Uncle Trev and the Whistling Bull

by Jack Lasenby

  Contents

  CHAPTER

  Introduction

  1 Uncle Trev and His Whistling Bull

  2 Why Uncle Trev’s Bull Stopped Whistling

  3 A Big Family

  4 Why Mum Washed All Her Cups All Over Again

  5 Why Old Tip, Old Toot, Old Satan, Uncle Trev, and Old Gotta Henry All Bark at the Dark

  6 The Tree That Ate People

  7 What Gotta Henry Found in the Middle of His Swamp

  8 Why Uncle Trev Wouldn’t Let Old Gotta Henry Have a Cup of Tea

  9 Why the Rawleigh’s Man Wouldn’t Ever Go Back Up Uncle Trev’s Road

  10 Mum’s Tipsy Cake and the Governor-General

  11 Why Mum Said She’d Give Uncle Trev Napoleon’s Ghost

  12 The Day the Barbarians Sacked Waharoa

  13 Why Old Furry Didn’t Have a Hot Water Bottle

  14 Uncle Trev’s Secret Recipe for Old Furry

  15 Old Furry and the Rack

  16 What Happened When Old Tip Got Above Himself

  17 Gotta Henry and the Pook’s Feet

  18 How They Built the Rangitoto Lighthouse

  19 Gotta Henry and His Flying Balaclava

  20 Why Mum Came Down Facing the Wrong Way

  21 How Gotta Henry Became Famous

  22 Gotta Henry and the Telephone

  23 Gotta Henry and the Pot of Gold

  24 Gotta Henry’s Wings

  25 Gotta Henry’s Tablecloth

  26 Why Old Tip Barked at Gotta Henry

  27 A Kerosene Tin of Spuds, Eggs, and Eels

  28 Why Gotta Henry Made Old Puckeroo

  29 How It Was All Due to Old Tip and Old Puckeroo

  30 Why Old Tip Went Bolshie, and Why I Curled Up My Toes

  Glossary

  Jack Lasenby

  Jack Lasenby was born in 1931, in Waharoa, Waikato, New Zealand. He has won many awards for his work. In 2003 he received the Storylines Margaret Mahy Medal for his contribution to children’s literature.

  Introduction

  My Mother’s Remarkable Ears

  It was the nineteen-thirties, and I seemed to be home sick all the time. Dr Stirrup came down from Matamata, made me stick out my tongue and say “Ah”, tapped and listened to my chest and back, and said I couldn’t go back to school yet. I pulled the blankets over my head because I was sick of having to stay in bed.

  That night I heard somebody crying, so I called out, “It’s all right.”

  “What’s all right?” Mum said in a big gruff voice.

  “Don’t cry.”

  “Who’s crying? Can’t I just talk to myself?”

  “You don’t have to stay home and look after me all the time.”

  “Who said I mind looking after you?”

  “Uncle Trev said he and Old Tip will come in, so you can get out of the house for a change.”

  “You needn’t think that man’s coming in here.” Mum stood staring through the dark towards my bed. “Going through my cake tins, filling you up with silly stories, and bringing that dog inside as soon as I’m out of the house. I can smell it even before I put my foot in the back door. What’s more,” Mum said, “I can always tell what that uncle of yours has been saying behind my back.”

  “How?”

  “My ears are so sharp, they pick up the echo of everything he says while I’m out. So there. Ha!”

  I already knew about Mum’s remarkable nose, but not about her remarkable ears. I was going to warn Uncle Trev.

  Chapter One

  Uncle Trev and His Whistling Bull

  I was lying in bed, counting the shadows the leaves of the lemon tree made on my wall. “A hundred and twenty-four, a hundred and twenty-five, a hundred and twenty-six,” I said aloud, and that shadow jumped from one twig to another, opened its wings, and flew away. “You’ve lost count. Now you’ve got to start all over again. One, two, three –”

  “Talking to yourself?”

  “You gave me a fright.”

  Uncle Trev took off his hat, rubbed his hand over his head, and said, “It’s the first sign of going loony, talking to yourself. Specially when you start counting spots on the wall. Where’s your mother?”

  “She went down to the shops to get the paper and the mail. And she’s got to pick up our bread, and go to the butcher’s, and if I behave myself we might have sausages for tea.”

  “She’ll be a while then.” Uncle Trev put his hat back on. Mum would give him a good telling-off if she caught him wearing it inside her house. “It can’t be much fun lying there all day.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I brought somebody in for you to hear.”

  “Old Tip? Where is he?”

  “It’s not Old Tip; it’s somebody you don’t know. And you’re not going to see him; you’re going to hear him.”

  “Why can’t I see him?”

  “I don’t know if he can get through the back door, so I told him to wait outside.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Hubert.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Hubert.”

  “He knows who you are.”

  “Hubert who?”

  “Just Hubert.”

  “I’ve got two Christian names, as well as my surname.”

  “Hubert’s just got the one.”

  “Why’s he different?”

  “Hubert’s a bull.”

  “A bull?”

  “A whistling bull.”

  “How’d he learn to whistle?”

  “Hubert follows me round the farm, you know, with Old Tip and Old Toot, and I like to whistle a fair bit while I’m working.

  “I was up the swamp paddock one day, putting in a post and whistling ‘The Rose of Tralee’, and next thing I knew, somebody was whistling along with me. I knew it couldn’t be Old Tip. Who ever heard of a dog whistling?”

  “I never.”

  “You see,” said Uncle Trev. “Besides, if I let that Old Tip start whistling at me, the next thing I know, he’d be sending me to bring the cows up to the shed for milking. The old skulduggerer’s always looking for an excuse to skive off doing anything useful.”

  “So who was doing the whistling?”

  “I looked at Old Toot, but it wasn’t him. A horse has got the wrong sort of mouth for whistling, eh?”

  I whispered, “Yes.”

  “You all right?” asked Uncle Trev.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Well, I picks up the rammer, still whistling, and I’m driving in the dirt around the new post, and there’s this other whistle again. ‘It’s got to be Hubert,’ I think to myself, so I keep whistling ‘The Rose of Tralee’. You know where it goes, But ’twas not her beauty alone that won me?” Uncle Trev sang the words.

  “I know. It goes on, Oh, no, ’twas the truth in her eyes ever shining –”

  “– That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.” We sang the last line together.

  “They don’t write songs like that any more,” sighed Uncle Trev. “Well, I keep ramming the dirt but stop whistling after but ’twas not her beauty, and the other whistle keeps going. I spin around, and Hubert’s mouth is puckered up, whistling away good-oh. His eyes are closed, he’s got a silly look on his face, and he’s so busy thinking about beautiful Mary, the Rose of Tralee, he doesn’t realise he’s whistling on his own.”

  I stared at Uncle Trev.

  “When he realised I’d caught him out, Hubert blushed, but Old
Tip and Old Toot clapped their hands and said he was a better whistler than me, or he would be if he kept up his practice.

  “That was laying it on a bit thick. Hubert’s never going to be as good as me, not even if he practises all day and all night. There’s a limit to what a bull can whistle, after all.”

  Uncle Trev stared so hard that I had to nod.

  “Well I taught him ‘Pokarekare Ana’, and he picked it up as if he’d been whistling in Maori all his life. Some of the high notes he has a bit of trouble reaching, but then a bull’s got a fairly deep voice. And he’s not bad on the low notes, I’ll grant him that. In fact, Old Tip reckons Hubert’s better than me on some of them, but you know how he likes to exaggerate.”

  “Can I hear Hubert whistle?”

  “I’ll see if I can get him through the back door and into the kitchen – it’s his horns are the trouble – and he can whistle from there. There’s no show of getting him into your bedroom. Besides, your mother would carry on if she caught him. Remember the performance the time she smelt something and found Old Tip curled up under her table?”

  I listened to Uncle Trev go out through the kitchen, out through the door on to the back porch, and talk to somebody. There were heavy footsteps, and the sound of somebody slipping on the lino. Mum kept it polished, and a bull would find it difficult to keep his balance, not being used to walking on lino.

  “How about giving us ‘The Rose of Tralee’ to start with?” said Uncle Trev’s voice. There was a bashful silence. “Come on, you can do it.” Then a whistle began. “The pale moon was rising above the blue mountains, the sun was declining beneath the blue sea.” It was beautifully whistled, not a note wrong.

  “Now ‘Pokarekare Ana’,” said Uncle Trev. “And try hurrying it up a bit. You always take the second verse too slow.”

  Hubert whistled “Pokarekare Ana”. He whistled “I’ll be Loving You, Always”, “Coming Through the Rye”, and “Camptown Races”, and then Uncle Trev told him he’d better get back out to the lorry, because Mum would be home soon.

  “Can Hubert whistle ‘Annie Laurie’?”

  “All right,” Uncle Trev called back. “Just for an encore.”

  Hubert whistled “Annie Laurie”, and I whistled with him till I felt dizzy.

  “Better get going,” Uncle Trev said in the kitchen. “I think she’s coming.” Hubert’s feet clattered on the lino as he went for his life, and Uncle Trev came out to say goodbye.

  “Hubert scratched your mother’s lino where he slipped over.”

  “I heard him.”

  “Your mother’s going to spot it the moment she steps inside, and she’ll blame me, so I’d better scram. Anyway, I need to find a trough: Hubert’s always thirsty after whistling.”

  The lorry started up, backfired, and drove away, and I lay there and wondered if Hubert rode in front with Uncle Trev. Old Tip loved sitting in the cab and barking at people. It drove Mum mad when he stuck his head out the window and barked at her.

  “That man’s been here, hasn’t he?” She came in sniffing the air. “He’s been whistling in my kitchen,” she said. “My sharp ears can hear the echo.”

  “He whistled ‘The Rose of Tralee’,” I said and held my breath. “And ‘Pokarekare Ana’.”

  Mum made herself a cup of tea, gave me a scone with gooseberry jam, sat at the table and read the paper, crackling and smacking it as she turned the pages, and I heard her chair creak.

  “What were you doing out of bed while I was down at the shops?” she called.

  “I had to go the dunny.”

  “I hope you put on your dressing gown and your slippers?”

  “Mmm.”

  “There’s no sense in picking up a chill. That’s all we need, getting a cold on top of everything else.”

  “How did you know I’d been up?” I asked when Mum came out to my room.

  “Do you think I don’t know when somebody’s been traipsing around my kitchen? My eyes can read that lino like a book. Nobody puts a foot on it without my seeing it.” She pointed towards her remarkable eyes. “I saw where you scratched the lino, going towards the back door. Either you or that uncle of yours.”

  I didn’t even try to tell her it was a bull who scratched the lino. As for telling her Uncle Trev had a bull who could whistle, that’d be a waste of time.

  Chapter Two

  Why Uncle Trev’s Bull Stopped Whistling

  Mum had given Uncle Trev a cup of tea, and I was sitting in front of the stove where it was warm, when she said I was on the mend.

  “It’ll be a relief to have the child back at school and have a bit of time for myself.”

  “I can understand that,” said Uncle Trev, and Mum turned from the bench and stared at him.

  Uncle Trev looked uncomfortable and started reaching for his hat under his chair, so I asked him, “How’s Hubert?”

  “Hubbard?” Mum looked even harder at Uncle Trev. “There’s no Hubbard out your way.”

  “Hubert,” Uncle Trev said. He looked sideways with a weak grin. “My young bull.”

  “Does he still whistle ‘Pokarekare Ana’?” I asked.

  Uncle Trev put down his cup. “I must be getting off,” he said. He turned his back to Mum at the bench fitting the pastry lid on a pie, so although she didn’t see his wink, she spun around and saw the one I gave back.

  “What’s going on? I can’t turn my back but you’re filling the child’s head with a lot of wicked nonsense. What’s this about a bull named Hubert? And what’s this about him whistling?”

  “Hubert,” Uncle Trev said, looking at me and lowering his voice. “He doesn’t whistle much now.”

  “Why not?”

  “He can’t.”

  “Whistle? A bull?”

  Uncle Trev pretended he hadn’t heard Mum. “He’s growing up, Hubert, so his voice is breaking.”

  “A bull’s voice breaking?” Mum demanded.

  “Like I said, he’s losing his whistle. Of course, he may get it back in a year or so, but I doubt if he’ll reach those high notes any longer.”

  “Does that mean –” I started to say, but Mum cut me off.

  “I think you’ve said quite enough for one morning,” she told Uncle Trev. “You’re looking peaky on it,” she said to me. “You’d better get back into bed. Next thing we know, you’ll be running a temperature, and all because of your uncle and his stories.”

  As she rammed the pie into the oven and slammed the door on it, Uncle Trev grabbed his hat and went for his life. He could move fast when Mum got on her high horse.

  “I thought I told you to get back into bed? Now, where’s that man got to? I was just going to tell him he might as well stay and have some steak-and-kidney pudding with us.”

  There was a loud bang down the street.

  “There he goes, disturbing the whole neighbourhood. I’m sure he makes it backfire on purpose, just the silly sort of thing he used to do as a boy. Not even a proper lorry – just a cut-down old Model A.”

  “It’s pretty strong,” I told Mum. “He brought Hubert into Waharoa in it last week, so I could hear him whistle. And Hubert stood in the kitchen, because he couldn’t get into my bedroom, and he whistled ‘Pokarekare Ana’ and ‘The Rose of Tralee’, and when he’d finished them he whistled ‘Camptown Races’. Uncle Trev reckons he knows just about all the words as well.”

  My mother put her hand on my forehead, where it felt nice and cool. “What did I say? It’s that uncle of yours, getting you over-excited; it’s enough to give you brain fever. Off to bed at once, and no looking at me like that. I’ll let him have a piece of my mind next time he comes in, giving you a temperature with his talk of whistling bulls.”

  She paused, and her voice changed, went deep and slow, as I sat on the side of my bed.

  “Do you mean to tell me that man br
ought a bull into my kitchen? Across my lino? I put that scratch down to him sneaking inside without taking off his hobnailed boots, just because he knew I’d popped down the road to do the shopping.”

  Even though I told my feet to swing up, they just sat there and wouldn’t shift. In the end, I picked up my right leg behind the knee with both hands, swung it up on the bed, and then the left one. That made me so tired, I fell back on my pillow. Mum was still going, giving the stove a good talking-to.

  “The very idea. Well, he’s in for it this time and no mistake.” Bang. Crash. Now she was giving it to the pots. “If he thinks he can get away with a bull tramping all over my lino. Whistling in my kitchen? Whatever next, I’d like to know?”

  Just as well Uncle Trev didn’t stop for lunch. He would have caught it.

  I woke, and there was a plate with a slice of steak-and-kidney pudding on the chair by my bed. I didn’t make a sound, just moved my head to see if I could lean over and chew the pudding without picking it up, and Mum was there at my door.

  “Don’t go eating that; it’s stone cold. The oven’s still hot; it’ll only take a minute to heat up.” She grabbed the plate, carried it out, and the oven door slammed. “That man,” she called. “It was the same when he was a boy, forever making up some nonsense or other. He was our mother’s despair. She always said he’d drive her to an early grave.

  “Whistling bulls scratching my lino? I should have realised what he was up to when I came home and heard those echoes in the kitchen with my sharp ears. We’ll see how that bull whistles ‘The Rose of Tralee’ when he feels my broom across his back.”

  We didn’t have the phone on then, so there was no way I could let Uncle Trev know Mum was waiting to give him and Hubert a hiding. Next time they came in, if Mum was doing the shopping, I’d tell Uncle Trev to go back out and start his engine and leave it running. That way, he wouldn’t have to crank it, and they could take off really fast.

  Chapter Three

  A Big Family

  “I see you’ve got some new neighbours,” said Uncle Trev, popping his head around my door.