Mr Bluenose

by Jack Lasenby

“That’s different,” I told him. “Anyway, it’s not your story. I’ve heard bits of it before.” And I ran to look for Freddy Jones and the others, to tell them the story about the White Woman of Waharoa was true and, if they didn’t believe me, they could ask Mr Bryce.

  21

  How the Mad Morepork Hummed and the White Woman Hooted, How Chooks Clean a Burnt Saucepan, and Why Mr Bryce Said I Was Getting All Bolshie.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t help trying out the White Woman of Waharoa on Freddy Jones. I got out my window, sneaked along Ward Street, crouched under his window, and hummed, “Mmmmmm….” And just in case that didn’t work I gave a couple of hoots. “Morepork! Morepork!”

  Freddy shrieked so loud, I got a bit of a scare and ran. As I bolted through Mrs Jones’s rhubarb patch, I heard the White Woman screaming, “Mmmmmm!” and the stalks snapped off as if she was just behind me! I jumped over the stile into the orchard, and tore along the paddock behind Ward Street. But something came stamping and panting after me. I shrieked and didn’t dare look back.

  I leapt up the post on the corner of our back fence, only there’s the bit that Dad built out to stop Mr Carter’s cow from sticking its head through and eating our hedge. It gave way, and the barbed wire tore my pyjamas. I scrambled over the fence before the White Woman caught me. She was hooting and going “Mmmmmm” as I fell down the other side, and I got a glimpse of her white face and screamed again.

  I must have made a bit of noise climbing in my window. Dad got out of his chair in front of the stove out in the kitchen and tiptoed into my room to see I was all right. “Are you awake?” he whispered. I lay very still, and he went back to reading the paper.

  Next day, Mrs Jones chased me when I went along and asked if Freddy could come outside for a game of marbles. I ran and jumped their gate and hid in the pig-fern across the road.

  I was still sitting there when Ken Carter and his little sister, Jean came along the track through the pig-fern. They’d been down to the shops. I shook the fern, beat my hands on the ground, and moaned, “Mmmmmm!” They can’t have heard about ghosts not liking the daylight, because they dropped the bread, the paper, and their mail and ran screaming.

  I tore across the road and went inside and waited for Dad to come home from the factory for his lunch. When I heard Mrs Carter thumping on the back door, and calling my name and shouting, “You come out here at once!” I got under my bed. It was ages before she gave up.

  I hid in the dark under my bed till I heard the click as Dad came in our gate and the noise he makes leaning his bike against the wall by the back door. I climbed out then, and rubbed the bits of dust off my clothes.

  “What have you been up to this morning?” Dad asked.

  “Nothing much,” I told him, and he said he was pleased to hear that.

  As we ate our lunch, Dad told me, “Somebody said Mr Carter’s cow was running up and down its paddock last night, mooing its head off. Did you hear it?”

  “Mr Carter’s cow always goes mad when there’s a full moon,” I said. “Have you ever thought,” I asked Dad, “have you ever thought how the full moon is like an egg, all smooth and white?”

  “I suppose it is a bit,” said Dad. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Giving Mr Bluenose a hand. He’s packing Poorman’s oranges.”

  “Ask him if we can have some. They’re late, but it’s handy because we need to make some more marmalade,” Dad said. “You could have a look under the tankstand, and bring out all the empty jars. They’ll need boiling.”

  “Remember the time we burned the marmalade?”

  “Do I what?” Dad pulled a face. “And trying to get off the black stuff baked on the bottom of the saucepan! Remember we tried vinegar and baking soda, and nothing would shift it.”

  “Mr Bluenose told me an easy way. He sticks some sour milk in the saucepan, puts it in his fowl-run, and doesn’t let his chooks out for a couple of days. They peck the inside of the saucepan clean, getting all the sour milk.”

  “Sounds easier than scouring it by hand! We’ll try it next time I burn a saucepan.” Dad got on his bike and said, “Hooray! See you tonight!” and I headed off down to Mr Bluenose’s. I thought he’d probably like to hear how the White Woman scared those other kids, and I’d ask him if the story about the haunted house was true.

  First, though, I had a look for empty bottles. I tried the long grass round the hall, and the ditch all the way to the corner, but there hadn’t been any dances lately. Then I walked along the ditch from the post office and past Mrs Doleman’s billiard saloon to the station gates, but there weren’t any bottles there either.

  Down the road, Freddy Jones was trying to ride no hands around the corner of Ward Street. I waved my hands up and down and yelled, “Mmmmmm!” but he was too far away, so I went in and said hello to Mr Bryce.

  “Have you come to hear another story about the White Woman of Waharoa?” he asked.

  “That’s my story!” I said.

  “Don’t go getting all bolshie with me,” said Mr Bryce, “I first heard it years ago, long before you were born.”

  “It’s not fair,” I told him. “I used to sell empty bottles to you. And I told you stories. But now there’s a bottle thief in Waharoa who pinches all my bottles, and there’s a story thief who pinches my stories.”

  Mr Bryce pushed his glasses up on top of his head. “Did you hear the story of that white-faced cow of Mr Carter’s, and how it chased a burglar across its paddock last night?” he asked.

  I looked at him and backed towards the door.

  “Yes,” he said. “Somebody’s been going around Waharoa dressed up as a morepork, trying to break into people’s houses. They only do it on nights when there’s a full moon.”

  “I’ve got to go now, Mr Bryce,” I said.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story about the mad morepork?”

  “I promised to help Mr Bluenose.” As I ran, I thought I knew what Mr Bryce was up to. He was going to tell me my own stories, and charge me two boiled lollies each time. And if I didn’t have any, he’d say they were on tick, and then I’d never get any boiled lollies ever again.

  22

  Kehuas and Spooks Down the Cemetery, Silly Old Bluenose, the Ghost in the Macrocarpa Tunnel, and Why Freddy Jones and Billy Harsant Mowed Their Lawns.

  I ran towards Mr Bluenose’s, but Mrs Dainty was working in her front garden, so I went the other way. As I trotted past the Domain, voices came from under the bridge. The wood was warm on my knees as I crawled and looked between the planks.

  Freddy Jones and Billy Harsant lay face down by the little creek. Each had one arm in the water. “You find a hole, stick your hand in, get your fingers round it, and throw it up on the bank,” said Billy Harsant.

  “What if it bites?” asked Freddy Jones.

  “Eels don’t bite.”

  “Goosie Penetito showed me a big scar on his arm where one bit him. He reckons they like eating Pakehas best.”

  “That Goosie, he makes things up.” Billy paused. “Isn’t it funny how Maoris are brown but they have white scars?”

  “I asked Goosie about that, and he said it’s because he’s white inside.”

  “See! I told you he makes things up.” There was a splash, and Billy Harsant shouted, “There!” He rolled on his back, twisting his arm out of the water. “Aw, he got away! Did you see him? He was enormous!”

  “I didn’t see anything,” said Freddy, and pulled his own arm out of the water. “Goosie told me he always runs past the Pakeha cemetery after the flicks on Saturday night. And, if it was a scary picture, he keeps running all the way home to the pa.”

  “Huh!” Billy had his head nearly under water. The sleeve of his shirt was wet up to the shoulder.

  “He reckons the skeletons get out of the graves and chase him and the other kids. Dressed in white sheets, he said.”

  “Shrouds,” said Billy Harsant.

&
nbsp; “Shrouds?”

  “White sheets they wrap you in before they stick you in your grave.” Billy worked his arm under the bank. “I thought I had one. No.” He moved and tried further up. “Dad says the Maoris cut across Mr Dickey’s paddock, so they don’t have to go past the Pakeha cemetery.”

  “What about their own cemetery?”

  “They dodge it, too. Maoris are scared of kehuas. Everyone knows that.”

  “I bet you’d be too scared to go down there at night,” said Freddy Jones.

  “Me, scared of ghosts?”

  “One Saturday night I went down the cemetery and slept on top of a grave,” said Freddy Jones.

  “God’s honour?”

  “God’s honour!”

  “Anyway,” said Billy Harsant, “I often do that.”

  “And when the skeletons got up in their shrouds, I shouted, ‘Boo!’ and they jumped back into their graves,” said Freddy Jones. “I’m not scared of any spooks.”

  “Me neither,” said Billy Harsant. “Boy, them apples better be ripe!”

  “Old Bluenose told my mum they are. She always gets a case.”

  I crept backwards off the bridge, got to my feet, ran along the unused grassy road, and climbed the gate. Mr Bluenose was in the packing shed.

  “Some boys, Mr Bluenose –” I puffed, “– coming up the creek to steal your apples – through the macrocarpas!”

  “A long time I have been waiting to teach them a lesson!” Mr Bluenose clapped his hands together. “Now is the chance to take my revenge!” He gave me a four-gallon tin with a wire handle, and took one himself. “For the banging and groaning when the ghost flies.”

  “They reckon they’re not scared of ghosts.”

  “We will see about that….”

  I followed Mr Bluenose into the tunnel between the double row of macrocarpas. I knew the wire ran somewhere in the darkness above our heads.

  We peeped out through the branches the other side. “They were coming up the creek.”

  “Shhh!”

  I saw him at the same time: Billy Harsant sticking his head over the bank. Then Freddy Jones. They looked around and climbed the fence. Billy’s sleeve and shoulder were dark from the water. The wires squeaked.

  I heard Mr Bluenose undoing something above his head. “When you hear the ghost groan, start pulling,” he whispered. I felt him put the end of the rope in my hands, and could just see his shape disappearing towards the other end of the tunnel.

  They thought they were being silent, but made a row shoving through the outside branches. Light came in, then the branches closed behind them.

  “I can’t see anything,” said Billy Harsant’s voice.

  “Me neither!”

  “Close your eyes and count three and, when you open them, you’ll be able to see.”

  “I hope there’s no ghosts in here.” Freddy Jones sounded as if he was going to cry.

  “Think of the apples!”

  “I wish Goosie Penetito hadn’t told me about the ghosts down the cemetery. What if Old Bluenose catches us?”

  “He won’t even see us. Silly Old Bluenose!”

  “Yeah! Damn silly Old Bluenose!”

  “Bloody damn silly Old Bluenose!” said Billy Harsant, and they choked and giggled.

  From the other end of the dark tunnel, there came a terrible groan and a clank. I yanked on the rope, banged my kerosene tin, and moaned. The ghost billowed out of the darkness, its coat hanger shrieking along the wire. It gave a hideous sob, cackled, and jigged up and down as it flew.

  Freddy screamed and ran, but must have seen me moving through the gloom. “There’s another!” He bellowed, turned back, and ran into Billy. They got to their feet, and ran the other way, but the sheet came whining and rattling towards them waving its white arms, wailing and gobbling. I was so scared, I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn’t there.

  When I opened my eyes again, Billy and Freddy were screaming, fighting each other, not knowing which way to go. There was a bright arch of light where Mr Bluenose and I had come into the tunnel, but they kept away from that, trying to find where they had come in. Still screaming, they burst through the wall of branches.

  The ghost sobbed and clanked behind them. Wires creaked as they scrambled over the fence, ripping their clothes on the barbs, and tumbled into the creek. Mr Bluenose and I watched them climb out the other side and run across the Domain paddock, screeching and waving their arms. Even that far away, I could see their hair was standing on end. Mr Bluenose put his hands to his mouth, gave a last hoot, and they jumped and went twice as fast.

  “I think they will not come back in a hurry,” Mr Bluenose said. I hadn’t heard him laugh, but there were big tears on his cheeks. “You are a hero!” he said.

  I didn’t tell Mr Bluenose how I would have run, too, but my legs wouldn’t work, nor how I’d closed my eyes.

  “Think of all the apples two hungry boys would have eaten.” He was filling a sugarbag with ripe, red apples. “Give these to your father, and tell him how brave you were!”

  He tied a rope to the bottom corners of the bag, tightened it round the neck to make a pikau, and helped me stick my arms through so it rode comfortably on my back.

  Outside Freddy Jones’s place, I leaned the pikau against the hedge to have a rest. I peeped through the gate and heard the whirr of their lawn mower. Mrs Jones stood on the verandah, shaking Mr Jones’s razor strop in one hand and waving a pair of shorts in the other.

  “And don’t you dare stop until you’ve finished cutting the whole of the front lawn, and then you can do the one down the side while you’re about it. I don’t know how you manage to tear your clothes to ribbons and get them covered in mud! Just look at these!”

  I could have explained how, but thought Mrs Jones might chase me.

  I listened outside Billy Harsant’s place, and he was mowing their front lawn, too. I skipped so the pikau bounced, and the apples felt knobbly up and down my back. Dad was going to be pleased when he saw them.

  Tomorrow, I’d have a look in the ditch and the long grass for empty bottles. If there weren’t any, I’d tell Mr Bryce the story of the ghost in the macrocarpa tunnel. I hoped he’d like it and give me some boiled lollies. Then I thought, “What if he tries to tell me the story of the ghost himself?”

  23

  Talk About Ghosts and Damming the Ditch, Getting a Double Home and Washing Amber Beads, and Mr Bryce Pays a Debt.

  Mr Bryce didn’t try to tell me my own story. He paid me twopence for the bottles I found and laughed and laughed about the ghost in the macrocarpa tunnel. When I told him how Freddy and Billy tore their clothes getting over the fence, and had to mow their lawns, he sat down on a barrel of staples and fanned his face with his apron.

  “That’ll give those scallywags something to think about! I might rig up a ghost around the back of the shop, to scare away the bottle thief. Perhaps I should give Mr Bluenose some boiled lollies for the idea.” Mr Bryce wiped his eyes. “I’d give anything to have seen those two scrambling over the fence and falling into the creek! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  I waited, but he didn’t give me any boiled lollies for the story. He was so busy laughing, and repeating it to the Kelly girl, he forgot about me. She went out the back laughing, and somebody else came in, and he started telling my story to them. I sneaked out, wondering if I should have taken my bottles to Mrs Doleman.

  “Come back!” Mr Bryce yelled from the door as I went through the station gates, but I didn’t want him to see me crying. Besides, he was probably going to try and take my two pennies off me, and I didn’t want his old boiled lollies anyway.

  Over at the station, Mr Grant’s cap sat on the counter. The signals were set for the long goods train, and Mr Grant was sweeping out the waiting room. He dropped the broom, waved both arms, and went, “Whooo-ooh!” but I didn’t feel like talking about the ghost. I cut through the plantation, climbed the fence, and went to the post office. Mr Barker said there was no mail for us and w
ent on date-stamping a pile of letters. Bang! Bang!

  “Keeping out of mischief?” he asked, and I said I supposed so. “I believe there’s a ghost been seen around Waharoa,” Mr Barker told me, and I said, “Has there?”

  At the blacksmith’s shop, Mr Whimble was punching the holes in a red-hot horseshoe for the nails to go through. I usually liked watching him do that, but I kept going in case he wanted to talk about the ghost, too.

  In front of the hall, Mrs Dainty shook a letter at me, and said, “What’s this I hear about you getting into trouble with a ghost?” But I just said, “I don’t know,” and she had to keep going because she wanted to catch the post.

  I went on down the Turangaomoana road as far as the bridge where the creek comes out of the Domain, and looked over the stringer along one side. Somewhere out of sight, water was gabbling to itself under the blackberries. I trotted around Mr Newman’s corner and along the back road.

  Outside Mrs Black’s, there was a pile of horse muck where Mr Day had pulled up his cart to talk. It was a wonder Mrs Black hadn’t shovelled it up to put on her garden. A sparrow pecked at something in the balls of dung. “Get away, you dirty thing!” I told it. “I’ll tell Mrs Dainty on you!” I waved my hand, and bluebottles buzzed into the air.

  I climbed through the gap in Freddy Jones’s hedge, the one by their orchard. I whistled, but he didn’t answer. He’d be trimming the edges or digging the garden, poor Freddy. But it served him right!

  I cut through his orchard and across the paddock behind Billy Harsant’s place. By the sound of the axe, I could tell he was chopping kindling.

  “And when you’ve finished splitting that block, there’s all those old butter boxes in the shed,” I heard Mrs Harsant tell him.

  “Oh, Mum!”

  “Don’t you ‘Oh, Mum’ me. You just split that totara, and hurry up about it, too.”

  “Serves him right!” I said aloud.