by Jack Lasenby
“Or covening clones,” said Old Smoko.
“Or coveting clowns,” Billy laughed.
“Clowning coverts.”
“Covert wagons!”
Old Smoko snorted and shook his head. “Covert wagons!” he nickered, his voice sounding normal again.
They were both still grinning as they took the cans down for the milk launch and hid the enormous barrow’s carcass, ready for roasting, in the lawsoniana shelter-belt behind the house.
“Who do you think is cloning the covens?” Billy asked.
“I suspect a mad scientist with a secret laboratory,” said Old Smoko. “Kidnapping the real mums and replacing them with clones, turning the dads lackadaisical, and sending more and more cheeky pigs to try and take over the farms and then Waharoa itself!”
“We’ll find the mad scientist,” Billy said, “and destroy the secret laboratory.” He and Old Smoko shook hands.
“Did I see you grinning at that old nag that wasn’t just telling him your spelling and times tables and what’s the idea shaking hands with a horse?” Billy’s stepmother demanded as he came in the back door.
“I was just excited that the Ragwort Inspector didn’t find a single plant in the front paddock.”
“Bah well don’t go getting too cocky the Thistle Inspector’s coming next weekend and if she finds a single thistle in the front paddock she’ll hang draw and quarter you and that bone idle nag now eat up your lovely tea you’ve still got to read us the Herald and tell us a bedtime story.”
Billy pretended to chew the bleached old knucklebone his stepmother threw down with a dong on his plate. A bit of sheep dung showed the knucklebone hadn’t even been washed. He slipped it into his pocket when she was busy looking at her reflection in the mirror.
“If the Thistle Inspector’s coming,” Billy whispered to himself, “we’ll have to cut and start drying the thistles tomorrow. We should be able to burn them about Wednesday, if it doesn’t rain.”
Billy glanced up and saw his father smiling at him. He smiled back, but his stepmother saw them in the mirror and growled deep in her throat, and Billy’s dad rushed over, leaned against the hot stove, and whistled “Home On the Range” till his trousers started smoking.
Billy piggybacked his stepmother and lackadaisical dad to bed, after reading the Herald aloud, then told them the story of “The Goose-Girl”.
“I liked that bit where they cut off the horse’s head and hung it over the gate!” said Billy’s stepmother and went to sleep smiling at herself in the bedroom mirror. Billy looked at her reflection in the shiny lid of the milk powder tin, and noticed her tusks had grown.
Back in the kitchen, Old Smoko had the barrow cooked, and Billy agreed it was the best roast pork and crackling he had ever tasted. “You see why pig hunters make little boars into barrows?” said Old Smoko.
“I see,” said Billy, but felt his ears. “It’s not a very comfortable idea,” he said, “cutting off their ears and tails and testicles,” and he crossed his legs.
“Not at all comfortable,” said Old Smoko, “but it makes for superb eating.”
Sunday, they scythed all the thistles, raked them into windrows, and turned them with pitchforks so they dried. Billy was wearing the sticking knife, and they killed several more pigs near the cowshed.
On Wednesday afternoon, they were watching the thistles burn, when the smoke blew in their faces so they shifted. “I’m glad you suggested I carry the sticking knife,” said Billy. “Look at the chest on that boar pig pulling faces at us from the other side of the hole in the ground where we stuffed the ragwort.”
By the time they’d dealt with the deep-chested boar pig, the fire had gone out, and some thistles that hadn’t dried properly wouldn’t burn, so they stuffed them down the hole as well. There hadn’t been any time to look for the mad scientist and, going over to the shed, they had to bail and stick a huge, blubbery sow who leaned over the fence and asked Billy, “Who’s your funny-looking friend?” After singeing her, Old Smoko said, “Do you remember Bert Brute asked the same insolent question?”
“So he did! There is something funny about the way the pigs are coming down on the farm. I keep thinking of that boar in the turnip paddock, the one who sang a rude song about taking over the farm from my father.”
“Old Smoko has worked out who our wicked stepmothers are,” Billy announced to the other children as they rode home after school on Friday. “They’re clones – genetically identical copies of my wicked stepmother. We think she’s a witch in disguise. But there must be somebody who took her genetic material and made the clones, and we’re trying to find out who it is.”
“Genetics?” Johnny Bryce shook his head. “Clones? We don’t even know anything about D.N.A. yet.”
“We are dealing here,” Billy said, “with a mad scientist!” and he thought to himself, “I sound a bit like Old Smoko.”
“A mad scientist!” everyone said.
Billy turned so he could see everyone sitting in single file along Old Smoko’s back. “A mad scientist who cloned the wicked stepmothers so they all give us worn-out puha to eat. The same mad scientist who turned all our fathers lackadaisical.”
Everyone turned pale. “The mad scientist!” whispered Peggy Turia. “My real stepmother used to say there’s an ancient Ngati Haua story about a mad scientist taking over the Waikato and filling it with witches.…”
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Bit of New Zealand’s Electoral History, the Etymology of M.P., and Peggy Suggests Drenching the Evil Stepmothers With Oil of Wintergreen.
“My father always reckoned no good would come from giving sheilas the vote in 1893,” said Johnny Bryce. “You wait till he hears he went lackadaisical because of a mad sheila scientist.”
“Who said the mad scientist is a sheila?” “Nobody said it’s a sheila!” “Of course it must be a sheila!” “Oh, shut up!” “Shut up yourself!” “Don’t you tell me to shut up, Johnny Bryce!” “No sheila’s going to tell me to shut up – Ow!”
“Desist!” said Old Smoko. “Remember, all for one!”
“And one times four is all!” said the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement.
“If women got the vote in 1893, when did men get the vote?” somebody asked.
“Maggie will know. Ask Maggie,” everyone said.
“Maori jokers over twenty-one got the vote in 1867,” said Maggie Rawiri, who was remarkable for her grasp of New Zealand’s electoral history. “Some European jokers already had it, but some didn’t get it till twelve years later.”
“Why not?” “Is that true?” “That’s racism!” “It’s not fair!” “Hooray!” “Do you want a biff on the nose?” “You’re asking for it, June Williams!” “You shut up!” “No, you shut up!” “I warned you!” “I’m not telling you again!”
“Taihoa,” said Old Smoko. “Why fight each other when we should be fighting the mad scientist, and getting back your real mums. And your real stepmother,” he added for Peggy.
“Who ever heard of cloning?” Johnny Bruce sneered. “Phooey! You can’t make people look like each other.”
“Our stepmothers all look like each other,” said Harrietta, “and like the new Mrs Strap we saw watching Mr Strap through the hedge last week.”
“Like identical twins,” said somebody, “like the Ellerys, only thirteen of them instead of two.”
“Thirteen,” said Old Smoko. “A coven of clones.”
“Cunning clowns!” grinned Harrietta.
“Cloning!” said Johnny Bryce. “You just made it up,” he told Billy. “Like that enormous boar pig, Bert Brute, you reckoned you killed. You just made him up, too. My father says you better watch out for your imagination, in case it runs away with you.”
“How come you cut your finger on Bert Brute’s tusk, if I made him up, Johnny Bryce?” asked Billy.
“All the same….” said Johnny.
“Yeah!” said somebody down the back. “All the same what?”
> “When you bled, was that imaginary blood? And how about telling us how you got that imaginary scar?” Billy pointed at Johnny’s finger.
“Yeah!” said the voice down the back. “How’d you get that, eh?”
“My father’ll show your father what’s imaginary and what’s not,” said Johnny Bryce. “Or he would do, if he hadn’t gone all lackadaisical because sheilas got the vote in 1893.”
“Thinking of cloning, Johnny,” Old Smoko said over his shoulder, “what about all the M.P.s in parliament?”
“Huh! What’s an M.P.?”
“Member of Parliament.”
“Huh! Everyone knows that. What about them?”
“Well,” Old Smoko said in his most reasonable voice, “M.P. is short for nincompoop which simply means Member of Parliament. Look at the word nincompoop,” he went on. “The M and the P come from its middle.”
“He’s right!” said all the other kids. “It does, too!”
“Everyone knows that M.P.s sound like each other, lie like each other, and look just like each other.” Old Smoko paused. “Has it not occurred to you, Johnny, that a mad scientist might have cloned all those M.P.s from one original nincompoop?”
Johnny Bryce’s face went white. “I never thought of that! Before he went lackadaisical, my dad always used to say they were a bunch of nincompoops.… But Stan Goosman’s the M.P. for Waikato, and my father votes for him, so he can’t be a nincompoop.”
“My dad says your dad’s a nincompoop for voting for Stan Goosman,” said the voice from down the back.
“Who said that? I’ll fix them!” Johnny Bryce clenched his fists till the knuckles cracked. “My Dad says they should never have given the vote to sheilas.”
“Pull your head in, Johnny Bryce!” “You shut up!” “I’ll show you!” “I’ll fix you!” “Take that!” “Ugh!” “Try this for size!” “Ugh!” “See my finger, see my thumb? See my fist? Well, here it comes!” “Ugh!”
Old Smoko stopped suddenly, and everyone fell off. “Any more fighting,” he told them, “and you can all walk home. And that will be the end of the roast pork sandwiches. See how you like living forever on old puha and bleached knucklebones with bits of sheep muck like currants sticking to them.”
“Shut up, you kids,” said Maggie Rawiri.
“Yeah, youse kids, you shut your mouths,” said Johnny Bryce, “or I’ll shut them for youse. Old Smoko’s right: somebody cloned all them nincompoops in parliament. So somebody must’ve cloned our stepmothers.”
“It was all your fault, Jo–”
“Silence, Maggie! And Johnny, you stop holding your nose at her. Here are the clues,” said Old Smoko. “With all your wicked stepmothers and the new Mrs Strap, there are thirteen of them. We think a mad scientist cloned them in a laboratory somewhere under the Kaimais. What else does anyone know?”
“Our stepmother can’t stand the smell of oil of wintergreen!” said one of the Ellery twins.
“Nor can ours!” said everyone.
“When my real mum comes back,” Tama Rawiri said, “she’ll give them cunning clowns something to think about. The Octopus Clamp! Our real mum gets us down and puts it on us when she reckons we’re being too smart for our own good, and we give in straight away. Even Dad’s scared of the Octopus Clamp!”
“The Octopus Clamp!” said everyone.
“Look for clues this weekend but, if your wicked stepmother is watching you,” Old Smoko said, “take care not to even think about the mad scientist cloning covens, nor about oil of wintergreen.”
“Why not?”
“Yeah, why not?” asked Johnny Bryce.
“Because we fear that the wicked stepmothers can tell what we are thinking about, just by looking at us with their green eyes.”
“My stepmother’s suspicious,” Billy said. “She watches through a telescope to see if I’m talking to Old Smoko.”
“Huh!” said Johnny Bryce. “Who ever heard of a horse talking?”
“Right, as usual, Johnny,” said Old Smoko. “Who ever heard of a horse talking?”
“Not me!” said somebody down the back.
“Tonight, when you get home,” Billy told everyone, “remember to keep your minds clear of ideas while your wicked stepmother is watching. Empty your heads of everything.”
“How do you empty your head?” asked Phil Ellery.
Harrietta spluttered.
“I’ll show you, Harrietta Wilson!” “Show me what, you great galoot?” “I’ll fix you!” “Fix me what?” “You watch out!” “Watch out for what?” “You keep out of this.” “Keep out of what?” “None of your business – you’re asking for it – anyway, you’re just a sheila! Ow!”
“How did you like that, nincompoop?” asked Harrietta.
“You are behaving no better than the wicked stepmothers,” said Old Smoko. “Remember, one for all…”
“One for all!” everybody said.
“And four alls are one!” cried the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement.
“Maybe the Rawleighs Man is the mad scientist,” said Johnny Bryce.
“Then how come he sells oil of wintergreen?” asked Ivan Warawara.
“If our wicked stepmothers hate oil of wintergreen that much,” said Harrietta Wilson, “what say we give them a dose of it in their tea? We could all do it at the same time one morning.”
“What say we drench them, like the sheep!” said Peggy.
Billy and Old Smoko looked at each other.
“Huh!” said Johnny Bryce. “My stepmother smelt the empty bottle my father used to keep over in the cowshed, and made him bury it. And he had to wash his hands in sheep dip before he was allowed back into the house. She’s not going to go drinking it in her tea.”
“Yeah,” said the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement. “I just said hello to the Rawleighs Man, and my stepmother sniffed me and said I’d been rolling in oil of wintergreen and made me sleep under the hedge with the dogs.”
“Think about it this weekend,” said Old Smoko. “How can we give a dose of oil of wintergreen to the wicked stepmothers without them smelling it?”
As they got off, those with school bags stuck their sandwiches in them, and those without school bags stuffed the sandwiches down the front of their shirts till they could eat them under the blankets that night.
“Don’t eat them all at once!” Old Smoko reminded them. “Remember they’ve got to last till Sunday.”
“Hooray!”
As Billy and Old Smoko rode down the bank into the Waihou River, they smelled oil of wintergreen, and somebody called, “Yo!” from under one of the big willow trees. They rode over, and there was the Rawleighs Man in his buggy.
“Every time I try to cross, a wind blows my buggy backwards, and the river floods and scares my horse,” he said.
“It’s your liniment,” said Billy. “My stepmother hates the smell of oil of wintergreen.”
“Funny…” said the Rawleighs Man. “I used to sell a lot out here. Now, nobody seems to want it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Free Sample From the Rawleighs Man, Why Mr Strap Taught Blanket Stitching and then Algebra, a Message from the Prime Minister, and What the Echo Said.
“My father used to buy a lot of liniment before he went lackadaisical,” Billy said.
“Now you mention it,” said the Rawleighs Man, “I’ve been noticing a lot of lackadaisical dads around lately.”
“Have you got any liniment for sale?”
“I don’t usually bother to carry it now. I’ll have a look in my sample case.” The Rawleighs Man snapped undone the clasps on his leather bag.
As the top folded back, Billy saw rows of bottles and jars, each in its own little compartment. Rawleigh’s Stock Tonic, Rawleigh’s Nose and Throat Drops, Fly Killer, Lemon Essence, Laxative Tea, Colic and Bloat Ease, and Poultry Powder.
“Have you tried our Quinine Bromide Laxative Compound Cold Tablets?” asked the Rawleighs Man. “They open the bowels,
combat cold germs, relieve fever, stuffy nose, and headache, and tone up the system something marvellous!”
Billy shook his head, and the Rawleighs Man unfolded the bag so he could see even more jars and bottles. Rawleigh’s Medicated Ointment, Tapioca Dessert, Re-Nu-It Wax Polish, Cod Liver Oil Extract, Vapor Balm, and Ru-Max-Ol Tonic.
“Our Effervescent Salts,” said the Rawleighs Man. Splendid for constipation, reducing weight, and a soothing emollient for piles!”
Billy shook his head again. The bag opened even further and revealed more and more jars and tubes and containers and bottles and powders and pills and potions.
“Here it is. Our Best Liniment for Both Man and Beast!”
Even through the glass, Billy thought he could smell oil of wintergreen. “But…” he said, and looked at Old Smoko.
“She’ll be right. That’s a free sample. Maybe your dad will try it and start ordering again.” The Rawleighs Man pushed down so the bag folded and folded, the rows and rows of bottles and containers disappeared, the top closed, and he did up the clasps. Billy whistled.
“Our liniment brings swift relief and comfort from muscular and joint pain. To be rubbed on sprains, bruises, and aching joints, twice daily. For external application only.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t drink it! You could poison yourself.” The Rawleighs Man clicked his tongue, and his horse said, “Yo!” The buggy wheels skidded over the river stones, sank into the shingle, and – dripping sand – climbed on to the road into Waharoa.
“I forgot to say thanks,” said Billy.
“I think the Rawleighs Man is on our side,” said Old Smoko.
Billy scrubbed his hands with sand, rubbed them in a patch of dock leaves, and scrubbed them again. Before going to the house, he went to the cowshed and rubbed parsley between his hands, wiped them with sheep dip, old engine oil, and creosote, and washed them in the trough. Old Smoko took the bottle of liniment and hid it above the door of the old dunny down in the shelter-belt, the one nobody used any longer because the hole was full.
