Billy and Old Smoko

by Jack Lasenby

  “Hooray!”

  “How did the School Inspector like the roast pork and crackling with apple sauce for his tea, the night after the footy?” Billy asked Harrietta.

  “My wicked stepmother said she hadn’t asked anyone to tea, and his horse said, ‘Hi-Yo, Sylvia!’ and they galloped away.” Harrietta’s voice went up very high. She tried to smile at Billy, but her blue eyes went smeary, and she burst into tears again.

  Billy would have liked to comfort her, but June Williams was older and a girl so she put her arms around Harrietta and said, “There, there, everything’s going to be all right. Old Smoko and Billy are going to find your mum, and mine, too.”

  As they rode into the horse paddock, Mr Strap came out the door, carrying the bell with one hand and blowing his nose on the fingers of the other. While Billy took off Old Smoko’s hackamore, the rest ran over, stood in a circle, and stared at the headmaster.

  “Sir hasn’t got a hanky,” said the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement. “Please, Sir, Old Smoko will let you use his hanky.”

  “Thank you.” Mr Strap blew his nose, and burst into tears. They watched with deep interest.

  “Please, Sir,” said one of the Williams girls, “there’s a bit on your moustache.” She took the hanky and wiped it.

  “That’s better, Sir!” they all said, and ran to give his hanky back to Old Smoko.

  “Sir was crying!” the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement told him. “His nose was running and he didn’t have a hanky so he blew it on his fingers.”

  “His mummy must have run away, too,” said Ivan Warawara.

  “I rather think,” said Old Smoko, “that if Mrs Strap had run away, Mr Strap would not be crying.”

  “I know,” said the oldest of the Ellery twins. “I bet Mrs Strap gave him half a puha leaf for his breakfast, and told him he wasn’t having any lunch today.”

  “Nobody should go to school hungry,” said Old Smoko, “not even Mr Strap. Offer these spare sandwiches to him, Billy. I wonder if Ivan is right, and Mr Strap has got a wicked stepmother, too?

  “Now, stand in a line, the rest of you, and do not shove. Johnny Bryce, you do that again, and you will be sent to the end of the line. Here is a sandwich for you to eat now, one for morning playtime, two for lunch, and another for little playtime in the afternoon.”

  “One for now, one for morning play, two for lunch, and one for little play in the afternoon,” everyone repeated and took their sandwiches.

  “That’s emptied our first pikau,” Billy said and ran after the other kids – yelling, shrieking, tripping, shoving, and ankle-tapping – to have a game of marbles and do some skipping, “Salt-Mustard-Vinegar-Pepper!” – before nine o’clock.

  “Were I to have my way,” Old Smoko murmured to himself, “I would give those wicked stepmothers half a puha leaf for their breakfast, and see how they like it. And then I would send them off to school without any lunch!”

  The kids were too busy skipping and playing marbles to notice, but Old Smoko was watching when Mrs Strap stuck her head through the school hedge to keep an eye on Mr Strap. She had long black hair, green eyes, a white face, and red lips.

  Old Smoko glanced away at once. “Ivan Warawara was correct,” he murmured to himself. “The real Mrs Strap has been replaced by a beautiful wicked stepmother, too.”

  That night, as they slid off Old Smoko’s back on their way home, everyone started crying again.

  “Fear not!” Old Smoko and Billy handed out the other pikauful of roast pork, crackling, and apple sauce sandwiches. Johnny Bryce started eating his at once. “So long as Billy and I have comestibles, you shall not go hungry,” Old Smoko told the crying children. He reared up to his full height. “All for one!” he shouted. “And one for all!”

  “All for one!” everyone shouted after him. “And one for all!” It made them feel much better.

  “Four times all is one. Once all is four,” chanted the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement, who knew his times tables by heart but hadn’t yet been told what they were for.

  “If your wicked stepmother gives you a worn-out old bit of puha for your tea tonight,” Old Smoko told them, “push it around your plate, tip it on the floor when she’s not looking, rub it into the lino with your foot, and eat your sandwiches under the blankets, after you have gone to bed.”

  “Hooray for Old Smoko!” said Harrietta Wilson, and even Johnny Bryce stopped scoffing his little sister’s sandwiches and cheered.

  “And whatever you do,” Billy warned everyone, “don’t look at your evil stepmother’s reflection in the mirror.”

  “Why not?” demanded Johnny Bryce.

  “Because, you could get turned to stone!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because my real mother told me a story about a boy who cut off a gorgon’s head. He had to look at her reflection in his polished shield, or he’d be turned to stone.”

  “But you told us not to look at her reflection in the mirror or we’d be turned to stone.”

  “I told you that because I looked at my evil stepmother’s reflection in her mirror, and felt myself turning to stone. Now I only look at her reflection in a mirror made of the shiny lid of a milk powder tin, and that makes it safe. Remember what the School Inspector told us about appearances.”

  “He told us, ‘Things are never quite what they seem,’” said one of the Williams girls, and Harrietta noticed Billy smile at her.

  “We always use the lid of a milk powder tin for a mirror,” several kids said.

  “That should work,” said Billy. “But best not look in the mirror at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Insolence Among the Turnips, Why Old Smoko Wanted to Feel More Comfortable, and Why the Thames Mussels and Flounders Taste of Wild Pork.

  “We don’t want to be turned to stone,” said the Williams girl.

  “Hooray for Old Billy!” said Harrietta Wilson, and everyone cheered.

  “I am not old!” Billy said, and drew a heart in the dust with his big toe. He would have drawn an arrow through it, but Johnny Bryce was looking so he rubbed it out with his foot.

  As Old Smoko swam the river, Billy saw the Rawleighs Man driving his buggy out of a crossing upstream. The noise of the rapids meant he couldn’t hear them, but both Billy and Old Smoko thought they smelt oil of wintergreen.

  After milking, that night, they spotted a broad-shouldered boar pig slouching around the turnip paddock.

  “Mummy’s-boy, mummy’s-boy, his mummy ran away-yay,” the pig chanted at Billy with its mouth full of turnip. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, your stepmother’s come to stay-yay!” It swallowed rudely and took another bite.

  Billy stared at the insolent boar pig. It stared back with its knowing eyes, chewed with its mouth wide open, and chanted again. “Us pigs are takin’ over your old man’s far-yarm. He’s too lackadaisical to do us any har-yarm!”

  Old Smoko was so angry at the broad-shouldered boar pig’s impertinence, he went straight in and held it, while Billy stuck it with his pocket knife.

  “That’ll teach you, Swine!” Billy said. “Saying things about my mother and father.…”

  “A remarkable taste sensation,” said Old Smoko late that night after Billy had put his stepmother and father to bed, and they ate their tea. “Roast pork with turnip flavouring. I wonder how the others will like it tomorrow?”

  He shook his head, looked worried, and said, “Rarely have I known a pig so cheeky as to come down into the turnip paddock. And saying that about your parents.”

  Billy sat on the windowsill behind the curtain and, under the heading of “Interesting Natural Phenomena”, wrote in his mother’s book, “Today, Johnny Bryce cried manly tears, and Lynda cried womanly tears. Old Smoko said roast pork with turnip flavouring is a remarkable taste sensation, and I didn’t think much of it.” As always, he wrote the time and the date. Then he made another entry: “Old Smoko’s worried about wild pigs coming down on the farm
.”

  He thought again, and wrote, “A boar said nasty things about my real mum and my father, but we fixed him!”

  The other kids were all so hungry next morning, they ate their sandwiches without noticing the taste of turnips.

  “Remarkable!” said Old Smoko. “I thought the flavour quite pronounced.”

  On Friday afternoon, they gave each of the other kids a pikau full of turnip-flavoured roast pork sandwiches to keep them going over the weekend, and Old Smoko swam home across the Waihou River saying, “Tomorrow, we shall begin our hunt for the missing mums, Billy.”

  But Saturday morning, a strange rider with black hair, green eyes, a white face and red lips galloped up to the shed as they were stripping the last cows. She wore a cap with a skull and crossbones badge that said, “Ragwort Inspector”.

  Billy smiled pleasantly as his real mother had taught him to do when meeting strangers, but the Ragwort Inspector sneered and looked him and Old Smoko up and down.

  “You’ll smile on the other side of your face when I’ve finished with you let me find just one ragwort and I’ll hang the pair of you from the cowshed rafters!”

  The Ragwort Inspector scoured the front paddock. She found barberry, barley grass, blackberry, boxthorn, brier, broom, buttercups, California thistle, dandelions, docks, gorse, hakea, hawthorn, hemlock, nodding thistle, Scotch thistle, stinging nettle, and thorn apple, but not a single ragwort. “Bah what did you do with the ragwort seeds?”

  “Burned them so they couldn’t grow again, Sir!”

  “Don’t you be cheeky to me!”

  “Siress!” Billy said and saluted.

  “That’s better and don’t you forget it because I’ll be back!” The Ragwort Inspector showed her teeth and galloped down to the house.

  “Did you notice her horse?” asked Billy. “It had a moustache like Mr Strap’s.”

  Old Smoko made a muffled sound in his throat.

  “True! It grew out of its nostrils, just like Mr Strap’s.”

  “Don’t talk to me!” mumbled Old Smoko, trying not to move his lips. “Harness me into the konaki, quick!”

  As Billy drove the konaki behind a hedge, Old Smoko said, “Your wicked stepmother and the Ragwort Inspector were watching us through a telescope. I saw the sun flash off it. They must never find out we can talk to each other.”

  “It’s all right. I told my stepmother that you hear my times tables and my spelling when I’ve got homework. She doesn’t know you can talk.”

  “Even so,” said Old Smoko, “we must not let her suspect anything. What is that bellowing?” Billy jumped on the konaki, Old Smoko galloped, head raised, scenting the air, and they pulled up beside the bull paddock where a savage Captain Cooker was scoffing its tusks and strong-eyeing a young Jersey bull it had backed into a cabbage tree.

  Old Smoko unhooked himself from the traces, vaulted the fence, seized both back legs of the boar pig, and held them off the ground. The boar couldn’t run on its front legs, and it couldn’t reach around to get at Old Smoko who couldn’t do anything but stand holding its back legs in the air.

  “You look like a wheelbarrow,” Billy told it and laughed.

  “I’ll rip a tusk into you.…” threatened the boar pig. “I’ll open you up from your bum to your brisket!”

  It was too big to turn on its side, and so heavy Old Smoko couldn’t hold it much longer, but he daren’t let go.

  “Put me down at once!” threatened the scoffing Captain Cooker, so Billy whipped in and stuck it with his pocket knife.

  “You took your time turning up,” the bull complained, but Old Smoko dropped the dead boar’s hind feet, sniffed the air again, and took off yelping his finding bark. Billy followed the racket and found him confronting a fat barrow in the cowshed itself. A pig hunter had cut off its ears and tail when it was little.

  “It’s got nothing to get hold of,” said Old Smoko.

  “Try biting its testicles,” said Billy.

  “They, too, were cut off,” Old Smoko told him. “That is why it is called a barrow.” Even as he spoke, he got a grip down the side of the jaw, while Billy stuck the barrow. It was so fat, he had some trouble with just his pocket knife.

  “It would be a comfort to me, Billy,” Old Smoko said, “were you to carry the sticking knife from now on.”

  “We’re doing okay with my pocket knife.”

  “It is no longer big enough – not for the pigs we are catching.”

  “But it was a present from my real mum.”

  “And an excellent pocket knife, Billy, but there is always the danger that the blade will fold back on your fingers, if it strikes a bone. Even with a sticking knife, you can have trouble such as cutting the tendons in your fingers.”

  “I’m still going to carry it in my pocket.”

  “Of course. But I will feel a little safer going in to hold a savage dog-scoffing boar pig if I know that you have the right knife for the job.”

  They singed the barrow, poked a gambrel through between the tendons and hocks of the back legs, hung it off the rafters, and gutted it. As they lit a fire behind the shed and grilled the kidneys and slices of liver for their lunch, Old Smoko remarked, “I prefer my pork without the flavour of turnips.”

  “Me, too,” Billy said, and they both looked away and grinned.

  “We’re getting to be a not bad sort of a team on the pigs,” Billy said later as they sledged the carcass of the savage Captain Cooker across the bull paddock.

  “Not bad at all,” said Old Smoko, smiling at the informality of his own language.

  They tipped the carcass off the konaki and into the drain. “Won’t it stink there?” Billy asked.

  “The first good flood will shift it down into the river and out past Thames. It is a well-known fact that the famous Thames mussels and flounders both taste of wild pork.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I read it in the Auckland Weekly News.”

  “Then it must be true,” said Billy. “Mr Strap said the Auckland Weekly and the New Zealand Herald are invariably correct.”

  “I suggest you take everything Mr Strap says with a grain of salt, Billy.”

  “But I haven’t got any salt.”

  “I was talking figuratively,” said Old Smoko. “What I meant was that you should not believe everything Mr Strap says.”

  Billy grinned to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Funny Bones, Clones, and Clowns, Why Old Smoko Ran Away from Victoria Ruruhi, A Bleached Old Knucklebone for Tea, and the Ancient Ngati Haua Story of a Mad Scientist.

  “I have another strange feeling in my funny bone,” Old Smoko said.

  “What about?”

  “The number of pigs coming down on to the farm. Bert Brute was an exceptional case, but we expect to see a boar or two in the back paddock at lambing time. But those weaners – up the apple tree; that broad-shouldered boar in the turnips; the savage Captain Cooker in the bull paddock; and now a barrow – in the cowshed itself!”

  “It’s handy for tucker,” said Billy, “getting them close like that.”

  But Old Smoko rubbed his funny bone and said, “I suspect it has something to do with your stepmother.”

  “The Ragwort Inspector sounded like my stepmother,” Billy said as they milked the cows that night. “She looked like her, too. And her horse looked rather like Mr Strap.”

  “You’ve reminded me!” Old Smoko cried. “I saw Mrs Strap last week, the day Mr Strap had no hanky and was crying because he had no breakfast. Remember the real Mrs Strap had red hair? Well, she’s been replaced by a stepmother just like yours – with green eyes and long black hair. What if they’re all clones?”

  “Clowns?”

  “Not clowns. I take a pride in the clarity of my enunciation. I said clones!”

  “What’s a clone?”

  “Cloning has not been been invented yet,” Old Smoko told Billy. “When it is, a mad scientist will be able to take a few cells from one witch
– what is going to be called a piece of her genetic material – and breed another twelve identical to her. That is what they are going to call cloning.”

  “So you’d have thirteen witches, all exactly the same?”

  Old Smoko nodded. “When I was a little horse,” he said, “I went to the flicks one Saturday night, in the old hall at Te Whaiti. It was my first time, and I sat beside a little girl called Victoria Ruruhi who ate my bag of boiled lollies and told me the actors were really standing around the back of the big white screen.

  “The film was called Frankenstein. When the monster came to life, Victoria Ruruhi crunched another boiled lolly and whispered that he was going to jump through the screen and eat me, so I bolted screaming all the way home up the track over Tarapounamu and down to Ruatahuna.”

  “What’s that got to do with clones?”

  “I am coming to that.” Old Smoko looked severely at Billy. “While helping herself to my boiled lollies, Victoria Ruruhi told me they were going to clone Frankenstein – like taking cuttings from a tree – and make thousands of copies of him.”

  “That must have been pretty scary,” said Billy.

  “It was indeed. After that, I ran and hid every time I saw Victoria Ruruhi.”

  “No wonder! Do you think all the other stepmothers are clones of my one?”

  “I suspect they are. There is the Bryce kids’ mother, and Harrietta Wilson’s, and the Ellerys’ mother, and – and – and – ”

  “That only comes to eleven,” said Billy who was pretty quick at arithmetic.

  “Did you include your stepmother?”

  “Twelve,” said Billy. “And the cloned stepmother who calls herself Mrs Strap – she makes it thirteen.”

  “Thirteen witches!” His face white, Old Smoko stared at Billy.

  “Thirteen of them!” His voice trembled. “That is what is called a coven of clones.”

  “First my dad invented the outboard motor, then the milking machine, and now somebody’s cloning covens.”