Old Drumble (7 page)

“But everybody farts, Dad. You told me so.”

“All the same, your mother doesn’t approve of it. So watch your tongue.”

“Dad, how do you think Nosy climbed down out of the tree?”

“The same way you come down a telegraph post: held on to a branch with her teeth, felt with her back feet till she got a grip of the trunk, wrapped her legs around it, then let herself down backwards, a bit at a time.”

“How do you know she came down like that?”

“At first, I couldn’t work out how she’d managed it, so I climbed up and had a look, and there were her tooth marks round the branch. I got my own teeth round it, and felt for the trunk with my feet, hung on with my arms like Nosy must have done with her front legs, lowered my feet further down the trunk and took another grip, brought my arms down a bit, and shinned down like that.”

“Did your teeth make marks around the branch, too?”

“Same as Nosy.”

“I’m going to have a look when we get home.”

“You won’t find them. We both bit so hard, our teeth ringbarked that branch, and it died, so I sawed it off, next time I pruned the apple tree.

“Hello, Harry! Hello, Minnie!” Mr Jackman called.

“Hello, Mr Jackman!”

Jack didn’t look at Harry and Minnie, but rang the bell to let them know he’d helped Andy drive the sheep all the
way over the railway crossing to the corner of Cemetery Road, and shaken hands with Old Drumble, and he was getting a double home on his father’s grid.

When Harry ran a few steps after them, Jack craned his head around for a look.

“Keep your feet out,” said his father’s voice. “You don’t want to go sticking your toes into the spokes.”

“What would that do, Dad?”

“There was a little boy up in Matamata getting a dub with his father, and he stuck his toes in the spokes and they were all chopped off.”

“Crikey! Did it hurt?”

“You bet!”

“Did he die?”

“The quack stitched up where the toes had come off, and he got a job as a teller in the bank, where he can sit on a stool all day because feet without toes aren’t much use for walking.”

Jack watched the road ahead disappearing under the front wheel and stuck his feet well out because he didn’t want to work in the bank.

“What did they do with the toes?”

“He went back on his crutches and had a look, but somebody said a dog had eaten them.”

“Old Drumble wouldn’t eat my toes.”

“Keep your feet out of the way, and he won’t have to.”

Jack stuck his feet even further out.

“D
AD
,” J
ACK ASKED
, “do you think Mum will let me go down Cemetery Road with Andy and Old Drumble, next time they come through?”

“So long as you don’t tell her about Nosy having the giant farts, she might let you go. And I’d keep it to myself, about the way Nosy came down the apple tree.”

“Why?”

“Your mother doesn’t believe horses can climb apple trees.”

“But she told me once that Nosy ate all her dahlias.”

“Everyone knows horses love dahlias. But imagine what would happen if Mrs Dainty found out that someone had seen a horse sitting up in Mum’s Granny Smith, helping itself to the apples…”

“What?”

“You know Mrs Dainty. She’d go down to the post office, and the store, and the baker’s, and the butcher’s,
and tell everybody how your mother had a horse up in her apple tree. Within a few hours, there wouldn’t be another woman in Waharoa who’d give your mother the time of day.”

“I’d show that Mrs Dainty!”

“That wouldn’t help your mother.”

“It’s not fair!” Jack’s voice rose high.

“It hasn’t happened yet, and it’s probably not going to.”

“I know! What say we open Mrs Dainty’s gate and let Nosy into her place? She could climb Mrs Dainty’s Golden Delicious and eat all the apples. And everyone going down the Turangaomoana Road would see a horse up her apple tree, and then not a woman in Waharoa would give Mrs Dainty the time of day.”

“It’s an idea; but keep it up your sleeve in case we need it. And remember, not a word to your mother about Nosy and the giant farts, not unless you’re looking for trouble.”

Jack slipped off and opened the gate. His mother stood at the back door. “About time, too! I was just about to come out and look down the road for the pair of you. Another five minutes, and I’d have taken your lunch off the table!”

“Mum?” Jack said. “Next time, can I help Old Drumble and Andy take the mob down the end of Cemetery Road?”

“First it’s just down the bottom of the street, then it’s just as far as the church corner, and then just to the railway crossing. There’s no satisfying the boy!”

Jack looked at his mother.

“We’ll see,” she said. “And what cock-and-bull story did Andy fill you up with this time?”

“He didn’t tell me any cock-and-bull stories, Mum. He told me about how Nosy can climb trees, and how she comes down them.” Jack looked at his father, who looked down at his plate and shook his head ever so slightly.

“She climbs telegraph posts, too.” Jack looked desperate. “Once she climbed a lawsoniana five hundred feet high and slid down the outside.”

“I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my life. Where does the man get such ideas?”

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.”

I
T 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 himself 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.