Billy and Old Smoko

by Jack Lasenby

  That afternoon, Billy’s beautiful stepmother baked a birthday cake, iced it, stuck five candles on top, and lit them. She took a deep breath and blew. “Hooray all out in one go that means I’m lucky!” she shouted.

  She smiled at herself in the mirror, and Billy whipped out the shiny lid of the milkpowder tin from his back pocket, looked at her reflection, and realised why he had almost been turned to stone. “It had bristles,” he said to himself afterwards. “And tusks!”

  “‘Happy birthday to Me happy birthday to Me happy birthday dear Me–ee happy birthday to Me!’” his stepmother sang and gobbled the cake, all but one slice.

  “Who’s that for?” Billy asked.

  “That’ll do for your father’s tea.”

  “What am I having?”

  “Quick while the rain’s stopped you can run outside and pick yourself a lovely bit of puha and thank your lucky stars you get such good tucker.”

  “I’d like a bit of birthday cake, too.”

  “Cake’s bad for your teeth.”

  “What about yours?” asked Billy.

  “How do you know they’re not false in any case it’s rude to talk back to your mother.”

  Billy’s father came in from the cowshed. “Hooray!” he shouted when he saw the slice of birthday cake, and gobbled it for his tea. “Happy birthday, Billy!”

  “Whose birthday?” asked Billy, chewing his lovely bit of puha slowly to make it last.

  “Yours!” shouted his father. “You’re five!”

  Billy thought of his real mother and his first four birthday parties: the cake with frilly gold and silver paper round it, his name written in icing, and a candle for each birthday. He thought of the presents he used to get.

  “But she sang, ‘Happy Birthday to Me!’” he said to his father.

  His father looked away from Billy, his grey eyes went shifty, and he leaned against the back of his chair and tapped the first line of “Home On the Range” on the table.

  “How dare you call me ‘she’ I thought I told you to call me Mum,” Billy’s stepmother said. “Tomorrow since you’re turned five you have to go to school in Waharoa don’t be late or you’ll get the cuts.”

  “How am I going to get there?”

  “‘Home, home on the range,’” his father whistled to himself.

  “Tell the boy!”

  “I suppose you’ll have to walk,” Billy’s father said and gave a weak grin. “It’s only a hop, step, and a jump into Waharoa!” He tried to whistle, but his mouth dried up.

  Billy felt uncomfortable. “I’m not that silly,” he thought to himself.

  When he went to bed, he wrote in his mother’s book: “I know it’s more than a hop, step, and a jump into Waharoa.” He also wrote, “I get sick of ‘Home On the Range’. I wish Dad would whistle something else for a change.” He thought for a moment, and wrote, “It was my birthday, not hers.”

  Chapter Five

  A Nice Time to be Coming Home; Mr Strap and the School Thumbscrews, Stocks, and Gallows; and The Rawleighs Man.

  After a big breakfast of two burnt crumbs of toast and half an empty eggshell, Billy put on his school bag and set off to walk to school in Waharoa.

  “Come wind come rain!” cried his beautiful stepmother. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror, and danced widdershins around the kitchen.

  Wind off the Kaimais rolled Billy down to the Waihou River. There was no bridge in those days, so he tried to swim across. Rain fell, the river flooded, and the water was filled with floating thistles and gorse bushes.

  In his school bag, Billy had the balloon he’d found with his mother’s book. He had only just turned five the day before, but he was pretty quick-witted. He stuck his head inside his school bag and blew up the balloon in there, where it couldn’t be popped by thistles and gorse. He tied a knot in the end, did up the buckles so the balloon couldn’t get out, put his feet through the shoulder strap, sat on top, and tried to paddle across with a fence batten.

  The flood swept him down through Te Aroha, Paeroa, and out past Thames, where he came ashore at Puru, and a couple of seagulls gave him cheek. Billy let the air out of the balloon and saved it in case. He tipped the water out of his school bag, ate the wrinkly bit of old orange peel his stepmother had given him for his lunch, and started walking home. It was over fifty miles, so he didn’t get there till after dark.

  All in one breath, his stepmother said, “A nice time to be coming home here I’ve been worrying myself sick along of being so anxious about what could have happened to you your tea’s keeping warm on a plate in the oven don’t blame me if it’s all dried up from sitting there half the night waiting for Your Royal Highness to decide when he’s going to honour us with a visit.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Billy took his tea out of the oven. It looked like a shovelful of dry gravel. When he chewed, it sounded like gravel, too.

  His father came in from milking the cows. “I was hoping you might get home from school in time to give me a hand with the milking,” he said.

  Billy tried to say, “I got swept away,” but the gravel made it sound like, “That’s why I kept away.”

  “A nice thing to go saying to your father who’s been working his fingers to the bone milking all day from morning to dark so you can live in the lap of luxury,” his stepmother told him.

  Billy swallowed, and the gravel fell down his insides and rattled on the floor of his stomach. “The Waihou flooded,” he said. “I got carried down through Te Aroha, Paeroa, and out past Thames where I came ashore at Puru, and a couple of seagulls gave me cheek.”

  “Boys who make up stories come to a bad end if you’ve finished feeding your face it’s high time you were in bed!” His stepmother went over, smiled into the mirror, and asked it a question. Billy took good care not to look.

  As he got into his cold bed, somebody leaned against his door and whistled “Home On the Range”.

  For breakfast, next morning, Billy’s stepmother let him lick the spoon she’d used to stir her tea.

  “I said lick it not chew it!” she growled.

  His lackadaisical father was milking the cows and whistling “Home On the Range”, as Billy built himself a raft of flax sticks and used his school bag to paddle across the Waihou River.

  Billy remembered what his father had said, and did a hop, a step, and a jump, but that only took him halfway up the riverbank. Then the old road had so many ups and downs and bends and corners and twists, he was a long time getting into Waharoa. As he reached the school, the bell rang, and the other kids tore out the door, knocked him down, and ran over the top of him.

  “Three o’clock!” they shouted, hitting each other with their school bags. “Home-time!”

  “You’re late,” said the headmaster, Mr Strap, who had hairy eyebrows like wings above his eyes. Billy looked at the way his moustache seemed to grow from right up inside his nostrils.

  “Please, Sir, I had to walk,” Billy said.

  “Tomorrow you must start walking earlier.” Mr Strap’s eyebrows wiggled. “Why are you so dusty?”

  “Please, Sir, the other kids ran over the top of me.”

  “A British schoolboy never tells tales on his classmates.” Mr Strap blew down his nostrils so his moustache shook.

  “Please, Sir, I’m a New Zealand schoolboy.”

  “Don’t try to be smart with me. Where were you yesterday?”

  Billy thought of what his real mother had said about always telling the truth. “Please, Sir, the Waihou River was in flood. I got swept out to sea and came ashore at Puru, up the Thames coast.”

  “Boys who make up stories,” said Mr Strap, “I give them the whacks! If that doesn’t cure them, there’s the school thumbscrews, stocks, and gallows.”

  “Please, Sir,” said Billy, “can I have a drink of water?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Mr Strap, twitching his eyebrows and blowing down his nostrils. “But don’t go drinking the tap dry. That water’s supposed to be for child
ren who get to school on time.”

  Billy ate the pine cone his stepmother had given him for his lunch, and started walking home. At the Wardville turnoff, a buggy pulled up beside him, and a kind voice said, “Can I give you a lift?” It was the Rawleighs Man with his bagful of potions and pills, lotions and liniments for both man and beast.

  Chapter Six

  Things Are Never Quite What They Seem, Why Cows Like Oil of Wintergreen, and Why Old Smoko Groaned With Voluptuous Pleasure and Shone Like a Bronze Statue.

  The Rawleighs Man had short white hair, a short white nose, and short white teeth, and everything in his buggy smelled of oil of wintergreen. Billy thanked him, climbed up, and gave a loud sniff.

  “I’m going out to sell laxatives and liniment to the farmers under the Kaimais,” said the Rawleighs Man.

  “I like the smell of oil of wintergreen,” Billy told him.

  “Then you can’t be a witch,” said the Rawleighs Man. “Witches can’t stand the smell of garlic and oil of wintergreen. How’s your mother, Billy?”

  Billy tried to explain that his real mum had disappeared and been replaced by a beautiful wicked stepmother, but his voice wouldn’t work and he was scared he was going to cry. Luckily, the Rawleighs Man was so busy with the reins, he didn’t seem to notice.

  When they came to the Waihou River, Billy got down from the buggy and said, “Thank you for the lift,” as his real mother had taught him to do.

  “Remember, things are never quite what they seem,” said the Rawleighs Man. “Nor even what they smell like. And, just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, it often means they’re going to get better.” He gidduped his horse and drove upstream, looking for a ford where he could get the buggy across.

  Billy watched him go. “Things are never quite what they seem,” he repeated. “Nor even what they smell like. And, just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, it often means they’re going to get better.”

  He paddled his korari raft across and got home just in time to run straight down to the shed, and give a hand with the milking. Mooing with pleasure, the cows surrounded him, licking his face, hands, arms, and legs.

  His father sniffed Billy and said, “They like the taste of oil of wintergreen. Old Blossom and Pansy reckon it’s good for their rheumatism. But you don’t want to let them lick too much, or it taints the milk, and the factory grades it down. Remind me to buy some laxatives and liniment, Billy, next time the Rawleighs Man calls.”

  “He gave me a lift home this afternoon. I think he’s gone upstream to try and find a ford to get across. Everything in his buggy smelt of oil of wintergreen.”

  “That’s why the cows are excited,” said his father. “You must have got some on yourself.”

  “What did they learn you at school today?” his stepmother asked as she fried an old weta for his tea.

  “I got there late.”

  “Tomorrow you must walk straight to school no dawdling no climbing trees to pinch birds’ eggs and no catching eels heaven knows I give you a lavish enough lunch how did you get home and poo what on earth is that awful smell?”

  “Oil of wintergreen. The Rawleighs Man gave me a lift home.”

  “You see you keep away from that Rawleighs Man I don’t want you having anything to do with him giving you a lift the cheek of it you go and give yourself a good scrub with sandsoap and kerosene and get rid of that horrid smell I can’t stand it!”

  “Perhaps the boy needs a horse,” said Dad. “It is a fair way into Waharoa. And he is only five.”

  Billy’s beautiful stepmother shook her fist. “Do you want him growing up a softy?”

  Dad whistled the first line of “Home on the Range” and said, “If Billy had a horse, he could give me a hand with the milking, and then ride into Waharoa.”

  Billy looked away as his stepmother smiled and murmured something into the mirror. Not turning around, she said, “That good for nothing Old Smoko’s eating his head off in the thistle paddock the boy can ride him to school perhaps that’ll keep him away from the Rawleighs Man.”

  “Why’s he called Old Smoko?” asked Billy.

  “When he was a young horse, he was forever sitting down on the job and asking, ‘When’s smoko?’” Dad told him.

  Billy looked to see if his father was grinning, but he was leaning against the door of the cupboard in which he kept his laxatives, whistling “Home On the Range”, and beating time with his foot.

  Billy got up early next morning, helped Dad with the milking, gobbled his breakfast – the beak off a chook his stepmother ate for her tea last night – and caught Old Smoko.

  Old Smoko had once been an enormous Clydesdale horse. Now that Billy’s wicked stepmother kept him locked in a paddock filled with thistles and stones, and no water, he had shrunk smaller than a Shetland pony and a bit bigger than a Labrador dog. His hoofs had grown very long, he had no shoes, his coat and mane were rough and muddy, and he was lame on his off front leg.

  “Things are never quite what they seem,” Billy told him, “nor even what they smell like.” He fetched a bucket of warm water, cloths, clippers, and a currycomb, and washed the mud off Old Smoko’s belly and legs. He clipped the burrs and thistles and seeds out of his coat. He pulled a long thorn out of his off front leg, and dug a stone out of the frog of that hoof with his pocket knife.

  “Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, it often means they’re going to get better,” Billy said.

  Old Smoko groaned with voluptuous pleasure, lay on his back, and held up his feet for Billy to rasp down. One hoof was split, so he climbed back up, stood on the other three feet, and held that one out while Billy riveted the hoof together. Then he held up each foot in turn. The mealy smell of rasped hoof changed to a sharp reek as Billy fitted the red-hot horseshoes. The acrid yellow smoke of burning hoof made Old Smoko sneeze.

  “Hold up!” Billy told him because he’d heard his father say that.

  He made sure the horseshoe nails’ bevel was on the inside, hammered them in, clipped the tips, and clinched the ends against the hoofs. Then, while Old Smoko put his weight on each foot in turn, Billy tapped the toe clips so they fitted snug in the little scallop he’d cut in the front of each hoof.

  Old Smoko held up his feet and admired his new shoes, tried walking on them, stamped, and lifted one again. Billy gave that toe clip a harder tap, and Old Smoko tried it and looked pleased.

  “Your shoes make you look a bit taller,” Billy told him.

  He brushed and combed Old Smoko’s tail, and trimmed the hair out of his eyes. He rubbed him down with a wisp of hay, then curry-combed his coat, brushing with the lay of the hair, and hissing between his teeth so he wouldn’t breathe in the dust. To his surprise, Billy found he now needed to stand on a box to reach Old Smoko’s withers and brush his mane.

  Lastly, he put a drop of kerosene on his hanky, leaned a ladder against Old Smoko, and polished him all over till he shone like a bronze statue. His coat that had once looked grey was now reddish-brown, what you call bay. Feathery white hairs grew down the back of his legs and half-covered his feet. His new shoes glittered silver, and he looked like the heavy draught horse he was supposed to be – a Clydesdale.

  “There! How does that feel?”

  “Ineffably better!” said Old Smoko in a rather grand voice. “Words are insufficient to express my thanks.”

  Chapter Seven

  Why Billy Rubbed His Nose With His Foot, Why Old Smoko Wrung the Eel’s Neck, and How Dad Knew the Cows Were Milking Real Well.

  “Who said that?” Billy exclaimed.

  “It was I,” Old Smoko said rather pedantically. “My especial thanks, nay, my undying gratititude for pulling out the thorn from my leg and digging the stone out of the frog of my hoof. They were rendering me not only halt but lame.”

  “Nobody said you could talk!”

  “Nobody asked me. And I think it would be to our mutual advantage were you to keep it a secret from the grownups.” O
ld Smoko lifted one foot, rubbed the side of his nose, and nodded.

  “My real mum said I must always tell the truth, but I don’t think she’d mind me keeping a secret so long as it’s for a good purpose.” Billy lifted one of his feet and rubbed the side of his own nose back to Old Smoko.

  “Here we are!” Billy’s father came out of the cowshed swinging something in his hand. “Make yourself a hackamore with this here old leg-rope; it’ll save us buying a bridle.

  “My word, you done a good job, Billy. Old Smoko’s come up a treat! It might be an idea if you was to rub a drop of this here liniment into his off shoulder. I bought a bottle off the Rawleighs Man as he cut along past our front paddock this morning. Old Smoko’s had a bit of a limp for some time.”

  Billy took the bottle, noticing his father held it between two fingers so he didn’t get the smell of liniment on himself. The leg-rope was ploughline, stiffened with years of cow pee and poop till it was hard as old wood. As his father walked across the paddock and leaned against the hedge, Billy made a hackamore and put it on Old Smoko who whispered, “Truth to tell, I prefer a hackamore to a bridle, because it means I do not have to bear the irritation of an iron bit in my mouth.”

  “I don’t think I’d like having an iron bit in my mouth either,” Billy whispered back, as he rubbed a drop of liniment into his off shoulder.

  Old Smoko smiled. “I adore the smell of oil of wintergreen! I have decided, Billy,” he said, “that you and I are going to be more than mere acquaintances. We shall be comrades – in prosperity and in misfortune!”

  “Mates!” Billy said. “In good times and in bad!” They shook hands on it.

  “I must say you look a different person,” said Billy.

  “It is all your doing,” said Old Smoko. He knelt and with his nose nudged Billy up on his back, the way an elephant uses his trunk.