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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