Old Drumble (14 page)

Jack kept off his mother’s strong eye and ears and Mrs Dainty’s, too. He went the other way, when he saw Mrs Dainty coming. He got the spade and trimmed the edges around the lawn without being told, tried to behave himself, and things went quietly; then at last the day came when he helped drive a mob with Old Drumble
and Andy all the way out to Griffiths’s corner on the Wardville road.

“Just hang around at the corner. Bob Murdoch will be keeping an eye out for you,” his father had told him.

Now Andy said, “Here we are, Jack. As far as the big poplar on the corner, and not a step further. Those were your Mum’s words.”

Jack shook hands with Old Drumble and patted Nosy. He nodded, winked, clicked, and said hooray to Andy, and watched them head along the road, past the row of lawsonianas that marked Middletons’ place, heading towards the turn-off to Te Aroha.

“Next time,” Jack said to himself, “I’ll ask if I can go as far as the Te Aroha turn-off.” He didn’t know the road beyond the turn-off, so it sounded mysterious and he repeated it aloud a couple of times. “The turn-off to Te Aroha…The Te Aroha turn-off…“ Jack decided he preferred “The Te Aroha turn-off.”

“You see you wait there, by the big poplar with the eleagnus growing over it,” his mother had said. “Don’t you dare take as much as a single step beyond the corner. Don’t run out on the road. And don’t go climbing the poplar. Just wait there till Mr Murdoch picks you up, and don’t forget to thank him.”

Jack stood on the corner, and watched a sparrow fly into the poplar high above the eleagnus. It was getting late in the summer, but spabs nested several times. Then
he saw it: a nest so high that the wind bent the branch over until the untidy mass of dead grass and straw woven among the twigs lay on its side. Jack thought of the eggs inside the pocket lined with soft down, in the middle of the nest.

It wouldn’t take long to shin up and stick his hand inside, to see if there were any eggs, but what if Mr Murdoch came along while he was up the tree? He’d drive on and tell his father he wasn’t there. His father would bike home and tell his mother. And she’d come running out to Griffiths’ corner and teach Jack a lesson…

Jack looked up the road. The mob had disappeared past Middletons’ lawsonianas. He stretched out his left leg in the direction they’d gone, and held the foot a couple of inches above the ground. That wasn’t taking a step past the corner. Not so long as his foot didn’t touch. He pulled back his left foot, put his weight on that leg, and stretched out his right foot and held it just above the ground.

Perhaps his left leg wasn’t used to holding his right foot out. After all, he was right-handed, and maybe feet are the same, and his left leg wasn’t as strong as his right. Perhaps he lost his balance. Perhaps a gust of wind blew him over. Jack’s face screwed up, and he gave a yelp and looked across the paddocks towards Waharoa, as he realised that he had taken a step too far.

J
ACK PULLED BACK THE FOOT
that had taken a step too far, turned, and bolted towards home. He stopped, crept back to the corner, and stood on the same spot—he knew exactly where he’d stood before because of a whitey bit of stone.

Jack looked past Middletons’ lawsonianas towards the bend where the mob had disappeared, and thought he saw something move. He yelped again. What if it was a cannibal swagger coming to punish him for taking a step too far?

After Jack had told Harry and Minnie about the swagger down Cemetery Road, Harry told his mother, and she warned him that swaggers eat little boys. Mrs Jackman told Jack that was nonsense, and he had believed her—but now he wasn’t so sure.

He looked again, and saw the road was empty, but he was sure he’d seen something move. He looked at the deep drain beside the road, one of that network of
drains his father had described to him, which finished up running into the Waihou River.

The drain was overgrown. A hungry swagger could creep along it, and you’d never see him till he leapt out. Jack thought of Andy. He’d have seen any swagger and sent back Old Drumble to make sure Jack was safe, specially if it was a hungry-looking swagger.

He looked again, and made sure the road was empty. There was water running in the bottom of the drain, so he’d hear any swagger splashing along it. Still, he said to himself, he’d stick to the middle of the road, just to be safe.

Jack stood on his right foot on the same whitey-looking bit of stone and stretched out his left foot, then his right foot, then his left again. This time, it was his left foot which touched the ground.

He didn’t yelp and run this time. He looked but couldn’t see the cannibal swagger coming. He peered into the drain. Nothing happened. He took another step. Nothing happened, and Jack took another step. By the time the lorry came around the distant bend, he was a couple of chains down the road. He bolted back and waited on the corner, not putting his weight on his left foot.

Mr Murdoch pulled up beside him. “Hop aboard,” he said. “I saw Andy and Old Drumble up the road, heading towards the Te Aroha turn-off.”

“I helped them drive the mob here, but Mum said it’s as much as my life’s worth to take a step past the corner.”

Mr Murdoch nodded as if he understood. “That door needs a good slam to shut it properly. That’s it.” He let in the clutch, and Jack felt the lorry drag itself slowly along the road.

“So you reckon you’re going to become a drover?” Mr Murdoch shouted over the engine.

“Mum says I can just put it out of my mind; Dad says to wait and see. He says it might seem okay now but, if I had to walk for a few hours in wet clothes, I might see it differently. Still, I like listening to Andy’s stories, and watching Old Drumble leading. Why are we sort of dragging, Mr Murdoch?”

“That’s the weight of the shingle you’re feeling through the back of the seat. It makes a heavy load. Why were you hopping on one foot, when I picked you up, Jack?”

“I got a prickle.”

“Better a prickle than a stone-bruise. Here’s the factory crossing, and there’s your old man, waiting to give you a dub home. Hooray, Jack!”

“Thanks, Bob,” his father called. “I’ve had a word with Dines Barker about those trees of his. I’ll be getting on to the firewood soon, and I’ll let you know.

“That worked out well,” he said to Jack. “We’re going to be in good time for lunch. Did Andy tell you anything more about Old Drumble hitting the bottle?”

“Not hitting the bottle, but he told me about the time Old Drumble was really belting the hops along. It all came of Andy giving Old Drumble an empty whisky barrel for a kennel. They were having a spell off the road and, after sleeping in the barrel a few nights, Andy said Old Drumble was so cross-eyed, he couldn’t face down a newborn lamb. Andy said that whisky barrel was his downfall. I got a prickle in my foot, Dad.”

“Remind me, when we get home. What did Andy do about the barrel?”

“They swapped,” Jack told his father. “Old Drumble slept in Andy’s bunk, and Andy slept in the barrel himself, for a couple of nights, but it didn’t do anything for him. He said he sniffed hard, but he couldn’t smell a trace of whisky, just Old Drumble’s stink.”

“Perhaps Old Drumble licked the inside of the barrel?”

“I said that, but Andy said he’d licked it inside and out, himself, before he made it into a kennel. He thought it could be that Old Drumble has a powerful imagination, and he talked himself into getting drunk each night, after he’d gone to bed. Andy reckons Old Drumble has such powerful dreams,” said Jack, “half the time he wakes himself barking.”

“I’ve known dogs growl in their sleep,” his father nodded. “I always wonder if they’re scared of ghosts.”

“Well, one morning,” said Jack, “Old Drumble couldn’t stand straight, after a night in the whisky barrel. That’s when Andy said he really looked as if he’d been belting the hops along and decided he’d better do something about it, or he’d have an alky on his hands.

“Mint likes a damp spot, Andy said, and the guttering by the back door had rusted through, so he stood Old Drumble’s kennel on end, filled it with dirt, and planted a root of mint that Mum gave him.”

Jack was so busy, telling his father the story of the whisky barrel, he didn’t notice Harry Jitters and Minnie Mitchell standing outside their gates. Mr Jackman smiled at them, but Jack stared straight over the front wheel, chattering on.

“The mint came away good-oh, but the first lot Andy picked, he threw into the billy with his spuds, and they came out tasting of whisky. Andy says he likes a drop of the hard stuff as much as anyone, but not with new potatoes.”

Harry Jitters heard something about whisky and new potatoes and stared, mouth wide open, but Minnie smiled back. “Hello, Mr Jackman,” she cried and shook her curls.

“It was like Jack didn’t even see us!” Harry said to her. “He just went on jabbering to his father.”

“If you’ve got nothing worth saying, why don’t you
close your mouth!” Minnie told him. She flounced through her gate, and slammed it so the latch clashed, leaving Harry open-mouthed.

He took a step after Minnie, but she was away up the path, tossing her curls and shrugging. Harry turned and stared after Mr Jackman’s bike, and didn’t know what to do, so he stuck his head in the air and barked.

It was his noisiest huntaway bark and went on and on, till the bike had crossed Whites’ Road. Then Harry stopped barking and ran after, as far as the corner, where he stood and barked towards the bottom end of Ward Street, “Wow! Wow! Wow!”

Jack didn’t notice the huntaway barking, because he was telling his father the rest of his story about Old Drumble’s alcoholic kennel.

“That’s when Andy knocked the bands off the barrel and split the staves apart for kindling wood,” he told his father. “And, he said, it was the best kindling ever! It lit, no trouble, and burnt with a blue flame that must have come from the whisky, and Old Drumble climbed on the roof of Andy’s whare, and sniffed the smoke coming out of the chimney, and got half-cut, just on the smell. Andy said he fell off the roof, crawled under the Christmas plum tree, and slept it off.”

“I’m glad you told that story to me,” said Mr Jackman, “and not your mother. Now, remember, not a word about the whisky barrel and Old Drumble. And I wouldn’t go
saying ‘half-cut’ to her. It’s the sort of language that gets her going, if you see what I mean.”

Jack felt him nod and wink, and hung on to the handlebars as the front wheel bumped the gate open. Even though his father couldn’t see, he nodded and winked back, as they went around the side of the house.

“The trouble is…” he said, as he slipped off the bar and rubbed his behind, while his father took the bicycle clips off the cuffs of his trousers, “the trouble is I always mean not to say anything to Mum, but she puts her strong eye on me, and I hear myself jabbering away.”

“She has that effect on me, too,” said his father. “Try telling her a different story. Andy must have told you some others.”

“I’ll try. But it’s her eye.”

“I know,” said Mr Jackman.

“S
OMETIMES
I H
EAR MY VOICE
gabbling away, nineteen to the dozen, telling Mum a story, just making it up as it goes. Will you squeeze the prickle out of my foot?”

“As long as lunch isn’t on the table, waiting for us.”

“Dad, when are you going to cut the firewood out at Mr Barker’s place? Can I come and help?”

“I’m depending on you for a hand,” his father said, and Jack smiled. “Now, remember what I said about Old Drumble and the whisky barrel. Hello, dear, I’m just going to dig out a prickle.”

His mother stared as Jack hopped in the door. “You didn’t put that foot to the ground past Griffiths’s corner?” she asked.

Jack looked away.

“It’s no good pretending to me, I can see it written all over your face. You went beyond the corner, John Jackman! Didn’t you? Come on, own up!”

“Just a step.”

“How many just a steps?”

“Just a few.”

“How many just a few?”

“Just a couple of yards.”

“How many just a couple of yards?”

“Just to the next telegraph post.”

“That’s a chain—twenty-two yards. How many telegraph posts?”

“Just a few.”

“I said how many just a few telegraph posts?”

“Just a couple. Then I saw Mr Murdoch coming, and I turned and ran back to Griffiths’ corner.”

“Griffiths’s corner. How often do I have to tell you? So that’s why you got a prickle in your foot, because you were disobedient and went past the corner! I’ve a mind to tell your father to leave that prickle in your foot as a punishment for disobedience. I thought I told you: not a step past the corner!”

Jack hung his head. “Come on,” said his father.

“You were lucky, my boy,” said Mrs Jackman, “that a cannibal swagger didn’t come along and eat you, for going past the corner.”

Jack’s father said, “Give us your foot up here.”

“If your father had any sense, he’d liven you up with that needle. Next time you want to go droving with Andy and Old Drumble, we’ll have to think about you going beyond the corner, against my instructions.”

Mr Jackman squeezed, and held up the needle with the thistle on the end.

“A tiny little prickle like that!” said Jack’s mother. “You should be ashamed of yourself, carrying on like a baby, all because of a thistle that’s so small I can hardly see it.”

Jack put his foot on the floor and took a step, then a hop, and a jump. Mr Jackman gave him a grin and a nod.

“Wash your hands, and get up to the table. And don’t throw the towel on the floor when you’ve finished with it, the pair of you. A couple of chains past the corner, indeed!”

As they were doing the dishes, after lunch, Jack looked at his mother, and saw she had her eye on him. He swallowed, remembered his father’s warning, and said, “Andy told me a story.”