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

.

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