Authors: Jack Lasenby
The Haystack
Why I Rolled Up the Legs of My Pyjamas.
T
HE BLIND JERKED
out of my hand. Instead of rolling neat and tight, it shot up shouting “Hullabaloo! Hullabaloo!” and flopped dead across the top of the window. Somebody moaned.
I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and stared at two big lemons like pale yellow footballs in the middle of the tree outside. I wouldn’t let Dad pick them.
It was no use. Down the back of the section, the chooks had heard my treacherous blind. They’d be jostling against the gate, staring at the back door.
“Food! Food!” they squawked.
“Rackety, rackety, splutter!” said the cockerels, learning to crow.
“Splark! Squark! Took! Took! Took!” A chook was telling everybody it had just laid an egg.
Somebody moaned again and said, “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times not to let your blind go up with a bang.”
Eggs for breakfast, I thought. Soft-boiled and mixed
in a cup with bread and butter. Through the kitchen, out the back door, across the porch, down the back step, over the lawn, under the clothes-line I ran, stopped just in time, and rolled up the legs of my pyjamas.
“It’s Saturday,” I told the chooks, “the first one Dad’s had off for ages, and you had to go and wake him with your squawking.
“The infantile’s over, school’s been open a week, and you haven’t even noticed.” I grinned: I knew who I sounded like.
Tramping Muck All Over My Lino, and How the Old Devil Got Me After All.
“I’
LL COME BACK
and feed you,” I told the chooks treading all over my feet. The straw in the laying boxes held eggs. In one box, a hen hunched, feathers fluffed so her head looked too small for the rest of her.
She pecked my hand, but I pinched a couple of warm eggs, and slipped a cold china one under her.
“Just to fool you for now. After breakfast, I’ll put you under a box and tip a bucket of water over you. The infantile’s finished, school’s been open a week, and Dad’s got the day off.”
“Cluck!” she grumped and pecked me again, just a dull knock really.
Holding the eggs with both hands, I pushed through the jostling chooks, hopping backwards, shoving the gate open with my behind, and the nasty old white rooster flew up.
“Cock-a—Squawk!” My left knee caught him, and I danced, keeping my balance, not dropping the eggs,
feeling something squish between my toes. Beak open, wings snatching air, the old rooster looked so silly I laughed, “Serves you right.” The cockerels opened their wings, as if they might have a go at him while he was down, but saw his crazy eye and went for their lives.
Dad took the eggs at the back step. “Don’t think you’re coming inside my kitchen with mucky feet. All over my lino that I’ve only just polished.”
“You have not. You’re still in your pyjamas.”
“So are you.”
“Well, that makes us quits. Can we have them for breakfast, Dad?”
“Just rubbing your feet on the grass won’t do a thing. Put them under the tap; here’s the scrubbing brush.”
I scrubbed the stinky slime between the toes, and wiggled them up and down against the cold water. In the kitchen, Dad was putting on a few bits of coal. “Moan! Moan!” the draught roared because he had the damper wide-open.
Dad filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and went out to have a wash. “The water in the cylinder’s not as warm these mornings,” he said, coming back dressed. “How do you want your egg?”
“Soft, so I can stir it up with bread and butter.”
Sure enough, he rolled his eyes up and said, “Baby food. Have a wash and get dressed. By the time you’ve
fed the chooks, breakfast will be ready. You could feed them while you’re collecting the eggs.”
The water out of the hot tap wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t hot either. School hadn’t opened till the weather cooled down. All the long summer, the grownups had said the cold weather would stop the infantile epidemic, but this one had gone on for ages, the worst since 1925, the
New Zealand Herald
reckoned.
From the barrels in the back shed, I filled a scoop of maize, another of wheat, and scattered it in the run so even the chook without feathers on her neck would have a chance.
“Once the frosts get hard enough, I’ll start giving you a hot mash with pollard before you go to bed. That’ll keep you laying, won’t it?” I waited. “Has no one taught you to pay attention when you’re being spoken to? Just for that, you can all put your hands on your heads.”
They didn’t even listen. The bossiest chook pecked her wheat and chased the one with no feathers on her neck. The wicked old rooster picked up bits of bright yellow maize, dropped them, and called “Took! Took!” to his favourites. I bent to open the little gate out into the paddock. The old devil, all that time, he’d been waiting to get his own back. He flew up, pecked my neck, and tried to dig in his feet, but I wasn’t scared of him now. Not like when I was little and stood and screamed.
I threw him off, the cockerels cackled, and I ran, Clump! Clump! This time I didn’t have to wash my feet: I’d worn my mother’s old gumboots.
“Saturday, and Dad’s home for once!”
Why Dad Tried to Bags Doing the Dishes, and Why Sheets and Pillowslips Smell So Good.
D
AD COULD BOIL EGGS
just right. I stirred it in my cup, the yolk soaking gooey-gold into the torn-up bread and butter. I sniffed the eggy-bready smell, stuck a tea-spoonful into my mouth, and felt it all over with my tongue. Mmm! Lovely! Taste—taste! Chew—chew! Swallow—swallow!
“You eat yours like this sometimes.”
Dad grinned. “Just to remind myself what baby food tastes like. Why didn’t you tell me to light the copper, so the white things could be boiling while we’re eating?”
“You do it now, and I’ll do the dishes.”
“Bags I do them,” Dad said. “That means you have to light the copper.”
“There isn’t any kindling, and I’ll have to chop it. It’s not fair.”
Dad put on his innocent voice. “Do you think I’d be so mean?”
He rubbed his eyes, but there were no tears, so I did
the dishes while he chopped the kindling and lit the copper. I heard him turn off the tap, and ran out so I could slice shavings off the thick brown bar of soap. We’d made the soap in the copper itself, boiling up the mutton fat, and putting in the caustic soda, being careful not to splash, because caustic burns.
“Did you let the chooks out?”
“Mmm.”
“Did the rooster jump up?”
“I got him a beaut before, so we’re even. The cockerels are getting big, but he still chases them.”
“About time we started eating them.”
“Dad, chooks aren’t very nice to each other. They all pick on the one without feathers.”
“They’re better out in the paddock where they can get away from each other.”
The water was already warm on my fingers. The metal felt very hot.
“Then why do they come back inside?”
“It’s home, where they get fed and can roost. They feel safer in a flock, even if they do get pecked. What are you going to do this morning?”
“Help you with the washing.”
“Have you done something wrong?”
“No. True.”
“I thought you might want to go down the orchard and give a hand.”
“Dad, that’s just for when there’s nobody at home. What makes the water heat up so quickly in the copper?”
“The flames go all around its sides before they go up the chimney, and copper lets heat through. It’s called a good conductor. You’ll burn your finger.
“Come on, we’ll change our sheets and pillowslips, and they can go in with the rest of the white things, and then we’ll make our beds, give the place a sweep, put out the washing, and go down to the shops.”
“Have you thought,” I asked, “what meat we’re going to have for the weekend?”
He pulled a long face. “I can’t think. And you’ll just say sausages.”
“That’s not fair. You always reckon Mr Cleaver makes the best pork snarlers in the Waikato. Anyway, sometimes I say bacon and eggs, and sometimes I say steak and kidney pie, and sometimes I say…Irish stew.”
“Mmm. That’s an idea.”
“Scrag end of mutton? I like sucking the neck bones and the marrow.”
“And what about a roast for tomorrow? We’ll see whether Mr Cleaver’s got a leg of wether. Hot tomorrow, then cold for the rest of the week till we get sick of it and mince up what’s left for a shepherd’s pie.”
“I love shepherd’s pie. Dad, why do clean sheets smell so nice?” I was spreading the bottom one on my bed.
“What on earth…?”
“I’m sniffing it.”
“It sounds as if you’re blowing your nose.”
“I’m not just sniffing, I’m the wind blowing the sheets on the line.”
“Then how about blowing up and getting that blind down? Get a fork, and I’ll wind the spring now, or you’ll forget and pull the cord tonight, and it’ll come down and dong you one.”
Dad held the lug between the prongs and wound. I watched, hoping the fork would slip and the spring would go “Hullabaloo!” again. I stood on my bed and slipped the wire end into its hole, and the flat lug into the slot at the other end.
“Why are the ends different shapes?”
“The bit like wire turns round in its hole, when you pull the cord. The flat bit won’t turn, so it makes the spring wind up and down. That’s what you feel when you’re pulling the blind. And when you let it go with a rush, the spring unwinds, shouts ‘Hullabaloo!’ and wakes me.”
“It was the cockerels trying to crow.”
“I really should pick those old lemons.”
“I want to see how big they can get.”
“The washing!”
I nodded at the lemons, and followed Dad out to the wash-house.
“It’s a good drying day.” The whites heaved over in the
boiling water. Dad poked them with the copper stick. “Sun and wind,” he said, “that’s what makes sheets and pillowslips smell so good. And the lavender bags in the linen cupboard.”
I rubbed against him, but didn’t say anything. I loved it when Dad had a Saturday off.
Why You Call It the Wash-House Sometimes, Why I Gave Freddy Jones Something to Think About, and Why Mr Dainty Ran Away.
“D
AD, WHY DO WE SAY WASH-HOUSE
sometimes, and bathroom other times?”
“It’s the wash-house if we’re doing the washing, and the bathroom if we’re having a bath. We’ll have a proper bathroom when we win the Art Union.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Two thousand pounds.”
“Two thousand pounds!”
“Win that, we’ll have a separate room for the copper and tubs. We might even have a washing machine, and then we’ll go all posh and call it the laundry.”
“Will we ever be posh?”
“We’re all right, aren’t we?”
“I suppose so. I wonder what it’s like, having a washing machine?”
“It’d save rubbing stuff on the old rub-a-dub scrubbing board. Look at it: just about worn smooth. Still, a good boil gets out a lot of the dirt.”
“Does posh mean having lots of clothes?”
“I suppose so.”
“Would you like lots of clothes?”
“I do all right.” Dad dipped out the washing with the stick, lowered it into the first tub, and swished it up and down. “It’s yours that have got me worried. I must do something about them.”
I turned the wringer, and he fed the sheets in between the rollers. The squeezed-out water ran into the little tray and back into the first tub. Dribble! Gurgle! Dad swished the washing up and down in the second tub, while I emptied the first one, refilled it with clean water, dropped in the blue bag, and watched the colour spread.
“That’s enough. Save the bag for next week.”
I tipped the tray the other way, turned the wringer handle—creak! creak!—and watched the white sheets slide into the blue water.
“They look blue now, but they still come out white.”
“It’s a rinse, not a dye. Blueing gives them enough colour to make them look whiter.”
“So they’re not really cleaner?”
“It is a third rinse, but the blue’s just for appearance’s sake. My mother used to do it, so I do it, too.”
“Do appearances matter?”
“I’m a man bringing up a daughter on his own. Peg grey sheets on the line, the whole of Waharoa would hear about it.” He laughed. “What’s that advertisement
in the paper? ‘Tattletale grey.’ When you were little, you wanted your mother to put you into the blueing water and hang you out to dry.”
“And did she?”
“She dabbed some water on your nose, and when I came home from work, you told me your nose was blue.”
I laughed. I liked hearing about things back then.
Dad hung shirts, towels, and then the sheets on the outer lines. I stood on the platform and pegged out the little things on the inside lines: face cloths, hankies, singlets, bloomers, underpants, socks.
“Why have we got a platform when you never use it?”
“I built it for your mother.”
“Was she short?”
“Don’t you remember?”
I said nothing.
“Before I built her this one, we had a line that used to go right across the lawn, and it had a prop so she could lower it for hanging out the washing.”
“When I grow up, will I have a washing machine?”
“They’re pricey.”
“How much?”
“Quids and quids. And you’d have to put in a special point to run the machine, and that’d cost more.”
“Everything costs money.”
“Not the sun and the wind, and we’re in luck today. How about dipping out the copper while I go
to the dunny. And then we’d better get our meat, or Mr Cleaver will have sold all his best stuff, and he’ll only have horse meat left.”
“Dad!”
The fire under the copper was dead, the water cooling already. It looked scummy grey and felt greasy as I dipped it into the tub, wiped out the copper, and felt its metal sides. It was cold already.
“You’re a very good conductor,” I told it. “When I grow up, I’m going to buy Dad a laundry, and a washing machine, and lots of clothes. He’ll be posh.”
We rushed around tidying up, put on some slack and closed the dampers to keep the stove in, shut the back door, and I beat Dad out the gate, so he had to pull it closed in case of stock.
I skipped along Ward Street. On your own, the house got a bit empty, so all that long infantile summer I used to go down the orchard and help Mr Bluenose sort apples and listen to his stories, then I’d tell them to Mr Bryce at the store and, if he thought they were good enough, he’d give me a couple of boiled lollies. Sometimes I found empty bottles to pay for lollies. Beer bottles a penny; soft drink bottles a penny-ha’penny.
Sometimes I used to go along and stir up Freddy Jones—give him something to think about. That’s what Mrs Dainty always said whenever she caught me picking my nose or doing whatever I wasn’t supposed to do.
“I’ll tell your father,” she’d say, “and he’ll give you something to think about.”
If it was good enough for me, then it was good enough for Freddy Jones, too. That’s what I said when Dad asked me why I tormented him.
“I just give him something to think about, like Mrs Dainty says.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know when she told on me for blowing my nose on my fingers?” Dad nodded. “Well, she said she’d tell you, and you’d give me something to think about.”
“And did I?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You said if I didn’t have a hanky to use a dock leaf, and I told Mrs Dainty, and she said I was grubby-minded and she didn’t know what the world was coming to—children answering back. What happened to Mr Dainty, Dad?”
“Mrs Dainty gave him so much to think about, he ran away and became a swagger.”
I spluttered. “Mrs Dainty disapproves of swaggers. She says they shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Poor devils, it’s not their fault they don’t have jobs; it’s the Depression. Now, don’t go repeating what I said about Mr Dainty, Maggie. It could get me into trouble.”
I was still giggling when we went into the butcher’s.
“What’s so funny, Skinamalink?”
“I’m not supposed to tell ‘cause it could get Dad into trouble.”
“Trouble, eh!” Mr Cleaver laughed till his eyes squeezed into slits between little rolls of fat. “Has he been saying I sell horse meat again?”
Mr Cleaver’s nose was shaped like one of his own sausages. He had big red hands, fingers, and arms, and a long blue-and-white striped butcher’s apron that came down to his ankles. I knew he must be a very good butcher because he looked so like one.