by Jack Lasenby
“‘Add alphabet!’ the School Inspector shouted at me. I stared at his romantic whiskers.
“‘Spell arithmetic!’ he shouted. I stared at the rows of different-coloured pens in his waistcoat pockets.
“‘Some teacher! She can’t spell or add!’ he shouted. ‘What’s she going to do when she grows up and wants a job?’ My mother fell asleep.
“‘When I grow up,’ I told him, ‘I’m going to be a School Inspector with lots of different-coloured pens in my waistcoat pockets. I’m going to lasso and handcuff little children, shout and whip their bare feet, and I’m going to grow black moustaches.’
“‘Don’t be cheeky!’ said the School Inspector.
“‘I’m not Cheeky,’ I told him. ‘I’m Brunnhilde!’
“When it heard my heroic name, his horse farted, bucked him off, dived back into the swamp, and swam underwater towards the other side. The School Inspector swam after it, cracking his bullock whip to keep off the crocodiles. And up the drive loped a swagger wearing an old army lemon-squeezer hat, carrying a tea-tree stick, a billy, and a sugarbag pikau, and walking a bit like a pukeko, knees and elbows bending both ways.
“The swagger pushed back my mother’s eyelids, and asked in a strong clear voice, ‘How long has she had sleeping sickness?’
“‘Is that the trouble?’
“The swagger nodded. ‘She’s caught it off the monster pooks, playing with them in the swamp.’
“‘How do you know?’
“The swagger turned to look at me and said, ‘I know everything!’ I shivered because the swagger’s head had turned right around, like a morepork’s. I carried my mother inside and laid her on the kitchen table.
“‘What’s that noise?’ asked the swagger.
“‘The cows bellowing because their bags are full. They want to be milked.’
“‘Come on,” said the swagger. ‘I can’t cure your mother while that din’s going on.’ I shoved my feet into my gumboots and followed the swagger down to the shed.
“The cows stood on their hind legs and curtsied to the swagger. They mooed affectionately and lined up to be milked; they didn’t need leg-roping; they didn’t kick over the bucket; they didn’t piddle, nor even drop their smelly plops in the yard.
“The swagger’s fingers were double-jointed and milked so fast that the herd was stripped in minutes. We sledged the cream to the gate, and Bonny galloped home so fast, the konaki slid sideways and knocked out a gatepost. The swagger murmured something, and the gatepost jumped back into place.
“‘That’s handy!’
“‘It doesn’t always work,’ said the swagger, whose old army lemon-squeezer blew off so that long red hair fell as far as the waist. The swagger was a woman!
“Back at the house, she lifted my mother’s eyelid with one double-jointed finger and asked me, ‘What’s your name?’
“‘Brunnhilde.’
“The swagger’s head turned right around on her double-jointed neck. ‘With a name like Brunnhilde, you are going to be a hero! My name is Mrs Grizzle.’”
“Mrs Grizzle!” we all gasped.
Aunt Effie nodded.
“MRS GRIZZLE stood over my sleeping mother and sharpened the carving knife. I stared in terror. I had just remembered what my father whispered in my ear when I was born. ‘Watch out for red-haired, double-jointed women,’ he told me. ‘They’re all witches!’”
“‘Eek!” Daisy screamed. “We’re not supposed to listen to stories about witches!”
“Shut up, Daisy!” we told her.
But Aunt Effie took another swig and emptied the bottle of Old Puckeroo. Her eyes closed. She lay her head back on her pillow and began to snore.
“Look what you’ve done,” Alwyn told Daisy. “Now Aunt Effie won’t be able to remember where she was up to.”
“We’ll tell her!” yelled the little ones. “She was up to where Aunt Effie’s father had just told her, ‘Watch out for red-haired, double-jointed women. They’re all witches.’ And she’s standing over Brunnhilde’s mother with the carving knife.”
“I told you so,” said Daisy. “This story is having a bad effect upon the little ones.”
“Can we have a look at the treasure now?” asked Jessie. “While Aunt Effie’s asleep?” But the dogs growled, and something under the bed moved. We shrieked, pulled up our feet, and it went, “Booo-booo!”
“The Bugaboo!” we yelled.
“Everybody stand on the edge of the bed,” said Alwyn. “One good jump, and rush downstairs. The Bugaboo will only have time to grab one of us.” The little ones stood on the edge of the bed trustingly, he pushed them off, and we leapt over their heads and tore downstairs laughing.
The four little ones came crying after us, “You left us for the Bugaboo!”
“He didn’t catch any of you, did he?” Alwyn said and he pointed at Casey, Lizzie, Jared, and Jessie. “One,’ he counted. ‘Two. Three! You’re here, all three of you.”
“There should be four,” wept the little ones. “The Bugaboo has eaten one of us!”
“But which one did he eat?”
“I’m here,” said Casey.
“And me!” “And me!” “And me!”
“That’s still only three,” said Alwyn. “Which one did he eat?”
“I know,” said Jessie. She pointed at Lizzie. “Lizzie, one!” she said. “Casey, two!” she said, and pointed at Casey. She pointed at Jared and said, “Jared, three! One of us is missing!” Her bellows were lugubrious. “It must be me!”
“The Bugaboo’s eaten one of you!” Alwyn pretended to cry and rubbed his eyes. “It must be Jessie: I didn’t hear her name.”
“Stop being mean,” Marie told Alwyn. “You forgot to count yourself, Jessie. Listen: Lizzie – one! Casey – two! Jared – three! And Jessie – four! You mustn’t take any notice of Alwyn. You know he’s a tease.” But the little ones had stopped crying and weren’t listening to Marie; they were watching Alwyn wiggling his ears at them.
Chapter Fourteen
Why Peter Got Up and Made Cocoa, Twenty-Six Short Fat White European Slaves Bearing Breakfast on Their Heads, and Why My Father Warned Me Against Red-Haired Double-Jointed Women.
While we’d been listening to the story of Mrs Grizzle, the fire in the stove had gone out. Ann lit it again, cooked tea, and we sat around Aunt Effie’s enormous table.
“I like Mrs Gristle,” Lizzie said as we grabbed and gobbled.
“Mrs Grizzle!” Daisy corrected her.
“Gristly grizzle!” the four little ones chewed and chanted with their mouths open. “Gristly grizzle! Grizzly gristle! Gristly grizzle!”
“That wicked story is making the little ones forget their table manners,” Daisy complained. “Close your mouths while chewing.”
“I like the School Inspector,” said Jessie.
“I want some more about the crocodiles,” said Casey.
“And the monster pukekos,” said Jared.
We argued over whose turn it was to do the dishes and, suddenly, it was time for bed. We climbed into our bunks and looked at the logs burning in the enormous fireplace.
“Look up!” Alwyn pointed at shadows that flapped across the ceiling as the flames rose and fell. “Monster pukekos waiting to fly down and eat you in the dark,” he told the little ones.
“You’re silly,” said Jessie. “Tomorrow, will Aunt Effie tell us some more about when she was a little girl?”
“If you’re good,” Marie told her.
Daisy frowned and said, “I’m not sure stories about witches are suitable for small children. Especially when they’re just going to bed.”
“Bed to going just,” echoed from Alwyn’s bunk.
We were all dropping off to sleep when Lizzie asked, “Do you think Aunt Effie has forgotten about sending us to school?”
“I should hope not!” Daisy cried.
“Not hope should I,” Alwyn whispered.
Daisy huffed, and the little ones snickered. “Those
infants will have nightmares,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
We grinned towards each other in the dark, pointed at Daisy’s bunk, then at our heads, turned our fingers round and round, and went to sleep.
“Aaaaah! Get away from me!”
“What’s wrong?” We sat up in our bunks. “Who shrieked?”
“Go back to sleep,” said Peter’s voice. “It’s just Daisy having a nightmare.”
“It’s the red-headed witch! Riding a monster pukeko and chasing me with a carving knife. Aaaaah!”
Shadows raced up the walls and across the roof as Peter lit a lamp, got up, and quietened Daisy. “The stove’s still hot. I’ll put the kettle over the ring. It won’t take a moment to heat up, and I’ll make you a nice cup of cocoa,” he told her.
“With a teaspoon of honey in it?”
“With a teaspoon of honey in it. Here.”
“Don’t blow out the lamp!” said Daisy, as Peter got back in his bunk. “Leave it going for the little ones. In case they wake up with nightmares.”
Daisy guzzled her cocoa and went straight back to sleep, but the rest of us were kept awake by her snoring and the light from the lamp. We lay there for ages then, one by one, we got up, took our pillows, and leaned against each other on the lionskin in front of Aunt Effie’s enormous fireplace. Peter and Marie heaved a couple of logs on top of the embers and got the fire going again. The little ones wriggled into the middle, and we lay looking into the flames.…
We woke to the sound of voices. “What say we keep Aunt Effie telling us the story of Mrs Grizzle?” Bryce was asking.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Ann said. “If we cook her a big enough breakfast and give it to her in bed, she’ll tell us another bit of the story till she goes back to sleep and, when she wakes, we’ll have another big feed cooked for her, and a bottle of Old Puckeroo, and she’ll tell us some of the story, and we’ll never have to go to school – ever.”
When we woke again, Daisy was telling Peter off for leaving a lamp going. “Burning good kerosene when everyone’s asleep,” she said. “How wasteful!” Peter turned down the lamp, blew it out, and said nothing. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes, and Alwyn spluttered, “Kerosene good burning.… Wasteful how!”
Upstairs, Aunt Effie snored so loudly that the pots and saucepans jiggled on their hooks in the kitchen. We fed the chooks, collected the eggs, had a quick look round the farm, fed out hay to the stock, and tore back up to the house through the orchard.
“Why do we have to run?” moaned the little ones.
“We’ve got to cook Aunt Effie’s breakfast,” Peter told them, “before she wakes up. If she gets out of bed, we’re done for. She’ll remember we’re supposed to go to school on Monday morning.”
“She’s still snoring,” said Casey. “I can hear her.”
“I pulled her blind,” said Marie, “and drew the heavy curtains.”
“Please don’t let her wake up till we get there!” said Lizzie.
“You mustn’t pray for selfish reasons,” Daisy puffed at her, but she was mumbling something herself as we rushed towards the back door.
We tore inside, and got Aunt Effie’s breakfast ready. Porridge, steak and eggs, bacon and black pudding, kidneys and fried onions, and lots of salt and pepper and Colman’s mustard and Lee and Perrin’s Worcester Sauce on the trays. Pigs’ trotters, lamb shanks, cow hocks, tripe, and pickled onions, of course. Aunt Effie loved tripe re-heated for breakfast – with pickled onions, strong tea with lashings of condensed milk, and toast and bitter marmalade.
We put her enormous breakfast on trays, and carried them upstairs on our heads. “Like twenty-six tall black Nubian slaves bearing breakfast on their heads,” Jazz said.
“You’re being romantic again,” Ann said.
“You’re being racist again,” Daisy told him.
“Like twenty-six short fat white European slaves bearing breakfast on their heads. Is that better?” Jazz asked.
“Huff!” said Daisy, and tipped her tray so porridge slopped down the back of her neck. “You did that on purpose!” she squawked.
Just as we got to the top of the stairs, Aunt Effie’s resounding snore stopped. Before she could call all our names, we ran: “Coming! Here’s your breakfast, Aunt Effie.” We pulled back the curtains and let up the blind. On the foot of her enormous bed, the dogs lifted their heads, sniffed, and stared at the twenty-six trays.
“My runny nose kept me awake all night,” said Aunt Effie. “I heard one o’clock strike. And two o’clock strike. And all the quarter hours in between. Three o’clock. Quarter past three. Half past three. Quarter to four. Four o’clock.
“I had a terrible night, I didn’t close my eyes for a second; not a wink of sleep did I get; but it’s no use complaining. Nobody cares about poor old me.”
“Never old mind!” the little ones shouted. “We care about poor old you, Aunt Effie!” We plumped up her pillows. We surrounded her with trays of breakfast. And we gave her a knife and fork, and tied a tea-towel around her neck because she could be a pretty messy eater, Aunt Effie.
“How can I sit up? You never give me enough pillows.” Peter put another three pillows behind her back.
“You’ve forgotten my porridge!”
“Here it is, Aunt Effie!” Daisy rushed in.
We stood around smiling and watching her gobble.
“You’ve forgotten the salt,” said Aunt Effie, tasting her bacon and eggs. “Nobody cares –”
“We care!” cried the little ones. “The salt’s on the side of your plate.”
“Then where’s the mustard?”
“On the opposite side.”
We rushed the empty dishes downstairs, washed and dried them, gave Aunt Effie time to clean her teeth and brush her hair and go to the dunny, and ran upstairs again, just as she called, “Daisy-Mabel-Johnny-Flossie-Lynda-Stan-Howard-Marge-Stuart-Peter-Marie-Colleen-Alwyn-Bryce-Jack-Ann-Jazz-Beck-Jane-Isaac-David-Victor-Casey-Lizzie-Jared-Jessie!
“Well, do you want to hear the rest of this story or not? Of course, if you’re not interested in hearing about how Mrs Grizzle cured my mother of the sleeping sickness, I’m not going to make you listen.”
We jumped on to the foot of Aunt Effie’s enormous bed, shoved the dogs aside, pinched their pillows, and snuggled under the eiderdown. “We’re listening,” we said.
“Now where was I up to?”
“I know,” said Lizzie. “Mrs Grizzle stood over my sleeping mother and sharpened the carving knife. I stared in terror. I had just remembered what my father whispered in my ear when I was born. ‘Watch out for red-haired, double-jointed women,’ he told me. ‘They’re all witches!’”
“And then Daisy screamed,” said Casey.
“Like this!” Jared screamed.
“When are we going to have a look at our treasure?” asked Jessie.
“Caligula-Nero-Brutus-Kaiser-Genghis-Boris!” said Aunt Effie. “Bite Daisy-Mabel-Johnny-Flossie-Lynda-Stan-Howard-Marge-Stuart-Peter-Marie-Colleen-Alwyn-Bryce-Jack-Ann-Jazz-Beck-Jane-Isaac-David-Victor-Casey-Lizzie-Jared-Jessie!”
Her enormous pig dogs knew what she meant. They picked up Jessie, and passed her around, each giving her a bite. Jessie squirmed and chuckled because their bites tickled.
Then Aunt Effie took Jessie from Boris, growled, and pretended to bite off her nose. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll tell Caligula-Nero-Brutus-Kaiser-Genghis-Boris to give you a real bite on the bum. You won’t sit down for a fortnight!” and she went on with the story of Mrs Grizzle.
Chapter Fifteen
Why My Mother Kept Her Eyes Wide Open, How a Well-Run Farm Works, Who Aunt Effie Found in Her Mother’s Bed, and Why We Hung Over the Stern of Our Scow.
“The red-haired, double-jointed witch, Mrs Grizzle, stood over my sleeping mother,” said Aunt Effie, “and sharpened the carving knife.
“‘Where do you keep your gunpowder?’
“‘You’re not going to cut my mother�
�s throat and blow her up!’ I said in my biggest voice.
“‘I am neither cutting her throat, nor blowing her up. I need a little gunpowder to cure her sleeping sickness.’
“I rolled out the barrel of gunpowder we kept under the kitchen table. Mrs Grizzle took a few grains on the tip of the carving knife, and I held open my mother’s eyelids while she trickled one grain into the corner of each eye. The rest she blew up my mother’s nose. My mother sneezed like a little volcano, woke, and said, ‘I feel better!’
“‘You had sleeping sickness,’ I told her. ‘Mrs Grizzle cured you with gunpowder.’
“‘Mrs Grizzle?’
“‘How do you do?’ Mrs Grizzle had impeccable manners. Her head turned right around on her double-jointed neck. ‘Let’s roll this gunpowder outside. It’s a wonder you haven’t had an explosion in your kitchen.’
“‘We’ve always kept it under the table,’ my mother said. ‘It’s handy.’
“We rolled the barrel into the shed and had a cup of tea. I offered Mrs Grizzle sugar, but she said, ‘Thank you. Actually, I prefer a teaspoon of gunpowder.’
“‘See,’ my mother told her. ‘It was handy, being able to dip your teaspoon under the table.’
“‘I’ll give it up,’ said Mrs Grizzle.
“‘Mummy can’t give up having sugar in her tea,’ I told her.
“Mrs Grizzle snorted till her double-jointed fingers clicked like castanets. ‘Witches,’ she said, ‘can do anything!’
“I decided I wasn’t going to be a School Inspector with rows and rows of different-coloured ballpoint pens after all. ‘When I grow up,’ I thought, ‘I’m going to be a witch.’
“Mrs Grizzle looked at me. ‘Becoming a witch is hard going,’ she said. ‘But, with a name like Brunnhilde, you’ve made an excellent start!’
“I shivered. Could she read my mind?
“‘I’m looking for a job,’ said Mrs Grizzle, ‘and I think you’ll do.’
“‘We didn’t ask you,’ said my mother sweetly.
