Aunt Effie and the Island That Sank

by Jack Lasenby

  “You can always dam a creek and make a pool big enough to turn a scow,” said Aunt Effie. “But we’re not going back!”

  “We’re not leaving the Margery Daw?”

  “Never!” Aunt Effie gave her bullock whip a last crack and hung it up. “It’s several months since we had any fresh vegetables or fruit,” she said. “You’ve probably all got scurvy. Any loose teeth? Puffy gums? Sores that won’t heal?” We shook our heads. “We’ll boil up some rimu leaves and a handful of tea-tree berries, and make spruce beer. Captain Cook used it to stop his men getting scurvy.”

  “Are you sure your teeth haven’t fallen out?” Alwyn asked the little ones that night. “Perhaps you just think your teeth are still there.” The little ones pulled back their lips so Alwyn could see them.

  “I suppose they’re all right,” he said. “I’m not sure how many you’re meant to have.”

  Ann was angry when she found the little ones crying and trying to count their teeth. “Your teeth are perfectly all right,” she said and told off Alwyn. But he hid behind the mast, stuck his head out so the little ones could see him, tapped his teeth one by one, and counted them aloud till he got to sixty-four The little ones counted theirs, found they hadn’t half that number, and cried again.

  In the morning, Aunt Effie brought on deck the pit-saws, cross-cuts, axes, mauls, and sacks of wedges. She nodded at a tall rimu. Marie and Peter eyed it and worked out which way they wanted it to fall.

  Alwyn bent over and looked between his legs at the tree. He told the little ones, “When you can just see the top of the tree, that means it will fall to exactly where you’re standing.” They bent over, looked between their legs at the top of the tree, and ran for their lives.

  Marie and Peter chopped the notches, wedged in their jigger-boards, climbed up, and began putting in the scarf.

  By the time they started on the back-cut, the rest of us had most of the rigging flaked and stored, the jib-boom run in, the topmasts on deck, and the mainmast stripped for shifting.

  By the time the cross-cut jammed, and Peter drove in a wedge, we had the mainmast on deck and were shifting the mizzen. We’d just lashed fast both masts, and lowered our shear-legs, when the rimu fell.

  Its chips, sawdust, stump, and sloven were a different colour and smell from the giant kauri we’d felled at Mercury Bay. We sniffed the resin and got our noses sticky.

  We picked the softest tips of the rimu leaves, boiled them with tea-tree berries, and drank the spruce beer to stop our teeth from falling out. “I’d rather have scurvy,” said Alwyn.

  “It’s turned your teeth black,” he told the little ones who cried.

  “I don’t know why you listen to anything Alwyn says!” Becky said, but they were already listening to him again.

  “I went to school with a little girl who had golden hair down to her waist,” Alwyn told the little ones. “It all fell out one day because she got drunk on spruce beer and stayed in the hot springs too long. Poor creature: bald for life!” Alwyn shook his head. “She had to wear a wig made out of old rope. It was so itchy, she kept taking it off and scratching her head.”

  “I think my hair’s falling out,” cried Lizzie, and the other little ones all scratched their heads and cried and said they were itchy, too.

  We dug a pit, and jacked the rimu trunk across it. Peter stretched a chalked string, twitched it up in the middle so it smacked down and left a white line the length of the log.

  Taking turns, we pit-sawed along the line. Pulling up on top, pulling down below, we sawed that log into long wooden tram rails, and laid them on sleepers up the bank.

  “While you were playing with the school inspectors and their butterfly nets at the Auckland Railway Station,” Aunt Effie said, “I did a deal. I swapped a false map of Wicked Nancy’s Island for the driving wheels off the Rotorua Express.” She dragged back some green canvas and revealed several huge, flanged, iron wheels on the deck.

  We bolted the wheels to the sides of the Margery Daw. We dug in the toes of the timber-jacks, spun the handles, and shifted her on to the wooden rails. “Another advantage of a scow’s flat bottom,” said Aunt Effie. “A keel boat would need a cradle to keep her on the tramway.”

  Marie and the dogs dragged a hawser up the slope and made it fast around the rimu’s stump. The rest of us stuck our bars into the capstan and heaved until it turned, the hawser tightened, and the driving wheels began skidding. We threw handfuls of sand on the tramlines so the wheels gripped, and the Margery Daw rose dripping and rolled towards the stump. Jazz wetted his finger and ran it along the rails. The wheels had crushed the sand till it was as slick as water.

  In the grass beyond the stump, we laid out a kedge anchor on the hawser, and dug its flukes into the ground. “Altogether!” said Aunt Effie, and we stamped, sang sea shanties, shoved on our bars, turned the capstan, and kedged the Margery Daw across the flat paddocks. Each time we got near the kedge, we laid it out ahead again. It was much easier than winching her up the bank out of the creek.

  “Aunt Effie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aunt Effie?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Aunt Effie?”

  “Well, what is it, Lizzie?”

  “Aunt Effie, you know when we were winching the Margery Daw out of the creek.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, remember you said the earth is flat?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, if the world’s flat, how come we were winching the Margery Daw uphill?”

  “A very good question!” said Aunt Effie. “The sea,” she said, “is pretty flat. When the wind blows, it goes up and down a bit in waves and then goes flat again. It goes on and on, flat, until you come to one of those edges where you sail over on to another side of the world. You can sometimes tell where the edges are because you see other boats sailing up over them.”

  “Like when you just see the tops of their masts?”

  “You’ve got the idea. The sea’s mostly pretty flat, but the earth’s got hills that go up and down a bit more than the waves. That’s why we had to winch uphill from the creek to get the Margery Daw running across the paddocks. But although the hills go up and down, and although the waves go up and down, the world’s still just a big box with six flat sides.”

  “But I remember you once said we were sailing downhill.”

  “Running ahead of the wind,” said Aunt Effie. “It’s called sailing downhill, because it’s so easy. Much easier than beating up into the wind, tacking and beating your way uphill.”

  “So the sea’s got hills and slopes but it’s really flat.”

  “Yes. And the earth’s really a box with six flat sides.”

  Lizzie nodded. “Aunt Effie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is the sea better than the land?”

  “Of course it is! And the Hauraki Gulf is the best sea in the world.”

  “I think so, too!” said Lizzie. And we all nodded, and stamped, and sang sea shanties, and shoved on the capstan bars, and kedged the Margery Daw across the flat paddocks.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mr Firth’s Tower, the Model T Ford, and Banana Bob; “You Mustn’t Call Him that Name”; We Learn How to Strain Tea-leaves Through a Moustache; and Alwyn Gives Cheek.

  We stowed away the rope ladder, and built a set of steps up each side of the Margery Daw. Using rusty sheets of corrugated iron, Peter knocked up sheds all over the deck. We hammered in nails to hang our oilskins on when it wasn’t raining, and Peter built a dunny for when it was. She began to look less and less like a scow.

  Peter built a chimney so big, it had benches each side of the fire, and we could all sit inside it on cold nights. “That’s a real inglenook chimney,” said Marie, and Aunt Effie growled, “All that rubbish will have to go when we get her sailing again.”

  “What’s sailing?” asked the little ones, and none of us seemed to remember.

  Daisy hadn’t forgotten though. “Are we going to s
ail down the Piako River,” she asked, “back into the Hauraki Gulf?” Daisy always had to skite about getting 100% for Geography in School Certificate.

  Aunt Effie ignored Daisy and looked ahead through her telescope. At midday she and Marie got out their sextants and shot the sun. They did lots of difficult sums and got Peter to check them. At last they had to ask Daisy what they’d done wrong.

  She simpered. “You divided where you should have multiplied,” she told Aunt Effie. “You multiplied where you should have divided,” she told Marie. “You used the wrong logarithms!” she told Peter.

  Daisy rolled her eyes to show how hard it was, and did a complicated long division sum in her head. “We’re here!” she said, and made a mark on the red Whitcombe & Tombs school atlas Aunt Effie was using to navigate our way across the Upper Thames Valley.

  “Thank you, Daisy,” said Aunt Effie. “You can take an extra turn on the capstan. At six in the morning,” she announced, “we should sight Mr J.C. Firth’s Tower near Matamata.”

  There was thick mist in the morning. We shifted the rails ahead, heaved on the capstan, which we now called a whim, and the Margery Daw rolled forward. At six o’clock, Aunt Effie waved her hand, the mist parted, and there stood the Tower. We felt uneasy. The dogs looked at Aunt Effie sideways.

  The Tower had battlements, loopholes, and a high door with a ladder that could be pulled inside in case of attack. “Are there cannons on top?” we asked. Aunt Effie said she thought so, but only for starting races.

  “Then why did Mr Firth build the Tower?” asked Lizzie.

  “So he can look over his huge estate and see the men are working,” said Jazz.

  “So he can see if the Maoris are coming to eat him,” said Alwyn.

  “I think Mr Firth ate the Maoris, rather than the other way round,” said Daisy. “Look at the way he got their land off them after Tamihana died.”

  “I can see the Hopuruahine Dairy Factory!” said Marie.

  “Why isn’t the chimney smoking?” asked Lizzie. Steam and smoke poured out of the top of the factory, but none came out of the chimney.

  “The steam’s coming off the jockeys from the Matamata Racecourse,” said Aunt Effie. “They wear overcoats and sit in the top of the Hopuruahine Dairy Factory to make themselves sweat. The smoke’s from the cigarettes they use to stunt their growth. That’s why jockeys are so small.”

  Daisy looked at Alwyn whom she’d caught smoking an acorn pipe filled with dried dock leaves. She was just opening her mouth when we heard, Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah!

  Something like a tall black spider was rattling and banging along Tower Road from Matamata.

  “A Model T Ford!” said Peter.

  “A Tin Lizzie!” said Alwyn, and he sang:

  “There was a little man, and his name was Henry Ford,

  He bought a bit of rubber and a little bit of board,

  A little drop of petrol, and an old tin can,

  And he tied them all together – and the damned thing ran!”

  “Do you mind?” asked Daisy.

  “It’s Banana Bob!” said Aunt Effie.

  “Who’s Banana Bob?”

  “You mustn’t go calling him that name,” Aunt Effie said mysteriously.

  “But you called him Banana Bob…”

  “That’s different. I didn’t say it to his face. Remember, you mustn’t call him Banana Bob!”

  “But you just did again!”

  Aunt Effie looked at Alwyn. We all knew what he was going to do.

  “Why’s he turning round at the foot of the hill?”

  “It’s what you call a gravity feed tank,” said Peter, “under the driver’s seat. If you’re going uphill, and the tank’s half empty, the petrol can’t run into the carburettor. So you turn around and back up. The tank’s higher, and the petrol can run down to the carbie.”

  Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah.

  Alwyn trembled with delight. “Hagoo-ha!” he called back.

  The Tin Lizzie shuddered and climbed. “How can he see where he’s going?” asked Lizzie.

  “Maybe he’s got eyes in the back of his head,” said Jessie, and we shivered and looked at Aunt Effie. We jabbed each other in the ribs and whispered so she couldn’t hear, “Banana Bob! Banana Bob!”

  Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah! Clanking, roaring, wheels spinning and scattering gravel, the black Model T lorry shot backwards on to the top of the hill. The tray was loaded with boxes of vegies, apples, and crates labelled, TONGAN BANANAS.

  “Bananas Tongan!”

  “Alwyn!” said Daisy sternly. “What did Aunt Effie say?” But Alwyn moved his lips silently.

  A tea-tree stick poked out the passenger side of the cab, a lady’s hand mirror lashed to the end. “That’s how he sees where he’s going!” said Jazz.

  The driver’s face was all red nose and yellow moustache. We rolled our eyes at each other because Banana Bob was so fat he couldn’t get in behind the wheel, but had to sit on the passenger side. He had to reach right across to steer. Glancing up at the mirror, he leaned down and pushed one of the pedals.

  “That takes it out of reverse,” said Peter. For a moment, Banana Bob disappeared under the dashboard. He popped up his head, looked in the mirror, bobbed down, and pushed another pedal.

  “The brake,” said Peter. The wheels stopped. Banana Bob pulled on the hand brake: Rackety-rackety-rackety.

  One huge acetylene headlight was held on with a piece of wire. The other was missing. “Only one eye,” Jazz pointed.

  “The other pedal’s the one to go ahead,” said Peter.

  The engine went Clank! Ker-rang! Clank! and died. The radiator boiled. Steam hissed out under the cap.

  Banana Bob climbed down, slow step by step. His head was strangely pointed, but we stared at his enormous puku. It looked as if he had half a basketball glued on in front, and it wobbled from side to side as he walked. We had to stand in front of the little ones as they stuck out their own pukus and tried to wobble them.

  Banana Bob used a sugarbag to unscrew the hot cap off the radiator. “To let it cool down,” Peter told us. Banana Bob wobbled to the scales hanging off the back of his lorry, and sold Aunt Effie a hundredweight of Tongan bananas at threepence a pound, and three sugarbags of oranges at fourpence a pound.

  She paid him. “And I’ll take a case each of silver beet, cauliflower, and cabbages. We’ve been on a long voyage, and my crew’s suffering from weevils and scurvy.”

  “Ninepence a case,” said Banana Bob in a crusty voice. “Call it two bob.”

  “We’re just having a cuppa,” said Aunt Effie. “Like one?”

  Banana Bob sat on the running board which was covered with linoleum and trimmed with a brass strip. He must have sat there a lot because the brass was polished. We watched delighted as he tipped his cup into the saucer, put it to his mouth, and strained the tea through his yellow moustache – “Sssshhwipp!” –and smacked his lips. Tea-leaves were left stuck all through his whiskers. “Whuff!” he blew them out, every one.

  “That’s why they call moustaches ‘tea strainers’!” Alwyn told us in a loud whisper.

  Aunt Effie offered Banana Bob a date scone from a batch Jazz had just whipped up. He ate a couple, nibbling quickly, not getting drips of butter on his chin, and not dropping a crumb. “As neat as a naval officer!” Ann said for some reason.

  Banana Bob finished his tea and asked if he could empty the teapot into his radiator. “Nothing like tea-leaves to clean out your pipes!” he winked. He emptied the teapot, took a tin of Big Tree Motor Spirits off the back, pulled up the driver’s seat, and filled the tank underneath.

  He sat on the running board again. “Shifting?” he asked Aunt Effie. She nodded and gave him another date scone.

  “Going far?” He nodded at Peter’s sheds and the wooden tram rails.

  “About as far as Kiwitahi. Perhaps.”

  We looked at Aunt Effie and at each other. “Kiwitahi?”

  Banana Bob heaved himself up and waddled around t
he front of his lorry. We watched every move so we could copy him as soon as he’d gone. He puffed, bent over his round puku, and felt for the crank-handle.

  “It connects with the crankshaft,” said Peter. Banana Bob puffed and cranked the engine, swinging the crank-handle round. Nothing happened.

  “Retard the spark, will you?” grunted Banana Bob. With a smile, Peter jumped and moved the little lever. Banana Bob cranked again. The engine backfired. The crank-handle kicked backwards, but Banana Bob skipped out of the way. Alwyn gave a little skip, too.

  “Thought you’d break my arm, didn’t you!” Banana Bob said to the crank-handle. He jiggled it, cranked again, and the engine fired. Peter pulled the little lever the opposite way to advance the spark and adjusted the throttle. Clang! Ker-rang! Bang! Bang! The engine ran. Banana Bob nodded, gave Peter a banana, and leaned against the front of his Model T as he spoke to Aunt Effie. But the Model T kept edging forward, nudging Banana Bob and pushing till he had to move, then it nudged and pushed till he took another step.

  “Like a horse,” said Bryce. “You know how they nudge and shove when they can smell an apple in your pocket.”

  “You might as well take the rest of these.” Aunt Effie gave Banana Bob the rest of Jazz’s scones wrapped in a clean sugarbag.

  “Thank you, madam!” Banana Bob bowed, but couldn’t bend far because of his puku, and because the Model T kept pushing him forward. “I don’t often taste a bit of home cooking. Here!” He took the last banana out of a crate and gave it to Jazz. “I’ll hang on to the empty crate though,” said Banana Bob. “Whuff!” he blew through his yellow moustache so it fluffed out. “They come in handy as cages for boys who give cheek!” We all looked at Alwyn who was pretending to peel a banana.

  Banana Bob stood on the running board and began climbing back into the passenger seat. We had to give him a hand, shoving and pushing. He squeezed the big rubber horn, Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah!,adjusted the throttle, and – we’d all been waiting to see it – he leaned down and pushed the other pedal with his hand.

  “The one to go ahead,” said Peter.

  Banana Bob let off the hand brake and reached across the top of his puku to get both hands on the steering wheel. We were delighted! Clang! Clang! Ker-rang! Bang! Bang! The Model T shuddered and turned in a tight circle on to the Turangaomoana Road. The tea-tree stick with the mirror poked out the side.