by Jack Lasenby
Alwyn held his breath. Agh-oogah! Ah-oogah! Clang! Clang! Ker-rang! Bang! Bang! Boom! The Tin Lizzie backfired like a horse farting. It was too much. Alwyn danced beside the doorless cab and sang out: “Hooray, Banana Bob!
A bit of tin and a bit of board,
Tie it together, and you’ve got a Ford!
“Hooray, Banana Bob!” he shouted again. “Ow!” Banana Bob had clipped him over the head with the mirror.
“You shouldn’t have called him that name,” said Aunt Effie. “He doesn’t like it.” We knew Aunt Effie didn’t like her real name, The Name We Dared Not Say. And we knew what she did to her old husbands who kept saying it. “I’m afraid you’re in for trouble,” she said.
But Alwyn stood with a funny look on his face. Just like at school when Mr Jones told him off. We knew that, instead of saying it out loud, he was writing “Banana Bob” on the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.
Chapter Twelve
Uncle Chris and His Magnificent Stanley Steamer; A Cowshed on Wheels; Getting Punished for Giving Cheek; and Swelling the Sawdust in Sausages.
We were picking up the wooden tram rails behind to re-lay them in front when we heard a whistle, Whooo-ooo-oooh!
“Banana Bob’s blown up!” said Alwyn. But the noise came out of a cloud boiling along the Turangaomoana road. As it rolled closer, we heard an eerie wail like bagpipes. Wheee-eee-ahhh!
Out of the cloud dashed a magnificent red and gold car, brass headlamps winking. It had a rounded coffin-nose, and two big springs stuck out the front like giant wish-bones. It had tall wheels with red wooden spokes, black leather seats, and the steering wheel was polished mahogany strapped with brass. Whooo-oooooh! went the whistle, but there was no sound of an engine. Steam billowed a cloud over us, as the wonderful car slowed and stopped.
“It must be Toad!” said Becky who had just read The Wind in the Willows. The driver pulled on a big hand brake on the running board. Rachety-rachety-rachety!
Silver carbide lamps were bolted either side of the cab. “Navigation lights,” said Jazz. “Port and starboard, like the Margery Daw’s. Remember?” But we were too busy looking at the magnificent car to remember anything.
From a large rubber bulb beside the driver, a tube wound down and up, and finished in a boa constrictor’s head with a trumpet mouth behind the right-hand headlight. Alwyn poked out his tongue at the snake and stuck his head inside the trumpet. The driver pressed the bulb. “Whaaeeeish!” said the snake, and steam shot out its mouth.
Alwyn shrieked, and the driver giggled. “It scares me too,” he said. He squeezed the horn so it squirted steam again. “Hufffff!” the boa constrictor said this time.
On the front of the radiator was a brass plate with a picture of a man on a chariot whipping the horses to go faster. Above him were two words. Peter read them aloud. “Stanley Steamer!” His voice broke with excitement. “In 1906,” Peter said, “Frank Marriot broke the speed record in a Stanley Steamer. A hundred and twenty-seven miles an hour!”
The driver pulled a lever so steam hissed a cloud again. When it cleared, he had climbed down. Behind his seat was a huge black box. He opened the lid and stuck his head inside. We heard him giggling and felt like giggling ourselves.
“You behave yourselves now,” said Aunt Effie. “Your Uncle Chris is going to look after you while I go into Matamata.”
“Why are you going into Matamata?” we said. “The shops will be closed.”
“It’s late night, Friday,” said Aunt Effie. “They’ll be open till nine o’clock.”
“What are you going to buy?” we all wanted to know. “Why can’t we go into Matamata, too?” the little ones wept, but Aunt Effie just strode away, brandishing her umbrella. Halfway down Tower Hill, she turned around, stuck her fingers in the corners of her mouth and whistled. Caligula, Nero, Brutus, Kaiser, Genghis and Boris strapped on their nail-studded collars and bounded after her.
Uncle Chris pulled his head out of the black box and grinned at us. “He doesn’t look like Toad after all,” said Becky. Uncle Chris was bald and round, and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled like a fan. He wore a brown hat, a brown suit with a white pinstripe, and brown boots. The last of the steam blew away, and he saw the Margery Daw.
His face went scarlet. He sat down on his running board between a steel cylinder, the spare wheel, and a tool box. He pointed at the Margery Daw, and giggled. Steam drifted around him. We stared, and he giggled until we started to grin, too.
We looked at the Margery Daw standing – on the driving-wheels off the Rotorua Express – on the tramway. Her masts and spars struck on deck, the rudder and steering wheel lashed on top of them, the corrugated iron sheds Peter had built all over the place, the dunny, the huge fireplace, and the chimney did look a bit odd. And the rimu tram rails we’d left propped against her when we heard Banana Bob’s Model T coming up the hill, they looked a bit strange, too.
We began to giggle, too. The more we giggled, the more Uncle Chris giggled. And the more Uncle Chris giggled, the more we giggled.
Our sides began to hurt. We got the stitch and had to bend over, but Uncle Chris went on giggling, and we went on giggling, too. We had to lie down because of the stitch, and we giggled even more when we saw Uncle Chris hold on to the spare wheel so he wouldn’t fall off his running board.
“What on earth’s that?”
“Our scow.”
“Your scow!”
“The Margery Daw.”
“It doesn’t look much like a scow to me.” Uncle Chris spluttered. “It looks …” he giggled. “It looks like … Oh!” he took out a big red handkerchief with white spots and rubbed his bald head. “It looks like a cowshed on wheels!” His giggle turned to a splutter, his splutter to a shriek. It started us giggling all over again.
We looked at it. The Margery Daw looked exactly like a cowshed on wheels. We spluttered and laughed till we lost our breath. We fell to the ground, lay on our backs, and groaned, “Stop it! Stop it!”
“Where’s the rest of your farm? You can’t just be shifting the cowshed!”
It made us laugh even louder. Our sides ached. “Please stop,” we gasped. “Oh, stop it!”
“Oh! Hee! Hee! Hee!” His voice seemed to break and squeak.
“Are you all right?” we asked.
Uncle Chris wiped his eyes and blew his nose on his red handkerchief. “Oh, dear! Bless me! Yes, I’m all right. Let’s see your hands, and I’ll tell your future.”
We crowded and shoved out our hands. Uncle Chris looked at the little ones’ first. He laughed and laughed until they laughed too. “Such things,” he said, “are going to happen to you!”
“What such things?”
“You’re all going to be Prime Minister!” he said. “You’re going to be famous and fly around in a Zeppelin!”
“We’re going to be famous! Can we have a steam car like yours and a Tin Lizzie?”
Uncle Chris stopped laughing and looked serious. “I just ran into Banana Bob and his Model T at the Springs Road turn-off. Somebody had filled his radiator with tea-leaves, so it was boiling over.”
“That’s not fair! He put them in himself! He said tea-leaves are good for radiators.”
“He reckoned one of you gave him cheek,” said Uncle Chris. “One of you called him Banana Bob.”
We all looked at Alwyn.
“Was it you?”
Alwyn stared at Uncle Chris. “You it was,” he said.
“Well, did you call him Banana Bob?” Uncle Chris asked. “Is it true or not?”
“Not or true it is,” said Alwyn.
“Poor boy!” Uncle Chris shook his head. “So young, and already doomed.”
“What’s doomed?” asked the little ones.
“Let’s have another look at that hand?” Alwyn hid his hand behind his back, but Uncle Chris pulled it out, looked at it, and shook his head. “So young, and yet in such big trouble!”
“What’s big trouble?” asked th
e little ones.
“Tonight you’re going to be punished for calling him that name.”
“What’s punished?” asked the little ones, and cried.
“Tonight,” Uncle Chris told Alwyn, “you’ll be lying in bed with the blanket pulled up over your nose, and you’ll hear somebody at the window. You’ll look – and your eyes will stick out as big as ping-pong balls!”
“Why? Why?” asked the little ones.
“Because Banana Bob will be climbing in the window! You’ll be so frightened, your eyes will stick out as big as billiard balls! You’ll scream for help, but nobody will hear you.”
“Why not?” cried the little ones. “We’ll hear him scream. We’ll help him!”
“Nobody will hear because your throat will dry up. You’ll open your mouth so wide, your tongue will stick out and flap between your lips. You’ll scream, but nobody will hear you, just the flapping of your tongue.
“And Banana Bob will be coming towards you, and your eyes will stick out as big as cricket balls. He’ll grab hold of your tongue. He’ll drag you through the window, out to his old Model T, and nail you inside a banana crate. And tomorrow morning he’ll drive up to the Matamata A. and P. Show at the racecourse and sell you to the Sideshow Man!”
“Who’s the Sideshow Man?”
“Some people reckon the Sideshow Man’s a friend of the Phantom Drummer!”
We all screamed. The Phantom Drummer was the wireless programme Aunt Effie wouldn’t let us listen to. She made us all go to bed early on Wednesday nights, and we’d hear her warm up her crystal set, put on the headphones, and listen to The Phantom Drummer. We used to get out of bed and watch her.
The Phantom Drummer was so scary, Aunt Effie’s face would go white. She’d shriek, turn it off and have a swig out of her bottle of Old Puckeroo Skin Bracer, and we’d tear back and jump into bed, and pull the blankets over our heads. Aunt Effie always woke up screaming with nightmares after listening to The Phantom Drummer.
“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-Jess!” she’d shriek. We’d have to get up and make her a cup of tea with a dash of Old Puckeroo to stop the jitters. Then she’d make us sleep on the foot of her enormous bed because she was so scared of The Phantom Drummer.
That’s why our faces went white when Uncle Chris said some people reckoned the Sideshow Man was a friend of the Phantom Drummer.
“The Sideshow Man owns the Fire-Eater, the Fat Lady and the Tattooed Man,” said Uncle Chris.
“We saw them in the Thames.”
“Do we have to see the Fat Lady again?” asked Jessie anxiously.
“Can’t Alwyn escape?” asked Lizzie.
Uncle Chris shook his head. “If he’s lucky, the Sideshow Man will paint him in black and white stripes and charge people sixpence each to see the Only Human Zebra in Existence. Or he might mince Alwyn into dog-tucker and make him into pies for the Fat Lady. Or,” Uncle Chris paused. “He might feed him to the Phantom Drummer!”
“Do you mind being made into pies?” Jessie asked Alwyn, and he said, “Huh, I don’t care!” but his voice sounded as if he was going to cry. We all stared at him.
“Are we going to let Banana Bob take Alwyn away?” Lizzie asked.
“Not if I can help it!” said Uncle Chris. The fans of skin by the corners of his eyes crinkled deeper. Suddenly, he was giggling again, and we all started to giggle, too. “What would you like for tea?”
“Sausages!” we yelled. Uncle Chris opened the big black box on the back of his steam car, and crawled between parcels and packages, crates and sacks. We climbed up the red wooden spokes of the back wheel and stuck our heads inside the box so we could see.
“Here we are! No. Maybe in here … No.” He crawled further back and looked in several cases, in a couple of sugarbags, and in a canvas kitbag.
“That’s a bag of bulls’-eyes for the big baboon,” said Uncle Chris, and we leaned half under the lid of the big black box to see. “Marshmallows for the moose.” We climbed further. “Lollipops for the lion,” said Uncle Chris. We were right inside now, looking for the lollipops, when, Bang! the lid slammed shut.
“Banana Bob!” shouted someone. Someone else shrieked, “The Sideshow Man!” And we all screamed together, “The Phantom Drummer!” But the lid of the box flew open, and there was Alwyn. He’d saved us!
“Here we are.” Uncle Chris climbed out pulling an endless string of sausages – so many they filled all Aunt Effie’s billies. Uncle Chris pricked them so they wouldn’t burst, and simmered them. “Just enough to make the sawdust swell up,” he giggled.
“Just enough to make the sawdust swell up!” we giggled, too.
Swollen up, the sausages filled all Aunt Effie’s camp ovens. We put on the lids, buried them in the hot ashes of our fire, and shovelled embers on till only the wire handles of the camp ovens showed.
“Why did you say that about shifting our cowshed?” Lizzie asked Uncle Chris.
Chapter Thirteen
Gypsy Day in the Waikato; The Night Uncle Chris’s Bull Ran Through Matamata; Eating Sausages in our Fingers; Drinking Tea Out of the Saucer; Why Mr Firth Built the Tower; Poor Alwyn.
“Why did I say that about shifting your cowshed?” Uncle Chris repeated Lizzie’s question. “Every year, after the cows are dried off,” he said, “a lot of share-milkers move to another farm.
“Some move because the kids are growing up and can help in the shed, so they can take on a bigger farm. Some have made enough out of share-milking to move on to their own farm. Some aren’t getting on with their farmer, so they move. Some get on with their farmer and never move. Some move every year – they’re called the Gypsies.
“All over the Waikato on Gypsy Day, the share-milkers are on the road, carts and buggies loaded with pots and pans and beds and wirelesses. You can tell the ones without herds, on thirty-nine per cent of the profits, because they move fast. Those with herds, they’re on two thirds of the profits. You see them taking their time, grazing their cows on the long acre all the way to the new farm.”
Peter and Marie nodded, so the rest of us nodded, too.
“Do they take everything with them?” asked Lizzie.
“Share-milkers shift their cows, their kids, and all their gear. I’ve seen one shift his chopping block. Another took his own dunny seat along with him. But you’re the first gypsies I’ve seen put their cowshed on wheels and take it with them!”
He giggled, and we looked at our cowshed on wheels and giggled till we cried.
“It’s still summer,” said Uncle Chris. He fanned his face with his big red hanky. “Too early for Gypsy Day. The cows aren’t even dried off.” He leaned back and giggled again. “What a pity cameras haven’t been invented yet. I’d take a photo of you shifting your cowshed, for the Waikato Times. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Peter brought him a drink of water from a trough, and Uncle Chris tried to quieten himself. “I’ll tell you a story while we wait for those sausages to cook, but I’ll have to sit with my back to your cowshed. Every time I see it perched up on those big wheels, I get the giggles again!” We helped him sit on the steps so he couldn’t see it.
“Did I ever tell you the story of the night my bull ran through Matamata?”
“Tell us?”
“I’d warned my bull. I told him next time he pushed a hole through the hedge to eat my strawberries, I’d send a ghost to haunt him. He might look fierce, my bull but, when it comes to ghosts, he’s gutless.
“Well, he waited for a moonlit night so he could see which strawberries were ripe, pushed through the hedge, and ate the lot. Then he heard me coming. I had a sheet over my head and was shaking a chain and groaning, ‘Whooo-ooh!’
“That old bull, he took one look at me and moaned. He was so terrified, he couldn’t find the hole in the hedge to get out. He stuck his tail in the air and did a huge poop right in the middle of my asparagus bed. I
shook my chain and wailed, ‘Whooo-oh!’ My cowardly old bull galloped across the garden, knocked down the clothesline, and got a sheet over his head.
“It wouldn’t come off because his horns poked through it,” said Uncle Chris. “He thought the ghost had got hold of him, and took off across the paddocks. The faster he ran, the more the sheet billowed, and the more it billowed, the more he bellowed. He woke up half of Wardville, bolting straight through the hedges and fences.
“He cut across the back of Hopuruahine, and galloped bellowing through Matamata just as the pictures were coming out. People were a bit shaky because they’d been watching a silent film about a ghost. They took one look at my bull with the sheet over his head, ran back into the theatre, and wouldn’t come out till it was daylight. And then my bull turned round at Te Poi and came the other way, chasing them with the sheet still stuck on his horns. Those Matamata folk, they’re townies, you know. They were so scared, they rushed back into the theatre and wouldn’t come out till it was dark again.
“My bull galloped back across the farms, all the way home to his own paddock. He was so tired, I had to take the lawn mower and the wheelbarrow out of the back shed, make him a bed of straw, give him a bucket of cocoa, and let him sleep the rest of the day.”
“What about the sheet?” asked Jessie.
“I patched it with flour bags where he’d torn holes with his horns. It needed a good scrub, and I boiled it in the copper for half an hour, then spread it over a gooseberry bush for the frost to bleach. But I still use it. It’s on my bed at home right now. The only trouble is my toenails get caught where I sewed the patches. So I just use it as a bottom sheet.”
“Did you get into trouble with the people in Matamata?”
“Luckily my bull had the sheet over his head, so nobody recognised him. Do you think those snarlers will be done?” said Uncle Chris. The wire handles were hot, so we lifted the camp ovens out of the embers with a tea-tree stick.
