Old Drumble

by Jack Lasenby

  Jack picked at his lunch. Perhaps he’d better not say anything else. His father carved a crunchy bit off the cold meat, and put it on Jack’s plate.

  “Old Drumble,” said Jack. “He climbs trees, too, only he gets stuck up in the branches and doesn’t know how to come down. He sits up there and barks, and Andy has to ride Nosy underneath, stand on her back, and lift Old Drumble down.”

  “Eat your lunch,” said Jack’s mother. “I don’t suppose you noticed if Mrs Mitchell’s rose is out, the one on her front fence? ”

  “I meant to tell you,” Mr Jackman said quickly. “It’s got a couple of buds opening.”

  “Old Drumble eats roses,” Jack told his mother. “Can I go down as far as the railway crossing by the cemetery, next time Andy comes through?”

  “And how do you think you’re going to get home, from right down at the cemetery crossing? If I know you, you’ll find a horse sitting up a tree, stop to help it climb down, and forget your way home.”

  “I’ll have a word with Andy,” said Mr Jackman. “If he’s going to be at the cemetery crossing about midday, I can get away a couple of minutes early, bike down there, give Jack a double, and we’ll still be home in time for lunch. Now, I’d better get back to work before the one o’clock whistle blows.”

  Jack watched his father put the bicycle clips on his trouser cuffs, so they wouldn’t get caught in the chain. “Be careful you don’t say anything else,” said Mr Jackman. “You know, about…Goodbye, dear!” he called and rode off.

  Halfway down Ward Street, he caught up to Mr Sunderland.

  “I saw young Jack at the crossing, midday,” said Mr Sunderland.

  “He’d been giving Andy the Drover a hand,” Mr Jackman told him.

  “He laughed at me. I’ve no idea why.”

  “Andy told him a story about that mare of his, Nosy, about her climbing up an apple tree, and being unable to get down, and Jack would have been laughing to himself about her.”

  Mr Sunderland grinned. “That Andy tells some yarns!” They rode on together.

  Back home, Jack was giving his mother a hand, drying the dishes. “And she ate all your dahlias, Andy said. And all your roses, and Dad’s cabbages.”

  “I don’t know about the roses. But somebody left the gate open once, and she got in and ate my dahlias, and your father’s cabbages.”

  Jack laughed, polished a plate with the tea towel, and said, “And she ate all Dad’s onions and farted. Giant farts.”

  “Are my ears deceiving me? Did I hear you say—? No, there’s no need to go repeating it. If I hear you using language like that again, I’ll wash out your mouth with soap, young man.

  “Are you trying to rub the pattern off that plate? Put it in the cupboard and get another. At the rate you’re going, the dishes will dry themselves.”

  “Mum, why don’t we just let them dry themselves? It’d be a lot easier.”

  “First you start off with horses climbing trees, then you use bad language, and next thing you’re wanting the dishes to dry themselves. No, you’ve said quite enough for one day. And don’t let me hear you even think of using that word again.”

  When the five o’clock whistle went, Jack trotted down Ward Street to meet his father. “Mum’s going to wash out your mouth with soap,” he told him, “for teaching me to say ‘fart’. She went off pop and reckons she’s going to show you.”

  “You didn’t go telling your mother I taught you to say ‘fart’?” Jack’s father jammed on his brakes, skidded, and turned the bike into Whites’ Road. “We’d better go down the bush and hide in Mr Weeks’s sawdust heap where the old mill used to stand. Mum won’t think of looking for us there.” He pedalled a couple of chains. “I thought I told you not to say ‘fart’ in front of her?”

  “It just sort of popped out by itself. Dad, won’t Mum be lonely without us?”

  “I suppose she will. Perhaps we’d better go home, and I’ll just have to take my punishment.” Mr Jackman turned and pedalled back to the corner of Ward Street.

  “What’ll she do?”

  “I suppose she’ll thrash me.”

  “She wouldn’t thrash you, Dad.”

  “Well, you’d better not say fart again, or she might.”

  His father felt Jack’s grip loosen on the handlebars. “Were you scared?” he asked.

  “Just a bit.” Jack thought and said, “Mr Weeks keeps his bull in the paddock next to the sawdust heap.”

  “Who are you more scared of: your mother, or Mr Weeks’s bull?”

  “Mum!” said Jack.

  “Me, too,” said his father, and Jack rang the bell. He was pleased they weren’t going to hide in the sawdust heap after all, but he didn’t say so.

  He waited a while to see what his mother did to his father, but she said nothing, so he went out and climbed the apple tree. Several branches had been sawn off, but he thought he could tell which one Nosy had bitten. He tried biting a branch himself, but nearly fell out of the tree. When he had a go at lowering himself, the trunk was too thick for him to get his legs around. Besides, there were too many branches in his way.

  The apple tree didn’t have a straight trunk like a telegraph pole, so it must have grown a fair bit since the day Nosy climbed it and couldn’t get down again. When he heard his name called, he swung down and ran inside.

  “What’s for tea, Mum?”

  “I’ve minced the last of the cold meat and made a hash. Just look at those hands! You see you give them a good scrub. There’s no call for you to come to the table looking like a savage. And tell your father his tea’s ready; he’s got his nose buried in that paper of his. Come on, the pair of you. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Why Old Drumble Could Dive

  Through Fences, How Jack Got His

  Nose Pulled, and Why Mr Jackman Said

  He’d Bark at Minnie Mitchell.

  IT WAS STILL LIGHT after they finished doing the dishes, so Jack wandered down Ward Street to where Harry Jitters was throwing stones at the telegraph post on the corner. They hit it twice, both of them, then had a look at their hut in the hedge, but it was dark under the lawsonianas. When Jack groaned, Harry shrieked and skinned his knee diving through the fence, instead of climbing over the strainer post.

  “Old Drumble dives through fences, no trouble,” said Jack. “He can see how far apart the wires are, because he’s an eye dog.”

  “Is that what an eye dog means?”

  “That, and having a strong eye so he can head sheep. My mother’s got a strong eye, too. She can dive through fences. And she can tell what I’m thinking through a closed door.”

  “Mine, too,” said Harry.

  “My mother can head sheep with her strong eye,” said Jack.

  “Mine, too.”

  “Mine can see what I’m thinking all the way down Ward Street, straight through the church and the plantation, and as far as the corner of Cemetery Road.”

  “Aw!”

  “True! Andy the Drover told me. She can tell what we’re saying to each other right now. It’s her strong eye.”

  “You reckon she can hear us now?”

  “No trouble. Eye dogs can hear things that people can’t. They’ve got strong ears as well as strong eyes. My mother’s got strong ears.”

  “Mine, too,” said Harry. “I bet my mother’s listening to what we’re saying now.”

  It was getting dark. From down the end of the street, the bottom end, came the sound of Mrs Jitters’s voice calling, “Harry!” Jack looked startled. “Harry!” came the voice again. “Time you came in, Harry!”

  Without a word to Jack, Harry Jitters turned and trotted down to his end of the street. Jack looked after him, feeling lonely. “Coming!” Harry called to his mother, invisible in the gloom.

  Jack turned and headed home. Halfway to the top end of Ward Street, he heard his own name through the dusk. “Time you came inside!” his mother called, and Jack nodded and smiled to him
self as he trotted towards the sound.

  “I’ll show you how an eye dog works,” he told Harry Jitters, next morning. “But, first you’ve got to kneel on the ground. Okay. Now, think you’re a sheep and go ‘Baa!’”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want to see how an eye dog works or not?”

  “Oh, all right.” Harry screwed up his face, thought he was a sheep, and went, “Baa!”

  Jack dropped to the ground, crouched with his body in a straight line, his nose pointing at Harry’s, and stared with his strong eye.

  Harry tried laughing, but Jack took no notice. He kept staring at him, and moved one hand forward an inch, then the other.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Harry. “You trying to look like a dog or something?” But Jack held his eye with his own and didn’t move. Harry tried to wriggle to one side, but Jack was there, staring at him, harder than ever. Harry backed away.

  “Oh, come on, Jack,” he said. But Jack inched forward, eyes fixed on Harry’s.

  “What’re you supposed to be looking at?” Harry put his hand to his throat. He could feel Jack’s eyes. “I’m not playing this stupid game,” said Harry, getting to his feet, but Jack was already standing, still staring into his eyes and creeping forward. Harry reached behind and felt for the gate. Jack lifted his lip and Harry saw the tips of his teeth. It was too much.

  Harry backed into the fence and felt the jab of rose thorns. He turned away, swung back, felt Jack’s gaze, and leapt for the gate, feeling for it with his hand, but it wasn’t there. He heard a noise, a bit like the baa of a sheep, and wondered where it was coming from. Then his hand found the gap. He leapt through it, and Jack slammed the gate shut behind him.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t scared of you, Jack Jackman,” Harry went to say, but Jack ran out his tongue between his front teeth, like a dog panting. Harry was saved by the sound of the kitchen window opening behind him.

  “You boys go down the street if you want to make a lot of noise. Don’t go knocking my rose around, Harry. I saw you run into it.” A hand stuck out the window, waving a sugarbag oven cloth. “Off you go at once, the pair of you!”

  Jack had vanished into the hedge at the sound of Mrs Jitters’s voice, and Harry had to look for him. “Who taught you to be an eye dog?” he asked, but Jack didn’t describe how Old Drumble had backed him through his own gate.

  “Old Drumble taught me,” he said. “Only a strong-eyed dog can teach you, and it takes years to learn.”

  Just then, Minnie Mitchell came out her gate to see what all the noise was about. Harry saw her and had an idea. “Try it on her,” he said. “Show her how an eye dog works.”

  “I heard you,” said Minnie. “What are you two whispering about? Anyway, what’s an eye dog?”

  She was about five or six paces outside her gate when Jack fixed her with his strong eye. He lifted one front foot and stood frozen, pointing straight at Minnie, the way Old Drumble stood pointing straight at a sheep. Just for a moment, Jack wished he had a tail like Old Drumble’s, so he could lay it out straight in line with the rest of his body. He stared at Minnie’s eyes and went to take another step forward.

  “Who do you think you’re staring at, Jack Jackman?” Minnie stamped like one of the ewes that Jack had seen try to stand up to Old Drumble’s stare. Next moment, Jack knew, she’d baa, whirl, and run like an old ewe. He frowned, put all his power into his eye, took another step straight towards her, and Minnie Mitchell leapt forward and pulled his nose.

  “Don’t you look at me like that, Jack Jackman. What do you think you’re doing?”

  It took a lot of explaining, and Jack felt very uncomfortable under Minnie’s accusing stare, but Harry managed to convince her that Jack was just trying to be an eye dog, working sheep with his strong eye. Minnie got the idea quickly; she worked Harry back through his gate and shut it behind him; then she turned her strong eye on to Jack and said he’d better get home unless he wanted his nose pulled again.

  As he trotted home, Jack looked back and saw Minnie staring after him. He would have tried barking at her, but she got the idea first and barked at him, and Jack turned and scampered up the top end of Ward Street. Somehow, things hadn’t gone quite right.

  “You’ve got a face as long as my arm,” said his mother. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Me’n Harry Jitters were playing eye dogs.”

  “Harry Jitters and I!”

  “I was playing eye dogs with Harry Jitters, and I backed him through his gate, and Minnie Mitchell come out and pulled my nose.”

  “Came out. What did you do to make a nice girl like Minnie do that?”

  “Nothing. I was just eyeing her, to make her go back inside her gate.”

  “Well, I don’t blame Minnie. No girl wants to be stared at as if she’s a sheep and backed through her gate.”

  “Yes, but suddenly she turned into an eye dog and backed Harry through his gate, and then she turned into a huntaway and pulled my nose and told me it was time I was getting home unless I wanted my nose pulled again. And when I looked back, she barked at me. Girls don’t know how to play.”

  His mother grinned. “And you put your tail between your legs and ran home?”

  Jack looked down and shuffled.

  “You’d better start learning that’s no way to treat a girl. The idea! Staring at her, and backing her through her gate.”

  “But I didn’t. She eyed me, same as you do. Then she turned into a huntaway and barked at me. You can’t be a heading dog and a huntaway all at once. Everybody knows that.”

  “Well, next time you’d better bark first. Now, wash your hands. Before I know where I am, your father will be home expecting his lunch to be on the table.”

  They were eating lunch, when Jack’s father said, “Your friend Minnie Mitchell barked at me, just now, as I rode past her place.”

  “She thinks she’s smart, but she doesn’t know the difference between a heading dog and a huntaway. Girls never play fair.”

  “As I ride back to work,” said his dad, “I’ll bark at her, before she can bark at me.”

  “That’s what I’ll do, too,” said Jack. “Would you bark at her real loud, Dad?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Why Jack’s Father Barked,

  What His Mother Thought About Having

  Strong Ears, and Ten Bob on the

  Two-Year-Old’s Nose.

  “ARE MY EARS DECEIVING ME? Barking at girls! You’ll do nothing of the sort, my lad,” said his mother. “And what sort of example do you think you’re setting the boy? You’ll be giving the top end of Ward Street a bad name, the pair of you.

  “Jack, if you’ve finished playing around with your lunch, you can go out and pick up all the leaves under the cabbage tree. I don’t want to see a single one on the lawn.

  “And, as for you, talking of barking at a little girl, isn’t it time you got back to your work before the whistle blows?”

  Mr Jackman grinned at Jack, said goodbye to his wife, and got on his bike. As he went out the gate, he winked at Jack under the cabbage tree, barked once, and Jack barked back.

  The kitchen window popped open. His mother’s head stuck out. “Did I hear you barking?”

  “It was Dad.”

  “I’ll show that man! What are you staring at? Get on with those leaves. And when you’ve picked them all up, you can put them on the compost heap. And if I hear so much as another yap, I’ll buckle dog collars round both your necks, chain the pair of you to the clothes-line, and you can have a bone for your tea tonight.”

  That afternoon, Mrs Jackman went down to the bottom end of Ward Street to have a look at the Crimson Glory rambler that Mrs Jitters had flowering. “She’s going to give me a cutting, this winter,” she said to Jack when she came home. “How dare you tell Harry Jitters your mother has strong ears? I thought I told you: I’m not some sort of dog!”

  “I just told Harry you can see through doors and hear what I’m thinking. I was trying to tra
in him as a huntaway.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t think Mrs Jitters wants her son growing up to be a noisy sort of dog. I don’t know what the world’s coming to—dogs barking and eyeing each other up and down Ward Street. Talking of dogs, look who’s tying up his horse—”

  J–ck didn’t need to be told who it was. He tore out. Nosy was already trying to undo her reins off the fence, and Old Drumble was holding a mob of sheep the other side of the hall corner.

  “I’m training a heading dog and a huntaway down the bottom end of the street,” Jack told Andy, who nodded as he took a sugarbag filled with bits and pieces from the pikau behind his saddle.

  “It’s a good idea to have a young dog coming on,” Andy said. “You never know when you’re going to need him. Just this morning, that Young Nugget nearly got himself skittled as we came round the back of Matamata. Some coot in a cut-down Model A, careering along Burwood Road, doing the better part of thirty miles an hour, not looking where he’s going and, the next thing, he near ploughs into my mob. Young Nugget leaps out of the way, just in time.

  “Old Drumble keeps the mob bunched while I give the driver a piece of my mind. I tells him, ‘It would have cost you a tenner to run over Young Nugget, twenty-five quid for Old Nell, and you hit Old Drumble—the sky’s the limit!’

  “Here we are,” he said to Jack’s mother, “a cutting out of Mrs Kevin Ryan’s garden, some plum chutney from Mrs Bryce, and the recipe for Mrs Oulds’s seed cake, the one she said you admired at the church Bring and Buy. And these here are from old Tom McGuire out Okoroire, seed potatoes—Maori Chief. Old Tom says they’re a good cropper, and they stand up against the blight better than most.

  “ ‘As good a tatie as Oi’ve tasted since Oi came out here from Oireland, just a spalpeen no taller than halfway up the hoight of a donkey’s shin,’ he told me. Of course, he swears Irish spuds tasted better than ours because they used to dig in seaweed. Enough kelp, and you never had to add salt to the spuds, so he reckons. Now, I wonder if that’s true, or did he just kiss the Blarney Stone? What do you suppose, Jack?”