they weren’t supposed to do. Some industrious types put cans in the bottom of the vat so when the vat was emptied, there was enough milk to feed several calves. Sometimes bricks were put in, not easy as the vats at the bottom were inclined so there was a slope for the milk to all run out. But as I’ve mentioned, they were an ingenious lot. However most of these tricks were found out and then there very often was a settlement of some kind as a bribe to keep the driver’s mouth shut. The milk metres stopped all this caper. But as the driver explained, other tricks came in.

If a foreign object was found in the vat such as a dead bird or a rat the milk was not allowed to be picked up and was to be tipped out. The cockie’s milk measures were watched carefully for a week or so to make sure he didn’t save some and put it in the vat on consequent days.

If everything was done properly, nothing should get in but accidents do happen sometimes. Some cockies are notoriously lax and some cockies have kids who poke around and leave a hole in the vat that a bird can get in, especially starlings.

According to our table mate, Ron, one of his sly work mates made a lot of prerequisites by trapping starlings, drowning them in milk (he wasn’t silly) and when he saw a vat where the milk inlet pipe was left out, would drop a starling in the vat (he never left things to doubt either, he tied a string on its leg so he could retrieve it) get it out, drop it on the floor or let it float around on top of the milk then walk over and inform the cockie that there was a bird in his vat full of milk. Which was the correct thing to do. He was a real con man and took the trouble to tell the cocky that it was lucky he had spotted it as it could have been sucked up and ruined the metre, the cost would then be up to the cockie to be repaired. Horror upon horror, not only a vat full of milk wasted but to bear the cost of repairing the metre could cost thousands. Then of course the cockie was unlucky that the bird wasn’t under the froth floating on top and he wouldn’t have seen it and nobody would have been the wiser until it came time to clean the vat and our cockie would have found it himself perhaps.

Now reader, put yourself in the cockie’s place. You have a few choices. Throw the tanker driver in the vat and drown him too, but he was pretty solid so not easy to do. Take the consequences, a few hundred dollars worth of milk there, all going into the affluent pond, all the neighbours would see it. The cleaning up after, milk makes a hell of a mess in the shed yard and drains. Is it any wonder our tanker driver had three big deep freezers worth of meat, enough bottles of whiskey to keep him drunk for a year, always a wallet full of money and remember he is only on the run for a fortnight or less. He’d pick up milk in about 60 or 70 different districts a year. He is at present building on to his house! A lot of people remember when someone does them a good turn.

Cliff, another driver told us of a worker on the place where the owner was a hard man. Some of us know Nigel, he was a good bloke but he had three buggers of kids. He used to come in for a beer now and again, while his wife was shopping. One night the kids arrived back on their own, got in the car and while their mother was frantically looking for them, got bored and let the tyres down on about a dozen cars, including Nigel’s. Another time they set fire to Nigel’s car in town when Mum was shopping. That caused a stir too, but between his boss and the kids he always had a haunted sort of look.

Anyhow, according to Cliff the farm where Nigel worked was on the first pickup about 7.30am. When he drove up there was milk everywhere, running down the tanker track. They had a big herd. Then Cliff spotted the main valve on the vat was turned on and raced in to turn it off to get the shock of his life. He saw two pair of eyes looking at him from the top of the vat. Two of the brats had climbed up on the vat and turned it on. Not easy to do as a rule, as they were turned off tight. However nothing deterred those kids. They always got around together too, they were aged between six and ten I suppose. Their neighbours lived in dread when they saw them wandering around. Threatening them was no good either apparently; they just looked at you and said nothing. Yet apparently they were model kids at school. Hard to work out.

“Talking about eyes looking at you,” Des, the other driver said. Reminds me of about eighteen months ago when I went into a farm and as I was well ahead of time for once, lit a smoke and had a stroll around to ease my nerves a bit. After I relaxed I quietly coupled the hose up and turned the pump motor on and I heard the vat lid sort of slam a bit. I got up on the stand and opened the lid, I nearly shit myself. There was a bloke up to his neck in milk with a souwester hat on, peering at me. I had a hell of a turn, I fell off the stand and stood back, “What are you doing in there?” A stupid question I suppose and the bloke answered, “I fell in and can’t get out”. I got up on the stand and had another look at him. He was shivering and blue with cold. That milk is well chilled down. As a lot of the milk had been pumped out I saw he had an oilskin coat on as well as the hat. I said, “Wait a tick, the milk will all be out soon,” I didn’t know what to make of this. I forgot all about foreign matter. He wasn’t the cockie, I’d seen him and he looked nothing like this chap. Just then the pump cut out and I went and turned it off, hopped back on the stand and had another look. He had thigh gumboots on as well. He was shaking with the cold, I was shaking just as much. Well to see a full grown man about fortyish, with thigh gumboots and wet weather gear standing in a vat of milk isn’t something you see every day. I didn’t know what to do. He had funny eyes I thought, perhaps he’d escaped from Tokonui but why? The wet weather gear.

“Was he a duck shooter,” someone asked.

Des said, “In mid February and as hot as hell. I don’t think so”.

I tried to help him out but his gumboots were full of milk and I had no show. I lit another smoke and though about this. The farmer was out as his car shed was empty and the poor bugger was shivering so much the whole vat was shaking. Then thank God, I heard voices. I looked out and a car had pulled up. Then doubly thank God it was a police car. The cop was a cheerful sort of a bloke, and he said, “You haven’t seen a stranger around have you?”

He must have seen me look up at the vat and he saw two lots of fingers clutching the edge.

“Hell, what’s going on there” and got up on the stand and looked in. He too jumped down looking astounded.

“What are you doing in there?”

“I fell in and I can’t get out” was the reply.

He went to the door and said “Hey, come in here”. An oldish man came in and the cop said “have a look in there”. The old fellow got up, had a look and he fell off too. He was shaking as much as the bloke in the vat. I was shaking and the cop was a bit too I noticed.

“What are you doing in there Fred?”

Again the same reply, at least he had a name now.

Anyhow, with the three of us we finally got him out, not easy. The poor bugger couldn’t stand. The cop asked him how long he’d been in there and he said he didn’t know. I said I’d better go and the cop said he’d want a statement in case Fred karked it. So we got Fred out on the steps and got his gumboots off. There was about 20 litres of milk in them.


unfinished

Stories about New Zealand farm live, Gisborne Les

Visit from Les

I was about 18 and was a shepherd on a station about 60 miles from Gisborne, which was under the shadow of Mt Arawhara.

I’m not sure how big the place was, about 10 or 12 thousand acres, most of which was above the birch line which meant we got some very heavy snow falls at times.

The boss sent me out the back of the place with a couple of packhorses carrying groceries and fencing gear, and explained another chap named Les would be out in a day or two. We were to repair a fence and they all would come out in a week or ten days and would attempt to get some cattle back that had got across the river and stayed there.

I went out, unloaded the horses, packed the tucker away and waited for Les who was a musterer and did quite a bit of work in the area. There were alot of wild pigs in the area. There was a bounty on them for a shilling for a snout and tail, it was a way sore day when we never got at least one pig. Sometimes there were 20 or more and it grew into a sizeable bonus! I got quite a few, also a nice young sow that I dressed for the table.

The hut was the usual station type, open fire one end to cook on, three or four bunks with a sack stacked over for a mattress. A lean to, to keep the saddler and wood in, a dirt floor that had a bucket of water thrown over now and again to keep the flea population down.

I was pottering around doing a few odd jobs when my dogs started to bark, Les had arrived.

He had a cheerful kind face, a person you trusted on sight. He got off his horse, came over and shook hands, “Well Ken, you’ve got the camp nice and tidy I see, how about a cup of tea”.

We had a cup or two and chatted away on various subjects.

“I saw quite a bit of pig-rooting around, the pigs are getting overrun. I’d like a bit of pork”.

I told him there was a leg of pork in the camp oven, that satisfied him. He’d brought some dog tucker out with him so we fed the dogs and did the usual chores before yarning until tea was ready. He was a fascinating chap. He knew all the news and the history of the area.

I’d heard he had a good team of dogs and they looked the part, also a couple of nice looking horses. He gave me several tips on dog and horse care which I’ve always remembered.

Next morning we got onto the fence line, it wasn’t bad, a few broken posts, a few broken wires and several places where pigs had made holes under the fence by poking through.

“This is a piece of cake Kenny my boy, by tomorrow lunch time it will be done”, which it was, he put a dog around a small mob of sheep and brought them down and put them in the paddock around the hut. “Just in case we get snow bound, we’ll at least have meat and dog tucker”.

I grinned, “Not much chance of that”.

“You never know, it will be about five days before the others get here and anything could happen by then”. True words!

That night when I went outside before I went to bed, the wind had changed and it had turned cold.

Next morning it was snowing heavily. Les looked at the weather, let a dog off and brought the sheep down, “We’ll kill three, one mutton and two dog tucker if this weather keeps on, the meat will keep anyhow”.

By midday the snow was six inches deep around the hut, higher up on the hill it was at least eighteen inches, “We are here for a few days now lad, we are snow bound. We can’t get out and no one can get in”.

I was quite excited really. Anyhow we had plenty of meat and tinned food so we wouldn’t starve.

That day started an education I’ve never forgotten. Les had leather tools in his pack. We renewed the stitching on the bridles, girths, saddlebags, stirrup leathers etc. Les made a stew in the camp over then made dough boys.

Scones and damper. He wasn’t a good cook really, in fact some of his cooking was bloody awful. No one could possibly make worse macaroni cheese than he did, but the dogs ate it if we didn’t. I cooked the roast mutton, pork and the porridge. I’m not sure he wasn’t crafty and wanted me to do the cooking.

But he made up for it in other ways. He explained different cures for cuts, galls, bruises on horses. Dogs of course were best left alone if they could lick their wounds, but stitching helped a bad cut. Also how to hold a stick in a dogs mouth so he couldn’t bite when you were stitching it as many are liable to do, especially if you have no help.

Bob, one of Life's Losers 2, New Zealand Farm Life

BOB

One day I was travelling north and I called at the Stan Hotel in Kihikihi, a very cosmopolitan pub. I’d no sooner walked in the door when a hand barred my way.

“Hey you old bugger, how the hell are you” Bob, I’d known him a long time. I asked the stupid question, “Bob where the hell have you been”.

“Waikeria” he said. That I didn’t doubt at all. Another stupid question, “What for”?

“Well it was like this. I’m not getting any younger and times are not getting any easier, work is harder to come by,” this I had to admit was true.

“Well I was staying with a mate of mine just down the road and they wanted to go away for a fortnight so would I mind the house”. Oh God no I thought.

“Well! What did you do, sell their house?”

He gave me a pained look. “Look here mate, you know I wouldn’t welch on a mate, or put oine across one.” Probably very true actually!

“Anyhow I’m a bit short and I’m in need of a beer” I got a couple of jugs and we went to a quiet table and the tale unfolded.

“I went to Hamilton one day and I was looking at some cars in a car yard. There were some nice sporty types there and the salesman was keen to make a sale. He’d only been selling cars a short time and you know what crooks those salesmen are?”

This is true I guess. Bob I must admit is a handsome looking block, dresses well, carries himself well and speaks very well. No one would guess he had spent a fair bit of his life lagging in her Majesty’s Hotels.

“so I said to myself, the best thing I can do is to save this nice young bloke from becoming a crook” Bob was very genuine about this, he couldn’t stand crooks. I could never discover what category he put himself in.

“So we sorted out a car that looked like it might be useful for my purposes. I said to him, “Well look here, I won’t be able to pick this car up till the weekend as I have a lot to do, will you hold it for me”. He said he wasn’t sure about that, but I said I wanted to try it out and if I paid a deposit of $50 until I got my money through, could I pick the car up on Saturday morning to try it out and have a mechanic from the AA look it over, and bring it back on Monday morning.

I gave him my mate’s phone number in Kihikihi and said “ring him and he’ll verify I’m trustworthy, but he doesn’t get home from work till nearly 6pm”.

So I go back and put an add in the local rag. For Sale to dissolve a partnership etc etc a $4,000 car for $1,200 for a quick sale.

Bob, one of Life's Losers 1, New Zealand Farm Life

Well I run against an old acquaintance yesterday, one of life’s losers. I called into a pub and low and behold there was Bob.

Bob is actually a hell of a good bloke, a great worker, but he never seemed to sort out what is right and what is wrong.

I’ve known Bob for 30 odd years; I worked on the same station way back. I was shepherding and bob was the house-about. He was capable, could do a lot of things and was very good company. He’d been nearly everywhere and had spend a fair amount of time at Her Majesty’s Hotels.

Not his fault mind you – oh hell no. These fools that leave their keys in their cars, don’t go through their mail in their mailboxes (quite a good sideline according to Bob), shops that give credit (only fools do that), get a taxi from a town a fair way away and when you arrive at your destination find you are ‘short’ and have to go to the nearest toilet, most have a back way out somewhere. If you are smart, you catch another taxi to another town while the other poor blighter is waiting. Not so easy now according to Bob, those dammed radio telephones a real invasion on people’s privacy. Shouldn’t be allowed!

But we are transgressing, Bob has just come out and is short of a few bob.

“Gidday me old mate. Hell I’m pleased to see you, haven’t seen you for a long time”.

The last time incidentally was at the Stan Hotel in Kikikihi, he’d only just come out of Waikenia.

Well I must admit I was pleased to see Bob again too, outside. I’d got to know the workings of most of our NZ jails by visiting Bob. He is such a likeable devil, always cheerful – the eternal optimist.

“How long have you been out,” was my question.

“How did you know I’d been in again?” was his answer.

“Well where the hell else would you have been!”

“God dammit mate, you’d make a man feel like a real lag talking like that, I’m straight most of the time except when things don’t go my way”.

I knew I was in for a fairly hefty session, I’d been caught before!

“Look, I’d like to shout but I only have enough for a jug, will you share one with me?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure.” That was the understatement of the year.

So I got a jug and two glasses, put my wallet down inside my pants leg when he wasn’t watching and we got talking.

Yes he’d been in Waikaia again, not the same as it used to be, these crims today, my God mate, you can’t trust any of them. Not like you and I, we could always trust each other. The fact that I’d eluded the law never came into it ... we were trustworthy. The wallet down in my leg pants was getting heavy with my guilt.

Oh it was just a little thing this time. Bob was working for a cockie, worked damn hard too which I didn’t doubt. He was a worker. Babysat for them at night. Three months he worked there straight, not a day off. “Well I had nowhere to go except the pub and you know me”.

I didn’t as it happened. I could only imagine.

“Well this young bloke we had over to help with the calving, fixed all the fences the first time they’d been fixed since they’d been there according to Bob and the farmer was having a bit of time off, his wife played a lot of golf.

Bob was busy finishing off the road fence one day and a bloke drove up in a ute and wanted to know if there were any calves for sale.

“Well as a matter of fact there was, he’d be pleased to get rid of them because the calf truck was always late. Give me a price after a look. $60 – a bit light mate, how about $65 each for all six. Damned good calves, no scours and all at least five days old. No, no cheques mate. I don’t know you from a bar of soap, hell you could get these calves, bugger off and never see you again”.

“$390, yeah well I’ve got $10 change. Ok, you’ve got a real good deal. Keep your mouth shut about this, otherwise you won’t get any more. Call again in a fortnight”.

“Well what happened then” I asked.

“Well mate you wouldn’t believe it, a strong wind blew up and when the cockie went to the calf pen to get the paper with the weights on it, it wasn’t there which didn’t surprise him”.

He pushed his glass over to get another beer and said he had to go and have a leak. I was damned intrigued. After about ten minutes Bob came back, pushed a $10 over and shouted “2 jugs”, I felt really mean. He’d met an old mate in the back room that owed him a favour.

He got onto talking about other things, different ones owed him this and others owed him that. I was getting pretty uncomfortable, I was wondering what I owed him. So to change I asked him about the calves.

Well you know what the damned scallywag did who bought them calves. He skited about how cheap he’d got them and his wife played golf with the bosses wife!

Herbie’s Wild Ride © Ken Bishop

Herbie’s Wild Ride

Herbie was a little man, mild mannered, polite and dominated by his wife Martha was a most formidable woman.

He milked about 40 cows on a pretty hungry place, all the kids had left home except Molly who was 18 and not very bright, and a younger son about 11 who wasn’t very bright either and was pretty spoilt.

Molly and Herbie used to milk, a pretty slow job as the milking machines were not in very good order.

One morning Herbie saw Molly being sick behind the shed. He knew what that meant which was a real worry. He’d have a problem milking on his own; Martha wouldn’t go near the shed.

So when he took the cows up the road to a paddock, he put the cows in the paddock and shut the gate. He was slowly walking home contemplating his problem when one of the Armstrong boys came down the road in his flash new sports car. Richard was a son of the Armstrong’s who owned a big station at the end of the road and were pretty wealthy.

Richard had a nasty habit of driving flat out, and Herbie was scared he’d get run over. He was very surprised when Richard pulled up and said, “Hop in Herbie and have a ride”.

Herbie was nothing loathe, he’d never owned a car and promptly got in after carefully wiping his gumboots on the fern by the road. Richard had a cloth for Herbie to sit on as he had a good share of cow muck on his clothes. He’d no sooner got settled when the car went off with a whoosh, in no time it was flying. Herbie was very excited as he’d never gone as fast as this in his life. When they got near Herbie’s house he waved to Richard and said, “I live here”. Richard said, “Yes I know, your house needs painting” and planted his foot harder.

Herbie was bewildered and getting scared, the car was skidding around corners. Sleepy Tom Brown was as usual bringing his cream out in the block dray. Tom was asleep sitting on the shaft behind Peggy, his old draught mare. They were just on the road when Richard bore down on them, he couldn’t stop so flashed in front of Peggy right under her nose. She spun around as if she’d been shot, Tom fell off and Herbie could see her gallop off for home. The cream cans fell over and would have split. Herbie didn’t like Tom and was pleased about this, but he wasn’t pleased about his own predicament.

He nudged Richard, saying he wanted to stop, but Richard took no notice and after a quarter of an hour they hit the main road. Herbie was relieved, knowing Richard would stop and let him out but no, Richard turned at the corner and headed towards Wellington and on the bitumen they went even faster.

Herbie was almost numb with fear. The wind was blinding him in the open roadster. Time stood still, Herbie couldn’t control his bladder but luckily he peed in his gumboot.

On and on they went and after passing several towns they started to climb the RimaTukas. In those days it wasn’t at all a good road, winding and very narrow in places. Richard was really enjoying himself, he was laughing and nudging Herbie, “Great eh Herb, did you see the roadman there jump over the bank. Probably break his neck or maybe just a leg”. Herbie could only gurgle, he was in a very comatose state.

Richard the lunatic was thrilled he had a passenger to witness his antics. Coming down the other side of the Rimatukas was even worse.

After some time the car stopped and Richard said, “Here we are Herb. We are at the Wellington Railway Station. I’m really pleased you enjoyed yourself; we’ll do it again sometime. Here, here’s some money to get a feed and pay your fare home. The train goes back today I think”. He pushed a ₤10 note in Herbie’s hand (a lot of money in those days).

Herbie got out of the car somehow and stood on the footpath shaking like a leaf, he leaned against a power pole, people were taking a wide detour around him and remarks like “shocking, scandalous, disgraceful” were some of the kinder words used. Herbie had his senses about him again now and was very embarrassed to say the least. A policeman on his beat came along and said, “Good God man, you’ve had a night of it haven’t you?”

He sniffed Herbie and said, “Hell, I can’t smell grog on you but my god you stink. Did you sleep in a cowshed somewhere?”

Herbie shook his head. The constable was very nonplussed. “Have you got any money on you?” Herbie nodded, put his hand in his pocket and brought out the tenner. “Where did you come from?” Herbie whispered. “Tinui”.

The constable felt sorry for Herbie, and steered him into the railway station, made enquiries about trains. He bought a ticket for Herbie and told him the train would leave in an hour and a half. He went and got Herbie a cup of tea, had a bit of talk and realised Herbie had had a trick played on him. He told a porter to make sure Herbie got on the train and left.

It was quite a warm day and the sour milk, cow muck and Herbie’s urine in his gumboot made an unpleasant smell to say the least. He was oblivious to anything and the remarks of people standing near or walking past made him shrivel up like a snail that’s crawled over salt.

When he finally got on the train people refused to sit by him, luckily the train wasn’t full so he had a bit of peace.

When he finally arrived home after dark the cows were in the yard. Molly couldn’t milk on her own and it was about midnight when he got inside. The unloving Martha saw him come inside, she kicked ....

Unfinished story

The Eavesdropper © Ken Bishop

The Eavesdropper

We lived in a house where the road forked three different ways. Dad did general work for different ones and we milked a few cows.

Mum generally milked, and as us kids got older we helped her. We milked about 12 cows. The rest of the farm ran sheep, Dad looked after them.

On our corner was the communal mail box. The mail truck went up one road on Tuesdays and the other road on Fridays. The roads weren’t named, but three big sheep stations were on one road, and three on the lower road, also three more farms on the lower road.

Someone took turns to come down the road on Tuesdays and meet the mail truck from The Top Road ... and someone came down from The Lower Road on Friday.

So the mail box was the meeting place every Tuesday and Friday.

The mail truck arrived about midday and on it on Tuesday was very often someone who had been away for a weekend, or longer. On Fridays anyone going away caught the mail truck going out.

There was no charge for fare on the truck but the passengers helped the driver to unload posts, wire, wheat ... all manner of things, and also helped the driver to load up wool and anything that was sent out.

Several places sent cream out on the truck to the factory, us amongst them, so we had to go along and take the cream over to the truck and bring the empty can back as well as the groceries. The bread came on Tuesday and Friday, also anything else that was wanted.

We lived up a hill a bit and couldn’t actually see the mail box but we could see the truck coming and going, if we were watching, which we generally did.

So the mailbox was the focal point. We knew who was coming and going, when a new shepherd or station hand was coming, or another going, but several of the shepherds had their own horses and rode in and out, very often cutting across country. They were somehow different to the station hands, more independent, somehow mysterious.

Mum warned us about the shepherds and station hands, in her opinion they were all a very bad lot, drifters, boozers, shiftless, etc, etc. So us kids were pretty scared of them.

Although Dad did a lot of work on the stations and got on with them alright, Dad often used to arrive home a bit under the weather in the evening and Mum didn’t like that. We did, Dad was always funny when he had a few in and made us laugh.

Mum told us all sorts of things these station hands did, and I being a girl was terrified of them. They often rode past our place, often driving stock or just going somewhere and Mum always made us keep out of sight.

We were on the party line telephone, so everyone knew everyone else’s business. One night a station manager’s wife rang up and I being inside answered the phone, a parcel had been mislaid, would I mind having a look in the mail box and ringing her back later. No trouble. It was summer and I enjoyed the stroll.

I got to the mailbox and sure enough there was a parcel there. I had to crawl into the mailbox to get it, the mailbox was like a small room on legs. While I was inside, I heard horses coming. “Oh Lord, who could it be!” I peeped out and Oh Lord again. Two of the shepherds were right outside the mailbox. I was petrified. All sorts of things came into my mind, being ignorant of the facts of life but being carried away and made to do all sorts of wearisome duties, tied up like a dog at night, were just a few things, Mum had instilled some ideas into my head.

Then I heard the creak of leather and they were both getting off their horses. I’d pulled the door nearly shut. I had the wit not to shut it as the latch was on the outside and it was a latch that locked when the door was pushed shut. I was petrified. They were both rolling cigarettes, there were dogs everywhere. The dogs looked far more savage than our two, some looked really mean.

Then one of them spoke. “Yes, she’s quite a nice little bitch, she needs a lot of work. I’ve seen her go and she really has some style, but Doug (my Dad) says he can’t handle her, she’s just a nuisance around the place. He’d be please to get rid of her”.

Oh my God, my dear old dad wants to get rid of me, I just can’t believe it. I’m a nuisance around, just because I’ve got a gammy leg. It’s not my fault, I was born with it.

“I’ll see him tomorrow, he doesn’t want much for her but he’s short of a few bob. At a tenner she’d be good value. Up where you are going, there’s no one around, you could knock her into shape in no time. Her mother is a good worker, not a hell of a lot up top but she can do a good day’s work”.

How dare they talk of Mum like that. What sort of demons are they?

Then the other one spoke, he talked more slowly. “Yeah well, she sounds alright to me, I’m not going for another fortnight and if I get her soon I’ll get her used to me before I go. Has she been bred from yet?”

“No, she’s still a maiden”.

“We’ll see Doug and if he really wants to get rid of her, you can let me know and I’ll pick her up. He’s not home now is he?”

“No, I doubt it. The cook has been making wine and Doug likes his wine. He won’t be home for awhile yet”.

They both mounted their horses and moved off, one up the Lower Road and one up the Top Road.
As soon as they had gone, I hobbled home, Mum still wasn’t inside and the boys were outside too. I rang Mrs Scott and told her the parcel was in the mailbox and went to bed, and sobbed and sobbed.

Why don’t Mum and Dad want me? I do my best. I know I couldn’t go to school much but when I was doing correspondence lessons I helped as much as I could. Now I was 16 I thought I was a good help. I do most of the cooking and the garden, help Mum with the cows. Now for a lousy ten pounds they were going to sell me to a shepherd who was going to take me away and knock me around.

I heard Mum come in and I made out I was asleep. Not long after Dad came in, he was happy. I heard him say to Mum, “I was talking to Jim, he said he knows someone who will give me 10 quid for that young bitch. She’s not much good around here, only eating good tucker. There’s not enough work here for her”.

Mum agreed with him, “Yes, she’s only a hindrance really, she’ll never be any good if she stays here and ten pounds is ten pounds.”

I heard every word and was terribly hurt. Why do they call me a young bitch, they never used to. Only lady dogs were called bitches. They never used to use that word around here. I couldn’t understand at all. Dad had given my brother Ralph a really good hiding because he called me a bitch, and now both Mum and Dad were calling me one.

Next morning Mum said to me, “What’s wrong with you Missie, you look awful. Did you have some nightmares, young girls often do. Probably too quiet around here for you now you are growing up. I suppose we should do something about it”.

For the next three days I was very depressed. It was terrible not to be wanted. I wondered if that slow speaking shepherd would want me after he had knocked me into shape. Probably not, just like a dog or horse, knock me into shape and sell me to someone else.

My bedroom was just off the kitchen and at nights when I’d gone to bed I’d often heard Mum and Dad talking. Mum wasn’t given to talking much, just “Do this Missie or don’t do that”. So with no girl friends I was very naive to say the least. My brothers were younger than I was by four and six years and they didn’t like girls.

We didn’t have many visitors, and Mum had her own ideas of ‘what was what’. Knowing what I do now she didn’t know much, she didn’t have much up top.

Three days later I went over to the mail box in the evening. I don’t know why, just in case someone would come past and I could wave to them and make out I was doing some chore.

I had no sooner got there when I heard horses again, so I dived into the mailbox again and pulled the door shut, but I pulled it too hard and it latched. I really panicked, I was locked in.

The horses stopped and I could hear them dismounting. Then voices. “Jesus Christ, what are you dogs looking at, do you think there’s something in the mailbox. Ha, be funny if it was a possum”.

I was panic stricken then the door opened. “Christ it’s a girl. Where the hell did you come from?”

I was too scared to open my mouth. “Has someone posted you somewhere lass”.

He was as astonished as I was scared. He slammed the door shut again. “Holy hell Bill, did you see what I saw”. It was the one called Jim, the one who was making a deal with Dad. Bill stuttered, “I thought I saw something, a pair of feet”. Slowly the door opened a fraction. “Hey there lass, who locked you in the mailbox, or did you lock yourself in?” I was too terrified to say anything. “Who are you anyhow”, Jim asked.

“Baa baa raa”, that’s all I could get out.

“Now, now lass, you aren’t a sheep so don’t make out you are. I know a sheep when I see one, I see thousands a day as a rule”. Hell and Tommy, who would believe it, a fine looking girl making out she’s a sheep. She doesn’t look daft either. Now girl, what is your name and where do you come from?”

“Baa baa raa” I stammered again.

They were both looking in the door now. The one called Bill said “Even Ripley wouldn’t believe this”.

Another voice chimed in now. “What the hell are you two looking at”. I knew that voice, it was the slow drawling one that was going to buy me.

Jim replied, “There’s a pretty young girl in there, trying to make out she’s a sheep”.

Bill chimed in, “Where do you live”. I pointed at our house, I was still too scared to speak properly.

“Hell, Doug lives over there, “ Jim broke in. He looked at me, “Are you Doug’s daughter?” I nodded. He said “Hell I think he has got a daughter too, what’s your name?”

“Baabaara” I replied.

“Barbara” Jim asked. I nodded again, they all laughed. Then, “Come on, get out of there” Jim ordered.

I got out and Bill asked me how I came to be in the mailbox. I told them that Dad and Mum were going to sell me.

This caused a bit of concern. They all rolled another smoke, Bill spoke up. “The old Bugger eh! Fancy doing a thing like that. I always liked Doug, not that I know him very well, but I’ve heard his wife is a bit strange.

But people can’t sell their kids, or can they?”

“Chinese and Indians do,” Jim said, “but Doug isn’t a china-man or Indian. I have heard though of “The White Slave Trade””.
Bill cut in “Are you sure of this girl, you aint pulling our legs”.

“No. No, I was/am certain”.

“How do you know?” from Bill.

“Well I heard Mum and Dad talking one night after I’d gone to bed, they said I wasn’t any use, I was just a nuisance and if they could sell me and get a few quid, that would help them out a lot”.

“Well you wander off home Barbara and we’ll have a look at this”.

So I took off home.

Mum was milking so I started getting tea ready. When she came in she just glared at me, “Been loafing and dreaming again missie. You’ll have to mend your ways, believe me”.

Later Dad came in and said “that bloke will pick the young bitch up about ten tomorrow morning”.

I never slept much at all that night, just felt numb and planned there was a loft in the cow shed that I often crawled into out of sight. Mum didn’t know I could get up there.

So next morning about nine, when Mum wasn’t looking I crawled up and watch. Awhile later the slow speaking shepherd rode up. I liked him. He talked to Mum for half an hour or so then they went over and got Dad’s young bitch. He gave Mum something, then he put a chain around Tess’s neck and rode away, as he rode past the shed he looked up as if he knew I was there, waved his hand , smiled and said “Good luck Barrbarra”.

What a fool I felt. I sat there for a long time, until I heard Mum calling out, “The mail truck will be here soon Barbara, time to get the cream ready”.

I slowly got down in a daze, got the cream ready and went over to the mail box.

I never saw him again for well over a year. He called in to tell us Tess was a really hardy dog, as he was going he told me that although Tess was good he thought I was better.

We were married a year later and now have four children. We often laugh together over the ‘misunderstanding’. He never ever knocked me into shape, but is the loveliest husband any woman could have.

The Eavesdropper © Ken Bishop

The Eavesdropper

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